The attack had begun at once. There was no exchange of heralds or converse, no tryst or truce. Those before the walls of the Gryphonhold had a different message. Yet it was a measured assault, a probing of the outer wall, testing its defences. It was a show of strength and of their earnest, committing but a handful of the great host. The King expected that after a wound had been inflicted upon the defenders, then there would be talk. Then, we shall see, he mused. There was no cause for immediate concern. The Gryphonhold had been built for such a day. The walls were manned, the harvest was in and the granaries were stocked, and the cisterns full. Not that they need be prepared for the conditions of siege. Fertile land and springing rivers lay safe at their back and the road to the north was open. Let them storm, let them bluster, let them break their strength at the feet of his high walls, let them starve, let the fires consume them in their folly. There would be hard work to do before the thing was over, but nothing to trouble the present hour. His only difficulty was Stowham and its inhabitants.

Elsewhere, Sacrissa followed the company out of the armoury. She was intrigued. She considered the two women they had just met. They dressed humbly but carried themselves like nobility. I should know, thought Sacrissa. They do not, or cannot, disguise it. Their ranger’s clothes were practical, though of quality, and had seen hard service; the mud and dust of many roads, the sun and rain of many skies, had left their mark on the garb of the two women. These were no play-acting ladies, concluded Sacrissa, they’d been places and done stuff. And they could handle themselves, from the look of them. Like Sacrissa, they had donned mail corslets over their tunics, beneath their cloaks, and furnished themselves with what weapons they wished. Amora now wore a sword belt, and a shield was slung on her back. Her companion too now wore a sword at her side and had filled two quivers of arrows. For good measure she had slung upon her back a shield bearing two dragons, one black, the other golden, facing each other on a red field. This Sacrissa found odd; the livery of this place was red and green, it’s emblem a rearing gryphon. What was odder was that she had tied off a waxed cloth cover concealing it. In the armoury, this striking girl with the insistent green eyes, the golden hair and the lordly bearing had taken control. She had arranged everything with Bartaland, with whom there was evidently much familiarity. She had concealed her name and said she was a huntress. Well, there was a name to conjure with; the Huntress was a matter of dark rumour. She was a hunter and she killed. Sacrissa preferred to have no reputation, it was bad for business, aroused suspicion and put people on their guard. The Huntress was altogether different. Fear ran ahead of her, like hounds ahead of the hunt, and anyone learning that the Huntress was on his trail was half-beaten before his foe caught up with him. Well, so the tavern stories went, for what little they may be worth. What manner of huntress this fine lady might yet turn out to be remained unclear, and Sacrissa had not the means or leisure for her scrying, only her eyes and her wits were to hand. The name of this proud, fair girl had, however, ceased to be the focus of Sacrissa’s interest. It was her companion who so intrigued her. The huntress’s “attendant”, Lady Amora, had hardly spoken in the armoury, though Sacrissa noticed she was also easy enough with old Bartaland. But now…well, now it seemed she was the leader of their little party, something her companion evidently accepted. Through the halls and passages of the living quarters Amora led them. One did not pass easily through any castle at any time. Every passage, room, courtyard had liveried servants or guards at its entrance and exit and the leave to pass was always controlled. Sacrissa had relied upon the temporary confusion and a well-chosen route to get them to the armoury. Now, in this time of war and alarm, with every man at his station, it was impossible to go anywhere one was not supposed to be. Yet, the Lady Amora proved to be the key to all doors. She, her woodman’s garb cloaked, but with her hood down, revealing her auburn hair and fine features, led the party; Trystan, now in full harness of war, at her right hand, alert to danger; the huntress, hood up, trailing behind in the middle of the group. All doors stood open for Amora. A nod, the wave of a hand or, rarely when it was needed, a whispered password, from Lady Amora carried all before them. Sacrissa, whose studies of the fortresses’ layout had been diligent, was finding it hard to keep up with the twists and turns. They were, by stages, descending and heading south, she knew, apart from that, she was finding it hard to know exactly where they were or whence they had come. Sacrissa guessed that they would travel some way yet, before ascending, this time to a high place on the walls, which, she deemed, would be their destination. The little squirrel Sigird, Sacrissa noted, was not missing much either. She walked with the easy fluidity of a warrior, apparently casual and entirely relaxed, but unmistakably ready. Sacrissa reckoned this shy squirrel could have wheeled round and cleaved an attacker in a heartbeat. Sacrissa was impressed. The Elf, in contrast, seemed withdrawn, but, strangely, still watchful, as if she would see first what was ahead in some inner vision. ‘Spooky’, thought Sacrissa, ‘and I thought I was the witchy one’. The rather monumental librarian, now also in full harness, wore a look of earnest concentration, which broke into an unaffected smile for anyone who caught his eye or who addressed him. He hurled out cheerful greetings to all he passed, as if he knew them, but he never forgot why he was there; his hand rested easily on his sword hilt and, always a step or two behind Sacrissa, he had clearly taken station as if to guard the rear of the party. And so they went on.

Sigird was enjoying the freedom of the castle, of seeing rather more of it. Striding through it fully armed and passing its guarded portals as of right and on the way to who-knew-what, pleased her. It pleased her very much more, in fact, than lessons in embroidery or the strictures of Afor Housemother. She no longer felt overawed, and she all but forgot the shame and mortification of her recent failures. After all, she reflected, the ladies of the court do not seem so frightening when you remember your blade could slay the whole pack of them bloodily in an instant. Thus, satisfied, she walked on. She ran a practised eye over the defences and the defenders as she passed. It looked meet and good to her eye. The arrangements of this castle fascinated her. This was a place built to give the appearance of cultured ease. The King was a lover of art and music and a great reader of books, they said, and that was a thing rare indeed for a king and passing strange. Yet Sigird could see that the mind behind this fortress had built it for pure strength and defiance. She could see how all was arranged to bring weapons to bear and men speedily to the defences that would confuse, slow and trap the enemy coming the other way, and expose them to slaughter. Even here, in the rich dwelling halls, the place was a fortress entire. She could imagine herself doing great execution in this place.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Elyssa had stocked her quiver, found a short sword fine enough that it might have been an Elf-blade, and, as something of an after-thought, donned a graceful light helm, which had a sort of plume, which she thought would look rather well on her. Otherwise, she remained as she was in the fleet fighting garb of the Elves, but in her colours, blackened leather armour and deep red raiment, red as the blood that was her kin, and as the burning flecks deep in her in flint grey eyes. It had bothered her that she had not met the Princess, and was now heading who-knows-where with strangers, yet, something deep within her was insisting that abiding in this strange company was the right course. It was a motley enough band to march to battle, fine ladies dressed as huntsmen and arrayed for war, and these boys, a scholar and a page, who had also decided to take the part of soldiers.

They were climbing steadily now, as often as not, up stair towers and spiral flights set within the thickness of the walls, and the passages between them were shorter than before. They passed few people, and presently saw their last of these, a boy with buckets of water in each hand, and a bundle of cloth for binding wounds tucked under his left arm. A short sword, or long dagger in a scabbard from his belt slapped at his thigh as he went. They were alone, now, and in narrower, lower passages than before, windowless and dimly lit with economy by sparse torches. These were the passages of soldiers under arms behind the great walls, no one lived or worked here. It seemed wrong, as they drew nearer to the scene of strife, to give rein to idle talk. Their thoughts they were inclined to keep to themselves. Thus, by tacit consent they refrained from all speech and lapsed into pensive silence. Their expressions changed and grew fixed. No longer was Sigird’s gaze one of curiosity. Elyssa was no longer distant and Sacrissa no longer showed her amused smile. Their mood grew grave. They bore a determined mien. They looked within themselves and gathered their strength, as all warriors must during the calm that precedes the storm. And they trudged onward and upward. Soon, light began to permeate the stairs from above. Presently, as the stair turned, a rectangle of bright light marked an open doorway and showed them that the end of their climb was in sight.

The low sun’s rays bathed the high battlements where they emerged to the last of the evening light. They were at some lookout, thrust out from the battlements to command the view east, south and west. The lower walls, the outer town and its defences were now wholly dark in the shadow of the western cliffs yet lit fitfully in the red glow of fires. Innumerable torches, of both attacker and defender, showed as yellow points of light against the black. Larger blossomings of red and orange light, fading and intensifying by turn, marked the many conflagrations now set in the town of Stowham. The fires bathed parts of the town in a fitful and flickering sullen red glow in which men, tiny and black, like tortured ants, could be seen running to and fro. There was a great clamour, shouts and horns and the clash of arms all heard together in one blaring noise; the sound of a thousand pains and fears had come together to reach them as one great voice of agony. Above it all, the smoke from the town rose in great upward rolling clouds, black against the pale western sky above the failing sun.

A knight, some way off, perceived them there and came running to them. Young and noble and keen he was. His armour fine and polished, his helm decorated and plumed, his tabard clean and bright, richly coloured and skilfully embroidered. Sacrissa knew the type, she thought, and would have dismissed him as some painted knight, playing at war, but then she saw what was hard at first to see, the places where blows had dinted pauldron and helm and had been hammered back, the places where the mail had been pierced and renewed, or the tabard expertly repaired and cleaned so that the tear was all but invisible and the blood mark all but gone. And then her eyes travelled to his, and she saw that they were old eyes, and eyes that had seen death, and dying, which is worse, and grief, and she relented, and gave him the first, and last, kind smile of her day.

“My ladies, sirs,” he said, “the King is in conference yonder and I know he would speak to the Lady Elyssa of the Blood Elves and …,” he hesitated, looking at the mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces (he is assessing the situation, noted Sacrissa), “the others of the party known to His Highness. Perhaps” he hesitated, “he will wish to see the others too. You are most assuredly welcome,” he added, with a doubtful glance at some of the party.

“Your name, sir knight?” said the fair huntress.

“Renward, son of Rodor,” replied the young man.

“Come then, Renward son of Rodor, take us to your Liege Lord and King.”

Sir Renward led them along the wall toward a tall tower, before which were gathered many richly clad retainers, idle for the time, the captains, squires and shield bearers of lords and great knights. Great banners, too, were carried by this company, and upon their dress and shields and the standards they bore were the many colours and devices of the realm, the Gryphon and the Twin Dragons among them. These men looked curiously at the party that had arrived on the battlements. Seeing nobility in the carriage of the newcomers, and seeing they were led to where the King now took counsel, the men said nothing, but bowed solemnly to them as they passed.