Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  The man eyed the chief marshal, and then smiled. “My lord,” he spoke smoothly, “Canna will always be just. Hand us the murderer of the Daughter of the People, and Major Ferah, and we are done here. Our ships will turn from,” he looked about the burned-out shells of buildings inside and outside the walls, “this city, and sail back to Nabruuk.”

  Subath turned and looked at Thaskil and Leilah before facing the Cannans once more. He puffed out his cheeks. “Would that I could, Nesta.”

  “It’s Lord Hevera.” The Cannan prickled.

  Subath winced. “Don’t be a cunt. Now, as I was saying. I would hand over the murderer of the Daughter of the People without a moment's hesitation, except the Daughter of the People wasn’t murdered. She threw herself into the sea.”

  “I have my commands. We must have the murderer in chains, or it is war.”

  “Listen here,” Subath said, spreading his arms out and raising his shoulders, “the man you accuse isn’t even here. He’s half the world away. So what would you have me do?”

  “I’d have you turn over your ruined city as restitution to the Father of the People for the grievous harm you have done unto him.”

  “Bloody hell!” Subath blew out a sigh and turned around to face Thaskil and Leilah once more. “This prick just doesn’t listen.”

  “Chief Marshal,” Nesta spoke again. “If you cannot supply us with the murderer, we are done here.”

  Subath turned around and faced the Cannans. “One, two, three, four. Four emissaries. You,” he pointed to the youngest emissary, “you go back and pass my message on that there will be no agreement reached.”

  “But–” Nesta was slapped to the ground by Subath’s hand.

  “Take them into the gatehouse. Bind them. I’ll come to question them shortly.”

  “This is an outrage!” Nesta spat blood onto the flagstones of the ramparts and hauled himself onto his feet.

  “Isn’t it?” Subath grinned as the Cannans' arms were pulled behind their backs and tied.

  Subath picked at the stubborn piece of dirt under his fingernail with the point of a knife. “Do you know something?” he mused, looking up at the bound form of Nesta and the two other Cannans and raising the offending finger in front of them. “I don’t think that’s dirt at all.” He coughed out a little laugh. “Maybe I’m just so old I’m turning into tanned leather.”

  Nesta’s eyes stared hard and ugly at Subath. The emissary shifted his gaze to where Leilah leaned against the far wall, one boot tucked against the wall behind her. A knock at the gatehouse door drew the man’s attention.

  “Must be our friend,” Subath said, sheathing his knife. “Let her in.”

  Sister Arantis walked into the gatehouse, flanked by two guardsmen.

  “Sister.” Subath stood from where he was perched on the edge of the table. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  She nodded and looked about the room, unease creeping onto her face.

  Subath turned his head, following Arantis’ eyes. The bound men tied to the wall. The pot of bubbling oil over the fire. The sharpened tools and leather-strapped restraints laid out on the table. Her eyes flicked back to Subath, and he could feel the disapproval in them.

  “Come, Sister. Sit.” Subath drew a chair for her, facing the captives. “These men are from Canna. Major Ferah tells me this man, Nesta Hevera, is a high-born man with much political clout in the court of the Father of the People. The other two men, it appears, are of the Cannan holy order. How did you say it?” he asked Leilah.

  “Chasni,” she said.

  “Ah, they’re of the Chasni. I believe they play a similar role to our Dajda’s Tuannan.”

  Nesta strained against his restraints and spat vicious words in Cannan. The other two men remained calm with their eyes shut. Their lips moved, but they uttered no sound.

  “Major?”

  “He said we will all die. But before we die, he will see we are raped and skinned alive and, well, you get the spin of it.”

  “I do!” Subath smirked. “Arseholes like him say the same stuff all the time. Truth be told, been that arsehole myself once or twice.” He walked over and hunkered down in front of Nesta’s face. “So it’s fair to say I can empathise with our friend here.” Subath stood and gently patted Nesta on the cheek. “Sister, what do you know of the Chasni?”

  Arantis looked at the two bound men for a moment, and then to Subath. “These men will be Proclaims. That means they are senior amongst the Chasni. They won’t be the highest in their order, but they’ll be up there.”

  “Can you speak Cannan?” Subath asked her. Arantis nodded. “Ask them why their god, Canna, urges them to attack us.”

  Arantis repeated the words in Cannan, causing the two Proclaims' eyes to open. They ceased their prayers and looked at Sister Arantis before them. “They won’t speak with us,” Arantis said.

  “Fine. If that’s the way they want to be.” Subath stood up and flexed his fingers, popping the joints loudly. He hunkered down to Nesta’s feet and slid off the man’s soft suede boots, and then removed his socks.

  “What are you doing?” Nesta asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Subath asked, frowning in confusion. “I’m torturing you. I need to set an example.”

  “No! Wait!” Nesta yelled. “Please–”

  “Listen, dickhead, you just threatened to rape and skin me. Or was it skin and rape me? Either way, you shouldn’t be saying such mean things if you’re not prepared to have it turned around on you.”

  “But–”

  “Hush, now,” Subath urged. “Major,” he asked of Leilah, “scoop me a ladle-full of the hot oil, please.” He tied a rope around a ring fixed into the floor and then cinched it tight about Nesta’s ankle, preventing his leg from kicking out.

  Leilah pushed herself from where she rested against the wall, and scooped out the oil as asked. She carefully handed the metal ladle to Subath.

  “Thank you. Can you slide that tin bowl under his foot? I don’t want to make a mess of the floor.”

  “No! No!”

  Subath ignored the screams. “Someone translate. What numbers have you?”

  Leilah repeated Subath's question in the Cannan tongue, but Nesta said nothing.

  “What engines have you brought?” Again, Leilah repeated the words in Cannan, but once more, Nesta did not answer.

  Subath hovered the ladle of hot oil above the man’s foot.

  “No!” Nesta yelped.

  “If you don’t want me to do it, then answer my questions. It’s that simple.” Subath waited a moment, but Nesta did not say anything more. “Fine.” Subath poured the hot oil onto Nesta’s exposed skin. The rope about his leg strained as the leg jolted. Nesta screamed as the thin, hot oil sloughed the upper layers of skin from the top of his foot. “Another.” Subath handed the ladle back to Leilah.

  Nesta moaned in agony, his head hanging down as he sucked in ragged breaths.

  “Salt.” Subath nodded to the centre of the table Arantis sat at. She handed him the bowl of coarse salt, and sat back down. Subath took a handful. “How many?”

  “Thousands.” Nesta’s voice was a weak thing.

  “I know there are thousands. How many thousands?”

  “One hundred,” Nesta wheezed between rapid breaths.

  Subath smiled. “Engines? Have you any siege engines?”

  Nesta remained silent.

  “Have you brought siege engines?”

  Subath tossed the salt onto Nesta’s wound, causing him to strain against his bindings and scream as the salt stung the exposed flesh.

  “Towers. We’ve brought towers.”

  “Good,” Subath replied. “Well, not good. But you get my meaning. Anything else you brought across the sea to play with?”

  “No. No. Nothing more.” Nesta panted laboured breaths in and out. “Nothing more.”

  “Give me the ladle. You need more oil.” Leilah stepped up, hand outstretched.

 
Subath frowned at her.

  “What? He’s lying,” she said. “They’ll have brought ballistae certainly. Possibly onagers. Depends how easy they think the assault will be.”

  Subath handed her the ladle and leaned in to look at Nesta’s bloodshot eyes, red-rimmed and full of tears. “We may fall, but one thing is for sure: it will not be easy for you.” He leaned back and took the freshly filled ladle of oil, holding it up in front of Nesta. The Cannan’s eyes followed it all the way up to his face. “What is the true reason Canna attacks us?”

  The man did not speak. Subath asked Nesta once more. The Cannan’s cheeks puffed in and out as he heaved breaths through gritted teeth.

  “Why?” Subath poured the oil over Nesta’s foot once more. The resultant scream caused Subath to wince as he remembered receiving similar treatment at the hands of Solansian raiders thirty years prior. “Salt.”

  “No! No more,” Nesta coughed.

  One of the Chasni snapped out words in Cannan towards Nesta.

  “What did that one say?” Subath asked.

  “Speak, and die,” Leilah supplied.

  Subath shook his head. “They’re already dead.”

  Nesta lifted his head, tears streaming down his face as he panted. “We come for dominion. Dajda is finished.”

  Subath’s head dropped, and he studied the awful wound on Nesta’s foot for a moment. “The Cannans will not turn back.” He stood up from where he was hunkered, and looked at Leilah. “Do you truly think your troops can stomach the coming fight?”

  “You may still have your doubts about us, Chief Marshal, but we have the stomach,” she said, stepping up to her bound countrymen. She grabbed Nesta’s hair and pulled his head back. “This one tried to have me killed.” She narrowed her eyes and looked across to the others. “And these two are corrupt.”

  Subath looked at her, and then drew his knife. “Show me I can trust you.” He handed her the pommel, keeping his other hand on his sword.

  She took it, and looked at Nesta. He wailed out some panicked words in Cannan, echoed by the Proclaims to his side. Leilah punched the blade into the side of his neck and withdrew it. She stepped away from the gout of blood, and repeated the action on the first Proclaim, cutting off his cries, and then again on the second. She turned around, blood splashed across her chest and arms, and handed the knife back to Subath. “We’re all just fighting for our lives now.”

  Thaskil leaned his elbows on the battlement and moved the eyeglass over the Cannan ships at anchor in the bay. The rising sun gleamed red off the armour and weapons of the soldiers in the distance as they disembarked rowboats and fell into formation on the beach to the south-west of the city. He scanned the land between the city and the beach, and cursed himself for not tearing down the buildings along the way to slow down the Cannan advance.

  “How long?” Steele asked from his right.

  “Don’t know,” Thaskil said, still peering through the eyeglass and fighting a swelling sense of annoyance at his own error. “Could be tonight. Could be another day or so. Looks like they’ve only unloaded a few dozen ships. Here.” He handed the eyeglass to the lieutenant.

  “You ever killed a man?” Thaskil asked, stepping back and leaning against the inside wall of the battlement.

  Steele lowered the eyeglass and turned about to face Thaskil. “No,” he said, handing the eyeglass back. “Killed a fair few horses and mules.”

  “Did it come easy?”

  “No.” Steele shrugged. “Don’t reckon it comes easy for anyone.”

  “No. Don’t reckon it does,” Thaskil said, feeling his heartbeat start to quicken again.

  “Sir,” Steele ventured, “if I may be so bold. They’re saying things about you. About Apula.” Steele’s eyes widened, taking on an excited look. “They’re saying you were the hero of the siege. That you killed the traitor, Bergnon, and rallied the city against the Solansians. It’s an honour. It really–”

  “It’s no honour, Steele. It’s just duty. Duty for you. Duty for me.” Thaskil looked down at his mud-spattered boots. “I wasn’t the hero of Apula. I swung only one sword. It took thousands of others.” The tremble was working its way up from his hand, and the tightness threatened to coil about his neck.

  Steele was quiet a moment. “Sir,” he said, “I’m frightened.”

  “I know,” Thaskil replied. He looked out across the bay to the army massing on the distant beach. “So am I.”

  Steele looked up, surprise causing his mouth to open. “But you’re a hero. No matter what you say.”

  “I’m a boy of nineteen. Look, I didn’t kill Bergnon, and I didn’t save the city. I swung a sword like the rest of the folk. That’s all any of us can do.” Steele’s face dropped a little, betraying a disappointment in the lad. “You see me as a hero, and I see you as what I was months ago. No one is any better than you. I am no better than you. But if I can stand and fight in Apula, then you can stand and fight in Carte. We do what we are forced to do in the heat of the moment. You are frightened now, as I am, but when the horns blow, and the ladders start coming, you will swing that sword as though it is all your life depends on. And it is. We’ll just keep on going until they stop coming. Do you hear?”

  Steele nodded. “Aye.”

  Thaskil clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and peered back at the beach. “You remember the drills?”

  “Blindfolded, sir.”

  “Good,” Thaskil said as he watched a boatload of ladders land on the beach. “Good. I’ve a notion they’ll send their first wave tonight.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Bold Deeds

  Thaskil looked out to where the moonlight gleamed off thousands of advancing helmets. Large units were being wheeled up behind the advancing troops. Sections of siege engines, soon to be assembled. Soon to be tossing boulders, and oil, and flame into the city. Soon to be delivering raiders to the walls.

  He peeled off the leather gloves he wore and rubbed the sweat from his palms on the knees of his trousers. He could feel the panic swell within him. Could feel it snaking up from his guts to coil about his neck once again. He closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. Slow breath in. Hold it a moment. Slow breath out. He thought of Arrlun, remembered him laughing, remembered he was dead. He thought of all the young men and women who had died, who would die. Thought about how they would never get to laugh again, never get to fulfil their promise. He remembered the words of Arrlun’s poem, and thought of all those young lives that would never get to find out what love felt like. He breathed in slow and deep through his nose, and calmed himself. Subath’s voice sounded from the first level of the battlements below.

  “Keep an eye for advance runners. Just going to see what the old man has to say,” Thaskil said to the soldier standing watch, and stepped twelve feet across to the city side of the battlements and peered down the two levels to where Subath walked back and forth, surrounded by the defenders of Carte.

  The old man stopped, and cleared his throat. “Look, I’m not one for big speeches,” Subath began. “I’m not going to tell you all that this is your one moment for glory, or that eternity is waiting for you.” He laughed. “If you think about it, that’s a fucking stupid thing to tell soldiers in advance of a battle. ‘Eternity is waiting for you.’ Of course it’s bloody well waiting for us, there’s an army come to kill us all, and there’s fuck all more eternal than death. So, no, I’m not going to stand here and inflate your hearts with bullshit tales of how we each can carve our names into history with the end of a blade. All I want to tell you is that every one of you needs to kill at least four or five of them. Fuck it, every one of you do your best to kill ten of the sneaky bastards, and we’ll see this out. It’s a numbers game. We need to bleed them, and make them hurt for every inch of wall they take. We need to make them fear that with every step into the city, they are stepping closer to their own deaths. It’s our duty to grind them down, to break them, and send them back across the Yellow Sea in pieces. Cut them down
, and count it out. Ten of the fuckers each.”

  Thaskil turned away and walked across to the outer side of the battlement as the crowd began to chant Subath’s name. “Short and to the point,” Thaskil grumbled as he stepped up beside the soldier.

  “Good speech, sir,” the soldier said, never taking his eyes from the advancing Cannans. “Nothing too flowery, you know.”

  “Aye,” Thaskil agreed as he lifted the eyeglass to scan the ground in front of the walls. “Subath isn’t normally one for the dram–” Thaskil dropped behind the battlement, dragging the soldier down with him just in time to see the crossbow bolts fizz over the walls where they had been standing. “Down!” Thaskil roared along the wall just as the thump of more crossbows being loosed rang out.

  One soldier stumbled two steps backwards from the battlement and keeled over onto his arse with the feathers of a bolt sticking from his chest. He looked up the wall to Thaskil, face all surprised, and then fell over onto his side. Another soldier cried out, an odd, high-pitched scream trailing off all bubbly and wet as the bolt that had taken the man in the mouth flooded his throat with blood.

  “Fuckers!” the soldier beside Thaskil panted. “Where did they come from?”

  “They wore black from head to toe and crawled in, most likely. Stay low for now.” Thaskil shuffled over to the stairs and headed down to the level below. He hurried across to the nearest arrow loop. “Did you see that?” he asked the archer.

  “Couldn’t place them, sir.”

  “Is there another bow? Here, give it to me.” Thaskil reached for the proffered bow, and peered out of the loop. He scanned the ground before them, and picked out the pale cornerstone of a house that he had seen the crossbow rise from. He couldn’t distinguish much without the aid of the eyeglass, which was probably in pieces given he’d dropped it on the battlement. Then movement. A blackness shifted by the pale cornerstone. Thaskil squinted, and waited for his vision to settle. Come on. There it was. The deliberate and slow movement he was waiting for. “There. The pale cornerstone about one hundred yards dead ahead. You see it?”