by T. C. Rypel
“I’ll get it,” Klaus shouted indulgently, lumbering up on his huge horse to comply.
A band of six mercenaries pounded through the Street of Hope, Vedun’s nexus of commerce. Slowing to assess the anxious people clustered around the chapel entrance, they caught sight of the rebel band at the gate and spurred ahead. They stopped and wheeled their steeds, readying pistols and bows when they saw Gonji and some of the other bushi clattering toward them astride their mounts.
A crossfire of shafts from behind the bell tower and the alleys at the farther side of the avenue felled them in seconds. A few rebels dismounted and finished the work with fear-grounded savagery, seizing the dead soldiers’ mounts and armament.
Gonji swung the roan across the broad square to the Ministry and Chancellery, where the pistol fire had by now ceased. Outcries and jostling issued from Alwin Street, and the leading edge of another sector’s innocents appeared in the square, surging to the chapel.
“Secure the chapel, and keep those people quiet!” Gonji yelled as he rode. Garth shouted back affirmatively and took a squad of men with him to protect the chapel throng.
Lorenz appeared in the Ministry entrance and signaled to Gonji: the building had been taken. Fortifying troops appeared in the windows with crossbows and a few firearms.
The samurai returned to the gate to find Wilf staring out the ever shrinking portal, as Monetto and Klaus cranked the drawbridge shut.
The smith’s breathing was tight, his muscles tensed. “Castle Lenska,” he said, as the road beyond disappeared from view.
“First the city, then the castle, young warrior,” Gonji reminded. “Stick with me now. We’ve work to do. Monetto—”
The bearded biller came in response. Gonji’s eyes shone as he scanned the square.
“Get your men up on the ramparts—more Llorm coming.” He pointed up to the walls, where burgonets and Klann-crested surcoats pounded along the allure, crossbows at port arms.
Monetto nodded and barked orders at his small squad. Hefting their own arbalests, they scaled the stairways to engage the enemy.
“Where in hell are those armored wagons?” Gonji shouted, waving an arm. Two of the wagons thundered out of the alley, as if in reply, gun ports opened and weapons angled. Pikemen formed their staggered lines of defense. Farther up the road, redoubts were hastily assembled out of grain sacks, tables, and shelving from the market area. Gerhard’s archers were deployed in small, deadly firing pockets, their shafts laid out for rapid launching.
Combat began on the walls, small numbers of men exchanging arrow and quarrel fire. Other such outbreaks of fighting could be made out on distant wall sectors, archers on the ground harassing the Llorm sentries.
“Get that hostler at Wojcik’s to start assembling the wagons there. North sector first.” Gonji cast about with animated intensity, surveying the incipient action.
“All secure,” Garth bellowed from far down the street.
Gonji nodded curtly. “All-recht—Garth’s in charge here at the square. Don’t fail him, worthies. Paolo—you hold that gate, come demon or Death himself! Keep the people flowing through the chapel. We’ll worry about the west gate later, when the wagons are assembled and ready to roll—what in hell are those drag-asses at Wojcik’s doing?” He craned his neck to the northeast, wagged his head.
“Come on, Wilf, we’ve business,” he shouted. “We’ve got to see how the others fare.”
They started off, paused briefly to watch a fresh clash between Garth’s infantry lines and a hesitant column of mercenaries. Seeing Klann’s troops lose heart and break ranks before the organized and determined defenders of the square, the pair of bushi leaders darted into the lanes, charging and weaving through the age-old maze of Vedun, on a hell-ride to the south.
* * * *
Klaus jogged up to Paolo with a metallic clangor, a grin on his sweat-streaked face. He leaned his polished axe on one shoulder. Raindrops sounded off his helmet like the rattling of a tin drum.
“You’re the boss, Paolo. Just say the word, and I’ll do what you want.”
Paolo’s eyes smoldered as he observed the distant fighting, a crowd of screaming non-combatants now hemmed into an alley, cut off from the chapel.
He sneered as he looked over his shoulder. “Just stay the hell away from me, idiot!” Paolo ran off toward the bowmen at the fountain.
“Whatever you say, Paolo,” Klaus replied dutifully, returning at once to the gatehouse, where he joined Jiri Szabo in selecting what Gonji would have thought the most useful defensive arrangement.
The two of them took turns peering through the tiny gatehouse grating at the north road that wended to the castle. Now and again a bolt would shatter on the stone facing or a sharp report of a discharged pistol would echo in the vaulted passageway, causing Jiri to wince and clamp his teeth and eyes shut.
“I don’t blame you,” Klaus said upon noticing. “It scares the hell out of me, too.”
“What are you talking about, Klaus?” Jiri snapped to mask his shame.
The young founder made an indecisive motion, swallowed back the bitter taste in his mouth, then ran out into the square without another word, his wing-shaped shield slung before him.
Klaus watched him vapidly for a moment, then marched to the grating and kept his eye on the road, all the while practicing sword draws and hilt grips, knowing his sensei would be proud.
* * * *
“Heeeere they come!”
The breathless scout wrestled his steed to a halt before the marshaled cavalry line.
“All right, good,” Nick Nagy said. “And the Provender?”
“Most of the soldiers are gone from there now.”
Nagy nodded. “Then get back to the Provender and tell the boys at the caravanserai to move like hellfire. When the column passes, they get all the wagons hitched and down to the square—move out!”
The scout half-saluted, raggedly, and spurred off in compliance. Up and down the ranks the rebel cavalrymen passed anxious looks. Some stifled tears of terror, beating their breasts and thighs in supplication or private efforts at steeling themselves for the fray. Death was near at hand for many, they knew.
Thus far, their timing had been splendid.
They had held back while the sounds of conflict wafted to the southeast sector, the most sparsely populated area of the city, where Julian had set up his headquarters and many mercenaries were billeted. The majority of the troops had ridden off toward the sounds of battle. The sector’s non-combatants were then escorted to the square by mounted militiamen without difficulty. The headquarters had been taken in a lightning attack, with but few casualties.
But now the cavalry’s deadliest assignment had begun: They must keep the eastern troops occupied while the wagons were moved from the Provender and Anton and Roric’s party attacked the armory in the northeast.
They sat now in a double rank in the broad, weed-tufted clearing once used for equestrian sports, more recently for drilling by Klann’s troops.
“Everybody check your gear,” Nagy ordered, walking his mount before them, helm in hand, gray hair matted and tangled in a fashion Berenyi would have commented on in less desperate circumstances.
“Archers—string your bows,” Stefan called to the rear rank. They dismounted and rushed to aid one another. “Get your pistols primed, you lucky gun-wielders—oh, hey—that includes me, doesn’t it?” He fluttered his eyebrows as he flourished his long-barreled wheel-lock piece.
Nervous laughter came in response to the younger hostler’s bold jest as the cranking of spanners and tamping of charges disturbed the rain shudder. Pistoliers, hunched over their guns to hopefully guard the precious powder from the wetness, were reorganized to spread their firing points.
“Can’t believe we’re sacrificing all our toil—” A farmer named Balasz grumbled. “If we evacuate, there won’t be a thing left—”
“You archers know your duty,” Nagy called over the heads of the front rank. “Two volley
s over us when we charge, then cover us when we draw back.”
“You mean retreat,” Vlad Dobroczy cut in wryly.
“I said draw back,” Nagy growled. “That’s a tactic, not a flight. And we do it on my or Stefan’s order—”
“—I could’ve had two hectares of arable land up in the north,” Balasz continued, “and I kissed it off to stay here because of—”
“Aw, shut up, Balasz,” Dobroczy said, cursing, two mounts away.
The pounding of hooves came to their ears, though their enemies were still out of sight. Someone whined a prayer along the front rank. The archers clambered back atop their horses.
“Remember,” Berenyi said out of the corner of his mouth, “you archers have to cover old men’s mistakes.”
“You’re at attention over there, Berenyi,” his elder partner reminded.
Berenyi ignored him. “This is historic, boys. First engagement of the 1st Rumanian Hussars. We want Paille to have something good to scribble about this—”
Now the mercenary force poured into view across the grounds, emerging at a trot in a double column from Provender Lane. Halting with a jangle, reforming their array, spreading wide and thin for a skirmish.
“The bird in flight—the hawk,” Nagy grated, recalling for them their training. “Advance with the beak, hit the prey, withdraw the beak, and enfold them with the wings. Everybody got that?”
Nagy strapped on his helmet and drew steel from his back harness. The mercenaries charged at a gallop with a bloodcurdling howl. A hundred yards separated them.
“Archers—ready!”
“Jesus God Almighty!” a man screamed. “I can’t do it! I’m sorry—I—I just can’t.” He broke from the rank and wheeled off with a clatter.
“Steady in those ranks,” Nagy ordered, feeling their flagging spirit.
“He’ll be back,” Vlad declared. “There’s no way out.”
“Now!”
On Nagy’s roaring command, they rumbled forward with blades and pole-arms extended hungrily, shrieking kiyais icing the tilting ground from sixty throats. The rear-rank archers launched their first volley into the rain-drenched sky, then their second, slowing the mercenary charge, dropping men and mounts among the skirmishers.
Pistols exploded on both sides, some misfiring in the dampness. There came a spanging of lead balls off shield and stone. More men fell, one being unhorsed among the militia by the recoil of his own piece.
The 1st Rumanian Hussars’ center sagged to lure them in. The flanks swept up and around like the wings of the hawk. The two lines met with a splintering shock of steel and leather and the screams of the injured and battle-maddened, red bursts of flinging blood in the rain. Sword and shield, lance and mace, axe and pike met with a shuddersome collision of wood and metal, pitching bodies and bucking steeds.
“Watch your ass, there, Berenyi!” Nagy cried out as he tilted with a snarling foe in brigandine and Flemish burgonet.
Berenyi slipped a blow, lurched his steed hard into his opponent’s, and downed the weaving man with a passing slash.
“Don’t you worry about me, old man,” he yelled back as he rode toward an outnumbered pack of comrades.
In minutes the slightly outmanned mercenary troop was put to shambles. Vedun’s militia, smelling imminent victory, fought on harder.
“Holy shit,” Dobroczy swore, as he and Stefan wheeled about in search of able enemies, finding none. The sweet shock of victory—and survival—
But then they looked to the head of Provender Lane, where Captain Julian Kel’Tekeli sat his horse, Salavar the Slayer and a small contingent of Austrian brigands with them.
“Hell, I’d love to get a shot at him,” the farmer declared, hastily cleaning and reloading his wheel-lock.
“Yeah,” Berenyi agreed. Nodding to each other in tacit inspiration, the pair pounded away from the fray to the eastern wall, riding through a back lane that paralleled Provender.
The remaining few mercenaries from the clash broke free in disarray and lashed out wildly to gain space, then dashed back across the equestrian field toward their captain.
“We run ’em down, Nick?” a man shouted in high-pitched battle glee.
“No—form up here.” He looked back to the second rank, who dutifully unleashed a fresh fusillade at the backs of the departing band, splashing down a few more horses and men.
“But they got that blasted captain with ’em,” the man appealed. “We could—”
“No, I said. It don’t look right. Anyway, we got our strategy to follow.”
“Aw, hell—”
“You wanna tell Gonji you got yer own way to fight this battle?” Nagy asked him. The dissenter tossed his head in frustration and said no more.
The mercenaries across the grounds took to cover as the rebel archers sent off another salvo. Julian sat in defiance of them astride his magnificent black roncin, seemingly scanning them in search of something.
“What’s he waiting for?”
“Probably looking for Gonji,” Nick replied. “Hey—where’s Berenyi?”
No one seemed to know. Heads were lowered mournfully when they glanced over the strewn corpses of men and animals, seeing their allies among them. Nagy hastily dispatched a party to pick up the wounded, anxiously covering their progress.
“No Berenyi?”
They shook their heads and helped the injured onto mounts. Gunfire cracked in the distance.
“Jesus, Nick—look!”
A double column of Llorm cavalry poured out of the distant lane under Captain Sianno, crossbows hefted before them.
“Let’s go,” Nick shouted. “Let’s get out of here. You know what to do. Split into your squads and lure them into the alleys. Move! Stefaaaaan!” he roared to the skies.
A crossbow quarrel tore through the clavicle of the man riding next to Nagy as the Llorm advanced in a disciplined formation. Nick was the last to flee the grounds, shafts and bolts rending the air all about him as he clung close to the saddle and scanned for Stefan.
He did not see Julian’s lieutenant, Ivar, fall from his horse, a victim of the pistol volley fired by Berenyi and Dobroczy from concealment far down the street. Nor did he see the squad of wildmen, led by Salavar, that drummed through an alley in pursuit of the bold pair.
* * * *
“Open that blasted door—Captain Sianno’s order.”
The three mercenaries on duty in the armory looked from one to the other indecisively. The sounds of gunfire and sporadic din of steel weapons could be heard in the indeterminate distance.
The man in charge, seated at the desk, nodded abruptly.
“Hold on a minute,” the guard nearest the door said through the grating. Peering out, he could see his fellows milling about on the grounds before the armory. Perhaps a half-dozen mercenaries, muttering apprehensively, checking their armament.
The guard slid aside the iron bolts. The door creaked open. The lone Llorm messenger who had spoken pushed through impatiently. He moved to the desk and fumbled inside his cloak. Threw a rolled paper onto the desk.
The duty officer flinched at the soldier’s lack of decorum, then unrolled the order, a second mercenary leaning close to read it along with him. It said:
“I am Anton of Udvary, come to you with compliments of Baron Rorka.”
Both men gaped and lurched backward. Two pistols exploded in the tight room with an ear-splitting discharge, felling them. Anton dropped the smoking pistols, spun and drew his sword.
But the man at the door had remained suspicious. He reacted at once to throw home one bolt and extract his own saber. Hobbled by his leg wound, short on leverage, Anton was hard pressed to stave off the other’s desperate attack.
Two sparking clashes of steel. Then Anton’s Llorm burgonet flew off under a heavy blow, his bald plate cut open so that blood leaked down to his eyes, obscuring his vision.
The two men cursed and grunted in the close-quarter combat, while shouts and thumps and the whickering of a
rrows resounded without, mixed with the barking of dogs.
A heavy beating thundered off the oaken portal. Anton’s voice was called outside. A smashing of window grating and shutter wood came to Anton’s ears, and a sudden burst of gray light haloed his opponent as Anton went down under his press, holding back the descent of death with both hands on his sword hilt. The larger mercenary bent Anton backward over the desk, inching his blade-point down toward the knight’s unprotected throat; cursing him, nose to nose.
Anton felt numbness in his bad leg. He gained the man’s midsection with a twist of his knee. Pushed off with all his remaining strength.
The mercenary stumbled back and screamed. A long, blood-freezing mortal howl. Anton stared, pop-eyed, as the man fell forward, slow and wavelike, from the darkly gleaming point of Roric’s bloody halberd, where it leaned on the smashed window sill.
Anton gathered himself and thanked him, stanching the blood flow dizzily with a shredded cloak while he unbolted the door again. Several bushi rushed in, one of them attending on Anton’s scalp wound, while Roric plucked the armory keys from the body of the duty officer.
A wagon rumbled up to the entrance. Dead mercenaries, spindled by shafts, lay all around in blood-swirled puddles. Roric’s huge dogs still worried one of the corpses.
“Hurry up in there,” someone called in.
“By the saints, Anton!” Roric exclaimed, looking at a corner of the blood-stained wall. “There are powder kegs down here. With all your shooting, you might have—”
“I know where the damned magazines are,” Anton countered. “I am a knight of the blasted realm, you know!”
“Ja, the last,” a man added. “Let’s get the weapons and get out of here.”
Bows, shafts with various tips; arquebuses, pistols, shot, and powder were rushed onto the armored wagon. Many firearms were brand new ordnance, still unfired, gleaming with oil.
A second wagon rattled up through the rain and gloom of gathering twilight. The woeful sounds of small skirmishes neared the armory.
“That Captain—Julian’s coming! He’s heading up at least five and twenty!” someone cried.