Brian Ruckley - Tyrant

Brennan doubted that. He suspected that at dawn he was going to die on this bare summit. They all were. So be it. A lot of slavers were going to die too, if it came to that.

‘Can you move?’ he asked Lorin later, kneeling beside his friend.

Lorin had been sleeping. That had worried Brennan, who thought he might never wake. But those old eyes had flickered open.

‘I can probably stand up when the time comes. Swing a sword if I have to, if that’s what you mean. Don’t think I’ll be leaving this hilltop though.’

Brennan made to protest. To deny that undeniable truth. But it would be pointless. Childish, even.

‘I’d rather have died in either of your places,’ he said instead. ‘You or Manadar.’

‘Well, it’s too late to die for me, son,’ Lorin rasped. ‘You could die for the name of the Free if you want, but you want my advice? Die for them.’

Lorin extended a trembling finger towards the men and women and children huddled together in the darkness.

‘Everyone else chose to be here. Not them. Die for them if you must.’ He coughed. Tiny bubbles of blood marked his lips. ‘If we three hadn’t come here, they’d be gone by now most likely. Carried off into the deep Empire. Slaves of the Orphans. They’d be wishing, begging, for the chance to die free on a barren hilltop in the middle of nowhere. We gave them that much. If you can give them any more, whether it’s by living or dying, you’ll have done well.’

‘Is it enough, you think?’ Brennan wondered.

‘Oh, never ask if it’s enough,’ Lorin grunted. ‘It is what it is. It’s what’s possible.’

They did come at dawn. As soon as the dome of the sky above began to lighten, Brennan could see figures moving about at the base of the hill. They were not spreading out this time. Their tyrant had a new plan, and it looked to mean that thirty or forty of his feral warriors were coming straight up one flank of the hill. The blunt force of that blow would sweep the summit clean, Brennan knew.

He knelt with his bow and laid arrows flat on the ground beside him. Neatly arrayed so that they would not foul or hamper one another as he picked them up, one after another.

Marweh and a handful of others were with him. They had a few rocks to throw. Not many. One or two had spears or knives. None of them looked happy about what was happening, but nor were any crippled by fear.

Brennan saw a new kind of bravery in these commonfolk who stood alongside him. He had thought that lone Orphanidon brave for riding into the camp of those who were not his friends. He had thought, of course, every man and woman of the Free brave just for leading the lives they led. But this was different. More. This was the bravery of those cruelly undone by circumstance and ill fortune; trapped and doomed.

That made him smile as he watched those ranks of men begin their careful ascent towards him. He had always thought he would die for those who fought alongside him. He had meant the Free but he was content enough for it to be these villagers. These people so like those who would have been his family and friends, had he never left them.

And perhaps he never should have left them. Perhaps he had only ever been fit for casting and raising nets, scaling and gutting fish. And now, today, perhaps he and everyone else atop this bleak mount was going to learn the truth of that.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Lorin was getting unsteadily to his feet, leaning heavily on a couple of the children, who were trying their best to help him.

‘They’re coming,’ Brennan called.

Lorin only nodded.

The slavers had learned from the day before. They were expecting arrows. It made them careful, made them work even harder to find approaches that offered some concealment or cover. Even in the grey light, though, the hill was not generous in that regard. Brennan found his targets, and took his shots.

One, two, three. The arrows whispered through the morning, thudded into their warm new homes. Marweh threw a couple of stones, her arm strengthened by sheer anger. As far as Brennan could tell, they hit no one. But they sowed a little more caution, a little more unease among the attackers.

The slavers spread out, stretching their lines further and further until they encompassed perhaps a third of the hill. And they kept climbing. Brennan could hear someone shouting-screaming almost-furious orders. Or it could have been simple abuse; he did not understand the words. The tyrant, he guessed, and he searched eagerly for what would have been a worthy target.

Once or twice, he thought he glimpsed that shining helm. The tyrant, if it was truly him, was keeping himself well to the rear. He clung to the shelter of boulders. Cowardice and cruelty often went hand in hand to Brennan’s way of thinking. He loosed a couple of arrows in the tyrant’s direction but they rattled harmlessly off stone.

‘Move round that way,’ he murmured to some of the villagers beside him. ‘Do what you can.’

They went without protest. A spear, a knife, a handful of rocks. Bare feet. Arms and legs enfeebled by thirst and hunger. What they could do would be little enough.

That was when Brennan set down his bow. This was going to be a slaughter. It was a tale with only one ending, unless he changed its course somehow. So he would try that. If he was going to surrender his life, he was going to do it trying to kill the tyrant. He could, if nothing else, draw as many of the slavers to him as possible. He could keep them from the summit for a little longer. Perhaps someone might escape.

‘Have you still got that knife Lorin gave you?’ he asked Marweh quietly.

She did. It was tucked into her belt. She gave it to him without protest, though she wore a slightly puzzled expression. He took it in his left hand, his sword in his right. He did not look at her. He was staring down, searching for the tyrant.

‘I know you don’t want to,’ he said, ‘and I know you have no food or water. I know it’s no kind of answer. But you should all perhaps make for the plains. Scatter. Me and Lorin, we’ll be staying here.’

‘They’d hunt us all down in an hour,’ Marweh said fiercely. ‘And any they missed, the sun’d kill in a day.’

‘I know,’ nodded Brennan. ‘I just thought you might want to consider it.’

And he lurched to his feet, more than a little stiff and unsteady because of his wounds, and ran.

He had last seen the tyrant perhaps two hundred paces down below. Near some stunted bushes. That was as good a place as any to head for, so he did. The rock was hard beneath his feet. He could feel the first real suggestion of the day’s heat on his face. For a moment or two, he felt good.

An arrow whispered past his ear. Another rang off stone. A third hit him, in his left shoulder. It twisted him about slightly and he almost fell. He was barely in control in any case. He was falling as much as running.

Slavers came to meet him, but they had not been ready for this. They had not foreseen this kind of madness. Brennan laughed. He battered one man aside with nothing more than weight and speed. Another barred his path with a crude wicker shield.

His body was making Brennan’s choices for him now. He simply watched. Let it carry him. His lead foot went up and he sprang into the air. Hit the top of that flimsy shield, smashing it back into the face of its wielder. He ran over the man, slashing down with his sword as he went. The blade hit something, but he did not see what.

His injured leg was far too weakened for such acrobatics, and he landed badly. He tumbled, scraping his forehead and hand on rough stone. The impact jarred the wound in his side. The arrow in his shoulder snapped. He gave a short, sharp cry of pain. Just one.