'How long before you can set off the mine?' Ager asked again, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
'Late this afternoon,' Waylong answered. 'You might want to wait until tomorrow morning—'
'This afternoon? God, why didn't you tell me this yesterday? We could have called off this morning's assault—'
'Because we didn't know yesterday!' Waylong interrupted. 'We only intercepted the old tunnel last night. And I told you we need the noise of the assault to finish the dig without being detected.'
Ager took a few deep breaths and nodded wearily. 'I'm sorry. But we won't wait until tomorrow morning. Prince Lynan will want to try this afternoon. I need to know exactly when you can fire the mine.'
'An hour before sunset. No earlier.'
'Can you promise that?'
Waylong swallowed. There were so many things that could go wrong in a dig—counter-mining, a tunnel collapse, a miscalculation about tunnel length or an angle—but he knew Ager was not interested in hearing excuses. 'We'll get it done,' he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. 'I'll be there myself to fire it one hour before sunset.'
Ager smiled grimly. 'If you do this, I can promise you Lynan will be very grateful.'
Waylong could not help swallowing again. He was not sure the pale prince's close attention would be a welcome thing. He felt more comfortable in his trenches and holes than being too close to someone that important. Or, he admitted to himself, someone so terrible.
'I'd better get back to it, then,' he mumbled, then half bowed, half saluted and scrambled off.
A good officer, Ager thought to himself. We'll need someone like that in the future. I'll have a word to Lynan about him.
He found it strange to be thinking so highly of a captain from Haxus. He had spent most of his military career fighting men just like Waylong—had even been a captain himself once. When it came down to it, there was no difference between them really, except opportunity. It was ironic that he and Waylong were working together against a Kingdom city.
He shook his head. Such thoughts did no one any good. There was a battle to be won, and enemies to kill Thinking too deeply on it would send a man crazy.
Queen Charion had regained consciousness once since being brought back to the palace. She made some comment on being without a shirt in front of so many men, then passed out again. Doctors had spent hours with her, making sure there were no serious internal injuries other than the three cracked ribs they had found. Unguents were placed on her bruising and her right arm put in a sling to stop it from moving. Galen had visited whenever he could. And all the time, never leaving her side, sat Farben. He amazed himself by not fretting. For the first time since the war had started, he found some kind of calm. His queen had been injured, and for Farben nothing else mattered. Charion was the centre of his world, and when he found her wounded he thought his world had collapsed. When he realised she was still alive he understood how unimportant was everything else in his own life.
Charion moved in her sleep, moaned with the pain it caused her. Farben dipped a cloth in warm scented water and used it to pat her forehead. Her features relaxed and she continued sleeping.
Outside he heard the jangling of armour. Galen's armoured squadron in the courtyard, ready for a last desperate battle. He knew Galen had effectively taken command of the city and was himself on the west wall where the greatest danger lay. Farben thought his queen had chosen well; that is, if she intended Galen to be more than simply her lover. He sighed heavily. She had had her fair share of lovers, none of them much good in Farben's eye: opportunists mostly, and one or two so stupid he thought Charion lucky to get anything at all from them. But Galen was noble born, and a natural commander, and Farben could tell he liked Charion.
Maybe, he thought, Galen even loves her.
He smiled. For many years he had thought he was the only person in the Kingdom who loved Charion. She was a short-tempered cow a lot of the time, but she was absolutely devoted to Hume and she always kept her word. It was easy being one of her secretaries, once you were used to the shouting and screaming.
The sound of fighting reached him. From the west again. How many more times would the Chetts throw themselves so bravely and bloodily against that wall? How long could Galen and the defenders resist?
Charion called out, crying in pain. Farben gently held her down, spoke soothing words to her.
Waylong lit the torch he had specially prepared with wood just turned from green and bound with dampened twine. He glanced one more time at the western horizon and entered the tunnel. For the first few paces he could almost stand, but as it made its way north and deeper into the ground he had to stoop lower and lower until he was crouching. Finally the tunnel widened enough for him to stand again, and on all sides his workers had stacked dry brush around the timber beams that kept the room from collapsing under the weight of the north wall directly above. As well, the workers had prepared two flimsy tables made from branches of dead trees, and on each table rested a la round bowl filled with fine flour. Two engineers were still there, slowly easing out the pegs that joined roof beams to wall stays. When they were finished he waved them out, knelt down and lit a special section of brush that led to the timber frame.
He had done this twice before in his life, and always the temptation was to stay to ensure the cavity collapsed, but discretion played a larger part in his makeup than curiosity and he moved as quickly as he could back through the tunnel. He had gone not more than forty paces when he heard the whooshing sound that meant the brush around the timber and makeshift tables had caught light. He tried to move even faster, knocking his head on the ceiling several times.
Waylong was nearly halfway through the tunnel when the tables collapsed, sending the flour into the air. The ensuing explosion sent a wall of air through the tunnel that whipped his hair and clothes around him, the heat burning against his exposed skin. He made sure not to breathe for a few seconds then took in great gulps of air. He could see golden daylight ahead. Smoke now curled around him. As the tunnel widened and he moved from a crouch to a stoop, he started running, imagining he looked something like Ager in full flight. The thought made him giggle and he almost dropped his torch.
He leaped the last few paces out of the tunnel, followed by a huge cloud of smoke that coughed into the air. Sappers gathered around him, patting the soot and dirt off his clothes, but he ignored them and peeked over the lip of the mantlet covering the trench to see the north wall.
He groaned inside. It was still there, its stone surface turning bronze in the late afternoon light.
Mally half dragged, half carried the water bucket up the stairs to the north wall. He stopped every twenty paces and lolled out three scoops of water for each guard until he finally came to the gatehouse and there let the bucket be so he could stand next to his grandfather. Brettin was sergeant in charge of the gatehouse, and Mally could not have been prouder.
'They're attacking the west wall again,' Mally told him.
Brettin nodded. 'But they'll not get through.'
'They did once,' Mally pointed out.
'And were massacred for their efforts.'
'Why do they keep on doing it?'
'Because they're barbarians, Mally, and know no better.'
Mally thought about that for a moment before saying, cautiously, 'I heard they had Haxans with them.'
Brettin looked down at him and frowned. To his mind, little ones like Mally should not be told things that might make them afraid. 'I've not seen any.'