I leapt through the window feet-first, kicking the shutter off its hinges, and landed hard on the gravel outside. Adar decided his chances were better with me than the semi-fortified inn and scrambled after me, while I took off towards the stable. I bashed the doors open with my shoulder and raised my sword to threaten the first two-legged creature I saw.
I heard a hard, feminine voice call, “Anyone comes near me and I'll snap his neck.” It was cool, determined, and full of promise.
I followed the sound down to the floor. Yazizi sat there with a blue-faced man in her arms, her chains wrapped tight around his throat. A group of skinny Northerners hovered just out of reach, eyes burning with hate, trying to decide whether or not to attack anyway. A few showed bloody cuts and bruises where heavy lengths of chain had battered them.
“Adar,” I hissed to the boy behind me, “keep next to me and advance. Don't drop your point even for a second.”
He said nothing, but joined me with his bronze sword shimmering in the torchlight. We marched forward in lockstep and made our presence noticed.
“Are you alright, girl?” I asked her. She nodded without turning around. The Northerners' eyes twitched back and forth between me, my sword, and Adar's next to me.
She replied, “Do you have a weapon?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Kill the rest of these cretins for me.”
I flashed a toothy smile and twirled the sword in my hand. A sudden flicker of doubt lit in the rioters' eyes, and in the way they backed up a half-step. I added, “It'll be my genuine pleasure.”
I resumed my slow advance. Though he trembled, Adar matched me and kept his sword up, sweat beading on his forehead.
Even with my armour, they could overwhelm me by weight of numbers, but I knew ‒ hoped ‒ they wouldn't be willing to foot the bill. A bared blade tended to focus the mind of anyone on the other end. It was like the icy finger of death reaching out for you. The Northerners were already edging back from the steel and bronze; they just needed a little extra push to break their will to fight.
I belted a war cry and went for it, slicing the air closer and closer to their front rank. A cut from the shoulder flowed naturally into a low thrust, which became an upwards cut with the back edge, stepping forward with each attack. One man tried to swing his club at me. I caught it on the flat of my blade, then grabbed the head of the club and wrenched it out of his grip. I threw it down behind me and sliced deep into his arm for his trouble. The flesh parted like a side of pork under the butcher's knife. After that, the rioters tumbled over each other to get away.
By God's grace, they didn't stop running.
Yazizi let out a long sigh of relief and started to unwrap her chains from the neck of her prisoner. The man flopped to the ground, no longer breathing. Just as well.
“Thank you, Karl,” she said softly. “I think they would have killed me.”
I took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Adar instantly shied away but I didn't let him get far. “We need to leave,” I told the pair of them. “Out to the countryside if we can, into the inner city if we can't. Given how closely they guard the gates we may have trouble doing either. If anything happens we need to stand by each other without hesitation.”
“What about the horses?” asked Adar. He watched the restless animals with a mixture of fear and disgust as they wandered their stalls.
Damn. Hadn't thought that far. We surely couldn't leave them to die... “We'll have to lead them.”
We let out Yazizi's palfrey and the cart horse from their stalls opposite each other. Fortunately Sir Erroll and the squire had ridden into the inner city, apparently in such a hurry that Faro had forgotten to take the palfrey. He didn't strike me as the type who forgot things for no reason.
Yazizi looked up from stroking her mare's flanks. An expression of confused but honest curiosity settled on her face. “Why lead when you can ride?”
“I don't ride,” I ground out. It annoyed me to be so pressed in an emergency, and I suddenly realised that Yazizi could see right through me. She came forward and put a hand on my arm.
“There's nothing to it. I can hold the reins. Just climb up and hold on.”
Much as I disliked the idea, we didn't have an overabundance of choice. I helped Adar saddle a strong rouncey that didn't entirely belong to us but could carry two riders. Meanwhile Yazizi stole some riding leathers from a cabinet at the back of the stables and hopped onto her mare bare-back, making it look like the easiest thing in the world. She didn't ride sidesaddle. The shackles still dangled uselessly from her wrists, but she seemed in no hurry to have them off. Nor did she seem to mind the dirty, badly-fitting dress that rode up around her thighs. It made her look less like a proud horsewoman and more the faded echo of one, tarnished by time and misuse, only half-remembering what to do or how to be.
I finally struggled into the stirrups and hauled myself onto the waiting rouncey, which continued to chew a mouthful of hay as if it couldn't care less. I pulled Adar up behind me. He didn't know how to ride any more than I did, so Yazizi told him to put his arms around me and keep them there.
Led by Yazizi's confident hand, we swayed unsteadily out of the stables. The streets were deserted. Ash and soot rained down to litter the ground. They mingled with the remnants of burnt-out torches and candles, bits of splintered wood and bricks ripped out from buildings in a lawless frenzy. I looked around as much as I dared but most of my attention went to staying upright in the bouncing saddle.
I didn't need to look to feel the heat. A hundred fires must've been blazing through the outer city, broiling the air in the streets. The crackle and roar of flames was never far away. Closer to the walls, we passed people of all kinds and colours scurrying down the streets, doing what people do during a riot ‒ looting, thieving, murdering, or running the Hell away.
As we approached the outer wall we hit a mob blocking the street from end to end. From my vantage point I could see a mess of bloodied bodies lying in the square below the southern gatehouse. A few Haler guards, but mostly piles of emaciated Northerners riddled with crossbow quarrels. The barbican was lit clear as day in the red glow of torches and bonfires, tall turrets on either side of it. Steel glinted from arrow slits and murder holes. The doors were barred and the portcullis down. Even as I watched, a band of rioters charged with planks and tables for shields, piling straw and thatch against the barbican. Quarrels thudded into wood and some of the men fell, but even more came forward to take their place. Sooner or later they would succeed in burning the guards out.
Even as I watched, a gang of them peeled off and charged me, roaring a wordless howl of fury.
Yazizi didn't waste a moment. She kicked the palfrey in the sides and turned us down a branching alley, breaking into full gallop along the dusty dirt track. I held on to my horse's neck with white-knuckled hands. Houses crowded in around us, overhanging much of the road, and we tore madly through people's washing and puddles best left undescribed. Half-closed window shutters banged off my shoulders. Suddenly we burst out of the alley into a wider, cobbled street, empty of life. Again we turned and cannoned off towards the inner city.
“If they're besieging the south gate, the other gates probably have the same problem” Yazizi reasoned breathlessly.
I swore out loud. “Including the inner city!”
“Would they not have mounted a better defence there?”
I shook my head to clear it from the pumping fear in my chest. Fear at the bloodthirsty rioters and at the strange, mysterious and uncomfortable beast underneath me. Choking on smoke, I tried to think tactically. “That's why the rioters will be all the more desperate to get through. The whole outer city will be a big bonfire before the night is done, roasting every bloody Northerner caught between the walls, and anyone else who happens to be having an unlucky day.”
“That's monstrous!” protested Adar. “They can't do that!”
I shrugged. “Who will be left to complain?”
We
dismounted and hid the horses in a nigh-invisible alley before we joined the throng of people crowding around the White Gate. Adar hid himself in a long coat, I drew the hood of my cloak down low, and Yazizi's smoke-coloured skin was just dark enough to pass for Northern in a bad light. No one gave us any trouble as we slipped into the crowd. Rioters flooded the streets and houses overlooking the great square beneath the gatehouse, but no one went into the square itself. Not with crossbows and siege weapons up on the walls ready to murder anything that set foot on those cobbles.
Thankfully they had too much on their minds to pay attention to my little group. A palpable air of rage simmered amongst them. Desperate though they were, ill and underfed and penniless, their anger gave them strength. A team of men worked on a sturdy fig tree with black earth still dangling from its roots, carving it into a crude battering ram. Others exchanged fire with the guards on the wall, whirling long leather slings over their heads, then dodging the razor-sharp quarrels that came back at them. Supporting them was a contingent of women who dug up cobblestones from the streets, broke them up and chiselled them into smooth sling bullets.
For a moment I surveyed the rude defences the attackers had thrown up, squatting just outside crossbow range. Few had gotten their hands on proper weapons and only a handful carried sharpened pikes or staves, but they had dug pits and planted stakes. By the smell of it they'd also thrown down camel urine to scare off horses. It might work.
Up on the wall the Haler guards ran to and fro with all the things one could expect to see during a siege. Pots of boiling oil, quivers, spears and military forks. They moved with the conspicuous determination of soldiers who knew their part in a plan. They'd been expecting this siege. Whichever way the fighting ultimately went, it would be ugly.
I glanced at the mighty portcullis and bolted gates standing underneath the stone gatehouse. That battering ram was going to have a tough time getting through, let alone the three of us.
“How in Hell are we going to do this?” I wondered under my breath.
The solution was about to present itself.
Everybody scrambled for cover when the Northerners lifted their battering ram under the guidance of a few old veterans. It hung on a makeshift rope harness which looked crude but sturdy enough to do its job. The team of sweating men tested the ram's weight and gave it a few experimental swings. Once the leaders were satisfied, they shifted it into position across the square, glowering at the gates.
“This is about to get bloody,” I told the others, and jerked my head at an empty house off the square. Yazizi took point while I brought up the rear. She kept one hand on my shoulder and held on to Adar's tunic with the other.
The crowd started to thin around us as people drew themselves up into battle lines. I ducked through the low doorway and took a moment to let my eyes adapt to darkness. Dim light flickered in from the torches outside, just barely enough to see by, so I found a nice cupboard for Adar and told him to hide. He offered a token protest but was too cowed for any serious rebellion.
“You're safer in there than out here,” I reminded him, “unless you let them hear you.”
Yazizi looked at me attentively in the ensuing silence, waiting for orders. I dropped my voice to a whisper.
“Get the horses and stay out of sight as close to this house as you can. When I call for you, come in hard and make for the gate.”
“You have a plan?”
“I'll improvise.”
She nodded and went without question. The stream of people running towards the fight ‒ or away from it ‒ swallowed her up. In seconds she was gone, undistinguishable from any other woman in a frock.
I crept to a window to watch the standoff and tried to remain detached while I tallied up the odds. On one side was a massive wall manned by several hundred heavily-armed veterans. On the other, a primitive ram and unknown thousands of fanatically-motivated madmen. I understood enough about siegecraft to know the Northerners were going to be slaughtered.
At some unspoken signal, the men all picked up their posts and heaved the ram into the air. Others came in from the side, women and children, carrying halves of heavy wicker baskets almost as tall as a man. They arranged themselves around the ram like a wall of pavise shields.
Clever. Not many things could stop a crossbow bolt, but wicker was one of the best.
Some of the men on the wall took potshots at the formation. They fell short, but one old woman ran forward with her shield held high, belting out a terrible ululating cry. More quarrels thudded into her basket but didn't penetrate. She made it halfway across the square, and more. At least a dozen shafts got stuck in the tightly-woven willow before one finally punched through and dropped her like a stone.
It was the Northerners' galvanising moment. The men dove forward with their ram, flanked by the shieldbearers. Those who had slings pelted the top of the wall with a hail of stones. There was only sporadic return fire while many of the crossbowmen reloaded. One shieldbearer went down with a quarrel through her leg, but the ram made it to the portcullis unmolested and crashed into it with a bang. Wood cracked and splintered, but the portcullis held, for now.
I frowned. The defenders were up to something. It couldn't be this easy.
The next moment the boiling oil came raining down, and the Northerners died screaming.
The brass call of a bugle filled the air, blowing out the sharp tattoo of the King's Sally, the signal for our loyal forces to attack. I had to stop myself from automatically jumping to attention. I wasn't a soldier anymore.
With a violent creak of ropes, chains and pulleys, the cracked portcullis began to rise, and the gates of the sally port banged open. A solid mass of pikemen marched out in perfect formation, spiked steel helms polished to a mirror shine. They formed a tight square outside the gates. The sound of heavy footsteps and softly rustling maille sent tingles up my spine, more menacing than any war cry. A few staggered as sling stones panged off their helmets.
The pike sergeant roared out his orders. Slowly, implacably, the square began to advance. They fanned out to cover the square entrances with lines of pikemen six ranks deep. The Northerners retreated just beyond the steel tips, crowding shoulder to shoulder in the narrow streets. It was the worst thing they could've done. They held their improvised weapons as if they'd make bugger-all difference against a trained pike battalion. I could hardly bear to watch.
Even as the pikes arranged themselves, some men behind them set about clearing away the makeshift ram and the burnt bodies around it. Something was happening.
A wedge of mounted knights and lancers rode onto the empty cobbles. Firelight glinted off heraldic shields and tabards, metaphorically shouting their banners for all to hear. Each one carried a different blazon; there were wolves, lions, birds, fish and flowers, bars and chevrons and saltires in all the colours of the rainbow. It was an intimidating proportion of the Kingdom's fighting nobility.
“Citizens!” a voice thundered from the middle of the wedge. The wall of knights parted for a single man, tall and imposing, his helm and breastplate glittering with gold enamel. A gold-trimmed green cloak flowed smoothly down his armoured shoulders. Even his shield bore a golden cross on a chequered green and black field. Lord Farrow himself, the King's Own Sword and Lord Protector of the South. I'd only ever seen the man from a distance, but every soldier on this continent knew him as one of the most brilliant and ruthless generals on our side.
“Citizens, friends, countrymen,” he boomed, “this cannot continue. I will not countenance it in my city.” He banged the handguard of his lance against his shield. “Much of Farrowhale is burning and the fire will eventually consume everyone left in the outer city. However, let no man say that I am without mercy, as I've come to give you a choice!”
A voice crabbed from the crowd, “No choice from tyrants!”
Farrow went on as if nothing had happened. “I give my word to spare any man, woman and child who lays down arms tonight. Any healthy individual who req
uests admittance through this gate with peace in his heart will be provided with food and bivouac behind the walls. Any crime or indescretion will be forgiven. All are welcome. All.” He swept his piercing eyes over the crowd, allowing only a momentary flicker of uncertainty at their reaction. The crowd was silent as a crypt. “Any further attacks will be met harshly, and without mercy. That is your choice. Make it.”
Farrow turned his horse around. The knights began to trot back into the sally port. I could hear the whispers starting up somewhere in the mass of people, and overheard a few phrases repeated over and over. They were messages, passed along the ranks with wildfire speed. On instinct I retreated back into the shadows. I was just in time.
Half a dozen men burst into the room and threw themselves up against the windows, while more pounded up the stairs. I saw strung bows on their backs and arrows held between their knuckles. Someone in the group barked a terse order in Northern. The soft twang and hiss of archery filled the air.
The square outside became a pandemonium of screams, shouts and the whinnies of panicked horses. Wicked sharp bodkin points glinted as they were nocked to bowstrings, military arrows designed to pierce heavy plate. To kill knights.
From my vantage point I got glimpses of armoured horses rearing, stumbling, falling under the hail of arrows. Several quick-thinking knights rolled away from their crumpling mounts and ran to the safety of the gatehouse. One mailed lancer lost his horse and his life as the great beast landed on top of him, crushing him under its weight.
The pikemen, too, fell in droves. The survivors retreated into a disciplined wall of spearpoints, which didn't save them from the archers but kept the horde of others from cutting them down as they ran. They made it into the sally port and shut the gates behind them, though the crowd battered at the doors and stripped the fallen bodies of weapons and armour. They didn't seem to realise they'd filled the entire square shoulder to shoulder, and the defenders had let them, choosing not to fire a single bolt even now.
Written in Blood Page 7
