Redemption (Book 6) (26 page)

“With Lord Blackstone dead,” Tomas continued as he reloaded his hand crossbow, “there’s no one in charge of Redemption.”

Kendril glanced at Tomas, then back at the sergeant. “I don’t have time for games, sergeant. What’s your point?”

The sergeant came to attention. “My point is this, sir. With Lord Blackstone dead, and you the general of the militia, that would put you as next in charge.”

Kendril closed his eyes. “Oh, Eru,” he breathed.

The sergeant glanced awkwardly at Kendril and Tomas. “Yes, sir. That would make you acting mayor of Redemption. And governor of the colony.”

“Well,” said Tomas with a sardonic smile, “you’re certainly rising quickly in the world, aren’t you?”

Kendril looked away for a moment. “Fine,” he said shortly. “It doesn’t change anything.” He looked back at the sergeant. “Get your men down to the waterfront. Get things there under control, and try to organize an orderly evacuation.”

The sergeant saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Tomas stepped forward and lowered his voice. “What about us?”

Kendril turned his gaze on the palisade wall of the town. “We still need to mount a defense fast, or else I won’t be acting governor of
anything
.”

Chapter 15

“This is insanity.” Joseph pushed himself back against the wall of one of the warehouses along the shoreline. “Everyone else is trying to get
out
of this town.”

Kara pulled the hood of her cloak further down over her head. The rain was pounding down relentlessly from the night sky, tossed in fierce waves by the blowing wind. She was already drenched. To be fair, though, she had spent the last few days perpetually drenched in rain and sea water. Right about now a fire would be nice.

On the boardwalk by the nearby docks a man started bellowing loudly. Two men armed with glaives rushed down the gangplanks, blowing whistles over the roar of the crowd and falling rain. A loud splash came from the harbor as a man threw himself in the water, swimming wildly to reach one of the anchored ships in the bay.

There were people everywhere. Young, old, men and women. Some were armed. Most had bags and packs. Two men by the causeway carried a large steamer trunk between them. Somewhere a donkey brayed, followed by the sharp barking of two or three dogs.

“Kara,” said Joseph, “we’ll never find Kendril in all this. Assuming he’s even here at all.”

The redheaded girl swallowed, her eyes moving over the crowded shoreline. “He needs our help.” The words sounded unconvincing, even to her. “We should move up the hill into the town.”

Joseph pulled up the collar of his greatcoat. He was soaked through as well. “Talk about the wrong time to visit,” he mumbled. He looked up the stretch of boardwalk and docks towards the covered causeway that led up the hill. “Getting up there’s going to be challenge. Take a look.”

Kara glanced around Joseph.

The narrow causeway, protected on both sides by high palisade wall, ran up from the beach to the town on top of the hill. It was packed with a mass of streaming refugees, all pouring down onto the short stretch of beach and boardwalk.

“We’ll be fighting against the flow the whole way up,” Joseph said. He adjusted his hat against the cold wind. Rain dripped steadily from the edge of the brim. “Ugh, does it feel like the ground is pitching up and down to you? My stomach is still churning.”

Kara stared at the one path up to the town. Joseph was right. Trying to get past the fleeing mass of humanity was going to be difficult at best. She looked up at Joseph. “Look, Joseph, you’ve gotten me this far.” She glanced out at the bay and the crowded docks. “This was my vision, not yours. I understand that. If you want to—” her voice caught as she tried to say the words. “I mean, there’s still time to—”

Joseph gave her a hard look. “You really don’t know me well at all, do you Kara?”

Kara felt a sudden pang. She put a hand on Joseph’s arm. “I
do
know you. I know that you’ve followed me halfway across Zanthora and asked nothing in return.”

Joseph looked away.

“This is something I have to do,” Kara said. “And I know it will be dangerous. I just don’t know what the end of it will be.”

“Well then,” said Joseph firmly, “we’ll have to find out together, won’t we?” He took Kara’s hand and led her out onto the crowded boardwalk. “Let’s start by finding Kendril.”

“But where do we start?” Kara said, raising her voice as they moved out into the noise and press of refugees.

“Kendril’s never too difficult to find,” Joseph said over his shoulder. “Look for the thickest, most dangerous part of any fight, and he’s bound to be there.”

Kendril rode into the central square of Redemption. In the clear space was a large group of horsemen. The mounts were blowing and stamping in the puddle-strewn ground. The riders shivered in the driving rain and whipping wind.

“Sir!” Beckett rode up, his customary grin on his face. “Good to see you, sir.” He jerked a thumb back at the cavalry behind him. “This is all I could gather together at short notice, sir. There’ll be more coming later, especially after dawn.”

Kendril looked over the assembled riders with a frown.

There had to be less than fifty, not even half of the full mounted troop. Most of the riders wore little or no armor. While most had civilian swords or rapiers, few had pistols. One or two riders even had large hunting muskets slung over their shoulders.

“Where’s Root?” Kendril said abruptly.

“Here, my lord.” Root rode up. He somehow managed to look dignified and calm, despite the driving rainstorm that was soaking all of them. “There are at least a couple hundred more militiamen on foot.” He nodded back towards the edge of the square, where a group of farmers, tanners, and hunters were huddled against the sides of nearby buildings to get out of the wind and rain.

Kendril struggled to make out the shapes of the men in the near-darkness of the square. “Weapons?”

Root gave a sad shake of his head. “Not good, sir. A mishmash of things. Some have only a pitchfork or axe. Most have at least a sword, though. We have several matchlocks and a few flintlocks, but this blasted storm will make things doubly difficult.”

Kendril cursed under his breath. He swung around in his saddle to look again at the eastern sky.

Beckett cleared his throat. Rain plinked off his coonskin cap. “More men will come. Just give it time, sir—”

“
Ashes
, Beckett, we don’t have any time.” Kendril wiped rain off the grill of the lobster helmet he wore. He stared back at the shape of the palisade wall. “Colonel Root.”

The man straightened in his saddle. “Aye, sir.”

“I’m putting you in charge of Redemption’s defenses until we get back. Man the walls as best you can. Fortify them if you have time, but don’t let anyone wander far from the walls.”

Root nodded. “I’ll start with the eastern gate, sir.”

Kendril paused. “If we don’t come back, then I want you to hold the walls as long as you can.” He swept an arm over the buildings clustered in the direction of the eastern gate. “Once the Jombards are through, fall back into the houses and buildings. Make them pay for every street.”

“Yes, sir,” said Root in a solemn voice.

Kendril stuck out a hand. “It’s been an honor, Colonel.”

Root reached over his mount’s head and took the hand in a brief shake. “That it has, sir.”

Kendril turned his head back around to Beckett. “Get the troopers formed and ready to ride, Beckett. We’re punching through to Stockade.”

Beckett actually grinned. “Looking forward to it, sir.” He swung his horse around and rode back to the waiting riders.

Another man came trotting up to Kendril, riding a sorry-looking pony.

Kendril struggled to make out the face of the approaching rider in the darkness and falling rain.

“Sir!” It was Wilkes. He pulled up just behind Kendril. “It’s good to see you, sir. I knew that prison couldn’t hold you.” He patted a basket hilt rapier at his side. “I’m ready to go, sir.”

Kendril glanced down at the sword. “Your father’s?”

Wilkes lifted his head. “It’s mine now, sir.”

Kendril pulled his horse around. “You know how to use it?”

Wilkes put a hand on the hilt of the weapon. “I can swing it just fine, sir.”

“Wilkes,” Kendril said in a quiet voice, “this will be a bloody ride. It’s war and death outside those walls.”

“I’m ready, sir.” His voice sounded a bit too strident.

“I’m putting you with Root’s men,” Kendril said in the same low tone. “He’s going to need help with—”

“No!” Wilkes blurted. “I mean...please, no sir.” He looked back at the riders. “This is my home, sir. I can fight for it, too. I can ride.”

Kendril was silent for a long moment. A flash of lightning lit the sky over the ocean.

“Please, sir,” Wilkes said again. “I want to fight by your side. Don’t make me stay behind.”

Thunder rumbled off to the northwest.

Kendril finally gave a slow, almost sad nod. “All right, Wilkes. You’re with me.”

The boy gave an eager salute. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

Beckett trotted back over again. “The men are ready to ride, sir. Just give the word.”

“All right, then.” Kendril turned the head of his mount towards the eastern gate. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Let’s head out.”

The road to Stockade was still packed with refugees. Broken down wagons, discarded furniture and chests, and even a few dead animals clogged the muddy road.

Most of the fleeing people got quickly out of the way as Beckett’s cavalry troop came thundering down the road. Even still many of the troopers had to ride in the fields to either side of the road to avoid the mass of refugees.

Kendril led from the front, blinking rain out of his eyes as he rode. He instinctively kept one hand on the hilt of his rapier. With the drenching downpour his flintlock pistols would be unreliable at best. It certainly wouldn’t pay to keep the waterproof holsters uncovered for long.

“This way, sir,” Beckett shouted to Kendril. He pointed across an open field at a nearby ridge. “We can cut cross-country and come up to Stockade from the south.”

Kendril gave a nod. With the road so clogged the going had been painfully slow. He was willing to try a different approach. “All right, Captain. Have the men—”

A face appeared suddenly among the line of fleeing people. A woman, pale skin, dark hair.

Bronwyn.

Kendril blinked, his thoughts completely interrupted. He searched the train of refugees, but the familiar face was gone, vanished as soon as it had appeared.

“Sir?” said Beckett with a raised eyebrow. “Everything all right?”

Kendril rubbed the top of his wounded leg. He was seeing things, his eyes playing tricks on him. “I’m fine, Captain.” He looked out across the field. “Let’s go. The sooner we make Stockade, the better.”

Beckett gave a terse nod. “Aye sir.” He swung around and signaled to the other troopers.

Kendril peered into the crowd of fleeing people one last time, lingering doubts still shadowing his mind. Then he turned his horse and followed Beckett across the field.

It was a muddy, uneven go, but at least here there was room to spread out and maneuver. The fifty troopers quickly formed into a line, pounding across the field towards the far ridgeline.

Ahead the skyline glowed with the fire that was enveloping farmhouses and settlements. Kendril could only pray that those flames didn’t already include Stockade.

They kept riding hard. The hot breath of the horses steamed out into the cold air. The rain continued its steady, relentless drumbeat.

“Almost there, sir,” Beckett called out.

The troopers began to ascend the long ridgeline. They passed an abandoned farmhouse. Ahead the sky glowed even more red and angry than before.

The top of the ridgeline came closer. Over the sound of the shrieking wind and pattering rain came what sounded like voices, wailing and shouting.

And gunfire.

Kendril spurred his horse on faster. Wilkes was making pace right beside him. On the other side Beckett rode with an unusually grim look on his face.

They reached the top of the ridgeline. Kendril pulled up his horse, and held up his hand to halt the other troopers.

The panting, sweaty horses came to a halt in a ragged line.

Beckett stared through the rain and darkness towards the north. “Great Eru in Pelos,” he whispered.

The palisade walls of Stockade were just visible in the distance, crowning the top of a wide hill. Flashes of gunfire sparkled from its battlements like enraged fireflies. Around the fortress was a seething mass of Jombard barbarians.

There were thousands of them.

Kendril glanced over at Wilkes.

The boy’s face was white in the darkness, his eyes wide.

A flash of cannon fire came from near the main gate of Stockade. A second or two later the roar of the shot came crashing over the fields.

Horns sounded in the night air. Over the chill wind came the sound of chanting voices intermixed with wailing and screaming.

Harnathu...Harnathu...Harnathu...

“There’s too many of them,” one of the troopers said with gasp. “Too bloody many.”

A murmur of agreement swept through the uneven ranks of the riders.

Kendril swung his horse around, looking at the dark line of horsemen. “We’re not going to attack them,” he said in a loud voice. “We’re going to punch through their lines.”

Another rider, a gray-haired tanner with a floppy hat on his head, spat into the mud of the field. “Begging your pardon, General, but there’s only fifty of us.”

Kendril flipped open the face grill of his lobster helmet. Rain dripped down onto his mud-splattered face. He looked from left to right across the row of men.

Another cannon shot sounded from the fort. The wailing increased. Something howled in a high, unearthly tone.

“Werewolves!” one of the riders cried out. “Did you hear? There’s more of them!”

Kendril scowled. “A werewolf bleeds just like a man. I’ve killed two of them with my own hand.”