by Tom Lloyd
They rode out into an empty marketplace. Abandoned rows of stalls spread left and right, the majority clustered around a public well away to the right. Lynx couldn’t see anyone at first and breathed a sigh of relief. A large part of him was expecting a rank of Knights-Charnel, a sudden volley of icers or a shouted ultimatum.
‘State your business!’ roared a great bear of a man from the gantry above the Poorgate, the smallest of the three city gates there.
His yellow-hooded livery and dark Surei skin were obvious by the light of a torch he carried – certainly no Charneler, this one, but Anatin didn’t bother replying. Quick as a snake he raised his mage-pistol and fired on the man. The sparker caught him full-on and lightning exploded around the small gantry he was stood on. Screams came from further back, but Lynx didn’t see who was there. As Olut put another sparker into the guard-room window, Reft nudged his horse around Anatin’s and fired on the gate itself.
The deep crash of his earther boomed against the stone walls and made the stalls around them shudder, leaving Lynx’s already-pounding head ringing. Dark spots burst before his eyes and though he heard the great crack and splinter of the earther striking, it took him a moment to make out the damage it had done.
Up ahead the Poorgate lurched with a tortured creak. The uppermost of its massive iron hinges had been torn right through and a chunk of stone chewed out of the wall beside it. Somehow the gate held up but Varain was already pushing his horse forward with a calculating look on his face. The second shot burst right through the reinforced wood just as a yell came from the lower guardhouse and Teshen fired at its barred window. Sparks exploded all around it and screams came from within, but suddenly that wasn’t the only sound hammering at Lynx’s ears.
He turned left, hearing the drum of feet, and saw a horseman clatter around a corner towards them, the Skyriver palely illuminating a Charneler uniform. He raised his gun on instinct but the Charneler wheeled as soon as he saw the mercenaries, sawing hard at the reins and yelling at the top of his voice. Safir turned and fired in one smooth spin, but was defeated by the sudden movement and Lynx saw the white blur of an icer dart wide.
In the next moment the man was gone again, away round the corner, and they had no time to pursue. Anatin jammed his pistol into a sheath and darted forward, Reft and Varain close on his heels. Lynx roared for Sitain to go and the young woman crouched low over the neck of her horse and jabbed her heels into its flanks. The group tore towards the gate, Lynx taking up the rear with his gun ready, but other than a flash of white he saw nothing before he entered the short covered section that led beyond the city.
He couldn’t help but look up as he went, the dark points of the cage just a suggestion in the blackness overhead, but a creeping sense on his neck seemed to feel their presence all too clearly. The cage was principally there to present an obstacle to attackers, to mangle and deform under the impact of an earth-bolt that could break down any wall, but Lynx knew what that heavy rattling framework of spikes could do to men.
And then the blackness vanished and cool welcoming air washed over him. There were more shouts from the city, the clatter of boots and hooves, but he felt a moment of elation all the same as the starlit ground opened up around them. The main highway stretched out ahead, a dulled grey sliver of packed earth punctured by star-speckled puddles from the earlier rain. There was no cover here, no houses or trees within a hundred yards of this stretch of wall, only a set of fenced livestock pens that deliberately narrowed the road for traffic entering the city. They were forced to move at a canter, one behind the other to avoid the nervous horses jostling each other as detonations echoed through the short tunnel behind. Lynx turned to see the white trails of ice-bolts linger a moment longer in the air.
It was enough to drain his elation. The memory of open walkways up to the wall became very clear in his mind, the clatter of boots on stone echoing through the hushed night as though Charnelers were racing up them to take firing positions on the unprotected mercenaries.
‘An— Boss!’ he shouted forward, realising only just in time that they didn’t want their leader’s name heard by any pursuers. He might not have been a famous mercenary commander, but he’d led his own company for years now and wouldn’t require much identifying.
‘What?’
‘Coming up behind!’
Anatin urged his horse forward past the final pen and wheeled to one side to allow Reft out. ‘Keep going!’ he ordered, waving them past.
There were more shouts from the street behind and Lynx turned as far as he could in the saddle. He caught a flash of movement and pulled the trigger without aiming. The sparker raced forward and was swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel. For a moment he thought it had failed, fizzled out to nothing instead of exploding, but then a great jagged flower of lightning blossomed in the confined space.
Two figures were caught in agonised tableau, impaled by crooked claws, before disaster happened. A shudder of movement, some wrench of the world that Lynx’s straining eyes couldn’t make out, then the cartridgecase of one Charneler blew up. A pale cloud filled the tunnel and an ear-splitting sound louder than an earther slapped forward against Lynx’s ears.
He flinched away, automatically hunched up against the blast, and felt the sting of fragments – ice, stone or flesh, he didn’t want to know – smack into his back. Some survival instinct kept him riding straight and once his vision cleared he saw Sitain’s horse a few yards away, pushing forward into a gallop. Nearby, Anatin had his pistol out, levelled and pointing at the walls behind.
Lynx fumbled at the breech of his own gun, flicking away the spent casing, but Anatin just cackled and slapped the flank of Lynx’s horse, shouting, ‘Ride!’
A sixth sense made Lynx look away, off towards the inky night where Sitain was labouring forward, but still the brightness seared into the back of his brain when Anatin pulled the trigger. His horse stumbled, terrified by the flare of light and unguided by its half-blinded owner, while Anatin only laughed the harder.
Lynx growled and blinked furiously as a great hiss tore through the night behind him, then Anatin was at his side and riding past, roaring with laughter all the while. Lynx glanced towards the city walls through blurred eyes but stopped before he could look straight at them. A great beacon of searing white burned somewhere on the wall, but he couldn’t see where or put anything into focus.
Shattered gods, a light-bolt?
He didn’t bother looking back again. Even out of the corner of his eye it hurt to see the white blur raging on the wall, the whole of Threegates lit up like day. He forced himself to head on after Anatin through the blur of darkness – trusting to the gods or fate or something that he would find his way.
The Exalted was almost at the top when the light-bolt struck. She threw herself away from the searing light, barging the troops who followed her and almost knocking one from the steps. But a tidal wave of heat and pain never broke over her, just an intense brightness that she could see through her eyelids. That single moment of fear and anticipation stretched out, two heartbeats, three, four. Then the light began to recede and primal panic fled before the steel edge of her will.
Not a burner.
Uvrel hauled herself upright, treading on her dragoons as she staggered to the top of the wall. She blinked and cursed as trails of light swam across her vision. The sharpshooters she’d sent up first howled with pain, all three on their knees with their hands clamped over their eyes. Their mage-guns were abandoned at their feet so the Exalted snatched one up and tried to level it.
It was no use. She could barely keep her balance, the sway of her body was enough to ruin any shot and she couldn’t even see anything to shoot at. Beyond the wall was just a darkened blur, her night vision ruined and her best soldiers half-blinded by the light-bolt. In disgust she dropped the gun again and grabbed the stone crenellations for support while she fumbled at the nearest man. Her fingers closed around long greasy hair.
‘Hagan? Is that you
?’
The man whimpered until she shook him. ‘Exalted? Veraimin’s rage, I can’t see!’
‘It’ll pass,’ she shouted to the three of them, praying she was right. ‘Stay still, I’ll send for help.’
She lurched drunkenly back the way she’d come, grabbing a soldier coming the other way who gratefully took hold of whatever he could for support. She ignored where his hands had fallen and tried to focus on his face.
‘Tovil?’
‘Sir! What was that?’
She pushed him back against a wooden post and stood straighter, though she could still only half see. ‘Where’s Harril?’ Uvrel demanded, realising Tovil was as useless as her.
‘Here, sir!’ called a voice from somewhere further down.
‘You can see?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good – rouse the rest of my dragoons, all of them! And any scouts you can find, we need guns and trackers. The rest of their company might be waiting. If we walk into an ambush I mean to outnumber our Steel Crows.’
She turned to Tovil. ‘Get the men on the wall looked at. If they can’t see anything when we’re ready to move, leave them with the doctors – otherwise tie them to horses if need be. Lieutenant Sauren?’
‘Sir.’
‘Run to the Lord-Commander, ask to commandeer as many troops as I may, get whatever you can and lead them out after us.’
‘Yes, sir!’
As Tovil slipped past her to the men on the wall, Uvrel sank down to sit on the top step. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a long breath. She’d only glimpsed the fleeing riders, but one thing had jumped out at her, other than the pale giant and the portly Hanese soldier, Lynx. A woman with long red hair streaming in the wind – strikingly beautiful, a face to remember. A face she’d seen before, out on the street last night when she’d laid in wait for the mercenaries and they’d failed to come.
The courtesan. She must be a foreign spy in need of an exit.
Despite her aching eyes Uvrel stood and turned to face her troops. ‘The rest of you, get to your horses and be ready to move out. Insar has granted me a lesson in my blindness – I underestimated these mercenaries and let them slip through our fingers. We will not fail our god a second time!’
Chapter 12
(then)
Lynx opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Daylight streamed in through the high window, scraping like tiny claws at the back of his eyes. Motes of dust glittered amid the fug of unwashed bodies, a miasma of alcohol-saturated sweat filling the air. He moaned and rolled over, tugging his blanket up to try and escape the light. His limbs were sluggish and heavy, his crotch warm and damp.
Damp?
Lynx did his best to ease his eyes open again. Trying to focus made them hurt even more, with little result. A blur that seemed to be his hand untangled from the blanket and worked its way down. The throb in his skull continued to build, a colony of mine-spirits hammering away inside.
Eventually he managed to fumble at his crotch. Everything was wet – not just damp but completely sodden. His trousers from waist to knee were soaked through, and the mattress beneath too.
Coldest dark, I pissed myself in the night? Was I that drunk?
Brief flashes of his stagger back to his bunk appeared in his mind. Of ending up on his arse as he tried to yank his boots off, of a few verses of the Wisp and the Whore while he pissed into a pot.
Mebbe. Was that bit a dream, or not really a pot? And why in buggery do I still need a piss so bad?
A creeping sense of shame crept down his neck. Nose wrinkled in anticipation, Lynx couldn’t resist bringing his fingers back up to his nose to sniff them.
Beer?
There was a long moment of relief, one interrupted by a renewed burst of insistence from his bladder. He scrabbled the blanket off and tried again to focus on the mattress below him. A dark stain covered the middle portion, a warm, pungent hoppy smell overlaying the bunkroom’s stink of sweat, feet and flatulence.
‘Which prick brought a beer to bed?’ whined someone from a nearby bunk. It took Lynx a while to identify Himbel’s voice. The company doctor sounded in as much pain as Lynx and as bad-tempered as ever.
‘Ah, ’parently me,’ Lynx said, having to put all his strength into sitting upright. Too late he remembered there was a bunk above his and he cracked his aching head against the wooden frame. He fell back into the damp patch, fighting the urge to whimper.
‘Got any left?’ Himbel replied with a pathetic note of hope.
‘Fuckin’ shitsticks,’ Lynx moaned, cradling his stinging forehead.
‘Eh?’
He blinked and again pushed himself upright. ‘I, er. Nah. Spilled it, I reckon.’
‘Oh gods!’ broke in a third voice.
By the time Lynx had worked out who it was, Sitain was leaning over the edge of her bunk and vomiting onto the floor below.
‘Get the fuck out!’ growled a few voices as others retched at the sour stink filling the room. ‘Bastard recruits,’ added someone else.
Sitain didn’t reply. Lynx watched her roll off the edge of her bunk, her face green, and struggle to avoid the puddle of puke.
‘That way,’ he called, pointing towards the door.
She wavered and barely managed to keep on her feet, but by will alone Sitain stumbled towards the door, heading for the outhouse beyond it. On the way she had the sense to grab an empty chamber pot, some sense of self-preservation deciding the courtyard would be a better place to be sick than a stinking outhouse.
Quiet returned to the bunkroom, but there was a restless shifting of limbs as the mercenaries reluctantly surfaced from sleep – the voices and sharp smell of puke enough to drag all but the most comatose to wakefulness.
Lynx stared at his boots for a while, trying to fathom how he’d get his feet into them, before noticing a pair of shoes nearby. Too small and caked in dirt, they still looked like an easier prospect so he wedged his feet in and hauled himself upright. A few shuffling steps across the room gave him confidence he could make it, but just as his bladder started making insistent noises he saw a dark hand point towards him.
‘Filthy shitbag Hanese,’ Braqe said, squinting forward in the unwelcome light. ‘One pukes, other pisses hisself.’
‘It’s beer,’ Lynx replied, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment all the same.
‘Sure.’
‘You wanna get your face down here and smell it?’
Someone laughed from a bunk behind. ‘Kas went to sleep alone, eh?’
‘Eh?’ Lynx turned and searched for a face, but couldn’t tell which of the occupied bunks it was.
‘Comp’ny tradition,’ said the mystery comrade. ‘You piss beer on our plans fer a screw, you get beer pissed on you.’
Lynx stared at the bunks for a while. Eventually he shrugged. He wasn’t happy about it, that was for sure, but with a pressing need and a certain trouble thinking, he found he didn’t much care. Instead he followed Sitain out and found her at a table outside, illuminated by crisp morning sunshine as she retched and heaved over her chamber pot. He left her to it and went to relieve himself at the adjoining outhouse, the filthiest verses of last night’s serenade running through his head.
Back out in the fresh air, he finally had the chance to appreciate the morning sun peeking over the rooftops and eased himself down on a warm bench to let his body recover a while longer. At some point he knew he’d need to go back inside and try to peel off his wet trousers, but the thought of such effort confounded him at present.
‘Better?’ he called after a few deep breaths.
Sitain looked up through a bedraggled curtain of hair. ‘Uh.’
‘Glad I ain’t the only one then.’
‘I blame you.’
Lynx smiled at that and rubbed a greasy palm over his face. ‘Aye, me too. There’s blood sausage for breakfast if you want.’
He chuckled to himself as Sitain went through another round of puking, idly looking up at
the thin darts of cloud that drifted slowly through the sky. The black dots of birds danced and wheeled across the dull grey arc of the Skyriver, their faint cries just detectable over the muted sounds of the city beyond. Lynx closed his eyes and felt the warmth on his eyelids, revelled in the sensation he’d once thought he would never feel again.
A door banged open past the hunched, spitting form of Sitain and a gust of welcome smells escaped to greet him; frying meat and brewing coffee. He squinted up at the tall man who’d exited, pock-cheeked Llaith carrying a fat ceramic pot of coffee and a handful of brown squat cups.
Sparing a brief, sympathetic look at Sitain, Llaith deposited the coffee and cups in front of Lynx and sat on one of the other benches. ‘Needs a few minutes,’ he said, nodding at the coffee.
‘I could kiss you,’ Lynx said as he stared at the coffee, almost fantasising about the hot bitter taste of it.
‘It’s a fine morning,’ Llaith said with a shrug. ‘Deserves coffee and a smoke.’ With a deft flourish he filled a wisp of paper with tobacco, rolled and twisted up in a matter of seconds. He paused in the process of depositing it in one of the empty cups, seeing Lynx’s attention fixed on it. ‘You want?’
‘Like you said, it’s a fine morning.’
Llaith smiled, the pattern of his scarred cheeks folding away. He held up the clay coal pot he carried at his waist. ‘Make yerself useful then. I forgot this.’
Lynx took the pot and headed inside to where the fire had already been revived. He ushered a few ash-coated lumps of coal into the pot before closing it up again, but before he could head out he found himself face to face with Kas. Even in the gloom of inside, Lynx could tell the dark-skinned woman was less than her usual sunny self.
‘Morning,’ he said feebly.
‘It is,’ Kas acknowledged, glancing down at his damp trousers. ‘Looks like you had an accident.’
Lynx nodded. ‘Folk say that happens sometimes, when you get too far in your cups.’
‘Probably your age.’
‘Aye, I reckon so.’ He scratched the ghost of a beard on his cheek. ‘Might be brandy don’t agree with me.’