The Red Knight (44 page)

The bronze wave continued to pour over the wall. Alyda’s sword work was economical, blade thrusting snake-fast into faces and throats. Kill or maim, it was all the same to her, so long as they fell back.

Every foot of wall was contested as though it was the most precious piece of ground in the world. The sun went down and the knights fought on. They were a grinding, tearing beast that chewed flesh to meat and bathed the walls in ruin.

Despite their efforts, Alyda knew that one big push from the Guthani—a breakthrough anywhere on the wall would finish them. Night sank its teeth into the horizon. Exhaustion sapped strength and will, but they fought on until horns blared from the enemy camp recalling the attackers.

They had survived.

Alyda put her back to the battlements and gulped air into her hungry lungs. The bottom of the wall in the bailey was piled with corpses. The fire in the gatehouse was still burning, and the air stank of cooked flesh, but they’d kept the Guthani out.

When the last of the enemy fighters had withdrawn, Alyda watched light bloom amongst the trees on the far side of the killing ground. Dozens of workers armed with picks and shovels scurried from the woods, and began to dig long shallow ditches and mound up the earth.

She should have been flattered that they were raising bulwarks, but it felt like a poor reward for not buckling under their first real assault. She rubbed grit from her eyes, a task made easier now that her visor had been torn off. The dried blood on her face served as a reminder of how close she’d come to losing her head. It wasn’t just skill that kept you alive in battle, luck played its part, and she was damn grateful for all that she’d had.

After briefing the wall commanders, she made her way to Cassian’s office. The Riverside Hall had taken a beating, but the lower levels had remained completely intact. Exhausted civilians and warriors slept where they could, bundled up in blankets and facing a restless night beneath the sky-pocked roof. Glass crunched beneath her boots, rainbow-hued shards all that remained of the windows. She yawned a sigh, the hall could be re-built. Those who had died were gone forever.

A gaggle of children darted around Kilner. They were being chased by another of their number wielding a bright red feather. The little ones squealed with delight as they charged around the cellars while the adults listened fretfully to the thunder above. Kilner found a quiet nook and hunkered down, jealously marvelling at the resilience of children.

Before the last attack he’d tried to lighten the dour mood in the cellar. He’d performed, pulling clouds of jewel-winged butterflies from his sleeves and transforming faded silk kerchiefs into bunches of roses. It worked, for a while. His audience had laughed and gasped and, for a short time, forgot they were afraid. The first booming impacts pounded fear back into them and not any amount of butterflies could dispel their terror. Kilner stopped his performance and let the butterflies fade.

He’d learned to live with guilt over the years, but from time to time it reminded him of its presence, like now. He could have sent sprites onto the battlefield to confuse the enemy; he could have summoned a fog, or rain, any number of small, but potentially useful magics to confound the enemy. But the truth that Captain Stenna had so quickly discerned was that he was a coward. He was afraid that the sorcerer might still be out there, waiting for another chance to attack him.

“Magic’s wasted on you.” Those were the last words his father had said when he left him at the grove, a few months after his powers had manifested. That he was right had never eased the sting of his words. He could clearly remember his tutor; tall and imposing, bathed in dappled sunlight. He was so happy that day, he’d dreamed of a new beginning at the Grove. He wouldn’t be clumsy, stupid Kilner any more. Useless in the fields and no good in the workshop—he would be a mage. Then he saw the look of disappointment on the woman’s face when her gaze settled on him, and he was crushed.

It was a painful memory, one he didn’t wish to examine any further. A shadow fell across him; he looked up to see the child with the feather standing before him, staring at him with large sad eyes. Habit drove him to wave his hands and reach behind the boy’s ear, from where he produced a quarter crown. The mage offered it to the surprised child. The boy’s impish face split into a grin. He snatched the coin and thrust the feather into Kilner’s hand. Before the mage could decline the exchange the boy was off running back to his friends with his prize.

It had been a while since Cassian had beaten out dents in his armour with his sword pommel. He was pleased to see he hadn’t lost the knack and quickly softened the uncomfortable crease in his breastplate. Chunks of black enamel flaked off, exposing the bare metal, but he’d worry about rust after they’d beaten the Guthlanders.

Alyda’s herald hissed a curse as Griga helped her into a chair. The sheen of sweat on Lieutenant Vysten’s pale face and blood spots on the bandage around her leg explained her ire. The echo of the axe blow that had dented his cuirass made Cassian’s ribs ache. Griga looked to have escaped injury, for which he was thankful. The grey-haired Lieutenant was due to retire this year. He now felt guilty that he’d asked her to stay until Midwinter. Guilty, but not regretful. He needed his right hand for one more battle.

Alyda blew in like a hurricane; her energy straightened all three of them, and chased away the creeping lethargy that was stealing into his limbs. Sometimes he doubted that
she
was human—never mind what they said about him. Her gore splattered armour spoke of a hard day of fighting, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed with a healthy glow. He could endure days, weeks, even months, of war; it took a while to wear him down. Some rare few seemed to thrive on conflict and grow in the midst of battle as though nourished by hardship; people like Alyda. She paced the room, hands clasped behind her back, casually kicking bits of rubble as she passed.

“We’ve lost the gatehouse, but I expected that. What matters is we didn’t sell it cheaply. Most of the ballistae are gone, and one of the trebuchets has been damaged. We need to reposition the working one, now that they’ve seen where it is.”

“I’ll have the damaged one salvaged if it can’t be repaired,” said Cassian. He eased himself back into his armour, pleased with the repair. Alyda stopped pacing and turned to her Lieutenant. “How many of the Hammer did we lose, Nev?” She asked.

Nevenna grimaced as she repositioned her leg. “Thirty-three dead, another three probably won’t last the night.”

Though she hid it well, he could see that the news rocked her. She clenched her jaw and nodded. “How many Lancers, Cass?”

“Twenty-eight,” he said, the number didn’t match the depth of his sorrow as each face loomed large in his mind. Griga sighed.

“Both companies are still above half strength: that’s good. Cass, I need you and half the Lancers ready to ride tomorrow, along with half of the Hammer. I can’t strip the walls of our presence. Twins know, I’d love to put us all on horseback, but we need to support the civvies. I’m waiting for Malby to get back to me with how many of them are still fit to fight.” She lowered her voice. “I want you to move your family, the Queen and the princes over to the Queen’s tower. Do it quietly and do it soon.

Cassian wasn’t surprised but he was torn. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief, but also that he’d failed the garrison. He looked at Alyda. He saw no conflict there, no guilt. Her oath was to the King first, the kingdom and its people second. An oath that was probably much easier to keep when your family were in another country. That she was planning to save
his
family was a gift that he couldn’t have given himself without destroying his honour.
Was that why I asked her to take command?
The thought appalled him. Shame weighed in on top of guilt. He was angry with himself and with Alyda for enabling his cowardice. There was a knock at the door, it was Alyda’s squire.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A delegation, Captain. They want to speak to you. I told them you were busy, but they insisted. Shall I send them away?”

She rolled her shoulders. “No, let them in, we’re done for now. Tell Kieran to meet me by the barbican in ten minutes.”

Griga left with Jamie but Cassian hung back. He had to speak to Alyda, to voice his discomfort.

“Before you say anything, Cass, I’ve made my decision, so just accept it, she said before he had chance to speak. “That will be all.”

Am I so easy to read?
His embarrassment grew. He stiffened, anger rising from several unreasonable and unnameable sources.

“I said that will be all, Captain Vorsten.” Her tone made it clear she would brook no discussion.

The simmering pot of his fury boiled over. “You outrank me by a blade’s width, Alyda. Do not abuse the privilege…not even to help me. My honour will only stand so much.” Even as he said it he knew it was a lie. He was so grateful he could have wept, which only increased his anger. Alyda folded her arms and leaned against his desk. Did she know that she’d saved and damned him in the same breath? She smiled.
Yes, she knows.

“Just do your job, Captain Vorsten. We’ll discuss any points of honour after we’ve beaten the Guthani.”

“That was hard,” said Nevenna when Cass had left.

“But necessary. How’s your leg?” Alyda didn’t need to be told that she’d offended Cassian. The murderous look on his face when he stormed out had said it all. Perhaps she should have given him the chance to talk it through, but she was tired and the outcome would have been the same.
Diplomacy has never been your strong point, Stenna.

“Gedthis says no riding, but its sound enough to stand on.”

You should be in the infirmary.”

“I can’t lie in the sickroom taking up a bed. I’m best where I can be of some use, here or up on the wall.

Her herald looked like death, but Nev knew her limits.

“How’s he doing?” Alyda didn’t need to say who she meant.

“Good, once he got over his nerves. Don’t worry; not much is going to get past Lady Berwick.”

“True, but if you do decide you’re fit enough to go back up there…”

“Of course.” Nevenna got up and limped out. Alyda could see a group of people massed outside of the office.
That’ll be the delegation then.
She thought about wiping some of the filth off her armour, but decided against it. Let them see the marks of her craft. It might make them think twice before they annoyed her. She took off her helm. The plume was gone, as well as the visor, but it had done its job and kept the contents more or less intact.

She wasn’t at all surprised that the first person through the door was the blacksmith. He had the same disgruntled expression on his face as the first time she’d met him.
Man looks like he was born frowning
.

He stepped forward, drew a breath and jabbed a calloused finger in her direction, ready to deliver what she imagined was a well-rehearsed speech.

She raised her hand, halting him before he hit his stride.

“I take it you are the representative of these people? What’s your name?”

The smith lost his momentum. “I, er…yes. I represent these people and most others trapped here. My name’s Smith, just Smith’ll do.”

Alyda had the measure of the man. There was a Smith in every town and village in Antia, probably the world. Someone who believed so surely in the rightness of their opinions that they felt it was their god-given duty to share them, loudly, and often. He folded his arms.
Some fools never know when to stand down
. So be it. If he wanted a fight he’d come to the right person. Fight was all she had in her today.

“It’s like this, Captain: we want you to make terms with them barbarians. We see no reason why we should die for…for other folks.” Smith’s gaze slid sideways. The fearless representative of the people knew how close he was to speaking treason. It was an open secret that the Queen was in the Arth.

“You must go out there and make terms before we’re all killed. It has to be done, Captain Stenna, everyone is agreed on it.” He paused, chest out, chin up, ready to counter whatever argument she offered. If only she gave a shit about what he had to say.

“I’ll tell you what I must do, Smith. I must do my duty to the King and the kingdom, as must we all, including you.” Her voice was calm, her tone measured, though that was far from how she felt, standing there covered in the blood of friends as well as enemies. She was hungry and tired. She wanted to eat and sleep, and get ready for the next attack, not waste time arguing with this feckless cunt.

“Is it your duty to see babes and old folk slaughtered?” Smith demanded. His cronies sparked up at that and mumbled supportively.

“You were offered shelter here in the King’s Arth. Neither you nor anyone else was forced to take it. Any who wish to leave may do so. But mark my words: the Guthani will kill anyone who tries to leave now.”

Smith’s mouth twisted into an angry sneer. “Then surrender! Make terms! How many more must die before you admit defeat? The King isn’t here—he doesn’t need saving, we do! Isn’t it a knight’s duty to protect the innocent? Or don’t common folk like us count?”