by Duncan Lay
Fallon changed hands, moving the left-hand knife into his throwing arm as he turned, seeking the King. Aidan was staring at him in shock, eyes bulging and mouth opening to deliver a scream of fury. Fallon intended to stop that before it began and hurled the knife with all his hatred. But his bloody hand slipped a little on the hilt and his anger did not help his aim. Instead of driving home in the King’s throat, it slipped up and sliced the King’s cheek and ear.
Aidan howled in pain and outrage but Fallon was already moving.
The nearest brazier was but a pace away and he was there in an instant. It was a tall metal stand with a shallow dish at the top filled with red-hot coals and he grabbed it around the middle, grunted a little at the weight and swung it around as if it were a staff to his left. Red-hot coals sprayed out in a wide arc, driving back the nearest men there. A Guildsman bawled as a coal hit him in the face and then Fallon hurled the empty brazier to his right, stopping those advancing there and leaving the Count of Londegal crying out as his leg snapped from the impact.
Two more steps and Fallon picked up Kelty’s shillelagh, grabbing it out of a growing pool of crimson as Kelty choked on his own blood. Fallon reached down and ripped out the throwing knife, hastening his end.
The two guards were charging forwards, shouting war cries, while several nobles were hovering, ready to dart in and grab him if he showed any hesitation. Swane was at the back, supporting his father, screaming at the men to close in and take Fallon out.
But his fury was too big to contain. He hurled the knife, the slender blade vanishing in the eye socket of the nearest guard, then he sprang to meet the other, shillelagh already whirling around his head. He blocked one blow then punched out with one end, breaking the guard’s nose and snapping his head back, then brought the other end around in a huge blow that crushed the guard’s throat and left him choking to death on the ground.
“Get him! Drag him down!” Aidan was bellowing and the other men pressed in, a little hesitantly because they were Guildsmen and merchants and nobles, not soldiers.
There should have been more than enough of them but Fallon was not looking at numbers. Did the wolf fear a flock of sheep or the shark a school of fish? He had thought he had felt fury while confronting Kemal but that was nothing to what he felt now.
He kicked over another brazier, driving back the men on his right, then charged into the others. His shillelagh spun in his hands, propelled by a massive anger, as he waded into them. He punched the ends out, almost too fast for the eye to follow and certainly too fast for the Zorva-worshippers to stop. He pulped an eye, broke a jaw, smashed a nose and crushed testicles, leaving a trail of groaning and screaming men behind him.
The others were hanging back now, hoping another would tackle him, but he was not having that. He sprang at a pair of Guildsmen, shillelagh whirring. He broke one’s elbow, cracked the jaw of the other and then turned back to the first, driving the end of the staff deep into the plump man’s ample stomach. The Guildsman folded over, whooping out a giant scream and Fallon brought up his knee, feeling the man’s nose mash under it.
“Stop him!” Aidan roared but the men who were left were the older and more timid ones and they backed away as Fallon rampaged through the room.
A man turned to run but Fallon slammed his staff into his kidneys then, as he arched his back in agony, grabbed him by the back of the head and smashed his face into a stone pillar. Once, twice, then a third time, until his skull came apart.
The Earl of Meinster picked up a fallen shillelagh and took a swing at him but Fallon locked staves, used brute strength to spin them and flick the Earl’s away, then struck with both ends, punching them out hard to send the Earl spinning away to crash into a column and collapse to the ground. Fallon grabbed the brazier beside the column and dropped its contents onto the stunned Earl, who began howling as red-hot coals burned his face and set his hair on fire. The Earl tried to get up but Fallon slammed the brazier down repeatedly, smashing knees and elbows then dropped the brazier on to him and left him there, pinned under their weight, screaming as the coals burned him slowly to death.
That was enough for the others and they turned and raced for the doorway to the stairs back to the King’s rooms.
“Cowards! Stop him!” Aidan yelled at them but the room was filling with smoke from all the braziers Fallon had knocked over and Fallon was advancing through it, blood spattered over his face, lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of hatred, destroying any stragglers. There was no thought of mercy in his mind. Those trying to crawl away had the shillelagh smash into their heads and faces. The Count of Londegal tried to drag himself to safety but Fallon grabbed his head and ripped it up and back until his neck snapped.
A Guildsman staggered in front of him, disoriented, and Fallon knocked him to the ground with one blow, then lifted his knees high and jumped down onto the man’s chest, hearing ribs crackle under the impact.
“Get him!” Aidan was trying to staunch the blood flowing from his cut cheek and Swane was supporting him but everybody else was running now.
Fallon picked up a fallen shillelagh, flicked blood off the end and pointed it at the King. This was for Cavan, for Bridgit and to pay back these bastards who had grabbed Kerrin and wanted him dead.
But that gesture was too much for Swane, who grabbed his father’s arm and turned and ran, hauling the King back towards the door and safety.
“Guards! Get guards!” Swane howled.
Fallon began to chase after them but that shout cut through the red mist in his head. Kelty might be dead but there were still more than enough guards in this castle to kill him. Even his shillelagh was no match for a crossbow or two. And, once he was dead, there was nothing stopping Kerrin from going to sacrifice.
Instantly he spun and raced back to where Kerrin was tied up. His knives were lost among the chaos but beside the Fearpriest, who was lying on his back, trying in vain to hold himself together with ever-weakening fingers, was the obsidian blade.
The hilt was wrapped in some strange skin, which made Fallon’s bloodstained fingers itch, but the strange stone blade was razor sharp and the ropes holding Kerrin back parted under it in moments.
“You’re safe now,” Fallon said as he ripped off the gag, even though that was not true, and hugged his son to him, feeling the boy’s sobs. He wanted to hold him longer but there was no time to waste.
“We have to go. Are you ready to help me?” Fallon put his hands on Kerrin’s shoulders.
He felt as though his chest might burst with pride as Kerrin wiped his eyes with grimy hands and nodded. “I told you I would be ready and I am,” he said.
Behind him, he could hear the muffled screams of Feray and her boys and he and Kerrin swiftly cut their bonds, freeing them from the sacrifice tables.
The two boys fell into their shaking mother’s arms, all three of them sobbing.
“We have to go! Get up!” Fallon told them harshly.
Feray turned away from him and he could only imagine what he must look like, covered in blood and soot.
“They will not get you while I live,” he told them. “But unless we move now, that may not be long. You have to be strong, for your boys.”
He saw the effort of will that it took to get her to stand and take her sons’ hands.
“Come on!” he urged them and together they half-ran, half-stumbled towards the back of the chamber and the door there.
The chamber was now empty, except for the dead, the dying and the unconscious, and was filled with the smell of burning flesh as the Earl of Meinster slowly roasted under the weight of coals.
For a moment Fallon felt terror at the thought of what might be on the other side of the door, or that it would be locked. But he hauled on the door ring and pulled it open to reveal a simple passageway.
“Stay close to me,” he ordered and crept through, the obsidian blade in his belt, shillelagh in his hands. He could feel Kerrin at his left, holding on to the cloth of his trews,
while Feray was right behind him, so close he could feel her frightened gasps for breath on his back.
Yet the passageway was empty.
Fallon slammed the door shut behind them and slid the locking bar across. Hopefully that would buy them some time.
He hurried down the passage, the others at his back, turned the corner and came to a series of cells. Instinctively he glanced inside and gasped in horror to see small children there, huddled against the back wall. They wailed at the sight of him, then stared at Kerrin, Asil and Orhan stumbling along behind them.
“Aroaril, what are they doing here?” Feray hissed.
“Nothing for Aroaril,” Fallon said grimly. “They were to be sacrificed by that Fearpriest.”
“We have to free them!” Feray cried.
“We have to get ourselves out of here first,” Fallon grunted, but he was already looking for a key.
There were six cells, all had at least two children inside, which must have been making the noise he had heard the last time he was here. He could not find a key and thought he could hear noises behind them from the chamber they had escaped.
“We have to come back for them,” he told Feray. “We shall come back and free you,” he told the children.
But that made them rush to the bars, holding out their hands, crying and begging to be taken along. Fallon could not bear to leave them but could not see how he could break into the cells either. He was wondering if the obsidian blade might work when something, or someone slammed against the chamber door they had locked.
“We must go. But we shall be back, I swear on my wife,” Fallon said, grabbing Feray, who was crying as the children wailed at her. “Feray, think of your sons!”
That was enough for her to step away from the cell door and follow him as he raced down further. One more turn and they were at the place he remembered, with a second passage and an iron door. This was also unlocked and he ushered the others through and then swung it shut. This time there was no Padraig to lock it and speed was their only hope. The hammering against the other door was getting louder and he did not know how long it would hold.
“Run! Run as if your lives depend on it!” he told the boys.
They needed no further encouragement.
*
Feray was puffing and wheezing as she ran, each breath coming harder than the others. The boys had been used to running around and playing but she had not done anything more strenuous than walk up and down the stairs a few times since her capture and, before that, had been stuck on board a ship with little chance to exercise. She usually prided herself on her strength and fitness but the running on top of the stress and fear had left her short of breath, her legs aching. When the King’s men had hauled her out of the makeshift prison she had actually been pleased, thinking that the King would have to release her now and that she could be on her way back to Kotterman with a merchant that very night.
But, instead of the honor due to her station, she and her sons had been dragged downstairs and tied to tables by terrifying men. At first Feray had feared rape, then she understood her fate was something worse. She recognized the Fearpriest as something out of her nightmares. At least her sons did not know what the hooded man with the strange knife meant, even if she did. The short time lying there had been the worst of her life, outstripping even the time when Fallon had held a knife to Orhan’s face.
When Fallon came in the room, she had been torn between hope and more fear. Yet she had not dared to hope, not until he produced knives and turned the room into a slaughterhouse. She could have embraced him when he freed them and she believed him when he swore he would protect them with his life. She glanced over at him as he helped Orhan along and marveled at the contrast to the first time she had met him.
But that thought was washed away by a simple desire to breathe. Her lungs felt full of liquid and she worried she would doom them all.
“Keep going. Just get my boys away,” she wheezed.
He looked at her and she almost drew back from his blazing eyes. “I made a promise to keep you safe. I will not break that while I draw breath,” he said shortly. “Now move!”
The two older boys were still running easily but Orhan stumbled so Fallon slung him over one shoulder, while also keeping tight hold of Feray’s right wrist, dragging her along. She had just enough energy to reflect how strange it was that she was trusting their lives to the man who had threatened them.
“Not far now,” Fallon told them, as they hurried down a set of stairs. “Stay strong!”
It was dark down there and stank of blood and decay. Then she slipped on something soft and tumbled over, coming face to face with a dead child. The boy’s face was gray and something had eaten his eyes.
She screamed, unable to stop herself, then Fallon hauled her up.
“We are too late to save them. We have to save ourselves,” he said roughly.
They stumbled and slipped through a pile of rotting bodies, hearing creatures race away into the darkness and trying not to imagine what else waited for them. There was a slim trace of light coming from ahead and they headed towards that. If she had been alone, she did not think she could have made it through that nightmare but Fallon took her arm and guided her onwards. They reached the light to discover it was sunlight coming in underneath a door. Fallon let go of her arm and she cried out, then he fumbled with a locking bar and rammed the door open with his shoulder.
Next moment they stumbled into the sunlight and her eyes adjusted to see they were in some of castle garden.
“My men are training just outside the gate. Once we are there, we are safe,” Fallon said, his chest heaving. “Come on!”
But Feray was struggling to put one foot in front of the other and then they heard angry shouts coming from above.
*
Kerrin wished he had his crossbow. Or even a throwing knife. He had spent so much time training with them and now, when he really needed them, they were back in his room.
They had been playing with the ball when Kelty and a score of his men had raced into the Guild square, smashing down Devlin and the other villagers, then grabbing him, Asil, Orhan and their mother.
Now all they had to do was run away and Kerrin knew he could do that. He had been practicing, after all. The castle gate was no more than fifty paces away and he imagined he could see Dad’s army out there, ready to come in and save them.
“There’s no guards there!” he cried. He pointed, in case the adults had missed it, then tugged Asil towards it. “Hurry Dad!” he cried.
But Dad was not moving fast, with Orhan over one shoulder and a shillelagh in that hand and trying to pull along the Kottermani Princess with the other.
“Kerrin, run and find Brendan. Bring him back here,” his dad said.
“What?” Kerrin turned.
“Go! They could be on us at any moment and then it will be too late. Only you can save us!” his dad ordered.
Kerrin straightened up. Time to make all that training pay off. He saluted and raced away.
His chest felt like it would burst but with pride instead of the usual pain from running. All those days of racing through the streets after his dad were for this and he tore through the grounds. He could see guards coming out of doorways but they did not give him a second glance and, even if they had, he was past them before they could do anything.
The gate was wide open and he flashed through it. A pair of guards saw him, too late. One made a grab for him but he ducked his head and was past them.
“Hey! Stop there, boy!” the guard shouted but he ignored them and they stayed at their posts.
The square was full of recruits going through exercises and he saw Brendan, towering head and shoulders above the young men and ran up to him, not even stopping, so he slammed into the big smith.
“What is it, Kerrin? What are you doing here?” Brendan asked, holding him at arm’s length.
“Dad – Fearpriest – castle,” Kerrin gasped.
“What is
it?” His grandfather strode over and Kerrin grabbed his hand gratefully.
“Dad needs help! In the castle!” he said.
“What’s happening? Start from the beginning, lad!” Brendan said.
The other leaders, Gallagher, Bran and Gannon, rushed over as well.
“We have to rescue Dad! Now!” Kerrin insisted.
“What’s this? Some sort of training exercise?” Gannon asked.
“Or maybe a joke,” Brendan said.
Kerrin did not have the time to explain. He sensed that time was running out for Dad and it was up to him to save him. He grabbed his grandfather’s arm.
“Make my voice loud,” he said.
Padraig’s eyes widened but he gripped Kerrin’s shoulder and Kerrin straightened up.
“Soldiers of Fallon!” he cried, his voice cracking a little but echoing across the square. All activity stopped and everyone turned in his direction. He had heard Dad make speeches often enough this past moon and the words came easily to him. “Your captain is fighting for his life, surrounded by Fearpriests and traitors! Will you let him die? I go to save him. Will I go alone?”
He grabbed the knife out of Brendan’s belt then raced back towards the castle, not caring if anyone was following him.
The two guards on the gate, who had so nearly caught him, saw him coming this time and spread out, hands held low, ready. Kerrin gripped his borrowed knife tighter and prepared to cut and stab his way through, until they let him go. He would get to Dad if it was the last thing he did. He braced himself for the impact.
Then one guard grabbed the other by the shoulder. Their faces contorted in terror and they cried out, then turned and ran away.
Kerrin yelled out a challenge at them and brandished his knife. Cowards! Scared of a boy! he thought exultantly.
Next moment a rush of men came past him, on either side. Bran was there, sword in hand, Brendan was there too, hammer in his hands and Gallagher with his knives. With them were several, then dozens, then scores of the recruits, young men with swords and spears and crossbows, running like a stampeding herd.
