The Bloody Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (10 page)

That brought a few smiles to faces and he broadened his own forced grin. “Come on. How often do you get to be heroes and save the city? Enjoy it!” He didn’t like lying to them but he was happy with what he saw on their faces, a mixture of determination and pride, and he raised his crossbow. “Follow me!” he cried and led the way.

After being surrounded by noise all the way there, it was eerily quiet in the square. The center of the cobbled space was stained black and small piles of ash still marked where Aidan’s guards had burned the bodies from the first battle, including Prince Cavan. That gave him a moment’s pause and he reached in to touch the bloody quarrel. The men moved quickly, not quite silent but not talking, the loudest sounds their boots on the cobbles. Gallagher’s company formed two lines and watched the main Guildhouse, while the other two companies split off. Fallon stared at the Guildhouse. The doors were hanging off the hinges and the ground-floor windows were still smashed, where the Bashers had tried to force their way inside. But otherwise it looked normal.

“Padraig.” Fallon looked at the old wizard, who nodded.

“This is Captain Fallon. I have here a warrant from the King for your arrest. Come out peacefully and you will have a fair trial before King Aidan himself!” Fallon shouted, his words bounding off the empty buildings and sending pigeons flying in all directions.

“A fair trial like the women accused of being witches?” Gallagher muttered.

Fallon ignored him. “Come out now or we shall come and get you, with sword and bow.”

His words echoed away and the pigeons fluttered back to their roosts. He watched them as much as he did the houses, trying to see if there was an area of roof that they avoided. But there was nothing. No movement and no shouts back. He waited further, letting the silence stretch out, then turned to his friends. “Go now,” he said. “As we planned.”

He took a few steps forwards, standing just in front and off to the side of Gallagher’s company, crossbow tucked under one arm and eyes roving across the houses and rooftops.

There was a crash from behind as Brendan broke into a house and he turned to see what was happening there.

Brendan’s company flowed into one building while Devlin had two of his men kick open another door and head in there.

Fallon watched and listened, his every muscle tensed, but they appeared quickly enough, waving their hands to show the houses were empty.

“Keep an eye on those rooftops!” he told Gallagher’s second line. “Anything moves up there, loose at it and shout out!”

But nothing moved up there and nothing seemed to be in the houses, for Devlin and Brendan’s men made sure the back end of the square was safe before starting on the ones down each side.

Fallon did not like the silence. It felt wrong, and he saw that Devlin and Brendan’s men were getting further and further away from Gallagher’s company now – far enough apart that they could be attacked in turn.

“Hold!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the buildings and startling a flock of pigeons away from the rooftops. “Back here, quick now!”

Neither Brendan nor Devlin argued, just turned their men around and jogged back so all three companies were together again.

“We were splitting up,” Fallon explained. “Brendan, you start in the houses on your side again. Devlin, your men will watch them. Any trouble, fall back to us.”

They nodded and began again, kicking in doors and searching through empty rooms. Fallon switched between watching what they were doing and keeping an eye on the Guildhouse. He switched back to the houses just in time to see some movement at a window on the first floor.

“Watch out!” he roared, then loosed his crossbow into the open space.

A man appeared at the window, a spear in his hand, preparing to hurl it down on Brendan as the smith was about to smash the door in, but Fallon’s crossbow bolt flashed past his face and he leaned back, losing his balance because of the near miss. It was just enough. As he tried to lean out again and throw the spear down, Devlin’s men loosed a ragged volley and he toppled out, struck several times, to crunch onto the cobbles.

“Watch him!” Fallon shouted, even as he hauled back on his crossbow string.

Nobody went near the body but it did not move. Fallon raced over there as Brendan’s men formed a rough circle around the bloodied mess. Fallon raced right up to the fallen man, whipped out his shillelagh and used it to flip the body over. Between the bolts and the fall onto stone, the man was dead. And, although Fallon tried to stir him into life with a series of hits, nothing happened. It looked like these were indeed just men who had survived that filthy little battle and returned here because they had nowhere else to go, just as Aidan said.

“They are ordinary men,” he announced, sensing the tension go out of his force at the words. “Now let’s see if we can take a few prisoners.”

“The windows!” Devlin called.

Fallon swung up to see more men appearing out of the shadows there, knives and spears in their hands. Without thinking, he dropped his shillelagh and grabbed the crossbow, loosing in one smooth movement. Devlin’s and Brendan’s men poured bolts into every window, while several knives and spears rained down on them.

Fallon saw a knife coming for him and ducked, feeling it whistle past his shoulder and bounce off the cobbles.

Three of his men were not so lucky, going down with spears or knives in them.

“Pull back! Keep loosing!” he ordered.

The wounded men were hauled away, although from the looks of a guard with a spear through his chest, he did not have long to live.

“Get Sister Rosaleen!” Fallon grabbed guardsman Casey and shoved him over towards where Gallagher was bringing his men across to help. “Reload and loose!”

With more than a hundred men loosing at anything that showed itself, the men inside the house soon stayed away from the windows, because any that appeared were quickly struck. Fallon checked the Guildhouse to see there was still nothing from there, then looked to where Rosaleen, bloodied to the elbows, was helping the wounded.

“Brendan, get the door open; Devlin, I want a barrel of lamp oil in there and a torch,” he ordered. “The rest of us will make sure none of them even dare to come close to a window.”

He had Brendan’s company still loose as fast as they could load, while making sure Devlin’s and Gallagher’s men were all loaded. The building had a dozen windows, so he quickly sorted the men out so each window had at least eight men watching it.

“Ready? Go!” He signaled to his friends.

Using the already-cleared houses as cover, they eased down to the door, then Brendan’s hammer smashed open the lock and a pair of guardsmen threw in small barrels of lamp oil, each one about the size of a man’s head. Right behind them, Devlin tossed in a torch, and they ran backwards. Men appeared at windows but they were swiftly riddled with bolts, and only one spear was sent bouncing off the cobbles, well behind the running Devlin.

“Pull back further and pick off anyone who comes out,” Fallon snapped.

Already smoke was billowing out of the lower windows and they could see flames through the open doorway. The furniture had been stripped out of these houses to fuel the pyre in the center of the square but the wooden floors and walls, splashed with lamp oil, were burning fiercely. That was a problem he would need Padraig to fix – but not just yet. Men could not survive for long in there and already they had to be wondering if it was safer to try to jump to safety or chance the flames.

A few moments later Fallon got his answer. A pair of men appeared at a first-floor window and swung themselves over, jumping down to the cobbles.

Even as they appeared, crossbows twanged, and they were followed all the way down by bolts, dozens of them, so they hit the ground riddled; the front of the building was scarred by repeated strikes.

“Gallagher’s company only!” Fallon shouted but it was too late. Almost all his men had loosed.

“Reload!” Fallon shouted, furious at himself for not detailing only one company to loose at a time.

Next moment doors banged open and men began to pour out of the remaining houses. Dressed as a motley collection of Bruisers, they all carried some sort of weapon, from swords to axes to spears and staves. Without waiting to form up, they raced at Fallon’s men.

“Loose!” Fallon shouted and no more than a dozen quarrels flicked out to knock over the lead runners.

More Bruisers were tumbling out of houses all the time but they had to get out of narrow doorways and were more staggered than a solid mass.

“Guards, drop crossbows and draw swords. Follow me!” Fallon bellowed.

He found himself looking forward to this fight. He was so full of anger about Aidan’s threat to Kerrin, and full of guilt over killing Prince Cavan. He had to let it out somehow.

He laid down his crossbow and drew sword and dagger, then raced to meet the Bruisers without worrying to see if anyone was following him.

If they had brought shields he would have liked to form a line and throw these Bruisers back but, without them, it was better to run and meet them than stand there and wait.

The lead Bruiser was a tall man, his face dark with beard, his red tunic stained and torn. His face looked pinched and his clothes hung off him, suggesting he had not eaten much recently. But the sword he carried was bright and clean and that was all Fallon cared about.

Time seemed to slow as they got closer: Fallon could feel every breath, see every detail as the Bruiser rushed at him, right arm pulled back for a huge slash of the sword. The Bruiser’s eyes seemed dull, uncaring, and Fallon even had time to wonder at that before they came together.

Time sped up again and Fallon stepped off his right foot, pivoting away to his left from the swing of the sword that came down diagonally with enough force to cut him in half. But it never landed, only swishing through air, as Fallon used their momentum to slip past. He stamped his left foot down and lashed sideways with his sword. The Bruiser had run on and Fallon’s sword crashed into the back of his neck, tearing a huge wound and sending a spray of blood skyward. The Bruiser’s head, barely attached to his neck, was flung forwards and he collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Fallon did not spare him a second glance because another was almost upon him. This one, dressed equally shabbily, lunged with a rusty spear at his chest. Fallon knocked it aside with his bloody sword and stood his ground as the Bruiser ran onwards, ramming his dagger into the man’s throat.

Hot blood spurted over his hand and face and coppery gouts of it filled his mouth and nose as the Bruiser choked and gasped. Fallon ripped his dagger across, flinging the body away from him at the same time and snorted and spat to clear his nostrils and mouth of blood before the next Bruiser reached him.

He even had time to wonder if any of the guards had followed him as a howling Bruiser raced in, an axe over his shoulder. He stood his ground, then, while the man prepared a huge blow, flicked his dagger at the man’s face. The Bruiser lost his swing as tried to avoid the blade, and before he could recover, Fallon stepped in, using the power of his hip and back to punch a sword thrust home into the man’s chest. He twisted the sword inside the smashed ribs to free the blade and ripped it back with an accompanying burst of blood.

The axe dropped from nerveless fingers as the Bruiser reeled away, trying in vain to stop the spurts of crimson pulsing out from his torn chest.

Now Fallon did glance left and right, to see the guards crashing into the Bruisers with a series of shouts and screams. Right behind them was Brendan, swinging his huge hammer in enormous arcs. A running Bruiser was caught and tossed lazily through the air, chest stove in, by one blow, then Brendan reversed it and brought it down on the head of another, pulping it into scraps of bloodied bone.

Fallon retrieved his dagger and raced over to where a pair of Bruisers were threatening Bran. He hacked down with his sword, driving it into the Bruiser’s lower back. The man screamed and dropped his sword instantly. Fallon twisted the blade again to break the suction of the flesh and tore it clear, as Bran beheaded the other Bruiser.

“Stand together!” Fallon roared. “Work together!”

The rush of Bruisers had turned to a trickle coming out of the houses and Fallon could see his men outnumbered them easily. Clustering together and working in twos and threes, they isolated and killed the Bruisers as they raced in.

“Watch my back,” Fallon turned to Bran and the bearded guardsman nodded.

“I’m right behind you, Captain!” the dark man said.

Fallon blocked a wild swing of a shillelagh with his sword then stepped in and ripped his dagger across the Bruiser’s eyes, feeling the tip tear through the eyeballs. The Bruiser cried out but did not drop his staff, so Fallon slammed his sword into the man’s stomach, spilling his guts across the cobbles. Now he did drop his staff, crumpling slowly as his entrails coiled around his feet.

Fallon left him to die and looked across the cobbles, covered in bodies, blood, guts and shit, trying to make sense of what was happening – but there was no sense to be made. Normal men would have broken or run, yet these Bruisers kept coming. They had little skill and seemed to be relying on strength, although even that was lacking. By the time they had swung their swords or axes a couple of times, they seemed slow and weak, and easy to kill.

That had not stopped them from putting a dozen of Fallon’s guardsmen down though, and the remainder showed no mercy to the last Bruisers rushing in, heedless of the slaughter of their comrades.

Fallon blocked one blow, using his sword and dagger crossed together, then Bran stabbed the man deep in the thigh, slicing open the big artery there. As the Bruiser staggered backwards, Fallon smashed him in the face with his sword, tearing away most of his jaw.

“Any more?” he bellowed, wiping his eyes clear of blood with his surcoat sleeve and looking around for new threats.

There were none. Some of the Bruisers – who looked to number forty or perhaps fifty – were still moving but only to twitch out their last in spreading pools of blood.