It wasn’t a lie, but Lieutenant Fahrr threw his hands up and turned away. When he looked back, the hurt was evident on his face. “This is way above me, Son. My only option is to take you back to Palassiren to stand before the King and his Council. We both know this can’t end well for you, but I need to know right now, are you going to give me trouble?”
The question reflected the immense respect Chism held for his lieutenant. Though people thought he was as unpredictable as a rabid badger, Chism would always deal straightly with the only man who had ever treated him like a son.
Just when he was about to promise compliance and seal his fate, Ander spoke up, “Sir, permission to speak to Chism alone.”
They both stared at the Fellow with curiosity. Lieutenant Fahrr nodded and waved them out.
Back in the hallway, Ander spoke in hushed tones. “He’s right, Chism. There’s no way this ends well for you if you go back to Palassiren. Lady Palida will side with the Provinces, Lady Cuora won’t hesitate to call for your head, and Captain Markin has as much spine as an earthworm. In politics, anyway. He’ll never stand up to them to defend you.”
Ander’s mind for assessing situations and thinking them through was a major reason Chism had selected him as Fellow, and his argument was solid, but Chism saw no other option. “What choice do I have? I won’t fight Elites. We all make choices, Ander and I’ve made mine.”
“There are other options. Ask Lieutenant Fahrr to exile you instead. Beg forgiveness from Duke Jaryn, may ticks discover his nethers. Slip away and disappear. The squadron stands by the front door to watch the Watch, may they never enjoy offspring, but the back door is unguarded.”
The idea of living appealed to Chism; he could do no good for anyone if his head ended up separated from his body. But all of Ander’s suggestions meant losing the Circle and the Sword. He wasn’t willing to give them up even in exchange for his life.
Without responding to Ander, Chism opened the lieutenant’s door, faced him, and said, “There will be no trouble, Sir. I placed the sword and I’ll follow it through.”
For the briefest moment Chism thought he saw tears in his lieutenant’s eyes, but the older man turned away too quickly to be sure. After clearing his throat he said, “Make ready. We ride in one hour. Idam, give Sublieu Oply the order. The men can pack in turns to keep the guard up. And have the ostlers prepare the horses. The cooks and grooms can follow us in a few days; they’re in no danger. If Jaryn wants us out of his Province we’ll oblige him.”
Lieutenant Fahrr didn’t turn back and Chism knew he was dismissed.
Once their things were packed, Chism and Ander were the first to arrive in the inn’s tavern, now more of a dayroom, since the gaiety had fled along with the revelers at the Watch’s approach. Most of the chairs and tables were wedged against the door as a barricade. Repeated calls to turn ‘the boy’ over to the Watch filtered through the front doors.
Elites passed in pairs, returning to their rooms to make preparations. None of them could know his reasons for assaulting the duke yet. Most ignored him, but some gave Chism a disgusted look as they passed. Only Ulrik spoke. “It’s about time we lose the dead weight. You’re nothing but a thirteen.”
Chism’s sturdy chair flew back as he shot to his feet. Ander stood as a barrier, but that wasn’t what held him back. Only his promise to Lieutenant Fahrr kept him from attacking Ulrik. Leaving the chair where it lay, he paced until the lieutenant entered the dayroom, signaling the appointed time. After a hundred sixty six passes across the dayroom, the squadron had congregated.
Lieutenant Fahrr spoke. “Is any man unwilling to fight for a brother?” No one spoke. “Even a brother who has made poor choices and placed you in jeopardy?” Still no answer. “Good. The Watch outnumbers us three to one, and they want blood. But an attack on one wearing the Circle and the Sword is an attack on the king and kingdom. We are one body and we’ll fight to defend each and every member.” Spear butts pounded on the floor and swords rapped on shields in agreement.
The barrage on the doors grew louder and the tables shook under the impact. “Out the back to the stables, we’ll proceed in double riding order, Chism and Ander in third position instead of last. Elites draw steel, Fellows carry the packs.”
Two members of the Watch waited at the back door, but fled when they saw the full squadron, weapons drawn, emptying into the alley. By the time the rest of the Watch arrived, the Elites and Fellows had barricaded themselves into the large stables. Heavy wooden doors resisted the pounding of the men outside, but would not hold if the Watch brought their full force to bear. Fortunately the horses were prepared and within moments the soldiers were ready to depart.
Lieutenant Fahrr took the lead, and Chism and Ander lined up behind Hile and his Fellow where they had been directed. Elites formed the outside of the four-deep column with their Fellows next to them in the center where their distance weapons—spears, knives, arrows—could have more effect. Chism and Ander were the only exception. Ander brandished Thirsty while Chism carried Ander’s spear and the packs.
No sooner were they seated in saddles with sacks secured than Lieutenant Fahrr, in his accustomed position at the head of the column, lifted the beam that barred the doors. The dark-clad procession of Elites rode into the cobbled street.
Dozens of men wearing the armbands of the City Watch crowded on them, torches raised, eyes searching for Chism. From his position at the center of the formation he caught occasional glimpses of the scene in the street while remaining mostly hidden. Three to one might be an understatement of the Watch’s advantage, and they weren’t the only threat. Scores of citizens, he couldn’t get an accurate count due to the blocked view, stood in positions of safety but still yelled for the blood of the boy who had threatened their ruler. From what Chism knew of Far West Province, it was proof of the ongoing rejection of the king’s sovereignty, not actual affection for Duke Jaryn.
Though the Watch attempted to bar the way, Lieutenant Fahrr maintained a steady pace toward the city gates. The well-trained horses of the Elites remained calm despite the mounting hostility.
Cries of, “Surrender the traitor!”, “Death to the Elites!”, and “Down with King Antion!” rose from all around, but the convoy would not be slowed. Block after block, onward toward the gates. Around each corner more citizens appeared, adding numbers to the growing mob.
Frustrated by their inability to slow the soldiers, elements of the throng surged forward with staffs. Lieutenant Fahrr ordered his men to deflect the weapons, but not attack the Watch or citizens. Orders were passed down the line to soldiers in the rear.
From his position at the center of the formation Chism couldn’t do anything. Hiding like a frightened rabbit was not in his nature. He itched to grab Thirsty from Ander’s hand and cut a path through the dark armbands. Lieutenant Fahrr had been wise to bind him with his word. A fist-sized rock flew over the first rows of soldiers, striking Ulrik’s Fellow, who rode next to Chism, square in the chest. He didn’t have much time to dwell on the injury because the stone was followed by an increasing barrage of rocks, bricks, roof slates. Anything within reach.
The squadron had only covered two blocks. Soon the mob and Watch would find their way to upstairs windows and the hurtful stones would become fatal arrows and crossbow bolts. Lieutenant Fahrr knew it and forced the horses to a trot.
The mob still pressed on them, Watch and city folk mingled into a single enraged mass. A body passed under his horse’s hooves, then another. Chism couldn’t tell if they were Watchmen or citizens. A brick caught Chism on the shoulder and he grabbed his pommel to steady himself as the barrage of projectiles continued.
The squadron didn’t slow and Chism’s horse trampled yet another body that had been ridden down by the leaders of the pack. Each step left a trail of blood on the grey cobbles, the blood of the people of Knobbes mingling with that of the King’s Elite.
Chism swore inwardly. This isn’t what I intended. I was trying to protect yo
u, fools!
Tempers mounted on both sides, and the horses’ pace increased. The trot became a canter, then a full gallop, leaving the people to hurl acrimonious curses at their backs. Though many of the Elites still bled, Chism welcomed a reprieve in the carnage.
His relief only lasted until they reached the twenty-foot walls of the city, and he saw escape would not be easy. Eighteen torches lined the parapet wall on either side of the gates. The Elites slowed to a walk a hundred paces from the gatehouse. The massive wooden doors stood open, and the first portcullis was raised, inviting them to ride into the tunnel-like sally port of the gatehouse. But in the shadows on the far side, the grill of another heavy metal portcullis could be seen. The gaps in the metal lattice allowed enough room for a spear or an arm to pass, but not even a scrawny boy could squeeze through. If the Elites rode into the sally port, the inner portcullis would drop, trapping them at the mercy of the arrows, spears, stones, and boiling oil of the Watch. The wall, gatehouse, and portcullises were designed to repel attackers from without, but also served as an efficient means of preventing escape.
As soon as they were within shouting distance, the Elites pulled up in their square column. Twenty six Watch members, holding bows and spears, lined the superior fighting position of the walls. Chism’s view of those on the ground was still blocked, but he counted at least thirty, all with swords drawn. More trickled toward the gate from side streets to reinforce the guard that held it. It was only a matter of time until the mob caught up from behind. The men of the Watch would restrain themselves until given orders to attack, but an angry mob of citizens that had seen friends ridden down would not demonstrate such self-control.
A large group of well-mounted men came into view from the street that led west along the base of the wall. They wore the Flame and Stars of Far West and surrounded a portly, blond-haired man. Duke Jaryn had arrived.
Chapter 8
Surrender
Duke Jaryn urged his horse past his guards and looked at the Elites with a sneer. The torches, mostly behind and above him on the walls, painted his face in shadow, giving him a demonic appearance. He stayed far enough away from the Elites to allow the bowmen on the wall to cover him.
In contrast to the bandage around his neck, flippant delight showed on his face. “Leaving so soon, Lieutenant? Did the hospitality of our city not meet your expectations?”
“You dare detain us?” demanded Lieutenant Fahrr. “An attack on soldiers of the king will not go without retribution.”
While the two leaders bantered, Chism examined the scene for any chance of escape or advantage. But they were stuck deeper than a pig in a well.
Jaryn knew exactly how strong his position was. “Attack?” He acted shocked. “You are free to leave at any time, and your men with you.”
“Open the portcullis and we’ll be on our way.” Most men obeyed Lieutenant Fahrr without question.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see your horses’ backsides as you run from my Province with tails between your legs. I’ll gladly give the order,” his expression changed to a malicious smirk, “…as soon as you hand over the criminal you are shielding.”
“He’ll be escorted to Palassiren to stand before the King and Council. They’ll decide his fate, not you.”
Striving for a pained expression, Duke Jaryn said, “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. King Antion and his council are much too important to deal with problems that affect Far West Province. The Boy King has proven as neglectful as his father and twice as incompetent. I rule in Far West. You will turn over the impudent whelp and leave my Province. You and your ilk are no longer welcome.”
“Would you permanently reject the protection of the king over a matter as simple as where my man faces justice?”
“Your man?” The duke chortled, which set his jowls quivering. “Why, he’s nothing more than a thirteen.” In a speech-giving voice, Duke Jaryn continued. “The time is far past that the Provinces should have cast off the derelict king. If the taxes we sent to the capital were spent on our Militia, we could secure our border for good.”
“You don’t need a war with the king to go with the other problems facing the Province.”
Duke Jaryn barked a laugh. “You are in no position to offer me advice on running my Province. Hand over the runt and be off.”
A clatter from behind caught Chism’s attention. The mob, as angry as before but emboldened by the night and the Elites’ trapped position, was less than a half mile away. He had to act if no one else would.
The wall was impenetrable, and too well-guarded. The city had other gates, but they would be well defended with portcullises and wooden doors secured. The only way out was through the narrow gatehouse. He studied the portcullis as much as possible in the flickering light. Based on the city defense training he received as an Elite, the metal gate appeared to be a standard portcullis. The mechanism was most likely a typical counterweight with a wheel and chains.
Glancing back, he saw the mob closing the gap fast. If he didn’t act immediately the squadron would be killed, along with scores of citizens and Watchmen.
Thirsty called to Chism from Ander’s grasp, and it chafed Chism that the sword couldn’t solve the impasse. Forcing Ander’s spear into the Fellow’s hand he whispered, “Lean this just inside the gatehouse as you leave the city.”
Surprised, Ander replied, “Lean it yourself, I’m not leaving without you.”
There was no time for argument. As Chism urged his horse forward he said over his shoulder, “If you don’t leave, I will die. Do you really want to make that choice?” He heard Ander curse, something about incurable flatulence, then slam the butt of the spear against the stony street.
By the time Chism pushed through the Elites to Lieutenant Fahrr’s side, the horde of enraged citizens was only five hundred paces away.
“Sir, I told you there would be no trouble. I have a plan, but you’ll have to trust me enough to leave me behind.”
Lieutenant Fahrr stared at him as if he would find answers on Chism’s face.
“Trust me, Sir. I won’t surrender.”
At four hundred paces, indistinct shouts and threats could be heard. Precious little time remained and Lieutenant Fahrr wasted it deliberating. Ire roiled within Chism. He hadn’t been this enraged since the day he killed his father. That wasn’t an option in this case; the man responsible for the suffering was too well defended.
A nod from Lieutenant Fahrr was all Chism needed. With his arms spread wide, Chism advanced his horse into the breach between the two forces. A victorious grin spread across Duke Jaryn’s face.
Chism spoke directly to the duke. “I will surrender as soon as my squadron is safely outside the city walls. As you can see, I’m unarmed.”
Duke Jaryn was ecstatic. “Your bravery has bought the life of these men, but will count little when you face my justice. Open the portcullis!” As an afterthought he directed his archers, “Shoot the runt if he moves.”
As two members of the Watch disengaged from their position to raise the gate, Chism stole a glance up the street. Three hundred paces.
Cursing the mob, the Watch, and the Elites, Chism thought, Hurry, you fools! The timing has to be perfect.
Lieutenant Fahrr led his men forward, but kept an inquisitive eye on Chism. Though concern showed on his face, Chism also detected a hidden fury, part of which was directed at him for surrendering. Surprise and confusion registered on the face of each Elite and Fellow, with the exception of Ander, as they reluctantly followed their leader toward the gatehouse. Ander’s look held exasperation and anger. His lips moved, but Chism couldn’t make out the words over the clatter of hooves on stone. Chism imagined how they felt—torn between abandoning a brother and refusing to follow orders.
The Elites were a brotherhood, and the worst crime one could commit was to betray a brother of the Circle and Sword. Yet Chism gave them no clear choice. Even if they ever forgave him for the assault on the duke, they
would never forgive this. Especially Ander. A Fellow could be stripped of his rank and whipped for abandoning his Elite.
Chism waited, showing open palms as his squadron entered the gatehouse. Ander casually leaned the spear against the stone wall just inside and it blended into shadows. The men who had raised the gate returned to their position inside the city walls, away from the levers that would allow the heavy gates to fall. But there was still a chance that a hidden switch could trip both portcullises, slamming them shut and trapping the entire group inside the gatehouse at the mercy of the Watch. As soon as Lieutenant Fahrr was past the outer portcullis, and free from the city, Chism breathed a sigh of relief and nudged his mount forward at a deliberate walk. Not toward the open gate, but straight toward the Duke.
The mob was only a hundred paces behind.
“Stop and dismount if you want protection from them,” ordered Duke Jaryn motioning to the surging horde.
Half of the Elites were past the gatehouse and Chism increased his mount’s pace. For the first time since the standoff began, Duke Jaryn’s face showed concern. He was a mere fifteen paces from Chism. “Stop where you are!” he shouted.
Chism paid no mind. From fifty paces the mob sounded like it numbered in the hundreds. He fought the urge to turn and count them.
Duke Jaryn pulled on his reins, trying to distance himself from Chism and yelled, “Bowmen, take aim and fire if he does not stop in three…”
Thirty paces.
“…two…”
Twenty paces.
“…one…” With fear rife on his face, the Duke raised a hand, ready to give the final order even though Chism could never reach him in time. The mob would close within moments.
The last of the Elites cleared the portcullis at the exact instant that the first of the mob reached Chism. Clubs beat his legs, arms scrabbled to dismount him, and stones struck his back.
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