The Starfall Knight (38 page)

Benton glanced at Devan but said nothing.  They continued along the Avenue of Tiers and veered off as they approached the University grounds.

Empty wagons, trestle tables and debris blockaded the main entrance to the University.  Benton slowed his pace and Devan fell into step beside him, grateful for the respite.

“Best to keep your hands visible,” Benton said.

Devan nodded, saving his breath.

A head popped over the low fence.  “Who goes there?”

“Captain Benton of the rangers.”

“Devan, officer of the Marshal of Rangers.”

The page disappeared behind the fence.  “Open the gate!”

A wagon trundled out of the way, revealing a squad of city guards dressed in chainmail with blue tabards and bearing halberds.  Guard pages ushered in Benton and Devan and pushed the wagon back into position.

“Captain Benton?  I am Sergeant Baryan.  I’ll take you to the Professors.”

“Thank you,” Benton said.  Baryan and a fellow guard led the way along the main thoroughfare that ran between the faculty buildings.  The remaining guardsmen took up positions along the fence with the pages in attendance.

Students and tutors wandered along the paths and congregated on the lawns.  Devan crinkled his nose at the tang of steel and blood.  “Was there a battle?”

“Aye, officer,” Baryan said.  “At the pealing of the bells, we evacuated.  There were not many Sirinese.  Only a handful to keep us fearful.  But when we heard those bells, we knew it was time to take action.  The lads and I rounded them up with nary a scratch.”

“Why do I smell death in the air?”

“We killed them.”

“Was that wise, sergeant?” Benton asked.

“Do you not agree with our actions?”  Baryan crossed his arms.  “The university is full of students – most fifteen to twenty years of age.  Which means it’s the biggest concentration of Centarans whose early ranger training is fresh, as if only yesterday.  We can handle the Sirinese.”

“As you say.”

They passed the dormitories and the university village that catered to the students and staff for all manner of food, crafts, clothes as well as the implements and tools for the various areas of study and vocation.  Sergeant Baryan headed on the path towards the amphitheatre.

The professors of the university stood around a long table laden with bread, cheese, fruits and jugs of wine.  Senior students and tutors buzzed around the tiered seating, conversing amongst one another while pages cleared crockery and served food from platters.

“How idyllic,” Devan said.

Benton grunted.  Baryan led them towards the faculty members, each descending step bringing stares and silencing conversations.

“Captain Benton?  Ranger Devan?”  Professor Orval raised a hand in greeting as a breeze rippled through his white hair.  “Be welcome.  Please, join us.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t much time to spare, Professor,” Devan said.

“Oh, pish-posh.”  Orval gestured and a girl offered flagons of red wine to Devan and Benton while a lad brought them an array of sliced cured meats.

“Conrick has shared a most interesting way to eat food with bread!”

Devan waved away the pages as Benton said, “Has he now?”

“Show them, Conrick!”

The history professor grinned and used a serrated knife to slice the loaf of bread, rather than tearing off a chunk.  On one slice, he placed shredded roasted pheasant breast, a wedge of yellow cheese and a dollop of thickened mango paste.  Conrick slapped the other slice of bread on top.  “I call it the Meal-in-a-Hand.  The dry bread leaves your fingers without oil or grease, only mere crumbs!”

“I’m sure it will become popular.”

“Indeed it should!”

Devan cleared his throat.  “Professors.  We seek the local weapons cache.”

“I see,” Orval said.  The merriment around the amphitheatre stage dropped to a hush.

Professor Amara pointed to the andonite longwings above and said, “I suppose that is your doing?”

“It is.”

Orval said, “The warning bells of Centara have tolled only once before in my lifetime.  Centara survived, as we always do.”

“What of the weapons, professor?” Benton pressed.

“Aye.  Professor Raimund?”

Across the table, a stout man with a greying beard and a frayed doublet nodded.  “We have a weapons cache.”

“Take us to it,” Devan said.

Professor Raimund smiled and patted his forehead with a square of linen.  “Ah, indeed.  It would be a pleasure.”

“What happened to it?”

“Ever is the university a friend to the rangers.  You must understand that we are an institute for learning!”

Benton leaned on the table with his fists.  “What did you do with the weapons?”

Raimund started back.  “Please!  Captain, forgive us.  We did not think we would ever need –”

“Answer me!”

“They were melted down!”  Raimund wiped the sweat from his face.  “They were melted and reforged for various experiments.  I remember Professor Janatt requiring some ball bearings for a study in velocity and material density.  Then, there was –”

“Enough.”  Benton shook his head.

Recognising his brother’s mounting frustration, Devan took over and said to Raimund, “What is left?”

“Perhaps a couple blades.  Maybe a mail shirt.  Some rifles.”

At this, Benton perked up.  “The ammunition?”

“Still there,” Raimund said.  “Those bullets are dangerous things.  Far too volatile for my liking.”

Devan raised his voice.  “In the name of the Marshal of Rangers, I am commandeering the university’s weapons cache.”

The professors nodded and hummed their assent.

“Show us the way,” Benton said.

“Sergeant Baryan will assist you,” Professor Orval said.

“Thank you.”

As Devan and his brother turned to leave, Orval said, “Captain, officer – please remember that we are a university.  We may not be equipped to deal with the battle should it come to our walls.”

“That’s not what your sergeant believes,” Devan said.

Orval smiled.  “Sergeant Baryan’s optimism is admirable.”

Devan nodded.  Baryan led Devan and Benton out of the amphitheatre and the conversations resumed in their wake.

“I’m not wrong,” Baryan muttered.

The sergeant cut across the main path and headed to a squat structure that lined the edge of the university complex.  As they approached, Baryan produced a key and unlocked the banded door. 

“Here it is.”

Devan stepped inside with his brother, eyes adjusting to the gloom.  Just as Raimund had said, the shelves and racks of the armoury were mostly empty.  Along the opposite wall, an array of rifles were stacked on a chest.  The polished metal and wooden stocks gleamed in the last light of dusk that creeped past the open doorway.

“You’ve not deployed them?” Devan asked.

“Haven’t had proper training,” Baryan said.  “And I’m not like to try.  They’re dangerous, like Professor Raimund said.”

“Yes.  Very dangerous.”  Devan hefted one of the rifles and opened the chest, revealing an interior full of ammunition.  “Which I’m sure the Sirinese will appreciate.”

Alessa kicked open the tavern’s door and Rika rushed in, sword and shield at the ready.  The roaring hearth illuminated the common room where tables and benches had been overturned, food splattered on the floor and wine spilled between the cracks of the boards.

A serving maid bobbed up from behind the bar counter.  “Who are you?”

“Rangers,” Rika said.  “Have you any Sirinese?”

“Aye.”  The girl, no older than sixteen, ducked around the counter and headed to the stairs.  “When the bells rang, we knew something was happening.  Just didn’t think it’d be andonite from the vents.”

“What did you do?” Alessa asked as they followed the girl upstairs.

“We stayed in the kitchen and got down to the floor, that’s what.  Some of our regulars got out.  But the stupid Sirinese just stayed in the common room, eating and drinking.  When they got sick, Master Renen and his boys tied them up and hauled them up here.  We blocked off the vents to all but one room.”

At the top of the stairs, a wiry older man stood up from a chair and nodded at them.  He pointed at the first room on the left.  “I’m Renen, proprietor.  Got them in here, if you want them.”

“We do,” Alessa said.

“Thinking it’s a right mess by now, though.”

“Let me see.”

Renen unlocked the door and pushed it open.  He took a step back as blue smoke poured out of the room, creeping along the ceiling.  Alessa retreated to the top of the stairs.  Rika coughed.

“Careful now.”

Alessa held her breath and approached the doorway.  Inside, she counted seven thrashers trussed up on the floor of the room, swimming in their own vomit and snot.  She felt the tang of andonite gas eating at her nose and eyes and backed away.

“If you and your boys bring them outside, we’d appreciate it.”

“Our pleasure, rangers.”

Alessa led Rika back to the common room and they left the tavern.  As Alessa stepped onto the road, she felt drizzle on her face and hair.

“Where to next?” Rika asked.

Alessa scanned the Avenue, nodding as thrashers were frog-marched back to the lower tier by armed Centarans.  Romaine and Vantanis had headed for the inner districts of the middle tier while Terson remained below to manage the prisoners.

A rumble of boots shook Alessa from her thoughts.  A gang of Sirinese appeared from an intersecting street, third from Alessa and Rika’s position.  The thrashers were armed with spiked clubs, swords, shields and pikes but were armoured in the old Sirinese fashion so as to expose the tattoos that crawled along their backs, shoulders and arms.  A wiry thrasher led the group in thick hide trousers and a hairy back that obscured the stylised vine tattoos.

“Pelio.”  Alessa felt her blood rise and she resisted the urge to draw her sword.

“How many are there?” Rika said.

“Too many.”

The thrashers caught sight of them.  The drizzle turned to rain as the skies darkened from clouds and the encroaching evening.

Alessa grabbed Rika’s elbow.  “Run!”

The longwing swooped through the Council gardens and Sirinese bodies were thrown aside in its wake.  Devan instinctively ducked even though he and his brother had hidden in the top floor of a guildsman manor across the main avenue.  More longwings rained down, tearing limbs from bodies, awash in the blood of the thrashers.

“Do you see him?”

“He must be the source of the fire-jets,” Devan replied.  As he spoke another column of flame shot from the Council Hall roof.  A trio of longwings swerved from the path of the fire but their wingtips smoked in their retreat.

“I can’t get a bead on him,” Benton said, sighting down his rifle.  “This damned drizzle has brought fog as well.”

Devan aimed his weapon.  Just as Benton mentioned, the evening coupled with the weather made it nigh impossible to make out Tarius.  There was no illumination on the roof save when the Imperator attacked the longwings.

“I say we take our chances.  We have enough ammunition and they’re distracted by the creatures.”

Benton nodded.  “We retreat at the first sign of being overrun.  Understood?”

“Yes.”  Devan hid his smile behind his rifle as he took aim at the Council roof.  Every few moments, the stones would glow as blue as andonite when the longwings attacked the Sirinese in the gardens.  Arrows and bolts filled the air, interpersed with the screams of the dying and the cries of the longwings.

A flash of amber.  Devan adjusted his aim to the silhouette outlined by fire.  He pulled the trigger.

CRACK!  CRACK!

Devan reloaded his rifle, mirroring his brother.  “Did you hit him?”

Benton shook his head.  “Go again.  He’s still on the longwings.”

Devan aimed as Tarius strode across the roof, following a creature with jets of flame from his hand.  He fired in unison with Benton.

A plume of stone shot from the edge of the roof, soon drowned by the increasing rain.  Tarius’ fire ceased and a hand clutched the side of his head before he was lost to the darkness again.

“One of us winged him,” Benton said.

“We should get closer.”

“Not while –”

Fire blazed on the Council roof and Tarius shot into the air.

“Fuck a duck.”  The longwings wheeled around as the Imperator soared over the Council grounds and disappeared behind the manor that Devan and Benton had broken into.  “He can fly.”

Devan sprinted to another window in the attic and peered upwards.  With the flames shooting from his body, Tarius jetted towards the upper tier.

“And the longwings followed him,” Benton said, peering into the Council gardens across the way.

“It must be the andonite powers.  Rhialite powers.”  Though they had promised to kill Tarius, Devan wondered if the Imperator could provide more information from the destroyed journal.

“Where did he go?” Benton asked.

Devan scooped up his rifle and gear.   “Upper tier.  We have to get onto the Avenue.”

“I know a better way.”

Alessa rounded the corner with Rika on her heels.  She ducked under a lintel, glad for the respite from the rain, and pulled the younger ranger with her.  The band of thrashers thundered along the road and shouts rose.

“Loose!”

Bows sang and crossbows clacked.  Missiles thudded into flesh and the groans of the dying met Alessa’s ears.

She stepped onto the road as the squad of militia and rangers lowered their weapons.  Vantanis moved forward with a lamp raised above his head and Rika joined them.

“Moons above,” Rika said.  “Ain’t your Sirinese heard of bows before?”

“We have,” Alessa said.  “But pride is far more prevalent.”

She kept a hand on the hilt of her sword as they approached the intersection and the mass of thrashers.  Arrows poked from bodies, dead twigs pointing to the night sky.  There were at least fifteen Sirinese by Alessa’s count, with more than half dead or dying.

“What will we do with them?” Rika asked.

“We’ve no time to bring them to the prisoner pens,” Vantanis said.  “It’s war.  Leave them.”

“We can’t just leave them here.”