Demon King (32 page)

We reached the midway and strolled down the line of tents. I was examining a bauble, a cleverly made carving from a root, that quite accurately represented Irrigon, when I heard shouts. I craned to see what was going on. It was Praen and two of his flunkies! I swore — I’d assumed Praen would’ve had sense enough to be invisible on this day. But here he came, in bright regalia, bluff, arrogant face gleaming, no soldiery at his beck.

The outcry grew louder, more enraged, but Praen appeared to take no notice. He pushed his horse into the throng, intending, I guessed, to ride down the carnival way to the sowing grounds. A melon arced through the air and burst against his green silk vest. Praen realized the crowd’s temper and, being Praen, did exactly the wrong thing. “You dirty pigfuckers,” he bellowed, waving a fist.

There was a roar of laughter, and then a rock thudded against his side. He shouted in pain, and another rock struck his horse, and it reared, neighing in surprise. Praen scrabbled for his sword. He had it half-drawn when a man darted up and grabbed his leg. Praen kicked, but couldn’t free himself. His blade flew through the air as he fought for balance, then he was pulled from his mount into the crowd. The mob growled pleasure and closed in. I saw fists, then cudgels, rise and fall.

“We’ve got to help him,” Marán shouted, and started forward. I grabbed her arm.

“No! They’ll get you, too. Get back to Irrigon,” I ordered. She fought with me, not listening. “Karjan,” I shouted. “Take her! We’ve got to get out of here!”

There was a rearing, shouting mass where Praen and his retainers had been, but I paid no mind. There were angry faces much closer, glaring at us. My dagger flashed into my hand, and I kicked away the merchant’s table in front of us. His eyes were wide in horror. I shoved him aside and pushed my way out the back of the tent, Lancers and the women on my heels. Tents from the next row were almost back-to-back here, forming a maze of ropes and piled merchandise. I slashed the ropes of the tent we’d gone through, and it collapsed limply, keeping anyone from coming after us for a moment.

We ran down the cluttered way, leaping ropes as we went. Amiel tore away her skirt to run faster, and Marán did the same. At last she’d realized our desperate jeopardy. We reached the row’s end, and I held up my hand.

“Now,” I said, “into the open. But walk. Try to look calm. Maybe the craziness hasn’t spread down here yet.”

Breathing hard, the seven of us walked out, trying to pretend nothing had happened. All eyes were on the screaming mob around the bodies of Praen and his lackeys, and no one noticed us at first. We hurried out of the midway, onto the road back to Irrigon.

I looked back, and saw Praen’s horse, blood-drenched, rearing above the throng, hooves lashing. A man wearing a butcher’s smock, waving an already-bloodied ax waited his moment, then swung, burying the ax in the animal’s neck. It screamed like a woman, then went down. “Run now,” I ordered, for I knew where the blood on that ax had come from, and the murderers would soon be looking for other victims.

For precious moments we had no pursuers. Irrigon was in sight when I saw, coming toward the mansion, a group of forest workers, carrying their tools. They saw us and exploded into screaming rage, unlimbering their axes and brush hooks.

Now it was a race to see who could first reach the yawning gates of the castle. We were first, but only by moments. The guard dropped his lance, ran to the ropes that slid the gates closed, and fumbled with their ties. “The tower,” I shouted, then cried for the Lancers to turn out.

One forester, a rustic wearing ragged homespun pants and no shirt, ran through the still-open gate, waving a rusty, ancient sword. He saw me, shrieked hatred, and charged. He swung, and I parried his blow with my dagger. Its blade snapped clean, just at the hilt. The forester shouted in triumph, recovered clumsily, and came in again. I ducked inside his guard, smashed his face in with the knuckle-bow, flipped the blade out, and slashed his throat as he stumbled back — then I had his sword.

Two men charged the man at the gate ropes, and his panic grew worse, as he tried to defend himself, tried to free the ropes. One forester smashed a shovel blade into his neck, almost cutting his head off.

The Lancers boiled out of their quarters, buckling on their gear, fumbling with their weapons. There was no chance to close the gate, as more landsmen ran into the courtyard. A peasant cut at me with his brush hook, and I slashed its wooden handle in half. He gaped at the stub he held, and I ran him through, then booted his corpse into another, turned, and fled.

Marán and Amiel disappeared into our river tower, and Karjan and the other three held at its entrance.

“Fall back,” I shouted to the Lancers. “Fall back into my tower!” I ran hard for its doorway. Our only chance was to barricade ourselves inside it, hand out the weapons in the small armory, and prepare for a siege. I don’t know if Segalle misunderstood my orders, or if he had ideas of his own, for there was no one behind me when I reached the tower. Instead, the Lancers were going on line in the middle of the courtyard. Perhaps Segalle thought the mob would break against his thin line, and he could drive them out of Irrigon after that. Perhaps he could have, with a hundred men instead of a bit more than a dozen. Fifty, a hundred, peasants crashed into the courtyard, saw the handful of soldiers, and roaring black madness, charged. My Lancers were good men, experienced, trained soldiers. But fourteen men and one officer can’t stand against a hundred. The wave roared over them, dissolved into knots of battling men, and then I saw no more scarlet uniforms, just the screaming mob.

“Inside,” I ordered, and Karjan and the others obeyed. There were two huge crossbars inside the door. We heaved them over the heavy iron brackets set into the stone walls, and the only entrance was secured. We blocked off the internal passageways out of the tower with foot-square pieces of firewood and were safe for the moment. There were no windows on the ground level, and those above had heavy iron bars. Men slammed into the outside of the door, and I heard shouts of anger. “One man stand guard here,” I ordered, and a soldier nodded.

We went up the winding steps to the second level. Here was a small warming kitchen and storage chambers. One held an assortment of weapons. I found the keys in our bedroom and opened the armory, and we took out bows, arrows, and swords, then went on up into our living quarters.

Marán had found a dagger, and held it ready. Amiel was close to panic, looking about wildly. “Come now,” I said, trying to sound calm. “We’re safe now. They’ll never break through fifteen feet of stone.” She nodded nervously, and forced calm.

Marán took a bow and arrows from Svalbard, and strung the bow. She went to a window and cranked it open. A rock clattered against the wall below, and she drew back.

“Open them all,” I ordered. “Break the glass. If something shatters the window, flying splinters could blind you.” The panes smashing drew howls of glee from outside.

The courtyard was a seething mass of people, shouting, screaming, staring up. An arrow arced, and I moved away from the window. The ledges were machicolated, so I could peer through the slots without becoming a target.

The mob screamed delight as five men appeared on the main building’s inner steps. They held two struggling, naked women. I recognized both — young peasant girls Marán had trained as maids. A man lifted one and cast her spinning, screaming, into the crowd, and the horde closed around her. The second landed nearby. Their screams tore through the rabble’s cries, and I looked away. I hope they returned to the Wheel quickly.

I spotted three people — two men, one woman — shouting orders, trying to bring the crowd under control. All three had yellow silk cords looped around their necks. An arrow whipped into the woman’s rib cage, and she cried agony and fell. “Die, you fucking bitch,” Marán shouted, and I grinned tightly. But there were more Tovieti down there, and they kept behind others while trying to bring order.

But the mob remained out of control. It swirled back and forth, going in and out of Irrigon, smashing, looting. Other servants died, or else, sensibly, joined the chaos. The rabble found the barred barn, tore away the barricades, and discovered Praen’s homemade warders. The people knew them for what they were and tore them apart. Those I hope died very slowly. Minutes later, they dragged Vacomagi, our bailiff, out of the main house, and didn’t allow him to return to the Wheel for a long, terrible time.

It grew quieter, and I had a moment to take stock. It didn’t take long, and wasn’t heartening. In addition to Amiel, Marán, myself, Karjan, and the three other soldiers, there was a scullery maid and one of our candle lighters in the room. Neither of them knew anything about weapons, so they wouldn’t be of any use.

“What now?” Marán said, voice tight, controlled, again proving herself an Agramónte.

“We have food,” I said. “And arms.”

“For how long?”

“We’ll have to use our supplies carefully.”

“What’ll they try to do next?” Amiel asked.

“Probably find ladders,” I said. “We’ll shoot the climbers off when they get closer.”

“Then what’ll happen?” she asked.

“They’ll try again, and we’ll stop them again.”

“Will they win?”

I considered and decided honesty was best. “They could,” I said. “It’ll depend on whether anyone gives a damn about us and rides for help. Or maybe a passing boat might see what’s happening.” I glanced out a window that overlooked the water, and then down. The course was smooth, deserted.

The scullery maid moaned. “Twa, three days gone ‘fore anyone notices? They’ll be gnawin’ our bones.”

“Not mine,” Marán said, touching her dagger. “I’ll go to the Wheel without their help if it comes to that.”

“Good,” I agreed. “None of us will give them any pleasure.” I went to Marán and hugged her shoulders. I felt her body stiffen, and quickly took my arm away.

There were shouts outside, and I chanced peering out. A man stood in the center of the courtyard.

“Agramóntes,” he shouted. “See what we have?” He waved something. Marán came up beside me, but I pushed her back. I’d seen what the man held — a cock and scrotum.

“Guess th’ count won’t be takin’ no more of our women f’r a lark, eh?” the man went on. “Now it’ll be th’ other way roun'. Wonder how many men your titty countess’ll handle ‘fore she goes mad? An’ what about her friend? Mebbe she can take
all
of us on!”

I heard a grunt from Svalbard at the next window, and a spear arced out. The man tried to roll away, but he was too slow, and the weapon drove through the small of his back and pinned him, screaming, to the ground. I could have finished him with an arrow, but I let him die slowly.

“Now they’ll attack,” I said grimly.

But I was wrong. They came with fire.

• • •

The first fires might have been by accident. But once Irrigon began burning, no one tried to put the fires out. The cheering, laughter, and shouts grew louder, and I saw men and women tossing things into the flames.

Some of those “things” still moved …

Sooner or later, the flames would provide inspiration, and they did. Svalbard saw them first — men carrying lashed-together bundles of wood toward the tower. We shot them down, but others came, moving more stealthily along the walls.

Now I became ashamed of my lack of faith in the scullery woman. “Ah don’t want t’ burn,” she whimpered and hurried downstairs. I thought she’d gone to find a hiding place and wished her well, hoping that when and if the doors burned through, they wouldn’t winkle her out.

She shouted for the candleman, and he reluctantly went down the stairs. A few minutes later, the two tottered back up. They had a large pot, hung on a fireplace poker. The pot steamed and bubbled, and I remembered the ancient oilpots on Irrigon’s roofs.

“They’ll burn us,” she said, almost cheerily, “an’ we’ll boil them first wi’ laundry lye.” She went to the window overlooking the door, peeped out, then she and her assistant dumped the pot over the window ledge. Screams of pain racked the gathering twilight, and the woman beamed happily. “That’ll hold ‘em back.”

It did. For a time. Then I felt hot, as if I were an ant trapped in a sunbeam focused through a malevolent child’s glass. I smelt smoke, and saw, in our fireplace, the always laid firewood begin to smoke, curl, and blacken. There was more smoke, coming from above, from the wooden chandelier, from wooden fretwork on a wall, then from the paneling itself. They’d found a seer, and his spell was attacking every piece of wood in the tower.

I shouted for the soldier guarding the door to come up, and we hurled furniture down the stairwells.

Karjan grimaced at me. “Y’know, sir, I could’ve stayed wi’ th’ Lancers in Urey an’ none of this’d be happenin'. At least not t’ me.”

“Cheerful bastard,” I hissed at him.

I went to Amiel and gave her a hug. She, at least, welcomed the affection. “Do we have any chance?”

“Of course,” I said. “Nothing’s ever for certain.”

I looked at Marán, but her gaze was still chill, unforgiving. But I had to try. I went to her. “If the worst happens,” I asked in a low tone, “will we go to the Wheel as enemies?”

She began to say something, then stopped and took a deep breath. “No, Damastes,” she said finally. “You’re my husband. We’ll die together.” She was silent for a time, then coughed. The smoke was growing thicker. “Maybe, in our next, when we return, maybe …” She didn’t finish. I waited, but she just shook her head and stared out the window.

Amiel soaked handkerchiefs in water, and we tied them around our faces.

“The stone won’t burn,” I said, my voice muffled, “and their magic isn’t good enough to make fire from the air. We’ll wait until the doors burn through, and they come up, then see how long they can keep coming.” I hope my words sounded less futile to the others than to me.

Then an idea came. “Who can swim?” I asked.

No one needed an explanation. Marán swam, like an eel, and the soldiers had damned well better, since that was part of their training.

“I can,” Amiel said, “after a fashion.”