Chapter 38 The Siege Ends
The Siege Ends
Corin, not a messenger or a foot soldier or even Lord Blackfell, stood outside the castle gates in the pre-dawn light.
Niel had the drawbridge lowered, but kept the portcullis down.
He approached the lattice of oak and wrought iron, and paused a foot from it, hand on his sword.
Half his men were waiting in the yard behind him, a few others standing sentry on the wall.
The rest were asleep, having stood sentry all night, or having drunk themselves sick from the castle’s wine stores.
Ayla had still been fast asleep herself when he withdrew from the bed.
And she’d still been asleep when he fetched clothes from her room and brought them back for her, so that she would have something fresh to put on when she awoke.
That was good. It had given him time to prepare for today, to focus when he’d have rather been distracted by her.
He watched Corin assess him, and the view through the grate, before his brother slowly approached. Corin stopped a pace back from the portcullis. Niel kept his mouth shut and waited for his brother to speak.
“He agreed to duel,” Corin said at last, “but not on fair terms. So that’s out. I can satisfy the rest, and I will petition to see him jailed, in time, instead of the duel.”
Niel did not even have to consider this to know he was not going to accept it. Not without the chance to fight Ditmar.
“What were his terms for the duel?” he asked.
“He’d have a sword and you would not.” Corin said. “He’s a damned coward.” There was anger in his brother’s eyes.
“What about other weapons?” Niel was best with a sword, but it wasn't his only weapon.
“Unarmed,” Corin clarified. “You’d be unarmed. He knows he cannot beat you otherwise.”
“Armor?” Niel asked.
“None for either of you,” Corin said sharply. “That was as far as I could make him concede. But you can’t be considering this. It’s madness.”
It was madness. One blow from a sword was enough to kill a man or maim him for life. It didn’t even take much strength, just a good swing. Ditmar would have reach on Niel, and Niel would only have bare hands against a weapon that could sever his head or slice open his gut.
But he didn’t have to survive the fight.
He just had to make sure Ditmar didn’t. He’d never dueled the Lord of Blackfell; Ditmar had not attended the princess’ tournament last spring, where Niel had won the unicorn cloak.
But Ditmar had no great reputation as a warrior.
It was decades since he’d won his shield, and as far as Niel knew, he’d done nothing with it after he retreated to Blackfell to rule his lands.
Niel, meanwhile, had been tournament champion out of an array of the kingdom’s best knights, and he’d very nearly been sword champion, too. Maybe on a different day, he could have beaten Corin at that. It had been a close fight between the two brothers for the winner’s title.
They were the sons of the Duke of Eyron, and there were few men, if any, who could even touch them in close combat.
He could kill Blackfell with his bare hands. He could kill most people with his bare hands, if he wanted to.
“I’ll do it,” Niel said.
Corin stared at him with open-mouthed horror.
“Niel, no. Have you lost your mind?”
“Death comes for all of us. I’d rather it meet me in a duel than a traitor’s noose.” Put that way, it felt quite simple to him.
“But we could avoid both,” Corin hissed, drawing close to the portcullis and laying one gauntletted hand on the grate. “I will fight to see you exiled instead of killed. I know you hate me, Niel, but let me do this. Let me make penance for it all.”
Niel’s mind was made up.
“No. I want to duel him.”
“He is not worth it.”
“But she is,” Niel answered simply. “We have a deal, then. My men aren’t mistreated and the lady goes free. You get the castle and the Ashbrin back.”
He could see Corin’s jaw tense as his brother thought through this for a moment in long silence.
“If you would just—” Corin started.
There was a part of him that knew he was being impulsive. A part of him that wanted, desperately, to live, and to let his brother work out terms with the Queen that would see Niel banished instead of dead.
But he had gone into this war expecting death.
If he could not be Hannes’ end, he could at least be Blackfell’s.
He’d promised to Ayla that he would kill her tormenter, time and time again, and he would not break this promise to her.
The only path for Niel now was simply to walk into the storm, head high, and meet his fate in battle.
In some ways, it would be a relief for the siege to end. No more agonizing over his men’s fate and his own mistakes. No more pacing the wall, feeling like a trapped rat surrounded by a pack of baying terriers.
“No,” Niel interrupted. “You said he’d duel and that you could meet my other terms. Swear you won’t break your word.”
“On my honor,” Corin ground out. “But damn it, Niel, you’re throwing—”
“Go tell him to prepare,” Niel said. “I’ll be out within a half-hour. It’s time to end this.” He stepped back from the portcullis.
“Niel,” Corin called. Niel ignored him, facing his men and walking away from the gate.
“Wake anyone who’s still sleeping immediately,” he instructed. “Get something to eat; they may not feed you again until luncheon. Someone get the prisoner out of the dungeon and bring him up here. Move quickly. We’ve only got a few minutes.”
“My lord.” The captain looked unsettled. “These are truly your orders? To surrender?”
“It’s over,” Niel said. Then he drew a breath, and admitted something he had not wanted to admit out loud: “we’ve been beaten for a while now. Might as well face it. I thank you for your service. It has been an honor.”
Kerr bowed, slowly, deeper than befitted a lord; as deep as befitted the prince consort title Niel refused to use. He held the bow instead of straightening, and one by one the other soldiers in the yard bowed to Niel, until he couldn’t see any of their faces.
His stomach clenched. They didn’t owe him that respect, not after he’d led them into this disaster. They ought to have hated him.
“Go,” Niel croaked, and strode past them into the castle.
He didn’t have to hunt long for Ayla. She came towards the courtyard door just as he stepped inside. Niel grabbed her hand and tugged her into one of the hallway alcoves, out of the way of the soldiers spilling back inside. Her eyes were on Niel for a moment, then on the men rushing past.
“What happened?” Ayla asked, her voice quivering. “Niel…”
He took her face in one of his hands and stared into her gray eyes, studying her face. If he survived, he wanted to remember every detail about her, for as long as he lived. And if he died, well. He prayed memory would follow him to the golden lands; that he would know her face for all eternity.
“We’ve agreed to terms,” he told her quietly. “The siege is over.”
“But…” she searched his face back, her own going paler than normal. “You’ll run, won’t you? With your cloak…”
“I told you I’d kill him. We’re going to duel.”
“Niel, no,” she whispered. “Please. Just run. Don’t put yourself in danger for me.”
“If I only keep one oath, it will be that one.”
“I won’t let you,” she said, her hands gripping his arms tightly. “You—”
He interrupted her with a kiss, pressing his lips softly to hers. Ayla stiffened, then relented, clinging to him. Niel pulled her tight against him and felt his heart pounding like a drum. She'd become everything. His light, his hope. His rescue.
If he didn’t say it now, he never would. He drew back fractionally, his lips still brushing hers.
“What was your whole name, Ayla? Before him?”
He felt her trembling in his arms, and heard the strain in her voice as she answered.
“It was Kaufaer. Ayla Kaufaer. Please, Niel, do not…”
“I am in love with you, Ayla Kaufaer,” Niel whispered. “I am glad I lived to meet you.”
“Niel,” she whispered, her voice strangled, begging. “Do not do this. Not for me.”
He was doing it for her, but he was doing it for himself, too, and he didn’t know how to explain that. And he didn’t know how to leave her, when she was begging him not to, her hands fisted in the fabric of his sleeves.
He exhaled hard and rested his forehead against hers. More than anything, he wished they'd had more time.
“Run with me,” Ayla whispered. “Please, Niel. We can start a new life away from all of this. Please. Like we talked about.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, and found he did not have the strength to tell her no.
“Alright,” Niel whispered.
“Alright?” Ayla answered, her fists squeezing tighter. “You’ll do it?”
There was so much hope in her voice. He couldn’t bear to meet her eyes.
“Go to your room and pack your things. I’ll fetch what I need,” Niel whispered.
He cupped a hand behind her neck and kissed her again, deep and slow, then stepped back.
“Meet me back here,” Niel said. “We don’t have much time.”
Ayla nodded and turned, hitching her skirts. When he did not follow she looked over her shoulder at him.
“I need to tell Kerr,” Niel told her. “Go. Hurry.”
He made a pretense of moving back towards the castle doors. By the time he reached them, Ayla was around the corner.
Niel returned to the alcove. He unbuckled his sword belt, and then the chest plate he’d worn throughout the siege, and left them on the floor with all four daggers he’d worn. Next was his cloak, because he would need to be fast if he had any hope of survival.
He returned to the courtyard. It was empty, the walls bare of sentries. He’d meant to let his men gather before they let the army in. But perhaps, Niel decided, he was more of a coward than he’d ever realized. He could face death more easily than he could face Ayla’s pain.
He worked the winch to raise the portcullis, then to lower the drawbridge. Both jobs were meant for two men, and his muscles strained. The army waited outside, rows of soldiers with spears gathered to watch as the castle opened. He could not see Blackfell or his brother among them.
Alone, unarmed, and unarmored, Niel stepped out of the castle and into the open mouth of his enemy.