“Thank you, Gabrys. I know you will. You may rise.”
The man hadn’t been on his feet for a single heartbeat when the familiar cry sounded from the tower guards.
“Look to the skies!”
Before Tebeo could even turn, soldiers at the far end of the castle shouted the same thing.
Looking up, Gabrys’s face blanched. “Demons and fire!”
It wasn’t just boulders this time, though two were hurtling toward the castle, one from each of the camps. There were arrows approaching as well. Hundreds of them.
“Shields!” Gabrys hollered.
More shouts, from the wards this time.
“The gates!” said one of the captains.
The master of arms shook his head. “The sally ports.” He looked at the duke. “My lord-”
“Go, Gabrys. Do whatever you must to protect the castle.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, and ran to the towers, followed closely by the captains.
Tebeo heard cries go up from the camps; it seemed they were under attack as well. In a matter of moments all of Dantrielle had been engulfed in violence, as if a storm had erupted over the castle and city, bringing chaos. Swords and shields clashed, and battle cries rang out, the tumult echoing off the walls. Arrows pelted the castle like rain, and fire descended from the sky, blackening the castle stone and the grass of the wards.
Gabrys and the captains were in the wards by now, shouting orders, with disturbing urgency. Had the Solkarans breached the castle’s defenses? Tebeo should have been down in the wards with them, consulting with his new master of arms, giving the commands himself. He should have been fighting alongside his men, despite his shortcomings as a warrior. But still he lingered on the ramparts, straining to see what was happening in the camps beyond the city walls. He could hear war cries coming from the forest, but he could see little through the trees.
Most of those men he did see wore the red and gold of Solkara or the brown and black of Rassor, but the duke also saw soldiers dressed in the colors of Kett and Tounstrel. So it was Ansis and Vistaan. Which meant, perhaps, that Brall and Bertin the Younger were nearby.
Perhaps Numar understood this as well, and this morning’s attacks were intended as one final, desperate attempt to take Dantrielle by force. Even as the duke formed the thought, however, his hopes flared and turned to ash.
Abruptly, dark smoke was rising from the Great Forest to both the north and the east, turning the sky to a dirty grey and drifting over the castle like an acrid mist.
“Why would they burn the wood?”
Tebeo nearly jumped out of his skin. Evanthya was beside him, though he hadn’t heard her approach.
“First Minister.”
“Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s all right. Have you been here long?”
“No, my lord. I was awakened by the fighting. I thought you’d want me nearby.”
“I would, if I knew what to do. The fact is, I don’t know why they’re burning the forest, unless it’s to keep Ansis and Vistaan at bay while they redouble their efforts to take the castle.”
More arrows fell on the fortress, forcing them to retreat into the nearest tower. Dantrielle’s archers loosed their arrows in return, but already ladders were appearing around the ramparts and Solkaran soldiers were starting to climb. It wouldn’t be long before Tebeo’s men were fighting to maintain control of the castle walls.
Evanthya said something else to him, but Tebeo was lost in thought, trying to puzzle out all that was happening. By setting these fires, Numar forced Dantrielle’s allies to fall back deeper into the wood and away from the castle. But he also risked denying his army and Rassor’s a means of escape should the battle for the castle go poorly for them.
“He must believe that he has no choice.”
“My lord?”
He looked up, realizing belatedly that he had spoken aloud. “I was thinking of Numar. He’d only risk these fires if he thought that the siege was about to be broken. Otherwise it’s simply too dangerous. It may be that the armies of Orvinti and Noltierre are about to join the fight, or he may feel that with the arrival of Tounstrel and Kett, the tide of battle is about to turn against him.”
“But if the fires spread, doesn’t he trap himself?”
“Only if he fails to take Castle Dantrielle. It seems Numar has staked his life on the success of this siege.”
More arrows struck, their tips sparking as they clattered against the stone. An instant later the fortress shook with the impact of yet another boulder from the hurling arms. That Numar would continue to use the hurling arms even as his men scaled the castle walls bespoke a determination that went far beyond desperation. This was no longer about the alliance with Braedon and Dantrielle’s loyalty to the Solkaran Supremacy. Somehow this had become far more. It was a blood feud. That was the only way to explain the severed heads, the carcasses, this attack; all of it. Tebeo had defied him, and Numar had made up his mind to crush the duke and his house, no matter the cost. The color had fled Evanthya’s cheeks; it seemed that she understood all too well what they faced.
“This is just the beginning then,” she said. “He won’t stop until he’s won.”
“Or until he’s dead.” Tebeo drew his sword. “Follow me, First Minister. Before this is over, we’ll need every blade in Dantrielle.”
She nodded, and they bounded down the stairway to the wards. Even before they reached the bottom, Tebeo could hear death cries and the clatter of weapons, clear as bells and impossibly close. Thus, he wasn’t entirely unprepared when they emerged from the stairs to find the baileys teeming with enemy soldiers. Everywhere he looked men were fighting and dying. At the far end of the ward, Gabrys stood with his back to the stone wall, fighting off two soldiers wearing Rassor’s colors.
The duke glanced at Evanthya. “Suggestions?”
The first minister surveyed the scene before them, her jaw set. Then she drew her short blade. “There’s nothing to do but fight.”
I’m no warrior, he wanted to say. I never have been. Yet looking at Evanthya, her white hair hanging to her shoulders, her face as pallid as death, her slender hands gripping her sword, he knew that she wasn’t either. Most of the men before them were twice her size. Just as most of them were half his age.
He readied his weapon, and, as an afterthought, pulled his dagger free as well. “Orlagh guide your blade, First Minister.”
“And yours, my lord.”
“Stay close. Keep your back to mine.”
She nodded. And together they waded into the battle.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Great Forest, near Dantrielle, Aneira
You understand what it is I expect of you,” the Weaver said, his voice rising until it rolled like thunder. “You understand that I want you to delay further. Yet you do nothing!”
Fetnalla’s entire body shook, as if she were standing naked in a cold rain. She had tried to make him understand, yet the more she explained, the more angry he grew. At this point she had little confidence that she would survive the night.
“How far are you from Dantrielle?” he asked, sounding disgusted.
“Two days’ ride, Weaver.”
He shook his head. “Two days. That’s not enough time.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve failed you, Weaver,” she said, trying to mask her frustration by sounding contrite. “I’ve slowed my duke’s advance on the castle as much as I dare. If I do more I fear that I’ll raise his suspicions.”
A blow to the cheek sent her sprawling onto the ground, though the Weaver hadn’t appeared to move.
“I don’t give a damn about his suspicions!” he said. “Whether or not you’re revealed as a member of this movement is of little consequence to me. I’m concerned now with far weightier matters. If this siege is broken too soon, it may very well lead to the failure of the siege at Kentigern. And if that happens-” The Weaver stopped himself so abruptly that Fetnalla wondered if he had already told her more than he intended. “The success of this movement is all that matters. I had thought you understood that. I’d be disappointed to learn that I was wrong.”