"Hold your positions!" he yelled.
The last thing he needed was the soldiers to break and run. He drew his sword and walked behind the line, peering over his men’s shoulders to see the oncoming mass of humanity. It was the job of the sergeant to make sure soldiers didn't run from battle. In the North, he was confident that every man would do his duty, but here, there was not the same level of dedication.
"Wilkins, lift up that sword!" Gerald yelled. "Smith, plant your feet properly, or you'll be knocked down."
He distracted the men, made them think about what they were doing rather than focusing on the mob. The officer was yelling something, but he didn't give a damn.
"Here they come, steady… steady… hold your ground!"
The mob slowed, then stopped short of the line, jeering at the soldiers that barred their way. He couldn’t blame them. The king had been brutal in his suppression of past riots. The crowd was hungry and desperate, and he knew desperate people would do desperate things. Somewhere in the throng, yelling started; he watched people trying to gather the courage to attack.
“Don’t do it,” he said under his breath, “don’t throw your lives away.”
“What was that Sergeant?” said the captain.
“Nothing, my lord, just keeping the men in line,” he lied.
The noise in front grew more intense, and then suddenly, bottles and rocks were being thrown. Most hit the shields doing no damage, but Gerald saw the poor bloody fool Henderson take a hit to the head. The man collapsed like a rag doll, and then the anchor at the end of the line was gone. The yelling intensified. He knew it was only a moment before the crowd attacked. He moved as quickly as he could to Henderson’s position and dragged the fallen man back from the impending onslaught. A sudden primal scream emanated from the middle of the press of people, giving them the courage to surge forward. He stepped over Henderson’s body quickly, grabbing the man’s shield as he drew his own sword just in time.
The rioters hit the wall like water breaking against rocks. A thunderous sound erupted as bodies slammed into the wall of soldiers. The line moved back at least a foot and a half, but it held. He knew that if they could only continue to hold, the crowd would give up. He didn't want to have to kill these people. He silently prayed for them to retreat, but they clawed and stabbed with their makeshift weapons. The soldiers occasionally struck back with their swords, but mostly they hid behind their shields, trying not to be hit themselves. During the war, a soldier who didn't fight back was considered cowardly. Here, he was thankful, for perhaps blood on both sides would be spared because of their inexperience.
Sure enough, after the initial surge, the mob, resembling some obscene monster, backed away from the line, and the confidence that they had displayed began to be replaced with fear. The grim reality of swords versus clubs, of bottles versus shields and armour, began to sink in. You could see it in the face of the townsfolk; the sudden look of terror as they realized what was about to happen. Gerald was glad. They would retreat, and the already tense situation would be over. The troops would have stopped the mob, and things would return to normal. All that changed in an instant.
As the crowd began to cautiously back away, the captain found his voice.
"Kill them!" he screamed. "Kill them all!"
Gerald looked up with horror at the captain’s orders, "My lord, the people are dispersing, we should hold the line!"
Captain Walters had a wild look in his eyes. His fear had overcome him, and he looked down with rage at his sergeant.
"Do as I say, Sergeant! Kill the stinking peasants!"
Gerald heard a yell come from the soldiers, and suddenly the terror they had held in for so long was unleashed, and they surged forward. This was no organized manoeuvre, but a mad rush at the enemy, many of whom had turned their backs to run. It was too late to stop it. The captain was yelling and screaming incoherently at the men.
The sergeant stepped forward, determined to stop the madness, but collapsed to the ground, his leg giving out beneath him. He sat, stunned for a moment, staring at the pool of blood forming around him. He’d been cut in the assault, but the numbleaf and adrenaline had prevented him from feeling it. Now, he was bleeding out, too weak to do anything but look on in horror as his life ebbed out of him.
“How did I get here?” he wondered. “How did my life culminate in bleeding to death in this stinking street, of all places?”
Continue Servant of the Crown
A Few Words from Paul
Flames is, at its heart, about people, be they Orcs or Humans. It is the friendships they make along the way that prove to be of the greatest benefit in their quest for a home. Indeed, they are the very thing that makes their victory over the Holy Army even possible.
As Athgar and Natalia finally find a place they can call home, their two greatest foes, the Church and the family, seem to be in conflict. What is the family up to, and why have they taken steps to weaken the Temple Knights, the most powerful military force on the continent? The bigger picture is just starting to emerge.
The fragile peace sees Athgar's people claiming the land for their own, alongside their stalwart allies, the Orcs, but this new alliance may very well threaten the Petty Kingdoms' fragile peace.
Flames marks the third book in The Frozen Flame series and was definitely a joy to write. These characters have grown so much since we first met them, yet there is so much more I have to reveal, beginning in the
