Brave Men Die: Part 2 (14 page)

They were headed into the pub district. He chuckled under his breath about the fact that Buckthorne had a pub district — the best way to keep the riffraff in one location to be able to deal with them. If Gerard believed the stories that lived and breathed in the barracks, the baron, as a young man, had often been found there in all sorts of conditions and all his father had to do was send some men down to the pub district and they would drag his arse back to the keep.

All the restaurants were located in the pub district too, and Gerard was struggling to deal with the tantalising aromas now he was halfway through his second shift and he was starving.

It had gone past ten, gods knew how they had lasted that long, before the first fight broke out. It was the sound, how it punctured the night, chaos in the black. The havoc was anger and frustration, the cries and grunts angst and sorrow. Gerard thought it was like an explosion had erupted inside the Black Widow and was trying to escape, the walls pulsing with the energy within.

The patrol was a block away when the fight ignited. The centuries-old building was not designed for crowd control, nor to take the punishment issued from within. Glass shattered as schooners were flung with wild abandon and stools were heaved through the windows facing the street.

As Gerard ran toward the Black Widow, the rest of the crowd in the pub district dispersed to the side of the road. Half of them were concerned at the sight of the patrol, the others looked like they were about to get involved. One man was starting to make his way to the Black Widow when Gerard screamed, ‘Don’t you even bloody think about it!’ The man turned to look over his shoulder, distracted long enough for Gerard to close the distance and drop his shoulder into him. The man went flailing to the ground, and Gerard kept running. ‘And bloody stay down!’

A smaller fight had erupted on the street in front of the tavern. Six men were laying into each other. One had managed to lift a heavy three-foot bench above his shoulder and was swinging it around like a bat. Two members of the patrol already ahead of him went straight into the fray, attempting to wrestle the makeshift weapon away.

The patrol commander reached the entrance first, signalled for two men to guard the door and headed in without a second glance. Gerard was two men behind the commander and barrelled in. Inside was just nonsense. There were fights everywhere. Those not involved were watching, circling, cheering and screaming.

Gerard watched as the commander went straight to the bar to try to restore order there, shoving past the cheering patrons, knocking aside everyone who got in his way. From what Gerard could tell the fight was between the reservists and the townspeople. He swore blind that if he found the drunk that had run his mouth off and started this mess, the bastard would spend a week in the lock up.

The screams coming from the beer garden propelled him in that direction, smashing two people to the sticky tavern floor as he passed. Why was he heading out here?

Gerard couldn’t help but pause at the door — the scene outside was brutal. A spray of blood from the man in front who had just been king hit covered his face. He swallowed back the rising panic. Two men were trading blows. A woman was screaming, kicking a man as he huddled on the floor. Another man got brained by a chair. Without thinking he launched himself from a table onto the attacker’s back. They went down in a tangle of bodies, Gerard was grateful he landed on top. He grunted as a boot hit his back. He scrambled to his knees, kicking a man in the head in the process before jumping on a man’s back and stopping him from throwing another punch.

Air left his lungs as he was smashed into a wall. He’d possibly broken some ribs. Grimacing, he repeatedly kicked the man in the back of the knee until he dropped and Gerard punched him in the face until he was bloody and unconscious.

Gerard took the situation in. His knuckles were split and blood was dribbling down the back of his hand. Rain and sweat had smeared the blood down his face. His body hurt.

There were not enough of the watch to control the crowd. Not that the crowd noticed, they were too focused on hitting each other. The watch fought on, but were failing to stop anything, one man disappearing under the swarming crowd.

The throng of fighters were hurtling toward the gate that enclosed the beer garden. Gerard could foresee what was about to happen — they were about to spill onto the street and the brawl would become a riot. That dumbass he’d knocked down earlier would join in. If the streets erupted there would be nothing ten men could do to return order.

Bounding from tabletop to tabletop he tried to get there before all hell broke loose. But he was a fraction too late, and a man was crash-tackled through the gate and one panel of fencing. Taking a deep breath, Gerard leapt through the breach and into the chaos.

The part of the patrol stationed outside had managed to keep anyone else from entering the Black Widow through the front door. The patrons from the restaurants beside the Black Widow had dispersed from the tables out the front, their meals and drinks deserted. Most had the common-sense to retreat. However, a mother and daughter stood motionless, watching the fight spill toward them.

The remaining watchmen entered the fight without hesitation but they were too far away and wouldn’t get past the fringes of the fight. Quickly, Gerard realised there was no one else.

Gerard picked up a table and used it as a battering ram to knock down the first brawlers in his way. Discarding it, he darted between some others and ducked under a blow, grabbing hold of a man and driving his knee up into his chest. Gerard managed to make it to the women with a smile on his face.

He locked eyes with the daughter until she smiled back. He kept her gaze until she looked away blushing, then her expression turned to one of horror. Gerard followed her gaze only to be smashed in the side of the head by a drunk. Everything went spinning as blood exploded from his split head. He stumbled forward, grabbing at the man to keep himself upright as the women started screaming and slowly backpedalling away from the fight.

On his knees, Gerard grabbed for the nearest chair and swung it at the man’s legs. Why was he always on his arse today? He struggled up, stood in front of the women and stopped another two fighters from barging into them. He managed to keep his feet and started laying into them, sending the first man back with missing teeth. There was fuck all he could do now. His main priority was ensuring the safety of the two women.

He took a glancing blow to the side of the head, another couple to the chest, but his chain absorbed most of the blows. He kicked a reservist away and tripped over a fallen body. A citizen tried to grab him around the throat but Gerard managed to wrestle him to the ground, dropping his knee between his shoulder blades to pin him.

He looked up, one eye swollen shut, and watched as another two patrols hammered into the melee. They hit in two lines, driving forward, and brutally took down all the combatants without remorse.

‘Are you okay?’ Gerard asked the ladies. ‘You didn’t get any blood on you?’

The mother answered. ‘No watchman, thank you for your assistance, I shall make sure my husband hears of it.’

Gerard didn’t know what to make of her response. Would her husband hunt him down to get him to pay the laundry bill? Beat it out of him? Or would he take it easy on him since he managed to stop his daughter from being manhandled? Some days he couldn’t win.

At least the daughter was smiling so he smiled back with a crooked grin.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

‘Does what hurt?’

‘Your face,’ she said.

‘It must look worse than it feels. I’m Gerard.’

‘Mia.’

‘Don’t flirt with the boy Mia,’ her mother grumbled.

‘Flirt with who?’

They all turned to see who had spoken.

‘Captain …’ Gerard stammered.

The captain of the watch stood there with a hard look on his face that softened as his hand went to the mother’s waist and she kissed him gently on the cheek. Mia smiled at her father and her eyes sparkled.

‘Morgan, twice in one day.’ He looked at the unconscious bodies at his feet. ‘These ones seem bigger than boys.’

‘They weren’t running, either, sir.’

‘That’s a lad.’ He turned to the ladies. ‘I say you can go out for dinner and you get stuck in the middle of a riot. Now what is it that you don’t want me to know?’

The mother smiled and put her hand to the captain’s unshaven face. ‘Only that this man put himself in harm’s way to protect us.’

The captain looked over Gerard. ‘That is his job.’

Oh fuck. He had just been flirting with the captain’s daughter. He was going to lose his balls.

‘He anticipated a problem and fixed it. He saw where the trouble was headed and he made sure innocents weren’t hurt. He’s probably worth ten men.’

‘By the swelling, I’d guess two,’ the captain chuckled.

‘Well, Morgan, looks like you’re going to be mine. Report to my office in the morning, you’re transferred out of your patrol. You go where I go.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And Morgan? Don’t disappoint my wife.’

Hydrus rode under the portcullis, leading the Nails back into the compound at the Gorgon Pass. He dismounted and ran his hand through Honour’s mane, whispering reassurances into his ears before taking the saddle and harness off. He threw his helmet, gauntlets, and vambraces to the ground beside him and grabbed a brush from a saddlebag as the sweat dripped down his forehead. He rubbed his horse down, taking care to clean off the blood and check for any injuries. He nodded to himself when he discovered a few scratches but nothing serious, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips.

Completing his task, Hydrus picked up his armour and carried it away from the makeshift stables to the tents the Nails were living out of temporarily. He opened the tent flap to see Volans sitting on his cot and already polishing his armour. Hydrus marvelled at how the man could be so bloody quick when he was one of the last back. He shrugged his shoulders and threw his gear on the cot and set about unbuckling the rest of it.

Hydrus reached into the bucket of water in the middle of the tent and brought a handful to his face. He scrubbed with his fingers to get the dried blood off his skin and the gore from his beard. He grabbed for a small towel and dried his face, looking in the mirror to see if he got it all. Satisfied, he removed his shirt, checked over his chest and arms to see nothing but minor scratches. He grabbed a cleaner one, threw it on and walked out.

‘Coming?’ he asked Volans as he left.

Volans put down his gauntlet and the polishing rag and stood. He caught up with him in moments as they made their way to speak with the garrison commander. Duncan had immediately returned to the tower on top of the wall, watching the remnants of the Kyzantine forces retreat back down the pass, dragging their wounded and dead with them.

Men raced around the compound, knights led their mounts by the reins to the marshalling area where others had already begun to feed and groom them. Those soldiers on active duty were stationed on the walls while the others cleaned the camp after the morning meal.

Hydrus stopped and let two stretcher bearers cut right in front of him, heading directly for the medics with a wounded soldier. The soldier choked back the tears as his hands gripped his side tight to stem the blood. He foolishly tried to salute when he recognised Hydrus’ face.

The stretcher bearers nodded their thanks which Hydrus returned and thought about going with the medics to learn how many men had died this morning and if the wounded would be returning to the walls or light duties. Most of the wounded that were back up on their feet were the ones cooking and preparing the meals for the others. A one-armed man barged out of the medic's door, a bucket in his only hand, and ran straight to the well. He drew up the pail and emptied it into his own before rushing back inside.

‘Later Volans, organise the corporal to get correct numbers of the dead and the wounded. I need numbers to plan the next move, what’s possible, what isn’t. I’m running out of ideas as it is to get around that bitch Pyxis and her never-ending army. I swear they're getting back up again after they are dead.’

‘That’s all we need Hydrus, the undead. What’s next? Dragons? It’s bad enough we have to fight the whole fucking Empire. We don’t need the men hearing that kind of shit.’

‘You’re right, I should know better. I won’t mention the things that go bump in the night.’

Volans rolled his eyes and ignored the younger man.

‘Oh and by the way, have missives sent back to dead men’s families. Get Castor to do it, someone needs to keep track of all these things and it might as well be him.’

‘Yes Hydrus, I’ll make sure they go out with the next messenger who leaves for Buckthorne.’

‘Thank you.’

The two men quickly crossed the compound with purpose and headed straight for Duncan’s office. Duncan was already sitting behind his desk, his armour discarded on the floor beside him, and was flicking through a pile of papers. The commander at Gorgon Pass was almost as old as Hydrus’ father but had duly earned the position by serving in the last skirmish between the Kingdom and the Empire. Despite his grey beard and bald head, the old man was still built like a man twenty years younger because he personally saw to training his men.

‘Another successful foray Hydrus. I think we got them running scared.’

‘They’ll be back Duncan. Not smart enough to stay away.’

‘It’s not them but her. She's relentless and has the numbers to keep coming back at us.’

‘She is a good tactician, we lose men each time she comes at us, but they just don’t match us in fighting skill. Not all of them are trained and it shows.’

‘Eventually she will just send everyone at us and clog up the pass, then our little outings will have no affect,’ commented Volans.

‘That’s true. There will come a time when we won’t be able to open the door to let the cavalry out.’

‘I’d be more worried about being let back in,’ said Volans.

Hydrus looked over the two men. Both were capable, good at their jobs, and had sound suggestions. This was not the place the war would be fought. It would be deep in the Kingdom or in the heart of the Empire. The fight for the Gorgon Pass would be relentless but it wouldn’t be where he was going to be needed. He and the Nails needed to do something grander in the scheme of things.

Castor walked into the middle of the compound with his sword in his hand. Dressed now in only pants and a light shirt he stopped when he reached the unoccupied second courtyard. He looked momentarily into the sky, searched for the sun’s position before losing himself for a minute.

From the temporary accommodation, twenty-six other Nails come out to join him as he took the first ward with his weapon raised high with both hands. His feet danced lightly across the ground as his hands twirled the blade from ward to ward. Soon the others had joined, taking his lead.

Castor had started doing them the day after they had buried Argol. Volans had suggested he do something to occupy his thoughts that he could focus solely on. Emotion gone, it was him and the steel and how it moved as part of his body. The day after he had done the same, and the next.

On the fourth day after their first foray back into the pass he came back into the compound, tired and bloody, and dragged his body through the routine that he forced upon himself. He cleared his mind and went from form to form and only realised when he had stopped that three others were standing behind him, having participated quietly. The next day there were forty-two of the Nails performing the drills. Castor just ignored them as he focused on the blade, the movement and the strikes.

Each day another one or two of them died or was too wounded to continue. Castor shut it all out. All the emotion was gone, he had told himself to ignore it and put it behind him.

Today he noticed the numbers, that they were lower than the day before, and realised that another man was probably dead. No one there spoke of it, a silent fact they were all aware of but couldn’t face talking about.

The Nails moved as one as the sweat clung to their backs, blades splitting the air. Volans stopped at the top of the wall and looked down upon them, intrigued by what the young corporal had put into place without even trying. He had suggested it to keep his mind from wandering back to Argol, didn’t know if that was the smartest idea, not letting Castor deal with his best friend’s death, but this was war and he needed to stay focused. Volans knew that he would lose it if he couldn’t keep one of the youngsters alive.

He moved down the stairs as they neared the end of the routine. He had watched often enough to know it was coming. Volans had thought about joining in a couple of times, but the sword was just not his thing. Too much skill needed, that’s why he preferred the hammer. One solid shot and they were down, no real need for accuracy.

He hurried after Castor as the group of men disbanded, each going their separate ways. Volans followed him into his quarters, walked in as Castor was pulling the shirt over his head revealing the red, raw scar that ran the length of the left side of his back.

‘That’s healing nicely.'

Castor turned and shot him an icy smile, still half detached.

‘Not the only one and it won’t be the last.’

Volans eyes flashed over his puckered shoulder where the crossbow bolt hit him a few weeks ago. Scars ran across his arms, some still red and angry, another down his side.

‘It will teach you not to run to the wall when the alarm is called without wearing your armour.’

‘The call was made, I answered.’

Volans noticed the blunt, icy tone but ignored it.

‘Hydrus wants you to send missives to the families of the dead soldiers. Write them quickly and have them sent by this afternoon. Tomorrow at the latest. You have a few to do so don’t drag your feet over this.’

‘I hear you Volans, I’ll get onto it.’

‘And don’t shirk your other duties either. I still expect you to do what you are responsible for.’

The second after Volans ordered it he regretted it. Looking at Castor’s sunken eyes he knew he was already not getting much sleep. Ron had mentioned in passing the nightmares that Castor experienced in the few hours that he managed to get each night.

‘Yell out if you need a hand with any of them okay?’

Castor looked like he had just been attacked. I told you I’d get them done Volans, I meant it.’

Volans nodded and left, leaving Castor alone with whatever horrors were plaguing him.

Dawn broke as Hydrus climbed into the saddle. The Nails sat mounted behind him, the garrison unit attached to his at the back. Hydrus watched as the old garrison commander finished walking the walls, checking on his troops and his defensive measures, his limp more noticeable in the early morning. His left leg dragged slightly along the ground with each step, a wound from when he first started soldiering.

Duncan stopped to speak to his aide quickly, took his offered helmet and patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder. As he put on his helmet, plume falling down behind, he reached the stairs and headed down them. He passed two soldiers who were climbing up to their positions who saluted and he returned the gesture. Duncan quickly strode up to the waiting cavalry, put one foot in the stirrup and heaved himself up.

‘There is no sign of them.’

‘You mean they still haven’t ranked up, Duncan?’

‘No, it appears that they might have slept in this morning.’

‘Well I happen to like the idea of an early morning charge.’

‘You have to be the only one.’

‘Nonsense. The Nails are all eager and excited about the early starts.’

Duncan looked around. There was not one smile in the crowd of faces. Some of their eyes looked a little sunken, growth on all their chins. Yes, their eagerness was apparent.

‘Looked at your men this morning Hydrus?’

Hydrus turned slightly, looked over his men. He turned back to the garrison commander.

‘Armour on, weapon in hand, sitting on a horse. I’d say they are all enthusiastic actually.’

Duncan rolled his eyes. ‘Should we get going?’

‘I’m sorry, I thought we were waiting for you to open the doors.’

Duncan signalled the men and they began to draw open the portcullis. Hydrus ordered the unit out at a canter. The enemy were still absent as they picked up the pace, charging along the pass. They travelled fast bearing down the straight toward the dog leg. Nothing still.

Hydrus pushed his mount to the outside then cut back in. The Kyzantines were standing there, pikes pointing toward the charging knights. The solid line of infantry held their ground as the Murukans barrelled toward them. Hooves kicked up dust as the armoured horses carried their riders to the line.

They needed to break the Kyzantine line and without the help of infantry linebreakers it would be bloody impossible. Hydrus just hoped that the archers amongst them could do enough damage. They fired at will, sporadically thinning the front ranks and giving them just enough room not to skewer themselves.

A pike passed under Hydrus’ sword arm as he raised his weapon above his head. The knight beside him was not so lucky. His blood spurted over Hydrus moments before the enemy’s blood sprayed over his blade and arm. His mount knocked the infantry down as its powerful muscles drove them forward. He swung again taking a woman through the shoulder, her screams filling his ears. A blade bounced off the bottom of his shield and took part of his thigh on the way through. Hydrus crunched his teeth, grinding them in pain. He looked for the man who made him bleed, moments before a warhammer smashed the skull in. Volans kept going, taking another in the chest, crushing bone.

Hydrus looked at the line, saw the bodies of his own men and the fallen horses. They were few compared to the destruction they had caused. He drove the edge of his shield down on top of the head of one man.

‘Retreat,’ he ordered. Hydrus pulled on the reins, turned his mount’s head around and kicked in his heels. His stallion reared up and took off back toward the barricade.

One of his soldiers stood amongst the bodies and blood and swung his blade at the infantry as Hydrus was going past. He pulled up, swung around and went back, stopping between his man and the enemy. Swinging his blade in a wide arc to keep them at bay, the soldier climbed up behind Hydrus before he kicked the flanks and the stallion bounded off again rushing the two knights to safety.

Along the line the Murukan force peeled off from the front line and raced toward the barricade. Men rode double, wounded and dying mounts left behind. The Kyzantines gave chase, parting to let the cavalry come charging through. Hooves pounded on the dirt, kicked up tufts of grass. As the Murukans raced up the pass they shouted for the portcullis to be raised. Archers ran along the walls, bows in hand. As the knights came closer, the archers released their shafts into the pursuing enemy. The Kyzantines pulled up as the last of the Murukans came in and the portcullis snapped shut. They held their ground under the barrage of arrows before the order came for them to retreat.

Castor was sitting beside Volans polishing his armour, at least attempting to, when his eyelids became heavy and he slumped forward. He was rudely awakened when Volans’ arm came swinging round hard and fast. Castor rubbed his eyes and yawned, trying to shake the tiredness from his body.