The Poisoned Quarrel: The Arbalester Trilogy 3 (Complete Edition)

by Duncan Lay

Dina reflected that Swane had eaten more and slept in warmer conditions than any other man that night but everything was relative to a royal. As she had predicted, the mercenaries were delighted with the news they were getting twice as much money and their sullenness was gone in a moment.

  Eight officers who Kane had nominated as being more loyal to Swane than himself had been selected to lead them forwards in two groups, while another three-score disgruntled guards whose horses had gone lame were scattered among them. With their shields, swords and surcoats, they stood out amid the rough cloth, makeshift cloaks and crude weapons that the rest of the mercenaries had. But, if they did get among Fallon’s men, Dina had no doubt the mercenaries would do some damage. For a moment she entertained the fleeting thought they would win the day on their own but a glance towards the tight, ordered ranks of Fallon’s army said that was foolish. Still, as long as they used up the crossbow bolts, that was good enough.

  “Forward!” Swane drew his sword and waved it vaguely in Fallon’s direction.

  The mercenaries sent up a ragged howl and shuffled off in two groups.

  “We shall follow behind, to see what happens,” Swane said eagerly.

  “Kane, we need some guards here too,” Dina said instantly. After all, not only would Fallon be trying to kill them if he got the chance, but some of the retreating mercenaries might think of taking their money early.

  *

  “Where did they get this mob from?” Devlin asked as the mercenaries shambled towards them, splitting into two uneven parts.

  “Every outlaw and chancer in the east,” Gallagher said. “All fighting for gold.”

  “Well, we’ll be paying them in a different coin,” Devlin said, tossing a slingshot up into the air and looking around with a grin on his face. “Do you get it?”

  “Many more jokes today and you’re going to get it,” Brendan rumbled, flexing his fist.

  “They want to know where we are weakest,” Fallon interrupted. “Get the crossbowmen to pick off the leaders. The slingers need to take the rest of them apart. They can’t run in this snow, so we’ll have more than enough time to send them packing. But we can’t let them get close enough to see what we have prepared for his cavalry.”

  “How do we tell the leaders in that?” Gallagher pointed at the formless waves struggling towards them.

  Fallon pointed. “Pick out the ones with swords and shields and surcoats.”

  Gallagher peered into the gloom. “Good point.”

  “Move everyone up,” Fallon ordered.

  “But won’t that be dangerous? And difficult for everyone to keep their feet?” Bran asked.

  “Yes, it will. One man to help each crossbowman or slinger. But we can’t let them find out what we have done. If just one of those bastards sees it and gets away, they might not attack.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Devlin asked.

  “It is if they ride around us and go for Berry and our families,” Fallon said grimly. “We want to finish it here.”

  “Right, let’s move everyone up,” Brendan said fiercely.

  *

  Fallon drew back the string of his crossbow and grunted with the effort. All the weapons had been heavily greased but the cold air had stiffened the horn-bow arms and made the strings fragile. He was not sure how many shots he would get out of it, so every one had to count.

  “Stop wriggling around,” Devlin complained, his blunt, powerful fingers holding Fallon’s belt at the back.

  “Easier said than done,” Fallon replied, bringing the bow up and placing his feet carefully in the snow, seeking a firm stance. He glanced to his left and right, seeing the rest of the crossbow company follow his lead. As soon as he loosed, they would also release. He raised the bow to his shoulder and felt it wobbling in his hands. His heart was pounding and the shouts of the approaching mercenaries was putting him off. All he could think of was how he could lead everyone to their doom here.

  “Do you want me to shout and yell, like we used to?” Devlin asked softly.

  Fallon lowered his bow and smiled. He was overwhelmed by the memory of that simpler time. He had once hated those days, when his biggest concerns were farmers who had drunk too much or if Kerrin would get a cough. How he longed for them back.

  “Thanks for the offer but I don’t think the rest of them will understand. They’ll think you’ve got a hedgehog stuck down the front of your trews,” he said.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. They keep you nice and warm!” Devlin said. “And you know how hedgehogs like to gobble a fat slug …”

  Fallon laughed aloud. He raised his bow again and this time it was rock steady as he lined it up on a tall man in the surcoat of Meinster, who was slipping and sliding as he led the mercenaries forwards. Fallon let out a breath and, in the moment before inhaling, loosed.

  A heartbeat later the rest of the crossbowmen released also.

  Fallon’s target staggered backwards, as the quarrel struck home, and then fell over backwards, while other men in bright surcoats also disappeared, plucked away by the strike of the crossbows. Fallon hauled on his crossbow string as Devlin held him steady and saw the mercenaries’ advance speed up as the men instinctively wanted to suffer as few crossbow shots as possible.

  “Get the slingers up!” Fallon roared as he slipped another quarrel into the groove and sighted on another brightly surcoated man. The mercenaries were still more than a hundred paces away and only able to muster a fast walk on the snow, and he reckoned to loose at least three times more before they reached him. But this time, as he loosed, his target slipped, and the quarrel whipped over the top of him to smash into the face of a cloaked mercenary behind him and send him crashing to the ground.

  The mercenaries slid and shuffled forwards faster, the crossbows picking off men in ones and twos, rather than bringing whole files down, and Fallon could see the remaining guardsmen were encouraging them onwards, while keeping themselves carefully hidden by a rank or two. Fallon smiled mirthlessly. Time to unmask more of his surprise.

  “Slingers loose!” he bellowed.

  Instantly he heard a new sound in the cold air. The snap of the crossbows and the faint screams of the wounded mercenaries was overshadowed by a whipping and whistling as the scores of slingers whirled their slings around their heads then released the cords, sending egg-sized stones flashing out across the snow to crash into the mercenaries.

  Now they began to go down in swathes. The slingers had grown up trying to hit a bird on the wing or a running hare and the huge mass of mercenaries was unmissable. The sound as stones thumped into bodies, smashing skulls, ribs and other bones, began to echo across the lake. Any hit knocked a man down, for the long slings propelled the stones at a fearsome pace. The screams were constant and now the remaining guardsmen were being unmasked as lines of mercenaries were mown down.

  Fallon sent a bolt through the chest of another, seeing the man stagger forwards and collapse face-first into the snow.

  “Keep going!” Fallon shouted.

  Each slinger had a sack of stones at their feet and they were sending them out as fast as they could get the long slings up to speed. It was a slaughter. The mercenaries tried to run forwards but they were slow and clumsy in the snow and they had no protection from the stones. The guardsmen raised their shields and the clang of stone on shield echoed across the lake—until the crossbowmen picked off those with shields.

  Fallon saw one guardsman stagger backwards, driven by the impact of a stone and crossbow bolt striking his shield. Fallon lowered his own weapon, striking the man in the leg. The guardsman went down on his knees instantly, his shield dropping. A stone vanished into his eyesocket, jerking him backwards onto the snow, where he writhed briefly before going rigid. Mercenaries tried to pick up shields and rush forwards but there were not enough shields and they were taken down, one by one. If they had tried to form a tight line then maybe that could have got them closer, Fallon judged, but none showed that ability. Then they
discovered the pits that Fallon’s men had dug, not deep because the ground was too hard but calf-height, covered with a few sticks and plenty of snow. At the bottom was a sharpened stake or two and the agonized howls from those caught by them were payment for the hard work each had cost.

  The mercenaries finally stopped about fifty paces away, survivors hunched over against the incoming rain of stones, unable to get closer but seemingly unwilling to turn and run.

  Fallon tapped Devlin on the arm and, with the farmer’s help, stepped slowly back until he could see what was happening on his open flank. This side was secure.

  For a moment his heart jumped as he saw mercenaries not twenty paces away from his lines—but they were stuck in the pits, not rushing forwards. He sighted on one guardsman further down the line trying to use a shield to get closer and put a quarrel into his chest because nobody was protecting his side. A little further around, a thick group of mercenaries was rushing closer but, just as Fallon prepared to hurry down there, they hit the next line of his defenses, a narrow but deep trench, a pace wide and calf-deep. Men went down screaming with broken ankles, while others dithered, making themselves easy targets for the slingers.

  “Is this the best Swane has got?” Gallagher asked, watching the slingers fell the mercenaries like weeds with a hoe.

  “He thinks we will run out of crossbow bolts,” Padraig said.

  “And we might. But we have another wagonload of the stones,” Fallon said. “Get a few squads to bring up more.”

  “I don’t think we will need them,” Brendan said, gesturing with his hammer.

  Fallon saw that the mercenaries were now edging backwards, because there was no pressure from the ones at the back to press forwards. The slingers were relentless, stones bouncing off skulls and back and chests. The crack of bones was easy to hear, even above the howls and cries of the wounded. Wounded mercenaries crawled and writhed on the ground, trying to drag their shattered legs and arms out of reach of the deadly stones and succeeding only in bringing down more of their comrades. They were taking too much punishment for trained soldiers, let alone men fighting only for silver. A trickle of men running away became a flood and then they were all going, even the injured ones getting to their feet and staggering back, broken limbs hanging loosely.

  “Send them on their way!” Fallon called and a final volley reached out to pluck down the slower ones and send the rest into panicked flight.

  “Let’s see what Swane thinks about that,” Devlin said with satisfaction.

  *

  “The cowards!” Swane spat. “How could they?”

  Dina said nothing. There was nothing to add. Instead of using volleys of crossbow bolts, like she had expected, Fallon had unleashed a storm of slingstones. The mercenaries were flooding back, hundreds limping and crawling, like some hideous, wounded beast.

  “I will not pay those bastards a copper coin for that pitiful display! Kane, ride them down!” Swane snarled.

  “Sire?” Kane asked, startled.

  “Wipe them out. Set the cavalry onto them. If they won’t kill Fallon for me then they are no use. Let our men blood their swords on easy prey before they hunt something better.”

  Kane glanced towards Dina and she nodded quickly.

  “Into lines! Prepare to charge! Swords only!” Kane bellowed.

  *

  “What’s this?” Padraig asked.

  Fallon turned back to see Swane’s cavalry spur their mounts into movement, shaking themselves out into two long lines.

  “They want to charge us already?” Brendan asked incredulously.

  “Pull back twenty paces! Prepare slings and aim at the horses!” Fallon shouted, heart pounding again.

  “Wait—I don’t think they’re interested in us yet,” Rosaleen said, her voice sounding strangled.

  Fallon and the others stared, open-mouthed, as the cavalry spurred into a gallop and crashed home into the ragged ranks of the mercenaries. Swords rose and fell and blood steamed in the freezing air as men were hacked down, the butcher noises of metal in flesh carrying all the way to where Fallon stood.

  Mercenaries reeled in all directions as the cavalry dealt terrible blows to heads and shoulders. The smarter men rolled themselves into balls and tried to cover their heads, to protect themselves from swords and hooves but most just ran.

  There was no way men could outrun horses, especially in snow, and they were cut down without mercy. Some of the guards swung their swords in huge strokes, striking at backs, but Fallon saw some of those victims stand up and run off in another direction, their heavy winter clothes and packs cut but their skin intact. Other guards aimed only at necks and many heads were sent flying, the bodies sometimes taking an extra stride before collapsing into puddles of bloody slush. Some rode almost past the running men and then cut back into faces and chests. None of those men got up again.

  “Come and try it on someone who can fight back!” Devlin roared and many of the other men began shouting something similar.

  Fallon smiled wryly. They had been trying to slaughter those mercenaries only a short while ago—the evidence was still flopping and thrashing out on the blood-spattered snow—but seeing them cut down mercilessly by Swane’s cavalry had horrified them.

  “Hold where we are. Make sure everyone has more than enough stones. This battle is only half over,” he said.

  *

  “Magnificent,” Swane said admiringly, as his cavalry slowly trotted back to position. The men’s swords, arms and even their horses were splashed with blood, while the field looked like some demented butcher had run amok. Pieces of men and splashes of blood turned the snow red, while the bodies added a brown cloth layer. In fact it was hard to see a patch of white out there.

  Dina saw the heaving chests of the horses but kept her angry comments to herself.

  “Sire, we shall need to let them rest before we commit them to an attack. And I think we need to get Finbar to see if he can tell where Fallon’s defenses are and if there is a weak spot. Because those mercenaries did nothing,” she said calmly.

  “Yes, we shall do that,” he agreed.

  Dina waited impatiently as the Royal Wizard was fetched. Finbar looked, if anything, even worse than he had the previous night. He clutched his cloak around him and coughed hoarsely every time he tried to talk.

  “Sire, I shall do what I can but I cannot promise anything,” he wheezed. “My life hangs in the balance.”

  “A life you swore to me. If you fall, know you do so in a great cause,” Swane said pompously. “Begin.”

  *

  Fallon exchanged jokes and smiles with his men. Not one of them had been killed defeating the mercenaries and the only casualties were half a dozen men who had slipped and fallen, breaking wrists or arms. These men had been helped to the back, where the priests were waiting. The paltry losses had raised everyone’s spirits. Half of Swane’s army was gone, ridden into destruction or crying pitifully as they froze out on the snow, unable to go forward and too scared to go back.

  “As soon as he tries something else, we shall destroy the rest of them. The horses can’t run with broken legs, so aim low with the stones,” he said, time and again.

  He was wondering what else Swane would do when Devlin tapped his shoulder.

  “Looks like some real bad weather on the way,” he said, pointing over towards where a dark cloud had appeared over the woods to the south and was speeding towards them.

  Fallon had been expecting snow all day but when he saw where Devlin was pointing he snapped his fingers. “That’s not a normal cloud. Too small and fast moving. Get Padraig. Now!”

  The old wizard waddled over, surrounded by a determined-looking group of young helpers.

  “They’re birds. They’re trying to use magic to see what we have done,” Padraig said briskly. “We’ll take care of them.” He turned to his group of wizards. “Work fast. Kick them out of the birds’ minds like scooping an oyster from its shell. They will be using their power to
hold the group together. Break it apart.”

  Fallon watched the young wizards nod nervously and loaded his crossbow out of habit. He did not like this sort of fighting, where he could do nothing and just had to trust in others. But Padraig gave him a wink and he swallowed his worried words.

  Nothing happened for several long heartbeats, then the cloud began to splinter, little parts flying off in all directions as it grew smaller by the moment.

  “Keep it up! They won’t get close enough to see anything!” Padraig encouraged his troops.

  Fallon began to relax as the cloud shrunk rapidly—then heard shouts from his front lines and started running, his heart racing again.

  He skidded to a halt, slipping a little in the snow, to see his men laughing and pointing. For a moment he could not see what they were looking at and his mind jumped to feverish conclusions. Had they somehow been affected by magic that had rendered them helpless? Then he saw small shapes out on the snow, picking their way around the pits, as well as where the ankle-breaker trench had been dug. He blinked and looked again to see rabbits nosing around.

  “Maybe the noise woke them up,” Casey chuckled as he looked at them. “Or maybe they want some tips in digging!”

  Fallon brought his crossbow up. “Or maybe they are possessed and are looking at our defenses while we laugh at them. Kill them!” He loosed, bowling over one of the rabbits and turning it into scraps of fur and flesh. “What are you waiting for? Get them! And get Padraig over here!”

  They stared at him dully until he raged at them and then the stones whistled out once more, thumping into the ground and sending up sprays of snow. The rabbits were slower moving than usual, seemingly more intent on what they were doing than evading their sudden attack and dozens were killed. But others hunched down, making them hard to hit.

  Padraig and the other wizards took an age to arrive and Fallon was snarling in frustration as he loosed and missed a fast-running rabbit.

  “Birds are all gone,” the wizard puffed.

  “Well, these little bastards aren’t!” Fallon growled.

  “They soon will be,” Padraig said calmly.