Paths and Statues

  It was in the quiet moments, sitting by a fire, walking the walls, even the brief stillness of forming up for the battles which had raged before they’d been pushed back to Vannarbar, that Fenris found his mind drifting. Alayna the healer. Her boy Edwin. The camp in Lynetor’s shadow. The beautiful woman and the warm summer siege. He’d been long and far, Fenris Whiteeyes, spent a good portion of his adult life outside of Baidon. Hadn’t missed it much either. Hadn’t missed much of anything until Alayna. He tried to shake it, keep busy, and tonight, standing watch on the walls was no different. Alayna. Edwin. Dead Karlin. Matters for another time.

  There were scant few torches lit along the wall, just enough to let Larker know who held what ground. But the moon was out and full. Fenris could see that the bridge and the open land before it was bare, though that didn’t mean the Hound wouldn’t be sending out scouts. Einar Smashednose’s company had occupied the defences well. They were a small force on the field but a decent-sized garrison for the east and south bailies that they had set up in. With a thick, untamed forest on the north side and sloping ground on the south, Larker’s options for a full assault were limited. But the size and irregularity of the city meant that there were gaps and dark holes aplenty. It was not a sure thing, this Vannarbar.

  A man tapped Fenris on the shoulder. Whiteeyes flinched, cursing himself for having let the man get that close. Focus, Fenris, Whiteeyes thought to himself. Here and now, focus. The soldier was one of the Kostians that Hessen had brought with him when he’d joined up. Dark hair, thick eyebrows and a beard that could have been a rug.

  The soldier smiled, took a step back from the startled archer and raised his hands. “It’s good. Good.” His accent was nearly as thick as his hair. “You…uh…you…” He pointed down, but didn’t have the right words on his tongue.

  Fenris raised his eyebrow. Didn’t know any Kostian to speak of. Maybe he could try some Reashid, they were a people further east than Baidon, closer to Kostia.

  “What do you want?” Fenris said in Reashid.

  The Kostian soldier frowned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. It seemed the Reasher were as hated in Kostia as they had been in Learona, but damn, they had made some fine men to fight alongside.

  “You… time… night… bed…” The soldier answered in Kostian. Fenris only caught a few similar words, but he got the gist, slapped the soldier on the shoulder and started along the wall. He’d been relieved.

  Fenris left the walls. The main camp was now hosted near the eastern gate. There was an old stone hall that held a good deal of the men, with others still camped in tents, not wanting to stray too far to find a building with a suitable roof. Smashednose had set up a room in the great round tower, and a lantern’s light was still visible from one of the arrow slits.

  Still awake. You and me both.

  Fenris didn’t head for his tent, instead turning toward the city’s inner districts. He found himself walking down the avenue that led from the city’s east gate. The buildings, still dark and hollow, but there was something less threatening about them now. They had held mysteries once, an enemy that the archer couldn’t imagine. Now, shadows, maybe a rogue wanderer like himself, one of his men or one of Larker’s. They were things he understood at least.

  When he passed through the gate into the western quarter of the city, nodding to a group of sentries hunched over a fire, Fenris knew what he was doing, where his steps were taking him. He was retracing the steps he’d taken with the priest, and the path he’d walked, fled with Karlin.

  He stopped at a junction leading into a square at one arm, the other off into a slim alley. This was where he had found the arcanist. Somewhere off to his left would have been where Karlin lost his arm, where both men had fled like fools, scared and desperate. The stone of the cathedral spire was white in the moonlight, and not at all far from where Fenris stood. He swallowed uneasily, but continued on. The uncursed city of Vannarbar did not feel nearly as big as it had when the darkness had shrouded every corner. The siege camp outside Lynetor, with its makeshift town of camp followers, had easily been twice the size. Yet, here in Vannarbar, both men had run in circles, Karlin leaking blood with every step.

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  Wasn’t long before Whiteeyes was at the boundary wall to the cathedral. He didn’t enter. He stood at the gate staring into the open doorway. There would be piles of corpses inside, and with the ice that had covered them gone, birds and rats would be having their fill.

  The wound in his thigh was throbbing now, and he nearly buckled but caught himself against the wall. He felt heavy, felt the big man’s weight on his shoulders. What had been Karlin’s last words? Had he given Fenris a last request, a family member to visit? If he had, Fenris didn’t remember. There was a sudden crack, and pain screamed in Fenris’s fist. He had just pounded his hand against the wall. The archer grimaced, then did it again. Again. Again. And again.

  He broke a stone loose from the motor that was holding it, and it made one of the weathered pillars unsteady. Fenris stepped away as the thing came tumbling down and broke across the back of a saintly statue. The statue collapsed, hitting the ground, breaking off its head and one remaining limb. Stone and statue alike scattered over the ground, rolling to a stop before Fenris’s feet.

  Not too bad, Whiteeyes. Fenris could hear Karlin’s deep laugh in the back of his head. Not too bad.

  “A blow that will kill a statue,” Fenris said to no one in particular.

  There was no western gate. The slope of the hill was too steep on the western side, and that was where they had built a keep in the days of old. There wasn’t much in it, but a couple men watching from on its roof. It was too far from the eastern gate to be useful, and truth be told, there wasn’t enough food to hunker down for a prolonged siege.

  Fenris took the road south, downhill. It was worse going down than going up. Each step of his foot jolted pain through his right leg, but he did his best not to limp. He stood tall, straight. There would be no weakness in Fenris Whiteeyes. And if there was pain, it would not be pain, but penance. A punishment for letting Karlin die, for losing my wits when I found the arcanist, for getting lost. But, even as he thought it, he could imagine the look on Alayna’s face. He hadn’t known the woman long, but he knew what she thought of foolish honour and chest pounding.

  Fenris found his way to the south gate. Ruhner should have been there with some of the men, but as he made his way into the open space, there were no guards at the south gate. Fenris saw it, then realised it. No guards at the south gate. He cursed and drew his sword from his scabbard. The gate was open. Not fully open, but ajar, enough to let a few men in perhaps. Then Fenris’s world started moving fast.

  He crouched low as he approached the gate. The wound in his thigh stung as he put weight on it, but for now, the excitement and fear had overcome the pain.

  The mercenary stopped against the side of the wall. He glanced up, and there was no one that he could see on the walls either. If this was caused by something foolish, someone would be hanging for it. He looked around for the wooden bar. The beam was against a wall on the other side of the opening from him. He started towards it, then stopped. There was noise coming from the other side, speech, undiscernible. The gate groaned and opened further. If it was Larker’s lot, Fenris was a dead man. They were all dead men, truth be told. But the field was clear when Fenris had been on the walls. Getting an army to the south gate without being detected would be a bloody miracle. Worse things had happened, Fenris supposed. Someone stepped through, and Fenris’s gut dropped. Here was the brave last stand that he had never asked for.

  Saints and old gods, help me. Fenris stepped out and levelled his sword at the man’s face. “Stop or I’ll gut you like…”

  The soldier jumped at the sight of Fenris, then, after almost fumbling and dropping his weapon, he lunged. Fenris parried the blade, kicked the man to knock off his balance. Whiteeyes raised his sword, about to cut him across the head, when a second soldier came through the gate. This one was ready and struck forward with his spear. Fenris dodged away from both of them, wincing with each step. He fancied himself good with a sword, fine with a bow, but with the two of them, it could be the death of him.

  Fenris raised his voice, yelled in a tone that was far higher-pitched and more panicked than he would have liked. “Invaders! Men to the south gate!” It was about as loud as the man had ever yelled, and it rang across the walls as the other watch posts echoed the command. Whiteeyes turned his attention back to the invaders, grit his teeth and stared the attackers down. They were a pair of silhouettes in the night, the moonlight glinting off their weapons.