The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [126]
“They might not stop to harm us,” Merodda hissed. “They have to get to the fighting below. We might escape yet.”
No one believed her, least of all herself. She heard laughter and the sound of heavy boots, trampling back and forth. Another axe broke through, then another—a whole section of roof gave way between two beams. Sunlight poured through like poisoned mead.
“We’re through!” a dark voice called out. “Get those swiving ladders over here!”
A rope ladder swung down through the hole in the roof. A man in pot helm and mail climbed halfway down, leapt the rest of the way, and made a clumsy turn as he drew his sword.
“Ye gods!” He stared at the women, then yelled up to his fellows. “Naught here but a pack of womenfolk and their children.”
Another voice called back; another man came down the ladder, then a second. The first man down yelled again.
“I know the prince’s orders as well as you do, you hairy bastard! But how by all the shit in the hells are we supposed to get them out of here?”
In a stench of sweat and blood more men were coming down and forming up by the landing. None of them so much as looked at the women. They exchanged grim smiles, then started down the stairs a pair at a time. From below someone shrieked an alarm; then the shouting started and the dull clang of blows. Sword in hand, the fellow who’d been first down walked over to Merodda. She drew herself up to full height and looked him in the face. She had a dweomer-spell ready—if they were going to rape and kill them all, she’d curse them first—but he forestalled her.
“By Prince Maryn’s personal order no women are to be harmed. You’ll be safest on the roof. Can you all climb up there?”
For a moment Merodda saw the room lurch and spin. Abrwnna caught her arm from behind and steadied her. Men were still climbing down the ropes and pouring down the stairs, a river of ironclad death. Merodda found her voice at last.
“Then we throw ourselves on the prince’s mercy.”
“Cursed good idea.” He flashed her a grin. “Now, I’ve been told to guard you, and I don’t want no trouble. Understand? Once the squads are all down, we’ll go up. You’ll be safe, I swear it, but keep those pages in line. If they don’t cause no trouble, they’ll live to fight for the true king one sweet day.”
Tears rose and threatened to overwhelm her. Their guard turned indifferently away and watched his fellows, hurrying down to death or battle glory.
• • •
Just after noon the last of the king’s men began surrendering. From the ward Nevyn and Maryn watched them being marched out in straggling lines. Finally the prince could stand it no longer.
“By the asses of the gods, it must be safe enough for me to go in now!”
“Most likely, my liege.” Nevyn turned to Oggyn. “And what does my fellow councillor think?”
“I’ll go look, my Lord, and have a word with those guards.”
Oggyn trotted over to the broken doors of the great hall, paused briefly to talk with one of the men, then came rushing back.
“My liege, my liege,” Oggyn called out. “They’ve found the false king!”
“Good!” Maryn said. “Where is he?”
“In his chamber. I suggest you go up now. The sooner he’s slain, the better.”
“I’m not going to murder him out of hand, Oggyn. He’ll be judged properly in my malover.”
Oggyn bit back a reply and covered his near-discourtesy with a bow. He looked frightened, Nevyn realized, and once he saw this terrible enemy, he realized why. With a handful of the king’s guard they hurried up the stairs from the great hall, down a hallway where corpses lay, and into a chamber littered with broken furniture. They all knew, of course, that the would-be king in Dun Deverry was but a child, but knowing and actually seeing were two different things. Little Olaen sat in the curve of the wall and clutched a wooden horse to his chest; his face was filthy with tears and snot, and he smelled of urine.
“By every god in the sky!