The Sword Saint

by C. F. Iggulden

  Arthur had been staring out at the army of Féal. He turned to the older man.

  ‘Why would I do that, Master Tellius?’

  ‘If you fall …’ Tellius did not want to finish, but he made himself. ‘It would hurt us all. It would hurt me.’

  Arthur stood very still, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Even so, Tellius. This is my city. I’m either king or I’m not. If I am, my place is on the wall, with the defenders.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘And you know, I am not that easy to kill.’

  Tellius nodded. He felt pride in the boy that was like a pain. For a moment, his vision swam. He blinked hard and looked up, holding the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb.

  ‘Very well, Your Majesty. It has been my honour to serve with you.’

  Arthur inclined his head in reply, turning back to watch the enemy approach. His face was quite blank once more, as if the discussion had already been forgotten. Tellius gazed at the calm profile for a moment. He knew he could speak for a long time and it would still not be enough. He also knew he did not have to, that Arthur understood.

  With a low whistle, Tellius called another of the street lads, one who had been a quick-handed little urchin just six or seven years before.

  ‘Andrew. Please run to the shop “Beautiful Things” on Dial. Ask the lady there if she would be kind enough to join me on the wall. Give her my apologies and tell her I need her to burn some bastards. She’ll understand.’

  The young man flashed a grin at one who had kept him alive and fed him when no one else would. He almost flew down the steps at a pace to make the older man wince in anticipation of a fall.

  Tellius didn’t want to look at the woman still holding up her child. It had begun to scream in her grip. He could see its red mouth opening and closing, though they were too far to hear. Tellius felt the boy-king looking to him and he cursed. He turned to the closest archers and gunmen where they crouched with their backs to the wall.

  ‘You, you and you. This troop. Throw down ropes to fetch the people out there. Loop the ends and draw them up. Be ready to cut the ropes if they are taken.’

  No one had expected such an order and boys went running for ropes in desperation. Tellius watched as the cavalry swarmed like armoured hornets along the front of the army of Féal, spreading and spreading in a wider line. There were so many of them! His eyes could make out a dark heart of black armour, as Nancy had described, but sheer numbers worried him more.

  Without an obvious signal, the Féal cavalry whooped and dug in their heels. Thousands of horsemen galloped in, showing their disdain, knowing they were immortal. At the gate, perhaps forty men, women and children clustered. They turned to face the horsemen charging them, as if it was better to see death coming. The woman remained, with her child writhing in her outstretched arms, in silent prayer.

  Tellius saw two lads struggling up the steps with huge loops of rope. He grabbed part of one himself and heaved it over the wall, winding a bight of it around an outcropping of stone. Those below had prayed for a miracle and they were not slow to understand. The weight came on and the men began to haul in, hand over hand. Then the rate slowed, as more and more of the people below tried to climb.

  ‘Haul! Get more men in line,’ Tellius roared at those around him. They swore and strained, but all they could do was hold the ropes steady while those below kept climbing.

  Tellius leaned over the parapet to see and his heart sank. The cavalry were almost upon them. A dozen people were climbing, though as he watched, one of them fell, taking another from the line as he went. They were already exhausted. Climbing a rope over a hundred feet up a wall was beyond them. Yet even as he watched, more tried to grab on and heave themselves up. One rope had people like beads, all slipping and crying out. It would surely snap before any of them made it to the top.

  Some of his soldiers showed themselves on the wall, shouting down for the people to get off, that they could not raise so many. They could all hear the thunder of a line of horsemen shaking the earth.

  No one below was saved. Tellius watched the woman swallowed up like a stone in a flood as the Féal cavalry pulled up against the city walls. They were in a wild mood, drunk on the chance to draw first blood.

  ‘Archers, mass volley on my order,’ Tellius said calmly. ‘Gunmen. Aim at their precious horses. We’ll kill more when they are on foot. Ready?’

  All along the lines, those who heard him nodded. Those who could not had their shoulders tapped by officers, drawing their attention to the commands above and away from the carnage below.

  ‘Slow and steady,’ Tellius called to them. ‘Horses first!’

  They stood and leaned over the walls to pick their shots. Smoke hissed white and thunder sounded in crackling, rolling fire along the wall. Arrows poured as hail, whining through the air. The Féal cavalry were milling around in the death zone below. More experienced riders just turned and went out at a gallop as soon as the first guns opened up. Tellius watched horses hit and sent tumbling, their riders landing inert and broken on the ground. Hundreds more rose to their feet and tried to walk out of range.

  Archers picked their targets, showing skill. They still had shafts as the first pistols clicked empty all down the line and had to be reloaded. Tellius cursed under his breath. The Hart guns had a slightly longer barrel than the Regis foundry weapons. There were some who claimed a better killing range for them, but it was still too short and accuracy was poor. He wished he’d had more time and ammunition for gun practice at that height. Too many puckers of dust and earth showed missed shots. Given another month, he’d have put wine casks out there and had competitions while the men practised. He winced at the patterns of bodies on the ground. There was never another month. The enemy always came too soon.

  The Féal cavalry pulled back in half-decent order, showing discipline under fire. Tellius saw some of them carried shields, while others wore armour that resembled the feather-plate he knew from Shiang. Too many survived their ride right up to the walls – and he could hear them cheering. There seemed to be enormous variation in the styles of their regiments. Yet one man had joined them all into a fledgling nation. Well, it would be Tellius’ task to tear them apart again.

  Hondo came awake and rolled off the tavern bed before he was fully aware of his surroundings. Everything ached. He had ridden and fought and ridden once more like a madman to get back to Darien. After that, Tellius had put him in a room with a little lamp and questioned him over and over about everything he had seen. He was not a young man! Tellius should have understood that much, though Hondo saw ruthlessness in him. It was not that Tellius didn’t care, but that he would spend those around him like coins at a fair. It was a position Hondo understood, though a sword saint was usually considered less … expendable.

  What had wakened him? He heard a creak on the floorboards outside his door. His sword was on a chair with his coat, where he had placed it before falling onto bedsheets that were clean and soft from a thousand washes. As the door opened, Hondo took a step to stand behind it, his sword in reach. His dreaming mind had heard the steps creaking and he was thankful for it. A sword saint could not be found snoring.

  The tavern-keeper with a steaming cup of tea in his hand was named Basker. They were not exactly friends, but Hondo had stayed at the Old Red Inn on his first arrival in Darien. It was, if not home, at least a place where he was known and welcomed. Basker had been a soldier and there was that air about him still, of quiet discipline and self-control. Hondo appreciated it. They all ended up in the grave, but some men never said a word in complaint. They never mentioned their bad backs, or the pain from a club foot. His father had been such a man and Hondo recognised a similar sort in Basker.

  ‘Thought you might appreciate a cup of tea,’ Basker said, setting it down on the dresser. ‘There’s more hot water coming, if Elise doesn’t trip on the stairs!’

  Basker said the last with his head turned to the young woman coming in with a bowl of steaming wate
r, cloths draped over her arm. She raised her eyebrows to him, blowing back a curl of hair where it had fallen across her face. For a few coins, a man could ask for the tavern bath to be brought to his room and filled there, while he waited. For most, it was a bowl on the dresser in the mornings – and a little extra for hot. There was a rumour that a man could ask for Elise as well, though Hondo had not tried to find out.

  Hondo bowed in thanks as Elise entered. He bowed to her too and she smiled at him, essaying a bow of her own that was actually quite good, had she been a minor lord’s son. He did not say so, though it was another sign that Darien had changed him. As she went back down the stairs, he glanced out of the windows, suddenly unsure whether it was dawn or evening.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ Hondo said. He felt rested, which pleased him.

  ‘Six or seven hours,’ Basker said. ‘I’ve had the whole place tiptoeing past your door all day. Your mates are in the next room along, barely out of their armour.’

  ‘All of them?’ Hondo asked.

  Basker shook his head.

  ‘I put Vic Deeds down in the taproom. He’s up and about already, annoying Elise. No, I gave the big fella the bed. That other Shiang, Taeshin? He spent the night on the floor, with a bit of firewood under his neck. He’s a strange one, Master Hondo. He doesn’t have your way with people.’

  Hondo blinked, absurdly pleased to hear himself described in such a way, especially by Basker.

  ‘Taeshin fought well yesterday,’ he replied. ‘In the camp.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt it,’ Basker said cheerily. ‘He looks a right handful. Proper minty little bastard, I’d imagine. Here, drink your tea. I’ll leave you to wash.’

  ‘Why did … why was I woken?’ Hondo said, though he knew the answer from the change in Basker’s expression.

  ‘The army of Féal has come, Master Hondo. Weary as you are, you ain’t the sort to sit it out, if I know you at all.’

  There was some commotion in the taproom below, with the voice of Elise telling someone not to go up. Both men turned to the door at a clatter of heels on wooden steps. Once again Hondo took a step closer to his sword. Basker too turned from old instinct, though he presented about as much target in profile as he did face on. Either way, both of them were ready to defend or attack as Donny came into the room. He was breathing hard from running across the city, but he grinned at the sight of them.

  ‘All right? Tellius told me to wake up the Shiang lads. You’re on, mate. You’re up.’

  ‘Master Tellius wants me on the wall?’ Hondo replied. He glanced at the bowl of water and took the moment to splash his face and slick back his hair, running his fingers through to the tips.

  ‘Not the wall. He wants you to take a look at the river gate. There was an explosion there.’

  Hondo swore, knocking over the water bowl as he turned and grabbed for his coat and sword.

  ‘Lead with that next time, boy!’ he said, pulling in air to bellow an order. ‘Bosin! Taeshin! Deeds! With me!’

  Silence fell below, in the tavern, though Hondo could hear stirrings and swearing from the room next door. Hondo felt his bladder groan. Some things could not wait.

  ‘Give me privacy, would you? Go and bang on their door.’

  The street lad grinned again, delighted by his work.

  Hondo reached for a pot under the bed and balanced it on the covers. Basker looked away as the swordsman sighed and began to fill it.

  ‘The er … river gate is where I grew up, Master Hondo, though it wasn’t so grand then and the houses were packed a bit tighter. Near Fiveway and Red Corners. I took the name of the tavern from that, where they make the dyes and boot polish. I still have family there. If you’re heading that way, might I take a stroll with you?’

  It was barely half a question, but Hondo chose to answer. ‘We won’t be strolling, but take up your sword if you wish, Master Basker.’

  ‘Right. Though if I’m carrying a weapon, son, it’s “Colour Sergeant” Basker, if you don’t mind.’

  There was pride in his voice and the tavern-keeper stood taller than Hondo had seen before. He grinned and clapped the man on the shoulder.

  ‘You don’t look fit, colour sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘Some of it is muscle, son. I’m not much for sprinting these days – but I can trot a fair way and I can walk the rest. I’ll get there.’

  Five men left the Old Red Inn as the last light of the sun faded. Basker knew the way better than anyone and led them to the river, though Hondo would have gone at twice the speed and fretted at the pace. Deeds complained he had not eaten properly, though he was the only one of them to have grabbed a piece of steak from another man’s plate. The gunman folded it over in his hand as he trotted with the others, biting off pieces as he went.

  After half a mile, they had all loosened up. Basker took them to the river and over the Regis bridge. There was a ripple of gunfire in the distance that went on and on. It dampened the mood as nothing else could, stealing the excitement of running through black streets under moonlight.

  Hondo loped along with Bosin at his shoulder. He felt calm and purposeful, though his right knee was beginning to ache. He had not visited the southern third of the city before. He supposed he would have followed the route of the river if Basker hadn’t been there. Yet more than once, the way through was blocked by some great mill or warehouse, the river disappearing underneath with barely enough room for a barge. Basker never hesitated and the others followed him, winding in and out along tiny alleys, trusting he knew the way.

  The streets were darker there than the ones in wealthy districts. The houses were tightly crammed and there were more people actually on the street, though whether that was normal or not was unclear. Hondo sensed them as he passed, shadowy figures in doorways, or out to hear the news. Some of them called questions or even a challenge, then faded away as the size of the group became clear. The crackle of massed gunfire grew with each step.

  Basker had set a pace he could maintain, but when they could see the flickering light of shots, Hondo and Bosin split apart and went past him. Bosin said nothing, but Hondo patted the tavern-keeper on the back in thanks. The man’s intimate knowledge of the city had saved them time.

  Taeshin too patted Basker on the shoulder as he ran on, though it was an awkward thing, almost as if Basker was a good-luck talisman. Deeds just chuckled. He was panting about as hard as Basker by then, which pleased neither of them.

  ‘You can’t shoot … if you can’t breathe …’ Basker said to him.

  Deeds glared.

  ‘All right, grandpa, you’ve done your bit … Now take a rest before you have a heart attack.’

  Basker seemed to swell as he considered a reply. Whatever he might have said was lost as the light commanded their attention ahead.

  The wall of the city loomed black on black, a deeper bar that cut across the night sky. Stars could still be seen through the breach of the river gate. That was lit in the constant flicker of thousands of gunshots, delicate sparks in the darkness. It might have been beautiful if it hadn’t meant they were under attack.

  Hondo, Taeshin and Bosin were just ahead, stopping on the closest bridge to the wall. A soldier there was trying to wave Hondo back, but the noise was so great it was almost impossible to hear normal speech.

  ‘… bridge … coming down …’ the man roared into Hondo’s ear. ‘Move …!’

  The small group walked away from him, across what would have been an ordinary narrow street just that morning. Hondo turned to the barrage going on, uncertain what to do. As he stood there, the men at the bridge knocked out supports with hammers and the entire assembly of stone and wood roared into the waters with a huge splash.

  ‘To block the river!’ Basker shouted. ‘They must have ships.’

  ‘What?’ Deeds yelled back, cupping his ear.

  Basker didn’t try again as he thought it was just a dig at his age. The gunman never missed a chance to challenge man or woman, as
far as the tavern-keeper could tell. He let his anger drain away. Perhaps they needed that sort of cocky devil, at least for the moment. Deeds was no longer breathing heavily, but neither were they moving forward. Basker spread his arms and shrugged in silent question at Hondo, but the sword saint stood still on the quayside.

  In the gap between the walls, there was no sign of the massive river chains Basker knew were meant to be there. He thought he could see iron links hanging limp, vanishing into the river current. Even as he had the thought, a small two-master came into view, easing across the shining surface though gunfire battered her on all sides. The light was almost constant, but pistol shots could do nothing against the weight of a barge coming in. Every inch of the vessel was pockmarked and Basker could see flames flickering in her hold – but on she came, spinning slowly in the current.

  Hondo watched the ship come. There was nothing he could do to stop it. A dead man was revealed in flashes by the tiller, two more on the prow. They had been riddled with bullets, but the current still drew them into the city. The vessel was burning, making the night around them even darker. He thought he saw movement on the banks behind, but as long as the walls held, the army of Féal would still have to swim or climb to enter Darien.

  As he formed the thought, the second fireship exploded. The current’s drift had taken her close to the southern part of the wall and the crack of white light and fury silenced the gunfire on that side completely. The sound was a physical thing to those on the wall – and those watching with Hondo. They all felt it as a thump in their chest and they dropped flat, the instinct of fragile life in the presence of all gods. A blast howled overhead and pieces of ship and stone whirred like daggers through the air.

  Hondo could see nothing but flashing green lights. He blinked and held his nose, trying to listen for anyone taking advantage of the lull. He could hear nothing. The air had been robbed of sound and he wondered if he had been made deaf.

  It had to have been worse on the wall, he realised. Hondo came to his feet with Bosin and Taeshin, faster than either Deeds or Basker, who was rubbing an arm. Deeds said something to him and Hondo saw the tavern-keeper clip the gunman across the back of the head, sending him staggering forward. Deeds reached for his pistols and Hondo touched him lightly on the arm.