Grey
Slipping through the back door after Beren, Grey let out a nervous breath when they finally made it to the old smithy. He was not made for this cloak and dagger business the way Jace was.
He gave a quick look around to let his eyes adjust, though there was nothing much to see. The place had been abandoned for many years, Jace had told him back in camp. And indeed, the air inside was stale, thick with dust and the smell of old soot that had seeped into the beams over years of use.
On silent feet, he moved to a boarded up window to peer out and check if they were followed. No one, as expected. Even on the way here the streets had been deserted. The Weeping Town was a ghost of itself tonight.
Wearing a Whitehead surcoat and conical helmet, they had walked slowly from the warehouse with the tunnel, a hand resting on their sword hilts the way bored guards might, but Grey had felt the weight of a dozen eyes watching from behind the shutters. Pale faces pressed close to the gaps, disappearing the moment he glanced their way.
The townspeople were no fools. Word of the slaughter at the quarry must've gotten out. A guard whispered to a friend who whispered to his family and so on, and now the common folk were huddled in the dark, waiting for the blood to start flowing in the gutters.
The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.
"They must think we've got an army marching on them," Beren had muttered as they walked.
Grey had agreed with a gruff nod. Gossip tended to blow up in proportion the further it went from its source. And thankfully, in this case, it worked in their favor. Let them think Lord Galladon had brought a force of five thousand knights to their doorstep to rescue his lady mother.
Turning from the window, he nodded to Beren, the younger man almost sagging in relief.
"Up," Grey said quietly, jerking his head toward the stairs.
On the second floor, Grey found the bundles of firewood tucked behind a pile of broken crates and rusted scrap. The lads who'd come into town as loggers had placed them here days ago, wrapped in oilcloth to keep them dry.
"Help me with these," he whispered, gathering a bundle under each arm.
Beren moved to the other side of the pile. He was one of the younger men chosen to come, only seven and ten, shorter than average but built brawny and sturdy like a baker's son. He grabbed three bundles without complaint and hefted them easily.
Together they crossed to the far side of the room where a ladder led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.
Grey climbed first, bundles balanced awkwardly against his chest. The ladder swayed under him. When he reached the top, he braced his shoulder against the trapdoor and shoved. It resisted for a moment, stuck from disuse, then gave way with a creak. Cool night air rushed in.
He hauled himself up onto the roof, then reached down to take the bundles from Beren as the younger man climbed after him.
The roof was slanted but not steep. Jace had picked this place for two reasons. First, because it was abandoned. No one to notice them moving around inside. Second, because it was one of the only buildings in town that didn't have a sharply peaked roof. This one was slanted just enough to run off rainwater, and it had two stone chimneys rising from the structure below.
Moving toward the nearest chimney, Grey ran his hand over the top. Someone had sealed it with stone and mortar, likely to keep rain from pouring down into the house below and damaging what remained inside. The surface was rough but solid.
Perfect.
Grey's job was simple. Light two fires in a tall place inside the town. That was the signal Lord Galladon had arranged with Lord Selwyn before they'd separated on the ship. Two fires meant Lord Galladon was moving on the castle. It meant his father should feign an attack on the port to draw the guards' attention away.
Grey knelt and set down his bundles, arranging the wood atop the first chimney. Beren did the same on the second. They worked quickly, building the fires up carefully so they wouldn't collapse or roll off the slanted roof.
He was almost ready to light them up when the bells began to ring.
Grey's stomach sank. He jumped to his feet, gaze snapping toward the castle looming like a jagged tooth against the dark sky.
Has Lord Galladon been caught?
He could see nothing from this far away, but the worst scenarios ran through his mind. What could he do should the Whiteheads capture the son as well as the mother?
The answer came a minute later. And not from the castle.
The town itself erupted with movement. The silence of the streets shattered into a cacophony of shouting and the rhythmic thud of running boots.
Turning, he pulled Beren down with him and crouched low against the roof. Below, a trio of Whitehead guards rushed past them, leading five armed townspeople heading straight toward the port. Further out, perhaps one or two streets over, he heard the sound of horses galloping through.
"Where are they going?" Beren whispered beside him.
Grey didn't answer for a second. The smithy sat closer to the port than the castle, and from here he had a clear view of the water. It took him only a moment to understand.
In the distance, a large ship was rowing hard toward the docks, its lanterns hanging from the railings like low, glowing stars against the black expanse of the sea. From the docks, another vessel seemed to be on the move, a longship, smaller and sleeker in the water.
He looked around the town. The bells kept ringing. More guards were rushing now, streaming toward the port-side gatehouse and battlements. He saw torches flaring to life along the walls. Distant voices shouted orders he couldn't quite make out.
How did Lord Selwyn know to make a move without their signal?
"Should we…" Beren started, then hesitated.
Grey turned to him. "What?"
"Should we go help?" Beren said. His face was tight with uncertainty. "Lord Selwyn, I mean."
Grey looked back toward the bay and the ships about to clash. He chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking.
The Weeping Town was not a big city like Lannisport or King's Landing. Its defenses were nothing extraordinary. They had no chain booms stretched across their bay. No murder holes or oil vats waiting to pour down on attackers. And their docks were situated outside the walls, open to the sea.
Lord Selwyn and the men with him might be able to fight off the longship and secure the docks if the guards didn't have the heart for it and retreated behind the walls. But Grey doubted they could take the gatehouse. Doubted they could force their way into the town itself. The walls were still solid, the gates thick. It was bound to fail.
And two more men, even on the inside, wouldn't make a difference.
But why would Lord Selwyn attack now? And with such a simple plan? Just a headlong rush into the docks?
Grey frowned. It didn't make sense. Lord Selwyn was no fool. He'd fought in wars, commanded men. He wouldn't throw himself against walls for no reason.
Then again, Grey supposed it didn't matter. This worked either way. The whole point of signaling Lord Selwyn was for him to make a diversionary move that would draw attention away from the castle while Lord Galladon infiltrated it and rescued Lady Addison. If the Lord of Tarth had decided to move early, then so be it. The guards were already rushing toward the port. That was what they'd wanted.
"Look!" Beren hissed. He pointed, only not toward the port. Toward the northern section of the walls, closer still to where the smithy sat.
Grey followed his gesture.
On the battlements by the northern gatehouse, a man stood waving a torch above his head. The movement was frantic, desperate. Back and forth, back and forth.
Then, as Grey watched, figures began climbing up the walls.
They came over the battlements using ladders and ropes, moving fast. One of them cut down the torch-bearer before the man could fight back. But more Whitehead guards burst from the gatehouse doors leading onto the battlements, swords already drawn.
A fight broke out. He could hear steel beating against steel like a distant buzz on his ear. More men climbed up the walls, hauling themselves over it, but more guards poured out to meet them. The struggle spread along the battlements, a tangled mess of bodies and blades lit by flickering torchlight.
Grey's eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place.
Lord Selwyn's plan wasn't just a diversion. The attack on the port wasn't meant to help Lord Galladon infiltrate the castle. It was to get Lord Selwyn and his men into the town itself.
Why now and why not wait for the arranged signal, he didn't know. But he knew what he could do to help.
"We're going," he said.
Beren's eyes widened. "Wait," he said. He rushed back toward the closest chimney and used his dagger and a piece of flint to light up the readied fire.
"What are you doing?"
A spark caught under the kindling. "Not lettin' Lord Galladon's first task for me left undone," Beren answered.
Grey shook his head. That same lord had beaten this lesson into his head a dozen times over the years he'd been in his service. Sometimes, plans needed to be amended on the go. Initiative over rigidity.
"Leave them," he said, grabbing Beren by the arm and pulling him toward the trapdoor. "We're going now."
With most of the guards' attention on the port-side gate, they could make a difference at the northern wall. They could tip the balance.
xxx
The fight was already spilling out from the northern gatehouse by the time they arrived.
The gates themselves remained closed, thick timber banded with iron, but the door leading into the gatehouse on the right stood ajar. Grey could hear the fighting inside. Mail clinking, men shouting. Something heavy crashed to the floor.
Whitehead guards burst out in full retreat, some clutching wounds, others simply running. Blood streaked one man's face. Another limped badly, his leg dragging.
Grey didn't think twice.
His sword came free as he closed the distance, and the first guard never saw him coming. Grey drove the blade between his shoulders before the man had taken five steps. He went down without a sound.
The next one spun at the noise, eyes wide. He only had time to gasp, his gaze darting between Grey's Whitehead uniform and his face, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Grey didn't give him the chance. A quick slash across the exposed neck and the man crumpled, blood spraying dark across the cobblestones.
More guards poured out of the gatehouse. Desperate now. Running blind.
Beren joined him, blade already swinging. Together they cut into the retreating men on the small cobbled square around the gates. It was brutal work. Quick and ugly. One guard tried to raise his sword. Grey knocked it aside and stabbed him through the gut. Another turned to flee back inside, but Beren caught him across the back of the knees and he fell screaming.
Then the men of Tarth came pouring out after them.
A tall armored figure led the charge, a greatsword gripped in both hands. The blade rose and fell with terrible purpose. A Whitehead guard raised his sword to block. The power behind the swing was too great. His arms buckled. The greatsword blew through the weaker blade like it wasn't there and cleaved the man's face in half.
He fell in a spray of blood and bone.
Two more guards tried to overwhelm the armored man, coming at him from both sides. Pivoting, he swept the greatsword in a wide arc. Caught the first across the chest. The second lost his head. Both went down in a heap.
Then it was over.
The Tarth men spread out across the square, breathing hard, weapons still raised. Their eyes found Grey and Beren—the last two figures wearing the pale skull of Whitehead.
Grey moved fast. He wasn't trying to die by his own lord's hands tonight. Tearing off his helmet, he let it clatter to the ground, followed promptly by his sword.
"Lord Selwyn," he said quickly, hands raised. "My lord, my name's Grey. One of Lord Galladon's men."
Still huffing beneath his helm, the tall man with the greatsword stepped forward, lowering the massive blade. Then he reached up and pulled his own helmet free.
Though he had been staying in the Companion's mansion for many moons now, Grey had lived inside Evenfall Hall ever since Lord Galladon took him in many years ago. He had seen the Lord of Tarth a hundred times before, but he looked different now.
Older, perhaps, the lines in his face deeper, cheeks covered by the scruff of a beard. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. And his eyes… they were hard and fiery in a way Grey had never seen before.
"Grey," Lord Selwyn said. His voice was rough, strained. "Aye, I know your face." He glanced past Grey toward the castle rising in the distance. "Where is my son? Is he with you?"
Grey shook his head. "No, my lord. He must be in the castle even now. I was supposed to light the fire signals for your lordship but…" He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the chaos around them.
Selwyn nodded, a scowl twisting his features. His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again.
"They sent me her finger, lad." The words came out tight, barely controlled. "My Addison's finger. Wrapped it up like a gift and sent it to me on my own ship. Said it'd be the last I'd ever see of her." His grip tightened on the greatsword's hilt until his knuckles went white. "Couldn't wait for a fire. I had to do something. Plan or otherwise."
He turned sharply to the men behind him. "Open the gate!" Selwyn bellowed. "Let the rest of the company in! If my son is at the castle, then we will be at his side." He paused. His jaw clenched so hard Grey could see the muscle jump. "And hurry. Before we are too late for both of them."
xxx
Read ahead if you want. Chapters on [PATREON] are longer than on Webnovel, which are divided in 2 or 3. Patreon is roughly 25-30 Webnovel chapters ahead, or 10 regular (longer) chapters.
- patreon(dot)com/pathliar