The Starfall Knight (31 page)

The Sirinese on the flank realised the third enemy and Devan retreated, drawing away six or seven from the main battle.  As the Centarans chewed through the other Sirinese, Devan gritted his teeth and attacked.

He feinted to one side, startling the Sirinese, then dashed in the opposite direction.  Two thrashers stood in his way, both wielding Centaran broadswords like sharp clubs.  Devan met the first with his shield and blocked the strike of the second with his sword.  He pushed past.

A blade slid against his cuirass, toppling Devan.  He rolled, swinging around his shield to block the inevitable follow-up.  The thrashers lurched forward, far too slow.  Devan thanked their untrained reflexes and kicked out, pushing for space.  He sprang to his feet and sprinted towards the Centaran archers, ignoring the ache in his legs.

Boots slapped against the cobblestones behind him.  Devan dared not glance over his shoulder, instead he fixed his gaze on the closest rifleman.  “Shoot him!”

The rifleman aimed at Devan.  His heart leaped in his throat and Devan threw himself to the ground.  The air snapped with the ignition of the andonite bullet.

Devan pushed himself into a crouch and faced the Sirinese pursuers, shield up.  The rifleman pulled on his weapon’s bolt and an empty casing popped out, still smoking.  He took aim again and fired.  Another Sirinese thrasher fell with flesh exploding from his neck.

Erlend and his squad pushed from the gates and Marzell’s fighters engaged the last of the Sirinese, cutting them down in a line of blades.  Devan took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Ranger?”

“Yes?”

The rifleman extended a hand and Devan shook it.  “Sergeant Ressen.  We helped you across to Masteney.”

“I remember,” Devan said with a nod.  “You’re Marzell’s second, aren’t you?”

“I am.”  Ressen shouldered his rifle and gestured to the rest of the squad.  They formed up.  “You should speak with the Captains.”

He led Devan and his soldiers towards the broken gates.  Marzell and the others wandered between the fallen Sirinese, dispensing mercy with the tips of their swords.

“Ressen, report.”  Marzell nudged a thrasher with her boot and the head rolled to the side, attached by only skin.

“Captain.  The walls have been neutralised.  We’ve found Ranger Devan.”

“So I see,” Marzell said.  “Thank you, Sergeant.  Begin salvage immediately.  We move out in ten.”

“Yes, captain.”  As Ressen organised the soldiers, Erlend approached Marzell and Devan.

“Devan?”

“Good morning, Captain Erlend,” Devan said.

“Afternoon, actually.”  Erlend scanned the square and the surrounding buildings around the gate.  “At least the Sirinese dogs had the decency to clear the dead from earlier.”

Marzell nodded.  “We must be away soon.  Their reinforcements are due.”

“How many are there?” Devan asked.

“Scouts say several hundred.”  Marzell swept her hair back and donned her helm.  “We’ll be swarmed.”

“What’s happening, captain?  Where’s the rest of the army?”

Erlend grunted and crossed his arms, leather gauntlets scraping against one another.  Marzel shook her head.  “Marshal Jarrell called a retreat when the Sirinese were sighted this morning.  He pulled half of the companies to the training grounds east of the city and the other half to the middle tier.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Indeed,” Marzell said.  “With most of the soldiers gone, the city guards on the walls didn’t stand a chance.  The northern sector was overrun and the gates fell within the hour.  From reports, the Sirinese had ladders.  Fucking ladders!  But there were too few blue guards to defend the walls.”

“And the middle tier?”

“Was surrendered,” Erlend said.  “Councillor Arnst and a few others managed to send out carrier pigeons to the ranger outposts.  Jarrell’s last order was the surrender of the Council grounds.”

“I don’t understand,” Devan said.  “Jarrell was from Verovel.  No one would’ve wanted revenge against the Sirinese more than him.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.  Or my brother,” Devan said.

“Seems like he found something better than revenge,” Marzell said.  She spat.

“What now?  What of the rangers?”

“We’re heading back to the Orring district,” Marzell said.  “The captains still loyal to the city have set up a base.  Marshal Romaine is in command.  Jarrell has been named traitor.”

“Good.”  Devan shook his head, still picturing Jarrell as the Protector of Verovel and the necklace which he had dishonoured.  Strange how cowardice reared up when the enemy closed in.  Or was it greed?  “How many soldiers are there?”

“A good thousand,” Marzell said, “but we’re spread thin as the Sirinese have returned to their hit-and-run strategy in the boroughs.  We’ve been able to pull back a lot of citizens to our protective zone but many more remain in their homes.

Erlend added, “Most of the rangers were on duty when the Sirinese struck.  Benton, Marsa and Wynet hold the perimeter around the Orring district.  Kelun and Dannal patrol the outer sectors and are also probing for a weakness in the city’s defense.”

Ressen marched over and said, “Captains.  We’re ready to move out.”

“Excellent,” Marzell said.  “Form up and let’s go, double time!”

The column of soldiers jogged down the Avenue of Moons, armour jangling with every step.  Devan did not envy the plate and mail borne by the soldiers, nor the scavenged gear that the rangers and city guards carried on their backs.  They warded away two smaller bands of Sirinese raiders; the riflemen thinning out the Sirinese before the enemies disappeared around the nearest buildings.  Wary of traps, Marzell had no desire for another battle and urged the company onwards.

They passed husks of houses, the bones of foundations and charred beams all that remained for some streets.  Bodies littered the ground and where they had not been burned, they lay in the sun, bloated and playing host to swarms of flies.  More than once, the soldiers disturbed dogs and cats pulling at corpses both Centaran and Sirinese.

After an hour of hard marching, they reached the outer perimeter of Marshal Romaine’s command.  The rangers on guard waved them on.  Devan peered above the tavern that doubled as an outpost – rangers with longbows watched them pass.

The Avenue continued through the district where many of the eastern miners’ families had taken up residence.  The mines of precious ores and gems east of Centara City lay a further hour’s travel on horseback.  Marzell turned the company onto another street and the fortification of the military barracks and training facilities loomed up.

A whistle sounded and the gates opened.  Soldiers manned the walls as well as the rooftops of the surrounding houses.  They entered the barracks’ courtyard .  Buildings lay against the inside walls of the barracks while the centre of the grounds served as the training yard and staging area.

Marzell called out, “Halt!”

The company stopped in their tracks and fell into formation.  Around them, soldiers and rangers continued with their chores and drills.

Marzell said, “We’ve won good battles today.  And though we’ve lost some friends, we’ll make the Sirinese dogs pay.”

“Yes, captain!”

“Those of you carrying extra gear, take it to the quartermaster.  And all of you, get some well-earned rest.  Dismissed!”

The soldiers saluted and fell out of formation.  Marzell consulted with Ressen and Erlend for a moment, then approached Devan.  “Ranger, we’ll see Marshal Romaine now, if you’d like.”

“Yes, captain.  Thanks.”

“This way.”

Marzell led Devan through the press of soldiers heading to the armoury, mess hall and sleeping quarters.  They passed a group of Centarans in plain garb practising archery against bales of hay with canvas targets.  Devan nodded to himself – they would soon remember their ranger training from their youth.

The officers’ barracks was a squat building set apart from the rest of the facilities.  Marzell nodded at the guard and opened the door.  Inside, sleeping rolls were strewn on the floor of the common room and the tables had been pushed against the walls.  Marshal Romaine appeared at the other end of the room and Marzell and Devan saluted.

“We’re short on cots,” Romaine said, nodding in return.  “The pages and novices sleep here now.”

“Marshal, do you have orders for me?” Devan asked.

“We thought you were dead, ranger.”

“Almost.”

Romaine’s lips curved into a smile.  “Good.  I’ll have to inform Benton that you’re a lot harder to kill than you seem.  What did you find on Sirinis?”

“They had the Knight, Marshal.  But they threw it over the edge.  Along with everything else – the armour, the journal and sundries.”

“Why did they steal it?”

Devan shrugged.  “It seems their Imperator could read the journal.  But whatever he learned, he memorised and kept to himself.”

“And destroyed it.”  Romaine scowled.  “Such a waste.”

“What now?”

“Well, if you can manage it, can you kill the Sirinese leader?”

“Tarius?”

“You heard me.”

Devan wondered if he could use his new-found power against the Sirinese.  Throwing sand and dirt was one thing but if he could do the same with stones and bullets, assassinating Tarius wasn’t out of the question.

Romaine tapped him on the shoulder, bringing him out of his reverie.  “It was a joke, Devan.”

“Oh, right.”

“Unless you know something that I don’t.”  Romaine craned her neck and met Devan’s lowered gaze.  “Devan?”

“I may have a way of getting inside the city.”

“The city is largely controlled by the Sirinese,” Marzell said.  “We don’t have the numbers to retake it yet.”

“But you intend to?”

“We do,” Romaine said.

“The north and eastern sectors of the middle and upper tiers back against the mountains,” Devan said.  “A single person would be able to get into the city undetected.  I doubt the Sirinese are guarding against that.”

“And after?” Romaine said.  “You against the most of the Sirinese contingent?”

“If you attack, it will draw them away.  I might get a shot at Tarius.”

Romaine glanced at Marzell.  The captain nodded.  “It’s not a bad plan.  But mountaineering is a challenge in itself.”

“Leave it to me,” Devan said.

“We’ll give you a rifle and a cartridge,” Marzell said.  “Ten shots.  It should be enough.”

“Thanks.”

A bell tolled outside.  Romaine peered out the window as soldiers scurried throughout the compound.

“What is it?” Devan asked.

“We’re under attack,” Romaine said.  She grinned.  “Always plan for the worst, they say.”  She shook Devan’s hand.  “You’ve served the Office of the Marshal well, Devan.  Head to the quartermaster and grab whatever you need.”

“What about you, Marshal?”

Romaine opened the door and stalked off.  “We’ll see you inside the city.”

The rock closed behind Devan as he wiped the vomit from his chin.  He shook off the dirt from his leather armour and examined the andonite rifle for damage.  The weapon appeared to be fine and the cartridge of bullets remained intact.

A sliver of light shimmered against a wall full of wooden casks stacked to head height.  Devan breathed a sigh of relief – he had emerged into the Council’s wine cellar.  Travelling through the rock by that unnamed power had been entirely on instinct.  Controlling his fall into the mines had been easier; pushing himself into the mountain-side tiers had felt like being strapped to the front of a charging destrier – not to mention the nausea that capped off the trip.

Devan stretched his limbs, thankful for the armour that had protected him from most of the barrage of earth and soil.  He crept to the door and pushed it open.  In the stone corridor, a single lamp spluttered on the sconce and moisture pooled at the base of the wall.  Devan stepped out and headed towards the surface.

He reached the kitchen of the Council Hall, bustling with cooks and pages, spice and aroma mixing with old sweat.  Devan slipped past the staff – it made sense that the Sirinese kept the workers.  Devan doubted if the invaders even knew the difference between a sword and a meat cleaver.

Following a page carrying a platter of candied pig hooves, Devan emerged into the Hall’s foyer.  Shouts and jeers drifted from the Council gardens and Devan crept to the main doors, keeping his rifle against his back.

The oaks and elms cast their shadows over the short grass and the slate paths that meandered between the Council buildings.  In the middle of the garden, the Sirinese had shackled to the largest oak the Councillors – at least seven, by Devan’s count – another handful of guild-masters, and alongside them, Vantanis and Alessa.  The prisoners dangled by their wrists, the chains adjusted so that each man and woman could reach the ground with the tips of their toes, but no more.  The Sirinese thronged around them while Tarius strode around, inciting his followers.

Devan chewed on his lip.  He was not the greatest marksman in Centara but with ten bullets, he would surely be able to hit Tarius from a hundred paces.  He could escape the way he entered and none could follow.  Still, he wondered why Alessa and Vantanis had been strung up like the Centarans.

He sidled out of the Hall and ascended the stairs to the battlements that looked over the lower tier.  Devan muttered a blessing for the Sirinese’s lack of discipline – the walkway was unmanned.  He settled on the inner crenellation and took aim down the sights of the rifle.

Tarius gestured to the prisoners as he gave his speech, his thick vambraces glinting in the light.  Devan aimed for his head.  He pulled the trigger.

Blood and bone burst from a thrasher to Tarius’ left.  The Sirinese toppled to the slate path as his comrades searched for their attacker.  Devan growled to himself – no time to calibrate the sights.  Perhaps he had misaimed or pulled on the stock.  Nine more chances to correct himself.

Devan yanked on the rifle’s bolt handle and a casing popped out.  He sighted down the barrel again as the Sirinese milled around, their captives ignored for the moment.

As he fired, a short, bald thrasher pointed at him.  His bullet glanced against Tarius’ brigandine.  “Tyn’s balls!”