“It wasn’t hard. A steady stream of children and your relatives use it to come and go as they please between here and the Keep.” He noted the two large iron bars resting against the wall on either side of the door, waiting to be slotted into the gaps in the masonry to reinforce the door if necessary. It was a weak spot in the Lair security but they had done their best to mitigate it. “All well at the Keep?”
That query earned him a suspicious side glare as Alia started across the cobblestones, heading towards the main building. “Just a brief meeting with my father, we’re readying a shipment of mead.”
There was truth in her words, except Talac sensed there was more to their meeting than that. Understandably there was no reason Alia should trust him with her secrets… yet. Not that he had the time to spare to work his way into her confidences. They were due back at Pallene for the start of the Golden Palace festivities honouring the end of summer in two weeks’ time. And who knew how long the journey to get there would take, given Brandth’s condition.
“It’s late, does the Beast ever get to rest?”
“I was just heading to my chambers now.”
“That’s what you said when you bid me farewell following this evening’s meal.”
“Are you implying I lied?”
There was amusement tinging her husky tones that soothed him. No sign of wariness in her demeanour. A sense of rightness settling into Talac’s bones as he noted their strides were in sync, their hands almost touching they were so close. It would take little more than an inch or two for their fingers to entwine. Talac found himself mesmerised by the possibility. What if they did touch? Would it be nothing more than a fleeting brush of heat? Or would their digits tangle and lock together?
A staccato drumbeat broke the evening silence. Quick, rapid, then it doubled in speed, almost frantic, reverberating across the formally still night air.
A female voice rang out from the battlements. “Incoming.”
The drum beat grew louder still, combining with the rhythmic slam of wooden shutters being locked into place at the Lair, and at the Keep. Voices in the dark issued instructions. People fleeing for the shelter of the buildings. Whilst a stream of others raced outside, armed, their expressions intent and determined.
Talac’s sword was in his hand in readiness, following Alia’s lead, her attention fixed upon the darkened skies. He was aware of the brasseries on the battlements being fed, their flames leaping high whilst the portcullis groaned as three men rushed to raise it.
“With me.”
Instead of heading for the walls, Talac found himself running deeper into the Lair, pounding over the wide cobblestones, past the bathhouse, stables, practise arena, blacksmiths and distillery. They were twenty feet from the tannery when the double doors of the dye factory burst open and two horses pulling a cart raced out.
Alia halted, as surprisingly did everyone else in the vicinity. It was an unusual cart, there was one driver, and affixed to the rear was a massive steel drum, four figures standing precariously next to it. Two were continuously bobbing up and down, pushing and pulling at what looked like metal bars, whilst the other two figures held long metal contraptions, reminding Talac of the showerheads he’d seen in the bathhouse. Each spraying a fine mist.
“Hold your breath.”
He barely had time to do so as the cart raced by, the mist settling on his hair, skin and clothes. Cruddy hell. Three seconds later Talac was bent over, gagging, trying not to lose his dinner. The smell! It was indescribably foul. The hand that settled on his back, giving him a reassuring pat of support was a surprise but so very welcome. Despite his discomfort he could feel the heat of Alia’s touch through his tunic, his skin prickling in awareness.
“You get used to it. Just take slow deep breaths, after a while your nose will numb, you won’t even smell it.”
She was correct. Straightening, Talac noted that everyone that had lined the cobblestones to receive a dousing were once more on the move. Several headed for the now open portcullis, more to the stables, with its doors gaping wide open and more to the battlements. The cart circling now, the figures holding the metal wands dousing the nearest buildings, concentrating especially upon the stables.
The warning drumbeat stopped for a moment, then started up, a different beat, frantic, then slow, frantic, then slow.
“I see them!” The words came from the battlements directly above the portcullis.
“Come on.” Alia was off again. This time headed for the stables, joining a large group of others, all facing outwards, swords and crossbows at the ready. “Don’t block the doors.”
Talac suddenly aware of hoofbeats, the crack of a whip and a driving master yelling encouragement to his team. The sounds growing closer, until he could feel the vibration of the horses’ hooves hitting the ground in his bones. Everyone around him tensing, ready, weapons drawn, pointed high towards the cloud scudded night sky.
“What’s coming?” He had to know what to expect.
“Gryfalcons.”
It was Poulth who answered, Alia’s lieutenant, standing on the other side of Talac, looking tall, rangy, her face a focused determined mask. Gryfalcons? All this fuss over birds? They nested along the coastal cliffsides, feasting on fish. Merchant ships complained of being dive bombed occasionally by the creatures.
Stories existed, telling of them drifting inland and being brought down easily by villagers with crossbows, that the meat of them barely fed a family of four. Of course, there was also old wives tales circulating that gryfalcons hunted in packs, stealing away livestock and small children.
Then there was no more time to think. A team of four horses pulling a large wagon raced through the portcullis at a breakneck speed. The horses frothing at the mouth, vicious long cuts carved into the flank of one of the lead animals, dripping blood. The driver injured also, blood pouring from a head wound, a figure dead or injured splayed across the bench seat beside him.
The wagon contained large wooden barrels lashed tightly together. Four men standing amongst them in various states of injury, all sporting wicked bloody slashes about their heads and upper bodies. One of the barrels was broken, its contents leaving a thick viscous trail in its wake.
The wagon clattered by over the cobblestones, the sound of hooves almost deafening before the vehicle abruptly disappeared into the stables. The doors promptly slamming shut behind them, a sharp sweet scent assailing Talac’s nose momentarily, like he’d been doused in a bath of sugar water. Lightning fast the smaller wagon spraying the foul smelling mist raced past again, giving the line defending the stable another dousing. Talac’s nose shut down in response. Now he couldn’t smell a Gods damn thing. What the hell… there was no time to think, the line of guards on the battlements were shouting, firing into the night sky.
