by Anna Thayer
“I will not go through the Blind Gate,” Hughan replied. “Not this day. Victory this day will not be determined by the load of this field, nor by our banners flying in the city streets.”
Eamon shivered as the King’s words passed over him, for he understood. He looked across at the city, to the dim mass within its walls that he knew to be the palace.
The throned; the Lord of Dunthruik; Edelred. There could be no peace, no victory, until Hughan had met him and done… what?
He realized that he did not know and looked back at Hughan with renewed awe. The King still held Feltumadas’s gaze. At last, the Easter lord nodded.
“Very well, Star, delay your entry if you wish,” he said.
“Bring the ram to the Blind Gate,” Hughan commanded. “We will take it first, then the ram will go to the South with myself, the southern wayfarer infantry, and the knights. The First Knight will go to the North with the hobilars and Easter cavalry.” Eamon looked up in a daze. “We will attempt our own entries, but once you breach the Blind Gate, send men north and south. We will make use of the tunnels by the South Gate.”
“Even so, I shall grant you admittance, Star,” Feltumadas smiled.
“We will meet at the Four Quarters,” Hughan continued. “From there we will press on into the West.” Eamon glimpsed a vision of the Four Quarters running with blood and choked back sudden, terrible grief.
How could the city bear it?
The King drew a deep breath. “Draw up the lines, Lord Feltumadas.”
Those men who had survived the first part of the battle regrouped. As he watched the men reform, Eamon glanced up at the sky; it was nearly midday. He felt as though he had spent a whole lifetime out on the field, but it had only been a few hours.
“How are you faring?” Hughan asked him. Eamon realized that in gazing up at the sun the King had a fine view of the swelling beneath his sweaty, matted hair. He drove his hair out of his face.
“I have been better,” he answered truthfully, “but I have been worse.”
Hughan laughed kindly.
Feltumadas returned to them. “The lines will be drawn as soon as we are able,” he told them. “I have sent word for the ram to be brought across the River.”
“Thank you,” Hughan nodded to him.
Feltumadas inclined his head and rode away.
It took some time for the ram to be brought from across the River; men and oxen drew the huge engine. These were led on by drummers and accompanied by a hundred archers as the ram went up to the gate. Eamon could only watch it as it came, marvelling at its size and construction. He had never seen anything like it and expected that Dunthruik’s defenders would be as astounded by it as he was. More so: it would threaten their gates and their lives.
He watched as, group by group, Gauntlet and knights who had surrendered outside the city walls were marched back to the far side of Hughan’s lines, the wounded to the field hospital and the others to detention areas. Eamon scanned the files of passing men for faces familiar to him, and though he saw some – mostly ensigns from the North and East – in his heart he knew that he could not hope to know what had become of those he loved the most until the day was done. Still, he saw also that the number of prisoners or surrendering men taken from the field was not small – in fact, great swathes of the Gauntlet had surrendered – and although the injuries borne by some of them were severe and not all of them would live, the sight heartened him.
But when he turned his eyes again towards the city, he saw that the plain before Dunthruik was showered with the dead. He did not doubt that men whom he knew lay among them. As the Easters’ ram worked its slow way across the field towards the Blind Gate, carrion birds gathered.
The King’s men brought new arrows from the camp and scoured the field for any that they might reuse in their bows. As Eamon watched those who searched among the wreck of the field, he shuddered at the number of men who lay beneath the full heat of the May sun. He felt spent, and sweltered in his armour; he wished nothing more than for the day to be done and to return to his quarters to have the stuff taken off him.
His quarters: the thought brought him up short. He had no quarters now.
He rode to distract himself while he waited. Every now and then thresholders on the city walls let loose a volley of arrows at the King’s men as they moved their battering ram, but the wayfarer lines were too far back from the wall to be in any real danger. One of the Easters at the ram whistled softly to himself as he worked.
All the same, a terrible anticipation hovered over the field.
As he rode over the stricken plain, avoiding much of its debris, Eamon’s attention was caught by a glint of metal nestled in a tiny ditch. Riding closer he recognized it and smiled: his helmet. He dismounted to reclaim it, marvelling that, despite the number of men who must have passed over it, it was for the most part intact; only the strap was broken. He laughed quietly as he picked it up, brushing dirt from it and untangling the feathers from the twisted cord. He wished the same could be said for his head as for his helm.
He set the helmet back on his head and felt a sharp stab of pain in his left arm. Unable to press it he tried flexing his fingers to ease it, but to no avail. The marks of Cathair’s hound were still on him and he wondered how many other marks he would bear by the end of the day. He had been fortunate – perhaps more fortunate than he deserved – that morning, and fighting through the streets of Dunthruik to the West Quarter and the palace would be harder and more perilous than battle upon the field. His throat went dry at the thought of it.
As he flexed his fingers, a man laughed behind him.
“Is that something they teach you to do when they make you Right Hand?” a voice asked.
“I can’t tell you,” Eamon answered, turning to the voice with a smile.
Before him stood Giles. The burly man was battle-worn but seemed curiously uninjured. His sword was sheathed at his side.
“Where did you learn to ride like that?” the man asked.
Eamon gestured across the plain at the groves that led to Ravensill. “About there,” he answered.
Anderas. It was Anderas who had taught him to ride fearlessly across Dunthruik’s plains, and where was he now? He could only hope that the captain, and the vast majority of the East Quarter, were alive and in a place of safety.
“The King sent me,” Giles added. “He says they’re about to begin the assault.”
Eamon nodded and tried to daub sweat from his brow. It was no more than an hour after midday. They would begin what would be the most difficult part of the battle in the hottest and most wretched part of the day.
“I’m ready,” he said.
He rode with Giles to the King. Hughan watched quietly as the Easter ram went up against the gate under a hail of arrows. But the ram was impervious to them and the Easters who went with it were well protected by a tortoise-shell of shields. The hail was met, shot for shot, by the Easter crossbowmen, much to the thresholders’ peril. The surviving King’s men had drawn up again on the field.
Hughan smiled as Eamon approached. “Come with me,” he said.
Eamon followed a little way behind the King as Hughan made his way to the reformed lines. The King’s men looked worn and battered, but they could see that they had won the morning and that gave them the strength to cheer their King as he rode before them.
“You have fought bravely,” Hughan cried, “and we emerge from this field with a dear cost that can never be paid back to us. We will take this city, and though we have borne loss it will not be a place of vengeance.” His tone and look hardened. “There will be no pillage, and there will be no rape. Any man who commits either will answer to me for his crime with his life.”
As the King spoke, he seemed to reach every man with his words and gaze. Eamon understood that every man there knew well the King’s heart.
“We go into this city in war but not for war,” Hughan told them. “You are King’s men; you are my men. Let every on
e of you love mercy and do justly. Let every one of you be humble and valiant men of peace.”
Eamon felt the truth of the King’s words renew his spirit. Along with the countless other men still standing on the field, he lifted his voice to cheer the King.
As the cheering continued, Hughan looked to Eamon. “You will take fifteen hundred men with you to the North Gate to take it.”
Eamon nodded. In that moment there seemed to be nothing strange or difficult to him in Hughan’s command.
“The Easters mean to send the ram South when they’ve finished here,” Hughan told him. “Can you get into the North Gate without it?”
Eamon gazed north and thought for a moment. Perhaps he could.
He turned to Giles. “Do you ride with me?”
“Yes,” Giles answered.
“Get yourself a red jacket.”
Giles didn’t query the command, but went at once to recover a red coat from one of the fallen bodies. The wayfarers had gathered many such bodies from the field while they awaited the assault.
Hughan looked curiously at Eamon. “What do you intend?”
Eamon smiled softly. “Perhaps they’ll still let me in.”
To the side, hundreds of Easters and wayfarers by the ram began to loose arrows at the city walls, setting panic among the thresholders even if none were struck. The city’s archers took aim and marked the arrow slits in the city’s walls. Some crossbowmen were hit by returning shots.
A terrific boom shuddered through the air as the ram struck against the Blind Gate. Infantry prepared ladders near the walls as the ram struck again at the gate.
“Be careful,” Hughan told Eamon.
Eamon matched his gaze. “And you.” It was a solemn and frightening moment.
Hughan clasped his hand. “I will see you at the Four Quarters, First Knight.”
Eamon breathed deeply. “At the Four Quarters, sire.”
The King and his men went south towards the gate as the ramming at the Blind Gate continued. Eamon realized he was the captain of an enormous group of Easters and hobilars; all watched him attentively as Giles returned wearing Dunthruik colours and a broad smile.
Eamon turned to the waiting men. “Are you ready to ride with me?” he asked them.
“We await your command, First Knight,” said another voice. Leon watched Eamon from among the hobilars. The man nodded to him.
Eamon swallowed, feeling a new wash of fear and anticipation run through him. How many times had he ridden to the Four Quarters, as lieutenant, Hand, Quarter Hand, and Right Hand?
Now he would forge a path to the Four Quarters as the King’s First Knight.
“To the North Gate,” he ordered.
CHAPTER XVIII
Eamon and the men entrusted to him went about the bound of Dunthruik’s walls. The King’s men and allies stayed well out of range of the thresholders and their arrows.
“Hold this position and wait for the gates to open,” Eamon instructed his captains. “I will take the hobilars with me. They will need to follow some distance behind so as to avoid detection.
“There is a postern to one side of the gate. That is my goal. If I can convince them to open the postern, I will attempt to hold it open long enough for the hobilars to sneak through. Once they are through, we shall attempt to open the main gate. Once that gate starts to open, order your men to advance through it with all possible haste to secure it.”
“And if they don’t open the postern?” asked a captain.
Eamon grimaced. “Then we try to get away alive, and crack open this gate the hard way.”
“And how will you convince them to open the postern, pray tell?”
Eamon turned to Giles. “That is where you come in, Giles. No doubt you wonder why I’ve asked you to dress in the colours of Dunthruik.”
“The thought had crossed my mind, sir.”
“Together we ride to the gate. You will ride as though injured. I shall invoke my authority as the Right Hand to have the gates opened.”
“And we just ride in?”
“Yes.”
“Just the two of us?”
Eamon nodded. It was a foolhardy plan, but it was the only plan he had. He was counting on the fact that the gate defenders were isolated enough from the plain not to know of his true allegiance, and that the ruse of bringing an injured soldier safely inside the walls was so much in character for Lord Goodman that they would not question his motives more closely. “Just the two of us. Then comes the difficult bit as we hold the gate open long enough for the King’s forces to pass through.” He looked at Giles sternly. “Are you up to the task? There is no shame in wanting to bow out. Speak now and I shall find another.”
“I serve gladly,” said Giles.
At Eamon’s command, he and Giles went far ahead of the mass of men. Giles rode slumped over to one side as though badly wounded. Flushed with adrenaline, Eamon found that his weariness flowed out of his veins to be replaced by a surge of the strength which had carried him that morning to Hughan’s lines.
Eamon caught a glimpse of Giles’s face as they went; it was lit with the thrill of battle and Eamon remembered that the man was no easy foe. That was, in part, why he had chosen Giles to accompany him. The two of them would have to use all their guile, wits, and strength to hold open the door to give the hobilars time to pass through.
The field beneath them was scattered with fallen helms and bolts, but their horses, trained for the shattered fields of battle, passed easily over them. Eamon wondered whether the steeds felt as weary, or as driven, as their riders. The boom of the Easter ram against the Blind Gate echoed across the field as they rode. Another, much louder, crack followed the sound. It seemed to move the very ground.
It was then that Eamon’s thought lightninged to Arlaith’s face and laugh: “This city has artillery.” But he had not the time to see if it were true – he had to take the North Gate.
The great gate was closed and bolted. Eamon peered up. He could not see them, but he knew thresholders lined the upper walls. As he and Giles came to a halt beneath the gate, men called to one another on the far side. Eamon wondered how long it would be before they hurled things other than curses down at their foes.
In the great expanse of the main gate there was a postern. It was to this that Eamon and Giles went, Giles now hunched forward over his horse’s neck. Eamon knew that the gate guards – a small group of Gauntlet or thresholders with orders to hold the gate – waited behind the doorway. He also knew that most of Dunthruik’s thresholders would be either at the Blind Gate – doing their best to stave off the battering ram – or at the port, ostensibly to assure the neutrality of the merchant vessels there, but perhaps seeking a means of escape. The latter thought encouraged him.
As Giles, affecting frailty, dismounted, Eamon also came down beside him and took firm grasp of his shoulders, as though shoring him up against a terrible injury. He led Giles to the postern and rammed his fist harshly against the door.
“Open!” Eamon yelled.
He heard voices on the other side that sounded uncertain and alarmed. It did not surprise him.
“I am the Right Hand!” Eamon cried. Giles leaned hard against him as he continued. “There is a wounded man with me. His injury will not brook delay – open the door!”
“The Right Hand commands the forces at the Blind Gate,” the hesitant voice replied.
“So I did – but I was caught outside the Blind Gate during the retreat. It has taken me some time to make my way here unnoticed – even so, I am now pursued.” He bit his lip and pressed on. “Do not let this man’s life be the gate-price: open the door!”
For a long moment there was no sound, then the scraping of bolts and bars being drawn back sounded through the door. Giles stared at him.
“Be ready,” Eamon mouthed. He knew that almost as soon as the gate opened, and certainly as soon as he and Giles were within, the keepers would realize their mistake. His heart pounded as they waited, shiveri
ng.
As the postern opened, Eamon caught sight of a pale face squinting into the shadow of the gate. He did not, and could not, permit the man to look for longer than a second. He pushed swiftly through the door. Giles was at his side, staggering a little to maintain the façade of injury.
They were inside the gate less than a few seconds before the guards prepared to close the postern again, and a couple of men came forwards to inspect Giles’ injury. The first man grew pale.
“You’re not injured –”
He did not have the time to say another word. Giles tore himself away from the thresholder’s grasp, swung his sword, and downed the first man. Eamon hefted his blade. The yard echoed to the cry:
“Snakes! Snakes at the North Gate!”
Eamon pressed through the small group of men about him. Some attacked but were cut down at once as Eamon and Giles forced on; others fled while shouting that the gate was breached. That same cry echoed throughout the quarters of the city. Only the officer, a stout lieutenant, remained to face them. He yelled and hurled himself over the bodies of his fallen men towards Eamon. Eamon met the oncoming blow and twisted it into a lethal strike.
Before he had been inside the city half a minute he had beaten and killed half a dozen men.
“Giles?” he cried, whirling from his last opponent.
“Here.” Giles came forward, grim and bloody, and Eamon supposed that did not cut a better figure himself. Giles arched one shoulder back for a moment and then looked at Eamon again. “Can I get rid of this, now?” he asked pointing to the jacket.
“Yes.”
Their moment of respite passed; more thresholders poured into the street. They bore their weapons bravely. Whether this gesture came from their own will, or that of the Gauntlet and Hands behind them, was difficult to tell, but each man cried defiance at the Serpent.
Eamon and Giles tensed and prepared to receive the new threat. Even as the reinforcements lined up to defend the breached postern, arrows hissed from the gate.