by Duncan Lay
She glanced over to where the Berellian sat—and gasped in horror.
Wime’s men reached out to grab the arms of the Berellian—only for him to draw a pair of daggers in one fluid movement, then slam them into the men’s throats.
‘Stop him!’ Wime roared but the Lord’s hand went to his belt—the buckle came away to form a throwing knife. His hand flicked out and Wime collapsed, the knife buried in his eye socket.
‘No!’ Merren cried, but there was nothing she could do. She was standing barely twenty paces away but she was gripped with a feeling of unreality—surely this could not be happening.
The other black-clad Berellians drew swords—one tossing a pair of blades to their Lord—and attacked her men, who seemed dazed by the loss of Wime.
Having seen Martil in action against Havrick’s soldiers, Merren had both rejoiced and been horrified at how he had carved a bloody path through their ranks. This was like watching that day again, only in a nightmarish reverse. Her men tried to fight back—Tarik sent one black-clad man flying back with an arrow through the chest—but the Berellians were in another class entirely. Forde and his squad from Gerrin charged into the attack but these half-trained men were cut to pieces.
Black-clad Berellians spun, ducked, leaped and darted, using throwing knives and short swords to cut down man after man.
Meanwhile a short man in the rich uniform of a war captain had leaped onto his chair.
‘Attack them! Seize them! It is the traitor Queen! Kill her!’ he screamed at the ranger officers.
There were about thirty ranger officers seated with the Berellians. About half of them drew swords and joined in attacking Merren’s men, while the other half backed away, looking instead at an officer that she saw, with a shocking jolt of recognition, was Captain Kay, the former commander of her Royal Guard. He was not joining the attack, but nor was he helping her men, who were trying to form a rudimentary shield wall against the incessant attack.
Rocus roared in rage and frustration and started to run over to help but the thunder of hoofs made him pause. From the far side of the archery ranges galloped a squadron of light cavalry in the red of Gello.
‘It’s a trap! We have to get out of here!’ Merren bellowed.
‘My Queen, we have to get back to the oak, and escape! And we have to go through the barracks or those cavalry will cut us to pieces!’ Barrett cried.
‘Give us some time!’ she ordered him. ‘Rocus! Get over there and take command—take us back into the barracks. We’ll use that as cover to get to the woods. Move!’
Rocus raced towards where the Queen’s men were desperately defending themselves against the Berellians and ranger officers. Barrett hesitated for a few heartbeats, then turned. He looked around wildly, then his gaze fell on the archery targets. Each was the height of a man, twice a man’s width and made of thick wood, padded and painted. With a gesture, he uprooted target after target and sent them flying across the field at the height of the horses’ knees. Each one scythed down three or four horses, and threw the charge into confusion.
Sweating now, he turned with a smile to see Sendric and the Queen hurrying towards the one-sided battle. He ran after them, only to have the bard rush towards him. He prepared to use his staff on the man, but the bard waved his arms.
‘You are right! The saga we’re being made to sing is all lies! I want to find the truth for myself—take me with you!’ Romon shouted.
‘Are you a madman? We’re likely to all be killed or captured!’ Barrett growled.
‘Then I’ll claim you took me against my will. But I’ll risk it!’
Barrett stared at him, baffled. ‘Well, come with me if you’re that crazy!’
And without checking to see if the bard was coming, he sprinted to catch up with the Queen. If they were going to get out, he was going to have to do something special. It was a dire situation but it was also an opportunity to impress Merren.
Tarik had always been a quiet man, reluctant to yell orders, but with Wime lying dead two paces away, he knew he had to do something if they were to get away. He nocked and loosed, sending another black-clad devil tumbling to the ground, although they were proving immensely hard to hit. Each one was incredibly skilful, and the various militiamen and guardsmen seemed unable to cope. Although Martil had trained them to fight together he usually launched them from ambush. Now they were the ambushed, and their talismanic captain, who could turn a battle on his own, was not even there—and the result was very different.
‘Hold steady! Lock shields!’ Tarik shoved two men together, the sergeants took up his call and there was finally a rough line. The last man outside it, one of Forde’s militia, was chopped down by a pair of the Berellians but the line easily held a charge of ranger officers, throwing them back so they got in the Berellians’ way. Tarik glanced over at the rangers. Luckily they seemed to be just sitting there. Without weapons, without orders, they were at a loss as to what to do. Tarik was grateful none had brought a bow to the bard’s performance. Even a dozen archers would have destroyed the shield wall in an instant. As it was, they had enough problems with the Berellians. Stuck behind the enthusiastic but futile attacks of the ranger officers, they were throwing darts, not the tiny, flimsy things used in the harmless tavern game, but heavy metal spikes the length of a man’s hand, each with a wickedly barbed head. Most could be blocked with a shield but one man was already down, his throat torn out by a dart.
Then Rocus and the Queen were there.
‘Where is Martil? Come and face me, you coward!’ the Lord of Bellic challenged.
‘He’s not here! If he was, he’d cut your black heart out, Bellic!’ Merren yelled back, wishing it were true.
The Berellian spat. ‘The Lord of Bellic is long dead. I am the Berellian Champion, Cezar—and I shall have to take your heart, instead!’
Tarik loosed an arrow at the man, but he batted it away with a blade.
‘Time to go, your majesty!’ Rocus said.
The rangers were at last moving—their commanding officer had roused the closest company, and they were obviously heading for the armoury and their bows. Meanwhile, the cavalry were advancing again, and the ranger officers continued to be thrown back by Tarik’s men.
‘Back! Keep your line! Through the barracks!’ Rocus cried.
They backed away but holding a shield wall together while retreating was incredibly difficult. With the Berellians hurling their darts, the right-hand side was savagely attacked. Two men went down, and for an instant it looked as though the whole line would collapse. But Barrett—his staff now the size of a small tree—waded in, sending both ranger officers and Berellians in all directions. Men flew screaming through the air and, in the confusion, Rocus gathered the Queen’s men and sent them running between two buildings.
Tarik led the way. He could hear the roar of orders and knew it would not be long before the rangers were hunting them through these buildings.
Merren could see her men were already gasping and puffing for air; the mail hauberks they wore were weighing them down and the exertion of fleeing after fighting was exhausting them.
‘Stop! Get those mail shirts off! We need more speed!’ she ordered.
‘My Queen?’ Forde was among many who turned and gaped at her.
‘Those hauberks are slowing us down. Get out of them if you want to live!’ she snapped.
Immediately most of the men began to tear at buckles and straps.
‘You heard the Queen! Move your stupid arses!’ Rocus spat at the few laggards.
Men paired up, tugging the heavy, unwieldy shirts over the heads of their fellows.
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ Merren urged. She had ditched her own shirt and felt much lighter for it. They had lost time here, given their pursuers an opportunity to spread the net. But without it they would have been run down, too tired to fight.
Just as she was congratulating herself on a winning gamble, a squad of rangers ran around the side of the building and almost fel
l over them. The rangers had no bows but had swords in their hands.
‘Kill them!’ their sergeant shouted, and raced forwards.
Tarik sent an arrow through his throat.
The other rangers had hesitated, despite the order, and the death of the sergeant sent them running back the way they had come.
Tarik looked at Merren quizzically.
‘We’ll worry about their loyalty later. Run!’ She waved them on.
And they were off again, breath sawing harshly in their throats. They could hear horns sounding, and Merren worried just what orders they conveyed. The buildings seemed to go on forever—run past one, and there was another. Tarik led the way; the veteran hunter had brought them in and she was confident if anyone could lead them out, he could.
At the corner of one of the barracks buildings, they stopped to catch their breath.
‘Just past this last one, there is the gate, beyond that is the wood,’ Tarik said, and gestured. ‘Not much further.’
‘Where are those Berellians?’ Barrett asked, worried.
‘They know they can’t stop us,’ Rocus said.
‘We don’t have time to worry about them! Come on!’ Merren waved them forwards.
Tarik looked around the corner, cursed, and ducked back. An instant later, an arrow thumped into the wall.
‘They’ve got about a score of archers lined up fifty paces away—they’ll spit any man who goes round that corner,’ he snarled.
‘Is there another way?’ Merren asked.
The hunter just shook his head.
‘We’ll just go round with shields up—we’ll lose a few but we have to do it,’ Sendric suggested.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Barrett smiled at Merren, then calmly stepped out into the open.
‘Barrett!’ Merren cried.
He felt his blood sing a little when she called his name with such concern, but his concentration had to be on the line of rangers, who immediately loosed their arrows. Reaching into the magic, he increased the natural heat and friction each arrow was experiencing as it flew through the air, multiplying it until the arrows simply burst into flames and fell at his feet as ashes. He felt his breathing quicken, the sweat stand out on his face, but it had been worth it.
‘Quick!’ He waved. ‘I will protect you!’
Without argument, the men rushed out, shields high, Forde and his last two men making it their business to protect Merren.
More arrows poured in, as the rangers nocked and loosed as fast as their trained hands could draw back the strings. Barrett sent each burning to the ground then, when the men were past, increased the size of his staff and used it to catch the last two arrows, before waving at the rangers and stepping into cover.
Men cheered and patted him on the back, and he used that to give him time to slow his breathing, mop his brow and take a drink from his waterskin. When he saw Merren, he was under control, almost.
‘You need to conserve your energy,’ she chided him, albeit with a smile.
‘I will do whatever is necessary to get us away,’ he declared. Her earlier comment about how she had wished Martil was here had stung a little. Certainly the muscle-bound oaf—or rather, the Dragon Sword—would be of use, but he was going to show her just how valuable he was.
‘Not far now! Keep going!’ Merren encouraged the men, and they lengthened their strides as they ran past the last building.
Tarik waved them on. ‘Just around the corner is the gate!’
‘Slow down! Stay together!’ Rocus called.
A door burst open to their left and rangers poured out, swords in hands. Unlike the other squad, this one ran to the attack without pause. They hit in the middle of the group, bowling over two men, one of them Sendric, who took a blow to the head that drove him to the ground.
Rocus bellowed orders to lock shields but Barrett saw that was not going to work.
‘Leave them to me!’ he roared, and sprang to the attack. He could feel the tiredness starting to build up but he willed himself to ignore it.
In a moment his staff was the size of a small tree, and he smashed it into the rangers as though it were as light as a twig. With his first blow, two men were flung high into the air, to crash into the side of the building. The reverse sweep sent three more cartwheeling across to the other side. Immediately the momentum changed; Rocus and Tarik were there, calling to their men to stand together and hold the attack. Barrett ignored them, and gestured towards the open door, behind which more rangers massed. The huge double wooden doors slammed shut and, for good measure, he made the wood grow so the doors were sealed shut forever. There were still a dozen rangers outside, fighting against the Queen’s men, and he ran to finish them off, happy that the Queen would be watching him win the battle for her.
‘Now I have you, bitch!’
Merren had backed away from the little battle, but now she spun to see the Berellians emerge from the opposite building, and she saw how they had sprung the trap.
‘Barrett!’ she cried, knowing that no normal man could get there in time to save her.
Barrett whipped the end of his staff around, sending the last three rangers flying, and turned with a smile on his face, expecting to see Merren’s grateful face. Instead he saw the remaining Berellians hurl darts at her.
‘Nooo!’ he screamed and sent out his magic, creating a blast of wind strong enough to deflect the barbed darts, so they slammed into the building instead of Merren’s flesh. But the exertion took its toll. His legs felt rubbery and his vision swam. He fell to his knees to see the Berellian leader snarl in fury that his first attempt had failed, then draw his sword and leap forwards. To Barrett’s horror and anguish, he knew he could not reach her in time.
9
Martil had tried to play with Karia, but she was only interested in Father Nott. She wanted Nott to talk to her, read to her, and play with her. The fact they were playing with the dolls he had bought her only made Martil feel more irritable.
With nothing to do, his thoughts turned dark. There was the nightmare waiting for him that night; the fear of being in the capital, surrounded by soldiers loyal to Gello, with no possible way of escape; the massive field army Gello was assembling; and, worst, the thought that Merren expected him to be able to defeat it, with no more than a few companies of half-trained townsfolk, a regiment of archers and a regiment of his Rallorans.
He had lied to her, lied to all of them, just so he could finally capture the Lord of Bellic and have the chance to end the nightmares that still plagued him. Ironically, Martil was not sure what he was going to do with the Lord of Bellic if and when he had him. Forcing the man to publicly confess how he had slaughtered a village then ordered his town to fight to the death was hardly going to result in a song to wash away the Real Saga of Bellic.
And, after all that, Merren had not wanted him to go along on the attempt to capture the Lord of Bellic. Instead, he was sitting in this room, with nothing to do but try not to hear the sound of Karia’s laughter coming from next door. He could not even sharpen his sword, to give himself something to do. The bloody Dragon Sword never needed sharpening. Never needed anything, except something he could not supply. He gripped the still-cold hilt and stared into the expressionless eyes of its dragon carving. Why wasn’t it working for him? Why could he not unlock its power?
He sighed. It was obvious. A good man did not have nightmares about killing women and children, did not bear the sole responsibility for the most infamous massacre in the continent’s bloody history. And a good man did not lie to the woman he cherished an impossible love for.
He sheathed the Dragon Sword violently and contemplated the next few hours. They promised to be just as bleak. He felt if he stayed in this room for much longer he would surely go crazy. He had to get out. But where? The capital was crawling with soldiers, although they could not be in every tavern in the place. What if he went and had a few drinks? He might even hear a bard in action, be able to plausibly say that was part of t
he mission. He struggled to think if they had passed a likely looking place as he fumbled in his belt pouch, to check he had some money. There was a bit of gold still in there, and something else—an obscenely-shaped wooden token. He hauled it out. The Golden Gate. Now there was an idea.
He tried to tell himself it was a bad one, that he should just wait in his room—there was too much depending on this mission. He could not jeopardise it. But the thought of Lahra—and her ample charms—blotted everything else out from his mind. He could slip out, pay a quick visit and be back by dark. Perfect. He knew better than to ask Father Nott for directions. The old priest was too canny, and would be sure to catch on. And Karia might even ask awkward questions. After all, that was her specialty.
But that Sister Milly…surely she could be bluffed?
‘Sister, how do I get to the Church of the Sun from here? I need to sit in the peace there. You understand?’ Martil said casually. ‘Obviously it would be too dangerous to try it in here, but at the church, I will go unrecognised.’
Milly looked up from writing out a series of messages which Tiera would slip to the prisoners that night.
‘Don’t you think it dangerous to go out?’ she asked simply.
Martil shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I still need to. You of all people should know how much a person needs to speak quietly to Aroaril.’
‘And your room is not good enough?’
Martil tried a smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m a traditionalist. It has to be inside a church.’
Milly looked hard at him, then sighed. ‘I cannot stop a man from wanting to connect with Aroaril. I would caution against it, however. You are essential to the success of this rescue.’
‘Nothing will happen,’ Martil assured her.
‘Go out the side entrance, then head up the street. Take the second left, and you will be in the road that leads you to the Church of the Sun. How long will you be? If I know when to expect you back, I can alert Tiera to help you get upstairs without being seen.’
