Rebellion: Tainted Realm: Book 2 (40 page)

“I’m done, Deadhand. Save yourself,” groaned Nuddell.

“I don’t leave my men behind.”

“Then you’re a bloody fool, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Three of the enemy attacked. Rix dropped Nuddell and cut down the first with a sword blow to the neck and the second with a steel-fisted punch that broke his jaw. The third was a huge man who, like Leatherhead, fought with a sword in each hand.

Rix matched him blow for blow, standing over Nuddell so the enemy could not strike him dead, then snapped the enemy’s right-hand sword with a sideways blow of his mailed fist and slid Maloch through the gap into the fellow’s lung. Air hissed out; the man slumped sideways and Rix ran him through.

He hefted Nuddell and ran with him towards the hidden horses, though before he was halfway the enemy had another flare up and the archers were firing. Ahead of him, several men fell. Arrows whizzed past on all sides, one sticking in the heel of Nuddell’s left boot, two more shattering on the hardened steel of Rix’s back-plate.

He heaved Nuddell over an empty saddle – there were plenty to choose from – bound him on, and checked on his men. Half the survivors had fled, not looking back to see if their fellows were all right, but there were twenty riderless horses. Horses Garramide could not do without.

“Get going, Deadhand,” said Nuddell. “They’re after us.”

Rix slashed the tie ropes, roared at the horses and they bolted. He dragged himself into the saddle, only now realising that he was wounded in half a dozen places, and followed them.

From the top of the hill he looked back. The remains of the black powder wagon were blazing fiercely, and part of the palisade wall nearby. At least a dozen bodies were scattered around, the men who had been pushing the wagon when it went off. The closer ones must have been blown to bits. Another dozen had been taken prisoner and, knowing how the enemy treated prisoners, were bound for a cruel death.

Rix spurred his horse and raced after Nuddell, reckoning up the toll as he rode. Twenty of his men dead, plus at least fifteen of Yestin’s, almost certainly including the lord himself. Another dozen taken prisoner and soon to be executed. An unknown number injured.

Bedderlees had not shown up, and clearly the knife men waiting at the gate had known the details of the attack. He must be a traitor.

And what had been gained? Neither the walls nor the gate had been breached, and the barracks and armoury were unharmed. They had killed at least ten of the enemy but the attack he had invested his credibility in had been a failure.

No, Yestin’s incompetence had turned it into a fiasco.

To make matters worse, the snow had stopped and now the moon came out. Rix rode wearily home, knowing they were leaving tracks that a child could have followed. They led directly to the escarpment track, and Garramide.

He should have listened to Swelt.

“Do I have your blessing for this raid?” said Rix after outlining his plan to Swelt.

“If we don’t fight for our country, we’ll lose it.”

“It’s just the first stroke.” Rix rose and began to pace. “If it succeeds, people will flock here to join my army and I’ll plan a bigger strike.”

“You have bold plans,” said Swelt.

“We can’t save Hightspall by hiding and hoping Lyf will go away.”

“I agree. But when it does come to war, how are you going to pay the troops? Our treasury is almost empty.”

“Every able-bodied man has to do thirty days customary service. After that, I’ll pay them. I brought a small treasury of my own,” said Rix, and was pleased to note Swelt’s eyes widen. “Did you think I came empty-handed, like a beggar on the road?”

“Of course not,” Swelt said hastily. “And when it’s exhausted? Need I remind you how ruinously expensive war is?”

“I checked Father’s accounts for the Third Army. I know the cost of a soldier, and a war, to the penny. And since we’re on the topic, Astatin mentioned the ancient, secret treasures of Garramide.”

Swelt rolled his eyes. “Many have sought them, but nothing has been found.”

“Do you think there are treasures to be found?”

“Old manors are characterised by three things, Rixium. Ghosts, secrets and rumours of lost treasure. I put my faith in things I can count and measure.” He looked down at the ledgers and lists on the table.

“Then why was Garramide built so strong?” said Rix. “It’s the strongest fortress I’ve seen outside Caulderon.”

“They say it was to protect Grandys’ daughter – his only child, only relative. She was the only Herovian rescued from the wreck of the Third Fleet. Blood was everything to him.”

Swelt turned the pages of a ledger, then added, “What if the raid isn’t the success you expect?”

“It’ll still worry Lyf.”

“How so?”

With a flourish, Rix drew Maloch and held it high. “Grandys maimed Lyf with this sword, and I’ve fought Lyf with it, twice. And hurt him, too. More than anything in the world, he’s afraid of Maloch.”

Swelt smiled. “I’m pleased to hear it. What do you ask of me?”

“I need more men.”

“Why?” said Swelt, frowning until his forehead bulged out over his deep-set eyes.

“The enemy garrison is forty or fifty strong. To be sure of success I need a hundred men —”

“You can’t take a hundred from here.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Look, Swelt, you know everyone in these parts. Give me introductions to one or two young lords, of a like mind to me. Men who chafe under the yoke of this war and want to strike a blow against the enemy.”

Swelt said nothing for a very long time.

“Is there a problem?” said Rix.

“I advise against it.”

“Why?” cried Rix.

“I can introduce you to several young hotbloods who, according to reputation, would be only too happy to join with you on such a raid. But reputation isn’t reality, and the men with the loudest mouths don’t necessarily make the best allies.”

“As long as they support me with a small number of fighting men —”

“They might say one thing and do another. They might agree to support you, then go running to the enemy. Or their wives or mistresses might talk them out of it —”

“Do you think I haven’t thought about that?”

“If you plan to go to war relying on men you don’t know, you haven’t thought about it enough.”

“Just do the introductions. I’ll worry about the quality of the men I’m dealing with.”

Though Rix was forcing their pace to the limit, he dared no light. They had to cover the twenty miles from Garramide to Jadgery and back in darkness, unseen, otherwise the enemy would follow them home. The Cythonians might suspect that the attack came from Garramide, but they must not know.

The track down the escarpment was by turns greasy, a knee-deep bog, and crisscrossed by sharp-edged outcrops. Rix, who had been riding since he was three and was an accomplished horseman, fell twice, and he was the best of them. By the time they reached the bottom two horses had broken their legs and one rider his neck. Rix left the man without a mount to bury the dead man, then walk back up to the mountaintop sentry post.

It was snowing gently as they gathered at the foot of the escarpment. At least one thing was going right.

“We’re down to forty-eight,” said Rix. It was barely enough for the main attack on Jadgery, and only if everything went perfectly, though he wasn’t going to say that.

“Where are the others meeting us, Deadhand?” said Riddum, a lanky, sarcastic man who had been one of Leatherhead’s strongest supporters. Rix
thought
he could trust him, though he wasn’t absolutely sure he could trust any of them.

“The lord of Bedderlees has sent twenty men. They’ll signal once they’re in place at the rear of the garrison, then set fire to the barracks —”

“How?” said a voice from the darkness. Rix had no idea who it was.

“They’ll hurl blazing oil bottles onto the roof, each holding enough oil to burn through wet thatch to the dry straw underneath. Yestin’s thirty-five are attacking the right-hand wall. They’re going to send a wagon filled with black powder down the hill into the palisade, aiming to blow a hole through it into the armoury on the other side and destroy their chymical weaponry.”

“What’s our plan?” said Riddum. “I assume you do have one?”

The disrespect was palpable, but the middle of a raid was no time for a lesson. Rix made a note to take the man down once they returned.

“We creep up to the garrison gates and wait for the signals. When the other attacks begin, we storm the gates and take the officers’ quarters. It’s the stone building around to the right. We want to capture their commanding officer, and any other officers we can find.”

“Better to kill them so we can loot the place in peace,” said Riddum.

“Are you leading this raid?” Rix said in a dangerous voice.

“We’re taking our pay in plunder, Deadhand. We’ve got to make sure of it.”

They went at a steady pace through the night, seeing no one on the way. Rix rode absently, trying to imagine all the ways the raid could go wrong and working out what to do about each problem. If the alert was raised before his allies were in position, for instance. Should he attack by himself, or abort the raid? His allies were to signal that they were in place, but in the dark he had no way to modify their orders. The question should have been decided in advance.

He scratched an itch under his chest-plate. He was wearing chest and back armour. It was heavy, ill-fitting and cold as an icicle.

At three in the morning they bypassed the town of Jadgery and walked their horses across a snow-covered field towards the garrison, which lay half a mile beyond the town. From his saddlebags Rix drew the steel gauntlet he’d taken from an old suit of armour. He straightened his dead fingers to slip the gauntlet on and closed its fingers into a fist. It wasn’t as good as a sword in his right hand, but after a blow from his steel fist his opponent would not get up.

“Keep the horses calm,” said Rix. “If one of them whinnies —”

“We know our business,” growled Riddum. “Most of us were a’raiding when your mummy was still wipin’ —”

Someone shushed him, which was just as well. Rix was considering knocking him cold and dumping him in the snow.

“Bedderlees and Yestin will signal when they’re in place,” said Rix. “That’ll be in a quarter of an hour, if all goes to plan.”

“You know them?” said Nuddell, a middle-aged raider with no hair and few teeth, a steady fellow who Rix felt he could rely on.

“I met them three days ago. Swelt introduced them as sound men. They seemed solid enough.”

“Folk usually are in the security of their own manors.” Nuddell spat sideways into the snow. “But when the night’s cold and the wife is warm, staying a’bed can seem a better option than going a’raiding. Not that I know these young fellers, Lord.”

Suddenly the night seemed a lot colder. Rix pulled his coat around him. “They gave their word. They’ll be here.”

“I’m just saying, is all.”

The rendezvous time passed, then another quarter of an hour. Neither Bedderlees nor Yestin signalled.

“What’s keeping them?” muttered Rix. His feet were freezing.

“They’re not coming,” said Riddum. “They’ve pulled a swift one on you,
Lord
.”

“Shut up!” Rix ground out. “There’s still time. We can still do it.”

He swept the area with a pair of night glasses that had been his great-aunt’s. She had used them for studying the planets and they had the finest lenses Rix had seen, but on such a dark night he could see no more than shades of shadow.

“Wait,” he said, focusing on the steep slope up from the right-hand palisade wall, where Yestin’s attack was to take place. “I think I can see movement up there.”

The tiniest light flickered near the top of the slope, just below a crown of trees.

“What the hell are they doing?” said Rix. “The guards are bound to see that.”

“Lighting the fuse to the black powder wagon, I’d say,” said Nuddell.

Rix cursed fervently. Surely they knew enough to light it under cover? Evidently not.

“Tell the men to get ready,” he said to Riddum. “We attack the moment the wagon blows up.”

“What about Bedderlees? If he doesn’t attack the barracks, they’ll all swarm out to the gates.”

“I’m sure he’s in place,” said Rix. He checked through the night glasses again. No signal could be seen from the rear. “All right. They’ve set it moving.”

The clouds parted and a sliver of moonlight revealed the wagon trundling down the slope. But instead of rolling straight towards the wall it was curving around, across the decline. It teetered onto two wheels, then settled back and stopped, halfway down the slope. Dark-clad figures swarmed after it and tried to heave it back in line, though it did not budge.

“What the hell are they doing?” said Rix. “Never seen such incompetence.”

“Looks like it’s bogged.” Riddum chuckled. “This is comical.”

Rix resisted the urge to slug the man with his mailed fist.

“The fuse is sizzling,” said Nuddell. “They’d better get a move on.”

About twenty men had gathered around the sides and rear of the wagon. They swung it around and heaved it down the boggy slope towards the palisade.

“If it were me,” said Riddum, “I’d be slipping quietly away. This ain’t going to work.”

Rix was of the same mind but he had given his word. He could not abandon his allies, no matter what a mess they were making of things. “It’ll work – and whoever goes first gets a double share of plunder.”

A cry rang out from the wall. Rix saw a signal lantern being waved there, and heard the clang of a bell.

“They’ve been seen. Attack. Attack now!”

As he raced for the front gates, a flare burst over the hill slope. Yestin’s men were struggling with the wagon, which was bogged again, twenty feet from the wall. Yestin, a bear of a man, was heaving with the rest. I hope they’re counting the seconds on the fuse, Rix thought —

With a colossal boom, the wagon exploded, scattering men everywhere and lighting up the area so brightly that Rix could see the outlines of the enemy guards running along the top of the wall.

He reached the gate with a dozen others. “Up and over,” Rix said quietly. “First men in, slip the bar and open the gates. The rest of you, prepare the way.”

He boosted a man up to grab hold of the top of the gate, which was twelve feet high, then another. Riddum and three of the other tallest men were doing the same. In a minute and a half, fifteen men had gone over.

As the last one dropped, a skyrocket soared up from the direction of the munitions store, then another. Could the blast from the wagon have set the store off? No, the rockets burst into half a dozen brilliant flares that lit up the buildings and yard of the garrison, and the area outside the walls, almost as brightly as day.

Rix drew his sword and waited for the gates to open. He did not hear the bar sliding. He heard nothing at all.

“What the hell’s going on?” he muttered. “Riddum, get up on the gate and have a look.”

Riddum might have been the focus of discontent but he was no coward. One of the men heaved him up. He leaned over, then threw his arms out, toppled backwards and crashed to the ground with an arrow through his chest.

“Dead,” he said. “Throats cut. They were waiting for us…”

“Retreat!” roared Rix. “We’ve been betrayed. Retreat, retreat!”

He bent to pick Riddum up but he was dead. As Rix straightened, the gates were wrenched open and a squad of the enemy stormed out. Rix froze – he had only thirty-two men left, and if they ran the enemy archers would shoot them in the back.

But he also had Maloch. And here, the best defence was to attack.

“Stand firm!” he bellowed. “Attack!”

Without waiting to see if anyone was following, Rix hurled himself at the enemy, swinging the sword with his left hand and driving his steel-encased right fist into every vulnerable body part that presented itself. In one furious minute he drove three lines deep into the enemy, leaving a trail of fallen enemy behind him. He was surrounded on all sides. A sword he did not see clanged off his chest-plate. He struck the man down then whirled, slashing and striking, and around him several of his men were doing the same. Suddenly the enemy broke under the onslaught and began to retreat back through the gates.

For a mad moment Rix considered driving through them and on to the officers’ quarters, to make something from this fiasco, but the officers were already streaming through the doors. Besides, only a handful of his men had followed him. The rest were either dead or had fled.

The light of the flares was fading as they dropped lower, and now they went out, leaving the scene lit only by slanting lantern rays from inside. He yelled, “Retreat! Retreat, while the dark lasts.”

Suddenly Rix was alone. He was backing away, watching for archers, when he stepped on a body that moved under him.

“Ahh,” yelped Nuddell.

“Sorry,” said Rix, hefting him up.