“Your
man
?” The duke chortled, which set his jowls quivering. “Why, he’s nothing more than a thirteen.” In a speech-giving voice, Duke Jaryn continued. “The time is far past that the Provinces should have cast off the derelict king. If the taxes we sent to the capital were spent on our Militia, we could secure our border for good.”
“You don’t need a war with the king to go with the other problems facing the Province.”
Duke Jaryn barked a laugh. “You are in no position to offer me advice on running my Province. Hand over the runt and be off.”
A clatter from behind caught Chism’s attention. The mob, as angry as before but emboldened by the night and the Elites’ trapped position, was less than a half mile away. He had to act if no one else would.
The wall was impenetrable, and too well-guarded. The city had other gates, but they would be well defended with portcullises and wooden doors secured. The only way out was through the narrow gatehouse. He studied the portcullis as much as possible in the flickering light. Based on the city defense training he received as an Elite, the metal gate appeared to be a standard portcullis. The mechanism was most likely a typical counterweight with a wheel and chains.
Glancing back, he saw the mob closing the gap fast. If he didn’t act immediately the squadron would be killed, along with scores of citizens and Watchmen.
Thirsty called to Chism from Ander’s grasp, and it chafed Chism that the sword couldn’t solve the impasse. Forcing Ander’s spear into the Fellow’s hand he whispered, “Lean this just inside the gatehouse as you leave the city.”
Surprised, Ander replied, “Lean it yourself, I’m not leaving without you.”
There was no time for argument. As Chism urged his horse forward he said over his shoulder, “If
you
don’t leave,
I
will die. Do you really want to make that choice?” He heard Ander curse, something about incurable flatulence, then slam the butt of the spear against the stony street.
By the time Chism pushed through the Elites to Lieutenant Fahrr’s side, the horde of enraged citizens was only five hundred paces away.
“Sir, I told you there would be no trouble. I have a plan, but you’ll have to trust me enough to leave me behind.”
Lieutenant Fahrr stared at him as if he would find answers on Chism’s face.
“Trust me, Sir. I won’t surrender.”
At four hundred paces, indistinct shouts and threats could be heard. Precious little time remained and Lieutenant Fahrr wasted it deliberating. Ire roiled within Chism. He hadn’t been this enraged since the day he killed his father. That wasn’t an option in this case; the man responsible for the suffering was too well defended.
A nod from Lieutenant Fahrr was all Chism needed. With his arms spread wide, Chism advanced his horse into the breach between the two forces. A victorious grin spread across Duke Jaryn’s face.
Chism spoke directly to the duke. “I will surrender as soon as my squadron is safely outside the city walls. As you can see, I’m unarmed.”
Duke Jaryn was ecstatic. “Your bravery has bought the life of these men, but will count little when you face my justice. Open the portcullis!” As an afterthought he directed his archers, “Shoot the runt if he moves.”
As two members of the Watch disengaged from their position to raise the gate, Chism stole a glance up the street. Three hundred paces.
Cursing the mob, the Watch, and the Elites, Chism thought,
Hurry, you fools! The timing has to be perfect.
Lieutenant Fahrr led his men forward, but kept an inquisitive eye on Chism. Though concern showed on his face, Chism also detected a hidden fury, part of which was directed at him for surrendering. Surprise and confusion registered on the face of each Elite and Fellow, with the exception of Ander, as they reluctantly followed their leader toward the gatehouse. Ander’s look held exasperation and anger. His lips moved, but Chism couldn’t make out the words over the clatter of hooves on stone. Chism imagined how they felt—torn between abandoning a brother and refusing to follow orders.
The Elites were a brotherhood, and the worst crime one could commit was to betray a brother of the Circle and Sword. Yet Chism gave them no clear choice. Even if they ever forgave him for the assault on the duke, they would never forgive this. Especially Ander. A Fellow could be stripped of his rank and whipped for abandoning his Elite.
Chism waited, showing open palms as his squadron entered the gatehouse. Ander casually leaned the spear against the stone wall just inside and it blended into shadows. The men who had raised the gate returned to their position inside the city walls, away from the levers that would allow the heavy gates to fall. But there was still a chance that a hidden switch could trip both portcullises, slamming them shut and trapping the entire group inside the gatehouse at the mercy of the Watch. As soon as Lieutenant Fahrr was past the outer portcullis, and free from the city, Chism breathed a sigh of relief and nudged his mount forward at a deliberate walk. Not toward the open gate, but straight toward the Duke.
The mob was only a hundred paces behind.
“Stop and dismount if you want protection from them,” ordered Duke Jaryn motioning to the surging horde.
Half of the Elites were past the gatehouse and Chism increased his mount’s pace. For the first time since the standoff began, Duke Jaryn’s face showed concern. He was a mere fifteen paces from Chism. “Stop where you are!” he shouted.
Chism paid no mind. From fifty paces the mob sounded like it numbered in the hundreds. He fought the urge to turn and count them.
Duke Jaryn pulled on his reins, trying to distance himself from Chism and yelled, “Bowmen, take aim and fire if he does not stop in three…”
Thirty paces.
“…two…”
Twenty paces.
“…one…” With fear rife on his face, the Duke raised a hand, ready to give the final order even though Chism could never reach him in time. The mob would close within moments.
The last of the Elites cleared the portcullis at the exact instant that the first of the mob reached Chism. Clubs beat his legs, arms scrabbled to dismount him, and stones struck his back.
With reluctance, Chism put the slightest amount of faith in the Duke.
He won’t open fire while I’m surrounded by citizens
.
A tight grip on the reins, a sharp kick to his horses flank, and a tug to the left sent Chism careening toward the gatehouse. Both he and the horse ignored the grabbing men that tried to block the way.
“Don’t shoot!” ordered Duke Jaryn. “Close the portcullis! Close the portcullis! Drop the gate!” His voice rose in pitch with each command. The last view Chism caught of Duke Jaryn, and the image that would remain in his memory, was the duke with quaking jowls, shouting and waving his arms wildly in the air.
The two men who had opened the portcullis raced to carry out the orders. They entered the gatehouse well before Chism, who was now clear of the mob. Archers fired from the wall, but Chism’s speed and the steep angle made it a difficult shot.
The first man reached one of the heavy levers when Chism was two strides away from the first portcullis. He yanked the bar and pain shot into Chism’s thigh as the heavy gate plunged downward. Chism ducked under the falling points at the bottom of the portcullis and seized Ander’s spear, confused by the pain in his leg. The portcullis had missed him. He was inside the gatehouse with a heavy iron gate separating him from the Watch and mob in the city.
But there was no time for pain. The second lever was only two paces past the first and the other man pulled it before Chism could drop him with the spear. It didn’t matter; Chism had another use for the spear.
It was impossible for his horse to cover the fifteen paces before the outer gate fell. Already it creaked downward with alarming speed as the sound of a solid chain passing around pulley wheels clanged through the gatehouse tunnel. Man and horse continued at a full gallop and Chism let the spear fly toward the mechanism. It lodged with a grinding
CLANGK
in the turning wheel, suspending the gate in mid position.
Chism tried to lean to his left so he and the horse could duck under the motionless portcullis, but something pulled at his right thigh. It felt like someone had cut one end of his thigh muscle and yanked on it. His leg was stuck to the saddle, and tremors of pain shot through his leg when he tried to move.
He pulled his horse up with just enough time to avoid the gate. In the dim light of the gatehouse he couldn’t see what held him, but when he felt for it he found a thick wooden shaft adorned with feathers protruding from his thigh. An arrow had pierced his leg and now kept him from leaning far enough to allow escape. The gate was high enough for a riderless horse to exit, but there was no way to get low enough without separating himself from the saddle.
One guard moved toward Chism with a drawn sword while the other began working the mechanism of the inner portcullis. The mob, eager for his blood, pressed angrily at the gate which was already rising. One anxious man lay on his belly, trying to wriggle under. Luckily none of them had bows or crossbows. Yet.
Chism considered subduing the two guards then raising the outer portcullis but remembered he was bound to his saddle and had no weapon. He couldn’t do anything until he freed his leg.
Grasping the arrow with both hands, Chism snapped the shaft, trying unsuccessfully to keep the lower portion still. The high tension of the situation dulled the pain, but working so close to an impaled object was sickening. He threw the fletched end of the arrow at the approaching guard, making him cringe and slow. The Watchman was only a few paces away, and would soon be joined by the crowd at the gate. Already the crawling man was half way through and others were bending to duck under.
Chism placed both hands under his knee and with a mighty yawp heaved upward. The splintered shaft scraped the inside of his leg like claws, but he refused to cry out further. He was free and didn’t hesitate to swing his injured leg over the horse and crouch in the left stirrup. Urging his horse forward, he left the disappointed Watch and mob behind.
As the outer portcullis passed overhead, Chism thought,
Now if I can just avoid the arrows of the Watch from the city wall I’ll be free. Free to face the headman’s block in Palassiren.
Staying low, he swung his leg up, placing it crooked in the saddle next to the broken arrow. As he started to lead his galloping horse into a meandering pattern, a fantastic sight distracted him. Still on horseback, six Fellows were lined up facing the walls of Knobbes. With speed only possible for the best bowmen in the kingdom, they loosed arrow after arrow toward the parapets, allowing the Watch only inaccurate shots when they dared reveal themselves from sheltered positions. Regardless of the fact that Chism’s rash actions had endangered the entire squadron, they risked their lives to protect his retreat. He was proud to wear the Circle and Sword.
The six Fellows pinned down at least two dozen of the Watch in an elevated position. No wonder Chism loved even numbers.
As he passed, Chism heard one more round of arrows, then half a dozen horses following him. They left the road and spread out, using the fallow winter fields as their escape path. The dark uniforms and nearly moonless night offered perfect cover from the Watch’s searching eyes and arrows.
Finally able to breathe, Chism felt the stabbing pain in full. He looked and saw blood seeping from his right thigh. The saddle covered the wound on the back of his leg and with one hand he tried to staunch the bleeding from the front.
Once out of bow range, Chism angled toward the road. Using bird calls as signals, the squadron was quickly reunited. A headcount revealed none lost, the worst injury being the hole through Chism’s leg. Ander examined the wounds and reported that the bleeding was steady, but not profuse. He would live. They didn’t have time to sew up the wounds, so Ander bandaged the leg tightly.
Since none of the other Elites or Fellows had life-threatening wounds, Lieutenant Fahrr led the squadron a mile further away from Knobbes before stopping to allow the men to attend to their injuries. A few torches were lit and the Fellows efficiently sewed up wounds in their Elites’ faces, heads, and arms then splinted elbows and knees that had been struck by stones and clubs.
“Innards and entrails!” swore Ander as he dug through his pack for sewing supplies. The man could make anything sound like a curse.
Chism had to endure a barrage of his curses as the Fellow cleaned and stitched the wounds on the front and back of his thigh. If Ander had his way, Chism’s hair would migrate from his head to his back, foul breath would prevent him ever marrying, and he would never ride a mile without swallowing a dozen gnats. Though he’d never seen Ander as angry, the curses let him know that eventually things would return to normal with his Fellow.
Once the Elites were tended to, the Fellows turned their mending skills on one another. The care was rendered efficiently, and in no time the squadron was lined up in riding order. Chism resumed his position at the rear of the column next to Ander. At a steady walk, they started the long journey northeast to Palassiren.
Lieutenant Fahrr broke position and Chism saw his outline alongside the column two thirds of the way back.