Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [65]
Which was just too bad for the two Wolves who happened to cross his path.
The first drew steel and tried to charge in and gut him. Irreph swung his chains, danced aside, and swung them again. The man grunted, dropped his blade from numbed, broken fingers, and never had time to pick it up again.
The second drew sword, too, then turned and ran, crying the alarm. He got about three houses away before a goodwife hobbled hurriedly down her steps, fell in front of him, and reached out carefully to trip him with her cane as he ran past. Irreph did not give him time to get up.
"Irreph," she said eagerly, as he helped her to her feet. "Lord, are you come to lead us to war?"
Mulmar looked down and smiled through his mask of dust, sweat, and blood. "My thanks, Ireavyn. I am. Tell all, if you will, to bring arms as soon as they are able. I march on the castle."
"Alone?"
"Aye," he said grimly. Her face fell.
"And, Ireavyn, I'm your high constable, not your lord. No lord rules in the High Dale."
She nodded almost sadly and looked around. No Wolf was watching, but over Mulmar's shoulder her face lit.
"Look! Folk have risen, Irreph! They come! They come!"
She stared harder and her jaw dropped open. "Is that your Daera with them?"
Irreph whirled, almost felling the goodwife with an errant swinging shackle.
"Gods!" he cursed as he saw Ylyndaera's white face amid all the old men. Their eyes met, and the high constable suddenly discovered something wet was blurring his eyes.
The sun. Aye, the sun. He ran to meet his daughter, love and pride rising almost to choke him as he went.
* * * * *
The high constable of the High Dale walked slowly toward the castle, his chains in his hand. A crowd gathered in his wake, and those who bore weapons grew steadily in numbers. Beside him was his daughter, Ylyndaera, and behind them walked many old men of the dale, gray of beard and snow-white or thin of hair, with wrinkled old faces and stiff old limbs. They clutched weapons green or rust-red or worn thin with age, but carried themselves like old lions looking for a fight. Pride, joy, and a certain reckless defiance showed in their faces, and their eyes glinted when they looked ahead to where death awaited. At long last they were going to strike back.
A tyrant's banner still floated from the battlements ahead. An outlander still called himself lord of their dale, took tax coins from deep in their pockets, slew them at his pleasure, and told them what to do. Enough-as some forgotten warrior had said ages ago and half the Realms away-was enough. At long last they were going to war.
The road under their marching feet grew wider and cobbled. For this time of day, the way was strangely empty.
Word had spread, and the dalefolk hid and watched, or found what arms they could and came out to join Irreph. The Wolves must have gone to the castle for orders-the marchers could see the glint and gleam of helmed heads on the walls, looking down-for none showed themselves as the ragged but growing band of dalefolk approached the dark bulk of the High Castle.
The castle rose like a tall stone ship out of the houses in the center of the dale. A steep-sided earthen ditch surrounded the rocky ridge on which the fortress stood. A cobbled road descended steeply from its forekeep gate down to a large open space, the dale's marketplace. Since the arrival of Longspear, a dark, gaunt double gibbet had arisen in the center of this space. The great open well, once freely used by all, had been covered, its locked pumps used for the Wolves and their horses only.
Angry murmurs rose from the crowd as the dalefolk came out into the marketplace and saw these hated reminders of unwanted rule. The murmurs became a roar as they saw what awaited beyond.
Where