Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  “You might want to go in there shooting,” Peter replied. “But I’d rather sneak up on them and get this over with as quickly, and as quietly, as possible.”

  Carl had his knife and pistol tucked into the waistline of his trousers, and the machine gun Peter had given him gripped tightly in his hands, knuckles white from the tension. Peter prised the weapon from one of Carl’s hands and gave him a lantern like his own.

  “Trust me, where we’re going, you’ll need your hands free for a while yet,” Peter said, nodding to Carl before pushing past him and making his way down the stairs. Carl followed quickly after him, the weapon and lantern banging irritatingly against his sides as he moved.

  They left the house at around midnight. Carl was worried about being seen armed in public, but as Peter pointed out, the town meeting area was probably already full of people, armed with whatever they could find, just waiting for the whiff of a southerner to start hacking and shooting.

  Peter led the way through the dimly lit streets and alleyways, being careful to sneak along in shadows wherever possible, taking a moment’s breather in the confines of an unlit doorway or shop front if someone happened to be walking past them. He had plans about what he’d say if he was met by anyone he knew, but Peter didn’t want to put them to the test unless he had to, especially with the freshly shaven fugitive in tow.

  Carl, however, took it all in his stride, neither hiding nor cowering from anyone that passed him, only giving them an angry stare as he held his gun menacingly. For the most part, he was returned a similar greeting.

  “Come on,” Peter whispered behind him. “We’re nearly there.”

  Carl turned to see him ducking into another dimly lit alleyway, soon lost in the gloom of the near moonless night. Taking a second to make sure they were not being watched by anyone in the street, Carl followed him in.

  Peter was at the far end of the alleyway, trying in vain to force open a heavy metal grate covering a sewage inlet. Carl only stood there, watching him struggle.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, give me a hand,” Peter whispered in between laboured breaths and the strenuous pulling of his arms. Carl shook his head and, swinging the machine gun over his shoulder, reached down to pull on the other side of the grate along with him.

  “I had no idea we’d be taking the scenic route in,” Carl said as the grate finally moved from its rusted mounting, screeching loudly as they dragged it across the floor to rest against the far wall. The stench emanating from the hole was almost unbearable, both men clasping their hands to their faces as they gagged against the smell.

  “Well, how did you think we were going to get into the palace?” Peter asked. “Just go knock on the door and ask to see the prisoners?”

  “Just think, though,” Carl managed to say from between his fingers. “If we were being followed, just think what a nice surprise they’d get when they wandered down this alley.”

  Both men managed a muffled laugh, and with a final look around the alleyway, and with one last deep breath of fresh air, they carefully climbed down the five short rungs to the sewer below.

  Peter took a moment to light his lantern before leading the way through the intertwining network of sewage tunnels that he assured Carl led in the direction of the palace. Carl left his lantern unlit. They only had a limited supply of oil to burn, so if for any reason they got lost beneath the city, they might depend on the extra light.

  Carl followed closely behind Peter, covering his back as they waded their way through the dimly lit tubular corridors that were barely high enough for both men to stand their full height. He repeatedly glanced backwards, gun ready in his hands for any intrusion, straining to see anything in the low light.

  At the sound of a splash somewhere ahead of them, both men ducked to a crouch. With the way sound echoed through the sewers, gauging the distance was almost impossible, as was determining the cause. Carl had the machine gun propped against his shoulder, pointed forwards just to the right of Peter’s shoulder. For all of his training, Peter was still fumbling with the lantern in the process of trying to draw his weapon when the source of the noise was discovered.

  The single splash became a barrage of echoed noise as a swarm of rats ran through the sewer towards them, both men jumping to their feet as the hundreds of creatures moved past their ankles as one. Carl instinctively aimed his gun towards the floor, but managed to hold back on his instinct to fire, while Peter lowered the lantern closer to the flurry of rats, effectively diverting the rats’ course away from them.

  When the rats had passed them by, both men were able to breathe and relax. Carl relaxed his grip on the machine gun and let it hang loosely at his side.

  “What was that you were saying about my reactions slowing?” Carl asked, tapping the lantern with the end of the machine gun.

  “I usually have someone else to carry all my stuff,” Peter pointed out, taking a moment to run the lantern over the old and faded-looking map he held in his hand.

  Carl glanced over his shoulder at the crudely drawn network of tunnels, trying to work out approximately where they were in the grand scheme of things. “Where’d you get that, Pete? It looks older than you.” he asked.

  “My grandfather, or my great grandfather,” Peter informed him. “I don’t remember who had it first. They were both in the militia about the time of the siege. A few key people needed to know where the siege tunnels were to help bring the food in and out of the city, and to maybe get people down here and out if the worse happened and the southerners pushed their assault. The tunnels all connect to the sewage network so you can get in and out from almost anywhere.”

  “And that shows us how to get into the palace?” Carl asked.

  “Well, not really,” Peter began, Carl turning away from him in disbelief. “But it shows where the palace is in relation to the tunnels, and there’s bound to be numerous exits from the palace to get the Regent away in times of crisis. It’s just up to us to find one.”

  Carl kicked his foot through the effluent, immediately regretting it the moment he had done it. “So what you’re telling me is,” he muttered, “not only do we wade through shit to get there, you’re not entirely sure where we’re going in the first place?”

  “Come on, Carl, how hard can it be?” Peter smiled.

  “What, you reckon they put signposts up on secret ways to break into the Royal palace. I really don’t believe this.”

  “Well, you came to me for help, and this is the best I got,” Peter reminded him. “So, are you coming or what?”

  Carl took a moment to consider his options. “What choice have I got, Pete?” he said. “But I’m telling you, if this all comes to nothing, you owe me a new pair of boots.”

  With that, Peter led the way again, scrutinising his map as they went.

  The smell in the sewers was far worse than the initial blast both men had received after lifting up the metal grate, but after only ten minutes or so, neither man complained about the smell. Their noses had quickly adjusted to the stench, allowing them to think about more important matters.

  After another twenty minutes, Peter directed them across a narrow intersection to the tunnels he had mentioned. Instead of being cylindrical like the sewers, they had been dug from ground beneath the city, and quite hastily from their appearance. With only a few wooden supports remaining, which were already substantially rotted away, Carl was surprised that they were still standing at all. The only plus point was that he was able to stand his full height, much to the appreciation of his aching back.

  “Right,” Peter began, after a full half-hour of what could have been walking around in circles for all Carl knew. “This tunnel here doesn’t appear to be on the map anywhere, and the palace should be somewhere over there,” he continued, pointing vaguely overhead and to the right.

  “So, what, are we feeling lucky?” Carl asked.

  “I guess so. Time to find out,” Peter replied before meticulously folding the map and returning it to
his pocket before they continued on their way.

  Carl estimated it to be only an hour or so before dawn by the time they found a doorway within the maze of tunnels beneath the palace. The only sound to be heard was his own laboured breathing and the echo of his footsteps as the sound travelled down the winding tunnels and then returned to him. Peter had learned from the Royal Guard that the prisoners weren’t due to be executed until later in the morning, but they were bound to be under heavy guard in preparation.

  The door itself was heavy and wooden, with no obvious way of opening it on their side. Carl placed his ear against the wood and ran his hand around the frame before turning back to Peter, a perplexed look on his face.

  “Okay, I’m all out of ideas,” he said. “What’s the plan now?”

  “I’m not sure yet, I need a moment to think,” Peter replied, shrugging his shoulders. He placed the lantern on the floor along with his gun and crossbow, freeing himself from their burden.

  “If we try and smash it down, we’ll have half the palace Guard on the other side by the time we get through,” Carl stated, pointing out the obvious. “Same thing if we try and blow any of the locks with some gunpowder.”

  Peter repeated Carl’s procedure of running his hands around the edges of the door, looking for any hidden catches, and trying to force his fingers between the door and the frame.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Peter said, scratching his head thoughtfully. “The only way we’re going to get through this door is if someone on the other side comes and opens it for us.”

  “Like I was saying earlier, we should have just knocked,” Carl said under his breath.

  “Maybe, but I’ve get a better idea,” Peter suggested, “so why don’t you just stop your moaning and pass me your lantern, eh?”

  “Yes, boss, whatever you say,” Carl said gruffly, half throwing the lantern at Peter as he began cutting strips from his leather coat.

  XII

  “Pretty good, but it don’t beat three of these,” Simon Collingwood stated, throwing his cards at the old wooden table and scooping his Deniras towards him.

  “Yeah, yeah, so you beat me again,” the younger Steve Price said, collecting the cards together ready to deal another hand.

  “You any coins left for me to take? Maybe you should go ask your momma, I bet she gets a fair bit from all of her gentleman friends,” Simon replied, laughing.

  “Shut up, Si. I’m not in the mood. I’m going to go have a look around, make sure everything’s going smooth and that. Here,” Steve said, throwing the cards down at the table and scattering them everywhere. “Why don’t you play with yourself for a while.”

  Collecting his rifle from near the doorway, Steve left the small guardroom to go and check on the prisoners, trying to ignore the mumbled comments from behind him. Every guard duty was the same; one snide comment after another, wearing away at his patience.

  Steve knew that he could take down the old soldier in a heartbeat, but Simon had been with the palace Guard long enough to get a few friends. The kind of friends who could turn a court martial into an execution if they felt like it. If only the usual bunch hadn’t been sent on their hush-hush secret mission, he wouldn’t have been left on his own with him.

  Checking doors as he passed, Steve tried to focus his mind on the impending war. It was his chance to get away from guard duty, and Simon Collingwood, and do some real soldiering for a change. Oh, and of course, a chance to put down a few southerners and their uppity self-righteous ways.

  Ordinarily, most prisoners were held in the guardhouse. If it wasn’t for the southerners being captured in the palace, they would have likely ended up there too. It was just too much of a hassle taking them through the streets, where either most of the city would get their execution over with early, or some loyal Southern Nationals would try and set them free.

  Murdering skeets, what he wouldn’t give for the chance to be alone with them for a few minutes, killing the Regent in cold blood like that. Given the chance, he thought that he still might have a bit of a go. He couldn’t see what difference it would make, with them being executed in the morning and everything. Who’d care if they were a bit battered and bruised, as long as their necks still snapped when their feet dropped beneath the platform.

  He was drawn from his thoughts by an unfamiliar smell from further down the corridor, and a distinct impression of smoke. He looked to the lantern hanging from the stone wall to his right, but it was still burning as cleanly as usual, and the smell was altogether different; unpleasant and almost sickly.

  As he attempted to follow the smell, the sensation of smoke increased until he could see the definite wisps wafting down the corridor towards him, and the smell had almost certainly increased.

  He considered going back to the guardroom, telling his superior about it, but he didn’t think that he could stand another comment about how young or useless he was. Besides, it was unlikely that Simon would believe him, and he’d have better luck just dealing with it himself. The fire couldn’t be too bad at the moment, but if he left it and wasted time getting help, there was always the chance of it getting a lot worse.

  Holding the rifle in one hand, his steps turned into a jog as he chased the smell and the smoke through the corridor, turning left at an intersection and then off to his right. The smoke became thicker as he neared the source, the bottom of a few small stone steps. His eyes were already watering, but he was able to see the door below, smoke emanating from beneath it in pungent white plumes.

  XIII

  They heard a cough from the other side of the door and readied their weapons, Peter aiming the crossbow at the doorway, and Carl standing behind him, machine gun in hand. The dirt they had piled up against their side of the door had helped in directing most of the smoke out towards the other side, but the smell of the oil-soaked burning leather was still getting to them, and the smoke was beginning to sting their eyes.

  “You sure this is going to work?” Carl whispered, flexing his grip on the weapon, finger resting delicately on the trigger.

  “Positive, so shut up and be ready,” Peter snapped back, raising the tip of the crossbow as they heard the heavy wheel on the other side of the door begin to turn and the first of the locks snap open.

  Carl stepped forwards as the door opened, striking the head of the guard that peered through with the butt of his machine gun, knocking him backwards against the stairway.

  “Take his weapons!” Carl said as he dashed through the doorway. He climbed the stairs in a leap, charging into the corridor and making sure that there was no one running for help, his machine gun snapping left and then right as he covered every angle of escape. When he was confident that the guard had been alone, Carl stepped back down the stairs to help with the guard’s disposal.

  “Cover that with more soil,” Peter said, indicating the smouldering leather pieces, as he dragged the guard's unconscious body back into the tunnel. In a moment, he had retrieved the guard’s rifle and the pistol from his belt.

  “We can leave the lanterns here,” Peter continued as he tossed the rifle towards Carl, “but your friends are going to need the weapons when we break them out.”

  Carl caught the rifle with one hand, his other hand still holding his machine gun ready to fire. He had buried the leather pieces under a mountain of dirt, but the smoke, and the smell was still present. Carl realised that he was wasting time and turned to Peter to tell him so. Peter had removed the small ring of keys from the guard’s pocket and hastily agreed.

  They closed the door behind them, turning the wheel as far clockwise as it would go until all of the locks had engaged. The smoke could still be smelt, but it had cleared enough to allow them to breathe almost normally.

  “Okay, then, which way now?” Carl asked as they reached the top of the stairs, each man covering their own length of corridor.

  “What you asking me for? I’ve never been down here,” Peter reminded him.

  “Wonderful,” Carl replied.<
br />
  “Figure we should split up?” Peter asked.

  “No chance, we’d cut our already slim chances in half.”

  Carl quickly scoured both lengths of the corridor, looking for any clues as to which way the guard had come from. Finding none, he followed his instincts. “Right, we go this way,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

  “Fine by me,” Peter said, his crossbow still held at his shoulder, bolt loaded.

  “And remember,” Carl continued, “if they come at us, we hit them with everything we’ve got. No warning shots, no wounding shots. We make it count until we go down or we come out the other side.”

  “I understand,” Peter said, knowing what Carl was saying.

  Carl took the lead, moving stealthily through the corridors with Peter covering his back. Every sense was alert for any clues in the maze that would point them in the general direction of the prisoners. Luck had got them this far, and Carl was happy to continue to rely on it.

  “Where is everyone?” Carl asked. “Truth be told, I’ve seen the inside of a few prisons in my time, and they’ve usually got a few more guards than this.”

  “Can’t say, Carl,” Peter replied. “Preparing for the war, building the gallows, I’ve no…”

  Both men stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of voices from somewhere ahead of them. The corridor led to a right turn from which the sounds were echoing. They both dropped to a crouch, but the voices didn’t grow louder, implying that whoever was speaking was probably stationary.

  There were two different voices, both male, but not yet loud enough to understand what was being said. Both men strained to hear, but after a silent look between them, both agreed to move closer to the turning, as quietly as possible.

  Carl held the machine gun against his shoulder as he moved in a crouched position, back against the wall. Resisting the urge to take a quick look around the corner, he beckoned Peter closer.