“When we first met, I didn’t like you very much,” said Samara, squinting at the horizon.
“The feeling was mutual, given the stories I’d heard.”
Samara snorted. “I’m sure she spared no details. The past is done and I’m not going to say I’m sorry now. What would be the point?” she asked and he had no answer. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m glad Munroe married you. And not just because you gave me a grandchild. I never imagined that would happen.”
It had been a surprise to them at the time. They’d discussed children in the past but Munroe had never shown any real inclination. That had all changed the moment she found out about the pregnancy. Choss had never seen her so excited before and the memory still made him smile.
“Thank you, Samara.”
She craned her neck to look him in the face and patted his arm affectionately. “Look after each other, and tell her how proud I am.”
Choss had never seen the woman cry and she was not about to start now. The fierceness of her glare told him how much she loved her daughter and what she would do to protect her. She didn’t need to say it out loud. “I will tell her.”
“Here they come,” said someone further down the line.
The mob was bigger than Choss had been expecting. He guessed there were at least two hundred men and women armed with a variety of weapons. There were a lot of bows and a few swords, but most carried crude clubs, hunting spears, wood axes and one or two maces. Greasy black smoke rose into the air above the group from the torches that many were carrying.
Even at this distance Choss thought he recognised a few faces from his regular trips into the nearby town. These people were his neighbours, driven to violence and thirsty for blood.
They were not warriors, but they were compelled by a terrible and familiar rage that Choss could understand. Theirs was misguided and they had been manipulated into thinking the Red Tower responsible, but the time for discussion was over.
“So, what drove them over the edge?” asked Samara, flexing her bow and attaching the string.
“Remember the little village, a day or so to the west?”
“Not very well. I passed through it on the way here, but didn’t stop.”
“Well, it’s not there any more,” said Choss. “Someone claiming to be a Seeker torched the fields and all their crops, slaughtered the cattle and then burned down every house. Apparently he did it for Balfruss and the Red Tower.”
“Anyone die?”
“About a hundred people. Half the village.”
Samara hissed through her teeth. “That would do it.”
The first charge when it came was little more than the mob sprinting towards the gate, screaming hatred at the top of their lungs. A few arrows flew towards the defenders but none managed to find a target. They were rushing and angry which made them sloppy. Arrows clattered against the wall or sailed far over their heads.
Leonie, the blacksmith, a short distance down the wall on Choss’s left, stood beside Master Jorey.
“If we worked together we could scatter them all,” said Leonie.
Master Jorey patted her on the shoulder. “I know, but we can’t.”
As the mob drew closer they shot a few more arrows and this time some of them could be dangerous. As they’d planned Leonie sent them flying off course with a negligent flick of her hand.
“Return fire,” shouted Choss, bellowing at the archers beside him. “Try not to kill anyone,” he said to Samara.
“No promises,” she said, picking her target. A large man with a stomach that stuck out of the bottom of his shirt was bellowing loudly as he ran. Samara took a deep breath and then released, her arrow lodging in his thigh. With a remarkably high-pitched scream he keeled over and thrashed around on the ground.
“Good shot,” said Choss.
Samara shook her head. “I was aiming for his belly.”
A dozen or more people in the mob stumbled and fell as arrows caught them, but it didn’t stop the charge. Most of the wounds didn’t look fatal but one woman went down with an arrow in the head, enraging those around her. The mob rushed forward at a sprint and soon were too close to the wall to use their bows. No one had thought this through as now they were pressed against the wall with no way of getting inside the school. Those opposite the gate tried to heave together to break it open but Choss and others had reinforced it on the inside earlier in the day.
If this had been a normal siege they would have poured oil or alcohol onto those below and set them alight, or crushed them with rocks. At this distance it would also be incredibly easy to kill more of them with arrows. But they wanted to drive the attackers away without too much bloodshed so instead they resorted to pelting them with potatoes which did little more than bruise.
As the cries of pain and alarm mounted the attack faltered and the mob withdrew to a safe distance to tend to the wounded. They left the dead woman where she’d fallen.
Choss glanced at the sky trying to judge how much time had passed since the children had left. It must have been at least four or five hours. He hoped it was enough to keep them safe. The longer they kept the mob here the better off the children would be.
“This is a farce,” said Master Stenne, walking along the wall. The sour-faced teacher had surprised everyone by staying behind. She didn’t like anyone at the school, including the children, but seemed to hate the mob worse.
“We just need to buy the others some more time.”
“I’m very aware of that, thank you, Master Choss,” she said, making his name sound like something she’d found stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
With one dead and several wounded, Choss hoped the mob would just give up and go home. The realist in him knew that it wouldn’t happen yet. Their blood would have to be spilled to quench the rage coursing through the mob. They believed their friends and neighbours had been murdered and spilling more blood was the only way to balance the tragedy.
A short time later the mob returned and their second attack was more coordinated than the first. Choss watched as arrows were wrapped in scraps of cloth and then set alight. It was just as they had expected. From a distance volley after volley of flaming arrows flew over their heads, landing on rooftops and burying themselves in the ground of the training yard. A few went long, arcing towards the Red Tower itself, but they were immediately extinguished and fell to the ground. The building remained unmarked and undamaged. He didn’t know what, if anything, could destroy it.
Arrows thudded into the gates and a few villagers ran forward and placed torches at the bottom of them. It would take a long time for the wood to catch fire, but in the meantime a large cloud of smoke was starting to build up and creep under the gates.
The roof of the stables caught fire but all of the horses had been tethered elsewhere. Choss knew it wouldn’t take long for the flames to eat through the roof and for sparks to land amid the hay stored in the loft. After that the smoke and the fire would spread quickly.
“Put out the fires!” he shouted and a couple of mages on the wall turned to deal with them. With a few waves of their hands the smoke dispersed and the flames were smothered. At the same time more arrows rattled against the wall catching a couple of defenders by surprise. With an arrow in his shoulder Mellor stumbled backwards and toppled off the wall before anyone could stop him. Leonie saw him fall but instead of landing below he hung in mid-air a foot off the ground.
“Someone grab him,” shouted the smith and a couple of defenders ran down to the courtyard, slowly easing him to the floor. Choss turned back to face the mob just in time to see more flaming arrows soaring towards him. He ducked but Samara ignored them and, leaning forward, shot a woman in the shoulder this time, cackling all the while.
“It seems fair,” she said when Choss raised an eyebrow. “They shot one of ours. Isn’t that what it says in the Maker’s book?”
“I thought it was more about returning an act of kindness.”
Samara shrugged. “It’s
all open to interpretation,” she said, taking aim again. One of the villagers squawked and started limping away with an arrow stuck in his arse.
More flaming arrows landed inside the school again and smoke was still drifting in from under the gate.
“Choss, you need to get down here,” shouted Master Farshad from below. “You too, Samara.”
Choss exchanged a worried look with his mother-in-law and together they hurried down the stairs.
“By the Maker,” hissed Samara, running across the courtyard before dropping to her knees. Choss couldn’t see what had happened until he drew closer.
“No,” he whispered, not really believing what he was seeing. It wasn’t possible. And yet he knew what every hair on the boy’s head looked like. He didn’t need to see his face to know that it was his son.
“What are you doing here?” Samara was asking him as Choss came up behind her. She was shaking and trying her best not to frighten Sam, but he sensed her fear as his eyes filled with tears.
“I snuck away from the others,” he said, choking back a sob. “I didn’t want to leave without you and Daddy.”
Choss didn’t know what to do. They had planned for everything, apart from this. His son should have been miles away by now, safely protected by a dozen teachers. Choss was frozen with fear and indecision.
Smoke was starting to build up and people around him were beginning to cough and splutter.
Master Jorey came towards him across the training ground. She glanced at Samara and the boy, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Get him out of here,” she said. “We can use the smoke as cover. I think it’s time for you and the others to leave.”
Leonie and some of their companions came down off the wall and gathered up their nervous horses.
“Keep him safe,” said Samara, kissing Sam on both cheeks before lifting him up and passing him to Choss. He held his son in one arm against a hip, keeping one hand free for what came next.
His roan wouldn’t stand still but it calmed a little when he laid a hand on its neck. As more grey and black smoke filled the school grounds the others mounted up. Choss held Sam against his chest with one arm, the other on the reins. There were a dozen riders and more than fifty people staying behind to give them a chance.
Master Jorey and Master Stenne stood to either side of the gates. The old sailor spoke a word and, working together, an invisible force struck the gates, blasting them open, spraying the mob with shards of wood and metal. Master Stenne directed the smoke out through the gates, providing them with some cover. Choss spurred his horse forward, urging it to gallop as fast as it could with him bent low over its neck.
The riders disappeared into the spreading cloud of grey smoke that was rolling out of the gates across the ground. Jorey could feel Stenne gently nudging the smoke and spreading it across a wide area, giving the riders as much cover as possible. There was a brief thunder of horses’ hooves and then a peculiar silence took its place beyond the walls. The school grounds were briefly clear of smoke and with a nonchalant wave of her hand Jorey extinguished any lingering flames on the rooftops. With her Talent she had predicted the day’s weather would be clear and sunny. If this was to be her last day she wasn’t going to choke to death on smoke and ash. It would be with a weapon in her hand and the sun on her face. It wasn’t quite the heroic death at sea she’d expected, but it would have to do.
As the smoke finally edged away from the wall some of the mob saw that the gates were standing open. With a series of ragged cries and a half-hearted cheer, some of the villagers ran towards her and Stenne. The old shrew spat on the ground and stared down the men and women running towards her brandishing weapons. Jorey drew her sabre and rolled her shoulders to loosen them. It had been a long time since she’d fought with a blade.
At the look on Stenne’s face several people veered away from her and ran into the school in all directions looking for easier prey. One woman wasn’t intimidated by her glare and tried to stab the old teacher with her pitchfork. Stenne snatched it from her hands and slapped the woman across the face hard enough to leave a mark. As she recoiled in horror Stenne said something so vile the woman turned and ran. Jorey couldn’t help chuckling at the old woman’s mettle.
Even with her weak connection to the Source it would be so easy for any of the mages to defeat the mob and send them away. She could sense it, flickering at the edge of her perception like a candle flame, tempting her to embrace its energy. Taking a deep breath, she tasted the air in her lungs, looked at the sky and ignored the power of her birthright.
Two men came through the gates and angled towards Jorey. To even up the odds a little she drew a dagger from her belt. The bearded man on the left swung his axe as if he was chopping wood, using both hands and all his strength. All Jorey had to do to avoid his attack was to quickly step backwards. Instead his axe whipped past his neighbour’s side, catching him on the ribs and leaving a blood trail. The two men stared at each other in horror, giving Jorey ample time to cut them on the back of their hands with her sabre. They dropped their weapons and ran.
Three snarling women carrying pitchforks replaced them. They spread out around Jorey but none of them seemed willing to take the initiative and attack first. All the women were old enough to be her daughters. Jorey felt a pang of sadness that she’d never see her children, or grandchildren, again. Part of her had hoped that, one day, one of her extended family would come to the school and she’d be able to teach them about the joy of magic. Unlike most families, her sons and daughters hoped every child born in the family had the ability. They all knew that one of the reasons the business had been a success for so long was her weather Talent.
The three women were arguing with each other so Jorey made it easy for them. She lunged at one of them and knocked the pitchfork out of the woman’s hand with her sabre. As expected one of the others lunged at her. Jorey tried to dance away, but time had made her slower than she realised, and one of the tines bit into her side. As blood began to spread out across her shirt the young woman looked sick.
“Oh no,” she said, even putting a hand to her mouth as she began to gag.
“It’s their fault, remember?” said the third woman but her two friends had lost heart and one of them lost her breakfast, vomiting onto the ground. Suddenly finding herself alone facing Jorey, the woman spat in disgust and walked away.
For a brief moment Jorey had hope that perhaps the mob would disperse. These were not hardened soldiers. The mere sight of blood, of wounding someone else, was enough to make them physically sick. They were farmers, merchants and traders. They shouldn’t be here.
The spark of hope faded as two or three dozen people poured in through the gates screaming at the tops of their lungs. Ignoring the vicious glare one man simply stabbed Stenne in the stomach and moved on, not even waiting for her to fall. Those on the walls turned inwards, firing arrows into the crowd at will, injuring and killing a few, but it wasn’t enough to slow their momentum.
They kept coming into the school, desperate to extinguish the rage. Men and women scrambled up the steps towards those on the wall while others used their torches to start new fires, setting buildings alight. Pitched battles were raging all over and now the defenders were easily outnumbered three to one.
As a group of six armed men and women rushed towards her, Jorey caught sight of Stenne on the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth which still held a bitter twist. Their eyes met across the training ground and although she was too far away to hear the words, Jorey understood the two words that Stenne mouthed.
“Pity them.”
Screaming at the top of her lungs, Jorey raised her sword and charged at the enemy.
As he rode into the cloud of smoke something struck Choss on his leg but he kept going, driving his horse forward through the gates. A figure appeared in the gloom, raising a weapon overhead, but he didn’t slow and his horse rode the man down. His cry of pain was lost in the fog and more shapes
loomed on either side.
Ignoring them all Choss stayed low until he rushed out of the cloud. Quickly orientating himself he turned his horse slightly to the east and kept moving. A quick glance behind showed him the mages had done their job well as most of the school was now concealed in a low cloud of choking smoke. Rising above it, like a bloody splinter, was the tower itself, alien and untouched. Figures stumbled out of the smoke, coughing and spluttering, others vomiting on the ground. A couple of riderless horses shot out of the smoke and Choss hoped that those unseated would still be able to escape on foot.
Someone behind him shouted and, glancing back, he saw a group of men and women giving chase on foot. Choss slowed his horse to a trot, to conserve its energy in case he needed a burst of speed later to escape. After an hour of steadily heading east he felt safe enough to stop and check on Sam. A wave of tiredness swept over Choss, enough to make him sway and almost tumble out of the saddle. The adrenaline from their flight had worn off but it shouldn’t have exhausted him this much. Sam had fallen asleep against him and was still dozing. Choss was relieved as it forced him to muffle his alarm when he saw the growing patch of blood on his leg. He’d felt something tug at him as they rode through the smoke and had assumed it was one of the mob trying to pull him from the saddle. Gritting his teeth against the pain he tore off one of his sleeves and tied it around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Choss cocked his head to one side and waited, listening intently for sounds of pursuit. At first there was nothing but then, somewhere in the distance, he caught the sound of several approaching horses and people on foot.
Spurring his horse forward at a walk he carried on east, following the trail he’d used many times. Behind him he heard a cry of surprise from his pursuers. They were louder than before and seemed to be getting closer.
He could try and lead them around in the countryside for a few hours until they became bored, but Choss wasn’t sure he could stay conscious that long. His leg was starting to feel numb and blood was seeping through the makeshift bandage. Protecting Sam was the only thing that mattered.
Mageborn Page 31