The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [115]
If everything went well. If. Nevyn’s stomach hurt like fire. He rubbed it and went back to his scrying.
Ah shit! Branoic thought. No more luck for us! Half-crouching, half-crawling, the silver daggers had reached a position not far from the gates in the fourth wall. By looking slantwise between two huts, he could see them clearly, some thirty yards away. It was not a pretty sight. Over the gates stood maybe twenty men, while the pairs on patrol came and went in a regular rhythm. Lantern light abounded. They had no more hope of reaching the gates unseen than a flower does of blooming in the hells.
Caradoc inched his way down the line, whispering. Branoic heard him murmuring, “First squad to me; second squad, follow Owaen,” and then he was past. The men who’d called “one” peeled out of line and crept after the captain, who seemed to be going back the way they’d come. The second squad waited until they were safely away, then slowly and carefully closed ranks. Owaen turned and whispered to his squad as he inched past them.
“Wait for the signal. Then charge the gates.”
More cursed waiting! And what in all the hells was Caradoc up to? All at once Branoic felt his stomach turn over in a fit of cold sickness. Whether it was his omen-voice or how well he knew the captain, he realized that Caradoc and the first squad were going to make a distraction somewhere to draw the guards off. It wasn’t cursed likely that any of them would be coming back, either. Inching back along Owaen confirmed it by whispering, “To the postern back there somewhere,” in answer to a murmured question from someone else. Half-sick with grief, Branoic’s only thought was wishing he’d paid Trevyr the five coppers he owed him—not that Trevyr would be spending them anywhere soon.
The waiting went on. The men knelt in the muddy ground and let themselves go limp and still. Up at the edge of safe shelter, Owaen knelt on one knee and every now and then risked a look around a wall at the gates. Branoic’s left leg was growing numb. He shifted his weight to the right and checked his sword hilt for the hundredth time.
All at once yells cut through the night. Screams of alarm answered back from above the gates. Owaen rose, and the rest of the squad followed suit. When Branoic looked he saw half the guards running along the top of the wall and heading back toward the postern. Owaen drew his sword with his right hand and his silver dagger with his left. With the hiss of metal sliding on leather the squad did the same. Owaen raised his sword high, waited a moment, then yelled, “Now!”
The silver daggers burst out of cover and charged for the gates. The last few regent’s men froze in surprise for a moment, then began scrambling down catwalks. Someone on the wall was blowing a silver horn. Just as Branoic gained the wall, he heard horns shrieking on the far side. The prince’s forces were moving. Four of the silver daggers rushed the winch; two of them lived to claim it. Branoic swung round and saw a Boarsman running straight toward him with a drawn sword. Branoic raised his dagger, caught the blow, and swung hard from the side. His strike caught the Boarsman low; he twisted round, and on the backhand Branoic slashed—a lucky hit. His throat half-torn away, the man fell hard, tripping the man rushing to his aid.
Owaen was screaming orders. Branoic fell back, parrying all the way, and joined the fighting around the winch. The silver daggers paired off and fought back to back, parrying more than seeking kills, desperately trying to keep the guards back while the two men at the winch swore over the handle. Over the screaming of battle, Branoic heard a sound that just might have been the gates creaking. Two Boarsmen were pressing in hard; he ducked one while he tried to see well enough in the dim light to parry the other with his blade. The silver dagger behind him grunted and went down. Branoic spun and danced just in