Broken Weapons
Owen stared out across the sea. He twisted his hand around the grip of the sword on his belt. Even in the strong breeze he felt too warm around his neck and face, and his heart pounded in his chest. The ramparts of the Bryan’s Bluff fort, known to the City Guardsmen as ‘The Exile’, offered a painfully clear view of the array of sails from a fleet steadily approaching. He watched as his friend and fellow Slither, Allen, placed several bundles of tarred arrows either side of the flame-pit beside him. Further along the ramparts, firing crews were loosing range-finding shots from the ballistae, catapults and mangonels.
“What are we still doing here?” asked Owen.
“You could help me, you know,” said Allen, shoving the last bundle of arrows against Owen’s chest.
“I’m serious, Allen. I have never seen so many ships. And look at the size of those towers, I didn’t know things so big could float. It feels like we are just waiting here to be slaughtered.”
Allen stopped what he was doing and looked out across the sea. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun on the water. “They don’t look so bad from here. Besides, if they take any route other than right by our noses, they will be ripped apart by the coral; and if they come this way, we will open up on them with everything we have. They are too slow to get past us and too big to miss. We are in the best spot here. And if the worst happens and we need to defend ourselves, we have high thick walls and more than enough food and clean water to last months. The weapons are well maintained, and the captain knows what he is doing. We are safe here.”
“You sound like you are trying to convince yourself more than me,” said Owen, putting down the arrows. “Look around, more than half the men were sent to the city to help with whatever is happening at the docks – they have not returned. We are guardsmen not soldiers, and these defences are meant to deter pirates, not fight an armada. We should get as far away from here as possible.”
“You could try, but they just dragged Tully and Garrett back here after their attempt to desert. Garrett was lucky, he only got an arrow through the leg. Tully got it in the back – he’s gone, Owen.”
“Fucking whoresons!” grunted Owen, slamming his fist on the battlement wall and staring out at the enemy fleet. After some time watching the enemy approach, he judged they were almost in range of the fort’s weapons. The captain shouted orders and men began moving with haste into positions along the walls and into their ballistae firing teams.
Owen could see that the weapon at the top of one of the towers had fired something at the fort. He stood transfixed by the growing projectile as it arched through the sky towards him and began to descend. Too late did he realise he was standing where the shot would land.
“Run!” Owen shouted, before everything around him exploded into shattered pieces of stone and wood, engulfed in searing flames. The force of the fireball propelled him from the battlements, sharp stones ripping through his flesh. He could feel his bones breaking as he fell from the stairs and knew he was burning. He tried to scream but only inhaled flames. The soldier’s eyes melted, and he could no longer see as he tried to move. He could no longer hear anything, he could no longer breath. He could no longer feel any pain. Finally, his heart no longer beat…but his body continued to burn.
Sebastian Laventis removed his spyglass from his eye, satisfied. The two tower machines ordered to attack the fort had plumes of black smoke trailing behind them, as they cast shot after shot from their trebuchets. He could already see parts of the fort crumbling – most of it was on fire, an occasional man falling afire into the crashing waves below.
Relief swept over him, knowing with these weapons, fewer of his men would perish and less innocents in the city would die. From his studies of war, he was aware that – depending on which side won – he would either be hailed as a liberator and champion of all the peoples of Domhanda against the unyielding oppression of the Temple; or he would be defamed for all time as an evil heretic, villain and monster.
“Let us see which it is to be,” the admiral muttered.
Kitsvanna had left the group a short while when she heard the loud crack and bang echoing along the tunnel. A foreboding caught her breath at the same time as the booming sound. Something was wrong, she knew it.
She increased her pace as much as she dared in the darkness, skimming her right hand against the bricks, her left holding the rope attached to Trapper’s leather collar. Willem echoed her movement on the left side of the tunnel.
Before long she detected an unusual acrid smell which reminded her of burning hair. The odour grew in intensity until her hand found a corner on the wall. They were at the junction.
The baron’s daughter stifled her coughs as she paused at the entrance, listening for any signs of danger, or of Geist, or anything other than the occasional footsteps of those above the tunnel.
The darkness was emphasised by a narrow light in the centre of the junction, and she could see smoke and dust as it passed through the light. A pang of nervousness flashed in her stomach. She suspected Willem felt the same when she heard him draw his sword. There was something on the floor of the tunnel, the light too narrow to tell what it was.
Kitsvanna’s hand was tugged downward as the dog dropped its head toward the floor of the tunnel. The old hunting dog began lapping its tongue against something. She crouched and reached out for the dog’s head. Moving her hand to the floor as a rumbling growl came from Trapper, she suppressed a scream when she realised the dog was licking a severed hand.
Without thinking, she pulled it away from the dog and threw it further into the junction. Trapper lurched forward, pulling free from her grasp.
The loud sniffs of the animal gave way to a defensive growl and loud barks resonating around the chamber and echoing back from the tunnels. Kitsvanna and Willem rushed forward to find the dog and silence it. As he moved, Willem tripped over something but was able to use his sword to maintain his balance.
“Shhhh, Trapper,” Kitsvanna whispered, clicking her fingers, which usually worked. The dog stopped barking, swapping his barks for a low growl and a snort with every breath.
“Let me try this,” suggested Willem as he removed his shield from his back and placed its polished surface into the light.
The chamber was illuminated by dim reflected light and it was only then could they see the death all around them. At Kitsvanna’s feet was a dead man, his face frozen in a silent scream with his throat slashed open, the shaft of a crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder. Kitsvanna realised she was standing in a pool of his blood, and she stepped to the side and continued to scan the room.
Trapper growled at a pair of bodies against the wall. Kitsvanna could see the body on top had a hand-axe lodged deep in its neck. The bodies moved. Willem moved in front of Kitsvanna, plunging the room back into darkness. “Get behind me,” he said. The girl complied. Trapper’s growl intensified and rumbled on like a distant roll of thunder. The pair waited. For Kitsvanna the wait stretched into infinity, counted by the rapid flutter of her heart. There was no further movement.
“Willem, bring the light back,” Kitsvanna said, with hushed urgency. Willem placed his shield under the single narrow beam, tilting it toward the two bodies he thought had moved. Kitsvanna could see a hand wrapped around the handle of the hand-axe in the neck of the dead man. The hand moved. Kitsvanna recognised the bracer near the wrist as part of Geist’s armour. The baron’s daughter rushed forward and tugged at the clothes on the dead man. With some effort, she pulled with sufficient force to remove the body.
Even in the dull light, Kitsvanna could tell it was Geist underneath – his mask was missing. She rejoiced to see him alive, glad she had trusted her instincts to return for the Night Watchman.
Part of her wanted to go over to Geist and bring him around. Another part, the wiser part, made her stop. Given the scene in which she found herself, Kitsvanna imagined that if she startled the Night Watchman, he might attack her without thinking.
She risked calling his name loud enough to echo along the tunnels a short distance. When this did not work, she kicked at the soles of what she assumed were his boots. Still nothing. After a moment’s pause, the girl pulled the hound closer to her. “Trapper. Speak,” she commanded, resulting in a loud and resounding bark from the well-trained animal.
The Night Watchman thrust forward with one of his short swords. He then opened his eyes and realised where he was.
“Geist, it’s me, Kitsvanna,” said the girl.
“M-m’lady? What are you doing here? Are you hurt?” asked Geist, still disorientated. The commander attempted to stand but stumbled.
Kitsvanna rushed to Geist’s side. “Are you hurt? I can’t quite tell in this light, but I think your face is covered in blood,” she said.
Geist pressed his fingers to the aching spot above his right eyebrow. It was sticky with drying blood. “I…can’t see straight, things are blurred, got the wind knocked out of me. A few cuts and bruises, nothing more, as far as I can tell.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll explain on the way. We need to get away from here. I am sure they will return, and I don’t wish to face the person who might be coming after us, not in this state.”
Kitsvanna and Willem helped Geist to his feet. The Night Watchman acknowledged Willem and moved the soldier’s shield in the light. Geist found his axe, still embedded in the neck of one of the dead men, and he drew it clear with a sickening sound. He looked around again. To the rear of the Shielder, he could see his other short sword sticking out of a woman’s chest. He returned this weapon to its scabbard.
Kitsvanna watched as Geist checked his wrists – only two throwing knives remained. The Night Watchman scoured the floor of the tunnel. She saw a smile from him at first when he found his crossbow among the bodies, but his face sank to disappointment when he realised the weapon had been trodden on and smashed. “I am ready, time to leave,” he stated. He placed the remains of the weapon into a larger pocket in his cloak.
With Trapper leading them, all three moved through the tunnels to the Sonton Falls. Kitsvanna could just about hear the rushing sound of falling water when she heard a baby crying. They had reached the others.