The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (44 page)

As he ate and laughed, Dugald heard a strange noise in the distance. He paused to listen, then heard one of his own men shout. Looking up, he saw a soldier pointing southward, then noticed more of his men doing the same. Dugald laid down his quail and stood, causing his aides to do the same. What he saw confused him.

‘What’s that?’ he asked stupidly, unable to recognise the
army galloping toward him. At first he thought they must be Onikil’s men, who were closest and, like him, mostly unengaged. But then he realised most wore Liirian uniforms – and his face fell in terror.

How many men were coming toward him? Dugald was too paralysed to count. He stared for a moment, unsure what to do, unsure that the sight was even possible. But as his camp erupted in panic he knew he wasn’t dreaming, and that a new force of Liirians had gathered to fight him.

‘My horse!’ he cried, scrambling from the table. Already the Liirians were charging toward him, a great mass of cavalry leading the screeching infantry. The thunder of their attack shook the ground beneath his feet as Dugald looked around desperately for his horse. His aides scattered, some drawing weapons while others merely ran, seeking cover anywhere they could. Unable to find his own horse, Dugald grabbed hold of the nearest stallion just as one of his aides was mounting, pulling the man from the stirrups. It was clear to Dugald that the mounted Liirians intended to cut a path through them for the infantry. At the rate they were approaching he had only moments to escape. Clumsily he unsheathed his sword and raised it over his head, trying to rally his forces.

‘Fight them! Don’t run, you cowards!’

But his men were running, surprised and outnumbered by the coming Liirians. Dugald found himself alone as he charged headlong toward them. Realising this he pulled back hard on his horse to turn the beast around. Too late, he noticed a flame-haired officer of the Chargers blazing toward him, lips snarling, sword drawn back and ready . . .

It was the last thing Dugald saw before his head went tumbling through the air.

Finally, at nightfall, Rodrik Varl and his forces arrived at the castle of Baron Ravel.

Keeping to the shadows and remaining a few streets from the castle itself, Varl could nevertheless see the main tower
of the castle peeking up above the city, lit by candlelight. He was plainly exhausted. His men had suffered horrible losses at the bastion, and even now there were many who remained behind, badly burned or crippled by the flaming trap Colonel Bern had sprung. Varl had spent the afternoon tending to his men and answering messages from Jazana Carr, who was rightfully incensed by his stupidity and demanded constant updates. At last, after seeing to the wounded and gathering those still able to fight, Varl had sent word to Kaj and Count Onikil to meet him in the centre of the city. Lord Dugald, he discovered an hour earlier, had died, and his men had been badly routed. The Liirians that Varl supposed were escaping to join Ravel in the castle had instead fled Andola, another miscalculation Varl flogged himself over. As he rode at the head of his depleted men, Varl considered all that had happened. His friend Aykle was dead, killed just moments after the fire erupted. Over two hundred others had died with him. It had been a fantastic reckoning for the Liirians, and Rodrik Varl applauded them.

But they would not be so lucky again. Though he was dead now, Dugald had also been prophetic – the Liirians had in fact abandoned Ravel. Only those most loyal to him remained in the castle, and if they had any brains at all they would surrender once they saw the force surrounding them.

Count Onikil and his men had come from the west to join Varl’s forces. The Rolgan seemed shaken by the fate that had befallen Lord Dugald. His splendid clothes hung a little less grandly from his frame as he waited on his horse. Varl trotted through the dirty street toward him. The houses around them were shut tight, but he could hear frightened murmurs from them.

As he approached, Onikil greeted him with a nod. ‘Rodrik.’

‘Where’s Kaj?’

The count replied, ‘He and his men took up positions on
the other side of the castle.’ His smile sharpened. ‘I guess they don’t want another escape.’

If it was a jibe, Varl couldn’t tell. Nor could he tell from his vantage point where Kaj and his men were positioned, hidden as they were by the darkness and the big, brooding castle.

‘What about Ravel’s men?’

‘I’ve had patrols out. There don’t look to be that many men, at least not outside the castle yard. The walls are bare mostly, too.’ The count grimaced. ‘Frankly, I don’t know what it means.’

‘Most of them fled,’ said Varl. He studied the darkened castle carefully. ‘I don’t know where they’re going, but they’re not in Andola any more. Looks to me like Ravel’s all alone this time.’

‘Hmm, looks can be deceiving, don’t you think?’

‘That’s a lesson I shan’t forget soon, Count. Have your men surround the north and west sides of the castle. Tell them to keep free of any debris, any close spaces, anything suspicious. You yourself can come with me, if you like.’

Surprised, Onikil asked, ‘To where?’

‘To see Baron Ravel,’ replied Rodrik Varl.

With a casual flick of the reins, he guided his horse toward the waiting castle.

Up in the tower of his fabulous home, Baron Ravel sat slumped in a velvet chair with his back to the window. At last, his enemies were at his threshold. He had seen them from his bedchamber, surrounding his castle, drawing ever closer. A horrible silence filled the room, punctuated only by the noise in the streets and Colonel Bern’s tired breathing. Nearby, the slave Simah remained with him as she had throughout the day, a last, beautiful link to the baron’s former life. Ravel kept his eyes closed as he considered Bern’s dreary report. There was no longer a way for him to escape the castle, to flee Andola as most of his troops had, and the fat baron wondered why he didn’t hate
Bern for giving the order to retreat, signing all their death warrants. Colonel Bern wasn’t really a mercenary after all, Ravel realised, but the revelation had come too late.

‘And now, like a good soldier, you will die, Bern.’

Ravel opened his eyes, almost laughing when he saw the military man standing proudly before him, his uniform soiled with blood, his face hard from the day’s gory work. There were still soldiers at the castle who hadn’t fled, but they were too few to do Ravel much good. They might take up arms against the Norvans, but they would certainly die. So would Simah and the rest of his women, eventually. It had all been an incalculable failure.

‘If you surrender me they might spare you,’ said Ravel miserably. ‘You’re one of them after all, a soldier. Maybe get yourself a nice ransom for me?’

Colonel Bern stood like a wax figure. Ravel put back his head and sighed.

‘Make a deal for my women and servants if you can. Have that bitch-queen spare them. At least Jazana Carr is a woman; she won’t stand for the raping.’ He looked at Simah and pitied her. Surprisingly, the girl didn’t flinch at his words. Ravel glanced back at Bern and sneered, ‘Or maybe you’ll take her for yourself, eh? A little something extra for ruining me?’

Still the colonel said nothing. His tired eyes seemed to groan.

‘Say something, Bern, you shit-eating maggot. Will you surrender me or will you fight?’

‘I could have left with the others, my lord.’

‘Ah, yes. But why did you stay? That’s what vexes me, Colonel. What’s in that military mind of yours? What fate have you cooked up for me?’

Colonel Bern replied wearily, ‘My lord, my advice is that you prepare yourself to meet Jazana Carr. I won’t be able to hold them off for long.’

Ravel sat up with some surprise. ‘You mean you’ll fight?’

There was no reply from Bern, who was already out the door.

By the time Rodrik Varl reached the castle, a group of Liirian soldiers had gathered in the courtyard. Remarkably, the gates were opened wide, but on the threshold of the yard a single soldier blocked their way. He was an older man of obvious rank. His sword dangled in his hand, its tip raking the dirt. When Varl realised the man was Colonel Bern he slowed the progress of his horse, looking carefully at the yard and the men positioned there. There were perhaps seventy men, all in Liirian uniforms and not a mercenary among them. They were armed but none of them seemed prepared to fight. Only Bern had his weapon drawn.

‘What is this?’ asked Count Onikil, who rode beside Rodrik Varl. Varl did not reply. Behind them rode a hundred horsemen, but he ignored them all as well. The lone man at the gate entranced him. A grudging admiration grew in him.

‘Colonel, you’re a very clever man,’ called Varl. ‘I don’t mind admitting your tactics at the bastion were a surprise.’

The Liirian tilted his head. ‘It’s not the way I’d want to go, burning to death. I suppose I should feel sorry for your men.’

‘War makes beasts out of all of us,’ lamented Varl. ‘Step aside, sir. I can get you and your men mercy if you’ll cooperate.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Bern. ‘I’ll plead amnesty for these men – they’ll surrender if you’ll promise some decent treatment for them. But I can’t be among them.’

‘Colonel Bern, I have enough to regret today. Don’t make me kill you, please.’

‘I wish you would. I’m too old to die in a prison camp.’

‘Why die?’ asked Varl. ‘Why fight for Ravel?’

‘Not for Ravel. For Liiria.’

From his face Varl could tell Bern meant his words. ‘Where is that fat one? Inside?’

The colonel nodded. ‘In his chambers, waiting.’

‘And you’ll be his last true soldier, is that it? Seems very stupid to me, Colonel. You should have left with the rest of your men.’

‘Maybe you can’t understand this,’ said Bern. ‘Maybe you’re too much of a mercenary to know what words like duty and honour mean. But I’m an old soldier, and I gave my word to Ravel to protect him. Now . . .’ He raised his sword just a bit. ‘If you’ll oblige me, I’d be grateful.’

‘Oh, let me kill this prating fool,’ growled Onikil. He put his hand to his sword, ready to ride forward.

‘Keep your place,’ snapped Varl. He looked back at the waiting Liirian. ‘If we had time I could tell you things, Colonel Bern. Maybe teach you that I’m not the man you think.’

Bern shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

To the astonishment of Onikil and the others, Varl dropped down from his horse. He knew that he had a grudge to settle with Bern. It wouldn’t be much of a fight; Bern looked exhausted.

‘Fate above, Varl, what are you doing?’ barked Onikil. ‘Let someone else deal with this old dog.’

‘Stay on your horse and stay out of it,’ Varl told him. ‘All of you, don’t do anything.’

He took a step toward Bern, then another, glancing at the Liirian soldiers in the yard behind him. Like his own men, they made no move to stop the coming duel. Varl slid the beret off his head and tossed it toward Onikil, who caught it with quick hands. Then he took his own sword from his belt, holding it in two hands before him.

‘When you’re ready, Colonel . . .’

Varl’s politeness intrigued Bern, who gave what might have been a smile before raising his weapon. He stepped out of the gateway, pausing just a few yards before Varl. Varl stepped to the side, one foot over the over, stalking
around his enemy. Colonel Bern twisted fluidly, following his every move. Varl didn’t want to toy with him. He leaped forward, sweeping his sword, prepared to unleash a deadly volley. The first blow clashed against Bern’s blade, the second did the same. But just as the third strike curved around, Bern’s sword fell away. A deliberate act to be sure, and done too quickly for Varl to halt his killing blow. His sword hacked at Bern’s midsection, slashing through his uniform and carving open flesh. The old man winced in agony, staggered back, and let the blade drop from his fingers, crumpling onto his back. Varl stood over him, stunned.

‘You . . .’

His own blade slackened in his grip. Bern was looking up at him. Gasping, the Liirian nodded. Varl took it as an act of thanks.

He nodded back to the dying man, lifted his sword again, and mercifully decapitated his fallen foe.

Up in his quiet chamber, Baron Ravel no longer bothered staring out the window. His life as a Liirian noble was concluded, and so it made no difference to him what was happening in the courtyard or in the streets of the city he had tried so hard to make his own. He had regrets, but these he didn’t dwell on either. Instead he spoke to Simah, his last adored possession, and told her how she might get mercy from Jazana Carr. The Diamond Queen had a soft spot for women, and if she pleaded and made a good case she might be spared. He told her too that she should make sure the other women in the castle were safe. He told her also that he loved her. He was speaking like a drunkard and ended his talk with Simah by telling her that she was free.

‘You’re no longer a slave,’ he told her. The room was dark, but he could tell that she did not react to this bit of news.

‘Do one last thing for me,’ he said, ‘then you may leave me.’

Simah did as Ravel requested, and prepared a warm bath for him.

It was nearly midnight by the time Jazana Carr reached Ravel’s castle. With her came a contingent of bodyguards, trotting royally through the streets of the vanquished city while the rest of her mercenary army secured Andola for the occupation and spread the word of Baron Ravel’s defeat. Except for her own forces and a few overly curious peasants, the streets were deserted. Jazana could see faces peering out from the shutters of the homes she passed, striving to get a glimpse of her. She had had this same experience so many times it no longer bothered her, yet she realised that this time was different – this time, they were Liirian faces.