Duty to The King
Geist circled his attacker, whom he felt was equally reluctant to either run away or strike again. The man’s indecision annoyed Geist, and he strode forward, parried a slash with the sword in his right hand and drove the other into the man’s neck. The Night Watchman finally reached Drell as the commander struggled to get off the ground.
Geist dropped his swords and lifted the cloth mask from around his neck over his head. “Easy, don’t move. I’ll get you back to the hall, they can patch you up proper,” he said, as he placed the cloth around Drell’s neck. “This is going to hurt,” he warned, before he yanked the cloth into a knot. The old commander let out a loud grunt in response.
“Ready?” Geist lifted Drell’s arm over his shoulder and helped the man to stand, but when he turned to the hall he was met with resistance. Drell wanted to get to his men.
“We don’t have time for this, you stubborn mule, you’re losing too much blood. Stop fighting me.” Geist scanned the nearby area. They were out of cover and easily assailable.
Unable to speak, the commander squeezed the Night Watchman’s arm, silently imploring him to save his men. “I can’t, I have my duty,” said Geist. “I need to get the baron and his family out of the city. I am leaving with young Lady Radsvinn.” Drell removed his arm from Geist’s shoulder and looked into his eyes with a determination Geist knew was pointless contesting.
“Fine, damn it all, I’ll do what I can, move or I’ll leave you here.”
“Move. Get in line. Reform ranks!” Geist bellowed, commanding the remaining sixteen Shielders at the Lord’s Estate. Most of the fighting was contained at the main gate. Arrows intermittently landed, some of them aflame, igniting the rooftops of some of the buildings. After organising the soldiers, securing the gates was Geist’s priority. Since his intervention, the Shielders had gained the upper hand. They had pushed the attackers back for the most part, with considerable effort and the loss of two more men.
“You two, with me,” shouted Geist. Two of the Shielders rushed to his side. “You, stand by the gate locks and wait for my signal. And you, come with me. We need to get oil or whatever else you have down on top of them.”
Accompanied by the Shielder, Geist fought his way to the estate walls. “Get up there and cut the ropes,” he said as he focused his attention on the main group of soldiers, ensuring no one else could climb the stairs and access the bubbling pots above the firepits at the gate. “Skoldpak formation!”
The fourteen Shielders closed ranks, bringing their shields together in a well-drilled manoeuvre to resemble a turtle. While Geist was assessing the situation, an attacker lunged from behind. The thrust was clumsy, the blade stopped by the mail lining his cloak. Geist trapped the blade against his side with his arm and spun to face the attacker. The shift in position wrenched the sword from the assailant’s right hand. As he drew his own swords, he paused as he recognised the woman who had attacked Drell, deciding in an instant to interrogate her.
Reversing his grip on his right sword, he drove the hilt into the woman’s stomach, doubling her over before crashing the other hilt into the back of her head with a dull thud, rendering her unconscious.
Geist looked back to the soldier by the gate lock, then to the ramparts. The Shielder on the wall had received an arrow to the shoulder but he was still able to cut the ropes. The contents of three large pots of scorching pitch and bubbling animal fat cascaded down upon the attackers at the gate.
Agonised wails, screeches and screams rose above the rest of the din. Those who could, scattered; some clambered even as their skin and muscles tore away from bones.
“Open the gate by half!” Geist shouted.
The Shielder pulled the lever to ratchet open the main gate.
“All forward, get the brace out of the gap!”
The main group of soldiers pressed forward in wedge formation until the men in front had passed the threshold of the estate, allowing some of the Shielders in the next ranks to lift and pull the steel strut into the estate.
There were still some attackers screaming in pain at the gates, and the men at the head of the phalanx finished off those they could reach. “Clear,” came the call from several soldiers.
“Withdraw,” Geist commanded. Most of the attackers outside had regrouped away from the gate and Geist hoped they felt the initiative slipping away. Shouts and taunts were flung at the soldiers instead of axes and swords. Crossbow bolts still shot into the group of soldiers as they made a cautious retreat to the relative safety of the estate.
The Shielder operating the locking system did not need to wait for Geist’s command before pulling the lever to ratchet the Czarrin Steel gates closed and locked into position, to a jubilant cheer from the soldiers. Four Shielders then brought out a large oak beam from a shed at the gates, which was chained into place on the gates to prevent them from being forced.
“Gather the wounded and get to the walls. There are more of them inside.” Geist re-evaluated their situation when the soldiers had reached the walls. Despite the shield formation, four of the men were injured to varying degrees. The soldier who had dropped the contents of the pots had been struck twice more by arrows and was sitting with his left side against the wall, trying to endure the pain and not betray his fear and anguish to his fellow Shielders.
Others were standing near him, offering their congratulations at his heroism, telling the young man the wounds were not bad and joking they would be healed before he was twice married.
One Shielder had been struck by an arrow just below his right eye, but he could still fight. The shaft had glanced the rim of his shield, slowing it enough to penetrate only his cheek bone. After some deep breaths and a lot of cursing in its wake, he wrenched the arrow from his face, which opened a substantial gash. Two other injured men had been wounded from attackers prior to the formation and bled throughout the push to close the gates.
Judging by the ashen faces and the pools of blood around them, Geist knew the men had little time left to live. One was still screaming from a wound to the stomach, the other had lost consciousness from the shock and pain. The Night Watchman could not dwell on the soon-to-be-dead men, so instead he addressed the soldiers. “Eyes on me. We need to tackle those fires and eliminate the remaining attacking force. But first I need half of you to get the wounded men inside the hall as fast as their injuries allow. See to their wounds. Find a physic at the Olnsraum or the hall, to help stop the bleeding.”
“Sir,” came the response from the men.
“Two of you remain in the hall,” said Geist. “The others return to me.”
Six of the men, whom Geist presumed were of the same squad, broke away from the group and moved to the injured men. Geist addressed the remaining soldiers. “I need two men on the gate, refilling the pots with whatever we have, even sand if you must, but keep the fires lit and the pots hot. If they try another attack, let them have it. Stay low and use your cover. Bring some bows, and plenty of arrows. Crossbows would be better if we have them. Signal if you get into trouble.
“The rest of you are to check the walls east and west, work your way to the back of the estate, gather any of the townsfolk and children, bring them to the hall. If possible, try to capture some of the attackers still left inside the grounds. We need to question them and find out who is behind this attack.” Geist could see how unpopular the last order was.
“Be aware of the building heights, watch for arrows,” he continued. “Return to me when you have completed your sweep. We still need to deal with the fires.”
The men moved with purpose. Looking at the large hall, Geist could see it had not been set afire and he knew the baron’s young daughter and the others were still safe inside. He checked the unconscious and now bound woman who had attempted to stab him in the back.
“Now, my dear,” he said, addressing the semi-conscious woman as he moved to the nearest water-filled horse trough. “Time to wake up.”
Thorn was breathing hard as he reached the towering edifice of the Great Watch House at the edge of the sea-cliff known as Herrnan’s Bluff.
Standing upright, he felt an ache around each of his knees and his lower back. The sensation reminded him of having his joints dipped in water that was too hot for comfort. Several dead Slithers lay on the sandy dirt surrounding the tower, most of whom had been relieved of their weapons and armour – some even had their boots taken.
He could tell from the tracks in the dirt that carts had been brought toward the city. Thorn hurried to the entrance of the tower. He attempted to open the large, decorated doors without success. Placing his ear flush with the wood, he tried to listen for any signs of life inside. All he could hear, however, was the roar of the ocean beating against the cliffs below. The wind blew hard at the cliff, making it difficult for him to distinguish different sounds. He arched his neck and could see the ornate fitted grills on the second- and third-floor windows, calculating the distance from the ground, the distance between them and from the top of the tower. He did not like his results.
No other way, he thought, resolving himself to the course.
He took several deep breaths and reached up along the brickwork of the lighthouse. The fireclay bricks, made from stone hewn from the sea-coal cliffs far to the northern territories of Ardtír, were renowned for their strength and durability. His claws were not hard enough to dig into these bricks, only the mortar around them; and from the ground the gaps were difficult to see near the top.
I hope you appreciate what I’m doing here, you grumpy ape. We are both too old for this nonsense, thought Thorn.
His arms bore his weight as he tentatively moved his clawed feet off the ground. He chose a course which would shield him from the wind and bring him to each of the windows. He was surprised how quickly he made it to the first floor. In between the windows, however, he was forced to grip tight to the wall as violent gusts blew around him.
All things being equal in measure, Thorn thought, looking to the top of the tower, it may have been easier to face the rioting hoards at the docks.
Roslind and the men from the Lord’s Estate arrived at the docks. She dismounted and presented herself to the First Commander of the City Guard, Hrókar Erstemann, as he was giving orders to the captains gathered around a vellum map of the city resting across six large oak casks. For Roslind, there had been no mistaking the former Captain of the House Shield, who had always arrived at the estate at the start of the week with some form of treat his wife had made for the baron’s young children, be it pieces of sweet seedcake, delicious salt-bread or even part of an apple tart.
The memories of her father, mother and Hrókar sharing funny stories, or of she and Ulrik playing with Hrókar’s son on summer mornings and long into the afternoons came back to her. Although she tried, Roslind could not recall the name of Hrókar’s son. He died one winter many years ago, sometime after Roslind had left for the academy. He had red hair like his father, and once had a pet frog. Roslind could not understand why she could not think of the boy’s name.
She put her frustration and guilt aside as the commander spotted her, and the big man’s face broke into a broad smile.
“Well, burn my beard,” Hrókar beamed. “You’re a woman grown, and a knight no less – has it been so long? Welcome home, Sir Roslind, how was the road from Drottenheim?”
“Long and set to be longer still. It is some welcome they have prepared,” replied Roslind, a warm smile on her face. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances, sir, but I am glad you have joined us,” said Hrókar. “The prowess of a knight could be of real benefit here. Let me explain what we are facing.”
He drew the knight aside to speak privately. Roslind explained her concerns that the riot was nothing more than a tactic to divert and exhaust the City Guard’s resources, as part of a larger attack.
The veteran warrior told Roslind that he had considered this when he heard the Tocsin; and had posted some of his men to keep watch at the walls and the horizon, and to inform him should any force be seen. He had also sent scouts out in all directions from the city. He assured Roslind any fleet of attacking ships would be visible or reports would have been received from the outlying islands, so he did not expect any attack from the sea. “Don’t worry, my lady, we will deal with this rabble and round up the ring leaders. It will be Justice of the Cliffs for the lot of them.”
The expression sparked a memory. A common idiom for the method of executing convicted murderers in Aksson, Roslind had not heard the phrase since she was a child. She remembered attending the sentencing of some criminals with her father and brother, where the children would be taught the importance of justice and the value of laws.
Roslind hoped Thorn had found her father and was returning with him to the estate. Regardless of her desire to ensure her father’s safety, Roslind knew her duty was to quell the violence. “Commander,” she stated, as she resolved to stay, “we need to put a quick end to this with as few deaths or injuries as possible. These are the people we should be protecting.”
“True, but we often only ever get half of what we want, m’lady. We could end it fast but there would be blood, or we can take our time to contain and break up the groups. Considering the deaths of the Shielders earlier and some of my men since, my gut is telling me to let loose and bury my hammer into each one of these bastards. But I am not deranged. I have ordered restraint, but it has not always been an option.” Hrókar gave a slight shrug.
Roslind felt it was necessary to end this conflict quickly so she could see to her father, but not if it meant a slaughter to get to him. “We should take the longer road, what can I do to help?” asked the knight.
The commander looked at her mounted soldiers. “There is no doubt in my mind some of them will try, if they haven’t already, to raid the city’s food stores,” he said. “If you took your men and a few of mine to block the path between the riot and the stores, you could use the horses in the squares to break up the groups and the rest to round them up. Then work your way back here. If they get past you, they will go straight for the ice houses, butteries, granaries, and the salt stores further into the city. The loss of the food stores would be devastating for us. Can you keep them back?”
“On my honour,” said Roslind, nodding and clasping the big man’s wrist. “Oln guard your back.”
The numerous fires at the docks and surrounding streets had caused a thick smoky haze to wrap around every building in the area, and they seemed to loom over Brokk as he rushed through the narrow back streets. He held tight to his shield and sword as he ran. The shield bore several fresh scratches and a dent – things had turned bad on their way here, and fighting had erupted all around them. The steel of his sword, never tested in battle, had crimson stains and one or two nicks where it had clashed with other weapons, despite the order for swords to remain in scabbards.
The Shielder’s white uniform was tarnished with splashes of blood and dirt. There was an acrid taste of burnt wood in his mouth and his breaths were interrupted by a need to cough or spit as he ran. He stopped at each corner to ensure the way was clear, before darting into the next alleyway. At the next corner, the young Shielder checked his bearings.
He had arrived at the rear of the building he was looking for. It was a house which overlooked a small open area known as Salt Square.
The group of soldiers, under Roslind’s command, were pinned down by archers at the corners of Salt Square, a marketplace which was empty except for an occasional abandoned cart and two rows of permanent wooden stalls at its centre. The falling arrows were preventing efforts to close off a substantial section of the docklands from the rioters.
Brokk’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he needed to stifle his coughs. The image of the first life he had ever taken flashed again in his mind. He tried to shake off the distracting thoughts and focus on the task at hand. It did not stop his hand from shaking as he reached for the handle of the door and eased his way into the house.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Brokk spun, ready. It was one of the Slithers bearing a winged spear with its bulbous steel fixture at the bottom of the shaft, the traditional weapon of the City Guardsmen.
Brokk recognised this man from earlier. He had not volunteered but had been commanded by Sir Radsvinn to accompany the group. Brokk signalled him inside. “Make sure none of them come in behind us,” he whispered.
The City Guardsman, older and more experienced than Brokk, gave a shallow nod and took up a position to face the entrance of the building. The smoke had entered the building, but without any sort of wind to disperse it, it was difficult to see anything. Sounds of fighting, screaming, and shouting came from every direction outside.
Brokk climbed the stairs, concealed by the thick smoke. He could hear two voices, instructing each other and celebrating hits or at least the hits they could see through the haze. The voices sounded strange to the soldier, but as they were mixed with the sounds of the streets he could not tell why. He risked a quick look into the room, before moving back to the Slither at the door. He brushed his shoulder and held up two fingers. Again, the Slither nodded. This time, however, his lip curled into the hint of a smirk as he moved to the foot of the stairs.
In silence, Brokk signalled he would attack the man at the rear of the room and the guardsman should attack the man at the nearest window. With his shield in front of him, Brokk moved into attack position.
The two men ascended on the archers. Brokk ran his target through before the archer was even aware of anything happening. The Slither ran up the stairs, wild jabs of his weapon aimed at the second archer. One of the frenzied lunges landed through his target’s back at the collar bone, severing the artery at the neck and pinning his target to the wooden wall. A high-pitched squeal emanated from the archer, who struggled to prize himself free, still unaware of what had struck him.
Brokk looked again at the archer he had killed. He was not much more than a boy. The realisation emptied Brokk’s lungs as he found it difficult to regain his breath. It was not the idea of killing an opponent or enemy which made Brokk reel. It was the idea of having to kill a child, which had never entered his mind before.
The shrieks of agony still came from the other archer, who was of a similar age – thirteen, fourteen at most. “Are you finished shitting your bags?” sneered the guardsman, as he pulled his winged spear free, causing the boy to collapse to the floor in screaming agony and a spray of arterial blood to reach the ceiling of the room. “Your first?” asked the guardsman.
Brokk knew what the older man meant and gave a minimal shake of his head. “No, I –” the Shielder stumbled.
“Ha! You need to get yourself a nice girl with big tits. Nothing like a tumble after a kill. Let us move on to the next house. Nothing worth taking here, it’s already been picked clean.”
The youth was still crying out.
“F-finish him off, for the mercy of Oln,” Brokk mustered.
“Nah! I’m gon’ let the li’l pig squeal. He can’t shoot anymore, and I clipped him on the neck. He will die soon enough. Maybe his screams will be a warning to the others,” said the Slither, before spitting on the writhing child and descending the stairs.
Anger rose instantly in Brokk. He moved to where the archer lay, howling like an injured pup and making a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. Brokk knelt beside the boy, staining his white tunic in the large pool of blood around him. The screaming gave way as the child’s breathing became too laboured to continue, and instead there came a heart-breaking series of hoarse exhalations. His wide eyes were looking at the Shielder. The boy was so full of fear, pain, and desperation for understanding that Brokk was compelled to take up his hand and hold it tight.
“Close your eyes, lad,” Brokk uttered. The soldier offered a silent prayer to Oln for the collection of both the boys’ souls. Then the young one’s grip eased.
Standing up, Brokk could see another set of archers, men this time, in positions across the small square, loosing arrows at the soldiers from both the ground floor and upper floor of what looked like a baker’s shop. Now refocused on his mission, Brokk snatched up the young archer’s bow, notched an arrow and drew on the string, waiting for the smoke to clear again to fix his aim.
He loosed on the building, sometimes through the smoke, other times with clear sight of his targets. It was not long before arrows flew back in his direction. An arrow sped through the window inches above his head, and he dropped to the floor.
Gathering himself, he continued to shoot arrow after arrow, unsure if he had struck anything, considering his moderate skill with the weapon. The smoke was still making breathing so difficult that the Shielder needed to stop to gather his breath once again.
He peered across the square, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bakery through the increasingly dense smoke. Then, through the haze, he saw a body lying halfway out of the upper floor window. He could also make out uniformed men inside the building on the ground floor. The soldiers had made it to the other side of the square, which meant the entire cohort could progress.
It was time for Brokk to return to Roslind for further orders. He slung the bow over his shoulder, gathered his large shield, his sword, and the quivers of arrows. As he descended the stairs, he cast his eyes back to the dead boy.
This is going to be a long day, he thought.