Prince of Dogs

Page 16

But she never recalled beginning or end to the dreams, only the sudden madness of the dogs feeding among the pale tombs of the dead, in the darkness of the crypt at the cathedral in Gent.
Wind soughed through the trees. She shook herself and shifted. Her knees ached from standing so stiffly. Down by the siege engines several campfires burned. Figures shifted, a change of guard. She watched as a man’s figure stooped, adding wood, then straightened and moved out of her sight into darkness. Drizzle started up, pattered for a little while, and gave way to a weighty night’s stillness, more sticky than hot. One of the servants emerged from the tent, staggering with sleep, relieved himself, and went in again.
Slowly the clouds began to break up. Stars shone here and there through the rents, ragged patterns formed and concealed as quickly as she could recognize them. The waning crescent moon appeared in a gap, then vanished. Above, the wheel of the heavens turned and winter’s sky rose—the sky seen in the late autumn and early winter evenings, here marking the advent of late summer’s dawn. The first hint of light colored the tents and palisade wall a murky gray, gaining tone as, above, the faintest stars faded from view.
A man’s figure moved down by the siege engines, scurrying along the wall of mantelets. One of the campfires was doused. She started forward in surprise, then saw half a dozen shadowy figures heave themselves over the mantelets and drop to the ground behind.
Raiders from the fortress.
“Hathui!” she cried, then drew her sword and dashed down the slope, shouting the alarm as she ran.
A horn sounded, and men began to yell. “To arms! To arms!”
As she ran through the foremost tents, soldiers fell in beside her or hurried before, all running to protect the front line. Below, a man screamed in pain. Swords rang, the clash of arms and the pound of blade against shield. A sudden fire bloomed at the base of the leftmost siege engine and by its unruly light she saw the skirmish unfold and spread as men leaped forward to beat down the flames while others took up blazing brands to look for their enemy—or start new fires.
Dawn grayed the horizon. As if in answer to the call to arms now ringing through camp, the gates of the fortress swung open. More than a score of mounted riders, pennants held high upon their up-raised spears, galloped through the yawning gate and drove down toward the engines.
Liath saw them coming, heard voices beyond her shout warnings, heard the shrill of horns from King Henry’s camp as they blared a warning, but she had more pressing matters before her.
The raiders had put one ballista to the torch with a flaming pitch that refused to yield to water or blanket. A solitary Lion—one she didn’t recognize except by his tabard—defended another ballista from three of the raiders. With torch and sword he held them at bay. Another raider lay dead, nearly decapitated, at his feet. They had not yet trapped the Lion against the ballista, but they would in a moment.
”Eagles don’t fight, they witness.” So Hathui always said. But he would die without her help.
She plunged in, parrying blows, and took up a position to his left. He greeted her with a slurred “gud morn’n.” Despite the odds, she sensed he was smiling. The raiders hesitated, faced with two where there had been one. She shifted, feinting to attack, when the Lion changed position beside her and his face fell within her view. His cheek had been split by a slash; a permanent toothy grin showed through the rivulets of blood. For an instant too long the ghastly grin caught her eye. One of the raiders rushed her from the left. She turned, catching his blow on her quillons, but the weight of his charge drove her to her knees. She strained up, locked in a test of strength as the man tried to force her down. The injured Lion thrust his lit torch into a second raider’s face, stunning him, and then two more Lions ran up.
One was Thiadbold. She recognized him by his red hair; he had not had time to put on a helmet. That fast, he drove his sword to its hilt through the abdomen of the raider who grappled with her. They stood embraced above her, the impaled man flushing and twitching, his sword arm pinned to his side by the body of the man who killed him. Thiadbold had wrapped his free arm tight around his prey, holding him as he would a shield, until he was sure that all of the fight had drained from the body. The raider’s sword fell from his limp hand. Thiadbold stepped back to let the corpse fall, twisting his own sword free.
Liath rolled out of the way of the body, then jumped to her feet as the two remaining raiders gave ground—but not fast enough. Cut down, they dropped, screaming, and lay still.
The injured Lion turned to beat again at the fire that scorched the ballista. Blood dripped down his tabard.