Rebellion

CHAPTER 62

Rix knew there was no hope of saving Garramide now.

He gave no explanation to his ne’er-do-wells, and said not a word on the long ride home. Tali, Tobry and Holm were talking among themselves and shooting him increasingly anxious looks, but he ignored them. He almost wished Maloch had dragged him into the Abysm.

No, never again would he contemplate that way of escape. Even if Garramide was doomed, he was going to fight all the way.

He ran through all the preparations that had been made to defend the fortress. The bombast-battered walls had been repaired, the weakest points strengthened and raised, and the broken gate repaired and reinforced. The storerooms and armouries were full, the cisterns topped up, and his troops were as well trained as they could be in the time. What else could he do?

On reaching Garramide late that night, he dismissed his men and spoke briefly with Swelt, who had no further news of the advancing army. The fortress was calm, so he went to his chambers, put a bottle in one pocket of his coat and a goblet in another, and headed up to the observatory.

Taking a pot of white paint, he blocked out the mural with fierce strokes, then laid a second thick, opaque layer across the brushstrokes of the first, and a third coat diagonally across the others, until no trace of Grandys remained.

That done, he uncorked the bottle, filled the goblet and went to toss it back in a gulp. No, time is rapidly running out. Treat each moment, and each small pleasure, as though it’s your last.

Rix turned the lantern down, pulled his coat around him, closed his eyes and took a sip, allowing the wine to flow back across his tongue. Ah, that was good. He had another sip, which was better.

A worry intruded — why the sword wanted to get back to Grandys. Rix put it aside for later but another followed it — the possible mutiny. It could wait until the morning, when he would identify the ringleaders and deal with them. Even the lord of Garramide was entitled to a few moments of peace.

He emptied his mind. The next hour was about the wine. Just savouring the wine, sip by careful sip. Minutes passed between sips; it took half an hour to empty the small goblet. He poured another without opening his eyes, drank it too.

Rix set the goblet down. The urge to swill the whole bottle had passed. He leaned back in the chair and might have dozed for a while. He did not know or care. He roused, yawned, stretched and opened his eyes. And his hair stood up.

The image was reappearing on the wall through three thick layers of white. As he watched it ghosting through, Rix was alarmed to realise that the image had changed. Grandys was still contorted, but definitely not in agony. He was in a crouch, half twisted around so he was looking straight out of the wall, and his right hand was extended as if reaching out for his sword.

Suddenly, Rix was very glad that he had not raised Grandys’ petrified body from the Abysm.

“They’re back, Deadhand,” said Nuddell. He had run all the way from the front watchtower to Rix’s chambers and was breathing hard. “The enemy are back in force. Must’ve come in the night.”

Rix grabbed his coat, sword and field glasses, and eased on the steel gauntlet.

“What are they doing?” he said, pretending a casualness he did not feel. The lord of Garramide had to set an example of calm control at all times. Was this it? Would they all be dead by tonight?

“Same as last time. Just sitting there, out of range, setting up camp.”

They went down. Swelt met them at the foot of the stairs. He was wearing his sword again.

“You’ve heard?” said Rix.

“I have. And I’ve ordered the household to prepare for the worst.”

“I’ll be on the main watchtower,” said Rix. “How many?” he said to Nuddell as they headed that way.

“More than before. Close to a thousand.”

“Do you reckon that’s all that’s coming?”

“I’m just a sergeant, Deadhand. Kicking heads and backsides is more in my line.”

“Nonetheless, I’m asking.”

“No. I reckon there’re more coming.”

“So Swelt’s information was good. How long can we hold them out?”

“Half a day; maybe a full day if we’re lucky…”

“How’s morale?”

“I’ve known it to be better.”

“What would you say the problem is?”

“Reckon you know that better than I do.”

Rix stopped in the middle of the yard. “Answer the damn question, Sergeant.”

Nuddell swallowed, avoided Rix’s eyes, then said quietly, “It’s the shifter.”

“Kindly elaborate.”

Nuddell cleared his throat. “Personally, I don’t mind the fellow. Lagger put up a mighty fight on the wall last time — I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t. And he ain’t like other shifters. Almost human, he is. Must’ve been a rare gentleman before he caught the curse.”

“He was,” said Rix. “I mean, he is.”

“But your other men, they haven’t seen the world like I have, Lord. Traditional. Closed minds. To name the thing is to condemn it. You let him in, they’re saying. You protect him, and what if he starts creeping down the halls at night, at his gory work?”

They reached the watchtower and began to climb the steps. “So that’s what they say. What will they do?”

“Lord?”

“Will they desert? Refuse to fight? Mutiny?”

Nuddell looked everywhere except at Rix. He strained, but no words came out.

“You took the sergeant’s badge, Nuddell. You have to do the sergeant’s job.”

“It’s harder than I thought.”

Rix waited.

“A handful could be thinking about deserting. I’ll give you their names. But refuse to fight an attacking enemy — no, they won’t go that far.”

“What about mutiny?”

They reached the top of the watchtower. Three guards were on duty, all watching the enemy camp. They turned around, snapping to attention. Rix studied the enemy camp for a minute or two, doing his own estimate of their numbers — the same as Nuddell’s count — and their gear, then led him across to the far side where they would not be overheard. The sergeant was sweating now but Rix had to know.

Nuddell glanced at the guards, then lowered his voice. “If anyone was plotting mutiny, reckon they’d slit my throat quick smart if they thought I was informing on them.”

“I dare say they will. And my corpse will be lying right beside yours. Give me their names.”

Nuddell closed his eyes, then began to tick names off on his fingers. “Bailley. The twin brothers Hox. Rancid — ”

“Is there really a man on the rolls called Rancid?” said Rix.

“By nature and by name. Oily fellow, always sucking up, but as soon as your back’s turned he’s bitching about you. I’ll point him out. Knives are his specialty. He likes to slit weasands with them.”

“I wonder if he mentions that when he writes home to his mother?” said Rix.

“Doubt if he’s got one. Reckon he oozed out from under the jakes.”

“Anyone else?”

“Tumblow and Tiddler.”

“I know Tiddler,” said Rix. “He’s the giant.”

“Yeah. Blacksmith. Watch out for his hammer. Those six are the worst. Put ’em away and I doubt if you’ll have any trouble with the others.”

“How long do I have?”

“Until after the battle — assuming we win. And if we don’t… well, we don’t have to worry, do we?”

“Why not before the battle?”

“Mutineers are scum, everyone knows that. But there’s no one in this fortress so foul, dishonourable and treacherous that they’d start a mutiny with the enemy at the gates.”

“Thank you, Nuddell. I appreciate it.”

“Then there’s the servants.” Nuddell was warming to his task. “I don’t know all of them, but there’s Blathy, of course, and Porfry — ”

“What about Astatin, the witch-woman?”

“Mad as a maggot,” said Nuddell, “but desperately loyal. She won’t betray you. And that’s all I know.”

Rix nodded and looked through his field glasses. “Looks like the enemy have brought up a bigger bombast-hurler this time. That could cause us some grief.” He turned away. “Keep me informed.”

“You going already, Lord Deadhand?”

“Orders to write, messages to send, allies to call upon, scouts and spies to send out. It never stops, Sergeant.”