A. Hartley - Will Power

She stood up abruptly. I smiled in quiet triumph as she took a step toward me, but her face was set, unamused.

“Would you really, Will?” she said. “Would you?” Her voice was soft, pensive. Even sad.

I stood where I was, my mouth open, dumb with surprise.

What the hell?

Her eyes searched my face and then fell slowly, sorrowfully. My mouth moved, but initially, nothing came out. Then I whispered, “I didn’t think. .”

“Don’t you think. .” She paused, catching her hand up to her mouth as her hair hung across her face, a picture of desolation. “Don’t you think it could work? Us , I mean?” she whispered.

I hesitated, trying to catch up. “I think it could,” I said, trying to restrain my enthusiasm. “Sure. Why not? I just didn’t know that you were, you know, so. . keen .”

“Oh, I’m keen,” she said, looking up with a little smile that could have been suggestive. “Keen as your wit. Maybe keener.”

Then she laughed like I had never seen her laugh before. What had been a smile snapped wide and opened up. She threw her head back and roared hysterically. “You. .” she screamed. “You believed me!”

I faltered and said nothing while she went on, laughing harder than a tree full of monkeys, tears streaming down her cheeks. Doubling up and holding her stomach, she sobbed, “Oh, Will. Admit it. I got you.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Very clever.”

Then she was back to cackling and complaining about how her sides and belly ached.

I stood there and watched.

“And I thought you were the actor!” she said, curtseying to an imaginary crowd. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!”

“You malicious bitch,” I managed. This was answered with another shriek of mirth.

“Oh, darling,” she blurted out, “how could you say such a thing about us? ”

This new gem of wit brought her to her knees with delight. She remained for some time, laughing uncontrollably. When Garnet came crashing through the door five minutes later, she was still giggling to herself.

“What is going on?” he demanded.

“Renthrette’s just being oh-so-amusing this evening,” I remarked.

“Oh Garnet,” she said, “you have to hear this. Will came in and said-”

“Not now,” snapped Garnet. “The city is under attack. A huge goblin army has come out of the woods and is assaulting the main gate. Everyone is needed on the walls! Everyone.”

With that last word aimed pointedly at me, he grabbed his helm and armor and was out the door. Renthrette, former chief hyena and one-woman show, was now Renthrette the brave, a warrior stalwart, and grave. Garnet was barely out of the room and she was already half-buckled into her ring mail.

“Come on, Will,” she said, throwing a quiver of arrows over her shoulder and grabbing her longbow from the corner of the room. “Come and kill something. You’ll feel better.”

She paused and gave me a grim smile, then thrust my scale corselet into my arms so forcefully that I nearly fell backward.

“Touché,” I said, but she was already hurrying out the door. I stood there for a moment as if hoping to wake up, and then, with an uneasy apprehension tinged with nausea, I began to put on my armor. It took me longer than usual because my fingers fumbled with the buckles and straps as if I’d never seen them before. Pausing and raising my hands in front of my face, I could see that I was trembling palpably.

“Smug cow,” I said aloud. This confession of anger at Renthrette seemed to help, and the straps slid into place as they should.

I grabbed my spear and crossbow and strode out into the palace corridor where guards were running with the quiet intensity of the genuinely alarmed, relying on trained discipline rather than thought. I pushed Renthrette’s joke from my mind and decided to focus on the hordes of mythical beasts that had come to kill me.

Renthrette was out of sight by the time I was ready, but it wasn’t too difficult to guess which way she had gone. I followed the running troops down the corridors and through a series of doors and courtyards that brought me out into the evening air, across a broad and chaotic street, and up a flight of fifty or sixty steps to the walls of the White City. The ramparts were wide enough for the town’s defenders to stand three or four deep, and they were protected by huge crenelations with sloping tops. In fact, these walkways where we now stood were not the tops of the walls at all, but a series of galleries like theater balconies, a row of long boxes cut two-thirds of the way up the fortified city perimeter. They ran about a hundred yards from tower to tower and above them were other walls, cut with arrow slits, and other galleries.

A hundred men stood against the back wall of the gallery. They were clad in knee-length mail corselets, leather trews, and slightly conical plated helmets with nose guards and mantles of metal scale which hung to their shoulders at the sides and nape of their necks. I grasped the stone of the battlements and peered out over the walls.

My heart quickened.

Below and to my left, the bridge over which we had first entered the city arched its way across the river and ended in a turreted barbican. On the tops of the white towers and leaning over the bridge’s stone balustrade were the shining helms and mail coats of the Phasdreille sentries. But all around them and across the entire far bank of the river was a dark, boiling mass bristling with spears and pikes and shrieking in wild and murderous joy: goblins. There were hundreds of them, seething like some foul volcanic geyser, spitting filth and heat at the walls which glowed with eerie beauty in the fading light.

The order was given, and the archers around me stepped up to the parapets in unison and released a long volley of arrows from their huge, tightly curved bows. For a split second, the sky darkened as their feathered shafts took flight in a long gasp, then the arrows flashed and burst into unnatural flame, greenish but so bright that I shaded my eyes.

I turned hurriedly back to the archers. On each end of their ranks were men clad in long white robes belted with silver rope. Their eyes were closed and their fingers moved rapidly in front of them, as if weaving invisible silk.

Magic.

The word jolted into my head like a kicking horse, but I brushed it aside and followed the arrows’ trajectory. The river was a good fifty yards across and the bows fired from the walls barely cleared it before falling like strange, burning hail. The goblins, apparently unmoved by this unearthly fire, backed off slightly, jeering, as if they had been poked with a stick.

“They’re a disorderly rabble,” said Garnet, appearing at my shoulder and speaking with distaste, “aren’t they? No tactics, just blood lust. No intelligence to speak of, just the desire to ravage and mutilate. But you should hear them scream when our blades find their loathsome flesh.”

“And that fire,” I began, “is it, you know, magic? ” I said the word, but I could not keep the embarrassed snicker out of my voice.

“Magic,” he answered, without looking at me, “holy. Call it what you will.”

A cry of warning went up from the walls and I looked to see that several goblins had somehow bypassed the gatehouse and were now clawing their way up the bridge’s elegant stone. One of them swung itself over the stone rail and stood dripping on the bridge, its head lowered furtively. Then it unstrapped a broad axe from its thigh and ran at one of the unsuspecting guards who was leaning out over the river with his bow drawn. The goblin felled him with a brutal shout of cruel delight, but one of the other guards, wheeling promptly, leveled and fired his bow hard into the creature’s midsection before it could butcher anyone else. With the alarm raised, the couple dozen guards remaining returned to the barbican, bows trained on the bridge sides where the goblins were scrambling up and hanging back, like hyenas looking for the youngest or weakest buffalo in the herd. The sentries couldn’t see from down there, but there must have been close to a hundred goblins poised to clamber up and join the fray.