CHAPTER SIX: Blood on the Bear's Claws
Madra's bark pierces the night.
I jerk awake, disoriented, not sure whether the noise was part of a dream. My room is dark, lit only by embers from the fireplace, and the keep is silent.
It's warm underneath my thick comforter, but the air on my face is bitingly cold. I can feel the smooth skin of Iona's arm across my chest; she is curled at my side, her head on my shoulder, her breasts warm against my ribs. She stirs slightly, makes a sleepy little groan, and I squeeze her tighter against me.
Between the chill and the dark, I'd guess it has been at least a few hours since we retired. Perhaps an hour more remains before sunrise.
Too early for Madra to be demanding her morning walk, then.
Must have dreamt it…
...
Madra barks again, and now there's no mistaking the sound. Nor is there any mistaking her mood, as the bark trails off into a low, menacing growl.
Iona stirs, pushes herself up onto an elbow. "What?" she mumbles.
My eyes are adjusting, and I can see Madra is crouched before the door to the commons, her back to the bed, her head down, every muscle in her body coiled to strike.
Mabari hounds are loyal pets, adept hunters, and playful companions, but they are bred first and foremost for war. Madra is no exception. Her instinct for violence is razor sharp, and if she believes there is danger outside my door, I would be a fool to doubt her.
Iona slips out of bed, taking one of the blankets with her and wrapping it around her naked body. "Want me to let her out?" she asks, sleepily.
"No!" I hiss, holding up my hand as an added warning.
I stand and pull on a pair of trousers that were draped at the foot of the bed. As quietly as I can, the stone floor cold beneath my bare feet, I move across the room to my weapons stand. A sword rests across the top pegs, and below it my bow; knives hang from hooks on one leg of the stand, and a quiver full of arrows from the other.
Taking one of the knives, I move to the door and listen. Madra is beside me, still growling, and I rest my free hand on the crown of her head, hoping to silence her long enough to hear some clue as to what has her on edge. If anything, though, her growl deepens, and I feel muscles cording tighter and tighter down her back.
"Hush, girl," I whisper.
No sooner have I done so than the door is struck with enormous force. In the stillness of the night, the sound is deafening; I startle backwards several paces, and behind me, Iona lets out a stifled cry.
There's scarcely time to tighten my grip on the knife before another strike splinters the wood around the iron crossbar, and the door flies inward. To my shame, I flinch away even further.
Just as quickly, though, the instincts beaten into me by all those mornings drilling behind the barracks take over. I raise the knife high, cocking my arm as I lean forward, putting all my weight on the balls of my feet.
Three men rush through the shattered doorway. All wear armor. Each carries a sword, unsheathed, the edges gleaming in the darkness.
Madra leaps forward, teeth bared, jaws wide.
In midair, she catches the first man's sword arm, sinking her teeth in deep. He yells in surprise and pain, and her weight spins him sideways until he crashes against the wall, Madra's jaws still latched onto him, dragging him down.
Behind me, Iona screams again.
The first man is on his knees, still yelling. He's trying to reach far enough enough around Madra's body to switch his sword from right hand to left.
His companions continue to advance, ignoring him. Their focus is on me.
My knife will be next to useless against their swords. I can't begin to match their reach, and I'll be unable to parry, besides.
I've got to get close or I'm as good as dead, and Iona with me.
No time for second guessing. I launch myself at the nearest assailant with all the power my legs can muster.
As I do, he begins to swing his sword.
I'm barely fast enough, passing just inside the sweep of his arm. As the flat of his blade bounces harmlessly off my back, I ram my shoulder into his chest, trying to knock him off balance. At the same time, I jab with my knife, but thick leather armor turns the point away.
He pivots his hips. He shoves me with one hand, to create distance, and with the other draws his sword back for another swing.
This is a dance I know. I've followed the steps dozens of times in sparring matches.
I shift with him, using the momentum from his shove to my advantage, twisting to keep close to him. As we move, I sweep my knife up, and score a deep cut on the inside of his left elbow. He grunts and jerks the arm back.
Even injured, he doesn't let up his attack. He whips the butt of his sword toward my head, not cutting but striking, hoping to stun me. I don't have time to dodge. All I can do is duck my bring up my free arm, taking the full force of the blow on my shoulder.
It staggers me almost to my knees, and I have to focus just to keep a grip on my knife.
Already bent forward, I lunge and wrap my arms around his knees, hoping to tackle him to the ground. Instead, we both crash against a wall and shimmy sideways along its length, our feet scrambling beneath us.
Our grappling presents the last attacker with a chance to join the fight. He grabs me by the arm, his fingers ruthlessly tight, digging deep into skin and muscle. He rips me away from the wall, and the man I was grappling with loses his footing and falls to the floor.
I flail my arm, trying to pull away, but he's too strong. He's trapped me now, and any moment now he'll run me through.
Instead, I hear something solid strike his head. From the corner of my eyes, I can see Iona has hit him with a long brass candlestick, and is winding up for another blow. In the right hands, the candlestick could be a lethal weapon, but she has neither the height nor the strength to land a killing blow.
Still, she's caused enough pain to distract him, and his grip on my arm falters. It's not enough to break free, but I'm able to twist toward him.
As I do, I kick the other attacker, the one I tried to tackle, who is just now righting himself. The ball of my foot connects perfectly with his nose, and I feel cartilage give way, and the man falls backwards, landing unceremoniously on his ass.
He's out of the fight for a few more seconds.
While I'm landing my kick, the man who still holds my arm backhands Iona, her neck whipping sideways as her legs buckle beneath her.
I continue to twist, hoping to turn far enough to slash at the arm that grips me. Instead, having dealt with Iona, the man throws me, hard. His push is as strong as his grip, and I hit the far wall.
The shock of the impact sends pinpricks of white-hot light racing across my field of vision.
As I stagger upright, I can see all three of the attackers are back on their feet. I'm not sure where Madra is, but the man she bit has lost the use of his sword arm, which hangs limp and mangled at his side.
The strong one, the one who just threw me, looms over Iona. He has her cornered between the bed and the wall. She's already bleeding profusely from one arm as he draws his sword back for a killing blow.
There's no way I have time to reach her, so I gamble, and hurl my knife at the back of his neck.
Even with a blade that's properly weighted, I'm barely proficient at throwing knives. And in any case, this knife was not crafted for throwing. Even as it leaves my hand, I can tell my aim is off. By all rights, the throw should miss.
But it doesn't. Hearing or sensing something, the strong one turns his head – directly into the knife's path.
It's splits his eyeball straight down the middle, popping it like an overripe grape, and opens a gruesome wound down across his cheek.
He shrieks and collapses on his knees. He's not dead, but he's definitely not a threat anymore. One down, and I've bought Iona a few seconds, too.
With every ounce of breath in my lungs, I bellow out a challenge. It's not likely to intimidate the attackers, but it might bring the guards who should be patrolling the common room below.
And as I scream, I race across my bedroom. I slam into the nearest attacker, the one whose sword arm was savaged by Madra. Maybe because he's carrying his sword in his off-hand, the force of the impact sends the sword sliding from his hold.
We crash to the ground together, and for a moment I'm on top.
Before I can go for his eyes or his throat, though, he bucks his hips and I find he has also trapped one of my legs. I'm helpless as he flips us, rolling on top of me.
Immediately, he punches me in the face once, twice, three times with his good hand. I feel at least one of my teeth break free, and blood fills my mouth. Then he stops hitting me, and I feel his weight on my chest shift.
I blink through sweat and blood, and see he is reaching out for his sword, his fingers closing around the pommel.
Desperately, I try to throw him off, clawing at his armor and scrabbling with my feet for something to brace against, but it's no use. He has the sword now, and begins to raise it for a killing blow.
Just as I begin to accept that it's over, he pitches sideways, thrown off me in by a blur of dark fur and bared teeth.
His cry of surprise is cut short as he falls to the floor with Madra on top.
I can't see what happens next, but I can hear Madra kill him. It's vicious, a brutal harmony of growling, and panicked gargles, and tearing flesh. There's no time to watch, or to be repulsed, or to feel relief.
The last assailant still on his feet is the man with the broken nose. He's cautious now, his guard up, but he's moving with quick, determined strides. His allies are dead or injured, and his left arm is cut. He needs to end this quickly, and I can see in his eyes that he believes he will.
I lurch forward, crouching, picking up the sword that belonged to the man Madra is killing.
As I rise, I bring the blade with me, barely deflecting a powerful strike that bounces my sword's point off the stone floor and sends me stumbling backwards.
He presses after me, swinging again and again, keeping me on the defensive. As we circle each other, I know I'm outmatched.
My legs brush against the bed frame. Desperate, I grasp with my free hand, and find a shirt, discarded on the mattress. Clawing as much of the fabric together as I can, and throw it at his head, hoping to create even a momentary distraction.
The trick pays off. Instinctively, the man flinches away, creating just enough of an opening for me to jab with the point of the sword.
Luck favors me again.
Instead of trying to parry or even dodge, he brings his left arm up, almost like he's holding a shield. My blade slices across his hand, severing fingers, and then sinks several inches into his chest.
He seems as surprised as I am by his mistake.
Dying, but not yet dead, he swings his sword once more, a weak strike that's easy to dodge. As I sidestep away, the momentum of this last attack carries him forward, and he topples slowly.
He's almost hit the ground when I swing again, intending to take his head.
I misjudge my aim, however, and my sword bites his neck, but not clean through. His head flops grotesquely against his shoulder, only half-tethered to the body, as he finally collapses on the stones.
I step over him, planning to finish the strong man who turned into my thrown knife, but find the job already done.
Iona is standing over him, panting, holding the candlestick again. Her face is white, her arm and side slick with blood from her own injury.
We stare at each other, uncomprehending, trying to fathom what's just happened.
Minutes ago, we were asleep in my bed.
Hours ago, we made love.
Last night, we raised glasses and toasted friendship on the roof.
Now we've barely won a fight for our lives.
Madra pads over, bloody strings of saliva hanging from the corners of her mouth as her tongue lolls. She's calm, even a bit pleased with herself.
In the aftermath of the violence, I realize I can hear nothing throughout the rest of the castle. No bells sounding the alarm, no running feet coming to the sound of our cries, no clash of blades. Outside the broken hinges of my door frame, the stairs down to the common room are dark and empty.
Wordlessly, I sit Iona on the side of the bed and tear strips of fabric from the sheets. These, I tie tightly around the cut on her arm, stemming the flow of blood. It's crude, but it will do until a healer can be brought.
There is a chance one of the field surgeons is on duty at the barracks, and an equal chance that one of the Chantry's spirit mages is staying in the chapel below, visiting from the Circle of Magi; if not, we'll have to send for one of the apothecaries in the outer wards.
"All right for now?" I ask.
She nods, eyes wide. "Are you?"
I'm really not sure how to answer. There is still blood in my mouth, and my shoulder is on fire where I blocked the pommel strike. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and my entire body is shaking. None of my thoughts seem to quite line up.
"You should put some clothes on," I reply, because for some reason the biggest worry I have right now is my mother finding Iona naked in my room.
Never mind her injuries, or mine. Never mind the dead men. Never mind the blood that covers most of the floor, running now in little rivers between the stones, snaking toward the stairs. Somehow, my biggest fear is embarrassing Mother.
Iona begins to pull on her dress, an effort made awkward since she seems unable to lift her injured arm. I move to help her, but she shakes her head.
"You should get dressed, too," she says.
Nodding, I cross to the weapons stand. My armor, such as it is, hangs on the wall behind. I pull on a thick shirt, then my leather vest, a belt, and finally a pair of boots. To the belt, I hook my sword and scabbard, and I tuck a knife in my boot. Last, and most comforting, I sling a full quiver over my shoulder and lift my bow. Not exactly ready for battle, but better prepared than I was earlier.
Madra, after circling my legs once, has posted herself at the top of the stairs. She is glaring down into darkness, toward the commons, but is not growling.
I'm not sure what to make of any of this.
Sound does not carry well in the keep, but someone should have heard the fight, or Iona's screams, or Madra barking. The utter silence means that something is very wrong.
There are servants in the commons throughout the night, and guards outside my parents' doors. If these assailants targeted only Iona and I – and why they would, I cannot guess – then help should be here already. But if there are more attackers in other parts of the castle, delaying our rescue, we'd have heard fighting by now, and the alarm bells would be ringing.
I turn my attention to the men we've killed, hoping they can provide some clue. I drop to one knee beside the the nearest attacker, the man I tried to decapitate. His head, half-severed, is twisted at an unnatural angle, so that even though he's lying on his stomach, I can see most of face looking up at me.
Bile rises in my mouth, and I have to fight not to retch. I've born witness to executions, and the aftermath of accidental death, and the butchery of livestock. I've seen my share of blood, but I've never spilled it myself, not this way, never in such an unexpected and personal context.
I cough once, and slowly regain control over rising nausea. Even accounting for the grotesque angle, and the expression frozen in pain and surprise, I can tell I've never seen the man before. He's not from Highever, at least not the castle.
Checking the rest of his body, I notice he was wearing a shield strapped to his back, over his sword's scabbard. It was knocked from one of its harnesses, either in the fighting or when he fell to the floor, and the shield is twisted in the remaining straps, face-down, half on and half off of his back. Its presence explains his bizarre attempt to parry my strike with his hand: he was used to carrying a shield in combat.
From this, I gather that they didn't expect a fight when they came into my room. And why should they have? Three armed men, surprising a young, sleeping noble? Why would they need anything more than swords?
I grip the edge of the shield, tilting it up, hoping to see if it carries any identifying marks.
As soon as I've lifted it enough to see the face, I almost drop it in shock.
The shield does indeed carry an insignia: the image of a brown bear, over a background of yellow and white. Dark blood is spattered on the bear's claws, but the image is unmistakable.
This is the Howe family crest.
The shock is almost physical, and I jerk upright. Nothing about this makes sense – not the violence that has invaded my room, not the silence in the rest of the castle, least of all the sigil itself.
Moving quickly, I check the other two bodies. Sure enough, they also wore shields slung on their backs, emblazoned with the brown bear.
Despite disliking Howe, I outright reject the most obvious implication. For one thing, these men were not among the small retinue that accompanied Howe on his arrival. More importantly, though, his friendship with Father is older than I am, and his loyalty has always been beyond question.
But if not Howe, what then can this mean?
Perhaps a disguise to allow the assassins to move more easily among the few servants and guards still working in the dead of night? It's not exactly a solid explanation, but it's the best I can manage.
Putting aside my questions, I move to Madra's side and look down the stairs. Below, the door to the commons rests open. The warm orange glow of a fire flickers across the small stretch of floor that's visible, but nothing else seems to be moving, and no sound echoes up the steps.
Briefly, I consider telling Iona to remain in my room. If the whole castle is under attack, however, I cannot leave her, defenseless and bleeding, while Madra and I investigate. And if the castle is not under attack, and the fight in my room has gone unnoticed by some freak accident, then there is no danger to her at all. So I beckon she should follow, and begin to descend the stairs, my sword ready.
Cautiously, I follow Madra down the stairs and through the door to the common room, Iona trailing several paces behind.
In the common room, my first impression is that nothing is out of place. The only light comes from fire burning low in the big hearth at the center of the room. It's sleepy and peaceful, just as it has been on the many late nights I've spent here, reading or playing chess with Aeron.
Then Iona inhales sharply. She touches my arm and points toward the couches on which Mother and Landra dined yesterday. Two bodies are crumpled on the thick rugs in front of the fireplace. Even in the dusky half-light, I can see wide, dark stains spread beneath them.
Beyond the dead servants, the door leading to the stairway up to Fergus' suite hangs open. Lights flicker from within, probably torches. The door ought to be shut. So should the door to the suite to Mother and Father's apartments, but I can't see it from here.
I signal Madra, and we start across the common room, towards the open door.
We've taken no more than a few steps, however, when I hear gruff voices and the sound of booted feet. Shadows play in the torchlight at the base of Fergus' stairs.
Men are coming down, and I do not think they are guards or servants.
Silently, I take Iona by the hand and we retreat to the shadows of my own stairway, Madra following obediently. Sheltered by darkness, I sheath my sword and transition to my bow, drawing and nocking an arrow, my eyes never leaving the door to Fergus' suite.
If they spot us, I should be able to kill one or two before they cross the common room. Then we can retreat up my stairs, and pick them off as they try to climb after us. I'm a good enough archer that they'll not reach my room until my quiver runs empty.
Across the common room, the men emerge from Fergus' staircase.
Like those who invaded my room, they wear armor and carry shields slung over their backs, and move with the confidence of men expecting no challenge. With a sinking sensation, I see the blades of their swords are stained red. Still more blood is flecked across the first man's arms and chest, none of it his own.
There's little doubt, then, that they've killed Oren and Oriana.
As the first man walks, I see he's tucking something that glitters in the firelight into a small leather satchel that hangs from his belt. Stolen jewelry, no doubt.
The theft enrages me. Is it not enough to murder the women and children of my family in their sleep? Must these bastards pillage our trinkets as well?
There are only three of them. My anger bests my prudence, and I step out from the shadows, my bow raised and drawn, ready to fire.
But as I do, the man with the jewelry gasps and twists sideways, an arrow that isn't mine protruding from his throat. As his body pitches to the floor, and before his comrades can react or I can adjust my aim, two more arrows streak across the commons and find their marks. All three of the men are dead before any of us know what's happened.
Bow still drawn, I step further from the door, surveying the room – and find my mother doing the same, pacing carefully out into the commons, her bow raised and string pulled tight. She appears to have dressed hastily, in clothes she usually wears when she accompanies Father hunting, and a quiver hangs on her hip. When she sees me, she relaxes slightly, pointing the tip of her arrow to the floor.
"Liam!" she calls out, walking toward me. "Darling, are you hurt?"
"Are you all right?"
"Only the Maker's grace," she says. "I heard fighting outside my door. I tried to sound the alarm, but the rope's been cut between us and the bell."
"Intruders," I say. "Three of them kicked my door in. Madra woke me, and helped fight. It's nothing but luck I'm still alive. Iona took a bad cut on her arm. It's bandaged, but we need a healer."
Iona steps up beside me, clutching her arm.
Mother doesn't bat an eyelash. "Keep pressure on that, dear," she says to Iona, and it looks like she's about to check the makeshift dressing the applied to the wound.
Then, abruptly, Mother freezes. "They came for you, too?" she asks.
She looks at the men she killed – dead with arrows in their throats, at the feet of the steps that lead to Fergus' chambers. I see the understanding wash over her like a physical wave.
...
As we climb the steps to Fergus' suite, Mother is sobbing already, pleading with the Maker for mercy. Any hope she held for answered prayer, however, is crushed as soon as pass the splintered door.
For me, there's only bitter confirmation. I've known what we'd find since the men emerged into the common room with blood on their swords.
A guardsman is dead in the entry room, where we said our goodbyes yesterday afternoon. It appears he was caught by surprise and run through as he leapt up from a small table: his hand grips a half drawn sword, and the table is on its side, contents strewn across the floor, pages of a letter soaked by the contents of a shattered ceramic mug.
Behind the guardsman's body, the door to Oren's room has been kicked from its hinges, the wooden crossbar splintered on the floor. Just inside the threshold, Oriana lays on her side, her arms wrapped protectively around a smaller form, her white nightdress soaked with bright red blood. I step past her, checking the room in case any of the murderers remained behind.
Mother cries out, a strangled shriek of grief and horror, and rushes forward. "No! My little Oren!"
As mother collapses to her knees beside the bodies, Madra follows me through a side door that leads to the adjoining master bedroom. Evidence of looting is everywhere: clothes, jewelry, weapons, and trinkets have been thrown from the trunks and drawers that held them, and lay scattered on the floor. Satisfied that none of the enemy remains in the suite, I direct Madra to guard the top of the stairs and return to Oren's room
There, I find Mother bowed over Oren and Oriana, her bow on the floor, her body shaking. Iona has knelt and wrapped her arm around Mother's back, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are wet.
"Poor, sweet Oren," Mother whispers, her hands stroking at Oren's pale forehead. "Poor, sweet child…"
I kneel as well, and take Iona's place at Mother's side, pulling her away from the bodies and into a hug. As I do, Iona steps gingerly around mother and child, bends down, and presses her fingers to Oriana's neck, checking for a pulse. Finding none, she brushes her fingers gently over Oriana's eyes, closing them for the last time.
"Oriana was pregnant," Mother reminds me hoarsely. "What manner of fiends slaughter the innocent?"
"Did you see their shields?" I ask, and notice Iona is now checking Oren for a pulse as well. Mother doesn't answer.
"They're carrying Howe's heraldry," I tell her.
"Howe's men?" Mother demands, her body suddenly rigid, rage galvanizing her grief. "That bastard! He attacks while our troops are gone!"
"But why would he attack us?" I press. "I'm not sure–"
"He must have delayed his men on purpose," she snarls, rising abruptly, snatching up her bow. "That bastard! I'll cut his lying throat myself!"
"He's alive," Iona says softly, and I'm not sure I heard her right. Then she repeats herself, louder, disbelieving.
Immediately, Mother drops back down beside Iona and bends over her grandson.
Iona rolls Oriana's body aside, revealing more of Oren's tiny frame. I can see at least two deep wounds to Oren's stomach, and the blood that soaks his shirt around them is dark, almost black. It seems impossible that he is still among the living, and equally unlikely that he can remain so even if he is now.
"By the Maker…" Mother says reverently, her ear low across his mouth. "He still draws breathe!"
"We need to get him to a healer," Iona says. "Quickly."
I shake my head. "We don't know what's going on. If there's more of them, we can't risk carrying Oren through a fight. I'll take Madra, and find a healer. You two stay with-"
"No one is staying here," Mother interrupts.
I start to argue, but she cuts me off immediately.
"I am no Orlesian wallflower!" she snaps. "I have a bow, and I'll use it. If there are more of these bastards in the castle, you'll need all the help you can get. Besides..." She gestures helplessly at Oriana's body and at Oren's frail form. "Howe is not even taking hostages. He means to kill us all, Liam. It's no safer here than anywhere else."
Further argument will be pointless, so I nod curtly, before bending down to lift Oren.
"Have you seen your father?" she asks. "He never came to bed."
I shake my head. "Not since the feast."
Oren's body is warm in my arms, but his skin is clammy, and his clothes are soaked with blood – his own and his mother's.
"We need to find him if we can," Mother says. "If the castle is under attack, he must be warned."
As I straighten up with Oren in my arms, Iona reaches out for him.
"Let me," she says.
"But your arm..."
"I can do carry him with one arm," she says. "Besides, you'll need both your hands if it comes to another fight.
Nodding, I place Oren in the crook of her uninjured arm, and she cradles him tenderly against her shoulder.
She directs me to wrap his little arms around the back of her neck and tie them at the wrists, and then loop a belt from a nearby dresser under Oren's knees and around her waist. When I'm done, Oren is effectively tied to her, so she needs only the one arm to support him easily.
Behind us, Mother has been praying over Oriana's body. "Now let us go," she says, rising. "I cannot stand to be here any longer."
...
I take the lead as we descend the winding stairway from the commons, my sword held ready. Madra is at my knee, nose forward and teeth bared. Behind us, Mother has a knife tucked into her belt, and carries her bow ready. Iona follows several paces behind with Oren.
We've decided to go directly to the great hall. As yet, no alarm has been raised, so any guards left in the castle should be at their posts in the hall and on courtyard landing. It's also where Father is most likely to be, whether he knows of the intruders or not.
"Six came for us," Mother is telling me, as we try to parse out the details of the attack.
"You must have had guards on duty?" I ask.
"Two men," Mother confirms. "They bought me time to bar the door, and killed four of the attackers before they fell."
"And you killed the other two yourself?" I ask, more than a little incredulous.
"They did not expect me," Mother says, which I suppose is quite the understatement.
If there is any justice, in whatever afterlife they find, as they suffer whatever punishment the universe can concoct, the bastards will know they were killed not just by a woman, but by a grandmother. No dignity in death for men who would put swords to women and children.
...
Halfway down to the great hall, we are met by a squad of guardsmen. They are running up the steps, blades drawn and shields up. They are as startled to see us as we are them, and the guard in the lead, a sergeant, lunges forward to bat my sword away with his shield, then pins me against the wall.
As his sword goes to my throat, mother screams for him to hold, calling him by name, and his eyes widen.
"My lord!" he exclaims, stepping back, lowering his weapon. "A thousand apologies, I – I didn't recognize you!"
"What's going on, sergeant?" Mother demands.
"There are intruders throughout the castle, milady, carrying Arl Howe's colors. We fought them off in the great hall, but we found the ropes for the alarm bells were already cut and feared the worst. You – you look as though you have seen fighting, my lord?" he asks, staring at me with an expression akin to awe.
It is uncommon, I suppose, to see a member of the nobility bearing weapons and covered in blood.
Behind me, Iona shifts into view, and the sergeant's face tightens. "Is – does the child still live?"
I nod, but I don't have time for further explanation. "Has the courtyard fallen?" I ask.
"They were still fighting there when Ser Gilmore sent us to find you," he says, and I feel a wash of relief to know Aeron is still alive. "He was preparing the men for a counterattack."
"And my husband?" Mother asks.
"The Teyrn was with Ser Gilmore, my lady."
"Then we've no time to lose," Mother says. "If the castle can be saved, we must find a healer, and if it cannot, we must find the Teyrn and get Oren out the servant's exit. You will escort us, sergeant?"
"Of course, my lady." Behind him, the guards are already moving back down the stairs with grim purpose.
...
I know something is wrong in the hall before I can even see the door. From the floor above, cries and the clash of arms echo up the stairs. Moments later, I hear the guards at the front of our escort bellow battle cries, and the whole squad rushes forward. I follow, chasing after the sergeant, and then stumble, tripping down the last of the stairs and almost falling across the threshold into the great hall.
Around me, violence reigns. Dozens of men stumble and strike and fall in dim light cast by flickering torches on the walls. Benches have been tipped over, chairs are broken into pieces, and one of the banquet tables is on its side, wedged against the gates to the courtyard landing, a makeshift barricade to deny anyone entry.
Too many of the dead scattered across the hall are my family's guardsmen. Some seem to have been caught unawares, weapons untouched, while others clearly fought to the death, their bodies covered with cuts, their weapons still clutched in their lifeless hands.
The fighting is concentrated by the big doors to the landing, and I think I can see Aeron's fiery hair and broad frame moving among the other guards. They have shoved a number of benches and smaller tables together, and fight between this blockade and the doors, forcing the attackers to either climb across the jumble of furniture or charge them directly. Outnumbered as they are, this tactic has prevented the guards from being completely overwhelmed, but they are still losing ground, and enemy archers pick at their flanks. Despite the ferocity of their defense, Aeron and the guards cannot hold out much longer on their own.
We've arrived barely in time, shifting the balance of the fight in more ways than one. The numbers are close to even now, but more importantly, we've emerged behind the enemy. Wasting no time, the sergeant and his men charge the enemy archers, nearby and unprotected. As they do, I raise my bow and signal Madra in the same motion, freeing her to attack the intruders as she wills.
Some of the enemy archers recognize the danger and call out to the swordsmen, but all of them are too late. Most of the archers are cut down before they can even turn, and the swordsmen are caught between the sergeant's men and Aeron's. I pick one off with an arrow, then another.
At the fringe of the fighting, Madra launches herself through the air at one of the archers, who is trying to escape by jumping across benches, and I could swear she's smiling, probably ecstatic to have found a second melee in one night. She catches the man's arm and brings him to the ground with her, and I hear his scream cut short.
Across the hall, Aeron is running toward me from the doors, sword overhead, shield high. He's yelling something to us, but I can't make out the words. He doesn't look relieved in the least – if anything, he looks panicked.
As I search for another target, I see half the intruders are dead already, the rest retreating to the far wall, pursued by the sergeant and his men. I pick off a straggling swordsman, and see Mother is drawing her bow as well, and Madra is harrying another of the enemy. The battle appears won, and I see nothing that would justify Aeron's desperation.
No sooner does this thought cross my mind than an enormous flash of blue light fills the room, followed almost instantly by an incredible crash. Acrid mist fills the air, blocking all sight, like a mixture of thick wood smoke and putrid sulfur. Power ripples outward from the far side of the room, from the direction in which the enemy retreated, and I feel a sudden, percussive pressure in my chest.
Before I can even begin to process what is happening, tentacles of bright blue lash through the thick fog, wrapping the sergeant and another guardsman. Their shouts of surprise are cut short and turn to screams as the ropes of energy appears to tighten, and then both men's bodies flare with unnatural luminescence as the strands of energy sever each at the waist, clean through.
There's no blood, but as the tentacles meet in the middle of the guards' bodies, the light intensifies and begins to pulse, the energy seeming to feed on the men's bodies, or perhaps on itself. Then blue light explodes outward, brighter than before, and I'm thrown from my feet as chunks of armor and burnt meat rain down around me. A chair flies over my head, and I see a bench that was near the sergeant skitter past, barely holding together as it skips across the stone floor.
Behind me, Mother screams in pain, and I twist on the ground to look. The bench is just behind her, and clearly struck her as it passed. She's leaning against a wall, clutching it for support, her right leg limp beneath her, her bow snapped in two.
"Mage!" Aeron is yelling through the smoke. "They have a mage!"
The fog lifts, and I see him now: a tall, sallow man, dressed as the others, but carrying a long, wrought iron staff with a turquoise orb is set into the top. The turquoise shines brightly, illuminating every corner of the hall, casting dark shadows as the remaining swordsmen form a protective half-circle around the spellcaster.
The remainder of the guards are following Aeron, preparing for a final charge against the intruders.
As I push myself back to my feet, the mage spins the staff overhead with one hand, while stretching the other hand out toward us, fingers twitching in a strange pattern. Energy crackles from the orb, and he clenches his free hand briefly. Then he grasps the staff with both hands, lunges one step forward, and thrusts the orb directly at Aeron.
Lightning flashes out. Real lightening: white hot, jagged bolts crackling with electricity, too bright to look at.
Aeron has already thrown himself forward, landing with his shoulder on his shield and rolling to continue the momentum. The bolts strike the floor where he stood, and fragments of stone fill the air. No one is injured, but several of the guardsmen who were following Aeron freeze in place, their eyes wide.
As he comes to his feet, however, Aeron does not slow his advance. Instead, he does the opposite, beginning to run and bellowing a challenge. His example is enough to jolt the others back into action, and they charge after him, crashing into the ring of swordsmen.
I jump on a nearby table, hoping for a cleaner shot, and sight down the length of my arrow at the mage's throat, drawing the string back as far as I can. No obstructions between us.
One breath in – hold – loose the arrow – release the breath.
The arrow flies true, but inches from the mage's neck, it flickers and then simply disappears.
The mage was looking in another direction, but he seems to sense what's happened and turns, and from across the hall, our eyes lock. There's no malice in his expression, only focus and determination. His jaw is clenched tight with effort, and his forehead is beaded with sweat.
Behind the mage, one of our guardsmen gets close enough to strike what ought to be a killing blow. Instead of piercing the mage's chest, however, the sword bounces sideways, deflected just inches from its target by a translucent outline that flickers to life around the mage's body, like a suit of armor made from nothing but light. There is a flash, and the phantom armor disappears, and the guard has fallen to his knees, his sword arm hanging limp, his face upturned, staring uncomprehending at the mage until a nearby swordsman cuts him down.
In frustration, I loose another arrow, and then another, and each one simply disappears, consumed by whatever magic protects the mage. There's no point in wasting any more arrows, at least not until the mage's energy is expended.
Desperate for another way to end the threat, I whistle for Madra's attention and then point with an outstretched arm at the mage. Although I can't see her in the melee, Madra barks once in assent, loud and happy.
I hope I'm not sending her to her death.
I jump down from the table and sidestep toward Mother, who is still leaning against the wall, tears of pain streaking her face. Iona is beside her, her back to the melee, shielding Oren with her body. None of them are in any condition to flee or to fight.
Across the hall, one of the enemy swordsmen staggers out from the mass of hacking, slashing bodies that surround the mage. I fell him with an arrow, and behind him I see that most of his companions are dead or dying.
Only the mage remains on his feet, slashing his staff back and forth, trying to ward away the guards who now surround him. He is drenched with sweat, his eyes closed in concentration as he's slowly backed against the wall, and still he fights. Two of our guardsmen are dead, their bodies burning at his feet, and Aeron and the other guards do not relent, probing for weakness, using their shields to block flashes of magic that seem feeble compared to the mage's earlier display of power. Between their legs, I see Madra stagger away, dazed and tripping on her own feet, but still alive, and I notice an enormous gash on the mage's leg, courtesy of Madra's teeth.
Another wave of magic rocks hall, but this time no light flashes out, and the the wind rushes inward toward the mage, more like an implosion than the earlier blast. The magical barrier that protected the mage's body flickers and then disappears with a crackle not unlike crumpling parchment.
A half dozen swords rise and fall as one.
Blood arcs up, and the mage falls noiselessly to the ground, his staff rolling away across the scorched floor.
...
Silence fills the great hall, then slowly settles as softer noises replace the din of combat. I can hear men groaning in pain and others struggling to catch their breath, and the scrape of swords being wiped clean of blood, and muttered curses as the guards check fallen friends for signs of life.
"Liam!" Aeron exclaims, pacing toward me. "Your Ladyship! Thank the Maker! I was certain some of Howe's men had gotten through!"
"They did," I reply. "Twelve of them, I think. They killed Oriana, and the guards and servants, and left Oren for dead. We killed the rest. Dumb luck, mostly."
"Oren?" he asks.
"Wounded, but still alive."
"Godless motherfuckers," he spits, before noticing my Mother is limping. "My lady!" he exclaims, "You're injured too!"
"I fear my leg is broken," she says, her voice strained. "What happened here?"
"I'm not entirely sure. I was at the barracks, saying goodbye to some of the boys. Everything was quiet, and then there was fighting everywhere. By the time we got outside, half the guards on duty were dead. We saw the Teyrn fighting on the stairs, and fought our way to him, and -"
"Where is he now?" Mother interrupts desperately.
"At the gatehouse, I think."
"He still lives, then?"
"When last I saw him, he was uninjured, my lady. We retook the great hall easily, and he sent a squad to check on you. He left me half the guards to secure the keep, and took the rest along the battlements, to reinforce the gates."
"Are they attacking the gates, too, then?" I ask.
"Yes. By the time we reached him on the steps, most of the fighting in the courtyard had moved to the gatehouse. I haven't been back outside since, but we have to pray it hasn't fallen yet."
"This is no mere assassination," Mother says grimly.
Aeron shakes his head. "Howe means to take the castle, I think."
"Are you certain it's Howe?" I ask.
"The Teyrn thought so," Aeron says, "Although he didn't have time to explain. All the attackers wear Amaranthine's sigil. We saw fires in the city, and heard fighting in the outer ward, as well."
"Is the keep secure, at least?" Mother asks.
"I think so," Aeron replies. "As soon as the Teyrn left, I took men to barricade the kitchen doors, but we'd barely left the hall when we heard more fighting. The goddamn mage and his men must have been inside already, coming up the other stairs while we were on our way down. They were trying to reopen the courtyard doors when we got back. It was all we could do to hold the doors, and we couldn't seem to touch the mage."
He shakes his head, seeming almost dazed. "You saw the rest," he says, and waves at the demolished great hall. Bodies are everywhere. Half the furniture is destroyed. Blood and soot stain the walls and floors. Less than a dozen guards are still upright.
"Now what?" I ask.
"We need to find the Teyrn," Aeron says. "If he still holds the gates, he'll know what to do next."
"Liam," Mother says softly, touching my arm briefly.
Even that simple gesture almost takes her off balance, and I catch her elbow to help her stay upright.
"Liam," she repeats. "Listen, darling. We haven't much time. If you can't get to your father, you must get out here alive."
"Mother–"
"Listen! Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line could die here, today. If Howe is responsible, he may have laid a trap for Fergus, as well. If they've taken the gate, you'll have to use the servant's stairs to escape. Do you understand me?"
"It won't come to that," I tell her. "We'll find Father and come back for you and Oren."
"You have to promise me," she insists.
"I'll not leave without all of you!"
Instead of answering, she looks past me to Aeron. "Promise me. Promise me you'll get him out if you have to."
Aeron bows his head. "My lady."
...
Outside, the courtyard is almost unrecognizable. The steps are littered with bodies, and more corpses are scattered on the grass in front of the chapel. Many of the dead are guards or armored intruders, but others are dressed as servants, or wear the distinctive robes of Chantry brothers and sisters.
Flames rise from the library, and from the stables too, and I can hear the terrified screams of horses trapped in the blaze. A handful of servants and guards run to and from the well with buckets of water, and others are battling the smoke and heat to drag panicked animals free of the inferno, but it's clear that both buildings are doomed, along with most of the animals within.
The gates remain closed, and above, on the gatehouse parapets and nearby ramparts, I can see guardsmen silhouetted by an orange glow rising outside the walls. Plumes of smoke blot out the stars, and shouts and crashes rise in the distance, likely from the outer wards.
Aeron and I lead a half dozen surviving guards from the hall across the courtyard, giving wide berth to the library, now fully engulfed. Outside its doors, several women in silk nightclothes are sprawled, skewered by arrows. Among them, still wearing an enormous purple gown, is Lady Landra. My first thought on seeing these bodies is a selfish one – I am simply grateful Iona is not among them. She remains with Oren and Mother in the great hall, along with a few of the guards.
Glancing again at Landra, I wonder if Ser Jory is also among the dead. I don't see his body, and didn't see him at the feast. Perhaps he is still with the Duncan and the other Wardens.
And what, I wonder, has become of the Wardens? Will they fight or flee? Would Howe attack the Grey Wardens? It seems unthinkable, but I suppose he must: their testimony would condemn him before the king if they escaped. If he really is behind tonight's carnage, then it is hardly the only unthinkable act he has set in motion.
...
"Andraste be praised," Father exclaims when we find him at the gatehouse, and wraps me in a brief, crushing hug. "Your Mother?"
"Hurt, but alive," I answer.
Aeron and I explain the situation in the great hall as quickly as we can.
"Poor Fergus," Father murmurs. Otherwise, however, he gives no response. He wears the Cousland sword across his back, still sheathed, and carries another in his hand, its edge darkened with blood. He is flanked by guardsmen, and Brother Aldous stands nearby as well.
I'm surprised to see the brother is armed, his face and robe spattered with someone else's blood, his expression hard. I know he was not always a Chantry brother, but I never once considered he might know how to fight.
"The news is no better here," Father says, once we finish our account. Most of the archers on the walls above survived the initial attack, he says, but the rest of the guards' ranks have been decimated. Between the survivors with Father, the reinforcements we brought from the hall, and the handful of militia and constables who have retreated from the outer wards, the gate's defenders number less than two score.
Worse, one of the constables brings reports of battering rams and ladders being brought through the city. Another man, a member of the militia, is the sole survivor from the outer ward's western gate, which he says fell within minutes to a horde of Amaranthine soldiers, supported by at least three mages.
"Apostates?" Father asks, looking to Aldous.
The Brother shrugs. "Without seeing them myself, I cannot say, my lord. But...it seems unlikely that Howe could find so many apostates willing to serve. If we know of four already, we must assume there are more."
"If not apostates, what then? They couldn't be from the Circle of Magi?" Father asks, and shakes his head. "The Chantry would never condone Howe's treachery!"
"I cannot begin to guess," Aldous replies. "It's possible Howe tricked someone in the Chantry or the Circle, or bought them. It's also possible he found a coven of apostates the templars missed. In either case, the implications are troubling."
"Troubling?" Aeron demands, incredulous. "It's a hell of a lot worse than troubling! We could hold the gate for days against soldiers, and maybe against battering rams, too. The ladders are a problem, but we can retreat to the keep if we have to. Mages, though?" He throws his arms out helplessly. "It took all of us, everything we had, to bring down the one in the hall, and even then, he killed how many of us? And that was just one!"
"I know," Father says. "We can't fight them head on. So…options?" he asks, looking between me, Aldous, and Aeron.
"The army can't have gotten far," I suggest. "Fergus might see the smoke, bring them back? We could hold out that long, right?"
Father shakes his head. "If they marched until dark, they'll have gone twenty miles, at least. I doubt they'd see the smoke until morning, and if they did, who knows what your brother would make of it."
"It'd be too late, anyway," Aeron says grimly. "If they have mages, we'll be lucky to last to sunrise, let alone until they can march back."
Aldous nods agreement. "Trained battle mages from the Circle can break a castle's defenses in hours," he says. "And if the mages are apostates, I cannot guess what forbidden arts they may draw upon. Regardless, without templars, or mages of our own, we have no effective defense."
"We can't just let Howe win!" I exclaim.
Whatever treachery is at work, I cannot conceive that we would bow and surrender our home. Not to the man who ordered Oriana killed, who put Oren to the sword. This is my home – my family. Howe cannot have any of it!
Angry tears well in my eyes. "There must be a way!" I insist, blinking them away.
Father regards me solemnly for a moment before shaking his head. "Ser Gilmore and Brother Aldous are correct," he says quietly. "We cannot hope to win the day. The only victory is vengeance, and for that, we must ensure our line survives. You and Oren must escape at all costs, and warn Fergus if you can."
I begin to protest, but Aeron puts a firm hand on my arm. "He's right, Liam. Your mother's right, too. You've got to survive." He turns to Father, hand still on my arm. "And you too, My Lord," he adds.
Father means to remain behind at the gates, I realize, to buy time for me and Mother and Oren.
Beyond, in the outer ward, the sound of fighting has drawn nearer. Above the clash of metal, above the battle cries and the screams, I hear explosions, as well, intermittent, crackling with strange energy. I recognize the sound of magic from the hall.
"You must survive, My Lord," Aeron insists, eyes locked on Father. Between them, a contest of wills is being fought. "You must!"
At last, Father looks away. "Very well, Ser Gilmore."
Aeron nods curtly, but I can see how relieved he is. "With your permission, my lord," he says, "I'll keep most of the guards here with me. You and Liam take a few men, get the Teyrna and Lord Oren, and head for the stairs. If Howe's army came from the west, they probably took the western gate and made straight for the castle. I doubt he expected his assassins to fail, so if we're lucky, he won't expect an escape, and he won't move into the rest of the city until he has the keep."
"It's a sound plan," Father says solemnly. "I thank you, Ser Gilmore."
"No!" I shout, shaking Aeron's arm from my shoulder, tears streaming down my face now. "We won't leave you to die for us! I won't!"
Aeron turns me toward him and grabs me again, with both hands this time, holding my shoulders so tightly he's almost shaking me.
"Shut up and listen to me," he hisses, his face inches from mine. "You need to survive. For your family, and for Oren, and for Iona. For your people!"
Then his face softens into a grim smirk.
"Besides," he says, "who said anything about dying, for you or for anyone? I'll hold the gates long enough for you to escape. Then we'll hole up in the keep. Even against mages, we should be able to hold out for a few days at least. You find Fergus, and you come back, and you save my ass, you hear?"
It's a lie – at best, a vain hope – but I nod through my tears.
"Stay alive," I tell him. I want to say so much more, but there's no time – and, really, nothing we haven't already said, between discussing the Wardens and our drunken toasts on the keep's roof. "Stay alive."
He squeezes my shoulders even harder, then shoves me away. "Maker watch over us all," he says, and turns away, sprinting toward the gates, already calling out orders to the remaining guards.