The light was fading. They should slow down, send out scouts to see where these people were, and how many. Yet these thoughts merely bubbled and frothed on top of the great swell of his Valderen heritage. Though unHeard by him, the small skill in Hearing that he possessed in common with all the Valderen was responding to the panic and terror of the trees about him and clouding the rational thought that normally ordered his judgement. His hands twitched uncertainly at the reins of his horse.
The branch sailed over the battlements again. It was wrapped in a cloth to reduce the noise that it would make against the stonework. For the third time, Levrik cautiously pulled the rope that was attached to it, ready to jump back quickly if it suddenly went slack. This time, however, the branch wedged in the embrasure. Levrik pulled on it again and then allowed it to take his full weight. There was a springiness in it that disturbed him a little; the branch was not as strong as he would have liked, but had it been any stouter it would have been almost impossible to throw it high enough.
He nodded to Yehna, the lightest of the group. Tak-ing the rope from him, she tested it herself and then, satisfied, began clambering up it. The other three looked up into the darkness after her, even when she had disappeared from view. Eventually, the rope stopped shaking. They waited for a signal.
Instead, an angry, challenging voice floated down to them. Before any of them could react, however, there was a thud, and the voice stopped abruptly.
There was a brief, tense pause, then the signal came. Aaren went up the rope next, to help Yehna support the branch while the two men climbed after her.
Jeorg lurched towards the castle gate and began to bang on it. ‘Open up. Open up,’ he shouted, his speech slurred.
After a while, and more banging, the wicket gate opened and a guard emerged, torch in hand. Jeorg gazed at the flickering flame and swayed uncertainly. ‘It’s here,’ he said, smiling inanely and pointing into the darkness.
‘What’s here?’ the guard demanded, scowling an-grily.
Jeorg bent towards him precariously. The guard turned away from his breath with a grimace. ‘The wood,’ Jeorg said, pointing again into the darkness.
The guard followed the wavering hand. He was just debating whether to give Jeorg a beating for this disturbance when a shape as unsteady as its herald formed in the darkness and moved towards him. He stepped back, alarmed, but as the shape neared, it became a horse-drawn cart. Leading the horse was Gryss, and there were a few men behind it. Gryss stepped up to the guard and cast an apologetic look at Jeorg. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said confidentially. ‘I’m afraid he’s been celebrating Whistler’s Day a little too well.’ He beamed suddenly and waved an arm towards the men by the cart. ‘In fact we’ve all been celebrating a little.’ He swayed slightly.
‘What?’ the guard asked, frowning. ‘Celebrating? What the devil are you blathering about? And what’s all this?’ He gestured towards the cart.
Gryss looked at him in exaggerated surprise. ‘Cele-brating. Whistler’s Day,’ he said, as if stating the obvious. ‘You know, the Whistler who comes from over the hill and between the dreams.’ The guard stared at him vacantly. ‘Lures all the ills of the valley away with his playing. Plies them with drink then dances them up into the mountains.’
‘I whistle away – oops!’ Jeorg’s tuneless song ended as he bumped into the gate and slithered to the ground. He laughed ridiculously.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you old fool,’ the guard shouted, pushing Gryss aside roughly. ‘Get this clown out of here unless you want me to run him through. And this as well.’ He waved his torch at the cart.
‘It’s the wood the captain asked for,’ Gryss said, taken aback. ‘Said he wanted it urgently. That’s why we worked on Whistler’s Day to get it for you. It’s supposed to be a holiday, you know. And I’ve brought some lads to unload it as well.’
‘No-one’s told me anything about any wood,’ the guard said. Others were emerging from the wicket gate. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked, turning to them. There was universal denial.
Gryss shrugged. ‘All I know is that the captain said he wanted this lot urgently. So it’s here. It’s taken some work, I can tell you. Do you want to ask him about it or shall we take it back?’
The guard hesitated. ‘It’s urgent, you say?’ he asked.
Gryss nodded.
The guard blew out a resigned and fretful breath then he motioned the others back through the wicket gate and stepped after them. After a muffled but obviously heated debate, there came the sound of bolts being drawn and the two great leaves of the gate began to open, causing Jeorg to tumble over backwards. This was greeted by raucous applause and cheering from the men who had accompanied the cart.
Gryss, still smiling broadly, began to lead the horse slowly forward. The cart creaked ominously as the horse took the strain. The guard cast an impatient glance skyward. ‘Come on, come on. Move it,’ he urged.
As the cart reached the gate however, there was a pause while Jeorg struggled unsteadily to his feet. Several of the men stepped forward to help him up and guide him out of harm’s way. They were milling about the cart as Gryss began to drag the horse forward again.
Suddenly there was an ominous crack and those around the cart jumped back with cries of alarm, tumbling over one another. With a weary creak, followed by another crack, one of the cart’s wheels fell off, narrowly missing the watching guard. The cart crashed down on one side bringing the horse with it, and the bundles of staves that it was carrying slid off and blocked the gateway.
Four shadows moved silently along the battlements at the north end of the castle, leaving a second dead sentry behind them. Coming to the top of one of the stairways they paused, studying the buildings about them and looking in particular at those from which the highest tower rose. Then they moved down into the dimly lit courtyard and headed towards a doorway. A clamour from the far end of the castle held their attention momentarily, then they were through the door.
It opened into a passageway lit by a few widely spaced lanterns. The only information the four had about the interior of the castle had been gleaned from Marna and, to some extent, from Gryss. It had not been particularly helpful, however. Both Gryss and Marna knew only cottages and small houses, and were confused by the complexity of the passages and stairways along which they had been led on their few visits to the castle.
The consequences of this had thus been discussed and faced by the four attackers before their present venture had been set in train and they scarcely spoke as they moved quickly and silently along the passage.
‘We’ll follow our noses, reduce the odds on the way, if we can, and hack our way out if we have to,’ was the agreed summary.
And there were two less already.
Some of the doors along the passage stood open, revealing disordered and deserted living quarters, and at the end was a stair well. Steps went both up and down, and Engir signalled upwards. Just as they were about to move, however, a sound drifted up the other flight. Yehna signalled a halt, then, without speaking, seized one of the wall lanterns and ran down the steps. Engir threw a nervous, inquiring glance at Aaren, who shrugged and set off after her.
At the foot of the stairs was a single heavily barred door. Yehna held the lantern by her face and, shading her eyes, peered through a small grill. Then, with a grimace of anger, she thrust the lantern into Aaren’s hands, lifted the timber balk that secured the door, and pushed it wide open. Snatching back the lantern, she stepped inside.