The Broken Blade (35 page)

They had gone but a short distance when he heard noises above him. Looking up, he saw the thresholders. They pelted arrows, bolts, pots, trunks, stones, tiles, and javelins – anything they could get hold of – down upon the King's men.

“Ware above!”

A piece of pottery glanced off Eamon as he yelled the warning. Men raised their voices in alarm as objects smashed down into the paving slabs around them. Still they pressed on. Eamon sometimes saw groups of thresholders or Gauntlet racing through the narrow streets, retreating westward, but unless they came directly past his force he let them go.

Easter archers took to the roofs and pressed the thresholders, giving Eamon and his men some reprieve.

They had made perhaps half of the distance from the North Gate to the Four Quarters when Eamon saw a great mass spanning the road from side to side up ahead. A dense line of carts and trunks and barrels blocked the Rise and its side streets. Eamon caught
glimpses of men behind it and knew that he would not be able to take it swiftly.

“How shall we pass, First Knight?” called an Easter named Lord Ylonous.

“We will not go over it.” Eamon would not lead his men into a battle against the block. The side roads led into the East Quarter. From there he would be better able to navigate other ways to the city's heart.

He turned back to Ylonous. “Have some of your men infiltrate the blockade from the roofs and the flanks.” Ylonous's men went at once. It would be a lengthy process; Eamon felt restless and impatient. He had to reach the Four Quarters sooner than it would take to break the blockade. “I will go another way.”

“We will come with you.” The voice was Leon's. A group of twenty to thirty men was with him.

Lifting his sword high, Eamon took his men into the side street. It was narrow and dark, and there was no better place for them to be ambushed, but he went on resolutely. Eamon knew that the road led eventually to the Ashen.

Despite the unspoken fears of his men and the thick cries that echoed in the city streets, they met little or no resistance in the dark streets. Eamon wondered how many families hid in their homes, dreading the coming of the King.

They passed shops and buildings that Eamon knew; places where he had walked and talked and lived with the people of Dunthruik. At last they came to the Ashen.

He came into the heart of the East Quarter at the head of his men. A group of thresholders and Gauntlet stood there, held in a grim line by a mounted Hand who yelled at them as the King's men appeared. Arrows hissed as the thresholders loosed. The King's men returned shots.

Eamon stopped in his tracks. It was neither arrow nor hand that stayed him, but the sting and smell of smoke.

The East Handquarter and college were in flames.

For a terrible moment Eamon stopped and stared. He was vaguely aware of the Hand falling from his horse, and of the thresholders dispersing with cries of panic. Defenders fled to the darkened streets of the Ashen, pursued by King's men. Then more King's men arrived from the south – Feltumadas's force from the Blind Gate – poured into the Ashen, and took up the quarry.

But Eamon did not give chase. He ran towards the steps of the Handquarter.

The flames devoured the college and the rear of the Hand's residence. As Eamon raced to the steps, he was struck by a wall of heat.

Between fits of coughing and gasping, he looked through the smoke into the hall of the Handquarter. There he made out the faintest sound and sight of people gathered within, trapped by the encroaching flames and choking on the smoke.

Eamon drew a deep breath and charged up the steps. He could barely breathe. Moving his limbs was agony.

“Slater!” he yelled, coughing as he inhaled a lung-full of smoke and ash. He swore. “
Slater!
” Sweat poured off his face.

The servants were gathered, trembling, behind the smoke in a corner of the hall. Smoke poured out of the kitchens and servants' quarters. He raced across to the terrified forms huddled in the sooty darkness. Why did they not try to escape?

Eamon reached the group of servants. One of them raised a hand to strike him.

Eamon caught the master cook's arm before the knife reached his armour. The servant gave a frightened yell.

“You are a brave man,” Eamon told him, “but foolish. You must get out of here.”

“Lord Goodman!” It was Slater.

“Into the Ashen, all of you!” Eamon yelled. “
Now!
”

The servants stared at him. They were pale-faced and wept.

“We can't go out there!” The voice was Callum's. “They'll kill us!”

“Would you rather roast like geese?” Eamon cried. “If you trust
me, then do as I say, all of you!” Eamon seized Callum's quivering hand. “Follow me,
now!
”

He broke into a fit of coughing as the acrid smoke filled his lungs. Unable to speak another word, he strengthened his grip on Callum's hand and led the boy at a run from the hall. Timbers creaked all about them, weakened in the press of the flames. The servants, choking and crying, followed him as he charged down the college steps and into the May sunlight.

He brought the servants to a halt near the centre of the square.

“Slater, is this everyone you had with you? Have we lost anyone?”

Slater counted heads. “All of them, my lord. At least, all who were with us upon your arrival.”

Too few. Far too few. Tears welled in Eamon's eyes.

“Lord Goodman,” screamed Cara's voice, “behind you!”

He turned round. The Ashen teemed with Easters and King's men. For a moment, Eamon struggled to understand the girl's worry. A group of King's men approached from across the square. The servants cried out in terror.

Eamon did not have time to comfort them. He raised one hand to the nearest Easter.

“There may be others inside,” he yelled, thrusting one hand back towards the burning hall. “This quarter belongs to Lord Anastasius. Douse the flames and find any who yet live.”

A group of Easters charged towards the building. Anastasius's son, Ithel, reached Eamon's side. Callum still clung to Eamon's battle-worn hands. As the Easter halted, a look of amusement passed over his face.

“We must to the Four Quarters,” Ithel said, looking to Eamon. “My men will see to the building.”

Eamon nodded and turned to Slater. “Lead the house,” he commanded. “Go and block yourselves into a building somewhere and wait for this to be over. If any men like these come against you, tell them that you are under the protection of the First Knight.”

“The First Knight?” Slater stared. He repeated the word dumbly. “The First Knight? Who is that?”

“The King's second,” Ithel told him.

Slater looked at Eamon in alarm. “But what if the First Knight were to come?” he asked. “How would we explain that we had used his name?”

Ithel laughed out loud. “If he were to come?” he cried.

Slater glanced at Eamon uncertainly. “What does he mean, my lord?”

It was then that Ithel forced mirth away from his lips. With utmost seriousness, he met Slater's gaze. “Your Lord Goodman is the First Knight.”

For a moment Slater could not comprehend. His eyes slowly turned to Eamon, and his jaw dropped.

“Lord Goodman –”

“It is true,” Eamon answered. A darkly confused look went over his servant's face. “We will speak,” he said. “Please, Slater; lead the house.”

Slater nodded in stunned silence.

Callum tugged at Eamon's gauntleted hand.

“Wouldn't we be safer if you stayed with us?” the boy whispered, quivering with fear.

“Maybe,” Eamon told him, then smiled. “But only maybe. It seems to me that Mr Cook might make a more stalwart defender.” He saw Cook turn red, and for a moment it distracted the servants from the Easters. He looked back down at Callum. “I have to go.”

“Will you come back?”

Eamon matched the boy's gaze. “I will come back.”

Callum clutched tighter at his hand and a tiny sob left his lips. Gently, Eamon leaned forward and kissed Callum's brow.

“You will be safe, and I will come back,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Nodding tearfully, the boy let go his hand.

Eamon turned again to Slater and touched his arm. “Take care of my house, Mr Slater.”

“Yes, my lord,” Slater replied.

“First Knight!” Leon returned from one of the side streets. “We must to the King!”

“We go,” Eamon answered. The servants eyed him in awe and surprise. Though he wished he could stay to encourage them, Eamon turned and gathered his men to him. He led them on through the Ashen to its far end where a wide road led back down to Coronet Rise. Eamon cast one more look back at the Handquarters. Slater led the house away. Eamon felt a sudden doubt run through him.

The King's men had not reached the Ashen before him. Even if they had, they would not have set flame to the Handquarter. Who had done so?

Eamon and the King's men pressed on through the streets of Dunthruik. The thresholders hindered their passsage where they could, though it was never for long. Eamon lost many men in the time it took for them to cross the last stretch to the Four Quarters. Foul-reeking smoke billowed from the direction of the Blind Gate.

As they approached the Four Quarters, screams throbbed in the air. Straggles of Gauntlet on the road ran from hobilars and enthusiastic Easters. Eamon realized that the blockade on the Rise had been broken. The Four Quarters was ahead, and it sounded like the source of the fighting.

As Eamon pressed on to the end of the road, a cry sounded to his right. A javelin hurtled through the air and missed him by inches. A red-coated man followed close behind the javelin. He drew his sword. Before the guard could land a blow, the King's men were on him and he was down.

Eamon and his men poured out of the mouth of Coronet Rise and into the Four Quarters. The high stones and plinths where the statues stood caught the sunlight of the early afternoon. The great eagles seemed to be aflame as smoke and death wafted up about them.

In the quarters themselves, a group of thresholders and Gauntlet gathered about one man: General Cade. Cade led his last defence against the blue banners of the King. The King's men launched themselves against Cade from every side. Hughan's bodyguard was among those in the press from the south. To Eamon's left, a
great group of Easters marched up the Coll from the Blind Gate. Eamon's heart swelled with elation: North, South, and Blind Gate were taken.

As he and his men came forward from the North, Hughan's party from the South, and Feltumadas's from the East, the thresholders realized that they could not hold. With cries of panic dozens of men tried to flee west along the Coll – many of them were cut down. As the thresholder lines crumpled and fell apart, Cade tried to rally his men before he fell beneath the blade of a King's man.

As the broken men ran, the King's scouts swift in their wake, Hughan himself came to Eamon's side.

“How is the North?” he called.

“There are barricades and some defenders still, but not many,” Eamon answered. “The South?”

“Full of surrendering men,” Hughan answered, his voice a mixture of relief and satisfaction. “I've left some groups to deal with them.”

“As have I.”

“The Hands and Gauntlet still fighting have fled west,” Feltumadas said as he arrived. Eamon did not wonder how the Easter knew it. “For what little good it will do them!”

“They're trying to escape by the port,” Eamon guessed.

“They will not pass the blockade even if they find a vessel,” Hughan answered.

“They'll regroup for a last stand,” Feltumadas added. “Likely at the palace.”

“I would not make it the site of my last stand,” Eamon gasped, appalled at the idea. Defence of the palace, even with its great gates, would be difficult and bloody, and there was nowhere to run to in the case of defeat.

“Yet that is where the Hands have been pressing the men to go,” Feltumadas replied.

“And that is where we must go,” Hughan told them.

“Many more flee south and west.”

“They must be pursued and pinned down until they surrender.” Hughan looked across at the Easter lord. “Detail more men to round up the defectors and stragglers and contain them. Then follow us to the palace.”

Hughan raised his sword high. The King's men followed him as he turned from the circle of the Four Quarters and up along the Coll. The sun flashed on the King's helmet, a golden strike on a silver crown. Eamon followed.

They went up the Coll, past the gates of the Crown where more great stone eagles stood. Eamon's thought turned for a moment to Ilenia and the players. Did she, or any of them, live? Had they been drafted into the thresholders? He tried to imagine Shoreham wielding a blade against the blue banners, but could not.

Up the Coll advanced the men who fought beneath the banner of the King and his allies. The shrieks and cries of Dunthruik echoed all around. Eamon felt the fear of those who hid and those who ran, and the desperate courage of those men who were even then preparing their hands for their final stand. Perhaps the Gauntlet would, of their own accord, have surrendered, but those Hands that lived would rather drive them on to death for the Master.

As they passed the Brand and the West Quarter College, Eamon caught a glimpse of several men – evidently runners, for as soon as the King's banners came into sight they tore off towards the palace by ways known only to Dunthruik's men. Some of the Easters tried to take the runners down with their bows, but to no avail; the arrows split uselessly against the walls of the narrow streets. Eamon mused that it was hardly a secret that the King approached. What kind of last stand were the Hands preparing at the palace gates? What else lay in wait for them – for Hughan?

Where was the throned?

Hughan looked to the gates. For a moment Eamon thought that he discerned a troubled thought on Hughan's furrowed brow. A chill realization drenched him. The hardest battle would be fought not on Dunthruik's plains or in its streets, but rather in a room
where King and throned would strive against each other for the right to claim the land.

Eamon shivered.

The palace walls came into sight before them, the gates firmly shut. Eamon knew that bolts and bars strengthened them from within. Behind them voices called to each other, the cries of Hands and Gauntlet. As they approached, defenders on the gates began a desperate volley of arrows. The King's men easily took cover, either at a safe distance or in the nearby streets, while they waited for the rest of their number to reach the palace. As they waited, Hughan stood watching the gates and its defenders, deep in thought. The arrows clattered harmlessly against the stones. Eamon wondered how many arrows the defenders could possibly have, and whether they realized that they used them on an enemy whom they could not hope to hit.

They waited on Hughan's command. Feltumadas paced impatiently for a time between the King and the men near him, then rounded on Hughan.

“Let us take them!” Feltumadas cried, slamming one palm against another. “We have taken the Blind Gate and the South and the North; Edelred's palace gates shall be no different.”

“We can break these gates,” Hughan agreed quietly, “but in so doing many men inside will lose their lives. There is enough blood on the streets of this city, Feltumadas, and I would not add to it where I have no need.” Eamon was relieved to hear him say it.

Feltumadas sighed. “Yes, Star.”

They all three looked to the palace gates again. The rain of arrows from the walls halted. For a moment all that could be heard was the sound of the men within.

“Regardless of bloodshed, we must do something,” Feltumadas told Hughan fiercely. “They are doubtless preparing more trouble within, and the longer we leave them –”

“Let me speak to them,” Eamon said suddenly.

Feltumadas gave him a strange, rolling look. “Do you think that
men who barricade themselves behind palace gates and rain arrows down on those who come to them are willing to surrender?”

“I think that men with the throned's mark upon them and a Hand behind them will do many things that they would not do otherwise,” Eamon answered, “even barricading themselves behind palace gates and loosing at kings.”

Feltumadas snorted. “Then try to speak to them,” he said, “but I hold little hope for your success.”

Eamon looked across at Hughan. The King nodded to him. “Try, First Knight.”

Eamon drew a deep breath and went firmly up to the gates. An eerie silence was behind them; a stinging, acrid smell emanated from there that Eamon could not place.

The gates were tall and strongly wrought. As he went to stand before them it occurred to him that, in all his long months in Dunthruik, he had rarely looked at them. They were broad and deep, painted red and gold, and bore two posterns, one to each side. Eamon knew the guardhouses to either side of the gates well. He remembered the first time he had taken his turn to watch them. It had been on that night that he had met Alessia.

He looked up at the gates. “Send forth a speaker!”

For a long moment there was no answer. Eamon stared up at the walls, willing someone to respond, wishing for the name of just one man inside on whom he could call.

His wish was granted.

“What would you, traitor?”

A darkly garbed figure stood on the wall. He knew the voice, though it took him a moment to remember the Hand's name.

“Lord Brettal,” he called, “I am glad to see you.”

“I cannot return the sentiment,” Brettal replied. “If it lay within my power, both you and your Serpent would lie dead before me in an instant, and I would offer up your heads to the Master!”

“Yet you cannot,” Eamon called. “Just as you cannot hold these gates, Lord Brettal.” Eamon watched as an angry look passed over
the Hand's face. “There is no need for you or the men with you to die. The King desires your surrender, not your lives.”

“My orders come from the Right Hand,” Brettal snapped, “and surrender does not form a part of them.”

“I gave no such commands, Lord Brettal,” Eamon answered, “and even had I, I would rescind them, and do so when I say to you: let you and your men come forth and live.”

Brettal laughed. “Do not take airs to yourself,” he spat. “My orders were not from you.”

Eamon's blood chilled.

Arlaith.

“You need not follow his commands,” Eamon said earnestly.

“Is that your counsel?” Brettal demanded. “That I play traitor with you?”

“Let the Gauntlet choose for themselves.”

“The Gauntlet's choice is made by their duty,” Brettal retorted, “and they will be constant in it – unlike you!”

“Then let the Gauntlet know,” Eamon yelled, hoping that the men on the other side of the gate would hear him, “that the King does not consider them enemies, and that their oaths will not bar them from his service!”

Brettal's face waxed livid. “Go and counsel your hooded Serpent, Blight of Dunthruik!” He spat at Eamon with a hissing scowl, and left the wall.

Moments later the Hand howled words of threat and scorn at the men behind the gates with him.

Eamon returned to Hughan, downcast. “They cannot surrender,” he said. He wondered how many of them wished to. “We must take the gates.”

“Then we will take them,” Hughan replied.

“We will not have to open them!” cried Feltumadas. He pointed ahead.

Eamon turned to see the palace gates yawn open. Ranks of Gauntlet were arrayed in the plaza. In the middle of the square
sat a long, dark, raised metal tube. Eamon had never seen its like. He stared at it. As the gate opened wider, a second tube came into view. Behind both were lines of Hands, going back and forth between the tubes and great barrels. The Hands seemed to be feeding the tubes.

A Hand behind one of the strange tubes spread his palms – red light appeared. The Hand set fire in some part of the tube. The Gauntlet braced themselves.

“
This city has artillery…
”

Suddenly Eamon understood.

“Fire!” Eamon yelled. “
Fire!
”

And then it came: a great sweep of flame roared forward, fuelled by the red light. Smoke followed it in clouds as the ballast shot out of the gates and down the Coll.

The King's men fled to the side streets just before the metal beast gorged its mass of flame. As they sought refuge, the Gauntlet cheered and the Hands snapped further commands.

As another strike boomed over their heads and out of the gates, Eamon was flung back against a wall; the explosion reverberated through his armour and ears. A biting smell filled the air. Eamon suddenly realized he had smelled it before: standing by the burning remains of the Easter bridge that he had been accused of destroying.

He gagged on the stinging stench.

“They had the same kind of artillery at the Blind Gate,” Feltumadas cried. The Easter was by Eamon's side.

“How did you get past it?” Eamon spluttered.

“With difficulty.” Feltumadas's face was grim. “We shot the crew and charged it before they could reload. We cannot do the same here.”

Eamon grimaced. He suspected the Hands were already reloading. Though some of the King's men tried shooting into the yard, he doubted they would have much success.

He glanced across the square and froze. “Where is the King?” he cried suddenly.

Feltumadas only looked at him. “I do not know.”

Eamon looked in anguish across the square before the gates. The King's men were gathered together out of the line of fire, but a score had been hit in the blasts. Oddly twisted bodies lay on the stones and Eamon could not tell if any of them was Hughan's.

Then suddenly he saw him. The King stepped boldly back into the great gap before the gates.

“Hughan!” Eamon gasped.

“What is he doing?” Feltumadas hissed.

But Eamon had no breath to answer: he was in thrall to terror.

The King stood before the gates of the palace. He went alone, and a strange silence fell about him, for he looked back at the fire and might of Dunthruik with quiet assurance.

“Stay your fury, Hands of Edelred.” His voice seemed as loud as thunder and as sweet as a summer rain. How could any man gainsay it?

“Fire!” yelled a voice within the yard.

Another heap of flame bounded from the gate towards the standing King. Horror etched the faces of the King's men. The King's name leapt to Eamon's lips. He started forward, but he knew that he could do nothing.

Hughan neither flinched nor moved as the flame howled towards him. He faced it silently. Suddenly the air about Hughan rippled. The King held the gazes of the Gauntlet and the Hands as the shot fire met a living, shimmering shield of blue light which flashed with fearsome brilliance, dousing the striking flames.