Slow Turns The World (34 page)

“What a maker of mischief He is,” said Torrin, “to let us love so much; to love so much.”

She smiled at his softly spoken words and looked into his eyes.  She blinked once, but then did not blink again.  Torrin hugged her tightly as he cried, cradling and rocking her limp body as if she were a sleeping child and he spoke her name out loud many, many times.

Chapter 10

He came to purge the church of weakness, to renew us in our purpose and strengthen our conviction.  And thus, made stronger by His sacrifice, we shall lead all nations to honour Him and the Holy Text.

T
he book of  Perrith. Ch.14 V.
3

Some of the populace did not flee from the place of massacre but ran towards it clutching swords and bows.   A tall stern man led a motley band of warriors into the plaza, while from another alley a separate group under their own command dispersed amongst the fallen and let fly volleys of arrows at the surrounding battlements.  The stern man shouted at them.

“Damn you, fools, have you got arrows to waste?”

“Oh, here’s that Aracus again, telling us what to do!” came a shouted reply. “We’re not afraid to fight, Aracus.  It’s you that should teach your Text-lovers when to use a sword; there will be no other way now, not after this.”

There was groaning and sobbing from some of the injured.  

“We cannot help these people by arguing,” said the man called Aracus, “let your men be ready with arrows while we tend to the fallen.  Is that agreed?”

“Do as you will.” came the reply, but they complied and trained their weapons on the wall-tops and window slits as Aracus dispatched his men to tend the injured.

It was then that His Lordship returned to the square, accompanied by a small group of the surviving bodyguards.  Most of their troop had been close to Valhad when the attack came and had been targets for the first wave of arrows.   His Lordship saw Torrin huddled in a doorway, still hugging and rocking the body of Marasil.  He went to him and looked down on the dead face that was clutched tight to Torrin’s breast.

“Graselle,” he said sadly, “will have many tears to cry over this loss.  She was her truest friend.”

“Aye,” sighed Torrin, “she will be missed by those who loved her; and so will her father too.”

His Lordship nodded and then he lifted his eyes to the high tower of the citadel and his chin gave the smallest tremble as he shook his head and spoke quietly, almost to himself.

“We have lost so much.”

Torrin laid the body of Marasil gently down and then stood upright.

“Lordship, do you think Valhad still lives?”

“It is not their way to kill quickly.”

“Then we have get into the citadel.”

“That will cost many lives, Vasagi, just in the trying; and then you must take the Cloisters, for that is where he will be, or where his body will be found.”

Torrin shuddered as if a chill had crept within him.

“How many do they have within, Lordship?”

“My guess is but a few hundred.  We could muster many more now.  There is much anger after what happened here, but anger alone will not open the gates of the citadel, or the Cloisters, or the tower.”

“There are many gates in the spoke walls…”

“Yes, Vasagi, and where each wall joins the citadel are gates of iron that will be shut fast.  The weakest point is the gate that stands before us.  The outer walls were made to withstand an army, but the inner circle is only made to keep the people in their place.”

“The people will stay in their place no longer!”  Torrin spat the words out angrily.  “I will not stand here while they practice their art upon him in the Cloisters.  I swear by the lives of the Vasagi that we shall pass that gate or die in the trying.  I want command of your men, Lordship, and I want it now!”   

His Lordship hesitated but then met the fierce gaze of Torrin eye to eye.  He gave the slightest signal; there was a rattle of steel and heavy footfalls as the commander of his bodyguard presented himself.

“Captain,” said His Lordship, “the Vasagi is appointed by me to lead the attack upon the gates.”

Torrin did not allow the officer even a moment to question the appointment.

“I want the leaders of these other armed groups summoned here, especially the man Aracus.  I want carts, and pots of oil, as many as can be gathered.  And I want all this done quickly, for too much time has passed already.”

The various bands of rebels gathered out of curiosity.  Torrin did not waste time urging them to join him; he simply told them what he planned to do, confident that they would stay if only to watch the spectacle.  But he was also sure that they would take their chance for vengeance and victory if it presented, first against the Synod, and then probably against each other.  The gathering in the plaza was not unnoticed by those within the citadel, darting shapes moved between the battlements and the clinking of steel could be heard from invisible sources behind the slit windows.  The defenders, looking out, saw the gathered forces withdraw, leaving only an empty expanse of flagstones, smeared here and there by blackening bloody stains.  All became quiet, disturbed only by the chattering birds that made their perch on the stone shoulders of the statue of God.   The defenders waited, fingers teasing the crossbow latches, knuckles white around the sword hilts.   Then there was a rumbling of iron wheel rims on stone.   

Torrin had the two carts loaded with as many bottles and jars of oil as could be gathered.  Ten men pushed each of them, gripping the shafts between which horse or oxen would be yoked, sending the wagon rattling backwards onto the plaza.   Archers ran out too, ducking, weaving, then crouching as they loosed their strings.   The covering fire they gave reduced the volleys that rained from the wall-tops, but did little to diminish the deadly barbs that issued from the window slits.    Torrin gripped the end of the shaft of one wagon, trying to steer it without much success.  The men around him were skewered one by one and fell.   As each man tumbled or clutched at the arrow that pierced him, the load became greater and the cartwheels slowed. The second wagon veered from its course and caught a wheel upon the statue plinth.  The timber spokes splintered and collapsed.  The cart tumbled over shedding its load, the jars chinking and splintering, oil spreading in a glassy film across the flagstones.   

Torrin’s cart rolled to a stop with only half the distance to the gate completed.  He dived underneath, gasping for breath, as the arrows fell all around.   The stone was greasy with oil leaking from the broken vessels.  
 
He looked back into the streets and alleys where many had gathered to watch the drama play.  He saw the man Aracus and his band who had not yet drawn their weapons.  

‘Well then,’
he thought,
‘let us see if you are the man I believe you to be.’
 

Torrin rolled out from his refuge and put a shoulder to the wagon.  It was a load too great for one man to move, but still he pushed, and then the arrows flew down at him again.  The wheels shifted suddenly as other muscles shared the load; Aracus was beside him bellowing orders to his men and the now the wagon was gathering speed.   An arrow splintered the timber of the cart between them, an arrow bound with wadding, dowsed in fat that burned and flamed.

“They are trying to light our fire too soon,” shouted Aracus.   There was an eruption of flame and a searing blast of heat as the pool of oil surrounding the other cart ignited close behind them.   More fire-arrows fell upon them and caught the timbers ablaze, but they pushed onwards, gathering speed, rattling and rumbling towards the gate.  Many arrows found their mark, men fell, timber blazed, but no power now could hold the wagon from its course.  

“Steady, steady!” shouted Torrin as they came to the final push, as he fought to steer and guide the wheels towards the target.

“Now!” he yelled out, “let it go!”

Those surviving jumped and rolled aside.  The burning wagon hit the gate.  Jars smashed, tumbled, and ignited on the flaming timbers; Torrin felt a wave of heat scorch him, saw the brightness through his hard screwed eyes, heard the roar and crackle of the fire.   He rolled away from the searing heat, from the arrows, chinking upon the flagstones, and lurched up, weaving and stumbling his way across the open space until the walls of an alley closed around him.

They watched as the timber of the gate blazed and ruptured, as the spars became twisted ebony that sheared and fell.  Torrin faced the Captain of the bodyguard, Aracus and other leaders of the diverse armed groups.   

“If we will all move together,” said Torrin, “our number will be more than two thousand.  We will take the inner circle and then move upon the Cloisters.”

“It is the tower we must take first, before we concern ourselves with the Brothers,” said one of the listeners, followed by many murmurs of agreement.

“They hold Valhad,” stated Torrin, “and that is where I must go.”

“What is left of Valhad by now, would be better left to die,” said Aracus, sadly.

“Let him heal himself this time,” someone called out in scathing, bitter tones.

“You must all make your choice,” said Torrin, “but it is not only Valhad that the Cloisters hold.  All of you know some that have been taken there, who could live still; it is there that I will go.”

“I still say the tower should come first,” said Aracus, “but if you must go to the Cloisters then I shall fight beside you.  What do you all say, shall we make our first call upon the Brothers?”

There were angry shouts of agreement, for Torrin had been right and every man had his own score to settle with that fraternity.

“Then that is decided,” said Torrin, “now go and prepare your men, for the gates will soon be ash and there must be no delay.”

As they dispersed, Torrin turned to the commander of the bodyguard.

“Where is His Lordship, Captain?”

“I do not know.  I last saw him before the assault upon the gates.”

“We have managed well enough without him.  Are your men ready?”

“They are.”

“Will you fight beside me, Captain?”

“Yes, and die; if God should will it.”

They massed in every street leading to the plaza.  Torrin, Aracus and the Captain stood at the head of the greatest column, swords drawn, hearts thumping, watching the blazing gate in its dying contortions.  A great timber fell in a shower of sparks and through the heat-haze they saw the avenue of the inner circle, and the gate of the tower beyond.   There was no barricade, as Torrin had feared, no ordered ranks of waiting bowmen to bring the first wave of their attack tumbling to a bloodied halt.  

“Maybe they have withdrawn to the tower,” said Aracus.

“The Synod retreat?” said the Captain, “with God as their ally?”

“Well, now we shall see,” said Torrin. “Shall we let them know that we are coming?”

“Why not?” said Aracus, and the three let a scream rent the air as they waved their swords and led the charge upon the gate.   Behind them the scream became a roar of two thousand voices; of twice that many pounding feet, of steel sliding from leather, of bowstrings drawing tight.  The plaza was engulfed by the tide of running bodies, by an eruption of sound, by lifetimes of deep burning anger finally unleashed upon the world.

They leapt the smouldering timbers and emerged into the space beyond.  They did not stop running, did not make themselves targets for any bolts that might fly.   Only when they saw what lay strewn upon the ground did they halt, and crouch, eyes darting all around.   Bodies lay scattered; priest soldiers pierced by arrows and slashed by blades.

“What’s happened here?” asked Aracus, “and are any left for us to fight?”

“We can hope not,” said Torrin.  “Come on quickly, to the Cloisters.”

They ran on toward the high forbidding wall that shielded the Brothers of Redemption and their dark practices from the eyes of the world.   Behind them their disparate army surged through the gate.  Some stopped to hack at the bodies of the fallen priests, others to set ablaze the lush villas of the elite, but most ran in an angry, shouting, surging mass close behind them.

The gate of the Cloisters was open.  They halted panting, sweat stinging their eyes.

“A trap?” suggested Aracus.

“Aye,” said Torrin, “it could be.  There is a dark tunnel beyond and we would make easy targets against the light.”

“They may have arrows enough for three,” said the Captain, “or even thirty…”

“But not for all of us,” said Torrin, as their men massed behind them.  He raised the curved blade and led the charge, screaming defiance to whoever awaited them beyond.  As the roar of voices and running feet echoed in the dark tunnel Torrin expected every moment to be his last, but again no arrows flew.  The gate at the tunnel’s end stood ajar and he rushed through to the courtyard where there were more bodies; the Brothers of Redemption lay all around where blades had cut them down.  Some had arms raised in impotent defence but all had a look in their rictus of confusion and disbelief; as if death had come from some unexpected quarter.    The courtyard was filling quickly with angry milling warriors.  Doors and archways surrounded them. Torrin hesitated, trying to recall; agonising over which to choose.   

“Through there,” he said, pointing to heavy double doors with his blade, “that is where they hold their ‘heretics’.”

Some of their men were already advancing up the few broad steps to the portal when the heavy doors began a slow outward swing.   They stopped, clasping their weapons tightly, an expectant, brooding silence crept over them.    From the shadow within the archway, figures stepped forward.

They were priest-soldiers, but with the symbol of the triangle and the circle torn from their uniforms.  Their blades dripped blood.   They gathered before the open doors, giving hard stares and stern looks, still holding their weapons tightly.   The impasse was brief, for then they stepped aside to reveal another figure emerging from the gloom.   There was a collective murmur, a sigh, a bowing of many heads as they saw the burden that was carried.   The body of Valhad lay limp in the arms that held it.  The flesh was scored and scorched, but the face seemed at peace, resting in final perpetual sleep; the task that was appointed now complete.