by Ulff Lehmann
“Now, my fellow warriors, go out and gather those who can wield arms! Tell them those who do not fight do not deserve to live! We all shall fight for our homes! And remember, as long as a single soul remains, Dunthiochagh cannot fall!”
Instead of the expected shout, the people filed out in silence. Their eyes, however, showed the storm roaring inside of them. The old beggar patted her shoulder, saying, “See you on the field, lassie.” Then he was gone. It was unlikely she would see the man again, but whether she did or not, she knew he would spread Nerran’s message.
Another man, brawny with blond hair, passed her, nodded, and said, “Good luck, Princess.” She blinked, trying to remember who he was. Then she knew. He had been one of the refugees from Camlanh who had helped them to block Shadowpass. She wanted to return the favor, wish him good fortune as well, but the mason had already left the temple. Again, like the beggar’s, a face she might never see again.
When the procession had ended, the only people left inside were the Riders and, to Rhea’s surprise, General Kerral. She headed for the cluster of armored warriors. Fynbar slapped her shoulder affectionately; Gail nodded in greeting, and her fellow priest Kyleigh saluted. The others noted her approach and welcomed her grimly. This was no gathering of friends as much as it was a farewell. She had no doubt that some of them would fall; even she wasn’t invulnerable.
“You’ll see to it that those who need weapons receive them?” General Kerral asked.
“Damn right,” Nerran replied. “The master-warden already emptied out the armory. The only reserves we have are arrows, but once they take the walls those’ll be useless anyway.” The Paladin looked her way. “Ah, Upholder, ready for the killing?”
“To defend the innocent? Always,” she replied.
“Not sure we got many of those here,” Nerran grunted.
“There’s nothing just about this war; I am committed.” To the Danastaerian general she said, “What makes you so sure the attack comes today?”
“They had a healthy breakfast,” Kerral replied. He must have seen her questioning look, and added, “Mireynh always hands out extra rations before a fight; bastard claims it brings luck.”
“An escalade?” Nerran asked.
“Aye, he only has two slingthrowers, not enough to bring down the wall,” the soldier answered. “Only thing we have to worry about is the bastards on the battlements.” He paused then said, “I need to prepare.” The general seemed not to be one for idle chat or courtesies, for he simply turned and marched away.
Nerran turned to them. “You heard the man, an escalade. Bloody business that, as some of you know. Get spears to stab the enemy while he’s on the ladders. Those of you who can effectively use a bow, take it with you as well.”
“Where’ll we be?” Briog asked.
“Where we’re needed,” the Paladin said.
“So, you yielded command to General Kerral?” Gail said, frowning. “Ain’t he too much of a hothead?” Rhea shared the Caretaker’s sentiment, even if her assessment was purely based on secondhand information.
“Fuck no!” Nerran spat. “Cumaill and I have final say over things, Kerral will be part of the defense, yes, he’ll command his own, but he will not be in command of anything else. He knows that, and even though his feathers are ruffled he will obey. Anything else?” He waited a moment and, when none of them had further questions, said, “You’ll be doing what you do best, lads and lasses. Go to where you can do some good. Well, not good, but… well, you know what I mean.” He chuckled. “Now, go out and kill the bastards!”
At noon the Chanastardhian slingthrowers began firing. Rhea and Briog were on the southern wall, their horses in Kyleigh and Fynbar’s care below, while they observed events from atop the battlement.
“That’s no stone,” Briog muttered, scowling. “What the Scales are they doing?”
A moment later, when the missile landed somewhere beyond and shouts of panic could be heard, they were none the wiser. “Horse shit?” Rhea suggested.
“Packed horse shit, that’s good.” The reply sounded light-hearted, but she had known the man for such a long time to know he was not speaking in jest. “Now we wait.”
The enemy’s artillerists were good; she had to admit that much. Instead of the rather long wait she expected, the slingthrowers tweaked into action once more only a good two score of breaths later. The missile tumbled through the air, lacking the power of a properly thrown rock. Now that Rhea knew what to look for, she saw, in the blink of an eye, what the projectile was. “That’s a sack,” she and Briog said in unison.
The Caretaker snorted. “Maybe you’re right about the dung,” he said.
Of the next pair of shots, one sack was not as tightly closed as its twin. It opened in midflight, right above their spot of the wall, and spilled its contents.
At first, Rhea was unsure what it was that splattered down. There were irregular bits of some sort of material, small and thick, brown and tan. In between these chunks of whatever it was, she saw the occasional spot of white.
Briog must have recognized what it was, for he only said “Gods!” then shook a piece off his shoulder, his face white with disgust.
Nearby she heard something clatter on the wall’s granite. She turned, more out of instinct than curiosity. The horses below on New Wall Street grew restless, whinnied in fright. Then she saw what had hit the stone: part of a severed human skull. The raising of the dead enemies a few nights back had already been disrespectful of the departed, even if Deathmasks had performed the ceremony, but the Chanastardhians had done what she had thought impossible. Desecrate the corpses even further.
Rhea knew that the souls were already in the Bailey Majestic; some of them might have already been weighed in Lliania’s Scales. Yes, she knew it was commonplace to lob the occasional corpse or two into a besieged city or fortress, but even the Deathmasks would not dare chop the remains of a human into hand-sized chunks.
Beside her, Briog knelt down, staring at the fragmented pieces. “Gods,” he whispered.
“The gods only help on rare occasions,” a warrior woman near them said. Rhea looked at her face, a hardened mask caught in a perpetual scowl. “They let things proceed, because in the end only we can shape our futures.” The woman spat on the partial skull and kicked it off the wall. She knew how this gruff person felt and could guess why she felt the way she did; Rhea had experienced the same sort of anger when she had fled her father’s palace.
“Whom did you lose?” she asked.
“What’s it to you?” came the reply.
“Just wondering how your heart turned to stone?”
The warrior scoffed derisively. “Steel more like.”
“Well?” Briog asked, the revulsion had fled his face and he looked at the Chanastardhian embrasures once more.
“They butchered my family,” replied the soldier. “Was with General Kerral, joined his army at Haffay. When they had beaten us at Carlgh, we dispersed, I tracked my way home. Was easy, they don’t care about people in threadbare clothes. Tossed my gear in a ditch. Came home and found my family dead. Husband strung up in the common room. My eldest, Banya,”—Rhea thought she saw the soldier’s eyes watering—“the bastards used her. She must have fought them; they overpowered her. Lass was only twelve.” After a brief pause, she added in a grim voice, “They’ll pay!”
The image of the raped daughter invoked anger so powerful that Rhea had to turn away, clenching her sword’s hilt. She had seen corpses of defiled women before, recalled the terror in their eyes, and knew it was best to speed the perpetrators onto Lliania’s Scales, though sometimes she thought death was too merciful for these beings. “Who?” she asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
“Them,” the warrior replied. “They’ll pay.”
No doubt there were many people with similar experiences inside Dunthiochagh. There might even be some children who had either survived the same ordeal as young Banya, or had seen the same dreadful deed
done to their relatives.
“Any evidence on what faction of Chanastardhians was responsible?” Briog added. Rhea nodded her thanks for the clarification. “Surely not all of them are such animals.”
“Found this,” replied the stone-faced soldier, retrieving a bit of torn cloth from her belt. “In Banya’s hand.”
Her fellow rider looked at the shred and shook his head.
“May I?” she asked, holding her hand out. Reluctantly the warrior handed her this sign of her grief. Embroidered onto the sliver of green silk was a golden hawk, wielding a silver lance, definitely not the garb of a common foot soldier. Silk, too expensive for any but the wealthiest to buy, much less flaunt. One of Banya’s tormentors was of noble blood. Rhea turned north, walked to the edge of the battlement, and looked for Diorbail in the cluster of riders below. If anyone knew Chanastardhian heraldry it was she.
She spotted the Caretaker next to Fynbar, sharing a strip of jerky with her fellow priest. “Diorbail, get your ass up here, need to show you something!” she hollered down. Off to the north, maybe fifty yards from where she stood, another sack of human flesh splattered onto Dunthiochagh. Just how many bodies had the Chanastardhians butchered? She finally asked the woman for a name.
“Genny of Haffay, daughter of Boann.”
Rhea introduced herself and Briog, the said, “Diorbail hails from Chanastardh; she’ll probably know whose crest this is.”
Genny’s lips became a firm line. “Not all people from there are butchers, same as not all Caretakers,” she grinned at Briog, “are idiots.”
Their fellow Rider arrived as another pair gruesome missiles struck somewhere behind, saying, “I hope the people won’t panic too much.” Then, looking Genny over, “What gives?”
Rhea answered, “Know whose coat of arms this is?” She held out the piece of silk. Diorbail took one look at the thing, her face twisted in disgust.
“House Argram,” she replied. “House of butchers and rapists.”
The Chanastardhian woman cocked an eyebrow and asked, “What’s it to you?” Her gaze wandered from Rhea to Genny and held the woman’s glare.
“Her daughter,” Briog began the explanation, but Diorbail held up her hand, interrupting him.
“No need to say more.” To Genny she said, “I’m truly sorry for your loss. House Argram is a bunch of mercenary cutthroats. Even the decent scions of the House are seen as weak if they do not participate in the rape and plunder that their sires subscribe to.”
That caught Rhea’s attention. “Are you saying that this might well have been a rite of passage for one of the sons?” The brief nod her companion gave was all the answer she needed. “Gods! Genny, find your vengeance, Lliania’s blessing go with you.”
“Not all my countrymen are bastards,” Diorbail added, returning the sliver of cloth to Rhea. “Despite this obvious display of cruelty, many are quite decent. Good hunting.” She turned and stalked off.
Another missile struck a nearby roof, showering them in half-frozen, half-rotted remains. A stout man retched up the remains of his breakfast.
CHAPTER 3
Dressed in armor that was far too uncomfortable for his liking, Jesgar rode down Trade Road across Old Bridge. The Baron had permitted him to visit his family one last time before he would join the defenders atop the wall.
“I know the thick of battle is not the best place for a spy, but frankly if the city falls, I really won’t have much use for you as it is,” Baron Duasonh had said.
Now he wore chain, had a shield on his back, and an assortment of weaponry attached to belt and saddle. His reflection in one of the not-nailed-shut windows showed what many of his drinking buddies had always hinted at, what many a wench had found so attractive about him. He didn’t share their sentiment. Had he wanted to join a warband, he would have done so. “I’m no warrior,” he muttered, regarding his image one more time, before giving his mare the heels.
At the intersection to Dunth Street, a Sword-Warden called out. “Oi! You!”
Jesgar reined his mare in. “Yes?”
“Your name and warleader!” the man barked.
“None of your business, and none of your concern,” he replied calmly, fishing a piece of parchment from his cloak. “Read this and let me pass.”
The Warden flushed scarlet, was about to start screaming in his best drill instructor’s manner when he took the paper and read the few lines written there. He cast a dubious glance at Jesgar, looked at the parchment once more, and then handed it back. “I beg your pardon; good hunting, sir.”
He had never been called “sir” before, and truth be told Jesgar didn’t like it. Being addressed thus on the street was a sure invitation for all sorts of scum to come crawling out of their holes. He knew. Certainly, he had never been an ordinary robber or mugger, but he had far more in common with the criminal element than with even the lowest part of nobility.
The buildings he passed on his way toward Halmond were boarded up: little fortresses the owners hoped would keep invaders at bay. Some people had gathered where Trade Road led across the first canal. They were armed and surprisingly well armored. “Young Garinad?” one of them said. Jesgar halted his ride and scrutinized the throng. Many familiar faces looked up at him; some wore steel-caps, others leather. He made out the butcher Gabhan whose knives he had sharpened several times. There were the coal trading brothers Kester and Llud of Hill’s Road, Jard Junath of Trann Street. They all stared at him, most likely astonished about the quality of his gear, not to mention his riding a mare branded with the Baron’s seal.
“What are you doing here?” the same voice asked and now he discovered the speaker. It was Reghed, one of Ben’s oldest friends. “Your brother said you made a run for it.”
“Obviously not,” Jesgar replied. “Isn’t he with you?”
A chuckle coursed through the group. “Nah, mate,” Jard answered. “Still busy trying to convince Maire she’s better off across the river, away from all this fighting business.”
He snorted, remembering all too well how headstrong Maire was when she set her mind to something. “You be patrolling the streets then?”
“Aye,” Kester, the older of the two brothers said. “Someone has to be, don’t want that thieving scum taking advantage of the chaos. The constables are on the wall, we was charged with playing watch.” He doubted the Warden of the Watch had asked them to “play” patrolmen; it was Kester’s way of making a task look easier than it actually was. “How about you, mate?”
Looking as he did, Jesgar saw no point in denying where he was headed. “I’ll be on the wall, fighting.”
“Big Ben won’t like that one bit,” Reghed remarked. “But then again, he’ll probably be busy keeping Maire from the wall. That lass is intent on defending her home. Can’t say I blame her. Would be on the wall myself, might still go there once we bashed some looting lowlifes.” He didn’t doubt the man’s claim. Though his chainmail looked much repaired and was in sore need of an oiling, the wine-merchant and his group looked quite capable of dealing with a gang of thugs.
His fist tapped his chest in salute. “Good hunting.” Then he was off again, heading home.
Halmond Street was much busier than anything north of Dunth Street. Warriors were milling about, organizing where carts laden with sheaves of arrows were supposed to go, and directing the final assembly of one of the big slingthrowers in the middle of the street. To one side of the massive weapon there was still enough space for carts to pass, but half of the road’s breadth was occupied by the ’thrower. Jesgar noted the engine sat in front of merchant Wannad’s house, its ammunition dumped right on the front lawn. He had always thought of Wannad as a temperamental man—almost Ben’s equal when it came to shouting to get his way—and was astounded to see the middle-aged, pot-bellied merchant actually helping the engineers set up the slingthrower.
Looking around, Jesgar wondered how the engineers would be able to adjust the weapon, and then saw the lookout posted on top
of the next building to the south. At the end of Halmond Street, where it met Hill’s Road, another ’thrower was in the final stages of assembly. To his surprise both Bennath and Maire were busily pulling tight winches at the engine’s bottom, their backs turned toward him.
“For the last time,” he heard Ben grunt, “you will not be going anywhere near the battlements, understood?”
“Oh, so you really expect me to wait at home and invite the next best Chanastardhian bastard in to ravage me? Where will you be, defending my honor in a melee on the wall?” Maire retorted. “Shall I wear the mail you helped me make on the next festival instead of a proper gown? Is that it?” Jesgar saw a couple of engineers smirk, and his sister-in-law turned on them with the same viciousness. “What are you laughing at?” she snarled them into silence.
“Gods, woman, I don’t want you facing danger,” Ben said.
“By turning my back on it, it won’t go away! I can handle a blade and a bow, you know.”
“So can others, real warriors, ain’t that right, boys?”
The engineers wisely remained quiet. “There are fighting women as well, you know,” Maire reminded him. She turned to glare at Ben and stopped, scrutinizing Jesgar as he reined his horse to a stop. “Would you look at this!” she exclaimed, dropping the winch to face him.
Ben, confused, glanced over his shoulder and muttered, “I’ll be damned.” He also let go of the winch. “The Baron’s drafted you, eh?”
Gods, he hoped this would not turn into yet another argument. He had had enough of those after being drugged and used for someone else’s purpose. “No, I volunteered,” he said. “Best thing I could do after the mess I made.”
“Well, be that as it may, please tell my wife she is not to fight,” Ben ordered, much to Maire’s obvious anger.
He prevented her rising outbreak by saying, “She has a right to defend her home, same as everyone.”