 
## ALTAR OF FALLEN GODS

## FRANCES MASON

# Copyright © 2018 Frances Mason
# All rights reserved.

# This one's for Aidan and Deklyn.
# CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

1: The Gods Will Fall

2: Old Friends

3: Battle Plan

4: The Cliff

5: Siege

6: Digging for Adventure

7: When Pigs Burn

8: The Dead Will Walk

9: Altar of Fallen Gods

10: Trapped Rats

11: Out of the Frying Pan

12: With Friends Like These

13: A Storm Approaches

14: Seedcake and Mule

15: The Beat of Oars

16: A Final Drop

17: Harp of the Wind

18: The Rising Tide

About the Author

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Above all others I would like to thank my editor, Marc Fanesson. Even as some characters seem but the rearrangement of the author's parts into new wholes, the best editor, true as only fiction can be, writes the writer as though arranging his truest self.

# 1: THE GODS WILL FALL

The rider came out of the east. His stirrup straps were extended because of the great length of his legs. His six and a half feet of height gave the palfrey the appearance of a small pony underneath him. He wasn't hugely built for his height, though his shoulders were broad and his arms and legs well-muscled. Despite the discomfort of riding too small a horse, he sat with the casual confidence of a warrior, a profession attested by the hard leather armour that showed between the folds of the cloak he wore to protect his fair skin from the burning summer sun and the huge, two handed sword that was slung across his back. Under his hood long auburn hair fell past his shoulders, his face was freckled and his chin darkened by a slight red stubble. But the feature that would have struck most strangers was his eyes. They literally glittered. In irises of deep blue swam silver motes like stars in a clear dark night.

As he rode he guided his horse with his knees, leaving the reins loose across its mane because his hands were preoccupied. In one he held a small harp and with long, elegant fingers he played an incomplete tune, trying his voice against it, shaking his head periodically as he composed, gradually discovering the true shape of the song. For this was Agmar, bard of Seltica, refugee of the land of his forefathers, warrior poet, friend of both great princes and lowly thieves, and lover of ladies of exquisite morals – some would not make love when their husbands were away, only when they were excitingly, and dangerously, near. He had been sent west by the great Ropeuan duke, Augustyn of Relyan, to aid Wulfstan, the lord of the March of Glede, who even now was besieging the castles of the inner march of Glede, which provided the last line of defence before the walls of the city Gleda. As always though Agmar's motives were many, and inscrutable to most men, and he considered himself bound to no lord or king, even when he did their bidding.

The river stretched east to west, and Agmar rode close to its north bank. To the south of the river, beyond a thin line of trees, the peat bogs stretched all the way to the distant foothills of the Dividing Range, that great mountain range which nearly bisects the great southward extending peninsula of Ropeua. Here, on the north side of the river, was marshy terrain scattered with tangled copses, their dark green canopies more like louring earth bound clouds than the bright green augers of festive nature that were more natural at this time of year. Beyond the copses, clusters of dark, jagged leaved, prickly bushes clotted all the higher ground.

Occasionally Agmar would nudge his horse's neck with his knees, riding up on the verge of the dirt road and allowing the teams of oxen to pass, hauling barges that had furled their sails because of the failing winds, or slave rowed galleys that negotiated too powerful currents.

Even at midsummer this road was little more than a muddy conduit between the flowing river and the stagnant pools of the marsh; so the ox teams were covered in sticking clayey mud. To make matters worse, from the marsh came swarms of angrily buzzing mosquitoes, hungry for human blood. The kingdom's wide, stone sealed road, built for the rapid transit of merchants, royal messengers, and armies, extended in a great arc far to the north, completely avoiding the marshes of this region. Agmar had thought to take the scenic route to Gleda, and the view of the mountain range was indeed beautiful, but he was paying for his aesthetic tastes. He absently swatted at a mosquito, interrupting his song for the hundredth time.

In the distance, beyond an ox team, he could see a large muddy grey stone in the middle of the road. He wondered that the teamsters didn't clear such an obstacle. It would be hard for them to go around. Then he saw it move. As he came nearer the boulder unfolded into the shape of a man. From his limbs hung the grey tatters of an ancient robe but, other than that, he was naked. As he stood he turned and started to dance, and his eyes were blank with madness.

A hermit of the forest, perhaps, Agmar thought. They weren't uncommon in these parts. As he drew closer to the hermit he could hear him cackling, "The dead are walking." He danced in a small circle, waving his arms in the air, "and the gods are falling. The times are changing and water is burning and fire is flowing." He looked to the heavens and screamed in mad laughter. Then he stared at Agmar. The hermit's eyes were dark voids, full of meaning and madness. The smile fled his face and he screamed again, hiding beneath his own arms, the tatters of his robe hardly covering his mud streaked body. "The sky is falling and the earth is rising. The dead will rise from their graves. The dead...the dead...the dead are coming in the long night. They hunger for the living. The dead live. The living die to feed dead hunger." He beat his chest, then turned and ran into the forest, cackling and chanting, screaming and wailing.

The bard continued on his way, but he was troubled. He told himself the hermit was mad, but couldn't shake the feeling that his appearance had been a portent. To chase away the feeling, he sang a festive song.

# 2: OLD FRIENDS

The camp sprawled around the manmade lake. Across a narrow causeway east of the palisades the soaring mount rose, cliff faces on three sides and a narrow winding path up the third, extending from the end of the causeway. Atop the cliffs squatted the formidable castle known simply as The Cliff, for it seemed an extension of those. The barriers to its conquest seemed insurmountable. But with this castle at their rear no army could safely besiege the city of Gleda.

Agmar rode up to the camp palisades, a long line of spiked wooden posts. At the gate torches burned, and fires lit the camp behind. Tents stood in clusters like mushrooms in the forest after the first autumn rains, some plain, some striped, some coloured to correspond to various western lords' liveries. It being midsummer, many men hadn't bothered to pitch their tents at all, sleeping instead under the stars and moon. Sparks floated into the sky and soldiers sang bawdy songs and chewed on half cooked or burnt mutton, taken in raids on Fik settlements or requisitioned from Ropeuan farmers, both equally unwilling contributors to the war effort.

"Who goes there?" A bored sentry, dressed in chain armour, with a surcoat bearing the coat of arms of Wulfstan, lord of the march of Glede, challenged Agmar, lowering his spear to point at the bard's chest. Across the other side of the entrance gate another sentry in the same livery leaned lazily on his spear and shield and watched, not bothering to come forward to block Agmar's path.

Agmar presented the writ of the duke Relyan, Augustyn, sealed with his mark. As Ear of the King, Augustyn was head of his own fiefdom of spies, saboteurs, and assassins, which sometimes even served the king's interest. His seal design, of a crowned heart, was known throughout the kingdom and carried as much authority as that of the king himself. The sentry showed himself unimpressed by his harrumph but waved Agmar through.

"Where is Wulfstan's pavilion?"

The sentry casually pointed his spear towards a large, colourful tent, with banners flying above it, bearing the same coat of arms as the sentry's surcoat, a brown bear on a field of green. Discipline in the camp didn't seem to be good, unlike the morale. Men danced around fires and swilled ale and the local wines and imported Kumese rum, singing and groping the camp whores and catamites, who laughed and groped them back.

A loud drunken voice roared, "You bloody bastard bard. Your mother was a privy and your father was a shit."

Agmar stopped. The short stocky man addressing him leered from the darkness, the light of campfires showing teeth broken by many fights and a small goatee beneath a bulbous red nose and dark, wide set eyes.

"Culain? Who could love such an ugly mug, other than your poor mother who pissed herself when she first saw you?"

"And shat herself too," Culain grinned, "but I hear women always do when they pop one out. Yours must've soiled the whole village shitting you out, you big bastard."

Agmar gripped Culain's arm. "It's been too long, old friend."

"Aye, longer than the sky is wide."

"Who's here with you?"

"The usual legends of the muddy isle: Eoghann, Kendhal, Dyfed, Drem, and Gildas."

"You mean the usual misfits, cutthroats, blowhards and drunkards."

Culain grinned. "We Selts fight best when pickled."

"I have to report to Wulfstan."

"Have to? You forget your heritage."

"The day I forget my homeland dogs will stop licking their balls. But alliances have to be made if we're ever to rid Noot Seltica of these Fiks."

Culain spat at the mention of the hated raiders who in the last century had taken over the northern half of the island of Seltica with their dragon prowed longships. Having also added the city of Gleda to their sea empire seventy years ago they were a common enemy of the kingdom of Ropeua and the tribes of Seltica.

Agmar asked, "Why else would you be here?"

Culain grinned, his wide set eyes glinting darkly. "Any chance to butcher Fiks is as good as a feast to a starving man."

"A feast can kill a starving man," Agmar said, "and I'd rather drive them out for good."

"Aye, there's that. If you're looking for men for some suicide mission, remember us, though we'd rather kill than die. We're in the middle of a drinking game now, so best wait for the morrow, maybe late. Kendhal thinks he can outdrink me. I don't think he'll wake up too early."

"He's a big man. You're brave to challenge him."

"He eats more than he drinks. I'll best him yet."

"Given how much he eats, I don't like your chances."

"Ye of little faith," Culain said with a winey cough. "By the by, your old friend's here."

"Who?"

"Kalogh."

"Kalogh! That slimy, perfumed, gutless little...."

"Aye, that'd be the one."

"The songstress of Seltica. But I insult our good women."

"And the bad ones. Bless their fiery hearts," Culain agreed, "I've known many a rosy cheeked Selt maid braver than Kalogh."

"And many a brave warrior who'll run from their lashing tongues."

Culain gestured with his head. "You'll find him in Wulfstan's tent."

"Learning the lords the fine art of kissing arse, no doubt. He always did have a taste for shit."

"He has a talent no man will question."

"Just not as bard or soldier."

Agmar dismounted outside Wulfstan's pavilion and, showing the seal of Augustyn's writ to the liveried guards, entered.

Inside were several men, but Wulfstan's presence dominated the room. He was a man of about six feet height, with a thickset build, thick broad shoulders, and large strong hands. His surcoat bore the same symbols as the banner that flew above his pavilion. Two of the other men were vassals of Wulfstan, the bannerets Aedgar and Edmer. Another, small, with long, perfectly combed hair, was a Selt, Kalogh, the bard, though Agmar thought little of his poetic talent and less of his voice.

Wulfstan greeted Agmar in his gruff, blunt way. He knew who had sent him, and despised him the more for it, though he had never had much love for any of the Selts, even when they fought for him. Now, in the hour of his need, he looked hopefully at Agmar.

"What forces does Augustyn send?" he demanded of the bard.

Though the duke had sent him east to aid Wulfstan, he had not provided him any men with which to do it. He had said rather that, "You'll provide a rallying point for other Selts who might aid Wulfstan." Given that most of the Selts who would fight with a Ropeuan lord were already here, other than the ships that were on their way, he didn't see that his presence would change things much. All he could really add to the mix was long experience of war against the Fiks, though most of that had been at the level of skirmishing. The usual tactics of the Selts against the Fiks in Noot Seltica had been guerrilla action, attacking silently in the night then melting into the hills that divided Noot Seltica from Suut Seltica.

Agmar said, "The duke's forces are preoccupied in the east at this time." Though he knew it was true, he also knew it would be unwelcome news.

"What of the prince? Arthur surely can't doubt the value to the kingdom of Gleda returning to my hands. And it is his kingdom."

Agmar thought fondly of Arthur. The Prince of Norwalds, crown prince of the realm of Ropeua, was as close to a noble of noble character as ever he had met. But Arthur had many concerns, not least of which was his aged father, whose senility had degenerated into outright madness in recent years. Only a man as noble as Arthur in such a position would restrain from seizing the throne. He respected him for it, though he wondered what the ultimate consequences might be. Sometimes, it was true that less noble acts were necessary for the good of a kingdom.

To Wulfstan Agmar said, "It will be his kingdom one day, but I regret that the prince, as ever in these sad days, struggles to balance all the interests in the kingdom as his father struggles against madness."

Aedgar, the foremost of Wulfstan's vassals, echoed the common wisdom, "The body of the king is his kingdom, and when his mind is disturbed the kingdom suffers for it."

Wulfstan looked anguished. "Then there is no aid coming? We're alone?"

Agmar said, "My countrymen are here in your army. They are a small group, but others cross the strait and will blockade the port."

Aedgar said, "That at least is good to hear. Without a naval blockade a siege of the city would probably fail."

Agmar respected Aedgar. He knew him to be level minded, and often the only voice of reason Wulfstan would listen to. He said, "Perhaps it still will. It's not easy to take so large a city."

"No! It can't fail. I can't. I must drive them out. Seventy years! They took my birth right, the right of blood. And Augustyn, that scheming...he too...but...I don't mean..." He looked suspiciously at Agmar.

"When the city falls the king will have no further need for his wardship."

Wulfstan hovered between despair and anger. "You don't know him like I do. He is a..." Aedgar squeezed his shoulder and he didn't complete the sentence. But he did have more to say. "He'll never secede my duchy. He'll claim it as his own."

Though he suspected the truth of Wulfstan's position, he diplomatically said, "He only claims the rights of wardship."

Wulfstan could no longer be restrained. His face went bright red and he roared, "I'm no child. I have no need of guardianship. It's a ploy to keep what isn't his. That's why he hesitates to send aid. He doesn't want me to win back the city and make my duchy whole." He ground his teeth and glared past Agmar's shoulder, as if seeing a phantom of the duke's figure standing there.

# 3: BATTLE PLAN

Aedgar had calmed his lord, and now they stood about a trestle table in the command pavilion. Wulfstan examined the map, laid out on the table. His broad thick shoulders were set squarely, his large hands flat, holding the edges of the map. He lifted one hand and stabbed at three points on the map. "The last of the garrisons here, here and here have been destroyed by Aedgar and Edmer." The map was more than a century old, but still mostly accurate, other than where the Fiks had engineered the landscape. The motte and bailey castles Wulfstan had pointed out had been one such change, but the large artificial lake surrounding the eminence at the top of which the huge castle sat, looming above the camp, was the most dramatic change since his great grandfather's time.

"Now I can concentrate on the main castle."

"There's only a narrow causeway, Your Grace," said Agmar.

"Damn them! If we take The Cliff my city will be encircled. Then we can starve them out."

Wulfstan's hair was cut close at the sides and behind, and a forelock hung across his dark, angry eyes. It had been seventy years since his great grandfather had held the city, Gleda as the Ropeuans knew it, though the Fiks called it Faar Utapes, "Our Outpost," in their barbaric language. All that successive generations of his family since then had been able to accomplish was holding the outer reaches of the march of Glede. Even there they now had no prestige. Men who had once been proud dukes of Glede and its great port-city of Gleda, had been reduced to mere vassals of the eastern upstart, Augustyn, styling himself marquis Glede. Now the inner reaches of the march of Glede, were all but Wulfstan's. All the other castles had fallen. Only The Cliff, built strongly by his own ancestors, and fallen to treachery shortly before the city, held out.

Agmar towered over Wulfstan and the others, even as he slouched in the tent, long auburn hair flowing down over his wide, leanly muscled shoulders. He raised a hand with long elegant fingers to his freckled face, rubbing the stubble on his chin as his deep blue eyes, speckled with silver motes, looked firmly into the baron's. "There are other ways," he advised. He might not be a vassal of Augustyn, or even Wulfstan, but he hated the Fiks as much as any man reasonably could, and would gladly follow the lords of Glede for any chance of drawing Fik blood, but what the baron was proposing was suicide.

"Other ways? There is no way but the utter destruction of these vermin. When they lie dead in the city streets in bloody heaps we'll sweep them into the sea like garbage. No more will our lands be subject to their depredations."

"I don't speak of the city, Your Grace, only of the castle. If we attempt a siege along the narrow causeway it won't achieve anything but the death of your men." He punctuated the statement with, "many of your men." Seeing Wulfstan's barely restrained anger he shrugged. "You're driven by anger against your own better judgement."

"Oh, brave Agmar!" Kalogh O'Kuellan, another Seltic bard who had long been in the baron's service, mocked Agmar. He stepped forward now, his small, close set blue eyes as triumphant as the smirk of his overlarge mouth. He wet his lips with his tongue, flicking faster than a snake's. "Trembling like a maiden at the mere thought of war."

Agmar drew himself to his impressive full height, his head touching the canvas roof of the pavilion and pushing it higher, and pointed a long elegant finger down at his rival. "Oh, Callow a Quailing." Even the usually gruff Wulfstan chuckled at the pun on Kalogh's name, for Kalogh was in fact young and if it had not been for the young bard's skilful flattery the baron would have hanged him long ago for his cowardice. "None is braver than Callow at advancing to the rear in a rapid retreat." Aedgar, a banneret in the service of Wulfstan, suppressed a laugh. "Was it Agmar who cried out in fear as a few Fiks sallied forth from the palisades of Donaught? Was it Agmar who ran with the swiftness of the doe to escape the swords of the Fik womenfolk in the hills of Seltica. You speak of bravery, Callow, but have courage only in a contest of words. Oh, yes, your songs have power. Routed knights flee towards battle to escape the strangled notes. Such a power I'll have to commit to legend." More than one of the baron's bannerettes smiled, though they knew Kalogh to be a fair bard, if a less than impressive warrior.

"Men rally to my song as to a banner." Kalogh puffed himself up proudly.

"If they can't flee your discordant screeches, soldiers bravely drop their swords and leave themselves defenceless so they might use their fingers to cork their ears. Those who don't are braver yet to withstand the sound, more terrifying than the banshee's wail."

Not doubting his own talent, or the bravery he could demonstrate in song, Kalogh drew his eyebrows together in a scowl as he said, "It's you who want to flee this engagement."

"If I fled any fight I'd never catch you. You'd outdistance the greyhound and the hare. I have no such speed, and well it is. Only my sword need be quick."

"Your sword will never be as quick as your tongue with lies."

"Enough!" Wulfstan hammered the table with his fist, "I have no time for the bickering of bards."

"My lord's will." Kalogh bowed deeply, his long black perfumed hair dangling to his knees, and stepped back. "I would only ask that Agmar heed the wisdom of Wulfstan."

"The bard's right," said Aedgar, nodding at Agmar, "Given the castle's elevation our catapults can't reach the walls. Our archers can't provide cover from the shore of the lake. We could get them within range if we launched boats on the lake, but not nearly enough, and we can't get our roofed rams across that narrow causeway, so whoever tried to approach the gate to smash it down would have no cover against crossbowmen or rocks. Pavises will only give limited cover. They're better against arrows than bolts and as good as useless against heavy stones. Even if we didn't have to climb that narrow path, without any kind of effective cover or covering fire it's just a killing ground up there. At least until the gatehouse is breached."

"We could damn the stream the Fiks diverted from the Selta," suggested Edmer, another of Wulfstan's bannerettes, "then we could drain the lake."

"We have enough engineers to get it done," Aedgar said, "but the Fiks dug the lake deep and the bottom will be all mud by now. We'd have to fill it in. We don't have the men to do that quickly. It wouldn't be finished before winter."

"Easier to just starve them out. The Cliff's too well designed and sited. Even without the lake"

"I won't wait," Wulfstan thundered.

"I have a better idea," said Agmar. "Find me a score of your best climbers."

"You want to scale the cliff? With the wall at the top?"

"Not quite. Not the latter anyhow. You've noticed the discolouration down the northern cliff face?"

"What do I care about the colour of stone?"

"It's shit stains."

Wulfstan's face registered his comprehension. "The garderobes!"

"Precisely. I don't know how large they are, so only small men. Maybe Callow will volunteer." Agmar looked at Kalogh, then affected surprise when the other bard didn't volunteer.

"A shithole would better suit your head than mine," Kalogh grumbled.

"Afraid of a dropping turd? You eat too much meat, Callow. If only we had fruit to loosen your bowels. Never mind, for you the fear of a fight will serve well enough."

Wulfstan glowered at both of the bards. "Even if we could get a score of men up there they couldn't take the castle. It has a garrison of two hundred."

"They wouldn't have to take the castle." He slid the map of the landscape aside, showing the plan of the castle. "Look. The gatehouse is separately defensible, but much smaller than the keep. The keep is where most of the men will be. If we can take the gatehouse and defend it long enough for the mass of your men to get there..."

"They could still shoot from the battlements and towers to either side of the gatehouse."

"Not by the looks of this gatehouse. It covers both the battlement walkways leading away from it. I'd say if you could get the men there and kill the soldiers inside and seal it you'd be able to sweep the battlements clear. Even if the battlements can't be covered, a quick strike through an open gate would be hard for them to repel. If we can get to the winch for the gate..."

"But we have to get to it. The gatehouse is not on the same side as the garderobes."

"I didn't say it'd be easy. Any other way you'd lose twenty times twenty men and probably still not get in. This way you'll lose twenty at worst. At best, you'll gain the castle, or at least the outer bailey, and then you can bring up your catapults in pieces and reassemble them up there and turn their gatehouse catapults back against the keep. The keep would fall within a week. Then with all their marcher castles in your hands you can besiege the city at your leisure."

Aedgar said, "I can't fault his plan, my lord. We'd have to bring men up to the bottom of the path in readiness, which we can do with boats to keep them out of sight of the battlements. When we get the signal we'll land against the causeway and come up the path."

"And if you don't get the signal you can go back to your tents to sleep. If we fail you can call it a crap plan."

Aedgar smiled wryly at Agmar. The bard had fought for Wulfstan only last summer. He had proved his worth many times in battle, though his height made him such an obvious target the banneret always expected him to take a crossbow bolt in the neck. He was brave and skilful, and had a good head for tactics, provided some madmen could be found to carry out his plans. And when he sang you knew that here was a man truly favoured by Selteltathra, the god of minstrels and bards. His voice was preternaturally beautiful. Aedgar said, "I don't plan to sleep. Let's get started."

"You have some men in mind?"

"I have a few, how about you, Edmer? They can't just be good climbers, they'll need to be hardy fighters too."

"Finding the men won't be a problem. Who'll lead them though?"

"I will," Agmar said. "I misspent much of my youth in the mountains of middle Seltica. I'm a pretty handy climber when I need to be. The skill has saved my skin at least a hundred times, but I'll only tell you about one.

"Some Fiks were raiding into the hills with a treacherous bastard from the village of Drunquin. I had with me some of the best men of the hill tribes, who would've killed me as soon as a Fik if I hadn't defeated their bard in a battle of songs. As much as the hill tribes hate lowlanders one thing they always respect is a good bard. The whole winter they sit around their fires in their high-plateau halls and tell tales taller than a giant on a snowy peak. The man who can make the most implausible nonsense convincing becomes their bard, so I was up against it. But that's another story. I had their trust and they knew my honour, so they took me with them on many raids, just to show a lowlander how to thrash these sea dragons. The hill folk are a hardy lot, and they climb better than the mountain goats whose milk they ferment.

"As I was saying, the Fiks were raiding into the hills with this bloody traitor, may his father split his skull and his mother spit on his grave, when the ambush was sprung. He led us right into the trap then turned on us. If they'd been only three to every one we would have stood our ground and fought, but they were ten to one and so we fled up the slopes so that we might feed them their livers another day. I told you they climb better than mountain goats, and I'd learned a few tricks from them. I locked my eyes on the best climber of the lot, a gruff runt named Kearney, and chased him up the slopes, watching every handhold and foothold he found. I swear I learned more about climbing that day than most men will ever know, but still it's only as much as a babe of those hills learns climbing to his mother's tit. So don't worry, I can climb."

"But will you be able to get through the garderobes?"

Agmar patted his flat stomach. "I might be tall, but I'm skinny enough.

"There was this time I was avoiding debating with a lord of Navre about the virtue of his wife, a sweet lady, a great beauty...don't remember her name, but she showed me a few tricks you wouldn't imagine a chaste lady would know. The innovations of respectable ladies is always edifying for a man of learning like myself. I found myself in a dead end, and there was the husband only a few streets over searching with his men. I didn't have time to get out of the dead end, but I was lucky, always have been in love and war. There was an opening from the gutters into the sewers. You wouldn't think a child could squeeze through that space, let alone a man, but there's nothing like a hundred heavily armed men asking polite questions about your whereabouts with their swords to encourage a discovery of new talents. Anyhow, I got through that opening and into the sewers. Narrow little pipe. Hooked up with another. When I squeezed out of that pipe into the bigger one I swear it felt like being born a second time. Made my way through all that shit and piss to the sea. Couldn't get the stink off me for a week."

"So no ladies for a week," Aedgar said. All the men but Kalogh laughed. Agmar put on a mortified expression. "Only a tanner's daughter. She said she couldn't smell anything."

"There's no dishonour in the embraces of a tanner's daughter," Wulfstan said, smiling one of his rare smiles.

"Ah, yes," Agmar said, "queen Rose is a beauty, and there's the truth of it."

"I think I'd better keep you away from the capital, lest you get us all hanged for treason."

"No lady ever complained about my attentions."

"It's said the queen has joined the puritans," Edmer said. "No man will squeeze through a passage that lot have gained."

"Ah, did I tell you about the time I had a debate with a puritan priestess about the virtue of virtue?"

"No," said Wulfstan, "and you can save it for another time. To business. You'll lead the men. Ordinarily I'd make a diversionary attack, but anything of that sort from the front will only lead to them reinforcing the barbican and the adjoining battlement walkways. If we attack either of the other sides they'll know something's up, and start looking. Your best chance is if they think we're all too far in our cups to fight. I'll have the whole camp making so much noise they won't think to look in your direction, or hear our boats near the causeway. So, you'll be on your own till you've secured the gatehouse."

"I'll take a few arrows with naphtha soaked cloth. If we make the gatehouse and get the portcullis up and the drawbridge down I'll shoot it through the arrow loops or from the top of the gatehouse if I can reach it. Be quick once you see it, 'cause we'll be fighting for what's left of our lives by then."

# 4: THE CLIFF

Culain hadn't been happy about being left out of this mission, but Kendhal was too large a man for the climb and Culain and the rest were already so pissed Agmar suspected most of them would fall from the cliffs. The men supplied to Agmar by Aedgar and Edmer were runts, usually the best climbers, and a hard bitten lot who had seen a lot of war against the vicious Fiks. They were also more disciplined than many others in the camp, being almost sober. Each carried a short bow and a cloth satchel of arrows.

They were halfway up the cliff face when the missiles struck. The soldier closest to Agmar lost his hold as he tried to wipe away the shit from his face. Agmar reached out a long arm and grabbed him by the ankle as he fell. The soldier's body turned on the pivot and slammed his head into the rock face. He went limp. Aware that anyone sitting over a privy hole might hear them the rest slapped free hands over their mouths to silence the almost irrepressible laughter. Agmar lifted the man up, turned him right way up, and gently shook him. He remained limp. Shortly after, a light drizzle of piss wet their upturned faces and the man woke, spluttering until another soldier clapped a free hand over his mouth and motioned up with his face. The man nodded groggily, but gagged when the hand was removed, and wiped the rest of the shit off his face as well as he could before continuing the climb.

There were no more misadventures before they reached the bottom of the garderobe projections, each a semicylinder against the flat of the walls. Those going up separate tubes would not be able to communicate until they emerged from the garderobes. Agmar had the advantage of height in the tube, stretching across the space from side to side and walking his way up through the muck. The two men behind him had to rely more on hand holds in shit and piss and mould encrusted mortar gaps. While it was dark outside, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, inside was pitch black except for a faint glow from above which Agmar's body mostly blocked for the men below him, so they had to rely on feeling around. Fortunately the setting of stones here was more regular than handholds in the cliff face. At the top the hole was smaller, with a fixed wooden seat covering most of the space. There was light enough he could clearly see the hole.

He drew his sword, a long sword rather than his preferred two handed sword, reached through to place it on the seat, then unknotted the satchel of arrows and short bow from his side and carefully placed them near his sword. He started to drag himself through. The tricky part was getting his broad shoulders past the hole, about as narrow as a man's arse. Fortunately, your average Fik was a big man. Since Agmar's body tapered from the shoulders down it would be easy after he got his shoulders through. With a silent grunt he twisted his shoulders diagonally to his spine and dragged his right shoulder through. Then he placed his forearm flat against the seat and levered himself up, pressing his left shoulder more and more tightly to his body. After a few failed attempts his left shoulder slid past the seat, tearing at his skin through his tunic. While the other men wore light armour, because of his size Agmar had decided not to wear any armour at all. It made it riskier once up here, but he would not have gotten through otherwise. He reflected that it had been the right decision, though he might regret it if he found a sword in his gut.

As he turned to help the other two through he heard a voice behind. The man was speaking in the Fik tongue. Fortunately, like many bards, Agmar knew many languages. Over years of contact he had learned enough to bluff his way past a drunken Fik warrior.

"'Sthat u Elfraaack? Maick wiy fer the isle taaap."

The slurring made it trickier to understand, but he thought he heard "Make way for the ale tap." He picked up his sword and kept his back to the Fick as he shoved past, then turned and stabbed him through the neck, which was exposed above the chain mail shirt. There was a gargling sound and the body slumped to the floor. He poked his head over the garderobe hole and only just twisted aside in time to avoid the blade thrusting up.

"It's me, you twat!" he hissed down the hole.

"Sorry, Agmar. I thought it was a Fik arse," the man said as he dragged himself through the hole. "I wasn't going to cop another face load of shit."

"Are you calling me an arse face?"

"I've still got shit in my eye; everything looks like an arse ready to shit on me."

Agmar reached through and helped the last man through. While he was stripping the dead man of his chain mail shirt and putting it on he said, "We better join up with the others right quick." The chain mail shirt was broad enough in the shoulders but only came to his waist and had no arms. "Better than nothing, but it won't stop much." He picked up the bow and arrows and handed them to the man behind him.

When they were together Agmar counted. Nineteen. "We're missing one."

"That's Roddy," said one of the men, "he fell. Bloody slimy tubes to crawl up. I'd say we're lucky we didn't lose more." This time no one laughed about a man losing his grip.

"Shit! Nothing to be done. Rest in peace, Roddy. We'll raise a horn of mead and sing a song of heroes in your memory. Let's get going." Those who hadn't yet now drew their swords.

They climbed a staircase, not meeting anyone along the way, and emerged at the end of the rampart, near the keep.

There was a guard patrolling the rampart. He was casually walking the other way, and Agmar motioned the men back out of the torchlight, looked out to see where the guard on the other rampart was, and backed out of the torchlight to wait. When the Fik had completed his circuit back to the doorway he turned his back on it, and stopped. Agmar had noticed this one was only wearing a quilted gambeson without a covering of chain mail. The climbers waited, breathing carefully, just out of sight behind a bend in the stair. Agmar peered around the corner as the guard spat over the edge then turned back to look across the ward. He rested his spear against the crenellations, faced away from the battlements and undid his codpiece, pulled out his dick and pissed on the roof of the hall below. As he tied the codpiece back in place his face registered surprise to see the sword point protruding from his chest. Agmar had placed his hand over the man's mouth as he stabbed him, but the body slumped silently and without struggle. Agmar dragged the body back to the doorway, keeping an eye on the guard on the opposite battlement, who had almost reached the far end of his patrol.

Out on the rampart was now quiet. On the opposite, southern, rampart only that one man patrolled. They waited for him to come back and turn the other way, then crept along the northern rampart. A spear could be seen above the crenellations of the high keep tower, which was to their left, against the adjacent wall, opposite the castle gatehouse. The spear passed back and forth behind the tower keep crenellations as the guard marched his rounds. Down in the ward, between gatehouse and keep tower, the shadows shifted as the torches by the keep doors guttered. Smoke spiralled languidly from the roof of the kitchens by their side of the ward. They crept along the rampart and reached the point of intersection with the front of the castle.

There was a wall dividing the perpendicular ramparts of the castle side, to the north, and front, to the west. It had not been on the old castle plan, despite that having been adequately modified after a tortured spy was made into an unwilling turncoat. Or so they had thought.

Agmar muttered to himself. "You can always guarantee a man will talk with torture, but there's no way of knowing whether what he said is gold or gilded crap." He turned to the men and said, "Still, a little wall won't stop us, will it, lads?" He thought he saw the white of nineteen grins. "Remember, keep it quiet. There might be fewer guards out than pimples on an old whore's bum, but they'll turn out quick enough once they're warned. Best if we're already in the gatehouse before that happens. These low rampart walls on the inside expose us to fire from the ward. If a half dozen archers get out of that hall or the keep before we make it to the gatehouse we're going to make a pretty set of pin cushions for their wives."

"Fiks have wives?" asked one of the men.

"It's what they call their sheep in their more tender moments."

One of the men started imitating a panicked sheep bleating, but Agmar put his hand over the man's mouth. The others grinned but held back their laughter.

Only when atop the wall did Agmar see the guard on the other side, leaning lazily against his halberd. He motioned the others to wait, and crept within range. The Fik wore a helmet and a short chain mail shirt, with padded gambeson beneath. Unlike the one Agmar now wore this Fik's chain shirt had a hood, which had been pulled up before pulling the helmet over it. A strong downward thrust from a sharp sword like Agmar's might pierce the armour, driving down through the man's spine into his heart. He might even be able to pierce the helmet, impaling the Fik's brain, and because of his long arms Agmar was within reach. But it was not a certain thing, and if his blow was deflected by the armour the man would have time to call the other Fiks to arms.

Agmar carefully placed his sword down on the stones and motioned one of his men to follow him quietly up to the wall. He indicated silently what the other should do. They both dropped noiselessly to the stones behind the man. Agmar stretched an arm around the man's neck and hauled him up off his feet, gripping his other hand tightly over his mouth, while the man who had followed him grabbed the halberd to stop it falling loudly. The man was strongly built and heavy, despite being much shorter than Agmar, and kicked wildly and tried to reach back to Agmar's face while Agmar crushed his windpipe. Agmar waited until the kicking stopped and carefully lowered the Fik to the rampart stones.

When the men were all down on the rampart he pointed. "Our luck is better than I expected. If anyone's patrolling the gatehouse towers I can't see them, so they're not looking in this direction. The only way to the gatehouse door from the bailey is up that stairway along the side of the gatehouse, up to this rampart. I didn't see another stairway to the opposite rampart, and there was none on the plan, so it might only have an internal stairway at the south east end of the ramparts like the one we came up through from the privies. Move quick lads, there's no telling how long our luck will last. When we get through, the last three through get that door shut and hold it while we fight our way through whoever's in there to the other side and see if there's another door there. If there is we'll close it, and another three men, or maybe less, can hold it against the garrison. Then the rest will find our way down to the windlass to lift the portcullis. If we get the portcullis and drawbridge moving I'll make my way back up and shoot off the signal. If I don't make it, one of you take the naphtha arrows and signal the men on the lake. Make sure you shoot it high, so they'll see it from where they're hiding behind the rock outcrops at the base." The others nodded and they were off.

Before they reached the gatehouse two Fiks staggered out of the hall. One turned bleary eyes toward the rampart and shouted something in Fik. Then the ward exploded in chaotic motion. Drunken Fiks staggered out of the hall while their sober brethren hurried out of the keep. Agmar turned to the men and shouted, "Run," then sprinted towards the open door. Fiks peered over the crenellations of the high keep, and crossbow bolts and arrows were striking all around. A bolt struck the stone of the battlements in front of Agmar and ricocheted into him as he passed, cutting his face. In the moment he reflexively closed his eyes a Fik appeared at the door they were running to with two other men behind and Agmar and the Fiks went down in a tangle of limbs. Three of Agmar's climbers went down, hit lethally or crippled by crossbow bolts, their comrades hurdling them as they fell. Another Fik desperately tried to slam the thick iron bound oak door shut, heaving against it with his shoulder as the remaining climbers slammed into it en masse, knocking him on top of the struggling mass of Agmar and Fiks. Agmar threw him off with an arching of his back and backward sweep of his arm then drew his dagger for close fighting.

The first Fik under him felt the bite of the knife cutting from his unprotected groin up to his guts before he could free his own weapon. His guts poured onto the face of the Fik beneath him as Agmar rolled free, turning and pivoting from a kneeling position to drive his dagger into the man's face as he shook his head to dislodge the guts from his face and blink away the blood. The last of the climbers to survive the rush across the rampart hurled himself through the doorway, a crossbow bolt hitting him in the calf as he pushed off, and he fell onto the knife of the last surviving Fik in the tangle as that man drew it. Both victor and vanquished wore a surprised expression, then the victor became the vanquished as another climber drove his dagger into the Fik's throat. Shouts rang out outside as Fiks stomped up the narrow stairway, easy to defend from the top if you had the covering fire of the keep and adjacent rampart, but undefended by the climbers. Inside the Fik who had tried to close the door rose groggily to his feet and walked onto the sword of one of the climbers while the other climbers completed the Fik's work and heaved the door closed, dropping in place the heavy wooden beam that barred it.

"It's better designed than the plan showed," Agmar said, pointing, "look, they've sealed the passage between the towers. We can probably only get through by going down then up. Let's hope the other tower has no door to the rampart. There's no way to the battlements above from this side, but at least we know the windlass is in this tower. There's no reason for them to have changed that. If we can defend this tower long enough we can open the gatehouse to our men." He pointed to three of the remaining fifteen men to hold the door, drew his sword, and ran down the stairs. A Fik came running up, and lunged with a spear. Agmar parried and thrust his sword point into the man's face.

"Nethra's poc marked bum," a voice spluttered behind him. The spear had found a gap in the leather armour of the man behind and pushed into his guts, and he had sat down on the stair, and looked with fascination as he pulled the spear point out. "Now look at that," he said, throwing a rueful look at Agmar.

"An honourable death," Agmar muttered, and thought it stupid the moment he said it.

The man agreed with his thought, not his words, "Fuck honour! Give me a mug of mead and the embraces of a woman of dubious morals." He winced in pain.

"Hold onto that thought," Agmar said, "and hold onto your guts. You're not done yet."

Agmar and eleven men continued down. The tower was empty except for a man at the windlass room, slumped over a small table with a lamp and a jug and mug, sleeping despite the raucous noise outside. Agmar struck off his head as he roused. It rolled across the floor before stopping at an angle of the room and staring with amazed eyes, as its body sat at the table, unmoved by the sudden separation.

Agmar said, "Who are the best archers here?"

Each of the men pointed at himself or said he was the best. Agmar pointed to six to stay and wind the windlass and defend it. "Whatever happens to the rest of us, that's the most important thing. Give no quarter. You're as brave a bunch of mongrels as ever bit the arse of a Fik bastard." The men cheered and growled and three set to work turning the windlass while the other three guarded the door. The groan of metal against stone came up from below. Agmar led the remaining five men towards the front of the gatehouse tower where another stairwell led up. At the top they found the entrance to the centre of the gatehouse, over the gate. Torches guttered along a passage leading back towards the castle ward. There were large arrow loops in the front of the gatehouse. Agmar knelt and placed the bow and satchel near the wall, taking out two that had been specially prepared with naphtha. He lit one in the flame of the torch nearest him and nocked it, then aimed through the arrow loop. Even kneeling, because of his height and the low ceiling, he didn't judge the angle high enough.

"I'm not going to get the necessary elevation. One of you better do it."

One of the men stepped forward and took his place and his bow with nocked arrow, handing Agmar his own short bow. He kneeled also, drew the string back to his chest, then further. "It's only a short bow, so I hope it'll take this, but if it doesn't the arrow won't get enough force to shoot high." He drew back further, lifting the bow so that the string almost came back to his face. Like most of the archers in Wulfstan's army he preferred the long bow, which he would draw all the way back to the cheek. The ash of the short bow made a cracking sound but didn't break. They all held their breath with him. He aimed up, near the top of the arrow loop, then released. There was a sharp twang and the arrow shot out through the arrow loop at the very upper limit. He watched it rise and fall in its parabolic path, dropping to the causeway below. He grinned at Agmar. "We'll have company soon."

Agmar said, "So will they. Look."

Men from the castle were already clambering onto the drawbridge before it was fully down, leaping down on the other side to charge down towards the now anticipated attack. Several fell screaming into the moat which, because of scarcity of water at this height, was crammed full of wooden spikes with lethally sharp tips.

Agmar said, "Let's see if we can thin their ranks out." The man who had shot the fire arrow was already knocking another arrow, and two others dropped their arrows by the two remaining arrow loops and started picking off men as they clambered up the lowering drawbridge. One Fik was about to jump to the far side of the moat when an arrow passed through his neck and he toppled, his head smashing into the pathway before he slid down into the moat, onto the spikes. Agmar and the remaining men searched back along the corridor and found murder holes, from which they could fire down into the passage through the gatehouse. Agmar shot a helmet free man though the skull and he collapsed. The men who had made it through to the drawbridge were now running back, and collided with more Fiks coming out, causing general confusion. In the distance could be heard a dull thudding sound as the men from the lake below ran up the path toward the castle. Agmar and his men took advantage of the concentration of men in the passage beneath them, firing arrow after arrow, increasing the panic, as the Fiks didn't know which way to run.

"Why're they sticking to the walls?" one of his men asked.

Another turned to look at Agmar, both simultaneously realising what was about to happen. Agmar dropped his bow, shouting, "keep up the attack. I have to warn the others." Reaching the front of the gatehouse he looked down and saw the first men reaching the drawbridge from the path. He shoved aside the archer and yelled, but the sound of the screaming Fiks and the tramping of boots behind the advancing vanguard was too loud and the charge was relentlessly forward. The sound of steel clanging against steel could be heard clearly. Agmar yelled again, then told the other men to do the same. But before they could make sense of what he was saying there was an almighty crash, followed by screams. He ran back through to the murder holes and looked down. The centre of the passage below had collapsed. A trap for unwary besiegers. Agmar wondered whether Wulfstan was among the fallen. It was impossible in the poor light to tell.

Agmar yelled, "Keep up your fire. Don't let the bastards take advantage of the situation to gain the upper hand." They all continued shooting their arrows down, and two of the other three, now that mainly Wulfstan's men were outside, came through and added their arrows. The passage was poorly lit, and Agmar said, "Careful now lads, no friendly fire. If you're not sure let the men below sort out the good from the sheep lovers. Do any of you still have a fire arrow?" The others nodded. "I think I can see some woodwork there," He pointed. "See if you can light it up and give us and our men a better idea of who we're killing." Both men lit their fire arrows and shot them through to strike the wooden beam, lighting up the passage. They could see the men in the pit clearly now, mostly dead on spikes, some dying slowly. Wulfstan was alive, edging along the safe part of the corridor, thrusting his two handed sword like a spear. One man, who had somehow fallen between the spikes, was crawling up out of the pit. Being trodden underfoot by his comrades he fell back. Another was climbing out at the castle ward end of the pit, a Fik raising his axe to cut him down. Then Wulfstan's two handed sword skewered the Fik. Both Fiks and marcher men-at-arms shoved each other towards the pit, and all was a mass of heaving human flesh, as though a wave of men could not decide which way to flow or where to break. Agmar and the others had run out of arrows. Agmar ran along the passage to look out of the arrow loops facing the castle ward.

Below him Wulfstan slashed about in a mighty circle, his six foot sword, as long as he was tall, cutting a swathe through the shoving mass of Fiks. Arrows from the top of the keep fell all about him. One struck him in the shoulder and another in the leg, soon he seemed to have turned into a porcupine, arrows protruding from every angle. But his layers of armour, cloth and chain and plate, kept most from deeply penetrating his flesh, and what his armour didn't defend his almost berserk rage ignored. Then his men broke through the last resistance in the passage, the wave turning definitively towards the keep, and with a surge flowed past Wulfstan's bloody circle, hacking and hewing. The Fik line within the bailey trembled and broke and the survivors ran back to the keep, followed by a rain of arrows from the first of Wulfstan's archers to reach the castle ward. As Wuflstan's men ran for the keep its door was being closed, and when they reached it the remaining Fiks, trapped outside, turned to fight and die.

Wulfstan's archers now turned their fire towards the battlements of the outer wall with their internally exposed ramparts and quickly slew the few archers there, one crossbowman tumbling to the ground, his face crushed between the hard ground and the weight of his own body, turning his mangled features towards his own back, the others slumping like marionettes when the strings have been dropped, their souls fleeing to the realm of Nethra, or whoever rules the dead of the Fik people. The archers atop the keep periodically poked out their heads and shot an arrow or crossbow bolt. Occasionally an archer on the ground would time a shot perfectly and transfix one of the archers above.

The man who had remained at the arrow loops overlooking the external approach to the gatehouse ran back. "Agmar, an attack in the rear."

"What?"

"Looks like some kind of Fik party found out about the plan. The camp is overrun. Looks like a bonfire."

"Shit!" he said, then yelled through the arrow loop at Wulfstan. At first the baron didn't hear him, then one of his men pointed to the gatehouse. Wulfstan turned and took off his helmet, looking up. An arrow shot past his ear. Agmar roared as loudly as he could, "We're betrayed! An attack on the camp." At first Wulfstan didn't hear or didn't understand, then his face registered his comprehension. He quickly directed the vanguard to hold the castle, slammed his helmet back on, then ran back through the passage, turning men around to follow him back down the slope.

Agmar directed the men with him to stay and hold the gatehouse, then ran back through the passages and stairwells towards the rampart where they had entered, yelling at the men as he passed them at each point on the way to hold the gatehouse come what might. He made the rampart, and ran down the narrow stairway. An ally mistook him for an attacking Fik and tried to cut his head off. He ducked the blow and slammed his shoulder into the man's gut, lifting him and throwing him back down to the ground of the ward. Agmar sped around the gatehouse to its passage and ran through, careful to stay close to the side. When he came out he could see many of the men pouring back down the slope.

The opposite end of the causeway was held by a small band of Fiks, and the camp was overrun. Many of Wulfstan's men poured into the boats that had brought them to the bottom of the path on their way up. Some were now reaching the shore of the lake-moat. Wulfstan was on the causeway, hacking like a madman, lopping off a head here, an arm there, a leg another where. With his helmet back on his head, all the stabs and slashes against him seemed to baulk at the impossible demand of penetrating that formidable armour, already bristling with arrow shafts. Most couldn't even reach him, so long was his reach extended with his massive two handed sword and so frenzied was his attack. One man was cut in half by that sword and looked about in puzzlement from the mud, reaching out for his legs, which kicked back, as if reluctant to re-join him. By the time Agmar reached the narrow causeway all the boats had been launched. The causeway was clotted with men following their leader back.

The camp was in chaos and many men had fled; some out the southern gate in the palisade, others towards the castle, yet others tearing down parts of the south western wall to escape; but Aedgar had rallied a few hundred men at the northern end and now they pushed forward in a disciplined wall of lances, usually used from horseback, but here giving the unmounted men a formidable front, bristling with almost impassable points. They heaved and Aedgar urged them forward, stretching them out in a long curving front, as the Fik numbers were large enough to encircle them if they fought in too deeply packed a battalion. Though the Fiks were in the camp in large numbers, recently disgorged from the town, their ranks were mostly disorganized by their looting of the camp and the dead. Turning to face Aedgar's disciplined stand a few madmen stood firm and swung in berserker rage, but the steady forward pressure impaled them or knocked them over. Then the advancing front trampled them. One huge Fik ducked under the lance points and thrust at the groin of a lightly armoured soldier. The soldier went down screaming, but before the Fik could pull his sword out the line marched over him. His unhelmeted head was struck by a steel capped knee and then his head was crushed in the mud by a series of boots, one of his eyes popping out and his jaw torn away as he screamed.

Agmar tested the water and found that with his height and the silting near the causeway he could walk where the other men could not, making his way forward before the press of men who were trying to join Wulfstan. Others tried to follow him and thrashed about, drowning. Yet others stripped metal armour off and swam. By the time that Agmar reached the edge of the lake several score men had rallied around their leader, and were forming up into disciplined ranks, slaughtering the last remaining Fiks at the end of the causeway.

The Fiks in the camp, seeing that berserker bravery was only going to get them slaughtered in the face of a disciplined assault by Aedgar's battalion, formed up their own shield wall at the south end of the camp. All around the camp was ablaze, tents and carts crumbling in the flames, sparks rising and fading in the smoke thick sky.

Wulfstan's and Aedgar's forces advanced. The Fiks had the advantage of numbers, but Wulfstan moved to flank them through the east gate of the palisade as Aedgar engaged their front from the north. The Fiks ignored Wulfstan's forces, which were less numerous than Aedgar's, and appeared less again through the aperture of the gate, though their ranks were continually being swelled by soldiers crossing back over the causeway. The Fik archers behind the Fik shield wall now sent a rain of arrows into Aedgar's ranks. Here a man died with an arrow in his eye. There a man screamed with an arrow in his gut. Another fell as his leg, lightly armoured because of the surprise of the Fik attack, buckled when an arrow pierced above his knee, and was crushed as the line advanced over him. Another, struck by a dozen arrows in his legs, still marched, held up by hardiness or battle madness. Many arrows fell harmlessly among the thick forest of lances, raised high near the knights for cover, layered several times over as the ranks closed against the missile storm, the occasional kite shields, with their pointed bases for mounted combat, which some of the knights had grabbed in the confusion of the first assault, adding only a little to the overall cover.

Aedgar's archers sent their own volley of arrows into the Fik lines, but the Fiks in the shield wall, each with a short spear and round shield, weathered the storm better, arrows mostly thudding harmlessly into the shields. One Fik fared less well, finding his shield permanently joined to his arm as an arrow pierced the shield and continued through, pinning his forearm to the wooden back. He marched forward regardless, teeth gritted against the pain. Then the lines crashed together, with a sound louder than thunder in a deep echoing gully. Incautious Fik heads were transfixed on long lances, but most of the Fiks locked shields tightly with their neighbours and trusted to the blind force of the men layered behind them, heaving with shield against back. The lances probed high so the Fiks crouched low, advancing under the lances and slashing at frequent gaps in armour. On each side as men went down they were trampled by comrades rushing forward to fill in the spaces. Aedgar shouted a command and the front rank dropped to their knees, thrusting from beneath while the second rank thrust from above, and wherever the Fiks tried to hide from the lance points, whether high or low, wherever they pushed their shields, low or high, the lances found them, in their faces and their feet, their chests and their shanks.

But the weight of numbers was showing, as the Fik line extended and wrapped around Aedgar's western flank, near where the Fiks had originally breached the camp palisade. Aedgar's flank was now tighter to his centre because of drawing together against the arrow storm. For a moment Aedgar's men held, then the end of the line collapsed, and the Fiks' flanking reached further and further into the line as it disintegrated from one end to the other. Aedgar's forces were now chaotic, with men in the front pushing forward with Aedgar, as others tried to retreat, some running into the lances of their comrades, and others impaled on the spears of the steady Fik advance. Aedgar, seeing what was happening, tried to command an orderly retreat northward, defended by the most southerly lances, some of which he turned west to reconstitute the line, hoping to rally his men again beside the palisade where their rear would be protected, but the retreat turned into a rout, and behind him, trapped between palisade and mass panic, some were crushed, while others desperately tried to escape the press by scrambling over other men, up to the spiked posts, some being impaled on the sharp wooden points, the weight of their friends alternately dragging and pressing them down with lethal force. With dread, Aedgar's men heard the Fik screams of triumph.

But it was not triumph. It was a call to watch their flank, and it came too late, as Wulfstan and more than a hundred men, pouring through the eastern palisade gate, slammed into the Fiks' eastern flank. And men were returning from the earlier rout of the camp in ever increasing numbers, and joined up with Wulfstan, as others, among Aedgar's ranks, used muscle against their own, turning men around and dragging them back into the fight. Slowly, Aedgar's battalion regained its cohesion and surged forward.

Then a horn sounded from the south. Mounted men charged out of the darkness, filling the plain beyond the southern gate with the thundering of hooves. Their lances were locked in place, their visors up because of the darkness, their heavy warhorses snorting loudly, eager for battle. As they burst through the southern gate Wulfstan's men could see their tabards and fluttering banners in the light of burning tents and carts. They were knights from one of the recently taken motte and baileys surrounding The Cliff. They had seen the Fiks approaching from the south, and guessed their destination. They now risked a charge in the dark, and luck or the gods favoured them. Before the Fiks could form a defensive wall of shields and spears in that direction the lowered lances crashed into their unprotected western flank. The few Fiks who realised soon enough to turn were not enough to resist the force of the charge, lone shields against a grinding machine of barded horseflesh and bloody armed death, lances piercing shields and armour and heads and chests and groins; horses crushing with their barded fronts and stamping bloody faces beneath their iron shod hooves, shattering skulls and spilling brains; men and horses together in sweating, grunting unison, ploughing through the Fiks, sowing their ranks with terror and the soil with corpses, and drenching both in a rain of blood.

The Fiks were fighting on three fronts now, and their numbers, so telling behind a solid shield wall, came to nothing as the knights and their horses slaughtered, and Aedgar's men rallied then surged forward again, and Wulfstan and his now two hundred snarled and swung with their swords, fuelled with blood lust and vengeful hatred. Few individual Fiks could find any open space through which to flee, and the host as a whole couldn't retreat, having nowhere to go en masse.

A huge chieftain slashed and stabbed and spun and struck in berserker rage with a giant claymore, fighting through a score of the two hundred towards Wulfstan. Everywhere his blade swung men died or lost limbs or fell crippled to the blood soaked ground. When he reached Wulfstan the two men hewed ferociously at each other, the fury of each a match for the other's, their swords striking loudly enough to be heard above the clangour of the general fray, sparks flying from iron as fire blazed in four glaring eyes, reflecting the burning camp without and radiating the hatred in each man's soul. Then Wulfstan's sword shattered. The Fik's sword, continuing its path, swinging down, struck Wulfstan's heavily armoured thigh with such force that his thigh bone shattered and he collapsed. The chieftain raised his sword high for the kill, his own men rallying to him, driving back any possibility of aid.

A streak of firelight on quicksilver struck from beyond the circle of men that tried to fight forward to protect Wulfstan. Agmar's long arm and a two handed sword he had taken from dead hands had reached a seemingly impossible distance through the ranks and its tip pierced the Fik chieftain through the throat. The stroke severed his spine and he collapsed, blood gouting from his open mouth as he gaped in disbelief at his own death. Then Wulfstan's men had surrounded their lord, driving back those Fiks who had fought around the chieftain. These Fiks, seeing their leader fall, panicked and fled into their own ranks, adding to the confusion of death from three sides.

When the day dawned the camp ground was a mass of dead and writhing, moaning or screaming dying men. Wulfstan lay on a pallet by his pavilion, which like a few scattered tents had miraculously avoided the fire, as the soldiers helped their own or stabbed surviving Fiks and looted them, or took back what had been looted from the camp earlier by the Fiks. Before the assault on the castle Wulfstan's forces had been three thousand strong. The castle had been taken with little loss, but the ensuing rout of the camp and following battle had killed a thousand. More than two thousand Fik warriors lay dead or dying.

Agmar and Aedgar stood beside Wulfstan as his physician set the bone. "You won't be able to walk or ride on it for two months, my lord."

"Pig's bum!"

"My lord, if you use it sooner it won't set properly. If it doesn't set properly you'll make yourself a cripple for life."

"And if you're a cripple you'll make a bloody useless warrior," Agmar said, "not that you were much good before."

Wulfstan turned to stare hard at Agmar. The men-at-arms nearby were suddenly silent. Then Wulfstan roared in laughter, and the tension evaporated. He laughed so loudly that his body shook and he winced in pain. He gasped, "I should have you hanged."

"You'll never build gallows tall enough," Aedgar said.

"True enough. You lanky bastard. Where's that other bard?"

"Quailing in the forest, no doubt," Agmar said.

"No such thing," Kalogh said, coming around the tent, "many a Fik fell to my sword this night."

"At least in the songs you'll sing to gullible maids to get them to spread their legs," quipped Agmar.

Kalogh scowled. "I was in the thick of the fighting. What did you do?"

"Took the castle gatehouse, and saved my life," said Wulfstan, looking narrowly at Kalogh.

"I swear, my lord..."

Wulfstan waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes." Then he shrugged. "It was dark. Wherever you were I didn't see it, but little could be seen last night but the glint of fire light on spear point and sword blade."

"And in the eyes of dying men," Agmar added. "We lost a lot of good men in the dark."

"But killed more than we lost," said Kalogh enthusiastically.

Agmar sighed. "It's the way of war."

Wulfstan said, "That it is, but it shouldn't have been last night."

"It was a well-timed attack, right when the armoured men reached the castle and the rest were in their cups."

"Too many," Aedgar agreed, "if we'd been fully armoured we wouldn't have lost half as many. Many died before realising what was happening, many of the rest fled to the south and west, and of the survivors who fought, few were armoured head to toe. We dragged on what we could in quick order. Some didn't even have that luxury and fought in tunics and breeches."

Wulfstan said, "There must have been spies in the camp." He threw a curious look at Kalogh.

Kalogh spluttered. "My lord, I would never..."

Wulfstan grinned. "No, quailing callow maid," he said, alluding to Agmar's insulting nickname for Kalogh, "you're a braggart and a coward, not a traitor. To be a traitor takes more spine."

Kalogh started to protest, then seemed to realise that either agreement or rebuttal would be an admission of some kind of guilt. The other three men watched his squirming with amusement.

"No," Wulfstan said, "there's no way of knowing for sure, but the most probable spy would be a hanger on of the camp."

"As likely as not a woman," Agmar said. "I love women, but never tell them a secret unless you want it known. They're great for spreading false rumours."

"There have been whores enough working in the camp," agreed Aedgar, nodding, "and serving girls aplenty."

"The serving girls are mostly from the outer march, or even further afield, and they have no love for the Fik raiders, who'll sooner rape a girl than whisper love lies in her ear. No, if it was a woman she was among the cohort of whores. Many of them are escaped slaves of the Fiks, but escaped slaves can have a funny way of loving their former masters. There was a time I saved a maid from her master. Had been taken as booty from the mountain tribes as a girl. She enjoyed being saved for a night while I showed her some of the sweeter pleasures of freedom. The next day she was gone. Went right back to her master."

"The great lover failed?"

Agmar shook his head ruefully. "It was my first rescue. I was only a lad, and the finer points of pleasuring women were beyond my fumbling skill. She didn't complain, not in so many words. Said I was the most gentle lad she'd known. Some women don't like it that way. I've learned a lot since then."

Wulfstan growled, "If the one who spied on us was here I'd show her a rougher time than any Fik master, whether she liked it or not."

"Whichever woman was spying on us is long gone. For the Fiks to have known to come she must have left the camp."

Wulfstan nodded. "So we'll never have the pleasure of stringing her up and watching her dance her way to Death's dark halls."

# 5: SIEGE

Wulfstan, wearing a tabard with the bear of Glede over a tunic, leaned on crutches outside the main camp palisade, east of the main, eastern, gate of Gleda, flanked by Aedgar, Edmer and Agmar.

Gleda had been encircled. Wulfstan's forces, their numbers reinforced since the battle below the castle, held the landward side, with their rear protected by the castles, now all captured, of the inner march. The ships of Suut Seltica blockaded the port. Wulfstan's forces were bivouacked around the walls, beyond catapult range and behind defensive palisades.

The Fiks were effectively cut off from aid. Several grain silos and warehouses had been burnt to the ground by traitors within the walls. Crows lined the battlements of Gleda and kites circled above the town, waiting for a feast like the one that had followed the battle for The Cliff. Smugglers would occasionally try to run the port blockade, but the Seltic ships were quick. Few smugglers had got through, and those who had not were hanging from gallows on the nearby Dead Man's Bluff as a warning to any who might think running the blockade a risk free venture.

On the landward side, occasionally a party of Fik warriors would try to pass the palisades in the night so they could attack one of the surrounding castles which had protected the town before but were now held by small garrisons of Wulfstan's men. Sometimes the Fiks would try to harry the rear of the besieging army or simply forage. Last night another party had tried, but the baron's men had captured them. As the morning sun rose a single trebuchet, one of the more powerful catapults in Wulfstan's arsenal, powered by a giant counterweight, had sent all their heads back over the town walls, their mouths stuffed with messages of inhospitable greeting. Dawn had revealed to the Fiks on the city walls the decapitated bodies, strung up by their ankles on butts just out of crossbow range from the wall but well within sight, and archers from Wulfstan's camp had played at practicing their marksmanship.

"The belfry is nearly ready," Wulfstan said, casting a glance over to where carpenters hammered away on a siege tower. It was taller than the city walls, and could be hauled or pushed forward on four huge wooden wheels. Inside were four tall stories with ladders between, where hundreds of soldiers could quickly climb to the top to cross to the battlements. Many of those soldiers now busied themselves weaving wattle screens and draping hides over them. The screens would be attached to the tower later, the hides soaked before attacking the walls, to defend the tower against flaming projectiles.

Nearby, another group of men were loading a huge tree trunk into a sling suspended from a framework on wheels. A cast iron bear's head lay beside it, roaring in static rage, ready to be mounted as the tip of the battering ram. An unfriendly greeting to the Fiks from Wulfstan.

The great eastern gate of the city could be heard even from this distance as it opened, the cogs squealing against one another until the portcullis was half raised. Fik warriors marched out under the portcullis two abreast.

"What's this?" Aedgar said.

"Do they mean to challenge us?" Edmer said.

"Good," Wulfstan said and signalled a young knight to come forward.

"They might be Fiks but they're not stupid," Agmar said.

"Perhaps they mean to surrender," Edmer suggested.

Wulfstan growled. "If they think to get mercy from me..."

Agmar said, "As much as you'd like to butcher them, if you take the city without a fight your forces will be preserved."

Aedgar and Edmer nodded their agreement, but Wulfstan smiled grimly. He pointed. "See, they don't surrender."

Streaming out between the Fik warriors, who had split into two ranks, was a line of unarmed women and children, and old or crippled men. All looked haunted by their hunger, gaunt faces with hardly more flesh than ancient corpses. A pathetic line of human squalor and despair.

"What are they doing?" The young knight of Wulfstan's company asked.

"Ridding the city of useless mouths," Aedgar said.

Wulfstan said, "Over my dead body. Take a hundred archers and block their path. If they think they'll get any mercy from me they're mistaken."

The young knight hesitated. "But, my lord."

Wulfstan roared, "Don't let one of those vermin past."

"Yes, my lord." The knight collected the archers and rode off to block the column of civilians.

"This assault isn't a good idea," Agmar said, watching soldiers carting stones for the mangonels and trebuchets. One mangonel was being repaired, carpenters busily hammering away at it. It had been taken within range of the catapults on the city walls and nearly destroyed by their fire the day before. Spear sized bolts were being piled next to ballistae, giant crossbow like catapults. "You should wait till your catapults open a breach before storming the walls. Or at least wait until we've discovered a weak point in the defences. Throwing your forces against the strength of the walls will achieve nothing."

"I can't stand this waiting," Wulfstan said. "We've waited seventy years too long already."

Agmar knew that was how long the Fiks had held the city. The Twice Crowned King, Robert VIII and IX, for all his strength, had compromised with the Fik raiders, thinking to slowly and peacefully absorb them into the kingdom, ceding to them the north western waste. Those wastes lay beyond the Forbidden Forest, where no sane man dared enter, and even the Seltic druids were wary, respectful of the mysterious power within its ancient trees. The Fiks called the distant icy land they had settled Luntet Helter, Land of Heroes. When the strong king Robert had died they had seized their chance and launched their most daring attack, taking the powerful and wealthy port city of Gleda by surprise. They had used it since then as a southern base from which to raid the countryside, plying the rivers with their dragon prowed longships, burning the land, sacking temples, murdering with impunity, taking as slaves those they didn't kill to trade across the southern archipelagos and up to their northern cousins. It had been a profitable trade for decades, but persistent efforts to contain them had had their effect, and now their wealth and power were waning. They had been unable to mount a successful counterattack against Wulfstan's forces as he took all the castles in the inner march of the city Gleda.

"We'll starve them out soon enough," Aedgar said, "if that pathetic lot is anything to go by." He pointed to the bedraggled line of civilians, who seeing the archers approach had run back to the gate. But the portcullis was already down.

"I don't want their surrender," Wulfstan snarled viciously, "they'll just crawl back to their kin in the north and return next spring with more longships, more vermin to breed and plague us with. The only way to deal with vermin is to kill them before they can breed, every last one."

The young knight, as he came closer to the walls, could see that some of the civilians banged at the gate, others cried and screamed. Some of the Fik warriors, torn by the loss of their families, rushed to lift the portcullis, only to be stayed by others. A child tried to squirm under the small gap, then was crushed as the portcullis fell with gruesome finality, unable even to scream. His father, a battle hardened warrior, screamed for him. Some warriors grasped the hands of their wives or children or fathers or mothers through the grating, but most turned their backs and stopped their ears. It was easier not to see or hear. The young knight, raised to a code of honour of which he hadn't yet seen the true face, lowered his visor so that his men wouldn't see his torn conscience. This wasn't the brave battle of heroes of which the troubadours sang.

Agmar didn't look at Wulfstan, instead staring into the distance. Wulfstan's father and mother and sisters and brother had been murdered by Fiks in one of the great castles of the outer march of Glede, the only lands still held after Gleda had been lost. Only Wulfstan, an infant, had survived, found later suckling on his dead nursemaid's dug. He had lost his inheritance too, and not to a Fik. Augustyn had been granted the boy's wardship by king Richard. By the time Wulfstan had grown into a man, the outlying lands of his forebears had been granted outright to Augustyn. Augustyn claimed to be only a temporary protector, concerned by the vulnerability of his former ward's lands, but no one who knew of his rise to power believed that. Wulfstan was the last surviving heir to the dukes of Glede, but was denied half of his inheritance by the Fiks' possession of the great port city of Gleda, and the other by Augustyn's possession of the march of Glede. Denied his rightful place by barbarians on the one hand, and on the other an upstart in league with a king who grew more mad by the year, Wulfstan had been reduced to a mere viscount, vassal to a subtle, politically astute thief. Wulfstan, proud of his ducal ancestry, frustrated by Augustyn's courtly cunning, knew he couldn't challenge the duke, yet. So instead he directed all of his hatred at the murderers of his family. He seethed with a hatred for the Fiks so bloodthirsty that only their total annihilation, man, woman and child, would quench it.

"With these tactics we'll likely lose many men and still not gain the city. You know I hate the Fiks as much as any man, but with a direct assault at this stage you'll weaken your forces and have nothing to show for it."

"Always with Agmar what's necessary can't be done." They turned and saw Kalogh standing at the nearest gate into the palisades.

"You'll lead the assault then?" Agmar asked.

Aedgar whispered to Agmar, "We don't want the men running away."

Kalogh puffed himself up, but his slight, short stature, combined with his perfectly combed hair, hanging down to his knees, which they knew he perfumed after washing daily, made the gesture comical rather than impressive. His overlarge mouth, wet from nervously licking lips, opened wide, the perfect aperture for disgorging bombast, and he said, "If my lord commands, I'll lead the assault, and return to your house those honours too long forgotten."

Wulfstan and Aedgar cast a surprised look at Kalogh. It was unlike him to risk his own life for anything. Agmar wasn't surprised, suspecting the bard's usual braggadocio had combined with clear eyed insight into Wulfstan's character. Whatever else Kalogh was, he was usually a good judge of men, at least where his own safety demanded it. Expecting to be refused he could offer with affected bravery to face any peril.

"Alright. You can lead the assault," Wulfstan said.

Now it was Agmar's turn to be surprised. "My lord..."

Wulfstan raised his hand to silence Agmar, giving him a hard look. "Do you challenge your lord?"

"The address is a formality. You know I'm no man's vassal."

"Oh?"

"I serve those who stand against the Fiks."

"So your loyalty is in question."

"Not until Noot Seltica is rid of their ravages. My homeland, my beautiful homeland. Faar Perl the Fiks call it, "Our Jewel," and a jewel it is, but it will never be theirs, and I'll be the friend of their enemies till the last Fik settlement's abandoned and the songs of my people fill the halls of our kings once more."

"And the sooner I take Gleda and use their own blood to wash its stones of their filth the sooner I'll be able to aid your homeland."

"We're both men without a home. Whatever our differences, we share that."

"I'm serious about Kalogh, though." Wulfstan hobbled over on his crutches, grabbed the young bard and gently pushed him towards the siege tower.

"I...I..." Kalogh stuttered.

"I like the others can't wait to see your courage, brave Kalogh." He shooed him towards the belfry, then winked at Agmar and Aedgar as he hobbled back. "Don't worry. Fear of heights will keep him from the top. He'll slip out the back when there are enough men to hide among."

# 6: DIGGING FOR ADVENTURE

The initial assault had failed as Agmar had predicted. Hundreds of men had burned in the siege tower. It was now late summer and the siege had dragged on for several weeks. The trapped civilians starved between walls and army. When they slept the kites would land on them, tearing at their meagre flesh until they woke. The young knight whose contingent blocked their escape had become inured to the horror. The previous night he had ordered his archers to shoot down a group of them as they tried to flee. He himself had ridden down a woman who clung to her child as she ran. This day he had watched impassively as the child, a gaunt little girl, left where she had fallen, too exhausted to wave the kites away, stared at the sun with overlarge, haunted eyes as a kite landed on her chest and tore at her bloated belly. Now night fell in the camp.

Agmar strapped on his armour and a longsword, leaving his great two handed sword. It would be no use to him tonight. Around him Culain and his band also prepared. Already they could hear the crashing of the catapulted stones against the city walls.

Considering what Agmar had told him earlier, Gildas said, "So you saw a ghost," and added, with his usual philosophical curiosity, "you know, many a man of science would question your sanity. Myself, I think the senses should have primacy to the reason in a science of the real. Reason without..."

"Not a ghost," Agmar corrected, "An apparition."

"Ah, well...it's a fine distinction. Still..."

Culain went to nudge the sleeping Eoghann, staggered drunkenly and tripped, so that the nudge became a kick. He roared to match his accidental violence, his breath a gaseous, possibly flammable, mist, "You can sleep all you want in your grave. Put on your armour."

Eoghann, lazily yawned and stretched, opening hazel eyes that flickered green in the firelight. "It's night. A time for sleeping."

"For you any time is a time for sleeping."

"Any time is a good time for my beauty sleep," Eoghann grinned with a weird combination of irony and serious vanity, "any time I can find." Despite the ghastly ugliness of his face his long blonde hair was usually carefully combed.

"Just let me at them," Dyfed snarled. He mimed stabbing as he spoke, freckles like a harlequin patchwork on a face framed by cropped red hair, "and I'll spill their guts all over that bloody wall. If we can't bring it down at least I'll paint it another colour."

Kendhal had his huge back turned to the others, stuffing what food he could into his mouth while he still had time. He turned beady eyes on Agmar as the bard sat down next to him. "So we're to trust an apparition to lead us to the land of milk and honey." His dark hair, mussed as usual, framed a face so deeply tanned he looked like a southerner, and in this light almost as dark as a man of Kemet. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, smearing grease and sauce further over his face rather than off it.

"Not just an apparition. It spoke in the first language before it walked to the wall and disappeared. Anyway, I sent one of Wulfstan's scouts to examine the wall at that point and he says it looks like there's a structural weakness. It's as likely a place to force a breach as any."

"So where's this company of sappers, or are we going to have to do the digging ourselves?"

"Not a bad idea. Culain can barely stand, so if he can crawl there'll be no problem."

"Just don't ask me to squeeze through a little hole," Kendhal said, stuffing a whole peach into his mouth and spitting out the pip as the juice dribbled down his chin.

"I thought you liked tight holes," Drem said. His amused eyes, so dark they were more black than brown, twinkled in the firelight. His head was shaved except for a long forelock that fell over his eyes to the tip of his overlarge nose, which twitched, as though he was a large rodent, sniffing out any opportunity for a cynical comment.

"And you prefer your women loose?"

"The loosest are usually the best. It's an indictment of fair maids, I know. I shouldn't question the value of their virtue, but," he sighed sadly, "I think Gildas will agree, I should question all conventional premises."

"Nothing should ever be taken for granted," Gildas enthusiastically agreed.

Culain took a swill from a mug and burped loudly. "So if you get a sword in the gut you should question its existence?"

Gildas looked at him pityingly, then turned back to Agmar. "You said something about the first language. But is there any first language? If one language is the child of another, then there must always be a parent. An infinite regression of languages back into an incomprehensible past."

Agmar said, "There are things unimagined in even your philosophy, Gildas," and began to sing in a language none of the others understood. It sounded as though many voices sang simultaneously, and though he heard it, Gildas had no answer for how it was possible. Neither did he have any answer for how he felt refreshed and stronger than usual, as if he could sack the whole town single handed. "And that," said Agmar, "is one of them."

"I've heard you sing it before, and I don't yet know the trick of it, but I don't doubt it's something that can be known."

"Just not by your philosophy, Gildas," Drem said, "perhaps you need a new philosophy."

Agmar turned at the sound of a voice hailing him. He grinned. The last person he would have expected anywhere near a battlefield stood right behind him.

"Corin, if you steal anything in a camp of soldiers they'll string you up."

"What, you mean like this?" The small teenage thief tossed a purse to him.

"Bloody little rascal. What are you doing here?"

"The Courts of Law are after me," he said, referring to the Thedran guild of thieves, "apparently they're sensitive about a bit of water damage to their property."

"You mean they didn't like you destroying their guild hall and killing half their members, including their master if I remember right."

"I didn't kill him. It was the hole that opened up under his feet. But no one wants to hear the truth. You'd think they didn't trust me. After they sent a few assassins I decided it might be time to find some fun outside the capital. I've lived there my entire life, you know."

"A whole sixteen years." But Agmar knew Corin's life had been a hard one. He had probably seen more danger than many soldiers twice his age. And still he was a cocky little bastard. That took a lot of character. "Well," he said as he got up and went to a cart full of arms and armour. He picked out the pieces of a small man's suit of leather armour and handed them to Corin. "You'd better put these on."

"I've just run away from trouble and you want me to march right back into it?"

"We could do with the help of that enchanted sword of yours."

Culain asked, "Enchanted sword? What enchanted sword?"

Agmar said, "Show them, Corin. We're all friends here."

Corin slid his sword out of its battered sheath. It seemed to be a short sword, perhaps long enough to be a longsword to the small thief, who was only five and a half feet tall. It was made of a white substance, like ivory, or human bone. Its pommel stone was a huge ruby. Occasionally the ruby seemed to flicker with an inner fire. When that inner fire faded, runes of fire formed along the blade.

"Blood-spate," Agmar said.

The men gathered around. They had all heard of the sword in ancient legends. It was also known as the sword of kings, and as Seltien, the sword of the great river, Selta. The Selts loved that river though it was on the mainland, not their island, for their legends told of a time when the alluvial plain of the river was their homeland, before they were driven across the sea into the fastness of Seltica by invaders from the south.

"It seems different though," Agmar said, reflectively.

"It is," Corin agreed, "the runes of water don't flow in the blade like they did. And it doesn't speak in my head."

"Speak?" Culain asked.

"Don't you remember the legends, Culain?" Agmar said.

"Yes, but...I always thought they were bards' blather."

"Look at it. Look at the runes of fire. Is that blather?"

Corin asked, "Why do you think it doesn't speak?"

"As you said the blade doesn't flow with the element of water either. Perhaps the river has less power here. Remember the blade is fashioned from the horn of the river god. The estuary where he fought with the sea is here. The Heart of Fire seems undiminished though."

"So what does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"Enough talking," Dyfed snarled impatiently, "I want to kill some Fiks."

Agmar signalled the group to follow him. "Wulfstan has concentrated the fire of his catapults over there to draw attention. The sappers are already at work at the point I found. We'll be joining them."

Kendhal complained, "I told you I'm not crawling through any rat-holes."

Dyfed spat, "There'll be no Fiks to kill under the walls."

Agmar slapped his bloodthirsty compatriot on the back, "But if we break through you'll be able to feast on their blood till your belly bursts. And don't worry, Kendhal, it's not a little rat-hole, it's a big rat-hole, even you will be able to squeeze through."

"And are we going to dig with our hands?" Culain asked, taking a swill from the wineskin at his side.

"They have the tools down there."

Corin said, "I was looking for adventure, and you're going to get me digging a hole. Honest work! I'll never survive the shame."

Ever the cynic, Drem said, "Ah, the days of adventurous digging."

Gildas said, "It's said that honest work is the food of the soul."

Corin grumbled, "I'll do without a soul then."

"There are men as say we have none. But the proofs are hard. You'd have to work at them, with your brain at least."

"Where did my wine go," Culain roared.

"Here," said Corin, "you dropped it," and threw it to him.

Agmar grinned at the young thief's mischief, pushing the still yawning Eoghann ahead of him.

Kendhal complained, "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry. Lucky for the Fiks they don't have to feed you, or they'd have surrendered weeks ago. Quiet now, the lot of you. We don't want to draw the attention of the Fiks to the tunnel."

# 7: WHEN PIGS BURN

On their way to the walls they met the young knight who had been blocking the civilians' escape. He said, almost apologetically, "They're too exhausted now to flee. Last night was the last ditch attempt. Any of them that had the strength are now dead." Agmar suspected the man was glad of the possibility of actual action instead of the demoralising work he had had to do so far. The knight led the same company of archers and they hid in the shadows a hundred yards from the mined section of the wall. They would close in when the wall fell.

Agmar, Corin and Culain's band of Selt cutthroats crossed the dry moat at a point about fifty yards from the main bombardment. Here a wooden platform had been thrown and later burnt, scaling ladders had been lifted and pushed away from the walls with men still on them. Those that hadn't survived the fall still lay on the ground or impaled on spikes in the moat, their faces twisted in the agonies, surprise or mutilations of death. Frequently their deaths had been so sudden that their faces registered nothing, merely staring blankly. More often their eyes were gone. The kites took their chances quickly and plucked away a blind feast.

Beneath the walls within the circle of the dry moat and fifty yards further from where they crossed they found a patch of scrub, and dirt piled on either side and into the dry moat. A small man with wrinkled face and a wooden bowl threw dirt back from the opening of a hole. It was larger than even Agmar had expected. The old sapper pointed at several small barrels. "The digging's mostly done, but you can take through the pig's fat."

Agmar asked, "Any sign of movement above?" He pointed to the battlements.

"No, it's all gone smoothly." He rapped a knuckle against the wall above the tunnel. "Good work spotting this, lad. The foundations had already started to give from the stresses long before we got here. And the soil is nice and soft. If you wanted to wait ten years it'd probably come down on its own. As it is we'll bring it down tonight."

"Good." Agmar picked up a barrel and followed the old sapper through, ducking low. Corin, attracted to dark tunnels, so much like the sewers of the capital, picked up the smallest barrel he could find and followed. Kendhal hesitated, grabbed under each arm a large barrel that any other man would have had to roll and followed Agmar and Corin. Inside the tunnel was surprisingly wide and high, its walls lined with wooden supports. Only Agmar had to stoop. At regular intervals oil lamps were stuck in hastily dug hollows or hung from wooden beams.

They met the sappers, a lot of small, dirty faced men armed with short picks and spades, at a point where the tunnel spread even wider.

"You should probably get back out now, but bring the rest of the pig's fat down into the opening of the tunnel. We'll have to fire that too," the wrinkled old sapper said, "you'll be needing to fight over the top when we bring this down, and we're going to need to get out of here quick after we fire it, so we don't want you blocking our way out. But help us plaster this pig's fat over the supports as you go."

He stuck a dagger in the top of one barrel and levered it open. The other sappers opened more and soon they were scooping out handfuls of the stuff and smearing it over the wooden supports. Agmar and the others went back to the opening and brought down the rest of the barrels, cracked them open and smeared the pig's fat along the supports of the entrance tunnel.

As they were working their way back there was an almighty crash and dust and smoke poured out from further ahead. Agmar raced back up the tunnel, followed by Corin. At the point where the sappers had dug widest there was now a hole. Inside the hole the sappers were fighting furiously with Fiks.

"The tunnel's been undermined by Fiks," Agmar yelled back to his compatriots, "bring your swords." He was about to leap into the hole when Dyfed sped past him, snarling for Fik blood, and plunged into the hole. Agmar and Corin followed.

In the acrid smoke they could see little. Agmar struck out wherever a Fik face emerged from the smoke. His eyes stung, and he mostly blocked, fearful of hitting their own men. Corin likewise blocked, and yelled out to the bard, "Blood-spate doesn't fight for me." Agmar knew that Corin was more used to the enchanted sword leading his hand than following it. He yelled back, "Well, you'd better learn pretty quick to fight for yourself." Corin found that, though the sword had none of its usual sentience it had all its supernatural sharpness, and it still cut through any metal, whether of sword or armour, as though they were made of butter. A Fik emerged from the smoke and bore down on him with a smith's hammer. Though Corin was no expert swordsman he was nimble. He sidestepped and sliced up. The sword cut up through the man's groin and he screamed, dropping his hammer, falling to his knees and trying to stuff his severed balls back into his filleted codpiece.

As they the hapless Fik's balls rolled away from him Kendhal jumped into the hole and landed on his head, crushing him. A huge Fik loomed out of the smoke and Kendhal rushed forward as the Fik raised his sword in the large space where the upper tunnel had collapsed into the lower. They grappled, the sword clattering on the ground and both men disappeared into the smoke, Kendhal roaring as if hungry enough to eat the Fik's heart. Occasionally Corin would see the shadow of a tall figure stooped in the tunnel, smoke curling around him, long arm and longsword shooting out like a tongue of fire. He followed Agmar deeper into the Fik tunnel.

Further in the smoke cleared. The Fiks hadn't had time to fire their whole tunnel. It had probably collapsed sooner than they had planned. But Agmar saw that at their feet more and more of their own sappers lay dead. And the Fiks were gaining in numbers. If Agmar and Kendhal fell the others would be overwhelmed. He saw a huge back ahead of him. Kendhal was sweeping all before him. He had a longsword in one hand and a hammer in the other. The Fiks called back down their lines for a long weapon and a spear was passed forward. Corin darted between Agmar and Kendhal, lopped off the top of the spear and darted back. Agmar yelled back down the tunnel to Culain. "Fire the tunnel."

Culain yelled back, "But we're in the tunnel. We'll be trapped."

Kendhal roared, "Fire the damn tunnel." He turned grimly to Agmar. "We'll feast on the dead, old friend."

"And sing songs of our exploits in the sunniest halls of the underworld, where nectar runs like a river to the mouths of heroes."

Corin said, "Fuck heroism. I'm getting out of here."

The two big men looked at each other and laughed. "He's got a point, Agmar," Kendhal said, "who knows what ash and dust we'll have to eat in the stinking halls of the dead. I have a side of mutton waiting for me back in camp."

Agmar grinned, "And I haven't yet composed my epic masterpiece."

The three of them backed up the tunnel, Agmar still yelling at Culain to fire the tunnel.

"Isn't that your friend, Dyfed?" Corin pointed back to where a knot of startled Fiks were trying to overcome the snarling, bloodthirsty Selt.

"He looks like he's doing all right," Agmar said, "but I don't want to sing of his heroic death just yet."

"Damn the fiery little bastard," Kendhal growled, "that side of mutton will burn before I get back."

Just as they were about to press forward, Dyfed broke free of the Fiks and shot back towards them.

A distant voice came down from above, "We're firing it now. Get your arses back here, or are you going to make love to those bastard Fiks?"

Dyfed reached them. He was drenched in blood. Through the blood his white teeth grinned. "Now that's what I call fun. They won't soon forget my sword."

"Ah," Agmar said, "the tender ministrations of gentle Dyfed."

"We'd better get back," Corin said urgently, "I don't want to end up as roast thief."

The Fiks weren't advancing as Agmar's party withdrew. Agmar said, "The bastards are smiling."

Dyfed said, "They'll be smiling the other side of their faces when the wall comes down on their heads."

They reached the hole where the upper tunnel had collapsed into the lower tunnel. The smoke was pouring in from the upper tunnel.

"Hurry," Corin said and reached for the ledge.

Culain peered down from the smoke filled upper tunnel. "Move it you bloody mongrels."

There was a crash of earth. Corin found he was dangling from the edge with nothing underneath. The lower tunnel had collapsed, taking Agmar, Kendhal and Dyfed with it. Then the earth he was gripping crumbled, and he fell.

Culain looked down into the darkness. Gildas rushed back to join him and peered down. "A tunnel beneath a tunnel beneath a tunnel. Now there's a philosophical conundrum worth pondering." He grabbed Culain who, suddenly sober, yelled down into the darkness. He picked up one of the lanterns and threw it down. Slowly the light dwindled. "That's no tunnel. They're done for."

"A whole lot of nothingness. But can nothingness be something, or not?"

"Time enough for philosophy later." Culain grabbed Gildas and dragged him back along the tunnel, covering his own mouth with his arm and blinking against the stinging smoke.

They reached the surface just in time. The tunnel collapsed with a roar, smoke and fire spouting out after them. The wall above seemed to hesitate a moment, then it too collapsed. The young knight and his archers had come closer when they had seen the fire starting. Fiks poured over the collapsed wall, only to fall to the rain of arrows. They backed away.

Culain, trying to leave Agmar and the others at the back of his mind, led his remaining men through the breach, soon to be followed by the young knight and his archers. Some of the archers, closing on the wall, threw down their bows and drew their swords, but even as they fought hundreds of Fiks threw any kind of refuse they could against the breach. Crossbow bolts and arrows whizzed past Culain's ears, or occasionally found their mark in a soldier's throat or guts or face.

Eoghann no longer yawned but fought with a ferocity to match Dyfed, dead somewhere far beneath all this rubble. Drem hewed about him, his shaved head glowing in the light of surrounding fires, amused, dark eyes glinting, yelling out, "Ah, the ways of war, so like the ways of love. A thrust and a scream and never a thanks for your skill." Gildas, his face with its intricate webbing of scars as reflective as ever, dodged an arrow and when Culain said, "That had your name on it," wondered without irony whether an arrow would find its target more easily if it was named. All around them men fought and died, and those that didn't die screamed or moaned and waited with impatient suffering for the final gasp. Culain saw that the battle to take the wall wouldn't be an easy one.

# 8: THE DEAD WILL WALK

Agmar stirred and tried to get up, feeling groggy.

"Don't move." It was Kendhal, who was lying on his considerable stomach. Behind him Dyfed and Corin squatted.

Corin held up a candle and tapped the wall of the cavern. "You're on a ledge. I don't know how high up we are, but a lantern fell down after us and I didn't see it hit bottom. The ledge is narrow here and the roof of this cavern or whatever it is curves overhead, so if you stand up you'll knock yourself off into that." He pointed into the gaping void.

"How did we fall to this ledge if it's in from the hole?"

Kendhal answered, "It was wider when you fell on it. I dragged you back before it crumbled. The wall seems to have sealed the hole above us. You took a nasty knock on the head as you landed. Might be your hard head is what actually broke the ledge. Damn I'm hungry. I could eat a horse, or at least a little pony."

Agmar looked up. It was dark above. "So the undermining failed. The wall should be on top of our heads if it'd fallen."

"Maybe it still will be," Corin said. He waved his candle behind him. "I've found a way out of here. Don't know where it goes, but what else are we going to do?"

Dyfed smiled savagely, "There's no Fiks down here to pass the time with killing. There were a few, but damn it, they stood up and knocked themselves off the ledge. Spoiled all the fun I would've had disembowelling them with my teeth. Or maybe my dagger if I was feeling friendly."

Kendhal said, "If you kill any Fiks you'd better be friendly. It's my teeth that are going to sink into them."

Agmar rubbed the bump on his head, "I don't think you'd find much flesh on them. They haven't eaten properly for weeks."

They crawled along the ledge, led by Corin. It became even narrower as they went.

Kendhal called out. "I can't go any further. I'm not a bloody starved weasel."

Corin looked back. He and the relatively small Dyfed had easily passed the narrow point. Agmar, being slim as well as tall, could probably have wormed past it too, but Kendhal was simply too large.

Agmar said, "You're going to have to hang over the edge."

"I never was much for climbing."

"You mean you're not strong enough to carry your own weight," Dyfed said with a grin. In the dim light of the candle behind him his red hair was like a flame, and the deep freckling on his face looked like the black stains of old blood. Combined with the blood that had spattered his face in the fight and which he had smeared by wiping his grin looked demonic.

The challenge of his taunt stung Kendhal. He took no offence to any man calling him heavy, or fat, or a pig, or a glutton, at least not if it was a friend. But no man could question his strength and not be proven wrong. He looked over the edge. "How far down did you say it was?"

Corin grinned. "Further than the underworld."

Kendhal groaned.

"Look on the bright side. Fall off and you might fall all the way through the demonic planes and reach the seven heavens."

"No one reaches the seven heavens without dying first."

"Then don't fall," Agmar said. The silver motes in his blue eyes glittered in the candlelight.

Kendhal, on his stomach, tried to find good handholds. "Move further along, you bloodthirsty little bastard," he grunted to Dyfed. "Not you," he said abruptly to Corin as the thief moved back to allow Dyfed's movement, "bring back that light."

Corin skipped around Dyfed, barely on the edge, sure in his footing, like an acrobat on a rope. The ease of his movement galled Kendhal. It also made him imagine more clearly how high up they were. The thought made his legs ache with vertigo. But cowardice wasn't one of the big man's many vices. He swallowed his fear and lowered himself over the side, thanking the gods he never wore full plate. In fact he had never been able to find a set of plate armour that would cover his gut.

Agmar wormed his way along behind.

"What are you doing?" Kendhal yelled back at the bard.

"I'm getting close so I can catch you if you fall."

The mere mention of falling made Kendhal sweat. "Get back, you're making me nervous."

Agmar backed away a little but watched carefully for any sign of Kendhal's grip slipping. He didn't know that he would be able to hold on if he caught Kendhal's arm. Maybe the larger man's bulk would simply drag him over the edge. But he wouldn't let his friend die without a struggle. Kendhal shuffled his hands along the ledge.

"Not there!" Corin called out. "Wait."

Kendhal stopped, breathing heavily. "I can't hold on much longer." His knuckles were white with the pressure of only his fingers, thick and strong as they were, holding his huge weight.

Corin pointed with his toe to a piece of stone at the edge, just beyond Kendhal's leading hand. "That's loose." He danced forward, crouching down and bending over the abyss in an almost impossible move that seemed to defy gravity. The cavern pressed closely down and his toe struck the edge where he had pointed. There was a cracking sound, and the edge fell away all the way back to Kendhal's hand. The sound echoed distantly.

"What are you doing you bloody mad gnome?"

"Just showing you where you shouldn't grab. It's all clear from there on." Corin squatted down a bit further back and held the candle out to light the big man's way more clearly. Kendhal couldn't tell whether the boy's expression was sympathetic or mischievous. He made a mental note never to trust thieves, and wanted to say something to that effect, but he was breathless from the exertion. His face was red and streaked with sweat in the candlelight. He felt his fingers were going to break under the strain and knew their strength was fading. Then he awkwardly hoisted himself up onto the ledge where it was wider and its ceiling higher. He lay on his back, panting like a smithy's bellows. "Never trust a thief," he muttered.

"Careful, Kendhal," Agmar called out, "he'll take that as a compliment."

Corin grinned. "I got you through, didn't I?"

"Never again," Kendhal muttered, "never again."

"Are you going to move your arse and let me through, you big bastard?" Agmar asked.

"Fuck you, you bloody skinny poetaster."

"Poetaster! Poetaster! I'm going to have to give you a thrashing for that."

Kendhal spat over the edge and breathed heavily. "Kiss my fat arse after a bout of the bloody flux."

Agmar made sucking, kissing sounds. Kendal rolled over onto his stomach and crawled along, Agmar following. "I'm almost close enough to kiss your arse."

"Wait till I've had the shits, you scrawny bastard. And don't expect me to wipe it first."

Corin shot past Dyfed again, dancing on the edge of the ledge. Then he fell.

He caught the edge. Dyfed grabbed for his wrist. Before he could reach the thief Corin's grip slipped and he fell into darkness. He didn't cry out. He made no sound.

"Fuck!" Kendhal said, "I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but it just goes to show."

Dyfed peered over the ledge.

Corin's face grinned back at him. "Had you going," he said, "follow me. Goes to show what, big man?"

The other two peered over the edge. There was another lower ledge beginning where the one they were on ended. More cautiously than the thief they each lowered themselves to the lower ledge.

Kendhal muttered with forced gruffness, "Goes to show there's no justice in this world."

"Like you said," Agmar said with a grin and a shake of the head, "never trust a thief."

"It's here," Corin said, holding the candle forward to reveal a small tunnel leading into the cavern wall.

Dyfed looked Kendhal up and down. "You might not fit." He looked over the edge. "I guess you'll have to climb down. Or jump."

"How about I throw you down to cushion my landing."

One by one they crawled into the tunnel. It was a tight fit for Kendhal, but not impossible. Corin lit another candle and handed it back. The walls became moist and slimy as they descended, and in places water trickled across their path. Kendhal got stuck at one point, but with Agmar shoving and the other two pulling he got past the bottleneck. They crawled for what seemed to Kendhal like hours, but the candle that he held didn't burn low before tunnel widened and its ceiling rose higher. He gratefully got to his feet.

"Like being born again."

"I pity your mother," Dyfed said.

"I'm too tired to wring your scrawny neck."

Agmar slapped him on the back as he got to his feet. "You weren't lying about not wiping that arse."

Kendhal gave him a tired grin. "Poetaster."

They all breathed deeply. Though there was a slight background smell of mould, there was a cleaner smell of running water, and they could hear it cascading over rocks nearby. On the walls were faded paintings, geometrical shapes, images of lions and bears and stick shaped men. Figures with bodies of men and heads of beasts, or bodies of beasts and heads of men. Women with a dozen breasts and hips that could birth a whole clan. Priests cutting throats of human sacrifices. There were also stone coloured prints of palms, fingers and thumbs within clouds of faded ochre paint, sprayed like spittle around them as if blown over hands opened and pressed to the surface.

"Where are we?" Dyfed breathed, placing a hand over one of the hand marks. "I've seen these kinds of paintings before, back in the mountains of Seltica, but never this side of the channel."

"We're right under the city," Corin said, confident of his sense of direction but ignorant of history, "but where are we?"

Agmar said, "The Sacred Caves of River's End. The city of Gleda is ancient, but it's built on even more ancient settlements. Seltic setlements."

"Seltic? I thought this land was Ropeuan."

"Once everything that's now known as the kingdom of Ropeua was Seltic land. Maybe even as far as the kingdom of Vrongwe was Seltic."

He placed his hand over one of the hand marks. "Here the ancient shamans could reach through to the heart of the stone itself. Touch the bedrock of creation." His expression became sad. "Then the southerners came. Their magic was strange, and their armies were more numerous than the stars in the sky. They murdered our ancestors' brothers, and drove our menfolk from the mainland. Some men were enslaved, and women stayed of course, whether by choice or force, and mingled with the invaders, which is why the kingdom folk look like a mix of southerner, and Selt. Your kingdom commoner looks more Seltic, the nobles more like the Navralese or even Kemetese." He smiled lopsidedly at Corin. "Occasionally a bloody little beggar like you looks like a southerner though."

"Beggar-son, actually. Quick-fingers is the name now." As if to prove his point he tossed a gold coin at the bard.

Agmar caught the coin. "One day I'm going to catch you."

Corin grinned. "And one day I'll be dead." The cowl of his short cloak partly shadowed his face, and his beetling brows seemed to hide his dark brown eyes. In the candlelight his teeth were slightly yellow. But the effect was more like a comic stage act than anything truly sinister, the teeth a yellow strip of mischief looking for any excuse to play its part.

They passed through caves and tunnels, led by Corin, his eye ever out for traps, either manmade or accidental, like rock falls or sinkholes with only a light layer of limestone covering. In one cave columns of limestone seemed to support the ceiling, in another stalagmites pointed up and stalactites pointed down, sometimes water dripping from the tip of the one onto the other. In another cave the mould on the walls and ceiling phosphoresced after they passed, reminding Corin of tunnels beneath his home town, in the thieves' guild which the great river, summoned by his enchanted sword, had destroyed. They forded a narrow stream beneath a waterfall. The top of the waterfall was lost in the dark heights above. The cascade caused a refreshing mist to rise which almost put out their candles.

"This is the cavern we fell into," Corin said, sure of his position when they had crossed the stream. They strained their eyes but the candlelight didn't reach far and the echo of their voices was distant and distorted.

The stream flowed down through a tunnel that re-emerged into the cavern, there filling a lake, too broad for them to see across with the dim light of their candles. The wall of the cavern closed them in on one side so they had to cross the stream again.

Agmar tested the water. "It's clean enough, if a bit dusty."

Kendhal's stomach growled. He sank to his knees and drank deeply.

Dyfed kicked the water, pulled his sword out and stabbed it. Further out something stirred. He looked up, his eyes sharp. "Something to kill."

"Something to eat," Kendhal groaned.

But whatever lurked in the water didn't approach any closer.

They followed the edge of the lake around and came to another tunnel. This one wasn't a natural rock formation though. By its regularity they could tell it was manmade.

"Looks like as good a bet as any of getting out," Agmar said.

Corin agreed. If men had made it, they had dug their way in from somewhere above. Soon they found themselves in a labyrinthine network of tunnels though. None of them knowing which way led out they could only rely on trial and error. At first the tunnels were blank, as if they had been dug as a passage down, but then they came upon the dead. Skulls lined the walls in alcoves. They were piled into pyramids of blank eyes or filled stone shelves indented into the walls. Other bones were piled about also, sometimes higgledy piggledy, sometimes in careful order.

Kendhal picked up what looked like a thigh bone. Agmar snatched it away before the big man could gnaw on it. "Do you want to eat your ancestors?"

"They're not my ancestors."

"Didn't you listen to what I said earlier? This land was once our land. These aren't the catacombs of the Fik town or the Ropeuan duchy. They're a Seltic charnel house."

"I wasn't going to eat it anyway. I was only joking. But we'd better find our way out of here soon, or else I'll eat Dyfed or Corin."

Dyfed said, "I'll cut your hands off if you start gnawing on my leg."

"You'd never catch me," the thief said, and as if to prove his point juggled five skulls. He made the feat look easy, though Agmar knew few jugglers could do so well.

"You have no respect for the dead," Agmar said with a disapproving look and a resigned sigh.

"I have no respect for the living either," the thief said with a grin, but he put the skulls back carefully as he had found them.

"Just find a way out of here," Kendhal groaned, "I'm starving."

Agmar sang a little. It wasn't an ordinary song, but the kind where he sang in many simultaneous voices, in what he called the first language. It soothed Kendhal's hunger, a little, and calmed Dyfed's brutal urges, a little less. Corin's thieving instincts it hadn't the power to affect at all, but then no magic, of men or even gods could shift a quality so profound.

"What!" Agmar stopped singing. He was staring at one of the passages leading away from the room they stood in.

"What is it?" Corin asked.

"You didn't see..."

"See what?"

"The man. But...like no ordinary...it was...I could see through him."

"Seeing your ghost again?" Kendhal asked.

"Follow me." Agmar set off at a brisk pace.

They continued through the catacombs, following Agmar now. He moved quickly but every so often he would stop and point, "There, see?" but none of them ever saw what he saw. Then he would stride off in the direction he had pointed, and they would follow.

Eventually they reached a large chamber with no skulls in piles or shelves. Instead the walls were covered with faded murals. They were not quite like the paintings they had seen on the cavern walls before. These murals had a greater sophistication, almost like images Corin had seen in the more lavish guildhalls of Thedra, on those occasions he had innocently stumbled across their golden candelabras or engraved silver plates, carelessly stored in armoires whose locks had almost picked themselves. The murals in this chamber beneath Gleda seemed to tell a tale, which the four men could have understood better if the narrative had been at least vaguely familiar. A child abandoned in the wilderness, raised by eagles, taught to speak by the birds. A warrior. Armies clashing. The warrior shouting, or was he singing? holding a sword in one hand, a harp in the other. Definitely singing, Agmar thought. But the army he fought with was of gods, and the army he fought against was of demons. And the demons quailed as he sang.

"A bard," Agmar said, "I wonder who?"

"You mean you don't know?" Corin asked, "I thought you knew everything."

"Only the gods know all. I know a little more than most mortal men, but even the greatest scholars know only a tiny part of the past. I know of many legendary bards, but never have I heard of one who fought beside the gods."

"Perhaps he's supposed to be a god."

"Selteltathra?" Agmar pointed at figures in the mural, "No, look: there's the god of bards and minstrels. The Fifth Wind. See, flying behind the bard. None revere him more than we Selts. His features are clear enough. And there are his four sisters, the East Wind, the West Wind, the North Wind, the South Wind."

Though there were no piles of bones in the walls there was a skeleton near the centre of the room. It lay beside a hole, which was seven feet long and four wide. On the other side to the skeleton was a shattered stone, which looked like it had covered the hole. There were other skeletons lying about too, three more in all. And the tools with which the stone had been levered off were lying around, mostly rusted and rotted away.

From the hole came a low moaning. Agmar approached the hole and peered in. The moaning stopped. He wondered whether he had heard it at all. The hole was much shallower than he had expected.

Inside was a human shape. It was withered and brown. Its throat seemed to have been cut, whether in battle or as a sacrifice, or for some other unfathomable reason, Agmar couldn't tell. One arm was flung wide, leaning against the side of the grave, and the withered, leathery hand gripped a long rusted dirk. The other arm lay over its chest. It wore a long shirt of mail, but few of the links remained, and only tatters of the leather backing had survived the centuries, though how any of it could have survived longer than it took the ages to denude the skeletons about the grave of their flesh and clothes was unclear.

Beneath the hand which didn't grip the dirk was a shape unmistakable to the bard. A small silver harp. The harp drew his eyes until it absorbed his whole vision. Agmar climbed down into the hole. He tried to pry the fingers of the corpse loose from the harp.

The corpse sat up and its other arm swept the dirk across in a disembowelling cut. Agmar leapt back, and the dirk only just missed his side, its tip tracing a fine line on the armour over his gut. The corpse leered through rotted cheeks, which hung like tattered fabric over its yellow teeth. Its eyes, as shapeless as sloppy pottage spilled on a trencher, oozed out of its sockets, seeming somehow to retain malignant intelligence as they oozed down its face. Agmar drew his sword and struck down at the creature's head. It was as mighty a blow as ever he had struck, so chilled was he by seeing the dead rising. The blow struck right in the centre of the corpse's pate, but the sharp blade left no mark, though the corpse's torso slouched under the blow. Then it rose to its feet and moaned. And the moaning sounded like the gurgling of liquid flesh in its throat, and the smell of long ages of decay were blown forth on the unnatural wind of its breath. It swung again, and Agmar leapt backwards, out of the grave. He struck again, this time at the top of the arm, where it joined the shoulder, but again the blade didn't cut, only making the creature stagger.

Dyfed and Kendhal stared in horror. Corin, having seen more supernatural evil than this in recent months retained his presence of mind and pulled out his sword, but sensibly backed away towards one of the tunnels leading away from the burial chamber.

"My blade doesn't harm it," Agmar yelled.

"Try this." Corin darted forward, passing the enchanted sword, Blood-spate, to the bard, then darted back behind the two Seltic warriors.

Agmar swung again. The sword didn't cut, something Corin had never witnessed before. For Blood-spate was fashioned from the horn of the river god Seltathra himself. But where the sword had struck a line of fire sprang up, went out, and smoke streamed away.

Agmar cried out, "This is the change you told me of? The god of the seas cripples his vassal."

"What?"

"You said yourself it doesn't speak to you as it once did. It's power is clearly diminished so close to the sea. Remember what you learnt about the forging of the sword? The river god was defeated in his estuary by the god of the sea, who broke his horn. We're in the region of the river's estuary. Sedthra cripples his vassal's power here. The sword is useless."

At that the sword seemed to moan in pitiful protest. Corin said, "At least the bugger's found its voice again."

"I agree a talking sword is much more interesting, but a talking sword without power isn't much more use in a fight."

The corpse had climbed out of its grave now and swung its dagger at Agmar. Kendhal now drew the hammer he had taken from a Fik warrior in the tunnels above. The bard parried and struck again. Again the sword didn't pierce the rotten flesh. Again fire sprang up where it cut, only to go out, leaving no evidence but smoke.

Corin shouted out, "Why doesn't the Heart of Fire give the sword power?"

Agmar knew the thief was speaking of the sword's ruby pommel stone, also a relic of great power, fashioned from a fragment of the god of fire's heart. "I don't know. Who knows what the gods do to each other in their battles for supremacy. Maybe the sea weakens the Heart of Fire also." Agmar parried a series of slashes by the corpse.

Kendhal stepped forward and drove his hammer down on the corpse's head. It staggered to its knees, then swept its dagger across where Kendhal's guts had been, but the large man had quickly stepped back, more nimble than his size would suggest was possible.

"I think discretion is the better part of valour here," Dyfed cried out, uncharacteristically wary of battle.

The others agreed. If Dyfed was hesitant to stand and fight they must be fools to stay. But the corpse had staggered across Agmar's path to the others, all of whom had backed away to one of the tunnels. While there was another tunnel behind him there was no telling whether the group would be able to reunite afterwards. Corin would probably find his way out, leading the others, but Agmar might be lost forever and die in these tunnels. But if the corpse killed him here it would likely turn on the others. Then none of them would escape alive. That decided him.

"There's nothing for it," he cried out, "I'll get it to chase me and see if I can lose it in the tunnels."

The corpse seemed to understand, and moved quickly to block his path. Whenever he stepped towards the others it stepped that way. Whenever he stepped towards the tunnel it stepped the other way. He rained a series of powerful blows down on its head to stagger it but it recovered too quickly and blocked his path again. The room now stank of smoking decayed flesh, but the fire had no power to seriously harm the animated corpse.

Corin cried out, "You say the god of the sea blocks the power of the sword. Can you call the god of the seas?"

"Gods rarely come at the behest of men."

But despite his doubts he ransacked his memory for songs that might aid him. He knew songs to entertain idle hours, songs to flatter great lords, songs to seduce reluctant maidens and praise those many more who were willing, songs of history, of myth and legend, of colourful lies and truth deeper than ordinary understanding.

And he knew many songs of another kind, slowly acquired from his father, who had learnt them from his father, and he from his, and so on back to ancestors whose kings were barely remembered in myth. Songs of enchantment; songs in the first language, in the words of creation. Some were subtle in their effects, some would terrify grown men, or draw them on into danger in ecstasies of mad confidence. And some appealed to forces and beings immortal. One came to him now. The Lay of the Foaming Waves. If sung beside the sea the nereids, daughters of the sea god, might lay their beautiful tresses across the sand, the most beautiful frothing foam you had ever seen, both transient and renewed with each breaking wave, iridescent in the moonlight or sparkling in the sun. He didn't know what it would do here, but of all the songs he could recall it was the closest to a paean to the great god of the oceans. So he sang it.

The corpse hesitated. Agmar prepared to swing. Then the corpse advanced again. Had the spell worked? Had the sword regained some of its power? His eyes fell on the corpse's harp and its silvery surface flowed. He blinked away the vision.

"Look," Corin cried out, "it's working."

Agmar turned his eyes back to the sword. It's surface flowed also. But not like the surface of the harp. In the sword blade runes of fire and water tore each other apart, hissing and steaming, flowing in a circuit from hilt to tip and back. He didn't know how long the enchantment would last, or perhaps the grace of the god he had hoped to invoke, so he watched the corpse carefully for his chance.

But that harp was so beautiful! It was clearly no ordinary harp, and surely this corpse had once been no ordinary bard. He saw the bard in the murals behind this dead bard's head. That bard, was it this same bard that shambled before him? fighting with the gods against demon hordes. Fighting with the aid of the Fifth Wind himself. As a bard Agmar thought it would be sacrilege to damage such a relic. And with such a divine relic as the sword he wielded now, Blood-spate, that might be possible, however powerful a relic the harp was.

He would have to place his blow carefully. He couldn't cleave the animated corpse in half from head to toe, as that would also cleave the harp. He thought of chopping off its head, but that would leave the dirk in its hand, and if a body could walk when dead there was no certainty it wouldn't walk without its head.

He chopped at the shoulder on the side that held the dirk, and the blade sliced cleanly through. The arm fell to the ground with its weapon. The creature still lurched towards him, its movement like the jerking of a poorly controlled puppet. Not only that, the severed arm still moved on the ground. It released its dirk to claw its way forward, digging dead fingers with yellowed, cracked, overgrown nails into the floor, gripping, moving, releasing, gripping. Agmar kicked the dirk away. The runes of water faded on the sword, leaving only runes of fire, and even they faded as he watched. Once again Agmar sang the Lay of the Foaming Waves, and once again the blade flowed with runes of both water and fire. The creature snapped its teeth, and breathed out foul air that smelled of forgotten centuries, of rot long settled; moist, but stagnant instead of teeming with life; of the dust of long dead leaves crushed to powder under feet oblivious to faded autumnal beauty, of charnel houses like this where the bones and skulls were piled until no one any longer remembered the names that the bones once bore as proudly as they wore their skin.

The creature moaned again, and the sound of gurgling liquefied putrefaction sounded almost musical, like the burbling of a mountain spring over smooth pebbles. The music was not horrific or terrifying, but mournful; Agmar didn't feel fear when he heard it, but sadness. This creature too had once been a bard like himself, composing poems and songs, singing and fighting for powerful patrons, travelling to distant lands to learn new languages so that he could gather more tales and refashion them as his own. Perhaps this was not even the land of his birth. He had died in this place, far from home and clan, as Agmar was far from home and clan. This ancient bard had been honoured by the local people, entombed in grandeur. For his songs or some heroic deed? The centuries had marched by, as relentless as a marauding army, and he had been forgotten. All the songs he had sung, however moving, now were silent. And yet here he tried to sing once more, the voice once so powerful and sweet, now little more than a gurgle in a ruptured throat. But not all the power of that voice was lost. Agmar felt it still.

Agmar sang also, trying to pick the notes from the ancient bard's moaning, echoing him and completing his melody. It was a tune both familiar and strange, sad like the forgetting of centuries, but hopeful like a happy child's dreams. The ancient bard stopped lurching forward, and seemed to listen to Agmar's voice. It moaned once more, and now the eyes flowing down its cheeks were like tears, mournful like the voice, and no longer menacing. He held out the harp. Agmar reached out and grasped it. The ancient bard didn't let go at first, moaning gently, reluctantly. Then he sighed, and released his grip, staggered backwards a few steps, teetered at the edge of his grave, as if at the edge of an infinite abyss, then collapsed back into his grave. The arm ceased its progress across the floor, and was still.

Agmar wondered then that he, a bard, had come to just this tomb. A great bard had been buried here once. He had been honoured among his own people or others who had adopted him. That much was clear from the distinction of this burial chamber with its elaborate murals and singular grave. Then he had been forgotten with the centuries, perhaps even millennia. The grave had been desecrated by would be grave robbers. Their fate was clear. Their skeletons lay around the opened tomb. And so the tomb had remained open. Until another bard should come. But Agmar had not come here by chance. An apparition had led him to this desecrated tomb. It had shown him the way through the city's fortifications. Guiding him to where Wulfstan's sappers had easily undermined the walls. Perhaps that collapse of the lower undermining tunnel hadn't been so accidental. He had followed the apparition through tunnels of this charnel house. Had it been a messenger of the gods? The spirit of this long dead bard? And what was this harp? Lost for an age with the songs it had accompanied. A relic of power? Surely.

He threw the dead bard's arm into the grave and knelt beside it. There he sang a lay of the dead. It was a lay of his homeland, Noot Seltica. In that land his heart ached for, across the narrow sea from Gleda, in the deep cool valley where his forefathers had cut and shaped wood into flutes and harps and tilled the stubborn soil, and the intoxicating red-capped mushrooms covered the autumn grass like so many tiny houses for magical little people, this song had been sung over the graves of his clansmen, asking the gods to grace the dead with well-deserved rest.

# 9: ALTAR OF FALLEN GODS

Agmar handed Blood-spate back to Corin and examined the harp more closely. He saw now that it wasn't made of silver, as he had first thought. It wasn't of any substance he had ever encountered. And as he stared at it, its outlines seemed to shift and flow. All the colours of the rainbow glowed in it, twisting and flowing through its body and its strings which were, amazingly, intact. A moment later it seemed to be made of shining silver, or quicksilver rather, because its surface still flowed. He felt it against his skin, like a living thing. Images appeared in the surface. He recognised some, figures of legend, gods and heroes, seen in statues and stained glass in temples, or described in ancient tales. The strings were, like the body of the harp, of indeterminate substance. He touched one ever so slightly and it sang. Literally sang! as though it possessed a sentient voice, but with a single perfect pitch, its tone smooth, its volume swelling. Again he played a string, then another and another. All sang true, and seemed to carry meaning far beyond that of ordinary musical notes. He could find no tuning pegs, but the strings were all perfectly in tune. After unknown centuries without use! Strings that should have rotted away, perfectly tuned. And more, the tones were so rich and sweet, they seemed hardly possible.

As he played the air shimmered, and an image appeared. He sang of an ancient Seltic hero, the first song his father had taught him, and the legendary man strode before his eyes. And those of his companions. Unarmoured in the fashion of some northern clansmen, a great claymore in one hand and round shield in the other. His thighs were thick as tree trunks, his arms knotted deeply with muscle. His hair blew in the wind, as wide as an eagle's wings when it soars above its prey, its shadow speeding across the earth. His eyes glowed with an inner fire, and he laughed as he hewed necks and limbs and torsos on a battlefield strewn with the dead and dying. None could stand before him. In the night he feasted and drank mead, and made love to the women of his conquered enemies.

Then Agmar played the tune the ancient bard in the tomb had revealed to him in its mournful undead moaning. He didn't know the words, only the tune. If only he knew the words! Then another image formed, shimmering before his eyes, floating in the air, an image of many-shaped creatures. They climbed the steps on one side of a pyramid. The pyramid had no base. It extended down into a vast abyss, until it was lost in darkness and distance. Some of the creatures that climbed he recognised, many more he did not. From those he recognised he knew they were gods, for they were like images in their temples. They climbed, these gods, familiar and unfamiliar, to the flat top of the pyramid. On the top stood an altar. Along the second side of the pyramid climbed men and women. They wore the clothes of many lands, some of which Agmar knew. He could tell from those fashions he knew that the men and women were high priests and priestesses; they wore the vestments of what Ropeuans called arkons and arkenas. When a god reached the top it would lay down on the altar, and its high cleric would come forth. The cleric would draw a dagger, and sacrifice the god, though to whom it was not clear. Then the cleric would cast what remained of the god down the third side of the pyramid, opposite the first, and it would tumble towards the abyss. The cleric would remove their vestments, and cast them over the side of the pyramid, after their god, and descend by its fourth side, opposite the side they had climbed. And the gods and the clerics climbed. The arkons and arkenas murdered their gods and descended defrocked. The gods were murdered and fell. And the blood on the altar flowed like a terrible waterfall, washing over the edges of the altar, down to and across the flat top of the pyramid, cascading down all its stepped sides. The gods didn't resist or protest. The vicars of the gods didn't triumph. And so the procession continued, an endless stream of immortals and mortals, up to the altar, down to the abyss, flesh of gods dying, blood of gods flowing, cascading. Immortality draining into an inestimable void.

Agmar realised he had stopped playing. The harp now played itself, and not just the melody, but an impossibly complex harmony and to a beat which syncopated in mad but beautiful ways. Disturbed by the image without understanding it, he placed his palm over the strings to mute them. As he did so the music seemed to thread into his flesh, and he felt the pain of the dying gods. In terror he yanked his hand away, and discordant notes sounded. But the image didn't disappear. It became more insistent, and menacing. Then the strings ceased to vibrate, once more silent, and the image of the pyramid faded into the even more terrifying void.

With difficulty Agmar dragged his mind from that infinite emptiness, where life, meaning, even immortality, ended. He stared in horror at the harp. In all his life he had never experienced such existential terror. Compared to this his earlier fear of the undead bard was a childish jumping at shadows.

He stood and threw the harp back into the grave. Dropping to a squat and gripping his head in his hands, he tried to banish the image, but now it played in his flesh, as deep as his bones, thrumming with his heart, pulsing through his arteries, returning in his veins in an inescapable cycle. Thrumming, searing, terrifying. He squeezed his eyes shut but he could see its faint shadow on the undersides of his lids. And he heard a familiar moaning. The spirit of the dead bard didn't rest. When he opened his eyes again he saw the corpse standing, extending its arm towards him, holding the harp.

"Are you ok?"

It was Corin. The thief stood beside him. Agmar saw that he was still holding the harp, gripping it tightly against his chest. The dead bard lay still in his grave. He realised then he couldn't escape the terror, which now pulsed within him. So with a sigh of resignation he wrapped the harp in the folds of his cloak, careful to mute the strings with the cloth.

"Let's get going," he said.

The others all readily assented.

# 10: TRAPPED RATS

Corin again took the lead. The tunnels he chose through the catacombs began sloping up. First imperceptibly to the other men, but gradually more obviously. They came to a stairway and emerged from a grand decaying mausoleum. On all sides stretched away a vast graveyard. Crows sat in the leafless branches of dead elms, malignant eyes watching the party as they passed. Few of the graves had been tended. Some of the gravestones had been shattered. Here and there a hole gaped, with a pile of fresh dirt at its side, but no sexton was in sight. No human life but theirs. Rats, hid behind shattered gravestones as they passed, or gnawed on bones or crunched insects between sharp yellow teeth.

"I didn't know the Fiks buried their dead," Kendhal said.

"They don't," Agmar said, "they burn them, usually on a raft. Sometimes on a proper ship, with the ship, if the dead man is important enough. But they have slaves, and some of the slaves bury their dead. And this graveyard is much older than the Fik conquest." He pointed to where a glow of fire showed beyond distant rooftops. "We should try to reach the breach in the walls. If we surprise them we may help the others to break through."

"If they haven't already," Dyfed said, "we'd better hurry or we'll miss all the bloodletting."

"I'd rather find some food," Kendhal said.

Agmar said, "I'm not sure they'd have much in the city. We burned down their main stores."

"Well, let's find a lonely Fik and let Dyfed at him. I'll cook what's left. Or maybe eat it raw."

"Plenty of corpses here," Corin said with a grin, "just start digging."

Kendhal aimed a slap at Corin's head, but the thief easily dodged away.

They reached the edge of the graveyard. Beyond were ruined temples and crumbling houses.

"Catapult damage?" Dyfed wondered.

Agmar said, "No. We're too far into the city, out of their range. It's just a part of the city abandoned by the Fiks. When they first came here the city had been in decline and they repopulated it. But their own numbers have fallen in recent years, and they've abandoned the areas they don't need."

"Hey, you!"

The warriors spun around at the voice, their weapons drawn and glinting weirdly in the specular moonlight. Just within the crumbling walls of a collapsing temple to the sun god a small figure stood in shadow. Behind it they could see a fire, fuelled with wood which looked like it had been torn from the ruins of nearby houses. The small figure stepped out into slightly better light. It was robed and cowled. The robe was tattered, but serviceable. It was cinched at the waist revealing wide hips beneath. She threw back her hood. She was beautiful, though gaunt, and her long dark hair had lost the lustre of good health.

"I thought all the women and children had been thrown out of the city," Corin said, his face leering mischievously beside hers.

She started to turn, surprised by the voice at her ear, but an arm snaked over her shoulder from the other side, pressing a small dagger to her throat.

"Only the ones they could find," she said.

"You weren't so hard to find."

"I can help you," she said. Her eyes selected out Agmar as the leader of the group.

"And why should we trust you?" Corin asked.

"I'm not a Fik."

"There are many not Fiks I wouldn't trust. You'll have to do better than that."

Dyfed strode up to her, and pointed his sword at her heart. He leaned forward and sniffed. "You smell like a Fik to me."

"I've been among them. I'm a slave. Was a slave. I'm free now. I've been hiding here for months. Almost since the siege began. They don't come here. Most of them don't even know this part of the town. And those that do avoid the graveyard. Think it's cursed. I'll do anything to get them back for what they've done to me."

"For what you've enjoyed them doing, you mean." Dyfed pointed his sword at her groin. "Oh, master, master," he said in a falsetto voice, "you're so big, master. Oh, oh, oh!"

"I've faked orgasms enough. But I've never really had one. Maybe one or two, but when a big man climbs on you like that sometimes it just happens."

"A likely story, slut."

"Leave her alone, Dyfed." Agmar said, "there's many a woman's been raped by Fiks. They're not all traitors for it. How well do you know the town?"

"As well as you know light of the sun. I'm a native. My family's been slaves since they sacked the town seventy years ago. We were a prosperous family before that. Merchants. Traded with your own people. Friends of the Selts. Most of them are dead now, except me."

Dyfed said, "You betray us and you'll join them soon enough."

"Why would I betray you? I hate the Fiks. I want them out of my town."

Kendhal was looking at the fire inside the temple. "Do you have something to eat?"

Corin released the woman and she led them back into the temple. There were empty bottles and full, corked bottles and one opened half full bottle. Over the fire on a wooden spit several small carcasses roasted. "What are they?" Dyfed asked.

"Who cares," Kendhal said, and taking one off the spit sat down on the remnants of a column to chew at it. Behind him the firelight revealed the figure of the sun god in that half of a stained glass window that survived in a crumbling arched window.

"Rat meat," Corin said and Dyfed blanched. The thief had survived on less palatable stuff than that as a small child when his father's begging hadn't earned enough to feed them. "As good a meal as any if it's properly cooked. I wouldn't eat it raw though."

He leaned towards Agmar and whispered, "I'll do some scouting, just in case." Agmar nodded and the thief disappeared into the darkness beyond the temple. Kendhal, unfazed by knowing the origin of the meat, tore at it with his strong teeth, and even stopped to praise the cooking of their host. He swilled from a bottle, grimaced at the vinegary sourness of the wine, and chewed more thoughtfully. Agmar opened another bottle, took a swig, grimaced and passed it to Dyfed, who drank only a little more. After the rats had all been wolfed down by Kendhal, Corin returned. Kendhal licked his fingers and finished both bottles of the sour wine.

The woman led them through the streets of the abandoned quarter. Kendhal burped appreciatively. Once tall houses now crouched low to the ground, their gables slanting at odd angles on floors beneath their original upper stories. The towers of municipal buildings frequently leaned, and occasionally had toppled into the squares over which they had once so proudly looked. Everywhere the buildings turned in, crumbling onto their own interiors, or lay fallen out beyond their foundations.

What time had not yet done was now being accomplished by the besiegers. In the distance was a regular thudding sound. Wulfstan was still attacking the walls with his catapults. Occasionally their vista would open up and they would see a flaming barrel shoot over the walls and crash, exploding, onto distant rooftops. But mostly they kept to the safety and darkness of alleys between decrepit houses.

Eventually they passed beyond the abandoned quarter. The houses here, however, didn't look occupied either, though they were in better shape than the others. Lived in until recently. Until the civilians had been thrown out of the city, the woman explained. But every so often they passed a house where a lamp burnt or voices could be heard, the woman motioning them to silence.

Agmar felt a tap on his arm and turned to see Corin. Corin pointed to his own ear, shaking his head. Agmar was still trying to figure out what the thief meant when they emerged into a small square, hardly larger than a house, and abutting the town's outer wall. At the centre of the square was a fountain, but no water spouted from its marble dolphin. Then Agmar heard footsteps. He span about, trying to drag Kendhal and Dyfed back with him towards the alley they had just left. But the sound of footsteps came from that direction too. Fiks poured out into the square from all the intersecting alleys. The Selts backed towards the city wall. They were surrounded. The Fiks closed in. The woman had darted into their ranks.

Agmar noticed that Corin had disappeared once again. Was he watching from the shadows, or had he fled? That thief had too much common sense to want to play the hero. That said, he was no coward. Agmar didn't look around. He didn't want to draw attention to the existence of a fourth member in their party. The woman hadn't said anything, but he didn't yet know what her motivations were.

A dull thud of catapult-stone impact sounded further down the wall and men screamed out on the battlements above.

The woman was now sidling up to the biggest of the Fiks. She said to him in a wheedling tone, "Sven. Where's my daughter? You said you'd give me back my daughter if I found any intruders in the city and brought them to you."

"Your daughter's where she should be. Where you'll be soon enough." He grabbed her by the hair. "Starving outside the gate."

She cried then, and as the tears washed down her face wailed pitifully, "You promised."

Sven grunted contemptuously, shaking her by the hair, "You think I'd let a slave eat in the city when my own wife is starving on the road outside?" He punched her hard in the head and she fell to the ground. Then he kicked her. The Fiks laughed. One stepped forward and opened her robe, then tore open her bodice to reveal her breasts, shrunken from hunger, which he fondled, leering at the others. "But maybe we can have some fun with her before we throw her over the walls, eh, Sven?" They laughed even louder.

There was a loud thud on the battlements above, and a huge stone rocked precariously on the inner edge. The Fiks were looking up and Kendhal lifted one of them over his head and threw him backwards as he leapt away and Agmar dragged Dyfed. The stone fell, dragging many smaller stones from the battlements, crushing Sven and many of his men. Before the remaining men could recover Kendhal was punching right and left, each powerful hit knocking a man back. One man's head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground, his neck broken. Dyfed darted to his corpse and took his sword, driving it into another. Kendhal picked up another Fik and threw him at the wall, breaking his spine and shattering his face. Agmar picked up a fallen halberd and struck off the head of one Fik with the axe blade, then threw the halberd like a spear to catch another in the back as he ran for a dark alley. Three Fiks surrounded Dyfed. One fell without knowing how, his eyes dead before he hit the ground. Corin yanked the sword out of the Fik's head and darted back into the shadows. The second Fik saw his comrade fall and span around, only to get Dyfed's sword in the back. The third swung at Dyfed's exposed side but twisted away in pain as Blood-spate caught him in his own exposed side, penetrating through armour and his chest from one side all the way to the other.

Agmar looked around. All the Fiks were dead. Near the stone that had crushed so many of them the woman lay, panting shallowly and rapidly, crippled by a large stone that had landed on her back. Dyfed snarled and strode towards her, raising his sword. "Treacherous bitch!" A large freckled hand with long elegant fingers gripped him by the shoulder. "She wasn't innocent, Dyfed," Agmar said, holding his friend back, "but among the rolls of the guilty, she was perhaps the least."

"Less guilty than any of us, anyway," Kendhal said.

"Not that that's saying much," Corin added.

Agmar released Dyfed into the strong grip of Kendhal and knelt beside the woman. She panted laboriously, her eyes unfocussed. "Mathilde?" she whispered weakly. She tried to say something more. Agmar leaned closer to her. Her voice faded, her panting growing more tortured. Then it stopped. Agmar closed her eyes.

They could hear running shouting men closing in from both sides.

Agmar said, "We'd best get moving," then to Corin, "Find a proper breach or a postern."

Corin pointed up the wall and said, "I could climb over that."

"Yes, but the rest of us couldn't."

"I could lower a rope."

"I still don't think it's practical for the rest of us." He looked pointedly at Kendhal. "Anyway they're coming to make sure there's no serious breach here."

As if to confirm his point the shouts became louder. They could see the helmets of men running along the battlements towards the damaged point.

"Follow me then," Corin said and led them into a dark alley. Kendhal just reached the shadows as a company of Fiks burst into the square. Corin led them through abandoned streets. While he didn't know the city, he had a good sense of direction, and led them unerringly away from any sound of human voices or footsteps. "If my sense of direction doesn't fail me, there's a postern up ahead."

There was, but it was heavily guarded. Corin led them away to another two. The same result. "You know, there's always other ways into and out of a city," he said confidently, unfazed by the failure. He led them down through a large drain. Down there was the most repulsive smell the others had ever encountered. Corin, having encountered far worse in the capital didn't even grimace.

"Gods," Dyfed gagged, "has someone died down here?"

"Probably. Probably more than one. Lots of animals too. They drag themselves into these places when they're on their last legs." He sparked alight tinder with his flint, then lit a taper from the tinder and looked around. "Wait here." He disappeared around a bend. His shadow grew large and faint.

"Well, this gives a new meaning to the phrase 'dark places of the earth'," Kendhal said.

Corin returned, a lit torch in his hand. "They're in brackets at intervals throughout the sewer," he explained, "No guarantee, but I thought they might be. Actually these sewers are pretty well maintained."

"Is that why they smell so fresh?" Dyfed asked, still gagging.

Corin breathed deeply, as if breathing fresh country air. "Ah, the smell of civilization."

Agmar raised an eyebrow in answer.

"I never knew how much I'd miss it till I left Thedra. Riding through the wilderness. Don't know how I found my way to the camp. Nothing to go by. Just a lot of grey mountains, woods and plains of wheat and barley, and not a rich merchant in sight complaining of poverty, waiting for a thief to make an honest man of him." He wrinkled his nose.

"Don't lose sight of me. You'll never find your way back out." Corin said as he set off through the tunnels. They waded after him, through detritus and unsavoury floating things that they preferred not to become more familiar with. He led them with apparent confidence through intersections of sewer tunnels, around bends, past gaping holes in the stones beyond which scratching or stranger sounds echoed. Then they came to a dead end.

"This shouldn't be blocked," he said, turning to look at them, "it's right beneath the walls near the river. But it's walled up." He ran his hand over it, and held the torch close. The stonework was unusually neat, with no cracks and very little slime. "This is new work."

He led them back the way they had come. After several more twists and turns they came to another wall. Again it was new stonework. Again no discolouration of time and filth.

"Trapped like rats," Corin said.

"Apparently the Fiks aren't idiots," Agmar observed, "I suppose it's to be expected they'd block up the sewers, at least on this side. Especially after my little climb up the castle shitters. They could still flush the crap out into the port."

"What now?" Kendhal asked.

"If we can't go through the walls and we can't go through the sewers and only Corin can make it over the walls, there's only one way left."

Dyfed nodded, "The port. Maybe we'll come across some more Fiks to kill there. I'm getting tired of slinking around, and what's the point when we just end up fighting them anyway? At least we're not being led by a treacherous bitch anymore. We can pick our fights and where we make a stand."

"Strategy? From you? Since when did you ever choose not to fight when a Fik was conveniently at hand?"

"Can I help it they look so much prettier with their heads cut off?"

"Lead us out of here, Corin."

# 11: OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

They emerged through a storm drain at the edge of a quarter which smelled worse than the sewers.

"Ah, the aromatic tanner's quarter," Corin said, breathing deeply and grinning at the grimaces of the others.

"Let's get out of here," Kendhal said, holding his nose.

"As quickly as possible," Dyfed gagged.

Boots tromped on distant cobblestones.

Agmar, not wanting to breathe so as to speak, motioned with his head for Corin to lead them on. They passed houses with calf skins stretched across racks and further on pools of rancid urine in the dyers quarter. They passed shops fronting houses pressed together in narrow alleys. Many had had their shutters torn off, goods were scattered across the cobblestones, and within, wherever light penetrated was devastation. Chests and armoires roughly levered open or even shattered, whether by swords or axes or stones it was hard to tell. Counting cloths with their checked patterns, red and white squares, torn. Pictures and tapestries likewise destroyed. There had been fire in places, only stopped when it came up against an open field or stone temple.

"Looks like they looted their own city," Dyfed said.

Kendhal said, "Maybe the men with weapons took what they wanted from the bankers and traders. Then probably threw them out the gate to starve."

"I might not throw them out the gate," said Corin, "but I like a bit of looting. I'd do it without damaging the goods though. Like this." He tossed a coin to Agmar.

Agmar examined the coin. It had the form of Fik currency. "This isn't mine."

"More's the pity. When I went scouting earlier I found an empty house with a treasure trove. I'll have to go back later when the city's taken. Here, give it back."

Agmar held out his hand, but the coin was gone.

"You've got to be quicker than that," Corin said with a grin, spinning the coin in the air. He caught it and it disappeared, too quickly for any of the others to see how.

Agmar shook his head, "It might not have been the soldiers against the merchants that did this. Could be some merchants saw an opportunity to settle scores, or eliminate their competition. See how some houses and shops have been untouched, even though they're probably just as rich."

Corin had stopped listening. His eyes were unfocussed, his head slightly tilted. "Hear that?"

"What?"

"Precisely."

"You're not making sense."

"There were footfalls in two alleys parallel to this one, not too far distant. They just stopped."

"What does that mean?"

His eyes cleared. "Run!" he hissed and shot off down an intersecting alley. Agmar didn't wait but dragged the other two in that direction. He heard voices calling to each other, and boots quickly falling on cobblestones. The sound of wood shattering behind them. A smashed door? He left the other two to follow and loped ahead, trying to keep Corin in sight. The thief would disappear for heart stopping moments, then emerge, signalling from a sliver of light down an intersecting alley for them to follow.

Now he peered out of a looted shop several yards from where Agmar had last seen him. Agmar reached the shop and turned. Dyfed shot in past him, then pulled his sword out and turned back to the door. Kendhal, breathing heavily, reached the door and squeezed through after Agmar. Corin came back down, took one look at Kendhal, and shook his head.

"We'll have to make a stand," Kendhal gasped between quick breaths.

"Good," Dyfed said, stabbing the air, "I don't like this running away from perfectly ripe Fik heads, just waiting to be cut off."

"No, there's too many," Corin said. He turned to Agmar. "Get them up top and over into the next house. It's in better shape than this one, but someone tunnelled through from this side on the upper storey. Open the cupboard and you'll see. Close the cupboard doors behind you and I don't think anyone will notice it, as long as you're quiet." He patted Kendhal on the arm. "Stay there quietly until I come back. I don't think they'll come in from the alley that house faces. All the houses and shops are intact there. Mostly abandoned except for one up the end."

Agmar asked, "How did you find out all this so quickly?"

Corin grinned, "I'm a thief, remember. I have to find what's valuable in a house quickly, steal it, and get out before anyone's any the wiser. And I've looked from the rooftops. You can get there quickly from the upper storey. The roof's fallen in. But I wouldn't recommend you lot of clumsy clods try it." He moved back to the doorway.

"Where are you going?"

"To have a bit of fun."

"If you want to create a diversion, why don't I go with you?"

"Too slow, too noisy."

"How about me?" Dyfed asked.

"Too belligerent...I mean too brave. You won't give a Fik the slip if you can stick a knife in his face. I won't pick a fight with anyone I can't give the slip. And I have a lot of different ways to do that." He shot out the door and down the street.

As Agmar hurried Dyfed and Kendhal up the stairs he heard Corin's voice down the street, yelling out provocations, like, "Your mother had the face of a diseased toad, and taught you in her bed like a slack whore should."

Crossbow bolts whizzed by, along with inchoate snarls, but Agmar was sure the thief had already darted somewhere out of range. The three Selts found the cupboard Corin had mentioned open and stepped through, Kendhal only just managing to push through. Agmar reached back and closed the door behind them.

On this side they found they were walking on plush rugs, and the walls were hung with untorn tapestries. Cupboards lined walls and tables were surrounded by comfortable looking chairs with delicate, elaborately carved legs and backs with patterned velvet cushions. Silver jugs and vases, with bas-relief images of many masted whaling ships and tentacled beasts of the deep and many other maritime scenes, sat on chests and armoires; and a locked case with intaglio patterns of vines incised in its glass front displayed plates and cups and bowls of fine porcelain. Voices sounded distant through the walls.

Footsteps clumped up stairs somewhere. The voices came closer. They had found the house with the trick cupboard. Their voices argued, something about the rooftops. Kendhal breathed heavily, sweat pouring from his face. Dyfed drew his sword as silently as he could and slunk towards the hole in the wall. The voices reached an agreement. Agmar shook his head at Dyfed. The voices dwindled as footsteps clumped back down the stairs. Dyfed remained ready, breathing quietly, his eyes intent on the cupboard door, as if wishing for it to open. Kendhal, exhausted, sat on one of the fine chairs by the table. There was a loud crack and Kendhal's whole substantial weight crashed to the floor.

A flurry of activity on the other side of the wall. Footsteps running up the stairs. Voices shouting, "I heard it. It was up here." "I heard it too." "I told you. They're on the roofs." "I can't see anything up there." "Hey, what's this? Look."

The Fik who opened the cupboard door looked like he had bit down on Dyfed's sword. But half its length had passed beyond his gullet and out the back of his neck. Then the mad Selt was pouncing from the cupboard onto the next Fik, his dagger stabbing in a frenzy as the Fik tried and failed to cover his face.

"There's nothing for it now," Agmar said, helping Kendhal to his feet.

The big man was reinvigorated by the adrenaline of coming combat, and launched through the hole. Or he would have. He got stuck half way, the cupboard tottering. More Fiks were pouring up the stairs. Agmar shoved Kendhal from behind. The big Selt roared and threw the cupboard ahead of him as he came loose, blocking the stairs against the Fiks. He drew his sword and hammer. Agmar ducked down and came through behind him. The three Selts quickly finished off the two Fiks still standing in the upstairs room. More Fiks were shoving against the cupboard from below. Kendhal tore the cupboard away and smashed it back down as three more Fiks came up, knocking them back down the stairs onto two other Fiks.

"Go and get some help," one of the Fiks yelled out. They could hear footsteps as someone ran off.

"We're fucked now," Agmar said.

"Not until we've fucked up as many of them as the dirt can eat," Dyfed said. He turned to Kendhal and said, "Get rid of that thing and let me at them."

Kendhal lifted the cupboard again. One of the Fiks ran up and thrust his sword at Kendhal's belly. But Dyfed was already on top of him, knocking the thrust aside, howling like a banshee, stabbing like a frantic butcher. The Fik went down covering himself from the numerous blows. Both of them went tumbling down the stairs together, Dyfed still stabbing, their tangled bodies collecting two other Fiks who had only just found their feet again. Agmar followed, smashing his hilt into the face of one as he staggered to his feet and chopping down at the neck of the other before he could rise, as Dyfed rolled off one bloody corpse at the foot of the stairs to quickly make another near the door.

"You see what I mean?" A small figure stood grinning in the doorway. "Too noisy. Too brave. Lucky for you I got a knife in the back of that runner or you'd have about a hundred Fiks pouring down this alley about now."

"Bring a thousand," Dyfed snarled.

"Bring me a side of mutton and a barrel of good wine," Kendhal said, wiping the sweat from his face, "and I won't care if there's none or a million of the bastards."

Corin shook his head. "I don't like to moralise with any man, but..." He looked at Agmar, "how any of you survived past suckling only the gods could possibly know."

Agmar agreed, "But we're the most amazing bunch of misfits to ever accidentally survive a hundred battles."

"I find it better to avoid battles altogether."

"Spoken like a true general. Or like a sneaky bugger too smart to ever become a general. Maybe try politics."

"No thanks. I've lived in the capital my whole life. I've seen how dangerous politics can be. And there's a score of rotting heads on the pikes of Thedra Bridge who'll nod agreement to that when the wind blows strong enough."

"So is the way clear?"

"Not yet, but I've led them a merry chase into other parts of the city. They'll double back before long, but if we get moving we might reach the port before they figure out where we're headed."

Before they had passed through many more streets they saw a figure up ahead.

"We'd better find another way," Agmar said.

"No," Corin said, "look."

The Fik had seen them, but he didn't call out, and he didn't run at them. He turned and ran along the street he was in, perpendicular to theirs.

Corin said, "He's fetching his mates, but I can hear them."

"You can hear them?"

"What, are you deaf? Yes, over there." He pointed. "Our best chance is to keep going this way. They'll be behind us by the time they reach that intersection. Come on."

They set off at a trot. As they crossed through the intersection the others heard the soldiers they hadn't been able to hear before. Then they burst into the alley, about fifty yards away.

"There's more than fifty heavily armed Fiks in that group. So, run. You can stay here and fight them all if you like, Dyfed."

Dyfed looked like he wanted to, but Agmar grabbed him. "Look, the others earlier were just craftsmen and shopkeepers with swords, that lot there are men-at-arms, true dragon warriors."

Dyfed looked grim, none of his theatrical viciousness this time. "The ones who've laid waste to Noot Seltica."

"Another day, Dyfed. No Fik who lives in this town is going to get out of here alive, least not if Wulfstan has anything to say about it. Let's get back to our allies and friends and fight at better odds, that way we'll kill more of them before we die."

"We might even kill them all and live," Kendhal said.

"If you've finished your sweet pillow talk," Corin said, impatiently watching the Fiks, who were running towards them, shields and spears lowered, eyes glinting beneath their conical helms.

They followed the thief, who yelled back in better humour, "At least we can outrun them. That heavy armour will slow them down on foot. The harbour's just up ahead...but watch out for the..."

They burst out of the alley onto the docks.

"...Fiks on the docks."

Long warehouses lined the docks. Barrels and crates were scattered about in haphazard piles. Three carracks were moored and small boats rocked on the gentle waves that washed in past the breakwater. Two large burnt out hulls poked their bowsprits out of the water at the entrance to the harbour, sunk to block access by the heavy Seltic battle-cogs that blockaded the port, but with room enough for small smugglers' sloops to slip past. Along the front of one warehouse was a huge pyramid of barrels. From beyond it a huge company of Fiks was marching towards them along the docks.

Agmar yelled at Corin, "Couldn't you have given us more warning than that?"

"I would've heard them sooner if I didn't have three stampeding bulls right behind me."

Kendhal wheezed and looked at the barrels, licking his lips. "Wine. I'm parched. I could drink a barrel."

"No such luck, friend," Agmar said, "look." He pointed to the top of one of the barrels, which was turned to them so they could see the fire insignia.

"Naphtha," Dyfed said. "Why the hell is it here instead of back at the walls? They could do a lot of damage to Wulfstan's catapults with them. And to anyone who tries to scale the walls."

"They have done. But they wouldn't want to store them all there. Too much chance of a stray hit from Wulfstan's own naphtha setting them off. Maybe even their own fire. An explosion that big might even bring a sizeable section of the walls down. Then they'd be fucked."

"Pity it didn't."

The Fiks on the docks spread out, circling them. The Fiks who were chasing them had blocked their retreat.

"This lot look a lot less dangerous than the ones behind us," Agmar said, drawing his sword.

Dyfed drew his sword and a dagger. Corin drew Blood-spate.

Kendhal said, "I'm too tired to fight," put his head down, and charged at the Fiks, bowling over several and taking several more with him over the edge. Their disappearance was followed by several loud splashes, and sounds of men crying out.

Corin didn't hesitate. He sheathed Blood-spate and ran towards the opening in the Fik ranks created by Kendhal and dived. Agmar dragged a snarling Dyfed after him and jumped over. In the water a few Fiks thrashed about, and Kendhal smashed heads with his huge bare fists. The Fiks who were still conscious tried to swim away from him. Agmar landed on the back of one and broke his spine, driving the crippled man beneath the water. Fiks peered over the edge of the pier and called for archers. Archers poked their heads over the side. Corin signalled to the others to follow him and dived under the water. Bolts shot into the water slowed and turned at odd angles and span away uselessly. Corin swam away underwater, he hoped past the ranks of the Fiks. When they couldn't hold their breath any longer they surfaced. They were a fair way from where they had dived off the dock front, and concealed behind the bulk of one of the carracks.

They could still hear crossbow bolts splashing into the sea. Fiks were shouting, unsure of the results. Boots stomped on the boards of the dock, both directly above them and further away.

Agmar noticed that among the general detritus of the harbour was a veritable fleet of floating turds. "Well, out of the frying pan into the shit," he said in a low voice.

"Don't mention frying," Kendhal said, "you're making me hungry." He chewed on a piece of seaweed that had plastered itself across his face.

"You're always hungry. And I wouldn't be too quick to eat that. It's been seasoned with sewer sauce." He pointed to the turds. Kendhal spat out the seaweed.

A rope ladder was dropped from above and a Fik came down it.

"So what now?" Dyfed said, blowing water out his nose.

"It won't take long for them to find us down here," Agmar whispered, "Let's find a boat and see if we can get far enough out before they notice."

"They'll spot us and stick us full of bolts unless they're blinder than a mole in moonlight."

"I have an idea," Corin said, and swam into the deepest darkness under the docks. His subdued voice floated back, barely audible, "Don't wait for me."

"What's he up to?" Dyfed asked.

"Didn't he say he found a treasure trove before?" Kendhal said, "I bet the little bugger wants to take some of it with him."

Agmar said, "If there's something larcenous and fun he'll find a way to do it. But I don't think that's what he's up to."

"We don't have the time to wait for him," Dyfed said and struck out for where some small boats were moored.

They followed him, swimming under the docks. Untying the rope on one of the boats they dragged it under the docks. Climbing in they used the oars to push against the pylons, slowly edging their way along the docks towards where they turned perpendicularly and extended in the direction of the wrecks in the entrance channel of the port.

Behind and above them several Fiks on the docks screamed. Sound of running feet. A huge thump sounded, louder than a thunderclap. The docks shook. A wave of intensely hot air struck the Selts, and for a moment Agmar thought he would turn to cinders. Blinding light. He was deafened by the blast. But he could feel a series of thumps, none quite as large as the first. With each one came a flash of yellow light and a wave of heat. Then he could hear again. He looked back. Kalogh and Dyfed were lying flat in the boat. Blood was oozing out of their ears. Agmar touched his own ears and felt stickiness there. Looked at his fingers. Blood. He felt the flush of his face. Looking back along the docks he saw the main warehouse aflame. Fiks were in the water, thrown there by the blast.

"Hey!"

Agmar turned to their bow. Because of the fire he could see clearly the head in the water, surrounded by the detritus of the harbour, including shit and other refuse flushed from the town sewers.

"I thought you went back. How did you get ahead of us?"

Agmar helped Corin into the boat.

"You didn't think I was going to wait around for that naphtha to blow."

"You had something to do with that?"

Corin grinned. "You shouldn't play with fire near naphtha. Luckily I had an extra-long taper. Unluckily for them one of those barrels was leaky. I don't think you'll have to worry about them shooting at us now."

The Fiks in the sea were screaming. Some of them choked and drowned, while others swam to where ladders descended to rowing boats, or the other side of the harbour where there was a low pier.

Dyfed sat up, dazed. "Where's the cunt that slapped me? I'll have his entrails for sausages." He gripped his head and opened and closed his mouth, testing his jaw.

Kendhal groaned but lay still.

Corin took the oars and placed them in their rings and heaved. The boat shot out from under the docks.

Agmar could see men running along the docks near the fire now. Scores of burnt bodies floated in the harbour among the drowned and drowning, the dead sewer rats and cats and dogs and detritus of barrels and boats and shattered walls and roofing shingles and multitudinous turds and fouler, indescribable things. The rigging of the ship closest to the fire had sparked into life. Soldiers screamed and pointed. Some Fiks ran with water from the port around the burning warehouse. A few futilely threw pails of seawater onto the naphtha ignited building. The more sensible focused their efforts on the surrounding buildings where sparking in roofing thatch or wattle and daub walls had sprung up. Yet others ran up the gangplank onto the vulnerable ship. The sparking had turned to open fire in places on the furled canvas and coils of hempen ropes. Sailors came up from below-decks and ran into the soldiers. Sailors and soldiers argued and threw punches and drew daggers and marlinspikes and swords, but when the fire and smoke in the rigging became too obvious to ignore they dropped their weapons and worked together trying to douse it.

The motes in Agmar's eyes glittered in the fire-bright night. "They'll be too busy trying to put out those fires and preventing them spreading to bother with us, with any luck." He turned to the thief. "You've done pretty well for us. And not a single coin to show for it."

Corin sighed, "Not enough. Only a pocketful of hidden merchant's gold." But his grin returned. "Don't think I'm doing this for your sake."

"Perish the thought."

"When the city's sacked I'll make a killing."

The thief's humour was infectious. "And if we die, you'll gladly rob our corpses."

"You're getting to know me." The thief's widening grin looked in the firelight like a strange mix of demonic and comic. "After all, you'll have no need of your gold when you're dead."

"And maybe you'll step aside and let a bolt take me in the throat so I can become dead enough to rob."

"I certainly wouldn't stand in the way of it to save you. Anyway, you should know by now I don't need you dead to rob you." Here. He handed a small dagger from Agmar's boot back to him.

Agmar shook his head, both in amazement and amusement. "You know, if you make a habit of giving back what you steal you'll ruin your reputation for being a reprobate."

"Just as well I don't know what a reprobate is."

"If you want a definition, just look in the next polished silver plate you steal, Corin. You'll see one grinning right back at you."

#  12: WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE

They rowed past the hulks of the sunken ships and into the open sea. The gentle waves inside the harbour lapped against the breakwater. The lighthouse at the tip of the breakwater had been burnt by a naval assault but the fire behind them brightly lit the stones and foam of the waves crashing on the other side. Once they reached the sea the waters were more rough.

"Where to now?" Corin said, "shall we go up the river?"

Agmar said, "No, we'd never make it unless we go with the tide. Look at the level against the breakwater. I don't think the tide is coming in. We'll have to make for the fleet." He pointed to the shapes of ships. They weren't far out.

"And be taken by their sailors?"

"Those aren't Fik ships. They're Selts. They're blockading the port."

Corin handed the oars over to the bard. "Here, I've done enough honest work for nine lifetimes."

In the distance a voice yelled, "Now." A swishing sound and a wooden crack followed. Then a whistling, whooshing.

"That can't be good," Corin said with amused understatement and deftly dove over the side.

"Over the side," Agmar shouted, grabbing Dyfed and going over the side after the thief.

Kendhal groaned and sat up. "Wha...!"

Then the small boat was shattered. Planks of the hull splintered. One of the oars was broken in the middle, its pieces snapping together. Water fountained up around a large stone. The stone sank at the centre of a circle of wooden fragments. Another stone whizzed by Agmar's head as he came up. He looked around, and saw Corin and Dyfed treading water. Kendhal was thrashing about, large splinters stuck in his face at odd angles, blood washed away by the seawater as quickly as it flowed.

The ship that had launched the catapult stones was now closing in on them. They clung to the wreckage or trod water. They could hear voices joking on the ship. "Drowned rats." "Is it better to drown rats or skewer them?" Arrows started plunking into the water about them. "Oops, missed." "Shall we give them a fighting chance?" "Like they'd give us?"

Agmar recognized one of the voices and called out, "Morvyn, you wet after-shit of a diarrhoea laden fart, throw us a line."

"Gods, the Fiks speak Seltic passing well."

"Do you think the Fiks blew up their own warehouse, you brainless son of a half-witted ass?"

"I'll be damned if that insult doesn't sounds like that screeching singer of the north."

"I don't screech. I sing in dulcet tones the greatest songs that ever ears as tone-deaf as yours were flattered to have heard."

"It is Agmar. Throw him a line."

Kendhal roared. "You ruined my dreams. I was stuffing my face with a feast of fowls and now I'm hungry again."

"And that sounds like the stomach of the south."

"I'll bite your head off if you don't have a meal for me, Morvyn."

"Yep, Kendhal it is, and if my eyes don't deceive me that'd be Dyfed the drinker of blood."

"I've a mind to drink yours for knocking us in the sea."

"It's what happens when you try to run a blockade."

"We weren't running it. We were joining it, you dopey Fik lover."

"Now that's a low blow. I admit I've sampled the pleasures of a Fik whore or two. They moan the same way as our own, even if they do scream in that barbaric language."

"Hello, who's this?" Morvyn said as Corin shot up the rope onto the deck.

Agmar dragged himself over the gunwale, while Kendhal grunted and clambered up a rope ladder. One of the rungs tore under his weight and he fell back, his foot tangled in the next rung down, turning him as he fell. He spluttered as he broke the surface. "Don't you have a proper ladder? Give me a hand."

"You heard my friend," roared Morvyn, "you scurvy bastards, give him a hand," he dropped his voice, "as many hands as the deck can spare. But watch you don't capsize my ship. That one's heavier than a carrack's ballast."

"This," said Agmar, indicating Corin, "is the least honest boy you'll ever meet..." Corin bowed extravagantly, then stepped closer to shake the captain's big calloused hand. "...and the best ally you'll ever know in a city full of Fiks."

"You don't look like a Fik."

"He's not. He's a native of Thedra."

"I would've thought southerner."

"They're a mixed bag in the capital. And watch your purses around him, if you want to keep them."

"Won't make any difference," Corin said and tossed Morvyn the purse he had cut from his side as he shook his hand.

At first Morvyn was surprised. He patted himself and found the severed thong of the purse. Then he roared with laughter. "A man after my own heart."

The curious sailors now gathered about the rescued party, holding up unshuttered lanterns that had been hanging on the masthead and gunwale. Kendhal clambered over the gunwale and picked bloody splinters from his face.

"This," Agmar said to Corin, "is Morvyn the Bear. Terror of the northern seas." The name was apt; at six foot four Morvyn was nearly as tall as Agmar, and was built like a bear, big arms and barrel chest, with a huge gut underneath. He wore colourful breeches and a tunic that looked yellow in the light, unbuttoned down past his hugely hairy chest, and a thick golden torc about his neck, as well as thick golden earrings. The grey of his eyes seemed like two lights in the night because the bare parts of his heavily blackly-bearded face, bald head, and every exposed part of his skin elsewhere were almost black with a rich array of elaborate tattoos: of leering faces, crawling beasts, water sprites, whales, dead eyed sharks and naked sirens with luscious curves and inviting eyes. The effect was almost hypnotic, and the captain, more pirate than merchant, grinned at the boy's gawking.

He crushed the bard in his huge arms with a bear-hug.

Morvyn stepped back, holding Agmar by the shoulders at arm's length. "I never thought I'd see you again." He shook the bard heartily, then punched him hard in the gut. Agmar gasped, dropping to his knees.

The sailors who had just helped Kehdhal over the gunwale grabbed him again. More turned on Dyfed and Corin, drawing daggers and cutlasses and marlinspikes. Corin drew Blood-spate and backed against the fore cabin. Fire bled from the great ruby pommel into the blade and runes formed and flickered along its length. At that sight the sailors hesitated. Dyfed pulled out two daggers and turned this way and that, threatening any who came near. "What's this treachery?" he shouted, "Morvyn you Fik fucking bastard. You've been with too many of the northern sluts. I always said those bitches would turn a good man to their ways?"

"I was never a good man," Morvyn said, his yellow teeth interrupting the tattooed blackness of his face.

Kendhal contemptuously shoved the sailors away from him, sending them sprawling at their captain's feet.

Morvyn seemed unimpressed by his men, but also unperturbed. He looked down at the bent over dry retching bard. "That's for what you did to my sister."

"What, gave her the time of her life?" Agmar gasped.

Morvyn's face was grim. Demonic eyes glared from his cheekbones. Then he roared with laughter. "She didn't complain. But for honour's sake...."

He helped Agmar to his feet. The sailors put away their weapons.

# 13: A STORM APPROACHES

As the day dawned the extent of the damage on the docks became more apparent. The main warehouse had burnt to the ground, others beside it had been gutted. The blackness of charred timbers extended along the docks and back into the town, but had been stopped a few streets in. A northerly had been blowing all the time, so the main town to the east was saved and the southern docks had been wiped out. The whole of the burnt area smouldered, with small fires still burning in the ruins of some houses. Fiks still ran back and forward, to the docks to collect pails of water, then back to the houses to put out the fire or contain it by splashing against walls and on roofs. Fortunately for them, few of the roofs in this part of town were of thatch. The ship nearest the main warehouse had, despite the efforts of sailors and soldiers, burnt all the way to the waterline.

"It's a mighty impressive night's work," Morvyn said to Corin, who lazed in a hammock near the gunwale. "If my catapults had the range I would have blown that lot sky high long since."

"You could have raided the docks," Agmar said, looking out across the blockading fleet. There were at least three score ships there, mostly sloops, schooners or large battle-cogs, modified merchant cogs like Morvyn's, with its high forecastle and stern-castle and array of catapults fore, aft and centre. "In all you must have a few thousand men here."

"We tried when we first arrived, but there was no supporting attack from the landward so they threw everything at us. Then they did that." He pointed to the hulls at harbour's mouth. "So we haven't been able to get in with more than a few small boats. And you've seen for yourself they guard the docks with well-trained soldiers."

"Not so many anymore. A whole cadre of them was blown to bits by the explosion. I don't think anyone standing on the docks when that went off could have survived it. We hardly did ourselves. Corin, next time you get a bright idea like that give us advance warning."

Corin grinned and yawned sleepily. "I should have got you to stick your fingers in your ears. Not sure how much good it would have done though. I was swimming underwater when it went off and felt it down there."

"At least your ears didn't bleed."

"No." The thief yawned again, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Don't you ever sleep at human hours? Daytime is for dreams." As if to prove his point his eyes closed and he slept despite the sunlight.

Agmar shook his head, whether with exasperation or admiration he wasn't even sure himself. "Thieves!"

"If you like I'll take him off your hands. I can always do with a good unprincipled man."

"What, pin that one down to a life of taking orders? He'd dive over the side first time he sighted shore, even if there were sharks in the water."

Kendhal had helped himself to a seized smuggler's cargo. He had found ale and salted pork and poultry, and had started stuffing as much as he could in his face before the ship's cook could prepare it. The cook now came up with a bronze tray of fried bacon rinds and boiled apples and roasted shark and eels and a cauldron full of crab soup. The sailors were standing around, placing bets on the big man's appetite. Dyfed gathered the gamblers around himself and scratched numerals into the deck with a piece of charcoal while Kendhal crunched away at the pork rinds, slurped sliced eels and fillets of shark and washed them down with whole bowls of the soup, taken a bowl at a gulp. Then he would wipe the soup from his face, shove halves of boiled apple in his mouth, and after a few chews swallow, pips and all.

"Dyfed will take all their coin," Morvyn said to his first mate, "the stomach of the south won't stop till the hold's empty."

"We're lucky none of us look like roast mutton," Agmar said, "I think we nearly did back in the town. Lucky to not find ourselves turning on a spit. He didn't stop whingeing the whole time."

"Cap'n."

"What is it, bo-s'n?"

The bosun pointed away to the north. A sail had appeared on the horizon. "It's Ferghus, cap'n."

A small blur of white grew quickly to a patch, then two triangular sails. Soon the sleek hull of the fast schooner was a clear line above the water, and within two hours it had dropped anchor beside captain Morvyn's battle-cog, the Narwhale.

A short stocky man with red hair and large dark freckles beneath a tricorn hat, wearing tartan kilt, slung over with a baldric from which hung a rapier and several curved knives, leaned out and grabbed a rope, running up the side of the battle-cog and landing next to Morvyn. "Cap'n, there's a large fleet was thirty leagues up the coast 'fore I left it."

"Fiks?"

"A hundred dragon galleys. Can't be more'n a day's sail, less if their slaves put their backs into it."

Morvyn ran his thick fingers, tattooed as heavily as the rest of him, through the huge bush of his black beard. "We're outmatched by a goodly number."

"What of Weylyn? Wasn't he on his way? He had two score cogs last we saw of him."

"He was, but with this northerly he might not even have put out from Karl ar Kumnat. Even if he has he won't reach us fighting against the wind, not before they're invited down our gullets by it. Damn!" He hammered a fist on the gunwale, staring north. "Damn mongrel luck. Kicked in the ribs by the gods." He shook his fist at the sky.

Agmar said, "You'd better send message back to Wulfstan. He can't help us, but he'll need to know there are reinforcements coming for the town."

"The thief?"

Agmar shook his head and pointed his chin at Kendhal. "Let the boy sleep. Give Kendhal a boatload of provisions and you'll send him on his way happy. I need to get word back to Culain and the rest. There's something else." He lowered his voice. "Can we talk in private?"

"In my cabin."

They went into the cabin under the stern-castle. Inside was lavishly appointed, with a large oak table surrounded by solid but fashionable chairs, and a large bed beneath the leadlight windows, through which poured faintly green tinged sunlight. Rugs with swirling patterns covered the floorboards. Chests of mahogany carved intricately and bearing heavy locks lined the bulkhead. A basket of bread and another of fruit sat on the table, alongside a ewer and hand washing bowl and empty plates and goblets, all of wrought silver etched with patterns of swirling waves. Agmar slipped out a piece of cloth from under the cloak he wore over his light armour. He placed it on the table.

"The Gift."

"This isn't the time for gifts, Agmar."

Agmar unwrapped the harp. Morvyn gasped. He was a man of many treasures, but he had never seen anything like this. He reached out. Agmar's hand shot out and grabbed his friend's wrist. "No, friend. Even with my training it's not something to be trifled with. You noticed the blade my young friend carries?"

"The fiery blade?"

"Blood-spate."

"You mean?"

Agmar nodded.

"And this is...what?"

"The Fifth Wind's Gift."

Morvyn whistled. "The Harp of the Wind?"

"I think so. And I think it shows the future to those that can see."

"So you can use it to foretell the outcome of the coming battle? Or to see the Fik tactics before they engage?"

"I think the battle it foretells is a greater one than that. I have to see some friends in the capital. They'll know more, but..."

"You'll be leaving us then?"

"I'll stay, for now. I won't abandon my countrymen in their time of need."

"Good. If Ferghus is right we'll be up against it. It'll be good to hear your songs alongside the clash of Seltic steel."

"It may not be like the old days, Morvyn."

Morvyn raised an eyebrow. "You'll at least lend us your sword arm."

Agmar shook his head.

"Why stay then?"

"In the camp I'll be left no room for study."

"I love your tales as much as any man, Agmar, but this is hardly the time for composing."

Agmar smiled. "Leave me the use of your cabin. Let no man disturb me."

Morvyn looked at Agmar askance, then sighed and nodded his agreement.

Agmar said, "The power of the harp may be beyond me. It was never meant for mortal minds. The finite can't easily grasp the infinite. To see what only gods should know is like counting the stars on an abacus. But I have to try, Morvyn. Much may hinge on what I've seen, and more on my understanding it."

# 14: SEEDCAKE AND MULE

Kendhal left with the rising tide. The long boat was filled with provisions, "for the camp," taken from a captured smuggling sloop anchored near the Narwhale. He alternately munched and guzzled and rowed until he caught the tidal bore at river's end. Riding it a mile in through the narrowing estuary channel he beached near where he saw a cart and mule among a straggle of willow trees. Dragging the boat up to the cart he emptied the armour within and began replacing it with what food he hadn't yet eaten.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

The man-at-arms, who had been pissing on a nearby willow tree ran over, unsheathing his short sword. He was in the livery of Wulfstan's vassal, Aedgar.

"Delivering provisions to the camp."

"Smuggling food into the city, you mean."

"You blockheaded son of a stumped oak! Why would a smuggler bring provisions to the guarded gate? And what kind of Selt would give a Fik anything kinder than a beating?"

"You're all a lot of treacherous bastards. I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you." Kendhal gritted his teeth, his beady eyes glaring. "And in your case," the soldier continued, looking Kendhal up and down, "that wouldn't be further than a shit falls from an arsehole."

Kendhal, incensed, puffed up his considerable bulk. "I'd sooner make a Fik a maggot lunch than any other. I'm a Selt, and as good a man as any this side of creation. I'm with Agmar."

"What do I care who your pimple arsed catamite is? Get your crap out of my cart. And put the armour back. That's essential to the war effort, you fucking fat..."

The man-at-arms didn't say any more. He only saw for a brief instant the huge fist that smashed fragments of his teeth into his throat. Kendhal threw his unconscious body on top of the pile of armour and finished loading up his provisions.

When he climbed on the cart the axles creaked. He goaded the mule, it started, strained against the weight, and stood still. He goaded it again. It remained stubbornly still. "Look here, you bony bastard, either you move your skinny arse or I baste you in your own blood and roast you slowly on a spit while boiling your eyeballs in a brain soup and make sausages out of your entrails." The mule didn't move. Kendhal tried goading it again, whipping harder. It strained against its harness, failed to shift the massive load, and gave up. Kendhal climbed down, took the mule by the harness and dragged it after him. Without the big man's weight and with the assistance of his strength, the mule hauled his load. Kendhal slapped the mule's bony flank and cursed, "You're lucky there's less meat on your bones than there's flies on a princess's arse."

In the camp Kendhal heard groaning all about, as if the earth itself protested at this siege. Some men squatted over holes, but many simply shat by their tents. Others were too weak to stagger out of their tents or from their fires to the trenches that had been dug and shat on themselves. The whole camp stank of crap.

Culain hailed him, "We thought you were dead."

"Not far from it. Looks like it was better to fall into the earth than come back out."

"Aye, the bloody flux has taken over the camp. Eoghann has it worst. He'll have shat his life away in water before another day is gone."

"A bad way to go."

"Wulfstan's banneret too."

"Aedgar?"

"Edmer. And that young boy dressed up like a knight. The one that covered our arses last night with his archers."

Kendhal left his cart of provisions, minus a bag of honeyed seedcakes, with the Seltic contingent. Accompanied by Culain and Gildas he went to the huge tent striped in Wulfstan's heraldic colours at the centre of the camp, the command pavilion. The guards lowered their halberds across the entrance.

He stuffed a seedcake in his mouth and said around its sweet, powdery texture, "Important message for the viscount."

"Duke," the guard insisted.

"I'm not riding to the capital." Kendhal sprayed seeds and spittle in the guard's face as he spoke.

The guard frowned at the seeds and spittle, wiping his hand over his face. "The duke is in the tent." The other guard nodded his agreement.

"Augustyn's in there?"

The guards both scowled. "Wulfstan's the duke."

"Technically," Gildas said, slapping his big friend on the back, "the duke's the duke, but that's a tautology. There's nary a speck of good meaning to be milled from it."

Kendhal scowled, his beady eyes glaring at the guards. He affected the tones of an effeminate, obsequious courtier as he said, "Will his grand high gracefulness be gracious enough to hear about the..."

At that moment there was a loud shout from behind Kendhal. "Arrest that thief."

The tent guards were glad to comply and stepped forward to grab an arm each. Unable to get an effective hold of his huge upper arms, thicker than most big men's thighs, they each dropped their halberds and grabbed him two hands to each of his wrists. Kendhal didn't bother to free himself or turn. He knew who it was. Gildas noted philosophically the shattered teeth and squashed nose, while Kendhal threw the two guards about getting his hand into the bag of seedcakes and lifted one off his feet getting the cake to his mouth.

"This man stole my supplies cart."

"I filled it with more useful supplies." As if to prove his point he munched with obvious satisfaction, burped, licked the honey from his lips, and displaced the two guards again getting another seedcake out of the bag and into his mouth.

Culain, his own nose red and large, his eyes bleary, leaned forward, squinting at the man's nose and curiously extended a finger to press it. The man screamed at the untender touch. "Aye, that'd be broken," Culain said.

The soldier shied away from the too curious drunken Selt's probing fingers. "And he broke my nose," he almost sobbed, blood seeping down from that nose over his lips, staining what few front teeth were left to him.

"Lucky I didn't break your neck," Kendhal muttered, "or unlucky."

Gildas observed, "How true! So often the good fortune of one man is the undoing of another." The web of battle scars across his face seemed to divide his reflective expression in a speculative geometry to match the abstractions of his mind.

The soldier fulminated, spitting blood and tooth fragments, "I'll have you hanged. You're a thief. And a traitor to the war effort." He stopped to spit a gob-full of blood and tooth fragments into his hand, and stared in horror at the result.

"You warthog's hairy nether eye. I'm trying to aid the..."

"What's this?" Aedgar came out of the tent.

The soldier bowed low. "My lord, this thief..." He held out his hand of bloody spit-foam and granular tooth fragments as mute evidence of the crime against him.

Kendhal roared, "I'm a messenger from the fleet you scabrous peeling of a pus filled sore."

"You don't look like a sailor," the man-at-arms protested.

"I'm not a sailor. I'm a soldier. I'm fighting in this army you diseased dick sputum of a syphilitic whore's son."

"You said you were a sailor."

"I bloody didn't. I said I'm a soldier."

Pedantically, the broken nosed man-at-arms said, "If you're a soldier in the camp how can you be a sailor in the fleet?"

Wulfstan lifted the tent flap and hobbled out. "What's all this bloody noise. How am I supposed to plan our next attack with you fools screaming out here?"

Culain breathed an intoxicating mist towards Wulfstan and Aedgar, and nodded his agreement, "Like a bunch of alley cats stuffed in a sack of pepper they are and there's the truth of it, m'lord." He swayed slightly on his feet and blinked bloodshot eyes. The two lords wrinkled their noses, recoiling a little, taking half steps back towards the tent.

Kendhal explained impatiently, biting off each word in the direction of his adversary, "I have a message from the fleet."

Wulfstan waved aside the guards.

The broken nosed man-at-arms said, "My lord."

"Not now."

"But..."

Wulfstan roared, "I said not now."

The man scuffed his feet, hummed and hawed, and opened and closed his mouth. Aedgar said, "You heard." He motioned for his vassal to make himself scarce and the man bowed, gave Kendhal one final glare, and stormed off.

Wulfstan looked at Kendhal. "So, what's the message?"

"There's a large Fik fleet to the north, no more than a day away."

"How large?"

"Larger than ours, maybe a hundred ships in all, many longships, scores of dragon galleys. We're as like as not to be overrun."

"Damn!"

"But at least we blew up the port."

"Is that what that thunderous sound was?" Aedgar asked, "we saw the flames last night and we've been watching the smoke all morning. How did you manage that?"

Kendhal told them how they had fallen from the sapper's tunnel into the cavern and found their way through the catacombs out into the city and what Corin had done in the port.

Wulfstan said, "Sounds like a man who can think on his feet. It's men like that we need more of."

"Aye, he's as useful a scoundrel as ever I met. A boy, though, not a man. Sixteen, so I hear, if a bit small for all that. Would hardly fit in my shirt sleeve. But he'd steal a Fik's life from under his nose if he saw the fun of it, and that's as good a brother in arms as any soldier could ask for."

"A mere boy, you say. Why can't my men show as much initiative as that?" he said to no one in particular. The length of the siege was starting to fray his temper, never calm at the best of times. "We'd best mount a full assault before they come. Break their walls and their morale before they can be reinforced."

"They lost a goodly number of their better men last night, and probably what few food supplies they had left, so it'd be as good a time as any. Once I've eaten, of course."

Wulfstan went back into the tent to prepare his battle plan. Aedgar said to Kendhal with a wry smile, "And give my man back his cart after you've finished with it."

"He can have it. And the mule's not worth the sweat of cooking. There's hardly more meat on him than on that gods forsaken lot of grass-munching dust-shitting ghouls by the gate."

Aedgar re-joined his lord in the command pavilion.

# 15: THE BEAT OF OARS

Dyfed and Corin watched the rapidly approaching fleet from the stern-castle of the Narwhale. At the front of the Fik fleet were the dragon galleys, adapted from the designs of archipelago fleets and dreaded for a century by the people of Glede and Seltica, and even as far south as Sard. They were drawn by wind-taut sails, but their double tiers of oars could be seen dipping into the waves to the thrum of drums that Corin could clearly hear. Their sails bore the black dragon on red background of Luntet Helter, Land of Heroes in the Fik tongue. The longships with which the Fiks usually raided coastal settlements and up the rivers came close behind the galleys. They also had taut sails, also with the bloody black dragon of the north, and rowers augmenting the wind, though their rowers weren't slaves like in the galleys. And behind them were the kind of ships more familiar to these regions, cogs and schooners and quick, manoeuvrable sloops. Among these would be the supply ships that were trying to get into Gleda's port.

Corin gaped slack jawed at the fleet. Though he had seen merchant ships enough coming up to the river-harbour of the landlocked capital, he had never seen the great war galleys of the Fiks. And the ships which came to the capital had to fight against the currents, so they came slowly, unlike these, which had hardly been specks on the horizon two hours before.

"We're sitting ducks if we don't do something," Dyfed impatiently said to Morvyn.

"The shoals out there aren't so easy to navigate. They won't come on with the wind."

"Is there a bottleneck?"

"Yes and no. They'll all get through, but they can't all come in the same channel. We're in deep water here and we'll block off those channels," He pointed to where three of the largest cogs were being hauled by longboat into position. "there, there and there. The others are as likely as not to draw us back with a rip-tide and we'd bottom out and founder, while they've the wind to leeward and will sail right through, catching us and boarding at their ease and passing by with the galleys that follow. So we'll face them line abreast from here. We have more cogs with catapults fore and aft, as well as archers above. They have dragon galleys, so more men and less firepower. Front on their bow-rams won't be so effective, and with us line abreast they won't be able to come against our sides. We've bows reinforced with bronze to give us an advantage against the galleys. They've got local pilots to get them into harbour, so they'll know there're shoals astern of us too. I've positioned the fleet so they can't sail right through without hitting them. They'll have no option but to come abreast and grapple."

Dyfed shook his head and said, "That's a lot of Fik blood to spill."

Morvyn slapped Dyfed on the back, almost staggering the smaller man. "And I know you love the smell of that."

Dyfed smiled an evil smile. "So we have a good chance of killing and a better chance of dying."

"It's not going to be so easy a fight for either. Their galleys and longships will be lower, but with more men. So they'll be fighting uphill and against a hail of arrows, those that get past our catapults, but we have you." A yellow toothed grin split his bearded face. "And the rest of my men are almost as bloodthirsty as you."

His expression became more serious. "I hope Agmar joins us soon." He looked uneasily down at the deck beneath his feet. The sound of strange voices, seemingly un-muffled by the wood, came from there, in his cabin. The sailors also had been disturbed by them, and whether they were running up the rigging to prepare archers' stations or readying the catapults along the gunwales or sharpening blades on the main deck they turned uneasy eyes towards the captain's cabin.

Sometimes the tones were uplifting. At others they were depressing or even terrifying. Sometimes they were harmonious and had an otherworldly beauty, at others they were discordant and suggested the demonic planes and princes of torturous cruelty. Sometimes they became faint and barely could be heard, at others they screeched like the angry wind in a tempest. Corin had plugged his ears with wool, and Dyfed gratefully accepted some to plug his own.

Two fast sloops scudded out from behind the Fik fleet and came up the side channels. In one channel the cog had already been hauled into position, and the longboat that had hauled it still carried the cable. There was shouting from the cog and the men in the longboat heaved on their oars again, crossing to the side of the channel. As the sloop came through the hauling cable was dragged to the cog's rigging, and tangled in the mast of the sloop. The sloop tilted, dragging the longboat, then the mast snapped. Archers in the rigging of the cog sent down a hail of arrows as the sloop foundered.

The second sloop was luckier, it shot pas the cog in its channel as the longboat tried to haul it into position. Morvyn raised his hand.

The bo-s'n said, "We'll hit our own, cap'n."

"Starboard ballistae only. Fouling-bolts."

The ballistae at the larboard gunwale, huge crossbow-like catapults with spear sized bolts, were swivelled around to aim at the oncoming sloop. Their standard spear like bolts were quickly replaced with fouling-bolts, which had a line on the top edge of vicious looking hooks.

Morvyn gave the signal to the bo-s'n when the sloop was fifty yards out and the bo-s'n yelled, "Fire." There was a succession of loud twangs and the fouling-bolts shot out. Two fell harmlessly in the water. A third pinned a sailor through the heart to the mast where he remained standing as if still alive, and the fourth and fifth fouled the rigging. The men on the sloop screamed at each other, frantically trying to right the rigging, which was now bearing the sloop straight at Morvyn's bow. Then the cog shuddered. Corin peered over the edge and saw the shattered remains of the sloop sinking amidst foaming sea and flailing men screaming for help. The archers on board compassionately gave them arrows and crossbow bolts.

The dragon galleys and longships tacked slightly and swiftly came through the wider channels. Then they were through. Even at a distance of several hundred yards, Corin could clearly see the faces, painted or tattooed, snarling.

On the fore and stern castles men finished turning the winch cogs of the mangonels with their levers, twisting the wound horsehair to its maximum tension, then filled the cups at the end of the launching arms. The mangonels on the stern-castle were also prepared, carefully aimed to avoid the rigging, but able to shoot past the bow because the sails had been furled. They used stones, to avoid spreading munitions hitting the rigging or the men up there. In the forecastle they loaded the catapult cups with small sharp objects, rusted fragments of knives, lead sinkers and hooks, and anything else that might wreak havoc amongst the Fik crews.

The drums of the galleys beat for the rowers, whether slave or free, a thrum like the waves breaking on the shoals in the distance, only faster than the rhythm of the seas. Whips occasionally cracked, the sound carrying clearly across the water. Behind the galleys, the dragon longships, single square sails billowing, sent forth a beat of feet as they sang in deep voices to the lead of their loud scalds, standing at their bows as though figureheads to their ships, a music as haunting as any monkish choir but carrying the threat of war and conquest by alien gods.

Corin thought that if they had sung behind the sails it would have filled the sails yet more, as if not satisfied by the gifts of a favourable wind. He said, "There's so many of them."

"Aye," Dyfed said, "they breed like rats up north."

Morvyn said, "It's the cold. Warmest place is their beds. Usually with a wife and a half dozen slaves at a time."

"So why aren't we sailing north?" Corin asked. While as a street urchin he had learnt early about the fleshier gifts of girls and took them for granted, he had never fulfilled the common boyish dream of sex with several girls at once.

Morvyn didn't answer. The flagship would soon be within range. "Bo-s'n, ready the bow catapults."

"Ready and waiting," the Bo-s'n replied.

A hauntingly beautiful harmony of voices came through the boards of the stern-castle's deck, all sounding like Agmar singing but impossibly numerous, sending a thrill through Corin's flesh, so that he anticipated the meeting of the ships with more confidence, even eagerness.

The fore-mangonels behind the bowsprit were mounted on wheels, and the men turned them to align with the direction of the dragon-galley flagship, which was on a collision course with the Narwhale. The sailors shouted distances to each other, "Six hundred yards...five hundred...four fifty...four hundred...three fifty..." By the gunwales the ballistae were reloaded with ordinary bolts and aimed down at the water, as the galley decks were lower than those of the battle-cog. Sailors in the rigging tangled ankles in the lines. The archers up there and in the crow's nest and on the yards checked their equipment, fingering the triggers of crossbows and strings of short-bows impatiently, flexing fingers in readiness. A final distance was shouted and the fore-mangonels twanged. There was a series of cracking sounds as the catapult arms struck their crossbeams, launching their ammunition. Most of the projectiles splashed into the water to either side of the dragon-galley flagship. A knife blade with a chain attached tore through the mainsail. Then the aft-mangonels fired. A large stone soared high and fell to the stern of the ship with a crash. The drum fell silent.

As if in reply to Fik scalds, from the captain's cabin came a screeching sound. In reply the wind screamed through the rigging and the sails of the oncoming Fiks were driven aback, fluttering against their masts, stressing yardarms to the point where some loudly cracked. Many of the boats twisted their rudders from their helmsmen's strong hands. There were panicked calls between the ships and roaring commands barely heard above the wind as the orderly fleet became disorganised. The ships with rowers beat on against the changing wind. Those without tried to tack. Men fell overboard. Then the screeching from below on the Narwhale and the screaming in the air passed and the northerly pressed again at the sails of the dragon fleet.

"Ready men," Morvyn roared. "Hold tight till after impact."

"Ready in the fore-rigging," the bo-s'n yelled, "hold on, they're going to ram."

The drum had started again, though its beat sounded uncertain. The galley was again under full sail, augmented by its two tiers of oars, foaming the waves in an almost regular rhythm. All along the crescent of Morvyn's fleet catapults were firing, and Fiks were bearing down. The Fik flagship bore down on Morvyn's to the larboard, while another, almost as large, shipped its oars and slipped along the starboard side, while another bore down on the bow of the next Seltic ship in the line.

"You'd better hold onto something, lad," Morvyn said, himself holding the helm.

Corin gripped the railing to the fore of the stern-castle. The black dragon's wings swelled, the blood red sky it flew in looming like an omen of battle-death that no human choice could avoid. Then there was a loud crash. Despite having braced for it, Corin was almost flung over onto the main deck below. Only his lightning reflexes caught him, preventing him tumbling over the railing. The ship listed. An archer fell from the rigging to the deck with a sickening thud and lay still. One of the catapult men in the bow toppled over the bow railing, breaking his neck against the now elevated ram at the galley's bow and sinking silently into the wash. The galley slaves back rowed, the Fiks in the rigging above them reefing in the sails. Across the crescent front of the Seltic fleet ram was smashing bow and other ships came alongside.

The listing of the Narwhale brought the starboard gunwale closer to the second Fik galley. But it also made the work of the ballistae crews on that side easier. As the grapples were thrown up from that galley, the ballistae shot their deadly bolts. One Fik was caught full in the gut and carried over the opposite edge of his ship. Another bolt tore through the skull of a Fik as he ran to jump and grab a grappling line. It went clean through, tearing out the back of his skull, pinning his mostly extracted brain to the deck he had leapt from. He fell back onto one of his comrades, a hole in his face so big that hardly any bone or flesh was left around it and the galley could be seen through it by the leering ballista crew. From the rigging of the Narwhale archers sent down a deadly rain but the Fiks lifted shields that bore the brunt of the assault. One archer dangled in the rigging to larboard, saved from falling by having twisted his ankle through the ropes before. He struggled to right himself until a crossbow bolt fired by a Fik who had leapt over the starboard gunwale tore out his throat. He kicked around some more, clutching at the torn flesh, blood sheeting down over the ropes, until too much blood had been lost, and he dangled, like a strung up calf on slaughter day after its throat has been slit, waiting for disembowelment and the market.

The dragon-galley flagship had dragged itself off its awkward perch, and the Narwhale righted itself. Then the galley pulled alongside, some of its oars snapping, too slowly shipped. Fiks roared at their slaves and threw grappling lines from behind the cover of round wooden shields. Then Fiks were pouring over both sides.

Morvyn yelled something at Corvin. The thief couldn't hear it. The captain yelled again, "We're doomed lad," but his face was a terrifying grin as he unsheathed twin cutlasses and ran to the side where a Fik warrior was climbing a grapple thrown to the stern-castle. He swung both cutlasses at once, across each other, decapitating the curious head, then shoved one into the screaming mouth of another Fik, quelling forever that one's voice and hunger.

To either side of the Narwhale Fik shields and faces were appearing, some for a moment before falling back before arrows and bolts and swords, others rising higher, the Fiks clambering over, balancing precariously on gunwales, jumping down to the decks. Soon the lower deck was awash with them, and the crew of the Narwhale who didn't stay in the riggings poured down to meet them with iron and bloodlust. A confusion of clanging metal, screaming voices, gouting blood. Death all about.

Some Fiks made it to the stern-castle deck, or clambered up to its railing. Corin had drawn Blood-spate and struck off fingers, shoved the point into faces, cut off heads, while the bosun slashed and stabbed and kicked. Morvyn roared and slashed, was grappled by a Fik, bit off his ear, kicked him back and chopped one leg from under him, kicking him again to launch him over the gunwale to the deck below. Corin fought his way to the larboard, and helped the catapult crews, who had forgotten the catapults and drawn swords or nocked arrows to bows, dispatch three Fiks who had climbed at the very stern of the Narwhale.

Dyfed spun and struck and lunged and struck and danced a deadly dance from one end of the stern-castle to the other, every Fik appearing within range dying before he could get the measure of the small, bloodthirsty Selt.

"I'm going over," Corin yelled to one of the Narwhale crewmen and grabbed a grappling hook.

"I'll cover you," the man cried after him.

As Corin nimbly shimmied down the rope an arrow whistled past his ear, hitting a Fik climbing up to meet him. The Fik fell and carried another down with him. Corin jumped so that he landed on the living one's head, driving it into the deck and knocking him out. For disguise more than defence he picked up one of the shields that had fallen in the fighting above and sprinted about the starboard side of the galley, where none of the Fiks were looking, being too busy mounting their boarding assault to larboard. When he reached the stern he found the ladder down to the slave decks. He threw aside the shield and dropped silently to the lower deck, sliding down without using the rungs.

He sensed a slight change in the air a moment before he heard the twang, and rolled aside, turning as he did so that he came up facing into the deck in a crouch. A crossbow bolt struck the bulkhead close behind the ladder with a dull crack like a snapping bone. A huge shape loomed in the darkness. A terrible stench of sour sweat and blood and urine and fear pervaded the air. The shape lumbered towards him. It was too large for him to get past. Instinctively he shoved Blood-spate ahead of him. Its point struck the heavy boss of a shield. Whereas before the enchanted sword would have sliced through that boss to the other side and skewered the man standing there, here it seemed powerless, just an ordinary blade. The weight of the man behind the shield drove Corin back into the ladder. A hugely fat face with tattoos and war-paint leered at him in the light falling through the hatch above. He felt the life being crushed out of him. His sword was trapped, flat between the shield and his own chest. He tried kicking the man's shins but heard the clang of metal greaves. He tried stomping his feet but the fat face only grinned more broadly and breathed a smell of undigested fish through rotten black stumps of teeth. He tried shoving back against the force, but the man was too large. All the air was being forced out of his lungs. His agility wouldn't get him out of this, whenever he shifted his weight in any way the hugely fat Fik shifted to compensate. Whichever way he slid or squirmed the Fik had him trapped. He reached back behind the ladder, let out the final bit of breath he had held, and yanked down. The Fick heard a crack, like ribs breaking, and the small Ropeuan beyond his shield went limp. He gave one final hard shove then grunted his satisfaction. He kicked the boy's body and turned around.

So silent was the movement of the thief that the Fik didn't sense anything until the searing pain of the sword shoved under the edge of his shirt of chain, too short because of his bulk, so only hanging to his waist. The blade severed his spine, and thrust forward through his gut. His legs collapsed beneath him and he thrashed about with his arms, dragging himself back into the darkness. But the thief was too quick. He pounced like a cat on a crippled bird, and drove the point of his blade through the man's neck before he could go very far, pinning him to the deck.

Corin heaved at the sword until it slid out of the wood and dropped to a squat just beyond the large man's corpse. He reflected with his usual humour on the luck of having been shot at. He had yanked down on the crossbow bolt, and the sound, along with his body going limp, had fooled the overeager Fik into believing his adversary was dead. The thief had to admit though that that last shove had felt about as pleasant as a horse kicking him in the ribs.

He strained his ears to hear anyone who might be coming to aid the dead Fik. There was nothing but the tortured breathing of many sweating men. No rapid fall of feet approaching. There was a distant sound of steel clashing and men shouting, muffled a little by the deck above his head. He crept further along, past a huge copper kettle and stretched hide drum. Another large man was dead beneath a hole in the deck above the drum, through which streamed daylight. His head was crushed and a large mangonel stone lay next to it, on cracked boards.

Beyond the drum some light was coming in through the hull on the starboard side. Wooden bars blocked his passage though he could hurdle them. Oars on the larboard side had been shoved through from one side of the deck to the other to allow the galley to grapple. In the dim light from the benches that lined either side of the deck, hopeless faces stared. Many wouldn't meet his eye. Some, perhaps aware that he had killed one of their tormentors, watched him curiously to see what he would do next.

He went to the first bank of slaves and cut their bonds. Most of them just stared dumbly at him. One thanked him and rubbed his ankles, but didn't move. He went to the other side and cut loose the slaves there, but likewise they simply sat there and stared at him.

"Well?" he said.

"Well what?" a cunning eyed slave asked.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yes, what are you going to do?"

"Why should we do anything?"

"You're no longer a slave. You're free. I've set you free."

"Have you?"

Corin pointed to the cut bonds on the deck. "Don't you want to fight?"

"What, and get killed?"

A murmur of agreement went up from the deck of slaves.

"But..."

"And what are we to fight with?" a small wiry man of indeterminate age smugly said.

"With your teeth," came a booming voice from the ranks beyond.

Corin said, "There are plenty of weapons above."

"What should we fight for?"

"Freedom. And there are plenty of Fiks to kill. Don't you want revenge, for this."

"Sounds like suicide to me."

Corin was gobsmacked. While he understood someone not wanting to be a hero, he would never let any man enslave him without a fight.

A huge Kemetese slave with a hooked nose and dusky skin like Corin's stood several rows back. His bare torso was rippling with muscles, his shoulders broad, his hips narrow, his thighs like tree trunks. "Forget about these," he said through sharpened teeth, pointed like a hound's, and his deep and resonant voice boomed and echoed its contempt along the slave-deck, "they've learnt too well to love the whip."

Corin ignored the Kemetese's shaking head and continued along the rows, cutting the ropes that bound the slaves' ankles to the deck. A fierce looking man about six feet tall, with slim athletic build and swirling Pecta tribal tattoos on his face and neck, grinned and said to the huge Kemetese, "There'll be swords lying around on the deck." The two willing warriors made their way towards the hatchway.

"The best way to hurt a Fik is by sinking his boat," an old man who had sat beside the Pectish warrior said. He was wizened with a long thin white beard that trailed all the way to his pot belly.

"And how are we going to sink this galley you old fool?" said the man with cunning eyes and many questions.

"I'm a shipwright," the wizened old man explained to Corin, ignoring the other man, "the caulking in the hull of this galley is leaking already. I had to help them fix it on the journey south. In the lowest deck. But the caulking is makeshift. Give me a dozen men and we can prize a lot of it out. I could widen the gaps and the galley will founder quickly. They'll come back to save their ship."

"Why would we want them to come back? With our bonds cut they're as likely as not to kill us for trying to escape. Not that we did."

Corin, unused to giving commands, noticed the men gathering around him as if for direction. There was no doubting he was young, hardly more than a boy, but they had seen him kill the huge Fik with ruthless efficiency. And he had cut their bonds. Seeing their expectant looks he didn't hesitate, having learnt early that the quickest thing about a skilful thief is usually his decisions. He said, "Take the men you need and get to work on it. The quicker it goes down the better, so anyone not willing to fight had better help with that."

The cunning eyed man shook his head, but many of the others murmured their approval and followed the old man to a hatchway down to the lowest deck.

"The rest of you," He looked pointedly at the cunning eyed man, "follow me up to the fight."

Many more of them followed the old man down than followed the thief up, but Corin thought that was probably for the best. If they didn't know how to fight they would only get themselves killed, and the more of them helped the old shipwright the faster the galley would sink.

Corin shot up the ladder to the deck. The huge hound-toothed Kemetese and the tattooed Pect were finding weapons amongst the corpses of the fallen Fiks. The Pect clambered up with short sword, but as the Kemetese warrior threw aside a body to get at a battle axe there was a loud thud behind him as a Fik jumped from the yard. The Kemetese span around, squatting in fighting crouch.

A Fik as large as himself said, "What have we here? Back in your hole slave." Then the Fik charged, his battle-axe raised high.

The Kemetese didn't flinch, waiting until the Fik's blade was falling, making it harder for him to change its trajectory. He lunged up under the strike, stepping sideways in a fluid motion, and slammed his open hand into the Fik's throat, straightening his arm under the Fik's so that that arm continued its motion, the axe turning in, partly out of his grip, to strike his own groin. The Fik fell screaming. The Kemetese relieved him of his battle-axe, raised it and, saying, "Stop your woman's wailing," struck down with such force that the Fik's head was split open, from crown to chin, and his neck split also, all the way to his collarbone. The Kemetese yanked the axe out, spraying blood and brains with the motion, grinned a sharp-toothed grin at Corin, and with a single, powerful leap grabbed the gunwale of the Narhwale and vaulted over the side to join in the general melee on the battle-cog's deck.

Corin felt a sudden lurch in the deck. The other slaves who had followed him picked up what weapons and shields they could find and looked nervously at the deck and the water beyond. They looked fearfully at Corin as the galley listed, but didn't act, only waiting. He signalled for them to follow him and shot up the nearest grappling line to the gunwale. They didn't need any encouragement to follow.

Corin balanced on the gunwale, looking out across the crescent of the Seltic fleet. Everywhere there was desperate fighting, most of the battle-cogs having been boarded by two Fik ships. Then an axe swipe caught his attention away. He parried and at that moment an arrow caught the attacking Fik in the eye. Corin waved his gratitude to the archer sitting at the extreme end of the yardarm. Despite that it looked like the battle on deck was going the way of the Fiks. Only a moment later a Fik crossbow bolt caught the archer in the leg. The pain made him lose his balance. He fell screaming into the rigging and was strangled by the ropes.

Within the cabin was the voice of Agmar, or voices rather. And the only thing that seemed to make the Fiks hesitate in their forward fury was the more discordant of those sounds. All around, Seltic sailors were falling. Fik warriors too, but not enough. The bo-s'n yelled an order to the archers still alive in the rigging, ordering them to focus their fire on a cluster of Fiks who had formed a shield wall in a corner of the main deck, and a moment later, as he looked aloft, a sword in his throat silenced his command.

Dyfed had leapt down to the main deck, his bloodlust unabated. He swung about him, but though he was brutal, there was a strange beauty to his movement, a precision of vengeful steel and trained muscle. His blades were the flashing noonday sun on silver and the brush of a mural artist whose paint was all in blood.

The captain swept the last of the Fiks who had reached the stern-castle from the railing to the lower deck and, grabbing a rope swung down to that deck, leaving only archers above to sweep the deck with their fire, picking off what Fiks they could without hitting any Selts. The slaves fought timidly by the gunwale, with the exception of the Kemetese and Pectish warriors who slew with the rage of pent up bloodlust. As a Fik disarmed the Kemetese slave and lunged for the kill, the Kemetese intercepted his wrist and leaned forward in a horrible leer, burying his sharpened teeth in the side of the Fik's neck, and with a backwards jerk of his head severed the carotid artery, blood fountaining into the air as the Fik fell.

The shield-wall, which had started in the fore starboard corner of the main deck, was swelling in size, any Fiks with shields joining its front, while those that could, slipped behind to lend the strength of their shove. They chanted as they shoved forward in a rhythmic moving scrum, guarding skilfully against the Seltic attacks, an arm and weapon occasionally shooting out of the nearly impregnable shield-wall to strike down an unwary foe. A peppering of arrows took the Fiks in the rear who didn't bear shields, but there were much fewer archers aloft now than there had been at the beginning of the fight.

Few of the men on deck had noticed a sudden change. Only Corin sensed something at first, though he couldn't place what it was. Then he realized, Agmar's voices had stopped. The captain's cabin was silent.

Then one of the Fiks noticed also, and called encouragement to his companions. The Fik who had noticed was one of their scalds, silent until now, perhaps fearful of the voices from the cabin, unwilling to challenge their power. As the silence left open the air to his voice he gained confidence, and sang and stomped the boards. The Fiks stomped to the same beat, the beat of the oars on their dragon longships in the ancient past of their legends, from a time when all their oars were hauled by freemen, from across the wide western sea, men seeking new lands to conquer in this new world of their east. Their line surged forward across the deck, like the flood of Fik fleets that had swept across the north a century ago, crashing against the coasts, washing up the rivers, bringing terror and the sword to the complacent, sedentary south.

# 16: A FINAL DROP

The trebuchets, mighty catapults powered by counterweights, flung their stones. All along the walls of Gleda the huge stones crashed. In places the battlements crumbled. This bombardment hadn't ceased since the siege began. Day and night. During the day the walls crumbled. In the night they were rebuilt. Today though, they concentrated their fire on the towers and at the battlements, keeping archers at bay. Crushing the crenellations. Killing the unwary. It was cover for the soldiers advancing on the walls.

Culain and Kendhal came with their countrymen behind pavises, large shields to defend against archers. Many Ropeuans came alongside and behind.

Kendhal sent a prayer to the gods to never wake Eoghann. The lazy Selt had died of the bloody flux in the night. It was only fair that a man who loved sleep so much should be rewarded with eternal rest. The only true blessing of death. "Bless your dreams with cunts as lazy as your cock," Kendhal muttered, "see how much pleasure either get from that."

Wulfstan had sent his whole army against the walls. He had been merciless to the men with dysentery, sending men-at-arms with whips around the camp. Only those that were too near death to respond to the whip were left behind. Some of the suffering men marched without their breeches, or at intervals as they walked would drop them and shit fluid, then hoist them, holding them rather than tying them, and stagger on some more. Many archers were relieved to not have to advance any further, and dropping their breeches about their ankles, shat – if it could be called that when you pissed out your arse – then stuck their sheafs of arrows in the foul fluid. It would add a nasty flavour to any that hit. With any luck the Fiks would get the bloody flux too.

Slightly ahead of the Seltic band were the engineers, with carts loaded with platforms to throw over the dry moat and siege ladders to climb the walls. Next to the engineers trotted young boys, barely in their teens, but strongly thewed, possibly peasants from the surrounding lands. They covered themselves with small shields, made of tightly woven wattle but without hide covering, and carried hunting knives and sickles that might soon reap more than grain. Close behind the front battle line in which the Selts marched, in a row, came three new siege towers. Four stories high, they were covered with woven wattle screens overlaid with soaked hides to protect against fire arrows. Mounted on huge wheels, each taller than a man, they were hauled by oxen and pushed by men. Other men covered the oxen with oversized pavises. As the siege-belfries rolled forward their stories, filled with men-at-arms, shook and rumbled.

Rolling towards the gate down the main road went a huge battering ram, composed of a whole tree trunk, shorn of its branches, suspended in a sling slung from a sturdy wooden frame, with a peaked wooden roof to protect the men beneath against arrows and boiling oil, overlaid with soaked calf hides. On its tip was mounted a roaring cast iron bear head. Along its path lay the remnants of the civilians who had been shoved out the gates by their own kin, intent on making the city's supplies last the siege. Of the thousands that had been ejected, some had been hunted down when trying to escape beyond the besieging army. Others had been murdered by bored men-at-arms with sharp swords and blunt consciences, or used for target practice by archers. Most had simply starved. Only a few hundred still lived, though their breaths were shallow, their eyes blank, wide, staring into an unfathomable horror that only they could see; beyond the comprehension of other mortals; beyond even the understanding of gods, complacent in their immortal rule.

As the battering ram rolled down the road, those that had any strength left crawled aside. Many were too weak. The lucky had already found their way to the verge, perhaps to chew the unnourishing grass there or dig for worms or beetles.

An old man, a cripple from the waist down, scarred from many battles in his youth, now considered useless to the town, had had the strength to survive till now. But as the days had become weeks his formerly strong upper body had become emaciated, his face gaunt. He lay on his back and stared at the cruel sun. Like many of the refugees he had been badly sunburnt. There were few trees along the road to shelter under and he had left the nearest of these to his granddaughter and her three children. He didn't know whether they had survived, for they sat against the trunk of the lone elm tree. They didn't move or speak through chapped lips, preserving energy or dead. Whether he heard the rumble of the wheels couldn't be known. Perhaps he felt the earth shake as it came near. Only when it was almost upon him did he turn over onto his stomach and try to crawl away. But his arms were not the same as those that might have effortlessly lifted great stones in his youth, and thrown them further than all his coevals. Now he couldn't even lift himself. His gut dragged through the dust, the burnt skin tearing away, the veins beneath leaking a thin blood into the earth. He gasped in pain and hesitated. Only a moment's rest, and then. Then the first wheel rolled over his back. The huge weight shattered his ribs. His spine, broken lower already, perhaps in some heroic exploit many years past, was broken many times over. His guts were forced out his sides, like a rodent trodden on in the field. The once heroic man, his feats forgotten, his life despised by his sons and grandsons, could in the end, not even save himself. His heart was crushed beneath the remorseless wheel, his head trodden into the dust.

Occasionally a Fik somewhere on the battlements would find enough courage or foolishness to stick his head out, take aim with a short bow or crossbow, and shoot against the advancing men. Several did so at once now, and an arrow thudded into Kendhal's pavise. Another hit Culain's pavise. Then Drem's and Gildas's shields were hit.

"They're a friendly lot today," Drem said.

"Maybe they remember us from the other night," Kendhal said. He had eaten heartily before marching, despite all the loud cries and groans of agonised shitting in the camp. Nothing but his own death could ruin his appetite. His gut would be satisfied for at least a half hour. Enough time to climb a few ladders, if he could find one that would hold his weight, and kill a lot of Fiks. They might even have food up there, though if the other night's adventure was anything to go by it was as likely as not nothing better than sautéed rats.

"The man who forgets is not a man," Gildas said sententiously.

"Man or not, they'll know the philosophy of ale," Culain said. He had only half recovered from the bloody flux, and had a parching thirst.

"On the other hand, without time is no change, and change makes identity impossible, for the flesh that was me becomes not me when I shit and the food that is not me becomes me when I eat. So can I be a man without being not a man?"

"I don't know, but if you don't eat you don't shit and if you don't shit you die. Since ale is food to the wise you can keep your damned philosophy and I'll drink and live." To prove his point he took a swig from the wineskin at his side. "Ah, shit! I thought I'd finished with this," he said, and propped his pavise in the dirt, dropped his breeches and shat. "Ahhh..." He looked at it. It was sloppy but not watery. "At least it has some brown in it, better than shitting bile." As he had last night. He stood, hoisted his breeches, tied the supporting cord in a knot, and stood to pick up his pavise. An arrow struck him in the eye and he fell back in his sloppy shit.

Drem checked him, and shook his head. "I don't think he's going to join the fun today." He added ironically, "Maybe tomorrow."

"If we ever reach it," Gildas said, "tomorrow's always a day away from today."

Kendhal ducked his head behind his pavise as another arrow struck, and stuck, quivering in the upper framework. He cursed the archer and said, "At least he had a final drink. We'll drink to something better than his health if we survive this day. If not we'll join him."

Drem said, "Friends together again in the dirt. Have to admit, I would have preferred the dirt of a brothel."

Gildas said, "We're made of dirt and to the dirt we all return."

Behind them a row of archers stepped out from behind pavises which they had stuck in the earth and nocked arrows to the strings of their great yew longbows, pulling back with three fingers till their knuckles touched their cheeks. It wasn't to sight the arrows though. These longbow-men were so expert they aimed almost by instinct, with their whole bodies. There was a twang of strings down the line and the arrows shot up, blackening the sky like a swarm of locusts. In reply, mangonels on the wall turrets thwacked their crossbeams and shot their loads of stones into the air. Not large stones for smashing walls, but smaller stones for smashing the bodies of men. For a moment the arrows and stones crossed paths in mid-air. One arrow fell broken to the earth, others were knocked aside of their original trajectory. But most arrows continued on their parabolic path to the battlements. Men screamed as they died behind the crenellations. And then the stones hit the advancing men below the walls. A thunder of small stones against pavises and the hides of the siege-belfries. Here and there a cry as a stone found its way through, or the force of its impact broke a man's arm. Elsewhere the thud of bodies to earth and silence of nameless death. No poetic speech in fading voice lasting long enough to lament it.

Several fist or smaller sized stones struck the pavises of the three surviving Selts. One of the wooden frame pieces cracked in Drem's and he said, "I'm wishing I could climb back up my ma's cunt about now." Behind him an archer, who had stepped back behind his pavise quickly enough but hadn't ducked his head, crumpled as a fist sized stone struck him, crushing the side of his face. His eye fell out of the shattered socket and blood and brain oozed over it.

Over the thunderous sound of stones on hides and wicker-board, Gildas shouted, "Maybe where we're heading you won't need to. You know there are some as think we're reborn after death. You could come back as a king, popped out a royal cunt."

The men were silent for a while as the whole line picked up its pace. The ox drivers goaded their oxen more brutally. The siege towers rumbled more loudly. The engineer's carts rolled on ahead. Here and there men lengthened their strides, others dog trotted to keep up. The whole army flowed like a dreadful sea of iron and sweating flesh towards the walls.

Drem answered Gildas, "With the way kings watch their queens that's likely to be a tight fit."

Ahead of them the peasant lads were unloading the platforms from the carts, running forward, and throwing them across the dangerous spikes of the dry moat, then running back to fetch more.

"Or a pauper. An animal or fish or insect. Even a woman."

An archer peered over the wall and shot a crossbow down at the moat.

"At least then I'll always have a cunt at hand."

One of the peasant boys fell screaming with a bolt through his knee.

"They also say it's all an illusion. An endless cycle until we figure it out."

Another platform was laid down. Another and another and another.

At the gate these flat platforms wouldn't do the job, as under the base of the raised drawbridge was no purchase like the dirt between the walls and moat. A more sophisticated platform was thrown across, with legs folding out underneath. It tottered. Empty barrels were rolled forward and propelled under it. Men climbed carefully down into the dry moat and hacked at spikes with hatchets, shoving what pieces they could dislodge under the platform.

Drem asked Gildas, "Figure out what?"

The oxen were unyoked as they reached the dry moat and only the brawn of sturdy men behind the siege-belfries kept them moving. As the engineers shouted orders at the peasant boys, some of the boys hauled the siege ladders out of the carts and dragged them over the platforms to the wall. They were hinged devices with hooks on the end, folding down a few men high, and extending out to match the height of the walls. As soon as they were in place men-at-arms darted out of the lines and shot up them.

Gildas said to Drem, "A good question. If it's all illusion, what's real? what's to figure?"

A distant rumbling sounded as the battering ram was driven across the unsteady platform. Then an echoing boom as its bear's head struck the underside of the raised drawbridge.

Men on the walls above the Selts wrenched the hooks of the scaling ladders with swords and axes and knives and spears. One came free and a pole with a loop at the tip was applied to push it away as a man reached the top. Desperately he struck out with his sword. Then he was falling back. The whole scaling ladder was falling back, with a dozen men on it. Some fell into the dry moat, skewered by spikes. Those near the top fell beyond it, crippled or killed by the fall.

Kendhal crossed a platform and threw aside his pavise, supporting himself, hands on knees as he wheezed.

Drem followed him and asked Gildas, "Then what happens?"

Gildas, close behind, said, "You cease to exist."

Another scaling ladder cracked under the weight of a score of men climbing it. The man at the top lost his balance and fell. On the way down he struck the next, and the next struck the next until all the climbers had fallen in a pile on the ground. The man who had been at the top had had his fall cushioned by the men underneath. One man underneath had a broken back. Another had the life crushed out of him. Another had fallen onto the point of another's sword. Those that had survived groaned and limped or crawled or dragged themselves away as others climbed over them to reach the next scaling ladder.

Drem said to Gildas, "Sounds like a lot of hard work to get to the same place." Then he turned to Kendhal. "Are we going to climb?"

Kendhal wheezed, "Those ladders have been pretty poorly made." He raised an arm and pointed along the wall at another scaling ladder cracking under the weight of climbing men.

The first of the siege towers had crossed the platforms and rested against the wall. Men on the walls desperately threw pails of naphtha at it and others lit it with burning arrows. The front of the top storey opened, crashing down on the crenellations and the heads of many defenders. Wulfstan's men-at-arms, heavily armoured, some in full plate, poured out and jumped onto the battlements.

Another of the siege towers reached the moat and began to cross. The platforms under the second siege engine buckled. The belfry toppled towards the wall. The men inside it struggled to escape. Some on the lower levels climbed out. The Fiks on the battlements poured down naphtha and shot fire arrows at it. As the naphtha leaked through the soaked hides some of the woodwork beneath caught fire. More naphtha was thrown down, by the pailful. Within moments the whole structure was alight. The men trapped within screamed as the fire and smoke spread.

In the distance the battering ram thudded its bear's head against the underside of the drawbridge, slowly splintering the wood, the sound echoing along the length of the walls, louder than any bear's roar.

The third siege tower successfully reached the walls and disgorged its complement of men. Men-at-arms from the lower stories of the first siege tower had climbed to the top level, which was fitfully burning. Some in their confusion ran back to the ladder, causing a crush below. Others braved the flames and leapt through, swelling the ranks of the attackers on the battlements.

Gildas shot up a newly raised siege ladder, hoping to be off it before too many men added their weight to its flimsy structure. He reached the top. A Fik thrust a longsword in his mouth. Perhaps he had one final philosophical thought. Or perhaps he met his non-existence with the philosophical similitude of mental silence. He fell back and took a peasant boy with him. A cauldron of heated sand was poured down and men screamed as it got in their eyes, or worked its way through the joints of their armour. Some held their grip. Some fell. Drem, gritting his teeth against the pain, keeping his eyes closed till he felt no more sand falling, reached the top as he opened his eyes, ducked under another thrust from the Fik who had killed Gildas, then was over the top, others pouring after him in a tide of savage vengeance.

As Kendhal, still catching his breath at the base of the scaling ladder, watched his friend fall, the bright day turned an ominous deep grey dusk. The sky had filled with clouds in mere moments. At first Kendhal thought it must be smoke from the burning siege belfry. Hot sand got in his eyes, but the wind howled, whipping around him, a gale out of nowhere, blowing most of the sand away. And the clouds pressed down to the earth, as if they had become sentient and malignant. The large Selt thought, with a fear of the supernatural uncommon to him, that those dark clouds wanted to suffocate all life that walked or crawled or slithered. His breathing became more laboured as every lungful seemed to be torn from his chest. The gale thrust him against the wall. But though it held him there it seemed to diminish, and his breathing became easy. All about him Fiks were falling from the walls.

# 17: HARP OF THE WIND

On the Narwhale the Fik shield wall was pressing forward across the deck, their scald triumphantly singing of victory. A thud sounded to the stern. A door had been flung open to the captain's cabin beneath the stern-castle. Agmar ducked his tall head beneath the lintel and strode out to the middle of the deck. He ignored the fighting there and crossed towards the forecastle's larboard ladder.

In his hand was a small harp, and all whose eyes fell on it, whether friend or foe, Selt or Fik, were paralysed with terror. Its surface flowed like quicksilver, but with colours like the prismatic moon, and all who saw it then turned their eyes away saw, or thought they saw, at the edge of vision, every hard object surge at its boundaries, as if its substance struggled to be free of its form. And the fluid nature of the harp was in its strings also, which shimmered as if just played, a silent harmony that blurred them in weirdly beautiful patterns.

Agmar walked through the men as if unaware of them, fighting on either side. A Fik warrior struck down a Selt and then lunged at Agmar but Agmar's shape shimmered like the strings and when the axe fell he was past. Carried by its momentum it struck the Fik in the foot, and he screamed and fell to the deck. But Agmar seemed not to notice. He only kept walking to the ladder. He climbed the ladder to the forecastle and mounted the gunwale there and strode out to the base of the bowsprit, where the figurehead narwhale sprouted the bowsprit as its horn.

He looked to the sky and sang, then lifting the harp he began to accompany his many voices. The sound was like the wind blowing through reeds by the bank of the river in autumn, but each note continually changed in a thousand indescribably beautiful, terrifying ways. It was something like his singing, only infinitely more complex and subtle, its notes multiplied beyond counting. The sound rose. The sound of Agmar's voice was a song of battle, and it mimicked and mocked the song of the scald on the deck below for a moment, then metamorphosed into something else.

A sound more powerful and alien. The battle song of gods when first they strode the dark pathway across the deep and formless void, creating and scattering worlds before their feet and leaving the fiery stars in their wake. And the battle was of bard with harp, as if the instrument was the chaos that preceded the gods' dominion, and he a god newly whelped. The two musics fought each other, the bard and the harp in a struggle that had its beginnings at the dawn of the world, and the sound was painfully discordant, a sound of conflict and impenetrable confusion, as if all armies that had ever existed contended on the same battlefield beneath the sky of a single day. The men who heard it clutched their ears, or screamed as loud as they could to drown it out. Some fell to the deck, and crawled and cried, maddened by the awesome conflict.

Dyfed's dance of death faltered, his movements once sure now uncertain, and he staggered and fell, shaking his head as he stared at the deck, horrified by the crawling of the grains in the wood, the lines of the planks that twisted into each other, the knots that became leering, demonic eyes, burning into the darkest regions of his soul and finding the kinship that would bind him to them, that would allow them to drag him to their plane, where torture was their pleasure and his eternal fate.

Morvyn roared like the bear for which he was named, dropping his cutlasses and swinging around him with his bare hands in uncontrolled rage, sweeping friend and foe from their feet, feeling the hairs on his skin bristling, gnashing his teeth wildly.

Only Corin was unaffected. Changed somehow by the Horn of the River God and the Heart of Fire. Only he of all those present on the Narwhale's decks knew the powers than Agmar now contended with, only he had faced them, been used by them, transformed by them. He still had the mind of a teenage thief, but just beneath the surface of that mocking consciousness flowed the knowledge of aeons beyond human reckoning.

Slowly the tones joined, forging an alliance of powers, a greater harmony, a woven tapestry of sound and the fibres of the world.

The wind came alive at the surface of the harp and whistled up through the rigging. The furled sails shifted and cracked, tearing against the ropes that bound them to the yards. The deck and masts trembled, vibrated and hummed. The outlines of planks shimmered and their grains flowed around knots and nails. And in these twisting, flowing streams, runes faintly formed, then disintegrated before they could be clearly perceived. Above the sky darkened, thick clouds gathering within moments. The clouds broiled, tumbling, heaving, closer to the sea than any of the sailors had ever seen, an oppressive ceiling, falling, suffocating, crushing. Lightning flickered under them, but didn't strike down. It struck across those dark clouds, as if fracturing them, and with their bright, savage cracks the clouds began to glow and pulse. The whole sky pulsed, like a giant heart, and the sun where it broke through those clouds bled crimson to the waves. The air grew hot and then cold, then hot again, as though high summer and deepest winter tussled about the fighting fleets. The changes began to synchronise to the pulse of the sky, preceded by a lightning burst with each pulse, so that cold and heat, darkness and light, alternated in an ever more resonant rhythm beating deeper than every man's heartbeat. And the rhythm was the rhythm of the song that Agmar sang, or of the song that sang Agmar, that made and unmade him, and every man on that sea.

The whistling through the rigging was rhythmic too and composed of many layers of that complex harmony. The wind became stronger, its singing more urgent. Its tone threatening, like the gale that sinks a ship, and drags sailors to the bottom of the sea, beneath the palaces of coral kingdoms, there to rot and feed the fish and be forgotten.

The scald no longer sang, but screamed. He pointed to the bowsprit where Agmar stood. The shield wall had disintegrated, but the Selts also had been crippled by the terrifying display of primal power. Many of the fallen men would never recover their sanity. Those that didn't lose their minds cowered and held their ears. Even the great Kemetese warrior sank to his knees, calling on his gods to shield him from this storm. But the scald called to his comrades now, urging them, shaming them like a woman does a coward, commanding them like a chieftain calling his thegns to arms. He screamed of their great ancestors and spurned their fear, though he felt it as powerfully as they did. He rallied them to him, and directed them to the bard, screaming against the terrifying wind for them to strike him down. If they didn't they were doomed. Doomed!

Then the Fiks let go their ears, buried their fear deep within their stomachs where their muscles couldn't know it, picked up their weapons and shields, shouted in anger to keep down the fear. One picked up the bow and arrows of an archer who had fallen from the rigging. He took aim at the bard. He let fly the arrow. It flew true, straight for the bard's heart. As it reached Agmar it was suddenly flung aside, and toppled in the air, piercing the bowsprit at Agmar's feet. Again the Fik sent an arrow, then another and another, until the quiver was empty. All flew true, but at the last moment the wind cast all aside, some in the forecastle deck, some in the bowsprit, some in the foremast.

He threw the bow aside and picked up an axe and shield. As he bent over his head fell from his shoulders. Morvyn was standing over him, having recovered his senses and his cutlasses. He threw himself against the poorly formed shield wall of the Fiks. The Kemetese sent a final prayer to his gods and followed the captain. The Pectish warrior writhed on the deck, mad beyond recovery, and many Fiks and Selts and freed slaves around him were the same. Dyfed once again whirled and struck all about him, and soon all the mad Fiks were dead and all the living Fiks were back behind their shield wall, pressed against the forecastle and the starboard gunwale.

More freed slaves, afraid of the dangerous listing of the galley to larboard, climbed to the Narwhale despite their fear of wind and warriors. Most of them hung back from the fighting and looked with terror to the living skies.

As the shield wall reformed to starboard, a Fik longship ground against the side of the galley to starboard of the Narwhale, shattering oars in its rush to join, or from the difficulty of navigating the unnaturally turbulent seas. Many Fiks on it poured over the galley and climbed up the grappling ropes, over the gunwales, swelling the ranks of the shield wall. The wind whipped the hair of the Fik scald, and at his screaming direction other Fiks climbed the starboard ladder to the Narwhale's forecastle. The Selts were recovering as the Fiks had, and pushed against the shield wall despite the growing strength of Fik numbers to starboard. Their ferocity held the line for a moment, then the greater Fik numbers told, and the shield wall pressed forward, letting yet more Fiks climb the gunwales and higher to the forecastle.

Corin yelled over the rising song of the wind, "They're trying to reach Agmar."

Morvyn roared back over his shoulder, "I know, lad. Just let me slaughter this little rat." He parried an axe blow and thrust over the shield wall, catching the scald in the throat as he exhorted his countrymen to greater efforts. Then he leapt back, grabbed several Selts who were still wandering dazed, and shoved them towards the shield wall with their weapons. Faced by the glaring faces of the Fiks, most of these men became alert, regaining their battle fervour. One, too puzzled, stumbled and fell and his helmet and head were split by a great battle axe.

Dyfed now stood amidst a sea of bodies, some Fik, some Selt. Blood washed over the deck, and seeped through cracks and knotholes. He looked about him, disturbed by the music of the wind and dazed by the desolation of corpses and blood. Here a severed head, there a severed arm or leg, a Fik with several arrows in his back, another with an arrow though his eye. As if for the first time in his life he saw the horror of war and felt his bloodlust fade at the centre of the storm.

Morvyn urged on the Selts. Another Selt fell. Another Fik fell.

The sky crushed down. The wind pulsed with lightning. It sang about the fleet. The Narwhale rocked to its rhythms, its wood creaking part of its harmonies. The waves lashed all the ships of both fleets. With every pulse the waves lifted the Narwhale or dropped it, making it hard for the men to keep their feet. But they struggled on, certain in the face of terrifying elemental power that only the victors of this battle would survive the fury of the storm, that they and their fight were a part of it, as waves were a part of the sea.

The few Selts on the forecastle with any sanity left struggled against the climbing Fiks, forming a small crescent to block off the ladder up, shoving back with swords and shields. One Fik, unbalanced by the violent movements of the ship, knocked by the pushing Selts, fell onto the heads of the Fiks gathered below.

Corin saw the Selts above would soon be overwhelmed. One Fik up there allowed himself to be pushed back to the gunwale, climbed onto it, skilfully parrying several blows, and nimbly ran past the crescent of defending Selts. Corin darted up the larboard ladder, ran across the forecastle deck, leapt up to the gunwale and intercepted the Fik. The Fik was much larger than him and fatally underestimated the young thief's speed, contemptuously raising his blade to strike down. Corin slipped in under the blow and caught him in the gullet, Blood-spate sliding out as the body fell into the sea.

Corin jumped down to the deck and went to the aid of the small crescent of Selts blocking the starboard ladder. Morvyn, satisfied with killing the scald and organising his men into a fighting front to oppose the shield wall, shot across the deck and up the larboard ladder, calling to Dyfed to help above. Dyfed saw the shield wall through glazed eyes. He blinked, looked down at the bloody deck. Even he had had enough of blood. He looked up and saw Morvyn signalling him from the forecastle railing, and followed. Morvyn added his cutlasses to the crescent of steel blocking the Fik advance on the forecastle.

The wind and the waves and the clouds now harmonised like the sound of the harp and the song of the bard. The waves lifted and dropped the Fik boats, but with greater violence than they did the Seltic fleet. All across the sea the Fik boats were being thrown about by wind and wave. Rain sheeted down from the clouds with lightning. The wind swirled the rain about in small tornadoes, that joined together into greater and greater tornadoes and tore at the surface of the waves. At the edges of the tornadoes gales blew, tearing at the masts of the Fik ships, glancing against the hulls of the Seltic fleet.

Another Fik climbed to the gunwale and ran towards Agmar, then another. A Fik warrior wielding two hatchet like axes, pushed through the edge of the Seltic crescent, and attacked Corin with a flurry of blows. Unlike the last he didn't underestimate the small thief. He drove him back along the deck, the thief parrying desperately. Dyfed, reaching the deck, saw the Fiks advancing on Agmar along the gunwale and darted across the deck. The first of the two Fiks jumped down to block his path. Wearied with all the killing, attacked by a Fik fresh to the battle, he was driven back towards where Corin was desperately defending. Morvyn, seeing the next Fik on the gunwale almost reaching Agmar, ran in that direction, dodging a blow from the Fik facing Corin as he passed, reached for a dagger in his baldric, found a marlinspike, and threw it. It struck the Fik in the back of his head, causing him to spin around. The Fik facing Corin, realised the fatal mistake he had made in his opportune strike against the running Morvyn, finding Corin's blade lodged in his gut. He drew himself off the blade, stared down in wonder as he clutched the wound, blood pouring over his hand and down to the deck. Then Corin thrust through his neck and the light went out of his eyes. Morvyn roared as he charged the Fik on the forward gunwale, who had spun around to face him.

The sound of Agmar's song, or rather of the primal harmony of which his voice had become merely a part and his body, like the harp, a conduit, rose with every passing moment. It was a howling gale around the ships, and yet the Seltic ships didn't founder. Men standing on all decks across the fleet were knocked off their feet. Only the most nimble could stand. On the Narwhale Corin and Morvyn still stood as did the Fik on the gunwale leading to the bowsprit. Agmar seemed completely unaffected, rooted to the bowsprit like a second figurehead to match the one below.

The catapults rolled about to the extent of their tethers.

On the main deck the freed Kemetese slave kept his feet, and took advantage of the collapse of the Fik shield wall to wreak a terrible vengeance for his lost years of freedom. Beneath the opposite gunwale the other slaves timidly lay were they fell. One cried for his mother, another called to his gods but neither man received succour. A ballista rolled to the extent of its tether, strained and, as the ship lurched again, rolled back, crushing both men.

On the forecastle deck, Dyfed and the Fik he fought fell, and the Selt didn't even have the willpower to try and lift himself. He looked up to the bowsprit, beyond where Morvyn fought the Fik to block his path to Agmar's undefended back. He looked up to Agmar, the tall bard's long auburn hair streaming behind him like a triumphant battle banner raised high on a long pole.

On the forecastle deck behind Dyfed some Fiks were being lifted by the gale to the height of the foremast, and dropped, their bones shattering where they fell. Others were dropped over the side of the Narwhale among the wreckage of their own boats, where the tornadoes lashed the waves about them, strangling them in wet arms that formed and faded and formed again to push them beneath the surface.

On the deck below the same violent winds were crippling and killing.

The Fik who had been fighting Dyfed regained his balance and crawled towards him, striking out with a dagger. Dyfed parried his blows, blocking forearm against forearm, too exhausted or demoralised by the horror of blood he felt to lift his sword. The Fik facing Morvyn gripped a rope to fight the wind that would have lifted him away. Morvyn roared again, the sound of the bear who could be heard over a gale at sea, now lost in a greater gale, and with a final huge blow his sword cut through the haft of the Fik's battle axe and cleaved his body from crown to groin.

One of the forecastle mangonels broke its tether and rolled along the deck, striking Dyfed in the back, throwing him forward. Then he was staring down in astonishment at the dagger in his side. The gale lifted his adversary, but the Fik wouldn't let go the dagger, and the power of the gale drove the blade deeper. Dyfed thought, "Too much blood," one more time, then died, as the Fik was smashed into the foremast, his spine shattered with his skull, then his corpse fell to the gunwale, pivoted, and somersaulted over the edge into the broiling waves.

The tornadoes crushed the last of the dragon galleys and longships. Agmar's song and the harp's notes faded, and with them the tornadoes faded into the air. The clouds parted above. The monstrous waves subsided. The sun shone on a clear, calm sea.

Agmar remained frozen for a few moments, then he sighed. He looked out across the fleet. All the ships that had grappled with the Seltic fleet were shattered. Their crews' bodies too. Here and there some Fiks had survived in the water, but what mercy they would get from the archers above could be predicted. Those Fik galleys and longships that hadn't grappled were fleeing to the north, sails down, oars beating quickly.

He looked behind. A handful of Fik sloops had broken through to the channels beyond, evading the Seltic sloops that might have chased them but that had been too busy with aiding the anchored battle-cogs. He could see some of the Fiks leaning over the sides of their sloops, making obscene gestures. The port would welcome their supplies, though the amount to get through was unlikely to amount to much, especially after the fire damage to the port warehouses.

Then he spotted Dyfed. He jumped down to the deck and went over to him, hoping that his eyes deceived him. But his old friend was dead. On his face was an uncharacteristic expression, no snarl of bloodlust, no cringing fear. Just peace. Agmar closed his eyes.

"I'll compose a song to your mad bravery, old friend. One day, if I live long enough."

# 18: THE RISING TIDE

The siege had failed. Everywhere along the walls lay the burnt wreckage of siege machines and ladders. Around them lay the bodies of defenders and attackers. While the defenders had been overwhelmed when the sudden storm had whipped the battlements, shortly after they had been reinforced with men on the ships that had evaded the blockade. The attackers had been driven back. And the city was resupplied.

Agmar and Corin had returned to the mainland. There, in the camp, the bard told the sad story of Dyfed's death, and was told by Khendal of the deaths of Eoghann, Culain and Gildas. Of the six friends of his youth who had fought in Wulfstan's army only two remained. Gildas told him a messenger had arrived only in the last hour from Augustyn to recall Wulfstan to the capital. Agmar sent Corin to tell Wulfstan of the outcome on the seas.

All around them were wounded men, and trenches filled with shit. The bloody flux hadn't abated, and some of the men who had survived the assault were sure to die from disease.

The smell of shit and the sound of dying men didn't affect Kendhal's appetite. He looked hungrily at a string of whole chickens on a spit over the fire, hanging his head near. The smell of the roasting flesh made his mouth water. Every so often he would baste it with the condiment in a jar Corin had stolen from Wulfstan's cook some time back, dipping a battered bronze spoon into the jar and smearing great dollops on the skin, barking orders at the wan looking page he had demoted to turnspit.

Drem commented, "Only three more to go and the old gang will be together again."

Agmar said, "Culain...I never knew another man who could fight, talk and drink at the same time."

"He was a wonder of the world. He proved he could do better today. He could drink and shit and talk and die within the space of a single breath. A wonder of the world."

"There was this time in Sard, I recall, when he balanced a mug of ale on his head while he parried both a Navrelese mercenary's sword and the wit of a beauty of Kum."

"He made many effective thrusts that night, as far as he told it the next morning. Of course he might have made up the memories his brain couldn't supply. She told me by the time he got her upstairs he could hardly lift his sword. Ale is better for the wit before than the dick after."

"And what army could stand against Dyfed's whirling blades?"

"None, I'd wager. But a suicide squad might have got the better of him, by taking the lives they wanted."

"And Gildas. I'll miss his ever ready philosophy."

"He always had something to say, and his arguments always convinced one who listened to them."

Despite his irony, Agmar knew that Drem would miss their friends too. Perhaps that irony was just another kind of armour, something to keep the horror at bay while the world went up in flames about you.

Corin darted out of the command pavilion as a sound of crashing wood came from within. One of the guards tried to grab him, but the young thief was too quick. As he came back to the Seltic campfire he said, "He didn't take the news too well."

Drem said, "Best leave him time for peaceful reflection. Sounds like it'll be some time yet."

Kendhal slid a whole chicken off the end of the spit and tore a piece off the well done breast with his teeth, chewing heartily, sticking his condiment covered fingers in his mouth and sucking the sweet, oily sauce off, smacking his lips, and tearing off another piece of the breast.

"So it's the cowardly Selts that have brought us to this," Wulfstan roared as he hobbled out of his tent, his eyes bulging, face red with anger, nearly falling on his face as one of his crutches caught in the dirt.

Agmar was reminiscing about Culain and the others to Kendhal and looked up, his blue eyes narrowing, the motes seeming to glint with threat in the dying sunlight. Wulfstan hobbled over as quickly as his crutches allowed and glared up into Agmar's face. Aedgar came behind, stoic resignation on his face. Kalogh scampered behind both, bowing at their backs, as if even the most useless toadying was necessary to his existence, licking his overlarge lips, his long black hair perfectly combed and probably perfumed, not a drop of blood on his armour.

Wulfstan ground his teeth, glaring, his mouth working but the anger twisting his vocal organs so that he couldn't speak. Then it burst out, "Cowards!"

Agmar, having lost four friends, and not knowing how many more Selts had lost their minds or their lives on the ships, restrained the urge to strangle the petulant lord. But he did glance at where his great two handed sword lay, propped against a log, and calculated how many of Wulfstan's men he could kill before they got him if he gutted their lord. He saw the archers lazing nearby. That would change the odds. If they bothered to act. They were commoners, not vassal knights. He had friends around him, Kendhal, as good as a dozen men when his stomach was full, and half a dozen when it wasn't. Drem, cynical and humorous in speech, brutally efficient in the arts of death. And Corin. The boy might claim he would avoid any fight, but when it was necessary, there was none so quick to action. No, he didn't doubt the steel of any of them. If he fought, they would follow. Agmar's own death might be a price worth paying to strike down this arrogant Ropeuan lord. But his friends were another matter. And Aedgar was a good man and a better soldier, and would serve his lord well, and still wore his full armour. Agmar restrained his arm, but didn't bite his tongue. "Four friends of mine have died for your ambition. Hundreds more Selts will never again unfurl sails at sea."

"Edmer is dead," Aedgar said sadly, "the loss is hard for all of us." He placed a hand on Wulfstan's shoulder. Wulfstan stared at it, as though it was a large spider. Aedgar gripped tightly.

Wulfstan looked back at him. Then his eyes fell on Kalogh. None of the Selts would lift a finger to defend that one. He span around on his good leg, hobbled over to the sycophant, and slapped him across the head so hard he fell.

He turned to look at the city, and the wreckage of his army. Bodies were scattered across the field all the way from catapult range from the turrets to the foot of the wall. He looked to the gate. The battering ram had fallen into the dry moat, and the engineers had been unable to haul it out. Beyond it, all along the road, in a line meandering up towards the edge of the camp, lay the remnants of the cast out town's people. Wulfstan yelled at the soldiers around him, "Why are they still alive?" pointing a finger at the barely living skeletons along the road.

A knight, his squire still stripping the armour from him, jumped to his feet, shoved aside his squire, and hollered at a group of men-at-arms. Soon he had formed up a small well-ordered company.

Agmar picked up his two handed sword and stood in their path.

Kendhal, grumbled, "I haven't eaten properly yet," and shoved his whole chicken back on the spit, "don't burn baby. Daddy still loves you." He wiped his greasy hands against his breeches; then picked up a huge war-hammer in one hand and a halberd in the other, gripping it half way down the shaft, throwing both over his shoulders.

Drem snorted sardonically, "Are we to save a lot of corpses from death?" and rolled his eyes to the heavens as if seeking divine explanation, "a great heroic act for the ages to be sung about down the centuries." But he also drew his sword.

Corin thought, "Too much honest work for one lifetime," then sauntered up to the knight, grinning a friendly grin, but calculating he could stab him in his unarmoured side and dart back behind Agmar before the others reacted, as long as those archers by the fire were as lazy as they looked.

But already another company of men-at-arms by the road had heard Wulfstan's raging. They marched down from the camp and began slaughtering. Everywhere the refugees looked up with despairing eyes, too weak to raise a hand against their attackers, or perhaps relieved at the release from their seemingly endless suffering.

Agmar heard no screams from the victims, only the grunts and laughter and joking of the men. He saw several horses of the knight tethered nearby, the destrier not unsaddled yet. Running past the knight he leapt into the saddle of the destrier. At first the great warhorse tried to throw him, being trained to carry none but its master, but the bard gripped its mane tightly, whispered something in its ear, and it settled, pawing the earth. Then he was galloping out of the encampment. Corin noted in his peripheral vision the palfrey of a messenger, recently arrived, its flanks being rubbed by a groom. He slapped his hand against the side of the knight where he would have stabbed him then, before the knight could react, had run for the horse, leaping from behind, vaulting into the saddle. The knight never knew how close he had come to dying. The other two Selts also seized what mounts they could and the three followed Agmar down the road, Kendhal's horse, too small for the man, looking like it would collapse with every trembling step.

When they reached him, Agmar was striking about him with his two handed sword. Mostly he struck with the flat of the blade, but still the soldiers shrank in terror. The warhorse, trained for the battlefield, kicked, and bit any exposed flesh. The other three joined his attack. Kendhal slapped the flat of the axe blade in faces and shoved the hammer in chests. Drem asked a soldier if he would prefer a slap or a cut. The man looked puzzled, then snarled, "treacherous Selts!" He glared at Corin, who said, "I'm not a Selt, and I've never been true to any man, if I could help it," and drew Blood-spate. Runes faintly flamed into life along the blade and the soldier gasped and backed away, impaling himself on Drem's blade. "Oops, you really should watch where you're going," Drem said in ironic apology, as the man fell to the ground, clutching his back and screaming. Others, seeing the thief's sorcerous blade also backed away.

Behind them, in the camp, Wulfstan was roaring at the knight's company. "Kill them!"

The messenger whose horse had been stolen tried to explain to Wulfstan, "You can't kill Agmar. He serves Augustyn."

Wulfstan turned on him, furiously spitting words and foam, "I can't! I can't! You dare to command me, Wulfstan, duke of Glede! My forefathers were dukes and kings. And you dare to command me?" The messenger backed away. Wulfstan turned back to the knight and snarled, "What are you waiting for? Bring me back the head of that servant of the duke." The knight's squire saddled his second warhorse.

"Barding, sire?" the squire asked.

Wulfstan smiled harshly at the messenger. "Soon I'll have a gift for Augustyn. A Seltic head pickled in Seltic blood."

The knight said to his squire, "No, no time."

"Bring me a cart," Wulfstan roared. A small cart was quickly yoked to an ox and Wulfstan clambered into it, throwing his crutches down beside him.

The knight led his company down the road.

The ox-driver goaded the ox forward. Wulfstan winced as the bouncing cart sent shockwaves through his still un-mended thighbone. Aedgar mounted a palfrey and followed, signalling to the lazy company of archers to follow. Wulfstan gritted his teeth against the pain, determined to feel only pleasure in the sight of Agmar dying.

Down the road the soldiers who had been slaughtering the refugees had fled across the fields. The company under the knight, now within striking distance of the small band of Selts and Thedran thief, unsure what to do, had halted. The knight had continued on ahead of his company, but turning saw them not advancing. He angrily commanded them to attack, but they stared at him, whether uncomprehending, unsure, exhausted by the day's siege, or merely insubordinate was impossible to tell. Angrily he rode back to them, raised his sword high, yelling, "forward," spun his horse round and rode forward, sword extended. The soldiers who had fled across the fields, seeing the reinforcements, began coming back, hoping for revenge.

Wulfstan's cart rattled down the road. He leaned against the raised side, resting on his good leg, wincing with every harsher jolt, yelling at the ox-driver to go faster. He wanted to see the bard die.

Aedgar yelled at the archers to form a line and ready their bows. Thirty longbow-men nocked their arrows to their bowstrings.

The knight, charging, had nearly reached the band of four misfits. Agmar span the warhorse around and spurred it against its own master, lowering and extending his two handed sword like a short lance, flattening himself against the mount's neck. The two men, knight and bard, charged at each other. Corin rode behind. Agmar thrust as they passed. The knight couldn't strike but skilfully slid over the opposite side of his saddle and the blade went over his shoulder. Then the knight had quickly turned his mount around and rode at Agmar's lightly armoured back. He felt an impact behind him. Corin had sheathed Blood-spate, climbed to stand on his saddle, and with preternatural agility leapt to land behind the knight, on his horse's rump. The knight reined in his horse and turned it quickly this way and that, trying to throw off the thief but Corin had firmly seated himself behind the saddle and only laughed. Then the thief drew a thin sharp dagger from his boot.

Wulfstan's cart had reached the paralysed company of soldiers and he roared at them, "Attack! Kill them, or by the gods I'll have the heads of every last one of you."

Agmar span his mount around. Corin gripped his dagger. The knight turned as well as he could in the saddle, specially designed to prevent him being knocked out in a charge but allowing little rotation. Aedgar reined in his horse beside Wulfstan's cart and raised his hand to signal the archers, drawn up now in a disciplined line just behind. Agmar prepared to charge again. The archers drew back their strings to their cheeks.

"I wouldn't do that." The voice came from the south, across the field beyond the road, towards the river. Wulfstan turned to see Morvyn striding across the field from the river side. Corin saw also, and decided not to drive the dagger home. He shoved it back in his boot, slapped the knight's exposed side again, and nimbly leapt to the ground, saying, "twice lucky," with a cheeky grin.

Morvyn shouted across the distance, and his voice, accustomed to the sea, was loud and clear, "If you kill my friends I'll take my ships back to Seltica. Let's see how long your siege takes without a sea blockade."

Wulfstan fumed, but at a signal from Aedgar the archers un-nocked their arrows and the half-armoured knight's company dispersed. Agmar rode back to his friends, and Corin remounted his stolen horse and followed. The knight, unlike the men under his command, didn't return to camp. He glared at Agmar, and cast a questioning look at Aedgar.

"He'll return your horse to you shortly. Won't you, Agmar?"

As Wulfstan's cart was swung around and rattled its way back to the camp, Morvyn looked down the road at the miserable refugees, and said to Agmar, "Perhaps it would have been kinder to them to let him kill them."

Agmar nodded sadly. He looked at the carnage around him. One child had been hacked in half, still clinging to his decaying mother. A woman had had all four limbs cut off. Mercifully she had quickly bled to death, though the pool of blood looked meagre for even so small a body. On the other side of the road was a pile of corpses under a tree. He didn't know if they had all been piled there by the soldiers. Perhaps many had crawled there to die long ago. Against the pile leaned a man, more skeleton really, the bones wrapped in a loosely fitting, unhealthy skin, blotched and scabrous. He had one arm and one leg, though those wounds were many years old, the stumps long since healed. Clinging to him were a little boy and two little girls. Flies buzzed about all their mouths. The mouth of the man moved, whether to dislodge the flies, or eat them, or to speak the unspeakable horror that he finally knew. One of the girls stirred a finger slightly and the chest of another rose, barely perceptibly. Her eyes stared through Agmar, he didn't know to where. They were huge, and all the darkness of this world and all the worlds beyond seemed to fill them. What did the gods know of pain? Agmar thought, then he saw again the vision shown him by the Harp of the Wind in the catacombs beneath Gleda. Gods dying. Gods sacrificed by their own priests. Blood flowing down the steps of an infinite pyramid. An endless river of blood, flowing into an unfathomable void. He shivered, though the air was balmy. A voice came to him from the distance and he struggled to cross it. "All that's left." It was muffled, but familiar.

"What?" he said, turning to Morvyn.

"Is this all that's left of the Seltic company?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, that'll make the camp a dreary place. Let's get out of here. The decks of the Narwhale are washed and swabbed of blood, the ale in my hold is good, the rum even better. Let's drink to those we've lost. Drown the memory on the seas."

Agmar tried to collect his thoughts. The vision had faded. He didn't dare look into those dying eyes again. He shook his head. It made no difference. Though the vision was gone he felt its substance pulsing in his veins. He had mastered the harp for a brief while, using it to summon the winds and win the battle at sea, but he knew that there was no mastering the chaos of which the harp's power was only a part. A relentless, cosmic, rising tide of darkness. He said to Morvyn, "A messenger has summoned Wulfstan to the capital. I have to go."

"Stay here. We could do with some of your blarney to pass the days. A blockade is a tedious business."

"I fear more is afoot than Wulfstan lets on. And then there's this." He patted the harp, safely wrapped up at his side. "I don't know exactly what its significance is, but I need to see some friends in the capital. Warn them."

"Of what?"

Though he was sure of little else, he knew there was, "A coming storm."

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Frances Mason lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and is also author of the following, all available at Smashwords and selected distribution partners:

**Bloodspate** (prequel to Altar of Fallen Gods),

**Rosemary for Remembrance** (a retelling of Hamlet from the point of view of Ophelia), and

**The Madhouse** (a comic, absurdist avant-garde play).

The author appreciates all sincere reviews.
