Banners in the Wind Page 0,66

them over these past two days. Every sergeant-at-arms reported being harried by haphazard gangs on their journey. Some contingents had acquitted themselves well. A couple had been cut to pieces.

That was another challenge to add to his list. Tathrin sighed. Once he had seen Wyril retaken from the renegades, and somehow dealt with Reniack and brought Parnilesse back into Lescar's fold, he must put an end to all this brigandage.

But first things first. Swirling snow stung his eyes as he peered at the dark bulk of Wyril's walls. The town was well defended. It was Draximal's second largest and Duke Secaris's most westerly stronghold, where his territory drove a blunt wedge between Carluse and Triolle. High walls overlooked strong gates commanding the roads running north-east to Draximal Town, south-east to Deflin and the Parnilesse border, more southerly still to Triolle and south-west away towards Tyrle.

This was the road they had used for their approach, after cutting across to find their assembled militias lurking where Carluse and Triolle's lands butted up against Draximal's border. Kerith had done his job well.

In happier times, Tathrin reflected, all those towns and every village in between had been glad to buy Wyril woollens. Would there be anyone left to return to card and spin the wool and weave the cloth after all the tribulations this region had suffered?

'Can you see any lights?' he asked tensely.

'Not this side of town,' Gren replied, satisfied.

Tathrin allowed himself some cautious hope.

Sorgrad appeared at his shoulder. 'Let's move.'

Tathrin glanced back to see their small force was all assembled. At his nod, Gren led them onwards.

Some distance back, they had slipped away from the highway that ran from Tyrle to Draximal. The road followed this shallow ridge running from south-east to north-west. The town itself claimed the gentle slope running down to a shallow, gravelly river whose waters washed wool and drove Wyril's fulling mills, before running away to the Vale of Ashgil and the other streams that flowed on into the River Dyal.

Snow crunched beneath Tathrin's boots as he moved quickly along this slope. These broad meadows were the tenter-grounds, where vast lengths of freshly napped blanketing were hooked onto frames to dry. Though there was no cloth hanging stiff in this frost and the long wooden racks had been stolen away for firewood.

They drew closer to the town. There was still no shout from the battlements, no sentry seeing them plain as spilled ink on a page as they hurried across the moonlit snowfield. Bent almost double, Tathrin dashed across the last stretch of open ground. Reaching the black shadow cast by the walls, he breathed just a little easier.

But now he looked in vain for the lesser gateways that pierced the walls. The weavers tending their cloth hung to dry in these meadows had long been accustomed to use their own entries. Tathrin had been surprised, but Ekarre and other mercenaries who had travelled this road had explained such passages were securely locked and barred in time of peril. Besides, none were wide enough to admit more than one person at a time, so they hardly invited an all-out assault.

Sorgrad still reckoned that's how these renegades had got in. After the disaster of the battle for Tyrle, with Lord Cassat dead and any loyal Draximal militia scattered, there would have been no one watching these walls, ready to send armed men to defend any threatened doorway.

If he was right, would renegade mercenaries be lying in wait for anyone else seeking to exploit that same weakness?

Tathrin looked back over his shoulder. 'When did we last see scouts from the town?'

'Dawn yesterday.' Sorgrad shrugged. 'Verista's Pine Martens cut their throats.'

Tathrin could only hope Ekarre's lieutenant hadn't let some witness flee to report those murders. Though that would be unlike her. He had rarely come across a mercenary so single-minded, once she had decided to throw in her lot with them.

'Which way?' He pressed his back against the masonry, glad to stand upright. The double-handful of men with them were all now lined up against the wall.

Gren stripped off his gloves to run bare fingers across the stonework. 'This way.' He ran lightly down the slope.

Tathrin followed and slipped on treacherous ice. Only Sorgrad's bruising grip saved him from a nasty fall.

'More haste, less speed, long lad.'

'How far to the entry?' Tathrin asked curtly.

Sorgrad's unerring fingertips read the signs he'd chipped into these stones before they had withdrawn with the dusk to find Tathrin's rough-hewn army.

'It's the next one along.'

Sorgrad and