Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Luck had directed the path of the missile, hitting the monk in the shoulder. The wounded man’s screams and a second pistol blast confirmed the potential collapse of the plot. Welkin had made his last poor choice. In the growing racket he’d made a break for freedom. Ben Robinson casually shot him in the back. Though appropriate justice, it didn’t make life any easier for Ned. A talking prisoner may have been useful. With a curse, he kicked the wounded man out of the doorway and made for the stairs. At the clatter and groans from behind him Ned assumed the monk was playing improvised doormat. With luck it signalled two more of Gryne’s men were following.

Ned was concerned with reaching the top of the tower. In the initial surge he’d passed the first and second levels, and though now he’d slowed down, the shouts from the parapet told him that the element of surprise was gone, as did the distinct ring of weapons on stone above him in the stairway. It sound like a hundred armoured soldiers. A similar roar from below indicated that his men where surging up in his wake. Being in the middle of the clash suddenly struck him as a very poor choice, and not part of duties of a commander. Ned reckoned he’d a few seconds before becoming a smear on the wall, so leaping up the stairs two at a time, he made it to the third level, and ducked into an alcove, where he wedged his body into the shadows just as a dozen monks thudded down the stairs.

Where was Don Juan Sebastian getting all these warrior monks? Couldn’t he run out soon? Ned felt a trifle outnumbered. The crash of opposing armies roiled up the stairs. The splattering thuds made him very glad he wasn’t part of this battle. It sounded like morning at the Aldgate shambles.

Cautiously edging back into the stair he gave a quick glance below, before continuing his steady ascent, sword and dagger at the ready. It was the last flight. Ned was almost bent double when he passed through the open hatch onto the parapet space, the better to reduce his shadow from the dim radiance spilling up from the lantern below. That probably saved his life. A heavy axe bit into the oak door where his chest should have been. He dropped and lunged forward with his sword, as Master Sylver had drilled him, and felt the satisfying shudder of blade punching through flesh. His assailant gave a sigh and collapsed onto the stone floor. However the monk kept a firm grip upon the sword. Rather than contest it, Ned cleared the entrance in a diving roll. This was another wise choice. The whisper of a deft sword hissed past his ear.

A light flared. Someone had lit a torch and Ned’s skilful evasion abruptly terminated as he collided with a barrel.

“Master Bedwell! Good to zee you again. I missed you at the wharf.”

It was as hateful a voice as it was last year, heavy with that hawked Castilian lisp. Ned gave his head a shake to clear the stars that flashed before his eyes, and scrambled around until the barrel was between the Spaniard and him.

“Yeay surely, Don Juan Sebastian. And I’ve missed you as much as the Spanish pox!” Ned hauled out the unloaded pistol and pointed towards the advancing Spaniard. His opponent was giving his sword a few lazy swings and grinning with feral delight. This was weird. The Spaniard was ignoring the pistol pointing at his chest. At this range the foreigner must have known Ned couldn’t miss. Did he realize it wasn’t loaded? No, that wasn’t possible. Was it?

“Tch, tch, Master Bedwell. That would not be a wize act.”

“Another step, Don Juan Sebastian, and you can tell it to Satan’s devils.” Was the Spaniard insane? Why didn’t he take notice of the threat?

“If I do you’ll be by my side. Look at the barrel Master Bedwell.”

Ned spared a glance downwards, and his blood, heated by threat and violence, chilled to ice. It was one more of those damned, cursed barrels of the King’s powder and the bedlam fool had the top open. He slowly got up and backed away a pace still keeping the barrel between them.

“Don Juan Sebastian, your plot is over. I’ve got men going through all the powder stores. You’ll not blow them up now.”

“But Master Bedwell, I didn’t rely on them.” Don Juan Sebastian half turned and snarled a command. A small flash sparked up, illuminating the terrified profile of Welkin’s aged servant. The tardy retainer was trying to light up a powder train. Past that Ned could see three rows of fireworks pointing in the direction of the Tower

“It very simple. The roof of every tower is covered in loose power, a few sparks and well…”

Ned had the impression that Don Juan Sebastian was going to reveal a bit more of his extremely cunning plan. However that was cut short by the ‘sproing’ of a ball hitting the stone parapet to his right. The Spaniard dove for cover. If it wasn’t for problems of his own, Ned would have used the distraction to leap at his foe. Several shots now peppered the small space around him forcing him to seek the same shelter as the Spaniard, though at the distance of a few feet. They weren’t the only ones affected by the volley. Welkin’s old servant gave a loud squeal of fright, dropped his lantern, and scuttled towards the open stairway. The power trail remained unlit. Ned gave an amused chuckle as another volley slammed into the tower. Someone must have found a few harquebuses. From the angle of the shot, it was probably from the top of Byward Tower. You’d get a good sloping angle from there.

“Yield Don Juan Sebastian. Your plot is finished.” Ned tried to wave his hand above the wall. Surely at thirty yards, backlit by the lanterns, Skelton should be able to tell the difference. A ricocheting stone chip told him, probably not! Who the hell where they aiming at?

With no other option he once more levelled the pistol at the snarling Spaniard. “It’s either Skelton or me, Don Juan Sebastian.” Under the circumstances, Ned thought it a very reasonable offer.

“Not you, Bedwell.” The Spaniard shook his head in denial, then he threw his sword at Ned. The hilt knocked the pistol from his hand and the Spaniard dove across the tower, scooping up the spluttering lantern. Ned tried to get up, but as his cap cleared the parapet, a fusillade of shots reminded him of the unseen harquebusiers on Byward Tower. Damn, couldn’t they see the Spaniard?

“I leave you to hell, Bedwell!”

Several events now transpired together. The powder flashed into fitful life, and Don Juan Sebastian leapt onto the crenulated recess in the wall, lantern in hand. Ned dropped his dagger, and ignoring the splatter of balls, threw his body towards the flaming trail, arms outstretched. His hands frantically beat at the sparking powder, trying to scatter the small leaping flames as the grains of powder fizzled and burned like miniature demons. Then as he was consumed in his urgent task, Ned noticed another peril. Don Juan Sebastian, grinning like a fiend, had tossed the lantern before diving off the wall. It described a gentle arc, flying overhead in the direction of the open barrel. In that instant Ned had two choices-try and intercept the lantern or leap after his enemy. Instead fate intervened. He tripped on the body of the axe man and fell against the far rampart and the top of Lion’s Tower roared, flashing fiery orange and black.

Ned rolled back away from the wall, coughing fit to choke. His eyes watering, he tried to peer through the cloud of sulphurous smoke. If this was hell then he was going to have a big problem-breathing. His first daemon hove into view and a long lanky hand reached out grabbing his shoulder. Ned would have screamed but hawking up the muck in this throat had precedence.

“Why, the Lord has seen fit t’ bless me. Tis Red Ned!”

Great! An eternity of a Canting Michael shaped daemon. His sins truly must be weighty.