by R. S. Ford
‘What now?’ said Mullen, jumping down from his horse.
‘Now we secure the portcullis and wait to be rescued,’ Josten replied. ‘No point putting ourselves in needless danger, is there?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said a croaky voice behind them.
Josten turned to see an old man, who looked every bit as derelict as the fort surrounding him, standing in the courtyard.
‘Why not?’ Josten asked, dreading the inevitable answer.
‘Portcullis don’t work. Hasn’t for years.’
‘And you’d be?’
‘Gerrard. The castellan of Fort Carlaine. I’ve been here for—’
‘All right, we don’t need your life story,’ said Josten, jumping down from his saddle. ‘Listen up, you lot!’ he shouted, voice ringing out across the courtyard. ‘We’re going to have company any time now, and it’s not the polite conversation and cakes kind of company your mother likes. Secure the gate, check your weapons, and if any of you pray I’d start right about now.’
As men-at-arms went about securing the rickety gate that looked ready to fall off its hinges, Mullen came to stand beside Josten.
‘So, what do you rate our chances?’ he asked.
Josten thought about it for a short while, rubbing the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, Tarlak Thurlow, the most renowned brigand in the Red Forest, is on his way with twenty of his dirtiest bastards to kill us all and kidnap the duchess. We’ve got six men-at-arms, me, you and a couple of handmaids to defend her with. Oh, and that old man there.’ Josten pointed to the frail-looking castellan as he limped across the courtyard, making himself busy with nothing in particular. ‘We’re in an ancient fort with a gate that would blow down in a stiff wind and the only help we’ve got coming is ten leagues away.’
Mullen nodded at the news. ‘So, what you’re saying, in a nutshell, is that we’re royally fucked?’
‘Something like that,’ replied Josten.
‘Great.’ Mullen turned to the men-at-arms and started barking orders of his own as they piled barrels and hefted a broken cart in front of the main gate.
Josten took the stairs up to the roof of the gatehouse, surveying the keep. Its walls were crumbling, of that there was little doubt, but they still had a solid perimeter to defend. The drawbridge and portcullis were out of action but at least there was only one way in and that was through the gate. If they could defend it long enough for help to arrive, they might make it through this.
It was a slim hope.
For a fleeting moment Josten thought that he should just run. That he should grab Mullen and get the hell out of there. But he knew that wasn’t an option. There was one reason this had become more than a job. There was more than just gold keeping him here, and he’d most likely get killed because of it.
‘Everyone gets what they deserve,’ he said under his breath.
The sound of beating hooves echoed through the forest and Josten saw a score or more horses break the tree line. At their head was a fearsome-looking brigand, his beard unkempt, tall even in the saddle. Josten had heard of the man but never seen him in the flesh. Tarlak Thurlow’s appearance was every bit as formidable as his reputation.
With a renewed sense of urgency, Josten moved down the stairs to the gate. The men had done a good enough job of shoring up the defences and it now looked like it might take more than a stiff breeze to knock the gate over. There were gaps in the wooden timbers and Josten could see Thurlow and a couple of his men jump down from their saddles.
‘Who’s in charge?’ Tarlak shouted across the drawbridge.
Mullen glanced at Josten with a shrug.
‘That would be me,’ Josten replied through a gap in the gate.
‘A name would help,’ said Thurlow, like he was talking to an idiot.
‘Josten Cade. Guard Captain of her ladyship, the Duchess Selene of Ravensbrooke.’
‘Cade? I’ve heard of you, son. I’m—’
‘I know who you are.’ Josten could see Thurlow’s mouth twitch into a smile, pleased his infamy preceded him.
‘Then you know why I’m here and what I’ll do if you don’t give her to me. We’re not interested in you, Cade. You and your men can walk away from this. Just hand over the duchess and no one has to die. What do you say?’
Josten had already taken a loaded crossbow from the hands of a man-at-arms. There was a big enough gap in the gate for him to aim and fire through. Unfortunately, his aim wasn’t all it could have been. The bolt crossed the drawbridge before Thurlow could make any more demands, the man to his right taking it full in the chest and dropping without a sound. Josten had been aiming for Thurlow but he’d always been better with a sword than a crossbow. Either way, he’d made his point.
‘Does that answer your question?’ he shouted, as Thurlow and his men scrambled to safety.
Josten handed the crossbow back and looked to Mullen, who just stared in disapproval.
‘So much for negotiations,’ Mullen said.
‘I think I’ve made our position clear,’ Josten replied.
‘And I reckon Thurlow is glad you were so straight with him. I’m sure he’ll return the favour and make his position just as clear while he’s nailing our heads to the nearest tree.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Mullen. There’s always a bright side.’ Josten turned to the rest of the men, who looked a fine mixture of brave and shit scared. ‘Right, lads. Time to earn your coin. It’s going to be a busy afternoon.’
He looked back through the gap in the gate as Thurlow began to muster his men for the fight and realised that busy didn’t even start to cover it.
2
‘PUT your backs into it!’ Mullen shouted for the umpteenth time as he and the men-at-arms braced themselves against the gate.
The gate bowed inwards as Tarlak Thurlow’s bandits battered against it, screaming in rage, desperate to get inside. A spear shot through a gap in the timbers, slicing one of the men-at-arms across the shoulder and he screamed as he backed away.
‘You’ll live,’ said Josten, pushing the man back towards the gate to add his weight to the press.
He finished loading a crossbow, aiming it through the gap and pulling the lever. The bow snapped and Josten grinned at the scream that told him the quarrel had found its mark.
The gate bent in once more as the bandits assailed it with renewed vigour.
‘You’re just making them madder!’ Mullen shouted over the grunting and yelling.
‘What do you want me to do? Start negotiating again?’ said Josten, adding his own shoulder to the press.
‘I think it’s a bit late for that,’ Mullen had time to reply, just as an axe came hacking through the wood in front of his face.
One of the men-at-arms slid a sword back through the gap the axe had made, looking pleased when it hit something solid. The look of satisfaction didn’t last long as an arrow came flying through the breach and lodged in his neck. He staggered back, gripping the shaft, gagging and choking. There was nothing any of them could do but keep pressing themselves against the gate as he died.
‘Where the fuck is Duke Harlaw?’ growled Mullen.
Josten was thinking the same thing, but he knew there’d be no rescue yet. Even if Duke Harlaw rode like Aethel the Stallion God, he wouldn’t reach them before the gate fell and they were slaughtered to a man.
‘All right, enough of this shit,’ Josten said, his patience all but lost. The gate was going to fall eventually; there was no doubt of that now. Better to go down fighting than stuck like pigs in a pit.
He picked up a shield, drawing his sword and bracing himself behind the gate.
‘Open it up,’ he shouted.
One of the men-at-arms said something about him being a mad bastard, but Mullen just nodded. They’d been together a long time, and if anyone knew what a mad bastard Josten Cade was then Mullen Bull was the man.
But he also knew what this mad bastard was capable of.
Jo
sten braced his shield as Mullen pulled open the gate. He almost laughed when he saw the look of surprise on the first brigand’s face. Josten brought his sword crashing down through the brigand’s skull. He fell without a sound and Josten slammed his shield into the face of a second brigand before the rest came at him in earnest.
With Mullen holding the gate half shut they could only reach him one at a time, and Josten went to work as they tried to squeeze through. He felt his heart pumping, violence welling up inside as he braced behind his shield, feeling the thump of sword and axe against it, biding his time, waiting for his moment. When it came, he swung, the keen edge of his sword connecting with a brigand’s arm, slicing flesh and severing sinew to the bone. The brigand screamed, dropping his axe and trying to retreat, but the press of men behind him meant he had nowhere to go but down.
Josten raised his shield again in time to catch another blow, the strength of it jolting up his arm. He gritted his teeth, taking a second strike, before he ducked down low, sweeping his sword against an exposed leg. Another slicing of flesh and muscle, another scream. Another brigand hit the ground.
There was the snapping of a crossbow from over Josten’s shoulder and he felt the cold rush of a quarrel hiss past his cheek. A brigand in front of him took it in the jaw and fell back, eyes wide, not quite understanding what had happened.
Josten pressed in again. This time the shield was forgotten as he hacked at the brigands, not giving them a chance to raise their weapons. One went down as Josten’s sword smashed through his shoulder. Another tried to back away, desperately fending off Josten’s relentless attacks.
‘Retreat!’ someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
The brigands needed no further encouragement after seeing half a dozen of their lads cut down in no time at all.
Mullen watched them retreat for a moment as Josten rushed inside, before he slammed the gate shut. A couple of the men-at-arms gave a little victory cheer, clapping each other on the shoulder at a job well done. Josten almost felt like joining in, but one of them screamed before he had the chance, an arrow buried in his back.
‘Bastards,’ said Mullen, regarding the parapet that ran around the fort.
Josten turned to see a group of brigands had managed to scale the wall on the eastern side of the fort, the last of them still pulling himself over the crumbling merlons.
‘Stay on the gate,’ Josten shouted at the men-at-arms as he raced towards the steps leading up to the battlements. ‘Mullen! On me.’
He could hear Mullen grumbling behind him about how it was always him had to do the following as he mounted the steps. An arrow clattered against the wall at the side of Josten’s head, reminding him to keep his shield up. He felt the thud of a second arrow embed in the wood before he’d taken another two steps.
The walkway was only wide enough for two men abreast and Josten rushed forward, glad that the brigands up here would be funnelled in much the same way they’d been at the gate. Another arrow lodged in his shield as he charged forward, not slowing as he barged into the first brigand who grunted at the impact, the whiff of his bad breath hitting Josten’s nostrils for the briefest of moments before he swung his shield, taking the brigand across the side of the head and toppling him from the walkway. The bandit fell into the keep, slamming onto the cobbled courtyard with a sickening thump that had a finality all its own.
Josten crouched low as the next brigand came screaming at him. That was always a giveaway – if they came at you with a scream on their lips they were shit scared, using noise to hide how terrified they were. The brigand’s axe came down in a desperate hack, and Josten easily caught it on his shield, countering with a quick stab to the groin. The scream of fear rose in pitch to a squeal, the brigand darting back, dropping his axe and grasping a crotch that was fast soaking with blood. The man behind pushed him out of the way, sword held high and Josten rushed to meet him.
This one was silent, not afraid but determined, and their weapons clashed. The pair of them struggled, slamming against the edge of the battlements. Josten saw more brigands coming on behind. Caught up as he was in a wrestling match, there was nothing he could do to defend himself.
Relief washed over him as Mullen squeezed past, a growl coming from his throat as he bowled into the brigands, his sword chopping down relentlessly, each blow punctuated by a word of profanity.
‘Fucking. Bastard. Shit…’ he barked, battering the brigands.
Josten was still struggling with the enemy in front of him. He was wiry but strong, spitting his desperation through gritted teeth. A knee to the bollocks freed him as the bandit squealed and Josten stepped back, his sword flashing, cracking the brigand’s skull.
As his enemy fell he stepped forward, ready to help his friend, but Mullen had already pushed back the rest of the attackers and they now stood alone on the battlements.
Josten glanced back down towards the gate, half expecting the brigands to have attacked anew and the remaining men-at-arms to be fighting desperately for their lives, but they simply stood watching pensively. Then one of them pointed through a gap in the gate.
‘Look,’ he shouted.
Josten moved across the battlements towards the gatehouse, half expecting Tarlak Thurlow to be leading his men across the drawbridge once more. Instead what he saw made him grin the widest grin he’d ever mustered. A column of horses was galloping down the forest road. Even from this distance he recognised the eagle and rose banner carried by the rider at their fore.
‘Well, that’s a bloody relief,’ said Mullen, as Josten rushed down the stairs.
The men-at-arms had already opened the gate, laughing and shouting abuse at Tarlak and his brigands as they desperately leapt atop skittish horses to make their escape. Josten couldn’t help but laugh along with them as he watched from the open gateway.
‘I’ll fucking have you, Cade,’ shouted Tarlak Thurlow, as he reined his horse around.
Josten couldn’t resist firing him a wink in the absence of a loaded crossbow. Thurlow only had time to blow a gob of hateful spit before digging his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloping off to safety.
‘Stand aside,’ came a voice from behind them, and the men-at-arms’ sniggers turned to loud guffaws as they saw the old castellan staggering across the courtyard. He was weighed down by an oversized breastplate and helmet, and a huge halberd slung across his shoulder in an unwieldy manner. ‘I’ll show these bandits what for. I fought with Lord Blodwin at the Battle of Silak Moor. I’m not afraid of common thugs.’
Josten couldn’t help but add his own laughter to the crowd, looking up and seeing Mullen grasping his knees, bellowing his glee to the ground. This was the kind of victory he liked – the painless kind where he didn’t have to have anything stitched up or bandaged.
As he turned back to watch Tarlak’s retreat something hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the cobbles of the courtyard staring up at the grey sky. Mullen was by his side, saying something that Josten couldn’t hear. It was all so confusing, right up until he looked down at his shoulder and saw the flight of an arrow sticking up like someone had planted a flag right through his hauberk.
So much for painless victories.
3
HE was groggy from the herbal tea he’d been given and now his mouth tasted like the inside of a tart’s chamber pot. At least he was still breathing.
The arrow lay in pieces beside the pallet bed he sat on. Thankfully he’d not been conscious when they removed it. There was nothing like the pain and humiliation of being awake while your wounds were treated and he was glad to avoid it whenever possible. Intense agony always had a funny way of changing a man’s demeanour. There was no way to look tough and cry your eyes out at the same time.
Fortunately for Josten, one of Duchess Selene’s retinue was a former Priestess of Maerwynn and fully proficient in battlefield surgery. She was none too gentle, and he grunted in pain as she
tightened the bandage that bound his shoulder and chest.
Mullen stood in one corner of the room, arms crossed over his gut, smiling in amusement at his comrade’s discomfort. Josten stared back as the handmaid continued to minister to him, gritting his teeth and doing his best to pretend he wasn’t in excruciating pain. The handmaid tightened his bandage with a final tug and Josten grunted. Mullen opened his mouth and laughed silently. As the handmaid turned to leave Josten offered him a two-fingered gesture.
‘Don’t move around too much or you’ll tear the stitches,’ she said as she reached the door. ‘Drink plenty of water. Boil it first.’
‘What about wine?’ Josten asked.
‘No wine,’ said the handmaid, as though he were an idiot.
‘Ale?’
She shook her head despondently as she walked through the door.
‘Is he allowed spirits?’ Mullen called after her, before sniggering at the lack of an answer. He looked Josten up and down. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘How am I looking?’ Josten replied.
‘I’ll admit, you’ve looked better. Still a lucky bastard though.’
‘Strange then, that I don’t feel it.’ He tried to adjust himself on the pallet bed and winced at the twinge of pain in his shoulder.
‘Another inch or two and that arrow would have made a serious mess of your collarbone. Then you’d have something to moan about.’
‘Coming from you, that’s a bit rich.’ Josten tried moving his arm. It felt like he was being stuck with a hot needle.
‘Apparently, I’m in charge of Duchess Selene’s guard detail while you recover – so it’s not all bad news.’ Mullen grinned from ear to cauliflower ear.
‘At least something good’s come of this,’ said Josten, raising an eyebrow as high as he could. ‘I’m so pleased for your sudden turn of good fortune.’
‘Thanks.’ Mullen couldn’t seem to lose that grin. ‘I thought you’d be happy for me.’
The door to the chamber opened before Josten could tell his friend exactly how fucking happy he was.