Leaving the warriors to their duties, Angel toured the walls. According to the Thirty, the Gothir would attack first by the main gate of the southern wall, a direct frontal assault to overwhelm the defenders. Therefore they had concentrated their manpower here, leaving only fifty warriors spread thin around the other walls. Angel had wanted to arm some of the younger women, but the Nadir would have none of the plan. War was for men, he was told. He did not argue. They would change their minds soon enough.
Striding across the courtyard he saw Senta and Miriel walking out towards him. Anger touched him then, for he could see by their closeness, the way she leaned in to him, that they had become lovers. The knowledge tasted of bile in his mouth, but he forced a smile. ‘Going to be a cold day,’ he said, indicating the gathering snow clouds above the mountains.
‘I dare say the Gothir will warm it up for us,’ Senta pointed out, draping his arm around Miriel’s shoulder. She smiled, and leaned in to kiss his cheek.
Angel looked at them, the tall mountain girl, her smile radiant, and the handsome swordsman, golden-haired and young, dressed now in a buckskin shirt beneath a breastplate of glittering iron, and tan leggings of polished leather. Angel felt old as he watched them, the weight of his years and his disappointments hanging upon him like chains of lead. His own leather tunic was ragged and torn, his leggings filthy, and the pain of his wounds was only marginally less than the pain in his heart.
He moved away from them towards the keep, aware that they had not noticed his departure. He saw the mute child sitting on the keep steps, his wooden sword thrust into his belt. Angel grinned and clapped his hands. The boy copied him and rose smiling.
‘You want some food, boy?’ he said, lifting his fingers to his mouth and mimicking the act of chewing. The boy nodded and Angel led the way up to the main hall, where cook fires were burning in the hearths. A fat knight, wearing a leather apron, was stirring soup. He glanced at the child.
‘He needs some weight on those bones,’ he said, smiling and ruffling the boy’s hair.
‘Not as much as you’re carrying, brother,’ said Angel.
‘It is a curious fact,’ said the knight, ‘but I only have to look at a honeycake and I feel the weight pile on.’ Sitting the boy at the table he ladled soup into a bowl and watched with undisguised pleasure as the child enjoyed it. ‘You should ask Ekodas to look at the boy,’ said the knight softly. ‘He has a real gift for healing. The child was not always deaf, you know. It faded slowly when he was a baby. And there is little wrong with his vocal chords. It is just that hearing no sound he makes no sound.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Angel.
‘It is a talent fat people have, thin man.’ He chuckled. ‘My name is Merlon.’
‘Angel,’ responded the former gladiator, extending his hand. He was surprised to feel the strength in Merlon’s grip, and he swiftly reappraised the priest. ‘I think you’re carrying a lot more muscle than fat,’ he said.
‘I have been blessed with a physique as strong as my appetite,’ the other replied.
The child ate three bowls of the soup and half a loaf of bread while Angel sat and talked with the huge warrior priest. Shia approached them and sat on the bench seat alongside Angel.
‘I told you they would not let us fight,’ she said, anger showing in her eyes.
Angel grinned. ‘That you did. But things will change, if not tomorrow, then the day after – as soon as they try an attack from all four sides. We have not the numbers of men to stop them. Make sure the women gather all the surplus … weapons.’
‘By surplus you mean the weapons of our dead?’
‘Exactly,’ he admitted. ‘And not just weapons, breastplates, helms, arm-guards. Anything to protect.’
At that moment a young woman ran into the hall. ‘They are coming! They are coming!’ she shouted.