The Lady's Man (42 page)

“The guards hit him with a cannon eventually. They'd wheeled one into place behind him while he was laughing, and they fired it at him from thirty feet away. It did nothing. The shot ran right through him as though he wasn't there. All the attack did was to make him laugh some more. And then he melted the cannon and the guards who had fired it into the stone floor. He did the same to those who attacked him with crossbows or ran at him with spears. There was nothing we could do. His magic was simply too powerful.”

“And so he carried on. For twenty minutes, maybe more. He killed hundreds, perhaps thousands like that. And the only reason he stopped was because he grew tired of it.

“Then, when he was done laughing he told us that he'd had enough. He announced it as if it was some important proclamation that everyone should hear. He said he was bored.”

Genivere wanted to say something then. To say perhaps that at least he had given up before everyone was killed. But she said nothing because she knew there was more to come. Something even more terrible. So she kept quiet and let the captain simply ask him to continue.

“He brought the roof down.”

For the first time the dwarf was quiet, almost whispering the words at them. As if he didn't to say them. As if saying them out loud might make them real.

“Pardon?”

“He brought the roof down you vapid moon calf!” The dwarf snapped at her, his voice suddenly louder than ever.

“He reached up with his magic into the mountain above us and started sending blasts of whatever foul sorcery it is that he has into it. Three hundred, four hundred feet above us he shattered stone as though it was fine crystal.”

“Rocks the size of houses began tumbling everywhere, crashing down on us. And where they hit they crushed whoever was beneath them, before cracking into pieces that shot off in all directions and killed anyone else that was nearby.”

“Buildings, our great stone castles were no challenge to them. They were crushed. Houses, shops, halls even our castle. They simply collapsed as the rocks smashed into them. Nothing could survive that. And even those who had taken shelter in them were in danger.”

“So we ran. We couldn't stop him. We couldn't touch him. We couldn't hide from him. And we couldn't reason with him – he just laughed uproariously as these huge stones began destroying our world. His arms were raised high above his head, he was smiling from ear to ear like a foul human drunk on mead, and he looked as though he was about to burst into song. Despite the fact that he was bringing the rocks down upon himself as well. But of course they couldn't hurt him. When one landed on him he simply walked out from its remains as if he were only a ghost and carried on.”

“So we ran like frightened mice before the cat, dragging the wounded and the young and weak with us, and behind us our home of a thousand years was destroyed. Buried beneath the mountain it was carved into. Those that could escape ran. He was too amused watching the rest of us die that he didn't care if a few of us escaped.”

“And then?” The captain prodded him gently.

“Then I don't know. Ten, twenty thousand of us made it outside to the safety of the open blue sky. The destruction carried on behind us and we could see nothing of what was inside. Tens of thousands more surely made it down into the safety of the deep tunnels and distant chasms. Many more were surely still working in the mines. They are being dug out even now but we have no thought as to how many that may be.”

“But of the wizard, nothing. He did not appear again. He did not leave the city – at least not by the gate.”

“We should have killed him.” Finally the anger had gone and the pain had returned as the dwarf looked to the ground, almost whispering. “We should have torn his heart out.”

“But you could not Master Belabas,” Genivere said gently. “He was beyond your power. There is no shame in not being able to defeat a greater enemy.”

Though she was trying to bring the dwarf comfort her words only succeeded in making the dwarf angry.

“Not then green fool!” He snapped at her. “When he first came among us. Before he was a thane. We should have beheaded him there and then. He was a criminal and a coward then and we owed him nothing. He was human after all. Being hunted by those human knights. Many then said we should kill him. Others said we should just send him away. Everyone knew he would bring trouble to us. But a few soft hearted women said we should care for him. He was wounded and bleeding. He’d been chased by the sylph and their puppets the Iron Hand to the limits of his flesh. And we have no love of those winged vermin.”

“But the soft hearts prevailed and he stayed with us. For three long days, he ate our food, drank our ale, and did nothing to earn his keep. And for their kindness he killed a woman. He had his way with her as soon as he was strong enough and then killed her so that she could not speak. After that he fled.”

“We should have killed him! We should have hunted him down and beheaded him! But instead we saved him. And we have paid for that kindness ever since!”

“Now Iron Deep is gone. Destroyed. Our kith and kin are dead. And our clan is homeless. All because we let one foul human live.”

There was silence after that. No one knew what to say, and the dwarf clearly didn't want to speak. He just took another swig from his flask and stared moodily into the distance. But there was one question that they all knew had to be asked, and finally Genivere worked up the resolve to ask it.

“If he was with you before he became this thing, then you must know his name.”

“Oh aye green eyes. I know his name. Every dwarf from here to Broken Ridge knows his name. It is cursed in the halls of the Ore Breaker Kings themselves. And it is sent across all the great realms as the enemy of our people.”

“It is Mayfall.”

Of course it was. Genivere had expected the name even before it had sprung from his lips. It was the only thing that made sense. But it didn't make a lot. The wisdom of the Mother herself could not have told her what a thane was or how he had become one. But then the Mother did not deal in knowledge. She dealt in understanding. In life. Not dried up, dead words.

And what was to be understood was clear. The wizard held grudges. He had held a grudge for Yorik so he had come for him and killed him. He had held a grudge for the dwarves of Iron Deep and so he had done the same. He was on a mission of vengeance. And she had no idea where else his vengeance might take him now that he had murdered two enemies. Eventually she worked up the courage to ask.

“Hammeral,” Master Belabas replied. “He heads to Hammeral. He said those elves and the humans in their golden armour have tried to fight him. And he grows tired of their arrogance. He shouted it to the city as he was bringing death down upon it. He laughed and said that what he would do to the elves there would be a thousand times more terrible than what he did to us. He said we were lucky.”

Genivere's blood had run cold at the mention of the name, and fear claimed her. Her home was to be attacked by this creature! And there was nothing they could do. Not against Mayfall. She stared at the others as they stared back at her, all of them knowing the same horror. And then they all stood as one and started packing up their gear and stowing it into the makeshift bags they had crafted as fast as they could. It was night, never the time for riding, and they had only five horses between them. But they had to ride. Besides their mission was already at an end. If Iron Deep was destroyed than the stone was too. Or at least buried under so much rock that no one could consult it. And they had their answers anyway.

“What in all the hells are you doing pointy ears?” Belabas called out to them.

“Riding for home dwarf. We are from Hammeral.”

The captain answered him directly, but she did not waste a heartbeat turning round to stare at him as she did so. There wasn't a heartbeat to waste.

“You're too late elf. Mayfall came upon us eight days ago. And given his power I do not think it would have taken him eight days to arrive in Hammeral. I don't think it would have taken him eight hours.”

“Sweet Mother!” Genivere barely whispered the prayer as she packed and she didn't let it slow her down in her work. Not even a heartbeat. But she knew then by the dwarf's words and the terrible feeling of doom in her guts that it didn't matter. If Mayfall truly had been intent on attacking Hammeral the attack was already over. But she like the others still knew the terrible need to hurry. To warn the people if they could.

Or maybe – though it was a thought too terrible to admit – to bury their loved ones.

Chapter Thirty.

Doverion was quiet. More quiet than usual, which was strange since the people were preparing for war with the undead. But that was a good thing. It gave a man time to think.

Sir Renwick wanted to think. He needed to think. His mission had been hard. The Count's men had proven a surprisingly effective fighting force, and as a paladin alone had found himself in some tight situations. Still he had won through, a score of highly trained knights had fallen to his blade, and the Count's head had been severed from his shoulders. The client had paid his account to the Order in full and all was right with the world. Once more the Iron Hand had triumphed.

But for the first time he had felt his age starting to creep up on him. Just a trace of it. Not enough to really slow him down or weaken his arm. But enough to remind him that he was human by the aches and pains that beset him after a battle. It was a hint that his best days were behind him and there weren't so many ahead. In the Iron Hand a man did not live beyond his useful years. Only his name survived.

But that was as it should be. He did not want to become a doddering old wreck unable to lift a sword. He wanted to live and die in glory. And before that death finally happened Renwick wanted his name to become known far and wide. He wanted it to be spoken of in awe down the generations. And he had only a few years left to him to see that that happened. He needed to win some major battles soon.

For the moment though he just needed to recover. To find the peace within himself as he healed properly. And as he prepared himself for his next mission, whatever it might be.

As part of his normal routine he liked to sit out on the battlements of the Order in the early morning, staring out over the city and surveying it, knowing that much of it belonged to him and his brothers. Many of those little people going about their business in the cool of the morning were in fact little more than servants. Their servants, though most of them didn't realise it. One day they all would be. Doverion would be theirs, the capital of New Vineland, and the rest of the six cities would follow. And after that the other human realms would follow. That was the Order's dream and it was his as well. One day the Order would rule openly, and he would be remembered as one of the greatest among them.

As long as he managed to stay alive long enough to make his name legend, and that meant continuing to defeat his enemies.

Renwick wasn't like his companions in the Order. They seldom understood the value of survival. But he was smarter than them. Probably because he was older than them. Then again maybe the reason he had survived more battles and lived longer was because he was smarter than the others. It could be both. Still, he had survived more battles and killed more opponents than the others and that was what counted. And over the years as he had continued to live and defeat his enemies he had discovered that there was very great value in strategy. In working out how to defeat his opponents before the battle. That was why he had lived so long, something unusual in the Order of the Iron Hand.

Few had taken to the lessons in magic as he had either. But he had understood clearly that magic was a weapon every bit as useful as the great sword he carried. The deal the Order had made with the sylph had been a good one. But not all had embraced their new tutors. And some had paid the price for that.

News had arrived in Doverion only weeks before of Sir Cavutos' defeat at the hands of Sir Yorik. Not that his loss was of any importance. His companion had been an arrogant and annoying brother of steel. Always bristling for a fight and never thinking of how to win it. He was the very epitome of the Order. A fool who would always rush into battle without thought and then boast of his victories at the top of his lungs. His death in some ways was a good thing. Renwick could only imagine that his brothers in the Ender's Fall chapter would be enjoying the peace his absence brought them. And though he had been a capable brother in arms his name would not be spoken down the centuries.

Still Cavutos had been a powerful paladin. His skill with the blade had been unsurpassed, and even if he hated studying, his magic had been strong. The word of his defeat had come as a shock. But word of the manner of his defeat had been more shocking. According to the reports they had – which were fewer than they should be because the victor had released all his servants – Sir Yorik had bested him at every stage of the battle. Superior with his skills with the blade. Superior speed, strength and stamina. Superior tactics. Superior magic. He had toyed with him. And then he had cut him in half.

The news had not gone down well. Sir Yorik had been a minor enemy at best. His fame was not so great. And in fact the worth of the Order of the Lady as opponents to test their blades on was minimal. Cavutos had only challenged him because he had thought to gain an easy victory and to add another paladin to his long list of victories.

Now Cavutos was dead and Sir Yorik was seen as a powerful enemy and there were calls from the entire Order for him to be hunted down and killed. Calls for him as one of the strongest to challenge him. It wasn't that Cavutos had been liked. It was that his defeat was a mark of shame on the Order of the Iron Hand.

For the first time in his life though, Renwick wasn't sure that he wanted to fight the man. It wasn't that he was frightened. It was just that he did not want to lose. Not before he had made his name echo down the halls of eternity. And especially not to an enemy that was barely a paladin. He also didn't know how the man could have been so dangerous. The two boys – novitiates on their first mission – who had returned to their chapter house alone had been able to tell them little. Only that he had bested Sir Cavutos in every way. With contemptuous ease. That was annoying. It was also a problem because if he was to face Sir Yorik he first needed to know how to defeat him. That was the secret to surviving as many battles as he had – knowledge.

For the moment though it wasn't an issue. The Order of the Lady had left New Vineland and headed into the elven realm of Hammeral, taking Sir Yorik with them. Why they'd gone he didn't know, and he didn't care. It was said to be something to do with the undead attacks, but he doubted that. It was more likely some sort of mystical ceremony they didn't tell outsiders about. The other orders were all followers and he despised them for that weakness. They didn't have the strength to be their own men. To take their destiny in their own hands. None of them would ever have lasted a day in the Iron Hand.

Strangely, the other orders had vanished too – again he didn't know why. It wasn't a huge change. The members of the Order of the Just and the Order of Kyla were normally not found in the city. They spent most of their days out in the wider world, riding and fighting for whatever worthless causes they supported. The chapter houses usually had only a few servants keeping them in order and a few students and teachers. But now their chapter houses had been completely emptied as they rode to protect those who should not be protected or take revenge on those who had done nothing wrong except to kill the unworthy. That was unusual. But the news out there was dire and perhaps they had a lot of people who needed their calling.

As for the Silver Order, it did not have chapter houses within the cities anyway. They abhorred such things. They were a simpler order. They liked smaller houses far away from the bustle of the cities. And they did not make good enemies either. The magic of their accursed patron was incredibly powerful, and the paladins were less men at arms and more priests. There wasn't much honour in fighting priests, even those in armour.

Still, that left the city less well defended than normal at a time when the undead were waging war on them. There were currently ten thousand city guards and soldiers on patrol and only one chapter of paladins. Admittedly those one hundred and sixty paladins were probably a more powerful fighting force than the other ten thousand put together, but still no one knew how many undead there actually were. Even the Iron Hand could be overrun.

That however, was a worry for another day. For the moment as he sat on the rampart of the chapter's wall, looking down on the city and the little people beginning their day, Renwick was at peace. He didn't hate them, nor even dislike them. He didn't think enough of them to have such feelings for them. They were all simply worthless people out there who did not have the strength or the will to seize what was rightfully theirs if they could but hold it. But they could be useful. In another half hour the serfs would have breakfast ready and after that he could begin his day. A day worthy of a man.

A morning spent in the training ground, practising with his blades and training the students. Only one in ten of them would make it to become a brother. The rest would die in the arena, but he would be merciless with all of them. By the time the morning had ended the students would be in agony and exhausted. He would see to that. Whether they lived or died his task was to make them the most capable warriors he could and that required as much brutality as he could find. After all, the stronger the ones that died were, the stronger the few that survived would be.

In the afternoon there was the business of the Order to attend to. To decide on properties to be purchased, tally up the weekly profits, oversee the collection of rents, analyse any new contracts for killings and decide who should undertake them, and of course the usual mercenary work to arrange. That was the problem with the Order growing so greatly in power and wealth – it meant that there was so much menial work to attend to. The more powerful they became, the more decisions had to be made.

Finally in the evening there was the distasteful to attend to. The meting out of the punishments to those who had transgressed – and there were always a few who failed to live up to the strict code of the Iron Hand. Students and novitiates who weren't doing well enough at their studies. The occasional brother who had forgotten where his loyalties lay. It was strange how many seemed to forget that as they tried to keep some of their earnings to themselves instead of giving it all to the Order. Some would be whipped, some beaten, some tortured and some killed depending on the nature of their failure.

Even though this was supposedly a time of rest for him since he had returned from his last mission, he was one of the most senior of the brothers in the house and these duties fell to him. His days were long and hard. But that was as it was meant to be and he would not fail to do his duty. Not this day and not any other.

It was as he was thinking on his coming day that Renwick first heard the commotion coming from the gate to their keep. The sound of raised voices and weapons being drawn. That was enough to tell him that something was wrong and to persuade him to draw his own weapon as he hurried toward the gate, wondering what it could possibly be. The Order was always quiet save for the sounds of weapons on weapons. People did not raise their voices. Not here. Not in this most holy of places.

When he ran down the ramp from the battlement to reach the front gate, he was certain it was even more wrong.

There was a man standing inside the gate though he had not heard it being slid open. And he always heard it open; the iron wheels rumbled loudly in their tracks with the weight of the iron gate on them. So how had he got in? And why did he look so relaxed when the two novitiates placed on guard duty were shouting at him? Pointing swords at him? And it was not as if those on guard duty were students – they knew how to use their weapons.

“What is going on here? Who are you stranger and why are you in this house?”

Renwick approached the man directly – his blade once more in its scabbard since the man looked harmless enough – but his hand ready. The man did not look dangerous – actually he looked like some sort of merchant in his fineries – but he intended to be sure. Others were coming too, pouring out of the keep where they'd no doubt been waiting for breakfast. One way or another the man would be leaving shortly.

“Mayfall. Who are you tin man?”

The man's disrespect grated on Renwick’s nerves as perhaps he intended. The novitiates looked like they wanted to attack him simply for his insolence. But Renwick knew there was more to the man than he could see. The man was still completely unconcerned by his presence and that was wrong.

“I am Sir Renwick, and more than that a churl like you does not need to know. State your business now or die.”

“My business? I have to admire that about you warrior knights. Always direct. My business is you. Your miserable Order. And I'm here to kill you all. Does that tell you what you need to know?”

The man's face suddenly grew a smile that chilled Renwick's blood. He could see no way at all that the man could carry out his threat, but he didn't like it. Of course he could never show doubt.