Tyressa hung on just a bit longer, then let her daughter slip from her embrace. The archers climbed up the ladders and mounted the battlements. A lump rose in her throat. She watched Serrana position her troops, then turned away.

  On the ground inside the walls, workers hastily dug a double row of postholes in a deep loop running from one side of the gate around and up to the other. Into the inside holes they set five-foot-tall posts, and into the others, posts half that tall. Others brought over sharpened logs which had holes drilled halfway into their underside. They fitted them over the posts, creating a ring of sharpened stakes pointing at the gate. Men could easily slip between them, but creatures as large as ogres would have a harder time of it.

  Especially at a charge.

  Closer in, men sowed caltrops around the longhouses to a depth of six feet from the wall. They'd been simply formed of two foot-long lengths of iron. The smith had bent each rod ninety degrees in the middle, then fused the joints. He'd shaped and sharpened all four ends until they had barbed tips like fishing hooks. No matter how the caltrop hit the ground, a foot of sharp steel pointed upward, and ripping it free would do more damage than the point did going in.

  Near the longhouse doors, a two-foot wide path zigzagged between the caltrops. Tyressa negotiated it without difficulty and quickly changed. She removed her skirt, pulled on the hunting trousers, and donned a mail surcoat. She cinched it up with a broad leather belt, distributing the weight between her hips and shoulders. She slid a dagger into the sheath at her left hip. Then she strapped on leather bracers with cylindrical pockets running the length of each.

  She opened a box on her desk and filled each of the eight pockets with slender, metal spearpoints. They'd been fashioned very carefully, after the design of the militia's arrowheads. They closely resembled a drill bit with two razored edges spiraling the length. Every two inches or so, to the inside of the spiral, the edge had been notched and bent inward. The bent portions of the blade functioned first like a fishhook's barb, making the points brutal to yank out. More importantly, when they lodged in muscle and that muscle contracted, the notches drove the head deeper. An ogre's vital arteries might be well sheathed with fat and muscle, but those points would grind their way in and find them.

  Even if we're long dead.

  Garath had once showed her arrowheads from the Worldwound with a similar design. They looked brutal and cruel, at least as painful as they were deadly. It didn't surprise her that demons would use such a thing, and she said so.

  He'd shaken his head. "We created these, to use on them. And their human allies."

  "But..."

  Her husband held up an open hand. "Anyone who says war is about nobility has never been knee-deep in blood. The only thing war teaches is how to kill, the faster and nastier the better."

  She took a ninth from the box and fitted it into her spear shaft. "But can we be fast enough?"

  The alarm bell rang mournfully.

  Tyressa looked at the longhouse captain. "Once I'm out, close-bar and block the door. Don't open it until you know they're all gone."

  "Yes, my lady."

  She exited and listened to the bar slide solidly in place. She jogged toward the gates, just in time to see a fire arrow arc through the dusky sky. She hurried up the ladder and reached her daughter's side.

  The burning arrow had landed in a fire pit roughly two hundred yard out from the wall. It lit the wood and oil piled there, then the fire ran along three channels. One led east back toward Silverlake and ignited a smaller fire a hundred yards out. The other two channels ran north and south, bringing the fire to larger pits with smaller, satellite pits closer to the walls. The fire ran around the fort on three side, leading down to the shore.

  Its light made it easy to see Ranall and Mulish sprinting back to the road and toward the fort. Of Kiiryth, Tyressa could see nothing, but she wasn't looking that hard for him. There at the wood's edge appeared one ogre. Then another, and another. Tall and broad, or hunched and twisted, they emerged onto the cleared plain before Silverlake.

  Serrana looked at her mother. "I see at least a dozen. Probably more waiting."

  "Yes, with bone armor, iron-bound clubs, and giant metal hooks." Tyressa's eyes narrowed. "One did so much damage here, and now we have a dozen."

  If Serrana offered a comment, Tyressa never heard it. The ogres roared in unison and then, as one, began their charge to Silverlake.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cold Manners

  Very kind of you to invite me to dinner, Baron Blackshield." Anthorn Creelisk raised the cup of dark wine in a salute to his host. "I had thought only to pay a courtesy call upon your household. To be invited to dinner, and to have your lovely wife here to serve us wine, is a most unexpected and quite welcome turn of events."

  "How could I not invite you to dine with me? And you must call me Tervin." Blackshield smiled, saluting with own cup. "I don't believe I ever apologized to you for the stroke to your back. I fear it may have been harder than I intended, as I was not yet fatigued."

  "No matter. I survived." Creelisk sipped his wine. Doubtless your wife has told tales which sped your arm. "I found that whole exercise fascinating. You sought to break people, and you only unified them. That could be seen as an unwise move on your part."

  The younger man stared at him, his head canted slightly to the side. "This would be because...?"

  "Because Thornkeep is a cesspit where the largest chunks float to the top. If anyone here were to make a profit, the only thing they would be assured of was your coming to take your cut of it. Your household troops are only adequate to fend off bandits and the occasional Broken Man. The mercenaries here might back you, or might work against you."

  "You provide an interesting analysis of my city, my lord."

  "And this after only four hours spent watching and listening." Creelisk sipped the wine. Though full of flavor and with a spicy finish, it was drier than he normally preferred, and not nearly as sweet as he liked. "You are in a precarious position, and Silverlake sounds good to many by comparison."

  "You're suggesting that what I did will cause them to supplant me? If you're foolish enough to believe that, you're foolish enough to underestimate Echo Wood." Blackshield set his cup down on the wooden sideboard. "The sting they felt from my whip will be as nothing compared to the winter. They lost blood and pride to me. They'll lose fingers and toes to the dark months. Tracks to Silverlake are barely passable now. Snow will bury them. They'll eat through their stocks before spring, and we'll be here to sell them grain and anything else they will need. At prices that will have them begging for the lash."

  Creelisk looked up at the heads mounted around the room. "Your hunting trips must give you much idle time to indulge in fancy."

  "Fancy? Are you to tell me Tyressa Vishov can control the snow?"

  "No, but I can see to it that supplies get through." Creelisk smiled. "And when I say ‘through,' I mean ‘by bypassing Thornkeep.'"

  "You'll find that the bandit infestation is a severe problem in winter, my lord."

  "You'll find, Tervin, that bandits can be bought off."

  Confusion registered in the other man's eyes. Creelisk's smiled broadened. Now I have you.

  Before his host could say anything, the shriveled man that served as his castellan, Cranstin, entered through the previously closed door. "Forgive me, my lord, but there is urgent news."

  "Yes?"

  "A patrol has come back from the northern branch of the Dagger Road. There are signs of ogres heading east in force. Unless they're hooking around, they're not going to kill the Murdoons."

  "How many?"

  "At minimum a dozen."

  "And Mosswater Road—have the patrols returned from there?"

  "They report no activity, my lord."

  "Have everyone put on alert. Send a runner to the Blue Basilisks..."

  Creelisk held up a hand. "You might take a moment to consider some things, Tervin. We might discuss them in private. Certainly, your man might as well alert those who need to be alerted, but you'll want to choose your course of action carefully."

  Tervin waved the castellan away. "Go. I will bring further word..."

  "Soon." Creelisk nodded. "Very soon."

  Ivis, her hands full of the wine pitcher, looked to her husband. "Shall I leave you to serve yourselves?"

  Creelisk held his cup out toward her. "No need. I recall your ability to keep secrets, my dear. You're welcome to hear this."

  Tervin nodded as his wife refreshed the baron's cup. "I would tell her of anything you said regardless." He moved to make certain the door had closed firmly behind Cranstin, then turned back to his guest. "Unless I've missed something, your son is at Silverlake. The ogres must be bound for there. You put his life in jeopardy."

  "As you have so aptly pointed out, the winters here are harsh. My son, by choosing to stay behind, put his own life in jeopardy. Who am I to argue with fate?"

  "I had been given to understand you were bloodless..."

  "Just pragmatic, Tervin. Even if you were to gather up all the able-bodied troops you have here, organize them, and ride to Silverlake, you'd have, what—fifty men? Thirty? Against a dozen or more ogres? And while you rode there, perhaps another two dozen monsters come from Mosswater and sack Thornkeep? Your best force would be insufficient to save Silverlake, and likely insufficient to guard your own town. Since there could be a threat against your town, riding to die at Silverlake would be foolish."

  "But I must do something."

  "So send a patrol. Gather intelligence. Once you know there's no threat to Thornkeep, by all means, ride as fast as you can to Silverlake. Either you will contribute to its salvation, or you will avenge the people and send a full report to me in Ardis."

  Blackshield stared at him. "You won't come with us?"

  "As much as the fate of my son concerns me, it is the fate of Thornkeep which concerns me more." Creelisk swirled the wine in his cup. "Consider the two possible futures. Let us look at the unlikely case in which Silverlake is able to defend itself and drive the ogres off. The town will be broken."

  "Are you certain? Last I recall, everyone there was armed and willing to fight."

  "You had best hope the town is broken. You will offer succor, and your kindness will be noted. The town might continue, but it will never grow. Anyone who would think of settling there would have to fear another attack. At the very worst, Silverlake becomes a Vishov family compound, much as the Murdoons have established. While they may never be friendly toward you, they're not in a position to be your rival, either. That is the best case for you."

  Blackshield recovered his wine and drank. "I see your logic, but I don't agree with your conclusion. It strikes me that, by your reasoning, the best case scenario for me is for Silverlake to be completely obliterated."

  "You might think that. You're wrong." Creelisk drank, trying unsuccessfully to identify the vineyard where it had been produced. "In fact, that might be the worst possible case for you."

  "But you just said a rival would be eliminated."

  "Ah, but a big one would be created." Creelisk faced the man and smiled broadly. "If the ogres slay all of Silverlake, I shall petition the prince to give me an army with which to avenge his good friend, Tyressa Vishov. He will grant my petition. I will summon volunteers to join me to avenge Silverlake and my son and his fiancée, Serrana. I shall cross the river and have to secure a base of operations. Thornkeep will be it. I might well be forced to depose you. From there I will undertake a campaign which will destroy the ogres and retake Mosswater."

  "The last time that was tried, the effort was abandoned within weeks."

  "You underestimate my resolve. Of course, I will find it necessary to pacify the whole of Echo Wood and, in honor of my friends and to pay homage to my ruler, I will create a new River Kingdom, called Vishovia. Perhaps only a province of Ustalav. I'll see how the political winds are blowing at that time. Either works. But, using the money that can be taken from Mosswater, and with volunteers who will happily settle here to make the dream of Silverlake a reality, this whole area will be under my control."

  "Very ambitious, my lord."

  "Just to suggest something you may puzzle over on your next hunt, ask yourself this simple question: What would happen if, after I conquered Echo Wood in the name of a popular heroine who has been seen as being unjustly accused of treason, I were to discover evidence showing that the prince himself—the two-faced man that he will be seen to be—had her falsely accused? Because of that treachery on his part—his betrayal of a good friend—the beloved heroine of Ustalav was ripped limb from limb and devoured by ogres. What do you think the people of Ustalav would demand of me then?"

  Blackshield drained his cup. His hand shook as he passed it to his wife. "You said you might have to depose me."

  "Yes, yes I did." Creelisk finished his wine and held it up for Ivis to replenish. "You've stopped drinking, my lord?"

  "I fear the discussion requires a clear head."

  Creelisk nodded when Ivis only poured a half-measure. "You have the very good fortune, Tervin, of having married a woman of Ustalavic nobility. She was known to be friends with Tyressa Vishov at court—or rather, we can make it so. Her public grief and her admonishing you to avenge her friend, as well as the devastated tone of your report about what you found at Silverlake, would cause me to see you as an ally in this undertaking. You would mourn your friend, wouldn't you, my dear?"

  Ivis set the pitcher on the sideboard. "As if my life depended upon it."

  "A very wise choice." Creelisk smiled over the rim of his cup. "Were I to be called away to permanent residence in Caliphas, Vishovia would need its own county governor. Who better than someone who knows the area and is tied to Ustalav?"

  "Would not the story of me having plied the whip counter any positive feelings for Silverlake?"

  Creelisk laughed aloud. "I admire your reasoning, but your naiveté is quite endearing. The perception of that act is determined by the story spun by the survivors. Were I the only one, I would point out that a dispute had arisen within the community and you were invited in to adjudicate the problem and administer justice. That the Silverlakers trusted you that much speaks well to your character."

  "How will you get that story spread?"

  "I go back to the woman who set all these things in motion." The baron of Ardis sipped wine. "Ailson Kindler started this all with her novel, Winds of Treason. I don't know who paid her to write it, but that was a masterful stroke. I, myself, paid for the sequel, which has been quite popular. I've also paid for a number of bards and minstrels to sing of Silverlake. Writers are notorious whores. I'll pay the Kindler woman to grind out another of her insipid ramblings. Call it Winds of Courage. I'll be seen to weep as I read in it of the death of my son. And, best of all, my political foes will support any move that will send me back to Echo Wood."

  Tervin scrubbed hands over his face. "You've told me what happens to Thornkeep if Silverlake does survive seeing the ogres off. I don't disagree with your assessment. But, I must ask: what happens to your intentions if Silverlake drives off the ogres? You have no sympathy, no army, no plan."

  "That, my dear Tervin, is why you have risen as high as you ever will." Creelisk opened his arms and slowly pirouetted. "This is the best you will ever know. The plan I have detailed to you is simply one of many. It is the one which is in play. If things do not go according to that plan, there are others."

  "If Tyressa Vishov survives, I could tell her all that you said."

  "She wouldn't trust you. Were I questioned, I was simply responding to your question of what would happen were my son to not survive the winter. All other political speculation is merely your fancy, and a false attempt to get me in trouble." Creelisk arched an eyebrow. "And I would tread carefully, my lord. After all, it was you and your men who found Jerrad Vishov as he left Mosswater. You grabbed him and brought him directly to Silverlake. If there are ogres attacking the settlement, it was your trail they followed. I do believe that is a fact you would rather have remain hidden. It will make your life so much easier and, in the long run, much more profitable."

  Tervin Blackshield stared down at Creelisk. "I have to say, I'd not considered that. A failing to not see through your webs of deceit."

  "Don't fault yourself, Tervin." Creelisk started to chuckle, but it became a laugh which he quickly brought under control. "A provincial like you could never understand the politics involved in the Ustalavic court."

  "Very true." Tervin smiled. "But then, I don't have to. For that, I have my lovely wife."

  Creelisk glanced over at Ivis. She smiled at him. He remembered that smile, but had never seen it quite so cold.

  Tervin advanced and plucked the cup out of his hand. "She told me you could never be trusted. And she told me many more things. Things about you, and what you did to her. This is why, when she insisted we invite you to dine—and insisted on poisoning your wine—I agreed."

  Creelisk suddenly felt how light his head had become, how weak his knees. Something clenched hard in his chest, and he stumbled.

  Tervin reached out, taking his wife's hand in his own. "Fear not, my lord. We'll see to it that your body is found at Silverlake, where you also died. And I promise I'll be eloquent when I vow to avenge you and all the others of Silverlake. I'll make your dreams come true."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Quenched in Blood

  Jerrad dropped a spare quiver with several archers, the last being his sister. "Here, I'll bring more."

  Serrana acknowledged him with a nod. "Lots more."

  Tyressa glanced at him. "Remember, you organize survivors, if needs be."

  "Yes, Mother." He turned from her and stared out into the night. Ranall and Mulish had gotten inside the closer ring of fires and were sprinting to the gate. Guards and archers shouted encouragement.

  Beyond them, ogres emerged from the forest at a gallop. Most ran on two feet, but several whose arms dwarfed their legs came on feet and fists. Muscles rippled with each pounding step, fat rolls surged. Tremors built as they approached, vibrating up through the palisade to the catwalk.

 

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