The Devil's armour eog-2

by John Marco

  ‘It’s a fine host, my lady,’ he trilled, ‘but overconfident to be sure. The Liirians aren’t like Dugald thinks, and Count Onikil has the same streak of stupidity. I worry.’

  ‘Yes, you worry too much,’ said Jazana. She was tired of his warnings. ‘Now especially is not the time for such talk. There’s a task to be done. Let’s have at it quick and clean.’

  The mercenary adjusted his beret and nodded. ‘Aye.’

  Not far away, his horse and escort awaited him. Soon he would ride out to the southern front and rouse his men to war. The southern bastion was Andola’s best defence, and like the eastern wall it was well fortified with men and arms. They could take the whole city, but until they took the bastion their battle would not end.

  ‘Dark,’ Jazana commented absently. There were very few lights visible in the buildings of the city. She supposed the people were hiding, dousing their candles and lanterns to keep her hordes away. For a moment she was sad for them. This wasn’t a fight for slaves or gold or even territory. This was something different.

  ‘Pride.’

  The word slipped past her lips before she could stop it. Rodrik regarded her strangely.

  ‘Ravel,’ Jazana explained. ‘He could have avoided all of this if not for his stupid pride. Such a foolish man.’

  Rodrik Varl smirked. ‘Pride isn’t the purview of men alone, Jazana. Not only men are ruined by it.’

  ‘Oh, just say it, Rodrik. Before you ride off to kill people, please — let’s have the mercenary’s lecture on morality.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rodrik gamely. ‘I’ll tell you. I think this is a mistake.’

  ‘So you’ve said, many times.’

  ‘Not because I’m afraid for Liiria, but because I’m afraid for Norvor. You’ve bent your whole life toward winning Norvor, and now you’ve turned your back on it.’

  ‘Jealousy,’ she sighed dismissively.

  ‘No.’ He grabbed her hand and yanked her around to face him. ‘Listen to me. You’re playing a dangerous game, and if anyone here is jealous it is you. You think to lure Thorin back to you by destroying his family? His country? What about your own country? Norvor needs you, Jazana.’

  She pulled free her hand and would not look at him. ‘Norvor is mine. I fought for it. No one can take it from me now.’

  ‘But the people must see you! They must know you care. Otherwise you’re just another tyrant, just another Lorn the Wicked.’ Rodrik shook his red head, exasperated. ‘You’re battling ghosts, Jazana.’

  ‘Rodrik, I have ghosts that never quiet,’ she said. Suddenly she was desperate to be away from him. ‘Just a little more,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all I need.’

  Rodrik Varl’s lamentful sigh told Jazana Carr his disappointment. ‘Jazana, I do not understand you any more.’

  ‘It’s a jewel, Rodrik. The greatest jewel.’ Jazana’s eyes focused not on the city but on the nation beyond. Great Liiria, with all its riches and history. Even fractured, it was the centre of the world. It was important, in a way that Norvor had never been.

  ‘Ah, but how much is enough? How many jewels does it take to satisfy you, Jazana?’

  Jazana Carr smiled at her bodyguard. ‘Sweet Rodrik. You’re right — you don’t understand me. You’re a good man, but you have a stunted imagination. Let me help you. .’ She put one arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Then, with her free hand she pointed out toward Andola. ‘What is beyond Andola?’

  Rodrik thought for a moment. ‘The Liirian shires.’

  ‘And beyond that?’

  ‘The Novo valley, I think.’

  ‘And beyond that?’

  ‘Koth.’

  Jazana Carr grinned. ‘And what’s in Koth?’

  ‘Breck and his men,’ said Rodrik sourly. ‘And trouble.’

  ‘The library, Rodrik. The library! And all its knowledge, and all that it can teach us. That’s what made Liiria great. That’s what made Akeela a great king, why people remember him. He was a madman, yes? Yet people deify him! They speak his name with reverence, as if they’ve forgotten the ruin he brought them. And why? Because he made them see the stars.’

  Rodrik Varl blinked silently.

  ‘This is no different than winning Norvor,’ Jazana went on. ‘It’s the same war. We’re bringing good to the world, just as Akeela did.’

  Whether or not he believed her, Rodrik merely nodded. ‘My men are waiting,’ he said finally. He pulled himself from her embrace. ‘Don’t expect to hear from me too soon.’

  ‘I want reports, Rodrik. As soon as it’s safe enough, I intend to ride forward.’

  His smile was wan. ‘I’ll do my best for you, my lady. You know I always do.’

  With a slight bow Rodrik Varl dismissed himself, leaving her alone in the shadow of her pavilion. He did not turn back to her, nor say a word to his waiting men. He simply mounted his horse and rode off, toward the danger of the southern bastion.

  On the roof of the southern bastion, Colonel Bern watched as dawn crept over the world. To the east, where a battalion of his men secured Andola’s eastern wall, the sun struggled over the distant hills. The sky blushed with the coming morn. The night breeze was fading and the air was still, rank with the smell of lamp oil and pungent smoke from the brazier behind him. Like a furnace, the giant brazier coughed up a thick, blanketing smoke. Colonel Bern could feel the heat from the fire against his back and neck. The brazier, he knew, could be seen for miles, like a defiant fist raised against the Norvans. At last, his enemies were moving. Reconnaissance had reported at least a thousand men on the southern front, and now Bern could see that monster beginning to stir, a great, dark, undulating mass. Inside the bastion he had less than five hundred men to hold them off. Bern licked his lips uncertainly. He had good men stationed through the city, more soldiers than he should have needed, but Jazana Carr’s pockets were deep indeed, and even he had been stunned by the force she had gathered.

  The old Royal Charger adjusted his cape about his shoulders. The morning was fair, yet he was chilled. Nearby, his many archers stood ready on the rooftop. Like their brethren lining the catwalks below, they had trained tirelessly for this day. They would do a proud job, Bern was sure. It would not be an easy victory for the Diamond Queen. She had endless amounts of gold, apparently, but Baron Ravel had opened his own coffers wide. At Bern’s command were four battalions of men, armed and well supplied. Against a normal siege they could have endured for weeks.

  Unfair, thought Bern wistfully.

  Unfair that he should fight a mercenary like Rodrik Varl and be forced to lose. He ground his jaws together as he studied the army massed against him. Where was Varl, he wondered? Would he come here, to the southern bastion? Or would he take on the eastern wall?

  Here, he decided. He’ll come here because he wants to face me. The thought comforted Bern. He was a Liirian, and happy to defend his country. He was not a mercenary like Rodrik Varl or the whore-queen’s other men.

  Far below the tower was a courtyard. Both the yard and keep were surrounded by a twenty-foot stone wall. The wall was lined with catwalks and the yard filled with men and horses, ready to spring forward once the gate was breached. Beyond the yard stretched a hilly field of grass, now empty. Bern’s eyes paused carefully on the field. As high as he was, he could see nothing of the trap they had set. Nor could he smell it, for the brazier did a good job of masking the odour. He smiled, satisfied with his plan. It had taken more than a day for his men to soak the field with oil, and two days to gather all the lamp oil in the city. Except for candlelight, Andola was mostly dark now. Bern supposed his enemies would not see the clue, for they were under siege and frightened people always hid in darkness.

  At last he turned away from the field. He watched the brazier on the rooftop spouting smoke and orange flames. Liiria was a place of many gods, and whichever deity controlled the wind was on his side today. Only a few sparks rose up from the fire, wafting up like fireflies then harmlessly fading away. It was not
the way soldiers should die, but he had decided a long time ago that Jazana Carr’s men weren’t soldiers any more. Even the Liirians among them.

  I am a soldier today, he decided. For a moment, the brazier was like a holy thing, and his thoughts were like a prayer. Finally, at last, he was a soldier again. Finally, at last, his cause was just. More than anything, he wanted to end the day without regrets.

  Aliston, who had been a captain in the Royal Chargers and who still held that rank in Bern’s unofficial army, caught a glimpse of his commander staring at the flames. Not far across the tower, Aliston had been talking to a group of men, directing them on the timing of their archery, which needed to be perfect. Smart in his Charger’s uniform, Aliston was in control of the tower archers, while Bern himself took command of the bastion. He was a young man compared to Bern, but had long ago become a confidant. Seeing his troubled colonel, the captain ended his conversation and strode across the rooftop. The fire was hot on Bern’s face, and when he noticed Aliston coming toward him he turned from it.

  ‘Colonel,’ began Aliston cautiously, ‘we’re ready now. I can take command up here, sir.’

  Colonel Bern nodded. Of all the concerns he had today, Aliston’s abilities were not among them. He noticed the younger man’s taut face, masking the fear he must be feeling. There was pride in the crispness of his uniform.

  ‘I’ll give the order when it’s time to light the field,’ said Bern. ‘No mistakes, Aliston. Don’t let anyone get carried away. Don’t let the bastards have a hint of what’s coming.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Aliston. ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Aliston — we’re Liirians.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be here, but we are. So we made mistakes. But we’re not mercenaries today. We’re Royal Chargers. We’re soldiers.’

  Captain Aliston cleared his throat. ‘Sir. .’

  ‘No, I know what you’re thinking. But we’re all Royal Chargers today. Get your men to think like that or they’ll leave the field. I want them to have a reason to fight. That’s what I’m passing on to you, and what you need to pass on to your men. We’re not fighting for Baron Ravel. We’re fighting for Liiria.’

  The words struck the captain, and for a moment his disciplined face emoted. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He glanced over Bern’s shoulder at the Norvans. ‘They’re on the move.’

  ‘They are,’ said Bern with a nod. He didn’t need to look behind himself; he already knew what they faced. Firmly facing his captain, he said, ‘We’ll do our best. But we won’t die for no reason. This is just our first battle, Aliston. After this, Breck and his library brigade will carry on.’

  Aliston smiled at his commander. ‘It feels good to be part of a country again.’

  ‘Keep that thought in your head,’ advised Bern. ‘Make the others believe it, too. And let’s start living without regrets.’

  There was no more said between them. Bern left the roof and went down into the tower. There he checked on the stations along the spiral landings, all fortified with crossbowmen to oppose the siege, then proceeded down into the keep. Like the tower, the keep itself was heavy with men and arms. The main doors to the keep remained open, leading Bern out into the yard. In the yard he found his horse. A hundred more horses were there as well. Both men and beasts wore plates of heavy armour. Nevins, Bern’s cavalry commander, stopped what he was doing when he saw the colonel approach and quickly reported the cavalry’s readiness. Bern reminded Nevins that they were no longer mercenaries, and how they were fighting for Liiria. Nevins thought for a moment, nodded silently, then offered Bern his horse. Colonel Bern refused his mount, instead climbing up to the catwalks lining the high wall to join the archers. To his lieutenant on the wall he delivered his same simple message. Like Nevins, the lieutenant nodded gravely.

  There on the catwalks of the southern bastion, Colonel Bern waited with his fellow soldiers.

  An hour after leaving Jazana Carr, Rodrik Varl sat upon his horse facing the formidable southern bastion. Morning broke like a violent wave over Andola, spraying sunlight through the acrid smoke rising up from the bastion tower. The stink of burning oil irritated Varl’s nostrils. The grass beneath his charger’s hooves shone with dew. Rows of mounted soldiers flanked him, safely distant from the bowmen crowding every inch of the bastion’s walls. Alongside the cavalry, footmen with swords and maces waited anxiously for the battle call, when they would race headlong into the field fronting the bastion. In the centre of the army, a huge battering ram had been readied. Silent on its oiled wheels, the stout fist of timber stood manned by a hundred brawny conscripts, men not good enough to be soldiers but eager for Jazana’s gold. They would die by the dozens, Rodrik knew, but there were hundreds more to take their place. In the rear where Jazana waited, there were scores of men to be tapped, poor souls who had dragged themselves to Andola for the promise of food and gain.

  Rodrik Varl snorted against the smell. The world around him stood remarkably silent. An eager murmur rippled through his men. The clopping of a thousand horse hooves sounded extraordinary. Varl waited a moment more, enjoying the relative peace that would soon be wrecked. At the eastern wall and at the western border and at the badly exposed, gaping hole of north Andola, men just like these were ready to strike, to tighten the noose and suffocate the city. Varl listened very carefully, unsure if Count Onikil or Kaj or Dugald had began their assaults. He supposed the time had come. Regretfully, he looked at the southern bastion and knew that brave men were inside it, ready to defend their nation. Next to him, his fellow mercenary Aykle from Astan nudged him from his daydream.

  ‘Roddy? What’s the word?’

  Aykle wore his hair braided like a savage. He was a big man in bulging leather, but his soft eyes told Varl he shared at least some of his wariness. They should have been in Norvor, and Aykle knew it, too. But mercenaries weren’t given choices.

  Rodrik Varl took his sword from its scabbard and raised it high above his head. He wondered if Colonel Bern was in the bastion, and if the old soldier could see him.

  ‘Attack,’ he cried. Then, louder, ‘Attack!’

  A cry rose up from the ranks of men. The first line of cavalry bolted forward, covering the advance of the infantry and bowmen. Shields raised against the coming rain of arrows, the horsemen charged across the wet green toward the field, their comrades on foot echoing their cries. Varl watched as his men thundered into battle. Eventually he would join them, but not before his bowmen answered the arrows from the wall. Already the archers along the catwalks were raising their weapons skyward. Scores and scores of iron-tipped missiles tilted up. Among the lusty cries and snorts of horses Varl heard the twang of bowstrings. The Liirian arrows leapt for the sky, arcing through the murky sunlight. Varl’s own archers hurried forward, racing against the deadly rain. Like vengeance from heaven the arrows fell upon them, plummeting down. Among the infantry and archers the arrows fell the worst, piercing hearts and windpipes in an indiscriminate massacre. The horsemen galloped forward, undeterred, calling their brethren to follow as they hurried toward the wall. They would secure the field, attack the gate, and make an opening for the ladder-men.

  Again the sky filled with arrows. Again they missed Rodrik Varl and the reserves by yards. Next to Varl, Aykle squirmed anxiously on his speckled stallion, eager to lead his own horsemen into the fray. Varl held up a hand to calm him.

  ‘When I say so,’ he reminded his comrade.

  The first of his archers were in place. In unison they fell to their knees, drew back their weapons, and gave the first reply. Along the catwalks and battlements the Liirians ducked the whistling barrage, granting the Norvans needed breath. When he was sure the barrage from his men would continue, Rodrik Varl ordered the next rank of horsemen and infantry toward the field. Aykle of Astan raised his brutish sword and led his mercenaries into battle.

  There were Liirians among the attackers. Colonel Bern could see them from his place on the catwalk, still wearing
their threadbare uniforms as though they were somehow proud of what they were doing.

  Below the wall the field was crowded with cavalrymen and infantry, all trying to secure the area and make ready for the ram. Bern shouted orders to the men along the walks, who concentrated their arrows on those nearest the walls. Inside the tower, the crossbowmen with their powerful ballistae pumped bolts at the Norvans, puncturing the armour of the horsemen and sending them sprawling from their mounts. With practised ease they traded positions, falling back to load their weapons while another took a shot. The air overhead filled with Norvan arrows, falling into the yard and forcing the men to take cover. Nevins gathered his horsemen into groups near the wall to protect them from the barrage.

  So far, though, the Norvans seemed oblivious to the oil slicking the grass beyond the field. Colonel Bern peered out past the throngs of darting men and saw how the reservists flooded the green. Rodrik Varl had held back hundreds of his men. Even the battering ram rested there. Bern thought for a moment, wondering if he should give the order now, while he had a chance to burn the ram.

  But he could not give the order. Later — when the bastion fell — they would need the fire’s cover.

  At Andola’s eastern wall, Kaj and his Crusaders had battled for two hours and had gained only modest ground. Shortly after dawn they had launched their attack on the old fortification, but the city had grown out past the wall since its construction, leaving Kaj and his men with a bloody, street-to-street advance. The Liirians held the wall tightly in the hands of at least two hundred men, but had also positioned fighters in the houses lining the way. Ravel’s hirelings had done an admirable job of holding back Kaj’s more experienced men. Without armour and armed with quick, curved blades, the Crusaders advanced slowly toward the wall, occasionally pushed back by a barrage of Liirian arrows. Though he had over three hundred men at his command, Kaj kept most in reserve behind him. So many men would have choked the narrow avenues, and he preferred his own brigade — his Crusaders — to do the real fighting. As they advanced down a street of battered shops and abandoned homes, crossbowmen appeared at the other end of the road. Kaj ducked behind a broken shutter as the bolts blew past him, turning the avenue into a deadly funnel. Overhead, the rickety structure of the house groaned, threatening to give. He and his men sucked in air as they pressed themselves against the crumbling cobblestone. A few of his men sprinted forward, sheltered themselves behind open doors and returned fire.