by John Donlan
In relief, he saw two of his soldiers keeping the people back for the moment. He was inside the gate now, and the outer edge of the crowd was in sight. The soldiers tugged him along, and once they were all free of the surging tide of humanity, Darius bent over, wheezing.
“My lord,” one of the men said, watching in concern. “If we had known...”
Darius shook his head and straightened. “The garrison… Where…?”
The soldier pointed up along the packed road. Further along, Darius could see the men fighting against the swell of the crowd, trying to force their way through. They were making progress, but it was slow, and for every ten paces they were pushed back two. He frowned.
“Stay here at the gates,” he told the men. “Try and make some order to this chaos. The quicker these people get outside the city, the quicker the road will be clear.”
His strength was returning, but he could feel aches and pains in his shoulders and arms and back. First from the fight in the swamp, then from the frenzied, panicked ride back to the city, and finally the crushing crowd of a moment earlier. And now he would have to face that again.
He left the two soldiers to wade back into the fray and hurried along the edge of the crowd to where the men of the garrison were pushing against the tide of people coming in the opposite direction. The soldiers had shields out and were using them to batter back the terrified citizens of the city. It allowed them to push forward a few feet, but then they were forced to hold ground again as the crowd thrust back in a giant swell.
Darius found the garrison captain and pulled him out of the way for a moment. “Form a wedge,” he hissed. “Like an arrow.” He made a shape with his hands. The man nodded in sudden understanding.
The captain barked out orders and a few moments later, his men had formed a pointed formation, with two men at the head and the rest spread out on either side. Darius joined the captain at the centre of the formation as the soldier shouted out fresh commands. The formation surged forward, and to Darius’ relief, the plan worked. The crowd was forced aside, rather than back, and the lead soldiers were able to cut through them and forge a path forward, like a fish swimming through water, while the terrified citizens swept around them and down the edges of the street.
It still took longer than Darius had hoped, and by the time the soldiers eventually broke through the crowd and into the barren street beyond, it was fully dark. Lanterns strung from posts on either side of the street provided some light, but it was hazy and diffused by the rain that was driving down heavily now. A light mist had formed, too, reducing visibility even further. Darius had never seen the streets so empty and desolate before, and they looked eerie and sinister to him now.
Up ahead, at the far end of the street, Darius could see the arch that led into the inner city. Beyond that, rising above everything, was the rock that supported Castle Crow. Darius wondered if his sister and Needra were still in there somewhere, or if they were outside in the city, never having reached the castle at all. He hoped that the latter was true. Far better to lose themselves in the crowds than to face the horrors at the castle.
As he stared at the castle, a thought occurred to him. If the creatures were hunting Needra because she was witness to the slaughter in the swamp, then why would they have shown themselves in such an open manner? If the goal was to keep their identities a secret, this seemed a bizarre and counter-conductive way to go about it. He could not begin to imagine how many people might have seen those vile creatures by now. It made no sense. By morning, assuming the creatures were defeated, everyone in Marsh End would know of their existence.
Unless they are after Needra for another reason. He frowned and shook the thought away. It made no sense dwelling on it now. There would be time to puzzle it all out later.
“We need to make for the castle,” Darius told the captain. “The things that are attacking… I encountered them in the swamp. They are strong, skilled, and determined. They killed several men before we learned how to dispatch them. Sever the head. Remove it from the body and the creature will fall. All else will do little but slow them down.”
“What are they, lord?” the captain asked.
“I do not know. They are not human, I know that much at least. Some spawn of magic, or perhaps something even darker. Whatever they are, they mean us nothing but ill will. We need to kill them all.”
Darius joined the soldiers in the quick march up through the streets towards the castle. As they drew closer, Darius heard the sounds of battle growing louder and louder. He could see smoke rising from some of the buildings outside the castle walls, and realised that the fighting had spread out into the city itself. No wonder the people were so desperate to escape.
Most of the population had fled by now, at least in this part of the city. Streets led to the right and left, curving around the outer walls of the castle, and Darius could see people rushing past the buildings along adjoining streets, all heading towards the city gates. Here though, at least, the street was clear.
Darius moved to the head of the formation as they rounded a corner, and that was when he saw them, half-a-dozen of the same monsters he had fought back in the swamp. They were battling against a handful of guardsmen from the post near to the castle. The guards were losing, but they were trying desperately to hold their own. Darius could hear the clang of steel on steel, the screams of those who were not lucky or skilled enough to avoid the swinging blades.
The fight was taking place outside a large, three-storey building with a sign outside proclaiming it as an inn. Darius knew the place: the Merchant’s Daughter. It was popular with the inhabitants of the inner city.
With a cry, Darius raised his sword and rushed to join the battle. He heard the clatter of feet behind him as the rest of the garrison surged forward with him.
The fight was over fast. The creatures were caught unawares from behind and vastly outnumbered, and armed with the knowledge of how to kill the monsters, the garrison was able to end things quickly.
Darius’s sword was coated in black mud and ooze from the bodies of the creatures. He glanced down and watched as more of the stuff oozed out of the severed stump where a patchwork head had once resided. A crimson shelled beetle scurried out from the hole and darted from the shadows. He turned away in disgust.
One of the men he had saved approached. He was scratched and bleeding from his arm, but seemed in shape.
“My sister,” Darius said, drawing the guard close. “Where is she?”
The man glanced towards the inn. “She is inside, my lord. She was trying to get out of the city with some other guards when they were ambushed. She made it inside with a few of the men, but… several of those things got in before we could stop them...”
Darius did not need to hear any more than that. With his heart thudding painfully in his chest, he ran towards the door of the inn. It had been smashed open and was hanging from the hinges as he drew close, swaying crazily. Inside, the inn was dark. Some of the tables and chairs had been overturned, and he could see the body of a guardsman lying in a pool of blood nearby. The creatures had paused in their pursuit to hack away at the remains in an apparent frenzy. He turned from the corpse in revulsion and ran towards the stairs to the second floor. He could hear the sounds of battle coming from up there. He prayed that it meant his sister and Needra were still alive.
He reached the first step and glanced up. Two of the attackers were at the top of the stairs, lunging with rusty blades over the top of a makeshift barricade formed from several overturned tables and chairs. Three guardsmen were on the far side of the barricade, thrusting and parrying the attacks. A fourth guardsman was slumped over the top of the barricade, dead.
Darius gained the upper stairs quickly, and as one of the creature’s heard him and turned, he swung his blade in a powerful upward swing. The monster managed to bring its sword up, but too slowly. Darius felt his blade dig into wrinkled flesh and cut deep, almost severing the horror’s head in one go. It flopped over,
hanging on by a thin scrap of flesh. Sickened, Darius swung again and ended the fight.
The last of the attackers died a moment later. One of the guards at the top of the stairs took advantage of the surprise distraction to lunge forward. He had seen Darius dispatch the attacker by removing the head, and drove his own sword deep into the creature’s neck. The thing staggered as the guard yanked his blade sideways.
When it was over, Darius scrambled up past the last of the steps and climbed over the barricade. He was panting heavily and desperate now to find his sister and Needra. He spun to the right as a door at the far end opened and Torelle appeared, her face white and her lips trembling. When she saw her brother, she dashed forward. Darius caught her in a fierce hug, and for a moment, he felt as though he would never let her go.
“Thank Naedorn!” He breathed, stroking her hair. “I thought you were...” He stepped back, wanting to get a good look at her. “How did you escape the castle?”
Torelle shook her head. “We did not. The attack came before we got inside. Needra… she led us both away, to the guard post. But when it became clear that we could not stay there, we tried to escape. We were trapped in here, until you arrived.”
“And where is Needra?” Darius glanced towards the door out of which Torelle had appeared and frowned. He let go of his sister and hurried through the opening.
Needra was lying on the bed, eyes closed. She was still breathing, but slowly and shallowly. A rough cloth had been pressed over a wound on her shoulder. It was stained red with blood.
“She saved me,” Torelle said, her voice filled with sorrow. “One of those things appeared and she stepped in front of the blade. She saved my life, Darius, and now… now she may pay the ultimate price for her bravery.”
Twenty-Eight
Duke Wendrill Harrow was a strong, powerful, capable man. A shrewd leader and a formidable adversary. Luscard admired those traits. He also knew that the duke’s uncle had been one of the most revered soldiers in the war with the Tho’reen, the same war his own father had fought in. He had died protecting his men.
Wendrill was also a firm and loyal man of the kingdom. He did not want to bow down and placate the Tho’reen, who would see such actions as a weakness to be exploited; he wanted to stand against them, and make sure they did not threaten the established order and peace of the kingdom ever again. Luscard admired that more than anything else.
The man was pouring wine into two goblets. He took them and offered one to Luscard.
“I am happy that you decided to accept my invitation,” Harrow said, taking a seat. “After what happened with your father, I was worried that you would see me as the villain in all of this.”
Luscard took the goblet and sat down opposite the duke. He studied the man closely. He had not met him before now, and though he had heard stories about the recalcitrant eastern duke, he’d never had a face to put to them. The man was not quite what he had expected. He had built up an image of a stern, unyielding man; hard and with a larger build. The man before him now was somewhat thin and wiry. The exact opposite of what he had believed he would find.
“I do not see you as a villain,” Luscard said a moment later. “But neither do I think my father deserves the blame for what happened.”
Harrow arched his brow. “Certainly he did not do the deed, but he is a leader, and he is responsible for what happens in his own lands.”
Luscard was about to interject when Harrow raised a hand, stalling any argument. “But I happen to agree with you, my young friend. Your father is not to blame; he never should have been asked to shepherd those southern wretches through his lands in the first place. No, your father should have been working to protect our borders. The king is the one who should be answering for the crime in the swamp. But that will never happen! The king has always been beyond culpability, no matter his actions.”
“It is wrong!” Luscard said. He could hear anger in his voice. He had tried to hide it until now, but hearing another speak the same thoughts that were whirling through his head brought it all bubbling to the surface. “The king should be as responsible as any man in the kingdom. More so. Does he not hold the fortune of us all in his hands?”
“Yes, he does. And you are right. You are not the first person I have heard say those very words. Others feel as you do. They have come to me with grievances and troubles which the king has refused to heed. People are tired of his grovelling to the empress. Tired of his disdain for his own people in favour of those who slaughtered us without mercy in years gone by. They still remember the horrors of the war, the many lives lost in the heedless yearning for conquest that consumes the empire. Your own father fought against the Tho’reen, as did my uncle. They fought and died for the kingdom, and now our king wants to just… hand it over!”
Luscard frowned and stared into his drink. “Is that true, do you think? The king is so afraid of our enemies that he would invite them in by the front door?”
Harrow hesitated and was silent for so long, that Luscard looked up from his contemplation, worried that he had angered the man. The duke was looking at him intently, as though trying to read Luscard’s thoughts.
The duke stood up and went to the window at the back of the room. It looked out over the city, and gave an unrivalled view of the sea beyond the port. “I believe he would, yes. He is weak. He cares nothing for the struggles of his people. He is terrified of another war, such that he will do anything, even surrender the kingdom, if it will avoid conflict. As much as it pains me to say so, our leader is a coward.” Harrow turned and peered back over his shoulder at Luscard. “But there are those who would defy the king. Those of us who would stand firm against him and our enemies to ensure the continued survival of the kingdom. I think you might be one of them, Luscard. I can see it in your eyes. You feel as we do, that the kingdom must fight and it must win. Only with the downfall of the Tho’reen can we ever be assured of our own safety. They will never be satisfied with a mutual peace.”
Luscard was troubled by what he was hearing. The duke was speaking openly about treason. Even listening to this without telling the king what had been said was enough to send him to the gallows if anyone ever found out. He swallowed a large mouthful of wine. Duke Harrow remained silent, watching him.
“My father would never agree to that,” Luscard said after a moment. “He admires and respects the king, and he is loyal to the throne. If he knew...”
“Your father is a just and noble man, but he is wrong in this. I do not think he is weak, as the king is, but he believes that the empress can be reasoned with, that she will work for peace as he wants to do. But you and I know differently.”
“Do we?” Luscard slid his goblet onto the table. “I do not know the empress or her people. Perhaps she really wants peace, the same as the king, the same as my father!”
Harrow shook his head sadly. “I have not met the empress either, but my father did. Before he died, he went to Tho’reen, to negotiate the truce after the end of the war. He saw her for what she really is: a tyrant and a would-be conqueror. She will not see this attempt at peace as anything other than weakness, and she will exploit it. Oh, not right away, I am sure, but eventually, inevitably, when we are at our most complacent, she will march her armies into the kingdom and destroy us all. I know this. And I think you know it, too, Luscard. I can see it in your eyes. If I am wrong, tell me now, and we will speak no more of it.”
Luscard nodded slowly. It was all true. It was the very thing he had tried to tell his father and his brother. But they did not want to listen. They were afraid of war, of fighting for what they had. But he was not afraid. He yearned for it, for a chance to show his true worth and bravery on the field of battle.
“Yes, I see it. You are not wrong. I know how it will end. But what can we do about it? The king has made his decision. He has sent people to talk with the Tho’reen...”
“Do not worry about that,” Wendrill said smoothly. “I will take measures to deal with that problem
. But the king is a different matter. He is protected. He has friends, even if they are diminished in number. But he is not as safe as he might think. I want you to help us, Luscard. Stand with us, and I will ensure, when the time comes, that you and all of your people in the Southmarsh are kept safe from the true danger. Think of it! You will be a hero of the kingdom! A figure to respect and admire, who helped save all of us from a terrible, destructive enemy.”
Luscard took a deep breath and then got to his feet. Harrow made his way back over to the where Luscard was standing. He held his hand out. “Will you help me, Luscard Crow?”
“I will.” Luscard told him. And then gripped the duke’s hand tightly.
* * *
Luscard wandered after that, moving through the maze of halls and rooms in the palace until he found himself outside, lost in thought. He stopped for awhile in a small courtyard that was set aside for the training of the palace guards. Corin, son of Duke Harrow, was there, barking orders at many of his men. Luscard was impressed with the way the man commanded his soldiers, kept them disciplined and under his control. He had the makings of a fine general.
As it started to get dark, Luscard went back inside and to the quarters he had been given. He paused outside the door and stared along the hall to his father’s room. He could not hear any movement or voices from within, which probably meant that his father was out on some errand. He considered knocking to check, then decided against it. There were confusing thoughts rushing through his mind, things he had to reconcile and turn from chaos into order.
He went into his room and immediately moved to the chest at the foot of the bed. He opened it, reached inside, and pulled out the sword and scabbard that lay within. It was his sword. His father had given it to him on the day he came of age. It was of fine quality, forged by one of the best smiths in all of Marsh End. Luscard had fallen in love with the weapon from the first moment the hilt had touched his palm, and he had spent every waking hour for months training with it, learning its intricacies. He had become skilled with the blade, perhaps even enough to rival his brother. He had sparred against Darius many times before, but his older brother had always bested him eventually. The losses had not angered Luscard; if anything, they had made him more determined to be the best that he could be. The last time the two of them had tested their mettle against one another had been almost a month ago, and it had been the closest Luscard had ever come to winning. His brother had been surprised but pleased.