The Starfall Knight (37 page)

“This should do it.”

“Excellent.”  Vantanis hefted the glowing rock.  “I’ll take it from here.”

Devan nodded his thanks and sat down with his head between his knees, clearing his lungs of the andonite gas.

“Who goes there?”  The voice boomed from one of the access tunnels, accompanied by a bright lamp.

Devan shot to his feet and drew his sword.  Vantanis dumped the andonite into the pipe and slunk back against the metal.

Figures from the tunnel emerged, men and women encased in mining jerkins, gloves and helmets.  Shadows played against the chamber walls as their oil lamps were held high.

“Tayu?”

One of the miners turned at Devan’s voice.  “Devan?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

Tayu called out to his fellow miners, “It’s all right, everyone.”  Tayu strode over and hugged Devan.  “Moons above, you’re alive.  We had word from above – they put the Councillors and Marshal Romaine on Sirinis and cut it loose.”

“They did,” Devan replied.  “Along with rangers and soldiers loyal to Romaine and city guards who refused to bow to Tarius.”  He gestured to Vantanis.  “This is Vantanis, the Sirinese pilot.”

“Good day,” Vantanis said.

“I suppose we need all the allies we can get,” Tayu said.  “What brings you back here?”

“The conduits for air,” Devan said.  “We’re filling them with andonite gas.”

“Andonite gas?  That would poison every building above.”

“Unless the people in them know of the safety procedure in such an instance,” Devan said.

Vantanis crossed his arms and smiled.  “And it is unfortunate that the Sirinese have never even heard of raw andonite in many, many years – let alone been exposed to it.”

“Such a shame,” Tayu agreed.  “There are three central pipe chambers.”

“We’ve already gone through the Northern.”

“All right,” Tayu said.  “Continue here.  I’ll take my team to the Western chamber.”  He flexed his fingers.  “It will be good to see the Sirinese suffer.”

Alessa crossed the market square as the local Centarans sought out food for their evening meals and wandered the stalls filled with trinkets and tools.  She passed by a basket of wrinkled grapes next to brown heads of lettuce; the quality merchandise went straight to the Sirinese.

The bell-tower sat atop the local guardhouse but Alessa hadn’t seen any Centaran city guards nor Sirinese thrashers.  The conquerors, it seemed, were not interested in the daily business of most of the citizens.  Save when one caught their attention, Alessa thought as she glanced at the dried blood on her jerkin.

The guardhouse sat at the edge of the market square, just as Benton had described.  A rear courtyard was attached to the long structure and a head-high wall encompassed the perimeter.  Alessa waited next to stall selling roasted pheasant on sticks.  No guards entered or left the building and Alessa couldn’t hear any drills or swordplay emanating from the yard.

She approached the gates of the guardhouse, resting a hand on the hilt of her sword.  The timber doors held fast as Alessa rattled them.  She sidled around the wall, away from the eyes of anyone in the market, and dragged a half-full rain-water barrel against the courtyard edge.  Alessa stepped onto the barrel and boosted herself over the stone.  She slid over the wall and landed on her feet.

The inner door to the armoury and living quarters hung open, splintered along one hinge.  Blood stained the sand of the training yard.  A dagger protruded from a straw-stuffed target dummy.  Alessa drew her sword and approached the building.

Inside, a single lamp illuminated the living quarters, long shadows cast by the layers of bunk beds next to the eastern wall.  Smashed tables and chairs lay on the floor and shards of timber were stained with more old blood.  Alessa frowned – there were no bodies.

She stepped through the quarters, blade at the ready.  The armoury was walled off while the base of the tower lay at the opposite end of the structure.  Alessa crept past closed trunks at the foot of each bunk.  A plate of half-eaten bread and cheese rested on an unmade bed.

The main door creaked open.

Alessa spun around as a group of thrashers entered.  The first of them stood head and shoulders over Alessa and his smooth pate reflected the single lamp with an amber glow.

“Grunos?”

The thrasher halted as more Sirinese filtered through the door – at least another seven but Alessa lost count.  Grunos rubbed his shaved head and replied, “Alessa?  What are you doing here?”

“I have my own business to conduct.”  Alessa kept her blade up and inched towards to the partition separating the base of the bell tower.

“You were once Servius,” Grunos said. 

“And you were once a leader of men, yet here you are in the lowest tier of this city.”

Grunos snorted.  “Things change for all of us.  Loyalties change.”

“As the Centarans have now learned.”

“As Tarius should as well.”

Alessa adjusted her grip on her sword as she realised that Grunos and his thrashers had yet to draw their own weapons.  Half of them had retreated to the courtyard, throwing knives at the target dummies.  “Say what you mean, Grunos.”

“Like you say, I was once Tarius’ trusted man,” Grunos said.  “But here I am, shunted to the farthest fucking barracks from the Council Hall without actually being sent outside the city.  For what?  Patrolling?  Guarding?  We’re fucking Sirinese.  We don’t guard!  We pillage!  We reave!”

“No more,” Alessa said.  “Tarius has settled the Sirinese here.”

“Another of his mistakes.”  Grunos hawked and spat.  “But if I must live this dreary life, I’d at least live it in the Council tier.”

“How?”

“By giving him your head.”

Grunos leaped forward, snatching a sword from a rack in one movement.  Alessa met his charge and parried.  She sidestepped and cut Grunos in the back of his knee.  He howled and stumbled.

Alessa swung at his head but the massive thrasher twisted and blocked even as he fell to his knees.  His back-fist crunched into Alessa’s cheek and she stumbled back, sword up through pure instinct.  She shook her head, clearing the blur from her eyes.

Alessa kicked a table over, blocking the rest of the thrashers for the moment.

Grunos recovered and Alessa took a two-handed grip, executing a flurry of blows.  Grunos fended away the first few but Alessa’s blade slipped past his guard on her fifth strike and bit into his shoulder.  She pulled her sword back, feeling the edge rasp against bone.

Alessa spun Grunos around, blade against his flank, and they faced the rest of the thrashers in the barracks.  Their weapons glinted in the low light.

“Hold!”  Grunos tossed away his sword and settled on his haunches.  “All of you!”  To Alessa, he said, “I don’t want to die in this place.”

“Sirinis is fallen,” Alessa said.  “By Tarius’ own order.”

“I know.  Let me and my men go, Alessa.  Let me feel the wind in my face.”

The rest of the thrashers milled around, some at the edge of the threshold into the courtyard.  Alessa recognised a couple of them.  Arko, one of the younger thrashers, said, “We have no quarrel with you, Servius.  This is no life for us.”

“If you leave the city, you’d be hunted as bandits,” Alessa said.

“Better to die living than live a dead life.”

Alessa looked from Arko to Grunos.  She pushed the burly thrasher away and gestured with her sword.  “Leave your weapons in the yard.  Take Grunos and leave.”

Arko and the other Sirinese nodded and obeyed her orders.  They wrapped a hasty bandage around Grunos’ wounds and retreated to the courtyard, leaving one by one.

As Arko and Grunos limped towards the outer gate, Alessa said, “Head west.  Pickings will be fatter.”

“Thank you, Servius,” Grunos said.  He and Arko exited the yard.

“You’re welcome.”  Alessa smiled to herself.  It would be most unfortunate if Grunos and Arko were to meet the incoming Saruwan forces but it was out of Alessa’s hands.

She rubbed her bruised cheek and kicked open the partition to the bell-tower’s base.  Sunlight streamed from above and two chains dangled from the stone walls.

Alessa tugged on a chain but both were locked to rungs embedded in the walls.  She supposed it would prevent a false ringing of the bell.  Alessa thought of searching for the key but instead gripped her sword with both hands.  She swung at the lock and the metal split with a clang.  Alessa clove the second lock and sheathed her blade.

She grasped a chain and hauled with all of her weight.

The bells of Centara rang out through the tiers and boroughs.

Chapter Fifteen

Alessa clambered to the roof of the guardhouse.  She had paid a flock of children to haul on the chains in the tower and the bell continued tolling above.  Alessa could hear other bells throughout Centara, their songs echoing and vibrating through Alessa’s body.

Centarans streamed from their houses and halls, from merchant stores and taverns.  Men and women carried sacks filled with crockery, foodstuffs, jewellery, small furniture, their entire lives.  Children clung to their parents as they wended through the streets.  Alessa peered from wall to wall; the Centarans were split in two – some headed to the mines while others to the southern and western gates.

She crept to the edge of the roof tiles as the sun slid behind the mountains west and north of the city.  Shadows fell over the tiers and Alessa clutched her cloak.

Just as she turned to lower herself to the ground, a plume of blue smoke drifted from a middle-tier inn.  Alessa paused.  More blue haze floated from a handful of terraced houses near the southern gates while puffs drifted out from the middle and upper tiers.  The raw andonite gas spewed from the structures.

Groups of citizens pooled in the middle of the market square, drawn into a rough circle.  Swords appeared alongside piecemeal suits of leather armour, chainmail and brigandine.  Every man and woman in Centara had trained with the rangers in their early teens, Alessa recalled, and such teachings rose once more.  Not all of the evacuees headed out of the city as the militia group in the market square swelled.

Alessa slid off the roof and joined the flow of people towards the main southern gates.  If all had gone to plan, she would meet Benton, Devan and her father at the rendezvous.

She passed more than a few jaundiced faces, a fat man vomiting in an alleyway, teenaged girl retching in a cart full of siblings.  Alessa pushed through the crowd.  As she reached the Avenue of Tiers, the screech sounded from the upper storey of a cobbler’s residence.  A few moments later, a tattooed man flopped out of a window.  The body crunched onto the cobblestones and Alessa needed only a moment to see that his throat had been slit from ear to ear.

Romaine’s plan had come to fruition.

At the southern gate plaza, Alessa spied Devan and Vantanis striding through the crowd.  Romaine and Benton waited near the gatehouse.  Above, blood dripped from the battlements as a squad of rangers patrolled the walls.

“Well done.”  Romaine greeted each of them individually.  “I fear the majority of the Sirinese are holed up in the middle and upper tiers.”

“They are,” Benton said.

“I’d hoped to drive them out but I’ll settle for them being poisoned inside.”

“What about Tarius?” Devan asked.

“Too savvy to show himself,” Romaine said.

“I say we strike while we still hold the element of surprise.”

Vantanis shook his head.  “Tarius is too powerful.  You saw what he was capable of.”

“He’s only one man,” Devan replied.

“Even so –”

A familiar wail sounded from above, surging across the sky.  Alessa looked up, as did the others.  The andonite gas filled the air with an azure fog.  Longwings wheeled above, circling from the mountains and foothills, soaring from the plains to the south. 

One of the birds dipped in flight, skimming the towers of the upper tier and piercing the cloud of gas.  The longwing shimmered and screamed through the air.  Feathers roared into brilliance, leaving trails through Alessa’s vision.

“Moons above,” Romaine said.  “How many longwings are there?”

“At least twenty,” Benton replied.

As the andonite rose from the tiers, the other longwings burst into their luminous forms.  Blue fire streaked across the sky as the creatures frolicked.  One of the birds dove towards the Council grounds.  A jet of orange flame shot back but the longwing spun out of the way and raked the gardens. 

“I’d wager that’d not make friends with the creatures,” Romaine said.  Screams echoed from the Council.

“We’ll not get a better chance at Tarius,” Devan said.  “Let’s see him dance out of the way of a rifle bullet while those longwings are at him.”

“Very well,” Romaine said.  “Benton, go with him.”

The brothers nodded and headed upwards on the Avenue, against the flow of Centarans.

“What about us?” Alessa asked.

Romaine smiled and drew her longsword.  “Cleaning house.”

Benton pushed the pace even on the ascent to the middle tier.  Devan huffed as his time in captivity became apparent.  The flow of Centarans had thinned, leaving behind the stragglers and the tardy.  Most were larger families or merchants hauling wagons filled with merchandise or livestock.

“If we get close to Tarius, can you use your... power?” Benton asked.  “Do you need to be close to him?”

“I don’t think distance matters,” Devan replied.  “Besides, the Council grounds are built on too many layers.  I can’t reach the andonite underneath.”

“If we had more time, we’d gather a few coins.”

“Wouldn’t work.  We’d need a lot of them.”  Devan shrugged as the Avenue levelled out and they passed more affluent Centarans fleeing for the gates.

A Sirinese thrasher stumbled out of tailor’s residence.  Half-digested bread streaked the man’s beard and tunic.  A woman, roughly Benton’s age, followed the thrasher outside.  Her hair was tied in a bun and she wore a wool dress of a tailor’s wife.  As Devan and Benton trotted past, the woman produced a knife, pulled the thrasher’s head backwards by his hair and stabbed his throat.  She tore the blade outwards, blood exploding onto the cobblestones.  The woman turned on her heel and returned to her house.