by J. P. Ashman
Nodding, Jehan made to move forward, but Correia stopped him with an outstretched sword. She shook her head. ‘Take me to my men.’
He looked at her, anger reddening his face. ‘They’re in the outer bailey. If there’s enemy there, they’re already taken.’ His stare was intense. Correia’s more so.
‘Take me…’ Correia’s words were slow, deliberate, ‘…to my men.’
‘And the seneschal, in the White Chapel? I’m sorry,’ he shook his head, eyes locked on Correia’s, ‘but my place is with Croal if the chateau is breached.’ He pushed through Correia’s sword – the flat of which had been held against him – and made down the corridor, backed by fresh shouts, screams and fighting. Correia followed.
‘Tell me a way out, at least.’
He grunted a laugh and shook his head.
‘You think me a coward?’ Correia said, reaching Jehan’s side and matching his pace.
‘No. I think you a demanding bitch, if I’m honest. There seems little point in politeness now.’
Correia grinned despite the situation. ‘I’d agree with both of those statements.’
A smirk pulled at Jehan’s mouth. ‘There’s a tunnel on the ground floor, south side of the keep. Find a tapestry…’ Two page boys raced around a corner. Faces set in fear, in horror, they barged past the sword carrying man and woman, their tilted run unbroken as they disappeared down the corridor. Jehan continued, accelerating to a jog. ‘…a ceiling to floor tapestry of Eudes de Geelan on a boar hunt. You won’t miss it, it’s garish and hideous. After all, he insisted on a true likeness.’ Correia failed to hide her smile at that.
They rounded a corner onto a wider, door lined corridor. One of the doors nearest to them opened as closer bells tolled, from somewhere within the chateau itself. A man stumbled through the opened door, knotting his sword-belt, head down. When the maille-clad man looked up, he straightened.
Jehan pointed his sword at him. ‘Fllened, with me, now.’ The man-at-arms nodded and fell in behind them, finishing off his belt as he did so. At the end of the corridor, Jehan paused and turned to Correia. ‘Go to the tunnel, I’ll have your men meet you there. If they live.’
‘They will. Now go to your liege, drag his arse out of that chapel and bring him to me at the tunnel. All’s lost if they reach the inner bailey, so we need to get him out.’
Nodding, Jehan turned, hesitated. He looked back, past Correia. ‘Take Madame Burr to the passageway behind Eudes de Geelan’s tapestry. Do you know the one?’
Correia didn’t turn, nor did she hear anything so she assumed the soldier, Fllened, nodded.
‘Good. When she’s safe, come to the White Chapel and bring whoever you can find along the way. Go, now.’
‘This way, madame.’ Fllened’s voice was smooth, young. Correia hadn’t paid much attention to him as he’d stumbled from the room, but his voice gave away his lack of years. A squire, perhaps. She heard his boots heading back the way they’d come.
Jehan turned to leave.
Sword held thumb to palm, Correia placed the hand on Jehan’s armoured shoulder and stopped him. He looked back, over shoulder and hand.
‘Bring Croal and his wife and—’
‘Your Earl?’
‘I was going to say anyone else along the way, Jehan, but yes, Earl Bratby would be pleasing.’ Jehan nodded and smiled. ‘Bratby’s son has an army,’ she added, before he turned away, ‘camped on the other side of the border. If we make it to them quick enough, Easson may not be lost entirely.’
Smiling again, tightly this time, Jehan nodded once more, turned and left.
Correia ran to catch up to Fllened, who neared the far end of the corridor.
More bells rang, closer; from above. From the top of the keep.
They’ve breached the inner bailey…
Correia and Fllened ran.
***
The Sirretan soldier fell back, stunned, attempting to keep his insides from spilling to the floor. Gleave pushed past him, knowing the lad to be lost. Sword arm leading, he whispered to his axe and it vanished, his hand looking like it’d been broken and set wrong as it appeared to grip nothing. The Orismarans had come fast. Through the town they’d raced, not stopping to ransack, rape and burn as was their way when raiding. Doors slammed shut and were bolted, shuttered windows offering those inside a slim sense of protection as the tattooed warriors piled through the streets, dozens of boots, bare feet, carts and mounts making short work of the wet-from-the-night-before road and turning it into little more than churned earth. It was as if a drunken ploughman had been up and down, up and down, slewing this way and that to ruin the road years of feet had worked at, to hard-pack and create.
Once at the main gate, bells tolling and women and children of the town wailing, the guards atop, crossbows clicking and insults flying, had balked as men they’d known years drew blades and drove them deep, whilst others worked cranks and lifted door-bolts. The portcullis rose and the gates opened. The Orismarans entered like guests to one of the late marquis’ balls, all confident and cock sure.
The room the Altolnan Pathfinders had been playing dice, sleeping and drinking in had erupted in a table-turning scattering of knife drawing men on both sides of the guardroom. Blood and piss flowed quicker than the ale had leading up to the event. Sirretans murdered Sirretans and Altolnans finished off those left.
Sav and Starks, bells ringing on the chateau’s inner walls now, followed Gleave as he ran awkwardly for the inner bailey, the length of visible steel in his hand hacking into the side of an Orismaran passing close to the door they left. The gut-spilled Sirretan lad who’d left ahead of them was prone now, dying as Starks ran past, slipping on the blood.
Starks hadn’t had time to make his crossbow ready, but had picked it up. Carrying it in one hand, he held his short-sword in the other. Sav, on the other hand, had strung his bow before Gleave had finished the last Sirretan turncoat, and now proceeded to place white feathered shafts into the olive skin of any Orismaran that came close, spinning one and punching another from his feet.
Starks nearly slipped on horse shit, but managed to right himself whilst avoiding the swing of an axe from a roaring tribal warrior. The snarling face of Starks’ attacker caved in, the image stranger than ever, white bone poking through tattooed skin and red flesh as the invisible weapon that caused the wound sucked free, dropping the man to the dirt.
‘Go, go!’ Gleave yelled, waiting until both his companions had passed before following, howling Orismarans in pursuit.
‘Fucking coward bastard Sirretan traitors,’ Gleave shouted, each word punctuating a pounding, painful footfall towards the closing gates of the inner bailey. ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ he shouted louder, waving his invisible axe carrying hand at the crossbowmen above. Bolts flicked down, dangerously close. Gleave bit back his vocal retort to the men looking down at him as he heard a grunt close behind. He ran faster, despite his bastard leg, not realising he’d slowed to shout and wave. Starks made it through the gate and Sav turned to loose one more arrow before doing the same. Green paint scraped from iron spaulders as Gleave sucked in a breath, squinted and dived through the closing slither of a gap between the oak barriers, which thudded shut behind him. The thud was followed by many smaller thuds and bangs. The Orismarans were hammering on the barrier.
Not relaxing, the three pathfinders kept their backs to the gates, eyes out, weapons at the ready. There was no way they were going to let anymore traitors approach.
Gleave’s leg flared, as did other aches and pains. He gritted his teeth and pushed it all from his mind.
The two Sirretans that had closed the gates fell back against them, panting. One was in a state of half dress, one hose on and crumpled around his ankle, the other missing altogether and his chest bare. He wore a belt with an iron loop, through which hung a war-hammer. He looked to Gleave and nodded. Gleave nodded back.
‘That’s the fastest take of a gatehouse that I ever seen… or heard telling.’ Gleave s
poke in Sirretan, albeit poorly. The half-dressed solider nodded before moving off, companion in tow, ascending stone steps jutting from the side of the wall. They joined more men on the ramparts.
Shouting came from the far side of the gate and wall, as well as from the wall above. Gleave, Sav and Starks turned their heads to an opening door to their left, from which four armoured men ran, weapons drawn. The soldiers glanced towards the Pathfinders, stood backs to the gates, but paid them no more heed. They didn’t make for the wall, but ran around the back of the keep itself, the great white stone block reaching up several stories to crenellations hiding the shallow-pitched red roof on top.
Gleave filled his cheeks before letting out a ragged breath, heart hammering in his chest.
‘How did this happen?’ Starks looked to Gleave, expectant, as ever, of an answer from the older warrior.
‘Sirretan incompetence… and treachery,’ Gleave said, eyes scanning the yard as a renewed pounding begun on the gate at their backs. ‘That’s something big, heavy,’ he added, stepping away.
‘Let’s get inside the bastard keep,’ Sav said, setting off. ‘We’ve Fal to find yet, and Correia now too. I knew being told to wait all night wasn’t right.’ Sav spat and sped up. The other two followed, heading for the main doors which stood tall. As they neared, those doors opened. A wide-eyed boy of twelve years or so stepped through, eyes searching the walls above. The boy’s gaze fell to the three men approaching him at speed. He tensed, then relaxed a little.
‘Pathfinders!’ The word tumbled from him, more a statement than a question, his Altolnan better than Gleave’s Sirretan. The three Pathfinders skidded to a halt before him.
‘Where’s Correia?’ Sav wasted no time and towered over the boy. He and the others were rewarded with a hasty answer, which they just about understood.
Thanking the boy and urging him to follow – to which he denied, claiming he had more messages to pass on from Jehan of all people – the Pathfinders continued on into the keep at speed, weapons drawn, Correia’s position now known to them.
Chapter 40 – Points and pricks
Locating Correia led to her barking orders at Gleave and Sav and sending them away again, to scout their retreat; the chateau was in turmoil.
‘That masked helm he wears,’ Gleave said, eyes wide in adoration. ‘Look at it!’
‘I take it you like it?’ Sav screwed up his nose, trying to make his mind up if he did too.
‘Oh aye, it’s as clever as a mage is that.’ Gleave pressed his fists to his cheeks and frowned, looking about as if he wore it himself. ‘Ornate to the point of being king-worthy,’ he said. ‘Yet defensive because, well, it’s a visor in all intents and purposes. But most of all,’ he went on, lowering his hands, ‘it makes the bastard look like a fucking demon. I want it.’
‘Ask him for it.’ Sav stared at the armoured Orismaran brute wearing it.
‘I would, but…’
‘But what, Gleave?’ Sav grinned.
‘Well, it’s too ostentatious.’
‘Big word for you.’
‘Fuck you, Sav.’
‘Sorry. Go on, it’s too ostentatious…’
Gleave nodded, eyes on the mask and its wearer. ‘It’s so damned pretty, it makes me want to shove something through it more than it makes me want to wear it, now that I’m thinking about it.’
Sav grunted a laugh. ‘I’m worried what you want to shove through it, looking at that grimacing mouth vent, and the way you’re gushing over it.’
Gleave turned to Sav, who grinned and winked.
‘You’re funny today,’ Gleave said, ‘especially considering the shit we’re potentially in and this bollocks-of-a-scouting mission she’s sent us on.’ Gleave looked back to the masked Orismaran, so did Sav. ‘Perhaps I’ll shove your face through it.’
Sav frowned. ‘My face? Through his… face?’
‘Alright, I didn’t think that retort through, too intent on that bastard I am. Point is… well, that is the point, isn’t it?’
‘Eh?’
‘A point. That’s my point; that’s what I were on about.’
‘You lost me.’ Sav shook his head and rested it on his thick arm, looking back out at the masked man from the grassy mound they lay on. The commander, for surely that’s what he was, paced the open space of the outer bailey at the back of the keep.
‘A point, Sav. The bloody mask is so fancy, makes me want to shove the point of… I don’t know, something sharp and preferably made of iron through it.’
‘Ah, now I see. Nice.’
Gleave nodded. ‘Aye. Stick the prick inside. Perhaps I could have it after that. Clean it up, patch it up and such. Ostentatious loot, I like that. And with the hole the random point made, other bastards I faced would know I fucked over the original wearer and took it for myself.’
‘That they would,’ Sav agreed. ‘And said bastard, some hoary warrior or grizzled maniac facing you, will want to do exactly the same to you.’ Sav grinned and looked to Gleave once more. ‘You know? To make a point…’
Gleave nodded. ‘Point taken.’
‘There’s that point again.’ Sav frowned as he saw the masked man make a series of hand gestures to one of his warriors, who rushed from the yard and out of the postern gate.
‘I think we should crack on, Gleave. Get back in to Correia and Starks.’
Gleave took a deep breath. ‘I think you’re right, Sav. The mask will have to wait, so will sticking that ostentatious prick.’
Sav slapped Gleave on his back and slid back down the mound. Moving away, and once he was satisfied Gleave had followed, Sav turned back to Gleave whilst they made for the hidden door to the tunnel their companions hid in.
‘You know, Gleave…’
‘Yeah?’
‘You take anymore plate off folk and you’ll clank louder than that prancing prick of a Duke, Rell Adlestrop.’
Gleave laughed. ‘Aye, maybe, but I won’t polish it to within an inch of its creation, unlike that hubris filled posh prick. I’ll green anything else I get like I did these here spaulders upon my broad shoulders.’ He grinned at Sav and slapped him back like before, on the back.
Sav nodded as he bent to pass through the door. ‘Points and pricks. It’s all about the points and pricks today, isn’t it?’
Gleave followed Sav through into the darkness. ‘Aye lad, today it is. And tomorrow, and the next day. As long as it’s shoving points through pricks, rather than them shoving ’em through us.’
Sav stopped, looked at Gleave and smiled whilst closing the door behind them.
‘Now that, Gleave, we can agree on.’
Correia was crouched in the tunnel with Starks as Gleave and Sav returned.
‘How is it?’ she asked.
Gleave shook his head. ‘Not good. They have men guarding the postern gate. This siege is a setup, Correia, I’d wager on that. They’re walking around that small gate like it’s their own, with little to no resistance at all from Easson’s soldiers, and those Sirretans we witnessed turning on their own, opening gates and such?’
‘There’s something wrong with it alright, that much is clear,’ Correia agreed. ‘I still haven’t seen the seneschal either. Alright,’ Correia said, looking up, decided, ‘we’re moving. Gleave and Sav, go and get Fal. We know where he is now thanks to the lad that brought me to this tunnel, and it’s time to have him here with us.’
‘And the way out, once we have him?’ Gleave looked back down the tunnel towards the small door he and Sav came from.
Correia’s stare was not to be questioned.
‘We’ll go now,’ Sav said, pulling Gleave along and shuffling past everyone.
‘And me?’
‘You’re staying here with me, Starks. If we lose this way out, we’re lost altogether, so we’re to hold here and wait for them to fetch Fal.’
‘Do you think this Croal bloke is against whatever’s happening?’ Starks asked.
‘I know he is,’ Correia said. �
��That’s why I was so intent on seeing him personally.’
‘But you said you wanted to see the marquis?’
‘Of course I did, Starks. It’d be weird if I’d told the Sirretans I wanted to see their liege lord’s nephew, wouldn’t it?’ She offered Starks a rare wink.
‘He’s your man, isn’t he?’ Starks leaned forward. ‘Isn’t he, Correia?’
‘Well it’s all gone to shit now,’ she said, resting back against the wall. ‘But yes, Croal de Geelan is my man. Believe it or not.’
‘The bloody seneschal himself!’ Starks was clearly impressed.
‘His title means nothing to me if I can’t get an audience with him, in private.’ She rubbed her face hard.
‘And if you did?’
Correia spun on him. ‘I don’t know, Starks! Alright?’
Starks swallowed hard and nodded.
‘I don’t know,’ Correia whispered, head back against stone.
Chapter 41 – White wedding
White priest hid behind white lectern as a continuous hammering made him flinch repeatedly.
‘Oh for ’morl’s sake, man,’ Giles said, pacing the White Chapel, sword in hand. ‘You’re making my arse twitch more than that thing out there.’
‘I need to go out,’ Croal said, breaths quick, frantic. Through gritted teeth he growled, a poor attempt to match that which came from the far side of the door.
‘And I told you, Croal, you’re not.’
Croal spun on the Marquess of Suttel, his late uncle’s counterpart and rival. ‘You do not order me, Bratby. Especially in my own home.’
‘No, but I’m advising you, lad. She’ll be safe, I promise you that. Amis will see to it—’
‘I should be seeing to it!’ The sound outside the room stopped at the shouted words, then started again with renewed efforts.
Giles sighed, Croal too. The priest mumbled prayers of light and white.
All three men hesitated, held their breaths at a new noise: shouting and metal on metal.
