Men In Chains

by Virginia Reede

  Duwall felt red fury fill his veins. He ran toward Grenda’s horse, grabbing the first implement that came to hand, which was a large paddle used to stir mortar. With a great cry, he leapt through the air and swung it with all his might at the ugly figure astride the great horse.

  At the last moment, Grenda saw Duwall’s charge and turned her horse, throwing her body to the side so the blow fell upon her armored chest and shoulder. She was knocked from her horse and her left arm hung almost useless at her side, but she came up on her feet with the bulk of the horse between herself and her attacker.

  The other rider who had evaded the hole was struggling to her feet, groping for her lost sword. Spying it, Grenda grasped it in her strong right hand and turned to face Duwall. He was coming around the horse, the enormous wooden paddle raised for another swing. She managed to get her sword up in time to ward off his blow, but staggered at the impact. Seeing whom she faced, a large and gruesome smile lit her ugly face.

  “My old friend Duwall,” she said. “I guess ye did not have enough of me tender mercies when Bloduewedd used to let me have a taste of ye when she was done and ye were still drugged.” Seeing that the memory had further enraged him, as she had intended, she went on. “I always knew ye liked it better when I had my turn, did ye not?”

  Duwall rushed forward for another blow but Grenda easily deflected his strike. She pivoted to face him from a different angle. Off balance, Duwall attempted to turn and raise his weapon at the same time. Enjoying the confrontation and in no hurry to have it end, Grenda did not press her advantage.

  Dorin, who was one of the rock throwers, tackled the other soldier, who was about to remount her horse and join Grenda’s assault. Grenda and Duwall ignored the two as they rolled around near the edge of the pit.

  Duwall, some of his rage ebbing, considered his position. Though injured and on foot, Grenda was renowned for her skill with a sword. He, while more agile and unencumbered by armor, had never done more than playact. When Beteria was learning swordsmanship as a young girl, he had secretly helped her practice. Beteria had always claimed that Duwall had more natural ability than she, and it was true he had learned the moves more rapidly than the real student. It had been at least six years since he had held a weapon, and that which he now held was made of wood, not steel.

  As Grenda circled him, taunting him with circles and aborted thrusts, Duwall glanced to the edge of the pit. One of the trapped women was attempting to climb over the side, using her fallen horse as a means to reach the top. Her right hand was splayed out on the ground beyond the edge, partially grasping her sword, as her left hand grasped for purchase on the uneven ground.

  Acting quickly, Duwall swung the paddle at Grenda and released it, forcing her to duck as it sailed toward her head. At the same moment, he spun and placed his left foot on the sword of the woman attempting to climb from the pit, then kicked her full in the face with his right. She flew back into the hole, leaving the sword behind. Duwall scrambled for it, rolling to avoid a swipe from Grenda, who had regained her balance and was again advancing.

  He came up crouching with the sword in hand.

  * * * * *

  Bloduewedd slowed her steed, taking calming breaths. Delinda could not have run fast enough to elude the horse, she reasoned. That meant there was an entrance to the house she had overlooked, and Delinda had somehow made it inside without being seen. Bloduewedd surveyed the many shuttered windows and closed doors, wondering which would be the easiest to breach. She wondered how many of Delinda’s people were lurking inside, and decided it might be better to bring Delinda out than to attempt an entry.

  Reversing directions, she returned to the side of the stables, where she found several of her soldiers milling in confusion. Grenda was nowhere to be seen, but Bloduewedd did not have time to look for her. “You there! Blenshi!” she called, and the soldiers turned toward her, relief evident in their faces.

  “Ra-drine! Thank the Goddess you are not hurt!” called Blenshi, as she and her companions hurried to respond to the summons.

  “Which of you has pitch-arrows?” she asked impatiently, heedless of their concern. “And why are there no lit torches?”

  “Those bearing torches and pitch arrows were in the front,” said Blenshi. “And they were probably all dropped when the logs came falling from the roof.”

  “Well, go get some arrows and a lit torch, if any still burn,” she said, her frustration and fury rising. She did not have time for one of these idiots to get out tinder and flint and relight the cursed torches. “Now!” she shrieked, and the women hastily departed in the direction of the earlier disaster. After what seemed like an interminable wait, they returned with a single bow, a quiver full of arrows and a lit torch.

  “Which of you is the best archer?” asked Bloduewedd, and the women looked at one another, unwilling to speak. “Speak up, or you will feel the rahnta! Who can put an arrow onto the roof or the balcony?”

  Hastily, Blenshi replied, “Vetra was the best, but she was crushed by the logs,” she said. “I am no champion, but I think I could hit a target as large as a balcony.”

  “Then do it!” yelled Bloduewedd, livid at the delay in her plans. Half her women were dead or missing, and she had seen no Reliant since she took off in pursuit of Delinda. Where were the cursed Reliants, anyway? She fumed as Blenshi and the other women determined the best place from which to shoot. As another soldier handed the bow to Blenshi, along with the first arrow, then yet another brought up the torch to light the pitch-soaked arrow tip as Blenshi took careful aim, Bloduewedd almost screamed at their slowness. When the first arrow bounced harmlessly off the side of the building, she had to resist the urge to strangle Blenshi outright. Where was Grenda when she needed her?

  After enduring a stream of curses from the Rahntadrine, Blenshi aimed another arrow, waited until it was lit, and sent it flying onto the roof. To her delight, the dry wood of the shingles caught with a whoosh as the arrow head split apart as designed, spreading flaming pitch over a good-sized area.

  The other women cheered, and Bloduewedd commanded Blenshi to aim another arrow. Just as she was about to let it fly, however, a group of heads appeared over the roof’s peak, and buckets of water were flung at the flames, extinguishing them within a few moments. The men and women on the roof cheered as Bloduewedd cursed and sputtered in fury.

  “Aim for the balcony!” she screamed at Blenshi. “Their buckets will not reach around the overhang!”

  Nodding, Blenshi lowered her sights and this time sent an arrow flying straight over the balcony rail, where it stuck into the wooden doorframe, causing its load of pitch to spray across the door and set the wooden shutters on fire. Cheering, the group moved to stand before the next balcony in order to repeat the performance.

  When the doors of the second balcony were blazing hotly, Bloduewedd stopped Blenshi before she could move on to another window. There were only a few arrows left, and the Rahntadrine sent two of the soldiers back to look for more. In the meantime, she wanted a way to get into the house, in case her plan of forcing the occupants to flee did not succeed.

  “Get closer to the house and shoot a couple arrows into the lower windows. Once the shutters have burned, they will have no way of keeping us out.” Blenshi did as she was told and soon the lower windows were ablaze as well. Blenshi shot her final arrow into a third balcony, and again Bloduewedd found herself impatiently waiting for the soldiers to return with more pitch arrows.

  Soon the soldiers returned, looking terrified as they reported they had been unable to locate more quivers of arrows. “I could go see if I can find someone who still has some out in the fields, Ra-drine,” said one frightened woman. She had witnessed Bloduewedd’s wrath in the past and had no desire to be its object today.

  “There is no time,” snapped Bloduewedd. “All of you, go get one of those timbers and carry it back here. Hurry!” Without waiting for an explanation, the soldiers ran in the direction of the buildings as Bloduewedd fo
llowed on horseback.

  Driven by their impatient leader, the solders were forced to climb in among the bloody, twisted bodies of their dead and dying comrades to pull free one of the uppermost logs, rolling it from the pile to where they could gather around it and lift it onto their shoulders. Groaning under its weight, they carried it back to where the shuttered windows still burned. Two more soldiers rode up, having returned from a mostly fruitless chase through the fields, and Bloduewedd instructed them to dismount and join the others on either side of the log.

  Now understanding the Rahntadrine’s intentions, and with the added help of the additional soldiers, the women were able to run forward with the timber and heave it into the still smoldering shutters. With the first blow, the makeshift battering ram succeeded in shattering the fire-damaged shutters and making a visible hole into the darkened room beyond.

  “Pick it up! Pick it up!” Bloduewedd shrieked, and the women grappled the fallen log back to their shoulders and lined up for a second run at the barrier. Again they ran forward and heaved the timber toward the window. This time, the hole was substantially widened but was blocked by the log itself, which lay half in and half out of the opening. As Bloduewedd shouted and cursed, the soldiers struggled to pull the log free. Just as it began to slide from the opening, a huge crash sounded from the balcony above.

  Bloduewedd wheeled her horse back just in time to see a small group of men and women rush through the ruined frame of the still-smoldering balcony door. A flurry of objects rained down upon the women still grappling with the battering ram—rocks, bricks and an assortment of small but heavy household items.

  An oil lamp crashed, igniting the ground in front of Bloduewedd’s horse, causing him to rear. Bloduewedd was thrown from the saddle and landed hard, the breath knocked from her. Blenshi saw what had happened and, relinquishing her grip on the stubborn log, ran to assist the Rahntadrine in regaining her feet, her arm over her head in an attempt to fend of the rain of debris still being thrown from the balcony.

  “I do not need your help! Let go of me!” shouted Bloduewedd. “What is wrong with you women? You let a few stone-throwing slaves stop you? Get that barrier down NOW!”

  Despite the fact that several of the women were bleeding from being struck by objects from above, they again grasped the log and managed to wrestle it from the opening. Dodging the hail of stones, they reformed the line and again flung the timber at the window. This time, the last of the window frame burst apart as the log flew into the house, leaving a gaping hole almost big enough to ride a horse through.

  “What are you waiting for?” shouted Bloduewedd. “Draw your swords! In with you all, now! FORWARD!”

  Apprehension showing on their faces, the six women drew their swords and moved through the hole into the darkened interior of the house, followed by Bloduewedd, her eyes and her sword glittering.

  The moment they had cleared the opening and stood blinking in the semidarkness, bodies erupted out of the darkened corners. Bloduewedd quickly stepped aside, out of the light streaming through the ruined window and into the shadows near the wall. She heard shouts and the sounds of swords striking metal or wood and as her eyes adjusted she found herself in a large room with high ceilings. A fireplace, with only the faintest glow of an untended fire gone almost dead, was at one end of the room.

  Bloduewedd managed to evade the notice of the group attempting to take advantage of the light-blinded eyes of her soldiers, attacking them with what looked like farm and kitchen implements. A couple of old swords were also being wielded by inexpert hands—no doubt ceremonial items that had hung on the walls of this old house since the days of Delinda’s ancestors. A couple of her guards appeared to be wounded, but Bloduewedd gave them little thought. They were well trained and sworn to give their lives if necessary. Once they adjusted to the gloom, they would make short work of Delinda’s amateurs.

  As Bloduewedd had hoped, her women were making an effective diversion while she sought her true quarry. Keeping close to the shadows clinging to the walls, she skirted the edge of the room, making for the great staircase rising from the great hall’s center to the gallery above. Delinda would be somewhere high, where she could view the battles both inside and outside of the building. With a glance to make sure Delinda’s followers were still well occupied with the swords of her soldiers, Bloduewedd darted up the stairs.

  * * * * *

  Feeling the familiar weight of the sword in his hand, Duwall was surprised at how comfortable he felt. Without consciously deciding to do so, he changed his stance, bending his knees and moving his weight to the balls of his feet. Beteria had dutifully reported the words of the mistress at arms, which, though mystifying to the young girl, had always been instantly clear to Duwall. The secret practice sessions had been intended to help Beteria, a less-than-natural swordswoman, become proficient enough to satisfy the mistress that her young student was making a genuine effort. They had gone on for months and then years, turning Duwall into an apprentice who would have made the mistress proud, had she ever seen him wield a sword.

  As the unconscious memories flooded back to his muscles, Duwall began to circle Grenda, his sword positioned in readiness to strike a blow or deflect one, as an opportunity for one or a need for the other arose. Without realizing it, he smiled in a manner as unpleasant as Grenda’s own.

  Grenda’s ugly face registered surprise when she recognized the stance and movements of a well-trained sword wielder in her opponent, but it only served to brighten her eyes and widen her smile. Malicious enjoyment spread through her as she said, “So, Duwall, ye’ve learned something of swordplay as ye were passed from woman to woman. I can probably guess where without thinkin’ too hard about it.” She made an exploratory thrust, which was neatly parried. She nodded her appreciation of the deft move and continued to face the circling man.

  “I would not imagine thinking too hard has ever been one of your problems, Grenda,” said Duwall, trying a thrust of his own. He was pleased to note that although Grenda evaded his stroke easily, her smile slipped a little and a flash of surprise, quickly hidden, had crossed her unsightly countenance.

  “I wish I had the time to play with ye a bit before I kill ye,” said Grenda. “But me Ra-drine will be needin’ me and she doesn’t like to be kept waitin’, as ye well know.” Suddenly, Grenda’s sword flashed forward with blinding speed. Almost too late, Duwall sidestepped and pivoted to avoid a stroke surely intended to skewer his throat. He felt a sting as something grazed his cheek and as he finished his turn, felt the warm trickle of blood on his face.

  Grenda, her face registering only mild annoyance at his evasion of her intended death stroke, spoke again. “Aw, have I put a scar on that pretty face? Do not worry, Duwall, ye’ll be dead before anyone notices the loss of yer beauty.”

  Grenda erupted with another flashing stroke, but this time Duwall was expecting it and danced out of the way, bringing up his own sword and aiming for her throat. She was too fast for him, despite her bulk and heavy armor. When she turned he saw he had only scratched her cheek in what must have been a mirror image of his own wound.

  “I’d apologize for marking your face,” he said, continuing his circle. “But it could only be an improvement. Maybe small children and the men you would breed with will not scream and run in terror when they see you.”

  As intended, anger flashed in Grenda’s eyes and she lunged for Duwall in an ill-timed rush. Ducking her blow he spun and, just as she realized her error and tried to turn to face him against the momentum of her rush, he thrust his sword into the gap in the armor exposed by her lifted arm. He felt it slide between her ribs and held the handle tightly as it was nearly jerked from his grasp. It came free with difficulty, and Grenda landed heavily on her side with a whump and lay gasping on the ground at his feet.

  Struggling, Grenda rolled onto her back and opened her mouth to shout at Duwall, but blood sprayed from her mouth as she gasped out her final breath. The look in her eyes as the light
left them was one of surprise.

  Duwall stood over her, panting. For most of his adolescence and the early days of his manhood, he had fantasized almost daily about killing Grenda. Now that he had finally done so, he wanted only to vomit.

  A sharp sound captured Duwall’s attention, and he realized Dorin was still struggling on the ground with the unhorsed soldier. Just as Duwall was about to assist, the man raised a large rock in one hand and struck the soldier sharply on the head, rendering her unconscious. Duwall went over and raised Dorin to his feet as the other two rock-throwers, having immobilized the women in the cellar, came to join them. The four of them stared at Grenda’s body, too stunned to speak.

  Shouts from the field drew their attention and they looked up to see some of the soldiers had succeeded in organizing a line of attack, and were driving the men and women who had been hiding in the fields forward into the open. Even as they watched, two men and a woman fell, dead or injured. Dorin picked up the sword Grenda had let fall, grasping it clumsily. Without hesitation, Duwall and his three companions ran toward the hopeless odds, four men with only two weapons between them.

  * * * * *

  Again, Delinda crawled through the hidden hole in the shutter to join Ostyn on the terrace. Seeing her, he said, “You were right. Some of the Reliants are returning from the trees.” He moved to let Delinda look out between the vines. To her horror, she saw a line of women on horseback driving a fleeing group of men and women ahead of them. If any of those on foot turned to face their attackers, they were immediately cut down.

  From around the side of the house that Delinda could not see, four figures ran on foot to join the fleeing defenders, but their presence did little to help the panicked group.