The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) Read online

  Bicker nodded. ‘He gave in too easily, at the last; too graciously after the time and prestige he has wasted here. And there is more. The Lady Jinneth went out riding alone this afternoon, and she has not yet come back. And her husband is not worried; he says she will return in her own time.’

  ‘That she will,’ Ratagan snorted.

  Bicker shook his head. ‘Too many people are wandering the Dales—important people. Lionan and Mullach, for instance. No one has heard from them for days. And both Rim-Suardal and Rim-Drynoch are well-nigh deserted—or so Ord says. He went round there yesterday on his patrol.’

  ‘Bragad has the strength of two Rorims behind him now, plus maybe the men of three of your own lords,’ Riven said quietly. ‘Do you think he would attack Ralarth?’

  Bicker was startled. ‘Attack Ralarth? But he himself is inside the Rorim.’

  ‘Ever heard of the Trojan horse, Bicker?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘If Bragad wanted to take Ralarth Rorim, what better way to begin than to get some of his men inside beforehand?’

  ‘There are twelve of his ’Wares billeted in the Circle,’ Ratagan rumbled thoughtfully.

  ‘Lionan and Mullach, and Jinneth, could be out there somewhere now, waiting for a signal to attack—or Jinneth could have brought the signal herself. Or the men in the longhouses could be tasked with sending it.’

  ‘That is surmise,’ Bicker said sharply.

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  The dark man fell silent. They walked through the barbican of the Rorim into the cobbled courtyard beyond. There was a smell of hay and horse urine from the stables, and a pair of serving maids, wrapped against the cold, were winding water up from the well.

  ‘The household knows about the journey north,’ Riven said.

  Bicker nodded, and sighed. ‘Young Hearthwares. They tell their lady friends, and then all secrecy is lost. Your reputation as a wizard is secured, my friend. Why else would you be seeking to travel to the Greshorns in such times?’ He spat, and rubbed it into the cobbles with his boot. The three stood silent a moment, receiving stares from the girls at the well and a pair of passing Hearthwares.

  Bicker swore suddenly. ‘All right. You have a suspicious mind, Michael Riven, but my own goes along with it. I will try to set up a few... safeguards, in case our fears are proved true.’

  ‘The captains will be at the feasting tonight,’ Ratagan pointed out. ‘If it is defenders we need, who will lead until we can join them?’

  ‘There’s Dunan,’ Riven offered.

  ‘And Luib,’ Bicker added. ‘He can lead the trainees. We will divide our people—some to the Rorim and the Circle, and some to the outer wall to give us advance warning.’

  ‘The Warbutt will have to be told,’ Ratagan said gently.

  ‘Aye,’ Bicker said. ‘My task, I believe. He will take some convincing, but it will be done.’ He looked up at the clearing sky, darkening now into dusk. ‘This is Bragad’s last night in the Rorim. If we are right, then it will be tonight. Whatever he has planned will be tonight. Some night for a feast.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Riven said. He was thinking of Madra pouring beer for him at the last one.

  ‘An extra man on the ramparts is no bad thing,’ Bicker said absently. He turned and stared at the Manse. ‘I must go, then. I have things to do...’ And he walked off slowly with none of his usual sprightliness.

  Ratagan followed him with his eyes. ‘This is not Bicker’s province,’ he said. ‘More Murtach’s. Bicker was never one to be tied down with intrigue and politics.’

  ‘Hence his wanderings in the mountains,’ Riven noted.

  ‘Aye.’ Ratagan hesitated. ‘You really believe Bragad is going to try and take our Rorim?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ratagan thought. ‘That would mean killing. ’Wares against ’Wares. Perhaps even—’ He stopped. ‘No, he’d never get Myrcan to fight Myrcan.’ He frowned. ‘Is this sort of thing common in your world?’

  ‘Where I come from, there is always a war going on somewhere or other. That is why I was able to be a soldier; we keep armies at the ready all the time.’

  Ratagan shook his head. ‘Sounds like somewhere the Myrcans would love.’

  Riven stared up at the Manse with its flapping pennants. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they would. I think they would hate it.’

  The big man gripped his shoulder. ‘I had best put in an appearance at the feast. I am expected to be present where there is beer flowing.’ He bit his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Riven?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Madra is... young. I know I am not such a blameless one as should be saying it, but try and find it in your heart to be good to her, for she is lovely.’

  Then he turned away.

  JINNETH HAD STILL not returned when the feast began. Riven walked the ramparts, watching the Dale under the young moon. He heard the sounds of merriment from the Manse, and he knew that Madra would be in there, pouring wine for Bragad and suffering the leers of drunk men.

  And he watched the high hills to the west, and knew that out there, also, there were other women whose faces he knew. He continued his pacing, caught in contradictions. Better to turn over in his mind the arrangements he and Bicker had organised, to search for loose ends, gaps in the plan.

  Steps behind him; light, not like those of the Hearthware sentries. They stopped at his side. He could faintly smell her sweat, and also the lavender of the garland she wore in her hair. She tugged it off and played with it in her hands as she watched the Dale with him, leaning on the stone of the wall.

  You don’t give up, do you? He smiled weakly.

  There was torchlight in the longhouse where Bragad’s men were billeted. They were making merry also. He wondered if the whole Rorim were drunk tonight. At least the Myrcans would be sober.

  A wind stirred his hair, fanned Madra’s out behind her. It looked black in the starlight.

  ‘What is it you do in your world?’ she asked him.

  The question caught him by surprise. He realised that there were things he had done; but now, he did nothing.

  ‘I was once a soldier, and then a storyteller.’

  ‘You loved someone.’

  He grimaced. ‘She died.’

  ‘But you still love her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She squeezed his hand, and he looked at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know before.’

  ‘Did Ratagan tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was cold in the clear night, with the wind running through the Dale. Her face seemed ageless in the dim light, and she was stifling shivers. He brought her inside his cloak, and wrapped it around the both of them. Her hands were chill, and she slipped them inside his shirt to warm them. He could feel them at the small of his back, feel the scratch of the lavender garland which she still held.

  ‘How old are you?’

  Her face turned up to him. ‘I have seen sixteen summers.’

  Sixteen. Jesus Christ.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Old as the hills.’

  ‘I do not believe you. You are not even as old as Bicker, and he has no grey in his hair.’

  He laughed and hugged her closer, unthinkingly. He was responding to her presence. Warning bells sounded in his head.

  I’m supposed to keep my wits about me, and an eye on those longhouses.

  But he did not push her away. It was warm under the cloak. Her palms were no longer cold against the skin of his back. She rested her head on his chest.

  ‘You are leaving after Bragad’s visit, aren’t you?’

  ‘More news from the kitchens?’

  ‘It is all over the Rorim.’

  He cursed. Too many tongues wagged in this place. He wondered if Bragad knew, also.

  An owl hooted nearby, and was answered by another farther away. A lone sentry stood watching on the ramparts some way off. The moon caught a gli
nt of his metal armour as he turned in his walk.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in at the feast?’ Riven asked.

  ‘Bragad asked the Warbutt if the captains and the lords could drink alone in the hall. The servers were sent out as well, as soon as the eating was done.’

  ‘Talking about matters of import,’ Riven said absently, though uneasiness buzzed at him like a fly. He watched the longhouses in the Circle. The torchlight still flickered at the windows, and there were faint bursts of song filtering out.

  Doesn’t look as though they’ll be up to anything tonight.

  Dunan and twenty Hearthwares were out in the Circle to keep an eye on them anyway. Luib was on the gates with his trainees. The Rorim itself was not so well defended, but they had enough men to neutralise Bragad and hold the gates—for a while.

  So why the uneasiness?

  He looked down from the ramparts to see Isay standing with his arms folded and his staff tucked into his belt. The sight reassured him.

  ‘Why did you not go to the feast?’ Madra asked.

  ‘I wanted to be on my own.’

  ‘Oh.’ She drew away, but he pulled her close again. ‘You are a strange man,’ she said. ‘You can get drunk and sing with the rest, and yet you like to be on your own. You never lifted a sword before, yet you use one as though you are born to it.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Isay told me.’

  ‘Isay!’ The exclamation was soft, so the Myrcan would not hear him. He nuzzled Madra’s hair. ‘You get told everything, don’t you?’

  She did not reply, but her arms pulled him tight to her with surprising strength and she kissed him fiercely on the lips. Her thighs pushed his legs apart and she pressed herself against him.

  ‘Let me stay with you tonight.’

  And there was that formidable cast to her jaw, the steady sureness of her eyes.

  ‘All right,’ he replied hoarsely. The cloak fell away from her, and they walked along the ramparts to the catwalk stairs, the air cool on their hot faces. But Riven tripped on a shadow, and would have fallen if she had not caught his arm. He stared down.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered.

  It was a dead Hearthware, lying in a dark pool of blood. He had been stabbed through the throat.

  Riven straightened and glared over at the longhouses. The lights were still there, and he could hear the singing.

  ‘Isay!’ he yelled. The Myrcan was at the stairs in an instant, with his staff in his hands. His eyes fired as he saw the corpse of the Hearthware.

  ‘Get to the hall—tell them what has happened, and get them to secure the Manse. There are enemies in the Rorim, and probably more on the way.’

  Isay nodded and pelted off.

  ‘It is Phelim. He was only two summers older than me,’ Madra said, with tears in her voice. She smoothed the hair back from the dead face. Riven pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Go to the kitchens and warn them there. We are about to be attacked. Tell them to try and arm themselves.’ He shook her. ‘Tell them, Madra!’ She looked at him wide-eyed for a second, then ran off in the same direction as Isay. Riven leant on the ramparts and drew a deep breath.

  Think, Riven. What does this mean? What are they doing?

  As he stood there, one of the Circle longhouses where Bragad’s ’Wares had been billeted began to blossom with flame. Two figures were at its eaves with torches. Even as he watched, he saw lights flaming in the Dale in answer—and he saw Dunan and his men rush the longhouses with the moon glittering on their swords.

  They are coming.

  Luib’s men were divided between the three gates in the outer wall. If their attackers were in any strength, it would not take them long to get through. Or they might just clamber over the wall at any point. The outer wall was a defence only against animals, not men. It was to protect the flocks and herds within, more than anything else. Not for the first time, Riven cursed the trust of these people in... other people.

  The longhouses were ablaze from gable to gable now, and Dunan’s Hearthwares milled about them. Then Riven was jolted, as Isay nearly knocked him down.

  ‘They have taken the hall,’ he panted. ‘Bragad’s men hold it, and all in it; his ’Wares must have come over the ramparts in the night.’

  And two left behind as a diversion. Clever. Was that a faint shouting he heard, away by the outer wall?

  ‘Run to Dunan. Tell him to get his men into the Rorim, and to send a runner to Luib on the gates. We have to get everybody back to man these ramparts.’ Isay turned to go, but Riven stopped him. ‘What about our Myrcans? What are they doing?’

  ‘Two guard the hall doors, with two ’Wares. Druim and Belig arm the household.’

  ‘Good. Go on!’ Isay leapt over the wall and disappeared into the depths of the ditch. A moment later he was up and running towards the blazing buildings in the Circle.

  Riven stood alone on the eerily deserted ramparts, and chafed with impatience. Bragad’s plan was clear now. Hold the leaders hostage in the hall whilst the larger force punch their way through the defences to take the Rorim from its leaderless and probably drunk defenders. His ’Wares had left their billets and accomplished the first part of the plan, leaving some of their number behind to allay suspicions. No doubt Jinneth and the two renegade lords of Ralarth were on their way, with God knew how many at their back.

  Dunan’s group began loping towards the Rorim, leaving two bodies behind them on the moonlit ground. They had half a mile to run. From the outer wall came the faint but definite sound of fighting.

  Riven rubbed his sword hilt with a white thumb, thinking for a second of Madra pressing against him. He shook his head angrily, and heard a clatter of feet behind, coming up the catwalk stairs. He met them with a drawn sword, but it was Gwion and Colban and a score of others armed with staves, kitchen knives and clubs. Colban was sweating and breathless.

  ‘Well met, Lord,’ he gasped as his group trooped out along the ramparts. Then he leaned on the wall and rubbed his face with his free hand. ‘I am too old for this sort of thing.’

  Gwion was the only one of them who had a sword.

  ‘Our people are helping the Myrcans guard the hall doors,’ the Steward said. ‘My wife commands them. There are many of Bragad’s ’Wares in there, holding the captains. The doors have been barred. All the others I could find, I brought here.’ He put his fist to his chest and coughed.

  ‘You did well,’ said Riven. Madra glided to his side with a knife in her hand. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked away. ‘Dunan and our Hearthwares will be here in minutes. More of Bragad’s men are on the way. We have to hold the Rorim against them.’

  There were frightened murmurs at this. In the clear night air, the sound of battle at the nearest of the gates was clearly audible. Gwion ushered them about like sheep and positioned them along the wall. Two-thirds of the ramparts were undefended.

  There was a tumult at the gates, and in a few moments Dunan and the Hearthwares joined them.

  ‘A fine night for a fight!’ the Hearthware leader said, his teeth flashing and the blood shining on his sword. Isay took his place at Riven’s side once more. As the ’Wares positioned themselves amongst the household, Dunan gazed out on the Circle. ‘Luib is pulling his men out in feigned flight; when the foe attacks us, he and his men will take them in the rear.’

  Riven nodded. And here it was. Four years in the army, and this is my first real battle—with a sword in my hand. He felt Madra’s arm encircle his waist.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ she asked.

  ‘You bet your life I am.’ Then he frowned. ‘You can’t stay here. You can’t stay in the middle of a battle.’

  ‘There are other women on the ramparts.’

  His face twisted as he glanced about him. ‘I know, but—’ He was conscious of the others there watching them. And he saw the stubbornness under her brows. ‘Damn it.’ And he turned away from her smile.

  The sounds of battle on the outer
wall ceased, and the night was quiet except for fidgeting on the catwalk. Madra was shivering again, her eyes fixed on the Circle beyond the burning longhouses. There was a distant crash as a roof collapsed in flames.

  A figure appeared, running past the blaze and stumbling his way to the gate, which boomed open and then closed behind him. He lurched to the catwalk, the breath tearing in his throat and the sweat shiny on his face. A Hearthware.

  ‘Where is Dunan?’

  ‘Here, Fimir. What news?’

  ‘Luib has lost nine men. He has pulled his lot away in flight.’ Fimir seemed to choke on his words. ‘It is Mullach and Lionan—our own lords! They lead the attackers.’

  ‘How many are they?’ Dunan asked sharply. The Hearthware gulped for breath.

  ‘Luib tried to count. At least a score of ’Wares, and half a dozen Myrcans; maybe a hundred others, unarmoured like our trainees. Some of them are Suardale men—and Drynoch men!’

  Dunan cursed softly. ‘All right, Fimir; that was well done. Get your breath back. You’ll be needing it soon.’ Fimir nodded and tottered away.

  ‘We have a fight on our hands,’ Dunan said. He sucked his teeth. ‘Our own Dales. And Myrcan fighting Myrcan. I’d like to know how the fox persuaded them to that.’

  ‘Why would your people fight each other?’ Riven asked Isay.

  ‘I know not. But they will have had a good reason.’ Doubt clouded his face, and he was troubled.

  ‘Just kill their ’Wares for us, then, and we’ll try and take care of your countrymen,’ said Dunan dryly. He spat over the wall into the darkness of the ditch. ‘I hope Luib’s bunch bloodied their noses for them, or things are going to be rather tight around here in a few moments.’

  They all heard the noise of feet at once, and instinctively leaned over the battlements, craning to see.

  ‘There,’ said Riven, pointing. ‘Coming into the firelight.’

  Then they were visible: a dark crowd of men with the light glinting off armour and sword blades, and two figures, one slim, one broad, leading them. They fanned out as they approached, and the Hearthwares on the catwalk produced bows from the sheaths at their backs and nocked them with pale-fletched arrows.