Byren arrived at Narrowneck to find Orrade had already reinforced the palisade, which was built across the narrowest part of the isthmus that stretched out into the lake. The men, who were building a new gate, paused to give a cheer as he rode past, then went back to work.
In the last few days the ice had melted and the lake was no longer frozen. There was only one place where anyone could approach Narrowneck over water, and this small beach was defensible with steep cliffs. Byren grinned, remembering Florin's challenge to him. She claimed she'd tried to climb those cliffs and failed and if she couldn't, no man could. He had vowed to come back next summer and prove her wrong.
Then the smile disappeared, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He should be happy now that Orrade had claimed Florin. It made sense, since his friend was Lord Dovecote, he had to marry and produce an heir. Maybe a mountain girl was not the kind of wife his father would have chosen but in these troubled times, she was just the kind of wife a man needed. Someone who would stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Riding up the winding path, Byren noted where trees had been felled. Soon, every clearing on Narrowneck would be crowded with camp circles. Give him a day or two to send out scouts and find out where the Merofynians were nesting, then he'd lead his men out to clean up the valley. He intended to make Cobalt so furious, his cousin would leave the safety of Rolenhold to engage him on open ground.
'Byren!' Orrade appeared around the bend, heading down the path from Narrowneck tradepost, with Florin at his side.
Byren swung his leg over the mount, jumping to the ground. He should be happy for them. He couldn't speak, his throat was so tight, but he hugged Orrade, slapping him on the back, then tugged on Florin's braid. She brushed his hand away, grumbling without heat.
By Sylion, he should have been a player.
They fell into step with him, one to each side as he led his horse around the back to the stable.
'I've prepared the chambers for your warlords. And I've checked the larder,' Florin said. 'We had to slaughter the hens and drive the cows to a nearby farm when we fled. They've returned the cows and sent more laying hens. I can feed two dozen men for ten days on what's left in the larder. After that…' She shrugged.
'I've rebuilt the palisade and the new gate will be finished soon,' Orrade said. 'Now that everyone's here, I'll finish the ditch across the narrows and plant it with stakes.'
'You've both done a fine job,' Byren said, handing his mount over to Leif. The boy grinned and led the horse off.
Old Man Narrows welcomed Byren at the tap-room door. A fire burned in the grate, fresh bread and cheese were laid on the long table and he could smell a roast cooking in the kitchen. So different from last time he had been here. Then, they'd huddled in the kitchen and planned how to survive the manticore pride. 'Whatever happened to Leif's dogs?'
Even as he said this, the two wolfhounds bounded out of the kitchen to greet him. Byren laughed as they reared up, putting their paws on his chest. Now this was the kind of greeting a man should come home to. How he envied Orrade.
Behind him, the warlords and their captains poured into the tap-room. As Catillum arrived with several of his monks, Byren lost track of Florin. Men took their seats at the long table and Florin reappeared with Leif and her father. They moved about, serving tankards of ale.
When Fyn passed by Byren grabbed his arm.
'Join me.' He indicated the bench beside him. Orrade made room. 'In a day or two, when my scouts come back, I'll be leading raids. I intend to wipe out all Merofynians not living in the castle and the abbey. While I'm away, I'm putting you in charge of Narrowneck.'
'Me?' Fyn almost squeaked. 'What about Orrie — '
'He'll be with me.'
'Or Feid, or Corvel or — '
'They'll be leading attacks. We'll strike in several places at once, strike fast, before the Merofynians realise what's happening and can gather their forces.' Byren grinned at Fyn's expression, then he sobered. 'You're seventeen now. You're my brother and kingsheir. By appointing you captain of Narrowneck, I make it clear to my followers that I trust you. If anything happens to me, you'll be — '
'No.' Fyn would have pulled back, but Orrade didn't let him. 'I don't want — '
'D'you think I want this? How do you think I feel, turning the valley into a battlefield?'
Fyn blinked. 'The valley first, then the abbey, then Rolenhold?'
Byren nodded and laughed as he ruffled Fyn's newly grown hair. 'You'll do, lad.'
Fyn woke, his heart racing. Even as he sat up his dream faded, leaving him with a sense of being lost in the caverns below the abbey, trying to keep the young boys safe from wyverns.
It was almost dawn.
Byren had made him responsible for Narrowneck. Equal parts pride and trepidation filled him. But Byren was right, he was a man now. He'd turned seventeen without noticing, because the sea-hounds hadn't celebrated spring cusp. Time to take on a man's responsibilities.
He stretched out on his bedroll, listening to the snores of Byren's honour guard. Tonight he'd have the chamber to himself, as Byren headed out today. Each of the warlords had an objective. Strike fast, strike before Cobalt could prepare and anticipate.
His stomach churned. He couldn't sleep.
From today, he would be responsible for protecting Byren's bolt hole and the lives of everyone in it. Might as well start now.
He rolled to his feet, grabbed his boots and crept between the sleeping bodies.
Bantam lifted his head.
Fyn signalled for him not to get up. No point in the sea-hounds also going without sleep.
He padded lightly down the stairs and through the tap-room, where more men slept. On the porch he found the man on duty sleeping, huddled in the doorway. Fyn slipped on his boots, and still the man did not wake.
So he kicked him, just hard enough to hurt.
The warrior woke with a start and sprang to his feet, reaching for his knife.
'You're lucky I'm not a Merofynian, planning to slit your throat and assassinate King Byren,' Fyn told him.
He left the chagrined man trying to gather his wits and wandered down to the lookout over the lake where the winch was built to haul loads up from the small beach. Here the three sentries were awake, at least. They were talking softly, their bodies clearly silhouetted against the stars.
Fyn paused, selected a rock and threw it straight into someone's back. The man gave a grunt of surprise and spun around.
Fyn stepped out from the shadows. 'If I had a bow and arrows, all three of you would be dead before you could raise the alarm. Tomorrow night, I want stuffed decoys on guard where you are and the real guards back in the trees, or stretched out on the cliff edge, where they present no silhouette.'
'But the ladder is up and no one could climb the cliff from the beach. That only leaves the winch and we're protecting it,' one of them said.
'You wouldn't be, if you were dead.'
Fyn moved off, thinking some people must walk around half-asleep. Skirting the tradepost, he headed down the winding path towards the Narrows and the palisade.
The scent of incense told him he was downwind of the monks' fire circle. Catillum must have been performing a protective ritual, before venturing out tomorrow. Fyn had no intention of waking Joff and Feldspar, but his old friends weren't there. The monks were missing. Where…
Fyn's steps slowed and then he realised the mystics master must have volunteered his monks to take the dawn watch.
He headed for the palisade. The monks wouldn't be as careless as the other sentries. At least he hoped not.
Four monks manned the single gate, which could be lowered to form a bridge over the ditch. Fyn could see their silhouettes by the starlight but not their features.
'All well?' Fyn asked.
'Yes, kingsheir.'
Fyn moved on. There were two platforms, one each side of the gate. They were built in the tree tops, halfway along the palisade. From these vantage points, lookouts could watch the approach to the Narrows and Fyn headed towards one of these now, curious to discover how far they could see from up there.
'Who is it?' a voice called down.
'Fyn Kingsheir.' He was glad the monks were alert. It would have felt odd, reprimanding men who had ranked above him in the abbey.
Fyn climbed the ladder and joined the three men, who knelt on the dappled, starlit platform. Only when he identified Joff and Feldspar, and felt a spurt of relief, did he realise his true motivation. He wanted to be reconciled with his friends.
Selfish fool. He must not lay his burdens on them. They'd be horrified to learn he'd allied himself with Mage Tsulamyth. This hurt. To distract himself, he crept to the edge of the platform. 'How far can you see? How much warning would we have?'
Only one monk joined Fyn at the edge of the platform. Whetstone had given his vow three years earlier, when he had joined Master Sunseed's gardeners, but they had all been trained as abbey warriors and he'd marched out with the abbey into the Merofynian ambush so few survived.
'In daylight we can see Rolenhold, off to the south-west. At night…' Whetstone hesitated.
Fyn frowned. A shadow moved under the trees on the shore.
'That's no shadow. That's an attacking force!' Fyn gasped.
'Hundreds of them,' Whetstone said.
'Where?' Joff and Feldspar joined them.
Fyn pointed.
Feldspar sat back on his heels abruptly. 'I don't believe it. Cobalt is making a sneak attack on our watch.'
'What luck!' Joff crowed.
'Luck? Stupid boy. You've no idea…' Whetstone shuddered and went still.
Fyn gulped. Whetstone's fear seemed to leap into Fyn's body like flames leaping onto dry leaves. Was this going to be another massacre?
'Fyn, what do we do?' Feldspar asked.
That snapped him out of it. 'Joff, run up to the tradepost, give the alarm. I'll run to the gate. Warn them.'
Fyn scrambled for the ladder.
'What about me?' Feldspar asked.
Fyn glanced, over his shoulder. 'You've bows and arrows.'
'Yes. A dozen arrows.'
'Make every one count.'
Feldspar's terrified expression remained impressed on Fyn's mind as he scurried down the ladder. Joff jumped the last three rungs. They separated without a word.
Fan ran towards the gate. Was that the creak of the winch? Surely not.
He sprinted, hoping he wouldn't break his ankle on the uneven ground, only slowing when he neared the gate.
Two of the monks bent to wind the winch that lowered the drawbridge, the other two stood back, while a fifth person, the mystics master, watched.
This wasn't right. In his vision Catillum didn't aid the Merofynians, he fought them to the death.
'M-master?' Fyn struggled to catch his breath.
When Catillum turned, his features were the same but his expression was alien. Fyn knew instinctively, this wasn't Catillum. And he understood his Affinity vision, the mystics master had fought… and lost.
Fyn's mouth went dry with fear, as a great backwash of Affinity rolled off the being who had inhabited the mystics master's body.
'What are you doing?' Fyn demanded.
'Lowering the gate,' one of the monks explained, as if this was completely reasonable. 'Master Catillum wants to check the outer palisade.'
In the dark? Didn't they realise this wasn't Catillum? The renegade Power-worker had to be using the monks' own Affinity against them, making them blind to the subtle differences in Master Catillum's behaviour.
'Raise the drawbridge.' Fyn's voice scraped his throat raw and his heart raced. The monks ignored him. 'Raise the drawbridge. Byren has appointed me captain of Narrowneck. I outrank Catillum. Raise it. We're under at…'
His voice went completely, in fact his throat began to close, narrowing with each breath. Desperate, he ran past the renegade Power-worker, heading for the winch. But every step he took became more of an effort, until he could hardly move his limbs, could hardly drag a breath into his chest.
Time stretched. His breath came in horrible rasping gasps. He fell to his knees.
One of the four monks blinked and looked troubled. 'Kingsheir, are you…' His voice cracked and he fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.
The pressure on Fyn's chest lessened, as though the Power-worker was over-extending himself. Fyn lurched forwards, trying to reach the winch. Grey moths fluttered in his vision.
One of the monks at the winch straightened up. 'What's wrong with…' His voice cut out as he clutched his chest.
Fyn dragged in another breath.
There was a roaring in his ears. No, it was men shouting. The attackers charged the gate. He spared them one glance. Not Merofynians, spar warriors. Enemies all the same. He was too late. He'd failed Byren. Despair flooded him.
Hands grabbed him. The last two monks lifted him, swung him around and thrust him against the palisade beside the gate.
The renegade Power-worker reached out to Fyn. Reached into him.
Fyn watched in horror as fingers sank into his chest, through his flesh, through bone, to seize his essence. He found himself staring up into black, bottomless eyes. As the light faded, he thought he saw Bantam and Jakulos running through the trees towards the gate. But what could they do? They weren't Power-workers.
Even as he thought this, the world shifted and he was falling through the back of his skull, spiralling away.
Nothing could save him…
Byren came awake to find one of Catillum's monks trying to force his way through the door, shouting at Winterfall.
'Let me in. I must see Fyn's brother. The Merofynians are attacking.'
'Let him in.' Byren sprang out of bed, mind racing. Even as he reached for his breeches, his honour guard dressed and armed themselves. A pale grey light came through the casement windows. Dimly, he heard shouts from outside, from below.
The youth hurried over. Byren recognised Joff, who gave his report, but he knew no more than he'd already said.
Byren grabbed Joff's arm, suddenly afraid that the mystic master had betrayed them and lured Fyn to his death. 'You said Fyn sent you?'
Joff nodded. 'He went to make sure the gate was secure.'
'Don't worry, his sea-hounds are with him,' Orrade said, pointing.
Byren glanced to where the odd pair had been sleeping. Their bedrolls were empty.
'Good.' Byren rubbed his face. At least Fyn was at the gate and the camp was on alert. The palisade would hold, but for how long? He shoved on his boots. 'Come.'
Collecting the spar warlords and their honour Guards, he charged down the steps into the tap-room.
Florin tumbled out of the kitchen, her face creased by sleep. 'What's going on?'
'We're under attack. Stay here.' He ran past her, out of the tap-room.
Byren headed for the path to the gate.
Screams and the clash of metal on metal told him his men were already battling the enemy, and the depth of the sound told him it was in great numbers.
Worse, as he rounded the bend he saw the enemy pouring up the slope. They'd breached the gate. Impossible — the palisade should have held. Ravening spar warriors swept his half-armed, partly dressed defenders before them.
'They're not Mero — ' Orrade began.
'No. They're Leogryf's men, sent in first to break us, so the Merofynians can clean up after!' Byren despised such tactics.
With a roar, he raced into the fray.
Byren shouldered a man aside, hacked at another, ran on. There was no time to judge the strength of the forces against him. He could only slash and block, with Corvel and Feid at his side. Aseel and Bearclaw yelled to their men, spreading out to form a line.
Where was Fyn?
Dead, if he'd tried to hold the gate.
Byren had to find him. He kicked men aside, ploughed through bodies, plucked an axe from a dead man's hand and swung it left-handed, using it to block. Orrade fought at his side, protecting his back as he'd always done. All about them in the growing light of a fresh day men fought for their lives.
Where was Warlord Leogryf and his smooth-tongued kinsman, Lord Leon? They had to be here somewhere. Byren wanted to get his hands on them, either of them. Preferable both!
But he was pinned on the spot, fighting for his life. For every spar warrior Byren knocked aside, three took his place.
He'd never make the gate, never find Fyn.
Step by bloody step, they were forced back, through the overturned camp sites, the trodden camp fires, over men's scattered belongings, over bodies still groaning in pools of blood.
Until they came to the bend in the path, and there they made a stand. The sheer mass of men behind them, hemmed in by the cliffs, forced them to hold.
Byren felt the weight of the battle, felt it turning in their favour. He laughed and his laughter inspired those nearest him, spreading along the line.
Orrade tugged at his arm and he allowed himself to be drawn back from the fray. Even as he did this, someone shoved in front of him to take his place. All along their line, fresh men replaced those who were spent or dead.
'We're going to hold,' Byren shouted.
'Aye. Catch your breath.'
He bent double to drag in great lungfuls of air.
A strange whistling roar made him lift his head. What was that coming towards them?
'Mulcibar's balls!' The words had barely left his mouth when a spinning ball of fire, big as a melon, smacked into a tree a bow-shot down the slope below. Instantly, the tree went up with a great whoosh of flames. The fire drove Leogryf's warriors into a frenzy of fear, striking out at Byren's men to escape the flames.
'They have a renegade Power-worker with them,' Orrade cried. 'Where's Catillum when we need him?'
Where indeed? How had the Merofynians breached the gate so quickly, if they hadn't been betrayed? Byren rubbed sweat from his eyes. 'You were right. I should have let you kill Catillum.'
Orrade shook his head. 'Fyn swore Catillum was loyal. He had a vision of the mystic.'
Had Fyn tried to stop Catillum? Byren's heart clenched with fear for his brother.
The horrible whistling came again as more fireballs flashed over. This time they flew above the tree canopy and came crashing into a stand of oaks. Flames engulfed the trees.
Men screamed and scrambled away from the blaze.
'It's an indiscriminate weapon,' Orrade yelled. 'As likely to kill their men as ours.'
Above the roar of the battle, Byren heard another roar, louder and fiercer. He knew that sound. Forest fire.
No ordinary fire, this one raced through the tree canopy, leaping from tree crown to crown.
'Mulcibar's breath,' Orrade gasped. 'I've read of it. I never thought to see it.'
Even as he spoke, the fighting slowed on both sides, as men saw flames racing towards them. A great gout of hot wind drove the fire front towards the top of the rise. Burning leaves, twigs and the fronds of pine needles showered them. The embers fell on the leaf litter, on the heads of unprotected men, singeing their faces, igniting their hair.
They broke off what they were doing to stamp out the flames. Suddenly, the air was almost too hot to breathe.
Throat parched, Byren glanced over his shoulder to discover that the tradepost was well alight. Old Man Narrows' pride and joy. All that old wood lovingly carved, pegged joists and wooden roof shingles, ablaze.
His men were trapped between the cliffs and the advancing fire. And Leogryf's men were trapped with them. Cobalt must have decided to sacrifice them.
'Byren.' Orrade grabbed his arm. 'You need to get away.'
He was right. Byren forged through the men, shouting. 'To the cliffs, jump for it. Swim to shore. Meet at Feid's stronghold.'
They passed along the message.
Word spread as men ran, dodging flames. In the mad scramble for the cliffs, he realised he'd lost sight of both Corvel and Feid. As for Aseel and Bearclaw, he'd lost track of them as soon as the fighting started.
A man could not fight god-driven fire. They had to go over the cliffs and swim for it. Byren could see no other way out. Many would escape on foot, or on borrowed horses riding across Rolencia for the Divide. Cobalt's Merofynians would pick off the slowest.
Florin could pass unnoticed, if she'd just slip on a woman's skirts. He hoped she was already well clear and had the sense to keep her head down.
A flash of dawnlight reflecting on the lake through the tree trunks told Byren he was nearly at the cliffs. Just as well. The air was so hot his throat rasped. A tree in front of him burst into flames. He dodged it.
And collided with Feid. They grabbed each other to steady themselves.
Byren blinked. His eyes burned, dried out by the furnace-hot air. 'We'll meet back at your stronghold.'
Feid nodded. 'But I don't understand. How could it go so wrong? How did the gate fall?'
'Catillum betrayed us,' Byren guessed. 'Left us at the mercy of Mulcibar's breath!'
And they ran on. He reached the cliff edge, not far from the platform where the winch stood. One glance below told him the water was full of men, floundering, swimming, struggling.
'Come on,' Feid said, tossing aside his weapons.
'Can't.' Byren turned back, looking for Orrade.
There he was, struggling with a leg wound. Luckily someone supported him… Florin? What was she still doing here?
Byren tossed his sword and borrowed axe aside. Running over to them, he slid his arm under Orrade's shoulder and took his weight. Ignoring his friend's attempts to drive him off, he swung Orrade right off his feet and ran for the cliff edge. Reached it and realised Florin was not with him. Turned, saw her hanging back.
'Come on. We've got to jump.'
She shook her head. Was she afraid of heights?
He let Orrade's legs slide to the ground and lunged back to grab her arm, hauling her to the edge. 'It's not far — '
'It's not that.' Her arm trembled in his hand. 'I can't swim.'
She couldn't swim? Orrade wouldn't make it to the shore with that leg wound. And if he did, he couldn't run far.
Byren couldn't… wouldn't leave either of them behind.
Without warning, Orrade shoved him in the small of the back.
He fell, dragging Florin with him. Free arm swinging, Byren caught Orrade's hand. Then all three of them were falling, plummeting towards the lake.
The lake hit Byren square in the back, driving the air from his chest. Cold black water closed over his head. Down, down he went into the shockingly cold depths.
He kicked up, hauling Florin with him. He'd lost Orrade in the fall. Above them, the surface glowed red with the fire raging over Narrowneck.
He broke through, sucked in a breath. Florin's head surfaced next to him. She clung to him, terrified. If he hadn't been so much stronger, she would have dragged him down. Somehow he managed to turn her around so her back was to his chest, and he trod water.
Where was Orrade? 'Orrie!'
While supporting Florin, he turned an awkward circle, searching for Orrade.
'Where is he?' Florin cried.
Red fire light danced on choppy waves. All he could see were wet frantic faces, plastered with strands of black hair. More people hit the lake, their impacts sending out more waves. Dark heads went under. Some bobbed up again, some did not.
'Why did you let him do that?' Florin demanded, struggling against Byren's arms.
'Stop it. Or I'll lose you.'
'You've lost him. Now you'll hate me.'
'Orrie?' His voice was raw from all the shouting and the heat of the flames.
Was that Feid over there? 'Feid?'
The head turned at his name. Byren struck out for Feid, pulling Florin along behind him. At least she wasn't fighting him.
Treading water, he pushed her into Feid's arms. 'Get her safe to the shore. I have to find Orrie.'
As Feid grabbed Florin, she turned a bedraggled face and haunted eyes on Byren. 'Find him.'
So it was true, she loved Orrade. 'I won't stop looking.'
Byren swam around, searching for the familiar thin face. So many wet, dark heads of hair. Had Orrade even surfaced?
How could Byren have let him go? His hold should have been stronger. 'Orrie. Orrie, where are you?'
He swam a little further. Called again and again. So many men, calling out. Their voices almost drowned by the roar of the fire above. The water's surface had turned to bronze.
'Orrie, where are you?' His teeth chattered so badly, he bit his tongue. 'Orrie…'
Refusing to give up, Byren swam in larger and larger circles. At last, he neared the shore. Dawn sunlight lit the trees. Orrade must have made it this far. Maybe he was already ashore, trying to escape the Merofynian search parties.
That had to be it, because Byren could not have stayed in the water any longer and lived. He was half-numb already.
As he waded out onto the shore he felt the mud under his feet. Like an old man, Byren struggled upright and stumbled through the reeds into the trees. Long shafts of dawn sun speared through the trunks, offering no warmth as yet. He wanted to yell Orrade's name, but dared not. He could still hear the roar of the fire.
He leant on a trunk and tried to think. So cold. Had to keep moving. His heart thundered with exhaustion.
No, it was a horse galloping. Several horses came through the trees towards him, flashing in and out of shafts of sunlight. Shouts. 'We have him.'
Who? Orrade?
No. Him. They circled around behind.
Byren spun, staggered.
'Lord Leon. We have him. Over here!'
It couldn't be. It was.
Byren weaved, trying to escape. Big, sweating horse flanks cut him off. He lurched and turned.
Something hit his head. He went down to his knees.
Someone jumped off their mount to stand in front of him. Caught his hair, jerked his head. Lord Leon's sneering face. Byren knew he was a dead man. It didn't matter. He'd failed Orrie.
'Not so proud now, eh, king?' Lord Leon said, breath heavy with ale.
'Cobalt's… sacrificed your warriors, b-burned them up,' Byren told him, the words chopped to pieces by his chattering teeth. 'What of your uncle?'
'Dead. He led the attack.'
Byren saw satisfaction in Lord Leon's black eyes. His uncle's death meant Leon was warlord of Leogryf Spar. What manner of man sent his own kin to their death?
'Do your men know you sacrificed — '
A fist slammed into Byren's face and the world went away.