When Rix woke Glynnie and told her the plan, she hurled her bedroll aside and punched him in his bruised and battered mouth. “No, no, no!”
He stumbled backwards, wiping blood off his lip. “I’ve got to take my army back, and my only chance is to do it now—before they recover.”
She went very cold. “I didn’t risk my life back there so you could throw yours away. I didn’t become a murderer for this!”
“Glynnie, what choice do I have?” He went towards her, holding his arms out.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed. “Don’t come anywhere near me.”
He felt a pang in his heart, but it didn’t change anything. It couldn’t.
“I’ve got a duty to my men. If there’s a chance of saving them I’ve got to take it.”
“What about your duty to us? To me?”
“When the chancellor appointed me commander, I swore a solemn oath to lead my army and serve my country.”
“And after I rescued you from Grandys that time, you and I swore to each other.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Which oath matters more to you, Rix? Are you going to break your oath to the chancellor, who hated you—or to me, who l—, l—?” Evidently she could not say the word. Not now.
“I’m not breaking my oath to you,” he said wearily. “But I am going to take Libbens down before dawn…”
“Or die trying, more likely. He might not be smart, but he’s rat-cunning.”
“So am I.”
She let out a peal of hysterical laughter. “You don’t have the cunning of a—a butterfly!”
“Be that as it may,” he said stiffly, “the two of us—me and Jackery—are going to sneak past the guards into his camp.”
She pressed her right hand to her heart. “Two against five thousand? You’re insane.”
“For every extra man I take, the risk of being discovered doubles.”
“How can you ask Jackery to help you? It’s suicide!”
“I didn’t ask him. He volunteered before the request was out of my mouth.”
“Then he’s an even bigger fool than you are,” Glynnie spat.
“I’m not enchanted with the plan either,” said Rix. “But—”
“Rix, attack Libbens’ army if you must,” said Holm. “But don’t do it this way. Gallop through his army with your whole force, all the way to the command post, and take Libbens prisoner.”
“At a cost of hundreds of lives?”
“This is war,” interjected Glynnie, “as you’re constantly telling me whenever I mention Benn.”
Not Benn again—Rix could not deal with one more thing right now. “The minute I ask my men to attack their former comrades, I’ll lose them.”
“I don’t see why.”
“If you had an ounce of rat cunning you’d know why.”
She stiffened, as if he’d grossly insulted her, then folded her arms across her chest.
“This isn’t a civil war, Glynnie,” Rix said hastily. “All my troops have friends in Libbens’ army, men they’ve served with for years. Many of them have brothers, fathers, uncles and cousins there, and I’m not fool enough to ask them to fight their own relatives. My plan is the only way.”
“I’m with Glynnie,” said Holm. “It’s too risky. If you’re wrong, you die, and we all lose.”
“I can’t think of any other way to stop Libbens,” said Rix. “And he has to be stopped. If he attacks Grandys, Hightspall will lose the war. It’s that simple; that stark.”
“Are we the two biggest fools in all the world?” Rix whispered an hour later, as they wriggled across the ground, heading for the gap between the patrolling sentries.
“Dare say,” said Jackery.
It was four in the morning and if anything Rix felt worse than he had after the rescue. Every muscle ached, every bruise throbbed and his belly churned with an awful, burning nausea.
They were dressed as common soldiers. Jackery had a signal rocket strapped to his back; once they took the generals he would set it off and Holm would race in at the head of Rix’s two hundred men, who were waiting in the darkness a few hundred yards away in case back-up was needed.
Rix had dyed his face and hands dark brown, and rubbed his cheeks with burnt cork to simulate a black beard. It would not have passed inspection in daylight but he hoped it would be disguise enough, in the dimly lit camp, to get him to the tents of Libbens and Grasbee. Both men were injured, and both had been badly affected by Holm’s gas grenadoes. If there was any justice in the world they would be asleep.
Rix planned to wake them, charge them with mutiny out in front of the soldiers and pass the customary sentence—death. A minute’s quick work with his sword and rough army justice would be done. Assuming everything went perfectly…
The plan went well until they reached the tents where the officers slept. Rix and Jackery had bypassed the guards without being discovered, then strolled through the sleeping army, Rix hunched down to disguise his height. In a camp of five thousand there were always a few dozen people up, either heading to the jakes to relieve themselves or walking off their anxiety about the coming day, and he and Jackery attracted no attention.
They reached the officers’ sleeping tents, which were in darkness. Libbens’ tent was identifiable because it was the size of a small cottage and had the commander’s flag flying outside. A single guard stood outside the flap of the tent. There was no one else in sight.
Grasbee’s smaller tent was twenty feet away, also guarded by a single soldier. Rix could hear ragged snoring from inside.
“First we take Libbens,” he whispered. A trickle of cold sweat ran down his back. “Once we have Grasbee, send up your rocket, but I won’t wait for Holm and his men. After the business is done I’ll hold the mutineers’ heads up and formally take back command. That’s the most dangerous part. If the other officers rebel, and Holm can’t get through in time…”
“Let’s get it done,” said Jackery roughly. It was the only sign of his anxiety.
They approached Libbens’ tent from the rear. Rix cut through the canvas low down, careful to make no noise. They wriggled through and stood up. Rix kept still until his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He could just make out a camp stretcher in the far corner of the tent.
“Now,” he said softly.
He had taken two steps towards the stretcher when a smashing blow to the side of the head knocked him down. He saw Jackery whirl, his sword flashing, and heard a cry of pain, then Rix was struck again and the darkness returned.
He roused as a pair of soldiers dragged him out of the tent. Several more soldiers waited there, with lanterns. He made a desperate attempt to get free but someone thrust a bright lantern into his face, dazzling him for a few seconds, and he was whacked over the head again. His hands were bound and he could smell blood, his own. There was no sign of Jackery. He must be dead, which meant no signal and no rescue.
“You’re so predictable,” said Libbens exultantly. “I knew you’d come back.”
His voice was hoarse, presumably from breathing the vapours from the gas grenadoes, and his normally red face was grey, but his eyes were alight as if he’d just won a great battle. In a way, he had. His rat cunning had beaten Rix and he was going to die.
The wake-up horns sounded; the sleeping troops groaned and stirred.
“It’s the middle of the bloody night,” a soldier said.
“Get up!” bellowed a sergeant. “Get up for the beheading of Lord Deadhand!”
That roused them. The guards dragged Rix down between the lines of bedrolls, punching him and prodding him with their spear butts. He eyed his troops as he went by and saw sympathy in many an eye, though they would not defy Libbens to help him. Common soldiers were trained to obey their officers’ orders instantly, and if one officer was a prisoner and another was giving the orders, he would be obeyed.
Rix was hauled into a large open area illuminated by lanterns on long poles. It was surrounded on all sides by yawning soldiers and more were streaming in all the time. A log was dragged into the centre and a big man with a long sword marched across the arena and stood by the log, waiting to cut Rix’s head off.
Ten feet away, on the other side of the log, Libbens could not contain his glee. Grasbee stood beside him, shivering, then went into a long coughing fit which ended in him spitting blood onto the grass. A guard stood by, supporting him. To either side were squads of armed men, thirty in each squad, Libbens’ personal guard.
Sixty guards in all, to make sure no one interfered. Rix looked for sympathetic faces among the troops, hoping against all common sense that he could sway them to help. It wasn’t going to happen—any soldier who came to his aid would die with him.
Rix’s guards dragged him to the centre of the circle and threw him to the ground.
“Pick him up and hold him,” said Libbens. “He didn’t learn from my last lesson.”
They held Rix’s arms while Libbens gave him another beating, then let him fall. Rix marvelled that any man could have so much dumb hatred in him, such unfeeling brutality.
The guards heaved Rix into position with his neck across the log. He had one tiny hope left but he had to act now. The flickering lanterns made moving pools of light and shadow that would help to conceal small movements. He prayed that everyone was watching his head, not his hands.
With the thumb of his dead hand, Rix flicked open the signet ring on his left middle finger to expose the half-inch blade mounted inside. He twisted his wrists, worked the blade down to his ropes and rubbed it back and forth. The razor-sharp blade would have cut through the ropes in a single pass, had he been able to exert enough pressure, but in this awkward position he had to saw at them.
“This is what happens to traitors,” Libbens announced, striding back and forth before the soldiers to Rix’s left and waving his arms in the air like a showman at a fair. “Gather round! Gather round, one and all, and see the scoundrel’s head come off.”
He went around to the other side and made a similar announcement. The soldiers stared at him in silence. Rix sawed harder.
“Get it done,” Libbens said to the executioner.
The ropes parted on the underside. Rix held them in place, awaiting his moment. He would only get one chance.
“Put your foot in the middle of his back,” the executioner said to one of the guards. “Keep your head well out of the way, otherwise I might be tempted to whack it off, just for practice.”
He sniggered. The guard’s comrades guffawed. The watching soldiers were silent.
“You,” the executioner said to the second man, “move out of the way or you’re liable to get a drenching. The infamous Lord Deadhand looks like he’ll pump a good few pints of blood.”
The left-hand guard moved back to the others. The fellow on Rix’s right put a boot in the middle of his back, though he was leaning so far away from the sword that there wasn’t much weight on it.
“Do it with a flourish,” said Libbens. “Then quarter the body, throw it to the dogs and hold his head up for everyone to see.”
He gestured to a group of horn players. They blew a ragged fanfare.
Now! thought Rix. Or never.
He gauged the best spot he could reach, swung his arm backwards and slashed the little blade diagonally across the guard’s thigh. The guard lurched away, blood pouring down his leg.
Rix rolled over a moment before the executioner’s sword buried itself in the log. It only took him a second to free it but by that time Rix had taken the guard’s sword. He swatted the guard across the head with it, rose and lunged and buried it in the executioner’s belly.
The executioner’s sword was longer and heavier, a better weapon by far. Rix caught it as it fell and swung it around over his head. He had to act fast; the guards were moving in.
“Kill him!” shouted Libbens, running backwards. He stumbled and fell, but scuttled away like a four-legged crab.
Several of the soldiers hooted and Rix took heart from it. The men did not like Libbens and few of them respected him. Could Rix sway enough of them to make a difference?
“I’m your commander, and I’m not alone,” he shouted, walking back and forth, swinging the greatsword to cover first one group of Libbens’ guards, then the other. “I have hundreds of loyal supporters here.”
It was a colossal bluff, but for a few seconds, the guards froze. Everyone was staring at him, wondering what he was going to do next.
“My men are all through the camp,” Rix added. “Anyone who raises a hand against me, or any of my troops, will die a mutineer’s death.”
Still no one moved and Rix knew what they were thinking. In a battle between rival commanders, common soldiers could only lose, and few would have the courage to move until they had a strong sign that they were on the winning side. It was a different matter for Libbens’ sixty guards. If he fell, so would they, and they could end this in seconds. But they knew Rix’s ferocious reputation—the first few men who attacked him would certainly die.
Rix kept moving, back and forth, swinging the sword. He met the eyes of those soldiers who had seemed sympathetic. He had to convince them to act.
“I’m your commanding officer,” he repeated, so loudly that it hurt his jaw. “I was publicly appointed by the chancellor. Take the traitor generals and their guards, and hold them. That’s an order!”
A small group of soldiers on the left stepped forward, then another group ahead. There were more than twenty… though not nearly enough to deal with sixty elite guards.
“Take Libbens and Grasbee!” he repeated, and ran at the nearest guards, swinging the executioner’s sword.
But whenever he cut a man down, two more took his place and, at the moment it became clear he could not win, more of the waverers would turn to Libbens’ side. Unless Rix could take him down first.
It wasn’t to be. Rix and his nine surviving men were soon surrounded. He was preparing to be cut to pieces when a score of riders galloped into the arena, led by Holm and Tonklin and, to Rix’s astonishment, Jackery. He must have got away after Rix had been knocked down.
“Kill him!” bellowed Libbens.
His guards surged forward. Defence was a hopeless strategy—Rix ran at them, swinging wildly, trying to dominate the guards with sheer size and ferocity, the way Grandys did in battle. And it worked; he cut three men down, several others scrambled out of the way, and he broke free.
“To me! To me!” Rix roared.
“Look out!” Holm yelled.
A flying wedge of Libbens’ guards attacked from the left, hacking Rix’s men out of the way and aiming for him.
“Close ranks!” Rix yelled. “Hold them out!”
But there was only one way to finish this. He looked over the heads of his troops, identified the coarse red face of his enemy and fought his way towards Libbens so furiously that the soldiers guarding him broke and ran. Libbens matched Rix stroke for stroke. Rix cut him, then again. Libbens took a step backwards, looking around for help, but most of his guards were dead and the rest had seen that it was over.
“Help me, you mongrel dogs,” he gasped at the surrounding troops.
Not one man moved to his aid. He swung a wild blow at Rix, missed, then turned and fled. Rix sprang after him and dealt him a blow to the head with the flat of his sword. Libbens went down. There came a rousing cheer from the watching troops and Rix knew he had won. A few seconds later he saw that Jackery’s men had taken Grasbee as well, and his eight surviving guards.
“Put them down, Deadhand,” said Jackery. “They’ll only stir up more trouble, otherwise.”
“I’m trying them for mutiny. Quick justice is more than they deserve, but justice they will have nonetheless.”
He called the troops in closer, his own men in a small semicircle on the north, and the renegade army on the south side. Rix formed a jury of ten men, five from Libbens’ army and five from his own men, and read out the charges. Grasbee did not speak. He was still coughing and spitting blood. Libbens blustered in selfdefence but it did not avail him—the jury had already made up its mind.
“Ignominious death,” said the foreman.
Grasbee was forced to his knees and his neck stretched over the log. Rix signed to Jackery.
“Only you can end this, Lord,” said Jackery.
Rix grimaced. But then, he was commander. He hefted the executioner’s sword, aimed carefully and brought it down, thump. When the blood had reduced to a dribble, he had Libbens brought to the log, two yards down.
“This man is the ringleader of the mutiny,” Rix said to the deathly silent watchers. “When he dies, it ends.”
There was a dark stain down Libbens’ trouser front. “It wasn’t me,” he whined. “Grasbee and Krebb were behind it all.”
Rix gestured to the log.
Libbens was forced down next to Grasbee’s headless body, held in place and his thick neck pressed against the log. He looked right, at Grasbee’s bloody stump, then down at his severed head. Grasbee’s eyes seemed to be staring back at Libbens, accusing him.
“Any last words you wish conveyed to your family?” said Rix.
Libbens unleashed a torrent of abuse.
Rix listened to a minute of it, then raised the sword. Libbens broke off and tried to lift his head but he was securely held. A small green ant crawled across his cheek.
He was whimpering now. Time to put the swine out of his misery. Rix swung the sword down, thunk, all the way through skin, bone and gristle with surprisingly little resistance for such a heavy-set man, and two inches deep into the log. It was over.
He raised Libbens’ head high, so everyone in the army could see it. His eyes had already gone blank.
“The mutiny is over,” said Rix. He turned to the surviving men of Libbens’ guard. “You knew that the chancellor had appointed me commander, yet you supported the mutineers. You too should die as mutineers…
“But I’m prepared to accept that you were obeying orders you believed to be legitimate. I will suspend the sentence as long as you swear to me and my officers. But if you should transgress again, in any small way—the sentence will be carried out.”
They swore to him.