Chapter 26

Sir Givens saw the Red Guard attacking the shop. He pointed it out to Gillen and they assembled what was left of their forces quickly. He and Gillen took the front, Leeza Molinare between them. Tea Mulver and Fafs Druble aligned themselves behind the first line, staggered so they could reach between the people on the front line. Bremer fell in behind the second line and Dakin Oovert, trying valiantly to ignore the wounds in his legs, fell in behind her.

Bremer notched and shot arrows as quickly as she could, but her skill with the bow wasn’t as seasoned as Teran’s had been. Although she scored several hits, one of which might even prove fatal, she missed more than she hit. Still, she continued firing arrows until they were too close to continue.

The Irregulars had been trained in teams, five people to a team, four teams to a squad, just as the regular Red Guard had been. On the way to the shop, Arlade had re-organized the teams where necessary to fill in for fallen comrades; in training, the teams were often switched around, people moving fluidly from one team to another, for just such an eventuality. With sixty-odd Irregulars left mobile of the five score he’d brought to Wenland, he had three full squads and a handful of spares with him.

As they moved across the Norso Road, he had two of his teams peel off to meet the oncoming knights and the other foolish warriors. He didn’t care about either group at all, the Irregulars or the knights, other than to keep them occupied and away from the smithy; he needed just long enough to find the princess and spirit her away. It was the only goal his master had given him, so he didn’t care if no one else but she and he survived. Given a preference, he’d prefer to see all of the people in this town – knights and warriors included – tortured to death but as long as he escaped with the princess the mortality rate was immaterial.

The teams were trained to be mobile, constantly moving to keep their prey guessing. The ten Reds worked well together. They attacked the eight in waves, each team member moving in varying-sized, intertwining circles. At no time was one of the Irregulars in attack position for a particular person for more than a few moments. Their circles meant they’d attack two or three times, depending on the size of the circle and the speed they were moving. It was a dizzying display the Red Guard had perfected; they preferred stealth and guerilla attacks but had also trained for direct, prolonged battles in non-standard ways.

Leeza Molinare was the first to fall. The way the Reds attacked was like nothing she’d ever seen or trained for. She’d begin to attack one only to have them spin away while another attacked, sometimes from the same direction as the one who retreated and sometimes from the opposite direction. It was maddening because she felt she was always defending, never actually attacking. In frustration, she’d tried to follow one of the retreating attackers only to fall to another attacker’s sword in her side, thrust up underneath the edge of her chain mail.

Tergin and Gillen were not much better. They’d never fought an enemy like this, never seen this highly stylized, amazingly effective method of combat. However, the two were seasoned and had learned to be patient. They played defense, waiting for a pattern to emerge or one of the attackers to make a mistake.

When Molinare fell, Mulver and Druble moved forward to take her place. This tightened the line but also managed to guard the sides between Sir Givens and Honor Hawksley. The two were not as well trained as Molinare and certainly not as patient as Tergin and Gillen – but their lack of training actually changed the dynamic of the fight ... until the Reds adjusted, their circles changing in both speed, size and direction. It pushed the four back, shortening the distance between them and Bremer.

Bremer had an arrow notched but no one to shoot at; the complexity of circles the Reds were moving in had her baffled. She’d already missed several times and she was running out of arrows. Rather than waste more, she waited for an opportunity where the probability of hitting her target was highest.

Ironically, Oovert was the next to fall. He had moved forward of Bremer a step, waiting for an opportunity to strike between the members of the front line. He never saw the slim, pointed dagger thrown by one of the circling Reds. It embedded itself in his upper chest, where the bottom of his mail coif had ridden up above the opening of his mail shirt. The wound was far up so possibly not fatal – but the man wouldn’t be able to fight anymore. He crashed to the ground, his hand grabbing at the knife protruding from his chest.

The Red had paused a moment to throw the blade, however. It was more than enough time for Bremer to act. The man looked down at the arrow suddenly protruding from his chest as he fell, lifeless, to the ground.

Arlade strode into the blacksmith’s shop, a team left outside to guard his back. The expression on his face didn’t change as he noted the two dead Irregulars lying at the outer doorway. Their loss didn’t affect his plans; at least, not yet. “Clear away our dead; just in case.”

He carefully picked his way across the ruined shop, shelves toppled and their wares scattered, towards the sound of metal on metal. He was surprised his Irregulars hadn’t finished off the defenders by now. He was even more surprised when he stood up on a square box to see over his troops and realized the group of forty or more Irregulars he was watching were being held at bay by only two men – and one of them wasn’t even a knight.

It was madness, the open area was nearly completely filled with his troops, pressing and pushing, trying to move forward only to be held at bay by two men? There were more fucking Irregulars than there was room to stand. He had troops standing on the fringe, beyond the forge area, watching and waiting.

He stepped through the doorway angrily, pushing his own troops out of the way. It was blindingly obvious the princess wasn’t in this room – but no one was even bothering to search for her. Of course, where was there to search? He saw the door on the side and started pushing his way in that direction, only to stop and shake his head; no, if she were in the living area, the two would be guarding it. She was here, somewhere – but she was hidden. The question became where.

He snarled in frustration. He’d have to end this to get an answer to the riddle – which meant keeping at least one of the two warriors alive. He’d have to do it quickly, before his eager troops killed both of the men – if they were able. Perhaps he hadn’t trained them well enough; he made a sarcastic mental note to include ‘fighting with overwhelming odds’ in future training.

He pushed his way to the front, only a single line between him and his prey. He was disgusted at the stack of bodies on the ground, even more disgusted when he realized there were more than the three he could make out; some of the Irregulars were pulling their fallen comrades away so they didn’t impede the fight.

Biting back a sarcastic comment, he looked carefully at the Blue Knight and the hammer-wielding man in chain mail. It was obvious the knight had training and would be the harder of the two to subdue. The mail-clothed man was sloppy but the knight was surprisingly fast; he was quick to block and fill any gaps the hammer-wielding man left open. He had to grudgingly admit the two were a good team. He paused, debating for a moment which one to attack; the Blue Knight would be the more impressive victory but was also the greater risk. He’d have to go after the other.

He pushed his troops clear, creating a decent path, then stood and watched the man’s hammer. He gauged the speed with which the mail-armored warrior swung. He timed himself carefully, waiting for the swing to just start before taking two quick, running steps forward. He jumped, using his hands to strike the shoulders of one of the four Irregulars being held at bay by the wild swings of the hammer.

Using his own men as vaults, he launched himself over them feet first. His feet made contact with the face of the man in mail, pushing the man back and arresting Arlade’s forward movement. As the mail-shirted man stumbled, the weight of the hammer he’d swung pulling him slightly off balance, Arlade let himself fall, slapping the ground hard with his hands to break his downward momentum. He immediately brought his knees to his chest and kicked, aiming his feet at one of the man’s legs at the knee. He heard a satisfying crunch and the mail-shirted man howled as he fell.

In one quick motion, Arlade drew his short sword and rolled on top of the man, lifting the bottom of the man’s mail coif, exposing his neck. His free hand let the chain mail fall, going to the man’s forehead and holding it down, his short sword pressed into the man’s neck.

“I think that will be quite enough,” Arlade said loudly, using the blade just enough to break the skin so it would bleed. “Irregulars! Step back. Give the knight room.”

It happened so fast, it took Yren a few seconds to figure out what was occurring. He heard the voice and glanced over, noticing Ardt was down, one of the Red Guard astride his chest. The Reds fighting him stopped suddenly and stepped back, leaving Yren looking around in confusion.

It was the soft flow of blood at Ardt’s neck which captured his attention. He took in the blade at Ardt’s neck, blood trickling from under it.

“Drop your swords or I’ll kill this man,” Arlade smiled, his voice light and airy.

Yren didn’t move, couldn’t move. Everything was happening so fast. He just looked from Ardt to the man astride him back to the men and women he’d been fighting not moments before.

“Ah, well,” Arlade sighed. “If it has to be that way.” He made an exaggerated motion, preparing to kill the man in chain mail.

“No!” Yren cried loudly. Then, softer, “I’ll drop my weapons.”

“Don’t do it, boy!” Ardt called, his face set. Even from this distance, though, Yren could see the pain in his eyes. “He’ll kill me anyway.”

“What a horrible thing to say!” Arlade answered innocently. “That’s scandalous! It’s as if you think I enjoy this kind of thing – all this killing and fighting. I’m so misunderstood!” He shook his head, the hand holding the sword deathly still. “I assure you, I do not relish bloodshed.” He looked over at Yren. “I will, however, do it – as much as I’d hate to.”

‘Hatred’ and ‘Rage’ clattered from Yren’s numb fingers to the ground. He readied himself. He knew he could fall to the ground and grab the swords. He might not be able to make it back up – but Sir Givens had trained him for that eventuality as well. He’d likely die – but he’d take as many of them with him as he could.

“Better,” Arlade laughed, easing the pressure of the blade at the hammer-wielding warrior’s neck. “Much better.”

He rolled up to his feet, looking at the two closest members of the Irregulars. “Well? What are you waiting for? Help this man to his feet. He’s fought hard and valiantly; there’s no need to be ogres about it.”

He turned to look at Yren speculatively, his mouth frowning. “This one, though, I worry about.” He nodded his head at two more members of the Reds. “Calvert. Ornard. Please hold our new friend, there. I’m not sure I trust him just yet.”

As his men moved into position, Arlade looked down speculatively at the swords Yren had dropped. His face was closed, his brows knit. “I must say, I’ve never seen black swords before.” He looked up. “Is it an impurity of some kind?”

“No,” Yren said tightly, Calvert and Ornard taking his arms.

“So, they’re supposed to look that way?” Arlade said conversationally. He looked down at the swords, holding his hands out towards them as if they were a fire and he desired warmth. “It’s so strange. It’s as if I could feel power in them of some kind.” He shook his head and looked back at the man he’d started calling the Blue Knight. “Who spelled them?”

“Spelled?” Yren asked, tightening his arms slightly and looking around. “They’re not spelled. They’re just swords. I made them.”

“You?” Arlade asked with his eyebrows raised. “You’re a blacksmith? Is this your shop?”

“Mine,” Ardt grunted.

Arlade looked over at the man, then back at the knight. His smile widened as understanding blossomed. “I see. Related, are we? I should have guessed it when you gave up so easily. I honestly thought I was going to have to spill his blood.”

He looked down at the swords. “It’s impossible, I know – it would take decades to spell either of these swords, if you could even find the spell – but ... there’s something there.” He dropped his hands and looked inquisitively at Yren. “They are metal, aren’t they?”

“Gaussteel,” Yren replied.

Arlade’s face grew puzzled, looking from the swords to Yren and back. “Gaussteel is still a metal. Maybe the kern makes them susceptible?” He muttered to himself. Finally, he shook his head. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take them back with me to study.” His brow creased. “Your armor, too. From a distance, I thought it was just an affectation of some kind – like you’d colored the armor so you could be the ‘Blue Knight’ or whatever. But now that I’m close to it ... Dagah take me, I can feel something coming off of it. Something ... strange.”

He shook his head, as if banishing the thought. “Well, we’ll have to revisit this conversation a bit later. So much to do, so little time and all that. For now, I’m afraid I have a few questions.” He sighed theatrically. “They’re more along the lines of ‘life and death’ questions, I’m afraid.” He held up his hands and shook his head. “You must understand, I don’t really want to be here but someone had to do it and...,” he shrugged, “I was, unfortunately, otherwise unoccupied.”

The green-clothed man smiled at the two for a beat before beginning.

“So, where is the princess?” Arlade sniffed off-handedly.

“What princess?” Yren intoned quietly.

Arlade blew out a breath. “Now, see, you’re doing this all wrong,” Arlade sighed. “What you should have done is acknowledged the princess had been around here since we obviously know she’s at least been through this dunghole. You could’ve said something convincing like – oh, I don’t know – she left or passed through or whatever.” He smiled. “Consider it free advice; when you lie, always add a smidgen of truth – it makes the lie so much easier to swallow.”