Petrodor atobas-2

by Joel Shepherd

  “You…” Sasha blinked at him. “You didn't know this would happen, though?”

  “Saalshen has always been vulnerable to human enemies in Petrodor,” said Kessligh. “Steiner or Maerler, or some combination of smaller houses, could always have wiped them out if they tried. Their main protection has never been their swords, Sasha, but their trade. Even now, all the reports are that Steiner and their allies remain firmly locked up behind their gates, despite some in the mobs calling on them to come out and fight the serrin. The Saalshen trade is too valuable. Steiner is now caught between offending Saalshen, and offending the archbishop.

  “Rhillian did not count on the mobs, Sasha. Inside Petrodor, most of the populace are more or less controlled by those who owe some gratitude to Saalshen. But on the fringes, in the slums, and in Riverside in particular, the patachis have little sway. The archbishop himself has always been constrained by the divided loyalties of his lower priests, but now that balance too has swung. I never thought it would happen exactly like this. But I have warned Rhillian many times that this control that the patachis exert upon the people is merely a temporary illusion, and that it's only the wealthy, and the Nasi-Keth, who feel they owe Saalshen anything. This is not about faith, Sasha, it's all about power-faith is merely the tool by which power is attained. Like you said, faith may indeed be good, but the nature of power is ever unchanging. It corrupts any goodness faith may have had. Rhillian was always too clever for her own good, she always saw the complications, but missed the simplicities. Amongst humans, power rules all. Only now, perhaps, does she grasp what that means.”

  “I'm scared for her,” Sasha said quietly. “She's my friend.”

  “I know. I fear for her too. But Errollyn was right, she should have left the games of power to humans. If she'd joined with me, this wouldn't have happened. But she thought she knew better. She was wrong.”

  “She's not a bad person,” Sasha said stubbornly, fighting the pain in her throat.

  “No,” Kessligh said quietly. “They never are.” He straightened and wiped back his lank, wet hair. “Best you get back down there. Try to get some semblance of basic formation behind those barricades, they need to know what happens after the first wave hits.”

  “Pandemonium,” Sasha said drily.

  “Yes. Tell them that. That's why the formations are so critical.”

  “This is formation fighting,” Sasha complained. The thought of going back downstairs made her slightly dizzy. All those people, all rushing around. “Lenays rarely fight like this and, with all respect, you never taught it.”

  “No, this is street fighting,” Kessligh corrected. “These streets make for small formations, and Lenays fight in small groups all the time. Remember the training hall drills, five against five.”

  “I never took part in those,” she said doubtfully. “Too much pushing.”

  “Yes, but you watched them. Just the basics, Sasha-these men have basic drill, some of them are quite good. Just make sure they know when to move and where. I'm not sure they all understand the concept of a reserve yet.”

  Sasha sighed. “All right. I know that much.” She looked at him. “You're confident?”

  “I have no preconceptions,” Kessligh said grimly. “That's why I win.” He gazed across the cramped and cluttered docks, the squared brick and stone, the crumbling walls, all wet and grey beneath cloud and smoke. The place where he had been born, and had abandoned. Gerrold had abandoned the docks to defend his beloved serrin. Alaine held no appeal for people facing the prospect of war. Kessligh Cronenverdt had returned. He ruled here now.

  Sasha ran back down the tower steps, onto the battlements where some archers were inspecting their arrows, and down the long steps inside the wall to the keep floor below. Within the shelter of buildings that had until recently served as stables, women now gathered piles of linen, water and medicines, ready to tend the wounded. Through a doorway, Sasha could see at least one Nasi-Keth woman amongst them, giving directions. She thought of Yulia, who had thought to become a medicine woman. She would still be alive had she done so. Sasha shook off unhelpful thoughts and strode to the main gate in the wall.

  Near the docks was a straggly group of twenty men, in roughspun pants and sodden shirts, their hair plastered wet. Some grasped proper halberds and spears, and a few carried swords. There were quite a few axes and hammers, and most had fish knives in their belts. None had any more armour than the odd leather jacket. Dear spirits. But Kessligh was right, they drilled better than their appearances might have led her to expect, and all the long weapons were well placed at the formation's front.

  Along the dockfront, numerous other groups had similarly gathered. Outside of Lenayin, this was what it meant to be militia-working men, of various trades, who occasionally fought. It offended her highland sensibilities. Men who went to war should at least know what they were doing. To send unskilled mobs of fishermen and paupers at each other's throats with improvised tools was not civilised. And to think the lowlanders called Lenays barbarians…

  Before she could intercede, Sasha glimpsed someone striding hurriedly up the docks, holding what appeared to be a sleeping child in his arms. It was Errollyn-she'd have recognised that lithe, muscular stride anywhere. She ran to him, noting the hard concern on his face…and saw that he carried not a child, but a small woman. Her light blonde hair was wet not only with rain, but with blood, and there was the unmistakable shape of a crossbow bolt through her left calf.

  “Aisha!” Sasha gasped as she arrived at Errollyn's side. He kept walking, as fast as he could without jolting the bundle in his arms. Sasha struggled to keep up, half jogging, noting that Aisha seemed unconscious. “What happened?”

  “She was found near Sharptooth, the girl who found her said she murmured something about Maerler and treachery, then fell unconscious.” Sasha had never seen Errollyn so upset, it radiated from his every tense muscle.

  “Is she hurt besides the leg?”

  “She's taken a blow on the head, her hand is cut and her shoulder seems damaged. Her head worries me most.”

  They strode past the drilling men, past piles of refuse from which children ran to and fro, lugging whatever they could carry down the lanes to the barricades.

  They turned down Fishnet Alley, and soon into the Gianna house courtyard. Tashyna sat up abruptly where she was leashed to the courtyard tree, tail wagging warily. Her coat was a little wet, otherwise the rain seemed not to bother her at all. Sasha ran to push open the door into little Elra Halmady's room, and Errollyn carried Aisha to the neighbouring bed. The little girl was awake, her left arm above the covers and wrapped in wet, pungent cloth. She watched as Errollyn placed Aisha carefully down and began cutting away her pants from around the protruding bolt. One of the Gianna sisters came in, saw Aisha and dashed off, yelling for medicines and bandages.

  Errollyn inspected the bolt, now thick with congealed blood where it stuck from Aisha's flesh. Then he felt at her throat, seeking a pulse. He began gently feeling her head around where the blood seemed thickest. He murmured something to himself in a Saalsi dialect that Sasha could not recognise. It sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

  “Is she a serrin?” asked Elra from the neighbouring bed.

  “Yes, she is,” said Sasha.

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “She's going to be fine.” Sasha placed a hand on Errollyn's shoulder. “Errollyn. She rode with us in battle against the Hadryn heavy cavalry, she can survive a little blow on the head. She'll limp for a while once you take the bolt out, but I've seen your medicines work miracles. She'll be fine.”

  “I should be with them.” There was a strain in Errollyn's voice. Sasha saw the tears in his eyes. “I should be with them. Even if I can't feel it, I should be there.”

  “Errollyn…” Sasha shook her head in disbelief. “Can't feel what? What are you talking about?”

  “It's a curse.” He stood abruptly, fists clenched. For a brief moment, Sasha thought h
e might strike something. “It's said all that is strange is a blessing, but it feels like a curse.”

  “Errollyn.” She touched his arm gently. “Aisha needs you here. She always respected your choices. Don't regret what she does not.”

  He looked down at her, his green eyes struggling. “I wanted to feel it, Sasha. I wanted to believe in Rhillian, and I wanted to believe in Saalshen, and I didn't want to doubt. But I've always been different. Ever since I was a child, I couldn't feel it, however hard I tried. Rhillian didn't understand that, and she made me so angry because she was the one who wanted a du'janah in this talmaad in the first place. A balance of truth, she said. She refused to understand, and she made me so angry, and now I've betrayed them all…”

  “No!” Sasha grasped his arms firmly. “No. Rhillian made her own decisions, Errollyn. You were right, damn it. Kessligh tells me just now this proves you were right-”

  “And you think this makes it any easier!”

  Sasha gazed up at him. The pain in his eyes echoed the one in her heart. She took a risk, and reached to wipe away his tears. A Lenay man might have struck her for such an insulting gesture. Errollyn did not flinch. His gaze was almost…longing. Something occurred to her. “Errollyn. You've never told me your age.” Aisha looked barely sixteen, yet she had more than thirty summers. Rhillian had even more. She'd always assumed that Errollyn must also be considerably older than herself. But something in his eyes now made her wonder.

  “I'm twenty-three,” he said. Sasha was almost shocked.

  She managed a crooked smile at him. “Finally a serrin who looks his age.” And acts it, she nearly added, but didn't.

  Errollyn stared at her desperately. And kissed her full on the lips. The kiss lingered, deeper and deeper, and suddenly her heart was hammering and her arms were about him, and she wanted nothing more than to melt into that warm intoxication and never emerge…He pulled back, hands firm on her shoulders. His stare at this range was paralysing. Deep green, like the deepest ocean. “Don't die,” he whispered. “You're all I have left.”

  He turned back to Aisha and Sasha backed up, blinking. Her knees wanted to give way. She had twenty summers, and it was the first time she'd been properly kissed. She could hardly complain of the intensity. Yet still…one hell of a time for it, she couldn't help think. She recalled Errollyn's last words, and was suddenly angry.

  “No, I'm not!” she snapped at him. “You have Aisha. Look, you have Elra.” Pointing to the other bed, where little Elra stared with wide eyes at the scene they made. “You have all the spirits-blasted Nasi-Keth! This whole dockside, in fact, those who aren't completely stupid. Don't you do this stupid, defeatist thing to me, I liked you much better when you were arrogant and annoying!”

  She turned to stride out, heart still hammering, and realised that it was not the final parting she wanted, not after what had just happened. She spun back around, grabbed him, and kissed him as hard as she could. Then she stormed out.

  Palopy House, fully ablaze, was beginning to collapse when the last of the oil ran out and the fires that had filled the gaps on the defensive wall began to die. The first of the mob to brave the dying flames fell instantly, shot through the neck or heart. Rhillian waited, in the smouldering wreckage of small trees and bushes that had once been a lovely garden, and tested the pull of her bow. She'd wrapped a cloth about her face, yet still her mouth tasted of ash and irritation rasped in her throat when she breathed. Her broad hat, too, she'd dunked in water to keep the burning embers from her hair. Behind, another wall collapsed with a great roar and a billow of thick, white ash that rolled across the fire-blackened front garden. At least now, with an attack imminent, the artillery had stopped.

  More serrin crouched about the open yard, barely visible through a haze of smoke, drifting ash and falling rain. Stones sailed through the air and clattered on the pavings, or thudded on the black stalks that had once been grass. Beyond the wall, the chanting now rose to a frenzy: “Death to serrin.” Rhillian had long since ceased listening to the words-it was only rhetoric, that most foul of human creations.

  With a final roar, they came through the smoke-a torrent of men, the leaders carrying the shields from the first wave of fallen. Rhillian fired low and they fell screaming, clutching their legs. More hurdled them. Bows thrummed and arrowfire buzzed, men falling in a flail of arms and legs, punched off their feet by the power of serrin longbows. Others fanned out, running crazily, trying to clear the killing zone. Most fell, as Rhillian struggled to keep pace with the reloading speed of her comrades, pulled and killed a man coming down the gravel gate path.

  Ahead of her, several serrin nearer the gate were forced to drop their bows and pull swords. Across the yard, several more did likewise. The volume of fire reduced, yet the numbers coming only seemed to increase. Rhillian kept firing, and killed another four. The next were too close, and she dropped the bow and drew her blade.

  The rioters were no swordsmen. Most did not have swords. She killed more than seemed civilised, her precise, slashing strokes in brutal contrast to the thrashing lunacy that passed as attacks. Corpses and bits of bodies thudded to earth about her as she made new space for her footing, backing slowly across the yard. Swivel, slash, fade and cut, the improvised dance of master performer amidst a throng of clumsy pretenders, she laid a trail of gore and blood in her wake. Only now, the numbers grew greater and she was running out of space.

  Not far away, she saw Arele hit by a wooden pole and stumble. He killed the next who lunged at him with an axe, hacked the pole in half, but off balance, failed to see the knife from behind. That man also died, but Arele fell to his knees, and two more simply threw themselves on him, and more piled on, striking and cutting.

  Another attacker, barely more than a ragged boy, did not attack, but stood off and threw stones. Rhillian fended a spear thrust and took its owner's hand on the reverse, swivel-stepped into an onrushing club wielder and cut him nearly in half, then took a hard stone to the chest as the boy threw, cradling his armful and reaching for another. She parried a slashing hand-scythe, which caught about her blade and twisted the hilt in her hands. She sidestepped and missed the reverse, tried to lunge at the stone thrower but he danced back. A running madman tried to tackle her, but she spun away, his arm knocking her off balance once more. An axe-wielder tried to split her down the middle, and she rolled backward, recovering to kill another who came at her side, only to take a stone to the side of her head. Half stunned, she whipped a knife without thinking and killed the young stone thrower with a knife through the throat. And was fighting for her life before she could so much as pause and register the horror she'd just performed.

  The heat of roaring flames seemed to singe her clothes, her feet stumbling now on debris from the collapsed walls. Her attackers were a sea of mad shadows in the ash and smoke, arms and faces and flailing weapons lit orange in a hellish glare.

  She hacked another, then ducked and sprinted clear of a flanking move, her boots tripping on charred rubble. Ahead, falling back to the gap between the house and the western cliff, she saw several serrin fighting desperately. One fell even as she ran to them, yet the smaller space made it more defensible. She arrived at Terel's side, hurdling the half-dozen corpses of those he'd felled, and killed two more from behind as they tried to press Terel's flank.

  Now they fell back along the western side, the cliff-facing wall of the house long since fallen, what remained of the stately building now a mass of flaming masonry and pancaked floors. Attackers darted through the gaps between defenders as they retreated, only to fall to crossbow fire from behind. Some of the house staff tried desperately to reload those few crossbows-not a preferred weapon of Saalshen, though its relative simplicity meant several of the staff could use it. The attackers were now not quite so suicidal in their charges, yet they pressed hard, thrusting and jabbing with spears, hook-poles, halberds and other long weapons, forcing the four remaining serrin on this side back step after step. Others with lesser weapons
tried for the gaps that opened up. Rhillian knew that if the defence was pushed back past the end of the burning house, and into the open rear garden, all was lost.

  Terel knew it too, and risked a spin past a thrusting spear to fell its owner and took the arm of another in retreating. But more took their places. One threw a spear at Rhillian, and she ducked aside just in time. She went low beneath a halberd swing, took that man's legs, and slashed open another who came at her side. A spear thrust grazed her ribs as she danced back. She saw a scythe come swinging, and cut it in two.

  Terel made another forward dance, killed a pole wielder, yet caught a spear thrust to the arm. One-armed, he parried hard, but a blow sent him off balance. Rhillian leaped to his defence, but an axeman cut at her with a hack she had no choice but to duck, and then Terel was surrounded. He killed another, but a blow from a club sent him to a knee, and a flashing blade sent blood spurting. They fell on him like seagulls on rotten bread, stabbing and screaming. A gap opened in the line and then they came pouring through.

  Suddenly, Rhillian was no longer being attacked. Men ran past her instead, howling at the top of their lungs. She saw the staff wielding crossbows go down beneath the surging mob. She saw Carla, the funny girl with the slow speech and a cheeky grin, trying to defend herself with her crossbow as the blows and thrusts came raining down. The mob poured over paved paths and gardens, leapt the little rocky steam, and sprinted at the pitiful little circle on the fountain courtyard, where terrified men and women who had no business in any fight made a futile defence about the wounded.

  Even through the horror, Rhillian spotted something beyond the far wall. Smoke, rising above the Vailor residence. It came from the far side, where the Vailor gate opened onto another road. Vailor too was under attack. A tiny, faint hope dawned. She sprinted into the rear garden, leapt down to a paved path, beheaded a man who got in her way, and thrashed through a flower garden onto the main courtyard. Pick one, she thought. You'll only get one chance. Choose well, or there's no hope at all.