Sorgrad and I had her before she drew breath. Leaping over the bodies, we seized the woman, dragging her into the room with irresistible hands. Kicking the door closed, Sorgrad spun around to force her backward into me in one fluid movement. I had tahn-soaked cloth ready in one palm. Cupping it over her mouth and nose, I twisted my other hand mercilessly in the hood of her long gray robe. Her hands clawed at mine, adding fresh blood to the mess of paint and braises. She kicked like a mule but soft indoor shoes were no real weapon. Sorgrad caught her under the knees, her struggles weakening as the smothering drug and the strangling hood did their work. She went limp and heavy in my arms and we laid her hurriedly on the floor.
“It’s that bitch that threw us out of the Hachalfess,” observed ’Gren, abandoning his grisly attempts to claim a trophy.
“Then she’s Sheltya and that means aetheric magic and that’s what we came for,” I said incoherently. “She’ll do.” Action took over from thought. Pads of soft linen for her eyes, tied tight with broad swathes of bandage. Plugs of wool for her ears, covered with more creamy bands. A kerchief folded around a dark lump of thassin for her mouth, to keep her quiet if the tahn wore off. More bandages tight around her jaw and lower face; let her try enchantment while unable to see or hear or speak.
“She may be unconscious but she does still have to breathe, my girl.” Sorgrad reached down and tweaked a fold of cloth around the unrecognizable woman’s nose.
“Aritane, wasn’t that her name?” ’Gren looked at her with interest.
Tying off the last knot with deft hands, I sat back on my heels, heart drumming, breath fast and furious. My exultation faded at the sight of the younger man, broken like a butchered hog, and the older, unmarked save for the killing gash of Sorgrad’s knife in his throat. “They must have been waiting for the lass, already here before we started watching the stair.”
“I did try to stun her.” Sorgrad looked regretfully at the dead girl, golden curls matted with blood leaking from the shattered bones of her skull puddled around the chair leg he’d used to fell her.
“I don’t think you can, not when aetheric magic gets inside their heads. She had me all but strangled,” I reminded him soberly. Another set of bruises that would linger after I’d washed away my disguise. “I need to clean myself up.” I looked around for water.
“You and me both,” chuckled ’Gren, waving sticky hands.
Sorgrad passed me his water bottle. “Get your mail off,” he ordered his brother, stripping the woman Aritane of her long gray gown. With its wide sleeves and cowled neck, it covered ’Gren’s blood-soaked linen and breeches entirely.
“Belt it up shorter or you’ll go flat on your nose the first time you go up stairs,” I advised. “You’re not used to skirts and you’ll trip on the hem.” No one would notice his boots in the darkness and the blood was nigh on invisible against the oiled leather.
Aritane was pale and limp in her decorous linen shift and Sorgrad rapidly bundled her up in our bright blanket. He’d entered carrying an unconscious woman in it; he was going out with the same, wasn’t he? No one was going to look too closely in this confusion. I smeared some of my painted bruises on her flawless arms and then scrubbed off as much of the rest as I could. I coughed at the sickly smell of blood overlaid with the foulness of voided bowels and bladders and swallowed hard. “Let’s get clear of this charnel house and fast.”
’Gren threw the linen smock at me as Sorgrad opened the door a cautious crack. “All clear. You go first, ’Gren. Hood up, head down, and don’t talk to anyone. You’re Sheltya, so that means cock of the walk.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do,” whispered ’Gren from his anonymous cowl.
“Head for the postern gate,” I told Sorgrad. “I’ll catch up.”
As the others made their measured way down the stairs, I knelt by the door. I narrowed my thoughts to the task in hand; there’d be time enough later for nightmares and nausea. Taking picks from my pocket, I worked on the complex lock, closing my eyes the better to feel the stubborn tumblers beneath the metal fingers.
“What are you doing?” A tall man in Sheltya gray stood at the top of the stairs, coarse-cropped hair bristling like a brush. He twisted his hands around each other in an unconscious gesture.
“I were sent for my lady Aritane,” I mumbled, palming my lock picks and dropping my chin to my chest. “Door’s locked.”
The man reached the door in a few strides. Moving to let him pass, I got myself halfway to the stair unnoticed. He rattled the latch impotently before looking back over his shoulder. “Get me some woman who holds keys.”
I was down the worn stone stairs and into the busy fess like a cat with its tail on fire. People pushed past, I shoved back, and slipped through any gap that offered. There was a new urgency in the air, a harsh note of fear in the voices clamoring for attention. I ignored it, ducking and sidestepping. Sorgrad’s armor gleamed in the torchlight ahead before the seething crowds closed between us. ’Gren’s Sheltya gray was clearing a path toward the rear gate, Sorgrad close behind with the woman Aritane disguised in the gaudy blanket.
Some new commotion broke out over by the main gate. People halted, rising on their toes to try to see what was amiss; I seized my chance, weaving my way through the hesitating crowd. We could find out what was happening when we were clear of the fess. It wouldn’t take that Sheltya man long to get into the room and blood might already be seeping through the ceilings below.
I caught up with the others at the little postern. One man was pulling the gate closed while another hefted the closing bar, thick as his arm and bounded with iron like the bracers ringing his wrists. A third was pacing to and fro with a torch from a wall bracket. A flurry of horn signals struggled up the valley against the breeze.
“Did you catch that?” asked the first, running a three-fingered hand over grayish hair.
The torch-holder screwed up his eyes with effort. “I can’t make no sense of it.”
“Then go ask. Ebrin will know.” Bracers with the fastening bar rolled it between his hands.
Three Fingers turned to ’Gren. “What’s the news?”
“Send your man to your commander,” ’Gren said curtly, face invisible beneath his hood. “Let us pass.”
“They sent signal to secure the gate.” The torch-holder gestured to a distant flame swept urgently from side to side on the top of the wall.
“Secure it behind us,” ’Gren’s voice was soft with benevolent menace. “Or do you claim some authority over the gray?”
Even in the uncertain light of torch, brazier and starlight, I saw the man blench. Bracers pushed the gate open at once. ’Gren strode through, back straight, head high, managing to radiate subtle threat. Sorgrad was a few strides behind, cradling Aritane, shielding her face with a protective fold of blanket. I scuttled along at his heels, head down in my grubby smock. ’Gren lifted one hand in a lordly wave once we were through the irregular tunnel and the solid wood slammed emphatically behind us, bar rasping home. Whatever dangers lay outside, we were safe from pursuit.
Deprived of firelight, it was a dark night. Glare above the parapet only cast a deeper shadow at the foot of the wall where the path curled away down toward the looming mass of a spoil heap. I blinked and the night-sight my Forest blood favored me with gradually sharpened. Good night-vision was a trait shared by all the ancient races, which was one reason we’d waited for the darkest night Halcarion offered us.
“I could get used to this,” Gren was chuckling to himself.
“Don’t,” advised Sorgrad. “Real Sheltya catches you in that gray, we’re all for a flogging.”
“Is she still off the board?” I peered at Aritane. “Maybe I should give her a few drops on the bandages, just so she gets the fumes?” I rummaged in my belt-pouch for the vial of tahn tincture.
“Then I’ll get a light head as well, but if you fancy carrying her, go on.” Sorgrad hefted her in his arms. “Any more and we might as well just drop her down a mineshaft anyway. I thought you wanted her to wake up eventually.”
“I don’t want her getting enough of a grip on her wits to use enchantments,” I insisted.
“Hush!” ’Gren halted like a scenting hound, eyes distant. The brazen clamor of horns came up from the lower valley again, clearer this time. “That’s a call to arms!”
“Wait here.” I ripped off the hampering smock and, tucking my skirts up into my belt, climbed the nearest spoil heap. The broken rock was treacherous and I was soon using hands as well as feet. Reaching a vantage point, I kicked the toes of my boots into the stubborn debris, forcing a footing. Spots of light dotted the slope, the broad orange blooms of cook fires and the smaller sullen red of braziers. Canvas tents glowed like giant horn lanterns, shadows grotesque and distorted on their sides. Black outlines passed in front of fires, hurrying urgently to and fro.
The river was a streak of blackness curving untroubled down to the rocky ridge. Fewer lights, hidden by the curve of the land, pierced the darkness beyond. The frantic scream of the horns came again, floating above hostile roars, bellows of defiance and the unmistakable clash of sword on sword.
“Livak!” Sorgrad’s low voice clearly carried his urgency. I started to descend, hands and feet feeling in the dark for any secure hold. I was halfway when a stretch of sun-shattered clay betrayed me and I slid the rest of the way, vicious stones scoring deep into my thigh.
“What is going on?” Sorgrad’s question was more important than my stinging gashes.
“There’s a fight going on, but I can’t say who’s attacking who.” I ripped off my shredded stockings; skirts really are for women with boring lives.
“Maybe we should have brought Sandy along,” quipped ’Gren through the muffling gray wool as he pulled it over his head.
I nodded. “I could stand him dabbling in his water and inks just about now.”
“You take the prize package for a stretch.” Sorgrad handed Aritane over to ’Gren without ceremony. “It’ll hide all that blood.”
We moved cautiously on. Our path through the spoil heaps brought us to a close-knit circle of shelters. We took a pace back toward the concealing gloom near the cliff face as a mail-clad runner hurried up, shouting. “Take your valuables and get into the fess! Lowlanders are attacking in the lower valley! Jeirran’s going to make a stand at the ridge.”
“Good luck to him,” I murmured doubtfully.
A drum beat echoed back from the steep rock towering above our heads.
“I’ve heard that rhythm before,” I said slowly. “Winter before last, in the camps along the Caladhria border.”
Sorgrad listened. “The Lakeland mobs used a cadence like that.”
“So it’s men from the Gap?” ’Gren’s eyes were bright as a stag-hound’s scenting blood. “They’re not so tough. Let’s get going.”
“Not with her to carry.” I nodded at the unconscious Aritane. “What are the other ways out of this valley?”
Sorgrad sucked his teeth. “Precious few, that’s the whole point of having the fess here. I don’t fancy trying a pass up there with dead weight on my back, never mind the night and lack of any gear.” He nodded at the sharp jags black against the star-studded sky.
“Could we keep out of sight until the moons rise?” I suggested.
“Two quarters still isn’t enough light.” Sorgrad shook his head.
’Gren was kicking at something. “Livak, get this open.” It was a small building, roofed with stone slates and thick walls densely mortared but barely chest-high to me. Double doors at the front were securely locked so it wasn’t some child’s playhouse. I winced as sharp gravel bit into my naked knee and I ran my fingers around the lock plate. “Just what is it with you people and locks?” I muttered crossly as my probing revealed the intricacies of this particular fastening. “Is everyone as dishonest as you pair?”
“You don’t steal another man’s ore, not yet his ingots.” I heard the smile in Sorgrad’s voice. “But if he were to lose his tools, so he couldn’t go digging till he got them back or traded for new ones, now that would be something else.”
I nodded pointlessly, unseen in the shadows, finally snicking the last tumbler free. “So what’s worth my trouble?”
Sorgrad reached in blindly. “Rope.” He slung a coil over one shoulder. “Sacks; ’Gren, shove a few around the girl. Ah, that’s what we want, lanterns.”
“Pass one over.” I felt for my tinderbox.
“Don’t light it,” warned Sorgrad. He must have caught the scorch of my glare despite the gloom. “Sorry.”
“Let’s have a pry-bar.” ’Gren looked around with some difficulty over Aritane’s rump. Pushing one into his hand, I took one for myself as well and passed a third to Sorgrad. I didn’t fancy my chances trying to explain to anyone that this wasn’t actually my fight so this would have to do as a weapon.
People rushing for the fess didn’t even look our way as they stumbled over discards in the dark, faces tight with fear. A few figures were forcing their way in the other direction, toward an ever-increasing tumult. Some were mailed with swords in hand, more were trusting to leather, picks, axes and cudgels.
I saw the eagerness in ’Gren’s eyes and prodded him meaningfully. “Can’t fighting wait until you get back to Lescar? That’s why we need to get your lady friend back to the wizards, so they can call off Draximal’s hounds, remember?”
“We’ll work our way around the far side of the spoil heaps,” said Sorgrad decisively. “See if we can slip past down toward the ford.” The rounded tops of the spoil heaps faded into the blackness of the mountains above us. I was looking all ways, gripping the comforting weight of the iron bar. My eyes met Sorgrad’s and we shared a tight, humorless smile.
Our path brought us to the edge of the battle. Mountain Men were hard pressed, split into separate stands and hemmed in on all sides. The lowlanders had come to exact their revenge and in numbers enough to do the job thoroughly. The noise of battle hammered at our ears and bright light seared our eyes. Fires running out of control ripped away the protection of the shadows.
“Back,” ordered Sorgrad. We found ourselves in a dead end of shattered stones, bounded by a conduit full of foul water.
“Arseholes,” hissed ’Gren.