by Rob Scott
Mark rested his eyes for a moment, waiting for the cramp to subside, then he felt the rock move. Shifting his forehead to the opposite side, he pushed against the stone with his temple. It moved again. Back and forth he pushed it, and with every push he felt it come looser from the fireplace. The cramp in his back gone, he now felt the rough texture of the large granite block rubbing his forehead raw. Back and forth, again and again, he pushed the stone with his forehead until finally it fell to the floor with a resounding crash. ‘Shit all over,’ he cried and listened for the sound of their captors approaching from the grand staircase.
Hearing nothing, he turned and began furiously rubbing the leather thongs up and down against the sharp edge. This time it worked and within minutes, Mark had severed the straps and freed his hands.
Faint daylight crept into their stone cell. Mark was about to wake Steven when he realised he would need to be able to surprise their captors if someone came to the chamber before Steven was freed and ready to travel. He hefted the large stone block from the floor and was about to push it back into the fireplace wall when he saw several pieces of folded parchment. They had obviously been hidden behind the stone.
‘What’s this?’ He leafed through the pages, but was unable to make out more than a few words of the foreign scrawl – Ronan was apparently easier to speak than read. He held them up to catch the light, but even so, the words were still too difficult to decipher. Mark shrugged to himself. It was probably just some long-ago lady’s love letters. He still had the matchbook he had taken from Owen’s two nights before: with this, they would be able to make a fire if they managed to escape safely to the forest.
He stashed the parchment in his back pocket, replaced the stone in the fireplace and moved quickly to wake Steven.
Lieutenant Bronfio ordered his soldiers to dismount long before they reached the edge of the clearing surrounding Riverend Palace, even though he was conscious that the increased Ronan opposition to the Malakasian occupation meant that soldiers on foot were vulnerable. Through the early morning light he watched as they unstrapped bows and checked that broadswords and rapiers were loose in their scabbards. Several men were already looking at him expectantly, awaiting his command to march on the seemingly abandoned fortress in the distance.
The horses were tethered to trees in a small clearing. Bronfio raised one arm and gave the silent order to proceed. They would attack from the north, burning the ropes securing the palace portcullis so they could enter speedily. Bronfio’s orders were clear: they needed only one or two partisans for questioning. The rest were to be killed on sight, or taken as prisoners for public hangings.
Looking towards the rear of his small company, Bronfio saw three men struggling to carry a barrel to the edge of the clearing. Although small, the barrel obviously weighed a great deal. The lieutenant indicated that Brexan should lend some assistance. Reaching the tree line, Bronfio ordered the platoon to hold their position for a moment while he watched the palace for any indication that partisans were indeed inside. The merchant had given him no idea how much resistance to expect, and the young officer disliked the idea of charging into the palace without knowing how numerous or well-armed their enemy were. The barrel was an equaliser; he intended to employ it before beginning the fight. Riskett had brought one along as well.
Across the clearing, in the palace dining hall, Garec stirred. They had finished stacking the crates of stolen weapons, armour and silver in the old cistern only a short time earlier and now his friends lay about the floor, stealing a few moments’ sleep before sunrise. They needed to be away before daylight if they were to avoid being detected by the dawn patrols; Garec planned to sneak up into the hills above the river and sleep the morning away.
He wasn’t sure what Sallax had planned for their prisoners, but he shuddered at the idea of assassinating them. He wished Gilmour were around to tell them what to do next. Garec believed in their fight to restore freedom to the occupied lands, and he had killed for that cause – he’d always known that expelling the Malakasian Army from Rona would require extreme sacrifice. Killing unarmed prisoners was a different matter. He wasn’t convinced he would be able to do it.
He sat on the floor and watched dawn begin to illuminate the stained-glass window that flanked the grand staircase at the opposite end of the hall. ‘We’d better get moving,’ he said to himself and began pulling on his boots.
‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere this morning,’ a voice answered softly.
Garec whipped around, reaching for the hunting knife he had placed on the floor before falling asleep. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, peering into the darkness.
A warm glow – burning pipe embers: it lifted the darkness against the wall behind him. Garec detected the faint but familiar odour of Falkan tobacco.
‘Gilmour. Lords, you scared me.’ Garec lay back on the floor and looked at the glowing pipe bowl. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘Gilmour?’ Versen rolled over and yawned like a swamp grizzly. ‘Gilmour. Great rutting dogs, but it is good to see you.’ He clambered to his feet as everyone gathered around the elderly man.
Greetings and embraces were exchanged as Gilmour Stow was welcomed back home. He was dressed in a wool tunic over leather leggings and boots, and despite the heat of the Ronan southlands, he always wore a hooded riding cloak. Bearded but balding, Gilmour was shorter even than Brynne, but he had broad strong shoulders and powerful legs. He was old – no one knew how many Twinmoons – but his bright eyes and frequent smile were boyish. His skin was a deep brown, tanned from constant travel, and he carried no weapons except for a short dagger Garec had never seen him draw.
‘What do you mean, we’re not going anywhere?’ Garec asked.
‘You are not- We are not going anywhere this morning because there are two platoons of Malakasian soldiers forming up in the forest just beyond the edge of the palace grounds,’ the old man said as he drew contemplatively on his pipe.
‘Pissing demons,’ Sallax exclaimed, and quickly moved from window to window in an effort to assess the forces mobilising against them.
Mika grimaced. ‘How did they know we were here?’ he asked. ‘We can’t defend this place – or ourselves – against two platoons.’
‘Versen, Garec, Mika,’ Sallax called, ‘get those last two crates back up here and opened. We’ll need bows, and lots of arrows.’
The three men leaped into action while Gilmour sat down, back to the wall, watching the frantic activity and enjoying his pipe.
‘Brynne,’ Garec shouted before disappearing into the cistern, ‘you’d better get those two down here. We might be able to use them if we need to negotiate our way out.’
‘Or as a shield,’ Sallax muttered watching his sister take the stairs two at a time.
‘What two?’ Gilmour asked, perking up suddenly.
‘Just two spies Garec and I found along the beach near the point yesterday. Brynne has them tied up somewhere upstairs.’ Sallax tossed the older man a longbow, which Gilmour considered for a moment and then placed gently on the floor at his feet.
The winds had died somewhat, so Steven and Mark heard the girl coming. ‘Quick, back on the ground,’ Steven ordered as they heard her stop outside their room for a moment.
‘Right,’ Mark agreed, adding, ‘remember what Sallax said about that knife.’ When Brynne entered the room, she stopped and stared for a moment at the two strangers she had left tied to the support beam all night. A look of disgust passed over her face, as though she could not believe she was capable of such an act, but as quickly as it came, the look was gone. Brynne pursed her lips, drew her knife and moved towards the prisoners. As she reached to slash through the leather straps holding them against the wall, she gave a startled cry. With surprising speed Mark grabbed her wrist and squeezed with all his strength. He didn’t intend breaking her bones, and as soon as her knife dropped to the floor he relaxed his grip.
Brynne tried to scream for help, but Steven clampe
d a hand firmly over her mouth and nose while Mark retrieved the blade. ‘Come with us,’ he ordered, speaking Ronan. ‘You’re our ticket out of here.’
‘I still don’t see them,’ Sallax shouted to Garec, who was busily unpacking swords, longbows and arrows from crates hauled up from the cistern. ‘The sun’s almost fully up. Why are they waiting?’ The Twinmoon winds had abated somewhat from their previous fury, though the trees still rocked and bent in the breezes that accompanied a perfect lunar alignment. Sallax frantically searched the forest for any sign of a coming attack, but it would be impossible to spot the occupation forces until they broke clear of the tree line and started across the palace grounds. He kicked angrily at a charred piece of ancient wood.
Across the room, the old man tapped the ashes from his pipe and refilled its bowl from a leather pouch.
Garec pulled himself out of the cistern and reached back down to take a small box of arrows from Versen. He saw Gilmour stand up and walk towards him, the old man’s eyes fixed on the grand staircase.
‘Well, good morning, my friends. I have been waiting for you for some time.’ Gilmour’s tone was one of pleasant surprise.
Garec looked puzzled. ‘Gilmour, what are you talking about?’ The young Ronan followed Gilmour’s gaze, then shouted into the cistern, ‘Versen, Mika, get up here now!’ He grabbed a rosewood longbow, nocked an arrow and trained it up the broad staircase.
Startled by the sudden commotion, Sallax also turned on his heel. ‘Rutting bastards!’ he shouted, drawing his rapier and starting for the stairs. ‘I swear this time I will kill you both!’
Gilmour broke in calmly, ‘It’s all right, my friends. Come down.’ No one paid the elderly man any attention.
‘Not another step,’ Mark shouted, stopping Sallax several stairs above the dining hall floor, ‘or I will cut her head off by the time you reach me.’ Mark had Sallax’s hunting knife held fast against Brynne’s throat.
‘Take him, Garec,’ Sallax ordered, ‘take the shot. You can make it.’ Versen, armed with a longbow too, hauled himself out of the cistern.
Steven huddled behind Mark, who was using Brynne’s body as a living shield. Although she struggled, Mark held one arm around her shoulders and one hand at her neck. With each attempt to break free, the young woman pulled the knife’s blade across her own throat; tiny rivulets of blood were running into the bodice of her dress. She cried out, more in fear and surprise than in pain.
‘Put the bows down,’ Mark called, and to encourage them to act quickly, he placed the point of the knife against Brynne’s throat and pushed gently until the tip pierced her skin. The insignificant stab wound was enough: Versen and Garec both dropped their bows to the floor with a noisy clatter.
‘What are you doing?’ Gilmour asked his friends. ‘They aren’t spies.’
‘What did you say?’ Sallax half turned to face him. ‘Gilmour, what do you mean?’
He had no chance to respond as a small barrel filled to the brim with burning pitch crashed through the stained-glass window, showering shards of multi-coloured glass across the grey stone floor like myriad refractions from a damaged prism. Acrid black smoke began filling the dining hall almost immediately. Garec, seeing Malakasian soldiers through the gaping hole, retrieved his bow, nocked the arrow he had dropped beside it and fired out towards the soldiers as they retreated across the courtyard to rejoin their platoon. A cry of pain and astonishment confirmed that his arrow had found its mark.
‘Back upstairs, now,’ Mark said urgently to Brynne and Steven. He pulled at Brynne’s elbow, dragging her back to the upper levels of the palace.
‘Try not to breathe the smoke,’ Sallax called. ‘Quick, arm yourselves and get to the windows. Mika, find something to cover this barrel.’ Water would not extinguish the burning tar; their only hope was to mitigate the effects of the smoke. His heart sank as a second barrel crashed through a smaller window at the opposite end of the hall.
He shouted to Garec, ‘Try to hold them here. If the smoke gets too thick, take up positions along the second-floor landing, and at those windows. There’s a lot of room to retreat through this palace, but we don’t want to get cornered.’
‘Right.’ Garec hefted two large quivers and slung them over his shoulder.
Sallax grabbed a battle-axe from the cistern’s edge and dashed up the stairs after the fleeing prisoners. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘Leave them, Sallax. They can’t get out either,’ Versen called, trying to stop him, but Sallax was already taking the steps three at a time to the upper-level apartments.
Steven rushed along the hallway until he found an intact door. ‘In here,’ he called to Mark, who dragged the struggling Brynne along and shoved her roughly into the room. He helped Steven to hurriedly set the locking beam and seal the chamber.
Mark slid the knife into his belt and turned towards Brynne. ‘Listen, I don’t want you to think-’ He was cut off as the young woman slugged him hard across the face, knocking him back into the door. Mark’s knees buckled beneath him and he sat heavily on the stone floor.
‘You cut my neck, you horsecock!’ she screamed down at him, raising her fists for another attack.
Steven moved between them and grabbed Brynne. ‘Listen, we have bigger problems than that right now. Who are those soldiers? Are they Malakasians?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, glaring at him. ‘Somehow they must have discovered where we’ve been hiding weapons for the Resistance. I don’t know how – maybe you two do.’ She crossed the chamber floor to the window and looked down into the courtyard where a number of soldiers had taken cover behind the battlements, waiting for the burning pitch to finish its job of choking or blinding the partisan group.
‘They’re here to kill us – or, worse, to use us to send a very public message.’
Mark joined her at the window. ‘What if we give ourselves up? This isn’t our fight.’
She wheeled on him, her face just inches away. ‘They’ll hang you from a tree for an entire Twinmoon as an example to any who might decide to mount a resistance effort.’
Neither Mark nor Steven had any idea how long a Twinmoon lasted, but however long was too long to be hanging from a tree. They lapsed into silence.
‘We’ll hide in here then?’ Steven asked eventually
‘Or we go join the fight,’ Brynne said, pointing a bloodstained finger towards the door.
‘And wait for your brother to slice our throats? No thank you,’ Mark replied adamantly. ‘We have to wait it out and hope either your friends turn them away or that they don’t find us when they come in. This place is huge. We might be able to find another way out.’
The discussion was interrupted by the sound of Sallax’s battle-axe hammering at their door.
‘I’m going to kill you both!’ he screamed, his axe leaving fresh hack-marks in the blackened wood of the chamber door. Wood chips flew as he continued swinging, his fury unchecked. Inside, Mark looked for anything to brace against the door as Steven stood frozen in place, his face a pallid shade of grey. Brynne backed slowly into an adjoining room. She looked around hurriedly, but there was no other way out. She grimaced. Sallax would have to break through and free her before the Malakasians breached their defences downstairs.
Riverend Palace had a second, unexpected, portcullis inside the battlements. The first, a huge iron and oak gate, blocked the main entrance to the ancient keep. It remained where it had collapsed many Twinmoons earlier as the last of Riverend’s occupants fled the raging fire that had claimed the lives of Princess Danae, her son Prince Danmark III, and Prince Tenner of Falkan.
Prince Markon II had installed an additional portcullis to guard the west entrance, which led to the royal chambers. During the brief peace that had preceded his death, the prince had commissioned the largest and most elaborate stained-glass window in the Eastlands; a team of talented artisans had worked for several Twinmoons to design and install the gigantic work of art in the east wall of Riverend’s grand
hall.
The huge window was a massive weakness in Riverend’s defences: any attack on the palace would centre on the east hall as the window would be seen as easy access.
To make up for that, the second portcullis – one no invader would expect – ensured that a few well-armed soldiers could hold the west wing with little difficulty, even against a far superior enemy force.
Now Bronfio strode towards the portcullis with determination. His confidence had risen as his platoon crossed the exposed circular meadow without incident. Peering intently through the thick latticework of the heavy wooden gate, he could see smoke from the burning pitch accumulating in great clouds throughout the hall.
He waved over his shoulder for a bowman to join him at the palace entryway. Igniting an arrow from a small torch, Bronfio directed the bowman to fire into a length of rope fastened securely on an inner wall. He intended to lift the gate by releasing the ropes holding it fast and hoisting it with a line threaded through a crooked fracture in the palace’s western wall. He feared for a moment the weight of the portcullis would bring the entire section of wall crumbling down on them, but the stone lintel held fast as the gate rose and his men were able to secure their lines to a neighbouring wall.
He smiled to himself as he ordered his platoon into the fray. ‘Use the smoke as cover,’ he told them quietly. ‘We don’t know how many partisans are inside.’ Brexan, like her fellow soldiers, nodded confidently, then slipped under the hanging portcullis, up several stone steps, through a small antechamber and into the palace’s dining hall.
Bronfio waited for the last of his force to slip into the building before he drew his sword and started towards the entryway himself. As he ducked beneath the portcullis, he came face to face with Jacrys Marseth, the merchant spy from Estrad.
