by Duncan Lay
“We have to let them break in. Once the gates crack, the archers will stop for fear of hitting their own men. Then we can run,” he called. “Pass the word to the towers to be ready to run when the gates go.”
“But Fallon, won’t the Kottermanis be inside then? We’ll have to be fighting them,” Devlin said.
“I know,” Fallon agreed. “But that’s a smaller risk than the death from above.”
The crossbows were stacked by the wall, for they were just weight to slow a man down. Instead the men gathered by the two doorways, listening to the renewed Kottermani assault on the gates. Fallon watched soldiers pick up fallen axes and rejoin the attack on the gates, emboldened by the sudden lack of defenders.
“Hurry up,” Fallon urged. There was a Kottermani regiment loose in the back of the castle and it was surely only a matter of time before they cut off the retreat to the keep.
The trunks swung again and there was a screech of tortured wood, then a cheer from below, a sudden shove of men pushing forwards.
“Now!” Fallon roared.
Arrows still fell on the battlements but the deadly missiles were no longer falling on the small square behind. Fallon’s men raced down the stairs from two sides, heedless of the steep stone steps. Fallon could see Brendan and his men fighting the first of the Kottermanis to get through the gate, the giant hammer rising and falling pitilessly. Fallon’s men, led by Bran and Devlin, crunched into the sides of the Kottermani advance, bottling them up at the gate, while the next rush raced back towards the keep, joined by the men from the towers. The piles of dead men in front of the gate, not to mention the discarded rams, blocked much of the entrance. The surviving Kottermani officers were making their men drag open the second gate, rather than join the attack. Fallon was last out, a loaded crossbow in each hand. He stamped down the steps, then paused halfway down, triggering both weapons into the mass of Kottermanis before rushing down to join Brendan.
“Back! Run!” he roared.
One of his men turned to do just that and took a Kottermani sword through the neck. Before the Kottermani could even withdraw the blade, a furious Fallon hacked through his wrist. Clutching his stump and spraying blood, the soldier vanished into the press. Brendan’s hammer swung sideways, forcing Kottermanis to jump backwards and the last of the Gaelish ran. For a heartbeat Fallon thought Brendan would stay, fighting to the last, but he grabbed the smith’s arm and Brendan turned as well, the pair of them pounding towards safety, Kottermanis hard on their heels.
Fallon could hear their pursuers, the slap of their leather boots on the cobbles, could almost feel their breath but he was not going to leave Brendan behind. Then there was a shout and a clatter and the nearest chasers went down in a heap. He saw Padraig waving but did not have time to wave back his thanks. He could also see Devlin forming the men into a battleline, leaving a small space for them to run into. His breath was rasping in his throat and he could hear Brendan panting but they raced to safety, men closing behind them. He spun to see the Kottermanis had slowed to a stop ten yards away, waiting for more men to thicken their ranks before they attacked.
“Back!” Fallon tried to shout but he was out of breath and he had to suck in air before it came out properly.
Tired as he was, he was still proud to see his men retreat as he had taught them, in perfect lines, the edges curling back to protect their flanks. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the gates into the keep just a few paces away.
“Every second man, back inside, ready on the doors!” he called, his voice still ragged.
But as soon as they did so the Kottermanis charged, seeing their chance for slaughter slipping away. The two sides crunched together, hacking and shoving and stabbing. Fallon saw one of his men go down and stepped into the space, jabbing his sword out at the Kottermani’s eyes. The soldier raised his shield and Fallon kicked him in the knee, feeling the cartilage crunch beneath his heel. The man staggered but instead of pursuing, Fallon stepped back, keeping with the line. The temporary safety of the keep was just a few steps away and yet the Kottermanis, after suffering under the crossbows at the gates, were not ready to let them go. They attacked furiously, remorselessly. But these were Fallon’s best men, veterans of battles at Berry and Lake Caragh, and they fought back grimly, swords and shield and mailshirts taking the brunt of the blows as they retreated. Fallon had no shield and had to block an axe coming at his head, and then the Kottermani attacker punched out with his shield, driving Fallon backwards. He staggered and nearly fell but one of his men stepped in to save him, shoving the Kottermani with his shield and then slashing open the man’s throat with a ferocious stab.
“My thanks!” Fallon called, then recognized the man was Gannon.
The bald sergeant’s face twisted in something close to a smile. “Still don’t trust me?” he asked.
“With my life. Although that’s not worth much right now,” Fallon said with a smile.
Brendan saved them all again. With the Kottermanis right on top of them, preventing the doors being shut, the big smith waded into the battle, hammer flying. His first blow swept three men aside, two of them with crushed skulls, then the reverse sweep sent another two flying. The Kottermanis instinctively drew back a pace and the last of the Gaelish scampered into the keep, where Devlin had teams of men already swinging the doors shut. But the Kottermanis surged forwards again and blocked the doors before they could properly close.
“Get your shoulders into it!” Fallon roared, grabbing hold of the door and throwing his weight against it. For a long moment the two sides were locked evenly, then Brendan shoved against the right-hand door, inching it backwards. The Kottermanis became crushed and then both doors were moving as the Gaelish got the upper hand. The Kottermanis cried out as they fell and were trampled on, or caught by the doors. Fallon flinched as a sword thumped into the door by his hand, then a Gaelish spear rammed into the mass, drawing a scream of pain. The two doors slammed shut, mangling several Kottermani hands as the wood clashed together. Devlin and two others swung the locking bar down and then they all stepped away as the doors shook from the furious Kottermanis.
“That should hold them for a bit,” Fallon said. “Now we’ve got the chance to make a deal.”
But, no sooner were the words out of his mouth when the doors began to shiver with the sound of axe blows.
“I don’t think they want to talk,” Devlin muttered.
The Gaelish backed away from the door. Fallon looked around and realized the castle’s defenses began and ended at the wall. There were no arrow slits here and the only windows were high up. Worse, the corridors were wide and open around here.
“Fall back,” he ordered. “Line up at the corridor to the stairs back there.”
His men obeyed without question but he could see the fear on many faces as the doors slowly splintered under the Kottermani axes. The corridor he had picked was only wide enough for five men at a time but it was one of many out of the entrance hall. Once through the doors, the Kottermanis could go around them, heading towards the throne room or the servants’ wing and then come from around the back.
“I am sorry, lads,” he said aloud.
They all stared at him but he could not face them.
“You trusted me and I have led you to this. I am more proud of you than if you were my own sons. If you want to step away now, make for the cells. Shut yourselves in and pretend you were my captives, dragged off the streets for defying me. You can survive that way. Gaelland needs you. Dying here will do no good.”
There was dead silence to his words, although it was broken by the rhythmic chopping at the doors.
“Nobody is running,” a thin voice said from the back.
Everyone looked and Fallon was surprised to see it was the skinny thief, Fitz.
“How can we turn our back on everything we believe in? How can we go on, knowing we cowered and hid while everyone else died? Gaelland does not need men like that,” he said, his voice gaining in power a
s he went on.
“Go back to what we had before? Groveling to bastard nobles like Dina and Swane? What sort of life is that?” Gannon added.
“We’ll stand here and make those bogshites wish they had never stepped foot onto Gaelish land,” someone else called and then they were all shouting their defiance, taking strength from their noise as it drowned out the assault on the doors.
Fallon had to look at the floor until he could get control of himself. “You are all as full of blarney as an egg is full of meat,” he shouted finally. “But, Aroaril save us, I love you for it!”
They cheered him and themselves then, trying to chase away the fear that Fallon could feel was hanging over them. Not that any would admit it.
Fallon grabbed Bran and sent him and a squad to find Casey and bring his men back. He could not bear the thought of them being surrounded and lost. At the very least they all deserved to die together.
In the next moment the locking bar on the doors split and a flood of Kottermanis raced inside, shouting in their own tongue. The Gaelish met them with a shield wall, just five men abreast at the entrance to the corridor, and threw them back. Just as Fallon had taught them, the front rank held their ground and the ranks behind lunged and thrust at the Kottermanis, who crammed into the doorway and squeezed the life out of themselves. More and more pushed forwards but there was no getting through, the Gaelish and the Kottermanis at the front were packed so tight they could not use their swords. They were so tight that some of the corpses could not even fall, just stayed upright, a barrier of flesh to those behind.
Fallon did not have to do anything, just watch as his men stopped the advance dead. But he could see Kottermanis vanishing off to either side and could sense them racing through the castle, searching for a way around them. He could stand it no longer.
“Fall back! Back to the stairs!” he roared.
There was no question of turning and running this time. Not even Brendan could force back that press of Kottermanis. Fallon called out the time and, pace by pace, the Gaelish eased back, the Kottermanis baying for blood as they tried to crack open the shield wall. Gaelish fell with every step, Fallon feeding fresh men into the line all the time. The corridor was treacherous underfoot as blood, brains, entrails and shit slopped across the slates but the Gaelish had the best of the footing, while the Kottermanis were continually slipping on the foul morass.
Fallon risked a glance over his shoulder. They were almost at the heart of the keep: the main stairs, two sets that met on the first floor. Here several corridors came together and opened right up into another hall. He could see Gaelish already fighting to hold back Kottermanis in several of those. He grabbed Devlin.
“Take another two score over to help,” he ordered.
The farmer collected a group and raced off and Fallon looked around, hoping to see some way out of this. But there was nothing.
“Join the line,” he shouted and the men who had made it out of the corridor took up position at either side, widening the line as they fought their way out. With a little luck they could still fight their way back to the stairs and block the Kottermanis there.
But it did not work that way. The pressure of the Kottermani advance was so powerful, they burst out of the corridor like a cork from a bottle, brushing past Fallon’s hastily assembled flank guards. In an instant, there was just a thick knot of Gaelish fighting on three sides, and handfuls of men fighting back-to-back, surrounded by Kottermanis and vanishing with every heartbeat. Fallon felt the pain of every one and it filled him with a colossal hate for himself. But he could only take it out on these bastards.
Fallon blocked a savage thrust and rolled his wrist, cutting down onto the soldier’s arm, tearing the muscle and breaking the elbow. The Kottermani reeled away but was instantly replaced—by an axeman this time, who swung powerfully, a blow that would have torn apart Fallon’s ribs if it had landed. But he stepped backwards and then jumped forwards, ramming his blade into the soldier’s mouth and out the back of his skull. The Kottermani fell, ripping Fallon’s sword out of his hand but he reached out and grabbed the falling axe. He hefted it experimentally. It felt quite like a shillelagh, except for the heavy iron head at one end. But it was balanced well and he instinctively held it in a shillelagh grip.
The first Kottermani to come close took a swift jab to the jaw. Because it had the axehead at the end, it didn’t break the bone but instead ripped the whole lower jaw away. Before that man had collapsed, unable to even scream, Fallon smashed the butt into another’s nose and then adjusted his grip, swinging the axe in a wide arc so it crunched into Kottermani ribs, with a sound like a lamb carcass on the butcher’s block.
The Kottermanis drew back slightly and he beckoned them onwards. “Come on!” he roared.
Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn. Brendan was on his right side, spattered with blood. He turned back in time to see a Kottermani jump at him but the axe sang out and took the Kottermani’s head off, sending it looping lazily into his fellows. Fallon jumped back as the headless corpse collapsed at his feet, spouting blood all over the floor.
“Come on!” Fallon shouted again as the Gaelish backed towards the stairs, the Kottermanis trying to get around behind them. Fallon had no idea of what was going on now, his world had shrunk to what was in front of him.
Kottermanis tried to catch him unawares but the axe felt as light as a shillelagh in his hands and he mocked them and then killed them if they came too close. He was invincible. They were too slow and weak for him. It almost felt like magic. By contrast, Brendan did not say anything, just crushed ribs and chests and skulls, his work-toughened arms seemingly tireless.
“Fallon! Fallon!”
Fallon finally heeded the urgent shouts and glanced over his shoulder to see Padraig on the first step, pointing over to the right. Gaelish pushed past him, taking his place, but he could not see what the wizard was worried about and so he jumped up three steps, to give him a better view.
The feeling of invincibility drained away and he became aware of a fire in his shoulder, aches in his wrists and back and the way he was panting for breath. Half his men were down and many of the others had taken some kind of wound. Worse, Casey, Bran and Devlin and their surviving men were being pursued up the other flight of stairs, unable to hold back the Kottermanis. For every one of the enemy soldiers they cut down, two more sprang forward to take their place, while every Gaelish who fell was one less in the line.
Fallon sucked air into his protesting lungs. “Back to the landing! Now!”
His men ran, or at least the ones who still could. The wounded tried to help each other up the stairs, while a knot of men, led by Brendan, held the Kottermanis off at the bottom of the steps. Fallon could not bear to see his friend die, so raced down the stairs and smashed his axe into a Kottermani face. As the man was flung backwards, he grabbed Brendan’s shoulder and hauled at the big man with all his strength.
“Move! Now!” he roared.
Brendan took one step back and a slim figure took his place, the mailshirt sitting awkwardly on his thin shoulders.
Fallon recognized Fitz as the thief slashed wildly around him with his sword. He took a sword blow on his shield and mangled the Kottermani soldier’s hand with a return blow, then an axe hit his shoulder and he vanished under a press of stabbing swords.
Brendan looked like he was ready to jump back into the unequal battle. The last handful of Gaelish at the base of the stairs were being dragged down, but Fallon grabbed his friend’s arm and swung him around so he could see the other flight of stairs, where more Gaelish fought desperately to survive, including Devlin.
“Devlin!” he roared and Brendan nodded.
Fallon ran up the stairs. It occured to him that they were all dead men walking and saving Devlin from one set of Kottermani swords, merely to die at another set, might be pointless. But while he had breath he was determined to keep fighting. He passed his wounded men as they struggled up the stairs, some
of them giving up their futile efforts to escape and turning back to be swallowed up in the advancing wave of Kottermanis.
At the top of the stairs, Gannon and a grim-faced, bloodied line of Gaelish waited, opening up to let Fallon and a puffing Brendan through.
Fallon did not stop but pounded across the landing and down the other flight, to where Casey, Devlin and a dozen others backed up the stairs, their Kottermani pursuers being slowed by the many corpses and screaming wounded littering the staircase.
Even as Fallon watched, Devlin was driven back against the railings by a muscular Kottermani swordsman. With a roar that went almost unnoticed in the chaos of battle—the screams, shouts and smashing of steel—Fallon flung himself down the stairs, burying his axe in the swordsman’s side. The man folded over and Fallon had to use all his strength to rip the blade free of his flesh, a glistening chunk of rib flying out of the wound as he did so.
Another Kottermani tried to take advantage of this but Devlin thrust his sword up to protect Fallon—and the Kottermani blade shattered, a chunk of it piercing Devlin’s right forearm. Fallon used the butt of his axe to smash the disarmed swordsman in the face. He flipped backwards, hit the bannisters and toppled over to hit the stone flagstones with a soggy crunch that was almost lost in the howls and bellows.
Devlin swore furiously, his sword dropping from nerveless fingers. He reeled backwards to sit down heavily on a step, staring at the dagger-sized chunk of steel protruding from his arm. Three Kottermanis closed in on them and Fallon hefted his axe.
“Get out of it,” Devlin cried.
“Bog that,” Fallon said and prepared for one last axe blow.
Then Brendan tore past them, his hammer a blur as it picked two Kottermanis up and flung them down the stairs. Fallon slashed his axe up between the legs of the third, the Kottermani’s agonized screams cutting through everything else.
Kottermanis still threw themselves at Brendan. He caved in the head of the first, then the second tackled him around the chest. He flung his hammer at another, the weapon stoving in the Kottermani’s helmet before bouncing away down the stairs. Brendan reached down at the man who held him and plunged his thick thumbs into the man’s eye sockets, thrusting them through the eye and into the brain beyond. Fluid and blood sprayed over his face as the Kottermani convulsed and shook in his hands. He tore his hands free and stepped back to avoid a sword thrust, instead grabbing the swordsman’s arm and leg. He lifted the Kottermani up and snapped his spine by driving him down onto the point of his knee. From that position he surged up, inside the swing of another blade and grabbed the man around the neck, squeezing with all the power of his huge hands. The Kottermani beat helplessly at the big smith until, with a crack of bones, Brendan flung the corpse away.