Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

Not at all, as it happens. Marcus glanced back at Ross, who was beckoning urgently.

“Ranker Hans is an excellent shot,” he said. “He’s certain he can pick off the leader at this range.”

“And how would that help?” Marcus said.

“It would throw them into confusion! Then a few volleys into the teams by the ladders-”

“Hold your fire until my command.”

“But-”

“Armsman!” said the man outside. “We would like an answer.”

Marcus glanced at Giforte, but the vice captain was looking away, down the line of Armsmen and Concordat soldiers. The men in green looked decidedly shaky, crouched against the parapet with muskets in hand. Most of them had probably never fired a shot in anger.

“I can’t let you in,” Marcus shouted. “If you would just agree to talk-”

“Forward!” the big man shouted.

The crowd answered with a roar. Marcus could make out cries of “Danton!” “One Eagle and the Deputies-General!” and “Death to the Last Duke!” amid the general tumult. The dockmen hoisted the ladders and hurried toward the wall, with the armed bands following close behind.

“Sir!” Ross said.

Militarily, Marcus knew, he had already played things poorly. The men at the parapets ought to have been firing this whole time, forcing the attackers to stay beyond musket range and giving them a broader strip of no-man’s land to cross when the assault finally came. As it was, it could go either way. The defenders were grievously outnumbered, but it took more nerve than most green troops possessed to climb a thirty-foot ladder while balls whizzed and men fell all around you. A few volleys might break them. Or just make them angry enough to get up here and crack all our heads open.

If he gave the order to fire. .

He would be remembered for it, he realized. No matter how things came out. Marcus the Butcher, who ordered his garrison to fire into the crowd.

The young woman with red hair had dashed forward to join one of the ladder teams. The other one was still staring up at him intently, as though she recognized him.

Balls of the Beast. I can’t do it, can I?

These were his own people, fishermen and porters and shopkeepers whose only grievance was with the men in black who had taken hundreds of their husbands, wives, and children in the middle of the night. Hell, if I didn’t have this uniform, I might be out there myself.

Once he’d come to that realization, he felt surprisingly calm. His objective, finally, was clear. Buy as much time as I can, without actually killing anybody. In which case, it was obvious what to do.

“Sir!” Ross said again, then turned away to address his own lieutenant. “Prepare to-”

“Back!” Marcus shouted. “Fall back from the wall. Back to the keep!” He turned full circle, making his voice loud enough to be sure the attackers below heard as well. “Everyone, fall back!”

“You can’t be serious!” said Ross.

“The keep is more defensible,” Marcus said blandly. “I don’t want to risk men in an engagement here.”

All around him, the Concordat men hesitated, but the Armsmen needed no urging. They headed for the stairs and the inner courtyard. The men in black, left with only half a garrison, were forced to follow.

Giforte, Ross, and Marcus were the last ones atop the wall.

Marcus held out a hand. “After you.”

“This is treason, sir ,” Ross said coldly. “You may be certain I will report this to His Grace.”

“Feel free.” Amid cheering from below, one of the ladders clacked against the parapet. “But perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere?”

Ross spit an oath and took the stairs two at a time. Marcus, still looking down at the crowd, said, “He didn’t fall and break his neck on the way down, did he?”

“No, sir,” said Giforte.

“Pity.” Marcus took a deep breath. His headache was clearing at last. “Come on.”

WINTER

The man Jane summoned to deal with the door was called Grayface. This was not, as Winter originally guessed, because he was of Khandarai descent, but rather because he was a blacksmith with a habit of leaning too close to his fires and coating his face with ash and smoke. He was a stout man, not as big as Walnut but broader about the belly, and while his face was not gray at the moment it was nonetheless a bit terrifying. His eyebrows had gone long ago, and his cheeks and forehead were cratered with burns where stray sparks had landed.

“S’not too hard to make a ram,” he said, hands resting on his belly, in the confident tones of someone offering a professional opinion. “What you do, see, is get yourself a big iron pot. Or half a big kettle will do in a pinch. Then you find a nice big log, slip your pot over the end, and get it nice and hot while you hammer it into place. When it cools off it’ll shrink and grip the wood tight.”

“It’ll have to be a damned big log,” Walnut said, “if you want us to put a dent in that .”

That was the door to the keep, a solid-looking portal of oak banded with iron for strength and set deep in the stone with no visible hinges. It certainly looked formidable enough, to the untrained eye, but Winter had never considered it a serious obstacle, as the design of the fortress meant it couldn’t be properly defended.

If the Island as a whole was shaped like a squeezed lemon, the Vendre occupied one pointed end, covering a roughly triangular patch of land with its tip aimed downstream. The keep had the same triangular design. The two outer walls, facing the river, were three stories high and studded with gun slits and now-empty embrasures, and from their rear an awkwardly shaped slate roof sloped down to meet the single story on the landward side. There were no gun slits in those two rectangular towers facing the wall below.

In short, there was no way for the defenders of the fortress to harass an enemy once they were in the courtyard. And, as Janus had proven at the fortress in the Great Desol, there was no door strong enough to hold off an opponent with time, manpower, and tools. Jane’s forces were short on cannon and powder but long on willing hands and strong backs, so a ram seemed like the best bet.

What bothered Winter was what would happen after they broke the door down. Walnut and the others didn’t seem to have thought that far ahead, and Winter didn’t want to undermine Jane’s authority, so she quietly caught her friend’s eye.

“. . probably need at least twenty men on it,” Grayface said. “Call it thirty, to be safe. Figure two feet per man, we need a beam maybe thirty feet long.”

“Right,” Jane said. “Do it. You’re in charge. Walnut, make sure everyone gives him everything he needs.”

Grayface blinked. “Where am I supposed to get a beam that long?”

“Plenty of houses out there,” Jane said. “Find one with a nice long roof beam and take it.”

“That’ll take forever ,” Grayface said, squirming under unaccustomed responsibility. “We’d have to pull the tiles off and brace-”

“Only if you care whether the roof falls in,” Walnut said.

“You want me to tear down someone’s house?” the blacksmith said.

“I want you to do whatever you need to do to get it done quickly.” Jane glanced at Walnut, who nodded and took Grayface by one arm.

“Come on,” he said. “I saw a Sworn Church up the street that looks like it has just what we need.”

“Try to make sure nobody’s hiding inside,” Winter called after them. She couldn’t tell if they heard.

Then she and Jane were alone, or as alone as they were likely to get. The inner court of the Vendre was full of laughing, shouting people. It had been home to a few small wooden stables and other structures, but the rioters had vented their anger on these and the remains had been appropriated for the giant bonfires that were starting to take shape in the street outside. Food was on its way, and drink had already arrived or been liberated from closed shops nearby. A carnival atmosphere was taking hold, and there was a general feeling that with the retreat of the Armsmen from the walls, it was all over but the shouting. The great mob was drunk on a sense of its own power, as though the easy victory had made it immune to potential consequences.