Miles Cameron - The Fell Sword

The bridegroom threw his spear. He did so with an odd, hopping cast, not at all the way men learned to throw spears in the City Watch or the military. His spear was a short, broad-headed weapon almost like a boar-spear, and it went through the mailed man’s armour like a hot knife through warm butter, dropping him. There was a flare of hermetical energy from the lead assassin and he got to one knee as the spear suddenly fell away from his body.

Derkensun killed another man and half-turned, having reached the monk. His axe turned a complicated pair of butterflies between his hands as he wove it in the complex pattern that the Guard learned to keep their wrists strong.

The assassins paused and the Bridegroom bellowed, ‘On me, Scholae!’

Every man in the room could hear the pounding feet of the oncoming Guard.

The assassins broke and ran. Derkensun got one as he turned, and a crossbow bolt took off the lower half of his right ear as he made his cut. The monk parried two sword thrusts and made a mighty swing, but his assailant turned his staff on his side sword, pinked the monk’s hand with a dagger in his off hand, and jumped back. He was as thin as a wraith and wore black, and Derkensun never saw his face – the man got through the gateway to the main audience chamber and ran in among the columns.

Bridegroom tackled another one, took a dagger in the side for it, and broke the man’s arm in a wrestling lock. The desperate attacker stabbed him three more times.

The Scholae trooper fell atop his captive, and slammed the man’s head into the tiles, knocking him unconscious.

The older woman – the one with blood on her shears – motioned the younger woman to stand behind her.

Derkensun met her eyes. ‘The princess?’ he asked.

The younger seamstress with the shears peeked out. Her face was a perfect oval, her lips full and red, her eyes an almost impossible blue.

The woman in the princess’s garments kicked and gave a stifled scream on the floor.

‘See to her,’ snapped the younger seamstress. She nodded to her rescuers and the monk. ‘Gentlemen, my thanks.’ She backed away a step. ‘Can anyone tell me what is happening?’

Derkensun recognised the older woman – one of the many minor members of the Imperial family who decorated the palace. The Lady Maria. Her son was one of Derkensun’s favourite drinking companions – and wrestling opponents.

He bowed. ‘Honoured Lady, the Duke of Thrake has captured or killed your father on the Field of Ares. The Logothete and the Spatharioi too.’

The young seamstress put her hand to her breast. ‘Killed?’ she said. Then she seemed to collect herself. ‘Very well,’ she said with determined calm. ‘Do we hold the palace?’ she asked.

Derkensun looked at the bridegroom, who was dusting himself off. He shrugged. ‘Lady Irene, when I went on duty an hour ago the Scholae held all the portals.’

Derkensun turned to the princess. ‘Who ordered the Scholae out, Honoured Lady?’

She pointed to the scarlet-clad corpse. ‘The Mayor. Something the Logothete said.’

‘Christ on the cross,’ Derkensun said. ‘We should ride clear, Honoured Lady.’

‘Do not blaspheme in my presence,’ Irene snapped. ‘If we leave the palace, we will never get it back.’ She glanced at Lady Maria, who nodded.

‘Throne room,’ she said. ‘At the very least the Imperial purple will make a superior burial shroud.’

Derkensun took a moment to look at the bridegroom. He was unwounded; under his wedding clothes, he was wearing scale as fine as the scales on a big fish.

Derkensun made a face.

‘I live in a tough neighbourhood,’ the young man said, kneeling by the bishop, who had stopped screaming. The man was dead.

Together they dragged the bridegroom’s unconscious prisoner with them as they made their way along the main audience hall and into the central throne room. There should have been six Nordik Guards on duty. Instead, there were the corpses of two Scholae.

The princess went straight to the throne. She paused, gathered her skirts, and sat.

Lady Maria gave her a slight nod.

Derkensun walked to the right-hand guard platform and stood at attention. It felt quite natural. The bridegroom went to the left platform.

The monk bowed and when Irene didn’t offer him a stool, he stood.

She looked around at them. ‘Thoughts?’ she asked.

Derkensun thought that she sounded composed, and a good deal sharper than the Emperor. In fact she sounded Imperial.

Maria looked at the two soldiers. ‘We have the city?’ asked the older lady.

Derkensun bowed his head. ‘Madame, I sounded the gate alarm myself. But any gate may have been betrayed.’

‘The army?’ asked the princess. Or was she now the Empress? Her hesitation showed, despite her deicisive air.

‘The Vardariotes are in their barracks. Many of the Nordika . . .’ Derkensun paused. ‘Are dead.’

The bridegroom bowed in turn. ‘I’ve seen the corpses of twenty Scholae,’ he admitted.

‘The Duke of Thrake has three thousand men, at least, outside the walls. Perhaps twice that.’ Derkensun spoke carefully. He had only addressed the Emperor two or three times. This was the longest conversation he had ever had with royalty.

‘And we have a few hundred,’ said the princess. ‘When it seems I need an army.’

The Lady Maria gave a curtsey. ‘My lady, I happen to know where one can be found.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘Indeed, my lady, your father had already hired one. He sent my son to fetch them, if you recall.’

The Porphyrogenetrix Irene leaned back and sighed. ‘More mercenaries? They’ve been the bane of our people for five hundred years,’ she said. ‘With what did my esteemed father intend to pay these sellswords?’ she asked Maria.

‘You,’ Lady Maria said, offering another curtsey. ‘Majesty,’ she added.

‘Ah,’ said the princess. ‘Yes, I remember.’

The Green Hills near Morea – The Red Knight

The Captain of the company stood almost alone in the dawn, watching the sun rise. He had one foot up on a solid stool, and his squire was buckling his leg armour on.

Toby was wise enough not to speak. So he simply went about his work; keyed the greave into the knee-cop’s demi-greave, and then held the whole leg harness open to slide it on the knight’s right leg.

The Captain was eating a sausage.

Toby fought the greave – it liked to close on the cloth of the Captain’s padded chausse, and because they were newly laundered, they were stiff. The air was cool, almost cold – the leather was stiff, too.

Toby was above such concerns. He got the greave closed, got the lower buckle done, got the upper buckle cinched, and started on the various straps that would keep it on his master’s leg all day.

The Captain finished his sausage, spat out a bit of skin, and laced the top of the harness to his arming doublet himself.

The sun appeared above the horizon – it seemed to leap up out of the east between two mountains, and the full light of the sun fell on him. Dark-haired, with a pointed beard and grey-green eyes, the morning sun made his hair almost blue and made his mail haubergeon shine and his red arming jacket scarlet.

Toby slapped the Captain’s armoured thigh.

‘Good,’ said the Red Knight.

Toby went and got the breast and back – dented in a dozen places – from the rack and held it open while the Captain slipped into it. Even as he began to do the shoulder buckles, a dozen archers and camp servants took the twenty-four ropes of the Red Knight’s pavilion in hand, loosened them, and had the whole thing down on the ground as fast as Toby could do the buckles. By the time the Captain flexed his arms, his tent was gone.