by Paul Hoffman
Then he had other things to be worried about. Around the side of a line of Materazzi pressing forward, two dozen Redeemers appeared. In groups of three they attacked any men-at-arms looking for a way to get to the front of the fight. One tripped them with a long billhook, a second hit them with one of the hefty mallets they had used to bang in their wooden stakes, and a third stabbed them under the arm or through the eyeholes of the helmet. With the stragglers down, they even started to use the billhooks to pull back the legs of the men pushing in line to get to the front. In the crush and mud, and not expecting an attack of this kind, soldiers who would have been almost invulnerable anywhere else slipped and fell and were dispatched waving and struggling in the mire, helpless as newborns.
Then a group of Redeemers saw Cale and moved to take him from three sides. An arrow struck the one to his left in the eye, a bolt the one on his right. The first fell silently, the second screaming and scratching at his chest. The third still had a look of astonishment on his face as Cale struck at his neck and cut his throat deep into his spinal cord. He fell thrashing in the mud beside the Lord of Six Counties he had slaughtered only seconds before. Then Cale stepped into a second fight, holding the arm of his attacker to one side, crashing his forehead into the Redeemer’s face and stabbing him skillfully through the heart. A billhooker went down openmouthed to one of Henri’s bolts, but Kleist’s arrow only took the mallet-wielder in the arm. His luck lasted two seconds as Cale, slipping in the mud, missed the fatal stroke and took him in the belly. He fell crying out, and lay where it would take him hours to die. Then another wave of men-at-arms pushed back the Redeemers that remained, and Cale stood, covered in blood and impotent, not knowing whether to turn this way or that. All his great skill was nothing in the press and the confusion—now he was just a boy in a crowd of dying men.
And then, just as he was about to turn away, there was another collapse. Sixty men deep ahead of him, the biggest yet, and a split going far toward the front opened up. For a second, terrified, he hesitated, knowing this breach was the very jawbone of death opening up for him. But fear of failure in his lover’s eyes drove him into the briefly widening gap, and able to run far faster than the slipping armored men around him, he made it to within a dozen feet of the front. But all that met him was an impenetrable wall of dead and dying Materazzi. No one in front of him had a wound; they had simply collapsed on top of each other and were being crushed by the weight of those above them and pushing from behind. For a few moments there were only the piles of dead and a strange, low groaning. The helmets of some had come loose, others, trapped but with a hand free, had removed them in a desperate bid for air. Their faces now were purple, some were nearly black—a few groaning in a horribly wheezing effort to fill their lungs—but nothing could enter their horribly crushed chests. Even as Cale looked, the breathing stopped and the mouths gaped like fish on a riverbank. Several spoke to him—horrible whispers. “Help! Help!” He tried to pull a couple free, but they might as well have been set in the rice flour and concrete of the Sanctuary walls. He turned away and scanned the piles of the dead and dying moaning around him.
“Help!” creaked a voice. He looked down at a young man, his face a dreadful purple blue. “Help!” Cale looked away. “Cale. Help!”
Astonished, Cale turned back. And then he recognized him, even beneath the puffed-up black and blue of his face. It was Conn Materazzi. An arrow shot past Cale’s right ear and pinged as it hit one of the armored dead. He ducked down next to Conn.
“I can finish you quickly. Yes or no?”
But Conn didn’t seem to hear. “Help me! Help me!” he said—a horrible soft and rasping sound. Once again, more powerful now with the appalling sight of someone he knew, Cale felt the awfulness of being here—and how useless. Looking anxiously over his shoulder, he could see the gap that had let him so near the front begin to squeeze to a close as the Redeemers forced the Materazzi on the edges back into the middle. He stood up to run for it. “Help me!” Something in Conn Materazzi’s eyes froze the hairs on his neck—the dreadful horror and despair. Cale reached into the pile of dead and heaved with all the strength he had, doubled by rage and fear. But Conn was pinned, one below and three on top, by a thousand pounds of dead weight and sheet steel. Again he heaved. Nothing. “Sorry, chum,” he said to Conn. “Time’s up.”
Then he was sent sprawling to the ground by a hefty shove in the back. Frightened and surprised, he slipped on the mud as he tried to pull his sword and scramble free of his attacker.
It was a horse. It looked at him and snorted expectantly. Cale stared at the animal—its rider dead, it was looking for someone to lead it away from the battlefield. At once Cale grabbed the rope fastened to the saddle, knotted it around the hefty pommel then rushed to tie it round Conn’s chest and under his armpits. His face was black now and eyes sightless. Luckily the rope was thin but very stiff, more ceremonial than practical, and easily pushed under one arm and then the other. Cale tied it, howling in rage as he fumbled it twice, and then fell over in the mud trying to jump into the saddle. More desperate than ever now, he grabbed the pommel and, seeing the gap closing, screamed in the horse’s ear. Startled, it set off, slipping and flailing in the mud, almost falling but finally getting a purchase as it pulled with all the strength of a large hunter used to carrying three hundred pounds on its back. At first nothing moved, then with a rush and the snap of Conn’s right leg, he was pulled free of the pile of dead men crushing him. With this rush of movement the horse nearly fell again and Cale almost lost his grip on the saddle. Then they were off, the three of them heading for the gap at no more than four or five miles an hour. But the horse was strong and well trained and it moved, happy now, for all the disaster around it, that it had a rider on its back. The instinct that had kept the horse safe in its wanderings around the battlefield for more than fifteen minutes in the middle of a massacre now kept it safe again. Cale held his body as flat to the horse’s back as he could, ready to pull his knife and cut Conn free if he threatened to pull them over. But the mud that had caused the death of so many Materazzi, and was to kill many more, was Conn’s savior. Unconscious, he slumped easily in whatever direction he was pulled, almost like a sled in snow. Cale kept his head down and urged the horse on with his feet, not seeing the two Redeemers coming to meet the slowly moving animal. Nor did he see them fall, crying out in their horror and distress as if one man, cut down by the dreadful watchfulness of Kleist and Vague Henri.
Within less than three minutes the horse had made its way through the mass of men who were being pushed into the center of the field and, without drama or fuss, left the battlefield, carrying the rattled Cale and dragging the unconscious Conn into a narrow path between Silbury Hill and the impassable woods containing the battle. Once out of sight, Cale stopped the horse and got down to look at Conn. He looked dead, but he was breathing. Quickly Cale stripped off his armor and with great difficulty manhandled him, stomach down, over the saddle. All the while, unconscious, Conn groaned and cried out from the pain of his broken ribs and right leg. Cale led the horse on and within five minutes the sound of the battle faded and was replaced by the sound of blackbirds and the wind moving through the leaves of the woods.
An hour later Cale was overcome by an abrupt wave of exhaustion. He looked for a way into the woods and, failing to find an entry through the mass of briars and thorns between the trees, had to cut a way in, though he was slashed over his face and arms as he did so. Once past the edge, however, the thickets gave way to a mulch of dead leaves. He tied the horse and eased Conn carefully to the ground. He stared at him for a couple of minutes as if unable to understand what had brought them to this place together. He set his leg as gently as he could and strapped it with two branches he cut from an ash tree. Then he lay down and immediately fell into a deep and terrible sleep.
He woke up two hours later when the nightmares became unbearable. Conn Materazzi was still unconscious, now white as death. Cale knew that he had to
find water at least, but he was drained and exhausted still, and for ten minutes he just sat as if in some dreadful trance. Soon Conn began groaning and moving restlessly; he woke up to find Cale staring down at him. He cried out in horror and confusion.
“Calm down. You’re all right.”
Wide-eyed and terrified, Conn tried to move back and away from Cale. He screamed in pain. “I wouldn’t try moving around,” said Cale. “Your thigh bone’s broken.” For a couple of minutes Conn said nothing as the terrible pain in his leg only slowly ebbed away.
“What happened?” he said at last. Cale told him. When he’d finished, Conn said nothing for some time. “The thing is,” he said when he finally spoke, “I never saw one—a Redeemer, I mean. Not one. Is there any water?” Conn’s utter hopelessness and misery, just the terrible state of him, began to move Cale to both pity and irritation.
“I saw some smoke just before we came in here. I thought I heard yesterday something about a village near the hill. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stripped the armor off the horse and cut away as much as he could of the mailed padding on its back and flanks and then led it out onto the path. He mounted and stroked the top of its head.
“Thank you,” he said to the horse, and then rode it on.
35
Within three hours Conn Materazzi had been collected by a local farmer, put to bed and had his leg reset and rigidly splinted with four hazel sticks and eight leather straps. He’d passed out again and groaned pitifully during the hour or so it took Cale to straighten the leg satisfactorily, and had not yet regained consciousness. Indeed, he was so deathly white at the end that it didn’t look as if he ever would.
“Cut his hair,” said Cale to the farmer, “and bury his armor in the woods in case the Redeemers come. Tell them he’s a laborer. If I make it to Memphis, they’ll send people for him. They’ll pay you. If not, he’ll pay you when he’s well enough.”
The farmer looked at Cale. “Keep your advice, and your money.” And with that he left them alone together. Shortly after this, Conn woke up. The two of them stared at each other for some time.
“I remember now,” said Conn. “I asked for your help.”
“Yes.”
“Where is this place?”
“A farm, two hours from the battle.”
“My leg hurts.”
“It’ll need to stay like that for six weeks. No telling if it will heal straight.”
“Why did you save me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t have done the same for you.”
Cale shrugged. “You never know about things like that until they happen. Anyway, I did—and that’s all there is.”
Neither of them said anything for some time.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll head for Memphis in the morning. If I make it, I’ll send someone.”
“And then?”
“I’ll take my friends and go somewhere the soldiers aren’t mad and stupid. I didn’t think it was possible to lose a battle from such a position. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“We won’t make the same mistake again.”
“What makes you think you’ll get the chance? Princeps won’t hang around at Silbury admiring himself in the mirror; he’ll be kicking your arse all the way to the gates of Memphis.”
“We’ll regroup.”
“With what? Three out of every four Materazzi are dead already.” Conn could say nothing in reply, but lay back miserably and closed his eyes.
“I wish I were dead,” he said at last.
Cale laughed. “You need to make up your mind—that’s not what you said this morning.”
Conn looked, if such a thing were possible, even more dispirited. “I’m not ungrateful,” he muttered.
“Not ungrateful?” said Cale. “Does that mean you’re grateful?”
“Yes, I’m grateful.” Conn closed his eyes again. “All my friends, all my relatives, my father, every one of them is dead.”
“Probably.”
“Certainly.”
This was probably true, so Cale could think of nothing to say.
“You should sleep. There’s nothing else you can do anyway but get better and pay the Redeemers back in whatever way you can. Remember: revenge is the best revenge.”
And on this wise note he left Conn to his miserable thoughts.
The next morning at first light he left, riding the horse and having decided there was no need to say good-bye to Conn. He had, he thought, done more than enough for him and was now somewhat ashamed of having risked his life for someone who, by his own admission, would not have done the same for him. He remembered a remark made by IdrisPukke when they had been smoking together one night under the moonlight at Treetops: “Always resist your first impulses. They are often generous.” At the time Cale thought this was just another of IdrisPukke’s black jokes. Now he realized what he’d been driving at.
Despite his anxiety to get back to Memphis to be sure Arbell Swan-Neck was safe, Cale started out heading northeast in a wide arc away from the city. There were going to be too many Redeemers and Materazzi wandering about in the confusion, and none of them too particular about who they killed. He avoided towns and villages and bought food only from such isolated farms as he came across. Even so, news of a great battle had reached all of them; though some talked of a great victory others spoke of a great defeat. He said that he knew nothing about it and moved on quickly.
On the third day he turned west and headed for Memphis. Eventually he hit the Agger Road that ran from Somkheti to the capital. It was deserted. He waited in the trees above the road for an hour and, when nothing passed by, decided to risk using the road directly. This turned out to be his third mistake in four days. A strange unease had grown over him the closer he got to Memphis. Within ten minutes a Materazzi patrol came around a sharp corner and he had no opportunity to avoid them. At least they weren’t Redeemers, and he was relieved, if surprised, to see that the man leading them was Captain Albin. Though what the head of the Materazzi intelligence service was doing out here puzzled him. But puzzlement turned to alarm as the twenty men with Albin drew their weapons. Four of them were archers on horseback, their arrows pointing directly at Cale’s chest.
“What’s the problem?” said Cale.
“Look, it’s out of our hands, but you’re under arrest,” said Albin. “Don’t cause a fuss, there’s a good boy. We’re going to tie your hands.”
Cale had no choice but to do as he was told. Probably, he thought, the Marshal was angry about his having left Arbell with Kleist and Vague Henri. An alarming thought struck him.
“Is Arbell Materazzi all right?”
“She’s fine,” said Albin, “though perhaps you should have thought more about that before you buggered off to wherever it was you buggered off to.”
“I was looking for Simon Materazzi.”
“Well, it’s nothing to do with me. Now we’re going to blindfold you. Don’t be a pain about it.”
“What for?”
“Because I said so.”
In fact it was a sack, heavy and smelling of hops, the hessian so thick that it cut out almost as much sound as light.
Five hours later and he could sense the horse under him straining as the going suddenly became steep. Then through the sacking he could hear the hollow sound of horseshoes on wood. They were going through one of the three gates into Memphis. Despite the sacking, he expected to hear much more noise now that they were in the city, but though there were occasional muffled shouts, only the continued sense of going uphill indicated that they were heading for the keep. His anxiety over Arbell began to form a knot in his stomach.
At last they came to a halt.
“Take him down,” said Albin. Two men reached up on his left side and pulled him over, gently enough, then stood him on his feet.
“Albin,” said Cale from under the sacking, “take this off.”
&n
bsp; “Sorry.”
The two men took him by either arm and pushed him forward. He heard a door open, then he sensed he was inside. He was led along what sounded like a corridor. Another door creaked open and again he was carefully pulled along. Within a few yards he was stopped. There was a pause and then the sack was pulled off his head.
A mixture of dirt in his eyes and having been in complete darkness for so many hours meant that he could not see at first. With his bound hands he rubbed his eyes free of the specks of hop dust and looked at the only two men in the hall. One he could tell immediately was IdrisPukke, gagged and with his hands tied—but as he recognized the other man standing beside him, a terrible surge of fear and anger made his heart miss a beat. It was the Lord Militant Redeemer Bosco.
After the first few seconds of shock and hatred, Cale felt like sinking to his knees and weeping like a child. And would have done but for the fact that hatred rescued him.
“And so, Cale,” said Bosco, “God’s will brings us back to where we began. Think about that while you gawp at me like a bad-tempered dog. What have all your anger and divagations brought you?”
“What’s happened to Arbell Materazzi?”
“Oh, she’s quite safe.”
Cale was unsure for all his deep shock whether to ask about Vague Henri and Kleist. He said nothing.
“Not concerned about your friends?” asked Bosco. “Redeemer,” he called out loudly as a door opened at the far end of the room and Vague Henri and Kleist, gagged and with hands tied, were led into the room.
There wasn’t a mark on them, although they were clearly terrified.
“There are a number of things I am about to tell you, Cale, and I would like to waste as little time as possible with conventional expressions of disbelief. Have I ever lied to you?” he asked.
He had beaten him savagely every week of his life and made him kill on five occasions, but now that he had been asked the question, he had to admit that Bosco had, as far as he was aware, never told him an ordinary lie.