Act of Will

There was no point thinking about trying to defend the place with the front door open. I swung the wagon round to block the bridge as well as I could and released the horses, hoping vainly to slow the enemy down. Then I fled into the shade of the gatehouse. I could hear the slow, grinding chains of the portcullis, but a horseman could still enter with several feet of clearance.

The citadel was in chaos. There were men running all over in the green and blue uniforms of our allies. Women cried and fled. The duke sat alone on his horse a few yards inside the walls and looked hopelessly around him. I ran up the tower’s tight spiral to where Garnet and Renthrette stood at the window and watched the approach of the enemy.

There were almost a thousand of them. At their head, surrounded by his raiders, was the one with the staff and the horned helm. Alongside him, on a chestnut warhorse and surrounded by a small escort in heavy armor and sable cloaks, was Arlest, count of Shale.

He looked ahead of him at the open gate. The copper circlet and hempen robe had been replaced by an ermine collar and a crown of gold that sparkled with precious stones. This was to be his day.

There was nothing to say or do as they rode closer and the portcullis ground slowly, too slowly, down. I watched the chains inching over their pulleys, but there seemed no way to speed them up. Perhaps, I thought desperately, if they cut the ropes or released the chains, just let it drop?. But it was just too heavy. Let it fall and its own weight would shatter it, leaving the gate open. There was nothing to be done. Around us the desperate citizens shouted pleas for mercy or ran for their homes. Then the raiders halted and dismounted. They would cross the bridge on foot, shields raised over their heads to protect them from arrows. Ironwall was defenseless and there was no need for them to take casualties now.

Arlest nodded and spoke to a grey-haired man in dark robes who stood at his horse’s bridle: Chancellor Dathel. He passed along the count’s command and the soldiers stepped onto the bridge, victorious and invulnerable, five abreast, their scyaxes in their hands and their bronze faces cold as ever before.

The bridge was no more than twenty yards long and the wagon was in the middle of it. There was no rail, so they had to negotiate it carefully, pushing the wagon to the right-hand side so that three of them could pass it abreast. As the first three approached the gatehouse, there was a sudden explosion of sound and a single white horse charged from within, its rider giving a long, defiant battle cry as he spurred his charger right at them and cut one of the raiders down with one of the huge cutting swords he brandished.

It was Orgos.

As the second man raised his scyax, Orgos kicked him squarely in the chest and brought his left-handed blade down hard across his shoulders. With a cry the raider fell bleeding. As the third, clearly astonished by the sudden assault, swung his scyax wildly through the air, Orgos led his pale steed straight at him. The raider stepped back, lost his balance, and toppled backwards into the moat. By the time his cloak had disappeared beneath the sluggish current, four more raiders were squeezing past the wagon.

There was no shout of triumph from the citadel, for everyone knew how short-lived this gesture of defiance must be. Against the backdrop of the nine hundred men waiting to enter, Orgos, mounted and alone on the bridge, was a strangely poignant sight as he shouted his challenges and brandished his swords. Renthrette covered her eyes and Garnet just stared as Orgos slid from the back of his scared mount and sent it back into the city. He glanced behind him at the lowering portcullis, and even he knew it was futile. He couldn’t hope to hold them off for the four or five minutes it would take to finish closing the gate. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

The four raiders surrounded him and he held them at bay with his swords, circling watchfully. One by one they lunged for him, and each time he anticipated, parried, and cut. One came too close and fell, slashed across the throat. The others closed in and he fought them off like a caged bear tossing pit dogs aside with mighty jaws.

More of them came, pushing the wagon until it was half off the bridge. Orgos spun the great swords about his wrists and dared them to come to him, standing his ground and sweeping the blades about him like an enchanter weaving magic.

But then the raider in the great horned helm called them back: he was going to end this foolishness now. But even as I thought he, something seemed wrong to me. I stared as the raider removed the helm and shook out a head of long red hair. It was the countess.

Unmasked, she leaned in her saddle and muttered something to her husband, who nodded and barked out a short command. Three raiders readied their horses. Orgos looked again to the portcullis, which was finally too low for a horse and rider to pass through. He laughed out loud at his token triumph, that great rolling laugh of his, his head back and his mouth open. They would be able to get in, but they would have to dismount; and that, I suppose, was the closest we would get to victory today. But the raiders were mounted and ready to take him on. I knew he had no hope of holding off a mounted charge, and from our curious balcony I could only watch, my hands to my face like a child who wants to cover his eyes but can’t stop looking.

No.

Then they came at him. We loosed an arrow or two from the walls, but the horsemen were moving too quickly, surging forward, wavelike as ever. He parried one lance head and dodged the second, but the third was too much for him. It struck him hard in the waist, above his belt buckle, and the force of the charge carried him backwards towards the gatehouse. With an audible gasp he slumped to the ground, and a great quiet descended on the spectators.

“Advance on foot,” called Arlest. “The gate is open.”

There was a hard, almost metallic quality to his voice that I had never heard before, strident and determined. The riders returned to their ranks, leaving Orgos’s body crumpled and motionless by the wagon.

And then, when things seemed as bad as they could get, the silence was broken by the distinct clanking of the gatehouse machinery in a different key.

“Someone is raising the portcullis!” said Garnet.

It was the duke, or, rather, a few desperate citizens acting on his orders.

“For certain considerations,” the duke boomed from the tower, “we, the people of Ironwall, will bequeath our city to you in return for mercy. ”

In other words, he was going to use this pointless capitulation to barter for his own survival. The countess glanced at her husband and I thought I saw her smile, a short, brittle smile of amused contempt. I stared at her, at her husband, and at Raymon, who was speechifying from the tower. The sound of the gate ascending registered as one last insult to Orgos, who had died to keep it down.

It wasn’t courage or principle, just a blinding anger that made me grasp the great rope that descended through the tower. I had no thoughts of dignity or honor as I slid down, only an irrational fury. We were dead anyway, and I didn’t care anymore. After a lifetime doing all I could to stay alive and safe in the world, I was struck by the obvious: In a world like Arlest’s, staying alive wasn’t worth the effort.

Better to die telling him what I thought.

SCENE LIX Realism

The vast iron grate, which had started its slow ascent, was high enough for me to pass through. I stooped towards Orgos, who lay still and bleeding, but only long enough to wrench his heavy sword from his fist. I would take it with me in tribute, I thought. As soon as I stepped through the gate and straightened up, I shot my tiny crossbow-the one Orgos had given me-at the closest raider and brandished his long sword with the yellow stone in its hilt at the man as he backed away uncertainly. The duke of Greycoast’s pontificating surrender stuttered to a halt.

Moving purposefully between the corpses on the bridge, I advanced to where the wagon teetered on the edge, its front wheels already half submerged in the moat, hacking wildly at whomever I ran into. Despite the surprise attack, I barely managed to scratch them. One of them snorted softly as he stepped back off the bridge. It was an odd sound, and for a second I didn’t realize what it was, but then it came again and spread amongst them: They were laughing at me.

That somehow brought me to my senses. I glanced at the sword in my hand, a sword that had always felt uncomfortable however much I’d practiced with it, and I slid it into my belt. I would keep it for my friend till they took it from me, but I couldn’t wield it. Then I climbed into the tailgate of the wagon and, as the boards under my