Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  Then he saw them. Two doors set into the walls either side and between the first and third gates. Any minute now they would open and men with bows would appear, and they would shoot him dead. But the doors were a way out, too.

  Francis climbed. He climbed as fast as he could. His hands, already numb from the water, fumbled as he climbed, slipping when they needed to grip. His fingers banged against iron and oddly the pain was more than if they’d been warm.

  He called his thief gift and vanished, but he was soaked through, and his clothes were dripping, a thin, betraying waterfall that pointed unmistakably to him. He had no time to take them off and he briefly considered dropping down into the water again, trying to hold his breath, but he knew at once that it was a foolish idea. He would be obvious the moment he broke the surface, a hole in the water, and they could wait far longer than a man could do without air.

  He’d have to be quick, then.

  A hinge squeaked faintly to his left, and he thought perhaps that he’d chosen the wrong side to climb. He had gone unthinkingly for the right-hand door. He pressed himself against the portcullis and waited.

  The left-hand door opened and he saw a head emerge from the dark space beyond. The man studied the water below.

  “Can’t see him!” he shouted.

  “Wait a minute. He’s got to breathe,” a voice called down. It was the lieutenant he’d spoken to.

  “Maybe the first gate got him,” the man at the door said.

  The second door, the one to his right opened, and another man appeared, holding his bow with an arrow on the string. He, too, peered down into the water and Francis felt his muscles bunch, ready to jump. It was a desperate leap. If he missed and fell he would be dead. The man at the other door would shoot him.

  He reached out with his mind, ready to take the man in the door’s life, and suddenly the man was staring right at him. His eyes had followed the trail of falling water.

  “Shit, he’s climbed it!” he shouted, and the bow came up.

  It was his last act. Francis snatched away the flame of his existence and the arrow flew wide, the bow clattering against the wall as it preceded its owner into the water below.

  Francis jumped. He heard another arrow strike the portcullis where he’d been hanging a moment before and then he hit the open door, striking the sill half in and half out, cracking his knees against the stone. It hurt, but Francis made himself ignore the pain. He wriggled, clawing at the walls and floor to drag himself up.

  A sudden burning pain in his thigh made him gasp and he nearly lost his grip and fell. An arrow. He’d been shot. He reached out again and killed the man in the left-hand door. He should have done that at once, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He managed to get his good knee over the sill and hauled himself up into the doorway just as the middle portcullis let go and fell with a roar back into the water. It missed him by a few inches and two seconds. If he’d been a moment later it would have torn off his wounded leg.

  He wedged himself into the doorway and looked out. The portcullis blocked the door almost completely, leaving him a few inches either side to see out. He could make out the body of the man in the other doorway. He hadn’t fallen into the water, but lay in the opening. By the blood smeared down the far wall it looked like the gate had taken off his head.

  Francis was in pain. He touched the arrow, a bizarre wooden thing sticking out of his flesh, and pain wracked him again. He’d never felt anything like it. It hurt less when he lay on his front, so he lay like that for a while and tried to think.

  In front of him was a short, unlit corridor and beyond that the outline of stairs rising into darkness. Darkness meant there was a door at the top, and that the door was closed. He was prepared to bet that it was a strong door, but it was best to know for sure. He levered himself up against the wall. It hurt abominably and he stood for a minute of two when he was finally upright, panting.

  Francis had fought a few times with his fists and he’d slaughtered more than a few with his gift, but he’d never fought in a battle, and never taken a wound. He didn’t know how dangerous this arrow in his leg might be. Was he bleeding to death? There seemed to be a lot of blood dripping down his leg. It didn’t matter, really. He just had to try to get out of this, find out who was responsible and make sure it never happened again.

  Now he wished he’d paid more attention to Mordo. The little weasel had been trying to teach him to be a god mage, and he was certain that Callista would never have been caught like this.

  He hopped painfully up the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall. He came to the door. It was steel. He pushed it and nothing happened. He struck it with a fist and the sound told him that it was an inch thick at least, and it would be bolted deep into the stone on both sides.

  “Belak, is that you?”

  The voice was the lieutenant again.

  “Open the door,” Francis said, trying to sound like he imagined a man called Belak would sound.

  “You’re not Belak.”

  “I’m hurt,” Francis said. “When you dropped the gate.”

  “You’re not Belak,” the lieutenant repeated.

  “Still,” Francis said. “Best that you open the door now and tell me who you’re working for.”

  There was no reply. Francis thumped the door again, but it was just as impenetrable as the first time. He leaned against the wall, bracing himself with his good leg. If he wasn’t free at least he was alive and, for the moment, safe. The pain in his thigh made it difficult to think, but that’s what he had to do now.

  He tried to recall all the things Mordo had said about power, about how to summon it and how to use it. He’d said there were three kinds, and they all had names, but the greater the power, the more skill he needed. He’d understood that. But there was still a lot he could do.

  He closed his eyes. He could wait. Sooner or later the guard on the gate would change and he would probably still be alive. The new guards might not be in on the plot and he would be released. Francis didn’t like that plan. There were too many ways it could fail. His leg was wet with blood and he felt light headed. He had to do something now.

  Deep inside, that’s what Mordo had said. Look deep inside. Francis concentrated on his breathing, trying to feel everything that his body was doing, but the pain in his leg made it hard. It was harder still because he didn’t know what he was looking for. Apparently, the god-mage hadn’t described it consistently. Sometimes she called it a warmth, or a clot of cold, or a knot, or even a pain. Mordo had used all of those words, but Francis had never found it. Now he had to.

  His breathing settled, deep and steady, and he found that the pain was less, the dank passageway faded and he was in a warm cloud that soothed him almost to the point of sleep. It wove patterns about him like a… like a…

  A knot. A burning, blazing knot.

  His eyes snapped open. He’d found it. He had power. It rose up into his consciousness, almost like another creature within him, and that creature had arms, and it was his to command. He turned to face the door. Now he felt strong again, massively strong. Now the lieutenant would learn not to disobey him.

  He struck at the door, throwing all his massive strength into the blow.

  He was flung backwards. The pain was intense, and a moment later he crashed into the solid steel of the portcullis at the bottom of the steps and the world went away.

  He woke. He was still in the passageway, his head on the cold floor, his legs twisted under him, but his arms were free. He ached everywhere, and he could taste blood on his lips.

  Something had gone wrong. The door was supposed to be broken. He was supposed to be free.

  He struggled to twist his body back into a sitting position, but the wound in his leg bit him again and he whimpered with the pain, biting down hard to stop himself from screaming. He touched his leg again and found that the shaft of the arrow had been broken off an inch from the flesh. In the light coming around the sides of the portcullis he could see that
the floor around him was red with his own blood.

  How had he done this to himself? He tried to think back to what Mordo had said. There had been a lot about fulcrums and levers, rigid and flexible structures, joints like elbows, opposing forces.

  That was it.

  When you pushed against something it pushed back – like you could push yourself off from a wall. If the wall was weak you could break it. If the wall was strong it was you that moved. That had happened. The door had been much stronger that his feet holding onto the floor and he had moved – the door probably hadn’t.

  Francis struggled to his feet again. This time he felt worse. His head spun and he leaned forwards until it stopped, then stood again, carefully, slowly. He took deep breaths. He wasn’t that badly hurt, it seemed. No bones broken, just the stub of the arrow stuck in his thigh and the loss of blood. He’d seen people die from less.

  He eased his way up the steps again, one painful step at a time, until at last he came to the door. He was gratified to see that it was no longer a smooth, flat, steel surface, but bowed slightly outwards.

  Francis reached for his power again and was relieved when it answered. He reached out with one of his imaginary hands and stretched until it gripped the portcullis. He braced the invisible limb against the floor, drew a deep breath and struck the door again.

  This time it worked. The metal of the bolts screamed and the whole door burst free from its moorings. Francis was lucky. The door clipped the leg of an archer that was drawn on the door and the man went down with a howl of agony. Francis took his life and levered himself out. He was in a room in the west tower, and he went to the door at once, ready to kill whoever he saw, but there was nobody. There had only been four gate guards. They were dead or gone, and the archer hadn’t been the lieutenant, so Francis guessed the man had run, or gone to get help.

  He sat down. Now the weariness hit him, and he closed his eyes. He would sleep for a week after this. There was still the problem of the arrow embedded in his thigh, but Mordo would teach him how to cure himself and it would all be all right.

  The sound of running feet opened his eyes again. There was a patrol of twenty men hurrying towards him. He examined their faces as they came, but he didn’t see the lieutenant among them.

  The officer in charge stopped a few paces away. He looked at the torn door, at Francis’s bloody leg, and at Francis. He looked honestly shocked.

  “Councillor Gayne, what happened here?”

  “Some men tried to kill me,” Francis said. “You’ll find two of them below, another in the tower.” He pointed. “If you could call a carriage and help me down from the wall, I’d like to get back home before I bleed to death.”

  “There’s an arrow in your leg, sir,” the officer said. “Best get that out first, don’t you think?”

  Francis winced. He expected that magic healing would be a lot less painful, but it would seem odd if he took such a wound home untreated.

  “Of course. I’m all yours.”

  They picked him up on a seat of spears, his arms around their shoulders, and he was surprised by their tenderness. Not once did they jar his leg, not once jolt his battered body as they carried him down into the city. They were good men, loyal men. But Francis promised himself that he would find the treacherous lieutenant, and he would find out who had sent him. He had been too soft on his enemies, but that was going to end. Now he would be as hard as stone, as sharp as steel. He would make the city his own.

  32 Pomeroy’s Regiment

  Major Fargas drained his cup and wiped his mouth. He looked at the others gathered around the table. Major Tamarak was many years his junior and the other three were captains. They were all that remained of Pomeroy’s senior officers, and most of them looked to be in shock. It was true that their commander had been gutted and their regiment torn apart by a single man, but that wasn’t the end of it. Fargas was determined that they would go on.

  “We should re-join Alwain, march to Bas Erinor,” Tamarak said. That was the kind of defeatism that he would never have dared voice if Pomeroy had still been alive.

  “No.” Fargas stared at the junior major, daring him to question the decision, but Tamarak was too wise for that.

  “What then?”

  Fargas banged his cup on the table and waited until the serving girl had refilled it and retired out of earshot before he spoke. He took a swallow of ale for good measure. It didn’t hurt to make them wait.

  “We were charged with two tasks: kill The Wolf and kill The King. The former we have signally failed to do and we will not try again. The latter, killing Degoran, is the primary cause. We can still do it.”

  “You have a plan?” Tamarak leaned forwards.

  “I do.” He sipped his drink again. “How many men do we have?”

  Tamarak shrugged. “At the last count we had six hundred and thirty fit men and three hundred injured, give or take. Some of them are still dying.”

  “Six hundred is enough,” Fargas said. “But we must move now. We’ll leave the injured here. Those that can’t come with us in two days will have to fend for themselves.”

  Tamarak raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t exactly made ourselves popular here,” he said. “Perhaps you should leave a guard of twenty able bodied men to make sure the townsfolk don’t slaughter them when we’ve gone.”

  Fargas shook his head. “I need every man,” he said.

  “You may wish to reconsider. The men you will march out of here will be leaving barrack mates behind, even cousins and brothers. If you leave their friends and kin unguarded, they may be… less than enthusiastic.”

  “He has a point, sir,” one of the captains said. Fargas suspected that the man had a friend on the sick list. He narrowed his eyes.

  “How many of the wounded can wield weapons, bows even?”

  “Twelve, perhaps,” Tamarak said. “But there are fifteen hundred people in this town.”

  “Sheep,” Fargas said, raising his voice so that everyone in the tavern could hear. “They are all sheep! Sheep don’t bite dogs, Tamarak.”

  “It depends on the time of year, Major,” Tamarak said with a smile. “Sheep with lambs will kill a lone dog, and there are a lot of lambs in this town.”

  Fargas sighed. Perhaps it was for the best, and he’d still have his six hundred – more, perhaps. Men were trickling in every day after the debacle at Golt.

  “Very well,” he said. “You’ll have twenty men to stay behind.”

  “So,” Tamarak said, leaning forwards again. “Where are we going?”

  Fargas took another pull on his ale. He liked Tamarak, but the man was uppity. He probably thought that he was going to be the next colonel of the regiment, and perhaps he was. Who knew what choices their lord might make, or why? But for now, it was Fargas in command.

  “The King has a wife and child,” he said. His words were greeted with silence and stares. There was a code, a code of war. They all knew it, and it was sacred. You did not attack the families of your enemy. They all understood why. If you did it, then so could your enemy and no man wanted to go to war thinking that his family might be forfeit. “This isn’t a polite war,” Fargas told them. “Do you think what Narak did to us was fair?”

  “He warned Pomeroy,” Tamarak said. “I heard him.”

  “That wasn’t a warning,” Fargas snapped. “It was a boast. He goaded the colonel. He gave him no choice.”

  There was a silence again. It was Tamarak who broke it.

  “What exactly are you planning to do?” Tamarak asked.

  “Simple enough,” Fargas said. “We can’t get at Degoran when he’s behind the walls of Golt and The Wolf’s in front of them. Instead we go and take his wife and his heir and hold them. I don’t plan to kill them, but us just having them should be enough to bring him out of the city. Then we ambush him and kill him. Narak can’t be on all sides of him at once.”

  “If we do this, how do you think Narak will react?” Tamarak asked.

 
“Narak’s there to protect the King. If he’s failed, he’ll go home.”

  “You think when Degoran falls he’ll just turn and walk away?”

  “He may fight on, but our job will be done. We can just run. He won’t follow.”

  “You’re saying you’ll sacrifice the regiment to kill the King?”

  “It won’t come to that, Tamarak. One good arrow will do the job. Besides, that’s why we were sent here.”

  “How many men will the King have with him?”

  “I can’t answer that, but he has less than a thousand in Golt, and he has to leave most of them to hold the city. A couple of hundred? The Queen and Prince Chillarin will be at Wester Beck with a hundred men. If we take the place, we’ll have at least two weeks to lay our trap.”

  Fargas looked around his officers and read a mixture of enthusiasm, disbelief and concern on their faces. They would all do their duty, he was sure, as long as they didn’t have someone else to lead them away from it.

  “We will leave in the morning,” he said. “Major Tamarak will stay behind to watch over the wounded and re-join Duke Alwain when he deems the time is right.”

  Tamarak stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said. Fargas had no idea what was going through Tamarak’s mind, but this quiet acceptance was a surprise. He knew the man wasn’t a coward. They’d fought side by side in many a skirmish and the junior major was as bold as they come. Perhaps he was serious about looking after the wounded, even if they were a burden to the mission.

  “The rest of you,” Fargas said. “Get some sleep. We leave an hour after dawn. Let the men know.”

  *

  Major Tamarak waited until the others had left before he finished his ale. He put the empty cup back on the table and stood. He walked over to the bar.

  “How much do I owe you, Perrick?” he asked.

  “One silver will cover it,” the barkeep said. “Do they know that you do this, that you pay for them every night?”

  Tamarak smiled. “Of course they do.”

  “Liar.” Perrick took the coin and put it in his pocket. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’ll be staying behind. That’s too bad.”