The Fell Sword (33 page)

The Red Knight raised his hand and snapped a single coherent beam of emerald light at the source of the enemy’s magery.

Aeskepiles raised a shield like a mirror, the size of three mounted men.

Very clever
,
Harmodius admitted, and voided the casting as it came, reflected, right back at him.

The Athanatos tagma was shattered, and the panic of the mercenaries was augmented by the stradiotes. Andronicus watched the hermetical workings – back and forth like a child’s game.

‘My men are dying!’ he roared.

Aeskepiles reached deep and cast a working he created on the spot. He built extravagant displays for court – he could work with inanimate materials, given time. And cloth and wood had once been animate. It was a snap working – something from deep inside him created it and he let go.

Every bowstring in the front rank snapped. The bows gave an odd sound, almost like a scream. Men had their faces flayed – Cully almost lost an eye. Men flinched. A few archers fell.

‘Christ save us!’ said Cully, now firmly spooked and blood running down his face.

Harmodius seized control of the Captain’s body and cast, breathed, and cast again, draining his master’s reserves utterly. Reserves, he noted, which grew deeper every day.

Fire appeared to leap from the Captain’s hand. It wasn’t a beam of light, but rather a great round gout of raw fire that made a deep roaring sound as it burst into being.

Damn you!
said the Captain.
Let go! Damn it!

Us or him!
Harmodius barked. He kept control of the Red Knight’s body and let fly his spell.

The travel time of the fearful ball of fire was slow, by hermetical standards. The casting was terrifying – the power of the ball of fire dizzying. Aeskepiles had little choice but to shield – he left himself almost nothing, and struck the fireball with a deflection, swatting it to the north.

Even as he displaced it, he felt its insubstantial nature, and the hair stood up on the nape of his neck.

Illusion.

Got you
, muttered Harmodius through the Red Knight’s mouth, and he flicked a single point of light, a sphere the size of a pearl or a child’s smallest marble.

Aeskepiles managed to shield himself by draining his last amulet and his secret, invisible ring, but he was blown clear of his horse, which was killed in a spectacular manner, and the magister was knocked unconscious.

But the enemy archers were dismounted, their mounts had panicked and their bowstrings were cut. Both armies were filled with dread at the unsealy exchange of powers, a sight that filled them all with fear, and if the Moreans broke for their baggage train, the company soldiers stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to advance.

Harmodius was in full control of the Red Knight’s body. He flexed
his
fingers, and sighed, because he could feel that his opponent was dazed, and he himself was almost out of
potentia.

He felt alive. He savoured it. He breathed, and watched the enemy break and run.

Bad Tom glared at him. ‘Bah!’ he said. ‘Come on, man! We can yet have them.’

The mad Hillman wanted to charge three thousand Moreans with two hundred Alban knights.

I don’t know what will happen if I smash this statue
, said the Red Knight, deep inside his own palace.
But I’m willing to bet it will end you, and I want my body back.

I just saved your army, you ungrateful whelp
, Harmodius said. But with a last inbreath of the scent of grass and horses, he
let go.

The Red Knight snapped back into full awareness, and he could see the men around him – Ranald and Bad Tom, Michael, Alison – straining in their saddles, eager to charge.

‘Advance!’ he ordered. At his side, the trumpeter raised his instrument and blew. The first call came out like the honking of a goose. The second rang as clear as day, and he repeated it once more.

‘That’s
halt
you idiot!’ roared the Captain. ‘Advance! Advance!’ he called, and rode out to the front where men could see him, his lance held high – but the damage was done. Confusion reigned supreme in his ranks for agonisingly long heartbeats.

By the time he had his lances moving, the last company of enemy stradiotes was retreating, a thousand paces away. The Vardariotes had wrecked the enemy Easterners, or perhaps subsumed them, and the enemy’s cadre of Alban mercenaries – the Latinikon – was scattered to the winds. Many were simply surrendering.

The Captain had a headache of monumental proportions, but he managed to indicate the surrendering knights to Bad Tom. ‘They look – look like men who want a new employer,’ he said.

‘You look like dog shit,’ Ranald said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

The Red Knight swore in a very undignified manner, and forced himself to sit upright and lead
.

His knights rode forward as fast as they could in good order, and they pursued the retreating Thrakians over the Field of Ares. A mile out in the grass, they linked up with the scarlet-clad Vardariotes, and they rode side by side at a slow canter. Behind them, archers scrambled to retrieve their lost horses. Pages were cursed, but not very hard.

Cully took his horse from Nell and smiled at her.

‘Ain’t you goin’ ta follow the Cap’n?’ she asked the master archer. He and Long Paw were standing at their horses’ heads, but they weren’t mounting.

Cully looked down on her. ‘You’re a young ’un to tell me my trade, ain’t you?’

Long Paw nodded. ‘We’ve done our bit,’ he said.

The sun was going down in ruddy splendour over the city to the south and west behind them. When every basilica’s gilt roof was ablaze with the fire of the sun, the Thrakian infantry had to turn at bay or be ridden down in retreat. They were at the northern edge of the great field, and they halted between two of the low, round hills that defined the ancient drill field.

They faced about, got their aspides, their great round shields, off their shoulders, and they pulled their helmets down, set their feet, and prepared to give their lives. In the fifth and sixth ranks, archers restrung their bows and then moved out into the scrub on the hills and tried some long shafts at the Vardariotes.

The Red Knight watched it all with weary resignation. He formed his men-at-arms up in two companies under Ser Jehan and Ser Milus; both in broad, deep wedges.

The archers had emptied two Vardariote saddles when the scarlet-clad Easterners swept forward at the gallop – they rode all the way to just short of the enemy’s spear points and then shot down into their phalanx at point-blank range – and then galloped away, exchanging ranks with a dexterity that spoke of long practice and perfect horsemanship. When the dust settled, darkness was moments away and two dozen of the Thrakians were face down in the grass – but they closed their ranks grimly. And backstepped.

The Red Knight beckoned to Count Zac, who rode up. ‘I can do it again,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But they are not soft, these Thrakians. I don’t think they will break.’

The Red Knight shook his head. ‘If it were noon, we’d have them in an hour,’ he said. ‘But it isn’t, and we won’t. Let them go. I’m not willing to lose one more man-at-arms to break them. And they’re just his infantry. His knights are gone.’

Sauce laughed. ‘You sound like Ser Jehan,’ she said.

Ser Alcaeus shook his head in turn. ‘You need to learn to think like a Morean. His infantry are the heart of his army. His cavalry are not “knights”. They are soldiers.’

The Red Knight scratched at his two-day beard growth. ‘Let’s go see if Cully found any new bowstrings,’ he said. He looked at Zac. ‘You feel we should try them?’

Zac watched the infantry retreat into the gathering gloom. ‘No. Foolishness,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the city. You pay me, I sell you a horse. We drink. ‘

The Red Knight looked around at his officers. He kept his tone light, although fatigue and his unspoken war with Harmodius made it hard even to think. ‘I think we’ve come to the right place,’ he managed.

Bad Tom sat watching the Thrakians, and he shook his axe at them and then hurled the weapon into their ranks and roared, ‘Lachlan for aa!’ like a lion baulked of his prey. He rounded on his captain.

‘I want the fight! Christ damn their souls to hell—’

The Captain waved to Lachlan through a fog of fatigue. ‘See to your cousin,’ he said.

The sun was gone from the sky when the Red Knight rode through the Ares Gate at the head of the company. He had Ser Gavin at his side, half his men-at-arms at his back, then all the archers and pages together, and then the rest of the men-at-arms, with the wagons bringing up the rear with all the women, and finally Long Paw and a dozen veterans with Gelfred and the scouts. Moreans stood in the gate and the square on the far side and cheered them.

Sort of.

The cheers were half-hearted. Many people simply watched them ride in without a comment, and there was some heckling after they passed through the gate.

There was a strong guard of men with long-hafted axes on the gate, and they stood in rigid silence as the mercenaries rode past.

‘Brother, you are a study,’ Gavin said.

‘I’ve had better days. My hip is killing me. We should have had the thrice-damned Duke today.’ He observed a pair of Moreans who watched him with open contempt. ‘And these people don’t love us for all that we just saved them from a siege and starvation.’ He was, in fact, seeing spots in front of his eyes.

Bad Tom, in the rank behind, hawked and spat. Ser Milus spurred his horse out of the column and rode right up to the two local men. ‘See something you like, gentles?’ he asked.

The two men looked right through him.

Ser Milus reached out with his riding whip and touched one on the shoulder. ‘Tell me what we’re laughing at, and we can all laugh together.’

The Red Knight reined in. ‘Leave it!’ he called.

Milus turned his destrier, unwillingness in every inch of his six feet of steel, and behind him, the two men smiled nastily.

‘They’re mocking us,’ he complained.

The Red Knight sighed. ‘Yes, they are. And as long as we’re paid, we don’t have to give a shit whether they love us or hate us.’

In the second rank of the second company, Sauce strained her eyes as they passed their third or fourth basilica. ‘By all the saints. I mean
all
the saints – they must have a church for every saint in the book.’

Ser Michael shook his head. ‘I had no idea,’ he said. He was looking at a bronze statue of a warrior of some kind. He couldn’t even identify what kind of warrior, but the quality of the statue was incredible – lifelike. The musculature – the strain on the man’s face—

‘Don’t gape like rubes,’ growled Ser Jehan. But then he smiled at Michael. ‘I thought you, at least, would ha’ been here afore.’

‘Never,’ breathed Ser Michael. ‘It even smells good.’

Ser Jehan nodded. ‘Sewers. From old times. See yon great bridges? I forget the word for them, but they carry water from the hills right into the city. In some houses, you turn a little tap, and fresh water you can drink flows right out. Crap goes right into the pipes and
whish
, it’s gone away. At least in good houses.’

Ranald couldn’t stop turning his head. ‘It’s huge!’

Michael leaned forward. ‘You’ve been here before,’ he said.

Jehan nodded back over the rump of his great warhorse. ‘Oh, aye. Ten years and more. I served here two years. Good pay. Not much fighting. A lot of standing around in draughty halls and listening to priests sing.’

Ser George Brewes caught a rose thrown from a high balcony by a young woman and tucked the stem behind his ear. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, marking the tall house with the red doors. But the street went on and on, and as they climbed the central hills, all of them realised that the city was seven miles across – fifty times the size of Harndon.

Conversation slowed.

You don’t have to be angry. I was handing control back.

Were you, though? I think perhaps it is time I was rid of you, sir. You are a troublesome guest.

Give me a little more time. This city – this is the very home of hermeticism. I might learn something—

You took control of my body, Harmodius. How can I trust you now?

Don’t be a fool, boy. I did it to save us both.

So you say. And you will rationalise it right up until the moment that you find yourself my master.

The Red Knight stamped down on his connection to the old mage and focused on the real, all about him. Count Zac had displaced Ser Gavin at his side.

‘You talk to the spirits?’ he asked, interested.

‘No,’ said the Red Knight. ‘Yes. Maybe.’

Zac tilted his head like an interested dog. ‘Which one?’ he said.

‘Maybe,’ said the Red Knight.

The Easterner made a sign with his hands. ‘Best be careful,’ he said. ‘Spirits are scary bastards. Listen to me.’ Then he grinned. ‘You know the city?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been here before,’ the Red Knight admitted.

Count Zac nodded. ‘The Porphyrogenetrix wants to see you.’ The Easterner, who had trouble with Gothic names, got out the Morean title with fluidity. ‘You know Blacharnae?’

The Red Knight shook his head. ‘Not the part of town I know,’ he said.

‘She’s going to garrison your men in the palace,’ said the Easterner. ‘As bad as spirits. Be careful.’ He shrugged. ‘When you are done at the palace, come and get that horse. Your horse—’ He waved at the Captain’s borrowed warhorse. Slapped his rear end, and laughed. ‘Listen, you like girls?’ he asked.

Through the haze of pain, the Captain had trouble following the Easterner. ‘Yes. I have, in fact, been known to like girls,’ he managed.

‘Then watch out for the princess,’ Count Zac said.

The gates of the palace were shut, and the company rumbled to a halt in the Great Square in front of the palace under the watchful eyes of Saint Aetius. Every man and woman in the company was looking around, gawping like the poorest peasant in a rich man’s house. The archers were talking so loudly that scraps of their repartee slipped up the column to the Captain, who sat calmly looking at the gates.