Invardii Series Boxset

by Warwick Gibson

  Only a fraction of the total Descendant forces were present in the square. Right now the guard barracks would be boiling over with the great majority of the guards as they were roused to defend the Descendant way of life.

  Menon knew the guards would be building themselves up into a state of religious fervour, fully prepared to die for their cause. The more able of the Descendants would be armed and fighting alongside the guards. There would be no reasoning with the forces about to come against them, and there would be no quarter asked or given.

  Menon knelt behind the barricaded archway at the front of the Descendant offices, waiting for the onslaught to begin. He hoped the second wave of militia had managed to keep a breach open for the main body of their forces. If the militia couldn’t push through, and create a perimeter inside the walls, all was lost.

  If the militia lost, the guards would be able to come back to the ground floor of the offices and finish off Menon and the Shellport squad at their leisure. So far, at least, his prayers for the militia were being answered.

  Hudnee fought at the head of the first squads as they poured over the wall into Roum. Daneesa had outfitted him in a full suit of leather armour, and he was safe from most of the cuts and stabs of the Descendant swords.

  He wielded a length of iron rod, not unlike his old measuring rod, and with his great strength broke through the guards’ defences with every roundhouse blow. Shields split and bones shattered as he went about his gory work.

  It was hot in the armour, even in the middle of the night, and he promised himself he would take it off once the breach into Roum was secure. He might even get a dip in the river below the bluff when this was all over, he thought wistfully, catching a sword with his rod and turning it.

  He knocked out the guard wielding the sword with a blow from his free hand. A squad member behind him ran the guard through with his short stabbing sword. There would be no quarter asked or given by the Descendants, and the militia knew that.

  Such a waste of life, thought Hudnee for a moment, and then he was drawn back into the instinctive world of block, attack, destroy, and step forward. Now repeat. And above all, survive.

  The wooden stockade at the top of the stone wall had been quickly torn down by the second wave of militia from the wine cellars. A dozen short ladders had been put up from the outside to allow easy access to the top of the stone wall, and the troops jumped down into the clear area behind the wall. Torches on long poles had been set up along the breach in the wall, and men and women lived and died by flickering torchlight.

  Hudnee’s forces had joined those who came in through the hoist port in the clear area inside the wall. The combined force was soon fighting across a front nearly fifteen squads wide. The squads, eight militia in each, fought in groups two wide and four deep, with room between them for the guards to get drawn in and attacked from both sides.

  The Descendant guards had four companies in reserve on that night, and they had been thrown in against the militia along this section of wall. It was an even struggle with so few militia yet across the wall, and the guard reserves pressing them hard.. The battle swayed one way and then the other, but the militia could not break out of the ring of guards, three deep and rotating their front line to keep their fighters fresh.

  A scattering of crossbowmen had been stationed along this section of the wall along with the guards on duty. They had created major problems for the militia until they were charged and dispatched by some outstanding acts of bravery. Now, however, Hudnee could see more companies of crossbowmen to his right, marching to join the guard defences.

  “We’ve got to do something!” shouted Habna from behind him. She and Daneesa were organising some of the villagers they had liberated to remove the wounded to wagons nearby. From there they would be taken to the Human medical team, a short way back from the fighting.

  I know we’ve got to do something, growled Hudnee to himself as he swung his rod sharply and broke the leg of a guard on his right, saving the life of a young militia member. He looked around desperately at the fighting. In his plans he had always imagined the militia would be across this cleared area and in among the houses of Roum by now. Once in there they would have cover, and he thought the militia would have the edge in house to house fighting.

  He realised his mistake. They were trying to fit too many fighters through a narrow gateway into Roum. There were nearly fourteen hundred militia in the darkness behind him, but they were of no use if he couldn’t bring them to bear on the enemy. The guards, on the other hand, had a lot of room around the militia to concentrate their forces on a front line that was only a dozen squads across.

  Hudnee struggled to think of something, anything! He exercised his mind desperately, but he couldn’t see any way to break the stalemate, and every moment the guard crossbowmen were marching nearer.

  He looked at the militia line again, taking a moment to think while a guard who had over-reached with his sword sank to the ground with a shattered arm. Guards behind the wounded man hauled him out of the line, and a fresh fighter took his place.

  Hudnee had seen in that brief moment that he might be able to swing the far end of the militia line away from the wall, and across to the houses further in. That would allow the militia outside the wall to feed through into the rows of houses that made up this part of Roum.

  Stepping back he let the number two in his squad, a powerfully-built villager from Saintsborough, take his place. Waving his hand sharply toward the far end of the line, he ran through the clutter behind his own lines – the wounded being removed, reinforcements coming forward – until he reached the far end of the militia line.

  The two squads he had waved forward came in behind him as he reached it. Taking a deep breath Hudnee charged into the fray, and smashed open the end of the line. A wedge of men and women, with Hudnee at its point, broke away from the stone wall and began to roll the line of guards up. In the meantime, more of the militia poured through the gap they had created, and made a new line that angled off toward the nearest of the houses.

  The guards hurried to meet the militia along the new part of the line. The line wavered, bending first toward the guard position, but then back as the militia were forced to yield ground. Hudnee roared his encouragement to the militia, and the line held. Behind them, along the new corridor, militia poured ten wide into the streets and byways of Roum.

  Hudnee detached himself from the line, and walked back to the stone wall, where he could get a better view. He was drenched in sweat, and bleeding from a number of wounds, but Daneesa’s leather armour had worked. None of them were serious.

  Ahead of him the guard crossbowmen halted and unlimbered their weapons. Hudnee felt sick at the sight. The militia might now be pouring into Roum, but the casualties along their flank were about to be gruesomely high.

  Then the flood of militia along the new corridor began to slow, and a runner made his way against the current to tell Hudnee they were being met by fresh companies of guards in every street now.

  The attack was stalling against the Descendant defence, and against the primitive, metal-capped crossbow bolts now being levelled at them, the militia had no answer.

  CHAPTER 28

  ________________

  The square outside the Descendant offices had become a chaotic scene of military activity. Wounded guards were being treated while lines were being drawn up for yet another attack on the building in front of them. The guards had battered away at the militia inside the offices several times now, but the defenders were holding a strong position.

  Twice Menon had led his forces out into the square as the guards regrouped after an attack. This had caught the guards unawares the first time, but now they kept companies near the archway at all times, and that didn’t leave room for such attacks.

  At one stage the guards had brought up a battering ram of some sort, and destroyed the walls on either side of the main entrance. The stonework above the entrance had come crashing down in an avalan
che of stone and dust, and injured many of the attackers.

  Try as the guards might, the militia were the better fighters inside the rooms and corridors of the building, and the guards were thrown back into the square each time they tried to storm the building.

  Menon led the militia out into the square once again, but this time the sortie had a new objective. Tumbril and his workers wanted to talk to their friends and neighbours and raise a new resistance against the guards. They only needed a moment to disappear into the alleyways off the square, and Menon intended to give them that moment. Once they had left the square they would be impossible to find in the twisted maze of the workers’ quarters.

  The two lines of militia and guards met as the militia sallied forth from the rubble and timbers that used to be the arched entrance to the building. The line between them surged forward, then back, as each side struggled desperately to gain the upper hand.

  Stretching the line dangerously long, Metris included some houses on the left side of the square. As Tumbril and his workers made to dash down one of the alleyways, the guards surged forward in the middle of the line, and cut it in half. Menon waved Metris away as the guards closed in on the isolated group of workers and militia, poised at the entrance to the narrow alley.

  With Tumbril leading the way they ran for it, the militia pairing off with the locals, and disappearing into the corridors, coal cellars and dark doorways of the workers’ quarters.

  The guards eventually came back into the square, shaking their heads before the guard commander’s questions. Menon withdrew his remaining force through the archway, and retreated deeper into the building, trying to draw the guards in after them. There was a protracted scuffle until the guards were finally repulsed, and then the tension of the stalemate resumed.

  Menon looked a little grimmer now. With some of the militia fleeing through the alleyways with Tumbril and his workers, it would be harder to tie down the companies in the square. He would do anything to keep them away from the battle to breach the walls of Roum.

  Meanwhile, in the dark back streets of Roum, Tumbril led the combined group through corridors and across dark alleys by ways known only to him, until eventually they arrived at his alehouse. Metris figured the fourth watch of the night had already started, so it was now more than half-way from midnight to dawn.

  Tumbril ushered the group into the large front room, and found some cold stew and jugs of watered ale that had been left behind the counter from the evening before. Everyone was exhausted by the late night skirmishes, and the tortuous escape through the hidden ways of Roum. They collapsed onto the seats along one of the tables and started to work their way doggedly through the meal. In wartime a soldier never knew when there would be time to eat again.

  Tumbril knew that time was short, and he wondered what sort of force he could muster, and how he would arm them. Realising a rallying cry was needed, he decided on “Free Roum” as their call sign and password.

  At least the citizens of Roum would be very much awake after the recent disturbances. They would most likely be waiting for dawn behind barricaded doors, and news should travel quickly. Tumbril would soon know what sort of force he could muster at short notice.

  He called in the alehouse staff from the dormitory next door. They were given instructions on what they were to do, and disappeared into the night. Then he explained what he had in mind to Metris.

  He would leave his workers in the alehouse to wait for the new recruits as they came in. While that was happening he would guide Metris and the militia he had with him to the Descendant armoury. What would be left there now the guards had called in all their forces was an unknown, and how heavily the armoury might be guarded was another guess. All the same, Metris liked the idea.

  When the militia arrived at the armoury, they found a dozen Descendant guards beside the entrance. Metris whispered instructions to his troops, and two of the most nimble of the militia disappeared along an adjoining alleyway.

  Not long after that there was a suspicious scratching sound from the back wall of the weapons room, and then a hammering, as if a group of people were trying to break through the wall. The Descendant officer dispatched half his men to investigate.

  By the time they arrived at the back of the armoury, there was no one there. In the meantime Metris and his remaining militia, slightly less than a full squad, had charged the guards at the main entrance. The battle was fierce, with the militia initially having a slight advantage in numbers.

  Hearing the commotion, the other half of the Descendant guards left the back wall of the armoury and ran for the front entrance. As they did so, two figures slipped out of a doorway and sped silently after them. The last two guards were picked off easily, and dropped without a sound. The next two managed to sound a warning, but by then it was too late.

  Metris dodged left and ran one of the guards through with a backhand stroke. Several of them were down now, and the rest quickly surrendered. Hearing the sounds of a struggle from around the corner of the building, Metris waved two of the militia to follow him while the others collected the guard weapons.

  One of the militia was down in the alley, but still defending against a guard, but the other clearly had the upper hand with her opponent. There was a quick flash with a knife and he was finished.

  Metris closed the intervening space in several quick strides and dispatched the guard who was intent on finishing off the fighter on the ground. She rose shakily to her feet – it had been a close thing. The little group returned to the front door of the armoury, and her wounds were treated while the militia broke open the weapons room.

  There was little left after the Descendants had armed the entire complement of guards and reserves, and themselves. The militia found a scattering of blades, mostly needing repair and few of any use. Then they opened the door of a large box standing upright against a wall. It contained matching sets of scouting knives, one large and one small, slid lengthways inside belts of leather.

  Metris’ eyes lit up at the sight. Swords would have been of little use, wielded by Tumbril’s untrained workers against experienced swordsmen, but knives were very useful for close fighting. Knife fighters also needed less training. The militia gathered up the forty or so sets of knives, and hurried back to Tumbril’s alehouse.

  Two more of the militia had died in the battle for the armoury, and Metris tried to push this thought out of his mind. He would mourn the dead later, but right now the militia had a job to do.

  Tumbril was pleased to see them back. The large front room was slowly filling up with citizens of Roum prepared to help depose the Descendants, but there was only Tumbril, his son, and a couple of runners in the small back room.

  “What’s happening at the breach in the walls?” said Tumbril, as another runner entered the room. The man hurried over to Tumbril’s son with his report. His son added it to the stream of information he had already heard from the runners.

  “The militia managed to force an entrance into the streets of Roum,” he said, “but a company of guard crossbowmen arrived from the barracks and attacked their flank. The militia had to pull back behind the stone wall, with many losses. The crossbowmen have now got them pinned down there.

  “After a while the guard swordsmen charged the walls, but they didn’t get the best of it. Most of the guards from the barracks are tied up fighting the militia that got over the wall and into the workers’ quarters. One company has taken over the wine cellar and closed down the hoist port.

  “There are still two companies trying to defeat the militia that have taken over the Descendant offices. They’ve now got a handful of crossbowmen to help them, and that has pinned down the militia inside the building. The guards have tried to storm the building but they lost a lot of men once they were inside the main corridor, so they pulled back. It’s something of a stand-off now.”

  Tumbril grunted. He turned to Metris. “The militia advance has stalled. If we don’t do something soon, daybreak will be here
, and that will favour the crossbowmen even more. It will also open up the militia supply lines to attack as they cross the plains of Roum.

  “The weak point in the guard defences is the crossbow companies.” he added. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Metris looked at the pile of knives that had been brought back from the armoury, now on a bench at the side of the back room, and began to understand what Tumbril was thinking.

  The crossbowmen rarely carried weapons apart from their crossbows, and didn’t have leather armour. They fought from a position behind the guard swordsmen, and were vulnerable to hand to hand attack from an unexpected quarter.

  The swordsmen would turn on the attackers shortly after, it was true, but if Hudnee and the militia could swarm over the top of the stone wall at the same time, they could engage the guards and keep them from defending the crossbowmen.

  It just might work! If they got the timing right. Why did everything always seem to come down to timing? Timing, in this case, and a lot of fighters who were experienced with weapons like the scout knives. Where would they find those?

  Tumbril led him into the front room. It was full of Roum’s labourers. They looked fit, and they looked determined. No doubt it was a hard life under the Descendants, and they would do anything to change that. Tumbril swept his hand around, encompassing the men and occasional woman in the room.

  “They want to help,” he said simply.

  Metris was uncertain. How many of them had any close quarters training?

  “They all have their special skills,” said Tumbril, noting the uncertainty in Menon’s eyes. “Hunters, guards discharged for some supposed infraction, cooks, wood carvers, butchers. They all know knives, and they all know what they’re being asked to do.”

  He fixed Metris with a pointed look. “Let them do what they want to do. Let them make a difference.”