by A. J. Smith
With rising anger, and with little thought, Magnus broke his silence and shouted out a response to the executioner’s threat. ‘You are a coward…’ The hall fell silent. ‘Remove these chains, give me my hammer, and no man here would stand before me.’ He took another step forward, now standing inches from the kneeling line of knights.
Brother Lanry saw Magnus through the press of knights and a shallow nod of greeting passed between the two men. The cleric looked exhausted, but uninjured. Rillion maintained his calm, Rashabald and the Gold cleric looked as if they were about to burst with rage, and Sir Pevain smiled an ugly smile. Out of the corner of his eye Magnus could see the guards standing round Bronwyn move closer; they were physically holding her now and she was clearly distressed at not being able to see her father through the crowd of knights.
‘I was told knights of the Red had honour… this is not honour.’ He roared out the last few words and tensed his huge arms, feeling the heavy steel chains that bound him.
‘My knights, stand to,’ ordered Rillion, and the line of Red knights stood and drew their swords in practised military fashion. ‘One more aggressive movement from this man and you are to subdue him. Wound, but do not kill.’
Bronwyn cried out from the side of the hall, ‘Father…’ The word was choked with tears and elicited a sharp slap from one of her guards.
‘Knight,’ Magnus shouted at the man who’d struck her, ‘touch the woman again and I’ll eat through these chains to reach you.’
Magnus maintained his glare and felt his arms strain against the manacles. He offered a quiet prayer to his god. ‘Rowanoco, let not these dishonourable men take the lives of my friends; and if that is not within your power, grant me the strength to avenge them or face an honourable death. Let me not feel the cold stone of a prison cell again.’
The line of knights in front of him formed a circle, surrounding Magnus and cutting off any chance of action. Rillion and Rashabald stepped off the platform and stood over the broken duke of Canarn.
Pevain pulled on the chain, making the steel collar strain around Hector’s neck. His head was pulled to face the commander and the extent of his injuries became evident. He had lost an eye to a sword point, a fresh cut indicating that the wound had been inflicted after the battle. His teeth had been smashed out and he shook violently. Magnus doubted he even knew where he was.
‘Look well upon this traitor, you Ranen dog,’ Rillion said loudly.
‘My lord, can I be the one to take his head?’ It was Pevain who spoke, and he did so with glee.
Sir Rashabald was clearly unhappy with this and looked questioningly at the commander. Rillion appeared to consider it, but then shook his head and wordlessly gestured to his executioner. Rashabald smiled and hefted his axe several times while Pevain removed the prisoner’s metal collar.
Magnus scowled as he looked on and took sharp breaths, glaring at the men of Ro standing before him, the men about to kill his friend. He could hear Bronwyn crying, but did not look round to see. He was thankful she would not be able to see her father killed.
Duke Hector was a small figure, naked and broken; he barely looked up as Rashabald placed the axe against his neck. Rillion raised his hand above his head and everyone present paused, waiting for him to lower it, giving the executioner his order to strike. When it happened, it seemed to Magnus to happen in slow motion. Rashabald raised his axe high above his head, Rillion lowered his hand, and the axe fell.
The sound was of steel cutting flesh and bone, punctuated by a grunt of exertion from the executioner, and Duke Hector Canarn was dead. His head struck the stone floor and his body went limp, falling at Pevain’s feet.
There was a moment of silence, the only sound being a low sob from the duke’s daughter, as Sir Rillion leant down and lifted up the head to show the company of knights. The duke’s face was a mask of anger and torment. Brother Lanry began to weep as his master’s head was paraded in front of him.
Ameira, the Karesian enchantress, cackled. Her eyes were wide with euphoria at the sight of the dead duke.
The strength of Rowanoco now within him, Magnus roared to the ceiling at the sight of his friend’s head. His hands gripped the steel manacles that held him and, with power unlike anything these men of Ro had seen, the steel links began to bend and buckle. His rage had taken over and he could no longer be contained by metal. The guards surrounding him looked on with wide-eyed amazement as, with a swift jerk of his shoulders, the huge Ranen warrior broke his restraints. Rowanoco hated nothing more than to see his people caged and he lent his rage to the priest.
All eyes turned and Magnus was faced with over a hundred armoured men, drawing their swords. He looked at the faces of the senior knights and the old executioner, then back at the men standing directly in front of him. His eyes had turned black and foam flecked the corners of his mouth.
‘Men, restrain the Ranen.’ Rillion stumbled over his words; even he was intimidated by the battle rage of Rowanoco.
The Karesian enchantress moved quickly to the commander’s side and whispered in his ear before lightly touching his hand.
The first knight to thrust at Magnus died quickly with a sheared metal link jammed into his throat. His body was then hefted and thrown at the next man. Magnus easily deflected a hesitant downward swing, grabbing the blade in his hand and reversing it to stab through the wielder’s face, killing him instantly.
Commotion engulfed the hall, with men jockeying to get close to the fight. Rillion issued commands to several knights and the Gold cleric was quickly removed from the hall. Pevain was stepping towards the melee and unsheathing his huge two-handed sword, while Sir Rashabald adopted a protective stance in front of the commander.
Magnus kept hold of the longsword and quickly killed two more knights with powerful downward blows. The other Red knights, now encircling him, stayed several steps away and held a guarded pose.
Magnus stood with four dead knights around him in a spreading pool of blood. ‘Face me now, cowards,’ he roared. ‘I will be your death…’
With one hand he swung the broken chain around his head, keeping the knights at bay, while with the other he brandished his newly acquired sword with skill and menace. Rillion stood beyond the circle of knights; calmer now that Magnus was contained, he gestured to Pevain to enter the melee and shouted across the hall to his crossbowmen.
Magnus advanced on the encircling knights and swung the chain at those close by. The knights retreated a few steps and refused to engage. They held their swords low to the ground and closed ranks round him.
He crouched, his sword and chain both loose in his hands. The battle rage of Rowanoco had changed into a predatory desire for freedom. He was feeling the survival instinct of a caged animal and barely registered the huge figure of Sir Pevain entering the circle of knights.
‘Pevain, I want him alive,’ Rillion commanded from his position of safety. The enchantress stood close to him and continued to whisper.
The crossbowmen pushed their way to stand within the circle of knights, their cowardly weapons drawn and aimed at Magnus. The sound of Bronwyn crying was the only thing that entered Magnus’s perception, but it was enough to keep his mind sufficiently clear to parry when Pevain launched a huge overhead strike at him. Magnus buckled under the strain, but his strength held and stopped the blow from landing.
‘I said I want him alive. Don’t disappoint me, Pevain,’ Rillion repeated.
Magnus swung out his legs and aimed a kick at Pevain’s armoured thighs. The mercenary rocked back, but didn’t fall, and Magnus rolled out of range of the answering sword thrust.
The mercenary knight let out a grunt as he grasped his sword in both hands and launched an overhead swing at Magnus’s unprotected shoulder. It was powerful, but clumsy, and Pevain relied on the plate armour he wore and the disproportionate size of his sword rather than any great skill.
Magnus was fast and knew how to deal with a man encumbered with steel armour. He didn’t try to p
arry the blow, instead darting to the left and letting the swing strike the stone floor. Dust flew up and the flagstone cracked, causing Rillion to push his way to the front and bark at Pevain a third time. ‘Sir knight, if you kill that man, you follow him.’
Ameira the Lady of Spiders stayed beyond the circle, but appeared distressed at the suggestion that Pevain might kill Magnus.
‘My lord, we should rid ourselves of this fucking animal,’ Pevain replied through gritted teeth. ‘Let me kill him… let me kill him now.’ He didn’t take his eyes from Magnus, who was again crouched, sword at the ready.
Rillion drew his own sword and entered the circle, causing Rashabald to hurry in behind him. ‘Pevain, I won’t tell you again,’ the commander said quietly, his eyes watchful and his sword held low.
Magnus was clear now of the battle rage and was looking for an opportunity to escape. He was surrounded by a wide circle of closely packed knights of the Red which left little opening for an attack. He could no longer hear Bronwyn crying.
Pevain breathed heavily, angry at being robbed of the opportunity to fight Magnus. He lowered his sword and, still looking directly at the Ranen, backed away to the edge of the circle. The crossbowmen emerged between the Red knights and took aim, waiting for the order to fire. Rillion stayed back, but carried himself with the practised motion of a skilled swordsman.
‘I have made my decision, this brute is to be kept alive,’ he said, looking down at the four dead knights of the Red. ‘But a few arrows in the leg won’t kill him.’
He nodded at the nearest bowman and a bolt was fired. It pierced Magnus above the knee, causing him to cry out in pain and fall to the floor. Before he could gather himself, Sir Pevain kicked him solidly in the face with his armoured foot and Magnus lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 4
LADY BRONWYN IN THE CITY OF RO CANARN
Lady Bronwyn of Canarn stood off to the side in the great hall of her father’s keep. She had lost sight of Father Magnus amidst the melee of knights and she could no longer hear his primal roars of defiance. Her four guards were distracted, being the only knights not involved in the confrontation, and she steeled herself to act.
Her tears at the death of her father had been genuine, but those around her thought the duke’s daughter weak and she had played on this, appearing anguished beyond the capacity to act. Currently, she knelt on the floor of the hall with her head in her hands. With one eye she regarded those around her. They stood peering towards the platform, wishing they were involved in what was going on. One of them, still standing behind her, had drawn his sword as a reflex when Magnus broke his chains, but the others remained unarmed.
She could still see the Karesian woman, Ameira, whose attention was fixed on the fight. She had a twisted euphoria on her face, as if drugged or intoxicated.
Bronwyn breathed in and tensed her body. Just as she was about to act, a vicious-looking Karesian kris blade skidded across the floor and came to rest next to her left hand. The four knights around her scarcely looked down, the nearby combat masking the sound. She smiled to herself, recognizing the ruby-encrusted knife as she reached for it. As the knight behind her began to call out, an arm wrapped round his neck and a scimitar was drawn across his throat.
The dark-skinned man who appeared over the dying knight’s shoulder took the time to wink at Bronwyn before kicking the dead knight to the floor and killing a second with a fast upward cut to the man’s head. Bronwyn reacted quickly and thrust the kris blade into the exposed inner thigh of the man to her left. He fell, crying loudly, blood gushing from the wound. The last man involuntarily turned towards Bronwyn, opening himself to a swift cut across the back of his exposed neck from the dark-skinned man.
All four guards had fallen in a few seconds and Bronwyn leapt quickly to her feet, her simple brown dress now covered in blood. The intruder smiled and grabbed her arm.
‘Time to go, sweetness,’ he said, with a slight Karesian accent.
She let herself be grabbed and, sparing a quick look over her shoulder, ran with the man towards a side door. Ameira had seen her, as had half a dozen knights by the main door, but Rillion and the others were too preoccupied to act. The knight Bronwyn had stabbed was still alive and his cries rose in volume as she darted from the great hall with the intruder.
He was Al-Hasim, called the Prince of the Wastes by his friends. Bronwyn knew he’d been in Ro Canarn before the battle but had thought him dead along with so many others. He was a Karesian and occasional sword for hire, though he’d been in Canarn as a favour to Algenon Teardrop, the Ranen warlord, Magnus’s elder brother.
Her father had disliked him but Bronwyn found his constant flirting funny. Now she was glad of his stealth and skill with a scimitar. He was of medium height, but wiry and lightning-fast with sword and knife. His jet-black hair was tied roughly at the nape of his neck and he had the exotic bearing of a prince from a distant land. Bronwyn knew he had no actual claim to nobility, but he often spoke as if he did.
The two of them ran from the hall. The corridors of Duke Hector’s keep were narrow and labyrinthine, designed to confuse an invader, but his daughter knew them well. She wriggled out of Hasim’s grasp and darted left into an antechamber.
‘Er, your ladyship… the way out is this way.’ Hasim pointed along the vaulted corridor.
‘Yes, but the way to stay hidden is this way,’ Bronwyn answered, entering the antechamber and moving quickly to the weapon rack against the far wall. The chamber was part of the armoury, connected on three levels of the keep by wooden stairs.
Hasim looked concerned, but followed after a momentary pause.
Sounds from the great hall indicated that Magnus had been subdued and Bronwyn’s escape had been noticed. She removed a light short sword and pressed a wooden panel on the wall, causing a secret passage to open.
‘Why did no one tell me this place had secret doors? It would have made the rescue so much easier,’ Hasim said as he followed her into the narrow passageway, adding, ‘… but not as stylish.’
Bronwyn breathed heavily, pushing thoughts of her father to the back of her mind. She wished she had her armour. The brown dress she’d been given was ill suited to running along the small, dusty tunnel.
Her armour, a present from her father, had been roughly torn off by disrespectful knights of the Red and discarded somewhere in the keep. The knights had not touched her, save to disarm and restrain her, and she wished for another opportunity to prove she could hold her own against metal-armoured men.
Bronwyn led Hasim down the passage for several minutes. It curved left and right and, at intervals, rough-hewn stairs led further down, taking them out of the inner keep. Her grandfather had built these tunnels into the city walls long before she was born, and her father used to tell her and her brother stories about how he got lost in them as a child.
‘Bronwyn, where exactly does this tunnel go?’ Hasim pushed past her and peered into the gloomy darkness. ‘Oh, and I need my knife back.’ He held out his hand and Bronwyn placed the bloodstained kris blade, hilt-first, in his palm. It was the mark of the Karesian warrior class, a wavy-bladed knife with a vicious edge designed to cause wounds that wouldn’t close.
‘Are we going to come out of here in the middle of an army? Am I going to have to rescue you again?’ he asked.
‘I think it leads to the cliff overlooking the inner harbour.’ Bronwyn wasn’t sure, but she recalled playing in here with her brother when they were young. ‘It should end in a wooden door that’s hidden behind a boulder.’
Hasim did not look convinced. ‘Okay, but let me go first.’ He stood protectively over her.
‘I’m not weak, Karesian,’ she snapped.
Hasim frowned. ‘I know. A weak woman would have flinched before sticking a man in the thigh… you barely thought about it.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You may look like a serving wench at the moment, but you’ve your father’s strength… and your brother’s edge.’
Bromvy, her t
win, was not in the city during the attack. He’d been in Ro Tiris when the fleet had appeared on the horizon. Bronwyn hoped her father had got word to him not to return, but she knew he’d still probably be found and branded a Black Guard.
Ahead, a dim light could be seen. Bronwyn knew it would be getting dark soon and she wanted to be out of the city before then. Hasim motioned for her to stay back and stepped cautiously towards the light. A few feet down the tunnel, he paused to look at something.
‘What is it?’ Bronwyn asked.
He slowly turned back to her. ‘I think the fleet of Red knights breached the city wall with catapults… I can see down into the town beyond the keep.’
Bronwyn moved to join him but was stopped by a swiftly raised hand. ‘Are you sure you want to see this, your ladyship?’ Hasim had a serious expression on his dark features.
‘My father is dead and my brother is running for his life. I think that makes me duchess of Canarn.’ She firmly pushed aside Hasim’s hand. ‘You can step aside and do as you’re told, or leave me alone.’
The Karesian did not move. ‘Look, woman, I am not here to make this difficult for you, but I am not your subject… so you can dispense with this duchess shit.’ He stared directly into her eyes as he spoke. ‘You can look out into the town if you want, but if you do you will see blood and death.’ He stepped aside. ‘It’s your choice, your ladyship.’ His bow was shallow and mocking.
Bronwyn stepped towards the light. The secret passage ran along the inside of one of the outer city walls, and a huge rock had been catapulted through the stone. A gap had appeared at head height where the boulder had hit the battlements above, and Bronwyn could see down across the buildings to the town square of Canarn.
The sight was indeed one of blood and death, and Bronwyn looked with cold eyes at the spectacle of Red knights and mercenaries piling up dead bodies. Several houses had been torn down to provide wood, and funeral pyres burned the fallen people of Canarn. The knights had discarded their swords and were pushing wooden carts of the dead from all corners of the city. They piled them up in the town square to await a fiery meeting with the One God, an old Black cleric intoning words over them.
