The Bloody Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (12 page)

“Listen, Ely,” she said gently, reaching over and stroking the young woman’s hair. “You have known nothing but Kotterman. You have only lived as a slave. Please, trust me when I tell you that life will change when we are back there. You will never need to work again, never have to live your life obeying other people’s orders. I promise.” She looked into Ely’s eyes and was relieved to see the young woman smile and nod. “That’s the way. Now, we need to speak to Gokmen tomorrow.”

“Gokmen, why?”

“I need to persuade him to bring all our people here at the same time.”

Fallon ducked and triggered his crossbow in one movement. The bolt smashed into the thief’s face, the force picking him up and flicking him backwards. But, behind that one, Fallon could see more of them, and some sort of barricade across the stairs. Another pair of thieves raced at him, knives in their hands, while a third threw a blade at him.

Instinctively Fallon ducked and covered up behind his crossbow, feeling the blade strike the stock and bounce away. Without bothering to see what else was happening, he turned and raced back towards his men. Crashing noises behind him said they were not going to let him get away that easily. He sensed, rather than saw, that at least a couple of them were after him but concentrated on getting back to the safety of his men.

“Down!” Gallagher shouted, waving at him, and he obeyed, sliding feet-first on the cobbles.

Next instant a score of Gallagher’s company loosed their crossbows and the quarrels hissed over his head to thump into his pursuers. He turned over to see a pair of them jerking on the cobbles.

“I’d say they’re all in there?” Brendan asked, offering a hand to help Fallon to his feet.

“Aye,” Fallon agreed, brushing himself off and wincing at a bruised hip. “It looks like they copied us, barricaded the stairs. But they left a few to give any scout a nasty surprise.”

“Luckily we sent in someone we could afford to lose,” Gallagher said with a grunt. “What were you thinking of? What would we have told Bridgit?”

Fallon patted his friend on the back. “I agree. Next time I am an idiot, you can put a crossbow bolt into my leg to slow me down.”

“The way you go, I’ll be running out of bolts,” Gallagher grumbled.

Fallon grinned and waved the others in closer. “This one will be tricky,” he said. “We all know how hard it is to get up those stairs. And the floor is marble, so the lamp oil trick won’t work, either. I want every broken door off every house over there.”

“Why?” Brendan asked.

“We need shields and they’re the only things handy,” Fallon said.

While most of his men kept watch on the Guildhouse, the others used axes and swords from the fallen Bruisers to pull down a dozen doors: enough to make a solid wall of wood.

“We go in the front, sheltering behind these doors. Loose your crossbow, then hand it back and get a loaded one. We will pick them off until they either come down the stairs or there’s so few left that we can go up,” he instructed.

He chose his villagers as the crossbowmen, for he had seen them practicing and knew which ones could be relied on to hit a target – and who could reload fast. Each pair of guardsmen was given a door.

“Stay low and keep your heads down,” he told them, selecting Bran and Casey to protect him. With him would be two other villagers, while more would form a chain of reloaders once they were inside.

“I thought you said I could loose one into your leg if you did anything else foolish,” Gallagher said.

“This isn’t foolish. It has to be done,” Fallon stated. He ignored the looks from his friends and tapped Bran on the shoulder. “Time to go,” he said.

He had a score of men from Gallagher’s company on either side of the doorway and, at his signal, they loosed their bolts into the darkness beyond, trying to ensure nobody could hide to either side and surprise them.

“Go!” Fallon shouted and Bran and Casey hefted the thick wooden door and hurried in, walking hunched down, their heads well below the top. Fallon and his villagers were right behind them.

Someone thumped into the door and Fallon saw an angry-looking thief try to reach over, a long knife in his hand. He put a crossbow bolt into the thief’s open mouth and Bran and Casey stepped over his body, carrying the door to the right, as arranged, clearing the doorway for the next team.

Fallon kept close to the door but could see a crowd of men up on the balcony, hurling down knives and rocks at them. Most either bounced short or thumped into the door but one rock hit a villager on the head, who went down instantly.

Fallon grabbed the fallen villager’s crossbow and loosed into the crowd at the top of the stairs, making them duck away for a moment.

In that time, another pair of guardsmen rushed in carrying a door, going to the left this time, then a third came in and a fourth, until they had made a small wall of doors. All the time the thieves were hurling things down at them but they had no bows, which could have made a difference. As it was, without the door-shields, Fallon doubted any of them could have avoided being hit. With the doors, only one other man was struck, as he reared up to loose his crossbow and received a knife in the shoulder as a reward.

More doors came in, guardsmen now standing up to create a double-height wall, expanding it so they had a safe area protected right across the doorway area.

Behind this, villagers crowded in, to take their turn at loosing up at the balcony, ducking back to hand their crossbows out to waiting hands to be reloaded and getting another bow in return. Fallon picked off half a dozen thieves easily. They were clustered together, making them an obvious target. They were also running out of missiles to throw, for hardly anything was thudding into the doors now.

“Five paces closer!” Fallon shouted.

The guardsmen hefted up their door-shields and moved forwards, getting closer to the foot of the stairs. From there any that were foolish enough to show themselves were quickly killed, while the rest sheltered behind their own barricade, not even venturing out to throw things down.

Fallon searched for them with his crossbow but, when even he could not see anything to loose at, he waved for the others to stop.

“Three door-shields wide, we’ll go up the stairs. The rest of you stay here and loose at anything that shows itself. Brendan, when we get to the top, we’ll need you to bring down that barricade,” Fallon ordered hastily.

Led by Bran and Casey again, they advanced in quick steps to the foot of the stairs, and began to climb. The rest of the men below kept watch, their crossbows threatening any that showed themselves – but none did.

Fallon tried to keep his head down and look up at the same time, which was not an easy task. But they inched their way up the stairs, the fine marble etched in fire and blood from their last fight here, until they reached the barricade. Just as they had done, the thieves had grabbed tables and chairs out of rooms to form a defensive wall at the head of the stairs.

“Brendan!” Fallon said.

The big smith signaled to the guardsmen protecting him and they raised the door they were holding up higher and he lashed out with his hammer, swinging it underneath, snagging tangled chairs and tables and sweeping them away. Nobody from behind the barricade tried to stop him, although Fallon was down on one knee, ready to loose at anyone who did. Three more strokes of the hammer and that part of the barricade was in tatters.

“Now!” Fallon roared and joined the others in putting their shoulders to Brendan’s door and shoving what was left of the barricade aside. From below and outside, the rest of his men drew weapons and raced up the stairs, in a huge wave.

“And get them!”

Fallon turned to his right, loosed his crossbow and sent a haggard-looking thief flying backwards with a crossbow in the chest, then dropped his bow and drew his sword. There was a cluster of thieves at the barricade and they pressed forwards but they had seemingly thrown most of their weapons, for they merely had staves, nothing else. And they lacked the ferocity of the Bruisers, for their attack was slow, yet they still came on, refusing to surrender, although more of Fallon’s men were pushing through the barricade with every moment.

Fallon waded into them, not wanting to lose another man. Behind him, villagers and guardsmen stabbed and cut and hewed, covering the floor in blood and guts and the foul stench of open bowels. Brendan swung his hammer like a man possessed, smashing heads and staving in chests, flinging bodies in all directions.

Yet the thieves fought on, hurling themselves at the massed swords. Even those brought down tried to grope for weapons and stab at the guardsmen, until swords ripped their lives from them.

Fallon slammed the last one in the jaw with his pommel and watched him stagger back to hit the balcony rail. “Give it up,” he told the thief, Bran and Casey at his shoulders, both with blood dripping from their blades.

The thief hung there for a moment, blood pouring from his smashed mouth, then a strange smile twisted his face and he flipped himself head-first over the balcony, landing on the floor below with a sickening thud and explosion of brains.

“Aroaril! What would make you do that?” Casey asked, his voice thick with revulsion.

“I don’t know, lad,” Fallon admitted.

He looked around. The stench was appalling, while the only noise was the panting of his men and the gurgling as the last of the thieves died, drowning in their own blood. He was about to order them to start checking for any of their own wounded when a strange laugh cut through the quiet.

“What in Aroaril’s name is that?” Gallagher asked, for all of them.

Fallon walked back along the landing, hearing the noise coming from one of the offices further down. Wordlessly he took a crossbow from one of the villagers.

On and on went the laugh, sometimes a giggle, sometimes a roar but always sounding like it was coming from a madman.

Fallon paused outside the office at the end of the corridor and pointed to Gallagher. “Get a barrel of lamp oil, a torch and Padraig. Just in case,” he said.

As his friend rushed away he stepped into the room, crossbow at the shoulder.

“Welcome to my Guildhouse,” chuckled a strangely familiar man, sitting on a chair in an otherwise empty room. He was empty-handed and dressed in the now-ragged but once-rich robes of a Moneylender.

It took Fallon a moment to place him. “Allen. The Guild master who promised to help Prince Cavan but then stood with Swane and sent in the Bruisers to kill us,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Allen laughed again, throwing his head back and wiping his eyes with merriment.

“You think this is funny? Your men threw themselves on our swords at the last, rather than be taken, and your precious Guildhouse is swimming in blood and shit. And you laugh?” Fallon spat.

Allen slowly regained control of himself. “If you knew what I know, you would laugh along,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “This is a game. All a game. I failed but I have done what I had to to make amends.”

“Tell me what you know,” Fallon said. “Make me laugh.”

Allen shook his head. “You can never know. Not until it is too late. That’s what makes it a jest, you see?”

Fallon snapped his fingers without taking his eyes off Allen. “Get Sister Rosaleen. She will get the truth out of him,” he said.

Allen sighed. “Ah, you have to spoil my last moment of fun. But have you learned nothing in your time here? Your priestess failed to get answers before.”

“What do you know about that? For Aroaril’s sake, speak! We can protect you; we are here on the King’s orders. Swane cannot touch you—”

Fallon’s words were cut off by another burst of hysterical laughter from Allen. “You fools!” he told them. “This joke is at an end.”

He reached into his robes and produced a small crossbow, less than half the size of Fallon’s. He could hold it in one hand, for it had some strange grip angled down from the back. It also looked to have a small bolt, suspiciously like the one they had found in the Duke of Lunster’s abandoned cabin, when this whole thing started.

“Put that down!” Fallon ordered, his finger tightening on his own crossbow trigger. “Where did you get it?”

Allen smiled. “Oh, you would love to know where this came from, wouldn’t you? But now my game is at an end,” he said conversationally, then raised the crossbow.

Fallon brought up his own crossbow, trying to dart to one side, then Allen reversed his own bow and opened his mouth, putting the tip inside, angling up.

“Stop!” Fallon roared at him, horrified, but it was too late.

Allen pulled on the trigger, his body jumping at the impact, and a point burst out of the back of his skull. His eyes rolled up, blood oozed out of his mouth, which was propped open by the bolt skewering his brain, then he toppled off the chair.

“Aroaril!” Fallon spat.

A few moments later, Gallagher, Padraig, Rosaleen and a pair of villagers carrying lamp oil arrived.

“It’s over,” Fallon said dully.

He locked eyes with Padraig and the old wizard raised his eyebrows expressively.

“Well done, sir,” Bran said. “This is a great victory.”

“Is it?” Fallon asked. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Casey asked. “We killed off the last of the Zorva-worshippers and made the city safe! The people will love us for this!”

Fallon forced a smile to his face. “Indeed they will, lad,” he said. “Now we need to clean up this mess. Make sure our wounded all get seen by Sister Rosaleen. And stack the bodies of these bastards in the center of the square. We’d better have another pyre.”

“What about their weapons, sir?” Bran asked.

“Collect them. We’ll take them back to the castle.”

“What about that one sir?” Bran pointed to the small crossbow in Allen’s outflung hand.

Fallon did not hesitate. “I’ll look after that one myself,” he said. “Well done, both of you. I would be proud to fight with you again!”

“We’d follow you anywhere, sir,” Casey said instantly. “We all would. There’s not a man out there who would not die for you now.”

Fallon smiled and nodded.
I might just need that
, he thought.

*

The crowd on the way back to the castle was even bigger than the one that had followed them on the way in.

This time they did not have to ask the gate guards to fetch the King, either, for he was waiting for them, flanked by an expressionless Kelty and the massed nobles.

Far better, from Fallon’s point of view, was the sight of Kerrin up on the battlement over the gate, waving down with Donnchadh at his side.

Finbar was obviously there also, for the King’s voice was able to boom out across the square and reach the thousands of people.