Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy

by David McDonald

  “What do you think, Lord Marius?” the Duke asked. Quill wasn’t offended; he could see that the Duke was just seeking reassurance.

  “Sire, I agree with Lord Quill. I think that this is the best opportunity we will have,” the Master of Arms said. Quill nodded to him in a gesture of gratitude.

  “Lord Quill is to be commended, sire.” Quill stared at Tremas in surprise. The other man continued. “He may not have achieved all of the goals of the mission you sent him on, but the use of his winged beasts and Gamora’s tactical skills have been invaluable.”

  “Thank you, Lord Tremas,” Quill said.

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I like you, off-worlder,” the older man snapped. “But I love the realm, and anything that serves to protect it has my approval.”

  Quill didn’t reply. At least the Master of Coin was honest. The Duke ignored the byplay.

  “I suppose that all we can do is wait.”

  “Often the hardest part, sire,” Quill said. “We believe that the nomads will encounter our screen of light cavalry midmorning. We have at least five hours—I suggest that we let the men sleep, and that you try to as well.”

  By the time Quill awoke, the sun had risen completely. He could hear the sound of horns in the distance—the signal that the nomads had been sighted and that the first blows had been exchanged. He hurried to the command tent, which had been set up on the crest of a low hill. The front of the tent was open and provided an excellent view of the valley. A number of men holding flags stood to either side, clearly visible to their counterparts below. The Empire had developed a form of semaphore that would allow them to signal orders to their troops far more quickly than any runners could accomplish. It was a surprisingly efficient system. Quill looked out over the valley, blinking at the sun’s reflection off of the tips of pikes and the brightly polished armor. The troops were laid out exactly as he had suggested. Behind the ranks of infantry stood row after row of archers, arrows planted point down in the ground like deadly saplings waiting to have the fruit of death plucked from them. And there, nestled among the archers, the ballistae and trebuchets waited to give the nomads the surprise of their lives. He could make out the splendid figure of the Duke, astride a white stallion and clad in the gold-chased armor of state that normally hung in his great hall, riding through them all and urging his troops on. It was a heartening sight, and Quill wondered why there was a cold thread of disquiet stirring in his mind.

  He’d been so caught up in his thoughts that he started when a voice sounded in his ear.

  “Well, Lord Quill, everything is in place, and each commander has his orders,” Marius said. “All we can do now is stand and watch . . . and hope.”

  Quill could make out a cloud of dust approaching the front ranks. As neatly as even the biggest martinet could have asked, the front lines split down the middle to allow the light cavalry to find refuge, and then snapped back into place. Quill could hear trumpets blowing, and the archers moved as one to draw their bows. There was another trumpet call, and they released, filling the air with a deadly rain that arced over the front line and down into what Quill hoped was the oncoming nomads—though they were still hidden from his view. The archers kept up their fatal rhythm, flight after flight of arrows filling the air. As Quill watched, the half-dozen trebuchets joined in, sending chunks of stone as big as a horse flying through the air. Flags flashed their signals, and a junior officer ran into the command tent with their messages.

  “Lords, the signals commander reports that the nomads are taking heavy casualties and appear to be preparing to charge our front lines in order to get out from under our bombardment.”

  “Excellent,” Marius said with evident satisfaction. “It’s nice when a plan comes together, eh, Lord Quill?”

  Quill grinned. “I love it when it does.”

  Marius turned to the junior officer. “Instruct the flag men to send out the following signal. ‘Proceed as planned and prepare for the anvil.’”

  “Yes, sir!” The junior officer saluted and ran back to the waiting signalers.

  “Now let’s hope that the next stage goes as well as the last.”

  Down below, the first wave of the nomads had hit the front ranks of the Empire’s troops. The soldiers had done exactly what they were trained to do as the men with shields protected the pikemen behind them from the deadly rain of arrows that the nomads unleashed with their repeating bows. Here and there a soldier fell, but the troops were holding up even better than Quill had dared hope. The sun glinted as the pikemen lowered their weapons, creating a glittering, deadly hedge of steel. The front line rippled as the nomad charge crashed into it—and held! Quill watched the swirling chaos as the nomads tried to hack their way through, attempting to force their way past comrades who had been impaled on pikes or dodge the flying hoofs of riderless, panicked horses. Those of the enemy who did break through found themselves beset on all sides by swordsmen who made short work of them. Some of the nomads attempted to flee but found themselves riding back into the archer’s field of fire.

  Whatever their other flaws, the nomads were brave men—Quill had to give them that. Whoever their commander was, he or she must have realized that their normal harrying tactics would not work, and that despite the failure of the first attempt, their best option was to break through the front ranks. The nomads formed up for another charge, this time with twice the number. As they bore down on the Empire’s troops, the archers had to stop shooting lest they hit their own men.

  “Now, Lord Marius, if you please!” Quill yelled.

  Marius ripped off an order and the flag bearers went to work even as the nomads hit the front line again. This time it didn’t just ripple but bowed in, but the troops were ready for the attack. A number of gaps formed and the ballistae rolled forward. With a twang that was audible even from where Quill stood, they unleashed hell. Each ballista was loaded with a cylindrical bundle of hundreds of arrows, and as they were propelled forward with tremendous force, they spread out. By the time the arrows reached the nomads, their area of impact had expanded to twenty or thirty feet, and within that segment the carnage was horrendous. Still, the nomads kept coming, and the ballista crews were only able to loose one or two more shots before the gaps in the line needed to close up. But they had bought enough time for the next stage in the plan to unfold.

  “There!”

  Marius was pointing to the right-hand slope of the valley, and the riders cascading down towards the main battle. Quill knew that they were mirrored on the other side. The heavy cavalry had been hidden in the trees and now they would take the nomads—occupied with the main line of troops—on either side. He frowned—there was something wrong with the picture in front of him. As the men around him cheered, Quill felt a sudden chill wash over him.

  “Lord Marius! Signal for retreat. We need to get back into a square formation.”

  “Are you crazy, man?” Marius snapped. “We have them.”

  “Lord Marius, please! Look closely. Those aren’t our men.”

  “What?” Marius leaned forward. “Gods help us all. You’re right.”

  They had been so sure of what they were seeing that none of them had really looked—Quill included. The riders were all in black, on black horses, and it was clear that they were the shadowy figures that the survivors had described as part of the rout of the Astarlian forces. Quill realized that all of his heavy cavalrymen must be lying dead in the woods—and that he had been completely fooled. The soldiers below them were expecting the cavalry and were not paying attention to the threat on their flanks.

  Marius was furiously shouting orders at the flag bearers, but it was too late. With a crash of metal that echoed across the valley, the black tide piled into the Empire’s soldiers. The lines reeled at the impact, and as Quill watched, the dark figures slashed and hacked their way deep into the defenders. Here and
there, pockets of men stood firm and tried to resist, but the nomads took advantage of the chaos among their enemies and launched another charge that trapped the Empire’s soldiers between them and the dark figures.

  “Lord Marius, you need to try and get as many of your men out of here as you can. Fall back, run—I don’t care—but we must save as many soldiers as possible and retreat to the castle.”

  “And what will you be doing, off-worlder?” Contempt dripped from Tremas’s voice. “Cutting and running. I suppose you can just fly out of here.”

  “I’ll be flying, all right,” Quill said coldly. “I’m going to retrieve the Duke. Without him, the realm may very well be doomed.”

  “I’m getting sick of apologizing to you, Lord Quill,” Tremas said, flushing with embarrassment. “But I hope to get the chance to again when we meet back at the castle. Now go.”

  Quill wasted no more words and sprinted for his mount. Within minutes he was in the air and swooping over the battlefield, his eyes searching for the Duke. There! He was in the middle of a knot of his men, surrounded on all sides by nomads. Quill knew that the older man would not be able to stay out of the fight, leading from behind the lines was not his style at all. Somehow, the dark riders hadn’t noticed him yet, and the veteran soldiers were holding their own—they were his elite guard, and the best troops he had. From Quill’s vantage point, he could spot the moment a group of the black horsemen began to hack their way towards the Duke. Quill pulled on the reins, and his mount banked in the air and descended towards the Duke.

  There was an evil, buzzing noise as a bolt streaked past his ear—the nomads had seen him and were doing their best to shoot him down. Leaning over the side of his mount, Quill braced himself just in time to grab the top of the Duke’s breastplate. He screamed in pain as the sudden weight nearly pulled his arm from his shoulder socket and—much worse—almost sent his steed crashing into the ground. With a mighty effort and a furious beating of its wings, it pulled them both up into the air. Quill grunted with effort as he pulled the Duke up into position in front of him.

  “No—take me back!” the Duke yelled furiously. “I will not abandon my men!”

  “Sire, the battle is lost. You can best serve your men by surviving and fighting the next one.”

  The Duke began to struggle, his violent movements nearly tipping them both from the beast’s back.

  “Take me back! I command it!”

  Again he tried to grab at the reins.

  “You need to stop, sire.”

  There was a hitching beat to the creature’s wings that Quill didn’t like, and when he looked down at its side he saw four or five arrows buried in its flesh, green ichor dripping from the wounds. The Duke’s struggles weren’t helping; every time he lunged the beast would groan in pain. Quill made a quick mental calculation and sighed.

  “I am sorry, sire, for what I am about to do,” Quill said. “I hope you will forgive me when you wake up.”

  “Wake up? What are you—”

  The Duke was cut off midword by Quill’s fist crashing into his chin, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped. Quill caught him and held him tightly as they flew towards the castle.

  Chapter 15

  Survivors of the rout had been straggling in for weeks, but the flow had slowed to a trickle, and Quill thought that they probably now had almost as many soldiers as they were going to get. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had looked when the dark riders were carving their way through the Empire’s army, but it was a long way from good. As far as Quill had been able to work out, they had perhaps a third of the soldiers that they had set out with, and maybe nine in ten of those were fit enough to fight. One reason for Quill to resign himself to settle for what they had, however, was that any remaining returnees would have to find a way to sneak past the army now camped on the castle’s doorstep.

  “Cooped up in mine own castle,” the Duke said. He was standing beside Quill on the parapet, looking down at the enemy. “How did it come to this?”

  The bruises had almost faded from the Duke’s face, leaving only a sickly yellow tinge to show that they had ever been there. Quill hoped that the memory of the blow that had inflicted them had faded, too. When the Duke had regained consciousness, Quill had genuinely been concerned that the man was going to have a stroke. He had ranted and raved and had threatened to lock Quill in the deepest, darkest dungeon he could find and throw away the key. It had been only the unlikely intervention of Tremas that had calmed the Duke down. The Master of Coin had reminded the Duke that Quill had probably saved his life and—most importantly—the realm needed him alive, now more than ever. The Duke had finally agreed, but Quill was still treading softly.

  “Sire, it’s not over yet. In any siege, those inside the place besieged are in a better situation than the besiegers. All they need to do is wait, while the attackers have to force the issue against walls and whatever you can throw down on them. At least, until the food runs out, anyway.”

  “Lord Quill, that may be true, but how long do you honestly think we can hold out? We have hundreds of injured soldiers but few of the resources we need to treat them. We are running low on food, and have many, many civilians to feed.”

  “Can we expect reinforcements from the Regent, sire?” Quill asked and then, remembering Rocket’s words when they had last parted, added, “I had hoped to bring you some, but I have no way of knowing when they will arrive.”

  He left the “if ever” unspoken.

  The Duke sighed. “I wish I knew. I have sent messengers to the capital, but there is no word back. I don’t know whether I am being ignored or whether my couriers are being intercepted.”

  “We could take one of the winged beasts. No one can intercept them, sire.”

  “I have considered that, Lord Quill, but I think not, for two reasons. First, they are one of the few advantages we have, and I am hesitant to risk throwing that away.”

  “And the second?” Quill asked.

  “The city faction have little time for anyone from outside the capital, let alone from outside the Empire itself. To call them xenophobic would be an understatement,” the Duke said. “I’m worried that if one of you turned up on one of those beasts, it would do my cause more harm than good. The sad thing is that one of my men would receive almost as short shrift. The only one they would be willing to listen to is me, and I must stay here with my people.”

  “I see. Politics.” Quill made the word sound scatological.

  “Exactly,” the Duke said. “We do have one thing on our side, however. This castle was built to withstand siege. It would take months to knock down these walls, no matter how many siege engines they have. And the nomads have never been known for their artillery.”

  “I hate to tell you this, sire, but I think they will be from now on.”

  He pointed to a bustle of activity. The nomads were wheeling out vast trebuchets, twice as big as the ones that the Duke’s army had been able to field. Quill counted eight of the monstrosities. The nomads arrayed them in a semicircle facing the castle, and then began to load them.

  “Sire, I think that we should find somewhere else to stand. Things look to get a little lively here.”

  “They aren’t even close to being in range. Not even trebuchets that big can throw rocks this far.”

  Quill hadn’t had a great deal of experience with this level of technology. The artillery he was used to could have hit the castle from the other side of the planet.

  “I will take your word for it, sire.”

  One after the other, the trebuchets released their payloads. The two men watched as the huge rocks arced through the air, growing larger and larger to the eye as they came closer and closer. Quill wondered whether the Duke had been wrong.

  “Ah, sire, are you sure about the range on those things?”

  “Not as
sure as I was.”

  “Should we find another vantage point, sire?” Quill asked, trying to sound casual.

  “All right, Lord Quill, let’s do that.”

  Before they could move, the first boulder hit the castle wall with a terrible crash. The stone shook beneath them, almost sending them to the ground. The sound of the crash was like rolling thunder as the other rocks hit, sending fragments of stone flying. There were screams of pain from some unlucky soldiers who had gotten in the way. Quill grabbed the Duke’s arm and dragged him back into the keep. They could hear the sound of still more rocks hitting the walls, and the keep itself seemed to tremble beneath the impacts.

  “How much of that can the walls take?” Quill asked.

  “I don’t know,” the Duke answered. “Those rocks are far bigger than anything that the designers of the castle would have imagined. Maybe a few days, if that.”

  “I suppose we can’t be too surprised. Better bows, better armor—and now bigger and better trebuchets,” Quill said. “We need a plan that takes into account the fact that those walls are going to come down sooner rather than later.”

  “The plan is simple, Lord Quill,” the Duke answered. “We will have to make our last stand and hope we buy enough time for the civilians to escape, and for whatever help is on its way—if any is coming—to arrive in time.”

  That wasn’t really what Quill wanted to hear, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see any other options.

  “Lord Quill, there is no need for you to die here, too. If you were to take your two companions and fly away, I would understand.” The Duke stopped and looked at Quill, and for the first time Quill felt that the Duke was addressing him as one man to another, rather than as a Duke to his subject. “All I would ask is that you find room for my daughter.”