Act of Will wh-1

by Andrew James Hartley

  I think it was the randomness that was so appalling. In an instant our scenes of victory were bleeding and crying out around us. An infantryman in the front line called out for a surgeon over and over. Closer to me, a soldier screamed as his friend lowered him to the ground and tried to draw an arrow from his stomach. One of the village boys lay crumpled at my feet. I hadn’t seen him fall and figured he had just fainted. I tried to lift him and found the arrow in his side.

  Orgos’s eyes flashed desperately about him and took in the damage. I watched the raiders ride away as they had done so many times before. As they crossed the plains, a shout of triumph rose up from the Shale force. We couldn’t even give chase. There was nothing we could do, and the red, white, and black united. Their lines swelled and pressed towards us.

  It’s over.

  I looked at Orgos, and his eyes were fixed on the approaching enemy, his nostrils flared and his lips parted slightly as his breathing came slow and even. For once there was no hope in his face. He looked too tired even for desperation. He felt my gaze upon him and turned towards me. As the enemy came at us, outnumbering us and bent on our utter demolition, I saw Orgos’s values crumble and his better motives crushed beneath the raiders’ brutal heel. It wasn’t defeat that he couldn’t stand, it was this heartless calculation, a calculation that had epitomized the raiders’ operations since before we had even arrived. What could you believe in after this? They came towards us, and all his principles, all his honor and hope for human nature evaporated before them, dispelled by their stronger magic of greed and callousness. In a moment, his spirit was broken.

  “Pull back!” shouted Lisha suddenly. There was a flicker of life in our frozen forces, and Orgos became himself again, or seemed to, though there was a deliberation in the effort that was unconvincing. I have rarely had a stronger sense of a man acting to keep the show moving.

  The Greycoast infantry began a swift march towards the citadel. The duke roared at Lisha, “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “Trying to save what’s left of your army,” she retorted, her anger suddenly apparent, “before it is destroyed.”

  “You don’t have the authority. ” began Raymon, his face red and sweating.

  Mithos appeared beside Lisha, his horse steaming. “Do you?” he shouted back. “Will you make them stand against an enemy like that? Would you dare to try?”

  He had a point, and the duke could see it. The troops were breaking into a full retreat and their ranks were beginning to strain. In seconds the lines would disintegrate altogether and we would be looking at a rout.

  “Make for the citadel!” shouted Mithos. They did not need to be told twice.

  And finally it all made sense.

  I realized why the raiders had brought us here and kept us alive over the weeks of our investigation. We were tools, pawns in Shale’s great chess game, and this was the moment we had been saved for. Under our auspices, the raiders had been tracked to this place. Here they had smashed the combined military strength of Greycoast and Verneytha. But there was more to it than that. They wanted the citadel.

  Ironwall had been the first of the great fortresses in the area to be built, right after Vahlia had split into three territories. I had wondered why it had been built so far east, but now I knew why: It was out of range of Shale’s magically shifting raiders. The early rulers of Greycoast had built the citadel just far enough away from Adsine that their old enemy could not appear within their walls, but that had been long ago, and much had been forgotten since. We, the party and I, had been part of Shale’s larger plan to lure Ironwall’s defenders out onto the plains where they could hit us hard and then chase us back inside. We couldn’t get that portcullis down in time to stop them, and then they’d have it all.

  “Get inside and lower the portcullis,” I shouted. It was pointless, but we would make the enemy work for their prize.

  What remained of our cavalry units arrived first, charging across the bridge and through the gatehouse. It was Garnet and Renthrette who appeared at the large square window in the central tower and who set the vast iron grate creaking its slow way down. But by the time I brought the wagon to the bridge, the portcullis was less than a quarter closed and barely seemed to be moving. Most of the infantry had already passed inside and were rushing up to the walls to hide or watch what happened next.

  There was no point thinking about trying to defend the place with the front door open. I swung the wagon round to block the bridge as well as I could and released the horses, hoping vainly to slow the enemy down. Then I fled into the shade of the gatehouse. I could hear the slow, grinding chains of the portcullis, but a horseman could still enter with several feet of clearance.

  The citadel was in chaos. There were men running all over in the green and blue uniforms of our allies. Women cried and fled. The duke sat alone on his horse a few yards inside the walls and looked hopelessly around him. I ran up the tower’s tight spiral to where Garnet and Renthrette stood at the window and watched the approach of the enemy.

  There were almost a thousand of them. At their head, surrounded by his raiders, was the one with the staff and the horned helm. Alongside him, on a chestnut warhorse and surrounded by a small escort in heavy armor and sable cloaks, was Arlest, count of Shale.

  He looked ahead of him at the open gate. The copper circlet and hempen robe had been replaced by an ermine collar and a crown of gold that sparkled with precious stones. This was to be his day.

  There was nothing to say or do as they rode closer and the portcullis ground slowly, too slowly, down. I watched the chains inching over their pulleys, but there seemed no way to speed them up. Perhaps, I thought desperately, if they cut the ropes or released the chains, just let it drop?. But it was just too heavy. Let it fall and its own weight would shatter it, leaving the gate open. There was nothing to be done. Around us the desperate citizens shouted pleas for mercy or ran for their homes. Then the raiders halted and dismounted. They would cross the bridge on foot, shields raised over their heads to protect them from arrows. Ironwall was defenseless and there was no need for them to take casualties now.

  Arlest nodded and spoke to a grey-haired man in dark robes who stood at his horse’s bridle: Chancellor Dathel. He passed along the count’s command and the soldiers stepped onto the bridge, victorious and invulnerable, five abreast, their scyaxes in their hands and their bronze faces cold as ever before.

  The bridge was no more than twenty yards long and the wagon was in the middle of it. There was no rail, so they had to negotiate it carefully, pushing the wagon to the right-hand side so that three of them could pass it abreast. As the first three approached the gatehouse, there was a sudden explosion of sound and a single white horse charged from within, its rider giving a long, defiant battle cry as he spurred his charger right at them and cut one of the raiders down with one of the huge cutting swords he brandished.

  It was Orgos.

  As the second man raised his scyax, Orgos kicked him squarely in the chest and brought his left-handed blade down hard across his shoulders. With a cry the raider fell bleeding. As the third, clearly astonished by the sudden assault, swung his scyax wildly through the air, Orgos led his pale steed straight at him. The raider stepped back, lost his balance, and toppled backwards into the moat. By the time his cloak had disappeared beneath the sluggish current, four more raiders were squeezing past the wagon.

  There was no shout of triumph from the citadel, for everyone knew how short-lived this gesture of defiance must be. Against the backdrop of the nine hundred men waiting to enter, Orgos, mounted and alone on the bridge, was a strangely poignant sight as he shouted his challenges and brandished his swords. Renthrette covered her eyes and Garnet just stared as Orgos slid from the back of his scared mount and sent it back into the city. He glanced behind him at the lowering portcullis, and even he knew it was futile. He couldn’t hope to hold them off for the four or five minutes it would take to finish closing the gate. I wanted to lo
ok away, but I couldn’t.

  The four raiders surrounded him and he held them at bay with his swords, circling watchfully. One by one they lunged for him, and each time he anticipated, parried, and cut. One came too close and fell, slashed across the throat. The others closed in and he fought them off like a caged bear tossing pit dogs aside with mighty jaws.

  More of them came, pushing the wagon until it was half off the bridge. Orgos spun the great swords about his wrists and dared them to come to him, standing his ground and sweeping the blades about him like an enchanter weaving magic.

  But then the raider in the great horned helm called them back: he was going to end this foolishness now. But even as I thought he, something seemed wrong to me. I stared as the raider removed the helm and shook out a head of long red hair. It was the countess.

  Unmasked, she leaned in her saddle and muttered something to her husband, who nodded and barked out a short command. Three raiders readied their horses. Orgos looked again to the portcullis, which was finally too low for a horse and rider to pass through. He laughed out loud at his token triumph, that great rolling laugh of his, his head back and his mouth open. They would be able to get in, but they would have to dismount; and that, I suppose, was the closest we would get to victory today. But the raiders were mounted and ready to take him on. I knew he had no hope of holding off a mounted charge, and from our curious balcony I could only watch, my hands to my face like a child who wants to cover his eyes but can’t stop looking.

  No.

  Then they came at him. We loosed an arrow or two from the walls, but the horsemen were moving too quickly, surging forward, wavelike as ever. He parried one lance head and dodged the second, but the third was too much for him. It struck him hard in the waist, above his belt buckle, and the force of the charge carried him backwards towards the gatehouse. With an audible gasp he slumped to the ground, and a great quiet descended on the spectators.

  “Advance on foot,” called Arlest. “The gate is open.”

  There was a hard, almost metallic quality to his voice that I had never heard before, strident and determined. The riders returned to their ranks, leaving Orgos’s body crumpled and motionless by the wagon.

  And then, when things seemed as bad as they could get, the silence was broken by the distinct clanking of the gatehouse machinery in a different key.

  “Someone is raising the portcullis!” said Garnet.

  It was the duke, or, rather, a few desperate citizens acting on his orders.

  “For certain considerations,” the duke boomed from the tower, “we, the people of Ironwall, will bequeath our city to you in return for mercy. ”

  In other words, he was going to use this pointless capitulation to barter for his own survival. The countess glanced at her husband and I thought I saw her smile, a short, brittle smile of amused contempt. I stared at her, at her husband, and at Raymon, who was speechifying from the tower. The sound of the gate ascending registered as one last insult to Orgos, who had died to keep it down.

  It wasn’t courage or principle, just a blinding anger that made me grasp the great rope that descended through the tower. I had no thoughts of dignity or honor as I slid down, only an irrational fury. We were dead anyway, and I didn’t care anymore. After a lifetime doing all I could to stay alive and safe in the world, I was struck by the obvious: In a world like Arlest’s, staying alive wasn’t worth the effort.

  Better to die telling him what I thought.

  SCENE LIX Realism

  The vast iron grate, which had started its slow ascent, was high enough for me to pass through. I stooped towards Orgos, who lay still and bleeding, but only long enough to wrench his heavy sword from his fist. I would take it with me in tribute, I thought. As soon as I stepped through the gate and straightened up, I shot my tiny crossbow-the one Orgos had given me-at the closest raider and brandished his long sword with the yellow stone in its hilt at the man as he backed away uncertainly. The duke of Greycoast’s pontificating surrender stuttered to a halt.

  Moving purposefully between the corpses on the bridge, I advanced to where the wagon teetered on the edge, its front wheels already half submerged in the moat, hacking wildly at whomever I ran into. Despite the surprise attack, I barely managed to scratch them. One of them snorted softly as he stepped back off the bridge. It was an odd sound, and for a second I didn’t realize what it was, but then it came again and spread amongst them: They were laughing at me.

  That somehow brought me to my senses. I glanced at the sword in my hand, a sword that had always felt uncomfortable however much I’d practiced with it, and I slid it into my belt. I would keep it for my friend till they took it from me, but I couldn’t wield it. Then I climbed into the tailgate of the wagon and, as the boards under my feet seesawed back to something like a horizontal plane, got behind the nearest scorpion crossbow and swung it round. Arlest was impatiently ordering more soldiers to clear the way. I felt for the trigger as he turned to look at me, sweat breaking out all over my body. Arlest’s eyes met mine down the grooves of the huge crossbow, and for a second he seemed unnerved. But only for a second. Then there was nothing but scorn in his face.

  “You’re a murderer, Arlest,” I said to him, my voice surprisingly calm. “A butcher.”

  “No, William,” he said, almost calmly, “I am a soldier. A professional man of the world, while you are an emotional amateur. Not even that. You weren’t even a fighter before you came here, were you?”

  I said nothing, but stared at him, wondering what I was going to do. I had a crossbow trained on his heart. The portcullis still ground its way up. Time wasn’t a factor to either side anymore. But it somehow seemed imperative to continue the conversation. He wouldn’t listen, but there were things I needed to say anyway.

  Arlest didn’t seem to care what I did. He merely called insults at me across his troops. “Let’s not play games, now. You are a coward, Will Hawthorne. My men told me how you hid behind a wagon when they attacked you on the road from Seaholme. We laughed about it. You are hiding again, even in this, your moment of glory. You’re hiding behind those crossbows and your sense of righteous anger and bravery.”

  “Not bravery,” I corrected him. “I am not a brave man. I am a realist, too. After all, look what happens to bravery,” I said, gesturing to where Orgos lay. “He was the bravest, most valiant man I ever knew-”

  “Don’t sentimentalize the moment, Mr. Hawthorne,” Arlest shouted back, his eyes fixed on mine, no trace of nervousness in them despite the scorpions aimed at him. “He was a mercenary. A hired killer.”

  “No, Arlest,” I said, stifling any hint of emotion. “He was a great man, in his way. He was a man of principle. A man of honor. A friend. But that is, as you say, sentimental. There is no room in the world for friendship or principle or honor. That is why he’s dead. I understand that now. Such things have no place in our world.”

  There was a glimmer of surprise in Arlest’s eyes and I shrugged slightly, as if making a confession. I heard footsteps behind me and risked a glance.

  Garnet was ducking under the portcullis. In front of him Renthrette was getting to her feet, an arrow in her bow and her helm tipped back so her face showed, pale and intense in its grief. Mithos and Lisha followed, tired and numb with sorrow, and crouched by Orgos’s body. Behind them a crowd of ragged soldiers, citizens, and the remnants of the villagers stood watching through the gateway like prisoners in a dungeon, or the audience at some bizarre theatre. Their need to see what was happening out here had almost stifled their fear.

  I turned back to Arlest and said, with his own condescension, “Fools like Orgos always fight back. They think it’s noble.”

  There was a whisper of confusion behind me. Garnet, I think.

  “This is fighting back?” Arlest laughed caustically, but he was laughing as much with me as at me. “Five of you and a corpse against a thousand? He won’t be fighting back anymore, and neither will you. Any of you. The Orgoses of this world will always fin
ish up dead on the bridge, while people like me, perhaps even Duke Raymon, will thrive.”

  “He’s not dead,” said Mithos quietly from the gate. “Almost, but not quite.”

  I did not dare turn to look, but I heard them move him. They rolled him under the portcullis and Mithos said to those on the other side, “Make him comfortable before he dies.”

  I looked at Arlest and he was utterly impassive, appraising me like one who has bought the best seats in the house and feels he has the right to criticize your performance.

  “Perhaps I could join you,” I began. “In return for sparing your life. One of the realist survivors.”

  “You?” he laughed, though there was definitely a note of curiosity in his disdain. “What about friendship and honor?”

  “What about them?” I replied. “If those things really meant anything to me, I’d be charging you on a white stallion.”

  “Hawthorne!” called a voice from behind me, a voice charged with desperate anger. “You lying, cowardly snake.” It was Garnet. I didn’t turn.

  “Let go of the crossbow,” said Arlest, “and perhaps we can-”

  “I’m not interested in perhaps,” I remarked with a crooked smile, which he reflected at once. “I’m interested in a fast horse to get me out of here and some of the silver you now have so much of.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “I can’t save them,” I said. “You have to kill them, as you will have to kill everyone in the city. You know that, and your men know that, and they accept it.

  “Everyone,” I continued with the same studied lack of concern, “every able-bodied man who might threaten your safety, any women who love those men, must die. And since you can’t be sure that their children won’t grow into rebels, angry at the rape and murder of their parents by your forces, you’ll have to spit them on pikes too. Some would blanch at such an idea, but not you. It will be easy for you. After all, you’ve been doing it for months.