by Erik A Otto
The Conductor directed his attention to Timothur. “General, I thank you for delivering the infidels. We can finally give the citizens of Belidor comfort knowing we can bring them to proper justice using Matteo’s divine servants—the Matagon Monks.” He gestured to Colidas beside him, then smiled back at the remaining nobles. Colidas’s face was unreadable, like uncuttable stone.
“If you will step aside, we will begin the inspection,” Preto continued.
Timothur and his men shuffled their horses, allowing access to the three infidels, then dismounted. Two of his men assisted in bringing the infidels down off their steeds. They first unhorsed Hella and pushed her forward to Colidas and the masked monks. One of the masked monks withdrew a drawing of her from a leather folder, held it up to her face, and compared her crest to an almanac of Belidoran crests. Another masked one touched her cheeks and felt at her arms and legs.
Timothur concentrated on restraining himself. His eyes were active, his ears hypersensitive to any sound.
With the inspection underway, the Conductor addressed Timothur again, more quietly so the nobles wouldn’t hear. “While we thank you for bringing the infidels to us, General, I cannot say we are hopeful of the outcome for you. You could have been made a great hero for bringing these infidels to us earlier, but this may be too small a gesture when weighed against the debt of impiety that you’ve accrued by holding them for so long. Alas, I have summoned the Great Defender, and he will be arriving with his army soon. He has informed me that he will be relieving you of command.” He said all of this with a mildly patronizing tone, as if he were addressing a rabble of common folk. Barbitan provided confirmatory nods as he spoke.
Timothur could feel his rage building. He wanted to lash out at the Conductor, but instead he suppressed his anger and said, “I understand, most venerable one. I take whatever fate Matteo has divined for me with solemn regret.” The words sickened him, but he was able to force them out. He only needed a few more minutes.
The monks had finished inspecting the prisoners. A masked one spoke to the Conductor, sounding as if he was talking through a swarm of bees. “Venerable, the Traitor and the Imbecile are confirmed, but this last one—the Truthseeker—is disfigured by burns. We cannot be certain of his likeness.”
The Conductor raised an eyebrow to Timothur. “Well, I remember Sebastian. I was one of the first to expose his misguided nature.” He wandered closer to the man, looking him up and down. He began peeling away some of the rags that obscured his neck and forehead.
Then he pivoted back to Timothur, a confused scowl on his face. “This is not the Truthseeker.”
“I believed it to be him.” Timothur shrugged.
Colidas Barbitan took a turn, looking closely at the man. Then he stepped toward Timothur and cast him a deadly stare. “Do you take us for fools, General?” Barbitan was speaking loudly, loud enough even for the nobles to hear. “This is precisely why the service of the monks is so important. This poor man has been falsely accused and defamed, and for what? If you had brought him in for inspection earlier, perhaps you wouldn’t have crushed his spirit by accusing him of being one of the worst infidels we’ve ever known. And I should say this arouses much suspicion, General. I know you’ve met the Truthseeker. You rode out into the woods with him that fateful day. So bringing this falseness to us—it has a rank smell of duplicity.”
Timothur gritted his teeth. He was beginning to worry that this verbal barrage might cause his men to turn against him. But they looked ready, focused not on the words they were hearing but on what was to come. It would be any moment.
Barbitan added spitefully, “Vanaden would be ashamed of you, Timothur.”
Timothur grimaced and took an extended breath. He said, “I don’t know what my fate will be on this day, but there’s at least one thing that I’ve learned from this ordeal.”
“And what is that?” Colidas asked, his face a skeptical frown.
Finally, it came. A great swath of shadow rippled from the end of the procession toward the beginning. All eyes looked up…except Timothur’s and those of his retinue.
“Matteo save us, it’s a Demon of the Night!” he heard one of the nobles call out.
“I learned that Vanaden was a horse’s ass,” Timothur said. The Conductor and Barbitan were barely listening as they peered into the sky in horror.
Timothur unsheathed his sword and plunged it into the chest of a masked monk nearest him. Then he kicked the skewered man toward the surrounding nobles. The screams increased, coming not only from those who were looking up to the sky but also from those who had witnessed his thrust.
More swords unsheathed around him, from his men and the garrison as well.
“What is this?” The Conductor looked incredulous as Perenna, Barbitan, and the masked monk pulled him back, away from Timothur’s men.
Timothur heard Colidas yell out, “We’re under attack by infidels! The general has gone mad. Stop them!”
And so the battle for the Old Keep had begun.
Despite the urge to witness it with his own eyes, Timothur never had time to glance up at Sebastian’s gargoyle. It was crucial that they capitalize on the element of surprise; every fraction of every second counted.
Two of Timothur’s soldiers immediately cut Darian and Hella’s bonds, then armed them with extra short swords. The rest of his men sparred with the nearby garrison men. Most of the garrison men were unable to react quickly enough to the onslaught or were too dumbfounded by the menace in the sky.
Timothur didn’t follow the retreating Conductor but rather maneuvered his men to form a perimeter around the staircase to the upper battlements. Guards streamed out of the various openings into the courtyard, running toward his men. The twenty garrison men around Aisha’s contingent also started running the distance across the courtyard toward him.
As blades whirled, thrusted, and parried nearby, the perimeter they’d formed slowly started shrinking in toward the stairs, with him maneuvering toward the center.
The remaining masked monk lurked just outside of fighting range, ostensibly waiting for greater numbers before mounting an offensive, while Colidas, Perenna, and the Conductor fled from the fighting in the direction of the procession.
Timothur wasted no more time. He turned his back on the courtyard and ran up the staircase in earnest, his men defending the rear and peeling off to follow, one at a time.
He met a guard on the stairs. The man hesitated, not knowing whether to draw his sword against a general. Timothur didn’t hesitate. He disemboweled the man with a thrust to the stomach, and the man curled into a ball and stumbled down the stairs behind him.
Timothur cringed at having to kill an innocent, unarmed man, but there was no other way. He was one of countless more innocent men who would die on this day.
Timothur reached the upper level battlements and was glad to see the guards had been slow to react. They could have closed off the stairs with the big dusty Matar-bone doors that marked his entry to the battlements. To his left he saw one guard running toward him, and to his right he saw two more heading his way. Beyond these two men stood the cylindrical gatehouse tower and the battlement corridor that arched around it.
One of the group of two yelled, “Defend the gatehouse at all costs! And lower the gate!”
The man who yelled charged at him, while the second retreated toward the gatehouse.
Timothur ran to intersect the charging man. As their paths crossed, he lunged, but his opponent deftly ducked under Timothur’s sword then thrust low. The man’s bone blade struck the flesh in his thigh, but Timothur parried it enough to make it mostly superficial. Continuing his parry, Timothur managed to hook his foe’s weapon on the pommel of his sword. He pushed it up then dropped his elbow hard into the man’s temple. The man was discombobulated, so Timothur hacked deeply into his leg, crumpling him to the floor as he cried out in anguish.
Timothur left him and continued running for the gatehouse.
He glanc
ed back to see that the man who had been charging at him from the other side of the battlements had been stopped at the staircase. Two more of Timothur’s men had engaged him. “To the gatehouse!” Timothur yelled back at his men as he ran.
The gatehouse door was slowly moving. Dust fell off the old monolith of finely crafted wood and Matar bone as it hinged to a close. Timothur sprinted as fast as he could and slid onto the ground, barely wedging his sword edge into the opening before the door shut completely. He put all his weight on the sword to keep it open as a burst of force from behind the door flexed his blade.
“Hurry!” he yelled, grunting with the exertion of the constant pressure against the door.
The door continued to press against his sword in bursts of force, but they couldn’t close it. Eventually the pulses of energy stopped, as if the men inside had given up. He saw an arrow tip poke out of a slit at the top of the door. The arrow flew and hit one of his men who were still fighting farther down the battlements. Then another arrow poked out of another slit. This arrow flew wide of the battlements, missing by a fair margin.
Timothur could do nothing to stop the arrows. If he lost his leverage on the door and they closed it all the way, the gatehouse might be lost for good. And his position was more than precarious. Although the arrow slits had no angle on him lying on the floor, if they opened the door he would be vulnerable to attack. Moreover, there could be other guards coming around the other side of the gatehouse at any time. With all his attention focused on maintaining the small opening he would be defenseless against them.
He felt the ground vibrating softly underneath him. From inside the gatehouse he began hearing the great chains reeling. They were closing the gates.
He shifted his position slightly so he could look out of an arrow slit that lined the front battlements. Hundreds of Aisha’s cavalry were streaming toward the keep, but it would mean nothing if the gates were closed.
He stole glances back and saw that more of his men had arrived on the battlements. There were seven of them including Hella, Darian, and the burned soldier he’d selected to impersonate Sebastian. Two more garrison men had taken up a defensive position farther along the battlements. His men had closed the door to the battlements behind them and were pinned down, trying to evade the arrows flying from the gatehouse door above him.
He lay there, prying at the door, for what was surely only minutes, but it seemed like an hour. His sword hand would get numb, and he would have to shift between his right and his left. He heard the gates come down into place—first the courtyard gate, then the front gate. He heard screams and commotion all around him.
They were running out of time.
He yelled back at his men entrenched farther down the battlements, “When I give the word, advance!”
Timothur waited until he saw both arrow tips sticking out of the door. Then, keeping one hand on his sword, he shifted his position again so that he was lying directly in front of the door with his knees bent. He retracted his legs, arched his back, and kicked against the door with all his strength.
The door moved only a few inches, but the force of it made one of the arrows let loose, veering out onto the plain. The other arrow tip disappeared from the arrow slit, perhaps setting the archer back from the force of the door’s movement.
“Now!” he yelled.
His men used the opening to run up to Timothur’s position. Darian slid down next to him, adding his sword to pry at the door. Another one of his men shoved his sword into the arrow slits, but the blade only clamored against the bone work, unable to fit through. Finally, another ran into the door with his shoulder.
The door moved another few inches, and Timothur and Darian wedged their swords in farther.
“More! More! Hurry!” Timothur yelled. Another man jumped into the door, then another. They gained a few more inches.
“Again!” Timothur yelled. This time when the man jumped into the door, Darian and Timothur put all their weight into levering their swords as well.
The resistance disappeared, and the door opened completely.
Inside the gatehouse were four men backing away, two of them dropping their bows and grasping for swords. Their eyes were bulging with anxiety.
Timothur put his hand up. “There needn’t be any more death here. We’re taking the Old Keep to defend against traitors in our midst. We will not harm you.”
It was no use. They had no reason to believe him, and two of the men were looking at Darian. No words would convince these devout men that the Imbecile would show them compassion.
Two of the men charged with swords drawn. Timothur stepped away from their swinging blades and hacked into one of their backs. The one he hit toppled on the floor, and Timothur’s men quickly took his weapon away. Another of Timothur’s men was hanging back, and he managed to throw a knife that buried itself shallowly in the other’s chest as he advanced. The injured man grabbed at it, and another of his men took him down with a thrust to his chest.
Timothur let his men surround the remaining two. They were frightened, but not enough to give up. One simply backed into a corner. The other stood by the wheel that operated the chains for the courtyard gate as he mumbled prayers to Matteo. Timothur’s men sent him into Matteo’s embrace with a slice to his neck. The other they managed to maim only by cutting deeply into his leg and then holding him down.
“Quickly, raise the gates!” Timothur commanded. “And close the gatehouse door and latch it!” he yelled back to Hella, who was hovering in the background. She promptly closed the door to the gatehouse behind her and bolted it.
Timothur did a circuit of the room, looking through the arrow slits. There was still much commotion from the courtyard below. He saw two garrison men approaching the gatehouse carefully from the direction he’d come. They must have reached the battlements from a more distant staircase. And in the other direction, a dozen or so garrison men approached.
“Grab those bows and fend off those men,” Timothur commanded. “We must hold the gatehouse!”
The men who weren’t on the cranks went into action. There were ample arrows and four bows, but time wasn’t on their side. “Make the arrows count,” Timothur added.
The huge gates lifted slowly as his men labored with the cranks. The top portions began appearing along guides into the front and back annals of the gatehouse.
Looking out onto the promontory, Timothur could see that the cavalry were close, but their path was impeded. The lead horse came to an abrupt halt before the moat. In front of it, a great dirty wooden slab angled upward, casting a growing shadow on the murky waters.
The drawbridge was rising.
Chapter 17
The Purveyor
When Paulo saw Timothur’s retinue arrive, he knew it was time. He abruptly left his stand in the courtyard and made his way to the main keep building. Then he walked quickly up the Albondo oak stairs, passing a few nobles coming down along the way. He gave them curt blind bows to stay in character.
Everyone told him they never posted guards on the roof. Why would they? But when he made it to the roof, there was one, exactly where he’d hoped there wouldn’t be.
The guard saw Paulo and moved to intercept him. “No visitors allowed on the roof during the Festival. Apologies.”
Paulo coughed weakly and then hunched over. “If you don’t mind, I wish to get some air. All these people and preparations make me feel faint. It will only be for a moment, with Matteo’s mercy.”
The guard looked around, as if someone might be watching him. “Fine, only for a moment,” he said.
“Thank you, and may Matteo bless your soul. If I could, I would like to get some air next to the edge, over the proceedings.”
The guard hovered nearby as Paulo made his way to the edge of the rooftop. Would he have to throw the man over? It seemed so unthinkable. Looking down, he could see minuscule people moving about. The monks and the Conductor were confronting Timothur and inspecting the infidels on the far side o
f the courtyard. A large crowd of nobles was gathering nearby. It would be any moment.
The guard followed Paulo’s gaze, looking down with him. He must be as curious about the return of the infidels as the nobles were.
Paulo looked back anxiously.
He resisted the urge to gasp when he saw him coming. Sebastian was hunched over on the beast, hugging its back as it swooped in from across the plain. The gargoyle was almost twice the size of a horse, much larger than Paulo had imagined, with skin that was ulcerous and dark. Its stubby face was headed right for him.
Paulo’s heart pounded as he turned to look back down on the courtyard intently, trying to keep the guard gazing in the same direction. Meanwhile Paulo pointed his finger behind his back ever so subtly in the direction of the guard.
The guard was caught completely unaware when the gargoyle clamped its talons on his shoulders and hoisted him up off the roof. Nor did he make any sound when he was lifted; the surprise had robbed him of his voice.
Paulo was momentarily taken by the strength of the beast. It was a burden for the gargoyle to have the weight of Sebastian riding it and a man beneath it, but it could still maneuver remarkably well. It rose higher with a few strong beats of its wings, then dived lower over the courtyard, gaining in speed while casting a shadow over the procession.
The screams started, and Paulo saw Timothur’s men move into action.
The gargoyle released the guard from its talons. Momentum took the flailing body well past the battlements to land somewhere near the moat. Then the gargoyle turned around, swooped back and forth over the courtyard several times, and finally glided up to perch next to Paulo.
The massive wings swept eddies of dust across the rooftop, then abruptly stopped and folded nimbly across the gargoyle’s torso.
Paulo circled around to where Sebastian was dismounting. “Thank you, Sebastian—for the guard. I didn’t know if I could—”
