King's Men

by Karen de Lange

current captain, at least as far as yesterday, was called Lorcan. Mick had run a mission with him three years ago when they had first arrived in Korad, and remembered a self-confident young man with a natural authority to him. Another five years and he might have made a good leader. It was a shame.

  Together, the three men sauntered out into the middle of the near-deserted square. The royal palace and other civic buildings rose up around them, dark towers brushing the sky. Eyes watched them from all around, silent and invisible, but undoubtedly there.

  'Feel exposed any?' asked Aidan.

  'Speak for yourself,' said Godfrey. 'I'm fully dressed.'

  'Shut up, both,' said Mick. He went no further than that, recognising the banter as a disguise for nerves. Long time since any of them had felt nerves. Long time since they'd tried anything this insane.

  'Our friends?' Aidan nodded towards the opposite side of the square and a group of men gathered in the deep shadow of an archway.

  'Our friends.' Mick walked forward, leaving Aidan and Godfrey in plain sight as he approached the archway. 'Good to see you turned up, Cal. Thanks for bringing your lads.'

  One of the men stepped out of the shadows just far enough that the sun illuminated a pockmarked forehead and flattened nose. 'Me lad delivered your piece of paper. Didn't hang around to see how it was took.'

  'No need for him to,' said Mick. 'Tell your lad thanks, from me. Are we on, then?'

  'We'd bloody better be. Elsewise I'll be raisin' hell.'

  Mick smiled. 'Raising hell is what I want you to be doing, Cal. You do it better than anyone.'

  Cal grunted and turned away, addressing the men gathered behind him. 'You heard the boss. Get going.'

  With wolfish grins or silent nods, the men drifted off in different directions around the edge of the square. Only Mick and Cal saw each of them gain speed and purpose, just as soon as they were out of sight of the palace.

  'Don't you have somewhere to be?' asked Cal. 'Waitin' for someone?'

  'Aye. I can leave the rest to you?'

  'Course you bloody can. Y'said it, raisin' hell is what I'm good at.'

  Mick nodded. 'Do it, then.' He returned to Aidan and Godfrey. 'Drawing enough attention?'

  'Aye, I reckon so.' Godfrey's eyes were fixed on the barred window above the palace gates. Behind the bars something moved, and sunlight gleamed on polished metal for the briefest of moments.

  'They haven't shot us,' observed Aidan.

  'Bright lad,' said Godfrey. 'Good of you to notice.'

  Aidan glared at him. 'I meant – '

  'He knows what you meant.' Mick drew his pistol and aimed it at the window, enjoying the sudden flurry of movement it elicited. A crossbow bolt clattered to the ground a few metres in front of them. 'See?' He re-holstered his gun. 'You should trust me more. Let's go.'

  It was blacker than witching hour. Which was good in one respect, because it meant that Mick could be almost certain he was alone. After all, what kind of lunatic would come down here without light? Apart from himself, obviously.

  On the other hand, it did mean that he had to focus that much more on his other senses to guide him. To listen to the water splashing around his feet, without thinking too hard about what else might be in it. To run his hand along the slimy wall and pretend he touched nothing but innocent moss. To sniff his way to fresh air through the foul without thinking – well, without thinking anything, really.

  It was less than half a mile and couldn't have taken more than ten minutes, but he was still grateful when empty space opened up beneath his left hand. He took the turning and found the bottom step sooner than he had anticipated, tripping and almost going face-first in the muck.

  Twenty nine steps up. Mick counted them. At the top, just a little light crept around the edges of a heavy wooden door. He reached out, found the broken lock and the knot of rope that now held it closed. It was still his handiwork; nobody else had come through since he, Aidan and Godfrey had used the sewer as their entrance to the city three weeks ago.

  Two knife slashes dealt with the knot, and the door swung outwards. Mick stepped out on to hard-packed earth – the dry moat beneath the landward city walls. A few feet away, tethered to a misshapen tree, a horse munched on the scrubby grass.

  'Thank you, Cal,' Mick murmured as he approached it. This was no shaggy mountain pony, but a sleek, long-legged beast, built for speed and distance. Cal had provided a lightweight saddle, and a pack with a few days' food and water. Blessing the man under his breath, Mick greeted the beautiful creature with a gentle scratch on the nose.

  He didn't worry about being spotted as he moved out from the shelter of the walls and manoeuvred the horse out of the moat. From the distant shouts drifting over the walls, the guards would be more concerned with what was happening inside the city, and any that were looking their way wouldn't raise any fuss about one man leaving.

  Up on level ground, he mounted. The line of the forest sheltered him as he skirted the edge of the city. At one point, a distant explosion had him smiling grimly to himself. A few minutes later smoke began to rise inside the walls; first one column, then two and three, then at least a dozen.

  There was movement in the trees up ahead. Mick pulled his gun and kept it steady until he heard Aidan's voice.

  'If you shoot me, boss, I'll bloody kill you!'

  'Just checking.' Mick waited for Aidan to duck under some low-hanging branches. 'How goes it?'

  'Well.' Aidan smiled. 'The crowd's gathering in Palace Square. Cal and his lads have them well riled up. And it seems Cal's boy is a proper little firebug.'

  'Is he now?' Mick tugged at his earring. 'Then things might move faster than I thought.'

  Mick and Aidan waited at the crest of a rise, from where they could survey the two city gates closest to the palace. The sun hung low in the sky, hazed with smoke from the single, massive pillar of smoke into which the thin columns had merged. The slope beneath them was lit by a shifting orange light from the fires; ash drifted towards them on the breeze.

  'We're on the skyline, boss.' Aidan's horse shifted nervously even as he did.

  'I know.' Mick kept his back straight and a tight hold on the rein. 'We're doing things differently now. Hadn't you noticed?'

  'Aye,' Aidan admitted, then, 'He should be here by now.'

  'Godfrey, or the king?'

  'Both.'

  They turned together at the sound of hoofbeats approaching from behind.

  'Only me!' came a shout. 'Don't shoot us!' Cal set his horse to a gallop up the last of the slope. 'Thank god I found you.' He held his reins one-handed; his other hand busy steadying the boy of around twelve who sat in front of him.

  Mick ran through all the possible scenarios in his mind, and found he liked none of them. 'Godfrey.'

  Cal shook his head. 'I'm sorry, friend. Sorry both. The guards caught up with us setting the 'splosives off in the sewers. Crossbowed him straight, they did. And I don't think me and my lad are welcome in the city no more.' He squeezed the lad around the waist. 'This's me lad, Bren. Named for his uncle, who done the family so proud.'

  Was the expression on his face anything like that on Aidan's? Mick thought it possible. His hands were shaking, but not from fear.

  'Look, lookit!' Bren pointed. 'There!'

  Almost invisible in the smoke-shadows, a knot of horsemen had emerged from one of the gates and was riding for the trees.

  'Young eyes,' said Aidan.

  'I'll not quibble.' He was cold now. Very cold. Grieve later. 'Last one to kill a king has to row us home.'

  With the ash blowing like grit in his face and the horse's steady gallop eating up the distance, Mick could almost empty his mind and forget. Almost.

  Aidan was level with him; glancing sideways he could see his friend's profile black against the fire-glow. Another set of hoofbeats sounded from behind – gods, that had better not be Cal with his boy.

  They had been seen, but they were between the riders and their destination. The only other
place they could go was back to the city, and Mick could well imagine that was not a tempting prospect. Closer now, he could count six, all told. About what they had planned for – a small party, for speed. Two-to-one odds, with Godfrey. Three-to-one, without.

  Their targets put on a fresh turn of speed and veered to one side, hoping to bypass them, but Mick and Aidan had the fresher horses and were coming downhill. As they closed, Mick finally gave vent to the wild yell of fury that had been building inside him for three weeks. Aidan's voice rose to join his, then Cal's. Gods, he really was following. Six-to-two-and-a-half, then, assuming Cal would be hampered some by Bren.

  Slowly, warily, realising that they had no choice, the riders drew up into a loose group. Four of them lifted crossbows from their saddles, one drew a sword. The last, in the middle of the group, gripped the pommel of his saddle and glared at them from under grey brows.

  'Highness.' With his gun in one hand and long knife in the other, Mick pressed his knees inward to keep his horse still. 'Can't say I'm glad to see you. Can't say I'm surprised, either. Running away from that?' He let the tip of his knife twitch towards the city.

  The king pointed at him. 'Traitor. Kill him.'

  Mick spread his hands. 'Really? Highness, I'm hurt.' In truth, he couldn't think of much except the four crossbow bolts aimed at his heart. But they hadn't fired yet, and that had to be a good thing.

  'What are you waiting for?' screamed the king. 'Kill him!'

  Mick sketched a mocking bow. 'I don't kill so easy as a monastery full of monks,