03 Sky Knight (18 page)

‘But My Lord, these are your subjects. Your people.’

Citrine shook his head sadly. ‘Not mine.’

He pushed past Obsidian, heading up the slope into the open air with his troop of bodyguards close on his heels.

Obsidian scratched his jaw thoughtfully. ‘The people must have shelter.’

The ghost nodded. ‘Then you will help?’

‘If I let the enemy into the ruins, if you reclaim your bodies, then you believe you will be able to control them?’

‘We hope we can force out the alien creatures, and then perhaps the body will die, as it should have done a long time ago.’

‘You’re asking us to be bait for a trap you aren’t even sure is going to work.’

‘You don’t have many options, Captain. You cannot fight Crow’s troops alone. But if you can lure them here, and we are able to take back our bodies, then for each spirit trapped within these ruins, one of your enemies will fall.’

‘And how many soldiers were posted here?’

‘Fifty–seven.’

‘And what about the others, the soldiers that have bodies that are not from this place? Can you help us fight them?’

The ghost looked saddened, and stretched out his ethereal hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘We have no corporeal form. We cannot touch, and we cannot fight. Those bodies that are not ours, you will have to deal with in the more traditional method. But you are a strong fighter. I can see that you would gladly give up your life for your people.’

‘I wouldn’t say gladly.’

‘You must prepare the ruins for the attack.’

Obsidian tried to smile, but couldn’t quite make it stick. ‘We’re all going to die, aren’t we?’

The ghost flashed his teeth in a similarly awkward grin. ‘For some of us, dying is old news.’

***

Obsidian emerged from the beer cellar, just as the last few villagers clambered up the embankment and dumped their few belongings in the main clearing. Several men had already started fires, and families were crowded around stew pots and bowls of dried fish, preparing their first proper meal since leaving Landmark.

There was old Drake, the storyteller, with his three strapping children, who ran around after him like he was a greater lord than Citrine could ever be; and there was Violet, the young seamstress, who was responsible for most of the clothes worn by the more fashionable girls of the village; and there was Leaf, the teacher, sitting a little way off from the main body of people, flicking through a book. So many people Obsidian knew; so many people he had lived with and protected; so many people who might die before the day was over.

A small boy tugged at the hem of Obsidian’s tunic. He crouched so he was at the boy’s level. ‘What’s the matter, Master Nettle?’

‘Mum wants to know if you’re hungry.’

On the far side of the ruins, the widow Wisteria was stirring a large pot of something vaguely brown and sort of lumpy. She shot Obsidian a little grin that suggested she didn’t much care for the life of a widow and she would very much like him to sit with her a while.

‘That’s very thoughtful,’ Obsidian said, ruffling Nettle’s hair, ‘but I can’t stop right now. I’ll come and see your mother in a little while, once I’m sure we’re safe.’

Nettle dashed off and said something to Wisteria, who looked slightly pained but kept on diligently stirring her stew. Obsidian walked to the perimeter of the ruins where he had noticed Hawk and Autumn deep in a conversation he would never have dreamed of interrupting if the circumstances had been different.

‘Hawk,’ he said, clapping the archer on the shoulder. ‘Autumn. You did good work in the woods today.’

‘We screwed up,’ Autumn said, glumly.

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Is everyone here?’

‘Everyone from the caravan. No sign yet of Private Meadow or Private Silver. Sky is missing too. She wasn’t with the caravan, and neither was her father.’

‘Then we have to assume they won’t be joining us at all,’ Obsidian said.

‘I doubled back,’ Hawk said. ‘Just to check we hadn’t left anyone behind. There are spider–soldiers everywhere. We don’t have enough men to protect the villagers as it is.’

Obsidian took a seat on a piece of stone, drawing his sword and cutting patterns out of the dust on the ground with the point. ‘I do not think we can win a fight here, and I know we cannot outrun those things with a caravan of children and women.’

‘So what do we do?’ Autumn asked.

‘There is a cellar, big enough for all of us to hide in.’

‘And then Crow and his soldiers march right over us?’ Hawk said.

Obsidian shook his head. The patterns he was making in the dust had taken on a specific design, and Hawk realised the captain was sketching out the layout of the ruins, with all of the major vantage points that could be used in a battle. ‘They would find the trapdoor. Crow knows about it already. He killed a lot of people down there once, and he won’t have forgotten. It will be the first place he looks. All we can do is put those who cannot fight down in the cellar to keep them out of the battle. The rest of us...’

‘The rest of us fight,’ Autumn said.

‘Even though we can’t hope to win,’ Hawk added.

‘We knew we couldn’t run forever. I guess we just thought we would be able to run a little farther. All we can do now is protect these ruins for as long as possible, and hope.’

‘Nobody has seen the Wing Warrior for a while,’ Hawk said.

‘Someone will come,’ Obsidian said. ‘If not the Wing Warrior, then Lord Cloud, or Glass with her unicorn, or soldiers from one of the nearby towns.’ He stared at the plans of the ruins he had drawn. ‘Someone will come.’

‘We have hardly any soldiers,’ Hawk pointed out. ‘We’re going to need a solid plan.’

Obsidian pointed at his drawing with his sword. ‘Crow and his men are over here. They’ll come across the fields here. They move quickly, we all know that, but I think we might be able to get off two arrows per person before they reach us. What do you think?’

‘I could get off three,’ Autumn said.

‘And I’d have to fire four, otherwise I’d never hear the end of it,’ Hawk said.

Obsidian nodded, and scratched some extra lines onto his map. ‘We line up every marksman... Sorry, every marksperson. We put them along here, and we fire as many volleys into the advancing soldiers as time permits. No heroics. No showboating. Then we all fall back to here. I have some friends who will help even the odds once the soldiers set foot inside the ruins, and my men will be on hand to mop up any survivors. After that...’

‘See this high ridge?’ Hawk said, pointing it out first on Obsidian’s drawing, and then in real life. ‘I’ll get my archers back up there. We’ll be able to pick off anyone in space, try to keep them off your back for as long as possible.’

‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ Autumn said.

‘Crow.’ Obsidian spat the name as he would spit a curse. ‘If he is here, then no amount of planning will matter. His dark magic could kill us all in seconds.’

‘We might get lucky,’ Hawk said. ‘He might decide he would rather torture us slowly for days.’

Autumn scowled and punched him in the arm; he shoved her back, so she pinched his ear.

Obsidian watched them play–fighting, and ignored the pang of regret he felt for never having children of his own. Swallowing back bitter emotions that threatened to choke him, he rose and scuffed out his map with the heel of his boot.

He wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he stalked off across the ruins, nodding politely at the widow Wisteria as he passed. He could see some of Lord Citrine’s bodyguards slouching in a group by the last standing stones of the watchtower, and he noted with no small amount of satisfaction that as he approached they all straightened up, standing to attention as if he was some powerful high–ranking officer who they greatly respected.

‘Lord Citrine?’ he asked.

‘North of the ruins,’ one of the palace guards said, indicating with the tip of his spear. ‘He said he wanted a few minutes alone before we set off for the mountains.’

‘May I speak with him?’

‘Of course.’

The guards parted, and as Obsidian moved through them he became aware that they were all watching him with admiration. The last of the men even leaned close, whispering to him as he went by, ‘Our duty is to protect Our Lord, but if it was not so, we would stay here and fight.’

‘Are you that eager to die?’ Obsidian asked.

‘We are all going to die,’ the guard said. ‘Here. Up in the mountains. It doesn’t matter. But to fight, with you... To travel into the realms of the dead, and stand before my father, and be able to say I gave my life here for these people...’

Obsidian nodded, and walked away, passing two boys who were chasing each other through the rocks, and a girl who was combing the hair of her rag doll. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be children, and the thought of even just one of them being hurt, being turned into one of Crow’s vile spider–monsters, made him sick.

Lord Citrine was sitting in the shadow of a tree, his head resting against the bark, his eyes closed.

‘Lord Citrine?’ Obsidian said.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Citrine muttered, without opening his eyes. ‘I am not deserving of the title.’

‘Deserving or not, you are what you are. You said you were leaving. I think you should do so now, before it is too late. Crow’s soldiers have been spotted close by.’

‘I am not going anywhere. I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. Not after seeing the looks on their faces.’

‘Whose faces? What are you talking about?’

‘The men. Those who guard me. They loved the Lady Citrine. They respected her, and they would have gone anywhere for her without a moment’s hesitation. But not for me. I could see it in their eyes as I left the cellar. They do not want to run into the mountains, to be hunted down and killed like rats. They want to stay here, and I will not deny them that opportunity.’

‘They are your guards, honour–bound to protect you.’

‘And that is why I too must stay.’

‘If you stay here, we cannot vouch for your safety, and should you fall, who will unite the survivors?’

Citrine shook his head, and for just a second, Obsidian was overcome by the peculiar feeling that he was looking at somebody completely different: A slightly older man, with weathered features, and hair the colour of sand. ‘I can’t do it,’ the lord said. ‘I can’t go on living this lie without the Lady to guide me.’

Obsidian dropped his voice to a whisper so that he could not be overheard by anyone else. ‘My Lord, if there is something I should know before this battle, I beg of you to tell me. Is there some new plot against you?’

‘No, just a terrible truth that we have concealed from the people for years. I am no lord, Captain. I am just a man. A soldier. I am nothing more than a figurehead. It is Lady Citrine who has ruled these lands so well. But she is gone, and I am all that remains.’

‘I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?’

‘I am saying this face is not mine. It is the face of a man who has been dead for some time.’

‘My Lord, I am a simple soldier. I do not speak in riddles.’

‘But you do speak in legends, don’t you? In fireside stories? So perhaps I can recount a tale that you will be the first to hear. You see, once there was a lord, a great and powerful man, but he was a man, just the same, and prone to a man’s weaknesses. He fell in love with a beautiful girl, she who is now our most beloved Lady, and they were married. For a time, they were even happy. I know this, because I was there, and I saw their joy. But their love was like a rose, and all too soon it wilted.’ Citrine swallowed hard, and his eyes shone behind a film of tears. ‘One day, an emissary from the North came to Crystal Shine. That messenger was the most precious treasure of the barbarian king, his only daughter.’

‘I know this story, My Lord,’ Obsidian interrupted. ‘The princess was sent to discuss the settlement of territorial issues, and other political concerns that threatened our truce with the barbarian people. The talks went well.’

‘Too well. What issues there were, the lord resolved, but in his discussions with the princess, he came to feel for her in a way that was not right or proper. He went to her one night, under cover of dark, and pledged his love. He said he would leave the Lady Citrine, if the princess would have him.’ Citrine snorted a laugh through his nose. ‘She refused him. She did not love him as anything other than an ally.’

‘And Lady Citrine knew of this?’

‘She knew, and it broke her heart. And she knew that the lord would not give up easily. She listened at his chamber door, and heard him plotting to intercept the barbarian emissary as she returned home. He would kidnap her, and force her to be his bride, even though it would cost our truce with the North, and throw our lands into conflict. Of course, he could not marry the princess while he still had a wife, so his foul plan also involved the assassination of Lady Citrine.’

‘But there was no war. There was no assassination. This story is ridiculous.’

‘Lady Citrine went to the princess, and asked her to leave Crystal Shine early. But the barbarian people are proud, and she would not flee like a criminal. She stayed at Crystal Shine for the full three months as she had planned, and on the last day she went to the lord, to thank him for his hospitality, and to advise him delicately to lay aside whatever feelings he may have had for her.

‘The Lord was enraged, and in a fit of uncontrollable anger, he attacked the princess. He killed her, and his men laid waste to the royal entourage. The blood...’ Citrine was shaking. ‘I was there. My sword was stained.’

‘The princess was savaged in the wild by mercenaries, beyond our borders.’

‘No. After the massacre, the lord was seized with bloodlust. He desired to amass an army, to push north. He wanted to eradicate the memory of that princess by destroying everything she had held dear. The Lady Citrine would not stand for it, and she called on palace guards to subdue him. But we were bound by law, and to do as she asked was a hanging offence. None of the guards were prepared to risk their necks. None, except me.’

‘You were a guard at the palace? But that’s impossible. You look like Citrine. You have his face, his voice. His wife.’