by J. P. Ashman
The unit was nearing the edge of Dockside, but it had fallen dark rapidly, for the tall, closely packed buildings blocked the quickly dying light of the setting sun. Large shadows cast across each other to create areas as black as pitch, and just as one of the guardsmen walked past the opening of a blackened alleyway, he disappeared without a sound.
‘Garl?’ the sergeant-at-arms called, his stomach twisting all of a sudden. ‘Where’s Garl?’
Several in the unit shrugged, looking around, expecting him to jump out playing the fool, as was his nature, but Garl didn’t jump out and the sergeant feared the worse. He ordered his men to leave the carts and check the two alleyways either side of the street. Two men checked each as the rest set their shields in a defensive line both front and back of the carts. The sergeant, with many years of experience, stayed in the middle with his horn, trying to follow all four of his men in turn down the two black alleys. His stomach continued to twist and turn and despite those years of experience, his hands grew slick with sweat. His head turned left then right and back again, straining to keep a visual on his men as his heart thumped in his chest.
The street’s too damned quiet, where’s the heckling? Where’s the bloody shit and stones?
One of the men down the alley in which Garl had disappeared suddenly shouted something inaudible; he was clearly startled by something. A dog barked, to which a couple of the guardsmen in the rear shield wall laughed. The small mongrel ran out of the alley and away down the narrow street, its tail firmly between its legs. There was more laughter from the men in the rear shield wall.
The wily sergeant set his jaw firm.
A man screamed.
The scream was guttural and ended almost as suddenly as it sounded. Metal clashed against metal down the same alley and the rear shield wall turned to face the noise, unlocking their shields as they did so. As they turned, there was a strange snapping sound from above and two of the patrol dropped to the floor, struck by stones fired from powerful slingshots.
‘On me! On me!’ the sergeant shouted, and the front shield wall broke to reform around him.
The broken rear shield wall picked up the downed men who were alive but clutching bloodied cuts to their faces and heads, and rushed to their sergeant.
No men returned from either alley.
The horn called: three clear notes as the sergeant-at-arms emptied his lungs into the curved instrument.
As the notes echoed off the surrounding buildings and carried off down the streets, shouting started; heckling calls and wolf like howling from all about the lightly armoured men.
The sergeant was no rookie and recognised the shouts and howls as gang calls. He grabbed the closest man and dragged him along as he called for his men to retreat and follow him. The remaining guardsmen ran as fast as their legs could carry them up the steep, sewer-strewn street, leaving the carts and lost comrades behind. They knew the main street was not far and so they ran all the faster, but they also knew they were surrounded and the hornets nest had stirred.
As the tired, maille clad men made the top of the narrow street, their sergeant blew the horn again, praying for reinforcements to appear.
The last stretch was still sloping but much less than the one they'd just climbed, and so they ran all the faster. One of the men at the rear turned to look behind him and wished he hadn’t, for there was a large number of people chasing them, most of which, in his brief glance, seemed to be carrying a weapon of some sort.
He’d just turned back to look where he was running when a door opened to his left and he was struck in the face with a plank of wood. His legs flew from under him and he hit the ground hard, his axe flying from his hand to clatter across the cobbled ground. His friends didn’t stop. He’d been at the back and they hadn’t seen or heard him go down over the calling of the gangers and locals. He tried to shout out but his mouth was full of blood and teeth. As he began to cough and choke, he looked up and saw a rough looking man with a gold-toothed grin.
The man slammed the end of a thick wooden pole down and the guardsman’s face collapsed into his broken skull, its contents leaking into the helm, then over the ridge of the iron pot to mix with the mud and cobbles surrounding it.
Longoss grunted at the sight, before closing the door behind him and joining the passing mob.
The remaining members of the unit thanked whomever they prayed to as they ran out onto a large yet empty road.
‘Keep going,’ the sergeant shouted, as he turned to look at their pursuers, his lungs burning as he gasped at the cold air for breath. His pulse thudded in his ears.
He estimated at least thirty men and women were running up the street they'd just left. The crowd threw stones and insults and many carried weapons, some of them makeshift but weapons all the same, and so he ran on, following his men into the Guild District ahead, which was lined with larger buildings and set along wider streets. Here he felt safer and believed the gangers and their followers wouldn’t travel far from Dockside for fear of greater reprisals by the City Guard.
Hah, let’s see you bastards follow us now.
He was wrong.
The group of twelve gangers who'd originally assaulted the patrol had swelled to near fifty and more joined the frenzied charge. Men and women left their houses or ran down from other streets to join the mob who chased the patrol, and as they hesitated on the large street, which marked the border of Dockside, a man called out to them from his seated position on a rooftop, a man clad in black with a wide brimmed hat and a rapier resting across his folded legs.
‘It’s a plague!’ The stranger shouted, and people looked up at his silhouette, confused. ‘The sickness killing your families is a plague and it was created using arcane magic. Arcane magic sent forth from Tyndurris!’ Exley Clewarth pointed to the silver lit tower scraping the sky.
The crowd screamed, they yelled and they cursed and they ran on, deep into the Guild District and on towards Tyndurris.
A horn sounded three times.
Chapter 18: Civil Disorder
Stars blinked in the cloudless sky and a light breeze made Fal shudder as the sound of clattering hooves on cobbled stone grew louder. The same two men-at-arms that had ridden past Tyndurris’ gates just moments before now rode back, calling a warning to all as they approached.
‘Lock yer doors, bar yer windows!’
The horsemen came to a halt outside the gates and Fal ran over to greet them, noticing their grim expressions as they neared the torch-lit gateway.
‘What news?’ Fal asked, Sav close by his side.
One of the riders, a broad shouldered young man with a closely cropped blonde beard and piercing blue eyes leant forward in his saddle to address Fal through the iron bars of the gate. His horse stepped sideways as he tried to steady it.
‘Trouble from Dockside,’ he said, and Fal noticed both he and the other rider looking back the way they'd come every few seconds. ‘We were responding to the horn ye probably heard and so headed for that. We expected a riot. A few small ones have sprung up throughout Dockside and we’re spread thin, but this one’s made its way into this district,’ – a few of Fal’s men started mumbling to each other at the news – ‘and it seems to be heading here.’
The mumbling increased and Fal had to hold his hand up high and cast a stern look their way. They soon fell quiet.
‘You sure?’ Fal asked, finally.
‘They’re crying out for the guild to be burnt; Tyndurris to be toppled. The unit they chased out of Dockside…’ The rider looked ashen faced at his companion before continuing. ‘They’re all dead.’
Fal swallowed hard and Sav cursed under his breath.
‘The mob caught them and we were but a heartbeat too late.’ The mounted soldier’s head dropped, and Fal could think of nothing to make the rider feel better and so kept his mouth shut.
‘Tore them up they did,’ the second rider said. His face was lined, showing his age, and Fal guessed he was much more experienced than the
first. ‘As we rounded a corner, they were hacking at the fallen men and dragging down the rest. We attempted a charge, blades drawn, but realised quickly there were too many; fifty of them at least. We turned the horses just in time to make it out of the street alive and so headed here, not what we’re supposed to do as I’m sure ye know, but we needed to warn ye.’
‘And I thank you for that.’ Fal nodded to both men. He knew, as they suspected, that their job was to return to their captain with the news, to try and organise a force to turn back the rioters, and so was genuinely grateful they'd thought to warn him and his men first.
‘We need to go now,’ the younger rider said. ‘They won’t be far off. The horses only give us so much advantage on cobbles. We’ll inform the captain and ask for reinforcements to aid ye, but there’s plenty of us who haven’t been seen for hours. Whether they’re keeping doors locked to this plague, or worse… we don’t know.’
‘Sir Samorl be with ye, sergeant,’ the older rider said.
‘Sir Samorl…’ Sav muttered. ‘Those religious nutters are what—’
‘Sav!’ Fal sighed hard. ‘Not now, mate.’
Shaking his head, Sav walked off to talk to the guild’s men-at-arms who were anxiously discussing what they’d just heard.
‘Forgive him,’ Fal said, as both riders looked to Fal for an explanation. ‘It’s been a rough day for us all.’
‘Not to worry sergeant,’ said the older rider. ‘I accept not everyone is of the same faith, but whoever ye do worship, I’d say a prayer now and may that god be with ye this night.’ Both men turned their horses and spurred them off into the night.
Fal stood silent for a second, the question of faith sitting with him longer than he thought it would. He'd never been particularly religious, nor had his parents, but although the Samorlian Church had far fewer followers, he knew only the very brave spoke out against them, which was what shocked the riders about Sav.
Before his thoughts could carry any further, a shout echoed across the courtyard from the south western tower. Fal looked to Sav and the scout ran immediately to his side.
‘They’re here then?’ Sav’s usual humour was still vacant from his voice, even more so at the prospect of what was to come.
‘Aye Sav, time to do what we’re paid to do.’
‘I’ll be paid will I?’ A smirk lit Sav’s face briefly, before swiftly fading away again.
Fal rolled his eyes and didn’t offer a reply. Instead, he put two fingers to his mouth and released two high pitched whistles just as the north western tower called out a warning.
A dog barked from the far side of the courtyard and then another. Sav looked across the dimly lit expanse to see three handlers running across from a small wooden building. Each man held three thick ropes, at the end of which pulled large wolf-hounds standing as tall as Sav’s waist. The scout cringed. I hate dogs.
‘I’ll be in that tower.’ Sav pointed to the last to call a warning.
‘Oh no you won’t.’ Fal said. ‘They’re here to discourage the rioters, not you. Now stick by my side and keep that nasty bow of yours visible.’
‘Yes Sarge, certainly, Sarge.’
‘Keep them in view,’ Fal shouted to the dog handlers. ‘I want them visible through the gate, understand?’
Each handler acknowledged the order in turn and they walked their panting dogs over to the gate whilst Fal ran with Sav up to the tower that had called the last warning. Sav followed Fal up the narrow wooden steps to the small tower above, where one man-at-arms and two crossbowmen were peering over the wall at the crowd below. All three pulled back as a rock struck the wall just below where they’d been stood, and the shouting and chanting from the gathering crowd grew all the more.
‘How many?’ Fal asked, whilst stepping into the small tower.
‘A good sixty to seventy, Sarge, and the mob’s growing by the minute.’ The man-at-arms had a heater shield strapped to his left arm and a mace resting on his right shoulder.
‘Good lad, Berns, keep that thing visible, and the same with them.’ Fal pointed to the two crossbows resting against the side of the tower’s wall. The two crossbowmen picked up their weapons and made a point of aiming them at people, minus the bolts in their grooves.
‘Be sure to remember the rules of engagement. I want no citizens shot at unless they are armed with bows, slings or crossbows, understood?’
‘Sarge,’ the two crossbowmen replied, as they continued to move their weapons around in a threatening manner.
‘They’re moving around to the gate,’ one of them said.
‘Alright, I’m heading back there now. Stay cool lads and I’ll be back in a bit.’
‘Cool as this rock wall me, Sarge,’ one of the crossbowman said.
‘Knob,’ the other crossbowman said back to him.
Berns laughed before adding, ‘You’re both knobs. Now keep your eyes peeled, I don’t want to take an arrow in the face because you two are having a lovers’ tiff.’
Fal left them to it.
Sav couldn’t fit into the small tower along with the others, so he waited on the steps; the increasing din gave away the picture from the other side of the wall though. People were shouting, cursing and some chanting about burning down Tyndurris and all inside.
‘Back to the gate, Sav, come on.’ Fal pushed Sav back down the stairs and across the courtyard.
Many of the guards were now in position between the tower’s door and the large gate. Their heater shields were locked together creating a wall of men, wood and iron; ready to protect Tyndurris should anyone or anything breach the gate and head for the tower’s entrance.
The nine large dogs were howling and barking as rioters appeared in the street. The people stayed well away from the iron gates where they could clearly see six crossbowmen in the courtyard, their loaded weapons pointing into the crowd. Stones were being thrown both over and at the gate, as people screamed and shouted abuse, calling for the mages inside to be brought out to answer for the plague.
‘Stay your triggers,’ Fal said, as he reached the gate and its crossbowmen. ‘They won’t be getting through or over that gate. As for the walls, I want one handler to keep his dogs here. The other two, take your dogs off separately on opposite sweeps of the inside perimeter. Take two men each and should anyone manage to come over the walls, detain them. Unless they make a run for the tower door, in which case take them down.’
All three handlers nodded and quickly decided which would do what. The two on patrol set off in their opposite direction, taking two men from the shield wall each, who hung a few paces behind the handlers and their dogs.
There was a wooden ladder to the left-hand side of the gate which was shielded from view by a small, wooden palisade. Fal made to climb up the ladder, until Sav caught his arm.
‘What’re you playing at? You’ll be prime target if you pop up on top of that wall.’
‘I need to address them Sav, see if I can persuade them to bugger off before the City Guard arrives in force.’ Fal tugged his arm free and climbed the ladder.
‘Your funeral,’ Sav shouted, as Fal reached the top. ‘Cover him lads,’ Sav said to the crossbowmen. He nocked an arrow to his own bow and stood where he could aim through the bars, but far enough away from the barking wolf-hounds to his right.
‘Listen to me,’ Fal shouted to the crowd below. As soon as he did, he had to duck below the wall as a clay jug flew past his ear to smash on the stone courtyard behind him. ‘Listen!’ he cried again, and as he did, he saw a man to the edge of the crowd – just visible in the gate’s torchlight – pull out and raise towards him an old looking crossbow. Fal ducked below the wall again and several screams followed. He couldn’t stop himself looking back over the wall to see what had happened. The crossbowman was in the middle of a circle created by members of the crowd, who’d moved away from him as he lay flat on his back. He was clearly dead; one small crossbow bolt in his stomach, buried almost to the leather flights, and one larger arr
ow protruding from his forehead; the crowd edged further away from him. People shouted even louder, more chants erupted here and there and more stones were thrown.
‘Hold,’ Fal shouted to the crossbowmen below. ‘Hold!’ He swiftly climbed down from the wall to round the palisade, where Sav stood, another arrow nocked on his bowstring. One of the older crossbowmen was reloading his weapon.
Sav turned to Fal and shrugged. ‘Told you so and before you say a word, that was according to your rules of—’
‘I know, I know,’ Fal interrupted, ‘and before you say it, I’ve realised I’m not going to get through to them.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Sav said, as a bottle with a lit cloth stuffed into it came over the wall further down the compound.
As the bottle smashed onto the stone floor of the courtyard, the liquid spread a few feet ahead of it and after a split second, there was a sudden flash as it burst into flames.
Another one of the crossbowmen stepped forward then and his weapon clicked as the short bolt whipped from the groove, through the bars of the gate and embedded itself into the bottle thrower’s shoulder. The man, crying out in pain, was rapidly dragged away into the crowd by a group of men close by.
‘Fire bottles,’ one of the men in the shield wall shouted. They immediately split their formation apart, as taught by Fal and the other sergeants of the guild.
This isn’t gang territory, Fal thought, and they don’t give two shits for any property or lives they destroy here.
Fal turned to the crossbowmen. ‘Take down anyone with a fire bottle!’
Sav and the crossbowman nodded and Fal ran around the courtyard from tower to tower giving the same order. After, he called for two of the stable hands – who were trying to keep the horses calm – to douse the thatched roofs of the outbuildings in water. Fal knew it wouldn’t stop fire spreading, but it might slow it down. Buckets of water were also taken to each of the four guard towers in case their timber roofs were hit.
Two more fire bombs smashed on the stone floor near to where Fal was giving orders. There were screams of terror and outrage then, as the nearest tower’s crossbowmen loosed their bolts, killing the culprits before dropping to one knee behind the wall to reload, covered by a heater shield held above their heads by Berns.