Success and Failure

by John Stevenson

that all other noise faded into the background, and all he could hear was her distraught weeping and then one of the men’s taunting. ‘Where are you bitch?’ He laughed in unison with the others as he reached down and dug his fingers into her hair. She was screaming in agony as he dragged her to her feet and pushed her backwards against the table. They were all laughing now as he brought his free hand across and brutally slapped her face. Nicholas could even hear the sickening crunch as her jaw snapped her teeth together. This was someone’s daughter, someone’s wife or lover, and that person could be one of the men standing behind him. He knew deep down that he felt pity and compassion for her, but now he felt nothing. The others would seethe with rage, as he would if the implant had not suppressed his humanity. He knew in an impartial way it was wrong to have no feelings, but anger spoilt the aim, it confused logical thought; it compromised decision. Without further looking he had calculated the odds; seen, confirmed and adjusted his plan for likely problems. He drew back and closed the door. “There are women inside the room,” he said without feeling. “You must make certain they are not harmed. Neither will you look at them, other than to identify them as non-targets: look only at their assailants,” His voice took on a hard demanding tone. “Close your minds to everything you see but the guards: seek one kill him, and instantly seek another. Fail in this and we are dead, and you will cause the females far greater suffering. Fail to obey me and we can help none of the innocent in that room.” He looked at their eyes and saw they suspected what he had seen. Anger would already be surfacing in their minds. At this moment it would negate their fear; wait and it would consume them, he had to go now. “After I enter you will move to the left, backs to the wall and chose one of the guards. If there is the faintest possibility that you will injure any innocent victim you will pick another target, even if the guard you chose first escapes your retribution.” He looked threateningly at each face. “My first bolt will be into the far door to alert Antony; as I do, you will take out your target and move to the next. Fire only straight ahead and hold your bolt if you cannot guarantee the result I demand. You will release repeatedly until I order, swords, then you will drop the bows in case your target becomes one of us. Those of you I have picked will put yourself between the bow and guard: some of us will die at this time: your death will be avenged when we free Quone.” He looked at the faces, and hoped he had made the right choice. “We have come this far, we will not now fail, and if any of you disobey what I have ordered, I demand that the one beside you, kill you as traitor and enemy of the rebellion.” Again Nicholas stared at them, and they at him. Deep inside he knew what they were thinking. These were not the words of Nicholas of Boramulla; this was a man the even he himself did not know. “Put anger from your mind; channel fury into your aim: any man in that room who does not now pay the ultimate price, will face the just law of a free Quone. When I say hold you will hold your fire. When I say cease, you will stop fighting. I will not tolerate a murderer whether he be rebel, or the Marshal.” He could say no more; everything from now on would be out of his hands. “Load your first bolts.”

  Nicholas knew the guard were in another world filled with cruel pleasure. They would not be prepared for the fury that would burst upon them, but they would recover. His pulse was steady, though adrenalin surged in his veins. He set his stance, took a deep breath and pushed open the door stepping three steps into the hall. The group quickly followed him, and fell back against the wall in a line. Clearly above the raucous din, his ears heard the gasps of the men behind him, as they saw the distressed females. He had no time to delay, and as he took aim a group of men across the room stood, almost obscuring the door. Others did the same, including the group surrounding the blonde. Drinking halted, and banter faded; as across the room stupefied minds tried to take in what they were seeing. The brute was off the girl now and staring blankly at them as Nicholas moved a little to the side to put the man between him and the far door. The bolt passed though the brute’s throat, but instead of hitting the door it deflected off the skull of one further away, and hit the wall. The others in the brutes group looked in bewilderment as the man crumpled to the floor. In moments shock had begun to radiate out from them. As it did they heard the hiss of releasing arrows.

  Quickly Nicolas reached into his waistband. He had not expected to use the dagger, but was thankful now that he had kept it handy. In moments it was curving above heads; a moment later it began to fall and then it hit the door timber, vibrating as it came to a sudden halt.

  The revelry had ceased; replaced by female sobs; shouts of anger and dying gasps as Nicholas reloaded his crossbow. His third arrow was released as Antony burst into the room. Bodies were littering the floor to his left and Antony’s first wave of arrows took out a dozen guards on the other side of the hall. The guards were separated from their weapons, and could move neither forward nor back; confusion ran through them, destroying their discipline. By the time Nicholas shouted, ‘Hold your fire’, the number of living guard was far less than it had been, and several more died before the arrows stopped.

  “No man moves, or he will die,” Shouted Nicholas in the almost hush. He was about to add ‘release the women’, but as he went to, he heard discerned sound of chains, from clink of mug. Instantly he knew it was unlikely any of them could reach safety; instantly he amended his plan. Time became more critical. If they could not escape then the guard could use them as shields. He needed to create indecision. “No one has to die,” He called out in a less demanding tone. “We are all men of Quone. Take no part in what follows, and you will be judged fairly by free justice; for what crimes you have committed against the people.” It was unlikely that any would change allegiance until they saw which way the fight would go, but he had taken the incentive, and he would have to hold it little while longer. “Females, and those of you that wish to live, lay still on the floor.” As the women prostrated in fear, the guard galvanized. Several of the braver began shouting and lunged for them. “Free men of Quone,” Nicholas called. “Now is the time to kill; or die.” Almost as a single noise, the bows behind him and across the room released again. Nicholas threw his crossbow behind him, and reached for the hilt of his blade. “Swords.” The sound of weapons being drawn was almost as loud as the shouts and cries as the rebels surged forward. A guard was coming straight for Nicholas: the man was in a rage; his face was contorted into a snarl. He reached out wildly to grab as Nicholas coldly sliced his blade into the man’s chest, before moving slightly as momentum carried the dying man past, and off his blade. He swept it up and forward into the following guard.

  The hall echoed to the ring of steel; against anything the guard could fight back with, and with the screams of combat. Some now had swords taken from dead rebels. Though the guard had been caught without their main weapons, they had plenty of knives, and were expertly trained; and for the most part prepared to fight. But he also saw that some were unsure enough of their intentions, to take cover under bench or table.

  At the front was Nicholas; his sword thrusting and slashing like a scythe through grass: alongside him, though he did not know the man, fought Jacob; and his father by his side. After the guards treatment in their capture there was little mercy shown, or on the guards side expected. A soldier’s duty was to die and many did, but others too afraid, or too drunk, watched and waited for the flow of victory. It took only a few minutes before it became clear; and by that time, more and more guard were dropping whatever weapons they held. Minutes more and it was over. At a quick count seventy or more guards lay dead or dying, against twelve of the rebels. The garrison was theirs.

  Their prisoners were cuffed in twos; to heavy objects like the tables or cots. They fared the worst, and no one stopped the released women clawing, kicking and spitting at their faces and bodies.

  Antony was given the task of mopping up the gates and random outposts while Nicholas led a smaller group up to the main apartments Progress was slow, mainly for caution, though several times they met
opposition and had to fight their way past. They traveled faster once Simeon brought Maryanne; who showed them how to outflank any ambushes by using servant, or roundabout passages.

  Less than half an hour after they had struck at the garrison, they had taken most of the keep and were outside the Marshals door; it was locked. “Fetch a ram,” called Jacob, and a large refectory table was brought from the adjacent dining room. Heavy thud followed heavy thud; each resonating down the passages until the stout timbers began to splinter. Then there was a crack, and a shower of timber shards fell from the door as its hinges tore away. The men holding the table dropped it quickly, and fell back, expecting a volley of arrows, but none came.

  Nicholas cautiously stepped into the gap.

  The Marshal was standing with his back to them, beyond the open doorway to the roof garden. He was dressed in the purple and black tunic of the type worn by the guard on ceremonial occasions, and his long cape billowed gently in the wind. As he slowly turned they saw that he held a glass of