by Duncan Lay
‘You fool! You don’t know what you are facing,’ Gello threatened. ‘We shall utterly destroy this city and all who shelter inside it, so that every other person in this country will immediately surrender to us. You will all die, down to the last child. The last breath is all they shall get!’
‘I have nothing more to say to you, monster. Farewell.’ Merren turned her horse away. The silence of the Fearpriest was unnerving; the unspoken menace that he presented made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She had brought Martil, Barrett and Sendric, but she wished she had Father Nott with her, although he was back in the city, looking after Karia.
Gello watched her go and licked his dry lips. He took a deep breath and urged his horse over to where Onzalez sat silently.
‘You should have learned the lessons of Markuz,’ Onzalez said suddenly.
‘Sorry, Brother?’ Gello stopped short.
‘Markuz thought the Ralloran War was over after the battle of Meads. The Rallorans were broken, at his mercy. Rallora was his for the taking. Only it was not just his—he had promised the Avish half of the country, in exchange for their help in destroying the Rallorans. But Markuz wanted more. So he turned on the Avish, thinking a surprise attack would deliver him two countries, not one. But the Avish did not give in and Markuz found himself fighting on two fronts, unable to both defeat the Avish and crush the last Ralloran resistance. The Rallorans had the time and space they needed to regroup under men such as Captain Martil and, well, you know the rest. A valuable lesson for uncertain allies.’
‘Indeed,’ Gello agreed, feeling sweat start out along his scalp. The bastard knew what he had been planning!
‘A lesson you need to absorb. Otherwise it could prove a fatal mistake. Your words to Queen Merren were strong. They were good. But words need to be backed up by action. The Norstalines are defiant—they need to learn fear. Together we shall teach them to dread what is coming, so it leaches away their ability to fight. Do that and I will see you as my trusted ally, worthy of ruling here.’
‘I am to be trusted! I will do whatever you ask!’ Gello promised, feeling the sweat trickling down his back.
‘Excellent. My men will prepare the demonstration. Bring those Norstalines that you captured on the way here.’
‘But they’re not captives, they are…’ Gello began, only to trail off. He had liked having the townsfolk with him, liked having them say he was their rightful King. But they were unimportant compared to his own skin and his ambition. If they had to be sacrificed, so be it.
12
Merren kept her back straight and her head high until they were back inside the gate. But when she found the streets lined with cheering people, she could not let herself relax, even then.
‘They are all going to die. And I couldn’t save them,’ she murmured. ‘I had hoped Gello might see reason and at least spare the children.’
‘We cannot give up. Conal and Hutter have got men going through the town now, finding every man who can hold a weapon—and every weapon that a man might hold. We still have Barrett and his wizards. And they still have to get over the walls or through the gates,’ Martil told her.
‘I’m afraid you taught me too well, Captain,’ she sighed. ‘We can defend against one attack—they’ll send four. And they have Fearpriests, who can bring down walls and gates with a touch.’
Martil was silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But we will make them shudder whenever they remember us.’
‘I had hoped for rather more than that,’ she said wryly. She was about to tell him to find Karia and spend what little time they had left together. Then she looked at him. Why should she worry about propriety, about Sendric’s pride, about rumours of an illegitimate prince, when they were all going to die tomorrow? Why shouldn’t she, Martil and Karia spend their last night together? A shout from the walls made her turn.
‘The Fearpriest! My Queen, you have to see this!’
She looked up to see Captain Kay waving down at her.
‘Come on,’ Merren said grimly.
Everyone else in the street had also heard Kay’s shout, so by the time Merren and the others reached the top of the wall, hundreds of people were lined along the battlement, although they moved aside to give Merren room, and an uninterrupted sight of what was going on below.
She wished they had stayed where they were.
The Norstalines who had left their homes in the east to follow Gello, dozens of them, were being hauled over to where the Fearpriest Onzalez stood, Prent by his side, just out of bowshot. They tried to fight, they tried to struggle but, with four Berellian soldiers to each Norstaline, they stood no chance. Their screams and pleas echoed across the silent city.
On one side a chunk had been sawn off a fallen tree to make a short, wide stump. As the city watched in horror, a man was stripped and dragged face-upwards across this stump, men holding his arms and legs, bending him over backwards so he was helpless, the tree stump pushing into the small of his back.
Then, as Prent chanted behind him, Onzalez stepped forwards, knife in hand. He plunged the strange black blade home then sliced across, carving a wide arc just below the upthrust ribcage and giving him access to the chest cavity. One more circular cut inside then Onzalez reached in and, with a well-practised movement, tore free the bloody heart. This was raised high by a triumphant, dripping Onzalez, who stalked up and down in front of the walls, ignoring both the screams and pleas of the remaining captives as well as the cries and bellows of anger from the walls.
Like a showman putting on a performance, Onzalez dropped the heart into a large fire, then turned to where a second man was being prepared. Knowing every eye was on him, Onzalez strode carefully across to where his Berellian guards had hung a man upside down from a crude wooden frame. Carefully, making sure those on the walls could see every gut-wrenching moment, he began to work on the man, whose blood-curdling screams had people on the city walls turning away, praying to Aroaril or simply vomiting.
Martil watched in horror as the Fearpriest swiftly skinned the man alive, leaving a shuddering, reddened wreck to howl in agony. But it did not stop there. With his rust-red robe stained a deeper colour, Onzalez turned his back to the city walls. Then, with help only from Prent, he disrobed. With a flourish he turned back, actually wearing the man’s skin like some bloodied cloak, a dripping mask across his face. Carefully he paraded before them. He said nothing, but he did not need to. His silence was more frightening. The entire city watched him, horrified, as he pointed up at them, at all of them, then at the twitching remains of a man behind him. None could miss the message of what would be coming for them.
‘Barrett, you have to stop him,’ Merren managed to say past the gorge thick in her throat.
The wizard nodded grimly. ‘I am a little weak after using so many birds,’ he warned. ‘But I can still handle this,’ he said confidently, then pointed. The tree trunk altar burst into flame instantly, making the nearest Berellians leap away in shock. But, next moment, it was out.
‘What happened?’ Merren asked.
Barrett’s mouth sagged open before he recovered, shutting it with an almost audible snap.
‘Let’s see how good you are,’ he muttered, then closed his eyes.
The grass around the Fearpriests and Berellians sprang into growth then, just as quickly, died away again.
Barrett began to sweat, his breath sawing in his throat, but the only other evidence he was doing anything was a clenched fist. Nothing was happening beyond the walls, although the slaughter had stopped as the Fearpriest’s attention was diverted.
‘It’s too much!’ Barrett gasped. ‘Each death provides power for that Fearpriest to use. I—I cannot match him!’
He unclenched his hand and leaned on the battlements, sucking in deep breaths. He looked up at Merren, and she was shocked to see doubt in his eyes.
‘I am sorry, my Queen,’ he groaned. ‘I have failed you again. The birds, they took so much out of me…’
<
br /> ‘No! It is not your fault. Rest, we shall need you tomorrow.’ She patted him on the shoulder and looked for Bishop Milly.
‘What can you do to stop this?’ she asked.
Milly, whose face had gone white, shook her head.
‘Their weakness is metal but they are not carrying any, they are using stone knives,’ she said haltingly. ‘And I would have to be out there to try something and, even then, there are two of them…if they were too strong for Barrett…’
‘I’ll order the men to assemble! If nothing else, we shall take that foul Fearpriest with us!’ Martil turned away.
‘No!’ Merren caught his arm.
‘What?’
‘Look!’
She pointed out Gello’s cavalry lined up to the left, ready to charge, while the Berellian cavalry, except for the company helping Onzalez to slaughter helpless Norstalines, was to the right.
‘It’s what they want. If we go out there the cavalry will destroy us,’ she said thickly.
Martil stared in frustration, despair and horror. Down below Berellians were putting up a second frame, and a terrified woman was being dragged screaming towards it.
‘So we just have to watch this?’ he asked.
Merren turned to Barrett. ‘Can you ensure I can be heard?’ she asked him.
‘Of course, my Queen,’ he said weakly, although with a smile.
‘We cannot help them. But we don’t have to watch,’ Merren shouted, her voice carrying clearly up and down the wall. ‘If we go out there, the cavalry will tear us apart. It’s what they want. They want us to be afraid. They want us to despair, to dread that will be our fate. Do not let them win! If we only have this last day, spend it with the ones you love. If you do not have loved ones, then go to the Palace Square—and find someone, even if it is only to talk to. Remember what the Fearpriests are doing outside tomorrow. But today we need to fight fear with love. It is the only way to beat them! Don’t let them have this day!’
They stared at her then one, then a trickle, then a flood of people left the wall, heading for homes and loved ones, leaving behind the cries and the screams from the other side of the wall.
‘That goes for all of us,’ Merren told those around her. ‘We should not spend this last day alone. Go! All of you! Don’t look, don’t listen to what is going on out there.’
In the bustle, she caught Martil’s arm.
‘See if Father Nott can look after Karia for a few turns of the hourglass,’ she said softly. ‘Then find me.’
Neither saw Sendric watching them, his face twisted in anger.
Kesbury shuddered when Milly finished describing what Onzalez and Prent were doing outside the walls.
‘They were doing it to taunt us, to try and make us attack them—for their cavalry was ready. And that Fearpriest’s power—Barrett was unable to match it. By the time all those poor people are dead, he will be more powerful still. No doubt he plans to use that to tear down walls or a gate tomorrow.’ Milly sighed. ‘To stand there and know we could do nothing…it was the hardest thing I have done.’
Kesbury nodded. ‘The Queen was right to order everyone away. Love is the only way to fight fear. And Aroaril knows, there is enough fear in this city. We should go down to the Palace Square, try and find some lost souls, and offer them someone to talk to, a reassurance that Aroaril will be waiting for them on the other side.’
‘We can do that later,’ Milly said, then leaned over and kissed him.
‘But…’ Kesbury began.
‘Don’t ask questions,’ she told him.
‘I have never felt such power before. It was worse than the time when I tried to stop that storm.’ Barrett sighed. ‘At least then I could feel I was making some progress, could feel it weakening. Against this Fearpriest—it was like a child trying to push down the palace!’
‘But you had been weakened by sending many birds,’ Tiera pointed out.
‘I know, but I should have still been able to do something. I’m the Queen’s Magician! If I couldn’t stop that Fearpriest, who will?’
‘Do you have to keep talking at a time like this?’ Tiera asked.
Barrett paused. ‘No,’ he agreed.
Conal cleared his throat. ‘I know it is too soon. I know that you must still be grieving. And if we weren’t probably all going to die tomorrow I would never dream of asking. But over the past weeks we have become friends and…’
‘It is too soon. But today is all we have. So why not live it, while we can?’ Louise agreed.
‘Martil, I wonder if I might spend a few turns of the hourglass with Karia. After all, I don’t know when I will get another chance,’ Nott said gently.
Martil, who had not even had the chance to ask, simply nodded.
‘I’ll be back to put her to bed,’ he said.
‘No hurry. I don’t think we need to bother about normal routines today.’ Nott smiled sadly.
Sendric walked through the streets, ignoring those who offered him drinks, or food. The supplies, that had been so carefully hoarded to feed the people on their march north, were being eaten and drunk with abandon.
Every door in the city seemed to be open, every person seemed to be eating, drinking, laughing.
However, Sendric could feel the air of desperation. Everyone seemed to be trying too hard to have fun, the laughter was too often forced, as they tried to grab what they could from their last day and night.
He had no wish to join them.
His wife had been dead for many a year, his daughter a victim of Gello. He had one wish left, that he could be revenged on Gello. After that, he did not care what happened to him.
The frantic attempts to clutch at life that he could see all around him left him empty. Dignity was everything. He would no more sup in the gutters with drunken peasants than he would embrace Gello.
But he could not go to the palace. The thought that Merren was with a base-born Ralloran had him seething. How could he? How could she? The thought of besmirching the honour of the Norstaline Royal House was enough to make him want to vomit. Even with what faced them tomorrow, how could Merren debase the proud throne of Norstalos with a commoner? Sendric was well aware that past kings and princes had been happy to debase themselves with women from the lower classes but he could not see that as the same. Bitter thoughts such as these kept him moving through the streets, his grim face causing all but the most drunken to stay clear of him.
‘Count Sendric!’
He turned at the call, to see a pair of familiar faces—the head of the Guild of Coopers, and his deputy.
‘Count Sendric, we have compiled that report you asked us for—it makes ugly reading,’ the Head Cooper announced. ‘We have tallies from every guild and many a town council.’
Sendric had to think for a moment before remembering he had wanted a detailed picture of the economic disruption the invasion had caused. He sighed: such a thing was almost obscene at a time like this.
‘If I may be so bold, we have a small gathering at our guild hall. Perhaps you could join us?’
Sendric was about to refuse, out of habit, but he had nothing better to do. At least it might stop him thinking about Merren and her Ralloran.
Besides, he knew from Merren’s surveys that the business community hated the idea of a Ralloran Prince Consort almost as much as he did.
‘Lead on,’ he indicated. If nothing else, he could read their report.
‘So you’re a captain in the Queen’s army?’
Kettering laughed harshly. ‘Only because the others are dead.’
‘Don’t listen to him! This is Killer Kettering, the man who turned the Battle of Pilleth and rescued hundreds from Cessor, led us all out safely after Rocus and Cropper were wounded,’ Leigh announced. The three of them had been walking along the street when they had stumbled into a huge party that stretched from one side of the road to the other, adults and children eating and drinking.
Kettering shook his head at Leigh’s words—he cared no
thing for what people thought. Not any more. He had once tried to be liked—and failed miserably. Now he did what he wanted and let others judge him as they wished.
‘And where are you all from?’ Hawke asked.
‘We’re from villages down on the Berellian border. Why don’t you come and join us? Everyone is a friend tonight.’
‘Why not?’ Leigh agreed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Mabel, and these are my girls. Get some food for these brave soldiers.’
The girls disappeared into the crowd, while Leigh and Hawke allowed food and drink to be pressed into their hands. They moved into the crowd, leaving Kettering standing uncomfortably with Mabel.
‘And where’s your husband?’ he asked, for want of something more intelligent.
Mabel’s smile vanished. ‘Dead. At the hands of the Berellians.’
‘I am sorry,’ Kettering said awkwardly. He had always had problems talking to women, always feeling self-conscious about his hair. Even now he could not stop himself from reaching up and checking it was tied tightly back from his face. He did not know what to say. Anger had helped him deal with men. But it was no use here.
‘No need. Many have lost loved ones. But tonight is not about that. It is about enjoying what we have left.’
‘I cannot enjoy this night,’ Kettering said sadly. ‘All I can think of is the bastards who ruined my life and now think they can get away with it. I want revenge, not just for me but for everyone.’
‘I can understand revenge. But what about afterwards? The Berellians who killed my husband are dead—do I keep on hating their rulers, the ones who gave the orders? Or the Rallorans, who let him die for their own purposes, although that saved me and my girls?’
Kettering sighed. ‘Anger, revenge—they are the only reasons I am alive. I will let them give me strength tomorrow. Aroaril grant they might save the likes of you and your children. I am sorry, Mabel, I am no fit company for a night like this. I shall go.’