‘I agree that your horses were innocent,’ said Patrick. ‘And the only comfort I can offer you is the assurance that the dreadwolf that claimed them did not fare so well against my axe. I did not think to bring its head back as some kind of proof. I did not think the Queen was interested in macabre trophies.’
‘You may have miscalculated there,’ replied the Queen abruptly. ‘When vexed, I take great comfort in seeing a head removed from its body.’ She wanted to consider her decision with some clarity but was being thwarted by all the distant screams – and some closer ones as well.’ She leaned towards one of her personal guards. ‘If I am not mistaken there are no women in my army.’
‘That is correct, my Queen.’
‘Then explain to me why I can hear women screaming.’ Her voice was punctuated by an outbreak of screams that were louder and closer still and left no doubt the camp was under attack. The Queen stood up, her eyes widening and her voice wavering as she exclaimed, ‘It is the Brotherhood of Pink Gold.’
Patrick felt a surge of pre-battle excitement. Judging by the screams, however, he doubted it was the Brotherhood of Pink Gold, for they were Saxon lords and would not be hacking their way through the women and children of the camp. He turned expectantly to the tent’s entrance, suspecting they were soon about to find out who it really was. The two men that rushed inside were truly terrifying and exactly what he had imagined when Turnstone first mentioned them. The tattoed faces, immensely strong bodies, long black robes, blood stained weapons: the Death Monks.
The Queen’s guards rushed to engage them and although they were the best solidiers at the Queen’s disposal, they were cut down as perfunctorily as wheat at harvet time. The Queen fell stunned back into her throne, aghast at the existence of such a ferocious enemy. ‘Kill them at once,’ she called out feebly. The guards at Patrick’s side rushed forward to join the fray. Patrick was particularly interested to see how they fared against the monks. He had been setting himself to overpower them if his execution had been ordered and he had the chance now to see how they measured up in battle. The answer revealed itself to be not very well - at least, not very well against the pure killing of the Death Monks. Their sword thrusts were easily deflected and, with a glint of madness in their eyes, the monks sliced through their throats in a grotesque display of spurting blood.
Patrick had only seem death being so hungrily carried out when farm animals were being slaughtered for a feast, and was certain all the occupants in the tent would be slaughtered in a similar manner if the monks were not stopped. He sought out Melania to find she had replaced the guards beside him and was holding up Agrestis. ‘You’ll need this,’ she said with surprising calmness.
‘Thank you.’ Patrick took the axe and rushed the monks. He swung hard and plunged the axehead into one of the monk’s forehead. The wild fury evaporated from the monk’s eyes as they rolled upwards in death and the body crumpled to the ground. The other monk lunged at Patrick with his sword speering for his heart. Patrick caught the blade under his arm in a chicken wing and viciously punched the man in the throat, a part of the body that training could not strengthen. The monk collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, leaving the sword behind with Patrick. Patrick stamped down on the monk with his foot and ran him through with his own blade. He stepped away to Melania and took her wrist. ‘Are you hurt?’
Melania shook her head. ‘I’m alright. But if you want me to hold your axe again, you better fetch it yourself.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Sure.’ He yanked the axe free. ‘I’ll keep it for the time being. Don’t you have your own weapon?’ He pointed to the sword he had lodged between the other monk’s ribs. ‘If not, that one cuts quite well.’
He strode over to the Queen, who was gazing at him probingly. ‘Those two hooded beasts cut through my best guards like they were ingredients in a stew,’ the Queen said. ‘And yet you killed them both. One with your axe and the other with your bare hands.’
‘Turnstone asked me to protect you.’
‘You came here to protect me? Before we were interupted, I was deciding whether or not to put you to death.’
Patrick glanced at the Executioner, who was standing behind the Queen with a look of barely contained rage. ‘I was confident you would warm to me.’
‘I would kill you if I could,’ the Executioner hissed back.
‘Until you start winning battles against the likes of those,’ interjected the Queen, ‘you’d best leave him alone.’ She glanced at Patrick. ‘Where is Turnstone now?’
‘I will take you there. But we need to go now.’
‘What makes you think I would follow you?’
Patrick pointed to the dead guards. ‘Because the best you have aren’t going anywhere.’
Queen Rachel glanced in the direction of the screams and battlecries beyond the tent as the attack continued to rage. ‘Turnstone is the best cook I have known,’ she conceded. ‘But I have often wondered if he is more than just a cook. He is, isn’t he?’
‘He would have you see what else he is capable of,’ Patrick murmured.
Queen Rachel sprung up onto her feet. ‘Very well. Let’s go.’
Patrick picked up a knife and cut a long slit down the tent wall. He peered out across the muddy ground littered with bodies and burning tents to the forest beyond. ‘Follow me quietly and quickly,’ he said to the party behind him. ‘The forest is close enough that we have a good chance of reaching it unseen.’ He smirked at the Executioner. ‘But if the Death Monks are to discover us, it will be interesting to see how you fare against those with weapons of their own.’
The Executioner silently snarled back at him.
Patrick let Agrestis pass by his throat as he led the Queen’s entourage out of the tent.
*
The Queen’s soldiers were once again high on the ladders on their way to Merdel’s tower. The chains were holding them to the slippery surface, but it was a journey that could not be rushed despite the horrific deaths awaiting in the moat below. The soldiers kept their eyes firmly fixed on the ladder beneath them and the tower’s stone walls tantalising near – distraction came, however, with a dozen galloping horses bearing a carriage and a train of cages. The carriage roared from the forest road onto the battlefield. It was an impressive sight and for the soldiers upon the ladders a comforting reminder of the overwhelming superiority of the Queen’s forces, for they were certain it was just another dimension to Lord Zwingli’s assault. Perhaps a catapult and coals for ammunition, or netting to straddle the moat, or possibly something even more exotic: after all, Zwingli had been known to drop his enemies from heights into pots of boiling oil and pits of poisonous vipers, and the Wizard Merdel had done much to provoke such a response. As the carriage train pulled up at the moat’s edge, its cages became visible, as did the presence of shadowy shapes prancing within - some kind of enormous wild dogs. Falgarn, the leading soldier upon the closest ladder, cried, ‘Lord Zwingli has brought his pets to be fed and today a wizard is on the menu.’ A rousing cheer from the soldiers sharing his ladder was followed by an extra spurt of energy in the push for the tower. Down on ground lever, however, Zwingli was watching the carriage train in stunned silence, realising that within the cages were the one kind of creature he thought it impossible to bring to captivity: the dreadwolf. There were four cages and a half dozen dreadwolfs in each. They were prancing from side to side, eyeing the army around them with a primeval anger. Already rattled by how easily the first wave of his assault had been repelled, this new threat upon the battlefield shook Zwingli to the core - this was a battle for which his tried and true strategies were simply not going to cut through.
‘What are your orders, Lord Zwingli?’ queried his messenger anxiously.
Zwingli shuffled Collusus across for a better view of the carriage train and its driver and his eyes widened with surprise. ‘It is the Queen’s Stewman, Turnstone,’ he declared. His instinct was to unleash the archers’ fury upon him, but he balked, well aware t
he axe of the Queen’s Executioner upon his neck would be the inevitable consequence of miscalculation. He turned to Martory who was by his side. ‘Did the Queen mention this to you?’
‘I have heard her compliment Turnstone’s cooking,’ Martory murmured. ‘But I haven’t heard her speak of this, of her cook with cages full of dreadwolfs. And she wouldn’t be able to explain how such creatures could get pink gold off a wizard.’ His voice darkened. ‘She wouldn’t need to explain how they could tear your army to pieces because that speaks for itself.’
The comment struck home and Zwingli turned sharply to the messenger. ‘Unleash the archers upon the carriage.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ The messenger moved to transmit the order when a spear abruptly penetrated his chest. He reflexively tried to rip it out but death quickly took hold, his mouth that had been open to scream went limp and he collapsed onto his back.
Other spears were also finding their targets at the same moment. The rampaging Death Monks had swept through the Queen’s Camp, killing all before them, advancing upon the Queen’s army with no fear of the superior numbers. With their black robes, tattooed faces, sharpened teeth and wide open tongue-less mouths, they were truly a hideous sight, rendering many of the Queen’s soldiers stupefied before their enormous swords.
Martory and Zwingli swung down from their horses and rushed to engage them. Despite their personal animosity, they instinctively remained together, aware that even for the Queen’s best fighters, Death Monks were going to be a formidable opponent. They chose one who was on his own and moved in from different directions. The monk, however, had swords in both hands and the blades moved at speed and with complete independence, making it seem for each Saxon lord that the fight was one against one. It was Martory that finally broke through the monk’s defences, slashing his arm tendons and sending the sword dropping to the ground. The monk continued to fight with his remaining good arm, but it was only a matter of time before Martory saw the opening he had been waiting for and ran his sword through the man’s back and into his heart.
Zwingli waited until the monk had hit the ground before putting his own blade into the monk’s chest, not convinced that one would be enough to kill him. ‘What kind of army is this?’ he cried, watching in horror as mayhem engulfed the battlefield.
‘A nasty one,’ said Martory. ‘And they are after the same thing as us. That means we need to start killing them a whole lot better than you and I just did.’
‘What order can I give that will achieve that?’ barked Zwingli, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
Martory looked beyond the onslaught of the Death Monks scything through the Queen’s soldiers to Turnstone on the roof of the carriage. ‘I daresay there is no point giving an order if there is no one left to follow it,’ he murmured as he realised what Turnstone was about to do. ‘I think we had better move to higher ground.’
‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Zwingli angrily. ‘I am not about to retreat. We are on the cusp of victory. Our men are within reach of Merdel’s tower. Once they are armed with pink gold, they will be invincible.’ He sprinted away to engage another Death Monk.
Martory did not follow him. He watched Turnstone lifting open the first of the cage doors and the dreadwolfs within bolting out onto the battlefield, and he looked for the nearest tree to climb.
Turnstone jumped from cage to cage until all the doors were open and all the dreadwolfs were away. The dreadwolfs went on a rampage upon the battlefield with an insatiable thirst to kill. Death Monks and Queen’s soldiers, locked in battle, did not see them coming and were savagely set upon. Throats were torn out before screams could find their voice; and limbs were ripped away before swords could be swung in defence. Archers took shots at the creatures, but the arrows seemed only to enrage them further.
The soldiers upon the ladders watched aghast as their army was decimated and suddenly they were feeling they were in the safest place upon the battlefield. For those on Falgarn’s ladder, however, the thought was over in a moment. Merdel had returned to the tower platform and lowered by rope his chest of pink gold and scrolls onto the ladder above them. ‘You want your share of treasure,’ he called out. ‘Well, catch it.’ He let go and the chest hurtled down the ladder, so well lubricated in oil. Falgarn and all the soldiers behind him were sent flying helplessly into the moat. The serpents were once again stirred.
Turnstone had cut the cages loose and repositioned his carriage at the bottom of the ladder. Bales of hay broke the chest’s descent and Turnstone quickly set about hoisting it up towards the carriage using a winch and pulley mounted on top of the carriage. Merdel came careering down the ladder not long after the chest, submerging into the hay.
‘Your dreadwolfs are not friendly,’ he murmured as he picked himself up and brushed hay off his robes. ‘Not friendly at all.’
‘They can’t seem to help it,’ said Turnstone.
‘When you spoke of a diversion, I didn’t realise you meant a massacre.’
‘Well, now you know what a war wizard means when he speaks of such things.’
Merdel went to the chest and worked with Turnstone in guiding it into the carriage. There was a creaking of joints as the carriage somewhat reluctantly absorbed the weight. Even amidst the baggy robes, Turnstone could see that Merdel was impressively muscled. ‘You’re looking fit,’ he murmured.
‘Pink gold does seem to return a man to his youth,’ replied Merdel.
‘We better land on the opposite side of Sardinia Island to where all the women are,’ said Turnstone as he hurried to the carriage’s front seat and took hold of the horses’ reigns. ‘I do not want to be around when you try to make up for forty years lost time.’
Merdel sat beside him. ‘It has’t been forty years.’
Turnstone whipped the horses into a gallop. ‘Whatever.’
*
Death Monks retrieved their spears from the bodies of dead soldiers and the occasional dreadwolf and joined in the sprint for Turnstone’s carriage. Lord Zwingli, on the back of Calluses, was leading the charge of Queen’s soldiers. ‘The pink gold is on board the carriage!’ he declared. ‘We must stop -’ His words were cut short by a spear striking him in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground. A pair of dreadwolfs caught him in their jaws and kept running, fighting over him until he had split in two.
Merdel and Turnstone grimly watched from the front of the carriage. ‘A bad way to die,’ Merdel muttered. ‘Let’s get away from here.’
‘We cannot just yet,’ replied Turnstone, guiding the carriage in a wide turn across the battlefield. ‘We have some passengers to pick up first.’
Merdel glared. ‘Passengers?’
Turnstone pointed to where Patrick was guiding Queen Rachel and her entourage out of the forest by the tower moat. ‘There they are.’
‘The Queen?’ grumbled Merdel, incredulously. ‘She just sent her army to kill me.’
‘That’s true. But the people need a queen and if this one is gone, the power vacuum will cost many lives and the ruler Glywysing eventually gets will have been made bitter and ruthless from the experience.’
Merdel surveyed first the converging armies and second the slow moving queen and her guards and beautiful attendants, sparsely protected by Patrick, the Executioner and a couple of guards. ‘It’s going to be tight.’
Turnstone pulled the carriage to a stop as close to the Queen as he could get. ‘Go welcome our guests.’ He pulled out a bow and fifty arrows contained within a leather holder from under the seat. ‘I will buy you some time. Get as many on board as you can, but as soon as the arrows are finished, we’re leaving.’ He sprung up onto the roof and started picking off monks and soldiers with an unerring accuracy. A sixth sense sent him ducking just in time to avoid a spear heading right for his heart. He slipped under it and repaid the culprit with an arrow to the throat. He finished on one knee in a perfectly balanced firing position and set about holding back the converging armies.
*
Melania held Queen Rachel’s arm, assisting her through the last few paces to the carriage - the flushed cheeks and hard breathing indicated that despite her fondness for battles, this was no warrior queen. Merdel was standing by the central steps leading up into the carriage a frown biting into his brow. His disquiet was only heightened when he noticed the Executioner right behind her. How they would be received on Sardania Island he shuddered to think. He only hoped he had enough good ideas written upon his scrolls to compensate for this bad one. ‘Watch your step, Queen Rachel,’ he muttered dourly as she reached the carriage. ‘You wouldn’t want to trip and hurt yourself.’
‘I’m halfway through my arrows,’ called out Turnstone from the roof.
Patrick strode to the steps and hurried the Queen along with a firm push in the behind. The Queen gasped with surprise as she tumbled into the carriage.
Patrick turned to Melania. ‘You’re next.’
‘I’ll slap your face if you try that with me,’ Melania replied.
‘It would be worth it,’ said Patrick with a smirk. But as she started up the steps, he detected in the corner of his eye an enormous Death Monk approaching the carriage. He was just about the biggest man Patrick had ever seen. The bloodied swords gripped in his hands were made to look like mere knives and the robes covering him resembled a tent with legs. Patrick wondered why Turnstone had not already taken a shot at him. He was such a massive target he couldn’t have been missed. The two surviving members of the Queen’s guard were panicked into rushing him without due consideration and were both dead in an instant, the monk’s swords splitting them open from head to chest. As blood spurted wildly the ladies-in-waiting at the carriage steps released a collective scream.
Patrick stepped between them and the Death Monk, raising Agrestis into a striking position. ‘Alright, big monk. Let’s cut you up nice and small.’
The Death Monk stopped and smiled cruelly, his lips moistened with excitement.
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