by D Murray
The Cannan advanced.
“No you fucking well don’t,” Subath growled, stepping around the thrust and grabbing the man's sword arm. His knee came up as he drove the Cannan’s sword arm down. Subath’s knee broke the Cannan’s arm, bone splintering out of the flesh of the forearm. The Cannan screamed, but it was cut off as Subath’s right fist smashed into the man’s mouth, sending teeth clattering against the nearest merlon. He grabbed the back of the Cannan’s head and thumped it face-first into the same merlon once, and then twice and then once more. The man was limp as Subath released his grip. He scrambled over to his sword, grabbing it from the neck of the serker. He picked up his hatchet and turned to face a roar to his rear. He raised his sword just in time to deflect the point of a Cannan’s weapon. But not far enough. The sword point clipped the inside of Subath’s pauldron and jabbed into the mail beside his shoulder joint, breaking it and driving in an inch or more. Subath yelled and brought his hatchet around and into the ear of the Cannan. The man’s eyes rolled and his mouth sagged open, tongue lolling as he fell.
“Fall back!” a voice roared behind Subath. He looked up the wall in front of him and saw the flood of Cannans. They were taking the wall. He glanced back and saw Thaskil. “Fall back!” the young captain yelled. “Fall back!”
Forty-Three
Where's My Bottle?
Thaskil bound down the steps of the battlement, his useless shoulder jarring with each step and sending spears of pain through his body. He heard a faint moaning as his ears finally started to clear of the muffling effects of the blast, realised it was him, and quickly got a hold of himself. He made it to ground level. “Fall back!” he roared as the mass of defenders started to spill towards the routes he had defined. He cast a glance up at the battlements, and saw the spill of Cannans coming over the wall, flooding down the levels of the battlements. He set to running, feet pounding in the churning mud, pounding through the puddles of blood leaking from defenders and Cannans alike. He strode on past the western gate, heard it splinter and crack. He strode on past the bulwarks of masonry, eying the plugged front of the charges, and made the turn. His feet pounded, arm aching and chest heaving. Masses of defenders spilled down the route in front of him towards the High Command. Thaskil risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the Cannans come.
And his world flipped. He was back in Apula. Grunnxe’s raiders were spilling into the city. Spilling over the defences, and coming for blood. He found himself lying in the churned mud of the street. In Carte again. His whole body shook as he curled himself into a ball and wept. Blood. Soaked so deep in it. He squeezed his eyes tight, so tight it hurt.
Someone shouted over his wailing, and hands grabbed at him.
“Get your fucking arse up!” Subath roared, grabbing Thaskil by his pauldrons and hauling him onto shaking legs.
The lad’s eyes opened, wet with tears. He looked at Subath with confusion, and those same eyes Subath had seen look back at himself so many times from the mirror.
“No, lad. Not you, and not today.” Subath glanced back at the advancing mass of Cannans. He slapped Thaskil across the face, and then back across the other cheek. Blood trickled from the lad’s nose and over his filthy lips and chin. But he was back.
Thaskil looked back at the Cannan charge, ducked down to fish his sword from the mud, and sought the archers from the fractured corner of the buildings above. “You’re going to want to start running,” he said to Subath. Thaskil raised his sword, and slashed it down.
Then they ran.
“Too fucking old for this shit.” Subath heaved in air as his aching legs pumped through the thick sludge of mud. “Too fucking old by far.”
“We’re still in the kill zone,” Thaskil wheezed as he ran.
Subath looked to his side; the bulwark ran down the street they sprinted down, ending a good stretch ahead of them.
The first explosion sounded to the rear, shaking the ground and sending a pulse of shock through Subath’s guts.
A moment of silence, and then screaming. Lots of bloody screaming.
Another explosion sounded, closer this time. A deeper, heavier pulse of shock in Subath’s guts. His legs pumped onward. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” He heaved breath in, coughed it out. “Any closer a blast and I’m going to shit myself!”
The third explosion lifted the ground beneath their feet, almost sending Subath reeling to the ground. He very nearly did shit himself, such was the power of the shock wave. He looked to his right, reached out, and grabbed Thaskil’s dangling arm. He hauled at it, causing the young captain to scream, and dragged him towards the bulwark.
“What are you–”
“Over it. Get over it!” Subath growled, shoving Thaskil onto the larger lumps of masonry at the wide base of the structure. He shoved the lad’s arse, pushing him up, and then clambered onto it himself. He took two wide steps up, passed Thaskil, and then hauled him alongside, before taking hold of the underside of the lad’s cuirass and heaving him up over the other side of the bulwark. Subath looked over his shoulder at the scrambling Cannans, caught out in the kill zone, and then gave them the finger. He threw himself over the bulwark, landed on masonry, smacking his knee, which hurt – a lot – and then rolled to a stop. A sizzling sound fizzed beside him, and he looked up, face inches from Thaskil's. Their eyes followed the burning powder: up the masonry, onto the oil-soaked cord setting it alight, and then disappearing past the heavy stone to the rear of the charge and then–
Boom!
Subath took his hands from his ears, or his head from his arse, and realised the world was a whirling upside down dusty fucking nightmare. He was hungover. Worse than hungover. He was fucking hungover. No, wait, he was falling upwards. He lurched sideways, and stood, he thought, praying to never drink again. Fucking booze will be the death of me. Remember, Subie, boozers are losers. He giggled. Blood dripped onto his yellow dusty hands as the searing fizzing in his ears continued. He raised swollen, trembling fingers to his face and turned them over, dripped blood on the palms, and looked up. A man wearing a black helmet was running towards him with a sword. A fucking sword. Rude. Subath looked at the ground, and saw a man lying there beside two swords.
I only need one sword. Two’s a bit excessive. He pursed his lips for a moment. But which one should I choose?
He looked up. The fucker in black was still running towards him. Subath bent over, fumbling for his bottle. No. No, fumbling for his sword.
Boom!
Pebbles rained down on Thaskil’s head and clacked against the stone around him. He lifted his head, the muscles at the back of his shoulders aching, his left shoulder hurting like hells. He pushed himself over with his right hand and saw the Cannan serker clawing his way towards where Subath swayed on his hands and knees.
The Cannan grabbed a blackened steel sword, looked towards Subath, and made to stand.
Nope! Thaskil reached for the dust-covered sword by his hand, dug his toes into the ground and sprang forward, sword lancing up under the serker’s ribs. He landed on top of the Cannan, rolled the big man over onto this back, and thumped his sword hand down until the black blade dropped free. He looked back at the serker. He was dead.
“Where’s my bottle gone?” Subath shambled about, searching the dust-coated mud for an imagined bottle.
Blast has knocked your damn wits out, man. Thaskil stood from the dead man and picked up the black steel, handing it to Subath. “Here, this is your bottle. Take it.” He pulled free his own sword, and looked back. More Cannans were spilling over the bulwark.
“This isn’t my bottle,” Subath’s drunk-sounding voice blubbered. “This is a sword.”
“Run, old man.” Thaskil kicked him in the arse. “Run, now!”
“You kicked me!” Subath slurred as he ran alongside Thaskil. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the High Command.”
Thaskil placed Subath down on the steps at the bottom of the High Command battlement. “He’s blast shocked. H
e needs to rest. Get him to the infirmary and see he’s kept a watch of. He’s delirious.”
“Sir.” A young squire offered an awkward salute.
“Lad,” Thaskil said, “give him a bottle of something. He keeps asking about his bottle.”
“Sir.” The squire saluted again, and took Subath’s arm over his shoulder. “Come on, Chief Marshal. I’ve found your bottle.”
“That’s my boy!” Subath grinned. “You better not have drunk any of my whisky or I’ll have you whipped.”
Thaskil bounded up the steps, ignoring the searing pain in his elbow, the ringing in his ears, and the nagging suspicion the squire was going to be flat out of excuses as to where Subath’s whisky had gone, and thusly was in line for a solid flogging. He cleared the last of the steps, breath heaving, and joined Lucius at the top.
“You made it.” Lucius turned and smiled. “Subath?”
“Aye. His head’s cracked from the blasts. He should be fine, but he’s out of the fight. Did many get back?”
“Hard to tell. Looks a little less than half.” Lucius offered the eye glass he had been using.
“Half from the western wall?” Thaskil asked, taking the proffered eye glass.
“No.” Lucius frowned. “Less than half in total. The southern wall has fallen. They were completely overrun. A handful made it back. Skeldon’s dead.”
Thaskil stared out at the smoking ruin of Carte and leaned his right hand on the cold stone between the merlons. “Fine fucking mess we’re in now, then.”
“Aye,” Lucius agreed, pulling a silver flask out from inside his cuirass and unscrewing it. He took a long swig, and offered it to Thaskil. “Have a drink.”
“There it is! You stole my fucking bottle!” Subath barged past Thaskil and sent Lucius onto his arse with a heavy punch to the face. The silver flask went skittering behind Lucius and came to a stop on the stone.
“Subath!” Thaskil shouted as the squire bounded up the steps.
“Sorry, sir,” he huffed, “he got away from me.”
Thaskil waved the lad away.
Subath bent over and picked up Lucius’ flask. The old warrior unscrewed it and took a long draw as Lucius leaned himself up on his elbows, shaking his head. Lucius reached up and touched his bleeding nose before Thaskil hauled him to his feet.
“He broke my fucking nose again.” Lucius honked out the words, his eyes watering.
“What are all those ships doing in the bay?” Subath asked, pointing the silver flask out beyond the ruined docks of Carte.
“That’s the Cannan fleet, Chief Marshal,” Thaskil said, his eyes focused as he tried to press Lucius’ broken nose back into place.
“No, no,” Subath slurred, “the ones with the Gerloup flags. And the Terna flags.”
“What?” Thaskil turned, and extended the eyeglass. He peered through the glass and looked to the bay. The Gerloup and the remains of the Terna Divisions were sailing into the harbour behind the Cannans.
“They’ll be pinned down between the harbour and the city,” Lucius said, stepping up to the parapet.
“They’ll be fucking ground to mince is what they’ll be!” Thaskil slammed the eyeglass shut with a click and turned to Subath with a broad smile. “Come here, you old bastard. Give me a drink.”
Forty-Four
The Breaking Of Things
Ruah dashed between the tents, Hal’s footsteps sounding as he ran behind her. She cleared the line of tents and came up to the gable wall of one of the long-houses. A small window let a sliver of amber torchlight through. The sound of wet coughing came from within. Same sound her mam made before she died.
Hal came up alongside, his back to the wall. “Bergnon!” he hissed, startling Ruah.
“Shit!” She shook her head, fists balling and thumping against the cold stone of the long-house. “Gonna make us turn back now.”
Bergnon came running up to them, passing the last of the tents and falling quickly into the shadows. “Hells! What’re you playing at?” His voice trembled with a barely contained anger. “You had your orders. Now’s not the time to be going pissing about with them, is it?”
Ruah pressed her lips together and nurtured the fire in her belly. “You can either help us, or turn the fuck around.”
“We’re doing this, Bergnon,” Hal chipped in. “It’s what we’ve come all this way for.”
“Aye,” Ruah added. “Don’t be trying to stop us.” She held Bergnon's gaze for a long moment, her nostrils twitching as the angry set of her muscles tightened.
“Roo,” Bergnon whispered, his voice more gentle and reasoning now, “there’s no debate. If you even get the townsfolk free, we’ll all be cut down unless Kal can complete his end of things. You’re jeopardising that.” He stepped right up to her and grabbed her arm. “We’ll get them free,” Bergnon continued to plead with her, “but right now–”
A figure with a lamp appeared on the battlement from behind the mass of the building. “Hey!” a voice sounded above them from the battlements. “What are you lot doing there?”
Ruah looked up at the guard speaking to them from atop the lowest level of the battlement. He held his oil lamp aloft, shining amber light on them.
“Meant to be lights out,” the guard carried on.
Bergnon's eyes held firm on Ruah’s for a moment as his hand drew the hatchet from the belt loop. He flicked his eyes to his left shoulder, and then back to Ruah. She nodded. Bergnon turned around, drawing back his arm before snapping forward, releasing the hatchet. It spun through the air and thumped into the guard's chest. The guard stumbled backwards with a loud groan. He backed into the wall of the battlement, dropping his oil lamp to smash on the stone with a loud crash and a bright flare of fire. He tried to cry for help, but his strength appeared to have all but fled his body. He lurched straight and stumbled forward, dropping over the edge of the battlement to land with a wet thump at their feet.
“Shitting hells,” Bergnon snapped as voices sounded along the battlement. He crouched down and pulled free his hatchet from the dying man. “Let’s go,” he said, craning to look around the gable wall and back towards the keep.
“Never making it to the keep without being seen,” Ruah said. “May as well carry on.” She heard the slapping of boots on stone coming from along the battlement, and saw the light of another guardsman approach. “Fuck this.” She darted out of the shadows and along the front of the long-house.
“Roo!” Bergnon hissed after her.
She ran up to the entrance and burst through the door, hatchet ready in her hand. She nearly dropped it as she entered the building. The smell was overwhelming. It was the smell of dozens of filthy, unwashed souls, the dying and the already dead. Long dead by the stink of it. She gagged and covered her mouth and nose with her hand. As she looked up, she saw the pathetic wretches stepping away from barred cells, fear etched on their hollow faces.
“Roo!” Bergnon snapped as he entered. “You’re too damn rash.” He stopped and looked around, his words withering on his lips.
Hal followed, almost knocking Ruah over as he skidded on the shit- and hay-covered floor. “Dajda,” he mumbled.
The people who had initially recoiled in fear at their appearance now stepped forward towards the bars of their cells. To a soul, they were filthy. The fortunate were covered in torn clothes, but not nearly enough to protect them from the bitter bite of the cold. Most had bruising and cuts about their faces. The unlucky lay sunken-eyed, breath shallow in their chests, and surrounded by the waxy husks of those who had died.
Ruah stepped forward, causing the prisoners to step back again. She followed their eyes and looked down at the weapon in her hand. She raised her left palm. “It’s all going to be fine. Look.” She slid the hatchet into the belt loop. “We’re here to help.” She stepped forward again, thinking she recognised one of the faces. It was Jillyn, the brewer's wife. “Are you from Overn Station?” she asked the woman.
“Twisty?” the woman responded, stepp
ing up and wrapping her cut hands around the bars of the cell.
The mocking name, so long her bane in Overn Station, struck her like a kick to her ruined leg. She swallowed it, remembering the strength of her leg now, the lack of pain. Show them your worth. Show them all. She swallowed it, and she smiled. “Aye, Jillyn, it’s me. Come to get you home.”
Hal started forward, limping heavily now as he approached the townsfolk. “Sel!” he called, “Selby, you there?”
The want in his voice, so small and tragic, cut through Ruah to her core. Her stomach lurched and she felt like she was about to be sick.
“Sel, you there? It’s Hal. I’ve come for you, Sel!” Hal limped down the cells. “Have you seen Selby?” He peered in, and moved on. “Have you seen her?”
“Hal?” A thin, sick voice sounded from the bottom cell of the long-house.
“Selby? Selby!”
Ruah watched as Hal stepped up to the cell and reached inside, a pair of thin, dirty arms reaching out and holding his. She couldn’t make out the words they exchanged, but the wrack of crying and snivelling was enough to tell her the depth of the emotion. “Help me get her out,” Hal said through his tears, looking up at Ruah and Bergnon. A dark cloud fogged about Ruah, and she felt like taking her hatchet and hitting someone with it. “Use the pommel of your sword,” she said. “Idiot.” The last word was a mumble under her breath.
