Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [132]
Fyodor wished this were not so, but it was his custom to know and speak truth, even to himself.
By midnight, Fyodor found himself almost regretting his decision to stay. The feast was long and raucous, and each person present seemed devoted to the goal of consuming enough ale or mead to satisfy an entire dwarven clan. He himself did not drink-he had little taste for either the bitter ale or the heady, sweet mead. Nor had he ever drunk past the point of reason, not even in the days before his battle frenzies raged out of control. It surprised him that the berserkers of Holgerstead saw no need for such restraint. But then, none of them shared his particular curse. Their battle rages were ruled by choice and ritual. They were in no danger of touching off a killing frenzy through some drunken misunderstanding.
Wedigar especially seemed determined to find temporary escape from his troubles. The First Axe had drunk a considerable amount of ale with his meal and then downed two large goblets of golden mead with no pause for talk and little for breath. He was now snoring comfortably, his bearded cheek resting on the remains of the bread trencher that had held his portion of venison stew. Here and there other warriors and women had nodded off; as well, and many more were beginning to yawn broadly.
A warning flashed in Fyodor's mind, and he snatched up Wedigar's empty goblet and sniffed at the dregs. Sure enough, there was the faint, herbal scent of the sleeping potion Hrolf's men had used on the pirates' remote Moonshae base.
it was then he heard the sounds-a faint scrabbling at the walls that surrounded Holgerstead. The village was based in an ancient stronghold built by long-dead dwarves, and despite the passage of centuries it was still a fastness that defied attack from without. Holgerstead was the last fall-back of Ruathym, a place where the people from other parts of the island might come in times of extreme danger. It would never fall, not unless it were delivered into an enemy's hands. And that, it appeared to Fyodor, was exactly what had happened.
He glanced up at the walls. The sentries were already asleep, sprawled on the walkways or draped limply over the ramparts. No doubt they had been served the tainted mead early on. Fyodor did not know who had dealt this treachery, nor did he have time to ponder the mystery. Shouting an alarm, the young Rashemi took up his sword and smacked Wedigar with the flat of it. To Fyodor's amazement, the First Axe sat up and regarded the young man woozily. The warrior soon grasped the reality of the coming attack and began to give orders to his fighters. Fyodor was gratified to note that although Wedigar's voice was slurred, his battle tactics seemed sound enough. The berserkers seemed to have unusual resilience. Most of them threw off the effects of their overindulgence-and even the tainted mead-as easily as a dog might shake water from its coat.
Archers raced up the stairs that led to the walkways atop the outer wall. Women gathered up the young and shooed them into the round stone keeps that lay inside the second wall of defense. In the vast courtyard between the two walls, the tables that had been set up for the feast were upended to form an impromptu shield wall.
Fyodor watched in horror as enormous, scaly hands groped at the top edge of the c~urtain wall. The first wave of archers had no time to nock arrows; the attackers seized the Ruathen and jerked them from their perches. Arms windmilled briefly as the archers tried to keep their balance, but one by one they toppled and dropped from sight. Faint thuds spoke of their fate on the rocky shore below.
in the courtyard, Northmen fitted arrows and let fly at the shadowy invaders