The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  “But sir...” one of the officers said.

  The Duke cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “I will not be swayed. We burn the city and head south to Sheffield...within the hour. Make it happen,” he said. The other three officers saluted and left. Martin too was about to leave when the Duke called him back.

  “Did old Barclay survive the night?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir. He’s too stringy for an Other to fancy.”

  “Then as of now he is in charge of your men,” the Duke said. It wasn’t a question. “I have another task for you. I need a scouting party.”

  “To the north?” Martin asked, and the Duke nodded.

  “Aye. Rumors tell that the Boy-King has taken flight and is heading back north of the wall. I need to know if that rumor is true.”

  “How many men can I take?”

  “Take fifty,” the Duke said. “And stay out, if you can. If he has retreated, we need to know where he goes.”

  “And where will I send word to?” Martin said.

  “Sheffield, at first, then we will be following on your heels. The Protector has decided that enough is enough. He is resolute...he will harry the Others until there are none left in all these islands.”

  “Then I volunteer,” Martin said. “I will leave before noon.”

  “You had better,” the Duke said with a grim smile. “For the city will burn within the hour.”

  When he got back to his billet Martin called his officers together.

  “I need volunteers,” he said. “But not you, Barclay...the Duke has given you command of the militia.”

  The old soldier looked shocked, but said nothing as Martin outlined the Duke’s orders. He saw the shock on the men’s faces when he told them about the burning and abandonment of the city.

  “I’m with you,” Fitz said when Martin finished. “We started this journey together, and together we’ll finish it. Who knows...we may even pass near to Far Sawrey.”

  “And I too am with you,” said the smith. “Especially if there’s a chance to sample Fitz’s beer...he has talked of little else since we met.”

  “I will be glad to have you,” Martin said.

  Barr looked at his feet and shuffled from side to side.

  “Barr?” Martin said.

  “My men will not follow you, sir,” he said finally. “But I will.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Martin said, “For I can only take fifty. If Toby has that many, it will suffice.”

  The big smith smiled.

  “The hard bit will be keeping the numbers down,” he said. “With your permission, sir, I’ll get onto it now.”

  Martin nodded, and the man left.

  “Fitz. I need provisions for fifty. Horses, winter gear, food enough for a long stint. Weapons, bulb, silver... everything we’ve got. And I need it now.” Fitz smiled.

  “We’ll be ready in an hour.”

  “Make it forty minutes,” Martin said. Fitz’s smile disappeared.

  “The burning starts so soon?”

  Martin nodded.

  “Then I will go,” Fitz said. “For there is a duty I must perform.”

  “And if you’ll forgive me, sir,” Barclay said, “Barr and I must also make preparations. If you speak the truth, the Duke has plans for all of us.”

  Martin nodded again. The officers departed, and he was left alone for the first time since that morning.

  He sat on the chair, put his head in his hands, and wept...for himself, for Gord, and most of all, for the loss of the only link he had back to Milecastle, the old doctor, Menzies.

  But when he left the tent five minutes later he was back in control and his eyes betrayed nothing but steely resolve.

  The yard was a hive of activity—camp was being broken. Even as Martin left his tent three of Barclay’s men moved in to dismantle it.

  Most of the other tents had already been taken down and packed; the braziers and buckets had been taken from the wall, the cannon were secured for travel and the food pots were being loaded on the back of carts.

  All the bodies from the night before had been cleared, and the remains of the Others had been scraped away from the yard. If it hadn’t been for the stench of death and powder in the air, it would be hard to tell there had even been a fight.

  Lieutenant Barclay saw Martin, and broke off from supervising the loading of carts to talk to him.

  “The Duke has ordered immediate evacuation,” the old soldier said. “We are to march for Sheffield within the hour. Barr is getting the men organized. Toby has picked his men for your unit, and has handed the rest over to me. It seems we go our separate ways.”

  “Aye,” Martin said, “Let us hope we meet again in better circumstances.”

  The old soldier lit his clay pipe.

  “It may be a while,” he said. “This has the feeling of a long, arduous campaign.”

  “But we will prevail,” Martin said. “I don’t know what sent the Boy-King running, but we must be thankful. We have had our first victory.”

  “At what cost?” a voice said. Martin turned to see Fitz helping Megan across the yard. She had a livid purple bruise covering her neck below her jaw, and she was limping, but there was a deep fire in her eyes. “I’m pleased to see you are well, Megan,” Martin said.

  “Maybe you won’t be so pleased…” Fitz said. “She insists she is coming with us.”

  Martin started to shake his head, and Megan stepped forward, almost stumbling, and grabbed him by the shirt to keep from falling.

  “You are not well, lady,” Martin said. “You should be in bed.”

  “Only if you will come with me,” she said, and rubbed herself against him before laughing. “See. I am well enough.”

  Old Barclay laughed with her.

  “I will miss you, milady,” he said. “You make an old soldier remember his youth.”

  “Come over here and I’ll bring the memories closer yet,” she said, but Barclay merely grinned.

  “I have a long walk ahead of me. I need to save my energy. At my age you are more likely to kill me.”

  “Oh, I know how to be gentle. Just ask my old man here.”

  “’Tis true,” Fitz said. “Gentle as a lamb one minute...ferocious as a she-cat with threatened cubs the next.”

  Megan turned and stared into Martin’s eyes.

  “I will not go to Sheffield and hide like some weak, infirm woman,” she said. “And Fitz and I have not been parted for the last fifteen years. I’m coming with you, wherever you go.”

  Fitz had a rueful grin on his face.

  “I would not naysay her,” he said. “She’s apt to give you some new scars.”

  For the first time that day Martin managed a laugh.

  “Well then, Fitz. You had better find more food...it seems our cook comes with us.”

  Megan kissed him on the lips.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But there is one more favor to ask of you.”

  Martin looked over her head at Fitz, but the innkeeper pointedly looked the other way.

  “Ask then,” Martin said.

  “The Duke has ordered all bodies to be taken to a pyre in the center of town,” she said. “We saved one for you to carry.”

  She led Martin to a cart in the corner of the yard and lifted the tarpaulin.

  The body of old Menzies lay there. He wore a uniform of an officer of the Watch. His wounds had been cleaned and stitched and he had been washed...he looked like he was merely sleeping. Only the butt end of a stake protruding from his chest betrayed that fact.

  “Fitz cleaned him up,” Megan said. “He wouldn’t let anybody else touch him.”

  Martin had a hitch in his throat, and was almost unable to speak. He had to swallow, twice, before he managed a hoarse whisper.

  “I thank you…as his friend, and as his Thane,” he said. “I know he would want to look his best to meet his maker.”

  “He was a good man, a loyal friend, and the only man I knew w
ho could drink more ale than me,” Fitz said, and forced a smile through his tears. “I know he would want you to take him on this last journey.”

  Martin had sudden tears in his eyes again as he nodded, and lifted the body from the cart. It was as light as a feather pillow in his arms.

  The size of the pyre in the city square amazed Martin. Bodies were piled nearly twenty feet high. They lay tangled among wood, straw, paper and cloth...anything that would burn. They covered an area nearly forty yards on a side and at least half of the bodies wore the red tunics of the Protector’s army. They had all been staked.

  Men of the cloth said prayers over the bodies, and more dead were arriving every second; loaded high in carts or carried by weeping family or friends.

  A crowd of the townspeople had gathered to watch the pyre being lit. They were a surly looking bunch; plump, well dressed and obviously well fed. They reminded Martin of the fat Proctor back in Carlisle.

  The Duke was already in the square, standing by the edge of the pyre, as were his three senior officers. He saw Martin arrive. It was obvious that he had been addressing the crowd and he raised his voice as Martin walked towards him.

  “Here is a man that has faced the army of Others three times now...three times, and still he walks, straight-backed and proud, an English man-and-only-man. Ask this man if he would bow to the Boy-King or give his city to the Others. Ask him what it would be like if we gave ourselves over to the dark.”

  There was dissension in the crowd, and some of the people booed the Duke.

  “He is a soldier, like you are,” someone shouted. “He gets the shilling, like you do...he does not have to make a living. How are we to live if we leave?”

  Some shouted in agreement before the Duke strode to stand in front of them.

  “And how will you live if you stay? You will be turned Others ere the next night is out,” the Duke said. “Or, as is more likely, drained to the limit for your sweet blood...I’ll wager you all have more than your fair share.”

  “We don’t know that,” someone else said. “The Boy-King has gone...we have beaten him. The Maid is already back over the wall.”

  “Mayhap,” the Duke said, “But there could be Others anywhere in the empty houses...it won’t be known ‘till darkness falls...and then it will be too late.”

  “We have searched our houses,” a voice shouted, but the Duke shouted him down.

  “But you haven’t searched them all...and you do not have time.”

  Martin could see that the Duke was getting angry. Some of his men were nervously shifting their muskets from arm to arm, and looked ready to shoot at any time.

  A voice called out from the crowd.

  “Mayhap we would be better with a King...at least the King never asked us to abandon our homes.”

  Martin walked forward, still carrying Menzies’ body.

  “This old man…” he said, holding the body in front of him, “...fought Others all his life. He saw them for what they are...abominations in the eyes of the Lord. He died for the people of this city, when he could easily have walked away from the fight. He burns, so that he stays man-and- only-man. This city must burn to ensure no one comes back.”

  He placed the body on the pyre and stepped back.

  “I burn his body, but his spirit lives on...in me, in his friends, and in this city.”

  The Duke handed him a lit torch.

  “It is your honor,” he said. “This city owes you for the lives of those who remain.” The Duke raised his voice once more.

  “While you were cowering, afraid in your houses, this man...who isn’t even from this city...held your West Gate against the Others. He slew a lieutenant of the Boy-King, and he has volunteered to scout the north for the Protector.”

  He shot a withering look of disgust at the townspeople.

  “This is what I call an Englishman...and he is worth a thousand of you.”

  The townspeople still looked sullen as Martin lowered the blazing torch to a large piece of straw. The fire lit quickly, flames crackling through the wood and sending sparks into the sky.

  “Burn the city,” the Duke called, and his men ran forward to light torches and apply them to the surrounding buildings.

  “You have two choices,” he told the townspeople. “Either stay here and die, or come with the army to Sheffield. I leave it up to you.”

  He marched off, and Martin followed him.

  “I have my scouting party ready and waiting. I depart as soon as I get back to them,” he said, and the Duke nodded.

  “Good. You are better off away from this rabble. Cattle…” he said, and spat in the dust at his feet. “They will follow us. That is what cattle do.”

  “And what if they do not follow?” Martin asked.

  “Then my men have orders to shoot them and burn them...we cannot give the Boy-King any more easy recruits.”

  He saw the look on Martin’s face.

  “Oh yes...I would shoot them. Make no mistake, lad, this is a war we must win. The plague the Others carry is too virulent to be placated. The Old Protector burned half of London and killed twenty thousand to eradicate it...we cannot do any less.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “Find The Maid for me,” he said. “Find him, and pen him in. I will have him before this winter is out.”

  By the time Martin led his party out of the West Gate ten minutes later, the city was already well ablaze. Thick smoke rose from the center of the town, soon joined by other plumes as houses began to blaze. There was a thin stream of people going south with the army, but equally, there were large groups leaving by the West Gate...and heading west once they were beyond the walls.

  “Ho, there!” Martin shouted at one of them. “Where are you going?”

  “Nottingham,” a woman shouted back. “The Others have already been there, and the Duke hasn’t burned it. Mayhap there is a living to be made if the town still stands.”

  The woman’s face looked pinched and worn with care. She had a babe in her arms, and two more tugging on her skirts.

  “You would be better off with the army,” Martin said. “The Duke has offered all people his protection.”

  She spat on the ground in front of her.

  “The Butcher? We’d be better off with the Boy-King.” She was out of reach of a shout before he could reply.

  Martin got his men mounted and led them out of the gate. The smith had got over a hundred volunteers, and had weeded out all the married men or men with other family to look after. What was left was fifty lean fighting men, all hungry for more action.

  “They won’t let you down, sir,” Toby said. “They are stout Englishmen, and they want nothing more than to be rid of this blight on our land.”

  “As do we all,” Martin said. “And we will do it, even if we die in the trying.”

  Martin stood up in his stirrups and addressed the men. “The Protector has asked us for a favor,” he said. “He wants us to find a maid for him...someone to keep him warm on the long winter nights. He has heard the women of the north are fair. Shall we go and find one for him?”

  The men laughed.

  “Lead them out, Toby,” Martin said.

  The big man saluted and led the band through the gate. Martin had one last look at the yard, remembering the battle, fixing in his mind the spot where old Menzies had fallen, then followed them out.

  Fitz had provisioned them for travel...and for battle. Each man, Martin included, wore a long brown leather coat that hung to his ankles. Beneath that, they each had leather vests and breeches. In bedrolls slung behind their saddles they had canteens of bulb-water, traveling cloaks and blankets for bedding.

  Each man also had two pistols, a musket, a sword, a dagger, and a bandoleer of stakes with a small hammer slung beside them. Some of the men also had crossbows slung across their backs, and small quivers of silver-tipped bolts. And many of the men wore large wooden crosses on their chests. One even carried a Bible in his left hand at all times
.

  Megan drove a long, high cart that was laden with water butts, from which wafted the sour taste of the bulb. The bruise on her jaw had gotten darker; a livid welt of purple that looked like someone had tried to throttle her. Her eyes were red-rimmed...she had been crying again. Fitz had told him earlier that he didn’t think she would ever get over being attacked by Gord, but she was strong, and she was determined.

  Behind her were three more carts.

  The first carried whatever other weapons Fitz could purloin; muskets, silver shot, even a small cannon and a stock of iron balls. Riding it was an old man Martin hadn’t seen before, a man who wore a faded uniform of the Watch.

  “An Officer of the Watch?” Martin said. “Where did you serve?”

  The old man spat out a wad of tobacco.

  “Wexham,” he said, “The name’s Barr. Thomas Barr.”

  It was too much of a coincidence.

  “Your son was the Sergeant Barr who has gone south with Barclay?”

  “Aye,” the old man said, “I didn’t fancy the walk, and I might get to see home again if I come with you.”

  He spat out another wad of tobacco.

  “Come on, you dozy buggers!” he shouted at the horses, then bit another lump off his wad.

  “It’s good to have you with us,” Martin said. “An Officer of the Watch is always welcome.”

  “Aye,” the old man said. “Even though we might no longer have a use.”

  He went back to chewing tobacco and cursing the horses as Martin fell back to survey the rest of the train.

  The second cart carried tents, bedroll and cauldrons for their overnight camps. It was driven by one of the smith’s men, a tall, taciturn man who saluted Martin but said nothing.

  The third was full of food, for men and horses, and was driven by Hillman’s twin boys.

  Martin raised his eyebrows when he saw them.

  “She would not leave without them,” Fitz said, seeing Martin’s look. “Besides…we are all family now.”

  Martin nodded.

  “If it comes to battle, keep them out of it,” he said. “Enough of my family has died already.”

  Martin rode up to the front of the line where the smith was leading his men out.