Authors: Miles Cameron
Ser Milus stood with the seven new men-at-arms. They were, in his professional opinion, good men who needed a swift kick in the arse.
He had a pell in the courtyard; Master Random’s apprentices had levered a huge stone out of the flagging, dug a hole as deep as a man’s was tall, and put in a post – it was
handy to have so many willing hands.
He walked around the pell, hefting his own favoured weapon. The pole-axe. The hammer head was crenellated like a castle with four miniature spikes projecting from it. On the other side, a long,
slightly curved spike protruded, and from the top, a small, wickedly sharp spearhead. A foot of solid steel extended from the butt, pointed like a chisel.
Ser Milus spun it between his hands. ‘I don’t expect we’ll fight mounted, from here on out,’ he said conversationally.
Gwillam, the sergeant, nodded.
‘Let’s see you, then,’ Ser Milus said. He nodded to Gwillam, who stepped forward. By the Company’s standard, his armour was poor. He had an old cote of plates, mail
chausses, and a shirt of good mail with heavy leather gauntlets covered in iron plates. It was, to Ser Milus’ eyes, very old-fashioned.
Gwillam had a heavy spear. He stepped up to the pell, chose his distance, and thrust. The spearhead went an inch into the oak. He shrugged, and tugged it clear with a heavy pull.
Dirk Throatlash, the next of the convoy’s men-at-arms, strode up and took a negligent swipe at it with his heavy double-bladed axe. He embedded his axe head deeply in the post.
Archers were gathering in the towers, and merchants had emerged to watch from their wagons.
John Lee, former shipman, also had a double-bitted axe. He swung hard and precisely – matching Dirk’s cut and carving a heavy chip out of the post.
Ser Milus watched them all.
‘That’s what you do at the pell?’ he asked Gwillam.
The sergeant shrugged. ‘I haven’t done much at a pell since I was a boy,’ he admitted.
Ser Milus nodded. ‘Want to kill a monster?’ he said to the men. ‘Or a man?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Dirk said. His mates laughed.
Ser Milus didn’t even turn his head. There was no warning. One moment, he was leaning on his war-hammer, and the next, he had tossed Dirk Throatlash into the mud, face first, and still had
one arm behind his back.
‘Wrong,’ he said.
‘Jesus
Christ!
’ Dirk wailed.
Ser Milus let him up. He smiled, because now he had their attention.
‘We’re all going to practise at the pell, every day we don’t fight on the wall,’ he said, conversationally. ‘Like it was real. I’ll teach you how. And if you
can cut through it – good!’ He grinned. ‘And then you can demonstrate your zeal by helping put in the next pell.’ He pointed to John Lee. ‘You have an accurate
cut.’
Lee shrugged. ‘I cut a lot of wood.’
‘Try again. But this time, cut as if you were fighting a man.’ Ser Milus waved at the pell.
The shipman stepped up and lifted his axe, like a man preparing to hit a ball.
Ser Milus nodded approvingly. ‘Good guard.’
The former shipman cut at the pell, and a chip of wood flew. He got the axe back to his shoulder and cut again.
Ser Milus let him go on for ten cuts. He was breathing hard, and his tenth cut wasn’t nearly as strong as the ninth.
Milus twirled his grey moustache with his left hand. ‘Leave off. Breathe.’ He nodded. ‘Watch.’
He stepped up to the pell, his pole-axe held under hand.
He cut up with the back-spike, and it just touched the post. He danced to the right on his toes, despite his armour, and his cut finished with the pole-axe head behind his shoulder – a
very similar position to that of the shipman’s axe. Then he cut down, again stepping lightly, and the hammer-head slammed into the post, leaving four deep gouges. The knight stepped like a
cat, back and then forward, powering the spearhead in an underhanded thrust – stepped wide, as if avoiding a blow, and reversed the pole-axe. The spike slammed sideways into the post,
bounced, and Ser Milus was close into the pole and shortened his grip for another strike.
Lee nodded. ‘I could almost see the man you was fighting,’ he admitted.
Gwillam prided himself as a good man of arms, and he sprang forward. ‘Let me try,’ he said. His own weapon was a heavy spear with a head as long as his arm and as wide as the palm of
his hand. He sprang forward on the balls of his feet, cut the pell – twice from one side, once from the other, and backed away.
‘But use your hips,’ Ser Milus said. ‘More power in your hips than in your arms. Save your arms; they get tired the fastest.’ He nodded to them. ‘It’s just
work, friends. The smith practises his art every day – the pargeter daubs, the farmer ploughs, the shipman works his ship. Bad soldiers lie on their backs. Good soldiers do this. All day,
every day.’
Throatlash shook his head. ‘My arms are tired already,’ he said.
Ser Milus nodded. ‘The irks ain’t tired.’
Southford by Albinkirk – Prior Ser Mark Wishart
The king sent two messengers with the knights when the Prior took his men north-west from Albinkirk’s souther suburb, Southford. The Prior moved his men carefully over the
ground, their black surcotes somehow blending into the undergrowth. His men rode easily through the densest stands of woods, through thickets of spring briars.
They halted frequently. Men would dismount and creep forward, usually over the brow of a steep hill, and wave them forward.
Despite the halts, they made good progress. Individual knights would ride away – sometimes at right angles to the line of march – and unerringly find them again.
The thing the two king’s messengers found hardest to understand was the silence. The Knights of St Thomas never spoke. They rode in silence, and their horses were equally silent. They had
no pages, no valets, no servants and no squires. Forty spare horses – a fortune in war horses – followed the main body, packed with forage bags and spares, but otherwise without bridle
or lead. Yet the spares followed briskly enough.
It was, as the older messenger said, uncanny.
Still, it was a bold thing, to be riding through the North Country with the Knights of St Thomas. Galahad Acon had been named for the saint’s church in London, and felt he was almost one
of them. His partner, Diccon Alweather, had been a professional messenger in the old king’s day, a weathered man with more scars than a badly tanned hide, as he liked to say himself.
The messengers were used to a hard day riding and no company but their horses, but it was a hard day, even for them – fifteen leagues over broken country that challenged their horsemanship
every hour. The knights didn’t seem to tire. Many of them were older than Alweather.
Towards evening, one of the youngest of the knights rode back to the main body, and led them off to the right, north, and then up to a steep hill.
Without a word, every knight dismounted. They drew their long swords from their saddle scabbards, split into four groups of fifteen, and walked off.
The Prior waited a moment, looking at the two messengers. ‘Wait here,’ he said, aloud. The first words Galahad had heard from any of them since they left the Royal Camp.
The black-clad knights vanished into the woods.
An hour passed. It was cold – the spring evenings were longer, but not much warmer, and Galahad couldn’t decide whether he was cold enough to take his great cloak out of the bundle
behind his crupper or not. He didn’t want to be caught dismounted at the wrong moment. He cursed the Prior and his silence.
He kept looking at the older messenger, Alweather, who waited, apparently calm, without fidgeting, for the whole hour.
‘Here they come,’ Galahad said suddenly.
The Prior walked up to his horse and sheathed his sword on the saddle. ‘Come,’ he said. He was smiling.
He walked off up the steep hill, and all the horses followed him.
‘Uncanny,’ Alweather said. He spat, and made an avert sign.
They wound around the hill, widdershins, climbing as they went around. It seemed a tedious way of getting to the top, but in the very last light, Galahad could see that the crown of the hill was
steep and girt in rock.
The horse ahead of him shied, and then was quiet. Galahad looked down and saw a corpse. And then another. And another and another.
They were not human. He wasn’t sure what they were – small and brown, with big heads, and cords of muscle, beautifully worked leather clothes and huge wounds made by two-handed
swords.
‘Good Christ,’ Alweather said aloud.
There was the smell of fire, and then they came over a crest.
The top of the hill was hollow. It was like a giant cup, and the knights had three fires going, and food cooking. Galahad Acon’s stomach, outraged by the inhuman corpses and their
red-green blood, now seized on the smell of food. Pea soup.
‘Unsaddle your horse, and curry him,’ the Prior said. ‘After that, he’ll see to himself.’
Alweather frowned, but Galahad refused to be moved by the older man’s caution. Galahad was suffused with joy. He was living one of his secret dreams.
Alweather, clearly wanted to go back to the king.
‘They fought a battle,’ Galahad said, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. ‘And we didn’t
even hear them.
’
The Prior smiled at Galahad. ‘Not really a battle,’ he said. ‘More of a massacre. The irks didn’t see us coming.’ He shrugged. ‘Have some soup. Tomorrow will
be harder.’
Lissen Carak
It was a quiet night. The besieged collapsed into sleep. Sauce cried out in her dreams, and Tom lay and snored like a hog. Michael muttered into his outstretched arm, sleeping
alone. The Abbess wept softly in the dark, and rose to kneel, praying at the triptych that sat on a low podium in the corner of her cell. Sister Miram lay on her stomach to sleep, exhausted from
healing so many wounded men. Low Sym woke himself up repeatedly as he shouted, and then lay with his own arms wrapped around him staring at horrors in the dark until the pretty novice came and sat
with him.
But however long and dark the night was, the enemy was quiet, and the besieged slept.
In the first light of morning, they struck.
The Siege of Lissen Carak. Day Nine
Today, the enemy burned all the country around the fortress, as far as the woods. The men – the traitor Jacks – burned all the farms, all the steadings and
barns – even the patches of woods.
The farmers stood on the walls and watched. Some wept. We were cursed for being poor soldiers, for allowing the fields to be burned.
The Abbess came out and watched, and then promised that it would all be rebuilt.
But many hearts turned. And before noon, the creatures of the enemy were in the air over the fortress, and we could feel them again.
Lissen Carak – Mag the Seamstress
It was a simple, unstoppable act that changed the nature of the siege, and that cut at the farmers and the simple people of the fortress more effectively than all the military
victories that could be scored.
The first fires were visible to the north-east. Hawkshead, the furthest east of the fortress’ communities was put to the torch before morning creased the sky, and the last watch saw the
town burn, just two leagues from the walls.
Just as the sun began to cast forth a ruddy light, Kentmere went up to the west. By then, the walls of the fortress were lined in farm folk. Then Abbington.
Mag watched her town burn. From this high, she could count roofs and she knew when her own cottage burned. She watched it with a desperate anger until she could no longer see which house was
hers. They were all afire – every cottage, every house, every stone barn, every chicken coop. The fields around the fortress ridge were suddenly full of the enemy – all the creatures
who hadn’t shown themselves in the first days. There were boglins, and irks; daemons and trolls, great things like giants with smooth heads and tusks which the soldiers told her were
behemoths. And, of course, men.
How she hated the men.
The enemy was now girdling every tree. Orchards of apple trees and pears, of peaches and persimmons, were being destroyed. Vines that had grown for generations were gone in an hour, their roots
destroyed or seared by fire, and every structure was burning. As far as the eye could see, in every direction, there was a sea of fire and Lissen Carak a dark island in it.
Mag couldn’t take her eyes away from the death of her world.
‘Sausage without mustard, eh?’ said a heavy voice at her elbow.
She started, turned to find the giant black-headed hillman, the company’s savage, sitting on the other barrel beside her, watching over the wall.
‘War without fire is like sausage without mustard,’ he said.
She found herself angry at him. ‘That’s – my village. My
house!
’
The big man nodded. He seemed not to know she was crying. ‘Stands to reason. I’d hae’ done the same, in his place.’
She turned on him. ‘War! In his place? This isn’t a game! We
live
here! This is
our land.
We farm here. We bury our dead here. My husband lies out there – my
daughter—’ The tears became too much for her, but in that moment, she hated him more than she hated the boglins and their horrible faces and their willingness to burn her life away.
Tom looked hard at her. ‘Not yours unless you can hold it,’ he said. ‘Way I hear it, your people took it from them. Eh? Melike, their dead are buried there too. And right now,
I’d say it was theirs. I’m sorry, goodwife, but war is my business. And war involves a lot of fire. He’s showing us that we only hold what we stand on – that he can win
without taking the fortress. We hurt him last night and now he strikes back. That’s war. If you don’t want to have your farm burned, you had better be strong – stronger than you
were.’
She struck him, then – a glancing blow, pure anger without force.