The Bloody Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (53 page)

Fallon sighed. He was bone tired, soaked to the skin in blood and rain and his rear guard was still fighting furiously to hold off the Kottermanis pushing up the street. “Let’s hear it then.”

*

“We have them trapped in the square of slaughter!” Mahir announced, the boluk-bashi's voice betraying his joy.

Kemal clenched his fists to contain the surge of joy. Abbas and his men had proved a Godsend. Even in the rain and dark they had led his companies, time and again, right onto the Gaelish defenders, moving them always back and across into the trap. He had worried Fallon would find some fiendish way to slip out of the net closing around him but now all that remained was to make the Gaelish surrender and ensure that bastard peasant did not die before he received the vengeance he so richly deserved.

“I must be there. Hold them until I arrive. Quick now!” The last was to his guards, who formed up around him and pushed him up the street, through the lines of exhausted, wet troops. Yet they were soldiers of Kotterman and all, even the wounded, saluted as he went past, cheering the Prince who had led them to a hard victory in these filthy, sodden streets.

Kemal indulged himself for a moment, imagining how the history scrolls would record this triumph and how his father would thank him for creating this new outpost of the Empire. Yes, their losses had been severe. But the histories never recorded such trivial details. What mattered was the result.

He could see Feray’s admiring glance in his mind’s eye and could not wait to go and tell her. Nobody could deny he was a man now. Then those warm reflections were brought to a halt, literally.

“What is going on?” he demanded.

Nobody seemed able to answer, so he pushed his way bodily through the crush of people to find a group of Gaelish women blocking the road, trying to pull apart the mounds of bodies, while Kemal’s men shouted at them.

“What is this?” Kemal thundered, in Gaelish. “Get out of the way or you shall join these bodies!”

Instantly the nearest woman, a young mother, rushed over to him. “Those are our sons, husbands, brothers and friends out there. They are dying alone, in the dark and rain. What kind of monster are you that you would stop us?” she demanded furiously.

“Get back, woman! Do you know who you are talking to?” Mahir snarled, although as he was speaking in Kottermani, the effect was lost. To emphasize his words, he drew back his hand to strike her.

Kemal, meanwhile had glanced around the street, which was covered in bodies, most of them moving, moaning, thrashing, calling and bleeding.

“No,” he told the boluk-bashi. “Let them care for the wounded. They were brave men and fought well. Soon they will be part of our Empire and one day they might even live to serve under you, in another part of Kotterman.”

“As you wish, high one.” Mahir bowed.

“What is your name?” Kemal asked the defiant woman.

“Rebecca,” she replied, glaring at him.

“You are a brave woman. Do what you can to save these men.”

He left her looking astonished and hurried up the street, finally reaching the entrance to the road leading to the square of slaughter. His corbaci, Nazim, waited for him there.

“High one, my men are in the square, holding position. The Gaelish are drawn up within in a defensive square and wait for our attack,” he said.

Kemal looked up the street to where his blocking force was in tight ranks, their shields held proudly high. The bodies scattered over the cobbles before them showed how hard they had fought to close the trap. They raised their swords and slapped them against their shields to salute him. In return he waved back at them. Even the dawn had brought little light to the street and he could barely see them through the driving rain but he knew they would appreciate the gesture.

“They have secured the victory,” Kemal said. “Theirs was the hardest task and we shall honor them for it afterwards.”

That company began to march forwards, somewhat raggedly, but he could forgive them that after what they had done.

“Shall I send them to the rooftops, so we can overwhelm them from all sides, high one?” Nazim asked.

“It is not necessary,” Kemal said. “Once I speak to the Gaelish, they will give up. Follow me.”

He strode triumphantly down the narrow street, his guards ahead of him. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Fallon begging for mercy on his knees and that was all he cared about. The square ahead stank of blood and waste and normally it would have revolted him. But now the smell bothered him not at all.

“High one, the company that held the road is following us down. Shall I order them to return?” Mahir asked.

“Let them join in my triumph. After all, they secured it,” Kemal said dismissively.

As Nazim had said, the Gaelish were drawn up on the far side of the square, locked in tight ranks. Facing them were Nazim’s men, who parted ranks to let him through.

He stood at the front, although Mahir was careful to have men with shields on either side of him, in case the Gaelish still had crossbows.

“Let Fallon come forth! Or does he care nothing for your lives, that he would sacrifice you all to save himself?” Kemal roared.

There was a commotion among the Gaelish and a figure pushed his way out of them.

Kemal felt a pulse of mixed elation and hatred to see Fallon there.

“Time to enjoy our victory,” he announced and strode forwards, his guards closing in around him. Behind them, another company marched forwards also, until there was a solid column moving out of the ranks.

Kemal frowned a little. It made him look as though he was afraid of Fallon and that was the last impression he wanted. “Send them back, I only need my personal guards,” he ordered Mahir.

But, even as the boluk-bashi snapped out the orders, the company pushed forwards faster. Kemal’s guards moved to stop them, shouting angrily but, to Kemal’s astonishment and horror, the other company clubbed and stabbed the guards down.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kemal bellowed but the soldiers did not respond, instead pressed forwards faster. Mahir drew his sword, only for a tall man, wielding not the regulation sword but a pair of long knives, to knock it aside and then slam him to the ground.

Kemal fumbled for his own sword, shocked at the sudden turn of events, except two soldiers pounced on him. One, a bald giant, knocked his sword from his hand. The other held a sword awkwardly to his throat.

“What are you doing?” Kemal roared.

The soldier tugged at his ill-fitting helmet and knocked it off, revealing a mop of long blonde hair that was instantly soaked by the rain.

“Winning this battle,” the soldier said in Gaelish.

In the gloom and rain, it took him a moment to recognize the face and voice. “Bridgit?” he gasped, an icy fist grabbing his heart.

“The same. And these aren’t your men. They are mine. Tell your soldiers to throw down their weapons or you will die,” she said harshly.

He stared around in shock and confusion as men he had thought were his soldiers spun around, forming a defensive ring around him – except they were protecting against his real soldiers, under Nazim. The bald-headed giant of a man grabbed his arm and hustled him backwards, the rest of them coming with them, and it was only now, this close to them, that he saw the rents in the armor, the bloodstains that belonged to their former owners, and the clumsy way the Gaelish were marching. How could he have not realized earlier?

His previous exultation was washed away in a tide of horror. This could not happen!

“Tell your men to surrender,” Bridgit ordered.

“Never! I would rather die first,” Kemal growled.

Bridgit pointed at the tall soldier with the knives. “Bring that officer over,” she instructed.

Kemal watched furiously as a dazed Mahir was dragged across.

“Tell your friends over there to surrender or your precious Prince dies,” Bridgit told Mahir.

Kemal was about to order Mahir to do no such thing when he was punched in the stomach and, winded, he doubled over, unable to speak.

Mahir spoke little Gaelish but the meaning of what was going on was only too clear. Kemal felt tears of pain and humiliation trickle down his cheeks as the boluk-bashi shouted out what the Gaelish wanted.

There was a pause as Nazim shouted back questions but Kemal was forced upright, a knife against his throat, then Mahir called again, his voice more desperate.

The sound of Kottermani weapons falling to the cobbles was like the chimes of doom.

Fallon enfolded Bridgit in his arms.

“You were right! You did it!” he said.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said tiredly. “I told you it would work. Men see what they want to see, not what really is there, especially when it is dark and raining. Walking down that alleyway with Kottermanis all around us nearly stopped my heart but we knew all we had to do was get to Kemal and we would be safe. And so it proved!”

They had both been working solidly for the past six turns of the hourglass, through the driving rain, which was only now beginning to let up. At least it had cleaned away some of the horror from the cobbles.

Men were out scouring the streets and rooftops for wounded and checking for Kottermani agents, as well as securing the harbor. Wounded men had been found in the strangest of places and, luckily, many would survive. Rosaleen and an army of priests and helpers were doing their best but much of the healing had been begun by ordinary people, who had bound up wounds and tried to stop men bleeding until real help could arrive. There had been extraordinary tales of survival as well, from a crossbowman who had fallen from a rooftop and only broken a leg to the young guard who had raised the warning, found shivering and bleeding but alive in the harbormaster’s office.

Above all, however, there had been tales of death. The tally was still being made but more than two hundred young Gaelish were gone, with almost all of the survivors suffering some sort of wound.

Yet it was still a triumph. They had Prince Kemal and the Kottermanis would buy his freedom only once Gaelland could be sure it was free. Fallon mourned those who were lost but it was a smaller price than he had feared he would pay to save the country.

He sat down beside Bridgit and kissed her wet hair. Every part of him ached, while he had three cuts on his arms and chest that stung furiously every time he moved.

“Thank Aroaril that will be our last battle,” he said.

“Thank Aroaril I was on your side,” she said.

He laughed and then groaned as his wounds pulled at him.

“We’ll find a priest to look at those,” she said.

He shook his head. “There are too many others who need it more. I can wait.” He leaned in to kiss her but she turned her head and he ended up with a mouthful of ear. “What?” he began, only for her to turn his head also.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Captain,” Casey said, his hair plastered flat against his scalp by the rain, “but I thought you should know. We went back to the Duchess Dina’s house and the two men I left there were dead. She is gone, run into the night.”

Bridgit cursed and he looked at her.

“Where did you learn those words?”

“You would rather not know,” she said grimly. “But that is ill news on a dark day. I wish I had never summoned them away from there.”

Fallon sighed. “But if you had not, then Brendan might have been lost, and then me with him, even before you got to us. No, it was the right decision. Casey, double the guards on the gates just in case but I expect she has got out of the city by now.”

“Then we should send men after her. Capture her and bring her back,” Bridgit said.

“We will, but it matters little,” he said, reaching out to embrace her once more.

“Fallon, you need to listen to me. She is dangerous!”

“So she goes to Swane. It just means we get them both in the spring. What harm can she do us? She cannot create an army for him.”

Bridgit shivered a little. She told herself it was only the cold but things did not feel like they were finished. Worse, she was beginning to wonder if Fallon had the foresight needed to run this city.

*

Feray watched the coast of Gaelland slip over the horizon and shivered. She had ordered both crews from the two remaining ships onto the best vessel and sunk the other after stripping it of all supplies.

“Ana, when is our baba coming back to us?” Orhan asked.

She hugged her son. “Your baba is a prisoner with Fallon and Kerrin, as we once were,” she said gently.

“But when is he coming back?”

“Soon,” she said. “We are going for a little sail now. We need to see baba’s baba, your grandfather the Emperor. And together we are going to get your baba back.”

Even though my name is on the cover, there are many people who helped – either to make this book a reality or to make the story, the characters and the words better. Without them, it would be a lesser work and I thank them deeply for what they added to the book.

To my beta reader Belinda, who always has good suggestions; my agent Jo Butler at Cameron’s Management; the team at Momentum – Joel, Ashley, Patrick and Michelle; to copy editor Kate O’Donnell, whose brilliant work made me think about every aspect of this book and made my writing look better; to the fantastic proof reader (Melissa Kemble) whose eagle eyes were very much appreciated.

If you enjoyed this book, then you deserve my thanks as well.

Do you want a character named after you in book three of The Arbalester Trilogy,
The Poisoned Quarrel
? It’s a contest with a prize money cannot buy. Just review
The Bloody Quarrel
online and send me a link to the review via the Contact Me page on my website, 
www.duncanlay.com
. Two reviewers will get a character named after them in the conclusion to this trilogy.

Duncan Lay is the author of two best-selling Australian fantasy series, the Dragon Sword Histories and the Empire Of Bones. He writes on the train, to and from his job as production editor of The Sunday Telegraph, Australia's biggest-selling newspaper. He lives on the Central Coast of NSW with his wife and two children.

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