Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

No .

Then they came at him. We loosed an arrow or two from the walls, but the horsemen were moving too quickly, surging forward, wavelike as ever. He parried one lance head and dodged the second, but the third was too much for him. It struck him hard in the waist, above his belt buckle, and the force of the charge carried him backwards towards the gatehouse. With an audible gasp he slumped to the ground, and a great quiet descended on the spectators.

“Advance on foot,” called Arlest. “The gate is open.”

There was a hard, almost metallic quality to his voice that I had never heard before, strident and determined. The riders returned to their ranks, leaving Orgos’s body crumpled and motionless by the wagon.

And then, when things seemed as bad as they could get, the silence was broken by the distinct clanking of the gatehouse machinery in a different key.

“Someone is raising the portcullis!” said Garnet.

It was the duke, or, rather, a few desperate citizens acting on his orders.

“For certain considerations,” the duke boomed from the tower, “we, the people of Ironwall, will bequeath our city to you in return for mercy. ”

In other words, he was going to use this pointless capitulation to barter for his own survival. The countess glanced at her husband and I thought I saw her smile, a short, brittle smile of amused contempt. I stared at her, at her husband, and at Raymon, who was speechifying from the tower. The sound of the gate ascending registered as one last insult to Orgos, who had died to keep it down.

It wasn’t courage or principle, just a blinding anger that made me grasp the great rope that descended through the tower. I had no thoughts of dignity or honor as I slid down, only an irrational fury. We were dead anyway, and I didn’t care anymore. After a lifetime doing all I could to stay alive and safe in the world, I was struck by the obvious: In a world like Arlest’s, staying alive wasn’t worth the effort.

Better to die telling him what I thought.

The vast iron grate, which had started its slow ascent, was high enough for me to pass through. I stooped towards Orgos, who lay still and bleeding, but only long enough to wrench his heavy sword from his fist. I would take it with me in tribute, I thought. As soon as I stepped through the gate and straightened up, I shot my tiny crossbow-the one Orgos had given me-at the closest raider and brandished his long sword with the yellow stone in its hilt at the man as he backed away uncertainly. The duke of Greycoast’s pontificating surrender stuttered to a halt.

Moving purposefully between the corpses on the bridge, I advanced to where the wagon teetered on the edge, its front wheels already half submerged in the moat, hacking wildly at whomever I ran into. Despite the surprise attack, I barely managed to scratch them. One of them snorted softly as he stepped back off the bridge. It was an odd sound, and for a second I didn’t realize what it was, but then it came again and spread amongst them: They were laughing at me.

That somehow brought me to my senses. I glanced at the sword in my hand, a sword that had always felt uncomfortable however much I’d practiced with it, and I slid it into my belt. I would keep it for my friend till they took it from me, but I couldn’t wield it. Then I climbed into the tailgate of the wagon and, as the boards under my feet seesawed back to something like a horizontal plane, got behind the nearest scorpion crossbow and swung it round. Arlest was impatiently ordering more soldiers to clear the way. I felt for the trigger as he turned to look at me, sweat breaking out all over my body. Arlest’s eyes met mine down the grooves of the huge crossbow, and for a second he seemed unnerved. But only for a second. Then there was nothing but scorn in his face.

“You’re a murderer, Arlest,” I said to him, my voice surprisingly calm. “A butcher.”

“No, William,” he said, almost calmly, “I am a soldier. A professional man of the world, while you are an emotional amateur. Not even that. You weren’t even a fighter before you came here, were you?”

I said nothing, but stared at him, wondering what I was going to do. I had a crossbow trained on his heart. The portcullis still ground its way up. Time wasn’t a factor to either side anymore. But it somehow seemed imperative to continue the conversation. He wouldn’t listen, but there were things I needed to say anyway.

Arlest didn’t seem to care what I did. He merely called insults at me across his troops. “Let’s not play games, now. You are a coward, Will Hawthorne. My men told me how you hid behind a wagon when they attacked you on the road from Seaholme. We laughed about it. You are hiding again, even in this, your moment of glory. You’re hiding behind those crossbows and your sense of righteous anger and bravery.”

“Not bravery,” I corrected him. “I am not a brave man. I am a realist, too. After all, look what happens to bravery,” I said, gesturing to where Orgos lay. “He was the bravest, most valiant man I ever knew-”

“Don’t sentimentalize the moment, Mr. Hawthorne,” Arlest shouted back, his eyes fixed on mine, no trace of nervousness in them despite the scorpions aimed at him. “He was a mercenary. A hired killer.”

“No, Arlest,” I said, stifling any hint of emotion. “He was a great man, in his way. He was a man of principle. A man of honor. A friend. But that is, as you say, sentimental. There is no room in the world for friendship or principle or honor. That is why he’s dead. I understand that now. Such things have no place in our world.”

There was a glimmer of surprise in Arlest’s eyes and I shrugged slightly, as if making a confession. I heard footsteps behind me and risked a glance.

Garnet was ducking under the portcullis. In front of him Renthrette was getting to her feet, an arrow in her bow and her helm tipped back so her face showed, pale and intense in its grief. Mithos and Lisha followed, tired and numb with sorrow, and crouched by Orgos’s body. Behind them a crowd of ragged soldiers, citizens, and the remnants of the villagers stood watching through the gateway like prisoners in a dungeon, or the audience at some bizarre theatre. Their need to see what was happening out here had almost stifled their fear.

I turned back to Arlest and said, with his own condescension, “Fools like Orgos always fight back. They think it’s noble.”

There was a whisper of confusion behind me. Garnet, I think.

“This is fighting back?” Arlest laughed caustically, but he was laughing as much with me as at me. “Five of you and a corpse against a thousand? He won’t be fighting back anymore, and neither will you. Any of you. The Orgoses of this world will always finish up dead on the bridge, while people like me, perhaps even Duke Raymon, will thrive.”

“He’s not dead,” said Mithos quietly from the gate. “Almost, but not quite.”

I did not dare turn to look, but I heard them move him. They rolled him under the portcullis and Mithos said to those on the other side, “Make him comfortable before he dies.”

I looked at Arlest and he was utterly impassive, appraising me like one who has bought the best seats in the house and feels he has the right to criticize your performance.

“Perhaps I could join you,” I began. “In return for sparing your life. One of the realist survivors.”

“You?” he laughed, though there was definitely a note of curiosity in his disdain. “What about friendship and honor?”

“What about them?” I replied. “If those things really meant anything to me, I’d be charging you on a white stallion.”

“Hawthorne!” called a voice from behind me, a voice charged with desperate anger. “You lying, cowardly snake.” It was Garnet. I didn’t turn.