He smashed into a man, feeling his teeth rattle with the force of the collision, and slammed the man over the wall with not even enough time to scream. Maquin set his feet and swung his sword two-handed, chopping into a man’s ribs, then bringing his blade up and down onto the man’s head as he crumpled. He stepped over the corpse, chopping, stabbing. His blade was parried, sending shivers along his arm, his wrist numbing. A hand grabbed him, dragging him forwards, and he stumbled over a fallen warrior and dropped to one knee. A man appeared before him, sword raised, Maquin’s death in his eyes. With a snarl, Maquin drew a knife from his belt, launched himself forwards, punching the knife beneath the line of his enemy’s cuirass, sinking to the hilt. He gave a wrench, saw fear fill the man’s face, the strength draining from him. Then he was shoving the dying man away and cutting at the man behind with sword and dagger.
He heard a battle-cry behind him, two voices shouting, ‘Gadrai,’ and he grinned, knowing his sword-brothers were with him. The battle-joy took him then, which he’d heard others call a madness but to him it was a fierce, pure ecstasy, new strength flooding his limbs, his lips drawn back in a half-grin, half-snarl. Soon the tide had turned, Jael’s men dying or fleeing before the three of them: Maquin, Orgull and Tahir.
As Jael’s men were killed or cast back over the wall, horn blasts called out from the streets beyond the fortress. The attack ended. Men withdrew quickly. All along the battlements the survivors sagged with exhaustion. Maquin gripped Tahir’s shoulder and smiled at him, too weary to speak.
There was a lull in the battle, all on the wall taking the opportunity to drink, eat something, some even leaning against the wall and sleeping. The sun sank into the rim of the world, night creeping up behind. Just before full dark Orgull stared out over the wall, frowning.
Men were running from the side streets, some carrying timber beams between them, others with arms full of straw and thatch. They ran to the gates and the sections of the wall that had long been repaired with wood instead of stone. Soon there were high piles spread along the wall’s base.
‘Don’t like the look of that,’ Tahir muttered to Maquin when he saw great jars of oil being carried to the piles of timber and thatch. Warriors on the wall began throwing spears and rocks, and screams told that some found their mark, but almost immediately sparks were being struck and flames were curling up.
‘They’re going to bum their way in,’ Maquin said.
He watched as Gerda and her captains organized the fetching of water from wells within Dun Kellen’s wall, but by the time the first buckets of water had arrived the fires were burning bright, the thrown water hissing into steam. They managed to put one fire out, but a dozen others raged against different sections of the wall, the wood used to repair it charring and crackling, smoke billowing over the ramparts.
The boy that had given them water earlier in the day hurried along the wall, scurrying over when he saw Maquin and his companions.
‘The lady wants to see you,’ he said to Orgull, who nodded and followed the lad into a cloud of smoke. Soon he returned.
‘Gerda’s calling a retreat to the keep,’ he said, but quietly. ‘She’s leaving a handful of warriors up here to watch the back of those leaving, and to give Jael the impression we mean to fight on.’
‘A suicide watch, you mean,’ Tahir said.
‘No. Her orders were that whoever remains must leave as soon as the first ladders hit the wall.’
‘They’d better be quick about it – those walls won’t be standing all night,’ Maquin said, and as if to prove his point timbers nearby creaked, part of the palisaded walkway collapsing with a crash.
‘I suppose you volunteered us for the rearguard,’ Maquin said.
Orgull grinned.
‘Best show our faces, then. Give Jael and his lads something to be scared of,’ Maquin said, walking into view on the wall.
‘Just make sure we keep our feet on stone,’ Tahir added, stepping close to Maquin.
The retreat of Dun Kellen’s warriors to the keep did not take long. Soon Maquin, Orgull and Tahir stood with a handful of others left to guard the wall.
It was not long after that the first wooden section of wall collapsed, flames and smoke roaring up in its aftermath. Jael’s warriors rushed forwards, but the fire flared in their faces, burning fiercer as it was fed by the timber. In their eagerness, Jael’s men lifted ladders to the stone walls, done with waiting.
‘Best be out of here,’ Tahir said, looking over his shoulder at the dark shadow of the keep behind them. Orgull barked an order at the other warriors ranged about them, only a dozen or so, and they began filing down a wide stairwell.
Maquin put a spear to the ladder that appeared nearby, pushed with all his strength, but the weight of the warriors climbing it held it pinned to the wall. Orgull saw and added his axe, bracing the head against the ladder and leaning into it. Nothing happened, then an iron-capped head appeared on the ladder.
‘Come on,’ Tahir yelled.
Maquin and Orgull gave a last effort and the ladder swayed away from the wall, teetering for a moment before it hurtled backwards into the darkness. Maquin smiled at the screams that drifted up to them. Then the three of them were running, leaping down the stairwell and sprinting for the keep. A warrior stood guard, keeping the doors open. They slammed shut behind them and were barred with iron and oak.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CAMLIN