Banners in the Wind Page 0,67

Gren had crept alone through the snowy dawn shrouded in grubby linen, to lie hidden in a ditch all day. Scorning the deadly lethargy that cold so easily be forced on less hardy men, they had determined which of these unregarded gates showed no sign of use.

'In here.' Ahead, Gren had already ducked into an archway, a glimpse of darker shadow in the blackness of the wall.

Tathrin heard a faint rattle akin to keys. Gren soon pulled the heavy oak outwards. He had sworn nothing short of the costliest work from a Mountain locksmith could foil his finely honed skills, numb fingers or not.

'Mind your head, long lad.' His grin caught the faintest glimmer of light from within.

Tathrin ducked as he entered the passageway running right through the thickness of the town wall. Firelight flickered along the glistening stones. He could see the glow through an iron gate barring the far end so town watchmen could see if the outer door had been compromised. No one was keeping watch tonight. Still, Tathrin could hear none-too-distant shouts and his heart quickened.

'Keep moving.' Sorgrad pushed at the pack on his back.

Tathrin hurried on and heard the oak door close behind them. All their small force was now in the tunnel. Despite the cold, sweat beaded his face. If anyone saw them, they were caught like rats in a trap.

He heard a grunt of discomfort behind and recognised a stifled oath as Reher's. Master Ernout had set the Carluse blacksmith the challenge of recruiting and captaining the town's militia. Tathrin didn't imagine he faced many arguments. He smiled unseen. Reher was even taller than he was and far wider in the shoulders. He must barely fit through this narrow entry.

Gren was already working on the lock securing the iron lattice. Once again, his larcenous skills triumphed. Like the outer door, this opened towards them, all the better to foil invaders by handing the advantage to the town's defenders. But there was still no one looking out for Wyril's interests tonight.

Gren emerged into a street dappled with fire-lit shadows running along the entire inner face of the wall, uninterrupted by buildings. 'Try to look like you belong here.'

Tathrin hurried after him to find the flurries of snow were subsiding to leave the night crisp and cold.

Sorgrad was hissing final orders to the men behind him. 'Don't follow the walls too closely. Spread out and lose yourselves in the alleys.'

The men swiftly obeyed, hunchbacked with the packs beneath their cloaks. Like Sorgrad and Gren they had all been hand-picked for having at least some knowledge of Wyril's layout, whether their visits had been as honest tradesmen or as mercenaries taking Draximal's coin for some troubled season or other.

Within a few moments, Tathrin and the two Mountain Men lurked alone in a stinking ginnel. No lights showed at any window of the terraced houses on either side. The only illumination was a burning heap of refuse outside a weaving shed.

Gren chuckled. 'That should help things along.'

'How soon?' Tathrin looked at Sorgrad.

The Mountain Man threw back his hood, listening intently.

Those earlier shouts had faded away. All Tathrin could hear was the thudding of his anxious heart. After what felt like half an age, the seventh chime of the night rang raggedly through the moonlight.

'Not long.' Sorgrad's smile was as cold as the uncaring stars. 'Come on.'

Tathrin followed him through the back-alleys. Every house was dark. Here and there doors stood open or smashed. Shutters hung askew. Surely there couldn't be any innocent townsfolk left in Wyril? He desperately hoped not, given what was to come.

They turned a corner and found themselves facing an irregular square of unexpectedly grand houses. They looked more thoroughly ransacked than any buildings Tathrin had seen yet.

'Don't say a word.' Sorgrad quickly pulled his hood back up.

Gren's hand had already gone for his sword hilt beneath his enveloping cloak.

Around an ill-tended sprawl of embers, men were lighting crude torches, sharing them out. An avid circle of mercenary men and women ebbed and shifted. Dogs snarled, brindled beasts and piebald. Some were fighting their leashes, others recoiled from growled threats. Drool glinted in the firelight.

A gang of burly men wrestled with a young bullock. One tied the end of the rope around its neck to a chain looped around a fountain basin in the middle of the square. As the other men flung themselves clear, the bullock was left plunging and struggling against the tether. Despite the cold, foaming sweat smeared its flanks.

Someone yelled