The Red Knight

‘Are you drunk? Why wasn’t the postern manned?’ The captain turned to No Head. ‘Round up the off-going watch. Ser George will be staying.’

Kanny lingered in the doorway of the donjon, clearly interested in listening, and No Head grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Move your arse,’ he said.

Kanny could be heard grumbling all the way up the stairs.

Ser George waited until the archers were gone. ‘This can’t be held,’ he said. The effect of his statement was largely ruined by a belch. ‘It’s not tenable,’ he said, as if his careful pronouncement would settle everything.

‘So you thought you’d leave the oncoming watch hanging out to dry?’ the captain said.

‘Fuck you and your righteousness,’ Ser George said. ‘I’ve had a bellyful. It’s time someone told you what a posturing arse you are. I pulled my men into the tower to keep them alive. You got here anyway. I was sure someone would. I haven’t lost a fucking man., and if I’m drunk, that’s no one’s business but mine.’ He snorted. ‘You were outside. It’s hell out there.’

The captain leaned over. ‘If we abandon the Lower Town, he’ll take the Bridge Castle in a day.’

Ser George shook his head. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? You’re playing at being a knight errant – is that because you’re doing a nun?’ he guffawed.

The captain could smell the liquor on the man’s breath. The sweet cloying smell of wine and hate. Just for a moment, he thought of his mother.

‘We’re mercenaries, not heroes. It’s time to find whoever is behind this siege and cut him a deal. Take your girlfriend with us, if that’s what it takes. We’re done here. And there’s no money in the world that would make it worth dying here.’ Ser George hawked and spat. ‘Now get out of my way, Captain. I’ve done my twelve hours in hell and I’m going back up to the fortress.’

The captain stood up straight. ‘No. You’re going to stay right here, with me.’

‘Like hell I am,’ Ser George said.

‘If you try to leave this room. I’ll kill you,’ the captain said.

Ser George made a plunge for the door.

He wasn’t in his full harness and he had a good deal of wine in his belly. In a moment, he was kneeling at the captain’s feet, with his arm in a lock that threatened to dislocate his shoulder.

‘I don’t want to kill you,’ the captain said. ‘But to be honest, Ser George, I’d really like to kill someone, and you are the likeliest candidate right now.’

Ser George grunted.

The captain let go his hold, a little at a time.

Ser George backed away. ‘You’re mad as a hatter.’

The captain shrugged. ‘I am going to hold this fortress to the bitter end,’ he said. ‘I’m going to hold it if I have to do it by myself. When we march away from Lissen Carak – and by my power, Ser George, we will march away – we won’t be a nameless company of broken men on the edge of banditry. We will be the most famous company of soldiers in the North Country, and men will bid to have us.’

Ser George rubbed his shoulder. ‘We’re going to die her, and that’s not what we do, boy. We live. Let the other bastard do the dying.’ He looked at the captain. ‘You have a very persuasive way with an arm lock.’

Two rocks struck close together. Slam – slam, and plaster rained down on their heads.

The Lower Town, Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

An hour later, as the light began to grow outside, the off-going watch started up the path with two heavy beams – the rooftrees from collapsed cots – carried high on their shoulders.

The enemy’s machines launched a flurry of stones but the off-going watch was already out of range. They scurried up the ridge, and men came out of the fortress’s main gate to help.

And then there was silence.

Hours passed.

The captain had been sleeping in his armour, his head down on the table in the donjon. He woke to the silence, and he was up the ladder in a twinkling, his sabatons ringing, his hip armour scraping on the hatch to the first floor of the tower.

No Head was already on the battlements. He pointed to the enemy machines – just three hundred paces further west. Close enough to touch, or so it seemed.

‘Cuddy could reach ’em with an arrow. Or Wilful Murder.’ No Head grinned. ‘I’m tempted to try, myself.’

‘Even if you caught one or two,’ the captain said, ‘there are many, many more of them.’ He was much more exposed here – his Hermetic defences weren’t buttressed by the power of the fortress. He could feel Thorn.

He looked around.

The Lower Town’s curtain wall was breached in four places.

Harmodius he called.

He felt the old man stir.

Well sent. I understand you.

The captain concentrated. There will be an attack on the Lower Town. I need men. Please tell Ser Thomas.

You are stronger.

I am practising sent the captain.

He went back to watching.

Sauce watched the beams come through the gate. Skant came over to her – hollow eyed, rubbing his arms – and handed her a note.

She looked it over and nodded. She had the day watch formed in the courtyard for inspection, and she found Wilful Murder easily. ‘Wilful,’ she said. ‘On me.’

He stepped out of the ranks.

‘Find Bent. And any artificers you can rustle up. Master Random’s man is in the dormitory – I think that the pargeter boy is in the Great Hall. These beams are to form the pivot arm of a trebuchet – mounted where the onager was.’

Wilful Murder digested this. Nodded. Chewed on his moustache.

While he was looking at the tower and Cuddy was inspecting the duty archers, Bad Tom appeared in his armour. He didn’t look like a man who’d been up all night.

‘Captain needs the quarter guard. At the double.’ He nodded.

Ser Jehannes came along the wall and down the curtain steps. ‘Hold hard, Tom.’

Tom’s eyes met Sauce’s. ‘Now,’ he said.

He turned to face Ser Jehannes.

The quarter guard was the watch reserve – half the able men, usually the very best men, but today simply half the available troops. Sauce had more than a dozen men-at-arms in the day watch – most of the rest were kept ready for the sortie – led by Ser John Ansley, a big, cheerful, ruddy-faced young man. ‘Ser John, you have the watch,’ she said. ‘I’m taking the quarter guard. On me!’ she called, and the quarter guard came; sixteen archers and eight men-at-arms. Most of the archers were guildsmen she didn’t know – with all five of the new recruits – the local boys. Ben should have been her master archer, but he was already standing with Wilful Murder.

‘Cuddy – you’re the senior,’ she said.

‘Like enough,’ he said.

Jehannes raised his voice. ‘You are insane!’ he roared at Tom.

Tom laughed.

Her senior man-at-arms was Chrys Foliak – one of her own tent-mates. He had the others ready to move.

Cuddy made a motion with his hand and Long Paw stepped out of the ranks and joined him.

They went out the postern. It was obvious to them all that Ser Jehannes disagreed with the order to send them. But then the courtyard was behind them, and they were out in the light.

Below, on the fields, hundreds – perhaps thousands – of creatures were moving toward the Lower Town. The fields themselves seemed to be moving.

‘Good Christ!’ Chrys Foliack muttered. ‘Good Christ.’