The Wicked Day (37 page)

“Fire and more fire,” said Owain. “Not that I wouldn’t mind to warm myself right now, but all this talk of fire leaves me feeling cold.”

“A decent fire, I wouldn’t say no to,” said Bordeall.

Below them, at the foot of the cliffs of the Rennet Gap, ice and mud and debris choked the river. It was a surging mess of a river, eating away at its banks and threatening the collapse of the cliffs in places. They nudged their horses further off the road to stand under the dubious shelter of an oak. Rain dripped down on them. Far below in the valley, barely visible under the gray sky and rain, horsemen rode along the river road.

“Harlech,” said Owain. "I did not expect them back so quickly."

They rode down to meet them, down the long switchbacks of the Gap, made even more treacherous than they normally were by the saturated earth. The fleeing people made way for them sullenly, glancing up from their misery and the mud. Oxen bawled in protest as they strained against their leads. Cartwheels turned with agonizing slowness.

“We can hold this road against a larger army,” said Owain. “With the river flowing the way it is, the gorge below is impassable. They’ll have to come straight up the gap in order to make the valley beyond and Hearne.”

“Aye,” said Bordeall. “I’ve been thinking on that. Archers on top of the cliff among the rocks. Spears dug in below. Horse would be worse than useless here. Slipping and sliding down these slopes. I doubt even Lannaslech’s men would find it easy going. But, spears and archers, aye, and a catapult or two back behind that oak grove at the top of the ridge. A man could deal death from here.”

“For a good while,” said Owain.

“For a good while, and then?” Bordeall shrugged. “We all have to die someday.”

They met the men of Harlech down on the valley floor. Their horses were lathered in mud and, to Owain’s eyes, they were somewhat fewer in number than they had been when they had set out the previous night. The Duke of Harlech rode up, accompanied by his son Rane.

“A pleasant enough outing, Gawinn,” said the Duke cheerfully. “We scouted their northern flanks. They tried to engage us now and then, but our horses are bred from better stock. At any rate, they're marching fast. Very fast. We have a strange enemy. Many of them mere men, but just as many not.”

“What do you mean by that?”

In answer to that, Rane unlaced his saddlebag and reached within. “Let your own eyes explain, gentlemen,” he said. He smiled coldly and held up a severed head.

The head appeared human at first glance, but then, on further inspection, it proved otherwise. The jaws were too large; there were too many teeth in the slackly gaping mouth. The skin was leathery and covered with a matting of bristles, and the hair, grasped in the mailed fist of the Duke’s son, was a coarse stuff more akin to dog hair than human hair.

“Hmmph,” said Owain. “Can’t say I like the looks of him.”

“They die. Just like men. There’s an oddness to them, almost as if they’re sleepwalking as they fight. But they die well enough.”

Rane tossed the head into the mud.

“How much time do we have?” asked Owain.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” said the Duke of Harlech. He turned his face up into the rain and then nodded as if the weather had confirmed what he said. “Their vanguard will reach the gap here by the afternoon. I daresay their outriders will be sniffing around long before then. Perhaps tonight.”

“Time enough, but will they come down the valley? That’s the question.”

“They’ll come. We bloodied their patrols a time or two, but they’ve the numbers to not mind some dead bodies on the march. Down the valley and through the gap is the fastest way to Hearne.” The duke smiled slightly. “If I was their commander, I’d view you as flies, something to be squashed. A nuisance at worst.”

“A nuisance with a sword,” said Bordeall.

“And a nuisance we shall be,” said Owain. “Gentlemen, we have about eight hours for preparation. Through the night and to the morning. Let’s get to work.”

The Guard set to work in good humor and enthusiasm, for Owain was wise enough to rotate them in small groups back up to the top of the gap where the field kitchen dispensed hot meals and ale. Oilcloth tents kept out the rain, and bonfires burned under the dripping trees. More important, though, Owain himself joined the work here and there, plying a shovel, swinging an axe, pausing to encourage a new recruit. The men of Harlech worked as well, as did a small contingent of mounted troops that arrived late in the evening, led by Galan Lartes, the enthusiastic nephew of Duke Lartes of Vo.

“Dig away the road until it collapses down the cliff?” said Duke’s nephew. “Consider it done, my lord.” And he hurried down the road to where it curved above the river far below. His soldiers hurried after him, just as cheerful as their leader. Torches flared in the darkening night. The rain hissed on the flames and pattered on the muddy ground.

Footsteps crunched behind Owain.

“Twenty soldiers from Vo? That’s all?” Bordeall shook his head in disbelief. “And don’t tell me they’re digging with their swords. Stone the crows.”

“We don’t have any more shovels. And his uncle is marching to Hearne with two hundred footmen. Thule and Hull should’ve arrived at the city by now.”

“And what of Dolan and Vomaro? What of Harth? Harth can field the biggest army in all of Tormay.”

“I’ve no doubt of Dolan,” said Owain. “Of the others I still haven’t heard.”

“My lord!”

Three men hurried up the road toward them.

“Civilians,” said Bordeall.

“My lord,” panted one of the men. He whipped off his cap and mopped at his brow. “You can’t, you mustn’t. . . the road, my lord!”

“Breathe, man, breathe,” said Owain. “What is it that I can’t?”

“My lord,” said another of the three men, “you can’t cut the road! We’ve wagons down the valley with our families an’ the oxen can only pull so fast.”

“You’ve got thirty minutes,” said Owain. “Thirty minutes. Do you hear? Dump your goods, your bedsteads, your spare boots. Whip those oxen bloody! You know what comes behind you, don’t you?”

“We do, my lord!”

The three men gazed at him, stricken, until he snarled at them. They turned and hurried back down the road.

“Blast it all, Bordeall. How many people are still out there?”

“I wouldn’t want to say.”

Owain turned and strode away, back up the road toward the top of the gap.

“We do what we have to do,” he said over his shoulder.

“Nothing less, my lord.”

The first attack came just past midnight. It was at the foot of the gap, where the road began to rise up through the rock. They came out of the darkness and the rain in a silent rush. A mixed contingent of Guard and Vornish soldiers were taking a breather around a fire. The last collapse in the road was almost finished. The river surged along in its torrent and its sound was enough to mask the noise of the intruders’ approach. A Guardsman went down without even realizing his throat was cut. The young Vornish lord, Galan Lartes, kicked flaming embers into the face of the nearest attacker and flung himself to one side, his sword hissing free. The attack ended almost as soon as it had began. The marauders disappeared back into the night. Two of their dead were left behind.

“My horse!” said Galan. “Bring me my horse!”

“I’d advise not, my lord,” said a voice. It was Rane. He strolled out of the darkness and crouched down by the fire to warm his hands. “That’s what they want. Out in the night, that’s their territory now.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, two of theirs for one. Not bad, eh?”

“They can afford the numbers.”

The men finished the last of the collapsed sections and then withdrew higher up the gap. Owain walked the road down to the bottom and then back up, inspecting the destroyed portions of the road and the fortifications dug behind each gaping collapse. Sharpened stakes protruded from the piled earth. Spearmen hid behind the earthworks, with swordsmen between them. Archers waited higher up on the slopes. It was far from perfect, but it would have to do. It was not impossible to traverse each collapse, for it merely meant descending down on the muddy face of the slope and then clambering back up, but it would greatly slow an attack. Slow them down enough for the defenders at the next higher earthworks to pour down a murderous fire of arrows. Still, numbers would tell in the end.

There were three more attacks that night. But the men were tense and ready. Each attack was driven off without difficulty or loss of life.

“They’re testing us,” said Bordeall. He ran his thumb along the edge of his axe. “This’ll be dull by midday if I cleave enough necks.”

“Examining the defenses,” said the Duke of Harlech. “That’s what they’re doing, and that’s what they would be doing if I were commanding them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some sleep. Tomorrow shall be a long day.” He bowed to them and walked away.

“I think I’ll follow his example,” said Owain. “Your father’s a practical man.”

“That he is,” said Rane. “I’ve always found him so, and the best swordsman in Tormay, though some say Cullan Farrow is better. I would think it a close match.”

“Cullan Farrow is dead. All his family with him, save his son Declan.”

“Dead?” Rane’s face went still for a moment. “That is grave news. I’d hoped the Farrows would bring their swords to our battle. They were good people. Very good people. His wife was a distant cousin of mine. But the son is still alive, you say?”

“He rode south to raise the duchies. My hope is he’ll return soon with soldiers from Harth. We would profit greatly from their help.”

The morning dawned bright and cold. Frost gleamed on the dead grass. The sky was a pale blue scraped so thin that it was almost devoid of color. The sun looked down with its unblinking eye, but it provided no warmth. Owain threw aside his blankets and opened the catch of his tent. One of the cooks was stoking the fire. The scent of baking bread filled the air. The Duke of Harlech stood beside the fire, warming his hands. He glanced up.

“Gawinn,” he said. “I trust you slept well.”

“Tolerably.”

“A moment of your time?”

“Certainly, my lord,” said Owain.

The duke led him to the top of the gap, a grassy knoll a little ways higher than their camp. A few old oaks stood in bent age there, but otherwise the spot afforded a good view in all directions. The walls of Hearne were visible just before the horizon, with the sea a dim line behind them. To the east, the valley fell away in curves of greens and browns, the river bending and turning as it fled the far mountains in favor of the sea.

“Can you see, there, just on the edge of sight?” The duke pointed down the valley.

“I see nothing.” Owain rubbed at his eyes and squinted into the morning light. Still, he could see nothing. “Ah, fool that I am. Here.” He rummaged in the pockets of his cloak. “There’s a jeweler in Highneck Rise who has been experimenting with polished crystal. Most consider him crazy, but I think otherwise. He calls this a farseer.”

Owain held the little crystal up to his eye and peered east. The valley swam into focus. He could see the river in startling clarity, the ice floes bobbing on the current, the broken and blackened branches of the willows. He looked farther east, over dead cornfields and meadows of dying bracken. And then, almost on the edge of where the crystal itself could aid him, he saw it.

“Burn the day!” he swore.

He saw an army marching. A dark mass flowing over the fields and slopes of the valley. Marching west in rank upon rank. Unending files of soldiers in locked and perfect step. Banners fluttered in the wind. Sunlight gleamed in countless tiny flashes upon spearheads. It was a dreadful sight, the horrible certainty in how the vast formation moved, marching as one, closer and closer with every step to where he stood. The gap, despite its height and the harsh rocky terrain of its steep slopes, felt small and defenseless. Surely that army would flow nearer and nearer and then, like a terrible tide, sweep right over them.

“Rather a lot of them, isn’t there,” said the duke.

“You must have the eyesight of a hawk,” said Owain.

“No, but I pray the hawk will come soon, him and his boy. We need them, for it’ll take more than swords to fight the Dark.”

“They’ll come. They’re the reason we’re here. I knew this day was coming, and now I truly know. But an army such as this? This is worse than I dreamed. I can’t begin to estimate their number.”

The duke of Harlech smiled coldly.

“Even with such great numbers, they can still die, one by one.”

“If only to buy time.”

Owain hurried back to the camp. His mouth tasted sour and he hunched his shoulders against the cold wind.

“Messenger! Find me a messenger!” he barked. A young boy hurried up, stiff and ridiculously proud in his new uniform. “Ride to Hearne immediately and then bring me word on the rest of the duchies. I want to know if they’ve arrived, how many men. Vo and Harlech I know, but I want word of the others. Don’t spare your horse. Tell ‘em we’ve sighted the enemy.”

The boy nodded, wordless, and then ran off.

The sun ventured higher into the sky and the soldiers on the gap gathered at the top of the rise. They looked east, staring in silence, squinting into the morning light. There was a dreadful tension in the silence. It was not fear as fear is commonly known; rather, it was a hungry, nervous anticipation, a detestation of inaction, a desire to have the enemy already attacking, even if it meant death, for then there would no longer be this terrible wait.