Blood and Gold

  *

  The crowd roared up ahead, a sound made half of rage and half of fear. Suddenly people were fighting to get back past Japh and Athar, turning the street into a mass of heaving flesh. A smallish man just to Japh’s side stumbled, flailed a hand to snatch at his stirrup, and when he missed fell headlong on the cobbles. The throng trampled right over him. Japh doubted their wild eyes even saw him before he was crushed.

  “This is hopeless!” Athar bellowed over the din. He had moved his shield from its place by his saddle so it rode on his back, and couldn’t catch in the struggling mass all around. “We’re never going to get out this way!”

  “Got to try!” Japh yelled back. They could have reached out and touched fingers, but still the two men could barely hear each other’s shouts. “The Commander has to be told!”

  Athar grimaced. That was the nub of it, all right: if Calesh wasn’t warned, then Elizur Mandein might be able to walk right up and slide a knife into his ribs before the Commander knew there was a threat. The Justified always denied they employed assassins, but everyone knew they did, and that they were good. Mandein was unusual in that his name was known, mostly because he’d won the sword tournament in Caileve a few years ago. You had to be brilliant even to be allowed to enter that contest, and winning it made Mandein more than merely good. He was a genius, and if he got close to Calesh he would certainly kill him.

  Japh wondered who had sent the letter from the Basilica. Obviously someone had a spy there, or at least a sympathiser, and an active one at that: this wasn’t even the first time a warning had been sent. Calesh Saissan had brought the Hand home in response to another. Japh had no idea who it might be, and he didn’t suppose it was important. A cleaner could overhear plans being laid as easily as an Arch-Prelate could lay them. What mattered was that the warning had been sent: the thing to do now was make use of it.

  Easier said than done.

  “By my heart and eyes!” Athar swore. He pulled his belt knife and cracked the hilt down on the head of the man trying to drag him from the saddle. The man staggered and let go, hands going to where blood already darkened his hair, and then he went down in the crush. Japh thought he heard the beginnings of a shriek. He swallowed and looked away.

  “Turn around!” Athar shouted to him. “For God’s sake, Japh, we have to find another way out. We’ll be lucky to stay in our saddles here, and if we do, we’ll only find ourselves facing whatever it is this lot are running from. And we both know what that is.”

  Japh hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. The crowd was fleeing from All-Church soldiers, of course. Smoke already rose from buildings close to the northern and eastern walls, evidence that some of the Crusading force had broken through the walls and was inside the town. There was no escape from Parrien that way. Japh looked over his shoulder, towards the west gate, and wondered if the All-Church had reached that far yet.

  “The harbour!” Athar called. “It’s our only chance now.”

  “I really hope you can handle a boat,” Japh retorted. He’d never reefed a sail in his life, and wasn’t even sure what it meant for that matter, but he knew the other man was right. The gates were all blocked now, and would lead only into the All-Church army anyway. The sea was the only way out. If the wind stayed down they might even manage to take it.

  Athar pulled at the reins and his horse reared on its hind legs, front hooves flailing as the crowd scattered in renewed fear. That gave him room to turn the animal in a circle barely larger than its own length. As a gap opened on his right Japh turned too, though his gelding was clumsier than Athar’s mare and needed more space. Athar had already spurred forward and Japh fell in behind him, trying to stay close so the throng couldn’t press in and separate them. They forced their way down the middle of the street, towards a small plaza where the crush would be less, at least for a time. Someone grabbed for Japh’s stirrup and he lashed out with one foot, landing a blow to the man’s head that sent him crashing to the street.

  “He was trying not to fall!” a woman cried, right beside the gelding. “He was just trying not to fall!”

  Japh grimaced and looked away, sick at himself, and so he saw the man who seemed to spring out of the crowd and drive a wickedly curved dagger into the throat of Athar’s horse.

  The mare screamed and reared on her hind legs again, fighting the air with her hooves. Athar kicked his feet free and sprang back out of the saddle. His sword flashed as he drew it. Japh was still staring, frozen with disbelief, as Athar landed and swung his blade.

  The blow spun the dagger-man around in a fountain of blood, an ugly red gash laid under the line of his beard. It was only then that Japh saw his coat: white with a cross of gold, the colours of the Order of the Basilica. The invaders had come this far already then, slipping into the town amid the chaos at the gates. Probably they’d concealed their uniforms until they were inside, but Athar hadn’t done so and they’d known the black and white of the Hand for what it was. Japh grappled for his sword but his gelding danced back from the dying horse, snorting in fear at the blood, and he was forced to grab the reins again to control it.

  Athar rammed one shoulder into the dying Shaveling and sent him flying into a second white-coated soldier, and then whirled his sword in a wide circle around himself. Both Church troops fell. A third Church soldier jumped to avoid his falling comrades and took Athar’s sword in his shoulder, staining his snowy tabard with a splash of crimson.

  The crowd scrambled away from them all, tumbling over each other in their haste to get away, and somewhere glass shattered. Beyond the fight some people had started to clamber up the side of a building to escape the killing crush below. Athar’s mare gave a final kick and then lay still.

  “Go!” Athar shouted to Japh. Three more Shavelings were emerging from the press of bodies, and more pushed up behind them. Athar swung his kite-shaped shield onto his arm and went into a battle crouch, feet apart and knees bent. “Get the message through!”

  “I can’t leave you!” Japh drew his sword: it felt heavy and awkward in his shaking hand. “Get up behind me, and we’ll leave together!”

  “Just move!” Athar bellowed. He parried a thrust from a Shaveling and took a second on his shield. The next man darted in from the right, forcing Athar to jump back. He struck as he leapt though, slashing a neat line in the man’s surcoat. “In the name of God, Japh, go!”

  Men in white and gold were pouring into the street, and Japh went. The crowd around him roared, trying to squeeze itself into alleys and doorways that couldn’t possibly take their numbers. It opened a gap into which Japh sent his gelding at the run, ramming his sword back into the scabbard. He flung a glance over his shoulder and saw Athar barrel into his assailants and throw them back, but more were coming up to encircle him now. Japh swallowed and turned his eyes forward again. He didn’t want to see Athar die.

  His headlong progress lasted until he reached a narrower street, packed from side to side with townsfolk. Looking over them from his saddle Japh could see at least three fights going on, one of them between a woman and two much bigger men. She was keeping them back with snarling spitfire bravery, but they would overwhelm her in the end, and there was absolutely nothing Japh could do to help her. She was too far away, with too many heaving bodies in the way. And he had more important matters to attend to, much as it stabbed his conscience to admit it. Calesh had to be warned, or more than one woman would die.

  He’d been going the wrong way, he realised, fleeing without thought of his direction. He looked quickly around and then wheeled the gelding towards the harbour - and stopped dead when he saw a regiment of Justified pouring into the street to his left, the white crosses on their shields vivid against the crimson background.

  Japh wasn’t wearing the colours of the Hand, but he was an armed man on a horse, and the All-Church men sent up a jubilant shout as they spotted him. Most had swords already drawn, and blood had splashed in intricate spatters on the metal and their surcoats. The All-Chur
ch had not hesitated to start the killing. Japh didn’t wait to see more. He leaned low over his horse’s neck and clapped his heels into its flanks, going to a dead gallop in three strides and back out into the wide avenue, where he might be able to slip away.

  He had covered less than fifty yards when an arrow slashed through the air above his head. It wasn’t really close but he did hear the hiss as it passed, and tried to lie still lower over the plunging horse. A moment later the gelding gave a queer snort and simply collapsed, sprawling belly-down on the cobbles with its legs flung out like compass points. Japh had an instant of warning from that grunt, and remembering what Athar had done earlier he pulled his feet clear and leapt instinctively out of the saddle.

  He misjudged the jump, and came down half atop the skidding horse. His ankle buckled with a sickening snap and Japh cried out as he fell over on his back, sliding away from the animal. He fetched up against stone coping with a thump that rattled his teeth, driving his scabbard into his knees. The impact didn’t hurt him any worse though. He hauled himself upright, trying to stand mostly on one foot, and looked back down the street.

  The gelding was still trying to get up, but there were two red-fletched arrows in its neck, as close as a pair of fingers. Beyond it the Justified soldiers had fanned out across the street and were trotting towards Japh, not hurrying any more now they were sure their prey couldn’t escape. They were right, too. Japh’s ankle throbbed, and when he put weight on it his vision swam. He drew his sword clumsily. One of the soldiers laughed.

  Looking around desperately for a way out, Japh realised that the coping he’d hit was actually a step. A moment later he raised his eyes and saw he was at the foot of the steps to the Cathedral. It was one of the largest and finest All-Church buildings outside Coristos, or so people said. A thousand people at a time could worship under the corbelled vaults of its roof. Barely a quarter as many came these days, at least for services, but today citizens swarmed around the walls and heavy doors with their hands raised in supplication, pleading for entry. Some held infants up, or pounded on the thick stone walls, but the doors were closed and they stayed that way. Japh wondered how many people had already sought sanctuary inside. He wondered if any of them would find it.

  Not there, he thought. Not in a place of the All-Church, because their faith is flawed, and the Saviour they worship as an aspect of God himself was just a man, as mortal and imperfect as any of us.

  He sighed and turned back to the approaching Justified. With some shuffling of his feet he managed to gain something close to the stance Amand had shown him a week ago, though with the weight off his bad foot. One of the soldiers laughed a second time.

  “Boy,” a heavily bearded man near the centre of the line said, “you might stab yourself with that pig-sticker, but you won’t stab me. Why don’t you put it down and come with us?”

  “Why don’t you eat my shit?” Japh said. His sweaty hands slipped on the hilt. There was no time to wipe them.

  The bearded man scowled. He came forward in a rush, easily ducking under Japh’s first swing and thrusting his blade straight ahead. It was an easy move, the first one Japh had been taught, and by then he was no longer there. He twisted away from the thrust and slashed downwards, trying to take the man’s arm off at the shoulder. Bones ground together in his ankle and he cried out, his blow skidding off the man’s bicep and away. The soldier stepped back with an oath. Two more men joined him and he gestured them back.

  “I’ll give you to the priests, boy,” he growled. Blood welled gently through the gash in his shirt, where Japh had cut him. “When they get their pincers and irons hot you’ll beg to be allowed to confess to whatever they ask. But first,” he hefted the sword, “I’m going to cut slivers off you until you shriek like a woman. I don’t reckon it’ll take long.”

  He started forward. While he spoke Japh had kept his weight on his good foot, easing the bad ankle as best he could, but it wasn’t going to be enough. I should never have joined the Hand of the Lord, he thought, and then grinned despite himself. It was crazy, but he didn’t regret it. There were heroes in the Hand, just as there was salvation in true belief. Some things you just had to do. He tightened his grip on the sword hilt.

  When the man came Japh didn’t even try to dodge. He couldn’t anyway; his ankle had swollen now to twice its proper size. He hop-stepped forward, ignoring the blade that swung for his middle, and drove his sword straight ahead without even an attempt at defence. The bearded man realised what he was doing and started to cry out, but then the sword went into his chest, right over the heart. At the same time pain flashed white-hot in Japh’s side and he fell, the sword tumbling from nerveless fingers. It hurt so much he couldn’t even cry out. His vision went grey. He heard a thump beside him and knew the bearded man had fallen too.

  There was a hollow boom, far away but clear over the noise of the crowd. Japh tried to raise his head to see what it was, but then something slid into him from behind, and everything fled away.