The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [112]
“Tomorrow when it’s light,” Burcan said, “I’ll have the villagers move inside the last wall. They’re too exposed where they are now. If the demon-spawn Usurper does take that fourth wall, he’ll take them with it and a lot of stored food, too. We’ll leave the cattle and swine out there, but the supplies and the people had best move inside.”
“Do you think he’ll try for the fourth wall?”
“Why not? He’s taken three of them, hasn’t he? But now we’re in a proper position, one we have enough men to hold. He won’t be taking the fourth wall, not unless some god helps him.”
Prince Maryn rested his army for two days, and in the interval Nevyn did conceive of a way to help the silver daggers. When the chosen night came, he called upon the Great Lords of the Elements, who sent a storm over dun and camp alike to put the regents’ men off their guard. After midnight the clouds began to clear in a fitful wind; the moon would shine through, then darken again. The silver daggers would be able to see intermittently, then hide when they needed the dark—or so they could hope. As the troop made their way through the dun, Nevyn would scry them out so that the prince would know the exact right moment to launch the attack on the fourth wall.
In the middle of the night Nevyn said farewell to Caradoc and his men down at the outermost wall, where they’d assembled with their horses to ride to the bolthole. The men had rolled their outer clothes in the mud, then rubbed dirt into their hair and onto their faces for good measure. Carrying shields would have been impossible. For armor they were wearing two shirts with a hauberk between them, no sleeves or hoods for fear of noise. Tieryn Peddyc stood among them, as filthy as anyone else. Around their waists they’d coiled ropes. Although they were wearing cloaks at the moment, Caradoc remarked that they’d send those back with the horses.
“We have to move fast, my lord, and we can’t have some bit of cloth getting in our way.”
“Just so. May you have the luck of the gods!”
“My thanks. We’ll need it.”
They clasped hands. Although Nevyn allowed himself a wondering if he’d ever see the captain again, he received no omens. Whether they succeeded or failed, whether they lived or died—how well the silver daggers carried out their mission would answer those questions, not a Wyrd. Everything depended now on them.
• • •
When they reached the ruined dun, the silver daggers turned their horses over to servants, who would lead them back to the camp. With a lantern in one hand, Caradoc walked among his troop and made sure that each man had tied his scabbard to his leg to keep it from knocking against some wall or obstacle and sounding an alarm. Here and there he rubbed a little more dirt into someone’s clothing to hide a spot of white linen. The men gathered in a loose crowd in front of the cellar door that led to the bolthole.
“All right, lads,” Caradoc said. “Stand where you are a moment, will you?”
The troop turned his way.
“First to catch it!” Caradoc went on. “Here.”
Caradoc tossed something above the crowd. Red-haired Trevyr reached up and plucked it from the air.
“It’s a bit of cloth around a stone,” he told the others. “We’re counting out for squads.”
“Just that,” Caradoc said. “You’re number one. The man next to him, shout out two, and then the next, one again. Remember which number you draw, lads. One or two.”
Branoic ended up with number two, much to his annoyance. Whenever the troop split, Owaen always commanded the second squad, and Branoic would much rather have gone elsewhere. At the very end, Tieryn Peddyc called out “one,” but Caradoc motioned him forward.
“You go with the second squad, my lord,” he said. “The reason will come clear later.”
“It’s your command, here, not mine,” Peddyc said.
“Just that.” Caradoc smiled briefly, then turned to his men. “Now remember, lads. Noise is the enemy. Pay careful attention to where we come out of this tunnel. If you get