Damsel Knight

by Sam Austin

  Sir Angus glowers at them, the crowd finally thinning around his horse. The women and children would be safe for now in the palace walls, and the men would do their duty - unless they were killed by the enemy, or their own side. “The war horn is blaring. They had their warning.”

  “There hasn’t been a drill for hundreds of years. Most won’t know what it means!” Sir Julius spurs his horse forward. “If they make it to the slums, light it. But there has to be more than our men to take down. Hundreds at least. And right in the middle of the slums. We’re not burning off our arm to scorch their toes.”

  Bonnie turns to see Sir Angus’s head nod grimly. The man barks orders to his men.

  Neven gallops after them as fast as his pony can manage. Within minutes they’re through the dip in the golden road that counts as the slums - this close to the road nothing more unsavoury as a few thinly placed stalls, and respectable looking inn. The wall looms over them, but only because they’re right next to it. It’s scarcely higher than the walls of the inn.

  Sir Julius leaps off his horse and runs up the stone steps to the top of the wall. Bonnie follows, more clumsily. Near the top she almost falls, and she’s surprised to feel the tug of the sling against her neck as her cold arm reaches out with her good one to break her fall. She still can’t feel it, but this time when she tries to move it the fingers more than twitch - they close together to make a weak fist.

  It’s getting better.

  She scrambles the rest of the way to the top of the wall. She’ll celebrate later, if they survive this.

  In her haste to see, she bangs into the back of Sir Julius who stands motionless at the top, soldiers rushing about him. He doesn’t move, looking over the edge as still as a statue.

  Feeling suddenly that she doesn’t want to see, she peers around him to the ground below. She blinks several times, but what she sees doesn’t change.

  There are barbarians as far as she can see. Not hundreds, but thousands of them. Some are on horseback, others on foot. Each wears tan cloth woven with dulled mail with links smaller than any she’s seen. Thin looking tan takes up most of the jacket, with patches of mail on the shoulders, and rings along the arm. The chest of every uniform is a large patch of mail in the shape of a roaring dragon. They wear squat hats of tan and black. Some wear thick woman’s skirts covered in squares of tan and black, while others wear trousers of plain tan.

  A group rams against the gate with what used to be a tree trunk. Others mill as close to the wall as their numbers can manage, climbing with thin wooden ladders, and in some cases on each other’s shoulders.

  One of the few mounted looks up and seems to see her. He raises a bronze shield with the golden face of that same roaring dragon as on his chest. Only, the golden dragon on his shield seems to move. The jaw stretches wider, and all around the face little bronze and silver circles whirl into life. The golden eye opens, changing into a dark circle that seems to stare at her.

  Neven’s body weight knocks her aside just as something small and fast flies by her ear.

  They land sprawled on the rough stone, his limbs tangled with hers. Her heart thuds fast in her chest, knowing that something bad had almost happened but not what. “What was that?” She asks, pushing him off her.

  “I think-” He stops, his face waxy pale, but his brown eyes alert and focused. He points a finger a little way along the wall where an old man lies, staring with unseeing eyes at the sky above. Blood pools under his head, and a tiny hole sits in the centre of his forehead. “The same thing that did that.” His voice trembles on the last word, finger wavering as he seems to notice the man he’s pointing to is dead.

  Nausea rises in her throat as she looks around to see more dead and wounded. For a moment her skin itches like it’s on fire. Everything’s too hot, too loud, too present. She pictures herself running down those stone steps, all the way along the golden road to the safety of the palace where death doesn’t leap out of thin air to bite you between the eyes.

  Then she forces her resisting mind to picture what happens next. Neven and Sir Julius, and all the others burning. A no doubt short life of wondering if she could’ve changed things.

  “An arrow?” She says, making her eyes look at the dead body. No that’s not right. It didn’t feel like an arrow when it passed her. And the man’s wound is wrong. It’s too perfectly round.

  Neven pushes himself into a crouch. “Then where is it?”

  “Someone took it out?” But why? She can understand taking the arrow out of a living person, but what’s the point in taking an arrow out of the dead?

  Sir Julius half crouches on her other side. “And where are the archers?”

  She blinks. That’s right. There were no archers down there. Yet up on the wall there are dozen with those little wounds with no arrows to be seen.

  “I think it’s like my shooters,” Neven says, lifting his arms. She’s not surprised to see the metal bracelets still there. He’s worn them so long they seem a part of him. “Only how they’re supposed to work.”

  There’s a giant wooden structure taking up most of one section of the wall. She pushes herself to her feet, walking toward it as Neven starts explaining to Sir Julius how his metal shooters work. She weaves through soldiers and laymen, her good hand on the hilt of her sword in case she has to draw it quickly.

  It’s on wheels, pulled up against an outward jut to the wall that seems made for it. It’s a complicated mess of wood and metal, but it seems familiar. Neven used to make something like it when he was younger, right down to the bowl on the edge of a stick. He’d draw that bowl back with something in it, and then bam. He’d let go and the stick with the bowl on it would fly forward chucking its cargo into the sky.

  Bonnie never understood why he didn’t just throw the object himself, but now she understands. These must be the catapults her father talked about that were so useful for throwing heavy objects at dragons. In the bowl sits a barrel marked oil, and by the side of the catapult sit several more.

  A common misconception. A lot of people think it’s better to throw oil or some other flammable liquid on a dragon and set it alight. In reality, if you’re very lucky you might get enough around their face to cloud their vision with smoke. That’s it. Dragons are heat and fire, and a little more is nothing to them.

  You’d get a better reaction with cold water. It doesn’t harm them, but it can annoy them enough to make them turn tail and fly away.

  “The catapults are modified for high targets like dragons,” Sir Julius says, stepping beside her. “Or we’d use them. Now help me arrange our lines better. Your friend had a plan to clear the slums, but we need to hold until the women and children get to safety.”

  Neven comes running back along the wall, weaving clumsily through the men. A tan arm lurches over the edge of the wall, quickly followed by head, torso, and other arm holding that moving shield. Neven sidesteps with the grace of the truly terrified.

  Bonnie draws her sword, but before it’s fully out of the sheath Sir Julius steps forward and shoves the man back over the wall. The barbarian is flying through the air before he knows what’s happening, his thin ladder toppling behind him.

  Sir Julius then moves off, walking down the wall barking orders at the men.

  “I did it. It should happen any moment.” Neven stalls beside Bonnie, looking at the catapult. “I could modify it to shoot lower. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Acting on impulse, Bonnie squats next to one of the barrels, heaving it over the lip of the wall. A heartbeat of normal battle noises, and then a sickening crunch and splatter as it shatters open below. She hears screams, but there are already so many, she’s not sure if she caused them.

  “Or you could do that,” Neven says, staying well away from the edge.

  A booming fills the air, so deep it vibrates through the stone under their feet. It’s not like the war horn. It’s more like the sound she imagines might happen if two giant mountains crashed into each other. She’s hea
rd it before, played once a year at the square so they remember what it sounds like, and what to do. The dragon horn.

  She scans the bright noon sky to see if she can see Gelert, or maybe the golden dragon. Around her several others do the same. She sees nothing but Neven looking pointedly at her from out of the corner of her eye.

  Right. No one had been expecting humans to attack, but they had expected a dragon to attack. What to do next would be clear in the civilians mind, and it would not include staying in the tinderbox slums with a dragon flying about. Even if the dragon could not find a way to cross the magic barrier of the city walls, its fire might.

  Now they just need to give the civilians enough time to get to the palace.

  Neven stares at the barrels with a thoughtful look on his face. “I have an idea.”

  ***

  “Now!” Sir Julius calls out.

  As one men all the way along the front of the wall upend their barrels of oil, the liquid splashing on the men below. A few of the larger men chuck barrels as far as they can manage. Then the line of men behind them throws a wealth of wood into the crowd. Floorboards, great chunks of wall, and even an inn sign.

  “Not too close to the edge,” Bonnie says, holding out the torch.

  Neven nods, taking it. “If I’m right this will go up fast. Get ready.” Then he throws the burning torch over the edge.

  Seeing the fire, several other torches fly after the first, along with a few leftover scraps of wood. She’d steeled herself, but she still takes a step back in surprise at how quickly it all goes up. One moment it’s a crowd of drenched people batting aside pieces of wood. The next the flames are higher than the wall, and as hot as Gelert’s flame.

  She feels her eyebrows start to singe, her skin on her cheeks burn into what would no doubt be a bright red, and above all that she hears the screams. High noises that are nothing but pain. They don’t sound human. The only thing remotely similar are the sounds the lost ones made when the witch Claudia doused them with light.

  For the first time since she’d mounted the wall she remembers one thing that takes her breath away. The barbarians are people. And she and Neven just helped kill them.

  “Good job,” Sir Julius says, slapping a palm on each of their shoulders as he passes them. “You were right. They must have built magic in the houses to help them burn.”

  “Only the old parts,” Neven says quietly, the fires casting weird shapes on his tanned face. “It’s been a long time since they worried about armies. And only when it has contact with oil I’d bet, or it would have gone up long before. Or maybe there’s something in the oil barrels that acts as a -” Doubling over, he throws up the contents of his rations over his shoes.

  Below the people keep screaming.

  “See him back to the palace,” Sir Julius says to Bonnie. “It’s done. I’ll stay behind with enough men to finish this. Tell Angus to keep his inhumanly big hands off that oil.”

  She chances a glance to her left and wishes she hadn’t. Even through the flames she can see them running away. The furthest group - almost at the dense bushes that march either side of the golden road - appear unharmed. But the group on their heels run in panicked directions trying to outrun the fire eating at their clothes and hair. Instead, their efforts fan the flames ever higher.

  “They wear a dragon,” one man says from somewhere along the wall. “But they still don’t like fire.”

  Another laughs.

  “Come on.” Bonnie tugs on Neven’s arm. “Let’s check to see if Alice and your mother are alright.”

  Pulling his arm from her grip, he pushes past her to the stone steps. “I can walk by myself.”

  Taking in his drawn face, his angry eyes, Bonnie opens her mouth to say something. She closes it again as a sound passes over them. A series of short urgent blasts. The war horn.

  But why sound it again? And why in that pattern?

  “Grab the wounded!” Sir Julius shouts. “Everyone run for the palace! Quick damn you!”

  Lifting a man with a gut wound, he leans him over a shoulder then darts past Neven to take the steps two at a time. Neven and Bonnie follow, having to hurry to stay ahead of the crowd.

  It’s only at the bottom that it hits her. That sound meant an attack, which means while they were defending the front, another group of barbarians was crossing the wall someplace else. Chances are they made it to the slums, and if they did Sir Angus would be waiting to set the whole thing alight.

  With fire on the outside and fire on the inside, the only way to survive is to cross the slums before they share the fate of the barbarians.

  Chapter 22

  They run.

  “Faster!” Sir Julius yells, racing up the golden road in a loping gallop, half carrying an old man with blood sheeting down one leg.

  The white mare is already out of sight, heading to the palace with the gut shot wound. Neven’s pony disappears from view as they watch, two boys strapped on its back that in a better world would not be old enough to take part in battle.

  Neven and Bonnie drag a boy of seventeen between them. The same boy, she thinks who Sir Julius grabbed and told to join the battle before they reached the wall. She doesn’t know what exactly is wrong with him, but his silk shirt is stained with blood, and all he does is stare blankly out of a grey face, body limp as a doll with its stuffing torn out.

  She counts her footfalls, eyes tracking those in front of her who race ahead with no burdens. Cowards.

  The back of the boy’s legs skate along the smooth gold road. One, two, three, four, five.

  She digs deep, finds an extra push and picks up her pace, trying to count faster than her racing heart. She hopes Neven can keep up. They try to keep to the middle of the road where the surface is cleaner and smoother. Unfortunately others have the same idea.

  More and more dart past them. She doubts most have pieced together what’s happening, but the fear in the air is enough incentive. It’s a living thing, clawing at her throat, and buzzing through her skin. The only comfort she can find is that she’s not the only one scared.

  Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. The road starts upward, slowing them down. She switches her grip from the boy’s arm to hook under his armpit. Neven does the same, catching her eye. ‘I’m with you’ that look says. ‘You don’t let go. I won’t let go.’

  For a moment it crosses her mind to do just that: let go. Leave the boy to die. Not because she might die. Death has never seemed so real and terrifying than right now with the barbarian’s screams in her ears. But if she dies now, refusing to leave a wounded comrade behind, she dies a hero’s death. And there won’t be enough of her remains left to dispute that she didn’t deserve that honour.

  She thinks of leaving the boy because Neven might die, and that can’t happen. She won’t let that happen. And then she keeps going because she knows if she drops the boy’s arm and runs, Neven won’t follow. He cries too often. His body is weak and weedy, but he’s loyal. He has honour.

  So she plants one foot after the other, and counts as fast as she can. Hopefully he has strength too.

  They reach the top of the dip, then continue past that, the golden road edging uphill less steeply now. Neven stumbles, wheezing. She keeps going, dragging the boy’s dead weight behind her, trusting him to catch up.

  She hears Neven clamber after her, feels the strain on her arm lessen as he takes the boy’s other side. Together they walk one step after the other across the divide between the wooden slums and the stone buildings that mark the start of the richer homes. This boy with his silk shirt would’ve lived in one of them, or in one of the settlements outside the city walls.

  They set him down on the golden road between the first two stone buildings. The men that built this city wanted the slums to burn. They wouldn’t want the whole city to burn, so the stone should be safe. Hopefully.

  Neven collapses to the ground, spread eagled, chest heaving.

  She lasts less than a second before she follows him, f
alling to her knees. Her lungs are on fire. She gasps in and out, as rapid as her counting had been, but catching her breath remains as elusive as scooping up water with open fingers.

  The stragglers limp into safety behind them, most with their own burdens. They made it. They still have to get the wounded to the palace, but that seems a small detail. They aren’t going to be burned alive. They aren’t going to end up like the barbarians they killed.

  Then she sees it.

  It starts as a burst of flame in the distance. Insignificant compared with the size of the slums. Then it spreads, racing in all directions so quickly it makes her eyes ache trying to keep up.

  Jerking her head back to the golden road, she pushes herself to her feet. Most of the last ones are close enough to make it, but there are two tiny figures stumbling together so slowly they barely seem to move at all. One is stooped and old, and the other is younger. A boy. A very familiar boy.

  Ness.

  Forcing herself not to look at the spreading flames, she runs back down the golden road. She trips in her haste, scraping her knees and the palm of her good hand. The sling around her neck snaps loose, her cold arm springing forward to break her fall next to her other arm. Pink skin against stark white. Her mouth snaps shut against any noise she might make. If Neven hears he might follow, and he’s not as fast a runner as she is.

  The cold arm helps the other push her to her feet. Her legs pump away, fighting against the instinct to slow as she sprints down the steep part of the dip. The fire has a sound now. A whooshing noise that only seems to get louder, and closer.

  The old man only seems to have cuts and bruises, panic in his wide blind eyes. She recognises him. The medic who saw to her arm in the cart.

  Ness has-

  Her brain stalls to a halt. Thankfully her body keeps going. Her feet skid to a stop at Ness’s side. Her head ducks under Ness’s arm, pushing the old man forward out of the way. The man may be willing, but he’s way past helping anyone. Even her voice works, though it sounds like it’s coming from someone else. “Go straight as fast as you can. Just follow the road.”