Battle on the Walls

  “Could they be Larker’s men?” Silker said, peering over the edge of the parapet.

  “How did that fucker get behind us then?” Smashednose growled, watching the dark figures march down the street of Vannarbar towards them. There looked to be a hundred, maybe more, that Smashednose could see in the moonlight. “There’s no way, no way at all.” But as Smashednose said it, he felt his stomach drop. It could be that Larker’s arcanists had some tricks, or it could be worse, much worse.

  “What’s the word, commander?” Borke asked. The man’s voice trembled, and he wouldn’t quite get close enough to the edge to have a proper look.

  Smashednose cursed, glance back over the other side of the tower. There were still plenty of fires going in Larker’s camp, the occasional shadows of movement, and the field, now moon-lit, was clearly empty. Beneath his cloak, he wrung his hands, dry callus on dry callus.

  It didn’t smell much like Larker this. It could be, but it just didn’t. And that set Smashednose’s teeth on edge more than anything was not knowing who these sods were for. But whoever they are, they weren’t smart ones. Smashednose had every man up on those walls, good high walls too, no man had a torch lit either. He wasn’t going to give it away to Larker that he’d finally braved the bitter cold and taken the walls. Smashednose doubted they even knew he was there.

  “Bows ready,” Smashednose said, briefly wishing the archer Fenris Whiteeyes was there. “And let them have at it.” And that was it. Less than a minute later, forty bowstrings twanged loose. Arrows found their marks, cracked against the rutted ground, and the night went silent. The dark figures fell face down on the ground.

  The old warrior snorted, and Silker chuckled by his side.

  “That’s it then,” Smashednose said. He looked at Borke. “Take some men down and find out who those pricks were.”

  Borke was pale in the moonlight, paler than usual, but he nodded. He took a handful of men with him off the walls, and they crept down the stairs, onto the street. Smashednose was squinting down now, could barely see anything but vague shapes below.

  “Taking his time,” Silker muttered after a while.

  “Being cautious is all.” But Smashednose’s nerves had dropped again. He could feel that cold, that bloody cold, and it ate away at the smug satisfaction he’d felt just moments before. He squinted, leaned over the parapet of the tower, not caring if he silhouetted himself against the night sky for the enemy. He heard Borke’s voice crack. Heard him curse. Call to the men, and then, Smashednose heard somebody start screaming.

  Finally, Borke’s voice broke out over it all in a shrill cry. “They’re coming up the stairs. They’re coming up the…”

  Smashednose hit the floor as an arrow breezed past his ear. Then more of them. They clattered against the parapet. Some found the gaps and arced through, but by that point, every man on the tower was crouched low, a good two feet of stone between them and the enemy. Silker looked to Smashednose, his moody eyes wanting orders. The old man had nothing smart to say, so he said the obvious, “Nothing’s changed. We fight from the walls and push Larker’s men back. And get those archers back up on their feet!”

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  But even with the moon out, it was too dark for the bowmen. It was like a mist from the High Moors had risen up and shrouded the walls. It grew denser, blacker, choking out the moonlight until a man could only see five strides in front of him.

  Smashednosed could hear it. The grating, clanging, screaming sounds of battle. It was happening all across the western wall now, but he could see none of it. So, he picked his shield up and pulled his sword from its scabbard. “Watch the tower, Silker.”

  “Aye.”

  And Smashednose strode down the steps, weapon in hand, his old limbs feeling young.

  Smashednose met the first of them, staggering out of the stairwell onto the wall where he stood. It was dark. He could barely make out the man’s face or his colours. But he raised a blade to Smashednose, and that was all the old man needed to know. He slapped the blade away with his shield, hacked with his sword, feeling it bite deep. Then he turned, hammered his shield into the man’s side, sent the man over the wall. Sent the bastard back to Larker, Smashednose thought. He was all full of fury now, and the heat of battle washed away Einar Smashednose’s pains.

  He stepped into the stairwell. It was pitch black. He could hear scrambling, men fighting at the mouth of one of the lower exits. It’d lead to the gatehouse, if Smashednose remember correctly from their hasty assumption of the defences. The old warrior put his shoulder against the wall, then made his way, step by step, down the spiralling stairs. He had his sword out in front, ready to stab the first man he saw. The fighting got closer. He could just make the silhouettes of men shoving and stabbing in silver moonlight that seemed almost too weak. But none could see him in the shadow.

  A strange, giddy feeling bubbled up from his stomach. It was a mix of nerves and excitement. Not too often that Smashednose got the jump on a man these days. Then, as he raised his sword, someone called for light.

  Before Smashednose could say a word or find a mark for his axe blade, a torch flared. The stairwell was cast in an amber, blinding to his eyes. He cursed, jamming his eyes shut, before cracking them open again. He saw Borke, holding the torch. Saw men beside him thrusting spears through the doorway and down into the stairwell. Saw the writhing bodies on the other end of those spears. Bodies wrapped in shadow.

  These weren’t Larker’s men.

  Then the giddiness vanished, and Smashednose remembered the cold. It seeped back into his joints, made his years come rushing down on his shoulders. He thought of the pale priest, Miertaz, back from the ruins. He thought of Borke and the skittish sentries. The cold and the shadows were the curse of this place, and Smashednose had brought it down on them all. He’d traded the fury of Larker for the frost of the ruins. His hand started trembling, old arthritic fingers loosening their grip on his hilt. Then he bit down hard.

  Smashednose moved down the last of the stairs. He hit the skewered shadows with the flat of his shield. They ripped free of the spears, received a slash across the heads before they went tumbling down the stairwell. He turned to Borke, nearly got jabbed by one of the spears, but caught it on his shield and gave the bastard who did it a mighty dirty look. The idiot who did it shrank back and let Smashednose pass.

  “Commander,” Borke said. His voice was hoarse from yelling.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “They’re everywhere.” Smashednose only noticed it now, but the man’s other arm was hanging completely limp by his side. “Came from the city. Came right for us. And the other ones, the ones we shot right dead, rose up again. Steel doesn’t seem to put them down for long.”

  Smashednose nodded, taking it in, piece by piece. A cloak of dread wrapped his shoulders, but there wasn’t much for it now. A foe that won’t die, a position in pitch black, and an enemy on the other side of the river that’ll kill them if they run. All they could hope for now was the priest and Fenris Fucking Whiteeyes.