The Broken Blade (23 page)

Horrified, Eamon turned to his lieutenant. “Fletcher!”

The lieutenant reached his side. “My lord?” he shouted above the din.

“Form fire-fighting crews – now!”

As Fletcher raced off, one of the nearby storehouses collapsed; Eamon covered his eyes against the barrage of smoke and ash that burst from it. He fled for the south wall. As he ran, he saw a group of bodies lying in the rubble on the blackened quay.

With a sick stomach he raced up to them. They were uniformed in red and pierced with arrows – all but one. He bore traces of black beyond the stinking flesh that hung in brittle flakes from limb and face. What was left of its charred hand bore a ring, unscathed by ash or flame.

Eamon's face twisted with horror. As smoke and rage caught in his throat, he knew that he could not stop to think on it.

He looked back to the waterside, searching for men amid the fire and wreckage. More troops arrived from the Sea Gate. They ran towards him, an officer among them.

“Lieutenant!” Eamon yelled.

“Lord Dehelt?” The screaming officer struggled to see through the moving columns of smoke. When his eyes at last found Eamon, his face turned pale.

“Dehelt is dead,” Eamon answered. “I am Lord Goodman. Assign your men to fire fighting.” Bodies bobbed face-down in the water. The Master's ships, and those of his merchant allies, crumbled in hissing pools of timber. “Do it now, lieutenant!” Eamon yelled.

The officer left, barking orders to his men as he went. They soon returned with water and buckets. More Gauntlet staggered down from the north wall covered in smoke.

Eamon looked again at Dehelt. Driving down the bitterness in his heart, he took the man's ring, turned, and made for the south.

There too men returned from the tattered wall. Ensigns and cadets piled back down to the quay. As Eamon arrived, Febian reached the quayside. The Hand's face was horror-stricken.

“Febian!” Eamon yelled.

The Hand turned to him. “Lord Goodman,” he answered. His hands shook holding the reins. “What in the Master's name happened?”

“Call the surgeons!” Eamon retorted. “There are wounded as well as dead.”

Febian snapped out of his shock. He nodded and charged off. Waite and more men from the West Quarter arrived through the Sea Gate.

Eamon reached the men returning from the south wall. “Report!” he yelled.

The nearest man looked up at him. “Eleven lost, at least two injured,” gasped the ensign. “There were caltrops and arrows on the wall.”

Eamon nodded. He was about to turn away when he saw the last ensigns come down from the wall. They bore the body of an injured man. He had an arrow in his side and was marred with blood and grime. Eamon gasped.

It was Manners.

He rushed forward as the ensigns brought Manners' bleeding body down from the wall. The men carried their lieutenant to a sheltered part of the broken waterfront and laid him down on the stone. Manners erupted into a fit of coughing that brought pools of blood through his lips which splattered his ashen face. His eyes were dull.

“Get a surgeon!” Eamon commanded the nearest ensign. “The rest of you fight the fires!”

The ensigns raced away. The docks filled with shouting men, cracking fires, and the rush of water poured by pump and bucket onto what remained of Dunthruik's harbour.

Eamon looked down at the lieutenant. “Manners?” he said. He pressed the young man's hand. “Manners?”

No answer. Eamon looked up desperately. The port was flooded with Gauntlet and militia fighting the fires – and he should be with them, commanding them. As he knelt there, the Gauntlet brought other injured soldiers and laid them next to him.

The surgeons arrived moments later. One looked at Manners, solemnly shook his head, and moved on to the next wounded man.

Eamon looked down at Manners again. The lieutenant was dying.

In terrible anguish Eamon touched Manners' face. There were men all around him and he knew that he could not heal the man before him. He closed his eyes, feeling tears, but whether the greater of them flowed from grief or smoke, he could not be certain.

What could he do?

Suddenly he was on the plain. It had been so long since he had seen it that he scarcely recognized it at first. It was dark and dim, and for a moment he struggled to find his balance as nausea wracked him.

“Manners!” he called.

“Lord Goodman?”

The voice that answered him was frail. His pale face looked afraid in the darkness. Then he saw Eamon.

“Lord Goodman!”

“I'm here, Manners,” Eamon answered. As he spoke, the young man stopped, a look of awe and surprise on his face. He stared at Eamon speechlessly.

“Manners?” Eamon asked.

“What should I call you, sir?” Manners breathed.

It was then that Eamon realized that on the plain he was dressed not in the black robes of a Right Hand, but in sapphire splendour.

Eamon matched his gaze. “Manners,” he began.

“Am I dying?” Manners asked him.

“Yes.” Terror ran across the man's face. “You are dying, Manners, and though I have it in me, I cannot save you.”

Manners steeled his face and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. Suddenly he gave a cry of pain and staggered down to his knees. Eamon was at his side at once. There were tears on his face.

Surely he could do something!

Suddenly he remembered the strange half sleep under which Mathaiah had been borne to Dunthruik and understood that Manners could walk there until Hughan came, if he would trust the King.

He looked earnestly into the fading face before him. “Manners, whom do you serve?”

“I…” Manners' face twisted in shattering pain. “I serve the Master… No! I… the Lord of Dunthruik…”

Eamon reached out and seized Manners' hands. “Do you remember what you once said to me?” he cried. “You told me that you served the one I serve.
Do you remember?
”

Manners shook his head violently. “You are the Right Hand. You serve the Lord of….”

Suddenly Manners' eyes shone clear and he fixed Eamon with soulful determination.

“You serve the King,” he said.

Eamon did not have time to feel joy. “I cannot heal you,” he whispered, “but the King can and will, if you will wait for him. Will you wait for him?”

“How can I wait for him?” Manners asked.

“You must wait with all your heart and all your strength: he will save you.”

“But – I'm – dying…”

There was a crash in the darkness about them. Eamon's eyes opened and he stared at the port; he swore. Another building shattered beneath the bulk of the flames; Eamon shielded the lieutenant's body as smoking rubble rained down on them. The air filled with screams and yells.

Eamon looked urgently down at the lieutenant again. Manners' breath was shallow and he struggled to open his eyes.

“Sir? Sir, I can't see you!”

Eamon pressed his hand. “I am with you. Do you trust me, and the one who sent me?”

For a long time the lieutenant did not answer. Then, against all the power of Eamon's despair, the young man found the strength to nod his head.

Eamon leaned his face down close by Manners' ear. “By the King's grace, be granted strength and life to wait for him,” he whispered.

The roar of the port was all around him. Manners drew a deep breath and fell still.

Eamon looked anxiously at the young man's face. His own hands trembled as he drew them away and rubbed at his blackened eyes.

“Surgeon!” he called.

One of the Gauntlet surgeons hurried to him. “My lord?”

Eamon gestured to Manners. The surgeon knelt down for a
moment and searched for vital signs. “Alive, my lord,” he answered, “but weak.”

“Transfer him to the West Quarter infirmary,” said another voice – Captain Waite's. The man's face was grey and sweaty.

“Yes, sir,” the surgeon answered.

Eamon rose and looked around again. Many of the quay fires had been extinguished, though the ships and water-slicks still burned. Beyond the harbour walls the tips of masts flew blue flags. He stared at them.

How had Hughan gathered a fleet?

As Manners was borne away by the surgeons, Eamon looked at the obliterated port, pale stone, and charred bodies. They filled him with uncomprehending grief. Slowly, he looked across at Waite.

“What is this?” he breathed.

The captain grimly met his gaze. “It is the beginning, my lord.”

The mood was sombre in the chamber where the Quarter Hands awaited admittance to the throne. The day waned heavily. When the doorkeeper bade them to follow him, they entered in silence.

The Master sat calmly in his towering throne. The Quarter Hands knelt before him, Eamon at their head. The formation was unbalanced without the Lord of the North Quarter.

“Rise. Tell me what happened, son of Eben.” There was an oddly eager note to his voice.

It should have been the task of the port master to give the report. But Dehelt was dead.

“The Serpent's vessel was flying a Giblirian flag,” Eamon began. “It was thought to be stopping to resupply. Just after dawn, the cog ran up the Serpent's flag and moved to block the port mouth. There were other craft at sea, beyond the north and south walls; they launched boulders into the harbour and destroyed several smaller river holks. They put snakes onto the walls; the snakes set fire to half the ships in the port and destroyed many of the quayside buildings. They poured slick into the water and set it alight. The cog blocking the harbour destroyed several others. There was a battle on the walls, after which the snakes retreated.

“We lost a dozen galley defenders and fifteen others, another dozen civilians, and up to sixty men with the sinking of your warship,
The Eagle's Wing
, to say nothing of those lost on the merchant vessels nearest the harbour mouth.” Their allies' cogs had taken the most severe losses; Eamon paused to drive images of sinking ships from his mind. “We also lost Lord Dehelt,” he said quietly, “and
yesterday's quarter stores, which were yet to be delivered, as well as a cargo of wines and wood going to Etraia. The enemy's craft have remained in our waters, blocking entry to or exit from the harbour. The River ferry has also been destroyed.”

There was a moment of silence as Eamon's report echoed in the long hall.

“Repair the ships,” the Master said. He sounded unperturbed by what he had heard. “Clear the blockages. Send word to Etraia and her allies; she is to send a force to break the Serpent's obstructions. He shall not harry our mouth.”

Eamon bowed but Arlaith stepped forward.

“It will not be easy, Master, to send word to Etraia,” he said.

The throned eyed him critically. “Speak.”

“The movers… can no longer move.”

The revelation shocked Eamon. How could that be?

The Master did not seem concerned. “Send the Gauntlet,” he commanded.

“I had done so, but Gauntlet patrols with duties beyond the walls have begun returning in haste to the city,” Arlaith explained. “There have been heavy losses to several divisions, and groups of land-workers have been stranded outside the walls.”

There was a moment of quiet. “With what force were they so attacked?” the Master asked.

“Survivors were unclear of the nature or numbers of the attack, Master,” Arlaith answered. “The last groups spoke of an ambush of unprecedented force.” He paused. “The Serpent does not simply glide in our waters and at our mouth, Master; he is on the plains,” he said. “There he conceals his numbers with ease.”

Eamon thought of the land beyond the city walls, the buildings and forest, the vineyards, orchards, and olive groves to either side of the East Road. There was a whole host of places where the wayfarers could hide.

“Then you will discover them,” the Master told him firmly. “Send the Hands at dawn.”

Arlaith bowed. “Yes, Master.”

The throned turned to Eamon. “Eben's son, you will assume the North. I have no wish to lose time in choosing another falcon.”

Eamon bowed his head. “Yes, Master.”

“Lord Tramist, what does the south wall see?”

“Little, Master,” Tramist answered.

“The Serpent will go to the South Bank,” the Master told him. “See him when he does.”

“Yes, Master.”

The Master smiled at them. “He comes,” he said, and laughed. It sent a chill down Eamon's spine.

The throned dismissed them, commanding their return on the following day with news. This put grim looks on all their faces, but on Arlaith's in particular – he hurried swiftly away. As they left the throne room, Eamon walked alongside Tramist.

“Lord Goodman,” the Quarter Hand greeted him formally.

“Lord Tramist,” Eamon answered, equally rigid.

“It was you who found Dehelt?” the Hand asked, then added with a sneer, “Or what remained of him?”

Eamon rounded on him. “That is no way to speak of him.”

“Forgive me, Lord Goodman,” Tramist answered. “I repeat only what has been told, which is to say that he came to a grisly end.”

“He was a lord of Dunthruik,” Eamon retorted, aggrieved.

“Whence this anger, Lord Goodman?” Tramist asked with odd interest. “Dehelt died in the Master's service. Surely that does not upset you?” His eyes took on a shrewd glint.

Eamon met his gaze. “Lord Dehelt was a loyal servant who did not deserve death. That grieves and angers me.”

“I hear that one of Captain Waite's lieutenants was badly injured this morning?” Tramist continued.

“Many men were hurt.”

“This lieutenant was near death, as I understand, and yet he lives.”

“He is still near death,” Eamon answered. “As are others that the surgeons saved.”

“A surgeon saw to him?” Tramist turned to him with a look of surprise that swiftly became insincere. “That was not what I heard.”

They had reached the palace entrance. Tramist paused before bowing low to him. “I take my leave,” he said, and mounted his horse to return to the south.

Eamon watched him go.

 

Eamon returned wearily to his own chambers. Though it was late, Captain Longroad of the North Quarter was sent to him. The man was pale, nervous, and evidently daunted by the quarters of the Right Hand. Eamon went through an amount of paperwork with him, giving authorization to various orders. For a moment, as he pressed his seal down into the wax before him, he could have been back in the East Quarter. But when he raised the ring he saw no owl, and when he looked up, the face before him did not belong to Anderas.

He thanked the captain and dismissed him. Then he summoned Cartwright. The servant came at once.

“My lord?”

“Did Madam Ilenia return home safely?”

“Yes, my lord,” Cartwright answered. “She asked me to convey her thanks to you once again.”

Eamon smiled ruefully. “Thank you. Would you send word for a light meal? Breakfast feels as though it was a very long time ago.”

“Of course.” Cartwright bowed and left the room.

Eamon sighed and leaned back heavily in his chair, allowing his head to loll back. The wooden wings of the Right Hand's eagle curved about his head.

It had begun. He rolled images of the morning through his mind. Hughan had blockaded Dunthruik. The King was coming. As he sat in the depths of his study, that idea somehow filled him with fear.

You will have to give account of yourself, son of Eben. You know what you have done.

Eamon closed his eyes. “I have served him,” he murmured.

And if the Serpent claims this city?
The voice crawled through his skin.
In victory he will have no further use for you. You are tainted, son of Eben. There is no place for you beneath his banner. There can be no place for those whose blood is mine. In victory he will renounce you and cast you out, as you deserve.
The voice laughed and Eamon shuddered.
Where will you go then, son of Eben?

Eamon tried to draw himself together, but the voice's hissings taunted him. He was the Right Hand. Surely Hughan would have no choice but to send him away?

His hands began to shake on the desk. He tried to steady them. It was too early to think of victory, or defeat, or of long lonely roads into darkness. He trusted Hughan. Why should he fear a man whom he trusted?

Cartwright returned with some food for him. Eamon thanked him as the servant nervously laid it down.

“Is something the matter, Mr Cartwright?”

After a moment's hesitation, Cartwright nodded. “There's rumour in the house, my lord.”

“What kind of rumour?”

“That the Serpent has come, to break the city walls and devour us.” The man sounded truly afraid.

Eamon's own fears fled and he looked at his servant with pity. “Do not be afraid, Mr Cartwright,” he said gently. “He will not.”

Cartwright watched him for a moment in silence then, at Eamon's nod, left him to his meal.

 

The following day Eamon was in his study, deep in thought, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come.”

Fletcher entered and bowed low. “My lord, you asked to be advised when Lord Arlaith's patrol returned.”

“Yes. Where is he now?”

“He is on his way to see the Master.”

“I will go and see him.”

Eamon hurried through the palace towards the throne room. It was as he was passing through the main hall that he encountered Arlaith. Eamon soon caught up with the Left Hand's hurried steps.

“Lord Arlaith.”

Arlaith looked up. “Lord Goodman,” he greeted.

“Is there any news?”

Arlaith looked at him sourly. “Do I look like a man bearing news, Lord Goodman?” he growled.

“How would you prefer me to answer?” Eamon asked. “Truthfully or tactfully?”

“I may choose?”

“Yes.”

Arlaith looked at him oddly then managed a small laugh. “You are a strange man, Lord Goodman.”

“I am glad that I humour you.”

“Not as glad as I,” Arlaith replied.

They met Febian and Tramist on the way to the throne room and went together to kneel before the Master. He bade them rise, then summoned Eamon to his side.

“What sees the South, Lord Tramist?” the Master asked.

“Men out of the Land of the Seven Sons,” Tramist replied grimly. “Now that we have no ferry the Easters are building an enormous pontoon over the River. In a day most of it has been erected; by tomorrow morning the South will see a complete bridge.” He paused. “Master,” he said, “there is an army camped behind it.”

The throned nodded. The news did not seem to trouble him. “Lord Febian?”

“Repairs have begun on your ships, Master,” Febian answered, “but work is slow. Slower still are our attempts to clear the slick, which still burns. Messengers have been dispatched to Etraia; at least three that we know of have already been waylaid by the Serpent.”

“Work more swiftly, Lord Febian,” the throned told him. “And send more messengers.”

Febian shuddered beneath his address. “Yes, Master.”

At last, the throned turned to Arlaith. “I will have your news, Lord Arlaith.”

“I dispatched two dozen Hands this morning, Master,” Arlaith answered. “Eight returned.”

A pause. “I said that I would have news,” the throned said quietly. Eamon repressed the urge to shiver.

“The plains are pocked with mounted men that harry any who attempt to pass. My Hands were met by archers, many out of the east.”

Eamon remembered the thundering charge of the mounted archers at Pinewood. The Hands were the closest thing that the River Realm had to such men, but it seemed clear to Eamon that the Hands were too few, and perhaps too little skilled, to match the Easters. It was little wonder that Hands had been lost.

“Did you break their line and learn their number?” The Master's voice was almost polite in its enquiry. Both Right Hand and Left knew its truer nature.

“No, Master.”

“Then why have you returned to me?” Arlaith bowed his head but could not answer. “You will take the Hands,” the Master told him, “and you will press the lines again.”

Arlaith looked up angrily. “Master –”

“You would defy me?”

Arlaith stilled. “No, Master.”

“Master,” Eamon interrupted boldly.

The throned turned to him. “What would you, son of Eben?”

“Lord Arlaith's concern is for the lives of your servants,” Eamon told him. “It is no defiance to show concern for those who glorify you.”

The throned laughed and turned with whimsical triumph to Arlaith. “Do you see, Left Hand, what kind of a man has supplanted you?”

Arlaith looked grey. “Yes, Master.”

“Had I sent the son of Eben to survey the lines in your place, think you not that he would have returned with news of all the Serpent's strength?”

“Yes, Master,” Arlaith returned. Eamon saw an odd glint in his eye as he spoke.

“You will press the lines and you will tell me their strength,” the throned returned. “You will do it yourself. Go.”

“Your glory, Master.”

Arlaith bowed low and turned to leave. The other Hands went with him. Eamon made to follow them but the Master's voice soon stopped him.

“Son of Eben.”

Eamon looked back to the Master. The grey eyes chilled him. He was held captive by that glance until the Hands had left the hall. Then he was held in silence.

“How may I serve you, Master?” Eamon asked at last.

“An evening ago you had a guest, Eben's son. Did you spend a pleasant night?” The throned's smile flickered with the curve of a voyeur. Eamon swallowed back a sickened feeling, and bowed.

“Thank you, Master,” he answered. “I did.”

“Pity is a vile and creeping virtue, son of Eben.” Suddenly the smile was gone and the Master's voice was on him like a heavy blow, grinding him to dust. “Do not intercede for Arlaith.”

Eamon bowed low again. “Yes, Master.”

“Go. See that he does as I have commanded.”

 

Eamon went that afternoon to the Blind Gate. The city streets were awash with Gauntlet and with noise, for the attack on the port had struck hard. Eamon saw fear in the faces he met and knew it to be in the people's hearts also: the Serpent had come and ringed the city, by land and sea.