by John Marco
Around the bridge, the Norvans had seen the counterattack, too. Knowing they were suddenly surrounded, their assault lost its earlier precision. Men were screaming in confusion, wondering if they should retreat or push on. Instinctively Layton’s men responded, counterattacking with renewed vigor.
Layton knew the time had come for full commitment. He had less than forty men to press their advantage.
“It’s now or never, boys,” he cried, pointing his broad-sword at the armored mass of Norvans.
The last of his weary cavalry surged toward the bridge.
Colonel Ness hardly noticed the new horsemen riding for the bridge. Something deep within him told him the bridge was lost anyway. He was tired of fighting for Disa, tired of losing men for the glory of Lorn. Behind him, a small group of Ganjeese mercenaries were hacking through his tired troops, and it occurred to Ness as he watched the blood-shed that Jazana Carr must be paying very well, indeed. But like a butterfly that thought, too, flew from his mind. He had just seen Lieutenant Perrin’s head fly from his shoulders. It had been surreal, and the sight had almost made Ness laugh. It was all so pointless. He began shouting orders. In his ears, his own voice sounded impotent.
“Edric, Birk, forward! Torr, Raswel, attack!”
His men slashed at Ryon’s forces, fighting to reach the mercenary leader. Ness watched Ryon from three rows back, watched in detached horror as he hacked down men like weeds, his flashing blade splitting metal and brains, mindless and insatiable. Four of the mercenaries had already fallen, but Ness still didn’t like the odds. Ryon and his ragtag army seemed unstoppable.
“Fight on! Fight on!” he cried. He only wanted one thing now, and that was to see the filthy Ryon fall. Forget the bridge, forget Lorn’s pointless war. Just kill the mercenary scum.
Driven by hate, Ness broke from the ranks and homed in on the one-eyed berserker. Another young mercenary blocked his way, rearing up suddenly on a snorting stallion. His blade slashed forward. Ness parried it easily. Enraged, he pressed his attack on the man, their horses dancing, their swords locking again and again. Ness had the advantage. He was stronger, fresher, and more skilled. Soon he had the ruffian in trouble. Ness saw Ryon glance toward them in alarm, heard the leader’s frightened cry.
“Marke!”
Colonel Ness rained down blows. The young man struggled, his sword forced back again and again by the onslaught. At last his defenses expired. Ness’ blade came down like lightning, tearing through his hand, sending fingers flying. The man-boy screamed. Ness finished him with a hack through his chest. His opponent tumbled from his horse and hit the ground.
Ness spun to see the stunned Ryon staring at him. As the melee exploded around them, the two leaders locked eyes.
Lukien watched Marke fall from his saddle, twisted and dying in the bloodied moss. It had happened so quickly he’d been powerless to stop it. A good man; a boy really. One more death for a worthless cause.
“You may keep your precious bridge,” Ness spat, “but there’s no way you leave here alive.”
“Call retreat, Ness,” said Lukien. The words sprang from him without thought. “Let’s end it, right now.”
Ness’ face went momentarily blank. Then he snarled, “I can’t end it! We’re trapped, Ryon, both of us. Trapped between Lorn and your bitch-queen!”
“No,” said Lukien. “Just say the word and end it.”
“I can’t,” raged Ness. “But I can kill you, pay you back for ruining me!”
Lukien shook his head. “It’s pointless, you know it is. Even if you kill me, you’ll die here sooner or later. If not today, then tomorrow.”
“If not here, then back in Carlion,” cried Ness. “On the gallows, like a coward. Now fight me, you one-eyed filth!”
If there had ever been a choice, it vanished in an instant. Lukien knew Ness would never retreat. He glanced at Layton’s men at the bridge, valiantly pressing back the Norvan advance. In the distance Kaj’s crusaders were knee-deep in bodies, some of them their own. It would have to end here, right now.
“Prepare yourself then, Colonel,” said Lukien heavily. “Because in a moment, you’ll be dead.”
As soon as the words were spoken, Lukien was charging. His sword was up and his head was down and his stallion snorted as it sprang forward, propelling him toward the waiting Norvan. Ness was ready for the attack. His own seasoned sword blocked the first blow, knocking it aside. Lukien swung his horse around, avoiding the colonel’s counterblow like a dancer and thrusting his blade like an arrow toward Ness. Too late, Ness saw the sword puncture his breastplate. He gasped, his own blade falling from his grasp. Lukien plunged his sword deeper. Face to face with the Norvan, he held him aloft on his sword like a piece of dangling meat. Ness’ desperate gaze stared disbelievingly at Lukien.
“Ryon,” he hissed, barely able to speak. “Ryon. . . !”
“No,” Lukien whispered in his ear. “My name is Lukien.”
He ripped the sword from Ness’ chest, then leaned forward and pushed him from the saddle. Ness hit the ground face-first. Lukien stared down at him, then at the nearby body of Marke. Around him the battle continued to rage. But for Lukien, it was over. Satisfied, he spun his horse away from the melee.
“Retreat!” he cried again and again, waving his sword so all could see. “Back to the forest! Retreat!”
His men broke off their attack and fled for the trees. As Lukien had guessed, Ness’ men did not pursue. Shocked and ragged, they rode in confused circles on the field. One by one they realized their colonel was dead. Without Ness or his slain lieutenant, they were leaderless. To the south, Kaj and his men continued to fight, but Lukien knew they too would soon break off their assault. At the bridge, Layton’s brigade had secured the eastern shore, while on the west bank, the fighting Norvans heard of Ness’ death. Like their brothers in the flanks, the drive went out of their attack.
It took another hour for Lukien and his party to ride north, ford the river again, and return to Disa. When they did, the exhausted party saw that the Norvans had once again retreated. As it had been from the beginning, the bridge at Disa belonged to Jazana Carr. But the toll had been catastrophic. Of the twenty men Lukien had taken into battle, only twelve had crossed the river a second time. The bridge itself was slick with blood, the water beneath choked with bodies. Except for the mercenaries, Disa was deserted. An unearthly silence shrouded the place as Lukien and his men trotted into town. Layton greeted them on the outskirts, walking toward them alone along a desolate street. The mercenary was limping, a bloodied bandage tied across his right thigh. He raised his hand to Lukien as he approached.
“They’re gone,” he reported simply. “Back into the forest, I suppose.”
Lukien brought his horse to a halt. “They’ll be back.”
“Probably,” admitted Layton. “But we held the bridge.”
“How wonderful.”
In the distance, Lukien could see the mossy battlefield, polluted with corpses. He’d have to go across and retrieve Marke and the rest of the fallen. The sight of the carnage kept Travis and the others silent.
“Ryon, you did a fine job,” said Layton. “You, Kaj, everyone.”
“We lost Marke.”
“I know,” acknowledged Layton. “But you killed Ness. You held the bridge. You should be proud.”
Lukien smirked. Pride was something he hadn’t felt in years. “We did what we’re paid to do.”
“Will you go back now?” asked Layton. “To Hanging Man?”
“Yes,” said Lukien, “once we’ve cleaned up this mess.”
“Tell Jazana Carr what happened here, Ryon,” Layton urged. “Tell her how we held the bridge. We’ll all get bonuses.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Lukien, then trotted his horse toward the bridge for the dirty work at hand.
35
Gilwyn Toms had spent his entire life in Koth, a city many considered the most advanced in the world. Yet he had never seen anything like Hanging Man f
ortress.
He had traveled the long way to the Norvan border, leaving his home behind and letting Breck, the former knight, guide him south. Along with Teku and his horse, Tempest, they had crossed south through Liiria, stopping each night at homesteads along the way. It had been a good journey, mostly, with fair weather and decent company, and Gilwyn had found Breck an amiable companion. After the first day, Breck had lost most of his gruffness and had adjusted to the pain of leaving his family. He had even begun to tell stories to Gilwyn, about Lukien and the “good days,” and about the death of King Mor at Hanging Man. Breck explained how Akeela had murdered Mor, and how that one bloody act had damaged the young king irrevocably.
But despite Breck’s tales, Gilwyn had been unprepared for the sight of Hanging Man. He had already known the story of King Mor, and how Akeela had killed him. Now, staring up at the fortress from the riverbank, Gilwyn was breathless. Hanging Man was a garish citadel of sandstone and iron. After years of weather and war, she remained the gateway to Norvor, and there was simply no good way to find the Bronze Knight without first knocking on her door. It had been years since Breck had heard from Lukien, but he was sure that his old friend was still in Jazana Carr’s employ. Gilwyn spied the stout towers and grounds, dotted with figures in a peculiar mix of uniforms. Even from their safe distance, giant Hanging Man looked ominous.
Sitting beside Gilwyn in the wagon, Breck watched the fortress rise above them, sizing it up through narrowed eyes. “Lots of bad memories here,” he sighed.
Gilwyn nodded, sure that he’d soon have his own bad memories of the place. But Breck had been sure this was the place to start their search for Lukien. Despite his misgivings, Gilwyn had agreed. But they hadn’t really spoken of their strategy to deal with Jazana Carr. Breck had confessed that he knew almost nothing about her, and Gilwyn’s knowledge of the Diamond Queen was spotty, also. The library didn’t get many visitors from war-torn Norvor, and those that did come never spoke of Jazana Carr. It was said that she was cunning and ruthless. And of course, she was wealthy. Other than that, Jazana Carr was a mystery.
“We’re no threat to her,” mused Breck aloud. “Hopefully she’ll speak to us, tell us where Lukien is, and let us be on our way.”
“You think so?” asked Gilwyn hopefully.
The knight gave one of his tight smiles. “Let’s find out.”
He snapped the reins and sent old Tempest ambling down the road. The shadow of Hanging Man fell upon them, dropping down across the River Kryss. The fortress itself clung to a mountainside, one sheer face of it turned to the tumultuous river below. From this wall Norvan kings had once hung their dead enemies, dangling them as warnings to the world. It had been years since anyone had hung on the death gallery of the fortress, but Gilwyn could clearly imagine them there now. Tempest was slow but surefooted as he made his way up the inclined road. Gilwyn could hear the roar of the Kryss in the distance, churning violently down in Hanging Man’s Gorge. Up ahead loomed the fortress, surrounded by a tall iron gate. Beyond the gate was a flat courtyard. Inside the yard milled scores of fighting men. The great turret of Hanging Man rose up from the fortress like an outstretched hand, its shaft spaced with arrow slits, its top crennelated with battlements. There was no flag at the top of the turret, just an empty pole where the proud standard of Norvor had once flown. The men in the yard watched the wagon as it approached, guarding the main gate. To Gilwyn’s untrained eye, they were completely unlike the well-organized soldiers of Liiria, with their perfect and gleaming gray armor. Instead, the mercenaries of Hanging Man were a stew of colors and nationalities, hardly alike at all. They were a grimy, unappetizing lot, and the sight of them withered Gilwyn’s confidence.
“Breck, are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered. “I mean, look at them. . . .”
“Steady,” said Breck. He kept his eyes on the waiting guardians. When they finally reached the gate, he brought the wagon to a halt a safe distance from their spears. A pair of mismatched sentries greeted them from behind the towering metal bars. One wore a chain mail coif and a dented bronze breast plate. The other wore Norvan armor with the winged helmet of Mor’s loyalists. A traitor, Gilwyn surmised.
“Ho,” Breck called to them.
The one in mail shifted his spear from one hand to the other. “What’s your business?”
“We’re travelers,” said Breck. “We’re looking for someone, and have need of an audience with Jazana Carr.”
“Jazana Carr doesn’t see strangers,” replied the Norvan.
“It’s greatly important,” said Breck. “If you could please speak to her for us, ask her good will.”
“Good will?” came a voice. From around the stout guard tower a new face emerged, long and ruddy and split with a wild smile. “Jazana Carr isn’t famous for her goodwill, friend.” The man stepped forward and grinned at the strangers. A black vest strained across his broad chest and a blue beret topped his red head. “And if you’re looking for a bed for the night, she’ll tell you to be on your way.”
“Please let us explain,” said Breck. “We’ve come a long way to speak to your warlady.”
“They’re looking for someone,” the Norvan guard said.
“Oh?” asked the man in the beret. “Who would that be?”
“An old friend,” said Breck. “A comrade of yours.”
“Ah, you mean a merc,” said the grinning man. He rested his hand on the pommel of his saber, a long curved blade in an ornate leather scabbard. “Well come on, what’s his name? I know all the men in Hanging Man.”
“I can’t tell you his name,” said Breck. He and Gilwyn had agreed to speak only to Jazana Carr. “I can only tell your mistress.”
“Fellow,” began the man, “My name is Rodrik Varl, and I am as close to Jazana Carr as her own silk sheets.” He laughed at his own joke. “Well, not that close perhaps. I’ve not gotten so lucky yet, eh lads?”
The sentries laughed. Other mercenaries began gathering near the gate.
“You can tell me anything you can tell Jazana Carr,” said Varl haughtily, “or you can just turn that fleabag horse of yours around and head back to Reec.”
“We’re not from Reec,” said Gilwyn, riled by the insult. “We’re from Liiria.”
Rodrik Varl’s eyebrows lifted. “Liiria?”
Before Gilwyn could answer, Breck hurried a hand onto his knee and said, “We came from the Reecian side because it was easier to cross the Kryss. But yes, we’re from Liiria.”
“Indeed,” said the man, stroking his chin. “Are you a soldier? Jazana Carr has a thing for soldiers, especially those from Liiria.”
Breck replied simply, “Why don’t I just tell Jazana Carr who I am?”
Rodrik Varl laughed. “Well, you don’t look like much of a threat. The boy, neither. The monkey perhaps. . . .”
More laughing from the mercenaries. Gilwyn bristled, feeling every guffaw like a knife. His face began to redden.
“Look, are you going to let us talk to your queen or not?” he said before he could help himself. “Otherwise we’ll be on our way.”
“Oooh, easy now, boy,” cautioned Rodrik Varl. He waved a finger through the bars. “Talk to me like that again and I’ll have your pet for lunch.”
Breck squeezed Gilwyn’s knee hard with his big hand, an obvious warning to be quiet. He said to the mercenary, “We’ll tell Jazana Carr all she wants to know. But we can’t tell it to you; it’s too important. And if your lady wants to talk about Liiria, I’ll be happy to oblige. Just let us through, all right?”
“Jazana Carr doesn’t like turning away soldiers,” said Rodrik Varl. “You come on in, and I’ll tell her you’re here. Maybe she’ll talk to you, maybe she won’t.”
“Good enough,” said Breck. “My thanks to you.”
The mercenary ordered the gate open, then disappeared into the throngs of the courtyard. As the great gates of Hanging Man swung wide, Gilwyn leaned over and whispered in Breck’s ear.
“This
could be a trap.”
Breck shrugged. “So what if it is? We’re not going to find Lukien without their help.”
The sentries stepped aside and let the wagon enter. Breck drove into the courtyard, and the gathered mercenaries soon returned to their business. There were horses and barrels and stablehands in the yard and the familiar sounds of workmen cleaning stalls and women scrubbing laundry. Gilwyn glanced at the main keep, wondering where Rodrik Varl had gone. The turret of the fortress rose high above, piercing the blue sky. A handful of mercenaries stayed close, watching but not disturbing them. Like all the soldiers, they wore a varied scheme of tunics, mail, and vests from around the continent.
“Blazes, but there’s a lot of them,” said Breck as he spied the many soldiers. “Jazana Carr must be paying well to keep so many men.”
“And they’re all loyal to her?” asked Gilwyn.
Breck laughed. “Loyal? Hardly. Mercenaries are only loyal to one thing.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Gold. As long as Jazana Carr pays them, they’ll stay with her. But if a better offer comes around this lot will be gone like lightning.” He looked around and, sure no one could hear, added, “Mercenaries are scum, Gilwyn. They’re not like real soldiers, not like Lukien and I were. Remember that.”
Gilwyn nodded, still confused. Hadn’t Lukien become a mercenary? What kind of scum was he, then?
They waited long minutes in the shade of the turret, never leaving their wagon, until Rodrik Varl finally returned. As usual he was grinning when he entered the courtyard, strutting like a rooster and resting his hand nonchalantly on his saber.
