Paul Finch - Dark North

He hurled the grapple across the chasm. An iron grille rose alongside the drawbridge, to allow archers to shoot at attackers opposite. The grapple caught on this the first time. Alaric watched in disbelief as Lucan, pausing only to pull on his helmet and wrap the rope around himself, jumped from the edge and swung down and across.

He struck the stonework some fifteen feet below the raised drawbridge, with enough force to expel the breath from him. At first, he dangled, looking as if he was ready to fall, but then he recovered, and, planting both feet on the flat surface, walked slowly up the cliff, pulling himself hand-over-hand.

Alaric was stunned — despite all they’d seen on this terrible journey, only now did he have his first inkling of what was actually required of a man to become a Knight of the Round Table. Then he was distracted by movement on the battlements overhead — a figure had appeared there. There was a wild shout, and the next thing a boulder had been dropped down at Lucan. A second figure appeared, and a spear followed. Neither aim was accurate, and now Lucan had reached the gateway itself, which was set into a recess. He was able to clamber onto a shelf alongside the timber drawbridge, and to use the iron grille as a ladder. Sheltered from the defenders, he made it swiftly to the top, where he flattened his body along the drawbridge’s upper rim, slid through the narrow gap and dropped down into the entryway on the other side.

Alaric felt worse than helpless. The rope dangled down the far side of the crevasse — there was no possible way that he could reach it. Another shout called his attention back to the parapet, and to a black object flashing towards him. He just had time to hop aside as a javelin bounced past. Now there were cries from inside the gatehouse. The defenders on the battlements withdrew from sight.

The first person Lucan met in the entry tunnel was armed with an impressive crossbow. It had two stocks, one fastened atop the other, and two bow-staves primed and drawn.

The bowman wore a studded leather hauberk and carried a flail in his belt, but he still looked astonished to see Lucan. Doubtless, he’d never imagined that anyone would come in through the front door. Before he could raise his crossbow, Lucan had swung the pole-axe, cloven his sallet and split his cranium. The fellow dropped lifeless beneath a shower of his own blood. Lucan snatched up the crossbow, dived and rolled out of the way as two more bravos emerged from the door to the upper gatehouse. The first missed him entirely, running along the passage towards his fallen compatriot — only to be shot in the middle of the back. The second died in the doorway as Lucan spun to face him and shot again, punching the missile deep into his belly.

Lucan threw the bow down, grabbed his pole-axe and hurried along the arched passage. Before he entered the courtyard, three more bravos appeared in front of him. One carried a javelin, the second a pick, the third a war-hammer and a gladius .

The first threw his javelin. Lucan danced aside, pelted forward and leapt into their midst, bowling all three men over. He rolled past them and jumped back to his feet. The pick-man scrambled to face him, but the steel spike on the pole-axe plunged through his left eye, ripping into his brain. The bravo who’d thrown the javelin grabbed a dagger and slashed at Lucan’s stomach, but the knight jumped backward and smashed the pole-axe down, clouting the back of the guard’s skull with the hammerhead.

The remaining bravo was a rugged-looking customer. His sallet had fallen off to reveal a shaven head and scarred face, but he backed into the courtyard as Lucan stalked him. “Lay your weapons down,” Lucan said. “You can ride from here unharmed.”

“We don’t get paid as much for running,” the bravo replied, though the sweat gleaming on his bare pate belied his brave words.

“You won’t get paid at all when those who employ you are dead.”

The bravo spotted the remaining four members of his squad emerging from the gatehouse behind Lucan, and he smiled, showing rotted teeth, before lunging forward, his arms windmilling. Lucan retreated a couple of steps, parrying every blow, and then retorted, ramming the pole-axe haft into the bravo’s ribs and driving the steel spike down through his foot. The bravo gave a croaking gasp and turned ash-grey. In the same fluid movement, Lucan released the pole-axe, drew Heaven’s Messenger and swept it round in a glinting arc, which finished with the shaven head rolling across the blood-spattered flagstones.

Trelawna staggered into her bedroom, only to find Gerta still in bed. She tried to rouse her, but the maid was pale of complexion and could only mumble. When her eyes cracked open, they were rheumy and unfocused. Her brow burned to the touch.

She brought the old woman some water, but Gerta only managed a few choking sips. The countess wept as she stepped back, even as she realised this had perhaps been inevitable, with their recent horrors and hardships. She felt as if all companionship had finally abandoned her. She couldn’t even pray. What was it Zalmyra had called her — a common adulteress? And it was true. She had sinned so much that God must have turned His back on her by now, and for what? For the vanity of believing that she deserved better than her severe but comfortable life in Albion’s dark North. She surveyed the small room in which she’d been ensconced. It was the only place in this awful fortress where she felt even close to being safe, and yet it was little more than a prison cell.

A familiar sound distracted her — breathless cries and the ringing of steel on steel.

Trelawna hurried down stairs and along passages until she entered the gallery where last she had spoken to Rufio. He was present again, leaning by an arrow-loop, chewing his bottom lip as he watched the events outside. Trelawna moved to the next loop; down in the courtyard, a mailed, helmeted figure with black wolf-fur swirling around him did battle with four men-at-arms.

Even as she watched, another figure joined the fray. It was Cohortis Bartolo, attacking with gladius in hand. Lucan dispatched his opponent just in time to meet the fresh assault. Like Rufio, Bartolo was from the officer caste. He’d trained in the gymnasium and on the parade square, and was very experienced when it came to issuing commands, but in hand-to-hand combat he was closer to a novice than an expert.

With two strokes, Lucan sent him stumbling backward. Bartolo fended desperately, but only the intervention of another of Bishop Malconi’s bravos saved him. This one, a thickset sergeant called Brutus, ran at Lucan with a morningstar. By fluke, its chain wrapped around the blade of Heaven’s Messenger , and the sword was half-torn from Lucan’s grasp. He released it, but grabbed Brutus by his mail buckler. Falling backward, Lucan stuck a foot into his opponent’s belly and tossed him head over heels. Winded by his fall, Brutus scrabbled for the dagger at his belt, but Lucan was already up and facing him, falchion in hand. A single thrust split Brutus’s nose to the cartilage and shattered the teeth underneath.

The remaining bravos , three including Bartolo, circled Lucan warily.

Bartolo hove in for the next strike, and Lucan deflected the gladius with the falchion, and punched the Roman on the point of his chin, which again sent him staggering. Another bravo lunged, only for Lucan to catch him in the midriff with the point of his blade, ripping through leather and muscle. The bravo sank to his knees, gargling blood.

From the high gallery, Rufio watched with a blanched face, focusing intently on Lucan — his nemesis. Never had he seen such speed, such precision and strength in blows. He felt at his hip, where his own gladius was buckled, and gripped its pommel so tightly that tendons gleamed in his knuckles.