The Crimson Shield

by Nathan Hawke

  ‘It would be helpful just about now,’ roared Tolvis, ‘if Medrin and the rest of them came hollering across the bridge.’

  Two islanders ran down the burning steps, yelling and shouting through the flames, waving their swords. Gallow and Tolvis heaved the beam from the door at them, staggering one and pinning the other. The trapped islander screamed as the flames licked through his mail. The other one died with Jyrdas’s next arrow in his back. Tolvis shook his fist at the tower. ‘Don’t waste them, you one-eyed clod!’

  They lifted the second bar out. The men from the other battlement were jumping down now, the danger of a broken ankle less than the danger if the gates fell. Another islander howled as Jyrdas’s fifth bolt took him in the leg. Two more came at Gallow. He turned to face them but Tolvis jumped in the way.

  ‘You’re the one with the arms of a smith! Get the last bar!’ He launched himself at the two islanders with such savagery that for a moment they backed away. Gallow took a deep breath and grabbed the beam and heaved. Damn thing was as heavy as a man and it was stuck. Behind him Tolvis was howling away: ‘Take your time, Truesword. These two aren’t much sport but I’ll have another couple in a moment and I’d hate for that opportunity to go to waste!’

  With one last savage effort he lifted the beam away. He turned to drop it and stared straight at another islander who’d jumped through the flames on the stairs. A crossbow bolt flew between them, inches from Gallow’s face and buried itself in the gate. For an instant they looked at each other, then the islander brought down his axe and Gallow did the only thing he could: he lifted the beam to put it in the way. The axe bit into the wood and stuck. Gallow dropped the beam on the islander’s foot and kicked the gates open.

  The bridge was empty. Medrin and the others who should have been hammering to get in weren’t there. Gallow whipped out his axe and hacked the islander who’d come at him, severing his wrist. Tolvis was facing three now and there were more coming. Gallow ran to him. They stood back to back.

  ‘Medrin!’ he roared. ‘Now or never, Twelvefingers!’

  The three islanders circled them. Two more, the last from the battlements and the one with the arrow in his leg, came warily closer then stopped where they stood, looked at Gallow and Tolvis, and went for the gate instead. The monastery doors were open now and more islanders were running out from inside, half-mailed, helms askew, grim-faced.

  ‘Medrin!’ They’d never get it open again. But two men side by side could hold the gateway. For a while. If they could get to it. Gallow let out a cry and launched himself at the nearest islander, the one between him and the gate. The islander met him, took Gallow’s axe on his shield and stabbed back, forcing Gallow sideways. A second islander lunged, slicing across his mail, driving him even further away from the gate. The men from the monastery were flooding the yard now, surrounding him and Tolvis. The islanders by the gate had it closed and now they were trying to lift one of the beams back into place. Another, a huge brute of a man, was running along the battlements to help.

  Back to back, he and Tolvis held their ground, a dozen men around them now. Here was where he was going to die. Medrin had betrayed them.

  I’m sorry, Arda.

  ‘Come on then!’ The huge brute from the battlements jumped down to the gates, swinging steel and bellowing. Jyrdas!

  The gates swung open again. Jyrdas stood between them, towering over everything, an axe in each hand and dead islanders all around him. And there, finally, at the other end of the bridge was Medrin, the other Lhosir yelling and waving their spears and their swords and their shields and charging across the bridge. The men around Gallow backed away, wavered, then as one turned and ran towards the monastery and its flimsy doors. Jyrdas came screaming past, chasing them, and then the yard was filled with Lhosir, all shouting in triumph, and Tolvis had Medrin by the throat.

  27

  JYRDAS

  Jyrdas pulled Tolvis away before one of them did something stupid. ‘Get your hands off your prince, Loudmouth.’ That done, he gave Twelvefingers a good shove too, enough to make him stumble and almost fall. ‘And where were you? Should have been at the gates the moment they opened. Fall asleep, did you?’ He turned away, not wanting for a reply. ‘Would never have happened with the Screambreaker.’ Didn’t need to even look to see how sharp that cut. It would have to do, though. Merited it might be, ripping Twelvefingers to pieces, but here wasn’t the time or place. Here he had a yard full of battle-hungry Lhosir with no one to fight but each other. ‘You lot!’ He pointed to the nearest group of the them. ‘Go back and get that ram we built. The rest of this is going to be easy.’

  Twelvefingers looked murderous but he hadn’t said anything yet. Jyrdas clapped him on the shoulder and got in quick before the prince could open his mouth. ‘We’ll be through that gate in no time. You’ll have your shield and be back on the sea nicely before that lot from Pendrin fall on us. You can hold it up high in Andhun and watch the Marroc weep.’ Weep with joy or weep with sorrow? Jyrdas wasn’t sure and he certainly didn’t care. Sheep were sheep.

  He held Twelvefingers’ eyes with his one good one for a moment longer. ‘You and Gallow. Whatever it is, put it away until we get back.’ Anyone could see the two of them had some old feud far from forgotten between them – the mystery was why they didn’t just get on with it, fight each other and then one of them would be dead and that would be the end. Because Yurlak was king and that somehow made Twelvefingers special? But Yurlak himself would fall out of his shoes laughing at that.

  Jyrdas shook his head. He let Twelvefingers go and went to help carry the ram to the monastery doors. The other Lhosir were already hacking at them with their axes. There was no stopping it. For better or worse, Twelvefingers would have his shield tonight.

  ‘Hoy! Dog-buggerer!’ He grabbed Tolvis. The two of them being the oldest, veterans of the Screambreaker’s first war, as far as Jyrdas was concerned they were in charge of the fighting and never mind what Twelvefingers had to say about that. Prince? The Marroc were the ones impressed by titles, not Lhosir.

  ‘What do you want, One-Eye? Did you wink at someone and think you’d gone blind and get confused?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. The beacon in the back yard. You think of that?’

  ‘I did.’ Loudmouth made a big show of shrugging his shoulders. ‘Some fool lit it. Couldn’t be bothered to put it out. Seemed like it might not be such a bad thing actually. Makes some good light and gives us plenty of burning brands for setting fire to things.’

  ‘And if the soldiers out of Pendrin see it?’

  Tolvis shrugged again. ‘If they see it then they already saw the fire Medrin lit by the bridge. Otherwise they won’t see the smoke until dawn. Either way it makes no difference.’

  ‘They know we’re inside, they’ll come quick.’

  ‘Well then I guess we’re none of us clever enough to have thought of that until it was too late.’ Loudmouth laughed. ‘Although now a clever man would surely think that we’d have to get out of here sharp-like when we’re done. No time for making any ravens. Shame, eh?’

  Jyrdas considered that. He gritted his teeth. ‘Likes his ravens, doesn’t he?’ Blood ravens were for nioingr. Doing it to any old Marroc who happened to look at you in a funny way made the whole thing a mockery. Man called you a pig, you ripped his lungs out. Man murdered your family in their sleep? Same thing. Might as well go ahead and do the murdering then. Someone crossed you, you had a fight about it, quick and simple. Nothing wrong with a fair fight. Even the Marroc understood that much. Maybe you killed them or maybe they killed you, or maybe one of you marked the other and then you were all friends again. Ravens though, that was for something else. The Maker-Devourer would frown on them if he cared about anything at all.

  Sod it. He looked about for Gallow and saw the no-beard running past the monastery towards the back yard. Maybe he wasn’t quite as clever as Loudmouth and had decided to go and put out the beacon. Jyrdas shrugged. There was killing to be done her
e and he was eager for it. He headed for the ram.

  The monastery door splintered at the first blow and fell at the second. The Lhosir let out their battle cries and charged into a hail of rocks and javelins. A stone hit Jyrdas on the helm and a spear went straight through the man beside him. Stupid not to think of picking up a shield, but too late for that now. They swarmed through, swinging their axes and swords. Jyrdas charged the first islander he saw, shoulder dropped straight into the man’s shield, knocking him down. He ducked the swing of a sword and stabbed at a face. The inside of the monastery was dark, so damn dark that everything was reduced to shapes and shadows, glimmers in the feeble starlight that came in through the windows and wild dancing shadows from the burning beacon, and in the middle of all that the men and the women from the village below the cliff, screaming and shrieking and running and falling over, desperate just to get away. The kind of fight where everything came to luck, where the fearless won out over the afraid, which was fine by him.

  A blow from behind caught him on the shoulder, cracking a bone. He roared in pain and spun around, lashing with his axes. His left arm hung almost useless. He caught sight of a shape and screamed, jumping at it, bringing the other axe down. The shape threw up a shield.

  ‘For Yurlak!’ He swung again, battering the man back.

  ‘For Medrin!’ The islander lunged with his sword. In the dark Jyrdas didn’t see it coming and it caught him hard in the ribs, snapping at least one. His mail held, though, and he had the bloodlust on him now. A dim thought wondered why the islander trying to kill him was shouting his own prince’s name.

  But the man was trying kill him. He ducked and lashed out with a foot at where the islander’s legs ought to be. Caught something. The islander staggered and his shield dropped and that was enough. Jyrdas brought his axe down and felt the blade bite deep. The islander shrieked and Jyrdas swung again, a backhand swipe to the head that shattered the islander’s cheek and tore most of his face off. Jyrdas stamped on him and looked for the next. His shoulder hurt and his ribs too and he couldn’t breathe without stabbing pains, but he’d had worse and more than once.

  The fight was ebbing now. Shapes in the dark, that was all he could see, curse his one good eye. The screams were mostly outside. The villagers either dead or they’d got away.

  ‘The shield!’ shouted Twelvefingers over the ruckus. ‘Where’s the shield? Bring it to me!’

  Jyrdas pulled himself straight. ‘Come on!’ he roared. ‘Which one of you nioingr wants to fight me?’

  A silhouette appeared against the broken doors, darkening to the vague idea of a shape as it came inside. ‘Jyrdas?’

  ‘Who wants me?’

  ‘Gallow. Maker-Devourer, this is madness!’ Gallow ran out and came back with a burning branch taken from the beacon. ‘Someone lit it,’ he said, not sounding much bothered. ‘Didn’t get there in time to stop them.’

  ‘I think you might want to ask Loudmouth about that.’ Jyrdas clenched his good fist. ‘Seemed far too smug about it if you ask me.’

  ‘Some of the women from the village got away. Some of the men too. There’s quite a few of them dead out there though.’

  ‘Ach, let the bastards from Pendrin come. Damn but I want to kill something.’

  The light from Gallow’s torch showed the fight was all but over. The last few islanders were surrounded and being cut down one by one. They didn’t try to surrender even though they must have known there was no hope. Good for them. The Maker-Devourer liked that sort of spirit.

  ‘Looks like you already did.’ Gallow was looking at Jyrdas’s axe, at the blood still dripping off it. And at the man lying on the floor with his jaw hanging off his face by a flap of skin. The dead man was a Lhosir. Mangled beyond recognition but he had the forked beard. Couldn’t be anyone else.

  ‘Stupid shit hit me in the back with an axe.’ He couldn’t move that arm at all now. ‘Bugger couldn’t tell the difference between friend and foe in the dark. Serves him right. What kind of nioingr takes a man from behind anyway?’

  There was an odd look on Gallow’s face. ‘Where’s Tolvis?’

  ‘Do I care? Where are the bloody monks?’ Jyrdas clenched his teeth and snarled. Damn but that shoulder hurt.

  The other Lhosir were scaling the stairs and ladders to the upper floor of the monastery, or else running outside to smash in the doors of the little outbuildings that pressed against the walls. Jyrdas pushed past Gallow, looking for Twelvefingers. ‘Where’s the shield, boy? I want to see it!’ Every breath hurt. Not coughing up a bloody froth though, so no need to go and pick a fight with someone just so he could go to the Maker-Devourer with a weapon in his hand. He found Twelvefingers and a few of his closer Lhosir clustered at the hearth. Someone had pulled back the furs that had been scattered there. There was a door in the floor. ‘Is it down there?’

  Twelvefingers looked at him and laughed. Little prick. ‘It may be, old One-Eye. Do you want to go and look for it?’

  ‘Do I? Out of the way, boy.’ Jyrdas pushed at him with the one arm that still worked but this time Twelvefingers stood his ground. His eyes glittered in the firelight, a flash of hostility.

  ‘Mind your mouth, One-Eye! Looks to me like you’re down to one of almost everything. Not sure you could handle a few monks right now.’

  ‘You little . . .’ He clenched his fist, but before he could punch Twelvefingers across the hall, Loudmouth was beside him and had a hold of his arm.

  ‘If the shield’s down there then Prince Medrin, may his glory shine like a thousand suns, should have the honours. This is his hunt, not yours.’

  Jyrdas backed away. ‘Half mine,’ he muttered. Loudmouth being right didn’t make it any better. ‘Little prick,’ he muttered again. ‘If Yurlak was here or even the Screambreaker, they’d put him over their knee and spank him. May his glory shine like a thousand suns? Head gone as soft as the rest of you, has it, Loudmouth?’

  Tolvis laughed. ‘You need to sit down, old man. Take some air.’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t. I need to stand up so I don’t shove the broken end of some rib or other through a lung and bleed to death on the inside.’

  ‘Then lie down.’

  ‘Lie down? Have you lost your balls? Anyway, some shit stain smashed my shoulder. Can’t lie down.’ His head was spinning a little.

  ‘Battle’s over, Jyrdas. Here. Have a spear to lean on.’

  ‘Daft bugger! Shoulder and ribs, I said! Nothing wrong with my legs!’ He gripped his axe. Might be that Loudmouth had a point, though. ‘Who are you calling old, anyway?’

  Tolvis smiled. ‘You got me there, One-Eye.’ Medrin’s men were vanishing down the hole in the floor, big Horsan at the front. Jyrdas felt a surge of envy. That was where he should be. Would have been too, in the old days. Wouldn’t have been stupid enough to get thumped. Wouldn’t have been stupid enough to fight a man in the pitch dark. Axed in the back by one of his own? Maker-Devourer! Still, no accounting for idiots. ‘Children. Half of them should be back across the sea still sucking at their mothers’ tits by the look of them.’

  ‘They have their beards, One-eye. How old were you on your first raid?’

  Twelvefingers and his men had all gone down to the cellars now. With a bit of luck someone would knife a few of them in the dark. Learn them a thing or two about a bit of common sense. Jyrdas sank to his knees and clutched at the spear. His head was buzzing and all the pain made it hard to breathe. ‘Don’t let those little shits see me like this, Loudmouth.’ He could smell smoke, little wafts of it creeping in from outside where others were setting fire to the outbuildings. Like the old times. He smiled.

  ‘Lean on me if you want.’

  ‘Lean on you, Loudmouth? I’d snap you like a dead twig.’ He bared his teeth and growled. ‘Ah but it hurts, damn it.’

  ‘Pain, Jyrdas? A Lhosir doesn’t feel pain. You told me that. I had a Marroc arrow in my leg at the time, but I’m sure you were right.’

  ‘Time I lost my eye? H
urt like being taken up the arse by the Maker-Devourer himself. Worse than this. I’ll live.’ He spat back at the dead Lhosir on the floor. ‘Stupid nioingr crap stain piece of shit!’

  One of Medrin’s men poked his face up out of the floor. ‘It’s here! The shield! It’s here!’

  Jyrdas tried to get up. If there was one thing he was going to do now he was here, he was going to see the damn thing with his own eyes. The Crimson Shield, holy relic of the Marroc and their gods. The shield the Fateguard had said was too dangerous for the Screambreaker to take. Why? Because he’d have made himself king? Probably, but he could have done that anyway if he’d wanted to.

  Instead of getting up, he seemed to be sliding closer to the ground, hands slipping down the shaft of Tolvis’s spear.

  ‘Loudmouth! Your spear’s not working properly!’

  ‘It’s a lump of wood, you daft half-blind . . .’

  He caught sight of a strange look on Tolvis’s face and then his one good eye wouldn’t stay open and all he could hear were the monks singing from down in the cellar while a pleasant warmth spread through him.

  28

  THE CRIMSON SHIELD

  ‘Since we both know you’re as keen as I am, you might as well lead the way.’ Medrin slapped Gallow on the shoulder and pushed him towards the ladder leading under the monastery hall. Gallow climbed down, the rest of the Lhosir pressing after him. The ladder led them into a narrow tunnel, a dank and winding thing so low that he had to stoop. He passed niches in the walls, crudely cut from the raw stone, dozens of them, in each a desiccated body wrapped in bandages. The smoke from the Lhosir torches quickly filled the air, choking him, making his eyes water so he could hardly see.

  The tunnel led lower, deeper, past pits filled with skulls and bones. The passage grew narrower and uneven, steeper, until it was little more than a fissure in the rock crudely etched with steps that wound down from the crypts sunk deep in the rauk. Gallow heard the Lhosir behind him muttering, wondering where he was leading them. They were men of the sea and the mountains and wide-open spaces. Cramped dark places deep under the earth brought out the superstitious in them. Monsters dwelt in the darkness deep beneath the earth – they all knew that.