Rhin stopped in the courtyard, her men fanning out before her. The keep doors were shut, but when warriors pushed on them they swung open freely. A score of Rhin’s men entered, more, then like a wave. Then there was a concussive bang, air blasting from the open doors, followed by an explosion of heat and flames. A handful of men staggered out, human torches, the stench of seared flesh filling the courtyard. Veradis felt his stomach lurch.
‘No one’s going in that way for a while,’ Bos said beside him.
Geraint appeared with more men in his wake. He sent scouts around the keep, searching out other entrances. They soon returned with more reports of ambushes and traps, barricaded corridors, more fires. Conall forged ahead anyway, leading a few score warriors into one of the entrances. Veradis settled his men in the courtyard. While he was proud to be involved in any battle, to represent Nathair and honour the alliance, he was not about to lead his men into a potential fiery death. So he waited.
The fires in the keep’s feast-hall guttered out a little before sunset. Other reports came back that pitched fighting was occurring as Geraint’s men moved deeper into the building.
‘Time to go in,’ Veradis said and marched into the keep, shield held high, his short sword drawn, his men following suit.
In the feast-hall timbers still smoked, amongst them the blackened remains of Rhin’s warriors. Veradis found an arched doorway and led his men out of the hall into a wide, high corridor. Archways branched off it, entrances to other corridors, the sounds of battle drifting out to them. Veradis kept going. Every closed doorway was tried, opened, rooms searched. Nothing. As they progressed deeper into the keep a thought hit him.
This corridor isn’t barricaded or defended because of the fire in the feast-hall. That was barrier enough. But whoever set it must have known it would burn out, eventually. Then he understood.
These are not the efforts of a last defence; they’re delaying tactics.
They came to the end of the corridor, a broad stairway before them leading up and down, one last wooden door beside it.
‘Check inside, Bos. Then we’ll split the men – half up, half down, though I’m starting to think there’s no one here to find. I think old King Eremon has flown this coop.’
Bos turned the iron ring, pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a brief pause, then a wet thunk, a grunt and Veradis saw Bos drop to the floor.
No.
Time slowed. He saw a blade stab down into Bos’ back, between shoulder blade and neck, saw Bos’ leg twitching. Veradis heard himself shouting, felt himself slamming into the door, hurling it open as he leaped over Bos’ prostrate form and knocked Bos’ attacker stumbling back into the room. A pool of blood was growing around his friend’s head and shoulders.
Veradis lifted his shield high, felt an impact and swerved away from the door, instinctively making room for his men, knowing they would be following close behind him.
A warrior swung at his head with a sword. Veradis took the blow on his shield, flung the blade wide, slashed once across the man’s gut, his sword turning on chainmail, then stabbed high, catching the man in the throat, sending him tumbling backwards in a spray of blood.
It was a large chamber, with only a few men standing at its far end – ten, maybe twelve. One was an old man, his shoulder bandaged, holding a longsword in one hand, a knife in the other. He limped as he stepped forwards. Between him and Veradis the room was littered with furniture – tables, overturned chairs, huge chests.
‘No room for your wall of shields in here,’ the old warrior said. ‘Let’s see if you can fight like real warriors.’
‘Brave words, for so few of you,’ Veradis said.
‘I am Rath, and these are the Degad, my giant-killers. We’ve fought a lot worse than you.’
Over a score of his eagle-guard were already in the room. Soon they would be as squashed as the warriors that ended piled against his shield wall. He yelled an order, making them wait, his eyes drawn to the still form of Bos lying on the ground.
‘We’ve slain giants of our own,’ Veradis said and moved forward.
Warriors surged past Rath, howling, swords raised high. They met his eagle-guard with a savage crash.
A great longsword split Veradis’ shield. The blade stuck a handspan from his wrist; he threw the shield and stabbed the swordsman in the belly, shouldering past him as he sank to the floor, switching his short sword to his left hand and drawing his longsword at his hip. He lost himself in each moment, revelling in it, in finding a man to look in the eye, knowing that within heartbeats one of them would be the victor, the other dead. He had not fought like this for so long; there was a beauty in it, somehow, a passion that was missing from the cold ferocity of the shield wall. All about him was a chaos of movement, men yelling and screaming, swords grating and sparking, blood making the floor run slick.
Then there were only a handful of men before him, four of them, backed about a closed door. One of them was the old man, Rath, both knife and sword running red. He was breathing hard, but smiling. He knew his end was close, and had made his peace with it. Veradis looked back, saw the room littered with the dead and dying, the vast majority his eagle-guard.
A voice rang out from the back of the room.