The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [209]
Salamander opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and merely smiled.
“Gerran!” Cadryc went on. “There you are, eh? Doubtless you want to know how the council went. Well, the plan comes down to letting the dragons counter the archers while we get our men through to the gates with the ram.”
“Isn’t that the plan you had in mind when the council started?” Salamander said.
“It is, truly. But the point of a council of war is to see if someone can come up with a better idea or find the weaknesses in the one you’ve got.” Cadryc allowed himself a weary smile. “And with two princes and a gwerbret doing the arguing, these things take time. Now, Prince Voran thought we should wait until we got some sappers and miners here, but Prince Dar pointed out that the longer we sit here at this dun, the more likely it is that the Horsekin will finish their cursed stone wall around their dun before we get there. And so on and on it went.”
Yet in the end, part of their plan, at least, turned out to be useless. Dawn broke in a sky half-obscured by clouds off to the north. Most of the men ate their breakfast rations standing up, staring at the sky, wondering about rain and dragons both. A troubled silence lay over the camp. Even Gerran succumbed to the mood. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the day would see some momentous occurrence, maybe a defeat, maybe a victory—but something was about to happen at last.
Sure enough, the sun stood about halfway ’twixt dawn and noon when Honelg’s herald appeared on the dun wall, waving his staff to ask for a parley. The shout went up for Indar, who came running with the ribands on his staff streaming out behind him. This time, rather than meet among Honelg’s earthworks, the two heralds came down very nearly to the gwerbret’s siege line. Gerran followed Cadryc as his lordship squeezed himself in behind Voran to hear the parley.
“I see no reason to stand upon ceremony, your high nesses and your grace,” the herald said. “My lord Honelg has decided to open his gates. He welcomes you in, should you dare to try to reach them.”
The herald turned and waved at the dun. When Gerran looked up he saw archers lining the catwalks between every pair of crenels.
“My lord further suggests,” the herald continued, “that if you don’t care to come visit him, you might quit his lands with all due speed.” He bowed to the assembled lords, then turned and walked back, disappearing between the earthworks surrounding the dun’s motte.
For a moment, a strange silence lay over both those defending and those attacking the dun, broken at last by the creaking squeak and grumble of a winch pulling open a pair of heavy gates. Up on the walls the archers began laughing, a rising tumble of noise somewhere between hysteria and mirth.
Ridvar and Voran turned to face one another and seemed to be about to speak, but neither said a word until the laughter died away. Prince Dar set his hands on his hips and stared up at the dun. From his alien face, so preternaturally handsome, it was impossible to tell what he might be feeling.
“They’re all daft,” Voran said. “They must be!”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Daralanteriel said. “Daft, mayhap, but clever as well. How many of your men would live to reach the gates, my lords, if we lacked allies with wings?”
“A good point, Your Highness.” Ridvar finally found his voice. “They would have made us pay high, more than they’re worth, the bastards.”
“I suggest we have our men arm and ready themselves.” Voran bowed in Daralanteriel’s direction. “If one of your people could alert the dragons?”
“Gladly,” Daralanteriel said. “And may all of our gods favor us today.”
While the men armed, Prince Voran and Gwerbret Ridvar squabbled but in an oddly amiable way about the order of the charge, if you could call the run ahead through a twisty maze a charge. Ridvar had the typical young lord’s dream of glory, that he would lead his men personally through the gates, but both princes