Текст книги "Dragonfly"

Автор книги: Julia Golding

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Chapter 20

Fergox's troops had a miserable time marching as fast as they could endure from their camp on

the borders of Gerfal to the capital, Tigral–a journey of hundreds of weary miles. The wagon

train was ambushed in Brigard.

Stragglers were set upon by bandits in Kandar. By the time they reached the open plains of Holt,

they were all itching to be home and take their revenge upon the slave rebels who had caused

them to miss the conquest of Gerfal.

Riding at the head of his army on his second-best horse, Fergox knew he was paying for his

mistake of pushing ahead with expansion while

neglecting the lands he already owned. He took the lesson philosophically.

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Perhaps this slave revolt was a timely reminder. Once the revolt was crushed and the

ringleaders disposed of, he would have to impress his rule more firmly on his people. He

pondered the punishment of killing a tally of all slaves across the Empire, even those who took

no part in the rebellion. If he killed one in five that would reduce his workforce, but he could

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make sure that only the least valuable were chosen to bear the penalty. Yes, that would be

fitting and stamp out any embers of revolt. As for the one they called the Dark Prince, some

jumped-up slave currently lording it in the palace, he would be executed very slowly in the slave

market where he belonged.

Fergox camped at the last crossroads before the city walls and summoned his commanders. In

the last few miles, his forces had been swollen by those who had escaped from the city. They

brought with them tales of the ferocity of the galley slaves and the widespread unrest. Most of

the rich families had fled–if they hadn't been murdered in their beds by their own servants. The

middling folk, the shopkeepers and the tradesmen, had stayed to look alter their property,

making peace with the slave rulers, but the rich merchants predicted it wouldn't last.

Fergox executed the officers who had been in charge on the day when the palace fell as a

reminder to the others what was at stake. He then ordered his troops to form up in their ranks,

ready for the onslaught.

"We're facing a rabble army that has been fortunate enough to meet with general incompetence

from those whose blood now stains the crossroads,"

Fergox said, gesturing to the headless officers thrown ignominiously to one side. "We'll pass

through the city like a cleaver through a carcass and retake the palace. Any civilian on the streets

may be counted an enemy and treated accordingly. When we have attained our objective, you

may teach the citizens of Tigral a lesson and reward yourselves for your loyal service to me."

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The soldiers thumped their shields. It was rare that Fergox gave them free rein to take plunder

after a victory.

"Now ride out!"

The army jingled into action: the infantry marching in tight squares of fifty men, the cavalry

sweeping along behind. Fergox had no interest in retaking his capital street by street. His plan

was to capture the center of power and then assert his authority over the rest. The slaves would

probably crumble at the first sign of real soldiers. They could not possibly have any experience

or training to match. He wouldn't be surprised if he was able to stroll in and win just by the

terror of his presence.

His views seemed to be confirmed by finding the city gates wide open to receive him. There

appeared to be no one mounting a defense–surprising because at the very least he expected the

most hardened slaves to try to prevent him from entering. He sent a division of his elite cavalry

troops ahead. They clattered over the cobbles, through the gate and into the square beyond. All

the shutters on the houses edging the plaza were closed, apparently abandoned. Normally this

area was dominated by an equestrian statue of Holin, which looked uncannily like Fergox sitting

upon his stolen blue roan warhorse. Today the god had been dismounted, leaving the rearing

horse riderless.

Cautiously the cavalry rode on, alert for any sign of resistance. The commander sent outriders

ahead to tell them what lay around the bend in the road. They didn't

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come back. He was about to send word of this to Fergox when a sound behind him made him

turn in his saddle. The old portcullis, unused for years, crashed down, dividing the cavalry from

the main body of the army. A huge man stood by the gate holding an axe, having just severed

the portcullis rope with one mighty stroke. Before the commander could give an order, the

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shutters on the houses flew open and missiles rained down on the riders.

They were caught in an ambush.

"Ride on!" shouted the commander, knowing he had to get his men out of this deadly valley. The horses clattered along the street, men falling from their saddles sprouting arrows from their

backs. They rounded the corner to come face to face with a barricade bristling with pikes and

sharpened sticks.

The commander tried to force his way through but his mount perished, driven onto a spike, and

the commander was trampled where he lay.

The massacre was soon over. Melletin grimaced as he surveyed the results of his plan: it had

worked perfectly but the aftermath was ugly. Horses scattered in riderless panic until caught by

rebels and quickly led away. The bodies of the men with scarlet threads in their beards and the

mounts that had perished were dragged off the streets to be buried later.

"First win to us, I think," Melletin said to Gordoc. "Take word to Ramil. Tell him Fergox is going to be really mad now."

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Fergox had no commander to punish for the fiasco as not one of his elite troops returned. He'd

underestimated the slaves, he admitted to himself.

Someone knew what he was doing. This put Fergox on his mettle. He still had nearly two

thousand men and knew the city well. He was not really concerned.

"Commanders Horg and Finuil, take your men and enter by the East Gate; Minol and Kay, yours

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is the West Gate. I will lead the rest by the North Gate, making straight for the palace. It appears

this rebellion has a thinking head; we have to cut that off before it can be crushed."

Fergox gazed up at his beautiful palace, home of his wives and younger children. The slaves had

probably killed them already as they had made no attempt to bargain with the lives of their

hostages. He had already decided that he would not treat with the rebels. He had grown-up sons

in his army–

enough to ensure his succession. Though it angered him to lose any child of his blood, he knew

they were a weak point if he allowed himself to become sentimental. As for wives, they were

replaceable.

Fergox crushed his reins in his fists. I'm angry, he thought in surprise. He had been in command

so long, used to people doing his wil without question; he had not been defied for years and

now it had happened twice since Midwinter. The strength of feeling reminded him of the early

days when his reckless passion for conquest had driven him to turn himself from small bandit

lord to ruler of the known world. He relished

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the merciless rage for a moment, like a rider enjoying the speed of a galloping horse, before

giving his commanders a chilling smile.

"What are you waiting for? I want the heads of all the rebels at my feet by nightfall, but make

sure you save the Dark Prince for me."

King Lagan watched from outside the walls of his city as Fergox's sister, the Inkar Yellowtooth,

led her troops from under the cover of the trees. His spies had reported their numbers, but

seeing the rank upon rank of men march onto the green meadows of his land, he felt his heart

constrict in his chest.

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He had delayed them as long as he could, sacrilicing many of his wardens in desperate

skirmishes in the forest, but now the invaders were here.

Lord Taris with his son behind him, both in full battle armor, rode up to the King.

"We are ready, Your Majesty," Taris said.

"It's going to be tough," Lagan replied, wiping his brow with his leather gauntlet.

"Yes, sir. But without Fergox's cool head to guide them, we have a chance."

"Not much of one."

"No, but stil ."

Lagan smiled.

A helmeted man on horseback, followed by twenty others, trotted forward from the city. His

armor was in the old style, embellished with swirls of bronze inlay.

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He paused before the King and bowed, then flipped his visor up, revealing an old face with fierce

blue eyes.

"Lord Egret and the Brigardian exiles reporting for duty, Your Majesty."

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"Ah, so you're Lord Egret," said the King, touching swords with the man in greeting. "May I say that your wife is a treasure?"

"You may, sir. And I'm here to defend her and all those of our nations who cannot fight."

Lagan thought the old man looked as if his fighting days should be over too, but there was a

steely glint in Lord Egret's eye that forestalled such comments.

"You are a very welcome addition to our forces. Take your orders from Lord Usk, please, and fall

in on our right flank."

The Brigardians trotted away with the Prime Minister's son in the lead.

Lagan paused to admire his army spread out across the field: so many young lives and brave

hearts about to plunge for the first time into the messy horror of battle. It was one small mercy

not to have to worry about Ramil being among them.

The Empire herald galloped across the battlefield with a white flag. He reached King Lagan and

bowed.

"The Inkar Junis wishes to parley," he said briskly. "She wants to offer terms."

"I'll hear her, but the only terms I'll accept are unconditional withdrawal,"

Lagan replied.

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The herald nodded and turned his horse to take the message back to his mistress.

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"Are you coming with me?" Lagan asked Taris.

"What? To see your old sweetheart?" The Prime Minister chuckled. "I wouldn't miss this."

The two men rode forward to meet the Inkar halfway across the meadows that separated the

two armies. She approached them alone, making a fearsome sight as she galloped towards

them, the feathers on her helmet fluttering in the breeze.

"Junis." Lagan bowed as soon as she reigned her horse to a standstill. "It is always a pleasure to see you. But why come in such warlike fashion?"

The Inkar frowned, disliking what sounded very much like mockery.

"Surely two old friends should not meet like this?" continued Lagan. "If all my men hadn't been so busy defending my nation, I could have thrown you a nice little ball. I seem to remember you

liked dancing."

Junis bared her yellowed teeth at him. "I danced with your son at Midwinter, did you know

that?"

Lagan smiled grimly. "No, I did not know he had that pleasure."

"And where is the stinking horse thief? I'll make him dance when I've killed you and all your little fighters and flushed him from his hiding place. You've not a hope against my army. You're

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outclassed and outnumbered."

"Outnumbered, perhaps," said Lagan, stroking his beard. "But not outclassed. I see that your diplomatic skills are still as strong as ever, Junis."

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She snapped her fingers at him. 'That to diplomacy. I do my business by the sword."

Lagan sighed and looked at the skies as a relief from her vindictive face. A strong wind blew in

from the sea, and the clouds were moving rapidly like hosts of white soldiers driven to assault

the land. Junis had betrayed the fact that Ramil had not been recaptured, another good thought

to cherish on this terrible day. This desperate battle did not seem so hopeless if Ramil survived

somewhere in the Empire.

"Your herald mentioned terms," he prompted her.

"Yes." She licked her lips. "If you surrender the city, I will spare the civilians, take your soldiers into slavery or recruit them to my forces, and see to it that you are given a dignified death. Your

daughter will live as a guest in my house; your son, unfortunately, will not."

"Very generous," Lagan said in a hollow tone. His eye was caught by a glimmer out to sea on the horizon. A tiny white sail appeared, followed by others, until the whole ocean seemed to be

covered by a flock of birds come down to rest on the waters. "I don't believe it!" he murmured.

"You had better believe it," said Junis, "because it is my final offer."

Cheers and bells could now be heard in the city. The Blue Crescent ships already in harbor fired a

salvo that echoed from the walls.

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With an upsurge of hope, Lagan turned in his saddle and snapped his fingers. "That to your offer, Junis. I

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reject your terms. Look to the ocean. You should be thinking what terms you might accept from

me." He spurred his horse to retreat.

With a scream of fury, Junis galloped back to her troops and ordered the attack. Her infantry

advanced, tight ranks of soldiers in red tunics crawling like ants over Gerfalian land. Lagan

signalled his own men forward.

"You fight for your homes and your freedom!" he shouted, riding along the lead edge

brandishing his sword. "Charge!"

The cavalry swept forward, driving into the pike-bearing infantry as battle was joined on the

flower-studded meadows. Soon the spring blooms were trampled under boots and hooves, the

ground wet with blood. Men cursed; horses screamed. Lagan's forces were hard pressed,

pushed back to the walls by wave upon wave of Empire soldiers. Lord Taris fell as he defended

the gates. Ramil's cousin, Hortlan, was trampled when knocked from his horse. The King fought

by his standard bearer, aware that his knights were dying around him. Lord Usk went down,

wounded by an arrow. Lord Egret killed Junis's second-in-command only to die on the Inkar's

sword. Lagan spurred his horse forward to meet her in battle. She yelled with delight as she saw

him charging towards her. Their swords met with a clang, sparks flying.

A shout went up from the harbor.

"For the Goddess!"

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Now under new orders, hundreds of Blue Crescent

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sailors from the ships that originally came with Tashi rushed to the relief of Gerfal. More

warships arrived, disgorging their cargo of fighters onto the harborside. Armed with swords and

long knives, the Westerners hacked and slashed their way through the Empire's infantry. An

elite force of riflemen took up position on high ground to fire upon the invaders. Cannon

boomed from the decks, shot sailing overhead to pound the Inkar's reserves.

"Witchcraft!" shrieked the Empire soldiers as comrades fell to invisible missiles, which left circular bloody wounds. Some turned to flee only to be shot in the back.

In the midst of battle, Lagan and Junis exchanged arm-jarring blows. She caught him with a

swipe, cutting his cheek to the bone. He replied with a slash that smashed into her left arm,

leaving it hanging useless, blood spurting from the wound. Junis stared down at her arm in mild

surprise.

"Lagan," she said faintly.

The King struck, killing her with a blow to the head.

"Sorry, Junis," he said as the Inkar fell from the saddle. "These are the only terms I offer."

Reports from all over Tigral reached the rebel headquarters in the palace throne room. East

Gate had fallen but the galley slaves were holding their own at the barricades in the Cloth

Market. West Gate still survived but the Brigardians were taking heavy casualties. No one had

tried South Gate again.

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Ramil paced the room restlessly. He knew their fortunes were balanced on a knife edge. The

only way they could win was if he could take out the Spearthrower himself. He was relying on

Fergox's pride to bring him to the palace. He just had to hope the warlord would take the bait.

Yelena dashed in, her face shining with excitement.

"The old goat's at the North Gate. What shall we do?"

"Let them through but keep out of sight. Are your soldiers posted all round the walls?"

She nodded.

"Remember, Yelena, we mustn't let them out of the palace but pen them in here until I've

finished with Fergox."

Yelena nodded, then darted forward and kissed him on the lips. "That's for Tashi."

Ramil smiled, touching his mouth. "You're a wicked woman, Yelena.

Melletin's going to have his hands full with you."

"I hope so!" she called, returning to her position outside the throne room.

Ramil gave orders for his assistants in the command center to fall back out of sight into the

robing room. He checked that the archers were up in the rafters, bows trained on the doors, and

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then took up his post on the throne, sword across his knees.

As anticipated, a few minutes later the doors were thrown back and Empire soldiers poured into

the room, fanning out to the edges to take up defensive positions. A man appeared in the

doorway, hands on hips, gazing

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straight down the hall at Ramil. He drew his sword and marched forward confidently.

Ramil rose and bowed.

"Hello again, Fergox."

A soldier rushed towards Ramil, his sword raised. An arrow flew from the ceiling and brought

him down sprawling at the Prince's feet. Fergox glanced up once into the roof, but continued

advancing.

"Ramil ac Burinholt. I confess that I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you had scurried

home to Gerfal," Fergox said coldly as he reached the bottom of the steps. "Though perhaps I should have realized that no ordinary slave could have got so far."

Ramil held out his sword to stop Fergox from coming any closer. "If you bothered to investigate

your own subjects, you'd find out that there is no such thing as an ordinary slave."

Fergox raised his sword. "How touching. But tell me, before I kill you, what have you done with

my little Tashi?" He took a swipe at Ramil, no more than a probing of his guard. Ramil blocked it and swung away.

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"She is not your Tashi and never was."

Fergox smiled. "You've warmed to her, I see. That makes it all the more perfect a revenge when I

kill her. I'd like to keep you alive so you can watch me do it."

Ramil swung but Fergox jumped back out of range.

"In fact, I hope you've got her hidden away somewhere in the palace for me to hunt down," the warlord continued. "I have some unfinished business with her which I'm looking forward to

settling."

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Ramil brought his sword round in a high strike; Fergox blocked so that they were face to face,

wrestling for an advantage.

"She's not here," Ramil hissed. "She's dead."

It was the first time he'd admitted this aloud and he felt a yell of fury inside.

This man had brought about the death of the woman he loved. Ramil

launched himself into an attack for real, entering into a glittering pattern of thrusts and strikes.

Fergox's eyes widened with surprise but he matched Ramil, parrying each blow efficiently,

experience telling him to let his opponent tire himself. Sweat ran down Ramil's brow, his

breathing fast, his muscles singing with the strain.

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Fergox gave ground until he had his back to a pillar swathed in red cloth.

With a swipe he cut the cord and the cloth fell down in folds, burying Ramil's sword. Before the

Prince could get it free, Fergox thrust at his heart. Ramil dived, feeling the blade nick his left

arm. He rolled, now weaponless, his sword still caught up in the cloth. A soldier behind him

moved forward to finish him off.

"Leave him!" barked Fergox. "He's mine."

Ramil sprang to his feet and sprinted back to the throne.

"Pathetic!" Fergox laughed. "Still clinging to power, are we, Prince?"

Ramil kicked the chair over and picked up a short spear from among the weapons he had hidden

there. He levelled it on his shoulder, knowing he had only one shot before Fergox ran him

through. The warlord

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charged, mouth open in a yell. Ramil threw his spear. It struck Fergox in the throat, above his

breastplate, cutting off the cry.

"We never did finish best of three, did we?" Ramil said.

The warlord staggered, then stopped, the sword clanging on the floor as his arms lost all

strength. He swayed, then fell backwards, a look of shock on his face.

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With a shout of fury, the soldiers rushed forward to avenge their commander.

Ramil swept up Fergox's sword and leapt back on the dais to defend himself. A soldier swiped at

his legs, catching him on the calf. Ramil cut him down with a back stroke. His slave supporters

burst from their hiding place in the robing room; arrows hissed from overhead. Bloody

confusion reigned as fighters exchanged blows and some cut down their own side in mistaken

frenzy. When Ramil was finally able to lean on his sword, surrounded by the dead, he saw that

he had lost many of his men, including the surly man who had challenged his authority on that

first day in the market. He had turned out to be a fierce and loyal fighter and left a family in

eastern Holt. Others lay there, each with his own history, united only by their belief in Ramil's

promise to offer them a better life.

Ramil bowed his head in respect, vowing to fulfil their expectations if he survived the day, then

limped to the door.

"Toll the bell," he ordered one of his men.

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The great bell of Tigral began to boom–the prearranged signal that Fergox was dead. Ramil

thought he could hear faint cheering around the palace. He stepped through the open door and

looked down into the courtyard.

The killing had gone on here too. As ordered, Yelena and her troops had engaged the army as it

entered the courtyard. The rebels had been losing ground against the best-disciplined of

Fergox's soldiers when a mass of purple-robed horsemen had appeared out of nowhere,

sweeping through the North Gate. Galloping into the courtyard, they had been like a scythe

through corn, cutting down the warlord's men. A small band resisted, fighting back to back

surrounded by the bodies of their comrades, harried from all sides by slave fighters and the

ruthless men of the Horse Followers.

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Ramil gave a shrill whistle. Gradually, the rebels heard the signal and stepped back, their

weapons red with blood.

"Soldiers!" Ramil shouted, brandishing the warlord's sword. "Fergox Spearthrower lies dead on the steps to his throne. This battle is over. Put down your weapons and I will be merciful. Carry

on fighting and it will be to your deaths."

One soldier howled with rage and threw himself at the large chieftain of the Horse Followers.

Before he even reached him, the soldier died with a kitchen knife in his back, thrown by the

resistance-friendly cook. This seemed to convince the others. They dropped their weapons.

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Ramil nodded. "Good. Yelena, take the prisoners to the barracks."

The Dark Prince gazed around his kingdom. What a way to start his new order: men lying in

bloody heaps, limbs severed, the wounded groaning.

The wounded. The thought prompted him back into action.

"Sir Cook!" he shouted to the knife thrower. "Can you gather some men and see to the

wounded, please? Tell Professor Norling that we treat friend and foe alike."

Professor Norling jumped down from the wall, where he had been expertly firing a crossbow for

the last half hour, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Professor Norling wouldn't let you have it any other way," he muttered.

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The chieftain dismounted and walked up to Ramil, leading a familiar blue roan by the bridle. The

prince thought that in his exhaustion he might be hallucinating: Thunder here? But how?

"Greetings, Grandson. I haven't seen you since you were a baby and I must say you've turned

out well." Zaradan gestured to the conquered palace. "A credit to your family. My daughter,

Zarai, would have been proud."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Ramil said faintly, remembering the tales of his mother's father, the Umni of the Horse Followers, and of his presence at Ramil's naming ceremony. What he was

doing here now Ramil could not even begin to guess. "Your decision to come for a family

reunion was very well timed."

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Zaradan smiled, his white teeth gleaming. "That wasn't my idea. I am here merely as a

messenger. Tashi sends her love and returns your horse."

Ramil swayed with shock at this news. Zaradan let go of Thunder's reins and caught his stunned

grandson to his chest, feeling him shake with laughter mixed with sobs.

Thunder trotted forward and gave Ramil a nudge with his nose, checking his rider was all right.

"Oh yes, Tashi told him to take care of you," said Zaradan, laughing. "Not my idea either."

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