The Conqueror (23 page)

The screams of wounded and dying men
pierced his consciousness and all was a scene of
confusion.

His face and hands were wet with
something slippery.

“
Lowren! Lowren! To me! To
me!”

“
Here, sire!”

“
At your back, sire! Keep
going! Sire. Keep going.”

His men were with him now, and the
small number of troops defending this part of the wall were either
dead, running, or heading for the guard towers and their stout
doors. Bodies on the ground below attested either to their sheer
panic or the fact that his men had simply thrown them
headlong...

Lowren grabbed for the nearest man, the
trooper’s chest heaving with the exertion.

“
There’s no one to our
left—have our troops locate the next ship to the right. We must
link up and concentrate, right here.”

“
Yes, sire!” The man, a
soldier vaguely familiar from training and parades, from the short
but intense voyage itself, stepped over a half-dozen bodies, none
of which were their own men and hurried off along the walkway,
taking half a dozen men with him.

One or two of him men had been cut but
looked capable of moving forwards. A fellow soldier was already
dressing the forearm of another with clean cotton rags brought for
just such a purpose.

“
The rest of
you.”

“
Sire!”

They all shouted at once.

Several had bloody swords and the rest
looked eager enough.

“
I need two men with axes.”
These had been issued to the stronger lads, especially those that
knew how to use them.

Two of the group hurriedly sheathed
their wet red swords and yanked the cords that held the axes to
their shoulders.

“
Sire!”

“
Yes, sire! Here we
are!”

“
Take the door off that
guard room and be quick about it.”

If the enemy hadn’t fled, if the enemy
had any idea of what they were doing, if they had any kind of a
serjeant in that guardroom, at any moment a flurry of crossbow
quarrels would come flying out of the upper galleries. Not so much
this tower, for they were at the top of the wall already, and there
was no one on the parapet, which was twelve feet above their heads.
It was those other towers, the ones studding an inner line of
walls, one with a road separating them all around the perimeter of
the city that concerned him.

A simple steel helmet and a coat of
mail were no match for bows or crossbows, especially at such close
range. It couldn’t be more than fifty yards.

The ringing of axes barely made a dent
in the great roar, as of a rushing of winds coming from the harbor.
The alien noise, if anything, would add to the confusion, and
running soldiers were a notoriously contagious sight. It would take
the few enemy troops that escaped some time to regroup and even
report. It wouldn’t take long, but he had a half a minute. Lowren
strode over to the nearest gap in the crenellations and had a look
out there.

While the ships nearest the city and
its seawall were still not involved, and with prompt action they
might be saved, Lowren saw that all the fire ships and their
immediate victims were fully engulfed. The lurid glare illuminated
the small rowing boats as their crews made their exit. His
impression was that all or most had gotten away, but it was
impossible to properly count them. The excitement might have
something to do with that.

The flames were coming up higher than
the tallest tower of the lower level of fortifications. Even as the
thought came, one ship in particular sent up a spectacular shower
of sparks as a cargo of oil or bitumen took hold and the fire
really set to with a will.

The wind was still north-westerly, but
the ships of Sinopus and other neutral powers weren’t targets
anyway. The less damage there, the better.

The high inner walls and the towers
overlooking this position must soon become a factor. He must get
his men off the top of this wall. He strode back to encourage the
men at the tower door, being very careful not to be clipped by a
wildly swinging axe.

“
Keep going.” They could
already see a bit of light through there.

If nothing else, the idiots should have
doused any lights inside.

“
Here’s a bar,
sire.”

Lowren took the seven-foot bar and
yelled at the axe-men to stand back.

A man threw his axe aside, and it fell
clanging onto the roof tiles of shops and houses down
below.

“
Let me do it
sire—”

Lowren handed him the crowbar, and with
a lunge, the man embedded the point into a smashed bit of white
wood beside the latch.

“
I’ll give you ten gold
pieces if you can...”

The door scrunched and went swinging
wildly to the left and the axe-man there jumped back, half pulling
his sword out of the scabbard.

The man with the bar was standing there
with a look on his face.

“
Sire.”

“
Make it twenty—how
tall
are
you,
anyways?”

The man just laughed.

“
We’ll worry about that
later, sire.” The fellow reached out and gave the King a pat on the
bicep.

He and his partner were in the door
before even Lowren could think of some suitably-witty
remark.

He followed, quick as a wink, but the
quiet in there and the sight of their sides and backs, as they had
their ears up against the opposite door, told its own
story.

“
That one just goes out the
other side.” The next guard tower was half a bow-shot
away.

“
It seems terribly quiet
out there.” The shorter one pointed at a heavy door on the inner or
city side. “There’s the stairs over there, sire.”

“
Where’s the tower
party?’

They were right there, six
solidly-built young men clad in the most comprehensive armor that
Windermere and the Heloi could provide. They each had a small but
powerful crossbow, quivers of bolts on their hips, and short swords
at their sides. More than anything, they knew how to shoot on the
fly and when to go for the eyeballs.

“
Sire! Tower party all
present and accounted-for. Give us the word, sire!”

“
All right lads, down you
go.”

One of the axe-men lifted the bolt from
its cradle, yanked open the door and stood aside. The next phase
began with shouts and the clank and clamor of swords, shields and
men in armor. They crashed without hesitation down the circular
stairway just as fast as they could go. Next came the two axe-men,
one looking a bit sheepish when he realized he had thrown his axe
away in his excitement.

Lowren gave him a look and indicated
the door.

“
Sorry, sire.”

“
You’ll know better next
time. Back up your partner and let’s get on with it—”

The sounds of the fire in the harbor
dropped off, but even then it didn’t completely go away.

With another twenty or thirty men
following down the stairs in single file, Lowren and the tower
party continued their attack.

If everything went according to
plan—and it never did exactly that, approximately thirty-six
hundred of the Khan’s finest troops were around there somewhere. In
all likelihood they were spilling out of their barracks and billets
and making their way at top speed, right for this very
spot.

As for the people of Sinopus, now that
the alarm had been given—and he could clearly hear the bells of the
city ringing madly on the other side of those stone walls,
hopefully they would quickly figure out which side they were
on.

Otherwise, Lowren and his own little
band would be looking at a very long day.

Chapter
Seventeen

They had borrowed the Great Hall of
Assembly, dedicated to the municipal government of Sinopus and its
narrow hinterland. Lowren would have preferred a much smaller
group, but they could hardly ignore the indignant shouts of the
people of Sinopus, either.

He’d never seen so many people in his
entire life, not all at one time, not all under one roof that is.
Maybe on a field of battle somewhere, but this was a mob. The noise
was horrendous. It was an impressive place. He’d never seen
anything like it. Although Eleanora’s city was beautiful, it was
much smaller and there were no buildings like this one. The walls
were polished slabs of a shiny black stone, and the ceiling a
hundred feet high with generous clerestory windows on all
sides.

King Lowren, Princess Theodelinda and
Barreth, Admiral and commander of the Heloian contingent, sat
impassively behind a polished maple slab in high-backed wing chairs
embroidered in the arms of Sinopus. Behind each chair stood a
magistrate of the small but bustling state, clad in the blue robe
of their office. They would give whatever happened here today a
legal sanction, and draw up any documents required. They would
ultimately be putting their names on there too, but to the victors
belonged the spoils, and the honors, of war.

At least they were getting their city
back, and it didn’t pay to be too pushy or too smug
sometimes.

For the moment, they weren’t exactly
supplicants, neither were they fully in control—not yet.

Some of their suggestions as to
protocols had been accepted, and for that they must be
grateful.

There was some symbolism
involved.

A few days had gone by, and the men
still holding out in the citadel had been given an
offer.

They’d also had a little time to think
on it; surrender with honor or fight to the last man.

Lowren wore a gilt breastplate, an
ancient relic from one of his father’s wars, his habitual kilt, a
white shirt, and a dark green cloak thrown back from his shoulders.
For this occasion he wore the sturdy sandals of an everyday
trooper. He wore no helmet. His hair was combed out and squeaky
clean after a good hot Sinopean steam-bath. The king was properly
shaven as was his wont. His sword lay on the table in front of them
by prior agreement amongst themselves. He had been the first on the
battlements and the plan was essentially his.

The diminutive Admiral
Barreth, with his short grey beard and emphatic manner, wore a
purple robe of state over his naval uniform. He was a
parliamentarian and a counselor
in his
spare time
as he put it, and Theo wore
polished chain-mail from head to toe, with her long hands bare and
without a weapon. She wore golden spurs, which Lowren thought was a
nice touch. One could sense the fine hand of her cousin in there
somewhere, almost as if she were present herself.

In the exact centre of the table were a
carafe of water in a crystalline decanter and a circle of clean
glasses upside down on the tray all around it. There were the usual
papers and quills and inkpots common to all such affairs, albeit
seldom used. There were bouquets of flowers set on benches behind
them, screening them to some extent from view of the men there.
They were of symbolic value. In Lowren’s experience, people could
get quite thirsty under such circumstances. He had seen men doodle
and otherwise make small but useless notes at the negotiating
table, desperately playing for time when it had long since run
out.

The longer the siege, the thirstier
people got, as it seemed to him. No, it was the mob of unwashed
humanity that was different this time. They surrounded the little
party on three sides, going up in tiers of elevated seating. In his
own lands, or on his own battlefield rather, he never would have
allowed it, as such events tended towards hot passions. Things
could rapidly get out of hand just when they could have been
resolved. The mob could be terribly fickle. Lowren had lost a few
battles, none really badly, and had eventually settled every war he
had ever been in—to the relative satisfaction of all parties
concerned. It would be this way with the Horde, he was convinced.
They were here to stay, but then so was he—and so were his new
allies. The Horde would learn that lesson, just as they all must.
Just as Lowren himself must have had, as he reflected on matters at
hand, and it reflected no credit on him to humble a man already
defeated.

We must have learned that somewhere,
and let us hope the Khan does as well.

Hence the ceremonial aspect of all of
this...if it wasn’t for kings and philosophers, the world would
never have gotten this far.

It was something his father
had once told him. Appearances
were
important, he had reluctantly concluded, once upon
a time. Never more so than with kings.

There was a flat central area with an
aisle up the middle directly in front of the table.

They had row upon row of
desks, more like pews really. They came in short blocks so people
could come and go. It was a representative assembly. There were
curving little bench seats attached to the desks. The seats were
all occupied, in fact it was jammed. The people were mostly leaning
forward to catch the action. The faces were beaming, still showing
fury or emotion. Some were just curious, but none were reflecting
the calm impassivity of the conquerors. There were all ages, and
sexes, and conditions of life represented here and Lowren could see
the value in it, for Sinope was what they called a
democracy.