The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  A few thresholders fell at once, their scant jerkins no protection against the arrows of the hobilars. The hobilars streamed through the gate on foot. The first men went immediately into the gatehouse, and moments later the whole North Gate began to swing open. At Eamon’s signal, fifteen hundred soldiers made for the gate.

  It was too much for the thresholders: they turned and fled. Some were shot down, while others reached the safety of the adjoining narrow streets.

  His men were pouring through the gate. “Secure the gatehouses and the walls!” Eamon commanded.

  The Easters and hobilars knew their trade well. Dozens of men climbed the walls. The thresholders screamed as they fled. Eamon directed groups of men to swarm along the base of the walls and spread out along them into the city. Scouts ran ahead of them, calling as other men made their way up into the nearby buildings, securing them for the King.

  After a few minutes the first scouts returned, giving news that they could press forward. Eamon dispatched groups out into the North and East Quarters. The men went through the side streets, claiming buildings and roads from what defenders remained.

  Eamon looked ahead. Coronet Rise loomed before him, rising up into the heart of Dunthruik. Not long later he led his own men along it.

  The broad paving stones met each beat of his feet as he went, driving him on like a drum. Every building they passed was quickly and vigorously searched. Men went along the rooftops and into each narrow alley and called to each other. Eamon’s ears filled with screams and cries. All over the city the thresholders fled. Few remained to meet the King’s men. Many doors and homes were blockaded but that presented the wayfarers with little difficulty.

  They pressed on, cutting through the web of Dunthruik with their bright blades. Eamon knew that it was not far to the Four Quarters – he had made the journey hundreds of times. Yet somehow the city’s heart had never seemed further from him than that moment where he charged through its streets to meet it.

  There was noise ahead. At first Eamon could not imagine what it might be. When he at last discerned it clearly, he wondered if his mind played him a cruel jest. Soon scouts returned with confirmation on their lips of what Eamon had so incredulously surmised: knights.

  Shapes appeared on the road before them; the riders deployed proudly. The cobbles rang beneath their horses’ hooves. The whole breadth of Coronet Rise before them filled with knights. Their armour gleamed. It showed dinned and tainted by the battle they had already fought that morning, but still it shone.

  Eamon stared at them. He knew but little about horsemanship and even less about the ways of Dunthruik’s knights, but even he knew that it would be folly to attempt a cavalry charge in the city’s narrow streets: the narrowness would be deadly to horse and man and both sides. It was suicidal. But he also knew too well the grim and injured pride of Rocell’s knights, and knew that such arrogance would drive them on even into such folly as a charge.

  He was not the only one who thought it. “They wouldn’t!” Giles cried, his voice strained.

  “They would,” Eamon answered. “King’s men!”

  Eamon had the time to form his own men into a receiving line before the leading knight raised his hand. The man yelled something Eamon could not hear, then drove his spurs to his horse’s bloodstained flanks. The knights’ line, six men across, came on in a fury of swearing, shouting men, and champing horses. Eamon could not tell how deep they rode.

  The knights’ faces were lurid and fearsome, but their tight formation soon broke. Before the knights had come close, the King’s men loosed several volleys of arrows into the churning ranks. The horses lost their momentum and some of the knights their chargers. Eamon saw one horse go down with a horrific scream. It should have taken others with it as it fell but was ridden over by the superbly trained beasts of the throned’s cavalry. Nevertheless the creature’s flailing body contributed to the agonizing dampening of the knights’ intended glory. As they came closer some of the King’s men took to the alleys and side streets to remove themselves from the brunt of the charge.

  Whatever hope they had of spearing down the King’s men was lost in the cramped confines of the streets. Unable to maintain their pace, and unable to manoeuvre or turn to the side, they had only one attempt to charge down on Eamon’s troops, and it was feeble at best. Eamon easily ducked under a thrust as the first knight came at him. As he leapt back, Eamon turned his great sword into the horse’s belly. The beast screamed and fell, throwing its rider. Giles leapt upon the knight and stabbed down into the exposed opening between the visor’s slits as the rider struggled to his feet; a fountain of blood erupted about Giles’s blade. Eamon did not know how many of his own men had fallen, but all over the narrow road knights were unhorsed and slaughtered.

  Eamon turned just as a knight sprang at him and brought his sword down in a fierce strike at Eamon’s helmet. Eamon stepped to the side and slashed through his visor.

  Eamon wrenched his sword free and gave a sickened cry as he met his next assailant. He downed him as swiftly as he had the first.

  No more came. Turning from his bloody work, Eamon saw knights unhorsed and panicked horses. The remaining knights were drawing together in a ragged mess in the road. They raised their hands and voices at once.

  “Mercy!”

  Eamon made his way to the knights. As he approached, one tore off his helmet and cast it aside before kneeling down among the bloody stones. “Lord Goodman, mercy!” he called. His face was plastered with sweat.

  “Mercy?” Giles growled, disgusted. The man’s hands flexed about his hilt. “Mercy! What mercy do you deserve?”

  “Giles,” Eamon said sharply.

  As though startled from a dream, the man looked across at him. At a nod from Eamon, Giles stepped back.

  Eamon turned to some of the hobilars with him. “Have them contained,” he commanded. There were perhaps a hundred knights up and down the road, dozens dead. “They will be held as prisoners. The rest of us will go on.”

  Leaving the knights in the care of some of the hobilars, Eamon gathered together his men once more. Some had been lost in meeting the knights, but there was no time to tend to the fallen. Eamon wondered grimly whether the corpses of the knights and King’s men would be looted or violated in the bloody wilderness of Dunthruik’s streets.

  Pausing only to clean some of the blood from his blade, he turned and led his force deeper along Coronet Rise.

  They had gone but a short distance when he heard noises above him. Looking up, he saw the thresholders. They pelted arrows, bolts, pots, trunks, stones, tiles, and javelins – anything they could get hold of – down upon the King’s men.

  “Ware above!”

  A piece of pottery glanced off Eamon as he yelled the warning. Men raised their voices in alarm as objects smashed down into the paving slabs around them. Still they pressed on. Eamon sometimes saw groups of thresholders or Gauntlet racing through the narrow streets, retreating westward, but unless they came directly past his force he let them go.

  Easter archers took to the roofs and pressed the thresholders, giving Eamon and his men some reprieve.

  They had made perhaps half of the distance from the North Gate to the Four Quarters when Eamon saw a great mass spanning the road from side to side up ahead. A dense line of carts and trunks and barrels blocked the Rise and its side streets. Eamon caught glimpses of men behind it and knew that he would not be able to take it swiftly.

  “How shall we pass, First Knight?” called an Easter named Lord Ylonous.

  “We will not go over it.” Eamon would not lead his men into a battle against the block. The side roads led into the East Quarter. From there he would be better able to navigate other ways to the city’s heart.

  He turned back to Ylonous. “Have some of your men infiltrate the blockade from the roofs and the flanks.” Ylonous’s men went at once. It would be a lengthy process; Eamon felt restless and impatient. He had to reach the Four Quarters sooner than it would
take to break the blockade. “I will go another way.”

  “We will come with you.” The voice was Leon’s. A group of twenty to thirty men was with him.

  Lifting his sword high, Eamon took his men into the side street. It was narrow and dark, and there was no better place for them to be ambushed, but he went on resolutely. Eamon knew that the road led eventually to the Ashen.

  Despite the unspoken fears of his men and the thick cries that echoed in the city streets, they met little or no resistance in the dark streets. Eamon wondered how many families hid in their homes, dreading the coming of the King.

  They passed shops and buildings that Eamon knew; places where he had walked and talked and lived with the people of Dunthruik. At last they came to the Ashen.

  He came into the heart of the East Quarter at the head of his men. A group of thresholders and Gauntlet stood there, held in a grim line by a mounted Hand who yelled at them as the King’s men appeared. Arrows hissed as the thresholders loosed. The King’s men returned shots.

  Eamon stopped in his tracks. It was neither arrow nor hand that stayed him, but the sting and smell of smoke.

  The East Handquarter and college were in flames.

  For a terrible moment Eamon stopped and stared. He was vaguely aware of the Hand falling from his horse, and of the thresholders dispersing with cries of panic. Defenders fled to the darkened streets of the Ashen, pursued by King’s men. Then more King’s men arrived from the south – Feltumadas’s force from the Blind Gate – poured into the Ashen, and took up the quarry.

  But Eamon did not give chase. He ran towards the steps of the Handquarter.

  The flames devoured the college and the rear of the Hand’s residence. As Eamon raced to the steps, he was struck by a wall of heat.

  Between fits of coughing and gasping, he looked through the smoke into the hall of the Handquarter. There he made out the faintest sound and sight of people gathered within, trapped by the encroaching flames and choking on the smoke.

  Eamon drew a deep breath and charged up the steps. He could barely breathe. Moving his limbs was agony.

  “Slater!” he yelled, coughing as he inhaled a lung-full of smoke and ash. He swore. “Slater!” Sweat poured off his face.

  The servants were gathered, trembling, behind the smoke in a corner of the hall. Smoke poured out of the kitchens and servants’ quarters. He raced across to the terrified forms huddled in the sooty darkness. Why did they not try to escape?

  Eamon reached the group of servants. One of them raised a hand to strike him.

  Eamon caught the master cook’s arm before the knife reached his armour. The servant gave a frightened yell.

  “You are a brave man,” Eamon told him, “but foolish. You must get out of here.”

  “Lord Goodman!” It was Slater.

  “Into the Ashen, all of you!” Eamon yelled. “Now!”

  The servants stared at him. They were pale-faced and wept.

  “We can’t go out there!” The voice was Callum’s. “They’ll kill us!”

  “Would you rather roast like geese?” Eamon cried. “If you trust me, then do as I say, all of you!” Eamon seized Callum’s quivering hand. “Follow me, now!”

  He broke into a fit of coughing as the acrid smoke filled his lungs. Unable to speak another word, he strengthened his grip on Callum’s hand and led the boy at a run from the hall. Timbers creaked all about them, weakened in the press of the flames. The servants, choking and crying, followed him as he charged down the college steps and into the May sunlight.

  He brought the servants to a halt near the centre of the square.

  “Slater, is this everyone you had with you? Have we lost anyone?”

  Slater counted heads. “All of them, my lord. At least, all who were with us upon your arrival.”

  Too few. Far too few. Tears welled in Eamon’s eyes.

  “Lord Goodman,” screamed Cara’s voice, “behind you!”

  He turned round. The Ashen teemed with Easters and King’s men. For a moment, Eamon struggled to understand the girl’s worry. A group of King’s men approached from across the square. The servants cried out in terror.

  Eamon did not have time to comfort them. He raised one hand to the nearest Easter.

  “There may be others inside,” he yelled, thrusting one hand back towards the burning hall. “This quarter belongs to Lord Anastasius. Douse the flames and find any who yet live.”

  A group of Easters charged towards the building. Anastasius’s son, Ithel, reached Eamon’s side. Callum still clung to Eamon’s battle-worn hands. As the Easter halted, a look of amusement passed over his face.

  “We must to the Four Quarters,” Ithel said, looking to Eamon. “My men will see to the building.”

  Eamon nodded and turned to Slater. “Lead the house,” he commanded. “Go and block yourselves into a building somewhere and wait for this to be over. If any men like these come against you, tell them that you are under the protection of the First Knight.”

  “The First Knight?” Slater stared. He repeated the word dumbly. “The First Knight? Who is that?”

  “The King’s second,” Ithel told him.

  Slater looked at Eamon in alarm. “But what if the First Knight were to come?” he asked. “How would we explain that we had used his name?”

  Ithel laughed out loud. “If he were to come?” he cried.

  Slater glanced at Eamon uncertainly. “What does he mean, my lord?”

  It was then that Ithel forced mirth away from his lips. With utmost seriousness, he met Slater’s gaze. “Your Lord Goodman is the First Knight.”

  For a moment Slater could not comprehend. His eyes slowly turned to Eamon, and his jaw dropped.

  “Lord Goodman –”

  “It is true,” Eamon answered. A darkly confused look went over his servant’s face. “We will speak,” he said. “Please, Slater; lead the house.”

  Slater nodded in stunned silence.

  Callum tugged at Eamon’s gauntleted hand.

  “Wouldn’t we be safer if you stayed with us?” the boy whispered, quivering with fear.

  “Maybe,” Eamon told him, then smiled. “But only maybe. It seems to me that Mr Cook might make a more stalwart defender.” He saw Cook turn red, and for a moment it distracted the servants from the Easters. He looked back down at Callum. “I have to go.”

  “Will you come back?”

  Eamon matched the boy’s gaze. “I will come back.”

  Callum clutched tighter at his hand and a tiny sob left his lips. Gently, Eamon leaned forward and kissed Callum’s brow.

  “You will be safe, and I will come back,” he whispered. “I promise.”

  Nodding tearfully, the boy let go his hand.

  Eamon turned again to Slater and touched his arm. “Take care of my house, Mr Slater.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Slater replied.

  “First Knight!” Leon returned from one of the side streets. “We must to the King!”

  “We go,” Eamon answered. The servants eyed him in awe and surprise. Though he wished he could stay to encourage them, Eamon turned and gathered his men to him. He led them on through the Ashen to its far end where a wide road led back down to Coronet Rise. Eamon cast one more look back at the Handquarters. Slater led the house away. Eamon felt a sudden doubt run through him.

  The King’s men had not reached the Ashen before him. Even if they had, they would not have set flame to the Handquarter. Who had done so?

  CHAPTER XIX

  Eamon and the King’s men pressed on through the streets of Dunthruik. The thresholders hindered their passsage where they could, though it was never for long. Eamon lost many men in the time it took for them to cross the last stretch to the Four Quarters. Foul-reeking smoke billowed from the direction of the Blind Gate.

  As they approached the Four Quarters, screams throbbed in the air. Straggles of Gauntlet on the road ran from hobilars and enthusiastic Easters. Eamon realized that the blockade on the Rise had bee
n broken. The Four Quarters was ahead, and it sounded like the source of the fighting.

  As Eamon pressed on to the end of the road, a cry sounded to his right. A javelin hurtled through the air and missed him by inches. A red-coated man followed close behind the javelin. He drew his sword. Before the guard could land a blow, the King’s men were on him and he was down.

  Eamon and his men poured out of the mouth of Coronet Rise and into the Four Quarters. The high stones and plinths where the statues stood caught the sunlight of the early afternoon. The great eagles seemed to be aflame as smoke and death wafted up about them.

  In the quarters themselves, a group of thresholders and Gauntlet gathered about one man: General Cade. Cade led his last defence against the blue banners of the King. The King’s men launched themselves against Cade from every side. Hughan’s bodyguard was among those in the press from the south. To Eamon’s left, a great group of Easters marched up the Coll from the Blind Gate. Eamon’s heart swelled with elation: North, South, and Blind Gate were taken.

  As he and his men came forward from the North, Hughan’s party from the South, and Feltumadas’s from the East, the thresholders realized that they could not hold. With cries of panic dozens of men tried to flee west along the Coll – many of them were cut down. As the thresholder lines crumpled and fell apart, Cade tried to rally his men before he fell beneath the blade of a King’s man.

  As the broken men ran, the King’s scouts swift in their wake, Hughan himself came to Eamon’s side.

  “How is the North?” he called.

  “There are barricades and some defenders still, but not many,” Eamon answered. “The South?”

  “Full of surrendering men,” Hughan answered, his voice a mixture of relief and satisfaction. “I’ve left some groups to deal with them.”

  “As have I.”

  “The Hands and Gauntlet still fighting have fled west,” Feltumadas said as he arrived. Eamon did not wonder how the Easter knew it. “For what little good it will do them!”

  “They’re trying to escape by the port,” Eamon guessed.