They were eating him alive.
Alcaeus struck and struck again, powered by desperate fear, and he straddled the screaming man’s body and cut and cut.
It wasn’t enough. And then Benois grabbed at his ankles.
He ripped himself clear, and leaped back into the uncertain footing of the breach, and Benois was gone, a pile of hellspawn feeding on him, his armour torn open -
Alcaeus made himself breathe.
Suddenly Ser John was there with his mace. The five foot weapon moved like a goodwife’s broom on a new spring morn, and he shattered first the boglins around them, and then Benois’ skull.
There was a flash of light to the east – a distant whump of displaced air. A column of flame leaped up perhaps a league away. Perhaps two.
Then another – even greater.
The creatures of the Wild faltered, looked over their shoulders, and the fury of their assault rapidly abated.
Albinkirk – Thorn
In an instant, Thorn knew that something had gone wrong.
He’d drained himself by calling even the smallest stones from the heavens. It was a showy, inaccurate and inefficient working, but it had spectacular results when it worked. And he loved to cast it, the way a strong man loves to show his strength.
The daemons were impressed, and that alone was worth the fatigue. Better, the town was utterly destroyed and it had been far, far easier than even he had hoped.
I have grown so strong, he thought. What he had planned as a mere diversion had become a triumph. She would hear of it and cower in fear.
Perhaps taking the Rock is worth doing after all. Perhaps I will refashion myself as a warlord.
But the twin pillars of fire behind him came from his camp – the camp where his greatest allies, the irks and the boglins, stored their food and their belongings and their slaves and their loot. And it was afire.
He had left his most trusted troops had been left to guard it.
He turned with his army and strode for it.
Without his willing it, the bulk of his Wild creatures turned and followed him. They had no discipline, and they went like a shoal of fish-
Albinkirk – Ser Alcaeus
Alcaeus watched them go, slumped against the wall. The Gallish man-at-arms looked like a butchered animal, his bones stripped. The boglins had feasted on him.
The sun was rising, and the lower town was an abattoir of horrors. In the main square irks had taken the time to carefully flay a man and hang him on a cross. He was still alive.
James the crossbowman stepped into the breach. He took a long look, raised his weapon and shot the crucified man. It was a good shot, given the range. The man’s screaming, skinless head dropped, and he was silent.
Ser John was slumped against the other wall. James helped the old man get his visor up. He winked.
He winked.
In that moment the old knight became a hero, in Ser Alcaeus’s estimation.
Alcaeus had to smile back, despite so many things. The loss of Benois hurt. The feel of the man’s hands on his ankles-
‘I need you to ride to the king,’ Ser John said. ‘Right now, while whatever miracle this respite may be lasts.’
Alcaeus must have agreed with him, because an hour later he was on his best horse, unarmoured, and galloping south. It was a desperate gamble.
He was too tired to care.
Chapter Seven
Ser John Wishart
South of Albinkirk – Master Random
‘Gates of Albinkirk are broken, ser,’ Guilbert reported. He shrugged. ‘There’s fires burning in the town and it looks like a fucking fist, beg your pardon, punched the cathedral. King’s banner still flies over the castle but none answered my hail.’
John Judson, worshipful draper, and St Paul Silver, a goldsmith, drew their horses closer to Random where he sat with Old Bob, Guilbert’s friend and the last man he’d hired, a bald, ruddy skinned drunkard whose voice and carriage suggested that the spurs on his heels were actually his.
Old Bob was the oldest man in the company, and had a much-broken nose, bumpy with knots of erupting flesh. His straggly salt and pepper hair erupted from a narrow zone around his ears and was always dirty, but the man’s eyes were deep and intelligent and a little disturbing, even to a man as experienced as Gerald Random.
He wore good armour, and he wore it all the time.
‘That’s what the peasants said yesterday,’ Old Bob noted calmly.
Random looked at the other merchant venturers. ‘Albinkirk in ruins?’ he asked. ‘I’ve fought up here, friends. The border is a hundred leagues farther north, and even then – the Wild is west and north of us, not here.’
‘Something did this, all the same,’ Judson said. The corners of his lips were white, the lips themselves drawn tight. ‘I say we go back.’
Paul Silver wore high boots like a gentleman. Goldsmiths were often better dressed than their customers. It was the way of the world. But Silver had also served the king and wore a heavy sword, an expensive weapon meticulously kept ready for battle. ‘We’d be fools to ignore that something is going on,’ he agreed. ‘But bad as this is I’m not sure it means a convoy of nearly fifty wagons should turn back.’
Albinkirk rose on a high hill at the next great bend in the river. Ships would make it this far north, later in the summer when the floods were done and all the ice was out of the mountains – when the run off wasn’t carrying whole pine trees, big enough to stove in a round ship, down mountainsides and out into the great river. Albinkirk was the northernmost town that could be reached by ship, and yet the southernmost at the edge of the Great Forest that covered the mountains. Once it had hosted the Great Fair, but poor management and rapacious tolls had forced it to move further east, to the convent at Lissen Carak.
Today Albinkirk was a corpse, red-tile roofs looking grey and old, or fire-blacked, in the distance, and the spire of the cathedral gone.
‘What’s happened to the cathedral?’ Random asked.
Old Bob made a face. ‘They was attacked by dragons.’ He shrugged. ‘Or Satan himself.’
Random took a deep breath. This was the sort of moment for which he lived. The great decision. The gamble.
‘We could leave the road. Turn east on this side of the river and use the bridge at Lissen Carak,’ he found himself saying. ‘Keep the river between us and Albinkirk.’
‘A river won’t stop wyverns,’ Old Bob said.
‘Not much choice anyway,’ Guilbert said. ‘The gates are shut, so we can’t exactly take the High Road.’
‘They should want us in that town,’ Random said.
Judson watched him, and his face held something Random didn’t recognise – horror? Fear? Curiosity?
But finally the man worked up his courage and spoke his mind. ‘I’ll be taking my wagons back south,’ he said carefully.
Random nodded. Judson had the second largest contingent – eight wagons, a sixth of the total.
‘I reckon I’ll take my share of the sell-swords, too,’ Judson said.
Random thought for a fraction of a heart beat and shook his head. ‘How do you reckon that, messire?’
Judson shrugged, but his eyes were angry. ‘I paid for eight wagons to join your convoy,’ he said. ‘I reckon that’s a quarter the cost of the sell-swords, so I’ll take four of them. Six would be better.’
Random nodded. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘No, and you know it doesn’t work that way. You joined my convoy for a fee. If you leave it – that’s on you. You didn’t purchase a share, you purchased a place.’
‘You think the King’s Court will see it that way?’ Judson asked. Fear had made him bold. ‘I’ll be back in a few days, telling my story.’ He shrugged and looked away. ‘Give me my half-dozen swords, and I’ll say nothing.’ Judson looked at Paul, and then he leaned forward. ‘You want to be Lord Mayor, Random? Start playing the game.’