They armed themselves with pitchforks, axes, and clubs. Makeshift armor was constructed by strapping whatever thin metal they could find under their clothing. In most cases, this meant commandeering a baking sheet from their wives. They had the numbers, but they looked a pathetic lot. Gwen had roused the Artisan Quarter, which provided not only strong workers but a few swords, bows, and bits of armor. With the city guards ordered to the perimeter and most of the Gentry Quarter at the trial, there was no one to stop them from openly organizing.
With Dixon at his side, Mason marched at the head of the commoner procession, his smithing hammer in one hand and a rough-hewn shield he had beaten together that morning in the other. Years of frustration and resentment steamed to the surface as the smith strode forward. Anger born from the life he had been denied overwhelmed him. When he could not pay the taxes on his late father’s shop, it had been the city sheriff and his guards who came. When he refused to leave, they had beaten him unconscious and thrown him into the gutter of Wayward Street. Mason blamed the guards for most of his life’s misfortunes. The beating had weakened his shoulders, and for years afterward, wielding his hammer was so painful he could only work a few hours each day. This, and his gambling habit, kept him in poverty. Of course, he never really considered the gambling to be the real problem; it was the guards who were responsible. It did not matter to him that the soldiers and the sheriff who beat him were no longer with the guard. Today was his chance to fight back, to repay in kind for the pain he had endured.
Neither he nor Dixon were warriors or athletic, but they were large men with broad chests and thick necks, and the crowd followed behind them as if the citizens of the Lower Quarter were plowing the city with a pair of yoked oxen. They turned onto Wayward Street and marched unchallenged into the Gentry Quarter. Compared to the Lower Quarter, it was like another world. The streets were paved with decorative tile work and lined with metal horse hitches. Along the avenue, enclosed street lamps and covered sewers accentuated the care taken for the comfort of the privileged few. Marking the center of the Gentry Quarter was a large spacious square. The great Essendon Fountain, with its statue of Tolin on a rearing horse above the pluming water, was its main landmark. Across from it, Mares Cathedral rose. In its towers high above, bells chimed loudly. They passed the fine three-story stone and brick houses with their iron fences and decorative gates. That the stables here looked better than the house Mason lived in was not lost on him. The trip through the square only added fuel to the fire that was sweeping across the city.
When they reached Main Street, they saw the enemy.
— 4 —
The sound of the horn brought Arista to the window once more. What she saw amazed her. In the distance, at the edge of her sight, she could see banners rising above the naked trees. Count Pickering was coming, and he was not alone. There were a score of flags comprising most of the western provinces. Pickering was marching on Medford with an army.
Is it on my account? She pondered the question and concluded the answer was no. Of all the nobles, she knew the Pickerings the best, but she doubted he marched for her. News of Alric’s death must have reached him, and he was challenging Braga for the crown. Most likely, he had given no thought at all to her plight. Count Pickering merely saw his opportunity and he was reaching for it. The fact that the princess might still live was only a technicality. No one wanted a woman as their ruler. If he won, he would force her abdication of the throne in favor of himself, or perhaps Mauvin. She would be sent away. She might not be locked up, but she would never be truly free. At least if he won, Braga would never sit on the throne of Melengar—but, would Pickering win? She was no tactician and certainly not a general; still even she could see that the forces marching on the road lacked the numbers for a castle siege. Braga had his forces well entrenched. Looking at the courtyard below, she suddenly realized the attack was distracting everyone. If only she could manage to escape.
Perhaps, this time it will be different.
She rushed to her door and with a tap of her necklace, unlocked it. She grabbed the latch and pushed. As usual, the door refused to budge. “Damn that dwarf,” she said aloud to herself. She pushed violently against the door, throwing her entire weight, such that it was, against it. The door did not give way.
There was another rumble, and her room shook once more. Dust fell from the rafters. What is going on? She staggered as the tower swayed like a ship at sea. She did not know what else to do. Terrified and bewildered, she returned to the illusionary safety of her bed. She sat there, hugging her knees, hardly breathing, her eyes darting at the slightest sound. The end was coming. One way or another, she was certain the end was coming soon.
— 5 —
The prince was new to combat and unsure what to expect. He had hoped that merely assembling a massive force would cause the city’s defenders to surrender. The reality was altogether different. When they reached Medford, they found trenches built outside the walls filled with spearmen. His archers had launched three flights of arrows but still the defenders remained steadfast. Using shields, they fended off much of the barrage and sustained little noticeable damage.
Who are they? Alric wondered. Are my own soldiers standing between me and my home? What lies has Braga spread among the guards? Or are they these all hired men? Did my gold pay for those lines of pointed steel?
Alric sat on one of Pickering’s horses draped with a caparison hastily adorned with rough sewn images of the Melengar falcon. The animal was as restless as its rider, shuffling its hooves and snorting great clouds of frosty fog. Alric held the reins with his right hand, his left holding his woolen cloak tight about his neck. His eyes rose above the heads of the spearmen to look on the city of his birth. The walls and towers of Medford appeared faint and dream-like through the falling snow. The vision slowly faded into white as an eerie silence muffled the world.
“Your Majesty,” Count Pickering spoke, breaking the stillness.
“Another flight?” Alric proposed.
“Arrows will not conquer your city.”
Alric nodded solemnly. “The knights then, send in the knights to break the line.”
“Marshal!” the count shouted. “Order the knights to break the line!”
Gallant men in shining armor spurred their steeds and charged forward with banners dancing overhead. A whirlwind of snow launched into the sky by their passing obscured them from view. They vanished from sight, but still Alric listened to the thunder of their hooves.
The clash was dreadful. Alric felt it as much as heard it. Metal shrieked, men cried out, and until that moment Alric never knew it was possible for horses to scream. When the cloud of snow settled, the prince could at last see the bloody spectacle. Spears braced in the dirt pierced the breast of man and mount. Horses collapsed, throwing the knights to the ground where they lay, like turtles struggling to right themselves. Spearmen drew forth short swords and thrust downward, punching their sharp points into eye slits and the armor gaps at the armpit or groin.
“This is not going as well as I hoped,” Alric complained.
“Battle rarely ever does, Your Majesty,” Count Pickering assured him. “But this is a large part of what being king means. Your knights are dying. Are you going to leave them to their fate?”
“Should I send in the foot soldiers?”
“If I were you, I certainly would. You need to break a hole in that wall, and you’d better do so before your men decide you’re incompetent and vanish into the forests around them.”
“Marshal!” Alric shouted. “Marshal Garret, order the foot soldiers to engage immediately!”
“Yes, sire!”
A horn sounded and the men roared forward into battle. Alric watched as steel cut through flesh. The footmen fared better than the knights, but the defensive position of the city soldiers took a toll. Alric could hardly bear to watch. Never before had he seen such a sight—there was so much blood. The white snow was gone; it was stained pink and, in some d
esperate places, had pooled to a dark red. Littering the grounds were body parts—arms lay severed, heads split open, and legs chopped off. The wall of men blended in a whirling mass of flesh, dirt, blood, and an endless cacophony of screams.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Alric said, sounding and feeling sick. “This is my city. These are my people. My men!” He turned to Count Pickering. “I am killing my own men!” He was shaking now and tears filled his eyes, his face red. Hearing the shrieks and cries, he squeezed the pommel of his saddle until his hands hurt. He felt helpless.
I am king now.
He did not feel like a king. He felt like he did on the road near The Silver Pitcher when those men held him face down in the dirt. The tears were now streaming down his cheeks.
“Alric! Stop it!” Pickering snapped at him. “You mustn’t let the men see you crying!”
Fury flared in Alric, and he spun on the count. “No? No? Look at them! They are dying for me. They are dying on my order! I say they do have a right to see their king! They all have a right to see their king!”
Alric wiped the tears from his cheeks and gathered his reins. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of having my face put in the dirt! I won’t stand it. I’m tired of being helpless. That’s my city, built by my ancestors! If my people chose to fight, then, by Maribor, I want them to know it is me they fight!”
The prince put on his helm, drew his father’s large sword and spurred his horse forward, not at the trench but at the castle gate itself.
“Alric, no!” Pickering shouted after him.
— 6 —
Mason rushed forward and drove his hammer through the helmet of the first guard he saw. Grinning with delight at his good fortune, he gathered the man’s sword and looked up.
The mob had reached the main gate of the city. The great four-towered barbican of gray stone rose above them like a monstrous beast. It swarmed with soldiers shocked at the sight of the city rising against them. Surprise and the accompanying panic bought the mob time to clear the streets and reach the gate house. Mason heard Dixon shout, “For Prince Alric!” but the prince was the last thing on the smith’s mind.
Mason picked out his next target—a tall guard absorbed in a swinging match with a street sweeper from Artisan Row. Mason stabbed the guard in the armpit and listened to him scream as he twisted the blade. The street sweeper grinned at the smith and Mason grinned back.
He had only killed two men but already Mason was slick with blood. His tunic felt heavy as it stuck to the skin of his chest and he could not tell if it was sweat or tears of blood dripping down his face. The grin he had shown to the sweeper remained on his face, glued to his lips by the thrill and elation. This was freedom! This was living! His heart thundered and his head swam as if he were drunk.
Mason swung his sword again, this time at a man already down on one knee. His swing was so strong the blade cut halfway through his victim’s neck. He kicked the dead man aside and cried aloud in his victory. He spoke no words; words were valueless at such a moment. He shouted the fury that pounded in his heart. He was a man again, a man of strength, a man to be feared!
A horn sounded and Mason looked up once more. A captain of the castle guard was on the ramparts shouting orders, rallying his troops. They responded to the call and fell back into ranks struggling to defend the gate even as the mob closed in.
Mason stepped through the muddy, blood-soaked ground, which was now slick beneath his feet. He looked about and picked a new target. A castle guard with his back to the smith was in the process of retreating to the sound of his captain’s voice. The smith aimed at the guard’s neck, attempting to cleave off his head. His inexperience with a sword caused him to aim too high and the blade glanced off the man’s helmet ringing it loudly. He raised the sword for another blow when the man unexpectedly turned around.
Mason felt a sharp, burning pain in his stomach. In an instant, all the strength and fury drained from him. He let go his sword. He saw, rather than felt, himself drop to his knees. He looked down at the source of the pain and watched the soldier withdraw a sword from his stomach. Mason could not believe what he was seeing. How could all that steel have been inside me?
The smith felt a warm wetness on his hands as he instinctively pressed them to his wound. Trying as best he could to contain his organs that were spilling out, the blood flowed through a gash at least a foot wide. He no longer felt his legs and lay helpless when, to his horror, he saw the soldier swing again, this time at his head.
— 7 —
Alric charged the castle barbican. Immediately, Count Pickering, Mauvin, and Marshal Garret led the reserve knights in behind him. Arrows rained down from the parapets above the great gates. One deflected off Alric’s visor, and another struck deep into the horn of his saddle. One hit Sir Sinclair’s horse in the flank, causing it to rear unexpectedly, but the knight remained mounted. Countless more struck the ground harmlessly. The enraged prince rode directly to the gate and standing up in his stirrups shouted, “I am Prince Alric Brendon Essendon! Open this gate in the name of your king!”
Alric was not certain anyone heard him as he stood there, his sword raised high over his head. Furthermore, having heard him, there was no reason to believe another arrow would not whistle down and end his life. Behind the prince, the remaining knights fanned out around him as the marshal attempted to build a wall around his monarch.
A second arrow did not fly, but neither did the gate open.
“Alric,” Count Pickering shouted, “you must fall back!”
“I am Prince Alric Essendon! Open the gate now!” He demanded again, and this time he removed his helm and threw it aside backing his horse into full view of the ramparts.
Alric and the others waited. Count Pickering and Mauvin stared at the prince in terror and tried to persuade him to come away from the gate. Nothing happened for several tense moments as the prince and his bodyguards sat outside waiting, staring up at the parapets. From inside they heard the sounds of fighting.
A shout came from atop the walls of the city. “The prince! Open the gate! Let him in! It’s the prince!” More shouts, a scream, and then suddenly the massive gate split open, and the great doors pulled back. Inside was a mass of confusion as uniformed guards fought a horde of citizens dressed up like tinkers wearing makeshift armor or stolen helms.
Alric did not pause. He spurred his mount and drove into the crowd. Mauvin, Count Pickering, Sir Ecton, and Marshal Garret struggled to form a personal defense for their king, but there was little need. At the sight of him, the defenders laid down their weapons. Word that the prince was alive spread, and those who saw him charging toward the castle, brandishing his father’s sword roared with cheers.
— 8 —
Royce heard the horn wail as he stood trapped on the steps of the tower. “Sounds like a fight outside,” Magnus mentioned. “I wonder who will win?” The dwarf scratched his beard. “For that matter, I wonder who is fighting?”
“You don’t take much interest in your employer’s business, do you?” Royce said studying the walls. When he tried to tap a spike into a seam, it broke like an eggshell. The dwarf was telling the truth about that.
“Only if it is necessary for the job. By the way, I wouldn’t do that again. You were lucky you didn’t hit a binding thread.”
Royce cursed under his breath. “If you want to be helpful, why not just tell me how to get up and back?”
“Who said I was trying to be helpful?” The dwarf grinned at him wickedly. “I just spent half a year on this project. I don’t want you to topple the whole thing in the first few minutes. I want to savor the moment.”
“Are all dwarves this morbid?”
“Think of it as having built a sandcastle and wanting the pleasure of seeing it fall to a wave. I am on the edge of my toes waiting to see exactly how and when it will finally collapse. Will it be a misstep, a loss of balance, or something amazing and unexpected?”
Royce drew his dagger
and held it by the blade for the dwarf to see. “Are you aware I could put this through your throat where you stand?”
It was a false threat, as he would not dare throw away such a vital tool at this moment. Still he expected a reaction of fear, or at least a mocking laugh. Instead, the dwarf did neither. He glared at the dagger his eyes wide.
“Where did you get that blade?”
Royce rolled his eyes in disbelief. “I’m a little busy here. If you don’t mind.” He resumed his study of the steps. He observed the way they curved up and around the central trunk of the tower, how the steps above formed the ceiling to the ones below. He looked up ahead and then behind him.
“The step I am on doesn’t collapse if I am on it,” Royce said to himself, but loud enough for the dwarf to hear. “It only falls if I step on the next one.”
“Yes, quite ingenious, isn’t it. As you might imagine, I’m quite proud of my work. I originally designed it to be an instrument of Arista’s death. Braga hired me to set it up to look like an accident. A decrepit old tower in the royal residence collapses, and the poor princess is crushed in the process. Unfortunately, after Alric escaped, he changed his mind and decided to have her executed instead. I thought I would never get to see the fruits of all my hard work, but then you came along. How nice of you.”
“All traps have weaknesses,” Royce said. He looked ahead at the steps and smiled suddenly. Crouching he leapt forward not one, but two steps. The step in the middle slipped from its position and fell, but the original step he started from remained. “With no following step,” Royce observed, “that step is now secure from breaking, isn’t it?”
Crown Conspiracy Page 25
