The Mountaintop
The baron and his Shielders battled up the stairs of the Great Watch House, past the second floor to the landing of the third floor. One of the archers with Rullo stumbled in his retreat, allowing the Shielders to rush forward and prevent his escape. The kill was ensured by the baron, who shunted his sword through the man’s neck as he lay on the stairs.
The thick curtains of the third-floor room were drawn, leaving it in darkness. An attempt was made to close the iron door, but it was foiled by the Shielders who rushed the doorway. The soldiers held their ground. Arrows lashed the shields of his men, but the rate of fire told Feylan only one archer was firing at them. Risking a glance into the room, the baron could see nothing of Rullo or his allies.
“You hide like a rat rather than face me? You coward!” the baron roared at the darkened room. There was no response. A different idea occurred to the baron. “I’m speaking to the men who are following Rullo Thangen. If you lads throw down your arms, you will be treated fairly and justly. There will be no Justice of the Cliffs if you come out, I swear it by my name. If you bring Rullo with you, you will even be rewarded.”
There was silence before another arrow pranged off a shield.
“Prepare to move, men,” the baron ordered.
The lead Shielder, Rafn, looked back to acknowledge his lord. He caught the movement of a dark shape behind them in the shadows of the pantry on the second floor. “Look out!” he shouted as he attempted to get between the shape and the baron. Feylan spun in response. He turned enough to have a dagger catch him in the side instead of the back.
The attacker shunted his blade through the baron’s leather belt and mail shirt. The blade was drawn out again for another attack. Feylan roared and lunged forward. The two men crashed and tumbled down the steps and against the wall. Rafn rose to follow them when an arrow from the darkness pierced the back of his neck and burst through his throat. The soldier attempted to reach for the arrow before he dropped, tipping forward down the stairs. The baron and his attacker continued to struggle even as they landed at the second-floor landing. Feylan landed on top of the other man, and with the advantage.
With a swift movement he reached out and grabbed the man by the chin and rear of the head before twisting the neck. The screams of the man filled the structure as the baron struggled. The scream became a howling wail. The neck cracked. The wailing stopped.
Breathing heavily, the baron reached to his new wound – he was not bleeding much. He found both his lost sword and Rafn’s body at the same time. The anger welling inside him was so intense that his vision was overtaken by a white hue. He removed the large shield from Rafn’s arm, fixed it to his own and stomped up the stairs. “Move,” he demanded as he approached the two remaining Shielders. The soldiers were slow to see the thinking behind the baron’s order.
“Move, or I will go through you,” he snapped. Feylan let out a tremendous battle cry as he pulled his shield in front of him and charged up the few remaining steps to the third-floor chamber.
The Shielders followed into the room. The men placed their backs together with their shields in front of them to protect themselves from all sides. An arrow whisked at the three men from the darkness above, from somewhere in the rafters. One of the Shielders reacted by raising his shield at an angle to the walls. The second Shielder’s arms had fallen to his sides. The arrow had penetrated the top of his neck and had driven its way into his heart.
The soldier crumpled to the floor. By the time the baron realised what had happened, another arrow found his left calf muscle, the fletching catching on the top of his boot. The baron fell to his knee.
“The window,” came the simple command, to which the Shielder reacted. The soldier slung his shield to his back and scampered to the thick curtains. The drapes and pole came crashing to the floor. Light burst into the room. The baron found the archer and launched his sword towards him. The shock of its blunt impact to the archer’s head caused the man to lose his position and crash to the floor in a clattering of loose arrows.
Both men scanned the rest of the room in preparation for an attack from Rullo. The baron cursed when he realised Rullo was not in the chamber. Feylan disguised his limp as he approached the fallen archer, the arrow still protruding from his calf muscle.
The Shielder rushed to the baron’s side and retrieved his lord’s sword from the ground, returning it to him. The two men stood over the unconscious archer. The baron lifted his sword to the archer’s neck and drove it through.
The baron moved to the large map table and placed his shield and sword on it. He drew his curved knife from his belt and cut several strips from the curtains before easing onto the chair. He examined his wounded leg.
“Your name is Bradán, right?” the baron asked.
“Yessir, Bradán Edock, named for my father, who was also a Shielder before me.”
“Ah yes, I remember him. A good man. Fine soldier. How is he these days?” asked Feylan.
“He is in good health, m’lord,” Bradán replied. “He picks out tunes on the lute with a small group at the Mermaid’s Goose on Tide Square most evenings. Not much coin in it but he gets ale and food.
“He told me he once went to war with you. I would have liked to be there from the way he tells the tales. Em…forgive me, m’lord,” Bradán asked, “but what about the other one, in the armour?”
Feylan folded and tied the strips together. He cut the loose part of his belt, rolled it, and placed it in his mouth. Clamping his teeth down on the leather and holding the arrow at either side of the wound, he snapped the shaft at the fletching before easing the rest of it through his calf muscle. He pulled the strips around his calf as tight as he could tolerate.
The baron looked at the Shielder, then back to his injured but functioning leg. “Battlefield dressing. I can’t leave it like this for long or I’ll lose the leg, but it should do fine for now.” Feylan noticed the Shielder looking at the body of his fellow soldier. “It’s not like your father’s stories, is it? Sometimes, you do not have the benefit of a physic or an Olnsraum. Sometimes there are no bandages, no supplies, no water. All a man has in the end are his own screams.”
Feylan recalled this morning’s events, when he had taken an assassin’s life. The memory of the body on the floor brought with it something dark and familiar he could not place, clawing its way from the shadowy recesses of his mind. The Baron of Aksson swallowed hard as doubt and confusion crept into his heart.
“Oh, my lad, never let anyone tell you war and battle are things of glory and honour. Don’t let them tell you that. Not even your father,” the baron resumed, his face darkening. “War is heartache and torture. It is pain and the destruction of everything good. It is mankind’s curse. He is so good at finding new ways and new reasons to kill, despite them usually being old ways and old reasons. I would pray to Oln to end all war, but I have prayed to Oln many times before and he has never once heard my voice. Maybe I have never been worthy of his blessings.”
There was a long pause, while Bradán looked on with fear and confusion.
“He must be on the roof, and unless he has learned to fly, I am inclined to let him rot up there, but…” The baron paused as he grunted and stood up, testing the strength of his wounded leg. “I cannot leave him up there to damage the lens assembly or set fire to the whole blasted tower. I am going to make the traitorous snake pay for the lives he has taken, and I think I want to see if he can fly. Are you ready, lad?” He placed his hand on the Shielder’s shoulder and stood.
“Yessir,” confirmed Bradán, nodding.
“Up the stairs with us, then.” The baron secured his shield to his right arm and took his sword from the table with his left hand. “We have a rat to catch.”
Thorn grabbed the long ornate metal grill of the window of the third floor of the Great Watch House. It was just wide enough for him to place his feet between the bars to gain some respite from the climb.
The wind had grown stronger at this height. His hands and wrists ached, and he could feel the muscles across his back and shoulders spasm before he attempted the best he could to stretch them out. From here he could see across the entire city, including the fires burning at the docks…and the Lord’s Estate.
So, it is invasion, he thought.
Peering into the third-floor window and trying to stop the light of the sun reflecting off the glass, the cougari first noticed what looked like a Slither lying in a pool of blood. He scanned the rest of the room. He could see another two men in Shielder uniforms on the floor, lying dead beside each other.
The baron is not here. I must hurry to the roof, thought Thorn. The idea of resuming his climb was not a welcome one.
Movement from the ground attracted his attention. There was a group of townspeople, some City Guardsmen, and two House Shield soldiers gathering at the immense door with a battering ram crowned with a ring of iron spikes and slung from chains on a frame.
They will be too late, he thought.
Thorn arched his back again before moving up to the top of the grill for one last pause. Through the wind, the cougari heard raised voices from the roof, one of which he was certain was Feylan’s. He heard pleading screams before someone was pitched from the roof.
The baron scrambled for his sword after Rullo knocked it out of his hand with a well-placed strike to the crossguard. The fight was not faring well. Feylan’s injuries were taking their toll, slowing him and causing him to misstep.
Rullo moved proficiently, parrying one opponent with his shield while striking at the other in an effortless flow of reaction as the baron and the Shielder attempted to find an opening. Rullo was skilful and quick, but having to deal with two relentless opponents was tiring him also. The baron could tell Rullo was paying more attention to him than the Shielder, a choice almost costing the man his life.
The baron struck downwards with a powerful blow, causing Rullo to raise his shield and brace himself with both arms – he was momentarily exposed. The Shielder was too inexperienced and unsure of himself, and he failed to act quickly enough. The moment’s hesitation let Rullo block the baron’s strike and spin to slam his shield against the side of Bradán’s head.
Rullo then reversed the spin and thrust the rim of the shield into the soldier’s throat with an audible crunch. The young soldier reeled backwards, gasping for breath.
Feylan lunged at Rullo. His injured calf muscle betrayed him again, putting him off balance. Rullo seized the chance to unleash a powerful kick at Feylan’s chest, knocking him to the floor. By the time the baron was on his feet, it was too late to stop Rullo casting the still choking Bradán over the wall.
“You murdering bastard!” roared Feylan. “Traitorous snakes like you deserve to die! Come on!”
“So eager to die, Stone Bear?” The sarcasm dripped from Rullo. “It is a shame you were not so eager earlier; the boy might have survived this day. Although there is no guarantee, of course. Before long the city will have a new master.”
“What are you talking about, madman?”
“Take a look, my lord. See how your city already burns.”
Feylan had been so focused on Rullo when he and Bradán rushed the stairs that he had not noticed the plumes of black smoke from the Southern Docks. “What have you done?”
“What have I done?” echoed Rullo. “No, baron, this is all your doing. You are the one who made this attack possible. You refused to listen to the people. Now watch them as they rise in defiance of you and all the evils your governance has brought upon them. The fleet scatters to the winds, taxes on your people have been raised to breaking point, the Temple bleeding its devout followers of their money and dignity. Because of you, the city is ready to tear itself apart, but because of the evils of the Temple, very few will try to stop it.
“The truth is, the teachings of the Temple of Oln are nothing but a compendium of deceit and lies in theory, and a concoction of ancient superstitions and hokum in practice. I see the truth, Feylan. The Temple of Oln must be brought down. It has become unprincipled and underhanded, merciless and tyrannical in its affairs, exploiting the people and showing disloyalty to the king, just as you have. This is Oln’s mission, I am but his servant.”
“You will be nothing when I am through with you,” said the baron. Feylan ran at Rullo, angling his sword to skewer the traitor’s gut. The attack was too obvious – Rullo sidestepped the stroke and tripped the baron while pushing him down, crashing him against the fly pen and tearing the sword from his grip.
The traitor reacted with speed, picking up the lost sword and levelling it at Feylan’s neck. The baron locked eyes with Rullo and forced himself to his feet in defiance. He found it difficult to stand on his wounded leg, and his side was damp with blood from his other wound. He could not tell if his lungs, leg, or side caused the most pain, but it came at him with every laboured breath.
“Tell me, you backstabbing kern…if your quarrel is with the Temple, then why attack Aksson? This is not where their elders sit. Why here?” The baron spoke loudly enough to be heard over the gusts, stalling to catch his breath and plan his next move. Still levelling the sword, Rullo moved the baron to the rear of the lens assembly.
“We are going to make the Temple starve, as it has let countless children starve as they tithed these devoted servants far beyond their ability to pay. When payments to the Temple are refused, it employs slavers and pirates to attack islands and towns as a lesson, so it can then offer solace and protection. Clerics of the Temple flitter from one island to another, collecting these tithes every month, using your ships to do their unholy work…” Rullo paused. There was no angry denial from the baron – no outrage, no laughter at the idea of it all. He stared at Rullo with furious eyes and a clenched jaw.
“So, you did know. It is as I suspected,” said Rullo. “We shall stop the flow of gold to the Temple’s vaults, like stopping the flow of blood to the Gothai’s iniquitous hearts. Their armies will abandon them, the king will side with the Temple, which shall be his undoing. His armies will not be enough to stand against us without the Temple soldiers and he will cast his men aside like a losing gambler hoping the bones roll right.
“When the temple has been abandoned and the king is weakened, all of Gaelgara will be free of their corruption and filth. People will be free to worship Oln in their own way.
“I tried to convince you the Temple was not what it seemed. I wanted to present the evidence I had, but you did not speak with me for months. Others did speak to me, however, and they could see what you chose to ignore. When we are victorious here, the Temple will no longer be supplied with Aksson salt, will no longer have the King’s Krakens to do its bidding.”
“Why tell me this, Rullo?” the baron asked, readying himself.
“Only one of us is leaving this rooftop alive, Feylan. I have no fear of being killed here. Not when my part in Oln’s plan is far from over. I tell you this because I once considered you a friend. It is unfortunate you must die so countless others will not be sacrificed by your unwillingness to surrender.”
“You can keep your friendship, traitor.”
“Nonetheless, Stone Bear, you had it. Granted, it was shattered when you told me what you did to poor Noemi. I was dismayed when I heard she was dead, but when you told me you murdered your wife, thinking she was the cause of your misfortune…we both knew your mind was slipping into shadow, but I never thought it would go so far as to hurt anyone, especially her. I –”
“Silence, fiend!” the baron spat. “I will not permit you to speak of her. You must have killed her.”
“I have done many questionable things in my time here, Feylan, but her blood is on your hands. You told me yourself how you poisoned her. You said she was asking too many questions, that she was about to betray you, when I am sure it was nothing more than concern for yourself. If it was not for my sacred duty, I would have slit your throat right then, but I could not risk Ulrik becoming baron and shutting me out at that time.
“Think, Feylan. You will remember. It appears your brush with the damned scratcher heathen has caused the effects of the Lakdet you asked for to wear off. You wanted it to help you forget, but the clarity should be returning.”
The baron concentrated, trying to remember what had happened to his wife. The images gaining focus in his mind were unbearable: the weakness, the powerlessness, the paranoia he had endured. He had not been in full control. He remembered the poison, remembering himself muttering as he grasped the vial in shaking hands and silently approached Noemi as she lay asleep.
The realisation of what had happened next struck him harder than any weapon might have. He didn’t want to remember any more, but he could not dismiss the images. His body was shaking. The shield slid from his right arm and, with Rullo almost forgotten, the baron moved back to the wall to stop himself from collapsing.
He let out a terrible, lamenting scream.
“You are a murderer, Feylan. And while an animal like me may very well deserve to die, so, baron, do you,” said Rullo, holding the man’s sword closer to his neck. “But before it happens, it is time you had a last look at another part of your burning city. Sweet, innocent Kitsvanna might be turning to ash as we speak. Despite not wishing her harm, I know that the pain you will feel at losing her can be some sort of justice for Noemi.” Rullo gestured with the sword. “Look behind you.”
The baron was struggling with it all. He could barely comprehend what was happening.
I can’t breath, I can’t…breathe. Help me, my love! – Noemi’s voice.
Using the wall of the tower, he turned, hoping Rullo was lying. Hoping this nightmare would end. Hoping his little swan was not dead. Through his tear-filled eyes, Feylan could see the splendour of the city in the midmorning sun as the light reflected on roof tiles, white-walled buildings and the shimmering Sonton Falls River lounging its way to the bay. His hope left him.
My wife is slain by my hand, my house burns. I wish for death.
“Goodbye, my friend,” said Rullo, as he rammed the sword through Feylan’s back. A dark explosion filled his vision, as if colour and light were being drained. Looking down, he could not fully distinguish the blood-stained blade protruding from his chest from the rings of chainmail through which it had passed.
He could no longer control the movement of his body. The pain shot along his spine – his heart was being ripped apart. He reached for the blade, not knowing what he would do with it other than push it back out. Before he could grab it, the blade disappeared, causing a fresh surge of pain that was then somehow diminished. He was being lifted, strong hands gripping his limbs. The colour of the stone tower faded and he was staring straight at what looked like a brick path in the air. He saw a familiar face. Not a human face.
It was the face of an old friend.
Thorn…He has me. I’m safe. He let go…he let go…he let g-
Alerted by the scream, Thorn had climbed with redoubled effort…
A shadow fell over him. It was the baron. Thorn snaked out his left hand and dug his claws into the baron’s chainmail and dropped with him, grabbing the bottom of the grill of the third-floor window with his right hand. The muscles in his right shoulder exploded in pain at the same time as the claws were ripped from his left hand. He let out an agonised roar. The baron crashed into the bars of the second-floor window, spinning him several times until he struck the ground. Then he was still, blood pooling beneath him as he lay on his back in the dirt. There was no doubt in Thorn’s mind that his once dear friend was dead.
Thorn looked to the roof. They die, he thought.
Still holding the metal grill and despite pain in both his hand and shoulder, Thorn reached up along the bricks with his bloody and shaking hand. It slipped several times before he could resume his climb, each attempt hurting all the more.
Thorn reached the top and flopped through one of the crenels of the tower. His legs felt like dried tinder as they gave way beneath him. His fall alerted an armoured man who was testing the strength of the knot of his rope around the thick flagpole at the centre of the roof, preparing for descent. Thorn recognised the crossguard of the baron’s sword tucked into the man’s belt. He was still breathing heavily and his attempt to stand failed. The expression on the man’s face turned from fear and concern to a smirk. The man lowered himself over the wall.
Thorn attacked. Screaming in pain, he forced himself to his feet, closed the distance to the man, leaned over the wall and swiped out with his right hand. Thorn’s claws found the man’s face, slicing deeply into the soft flesh of his left cheek and ear. The armoured man ducked from the second swipe – the fear had returned to his face. He loosened his grip on the rope, enough to quickly continue his rappel while keeping control.
Following the human with only one useful hand and one useful shoulder was suicide, Thorn knew. He drew his curved blade with his left hand and sawed at the rope. It was pain he just had to take. After dropping the knife a second time from his damaged left hand, he switched to his right.
The damaged shoulder didn’t have the strength he needed to cut the rope fast enough. He cursed as it went slack, and he moved to look over the wall.
Thorn watched as the baron’s killer ran around the tower to where the baron lay. He crouched beside the body as if to make sure of the death. He then walked from the tower, looking up briefly at the cougari, before moving swiftly into the gathering crowd, pushing against them towards the centre of the city.
“Your death will not be swift if it is by my hands,” vowed Thorn, as he rushed to the hatch of the stairs.