The Swordbearer - By Glen Cook Page 0,8

its parapet, said, "It looks like they're coming."

Wearily, Gathrid rose. Leading Anyeck, he climbed to the tower's top.

He was surprised to find that it was barely midmorning. Hours seemed to have passed . . . .

The Ventimiglians were drawn up in their brigades, facing the border. Directly opposite Kacalief were Nieroda, the Toal and a man who could only be the Mindak himself. Two hundred soldiers waited in loose formation behind them. The Mindak surveyed his host. Apparently satisfied, he spoke to a bugler.

A horn squealed. The brigades surged. Drums struck a marching beat. Behind the attackers, camp followers began torching the army's winter quarters.

"They're not even coming at us!" Gathrid said. "They're heading toward Hartog and Katich . . . . "

Every brigade headed for Gudermuth's interior. Only the one small group remained facing the fortress.

That much contempt irked Gathrid. Two hundred men to attack a fortress held by nearly four hundred! His father's men were not professionals, but they had to be better than that.

"Oh!"

Gathrid spun. His mother had fainted. She could no longer convince herself that the Mindak would not defy the Alliance. The truth was too much for her nerve.

"Take her to her bedchamber," Gathrid told the guards. "Tell the women to look after her."

Anyeck grabbed his arm. "They're coming, Gathrid." Her grip was painful.

Nieroda and the Twelve Dead Captains crossed the border, walking their horses. Their soldiers picked up their arms and loafed along behind them.

A nervous arrow arced out, fell short. The Safire cursed the bowman. Gathrid saw his father turn to Plauen, heard him tell the Brother that now was the time to do something. If he could.

The Dead Captains spread out, encircling the fortress. Fifteen to twenty soldiers accompanied each, remaining just out of bowshot. Nieroda remained near the Mindak.

Ahlert produced a white scarf and rode forward. He halted below the Safire's post. He shouted, "Will you yield Daubendiek now?"

Gathrid could not hear his father's reply. He supposed it was suitably defiant. The Mindak stiffened, turned his horse, rode back to Nieroda.

The Toal swept forward. Arrows whistled from the wall. Even the best-sped ricocheted off the Dead Captains' armor.

"They're ensorcled!" Gathrid snarled. "We can't touch them."

Nieroda galloped toward the fortress. A shower of arrows did him no harm. The Dark Champion bore a javelin in one hand. He hurled it at Kacalief's wall.

There was a tremendous flash. The Ventimiglian soldiers sent up a chorus of battle cries. When Gathrid's sight returned, he saw easterners rushing the fortress. The Toal were at the wall. They swarmed up its naked stone face with the ease of flies. Several fell off, washed away by kettles of boiling water. They got up and came back for more. The heat did not bother them.

"Look!" Anyeck said. "There!"

Not far from where their father had established his command post, where Nieroda had hurled the javelin, the wall was breached. A Toal was through and slaughtering everyone within reach. It wielded a huge black blade which sliced armor and swords the way a sharp knife cut soft Savard cheese.

Plauen and the Safire attacked the Toal with the puny spells at their command. It ignored them.

Nieroda stepped through the gap. The courtyard tableau froze. Then a second black blade joined the slaughter.

Now there were Toal atop the wall. Ventimiglian soldiers tossed up grapnels and joined them. Attackers poured through the gap opened by Nieroda. Here, there, a hard-pressed Toal simply pointed a finger and men fell, torn apart from within.

Anyeck whimpered, "Gathrid, we've got to get out of here."

He had never been this frightened. He thought the end was near. But he snapped, "Control yourself!" He turned and started downstairs.

She followed. "Where are you going? Don't leave me."

"To find myself a sword. Father can't stop me now." Brave words, he thought. He hoped his voice hadn't trembled too much. He turned away and limped down into the cool inwards of the tower that had been his home.

The keep gate exploded inward. Oak beams flung about like straws in a gale. A woman screamed. Gathrid's palms were cold and wet on the leather-wrapped hilt of his great-grandfather's sword.

Men flung through the broken gate. His father's men, fleeing, dragging their wounded with them . . .

"Here they come!" Gathrid shouted. The keep guards crouched behind a barrier of overturned furniture. Ventimiglian soldiers popped inside, keeping low behind their shields. The retreating Gudermuthers scrambled over the furniture.

An older man dropped beside Gathrid. "Belthar! I thought . . . "

"I'm a tough old buzzard. You