The Granite Shield, page 23
With a crash, a local cloth merchant came flying out the door. A burly, blond-haired Hound followed, his sword drawn, the sun glinting off his golden armor. His lips were peeled back from his teeth in triumph, but as he raised his weapon, the woman’s arrow took him in the eye. He fell.
Reprieved, the cloth merchant snatched up the Hound’s sword and charged back inside. On the roof, the Seer Archer fitted another arrow to her bow and sent her mind questing into the Prophetic Realm. There would be another target. Drawing back the string, she waited, her Sight riveted on the Centerhall door.
To the east, at the Temple of the Oaks, the stout main doors had resisted the Hounds’ best efforts to smash them down. Attempts to find another entrance had been met with pottery and furniture being hurled at them from the upper windows, and finally the Hounds turned their attentions elsewhere. They attacked a nearby Triarctic hostel, turning out the patients and smashing up the interior. Outraged, the Physician’s Guild took up arms and rushed to their comrades’ defense. Unused to fighting, they lost over a dozen of their number, but finally overwhelmed the six Hounds. They took two captive by battering them into unconsciousness, and drove the remaining four into the street and bolted the door. Then the enormity of what they had accomplished sank in and they stood, staring at each other, wondering what to do next. There was no Triarchy Knight to hand their prisoners over to, so they simply carried them out the back door and deposited them in an empty water trough. Then they turned their attention to their dead and wounded.
Outside, the Hounds quickly reformed with those fighting Gabriel DeKathrine’s Bow Knights. The two forces came together with a crash, and soon the streets were deserted of all save the Knights of the Triarchy and of Essus, bent on destroying each other.
Meanwhile, chaos of another kind erupted all across the city. The leaders of the Triarctic Guilds and Unions had been ready for weeks, and it took only one word to send their members out into the streets, bent on violence. Dozens of Essusiate shops were attacked and looted from the West Gate all the way east to St. Bernadino’s Street in the shadow of Bran’s Bridge. Their owners rushed to defend their businesses, and soon riots broke out, as Triarchs and Essusiates of every profession threw down their tools to join in the fray. The years of smoldering hatred sparked out in a hundred places, and within the hour, Branbridge was a battle zone, the combatants so completely entangled that the Town Watch could do nothing to stop them. Quickly realizing this, their Captain ordered the Watch into defensive positions about the city’s main Churches and dug in to defend them.
Nightfall saw little abatement in the fighting. The Hounds had sacked Centerhall, killing a dozen people, but had lost two of their number to an unseen archer who was still at large. Of the six, one was dead and two wounded at the hands of Gabriel DeKathrine, before the Bow Knight Captain had broken off the attack. The remaining Hounds had returned to St. Constance’s for new orders, leaving the city in the hands of the rioters. Ariana DeCarla sent word to the Aristok and called her senior people together for a swift meeting to discuss retaliations, but before they could decide on a plan, a member of the Town Watch burst in to announce that the Tower of Merrone had been seized by Triarchy Knights. The gathering froze as Ariana DeCarla, her face purple with rage, came to her feet, then toppled forward like a fallen tree. The Tower of Merrone was forgotten.
• • •
In the newly liberated Sword Tower, Isoldt DeKathrine set her guards on the walls, scanning the city below for signs of an Essusiate attack force. The population of Branbridge was still battling in the streets despite the failing daylight, but so far there was no sign of the Church Knights. Gabriel and the others must be holding their own.
A shout from the tower’s innermost courtyard made her pause, and she turned to watch Barian Alder send a wagonload of provender through the gate. The Priest had connections with every Triarctic merchant in the city and had quickly taken charge of supplying the Sword Tower for the protracted siege they all knew was coming. People scurried back and forth on his barked orders, hurriedly stocking up the larders, armory, and infirmary. Two of Isoldt’s own Junior Knights staggered past, bent under the weight of a huge cask, and the Lance Knight Captain grinned. That was just like a Priest, she thought cynically, making sure there’s enough beer.
As if sensing her thoughts, Alder looked up, catching her eye with a smile of his own. The two regarded each other for a moment, then the Priest made a short bow. Isoldt returned it, then cast her gaze back across the walls. Her sentries were alert and eager, the air charged with the surprised pleasure of an easy victory. Isoldt shared their feelings.
Even she had not believed they could have taken the Tower so easily. When the Resistance Council had broken up, she and Gabriel had taken their leave of each other. The Bow Knight Captain had gone into the city while Master Alexi had taken her force of Lance Knights down into the depths of the Guild School and through the series of narrow, twisting sewers Flairalynne had mentioned. The Sword Tower had been erected on the ruins of a much older fortress built long before Braniana’s time and they’d fetched up in a rock strewn space, the foundations of the Sword Tower Stables just four feet above their heads.
Isoldt gave the signal. The Knights of the Lance spilled from the building, swords drawn. Most of the garrison had been called into the city to protect the Essusiate businesses and the few remaining were taken completely by surprise. Now, the Knights of the Lance patrolled the walls of the Triarchy’s oldest fortress, waiting for their compatriots to accomplish their own missions in the capital and come to them for sanctuary.
They didn’t have long to wait. As the sun set over the city, Gabriel DeKathrine brought his force clattering under the ancient portcullis. Most had taken some injury, but all were in good spirits. They had struck a blow for the Triarchy, and now they would stand with the Lance Knights in defense of the Living Flame. Riding in with them was an acolyte of Daniel DePaula’s to report on their attack on the West Gate. They had seized the two gate towers and now stood ready to attack the palace the next morning. Most of the DeLynnes had accompanied them, then swung southwest along the riverbank, to fetch up in the fields west of Bran’s Palace. They would amass their troops, drawn from all three Triarctic noble families behind the concealing hills and attack at dawn.
Standing on the battlements, Isoldt squinted west up the length of the sparkling Mist River seeing a hundred tributes to the Living Flame. The water seemed on fire with the last rays of the setting sun; Bran’s Bridge was alight with torches as Triarchs and Essusiates continued to battle along its length; St. Lucia’s was still burning, and St. Constance was a hive of frantic, lantern-waving activity. The West Gate now flew the red-and-gold standard of the Living Flame, and to the north, the still defiant Temple of the Oaks raised one of their own to match it. It had gone just as Flairalynne DeLynne had predicted.
Drawn by the thought of the Flame’s Champion, Isoldt turned her gaze east, toward the distant river mouth. Flairalynne and her Uncle Geordan had taken two cousins, disguised as wine merchants, down the Mist toward Forness Island. Barring discovery, they should be halfway there by now. The Lance Knight Captain did not think much of their chances, but if they succeeded in crippling even one of the Aristok’s ships, it would be a major victory.
A shout interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see her cousin Gabriel striding along the battlements toward her. The two of them took one last turn along the walls, checking the defenses. Everyone was in place. They were ready. From the main Sword Tower, the bell sounded evening mass for the first time in eighty years and, together, the two commanders went down to worship with their troops and pray for the success of those still outside the safety of their walls.
• • •
Hours later, near midnight, two small boats, loaded down with barrels of pitch and oil reached Shoreshill, Forness Island’s Eastern Cinqu Port. The moon was bright, shining down on a mass of moored vessels, and the dockside lanterns flickering in the faint breeze, reflected off the numerous makeshift huts of shipwrights and sailors.
In the bow of the first boat, Flairalynne DeLynne leaned forward to navigate her people into the harbor. Her grandmother’s spies had reported that the Aristok’s fleet was within days of setting sail for Gwyneth. Confident in their strength, they had set few guards and the Flame’s Champion knew the location of every one of them.
Keeping one ear cocked for the sounds of revelry issuing from the dockside taverns, she pointed, and her cousins Robin and Chris DeLynne bent to their oars. They passed fishing vessels and merchant crafts, heading for the deeper berths and Branion’s fighting ships.
Most of this fleet were privately owned vessels, serving Marsellus for sixty days with their Lords as Captain. The DeLynnes passed ships painted in the bright colors of the five Essusiate noble families—most from the seafaring DeCarla Lords of Heronfort and Mistonshire—and some with the more somber designs of western Gallia, until they came to His Majesty’s pride and joy, his four great warships, built by the shipwrights of Fenland for his campaign against Gwyneth.
They were easily distinguished in the moonlight. Floating like so many glittering palaces, they bristled with cannon and towered over the few craft moored beside them. From their decks came the faint sounds of sentries, but most of the crews were in billets or at the various taverns in the town. They were confident. No one would dare attack such behemoths. No one save Flairalynne DeLynne.
Ever present by her side, Geordan touched her lightly on the arm, and pointed.
“The flagship,” he mouthed. She nodded.
Two vessels away, the largest of the warships, the St. Sidney, floated in all its splendor. Glancing up at its huge bow, the four Triarchs caught their breath, staring up at the gold-leafed figurehead of the half man, half sea-cat who, legend said, had born Essus up from the depths of the ocean on a turtle shell. The pale yellow eyes of the creature seemed to stare into theirs and for half a heartbeat, they hesitated. Then Flairalynne shook herself and brusquely motioned them forward.
She’d informed the others of her plan on their journey up the Mist. Their chance of destroying the entire fleet was slim to none; there was no wind, and so little chance of a swiftly moving fire destroying the entire harbor. Therefore, they must concentrate their attack where they could do the most damage, against the Aristok’s flagship. With a little luck, and the aid of the Aspects, the ensuing fire might spread to the other warships.
Now, the muffled splash, splash of their oars was the only sound as they came alongside the St. Sidney’s huge hull. They went to work. Flairalynne passed her boat’s cargo over while Robin and Chris cracked them open and began splashing the oil and pitch about their own small craft and over the sides of the flagship. Meanwhile, Geordan began the delicate task of grappling the fireboat to the bigger vessel without raising an alarm. Flairalynne held her breath, alert to every tiny noise, but it was swiftly accomplished. With the fireboat secured, Robin and Chris transferred to the other craft, and they pushed off.
At fifty yards they paused. Geordan set his oars aside and picked up his bow. Chris unwrapped a bundle of heavy arrows, their upper shafts wrapped in pitch-soaked rags while Flairalynne retrieved a hooded lantern from the bottom of the boat.
Fitting an unwrapped arrow to his bow first, Geordan sighted along it. Then he fired.
The shaft whistled toward the two craft, thunking into the St. Sidney’s hull, just above the fireboat.
With a grin, the Shield Knight took up a rag-wrapped arrow, and Flairalynne set it alight.
The arrow streaked across the sky in a blazing trail of red. It hit the small craft. For a second, nothing happened, then a tongue of fire shot up to lick against the barrels.
It took only a few moments for the entire small boat to catch fire. The flames engulfed it, then licked up the flagship’s hull, greedily crawling up the pitch-soaked side.
Robin and Chris now leaned on the oars, but they were barely two vessels away when the alarm sounded.
Chaos broke out across the docks. Bells clanged, and people began to race across the docks toward the blazing flagship.
As the Triarchs watched, the fire reached the St. Sidney’s rigging and chased itself upward until it caught the furled foresail. As the flames rose in the sky, they reflected in the glittering eyes of Flairalynne DeLynne, openly laughing.
Then a sudden jolt of recognition caused the Flame within her to flare into life, and she knew. The Aristok was on the pier. Snapping her head around, she squinted toward the docks just as Marsellus DeMarian, copper hair blazing, came into view.
His face was enraged as he ran down the pier toward his beloved flagship. His brother Drusus was a step behind him, and the younger DeMarian had to physically restrain his Regal brother from throwing himself up the St. Sidney’s gangplank. As the Aristok’s maddened gaze swept the harbor, he suddenly locked eyes with his own daughter.
The distance between them seemed to shrink. For a heartbeat they stared across the water at each other, and then Flairalynne was scrambling in the boat for a weapon.
“Geordan, it’s him!” she shouted.
“What?”
“The blisterin’ Aristok, it’s him!” With a curse, she snatched up her uncle’s bow. Fumbling for an arrow, she caught up a rag-wrapped one and without thinking, shoved it into the lantern. It caught fire immediately, and she fitted it, and with barely enough time to sight it, she fired it toward the pier.
The arrow rose like a comet in the night sky. Much later it seemed to her that the people on the dock paused to watch in awe as the fiery missile flew toward Marsellus DeMarian like a bolt of lightning from the Living Flame Itself.
It caught him full in the chest. He fell, and the contact between them flared up as the Living Flame shot toward the freedom of a willing Avatar.
Then Drusus DeMarian threw himself onto his brother, smothering the fire with his own body. The Flame was knocked back under control, and jerked forward by the sudden loss of contact, Flairalynne threw out one hand to keep herself from falling out of the boat. Crouched in the gunwale, she stared at the Shoreshill docks as Robin and Chris hauled them to the safety of the open water. Her last sight of land was of her birth-uncle staring, horror-struck, out to sea, his hands and face blackened by smoke, his brother cradled in his arms.
8. Murion and Caliston
Castell Berieth
Radnydd Buellth, Gwyneth
Caliston DeFrances had marched his army hard for eight days over the rolling Gwynethian downs. Now he called a halt behind a string of small hills that separated the Berieth Valley from the Bucklas Forest and went alone to scout out the enemy position. He needed to grasp the lay of the land immediately if he were to relieve his brother’s forces. Speed was of the essence. Ives-Luis DeCarla’s message had been chillingly blunt:
• • •
“Under Siege in Berieth Keep. Your brother mortally ill. Come at once.”
• • •
Taking his mount up the highest of the hills, Caliston mulled over what the message had not said. Ives-Luis was an experienced Marshal, in command of a force three times that of the Gwynethian army which faced him. If Owain ap Dafydd had them pinned inside Berieth, then something must have happened to render their great numbers irrelevant. He’d written that Murion was ill; unable to write, unable to command. If even half his nobles were the same, the command structure would be seriously compromised. And if any percentage of the troops were also incapacitated, it would explain their inability to deal with Owain ap Dafydd.
Caliston assumed the worst: that sickness had come upon both commanders and troops, sapping the army’s strength, and leaving it vulnerable to the enemy. He grimaced. It could not have come at a worse time.
Brought to mind, the second message he’d received, this one delivered only this morning, crinkled inauspiciously inside his left gauntlet. Carried by a single, exhausted rider in the service of Joanne DeCarla, High Bishop of Branbridge, its wording had been equally chilling.
• • •
“The Branbridge Triarchs have attacked the Palace and the Tower of Merrone. Request troops immediately.”
• • •
Another mystery; another subordinate calling for aid where aid should not have been necessary. Straightening his injured leg to work out the stiffness, he glared out at the world from between his horse’s ears. If Branbridge was in such desperate need, why hadn’t Ariana DeCarla written him herself? For that matter, why hadn’t the Aristok? How had the Branbridge Triarchs managed to assault two such well guarded establishments, why were the Hounds unable to bring it under control without aid from the army, and what was the Aristok going to say if they broke off his assault on Gwyneth to come to the aid of his capital?
Caliston shook his head impatiently. There were too many questions without enough answers and too many places demanding his presence.
With the heretical wish that he’d also received word from Barian Alder, the Sword-Arm continued his ascent. The priest had written to him off and on since his escape, and Caliston had to admit, he missed the Priest’s messages. Face it, he thought with a sour grimace, you miss the insight that came from his Sight, the Sight of a Triarchy Priest, an enemy, a man who’s been taunting you and lying to you all these years.
He shrugged. He knew Barian lied to him as often as not, but that hadn’t made his insight any less valuable.
He’s probably deep in the Branbridge conflict, Caliston thought, causing as much trouble as possible and enjoying every minute.
The Sword-Arm couldn’t be entirely unhappy at the prospect; he liked the man, and was glad he’d escaped while Caliston was on the Continent. He supposed Ariana would expect him to aid in his recapture, but he had other problems at the moment, most of them over this hill. He would worry about Barian and the capital later. First he had to worry about Murion.
