Now the childish game had become a reality. It was an entrance to Hell.
And I have come here to die, thought Albreck. The thought made him smile, he didn’t know why. Are you waiting for me, Jorain? he wondered. The Duke had brought no sword or dagger and he stood now, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever would follow. He glanced at Karis. The warrior woman was now wearing a dress of white silk she had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Duke’s wife; around her slim waist was a blue sash. She looked so incongruous now, surrounded by warriors, like a virgin bride waiting for her groom.
‘Why do you need the dress?’ he had asked her.
‘Don’t ask, my lord,’ she said.
Under torchlight, Karis was organizing the placements of the five ballistae, forming a wide semi-circle some hundred paces from the entrance to the catacombs. Four hundred crossbow-men, in three ranks, were positioned between the weapons: the front line kneeling, the second
standing, the third, higher still, positioned on the backs of a circle of wagons.
The Duke saw the veteran warrior Necklen approach Karis and take her by the arm. He could not hear their conversation, but he could see anxiety in the warrior’s face.
‘There is no need for you to die,’ said Necklen, moving alongside Karis. ‘I could do it!’
‘I am not planning to die,’ she told him, ‘but it is a risk I cannot avoid. You said it yourself – how can we get them to mass in the centre of the killing circle? This is the only way I could think of.’
‘All right. But why you? Why not me?’
‘You have no rank, old man. They would believe in an instant that it was a ploy.’
‘And it isn’t?’
‘No, it is not. Now go to your position. And do as I bid.’
‘I couldn’t kill you, Karis. Not if my life depended on it.’
She put her slender hands on his shoulders. ‘Thousands of lives may depend upon it. And if it comes to it, promise me you will obey my order. Promise me, Necklen, in the name of friendship.’
‘Let someone else do it. I’ll stand beside you.’
‘No! If you cannot do your duty, then get you gone and I’ll find a man who can.’ The sharpness in her tone stung him, and he swung away from her. She called to him instantly, her tone contrite. ‘I love you, old man. Don’t let me down.’ He couldn’t speak, but he nodded and walked back to his ballista, checking the load and the release pin. Then he took up his hammer.
The Duke approached Necklen. ‘What is she doing?’ he asked.
‘Getting ready to die,’ whispered the old man.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She is going to talk to them, forcing them to mill around her. She’ll ask for peace. If they say no – which they will – she will raise her hand. When she drops it, the killing begins.’
The Duke said nothing, staring at the woman in the white dress standing in the moonlight. She looked so frail now, ghostlike and serene. He shivered.
A soldier at the catacomb entrance called out: ‘I can hear them. I can hear the screams.’
Karis strode forward. ‘Get back to your position,’ she told the soldier. Gratefully the young man ran back to the wagons, climbing to the back of one and retrieving his crossbow. Karis stood some thirty feet from the white stone of the entrance and waited, longing to see Forin emerge unscathed. A few crossbow-men made it into the torchlight, and stood blinking; their friends called to them and they sprinted for cover. Then Vint appeared, blood on his face and arms. He ran to Karis, but she ordered him back. ‘The Daroth are right behind. You must take cover,’ he said.
‘Get back. Now!’
He hesitated, then ran to where Necklen stood, his face pale, his eyes haunted.
Forin came last, his armour once more dented and split, a deep gash upon his brow masking his face with blood. He stumbled towards Karis and grabbed her arm, dragging her back. Her hand lashed across his face, the sound like a whiplash. ‘Let go of me, you stupid ox!’ His hand fell away and he stood staring at her. ‘Get back now!’