“Good,” he said. “Now ... the battle.”
***
Isabella sagged to her knees the moment she released the spell. She barely felt the first arrow whistling through the air, missing her head by mere inches. It was hard, so hard, to feel alarm. A moment later, a band of shield-bearers surrounded her, holding their shields in place to block the flurry of arrows. She didn’t even notice them for a long moment. She hadn’t been so drained since basic training, years ago.
But I haven’t tried to cast such a spell for years either, she thought, numbly. The ground felt soft under her knees. She was tempted to lie down and close her eyes. Only the certainty that she’d been lucky if she was only robbed kept her eyes open. I should have tested it first, before we set sail.
The sound of battle raged around her as she drew on her reserves, slowly channelling energy back into her body. She could hear people shouting and screaming, some calling for their mothers as their lives ebbed away. She’d seen too many battlefields in her life to harbour any illusions about the aftermath. The wounded would envy the dead, if they survived. Far too many of them wouldn’t last long enough to be tended by the army’s sawbones.
A final arrow slammed into the shield, then silence fell. Isabella hoped that was a good sign. Prince Reginald had trained his archers to snipe at enemy archers, but she knew from experience that hitting an archer wasn’t easy. They tended to be careful about showing themselves until they were ready to fire, forcing counter-archers to spot the target, take aim and fire before the archer ducked again. She’d even been told that only a third of arrows fired into a city ever found a target.
She turned as she heard men running towards her. Prince Reginald was funnelling a second regiment into the city, trying to secure what remained of the walls before pushing towards the castle and ending the fight. A handful of cavalry followed the troops, either keeping them in line or trying to draw fire from the archers. Isabella doubted the prince would risk sending horsemen into the city itself. Cavalrymen were convinced of their own superiority, but all of their advantages were wiped out in a city. They’d be cut down in their hundreds if they tried to crash through the streets ...
A horseman stopped beside her and looked down. Isabella looked up and blinked in surprise. “Prince Reginald?”
The prince smiled. “Madam Sorceress,” he said. “Would you care for a ride?”
Isabella hastily cast a deflection ward. Prince Reginald was insane. Coming out in the open ... he had to be out of his mind. And yet, she couldn’t help a flicker of admiration. She’d met too many noblemen who shied away from anything resembling danger. Prince Reginald might not have joined the charge at the walls, but he was sharing some of the risks. An enemy archer might just take a shot at him ...
And then his superiors might hang him, Isabella thought, wryly. Killing aristocrats ... the very idea.
She smiled at him. “Shouldn’t you be out of harm’s way, Your Highness?”
“I have to be in position to take command quickly, if necessary,” Prince Reginald said. “And to accept surrender, if they finally offer it.”
Isabella winced. The defenders might well have lost their last chance to offer surrender. Troops were in the streets now, troops fired by bloodlust and a burning urge to loot, rape and slaughter their way through the city. Reginald was liked and respected by his men, but even he might be unable to prevent a bloody slaughter. And he might not want to prevent a bloody slaughter. He’d offered reasonable terms and had them thrown back in his face.
“You cast a powerful spell,” Prince Reginald said. “Can you do it again?”
“Not for a while,” Isabella said. She’d expended more of her reserves than she cared to admit. She made a mental note to practice as soon as she had a quiet moment. “Do you need me to?”
“I hope not,” Prince Reginald said. “But you never know.”
***
Big Richard kept his head down as he jumped through the debris and ran into the city. A young man wearing a helmet that was clearly designed for a larger man popped up, out of nowhere; Big Richard cut him down in passing, concentrating on finding the way deeper into the city. More and more mercenaries were following him, plunging into fortified houses or tossing firebrands into wooden hovels as they advanced. The defenders seemed to be utterly disorganised.
A heavy object flew past him and smashed against the ground. He looked up, just in time to see another object being hurled out of a second-story window. Jumping forward, he slammed his axe into the wooden door, smashing it to flinders. A man came at him with a carving knife, waving it frantically in front of him. Richard knocked it aside effortlessly, then sliced out with his axe, cutting the man in half. He didn’t bother to watch the body fall to the ground. Instead, he ran to the stairs and hurled himself upwards. Pieces of debris flew down at him, but he ignored them. An elderly woman screamed as he reached the top of the stairs, shouting orders in a language he didn’t recognise. A younger woman stared at him in horror.
“Shut up, Grandmother,” Richard growled. The old biddy was too old and ugly to be interesting – or useful. He silenced her with one blow of his axe, then turned to the younger girl. Lord Robin would be pissed if he wasted time entertaining himself when he should be firing, but Richard’s blood was up and it was hard to care. “Come here.”
The woman stared at him, aware – all too aware – of what he had in mind. She looked vaguely foreign, compared to the girls he’d seen in Andalusia. Perhaps that was what Summer Islander women looked like ... not ugly, although she wore her years poorly, but different. The parts would still fit, though. He’d seen enough women from all over the continent to know that was true.
“I won’t kill you,” he said, allowing impatience to colour his voice. He had to move quickly or Lord Robin would know he’d been playing games. “Come here.”
The woman took one last desperate look at him, then turned and hurled herself out of the open window. Richard swore. He would have left the girl alive, afterwards. Probably. It wasn’t as if anyone would have cared enough to punish him. Prince Reginald couldn’t start hanging mercenaries unless he wanted mass desertions. But instead ... he shrugged – there would be other women – and headed back to the stairs. There didn’t look to be anything worth looting in the house. No doubt the occupants had hidden their valuables while waiting for the end.
I’ll have to come back and search, later, he thought. There would be a chance to loot, whatever Prince Reginald said. No one would dare to stop an occupying army from taking whatever it wanted. Or maybe there will be richer pickings further in.
Grinning, he rejoined his fellows. More and more soldiers were swarming into the city, half heading towards the docks while the other half were marching up towards the ancient castle, chaos following in their wake. Resistance seemed to be fading, now the attackers were firmly entrenched. A handful were already looting, he noted. Idiots. Doing it so openly would only draw attention from their superiors, who’d either put a stop to it or demand a share of the profits. It was much smarter to do any looting well away from prying eyes.
Lord Robin waved to him. “Get the squad assembled for an attack on the castle,” he ordered, bluntly. “And hurry!”
“Yes, sir,” Richard said.
He felt his smile grow wider as he barked orders, forming up the squad. Assaulting the castle would be bloody, but castles were full of loot. There would be no shortage of small items – or cash – that could be stuck in one’s pocket and carried out, then sold later to the merchants who followed armies all over the countryside. And then ... who knew? There might be a noblewoman inside the castle, a noblewoman in need of a protector ...
This is going to be a very good war, he thought.
***
“Captain-General Gars reports that the docks have been secured,” the messenger said. He was panting heavily as he gabbled out his message. He’d run all the way to Reginald’s forward command post, right by the walls. “The dockworkers
were ordered to burn the boats and destroy the facilities, but ... they refused to carry the orders out.”
“Good for them,” Reginald said. “Order him to make sure that the dockworkers and their families are protected, from our troops as well as the enemy.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The messenger turned and hurried away. Reginald allowed himself a tight smile. He had no illusions – he knew the dockyard workers hadn’t saved the docks for him – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to reward them. The docks wouldn’t be easy to destroy, he’d been assured, yet even slight damage would impose unacceptable delays. And the boats ... capturing the boats was an unexpected bonus. He’d always assumed the defenders would have time to burn the boats before they could be stopped.
He turned to look at the burning city. Fires were spreading rapidly, mainly through the poorer parts of town. No one had time to fight the flames, not when the attackers were forcing their way to the castle. The defenders really hadn’t thought through the battle, had they? He wanted the docks, not the rest of the city. He’d burn it to the ground if there was no other choice.
Another messenger ran up to him. “Your Highness, the advance body is in position to assault the castle,” he said. “Lord Robin reports that he needs reinforcements.”
The sorceress smiled. “He’s a good man.”
“He’ll have his reinforcements,” Reginald said. “Order him to demand the castle’s surrender while he waits.”
He rubbed his forehead in irritation. The defenders had to realise they were beaten now ... surely. Some of his troops were already running wild, looting and raping even though the castle hadn’t been taken. He’d have problems reassuming control before the madness had run its course, if the troops got completely out of hand. He’d issued orders to destroy all alcohol stockpiles within the city, as soon as they were discovered, but that wouldn’t keep the troops from drinking heavily. Very few people on the Summer Isle drank water. They simply didn’t trust it.
And then I’ll have to make an example of some of my men, he thought, crossly. It wasn’t something he wanted to do. Men responded well to a firm commander, but they disliked tyrants. Why aren’t they surrendering?
***
“My Lord,” the messenger said. “They want us to surrender.”
Garston made a face. The battle hadn’t lasted long – it felt like forever, but he knew it was less than an hour – and yet the enemy had practically won. Their advance forces had reached the docks, then secured all the streets leading down to the waterfront; other forces, more intent on their final target, were already surrounding the castle. Garston knew it was just a matter of time before the enemy made their move.
“Our Lord is with us,” the Red Monk said. “We will not lose.”
Garston felt a hot flash of anger. “We cannot fight any longer,” he said. The enemy sorcerer tipped the balance squarely in their favour. He could make the enemy bleed, if they tried to storm the castle, but the sorcerer could put a hole through his strongest defences. And then everyone in the castle would be put to the sword. “The time has come to ask for terms.”
He sighed. The rules of war and honour allowed him to surrender, now that the situation was hopeless, but he’d already rejected an offer of surrender. Prince Reginald had no obligation to offer him anything, not even his life. Garston could only hope that the prince would prefer to end the battle, rather than endure heavy casualties by storming the castle.
But I’ll take the blame, he thought. My men won’t be punished for my crimes.
He felt an odd flicker of hope as he rang the bell for a messenger. He’d fought, despite knowing there was no hope of victory. No one could deny he’d tried, even though he’d lost in the end. King Rufus couldn’t claim otherwise, no matter how much he might want to lash out at Garston’s family. His honour would remain intact. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.
“No,” the Red Monk said.
“Yes,” Garston said. He was tired of the shadowy figure. “We will ...”
The Red Monk drew back his hood. Garston looked ... and saw ... something. His mind refused to grasp what he was seeing. It was big, so big ... his thoughts splintered, an instant before he felt something clutch at his heart. He opened his mouth, an instant before his knees buckled. The world turned grey ...
He was dead before he hit the ground.
***
“They’re not surrendering, Your Highness,” the messenger said. “The messenger we sent into the castle has not returned.”
Reginald clenched his fists. Harming or killing – even imprisoning – a messenger? It was a breach of convention, a slap in the face of the gods of battle themselves. The defenders were mad! Their castle wasn’t designed to sustain a long siege. He could storm it ... he would storm it. There was no way he was going to leave it dominating the city while he brought in more supplies from home.
And I can’t let them defy me, either, he thought. I cannot let others believe that they can break the conventions without reprisal.
He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Inform Lord Robin that he is to storm the castle,” he said, coldly. “Anyone with a weapon in hand is to be killed. Anyone without a weapon is to be captured and bound, held in the dungeons until I can tend to them personally. And if the enemy commander is still alive, I want him.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
I’ll kill the bastard, Reginald promised himself, as the messenger ran back into the city. And it won’t be an easy passing.
The sorceress – Isabella, he reminded himself – looked at him. “Are you going to sack the city?”
“Not if it can be avoided,” Reginald said. He’d have to find out precisely who’d decided the city wouldn’t surrender. In his experience, city councillors were quick to surrender when the situation became hopeless. “We need the docks to bring in supplies.”
“Good,” Isabella said.
***
The first man over the ramparts was cut down by an enemy soldier. Big Richard threw himself over the body and lunged at the defender, cutting him down effortlessly. Three more defenders came at him and he sliced them apart, laughing like a madman as he cleared the battlements. Lord Robin had told him not to kill anyone who wasn’t carrying a weapon, but who cared? Anything could be a weapon with a little imagination.
He reached the stairwell and threw himself inwards, followed by a handful of others. The castle’s interior was a mystery, but if it followed the conventional pattern the enemy commanders would be on the very highest levels. The man who captured them could be sure of a reward ...
He stopped suddenly, feeling a prickling running down the back of his neck. Something was wrong, but what? He hefted his axe, looking from side to side. His instincts insisted that he was missing something, yet ... he could see nothing. The torch-lit corridors were empty. And yet, his instincts were sounding the alarm.
Nothing, he thought, as the sensation slowly faded. It wasn’t important. It had never been important. I was imagining it.
Shaking his head, he returned to the slaughter.
Chapter Thirteen
Racal’s Bay was a blackened mess.
Prince Reginald rode his horse slowly down the main street, keeping a wary eye out for trouble. The locals – those who hadn’t fled or been slaughtered – were remaining indoors, keeping well out of the occupiers’ way. Some of them would emerge, in the hours to come, to discover that their city was no longer theirs, others would try to remain in hiding until the occupation was over. Reginald didn’t really blame them. He’d stamped down on trouble with an iron fist, but there had still been hundreds of incidents between the occupied and the occupiers.
He shook his head slowly as the horse picked its way through the debris. Dozens of buildings had been scorched by the flames, a handful effectively destroyed even though the stone frame remained intact. Others – wooden houses – had been reduced to blackened rubble, when they hadn’t been hastily torn down and
turned into makeshift barricades. He felt a moment’s pity for the city’s population, many of whom were now condemned to spend the winter without shelter. But it had been the fault of their masters. Racal’s Bay should have surrendered the moment he cut the city off from all hope of relief.
Dead bodies lay everywhere: men, women and children. A number looked to have been stripped of everything valuable, from weapons and armour to clothes and money. Soldiers and mercenaries were practical, above all else. A dead man couldn’t wear his armour any longer. Why shouldn’t it be taken from the corpse and put to use somewhere else? He made a mental note to ensure that the bodies were cleared away before they started to smell. Dead bodies spread disease.
They’ll have to be cremated and the ashes dumped in a mass grave, he thought. It had been years since the last necromantic plague, but that had been bad enough to convince the Empire – and everyone else – that dead bodies were better off burnt. And the survivors won’t have time to mourn their dead.
He jumped off the horse as they reached the castle, his bodyguards fanning out around him even though the entire area had been cleared of civilians. Reginald felt a flicker of annoyance, mingled with the grim awareness that the guards were necessary. Who knew who might be planning to strike at the prince when he was vulnerable? And what would happen after his death?
Lord Robin stood at the gate. He saluted as Reginald approached, then smiled. “Your Highness.”
“Lord Robin,” Reginald acknowledged. “The castle is secure?”
“We have searched the building from top to bottom,” Lord Robin assured him. “The building is as secure as we can make it.”
Reginald nodded, curtly. “And prisoners?”
“We took forty-seven prisoners, nine of whom claim to be city fathers,” Lord Robin said, wryly. “They were apparently arrested by their former commander, Sir Garston. The remainder are mainly castle staff, with a handful of women.”
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