“No, it won’t.” The General gestured upwards. “It doesn’t need to.” The bolt finally hit home, a metre above the top of the wall, straight into the neck of the soldier who had been marching up and down the wall, making work for himself.
The General smiled, tugged the thread a bit, making sure it was firm, before attaching a small clip to it, winding himself up to the top of the white wall. Then he proceeded to throw down ropes, so that they stretched like vines down the length of the white cliff face.
Pouchii took hold of the coarse rope, hauling himself upwards. He was impressed in spite of himself by the sheer ability of The General. Not a man to be trifled with, especially considering the arrogant glances he used when talking to everyone. But doubtless he was still very useful. For the task that… lay ahead.
When you look at the walls of Saliman from a distance, you imagine them to be fine and brilliantly pure in complexion. However, like much of the city, the closer you get the more you realise that rot and corruption stains it’s every surface. This was what Pouchii was experiencing as he climbed the wall. He’d often walked past it, admired the shimmering expanse of marbled rock, and gazed in wonder at the stone that had held firm for centuries, upon which the greatest empire in the world was built.
But, now his face was pressed against the cold rock, he could see the cracks and lichens that spread through the bedrock of empire. He could feel the rough surface that had birthed kings and nobles scratching his skin raw and irritating his very soul. Suddenly the holy white stone around him was not as bright and glorious as it had once been. The mirage of light around the walls was fading fast. The world of facades was cracking and flaking.
Finally, he hauled himself up onto the parapet and into the blazing light and scent of burning. Saliman was quite a sight. The shops and alleyways looked broken and battered by the hours of fighting and combat that had struggled on through the night. It had finished now, though; the bodies of knights and soldiers loyal to the queen littered the cobbles, and democrats stood guard on street corners and outside pubs. But then, this was South Saliman. It had never been terribly loyal beforehand.
All through South Saliman, the violence seemed to have changed everything. Right in front of him, Red Way, Saliman’s red light district, looked deathly silent, trade clearly having dried up, with the odd house burnt out and shattered glass covering the balustrades. Market Square had overturned stalls, and a sea of multi-coloured tent fabric floated up and down, swinging over the bodies that were witness to the slaughter that had taken place there. Further up, the towers of the Knight’s Academy no longer glittered; instead, it looked as if a giant had taken a chunk out of the highest turret with his fist, although Pouchii strongly suspected that the real culprit was probably the small ambassadorial car which seemed to have somehow been lodged up in the wreckage.
Glancing up, the proud spire of the Klagen loomed above the city, still ruling, but only just. And now the pure white stone was stained, some parts coated with the think soot that seemed to permeate every pore of the city.
The General coughed, politely but firmly. Pouchii turned to him.
“So, General, what do we do now?”
“Well, milord, I suggest we head through South Saliman before someone spots us on this wall and raises a fuss, and head up through East Saliman towards the Klagen.” He outlined his plan.
“But how on earth are we going to get up to the Klagen?” Pouchii was perplexed. “It’s entrance is several hundred metres up in the air, up a thin and heavily guarded staircase, through a supposedly impassable labyrinth, past hundreds of guards. No-one’s got in by force since it was built. And that’s not for want of trying.”
“True, but we’re not going in the front entrance.” The General smiled. “After all, we are supposed to be a secret service.” And he took a step forwards, off the edge of the wall and into the space below. Pouchii gasped.
He peered over the edge of the wall, down at where the General had just disappeared to, half expecting to see a bloody smear on the cracked paving slabs below. Instead, the General’s long black cloak had whipped out around him, whirring him gently to the ground in relative safety, without making a sound.
Pouchii, turning his head to the skies, thought of his world. In those smoky sunlit clouds, he saw his hatred, his fears and loves. He thought of his revolver, the slums, death and Hestia. And in the clouds above, legions of warriors thundered forwards at each other and life and worldly goods were shattered like raindrops.
And he was there, standing in the front line of his regiment, staring out into the dusty plains of Greatest Loss, as the gentle rumble of horses came near. The lines of men around him started to fidget and grumble, fixing their bayonets and standing to salute as the fatal marching tune of the regiment began to sound plaintively behind them. Even the beat of the drummer boy in the second rank seemed to palpitate like a rabbit about to be run down by a duke’s horse.
And then through the dust cloud came the horsemen. Rank upon rank of Raider Cataphract, armoured from head to toe in plate metal and carrying spears the size of a small bungalow. Not a millimetre of flesh, horse nor human, was visible, all obscured by the enveloping coats of steel and bronze. They rattled and jangled and clunked with an inhuman silence.
A thundering silence that was broken by a bellowed roar from the white ranks of Salimaners. Their shouted war cry was hardly one which stirred the blood, but it did inspire a certain steadfastness.
“Forth the carrots!” Pouchii smiled at the reference to the rather unmilitary crest of his regiment, the 6th South Saliman Whitecoats, which was, unfortunately, a purple carrot.
Now the horses were mere metres from them. So close you could have seen the whites of their eyes if they hadn’t been obscured by tight helmets and the mirage of heat which radiated from their heavy metal coats. And Pouchii blanked all of this mystical imagery out, and pulled his trigger as many times as he dared, closing his senses to the screams and bellows, and anguished otherworldly noises coming from the dying horses. Right up until the moment when his bayonet jerked and took the impact of the thundering and snorting stallion that had leapt at him. Its rearing hooves and blazing eyes cut through everything and drove the fear that enveloped his heart deep into his very consciousness. Pouchii did not freeze, though. Instead, he stepped forwards, drawing his dagger, making to dispatch the creature and its rider quickly.
But the step carried him onwards, so that he toppled through the broken earth and down, down into the pits of hell and further, down to nothingness, relief and solitude. Down through the pits of hell, down through everything and nothing, into a world where he did not know what to do or where to go or anything save to just be.
And then his feet hit the cobbled street below the wall, landing with poise and elegance, silently as the horsemen who had been riding before him mere moments ago. And then he turned to The General, his face smooth of emotion and ready for duty.
“So where is this secret route in?” His calm voice was entirely removed from the horrors of a minute ago.
“This way, sir.” The General couldn’t work Pouchii out. Those seconds he’d spent standing on top of the wall, his carefree eyes latched onto the clouds as if they were oracles. Either he had had a moment of religious rapture, which the General suspected was unlikely due to the way he had landed on the pavement with his eyes closed, or he was just terrified of heights.
The rest of the men had leapt down while Pouchii had been standing, thinking, and they were now all grouped in the quiet of a South Saliman slum street. The way the General was now walking was straight along the path, over the broken glass (even more than usual, which was saying something) and towards the main roads. His feet padded, and his cloak billowed, muffling every sound around for miles. Pouchii turned, his eyes shaded beneath his now thrown up cloak hood, and let the silence guide him forwards, into the deathly quiet world that awaited him.
Then, far in the distance, he heard a bellow from the nether realm. A bellow that r
eminded him of sad memories once again. It was a horse. But not one that was healthy. One in the agonies of death and despair. At last, he thought. The killing had begun.
There had been a small molehill on the right flank of the main line of democrat foot soldiers. But a hundred horses hooves had crushed it into submission as the manoeuvring prior to the battle had shredded the grass nearby. Now a horse lay, howling its last breaths to the world around it and retching like a fish out of water. Its tabard was bedecked in red, green and gold. The colours of House Harold.
Around it, the clashing of metal on metal raged on, as men died and fought valiantly for their lives. Most, clad in the black and gold livery of House Von Frederick, looked relatively unscathed and strong still, whereas the men in red, green and gold looked as though they had been through hell; not a single surcoat or plate of armour was unscratched, and the battle standard that they fought around had been cut in two; the raging bear of the Harolds was missing a leg and half his torso.
At the base of the pole that held the bear, Earl Harold of Penstemon sat astride his third horse of the day. His helm was missing, and his war hammer was stained with the blood of monarchists. One of his ears was absent.
“Men of Harold!” He let his great booming laugh ring across the steel strewn grasslands. “I’m still here!”
“Thank Rosium for that, my lord.” One of his knights replied, disarming a monarchist knight and running him through the visor, letting him drown in his own coughed up blood.
“Yes, I’ve got another ear!” He roared, giggling incessantly, while raising his hammer to knock a monarchist knight who had just charged him six metres clear of the main fighting and into a broken clump of crumpled metal on the floor. “And you’re not going to take it!”
“Pardon, my lord?” The knight laughed with his master as he decapitated another monarchist who was flourishing his sword around like a lunatic with a single straight stroke of his blade.
“Heftun be with me, Sir Dakes, you’re such a laugh!” He howled, shattering skulls left right and centre as the monarchists attempted yet another charge on his banner.
But the swordsmen charging were too many, and too skilful for Harold’s men to hold forever. Dakes’s companion was sliced to the ground, a short sword finding his throat through his gorget and mail. Other knights were struck down, until Harold found himself surrounded by foreign swords and prancing horses. Only Sir Dakes stood alongside him in his stirrups, his sword keeping the Earl’s back guarded.
Around them, hooves snorted and horses snorted, keeping up a steady wall of black and gold tabards and panthers. Steel glinted cruelly, and the metal helms of the men glistened. There was not a scratch on them; these were fresh men, prepared to give up their last energies and lives to slaughter their foes. But Harold was not entirely compliant to being slaughtered, so they kept their distances, for now. His hammer still carried a lot of weight.
And then the lines of horses split, letting a gap evolve in the circle of panthers and steel. Harold turned to it, letting a great bellow of laughter escape his round mouth.
“Napoleon von Frederick!” He boomed, as a horseman rode slowly through the gap, bedecked in black and gold, his horse steaming and snorting like a fiend. Atop his head, a golden panther raged and raised its talons to tear and batter. “At last you come to speak with me!”
“Harold!” A cold, austere voice scythed out of the helm. “Your fat belly still stands against my swords.”
“Yes, Frederick, it does.” Harold grated his teeth. “But, tell me, since when has the Von Frederick motto changed?”
“Changed?” The helm growled.
“Aye, changed.” Harold let out a belly laugh. “They used to be ‘Through War Cometh the Strongest of Men.’ Now you seem to follow in the footsteps of war, rather than coming through it.”
“Fool.” Von Frederick let his hand drop to his pommel, drawing the blade of his sword with a terrific hiss. “You should listen to your motto; Through Trade Cometh Wisdom. Clearly you are not trading now.”
Harold laughed again, but this time his laugh was wild and dangerously low.
“Now,” Frederick’s voice calmed, but still hissed haughtily. “I am going to give you one last chance. Return your allegiance to your true and noble queen, and throw your soul upon her grace.”
“I do not need to throw anything upon my daughter.” Harold snarled, baring his teeth. “She has betrayed her city and her people. If she is willing to return to her city and her father, and divorce that manipulative little snob of a husband, who treats her like a harlot, tell her we shall pardon her.”
“You damned bastard.” Von Frederick lowered the sword point at Harold’s neck. He was, of course, that husband. “Take back those foul words or I shall order my knights to cut you and your futile men down as you stand.”
“You coward.” Harold spat onto Von Frederick’s helm, letting the globule of saliva drip its way down the steel cheek. “I hope your joints rust and your prancing panther loses its talons to a pussy cat. At least have the heart and spirit to face me on your own. Or are you such a prat you’d rather not see the sight of raw red blood?”
Von Frederick’s eyes flashed with fury. But his helm was still as calm and stately as ever. His sword shook slightly, but then let the point drop. He turned his horse from Harold, and raised a single mailed fist into the air.
“Cut down this hot headed bear.” Frederick’s voice coldly rang out. “Let his head run red with the blood of his ancestors. Let his kinsmen burn and die. Let us carve the flesh from his fat bones and let his mouth no longer shout coward at our noble selves. He is tired and weary. His fate shall be swift.”
The horsemen around Harold started to ease their steeds forwards, drawing steel and swishing it slowly through the air, sinisterly. The boom of battle, the screams and shouts, at last slipped through the wall of silence that had seemed to surround the two men. The great girth of Harold seemed to pale in significance to the shattering clashes around them, the horrid mass of war.
Men died and killed. Broken ruins of humanity crumpled and were butchered, as knight and pauper alike let red stains tarnish their bright tabards and uniforms. Man and horse and nobleman died as one. No-one cares who your father is, once you’re lying face down in a puddle, bleeding your life out for the rich. Even the rich die poor in war.
Against all this, Harold sat upon his horse. His eyes were bleary with lack of rest. His left ear missing, his plate armour scratched, his tabard ripped, his fat old belly covered by a stretched old piece of chainmail that had seen much better days.
He growled. The sound wilted and petered out in the vastness of war. All around him, death drew its sword, and prepared to kill.
And then he heard a cry that echoed out across the field, through the steel armoured knights and tabarded stallions. A cry laden with stability, order and cut-throat arrogance.
“Wealth Maketh Money!”
It was received with silence, as the knights in black and gold split to allow another party of knights to ride through, into the gap in the middle, to join Harold. They were dressed in pure gilded steel, covered in silvered crescents, their armour bright and blazing in the rising sun. Their swords were held high, points spiking the clouds and pricking the heavens.
“Samuel Von Kruges.” Von Frederick’s voice sounded, cold and austere, almost stopping the new arrivals in their tracks. “You have ridden to your deaths. Steel will end you now. Even your battle cry is little more than a pompous celebration of your own coin gathering.”
“It is a golden cry, and it will silence you.” Von Kruges himself, riding in the centre of his men, spoke quietly and confidently. His helm was still on his head, but it had been knocked around a lot, with the sides and top smashed and heavily dented. His breastplate held a magnificent spiked dent, that could, and very probably would, if the steel had not been reinforced, have killed him stone dead.
“No, Von Kruges, it shall not.” Frederick spoke quietly. “Yo
u fight for treason, for betrayal, for a people who want to be ruled by our magnificent queen. I fight for what is right. And, by the will of Rosium, I shall triumph.”
“You are misguided.” Kruges let his sword slide from its scabbard, the wickedly sharp edge hissing angrily. “Our people may want a magnificent queen. Ours is a traitor and a murderer, guided by a man who would destroy all of our four universes just to hold on to the pathetic scrap of power he still possesses.”
Von Frederick growled, the sound emerging from his grilled metal helm like thunder. The golden panther emblazoned on his chest seemed to prance and leap at the yell, although that may have just been a strong breeze passing across the battlefield. Kruges met his growl with a single solemn phrase.
“Then fight me.”
Frederick dug his heels into his stirrups, and his horse started forwards, making his knights move slowly out of his path as he rode. He twirled his sword in his hands, letting the steel edge bite the winds and make them scream. But he and the horse were silent. Around him, the battle seemed to still for a second too, not a soul daring to break the spell of single combat.
The Viscount Connection Page 11
