The Red Knight

by Davies, K. T.

  “Bah!” Skani thumped his stomach. “‘Tis pure muscle! My Gardu says I have the body of a god.”

  “A slightly chubby, past his prime god, maybe.” the Talespinner chuckled.

  A horn blared, summoning the warriors to arms. Snowfoot doused his fire and donned his coat of bronze.

  Felar grabbed his shield, slung it over his shoulder. “Come, old friend—time to make the worms fat, one way or the other.”

  “Aye. I hear you brother.” The Talespinner felt the weight of his armour drag on his shoulders. Time was he wouldn’t even notice he was wearing it. He was getting old. These days his love of fighting was more often outweighed by the desire to sit by a fire, eating oatcakes and telling stories.

  It was bright and cold, the air as sharp as flint. Sunlight glazed the battlements, turning steel to silver and bronze to gold. The glorious weather seemed at odds with the bloody promise of the day. Talin shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold or because he was scared witless. The knights of the Hammer and the Black Lancers gave no sign that they were in the least perturbed and were exchanging crude banter and brave words as the enemy edged closer. Nevenna tapped the butt of her halberd on the stones and gave him what he imagined was supposed to be a reassuring smile.

  “How many do you think are in those things?” he asked as they watched the crawlers slowly approaching the moat.

  The herald squinted against the sun’s glare. “By the size of them I’d say maybe… thirty warriors, Highness.”

  “I count twelve.”

  Despite his mother’s pleas, Talin had joined the fighters on the wall. There were twenty knights in his unit, plus militia. The civilians were easy to distinguish from the career warriors; they were the ones wearing mis-matched armour and who looked as nervous as he was. His gut told him fighting was the right thing to do, but his bladder wasn’t convinced.

  Their orders were straightforward enough even for him to remember: hold the wall. His unit was on the right of the barbican. It wasn’t where the fighting would be heaviest, but he was embarrassed to see that when he joined them, a handful of the Hammer quietly replaced some of the civilians in the group.

  Bear had promised she’d be there, but as ever she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. The fat cow was probably snoring her face off in a Pel-induced slumber, but he wished she was there—or that he was with her. This time last year he would have been. Hard to believe how much had changed in a year; most of it for the better, but not this. This was bloody terrifying.

  The Sergeant-at-Arms counted off the range markers as the enemy came on. An icy shiver ran through Alyda, her muscles twitched in anticipation of action. The Sergeant signalled that they were in range.

  “Loose,” she ordered, and the ballista sang. Bolt after bolt tore through wood and canvas, flesh and bone, crippling the crawlers in the vanguard. Warriors who escaped the wreckage were nailed to the ground by a storm of arrows.

  The effectiveness of the Antian ballistae did not go unpunished and after a few near misses, the bow mounted on the east tower took a direct hit and exploded in a shower of riven timbers and smashed bodies.

  The first battered crawlers reached the moat. Alyda took her place in the line as bridges were extended across the water. Defenders hurled rocks from the walls, smashing planks and breaking bodies. Archers had their pick of targets and thickened the air with shafts. This slowed, but didn’t stop the advance.

  Iron hooks bit into the Arth side of the moat. Guthani swarmed across the planks. Screaming war cries, they hoisted scaling ladders over the crushed bodies of fallen comrades. Alyda shouted herself hoarse urging the defenders to stand firm, willing them to hold the line. The gatehouse was shaking in time to the rhythmic pounding of a new battering ram as it was driven again and again into the portcullis.

  A shout went up. Guthlanders had gained the walkway east of the barbican. Clad in shining bronze, shields strapped to their backs, they hauled themselves over the wall bellowing to their gods for blood and victory. Alyda slammed down her visor, the clasp locked into place. It had begun.

  The scarlet plume in her helm drew the Guthani to her and into the teeth of the First. Time slowed when the first attacker came within reach of her blade. She sidestepped a spinning axe and thrust her sword at a bronze helm that appeared above the wall. Her blade found its way into an ocular. There was a spray of blood and the helm dropped from sight. Something bright arced towards her; she swayed back. The whistling blade bit stone, bowing its wielder before her. She hacked through the offered neck and moved to meet the next attacker.

  Talin had almost died in the first bloody exchange when his sword snagged on a fellow defender’s armour. Frozen with fear, he’d closed his eyes and braced for the blow that would send him to the Void.

  Instead of the cruel kiss of steel, he felt a rush of air and heard the ringing clash of metal. He opened his eyes to see a spiked buckler locked against a sword inches from his head. The buckler twisted the blade away, swept back round and smashed into the face of his attacker. Blinded by her own blood, the Guthani fell backwards over the wall clutching her bleeding face. His saviour was Bear. She winked at him, gore streaked buckler in one hand, falchion in the other.

  “Sorry I’m late, Highness. I couldn’t find my gauntlets anywhere.”

  The Antians fought with a fury borne of desperation and held the Guthani at bay for hours, but as the day wore on Talin could see that the tide of battle was beginning to turn against them.

  The sun was slipping below the horizon when the battering ram smashed through the gatehouse’s outer portcullis. Pressure eased on Talin’s section as the Guthani concentrated their attack on the damaged gate. Exhausted, he leaned on his sword and watched the attackers drag the ram into the passage. He was grateful that he couldn’t see the mixture of oil and tar being poured on them from the room above the passage, or see the torches being dropped. It was enough to hear the agonised screams and see flames blast through the portcullis facing the Arth.

  As the fire took hold, two ropes uncoiled from the windows above and either side of the gate and two unarmoured figures dressed in hunters’ green descended. Without a backwards glance at the inferno, they sprinted across the bridge, grabbed the ropes that had been lowered from the barbican walkway, and climbed up. Behind them, burning hands clawed at the spiked and chained portcullis before charring to stumps. Thick black smoke quickly enveloped the gatehouse. The screaming stopped.

  The bronze wave continued to pour over the wall. Alyda’s sword work was economical, blade thrusting snake-fast into faces and throats. Kill or maim, it was all the same to her, so long as they fell back.

  Every foot of wall was contested as though it was the most precious piece of ground in the world. The sun went down and the knights fought on. They were a grinding, tearing beast that chewed flesh to meat and bathed the walls in ruin.

  Despite their efforts, Alyda knew that one big push from the Guthani—a breakthrough anywhere on the wall would finish them. Night sank its teeth into the horizon. Exhaustion sapped strength and will, but they fought on until horns blared from the enemy camp recalling the attackers.

  They had survived.

  Alyda put her back to the battlements and gulped air into her hungry lungs. The bottom of the wall in the bailey was piled with corpses. The fire in the gatehouse was still burning, and the air stank of cooked flesh, but they’d kept the Guthani out.

  When the last of the enemy fighters had withdrawn, Alyda watched light bloom amongst the trees on the far side of the killing ground. Dozens of workers armed with picks and shovels scurried from the woods, and began to dig long shallow ditches and mound up the earth.

  She should have been flattered that they were raising bulwarks, but it felt like a poor reward for not buckling under their first real assault. She rubbed grit from her eyes, a task made easier now that her visor had been torn off. The dried blood on her face served as a reminder of how close she’d come to losing her head.
It wasn’t just skill that kept you alive in battle, luck played its part, and she was damn grateful for all that she’d had.

  After briefing the wall commanders, she made her way to Cassian’s office. The Riverside Hall had taken a beating, but the lower levels had remained completely intact. Exhausted civilians and warriors slept where they could, bundled up in blankets and facing a restless night beneath the sky-pocked roof. Glass crunched beneath her boots, rainbow-hued shards all that remained of the windows. She yawned a sigh, the hall could be re-built. Those who had died were gone forever.

  A gaggle of children darted around Kilner. They were being chased by another of their number wielding a bright red feather. The little ones squealed with delight as they charged around the cellars while the adults listened fretfully to the thunder above. Kilner found a quiet nook and hunkered down, jealously marvelling at the resilience of children.

  Before the last attack he’d tried to lighten the dour mood in the cellar. He’d performed, pulling clouds of jewel-winged butterflies from his sleeves and transforming faded silk kerchiefs into bunches of roses. It worked, for a while. His audience had laughed and gasped and, for a short time, forgot they were afraid. The first booming impacts pounded fear back into them and not any amount of butterflies could dispel their terror. Kilner stopped his performance and let the butterflies fade.

  He’d learned to live with guilt over the years, but from time to time it reminded him of its presence, like now. He could have sent sprites onto the battlefield to confuse the enemy; he could have summoned a fog, or rain, any number of small, but potentially useful magics to confound the enemy. But the truth that Captain Stenna had so quickly discerned was that he was a coward. He was afraid that the sorcerer might still be out there, waiting for another chance to attack him.

  “Magic’s wasted on you.” Those were the last words his father had said when he left him at the grove, a few months after his powers had manifested. That he was right had never eased the sting of his words. He could clearly remember his tutor; tall and imposing, bathed in dappled sunlight. He was so happy that day, he’d dreamed of a new beginning at the Grove. He wouldn’t be clumsy, stupid Kilner any more. Useless in the fields and no good in the workshop—he would be a mage. Then he saw the look of disappointment on the woman’s face when her gaze settled on him, and he was crushed.

  It was a painful memory, one he didn’t wish to examine any further. A shadow fell across him; he looked up to see the child with the feather standing before him, staring at him with large sad eyes. Habit drove him to wave his hands and reach behind the boy’s ear, from where he produced a quarter crown. The mage offered it to the surprised child. The boy’s impish face split into a grin. He snatched the coin and thrust the feather into Kilner’s hand. Before the mage could decline the exchange the boy was off running back to his friends with his prize.

  It had been a while since Cassian had beaten out dents in his armour with his sword pommel. He was pleased to see he hadn’t lost the knack and quickly softened the uncomfortable crease in his breastplate. Chunks of black enamel flaked off, exposing the bare metal, but he’d worry about rust after they’d beaten the Guthlanders.

  Alyda’s herald hissed a curse as Griga helped her into a chair. The sheen of sweat on Lieutenant Vysten’s pale face and blood spots on the bandage around her leg explained her ire. The echo of the axe blow that had dented his cuirass made Cassian’s ribs ache. Griga looked to have escaped injury, for which he was thankful. The grey-haired Lieutenant was due to retire this year. He now felt guilty that he’d asked her to stay until Midwinter. Guilty, but not regretful. He needed his right hand for one more battle.

  Alyda blew in like a hurricane; her energy straightened all three of them, and chased away the creeping lethargy that was stealing into his limbs. Sometimes he doubted that she was human—never mind what they said about him. Her gore splattered armour spoke of a hard day of fighting, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed with a healthy glow. He could endure days, weeks, even months, of war; it took a while to wear him down. Some rare few seemed to thrive on conflict and grow in the midst of battle as though nourished by hardship; people like Alyda. She paced the room, hands clasped behind her back, casually kicking bits of rubble as she passed.

  “We’ve lost the gatehouse, but I expected that. What matters is we didn’t sell it cheaply. Most of the ballistae are gone, and one of the trebuchets has been damaged. We need to reposition the working one, now that they’ve seen where it is.”

  “I’ll have the damaged one salvaged if it can’t be repaired,” said Cassian. He eased himself back into his armour, pleased with the repair. Alyda stopped pacing and turned to her Lieutenant. “How many of the Hammer did we lose, Nev?” She asked.

  Nevenna grimaced as she repositioned her leg. “Thirty-three dead, another three probably won’t last the night.”

  Though she hid it well, he could see that the news rocked her. She clenched her jaw and nodded. “How many Lancers, Cass?”

  “Twenty-eight,” he said, the number didn’t match the depth of his sorrow as each face loomed large in his mind. Griga sighed.

  “Both companies are still above half strength: that’s good. Cass, I need you and half the Lancers ready to ride tomorrow, along with half of the Hammer. I can’t strip the walls of our presence. Twins know, I’d love to put us all on horseback, but we need to support the civvies. I’m waiting for Malby to get back to me with how many of them are still fit to fight.” She lowered her voice. “I want you to move your family, the Queen and the princes over to the Queen’s tower. Do it quietly and do it soon.

  Cassian wasn’t surprised but he was torn. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief, but also that he’d failed the garrison. He looked at Alyda. He saw no conflict there, no guilt. Her oath was to the King first, the kingdom and its people second. An oath that was probably much easier to keep when your family were in another country. That she was planning to save his family was a gift that he couldn’t have given himself without destroying his honour. Was that why I asked her to take command? The thought appalled him. Shame weighed in on top of guilt. He was angry with himself and with Alyda for enabling his cowardice. There was a knock at the door, it was Alyda’s squire.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A delegation, Captain. They want to speak to you. I told them you were busy, but they insisted. Shall I send them away?”

  She rolled her shoulders. “No, let them in, we’re done for now. Tell Kieran to meet me by the barbican in ten minutes.”

  Griga left with Jamie but Cassian hung back. He had to speak to Alyda, to voice his discomfort.

  “Before you say anything, Cass, I’ve made my decision, so just accept it, she said before he had chance to speak. “That will be all.”

  Am I so easy to read? His embarrassment grew. He stiffened, anger rising from several unreasonable and unnameable sources.

  “I said that will be all, Captain Vorsten.” Her tone made it clear she would brook no discussion.

  The simmering pot of his fury boiled over. “You outrank me by a blade’s width, Alyda. Do not abuse the privilege…not even to help me. My honour will only stand so much.” Even as he said it he knew it was a lie. He was so grateful he could have wept, which only increased his anger. Alyda folded her arms and leaned against his desk. Did she know that she’d saved and damned him in the same breath? She smiled. Yes, she knows.

  “Just do your job, Captain Vorsten. We’ll discuss any points of honour after we’ve beaten the Guthani.”

  “That was hard,” said Nevenna when Cass had left.

  “But necessary. How’s your leg?” Alyda didn’t need to be told that she’d offended Cassian. The murderous look on his face when he stormed out had said it all. Perhaps she should have given him the chance to talk it through, but she was tired and the outcome would have been the same. Diplomacy has never been your strong point, Stenna.

  “Gedthis says no riding, but its sound enough to sta
nd on.”

  You should be in the infirmary.”

  “I can’t lie in the sickroom taking up a bed. I’m best where I can be of some use, here or up on the wall.

  Her herald looked like death, but Nev knew her limits.

  “How’s he doing?” Alyda didn’t need to say who she meant.

  “Good, once he got over his nerves. Don’t worry; not much is going to get past Lady Berwick.”

  “True, but if you do decide you’re fit enough to go back up there…”

  “Of course.” Nevenna got up and limped out. Alyda could see a group of people massed outside of the office. That’ll be the delegation then. She thought about wiping some of the filth off her armour, but decided against it. Let them see the marks of her craft. It might make them think twice before they annoyed her. She took off her helm. The plume was gone, as well as the visor, but it had done its job and kept the contents more or less intact.

  She wasn’t at all surprised that the first person through the door was the blacksmith. He had the same disgruntled expression on his face as the first time she’d met him. Man looks like he was born frowning.

  He stepped forward, drew a breath and jabbed a calloused finger in her direction, ready to deliver what she imagined was a well-rehearsed speech.

  She raised her hand, halting him before he hit his stride.

  “I take it you are the representative of these people? What’s your name?”

  The smith lost his momentum. “I, er…yes. I represent these people and most others trapped here. My name’s Smith, just Smith’ll do.”

  Alyda had the measure of the man. There was a Smith in every town and village in Antia, probably the world. Someone who believed so surely in the rightness of their opinions that they felt it was their god-given duty to share them, loudly, and often. He folded his arms. Some fools never know when to stand down. So be it. If he wanted a fight he’d come to the right person. Fight was all she had in her today.