by Rex Sumner
Jeremy laughed, clinked bottles with the hairy Uightlander and listened to the words which he remembered well.
She sang of the battles and the War God Crom with his followers, his beloved, the Crom Brionne. The desolation that followed with no gods and followers. The revolt and the dark elves, seeking to supplant the king. The arrival of the human who called the gods, sacrificing to their glory. Jeremy didn’t quite remember that bit. At last a Crom Brionne, returned to the fold, leading the armies to defeat the rebels. Jeremy didn’t remember leading any armies, just the remnant of the Palace Guard up the cliff to break the seige, but accepted the cheers with a smile and waved his bottle.
The song continued, with the Crom Brionne leaving Coillearacha only to appear at the moment of greatest need, on the field against the Spakka, slaughtering the Spakka king with a lance through the head. All the audience knew about that, many having seen the action from the battlements and a roar went up that echoed over the rooftops.
“Crom Brionne! Crom Brionne!” The crowd took up the chant, while Jeremy jumped to his feet on the table and waved. The girls jumped at his feet, trying to catch his arms, while the Uightlander lifted him up and with a friend sat him on their shoulders and danced around the street. An old lady, bare blue breasts flying as she chased him, screeched at his bearers who set him down while she inscribed words of power in woad across his face and chest.
The fiddler soared into a high note and the singer started a new song, the crowd quietening to listen. This time she sang of the cruel duke, the high taxes, the brutal guards and the parasitic churchmen forcing a new religion on them, a southern, weak religion. The crowd roared with anger this time, and Jeremy waved his bottle of uisge out of time with the fiddler, a little irritated he was no longer the centre of attention.
“So kill the fucking duke, then,” he said, his words falling into a pool of quiet as the song and fiddle ended with abrupt suddenness.
A surge of anger swept through the crowd, the fiddle sounded again, and the singer’s voice lifted, soaring up high and carrying to the end of the street.
“The Crom Brionne has spoken! Kill the duke! To the Manor!”
“Shit,” said Jeremy under his breath, as the crowd roared, taking up the refrain and surging to the main thoroughfare at the end of the street, the Uightlanders still carrying Jeremy high on their shoulders.
*
Bill stood in front of the guardhouse, looking down the lane towards the Hanged Spakka, wondering if he should call the sergeant. There was nothing actually happening, but the noise from the bar was unusual, just after the off duty soldiers went in with their noble.
He was not prepared for the eruption as hordes poured out, and bayed at the sky.
He didn’t need to call the sergeant.
All six members of the detail stood outside the guardhouse, Bill with his mouth wide open.
“Pixies” said the sergeant. “Oh God, look at all those fucking pixies. We’re done for. Lads, we need to head back to the Manor, but if we split up we’re dead. We need to make a box, and march together with our swords out. Can you do that boys?”
Bill wasn’t sure he could, and wasn’t sure he wanted to go up the street even if it was away from all these blue people.
A clatter up the street as a squad of twenty guards had the misfortune to arrive at that moment, sent to check on the guardhouses and change the guards.
“What’s going on, lads?” The sergeant strolled up to them with his squad straggled behind him. Nobody answered him, their eyes fixed at the drama unravelling. The new sergeant peered down the street just as the crowd roared and started towards them.
Bill’s sergeant reacted first. “Form up on the guardhouse, shield wall, the guardhouse has your back, two lines deep and us sergeants on the corners. We can hold them lads. No weapons, see, we’ll see off these sorry savages”
Bill didn’t believe him, but found himself in the front line of the wall, shoulder against his shield which he stuck in the ground and peered round it with his short sword. He shook, and smelt the acrid tang of urine, wondering if it was his or his neighbours.
The throng stopped fifty paces away, and the man on the shoulders leapt lightly to the ground. In complete silence, he strode forwards, all eyes on him and the two girls at his back. He wore boots and breeks, with two crossed belts over his chest and blue paint obscuring his features and his chest. With a start, Bill realised the girls were naked, great blue breasts taking up his vision despite the situation.
The man stopped, ten paces from the wall, and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yield,” he said, simplicity in itself. “Yield or die.”
Bill started to throw down his sword, relief flooding through him, when the new sergeant spoke.
“Yield? To a bunch of fucking savages? Feck off, man, we’ll see you all dead and strung from a tree, wankers.”
The man shrugged, half turned away and his arm flicked in the turn. Something flew from his hand and Bill ducked, far too late, before turning his head to see what caused the thump to his right. The new sergeant slumped in the dirt, a knife through his eye. A long thin knife such as Bill had never seen before, never imagined anyone could throw a knife and hit the target.
A girl cried, loud and shrill into the silence, and with shock Bill realised it was a song, one he didn’t understand but feared as the crowd joined in, a great rushing noise where he couldn’t make out a word but felt the hate and blood-lust rise. His sergeant shouted something, he couldn’t make out what it was, when something made his blood run cold.
A girl stepped out of the crowd, swaying towards him, wearing uniform, guards uniform, his uniform. Oh God no, it was his uniform, and the savage was wearing it, the savage who stripped him. Wearing it? No, she draped it over herself, for the blue was everywhere, her hair blue and a large breast stuck out from one side of his tunic, blue.
The girl swayed, just a few feet in front of him and he groaned in pain and anger, before he snapped and jumped to rescue his tunic from those bastard breasts, leaving his place in the line, howling in fury.
Something punched him right in the gut and he gasped, his mouth biting dirt, he was on the floor, looking backwards as two large naked blue Picts jumped into the hole he left, each throttling the soldier on either side. Guilt filled him, replaced by a screaming agony in his gut as he was jerked around.
The girl, laughing at him, pulling at his belly, at his gut, no, his guts which spilled out into her hand. He tried to speak, as she dropped his steaming intestines into the dust. Her hand, with a knife, went south and flames burst into his brain as he screamed, a raw choking agony at the sawing in his groin before she shoved her trophy in his mouth.
“Shut yer gob, cully,” said Kels, laughing. “Yer got it inside a mouth at last.” Skipping she turned to join in the fun with the rest of the soldiers, but she was too late.
“Crom Brionne,” shouted the mob, now waving weapons liberated from dead guards. “Kill the duke! Burn the manor!”
Jeremy led the way, drunk on uisge and adulation, an honour guard of naked blue women around him with hulking semi-naked men on either side, interspersed with Uightlanders and the tall figures of Elves, while Midir strode with his own entourage, all dripping axes and swords to the envy of weapon-less city people.
*
Colonel Donnell wiped a cloth over his forehead and frowned. “I don’t like it. We are going to lose a lot of men and I am not convinced we can even rescue the King, let alone the princess. Too many things can go wrong. Lionel, you are thinking of something. Out with it.”
“Sir, I can’t contribute anything to this. I don’t know the city nor the Pathfinder capability.”
“So what is worrying you?”
“Sorry, sir, it’s nothing to do with this, just my brother is missing somewhere in the city.”
“What, the Kingslayer? Has he been ki
dnapped? Hmmn, I suppose they might want to use him for political gain, can’t see how though.”
“Not exactly, sir. Last seen he was talking to Countess Blekinsop. He’s probably having a good time in the city, and has no idea there may be hostility towards him.”
Colonel Drummond snorted with laughter and even the marshal smiled. A young Lieutenant opened the door and came in, putting his heels together before speaking to Colonel Donnell.
“Something strange going on in the city, sir. Lot of noise and maybe fighting. Suggest you go upstairs and look from the balcony. I sent Sergeant Briggs off to find out what is happening.”
The balcony did not reveal much, a glow in the far side of the city, but they could hear the mutter of a large number of people shouting.
“Can’t make out the words,” said Wallace. “Come here?”
“Oh no,” said Lionel. “Are there many Elves in this city?”
“What’s that? Elves? Sure, for some reason many come here to work and live. Why?”
“They are chanting Crom Brionne. Means the Beloved of Crom, an Elvish War God. That’s what the Elves call Jeremy.”
Sergeant Briggs appeared, a bemused expression on his face. “Sir, the city is in revolt. Never seen anything like it. Seems the whole lower city has stripped off their clothes, painted themselves blue and is marching on the Manor. They don’t have much in the way of weapons, and I wouldn’t give them a chance, but they’ve wiped out every unit sent to stop them and they are led by a bunch of likely lads, big tough boys. Not just locals, but Uightlanders and Elves. We couldn’t get close, sir, we were spotted by a bunch of women who chased us off. Didn’t want to hurt them, sir.”
A young man in the gaudy uniform of the duke’s personal guard rushed up the stairs while the officers digested this intelligence.
“General, an order from the Duke. You are to bring all available soldiers, especially professionals like Pathfinders, to the Manor and guard the front. I am instructed to inform you it is an extreme emergency, Sir, and you are to proceed with all dispatch.”
The marshal swelled with anger at receiving an order from the Duke, with his old title to boot, but Colonel Donnell forestalled his reply.
“Please inform the Duke that we shall bring our forces up through the gardens so we can consider the situation before deploying. He may expect us forthwith. We understand the importance as we have just seen the uprising.”
The lieutenant gave a sloppy salute and rushed down the stairs, the sound of his horse echoing from the cobbles.
“Well, gentlemen,” said the colonel. “I think the Kingslayer has provided us with a perfect distraction. We’ll get our troops in the back way and the king out before the duke realises what is happening. Move in ten minutes and we will play the chips how they fall. Yes, I know, sir, this is not professional but we have no time. Wallace, you will secure the gardens, Drummond, enter first and move to recover the princess and secure the entrance to the king’s room. Lionel, do you think your boys could give the revolt some support? And let them know about the king?”
For the first time Lionel’s mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. “I reckon we can, sir.”
Lionel met the Lancers coming in at the gate, deserted by the Duke’s guards with all his troops recalled to the manor and filled them in.
“We don’t quite know what is happening, but the lower city is up in revolt and marching on the manor.”
“Bloody hell, Lenny, we’re not sodding policemen, we’re not putting down a revolt.”
“No, we’re not. Especially as they are all shouting Crom Brionne.”
“What’s the silly bastard done now?”
“Good old Jezza, taking them all on!”
Lionel cut through the babble of voices. “Fine, you know as much as I do. We’re joining the revolt as the duke is holding the king prisoner and not treating his wounds. Pathfinders will rescue the king and the princess while we distract the guards. Now remember, the mob doesn’t know we’re on their side. So sing the Elvish song or just chant Crom Brionne.”
The troop rode up the main thoroughfare at a canter, strong voices bellowing out the Ballad of Crom Brionne in Elvish. Half way up they slowed to a walk as the road filled with people. An old woman strode out and stopped Lionel, stark naked, her white hair streaked with blue and her pendulous breasts covered in woad.
“Who the fuck are you?” She snarled at Lionel, shaking a vicious looking broom.
“Madam, I am Sir Lionel Summoner, brother to Sir Jeremy, the Kingslayer, also known as Crom Brionne. The troop is here to support the Crom Brionne.”
“Wheee,” cried the old bat in delight. “Gi’us a lift then, we’re missing all the fun.”
To Lionel’s alarm, she stuck a toe in his stirrup and vaulted up behind him, while his horse shied. She wasn’t bothered, clinging to Lionel like a limpet and cackling at the feel of his chest. “Oooh, you’re a right fine manikin, you are. I’m claiming you for my grandling, I am, she’ll look after you tonight, she will. Get a move on, we’ve gotta catch up. I’m Annette, luv, and I’ll show you where to go.”
In moments the way cleared and four hundred horses cantered up the Duke’s Road, each bearing a young lancer and a screaming blue woman, many of whom stood behind the rider rather than sat, all waving either a sabre or lance liberated from their lancer and trying to urge him to get to the front.
The lancers entered into the fun, screaming and shouting, while calling abuse at each other, betting on the results and comparing their passenger with their friend’s.
*
The Duke tested his arm movement as his squire strapped on the armour. His mouth a thin line as he stared at the Count.
“Rotherstone, where are the men? Why are the people rising? You told me everything was in your control, but first your Spakka army gets spanked and now my people are burning my city. Why did I ever listen to you?”
“Everything is God’s plan; we just need to understand he desires to test us.”
“Test us? Test us! My men are dying out there and where the hell are yours?”
“Mine had to go to ensure the others left as well, and there would be nobody to protect the king.” Rotherstone walked to the window, taking in the scene as the mob marched up the Duke’s Road. He wet his lips. God did move in mysterious ways. He heard the heathen chanting, wondered who this Crom Brionne could be. Some Elvish god, they had so many. Just when everything was in his grasp.
“I shall gather my personal guard,” he said and walked to the door. The duke watched him go.
“I think he’s cutting and running,” said his squire, under his breath.
“I know he is, the arrogant, cold bastard. Follow him, Brian, see where he goes.”
“No, sir.”
“Do as I tell you, damn you.”
“No sir. I know why you are sending me, and I thank you, sir. But my place is by your side, no matter what.”
The duke gripped his shoulder for a long moment, before marching out of the door and down to the guardhouse where he met his commander, Baron Sunder.
“How does it look, Algy?”
The baron glanced around. “Lot of them, sir. Only a few weapons, though. Trouble is, not sure how many of the lads will cut up their own people.”
The duke snorted. “They will soon enough when they realise where they obtained the weapons. Damn fools marching straight up the road. Shield wall to meet them and enfilade them with archer fire from the turret.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll lead the wall.”
“No, Algy. Give the commands and we will see how it falls. We will lead the wall together; they can’t stand against a wall. Certainly not the Wall.”
His nobles cheered at this, moving outside to start lining up. High in confidence, they despised these northern scum whom they ruled, lands presented to them for their p
rowess against Spakka and Uightlander over the past fifty years. Each brought with him his own men-at-arms, and they formed the wall with each baron and viscount taking a section, surrounded by his relatives and soldiers. They laughed now, relishing the chance to put down their fractious serfs.
At the sight of the wall, the mob howled. Jeremy howled with them, and broke into a run before the clouds cleared from his brain and he imagined leading the unarmoured, under-equipped and untrained mob into the solid wall of fighting men.
“Stop,” he said, digging in his heels. “Elves, how many with bows?”
“Enough,” said Midir from his right.
“Centre hold hard, Elves with bows to the right and left. Break this wall for me.”
Tall men pushed through the crowd, coalescing right and left, while the mob edged forward, eager to sate their blood lust. Seeing them stop, the wall edged towards them and the Baron’s voice rose from the centre, calling up to a large turret looming over the road, giving the command to fire
Jeremy eyed it with concern. As he watched, a figure was hurled from the top, his crossbow spilling away, followed by two more. More figures appeared on the battlements, all carrying bows which bent. His band of girls moved in front of him, protecting him with their flesh, but the twang of the bows was followed by screams from the wall, and Jeremy realised the archers were Elves, screaming Crom Brionne as they fired on the wall.
His own Elves joined the fire and the wall wilted, holes appearing as the Elvish bows ripped through armour. The first man turned to run towards the barracks and the mob growled. The sound of horses came from behind, and the rebels parted to let a stream of riders through, Matt grinning down at Jeremy.
“Trying to have fun without us? I brought you a horse.”
Jez laughed and swung aboard, sparking an unseemly shoving match between his guards as to who should have the honour of sitting behind him. The mob growled again, worried at losing their chance with the lancers’ arrival, and set off without command, careering at the wall with the front rank of lancers joining in, Will racing Mark for the honour of first arrival.
