“I’ve forty summers, Centurion,” Isana retorted. “And it must be done. My brother is bringing our earthcrafters right now.”
The Centurion faced her more squarely, his face and throat flushing a deep red. “Holdfolk crafters,” he said. “This isn’t a barn raising. These are siege walls.”
“I don’t see how that matters.”
The man snorted in an explosion of breath. “These walls are made of layers of interlocking strata, girl. They’re hard, flexible, heavy, and can stand up to any kind of pounding you care to dish out. But you can’t just make them higher once they’re in place, like some pasture fence. If you go toying with the wall, you’ll disrupt the foundation, and the whole thing will collapse. We won’t have a wall at all, much less a taller one.”
“As I understand it,” Isana said. “You might as well not have the wall as it stands in any case.”
The man blinked at her for a moment, then scowled and bowed his head, snorting from beneath his mustache.
“I understand that it might be difficult, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it? If it works, we might be able to hold out against them. If it doesn’t . . .” Isana shivered. “If it doesn’t, then I’d just as soon it didn’t take too long in any case.”
“No,” the engineer said, finally. “If there was a chance, it might be worth the risk. But these aren’t engineers. They’re holders. They don’t have the kind of strength it takes.”
“You’ve never had to live in this valley, have you?” Isana said, her voice wry. “Not everyone with a strong fury wants to be a Knight. There are boys barely more than children in my steadholt who can tear boulders larger than a man out of the ground. And as I see it, we have nothing to lose.”
The engineer eyed her. “Impossible,” he said, then. “It can’t be done. If I had a full corps of Legion engineers, it would still take me half a day to get that wall higher.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not a corps of Legion engineers,” Isana said. “Will you try?”
A new voice cut into the conversation. “He’ll try.”
Isana looked up to see the Cursor standing not far away, wearing her brother’s too-large clothes and a borrowed tunic of mail. She wore a sword at her hip, and her left arm had been splinted. Amara looked tired and sported a bruise on throat, abrasions on her chin, but she regarded the engineer calmly. “Coordinate with the Steadholders. Make the attempt.”
The engineer swallowed and then inclined his head to her in a bow. “As you wish, Countess.” The man turned and hurried away.
Amara turned to face Isana, the slim girl’s expression quiet, calm. Then she glanced past Isana, to where the water witch still stood, wrapped in her blanket, her expression distant, and hissed a quiet curse. She reached for her sword.
“Wait,” Isana said, stepping close and putting a hand over Amara’s. “Don’t.”
“But she’s —”
“I know who she is,” Isana said. “She isn’t going to hurt anyone now. She saved my life—and a slaver put a discipline collar on her.”
“You can’t trust her,” Amara insisted. “She should be locked up.”
“But—”
“She’s a Knight herself. A mercenary. A murderer.” The Cursor’s voice snapped with anger. “By all rights I should kill her right now.”
“I will not allow that,” Isana said, lifting her chin.
Amara faced her quietly. “I’m not sure it’s your decision to make, holder.”
Just then, a tall, dark-skinned man with the look of a Parcian, his armor magnificent but stained with smoke and blood, stepped over to them. “Countess,” he said, calmly. “The horde is nearly here. I’d like you to stand with me. See if you can spot their hordemaster.”
Amara glared at Isana and turned to the Parcian. “Do you think killing him will do us any good now, Pirellus?”
He smiled, a sudden flash of white teeth. “As I see it, it can hardly hurt. And in any case, I’d rather make sure that whatever animal is responsible for this,” he gestured around vaguely, “doesn’t go back home to brag about it.”
Isana withdrew a pair of steps, then calmly turned and led Odiana away from the pair. “Come on,” she murmured to the collared woman, though she knew that Odiana could not hear her. “They’re terrified and angry. They wouldn’t treat you fairly. Let’s find someplace for you to be out of sight until we can get through this.”
She hurried through the courtyard to one of the large warehouse buildings at the far side. Even as she opened the door and hurried in, a group of holders, bundled up in their homemade winter cloaks but wearing Legion steel, went tramping by in neat files, heading for the gates. Another file, led by Bernard and the engineer, speaking in hushed, intent tones, went past right behind them.
Isana opened the door and led Odiana into the warehouse. The interior was dark, and she could hear the scrabble of rats somewhere inside. A rangy grey tomcat rushed past her legs and into the darkness, intent on a meal. Crates and heavy sacks stood in neat, ordered rows, their contents clearly labeled. It was too dim to see clearly, so Isana looked about until she found a furylamp and willed it to life, lifting the clear globe in her hand and looking up and down the rows.
“There,” she said, and started to tug the woman forward, continuing to speak in a low, quiet tone, hoping that the deafened watercrafter would at least find some comfort in the intent of the words. “Bags of meal. It will be softer than the floor, and if you cover up, you might be able to get some sleep. You’ll be out of everyone’s way.”
She hadn’t taken a dozen steps when the door to the warehouse slammed behind her.
Isana whirled, holding the furylamp aloft, shadows dancing and spinning wildly in the room.
Kord, dressed in a dirty cloak, dropped the heavy bolt down over the reinforced door of the warehouse. He turned to Isana then, eyes gleaming, and smiled, his teeth as grimy and smudged as the Steadholder’s chain about his neck.
“Now then,” he said, his voice quiet, almost purring. “Where were we?”
CHAPTER 39
Amara nodded to Pirellus. “But will they be able to raise the wall?”
Pirellus shrugged. “Again — it can’t hurt. The wall isn’t going to slow the Marat down as it stands in any case.”
Nearby, Bernard and the engineer had led nearly a hundred men and women, ranging in age from those below Legion age to a wizened old grandmother, who doddered along with the help of a cane and the arm of a brawny, serious-looking young man Amara recognized from Bernardholt. “Are you sure it isn’t a terrible risk? We held it before,” Amara pointed out.
“Against Marat who had never seen a battle,” Pirellus said. “Halftrained, green troops. And we were nearly destroyed as it was. Don’t fool yourself. We got lucky. There are five times as many of them out there now. They’re experienced, and they won’t be operating in separate tribes.” His fingers drummed on the hilt of his dark blade. “And remember, those Knights are still out there.”