The Black Prince: Part II (11 page)

Another thing that Hart would fix, if he lived.

Watch fires burned above, giving the appearance of an active garrison. But there didn’t, in truth, appear to be many men. And what men there were seemed to have their eyes fixed on the camp.

Which made Hart suspicious.

Rudolph had insisted on coming. Something about duty, and honor. The other men were an even mix of North and South, so no group felt slighted. Resulting in both groups feeling slighted, because each felt that it had unique qualifications for the task at hand.

Rudolph walked beside him now, his sword at the ready, having apparently assigned himself to be Hart’s bodyguard. The others moved two by two at the rear. Hart would be lucky if none of them ran him through, discovering at the last minute some long-repressed sympathy for Maeve.

That was what had happened at Ullswater Ford: two different factions had each turned turncoat at the last minute.

They reached the end of the bridge.

House Salm’s walls were tall, especially for those of a Southron castle: twenty-seven paces, or Hart standing atop himself ten times with fully room for all of Rudolph’s wardrobes. And Hart was a tall man, eighteen and a half hands. Each of the towers, silhouetted against the night, was a full three stories. The walls connecting them were two. The main gate, itself, looked to be almost a story.

And it was shut tight as a drum.

He prodded the chamberlain with the tip of his sword.
Now what?
he signed.

The chamberlain’s responding pantomime was obvious. He pointed to a small, well-recessed door within the right-hand tower. A good pace taller than Hart but barely wide enough to let him through. Then he pointed to the water.
Now we swim.

They entered the water slowly, sliding in feet first rather than jumping. If there were pikes planted beneath this black sheet, then the Gods help them all. But Hart’s feet touched no sharpened wood. Nothing.

Easing forward, he began to swim.

And then he was on the other side, pulling himself up onto the narrow spit of land that gave support to the base of the drawbridge when it was down. He gritted his teeth against the air, which had been chill before and was now frigid and raised gooseflesh all over his body. It was summer by no means.

A path assembled from the same cut stone led to the door. Not a true postern gate, as its recessing made its existence no less obvious. Nor hid anyone emerging from it. Hart helped the chamberlain upright and prodded him forward. He took a hesitant step, stopped, and then took another. Hart wondered if, now that they’d reached the moment of truth, the other man was regretting his decision.

The door was oak. Thick. Studded with iron. The tip of Hart’s sword pressing into his back, he fumbled for his key. And withdrew it, a long and slender piece of craftsmanship.

Without a word, he slid it into the lock. Also iron, a rectangular box about two hands wide by one hand tall. The key clicked and, with a push, the door opened.

A voice called out from inside, asking if all was well.

The chamberlain answered that it was.

Apparently that was enough. No one thought to question where he’d gone, just as no one thought to bar the door against his return. A castle under siege and all that protected them were a few pieces of iron. A lock was a pretty conceit but Hart could have made short work of it.

He followed the chamberlain inside.

There were three guards dicing at a table. Behind them, weapons ranged neatly along the walls. Dozens upon dozens of them, secure in well-built racks. Longbows and their lesser cousins the crossbow, easier for an unskilled man to fire but with far less range. Swords, simple of design but well constructed. Arrows. All of which was lit by a single lantern suspended from the ceiling.

One of the guards looked up. His eyes widened. He let forth a bellowing yell.

The jig was up.

Lunging forward on one leg, he ran the man through. Then he dispatched his companion. Behind him, the other men rushed in. Single file, through such a narrow door, but soon they filled the room. The third man pushed back against the table with his feet, escaping the flash of Hart’s blade just in time, and began calling for help as he waved his sword about.

Hart turned to the chamberlain. “Where are the drawbridge workings?”

The chamberlain dithered, apparently surprised at the question. “I—in the other tower.”

The other tower. Of course. Hart was tempted to run
him
through. But he was the only one among them who knew the answers to these kinds of questions, and more might arise.

He’d made it clear to his men: their job was to lower that drawbridge. At all costs. No one life was as important as liberating this castle, and what it protected, to the king. Without safe passage through Chilperic, many of Maeve’s troops would be at grave disadvantage for supplies. Chilperic protected one of the three main routes north, and Chilperic protected the shoreline. No more supplies from sympathetic Chad could be landed on the beaches that stretched beneath her famous white chalk cliffs.

No one battle could destroy Maeve’s threat, but with each new victory they’d diminish it.

“To the other tower!” he ordered.

The second, larger door in the guardroom opened onto a large, rectangular hall which functioned as sort of an internal barbican. Torches flickered, revealing the lines of murder holes in the ceiling for any who chanced to look up. But Hart’s attention was all before him, where an identical door to the one he’d just left stood closed. And presumably barred.

And guarded, by three more men.

Hart glanced left, then right. Left was the portcullis, down, flush against the raised drawbridge. Right was yet another door. Gods be damned. Or thanked, that this abysmal pit wasn’t better defended. If the earl had had his wits about him, or his guards one wit among them, Hart and his men would all be dead.

He gestured. “Hold that door. And keep anyone from coming in behind us, through the other tower.”

He, himself, charged forward.

Blades met with a ringing of steel. Hart blocked, parried, blocked, parried. He was an able swordsman but there were three of them and one of him. Not good odds. He couldn’t help but see Morven flash before him. The view from inside the longhouse. And feel a fresh surge of white-hot rage at this family. This house. He dealt his opponent a vicious thrust, pivoting at the last minute to miss a sword to the leg.

He was exhausted. He was thirsty, and sweat poured from his brow. Battle was hot. Even in midwinter. He could sprint from Barghast to Morven and back and not exhaust himself more. A longsword weighed a third stone, light enough until one began using it against resistance.

And for hours on end.

A competent fighting man trained his muscles to exhaustion, over and over, in the practice yard for just this purpose. But no amount of play matched the real thing. However serious.

He pivoted again, raising his sword at an angle to block what should have been a disemboweling stroke.

He had to get through that door.

And then Rudolph was beside him, waving his own sword about like a madman and yelling something about death before dishonor. That Rudolph’s house had a battle cry shouldn’t have surprised him; only that any of them had lived long enough to use it. He managed to score a glancing blow and was so shocked that he almost got a score to the head, which Hart blocked. If he had to fight for two and against two, they would neither of them survive.

But he didn’t tell Rudolph to go.

The third man, holding his innards in, struggled to rise.

A rhythmic pounding had begun on the other side of the door, the door itself shaking in unison. “There’s got to be all of them out there!” a Southron cried.

“Hold the gate.” The command came through gritted teeth.

Rudolph paused for a fraction of a second and then, evidently reaching some kind of internal decision, bent down and ran the prone man through at the throat. He gurgled, convulsed, and died. Which he would have, regardless; as his hand slipped from his stomach, his innards poured out.

He would have, regardless—but not, potentially, before taking them all with him. As Bjorn had nearly done. A man’s secure knowledge of his own death gave him strength. Sometimes to rival the Gods’.

Hart had seen that strength in women, determined to give birth before the act killed them.

An arrow struck the ground, just missing his foot. “Gods, they’re above us!”

More arrows, several striking home. One fatally. Hart renewed his push.

Who was firing on them? How many men were guarding the castle? They had no way of knowing.

Hart pressed forward, bring his sword down in a series of angled sweeps. Beside him, Rudolph did the same. He seemed to be finding his own. And at last, the defenders began to give ground.

One of them missed a parry and Hart’s blade drove home, steel screeching against steel. He stepped back a half step, ripping his sword free as Rudolph blocked the other man. Blocked and parried, blocked and parried. Then they were taking him on together, pressing him into the wall until he had no more room to maneuver and Hart was inside his guard. He dispatched the man with his dagger, hot blood flowing over his skin.

The door stood, waiting.

Roaring his rage, Hart kicked it in.

The door fairly burst off its hinges. Closed but not barred, Hart supposed in the event that the defenders had had to retreat. He ran in, searching frantically for the levers that would release both drawbridge and portcullis. But at first he saw nothing. He cursed himself. There had to be something. There was always something. A drawbridge was no mean thing to operate, relying as it did on a system of winch and pulley to cope with such enormous weight.

For a few terrifying seconds he thought he’d been lied to.

And then he looked up.

The inner wall of the second tower ended at the height of the ceiling, opening into a gallery. Directly above where he’d just been. There was, Hart saw, accessible by a ladder bolted to the wall. And there, he could just see, was the winch. A long, barrel-like thing supporting two massive twists of chain. One for either side of the drawbridge. Placed so high, Hart suspected, to make use of natural force. The lever he needed, he knew, was up there.

Up there, just waiting for him.

Along with whoever had been firing down on them through the murder holes.

“We can’t hold them!” someone cried from the hall.

Almost simultaneously, the door gave with a thundering crash.

“Go!” Rudolph gestured. “I’ll hold them.”

“For how long?”

“Enough time.”

Hart didn’t question him. Couldn’t afford to take the time. His attention had to be all for the task at hand, if there remained any hope of accomplishing it. He could only hope both that Rudolph survived long enough for him to make the gallery and that whoever was up there was too distracted by repelling the invaders to notice one in their midst. At least until Hart had freed his sword again.

The wood of the rungs was slickly smooth under his fingers. The soles of his boots were slippery with gore. All the things the bards never talked about: that men died because they slipped in entrails, or shit. Men shit when they died. The site of even a small skirmish produced smells that were unholy. Or, blinded by their own blood, they walked straight into swords.

The din behind him grew louder.

They were in the room now.

He reached the top.

There were two men. He didn’t give them time to respond. He charged them.

One fell, and then the other. They’d been shooting with crossbows. Neither had had time to draw their swords.

Hart gasped the lever and pulled. He let out a roar as he did so; the thing was meant to be operated by multiple men, and he felt the muscles in his arms straining. Muscles that could draw a twelve stone longbow, loosing arrows as thick as his thumb.

The lever dropped free and Hart stumbled backward as the winch spun. Chain flew through the twin pulley gates, rectangular windows in the stone that allowed the drawbridge to operate. And as the drawbridge banged down the portcullis shot up, solving the mystery of there having been only one lever: the portcullis itself was the counterweight to the drawbridge, and they could not be operated independently. Another engineering oversight.

Hart watched, dazed, thinking that it was strange indeed what one found themselves thinking at times like these.

He’d done it. He’d really done it. He fumbled the horn at his side free from its catch and, raising it to his lips, blew. One single, long blast. The prearranged signal.

He slumped briefly against the wall. The floor beneath his feet vibrated with the pounding of a thousand other feet, and then a thousand more, as the whole of his army stormed the castle. Once the gate was down, he’d known, they’d have won. That was always the challenge, always the risk. A place like House Salm couldn’t be breached except by stupidity. Or treachery. Not by a ragtag band of ill-fed serfs and yeoman more comfortable with pike than bow.

The castle was his. With those feet crossing the threshold, the castle was his. The rest was just cleanup.

He wondered if Rudolph was dead, and discovered that he cared. But he didn’t have time to investigate. The castle might be his, but they were none of them out of the woods yet. He was like the girl in the fairy tale who inherited a house filled with spiders. Spiders that hid in the shadows, giving no hint of their presence until it was too late. Cleanup might be simpler than wholescale war, but it wasn’t a formality. And one spider, in particular, was long overdue for justice.