by Ben Cassidy
“Careful, Captain,” Root warned with a disapproving glance. “Lord Blackstone is still the honorable mayor.” He glanced back at the front gates of Stockade, which were swinging open with a flurry of shouts and calls. “Besides, Blackstone won’t come here himself. He’ll send Yearling and his men.”
“If it comes to it,” Beckett said under his breath, “we can take that lot too.”
“You might well get your chance,” Root responded in a cold voice. His gaze was firmly fixed on a small party of horsemen riding in through the front gates. “Because unless I miss my mark, that’s Colonel Yearling now.”
Beckett’s eyes widened.
Root started stomping back towards the blockhouse, speaking over his shoulder. “See to your men, Captain. Mounted and ready for action.”
“Yes, sir!” Beckett disappeared inside the stables.
Root strode quickly across the parade ground. He came up to the blockhouse again just as the riders were stopping in front of it.
Kendril came out onto the steps of the blockhouse, still dressed in his cuirass and buff coat. His rapier and flintlock pistols hung by his side. He raised a hand in greeting. “Welcome, Colonel Yearling.”
Yearling pulled up his horse. The beast stamped the ground impatiently.
Behind him were several dragoons from the Northampton Dragoon Regiment. They were soaked to the bone from the rain. Even the regimental banner carried by one of the riders drooped in the limp breeze.
Yearling threw open the visor of his helmet. He reached into a pocket of his vest coat and removed a monocle, wiped it on a pocket handkerchief, and stuck it into his eye. Only then did he turn his imperious gaze on Kendril. “Lord Ravenbrook.” He swiveled his head to look around the parade ground. “Are you almost ready for the hand-over? It’s getting close to sundown.”
Kendril folded his hands behind his back. “Disbanding the militia is foolhardy right now, Colonel. I received your report this afternoon. I believe the Jombards are massing for an attack.”
Yearling peered down at Kendril through his monocle. His face hardened. “I’m confused, Lord Ravenbrook. I received a copy of Lord Blackstone’s orders. I trust you did as well?”
Colonel Root felt tension welling in the pit of his stomach. He glanced over at Kendril.
The General stood implacably on the blockhouse steps. “I did,” he responded blithely. “I rode to Redemption this morning and...discussed it with Blackstone himself.”
“Then,” continued Yearling in his nasally voice, “am I to understand that you are ignoring the mayor’s order to disband the militia?”
There was an awful quietness, filled only with the plinking of rain on the armor of the riders.
“Colonel,” Kendril said, his voice calm and quiet, “I appeal to you as one military man to another. Delay your orders for one night. If I’m wrong, and the Jombards have no intention to attack, then I’ll disband the militia tomorrow morning, you have my word as a gentleman. But if I’m right, then you’ll need my men tonight.” Kendril glanced at the other riders, who were all watching him silently. “I don’t care about politics. I care about protecting Redemption and its people.” He looked back at Yearling. “I know that’s something we share, Colonel.”
“Indeed.” Yearling removed his monocle and wiped it with the handkerchief again. “Blasted rain. Keeps smudging the lens.” He replaced it, squinting slightly to hold it in place. He looked down at Kendril. “To reiterate, Lord Ravenbrook, am I to understand that you are not disbanding the militia?”
Kendril stared at the man for a long, hard moment. “No,” he said slowly, “I am not.”
“I see.” Yearling motioned with his hand to one of the riders behind him. “Sergeant, place this man under arrest.”
Chapter 11
“Sir?” Sergeant Dyke poked his head into the small room that was doubling as Lockhart’s office and bedroom here at here at Hangman’s Hill. A bandage still covered his cheek, a testimony to the nasty gash he had gotten in the fighting earlier that morning.
“What is it?” Lockhart looked up from his bread, dried jerky, and beer. He couldn’t quite keep the impatience and irritation out of his voice. The last five minutes had been the first he had had all day to sit down. He wanted desperately to sleep, and his eyes were burning badly.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Dyke said. “Signal fire, to the south.”
The fatigue seemed to suddenly vanish from Lockhart’s body. “Get all men on the defenses,” he said. He jumped up, and shoved the piece of bread into his trouser pocket. “Anything from Sharpton or Kettlmer?”
Dyke shook his head. “No sir.”
Lockhart moved towards the door.
Dyke jumped back out of his superior’s way, then hustled down into the milefort.
Lockhart moved up the turf stairs of the wall, stepping around the fallen debris from the morning’s attack. Much of it had already been cleared way, and a crude line of defenses had been put in place where the Wall had once stood. Without the added muscle of Beckett’s men, however, repairing this section of the Wall would take inordinately longer.
Hangman’s Hill was vulnerable to another attack. Even with his increased number of men, Lockhart had few illusions about repelling any determined assault on the position without substantial reinforcements.
He reached the top of the wall. Much of it was scorched black from the fire earlier that morning. Dried blood still stained the wall in many places where both dragoons and Jombards had fallen in the fighting.
A dragoon saw him approaching, peering at him in the darkness. “Who goes there?”
“Lockhart,” came Lockhart’s confident reply. He ran a critical eye over the hasty defenses.
They weren’t much. A row of sharpened stakes had been thrown up as a temporary barrier. Some shallow ditches had been dug, and a combination of burned wood and dirt thrown up to create a small wall in place of the tall palisade and twin watchtowers that had once graced this section of the Wall.
“Any movement?” Lockhart asked.
The dragoon shook his head. “No, sir. All’s quiet.” He turned his face to the south. “Except for that.”
Lockhart stepped up onto a pile of dirt, painfully aware that he was making himself an obvious target for any Jombard snipers that might be lurking in the tall grass beyond the trench. He looked out to the south.
There was a clear flame, burning bright against the cold night sky. It looked to be Hangman’s Rest.
There was no sound of gunfire, at least not yet. But Lieutenant Sharpton would never have lit the signal fire unless there was an obvious danger of his position being overrun. He must be seeing substantial numbers of Jombards in front of him, even if they were staying out of range.
Lockhart glanced down at the milefort below. He could see Dyke marching up the steps with almost all of the dragoons. They were tired, of course, and most of them were injured from the morning’s attack.
It looked like the night would be even longer.
Lockhart reached for the handle of his pistol, reassuring himself that it was still in his holster. The black forest in front of him seemed to loom like an ominous beast, waiting to spring forward at any moment. There could be a dozen legions of Jombards out there, just out of sight, and he would never see them until it was too late. Without the sturdy palisade, Lockhart felt exposed, almost naked. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to scramble down off the stacked pile of dirt he stood on.
Dyke and his men reached the top of the Wall. The sergeant began snapping orders right and left, and the men settled into positions in the shallow ditches, checking their carbines and pistols.
Lockhart wished to Eru that he had a proper cannon. The last had been buried under a pile of burning debris when the wall had collapsed, and on top of that an enterprising Jombard had spiked it. It would take quite some time to get it back in a condition to fire. Colonel Yearling had promised a replacement, but nothing had yet appeared.
There was a flash
to the north, then a rolling bang of cannon fire.
Surprised, Lockhart turned his gaze northwards.
No signal fire was lit, but the shot had certainly come from that direction, and not from the south.
With a scowl, Lockhart turned to Sergeant Dyke.
A gunshot sounded from the north, then another. Two more in quick succession.
A cold lump formed in Lockhart’s stomach. He had a sudden, inescapable urge to get down off the pile of dirt he stood on.
“Sir!” Dyke shouted. He was pointing off towards the south.
Lockhart swiveled his head. He felt the ice in his stomach turn to water.
There was a second signal fire to the south, distant but barely visible. It had to be the next milefort, past Hangman’s Rest.
But that meant—
A blast of cannon fire came from the south. Seconds later there was a rattle of musketry. The sound was close. It had to be Hangman’s Rest. Lockhart could see the flashes and flares of gunfire.
More bangs and gun reports came from the north.
It was chaos, utter and complete chaos. The Wall was being hit on at least a four-mile front.
And Hangman’s Hill was in the middle of it all.
Lockhart swung his head around to the north.
The signal fire from the northern milefort was blazing away now. There were more flashes and reports of gunfire.
“Should we send men to help?” Dyke asked. He kept whipping his head back and forth between the north and the south. “I can take one of the squads—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Lockhart snapped, his temper getting the better of him. He slid down off the dirt pile and pulled out his wheelock pistol. “Don’t you get it, Dyke? They’ll be on us in minutes.” He waved his arm to the dragoons that were clustered on the top of the turf wall. “Prepare for assault!” he shouted, raising his voice above the booming sound of cannon and gunfire in the distance. “Don’t shoot until you have a clear mark. Make every shot count.”
Dyke looked over a tumble of broken wood and dirt towards the dark forest on the other side of the trench. “There’s nothing out there, sir.”
“Not yet,” Lockhart said grimly. He drew his rapier. “But they’re coming, Dyke. They’d be fools not to.” He swept his eyes over the improvised defenses on top of the Wall. “Hangman’s Hill is the weakest point on the Wall right now. They’ll come right through us like a hot knife through butter.”
Dyke swallowed, his face pale in the darkness of the evening. He glanced back to the south again.
Bugles were sounding now, intermixed with the crackle of gunfire. A cannon flashed and boomed again.
Lockhart peered into the black woods, his heart hammering in his throat. He prayed to Eru that Lieutenant Sharpton was all right down there. It had been hard enough losing Sergeant Madison.
“Sir,” said Dyke, his voice low to avoid being overheard by the other dragoons. “What if there’s another—another—”
Lockhart bit his lip. Dyke didn’t need to finish his sentence. “One step at a time, Sergeant,” he said with more courage than he felt.
“Sir,” one of the dragoons hissed, his shape practically hidden in the darkness that blanketed the Wall. “Movement beyond the trench!”
Lockhart ducked down, then crawled forward almost to the line of sharpened stakes, staying as low as he could. He peered out into the night.
At first he could see nothing, just the dark morass of the trench and the silvery grass beyond it. Then, little by little, he saw something moving. Black shapes, like shadows more than anything else, creeping and squirming closer and closer across the ground.
Lockhart crawled backwards and grabbed Dyke, whispering right in the sergeant’s ear. “They’re coming. Pass the word down the line. Every shot hits. No man runs. For Eru and Arbela.”
A quiet shuffling came from the dragoons as they adjusted their positions, checked their carbines, and prepared for the inevitable onslaught. Gunfire continued to echo from the north and south, the flashes lighting the night sky.
Lockhart tried to breathe slowly and evenly. He pulled himself up and glanced over the top of the makeshift barricade.
The black shapes of the Jombards could be seen more clearly now creeping forward through the tall grass. Several had made it all the way to the edge of the trench.
The dragoons braced their guns, picking out targets.
Lockhart readjusted his sweaty grip on the pistol in his hand. He felt suddenly tired again. There would be no sleep for him tonight.
Assuming he survived it at all.
The first Jombards dropped down into the trench, their dark shapes moving like wolves in the dusk.
Dyke looked over at Lockhart with a questioning glance. “Sir?” he whispered.
Lockhart took a deep breath. He raised his pistol and aimed it squarely at one of the nearest of the moving shadows. “Dragoons!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Fire!”
Kendril sat on the edge of the cot, his legs bouncing with frustration and impatience. He glanced through the bars of the cell at the young dragoon who sat by the door of the guardhouse. “What’s going on out there?”
“I don’t know,” the dragoon said. He adjusted his grip on the carbine he held. “But it doesn’t much matter to you, does it?”
Another long boom of cannon fire sounded in the far distance, barely audible though the walls of the guardhouse.
Kendril stared hard enough at the dragoon to cause the young man to flinch back. “Are you a complete and total idiot? Can’t you hear that there’s a battle raging right now? The Jombards are coming over the Wall, aren’t they? The attack has already started.”
The dragoon shifted in his seat. He glanced uneasily at the door. “I told you, I don’t know. Now—”
“For Eru’s sake, then,” Kendril blurted, “go find out.”
The dragoon’s face hardened. “My orders are to guard you, sir, not—”
Kendril leapt up from his cot. He grabbed the bars of his cell with both hands. “Do I look like I’m getting out of here anytime soon? If the Jombards are breaking through the Wall, then we’re both dead men. Now go get—”
A knock came from the door to the guardhouse.
Cautiously, the dragoon got up out of his seat, his eyes never leaving Kendril. He moved to the door and opened it.
Another dragoon, his slouched hat pulled down against the rain, came tramping inside. “Alright, Colonel says you’re relieved. Chow’s on in the barracks. Better grab it fast.”
The first dragoon visibly relaxed. He shouldered his carbine. “What in Zanthora is going on out there?”
As if to punctuate his words, the distant bark of gunfire came in through the open guardhouse door.
The new dragoon shrugged. “Jombards are throwing themselves against the Wall. Colonel’s in an uproar. I’d get that chow fast if I was you, or you might not be getting another shot at it.”
The first dragoon nodded. “Thanks.” He gave Kendril one last glance, then headed out the door and closed it behind him.
The new dragoon took off his hat, and threw it on the table by the guard’s chair. He reached into his coat, pulled out a loaded hand crossbow and pointed it at Kendril.
“Hello, Tomas,” Kendril said without moving a muscle. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.
The Ghostwalker kept his crossbow trained on the man behind the bars. “I’m here to kill you,” he said simply.
Kendril gave a slow nod. “Olan send you?”
“Of course. It wasn’t smart, what you did.”
Kendril sighed and sank back onto his cot. “I’ve been accused of a lot,” he said. “Being smart usually isn’t on the list.” He raised an eyebrow. “The crossbow is new.”
Tomas gave a small shrug. “It’s poisoned.”
“Ah.” Kendril looked up as another round of cannon fire erupted in the distance. “Hear that? That’s the sound of thousands of screaming Jombards coming over the Wall an
d looking for blood.” He pointed at the crossbow in Tomas’ hand. “You really want to kill me? Wait an hour and the Jombards will do the job for you.”
Tomas kept the hand crossbow pointed straight at Kendril’s chest. “Olan thinks you’re reckless and dangerous. Now you’re a traitor.”
“Regnuthu take what Olan thinks,” Kendril snapped. “What do you think, Tomas?” He spread his hands. “Do I look like a traitor to you?”
“You turned your back on all of us,” Tomas said. His voice had an icy chill to it. “You refused a direct order from a superior.”
“And I suppose you’ve never done that?” Kendril balled his hands into fists, glancing at the door as another boom sounded off far away. “Ashes, Tomas, we’re on the same side. I’m still fighting the same war you and Olan are. Or can’t you see that?”
Tomas remained silent. The crossbow did not waver in his hand.
“Look, if you’re going to kill me, just get it over with already.” Kendril slouched back against the wall. “It’s not exactly like I’m going anywhere.”
“You lied to me,” Tomas said quietly.
Kendril glanced over at him.
“You told me you killed Lord Ravenbrook,” Tomas said again. “You told me he was your friend.”
Kendril’s mouth curled into an unsympathetic sneer. “And that bothers you?”
“It bothers me,” Tomas continued in his flat tone, “because I don’t know if I can trust you or not.”
Kendril gave the crossbow a disdainful glance. “I would guess right now the answer is ‘not.’”
Tomas slowly raised the crossbow so that is it was pointed at the ceiling. “I’ve worked with you enough to know that you are effective in what you do. Crude, violent, and unwilling to cooperate with others, much less take proper orders, but effective nonetheless.” A flicker of something passed through Tomas’ gaze. “And I’m starting to doubt whether my kill order for you is really for the good of the Order, or if it’s just to appease some longstanding feud between you and Olan.”
Kendril crossed his arms. “You’re a bright lad. What do you think?”