by Duncan Lay
Sendric shrugged. ‘The reality is, your majesty, that we can always find a few more farmwives and mothers. But if we lose you, then we lose the war.’
Merren looked down at the women and children massed in the courtyard below. She knew instantly there was no way she could leave them there and still take the crown. She would never be able to live with herself.
‘I won’t leave them to die. Conal, take all the men you can to the gate passage. It is narrow there, is it not?’
‘Aye, but I have old men and,’ Conal held up his own hand, ‘cripples. We won’t stop them for long. But while I have breath, I shall hold them back for you, your majesty.’
Merren leaned forward and kissed him on the brow. ‘Go with Aroaril. Whatever crimes you committed in Norstalos, I now absolve you of them. Fight once more with honour.’
Conal slipped the stump of his arm into the straps of a shield and saluted. He blew a kiss to Karia and then ran down the stairs, bellowing for men to join him.
Merren watched Martil riding closer. It was clear the attackers would not catch him, but they would not be far behind.
‘Martil must have a plan. He needs time. Sendric. Get some boys over the murder holes, ready to drop anything they can on the attackers.’
‘The fires have not been lit, and any oil left above the murder holes will probably be rancid by now. Still, the smell alone might deter them,’ Sendric shrugged, then hurried away himself, calling for the older boys to stop kicking a ball around the courtyard and follow him.
‘What should we do, Merren?’ Karia asked, her eyes wide.
Merren was about to suggest Karia should go to the stables, where she could get to the escape tunnel easily, then remembered the little girl’s powers.
‘We wait,’ she said.
Martil galloped under the gate, cursing Conal and Sendric with every breath. Why were they not closing the gates? He kicked free of the stirrups and jumped down as soon as he was clear of the gate tunnel, to find Conal, a dozen town elders and two score of older men, none of them under fifty, many of them carrying paunches, white beards, or both, forming up. Sendric was talking to a bunch of boys, all judged too young to fight.
‘Why isn’t the gate shut?’
‘Bloody things are rusted open,’ Conal replied. ‘We’re going to try and hold them in the gate tunnel. Anyone else coming to help?’
‘Rocus and about fifty men on horseback, followed by about one hundred more on foot, but they’ll be a little while.’ Martil raced back down the gate tunnel. It was dark and narrow, closing from the wide gate to funnel men into a small space, just wide enough for two men on horseback to ride down. Above were many of the arrow slits and murder holes, if Sendric could just get the boys to use them. Here a small group could hold back a much larger one for a short time, until weight of numbers eventually began to tell. But perhaps they could hold them long enough for Rocus to arrive. Not waiting to see if Conal and the others were following him, Martil grabbed one of the massive gates and heaved at it. The thing did not move. Swearing, he hauled back with all his strength, and it shifted perhaps an inch before it stuck fast on a raised cobble.
‘Martil!’ Conal roared, and he looked up to see the first infantry were barely fifty yards away, advancing at a brisk walk now. Behind them, the score of cavalry they had brought had formed up near the smouldering fire wagons, obviously planning to delay any help getting through. Martil cursed again, left the stubborn gate and ran back down the tunnel. At its narrowest, there was room for four men to fight abreast. This would slowly increase as they were pushed back, until—Martil did not want to think about that. Standing in the front row were Conal, a fat town elder with a bushy black beard whose name Martil could not recall but who claimed to have been a soldier many years ago, and one of the town blacksmiths, a massive man who would have been a tough opponent in his youth but who had a pair of young grandsons playing in the courtyard behind.
‘Just give me room and make sure they can’t get around to my sides,’ Martil instructed, drawing the Dragon Sword and rotating his neck to loosen his muscles. ‘Is the Queen safely away with Karia?’
The sudden silence did nothing to reassure him.
‘She won’t go,’ Conal said finally. ‘She doesn’t want the families to die while she escapes.’
‘This is not the time for noble gestures! If they get her, it’s all over!’ Martil snarled.
‘Not the time for noble gestures? Captain, what are we doing here then?’ Conal pointed out.
Martil sighed. ‘You know, I think I preferred it when you were making jokes, rather than making sense,’ he grumbled.
‘If I think of anything funny, I’ll tell you,’ Conal smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure to serve with you, Captain. An honour. Except for the fact you threw a tankard of my own piss over me, I would thank Aroaril you walked into the inn that day.’
Martil shook Conal’s hand, taking it in the warrior’s grip. ‘You saved my life back at Barrett’s house. I’ll try to repay the favour.’ Then he turned to the man on his right, the elder with the big beard. ‘Aroaril forgive me, but I have forgotten your name. I hate fighting with men whose names I do not know,’ he admitted.
‘Garif,’ the elder smiled. ‘And don’t worry, Captain, I may have slowed a little but I can still teach these youngsters a thing or two.’
‘Warrun.’ The blacksmith on Garif’s right offered a massive, scarred hand. ‘I’ll stand firm. This’ll be something to tell the grandkids, how I fought with Captain Martil.’
‘As long as I can tell my grandkids I fought with Warrun the Smith,’ Martil grinned back. He hated war but he could not stop himself from loving the brotherhood of the battleline. He was about to risk his life with these men and every breath was sweet, every silly remark was hilarious. You felt an extraordinary kinship with men you stood beside in battle. It was something you never forgot. He could see Havrick’s infantry getting closer, so drew his left-hand sword.
‘Lock shields. They’ll see I have none and come for me. But when they start dying, they’ll turn their attention to you. Just get the ones I miss,’ Martil instructed, as the first of the infantry appeared at the head of the gate tunnel.
These soldiers saw the line of men waiting for them, saw how old most of them were, anticipated an easy victory, cheered themselves and charged. And died.
Martil bellowed a war cry, a wordless sound of rage. The anger he had felt against Edil, the anger he had felt against Havrick, these were nothing compared to the massive rage that swamped him now. The thought of these troops getting their hands on Merren and Karia made him want to kill them all. Thanks to the Dragon Sword, and the ability he had honed on a score of battlefields in Rallora and Berellia, this rage powered him, but did not overpower him. He did not lash out blindly, or crazily. He could still use all of his skills. The two swords formed a glittering wall of death, the Dragon Sword cutting apart any that came near. The deadly defence in the middle of the gate tunnel forced men left and right, anywhere to avoid the madman with the blade that cut through armour as easily as it did flesh. As well as a natural inclination not to go near him, the pile of bodies that grew in front of him slowed the attack.
To either side, Conal, Garif and Warrun simply tried to steer men back towards Martil. For a short while they held firm, trading blows with men far younger. Warrun, who had a long war hammer, battered one man down with massive blows, as if he were beating out a horseshoe. He swung the hammer in a wide arc, knocking back a pair of other men, then brought the hammer down on another helmeted head, smashing the helm and skull underneath beyond all recognition. But a sergeant ran in beneath the hammer’s arc and slammed his sword home in Warrun’s throat. He then stepped into Warrun’s place, so the men behind Warrun could not hold the line and were naturally forced back a pace.
Garif traded blows with a pair of men, laughing at them, cursing them, then slashing open the arm of one and opening the throat of the other. But then Warrun stumbled and his
right side, the side without a shield, was undefended. He was breathing heavily now, trying to protect both himself and Martil, but the soldiers did not give him time to recover. He blocked one thrust and feebly tried to riposte, only to have his sword knocked aside and a blade open his chest. He fell and the line contracted again.
Conal did not waste his time or energy with extravagant cuts and blows. He simply covered up behind his shield, tried to protect himself, and stabbed back with his sword when he saw a chance. He had wounded only one man but as he was alive, he considered that fair exchange.
‘Martil! Step back!’ he roared, seeing men close in from in front and to the right, now Warrun and Garif had fallen. The words were barely out of his mouth when Martil whirled, the Dragon Sword beheading one man, then he ducked and darted back, blocking a blow and rolling his left-hand sword over a shield to open the throat behind. Having created some space for himself, he stepped back, and invited more to attack him.
Conal glanced over every so often. It was a chilling sight. With no armour, Martil could move far faster than men weighed down by mail hauberks, steel helmets and heavy shields of wood reinforced with strips of steel. He had taken a couple of blows, but the strange magic of Barrett meant his darkened, toughened skin had been barely scratched. And the Dragon Sword was just fearsome. Men tried everything to counter it, even trying to block blows with both sword and shield. The Dragon Sword just sheared right through, nothing could stop it. The gate tunnel became filled with bodies, dead and wounded, screaming and begging for help, while those beyond stepped over them and pushed forwards.
Conal’s men fought as hard as they could. But the soldiers they were facing, despite the fact they were tired from marching, first through the country and then through the town—all with little food and water—were fit and strong and skilled. Conal’s men could not hold the line for long before being cut down, and despite Martil’s efforts, they were inexorably pushed back. And the wider the tunnel became, the harder it was to hold. Soldiers gave Martil as wide a berth as they could, instead attacking the men at the edges. Conal, by virtue of being close to Martil, was able to stay alive. Martil had inflicted terrible losses on the soldiers, but he was being forced to back away now, or dash from one side to the other to take the fight to the soldiers. Conal had the tunnel wall to protect his left but his right side was almost undefended—fear of Martil was the thing keeping most soldiers away from there.
‘Where are you, Rocus?’ Conal moaned, as a soldier slammed blows against his shield.
Merren could not see what was going on, but she could hear it. And if waiting for news from the battle in the street had been bad, this was far worse. Rocus was not yet in sight, although she could hear the trumpets exhorting them on. Without thinking about herself, or Karia, she dashed into the gatehouse, Karia close behind, and ran into the passage that took them to the murder holes. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. Sendric was there, along with a dozen boys, handing out javelins from a rack on the wall and telling them to hurl them down. Merren ignored what they were doing and peered down, trying to see what was happening. She caught a glimpse of Martil, spinning and ducking, his swords inflicting damage, but she could see he was being forced back, ever backwards.
‘What can we do?’ she asked Sendric.
The Count threw a javelin down one of the holes and cursed.
‘They know we’re up here. The men behind the front lines have their shields up, and we can’t hurt them,’ he exclaimed. ‘The boys can’t throw them hard enough to penetrate a shield.’
‘What about the oil?’ Merren pointed to where cauldrons were balanced high over wide troughs that led to the murder holes.
Sendric shrugged. ‘It would do no more than merely annoy them. It has to be hot to have any effect.’
‘I can heat it up,’ Karia said confidently.
Merren opened her mouth to tell her no, but Karia had already closed her eyes and pointed at the nearest cauldron.
‘Ready now!’ she declared.
Merren looked at the cauldron, shocked, for it was a huge thing, easily big enough for a man to sit in and not be seen over the top. But steam was rising from it and the bottom was glowing a faint red.
‘H—how did you do that?’ she asked faintly.
‘I just heated up the metal, then the gooey stuff inside,’ Karia shrugged.
Sendric did not bother asking questions, he just ran to the counterweight and hauled on the chain. Steaming, bubbling oil ran out of the cauldron, into a giant stone trough and out three different murder holes, a solid stream of it that was starting to give off smoke, and a thick, rancid smell.
Screams, horrifying, agonised screams from below showed how effective it was.
‘What is that noise?’ Karia gasped.
Merren grabbed Karia and dragged her back out onto the battlements.
‘What’s going on?’ she wailed. ‘Where’s Martil?’
But Merren could not answer. There was still no sign of Rocus and his men, while more of Gello’s soldiers were still pushing their way into the gate tunnel.
‘There!’ Karia pointed again, to where the first horses were threading their way past the fire wagons, and galloping towards the waiting light cavalry, who charged to meet them.
‘At last!’ Merren breathed, but she glanced down, to where the sounds of fighting were getting closer. Would it be in time?
Martil was able to pause and catch his breath when the boiling oil caught a dozen soldiers. The sight and sound of their horrible deaths checked the attack, and allowed Conal and the other older men to push close again. They were being forced back with every blow, and Martil was constantly in danger of being cut off. Only his awareness of the battle around him, gained through long experience, ensured he kept out of their reach. He watched a few charred, blackened creatures that were once men flop around in the oil until their horrified comrades put them out of their misery and his only thought was relief at the respite it had given them. He was breathing heavily, although the smell of burned flesh was thick in his throat, the coppery tang of blood just overlaying it. A score of the old men were down, many dead, some badly wounded and unable to fight. The others were understandably nervous, especially the ones in the front row.
‘Help will be here soon,’ Martil called, unsure if he was right but knowing he needed to bolster their spirits. They had nowhere to run, but that did not mean they would hold firm. These were not men who had had days to prepare for battle. These were elderly, overweight men who had thought themselves safe.
‘They’ll keep fighting,’ Conal assured him. The old bandit’s shield was dented, while his sword only had a little blood on it—but he was still alive. ‘Keep fighting, lads! If a one-handed old drunk like me can do it, surely you can! Everyone’s depending on you!’
‘We can do this! Hold fast!’ Martil added. ‘Just stand with me.’
Jennar was frustrated at the lack of progress, and horrified by the losses they had suffered. The townsfolk could return at any moment. He needed both the security of the walls and, more importantly, the security of having captives inside. The good news was, the defenders seemed to be old and frail. If it weren’t for the madman with the Dragon Sword, they would be through already.
‘We just have to kill one man! The others are not a threat. Now get him!’ he ordered.
His men surged forward, more eager to get past the murder holes than to come to grips with the demon with the magic Sword, but whatever the motivation, it was sending many men into the attack. More fell under the Dragon Sword as it cut through metal, flesh and bone as easily as a hot knife through butter. But to either side, the man’s elderly warriors were cut down and pushed back, unable to match their younger counterparts.
Still the old men stood their ground, cutting and cleaving, being cheered and encouraged by a grey-haired man with a battered shield and a dented helm, who had stood beside the madman with the Dragon Sword since the battle began. Somehow, as if by magic, the
old men held firm, way past when Jennar thought they would break. But break they did, at last, and he could see daylight beyond.
‘Sir! Cavalry’s at our rear! They’ll be onto us before long!’ one of his sergeants bellowed, pointing to where the handful of light cavalry Jennar had rescued from the trap were being cut apart by a much larger force.
‘We have time enough! Capture the Queen and they will surrender!’ Jennar gestured the men forwards and drew his sword. It was time to lead the attack himself.
Barely a score of men remained with Martil, the others were dead or wounded, and they could not stay together—Jennar’s men had cut their line in two. Most managed to climb the stairs to the gatehouse, gaining a haven of sorts, as well as reinforcements as Sendric appeared from the gatehouse, along with a dozen boys armed with spears, and blocked the stairs. It would be a feeble defence; Merren could see these would be brushed aside swiftly once the soldiers attacked in numbers.
The bulk of the soldiers were only thinking about revenge though. Instead of turning for the stairs, guarded by the exhausted old men and a handful of boys, they chased after Martil and his men, wanting to kill the man who had cut down so many of their comrades. These soldiers were also tired and chasing Martil across a courtyard was far easier than assaulting a set of stairs, particularly as they could see the women and children running into the keep.
‘Leave him! Go for the stairs! The Queen’s up there!’
Martil could hear their officer shouting, the cry taken up by the sergeants as well, but most of their men either ignored it or were too tired to respond or change direction. If he had been watching from the safety of the wall, Martil would have been pleased. As it was, he was just intent on staying alive. One by one the old men around him were cut down, until it was just him and Conal, who was staggering on weary legs now, but who still kept his shield high protecting Martil’s back. A sword blow cracked a bone in his leg and he fell with a cry, a fall which saved his life, as another sword was swinging to take his head, but just caught him a heavy, yet glancing blow on the helm instead. He went down in a heap and the soldiers stepped over him to get at Martil.