Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  The Cannan sentry walked off in the direction of the man to Thaskil’s left. He strode through the tussocks of wind-whipped grasses, and started to undo the laces of his trousers. The Cannan was standing no more than a foot in front of the Pathfinder. The sentry pulled down his trousers and crouched low, keeping his soaked blanket draped over his head and shoulders. The Pathfinder sprung up and forward, driving his knife point into the nape of the sentry’s skull with one hand, and smothering his mouth with the other. Slow and steady, the Pathfinder lowered the sentry to the ground and took up the man’s blanket, draping it over his own head and shoulders. The Pathfinder looked across to Thaskil and nodded, then stood up and turned back around to face the encampment and the three remaining sentries.

  Thaskil began to crawl forwards, the action mirrored by his crew, spread out around the Cannans. They moved quick and quiet across the soaked grassland, careful to avoid splashing in the many puddles. They crawled in close enough to hear the breathing of the three sentries. As the Pathfinder masquerading as a sentry approached, he grunted in welcome and turned back around to look into the night.

  One of the Cannans said something to the man, then stood. The sentry stepped up to the Pathfinder, repeating his words to the man’s back. The Pathfinder turned and rammed his knife up under the man’s chin.

  Thaskil leapt up, his actions mirrored by two other Pathfinders. Their hands wrapped about the sentries' mouths as their blackened blades cut open their throats. They each dragged the thrashing bodies to the ground and held them there, dying noises muffled underneath palms.

  Blood flooded out between Thaskil’s fingers and over his hand and arm. He was thankful for it, for the warmth of it. His man’s heels stopped kicking against the wet ground, and he freed his grip. The Cannan’s eyes were wide and full of shock. Underneath the mess of blood on the man’s face, Thaskil could see he was young. Too young. Only a boy, really. No time for that. Got to move on. Thaskil pointed to one of the Pathfinders. “You,” he whispered. “Take this one’s place. I’ll go on to the towers.” He looked at the other three men who picked up the blankets and spears of the slain sentries, sitting down in their huddle. “Pass us your oil bladders.” He took the one handed to him, and slung it over his shoulder and onto his back where it lay against the other. “If this goes bad,” he addressed them all in a low whisper, “slip away, and get back to the sally port before the chief blocks it up. Sun’s coming up soon.”

  They nodded and drew the blankets tight over their shoulders and heads.

  Thaskil wiped down his knife and sheathed it. He dropped down onto his belly again and crawled forward, followed by the remaining Pathfinders. The amber light of the fire pits and torches about the encampment bled out into the darkness of the plain. It was glowing now on the tussocks of wet grass as Thaskil brushed his way carefully past them. The mallets worked still. Thump. Thump. Thump. The towers grew. There looked to be ten being erected, with components of many more distributed about the rear of the encampment. Thaskil identified the broad, wheeled base units, the mid and upper tiers. He counted them. Twenty more. Thirty towers. To the side of the tower units sat the components of several ballistae, and what looked like the sling arm of an onager. Shitting hells, we have the lot. We can cut the head from them, here and now. Crews of a half-dozen worked on each tower, with an engineer moving between them barking orders in Cannan to the labourers. Unarmed. Thaskil crawled onward, through the rain, through the mud, and closer to the edge of the encampment. Closer to the components of the unconstructed units.

  The group of Pathfinders made their way across to the cover offered by the gathered components of the unconstructed towers. The twenty men unslung the oil-filled bladders from over their shoulders and held them ready in their hands.

  “Spread half of the oil about these units,” Thaskil whispered, looking about the faces of his troops. The soot smeared about their faces to hide them in the night had run from the constant rain, streaking and giving them a striped effect. “They’re tight enough packed that it’ll spread.” He craned his head around and looked at the units he was leaning up against. “Best to spread a trail of oil between them.” He unslung one of the oil bladders on his back. “Once we get these components burning, and the crews come running, we need to be quick. I want those near-built towers lighting the sky. Every one. We need to be quick, otherwise we’ll be overwhelmed. In and out, and sprint back to the tanners' yards and back to the wall.”

  “We’re good, Captain.” Steele smiled back, white teeth gleaming between soot-stained lips. “Just give us the nod.”

  Thaskil pierced the top of his oil bladder and poured the liquid over the base units behind him, being careful to pour into the drier sections of wood as yet unsaturated with rain. He worked quick, as did his men. He spread it thin and wide, and onto other component pieces until the bladder was done. He tossed the empty skin into the piles of wood and hunkered back with the rest of the Pathfinders. He unslung the second oil bladder from his back and stepped away from the components. “Best someone without one of these sparks it,” he whispered with a smile.

  Steele pulled a spark-rod from a pouch on his side, along with a strip of roughed birch bark and a wad of oiled linen. He struck twice against the spark-rod with the dull edge of his knife and showered the bark in sparks. An ember took and he knelt low, blowing once on the tiny glowing spot, and then again, bringing it to life as a tiny flame. With a gentle touch, Steele placed the oiled linen wad onto the end of his knife, and touched it to the small flame on the bark. The linen took the flame in an instant. Steele raised his knife, and shielding the flame from the moving air, he brought it over to a patch of oil on the soaked section of wood. The flame glowed blue for a moment, oil burning on wet wood, and then grew to a small orange flame. It kicked into life with a splutter of yellow and orange, and then spread up the oil.

  “Get ready,” Thaskil hissed. “Those without the oil, grab some torches, or any burning ends you can take from the fires.” He looked up at the flame, now spreading rapidly between the tower units. The first cry from the Cannans sounded. “Any man with oil that falls, the next man pick it up.” Thaskil crept around the side of the units, now bursting into hot flame. He saw the ground crews rushing towards the blaze. Those working on the towers descended and joined the rush to the conflagration. “Now!” Thaskil sprinted out from behind the burning units, and straight for the farthest tower. He punched his knife into the top of the oil bladder as he ran, quickly sheathing it and gripping the hole tight so as not to shower himself in the oil. As he ran forward, Cannans running the other way looked at him and the rest of the spreading Pathfinders, faces shifting as the realisation dawned on them. One man with a mallet ran straight for Thaskil, teeth bared in fury. Thaskil ducked under the Cannan's swing and shouldered the labourer to the ground. He ran on, hearing the runner behind him finish the man. Thaskil approached the farthest tower and flung the oil bladder into the heavy wooden base of the unit, spraying oil up the insides of the structure as it travelled. A spear flashed by Thaskil’s face as he turned to look across at the other towers. A Cannan rushed him with a short sword, but the aim was wide and the arm of the man stretched out in front of Thaskil’s belly. The moment seemed to freeze. The Cannan’s eyes widened in knowing he’d missed his chance. Thaskil brought his knee up at the same time as his hands pressed down on the forearm of the Cannan. Knee met arm, and the man’s bone snapped upwards with a crack. The scream that was rising from the Cannan’s throat faded in a strangled retch as Thaskil pulled free his knife and thumped it up under the man’s chin. The man’s eyes rolled white in his head as he coughed once, spraying blood across Thaskil’s face, and fell to the rain-soaked ground, blood mingling with the muddy puddles.

  A flaming torch flew past Thaskil and into the tower, tossed by the Pathfinder running behind him.

  “Here, take his sword.” Thaskil handed the weapon to the Pathfinder, and glanced at the towers. Flames were rising from all but one. Tha
skil could see a pair of Pathfinders struggling against a trio of Cannan labourers protecting the tower. Shouting in Cannan sounded all around. Don’t have long. “Come on!” he roared and sprinted toward the grappling Pathfinders. As he ran towards them, a pair of Cannan soldiers joined the melee. The Pathfinder holding the oil bladder took a sword thrust straight to the gut. The sword punched right through the oilskin and into his belly, showering him in the oil. He dropped at the foot of the tower. The Pathfinder next to him was felled with a sword thrust to the back of the neck.

  “Fuck!” the Pathfinder beside Thaskil hissed. “We need to get clear. The others are running for it.”

  “The tower!” Thaskil cried over the din of shouting and burning wood. “We need–” He looked down at where his men had just been cut down and saw the Pathfinder who had been run through burst into flame. “He must’ve struck his spark-rod. Holy hells.” The flames shrouding the Pathfinder glowed bright with heat, driving the labourers and soldiers back. He somehow hauled himself to his feet, and clambered onto the last unburnt tower.

  “Come on!” The Pathfinder pulled at Thaskil’s shoulder. “Need to go. Now!”

  As Thaskil broke into a run, the burning man collapsed, and the flames grew hungrily up the tower structure.

  Thaskil sprinted past the raging fire that engulfed the components of the siege engines and towers. The heat was so strong he could feel it drying his soaked-through darks. The light emanating from the conflagration was such that he could see the backs of some of the retreating Pathfinders as they sprinted off into the boggy stretches of the grasslands to the north-east. Arrows fizzed through the air, punching into the ground behind them as they ran. “Shit,” Thaskil huffed as he ran. “Didn’t think about the light of the fire.” He glanced to his right, and saw a group of sentries running after them. “Fuck. Faster.” He lifted his knees and quickened, the Pathfinder beside him huffing breath rhythmically, feet slapping down in the wet ground in cadence with his own steps. The cries of the Cannans giving chase persisted to the rear as they caught up with the rest of the team.

  “Captain.” Lieutenant Steele grinned between sooty lips as he ran. “Nice little fire you started there.”

  “Aye,” Thaskil replied, casting a glance over his shoulder at the pulsing light of the fire. He looked forward and into the blackness of the night. “Keep running.” He looked behind him again. “Think we’ve lost them.” He ran, feet pounding in the soaked earth, arms pumping at the chill air.

  The light from the fire had been replaced by the faint glow of the rising sun fighting through the clouds. Rain slapped down hard into Thaskil’s face as he ran. Amidst the sound of ragged breathing, he realised he was laughing.

  Subath stood by the parapet on the upper level of the south wall and watched the fire blaze in the distance. He smiled. “You bloody well did it, lad.” He clenched his fists and listened to the leather creak across his knuckles. “You bloody well did it.” He turned to the grim-faced Skeldon. “Still need this wall protected. They may not have as many towers, if any, but you need to be ready for them.” Subath stepped in close, not bothering to lower his voice for the benefit of the major’s ego, or to shield the troops from the discussion. “The next time you disobey a direct command from me, the chief marshal of the High Command, I will have you executed.”

  Skeldon’s bulging eyes widened in what appeared to be shock, and then offence. His thin lips split and his mouth opened to speak.

  “Don’t say a word.” Subath cut him off. “You may have stopped me falling off the wall, and for that I am grateful, but don’t mistake that gratitude for fondness towards you, Major, nor should you take my thanks as weakness. You were commanded to take charge of the defence of the southern wall, and to free up reserves if needed. You were not commanded to abandon your command to seek out glory. Now, let me make this simple for you: you are commanded to protect and hold the south wall. You will do so until you receive alternate commands from me, or a delegate of mine. You will obey my commands, or I will have you dangling from the wall with your neck stretched. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Skeldon swallowed, his throat apple bulging.

  Subath stormed away from the major and down the steps of the battlements. He clenched his fists again, and felt the tremor run up his arm. Fucking blood-yips. He concentrated on breathing in slow through his nose, and worked to steady his quickening heart rate. Not now, you bastard. Not now. The thread of panic grew in his gut, and squirmed about, rising. Subath breathed deeply again and exhaled. Not damn well now.

  Forty

  The Wall

  Thaskil soaked the sponge in the bowl of steaming water and scrubbed at the caked blood and dirt that stained his chest and stomach.

  “Nasty looking scar you’ve got, lad.” Subath’s voice sounded behind him.

  Thaskil turned, embarrassed by his nakedness. “Apologies, my lord. I was told I could wash in here.”

  Subath waved a hand and walked over to the table where the bowl of water stood. “Told you before to drop the 'lord' shit. You know as well as anyone I’m no lord.” He picked up the pitcher and poured himself a cup of wine.

  Thaskil sponged at the filth on his arm and watched the beak of the pitcher tremble. He followed the tremor along the body of the pitcher and up Subath’s arm. The old warrior lifted the cup to his lips and drank. As Thaskil looked up at his eyes, he realised Subath was looking right at him. “Apologies. Didn’t mean to stare.”

  Subath gasped as he finished the wine, and wiped the beads of red liquid from his greying moustache. “See something familiar, did you?”

  Thaskil placed the sponge into the bowl of water and lifted up a linen cloth to dry himself down. “You get it too?”

  “Aye, lad.” Subath poured another cup of wine and handed it to Thaskil. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. We all get it. Some of us beat it, and it beats some of us.”

  Thaskil took the wine and drank it down. “How long?”

  “Since my third or fourth skirmish.” Subath pulled out a chair and sat down with a sigh. “I was younger than you then. Didn’t know what to make of it. Still don’t, much of the time. But I control it. For the most part, at least.”

  “I wouldn’t have ever known,” Thaskil said as he pulled on a clean pair of leather trousers and began lacing them up.

  “Aye, well.” Subath reached across to the sponge and squeezed the liquid from it. “As I said, I control it, for the most part.” He dabbed the sponge about his face, stripping away the blood that speckled his face. “You lost two men, I believe?”

  “Two.” Thaskil paused from lacing up his trousers. “They fell setting the last tower to flame. The man was mortally wounded, and he set himself aflame, and then threw himself onto the tower base. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  “Courage, lad. You’ve seen it, but remember that courage wears different faces. You’ve got it.”

  Thaskil shook his head and reached for an undershirt, pulling it over his head and tucking it into his trousers. “Don’t know about that. Just been doing what’s right.”

  “Well, we’ll need you to be doing much more of what’s right in the coming hours. The sally port has been blocked in. With their engines ruined, I’d expect them to redouble the ladder assault on the walls. If they work us hard on the walls they’ll go for the gates. Are you ready, if your surprises are needed?”

  Thaskil pulled the chainmail shirt down over his head. “I’ll be ready. The men too.”

  “Good. Because they’re coming.”

  Thaskil strode forward, mud already soaking into the bottom of his surcoat, causing it to slap and cling against his greaves. Soldiers hunkered in alleys and burned-out shells of buildings. They nodded to him as he passed by, their hands full of small, steaming bowls of thin stew. A handful of barley and some mule. If they’re lucky. Hells, we can’t hold out. Even if we do, we’ll starve before the end of winter.

  The faces of the soldiers
spoke of the savagery of the earlier Cannan assault. Blood-soaked bandages across faces, legs, arms. Brown with dried blood. Glazed eyes stared at Thaskil, stared beyond him, or were shut, hiding from whatever ghost of horrors sprang before them. One man sat on a tumbled lintel stone in front of a poor excuse of a fire. A wool cap bulged over his bandaged scalp. In his hand a roll of tabac burned down, its glowing ember nearing the skin of his fingers. Thaskil hunkered down, and took hold of the man’s hand. The soldier flinched and blinked. But he said nothing. Thaskil turned the man’s hand over and pinched the roll of tabac, before dropping it into the mud between the man’s feet.

  “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you.” The man tried to stand, his arm moving to raise a salute.

  Thaskil placed his hands on the man’s shoulders and edged him back down onto his rough seat. “Rest. Just rest.”

  The man’s eyes were red-rimmed, and bags hung beneath them, dark like heavy bruises. Weariness and fear aged the man, but it was clear he was not much older than Thaskil himself. He reached with trembling fingers to a small red leather pouch cinched from his belt.

  “Here. Let me.” Thaskil untied the pouch. He reached in and drew a pinch of shredded tabac, and a thin sheaf of leaf to roll it in.

  “Thanks to you, sir,” the man said, his hollow eyes holding Thaskil’s for a moment, before a twitch ran through him and he looked away.

  “I heard the fighting was hard,” Thaskil said, rolling the tabac into a long, thin piece. “You make sure you’re only in reserve when they come again.” He licked the end of the leaf and rolled it closed over the tabac. “You make sure of that, you hear?” He handed the roll to the man.