by B R Crichton
Three fingers. A new record.
He brushed the snow from both shoulders, and turned to his men. There were many there not of the militia, and their dress and formation was not as neat as he might have liked, but a man worked with what he was given, and he had been handed a rough body of men. They would fight though, he was sure. They would not have stood this long in this foul weather had they not been willing.
North Gate held. The enemy had not been successful in breaking through as they had done at West and South Gates. He remembered when the two remaining gates had been installed; it was the same year that he was promoted to Captain which would be nearly twelve years ago now, and the City’s plans had been to replace all four, which were showing their age. However, the Governor at the time had chosen to redecorate one of his residences with the money instead, only replacing East Gate’s timber, as that would be the gate passed through by visitors on the road from Kor’Habat. The northern gate had only been replaced because a visiting dignitary desired to go hunting in the hills to the north, and so hurried orders were given to replace that gate. Carpenters worked night and day for three days to complete it in time so that the notable personage would not have to pass through an old looking gate.
He had decided not to go hunting after all. It was too hot.
The century old timber of the remaining gates had proved only too willing to ignite.
North Gate had been quiet enough recently, though word was that East Gate had only had to deal with a few tentative, probing attacks. The Eritanian, Caspar Gillen, had an easy task there, but then it was not his city and so he would probably be less inclined to risk his life for it. Better he stayed where the action was not.
The Jendayans had clearly assumed that they would arrive at the city undetected, and be inside the walls before any resistance was met, but thanks to the lucky timing of the arrival of the forces from Hillfoot, that was not the case. Half an hour had not been as much time to prepare as he would have liked, but Captain Renald would sooner have that than no time at all.
With two gates breached, the Jendayans were concentrating their efforts there and so when the mercenary’s son arrived at speed requesting soldiers for West Gate, he was only too happy to oblige.
“Take what you need; I feel the enemy are losing their appetite for the city,” he said. “Any fresh news from the other gates?”
“The East is quiet, and the South is winning,” Olimar said. “But they are throwing everything they have left at West Gate.” Olimar went about selecting a detachment to send west.
“I do hope they are gone by supper,” Captain Renald said to himself, then returned to his vigil.
Alano Clemente arrived at West Gate with three hundred footsoldiers at his back. Captain Renald of the Moshet Militia had answered the call for reinforcements, by sending a significant portion of his own units from North Gate.
“We need to retake the bloody ramparts!” Blunt shouted. “Archers and foot are on their way from East Gate, but until they get here, we need to hold them on the ramps. There are too many of the bastards in the city already.”
There was fierce fighting at the bottom of the ramps already as footsoldiers fought against the press of bodies trying to get down to gain access to the city. A few bowmen were picking Jendayan soldiers off as they fought their way down, but they could do with having an elevated position. Pikemen were holding the burned out gateway, but could not do so indefinitely. They needed to retake the ramparts and use the archers to hit the enemy from above.
“They cannot retreat.” Alano said loudly as those behind him broke into smaller units, and joined the fray where they could.
“I know.”
“The snow is too deep now for an ordered withdrawal. They must have known it would come to this if they did not take the city quickly. Their commanders must have known that using that storm for cover would also cut them off from the main body of the Jendayan invasion. It will be waist deep out there at least with the drifting.”
Blunt nodded. “They had expected to be warming their feet by the fire by now, with the city taken. The problem with them having no means of escape is that the buggers will keep coming at us until the last man is dead. And Fate knows how many are already inside the city, the ramparts were lost a long time ago.”
“The city is full of civilians!”
“There are squads combing the city now for intruders; feel free to join them. Let us hope the good people of Moshet have sturdy locks on their doors.”
Alano stepped aside as Blunt urged his horse to join the last remaining group of cavalry soldiers. There were less than forty left. The repeated charges to clear the gate had been hugely effective, but had cost lives. Blunt consoled himself with the knowledge that the mounted soldiers had taken ten times their number in Jendayan lives, and he would add his weight to that now. The pikemen were buckling from the weight of the attack.
Blunt drew his sword as the cavalry formed behind him, and held it above his head. Steel sang on steel as the cavalry did the same.
“Pikemen!” he bellowed. “Break!”
And as the footsoldiers folded back like petals at dawn, the cavalry charged once more.
Marlon led one of several units, searching Moshet in an ordered pattern for Jendayan soldiers. Being Dasari himself, he felt an obligation to rid the city of invaders. He had not been raised in Moshet, but had spent several winters here as a boy, and served part of his blacksmith’s apprenticeship here. He knew the streets well enough. They had met three groups already; six, four, and a lone pair. His fifteen men had overwhelmed the enemy without loss though Dimas was among them, and he fancied that the whirlwind of rage that the drunk became when sighting Jendayans, could have dealt with them alone. There were over twenty groups moving through the city, each armed with a whistle to blow if they met a force they could not handle. The sound would bring reinforcements if needed. That was the hope.
Alano ran awkwardly through the snow to join them.
“Marlon,” he panted as he called softly. Marlon stopped to wait for him. “Blunt thought I might join one of your units. I met another three streets over, they said you were here.”
“You are welcome to join us. How goes the defence?”
“The gates are holding. West Gate was struggling for a while, hence your job here, but I think that, for now at least, no more are getting through.”
A scream from a road to their left caught his attention. The squad ran towards the sound, crunching through the deep snow. The buildings in this district were primarily dwellings, terraced and on two levels. The doors opened directly onto a cobbled lane that was barely wide enough to fit a horse drawn cart down. Marlon signalled for the men to hold back and proceeded carefully, taking care not to crunch too heavily in the snow. Fresh prints in the deep carpet led to a door from the other direction. He counted three distinct sets.
With the windows shuttered against the weather, it was impossible to get a view of the inside, but Marlon counted three sets of boot prints. How could these raiders possibly hope to conceal their movements when every step left a deep hole on the snow?
Turning back to his men, he held up three fingers and beckoned. The three nearest stepped forward, including Alano, who had found himself at the front having been speaking with Marlon. Dimas pushed past them, intent on getting involved. The others hesitated, then one of the militiamen sidled back to leave the others to advance silently.
Marlon had been hoping for stealth; he had no idea what they would find beyond that door, and Dimas was not the most predictable of men. But trying to reorganise them now might well alert the intruders, so he bit back his protest, and put his ear to the door.
There was shuffling inside and a thump on the floorboards, but no voices, and certainly no more screaming. That was either very good, or very bad. There was only one way to find out.
He took a step back and lifted his boot, driving it hard into the door just below the lock. The timber splintered and the door crash
ed in. Three Jendayans turned as one. One of them was sitting at the opposite side of a table in the middle of the room, his sword set down on it as he rubbed warmth back into one of his feet. The other two were standing by the hearth, their hands toasting over the meagre coals behind him. They all had their veils down off of their faces, clearly comfortable in the warmth.
Dimas was the first through, looking every bit the madman with his wild hair and animal cry, charging in before Marlon could regain his footing. He held the sword in both hands, gripping it above his head and allowing the blade to point down behind him as he cleared the threshold. He hurled it forwards with all his strength, sending it end over end into the chest of the man to the right of the hearth before his sword cleared its scabbard. Two more strides and he dived at the sitting man with a snarl, sliding across the table and spilling the sword from his frantic grasps. They crashed to the floorboards, grappling with each other, as Alano, Marlon and the other militiaman followed. The third man faced them as Dimas choked the life from the one he had leapt upon.
The Jendayan eyed the doorway behind the three men, but even as he did so, it filled with the forms of more armed men. His shoulders relaxed, and his expression grew softer, then he took what looked like a black twig from a pouch at his hip and put it in his mouth. He gagged, and then fell to his knees with eyes wide, toppling forwards. By the time he hit the floor, he was dead, and black bubbles oozed from his mouth when Marlon kicked the body over.
Dimas still squeezed at the crushed throat of the limp body whose chest he sat on. He shook the head, thumping it roughly on the floorboards, little sobs escaping him. Alano went to put a hand on his shoulder, to stop his pointless efforts. That was when he saw the bodies.
In a dim corner of the room, at the foot of the stairs, lay the bodies of the house’s former inhabitants. They had been dumped unceremoniously, with blood still pooling on the worn floorboards. His eyes were drawn to the foot of the stairs, then up a few steps to where a wide eyed child was standing. She could not have been more than three, and she clutched a rag doll to her chest as though it was the most precious thing in the world.
Alano moved quickly. He put himself at the foot of the stairs to shield the view of her slaughtered parents, and held his hand out to the child.
“That is a pretty doll,” he said with a smile. “What is her name?”
Truman woke with his left arm on fire. He felt terrible; his head ached, his mouth was so dry that his tongue had stuck to his roof, and his stomach vied for his attention between nausea and ravenous hunger. He sat up in the dim light, cradling his injured arm. It had been bound with thick bandages, and reeked of a concoction of herbs and Fate alone knew what else.
He found himself in a long room, one of dozens of injured lying on blankets on the floor, lined against the two longest walls. Civilian women and a few men moved hurriedly from patient to patient, offering water or comfort, dressing wounds, or in a few cases, covering the faces of the recently deceased. He managed to stand on shaky legs, and started for the nearest civilian along the pathway between the feet of the casualties. A few glanced at him, but said nothing. If he was able to walk, he was of no concern to them.
“Please,” he said to the nearest, as his unsteady steps brought him closer. “Is the battle won?”
“It is over, if that is what you mean,” she replied as she worked to stem the flow of blood on a patient, “though I see few winners here. Brave men who have paid the price.”
“Where is the mercenary band led by Kilarn Bluntis?”
“Who?” the woman replied, her exhaustion evident.
“Scurrilous Blunt,” he corrected himself, “the mercenary.”
She recognised that name. “I hear they are staying in ‘The Turner’s Retreat’,” she said. “Do you know it?”
Truman nodded. “I do.” He had performed there in the past; it was an inn near West Gate, and as he recalled, they had nice ale there. His stomach heaved and his head thumped a little harder at the thought.
“One more thing,” he said, “how do I get out of this place?”
“You should be resting, not carousing,” she scolded him; pulling the bandage she was working on a little too tight to show her disapproval. The patient grunted in pain, and Truman bowed his head in apology to the man.
“I am in no mood for carousing, madam; I merely wish to return to my friends.”
The woman loosened her shoulders a little and turned to him. She was pretty, and Truman found himself smoothing his moustaches with thumb and forefinger. “I am sorry,” she said. “It has been a long day.”
“What is the hour?”
“Well past time I was in bed, that is all I know.”
The Truman of old, perhaps having lost less blood than he had today would have had a witty response to that. Instead he remained silent.
“Up to the end of the room, turn right and up the stairs. You will find a door leading to the grain market. Mind your footing in the snow.”
He thanked her, and made his way past the injured men on both sides. He was glad of the dim light, as it obscured the worst of the injuries. Bloody bandages, makeshift splints and the smell of death filled the room. When he made it to the hallway at the end, he turned right, glancing into the rooms he passed to see the same picture he had just left. Scores of maimed and injured filled the rooms, and corpses were being carried out on litters.
The stone steps took him to the welcome relief of the clean air outside. The biting cold was a small price to pay to not be one of the dying in the cellars below. He knew Moshet well, and made his way through the snow. It had seen enough foot traffic now to be beaten down, and the flakes were no longer falling, but he had to be wary of icy patches where the snow was compacted and polished. The sallow light from the lamps barely lit his way, but he found ‘The Turner’s Retreat’, and it was as he had remembered it.
There was laughter from within, and sounds of celebration. He pushed open the door to find the Band drinking to their success. There were also many of the ‘Remnants’ in the room, and faces he knew from their time in the mountains, but she was not.
“Truman!” Elan shouted, raising his tankard. “You are alive.”
He made his way through the tavern, wincing at the enthusiastic slaps on the back, and shaking hands with friends.
“Have you written the first ballad yet?” Elan asked, leaning forward, intoxicated on the ale and the thrill of surviving the battle.
“Not yet, my friend, but I will save a line in it for you.”
“A line?” he protested. “I am worthy of a full verse at least. Elan Arellan, the sure eyed bowman from the north. Saviour of Moshet!” He was met with cheers and jeers alike.
“The last I saw of you,” Truman said for all to hear, “you were falling from the rampart. I will save that verse for myself.” The jeers grew louder.
Elan rose to the challenge. “This from a man who slept through half the battle!”
“Play us something lively, Truman,” someone called.
Truman help up his injured arm apologetically. “There will be no playing tonight.”
“Well that’s a blessing, if ever I heard of one.” The voice had come from the door. Valia had entered with Marlon, who was making his way to Blunt’s table in the corner of the room, where the old mercenary had propped himself up against the wall, in full leather armour, and the bright red, wide brimmed hat complete with green feathers.
Truman met her eyes, and for a moment, the room was empty save for them. Most of her hair had escaped her braid, and hung loosely on one shoulder. She pulled off her heavy cloak, draping it over the back of the nearest chair, and unbuckled her leather breastplate, then dumped it on a table. Her heavy cotton shirt beneath was soaked with sweat, sleeves mottled with blood.
She was so beautiful that he was rendered speechless.
She strode assuredly to the bar, and leaned on it heavily, calling to the barkeep. “Wine for myself, if you will, and my friend here i
s without refreshment.”
Truman almost refused the offer, but his words died on his tongue when she turned to face him.
“Are you well?” she asked. “You were nothing but dead weight when I took you from the rampart. You had lost a great deal of blood by the time we reached the infirmary.”
He found his voice after a moment, but struggled for words. “Valia. What you did; it is beyond my ability to thank you. The peril you put yourself in to come to my aid, puts me in your debt…” she held up a calloused hand to stop him.
“You would have done the same for me,” she said.
“I…” he began.
“People!” Marlon shouted to quieten the room. Blunt nodded a vague sort of thanks when the last of the revellers went quiet. He removed his hat, looking pale and exhausted.
“Today we won a great victory,” he began, raising a tankard that was still almost full. “Some of you fought bravely, you know who you are. But most of you only barely managed to live up to the exceedingly low expectations I had to begin with.” Derisive murmurs mingled with good natured jeers. “But the result of your lack lustre efforts has been; a good many civilian lives saved and a bloody nose for those bastarding Jendayan sons of bitches.” That drew a louder cheer. His tankard was still raised, though he looked fit to drop from exhaustion. “There remains, however, one final duty to fulfil before we can truly consider our task complete.” He paused. “Drink the city dry.”
A cheer went up again, and this time continued, as tankards were knocked together, and tables drummed. The serving girls carried trays of ale into the room, and one of the ‘Remnants’ started to play on a flute. Truman recognised the tune. It was a popular piece for dancing, and it only took moments for one of the Band to grab Valia’s wrist, and pull her away from the bar for a whirl on the inn’s bare floorboards.
Truman had never seen Valia dance before, and she was clearly not used to the idea, but she threw herself into it, riding the crest of a wave of relief among the survivors.