"Skulls and necks!" Gramus cried, the warriors echoing the words behind him. The ambience reminded him of his fights on Skandivian soil. "Attack!"
Their ground at the wall was slightly higher than their attackers', so they earned additional momentum as they literally descended upon Di Galio's swordsmen. With a single two-handed swing of his long axe, Gramus hewed the neck of one soldier and slammed the head of another. Swiftly, he made a backswing to block a sword, the counter-strike making the Bermanian blade fly away. Gramus crushed his opponent's skull with one quick overhead strike before he cleaved the chest of another Bermanian. Not sure whether his hands were clammy or bloody, he tightened his two-handed grip on the coarse wooden haft as he swung, struck, and smashed whenever a swordsman came in his way. The battle was just starting, and he was heavily sweating under his armor already.
Gramus thought he heard his name, but amid this indistinct clamor of cries and roars coming from everywhere, it was practically impossible to answer the call. Even if he could tell where it came from, the Bermanians' blades were certainly nearer than his caller. Swings and backswings; those were his available responses for the time being.
His battalion was gaining ground. Now the incoming Bermanians attacked with their shields to spare themselves the worst of the Skandivian storm of blades. The trick slowed the advance of Gramus's battalion a bit, but it decelerated the Bermanians' attack as well.
Gramus's axe rattled more against shields than it cut through flesh and bones, but he continued hacking his way forward. Maybe a little too far; he only realized when he found Di Galio's swordsmen around him, not just ahead. Without any long calculations, he was obviously outnumbered, which left him one possible action. Unlike them, they had options, and options made them hesitant. In other words: slower.
He who stops striking first dies first, his father had taught him. And definitely, he did not stop striking at all. Now gripping his war axe with his right hand, he drew his sword with his left and swung both weapons at whomever he reached first. While he was turning around to slay his opponents, he felt that sting in his side, and then another in his back. Two hits, but they did not stop him. And he was moving too fast to figure out how he received them. Whoever did this to him was probably among the ones he had just slain. And if they survived by some miracle, they would not escape the blades of the roaring Skandivian warriors, who had just joined the general to aid him.
The mercenaries' arrival allowed him a chance to catch his breath and check his wounds. He was bleeding, but he could tell, from his previous experience with far worse gashes, that the blades that wounded him had not cut deep into his organs. Later he might devour some eggs and drink rivers of milk to replenish his strength, but not before he repelled Di Galio's troops.
Gramus's battalion was overpowering the forces attacking his front. Unless Di Galio sent reinforcements to his faltering swordsmen, the Skandivians would eventually vanquish them. The general gazed at his left and found that the two fronts defended by Edmond and Jonson were still holding their ground. It was Lord Darrison's wavering battalion that needed urgent help at the rightmost breach. Now all Payton's archers on the right side of the wall were shooting at the rearguard of Di Galio's forces attacking Darrison's front. Arrows alone will not finish them. Should Gramus pull his men back now while they were so close and about to run their opponents out?
"Warriors! Regroup!" It was not the best timing for that order, but it was a decision the general must take. "REGROUP!"
Gramus had to bellow a few more times until his warriors assembled after they were done with the Bermanian footmen engaging them. "Let's tear them apart!" He pointed his war axe at Di Galio's forces attacking Darrison's front. "Charge!"
His sprinted, or actually, he tried to. Wounded, and wearing this armor, Gramus felt as if he was dragging a huge sack of sand. The Skandivians outpaced him as they scurried toward Di Galio's soldiers. "Hold your arrows! Hold your arrows!" Gramus waved to the archers atop the wall with both his axe and his sword, struggling in his race toward the gap. They are just scratches, Gramus. Nothing should stop him now. Not until the castle and, more importantly, Rona were safe.
The Skandivians were already charging the rearguard of Di Galio's battalion while Gramus was still panting, trying to catch up with them. "General Gramus!" the same voice that had been calling out to him in the heat of the battle was back again. It was coming from the wall, he realized now. "Over here!" The Commander of Archers waved to him. How had Gramus not recognized that voice?
Gramus pulled his heavy body as he strode toward the side Payton was standing atop. "What is it, Commander?" Gramus asked, his breath growing slightly heavier. He had not exerted the effort that would make him so exhausted. What was wrong with him?
"You are badly wounded, General," said Payton. "Let the healers take care of you. We need you to lead, not to fight."
Badly wounded? Gramus found himself laughing despite his exhaustion. He still had his four limbs, to say the least. And how could he lead the warriors of Skandivia without fighting alongside them? That young Bermanian commander and his likes would not easily grasp the Skandivian notion of leadership.
"What was it when you called out to me before I was wounded, Commander? Only distracting me?" Gramus was infuriated by the naivety of that green commander. "You have any idea what could have happened if I paid heed to your cackle?"
Payton inhaled deeply before he tightened his jaw. "I wasn't cackling, General. I was warning you from pushing forward away from our walls. Besides, after the split, Lord Darrison's troops were unable to stand the assault at their front. That's why I—"
"Wait, wait, wait!" Gramus put in. "Split? What split?"
Even from his distance, the general could see the concern on Payton's face.
"We heard a soldier yelling at Darrison's front that the postern gate needs reinforcements. Lord Lanark took the warning seriously, and hurried with his company of knights and swordsmen to see to the matter." Payton peered at Gramus as he went on, "You don't think I should have sent a bunch of my archers to aid him. Right, General?"
34. RONA
"The way is all clear now, Rona," Masolon's voice came from outside. Despite his assurance, she walked out of the chamber with caution, stepping over a couple of corpses. Seriously, how could she trust that reckless bastard after what he had done?
He was standing near the stairwell, checking the quiver of an archer he had just slain. "Are you out of your mind?" she blustered. "You could have gotten yourself killed."
Masolon froze for a moment, the quiver in his hand. "Were you worried about me?"
Rona could not believe the way he was twisting her words. "Getting yourself killed might get me killed as well."
"Ah." He strapped the quiver to his back and then grabbed the fallen bow from the floor. "In that case: you are welcome."
His arrogance was really irritating. "You said it yourself: only a fool would open that door."
"I did not claim I was not a fool." Bending over the dead archer, Masolon searched his pockets. "Anyway, we are alive because of being foolish."
Maybe she should stop arguing with him, not only because it was exhausting to her nerves, but also because he was actually right. When he had unbarred that door, the two soldiers trying to force it open had stumbled as they found no resistance to their momentum. Rona had taken care of them while Masolon had been handling more intruders at the doorstep. "Stay here until I tell you otherwise," he had firmly ordered her. Rona had been tempted to ignore his stupid order, but upon hearing that whizzing sound of an arrow, she had understood his point.
"We are alive because we were lucky." Rona approached him, staring at the archer slumped in a pond of his own blood. "He could have simply killed you before you even touched him."
Masolon's breeches were stained with the archer's blood after he was done plundering him. "Luck comes to those who are prepared for it." From the floor, he grabbed the shield he had taken a few minutes earlier, an
arrow stuck into it. "And I was." He broke the arrow shaft with his sword. "Let us get out of here."
Rona had no desire to stay here either, the metallic scent of blood so strong in this enclosed place. "Where should we go now?" she asked, following Masolon as he descended the twirling steps.
"Since you are really betrayed as you were telling me, I have no idea." Masolon kept looking down at the stairwell. "But my suggestion for the time being is anywhere but here. This tower will soon be a death trap when that traitor misses his murderers and sends more men to see why they are late."
"To the courtyard then." She would be safer among her fighting battalions. "Keep going downstairs."
After going down a few levels, Rona noticed that she had not heard a boom in a while. Through the nearest window to her came only the clamor of roaring men outside.
"What was your point of summoning me up all these stairs?" The rebuke in Masolon's voice was thicker than his scorn.
"If you are inferring that it had anything to do with my pride, then the answer is no. I only chose a high place from which I could have a good view of the battle." Rona stopped by the window and watched the clash of steel occurring now at the walls of the fort of Subrel. From her angle, she could only see the right flank of her army. Her infantry was struggling against Di Galio's knights. Where is my cavalry? Where are Gramus and Darrison? Her general must be among the Skandivian warriors laying waste to Di Galio's swordsmen. He is endangering himself though. As always, he must be leading his men from the frontline. What would she do if she lost the two men she relied on the most?
"Do you have a good view now?" Masolon asked, looking down the stairwell. "Because we are soon getting company again."
Rona had barely rested from the previous fight. "How many?"
"I cannot tell from here for certain. But it seems like a long line of soldiers. If we are lucky enough, these men will be coming to your rescue."
However, she did not think she was lucky enough, especially today. "Then let's hurry to the main building." She was now ahead of him as she scurried downstairs. "There is a passage connecting it to the tower. We must reach that passage before they do."
"Wait." He held her by the arm, his voice low. "We need to move on our toes. The last thing we need right now is a reason to urge them to ascend the stairs in hurry." He took the lead this time on their way downstairs, as if he was demonstrating to her how to sneak quickly on stone steps without making any noise.
"It is a long way down," she whispered as she caught up with him. "We won't reach the passage soon enough if we keep moving at this pace."
Masolon took another brief look at the stairwell. "They are taking their time in their ascent, knowing how long the way up is." He turned to her. "Are we still far from your passage?"
"Just keep going until you find it." She had barely spent a day here in this castle to memorize the number of cycles she had to make on these stairs before they could reach her passage. I shouldn't have trapped myself here, she thought, recalling Masolon's logical question about her reasons for choosing this tower as a meeting venue.
The ascending soldiers' footsteps were getting closer. They sounded hurried even. Unfortunately, she could not make out anything from their indistinct humming. "They know we are here," she hissed.
Glancing over his shoulder, Masolon glared at her, his finger over his lips.
"Your caution is of no use now." She ignored his instructions and went past him one more time as she hurried downstairs. Masolon mumbled something behind her, but all she heard was "lunatic." Little chance he meant Di Galio's soldiers by that word. He is the only lunatic here. She should remind him again of his suicidal act upstairs whenever she had the chance.
It was too late for Masolon and Rona to play safe now. The soldiers coming up to them did not attempt to hide their hasty movements toward them. "Arm yourself." Running down the stairs, Masolon drew his two swords. She had plundered two swords as well, but she never tried wielding them at the same time.
"We have made it." The sight of the passage was surely more relieving than that of her chasers. Masolon did not need further explanation to sprint by her side through the abandoned, torchlit passage connecting the tower to the main building of the castle. Where have my Skandivian guards gone? She wondered if they had betrayed her like the others, or whether they were just so outnumbered against all those traitors.
Her attackers made it to the corridor as well. The moment she heard their clamor behind her, Masolon sheathed one of his swords, gripped her by the wrist, and pulled her to him as he hid behind a side pillar, whizzing arrows soaring into the air filling the vacancy of the passage instead of hitting her body. "That was close!" she exclaimed, her back against his armored chest, his arm around her waist. "Too close already," she muttered.
"We were closer once, remember?" With a gentle push, he moved her one step away from him, keeping her back against the wall. After sheathing the other sword, he drew an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back and shot at their attackers. He loosed two more arrows so swiftly that she wondered if he even aimed at his targets before shooting them. Though she could not watch their fates from her angle, the three groans coming from their side told the story.
The passage grew quiet for a while. "Did they stop following us?" she asked.
"They are just advancing with caution." Masolon nocked a forth arrow onto the bowstring. For some reason she did not know, he was taking his time with this shot.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Picking their archers first before I run out of arrows." He loosed his arrow at last, another man grunting at the end of the passage. "If I must, I can deal with those swordsmen in this narrow passage."
"We can." She lightly elbowed him. "You are not the only one who knows how to fight."
"This is not how it is going to work, Your Grace." Masolon was back to his quick shots, sniping two more men. "You should run now and get help while I delay them."
Again, he insisted on underestimating her capabilities though he had seen them for himself. "I'm not leaving you behind while you still need my help."
"What is that?" Masolon scoffed. "A Queen's pride? Or the genuine concern of Rona?"
"Should I laugh or something?" She smirked. Seriously, he chose a bad timing for his horrible jokes.
There were footsteps of more incoming men, Masolon counting the arrows in his quiver by feeling the feathered vanes. "Blast! You should have run when I told you, Rona. You should have run when you had the chance."
His frustration seemed real to her. Was it the genuine concern of Masolon; she almost asked him as he drew an arrow from his quiver.
"Halt! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" a distant voice called out from the end of the corridor. A familiar voice she knew so well.
"Lanark? What is he doing here?" she muttered, resisting the temptation to step away from the pillar and face him—a move that would be as naive as her question.
Masolon glanced at her, his arrow nocked already onto the bowstring. "Is he trustworthy?"
"Trustworthy?" She chuckled nervously, wishing she could bring that trustworthy lord closer to spit on his face.
"Drop your weapon, Commander." Lanark's voice was closer now. When she leaned forward to sneak a peek, Masolon put his bow-arm in her way to stop her, shaking his head in disapproval. "Your Grace, trust me, there is no need to spill more blood here. I have no interest in killing you or Commander Masolon."
Trust him? Was he serious? That bastard had really a poor choice of words.
"Hiding is pointless, Your Grace. We already know you are here," Lanark went on.
"Is that why you hide behind your men, milord?" Masolon tightened his jaw, still pulling the bowstring.
"Commander, men do not have conversations with bows and arrows."
"You want to have a conversation? Order your men to lower their weapons first," Masolon insisted.
The passage was quiet for a moment before Rona heard the scrape and rattle o
f weapons. She shot Masolon an inquisitive look, but his eyes were still fixed on the enemies she could not see from behind that pillar. "Rona, behind me," he said without looking at her, a tone of command in his voice.
Facing the end where the traitor stood, Rona did what Masolon told her. He was there indeed, Lord Lanark, the turncloak, the viper who had been hiding in his rotten hole, waiting for the right moment to stun her with a venomous bite.
Like Masolon had said, Lanark, the coward, was standing behind a row of crossbowmen. The ranks of soldiers cramming the passage behind the traitor were too many to count. "All those men around you and still, you are afraid, Wilander's dog," she sneered.
"Your Grace, please. No need to take this matter personally." Lanark stepped forward, his soldiers advancing with him so as to keep their master shielded against Masolon's next shot, which Rona wished it would strike him, that coward, right into his heart.
"Ignore him and fall back, Rona." Masolon stepped back, still aiming at Lanark.
"What was your price, Lanark?" Rona bared her teeth as she walked backward with Masolon to keep their distance from Lanark and his advancing soldiers.
"Not everything is about gold and silver, Your Grace. It is just about making sense when taking a decision." Neither did Lanark stop his cautious advance nor did Masolon and Rona halt their retreat. "Believe me: I bear you no grudge, nor your late father. But I must say: King Wilander was simply more convincing than you."
"Stay back or I plant this in your forehead," Masolon menaced.
"You really don't want to do this, Commander." Lanark grinned. "I'm the only one who knows the remedy to your pain, remember?"
"You lied to me as you lied to her." Masolon did not stop moving backward.
Queen of Rebels Page 24
