David Wragg - The Black Hawks

‘He was there when I saw him, moon-side. Come on, he can’t have—’

Two riders galloped through the courtyard, fast enough to throw sparks from their horses’ shoes on the stones, then through the gate and onto the hillside. Chel stared after them. He watched them thunder down the winding trail toward the port below, heading for the city’s south gate. Beyond them, he saw a line of torches, bobbing in formation, making slow progress up the hill from the direction of the fires. The riders slowed as they approached the torches, came to a momentary stop, then accelerated again, disappearing into the darkness that pooled at the valley bottom. The torches bobbed on, continuing their climb.

‘What in hells was th—’ He turned to find Heali standing right behind him. The guardsman’s avuncular face had lost its habitual joviality.

‘Heali? You all right?’

He shook his head, features dark. ‘I’m sorry, my boy,’ he said, and Chel felt the chill of sweat on his back return. ‘I misjudged you.’

Chel took a step backward, part of his exhausted brain trying to recall how many paces from the edge of the rampart he’d stood. ‘Misjudged me how? What’s going on?’

‘I thought we’d be able to come to terms, Master Chel. I thought I’d be able to keep you clear. I was wrong. It’s a shame, truly.’

Chel took another backward step. His fingers were trembling, his voice hoarse. ‘What do you mean, Heali? The fuck are you talking about?’

‘You were supposed to be lucky.’

He saw the dull moonlight glint from the knife in the guardsman’s hand. Heali advanced, fleshy mouth a grim line. Chel’s back foot scraped over the rampart’s edge, emptiness beneath his heel. He met Heali’s dispassionate gaze.

‘Why?’ he whispered.

Heali offered a remorseful sigh.

‘You’re the goat.’

He jabbed forward. The knife caught Chel in the ribs, scraping along one of the ornate buckles and scoring a gash along his flank. He felt only the bump of impact, no pain, then the hot rush at his side. Heali tried to pull back the knife for another stab, but it had snagged in the excessive folds of Chel’s fancy dress.

Chel unfroze. He grabbed Heali’s knife-hand with his own, forcing the blade away from his body before it could carve him again. With his other hand he swung a wild punch at the guardsman’s head, glancing the meat of his cheek and making him curse. Heali warded a second flailing blow, then with both hands tore the knife clear of Chel’s uniform. Chel scrabbled backward, away from the drop, until his shoulders met the hard stone of the wall.

Heali put a finger to his cheek, probing for damage, then shook his head again. ‘Enough, boy.’

Heali took half a step when something dark smashed over his head, staggering him forward, shards of the object showering the ramparts. He turned in surprise as a figure at the top of the stairway lobbed another dark shape. It thumped into Heali’s face and bounced off, shattering on the stones at his feet in a dark splatter-mark. Chel squinted in the half-light. It looked like the remains of a lamp-oil jug from the kitchens.

Heali had recovered enough to take a step toward the figure, which stood with a crate at its feet and a grease-light in its hand. Too late, Heali realized what had doused him. He turned back toward Chel as the grease-light arced through the air, trying to outrun the flame that flared at his feet and leapt for his legs. Screaming, the big guardsman stumbled and flailed, flames surging up his body, then one foot missed the rampart and he was gone, a puddle of amber flame left fluttering on the stones.

Chel heard the impact on the courtyard below, then nothing more. One hand clutched to his injured side, he made wobbly progress to the rampart’s edge and peered down. A dark shape lay sprawled below, unmoving, small yellow flames flickering at its edges. He shivered, and felt the pain, hot and fresh, as well as a sudden urge to both vomit and piss himself.

Three guardsmen ran into the courtyard, gave the sprawled and burning shape a cursory glance, then ran straight through the gate and out into the night.

He turned to find Mercunin, the cadaverous porter, looming over him, his grease-light back in his hand. The man’s hollow eyes were pools of shadow, even with the light so close.

‘Thank you,’ Chel said, trying to stop his teeth chattering. ‘I … You … Thank you.’

The twin voids gave nothing away. ‘We shall all of us burn,’ the man intoned in his earthen rumble, and Chel thought his rictus mouth twitched upward at the words. Then Mercunin was stalking over the deserted ramparts as the fire-pool guttered and died. He collected his crate and vanished down the steps, clinking. Plenty of oil jugs remained.

Chel risked another look at Heali’s broken form, shivered and winced, then stumbled to the wall. The line of torches was almost at the gate. He could see the glimmer of steel in their dancing light.

Armed men were about to storm the palace, the guards had fled, and still the gate stood open.

***

By the time he’d lurched his way down to the courtyard, he could hear the thud of marching feet on the dusty road outside. The guards and sentries were long gone, and Chel realized he had no idea what, if any, mechanism operated the gate. Throwing his shoulder against the gate’s heavy wood achieved little more than forcing more blood from his abdomen. He didn’t have time to figure it out; the men were moments from the palace. No palace bells rang, no guards had come running. He was on his own.

He risked a quick look through the archway. The armed column made its way up the incline, maybe two dozen figures. They sported pikes and torches, and Chel spotted axes and knives at their belts. Their clothing was dark but motley. His eyes darted to their heads.

Each man sported a shaven head, save for a tuft of hair at its crest. Chel’s eyes widened. The men were confessors.

They halted before the gate, then at a signal each raised something to his face and affixed it. Wooden masks. Chel jerked his head back, breathing hard. The masks were crude, rough-made things, nothing like the fine-wrought snarling mask the little Nort in the lowport had displayed. Confessors were disguising themselves as Norts? Nothing here added up. He had to raise the alarm.

Skirting Heali’s still-smouldering corpse, he drove his aching body toward the palace interior.

***

Chel burst through the open archway and stumbled into the western hall, which had been dressed for the festival. A few people drifted between its elegant columns as Chel looked around, wheezing, singed and bleeding. The smell of smoke carried into here as well: something was burning within the palace, but no one seemed to be doing anything about it.

The handful of nobles who had chosen – or been forced – to stay rather than flee after the Nort attack looked up in shock at Chel’s entrance, as did the skeleton crew of servants, minstrels and feast entertainers who surrounded them. Ignoring their ire, Chel made for the grand duke and the remainder of his family at the high table, where they were surrounded by half a dozen or so of his preening house guard.

‘We’re under attack,’ Chel croaked, his voice scratched and hoarse. ‘Take shelter!’

‘Who in five hells are you?’ boomed the duke. He had remained seated. Beside him sat his strutting son Count Esen, who was staring at Chel with the same expression as he might a coil of catshit, and beside him his hairy cousin, Morara.

Chel tried to bow, wincing at the pain in his side. ‘Vedren Chel of Barva, sworn to Prince Tarfel, your grace.’

All heads turned to the far end of the table, where Prince Tarfel, scrubbed pink and draped in lace, was seated, flinching at the sound of his name. He looked up at Chel, his expression shifting from surprised confusion to embarrassment.