The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (43 page)

Many guardsmen were hesitant, seeing the Hawks flooding into their city, but a few of the most loyal and committed followed the cardinal’s orders. The flanking barricades burst open and the warriors of Ro Tiris rushed the attackers.

‘Break into wings!’ ordered Xander.

The first cohort parted, forming two wings, spreading either side of the general in a V shape. They met the oncoming guardsmen with locked shields and thrusting swords, dropping a dozen men in the first clash. Behind, more Hawks advanced to cover their flanks, driving their opponents back. The defenders screamed orders as they tried to fight back, but the Hawks methodically blunted their efforts.

Hundreds of men of Tiris were running, abandoning their posts and fleeing from the attackers. The Purple clerics shouted at those who were retreating, threatening a gruesome death for all deserters, but their words were not heard.

Gwen stood with Xander and Brom at the front. The Purple clerics had advanced, with only men and a low wooden barricade between them.

‘Clear the front,’ shouted Xander.

The Hawks holding the point rushed forward, parting to allow their general to advance. Brennan leapt atop the wood, slamming back a guardsman with a heavy bash of his shield. Brom went the other way, shoulder-charging a man off the barricade.

Things became chaotic. They were at the front of the attack now, fighting a solid block of men. Gwen, Daganay and the others fought either side of Xander, helping him push towards the clerics. Their advance was measured, with attacks coming from between shields. Only Brom and Xander fought in the open, sweeping across the wooden barricade towards the gold statue.

She ducked a spear thrust and saw the defender killed by a Hawk to her left. She returned the favour a moment later, slicing the neck of a man attacking Daganay. They fought as one, each man defending those around him.

‘Prince Alexander!’ shouted Severen. ‘You will die for this.’

The cardinal was holding a jewelled longsword in his left hand. It was evident that the man was incapable of fighting effectively with a lame sword arm.

Xander broke the line of guardsmen and engaged a Purple cleric, grasping Peacekeeper in both hands and thrusting it through the man’s chest. Behind him, the wedge of Hawks had smashed their way through the defences and most of the guardsmen were now retreating.

‘Fight, you cowards,’ screamed Severen. ‘Fight for our beloved allies.’

Gwen paused, watching the cardinal through the melee. She was protected by a shield to her left and took aim carefully. Her leaf-blade cut the air between them, over Xander’s shoulder, to lodge in Severen’s neck. He fell, clutching at the blade and flapping his arms.

‘We are the Hawks of Ro. Stand down or die,’ bellowed Captain Brennan.

Xander and Brom reached the clear street. Hundreds of Hawks followed, their interlocked shields covering any possibility of the defenders rallying for a counter-attack.

‘Stand down!’ repeated Xander.

Spears and swords were thrown to the ground. Men dropped to their knees and begged for mercy. It was a disordered surrender, but it was enough. The Hawks held position, a line of shields creating a semicircle round the gateway. The ground had been taken and the soldiers of Haran and Canarn now flooded into the city and on to the battlements.

‘Secure the gate, Brennan,’ ordered Xander, more calmly now. ‘And gather those that surrendered.’

He stepped over a dead cleric and approached Cardinal Severen, sprawled on the road.

‘Brom, Daganay, you’re with me,’ said Xander. He turned to his wife and smiled thinly. With a gentle beckoning gesture, he motioned her to come to him.

Gwen tuned out the sounds of dying men and metal-clad soldiers. She stood face to face with Xander, inspecting a deep cut to his cheek.

‘Still alive, my love?’ she asked.

‘Tired, but alive,’ he replied. ‘Give me a kiss.’

She held his head gently and planted a deep kiss on his mouth. Closing her eyes, she tasted blood on his lips and salty sweat.

‘That was a good throw,’ he said, turning towards Severen.

Their moment of calm passed and they returned to the bloody cobblestones of Ro Tiris. Brom and Daganay were with them, both cleaning blood from their weapons. The four warriors stood round Cardinal Severen. He was alive, but gasping for breath, with Gwen’s leaf-blade lodged deeply in his neck.

‘I did my duty,’ spluttered Severen. ‘I did only what she wanted.’ His eyes were wide and manic. ‘She loves us and we love her.’

‘It’s not your fault, brother,’ said Daganay, kneeling down next to his fellow cleric. ‘Your mind is not your own. We follow the One... as you once did.’

There was conflict in the dying man’s eyes.

‘Die easy, Cardinal Severen of Tiris,’ said Daganay, closing the man’s eyes as he stopped breathing.

* * *

Gwen stood behind Xander and Brom as the two lords of Tor Funweir flung open the doors to the House of Tiris. Gold-armoured king’s men guarded the royal compound. They did not throw down their swords, but backed away and allowed the first cohort of Ro Haran to advance without a fight. Within, they strode across carpeted floors, trailing blood and dirt into the opulent building.

‘Cousin!’ shouted Xander. ‘Do you want me to drag you out from under your bed or will you come and stand before me?’

They fanned out, creating alarm among the household servants, who dropped whatever they were doing and fled into the palace, hiding behind doors and cowering under furniture.

Brom puffed out his cheeks and sank into a padded chair, cocking a leg over the arm. ‘Can’t he hurry up, we’ve been on our feet for a while?’

‘Is there any wine?’ asked Daganay, looking at a gold-inlayed table.

‘Er, yes,’ replied Brom, reaching for a crystal decanter.

The lord of Canarn winced, rubbing his chest where a glancing sword blow had split his armour. He loosened the shoulder strap and pulled away a broken metal section.

Daganay strolled over to him and assisted in pouring two glasses of wine. ‘Anyone else?’ asked the cleric.

A few Hawks smiled and looked hopefully at their general.

‘Sorry, lads, ’tis the privilege of clerics and lords,’ joked Gwen, waving away an offered glass.

A sound from above drew all their eyes. From the top of a sweeping staircase strode a group of men. At the fore was a Karesian man in black armour. His scimitar was sheathed, but he stood protectively in front of Archibald Tiris. Xander’s cousin was a thin man, with receding hair and sickly yellow skin. His eyes were unfocused and he appeared enchanted. Behind, among the guardsmen, was a striking figure in silvery plate armour. His cloak was white and he wore a greatsword across his back.

‘Good day, cousin,’ said Xander, slowly drawing his bastard sword. ‘Step forward and be judged.’

‘Blasphemer,’ slurred the Karesian. ‘The Seven Sisters hold sway here.’

Xander threw his head back in laughter. He rested Peacekeeper across his shoulders and ambled forward, placing a foot on the bottom step.

‘The harbour, the walls and the streets are ours. The people have no desire to die.’ He smiled viciously. ‘And this is Tor Funweir, this is my land. Fuck off back to Karesia. I hold sway here.’

The Karesian drew a wavy-bladed knife and passed it to Archibald. The regent of Ro Tiris glared at Xander.

‘I will not die at your hand, Prince Alexander,’ cackled Archibald. ‘I will show you how little death means to the faithful.’ He thrust the knife into his own stomach, wrenching it sideways and disembowelling himself. ‘I will always love her,’ he muttered.

Xander strode up the stairs, closely followed by men-at-arms. He flung a gauntleted fist at the Karesian, smashing into his jaw. He grabbed the man by the throat and drove Peacekeeper into his chest.

‘This is my land,’ he repeated, emphasizing each word.

The Karesian fell off the blade, blood oozing from his mouth. Xander then levelled his bastard sword at the man in silver armour. He held it in one hand and the blade was still, not wavering an inch. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

The man, a lump of steel and muscle, bowed his head. ‘Lord Markos of Rayne, knight of the White church. I greet you, Prince Alexander.’

* * *

Reports flooded in from all over the city. Although pockets of resistance did spring up, the word on the street was of liberation, not of conquest. From the balcony high in the House of Tiris, Gwen saw celebrations in the square. Cheering citizens praised the duke of Haran and decried the despotic rule of Archibald. Captain Brennan and a squad of men hauled down the new banner and raised the white eagle, signalling the end of the Seven Sisters’ brief dominion.

She was extremely tired, but adrenaline kept her awake to enjoy the spectacle. They had rounded up hundreds of Karesians and dozens of clerics who were still deeply in thrall to the Mistress of Pain. The Purple cathedral was under close guard but had, so far, remained compliant. As had the defeated ranks of watchmen and the city guard. The soldiers now helped to settle a liberated population, taking their orders from senior Hawks. Gwen was glad they carried out their new duties happily. She had not heard a single word of support for the deposed regent, and Archibald’s death was being celebrated rather than mourned.

She swayed against the railing, letting the gentle wind take her. She could feel a skin of blood and grime on her face. It was dried and cracked as her mouth contorted into a yawn. Tendrils of hair irritated her eyes, falling from her tangled topknot and sticking to her flesh.

Maybe a bath, the first one for weeks. The thought was like a warm blanket, cutting through the chill of the wind and the stench of blood and death. But that would have to wait. Her counsel was still needed. Xander needed a calm voice, Daganay needed someone with common sense and Brom needed reassurance. She played her roles well, and with sincerity. Her own needs, a bath, a change of clothes and a little peace, were not a priority.

She flexed her hands, stained red and tender. Broken and dead skin peeled from her fingertips and her palms were calloused and bruised. She didn’t wear gloves to fight and the criss-cross pattern of her blade handles was imbedded in her skin.

Her blades. That was another need that would have to wait. They needed sharpening and the nicks needed repairing. Leaf-blades were more precise than longswords and required constant care. She couldn’t remember where her whetstone was. Or her belongings. Lennifer would have entered the city by now, escorted in with the rest of the servants. Gwen’s belongings were packed in travelling sacks, squeezed between barrels of grain and spare weapons. Lennifer would be standing guard over them, ensuring her lady’s clothes were cared for. The young servant could be ferocious where clothes were concerned.

The thought made Gwen smile. That normality could exist in the midst of so much death and chaos. That someone, somewhere, still cared about the state of their clothes.

She heard an irritated voice behind her. Xander, Brom and Daganay had been interrogating Cardinal Cerro of the Brown and Lord Markos of the White for nearly an hour, ascertaining precisely where their loyalties lay. Their interrogations had not, so far, led to summary executions. She hoped that both the clerics would remain polite.

Through the open doors and billowing red curtains, the balcony was connected to an upper state room. From it strode a large, robed man, scratching his balding head and pursing his lips. He ignored Gwen and took a deep breath of fresh air.

‘Cardinal Cerro,’ said Gwen. ‘Meeting not going as planned?’

The Brown cleric composed himself.

‘It is the way of soldiers to see things as simply as possible. It is the way of nobility to be confident and stubborn. Your husband has the worst traits of both.’

‘I won’t disagree,’ replied Gwen. ‘He’s simple and stubborn.’

‘You know what he plans to do? And that Markos of bloody Rayne agrees with him?’

‘Aye. The broad strokes at least,’ she replied.

‘And you don’t think he’s mad?’

She shrugged. ‘Mad or not, I agree with him. He’s backed into a corner. A dangerous place to put him.’

‘But he’s barely secured Tiris. He’s taking that impulsive young idiot from Canarn, the Black Guard, whatever his name is. They’re going to ride for Cozz, in the morning. They’re going to ride for Cozz in the morning!’

‘I know,’ she replied.

‘And that doesn’t bother you?’

She stepped closer to him. ‘It does. It bothers him, too. Which is why he’s leaving you in charge.’

He banged his chubby fist on the railing. Deep breaths and closed eyes, the Brown cleric was frustrated and angry.

‘Do any of you people from Haran actually listen?’

‘I’m from Hunter’s Cross,’ she replied. ‘And no, we don’t listen either.’

‘I would have expected a bit more sense from you, my lady,’ said the cardinal, puffing out his cheeks. ‘You’re not burdened with nobility.’

‘But I am a soldier. By your rationale I should be simple, but not arrogant.’

He flushed a little with embarrassment. ‘Er, yes, sorry about that. Anger sometimes loosens a man’s tongue.’

‘I’ve been called worse, brother.’

From within, raised voices carried out on to the balcony. Lord Markos, Xander and Brom were arguing about who was to stay behind and who was to ride hard for Cozz.

‘I just want... maybe some considered wisdom,’ said Cerro. ‘All of this is happening too fast.’

‘Not fast enough, according to some.’

‘How many men is he taking?’ asked the cardinal. ‘You don’t have that many to begin with.’

She laughed. ‘Skill and loyalty are as important as numbers. The Hounds in Cozz are poorly trained and disorganized. They’re a mob, not an army.’

He placed both palms on his forehead and dragged them down his face. It was a gesture of internal anger and external frustration. The cardinal was a good man, but a pacifist.

‘When will this end?’ he asked.

‘Interesting question. I’d say it’s up for debate,’ she replied.

‘Being glib does not help, my lady.’

She breathed in some cool air. She should be exhausted, but her mind was racing and wouldn’t let her be tired. In fact, she felt more awake than she had in years. The rush of combat, the thrill of survival. Even the ride for Cozz was filling her with adrenaline.