The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (65 page)

“Help, here, now!” Temar bellowed, looking up and down the Graceway.

A juggler came running, several masqueraders behind him. He raised a hand and in utter disbelief I saw him throw a heavy-weighted club with unerring aim. It hit the Sieur’s coachman smack in the forehead, sending the man falling backwards like a poleaxed pig. The footman had very nearly got to the horses’ bridles but this sudden disturbance sent them into a renewed frenzy, tossing their heads out of his reach.

“Ware behind!” Seeing a glint of steel in an oncoming masquerader’s hand, I yelled a frantic warning. Dragging Camarl out of the wreckage, I could do nothing but watch appalled as the masquerader ran the helpless footman clean through. Heedless of his anguished cries, I dumped Esquire Camarl in a doorway.

“Temar! They’re coming for us!” I caught up the juggler’s treacherous club with one hand, grabbed Messire with the other, and shoved him behind me into the meagre shelter of the doorposts.

Temar had already got the measure of our situation, snatching up a broken scaffolding pole and bringing it round to sweep the feet out from beneath a masquerader rushing him with murderous intent. Another charged at me, live steel shining through the paint that covered his sword. I barely evaded the deceitful blade as I sidestepped his thrust, smashing the weighted club full into his face. The blow was hard enough to split his thin wooden mask clean in two. He fell back, clutching a smashed nose, blood gushing between his fingers. I snatched his sword away and drew a killing stroke backhanded across his guts, sending him on his way with a kick to one thigh.

Temar had scavenged a sword from somewhere too. He backed towards me, the blade held low and dangerous. As he did so, Halcarion threw us a little luck and the onward rush of the masqueraders was scattered by the horses charging headlong down the Graceway. The remains of the carriage swung wildly from side to side behind them. Startled Festival-goers fled in all directions, ducking to avoid splintered fragments of wood. One unfortunate chose the wrong direction, stepping directly into the frantic animals’ path and disappearing beneath the horses’ hooves. Screams of anguish from the woman with him added to the rising hubbub.

I whirled round as the door behind us opened. A startled face appeared in a handspan gap. “Let us in, we’ve a wounded man! In D’Olbriot’s Name!” I was shouting at wooden panels. The door slammed and we heard bolts being thrust home in panic.

“I can’t stop the bleeding in this leg.” Messire had crimson stains spreading through the lace at his cuffs but his hands and voice were steady. He smiled reassurance at Camarl, who was shaking like a man in midwinter.

If one of the great blood vessels had been cut, Camarl would’ve died already. For the moment he was alive and I was more concerned with whoever might try to finish the job. The masqueraders were regrouping with malevolent intent but were now hampered by the uncomprehending crowd. People had spilled out of a tisane house across the road, wondering what was afoot. A tavern some way up the street was emptying, and confusion spread as indiscriminate attacks were launched, some on the acrobats, some on innocents mistaken for the scoundrels who’d started this.

A man in the buff breeches and plain shirt of a hireling servant hurried towards us. “Send word to the Cohort,” I yelled.

He ignored me, breaking into a run and I saw a knife in his hand at the same time as the discarded mask in the gutter behind him. I swept a hasty cut at his wrist that Fyle would have mocked me for. All the same, he recoiled, so I tried to backhand him across the face with my sword. He ducked backwards again, harder to hit than a shade, but the knife hand curving round to my belly was no apparition. I blocked the thrust with my off hand, the force enough to numb his arm and send the blade clattering to the road. That didn’t stop him stepping inside the reach of my sword, punching hard with his other hand, but at least my sideways step meant he only bruised my ribs rather than winding me. I brought my sword up to smash the hilt into the side of his head but the bastard threw himself bodily sideways. With an arm out before he landed, he rolled and was back on his feet with a tumbler’s grace, eyes searching for his fallen knife. That instant of inattention was enough for Temar, who lunged to thrust his blade into the acrobat’s side. The man staggered and fled, bloodied shirt flapping as he vanished into the crowd.

I looked to safeguard Temar’s back and saw two men exchanging an uncertain look some paces beyond him. As I raised my sword with menace one broke, running headlong back down the Graceway. The other spread empty hands, gabbling in panic. “Not me, your honour, not me.”

“Call out the Duty Cohort,” I bellowed at him. Looking up the road I saw other passers-by caught up in the spreading disorder, coaches and gigs held up in the distance and blocking the road. I cursed; Den Janaquel’s men would almost certainly be on their way by now but they’d have some task breaking through to us. Men on all sides were struggling with masqueraders, either in self-defence, from a desire to help us or from simple drunken belligerence. Others were trying to leave, some frenzied enough to start new struggles around the initial skirmishes, hampering those intent on murdering us still further. But how to tell friend from foe? I sent a man who’d stumbled into me sprawling with a punch to the side of the head.

Could we escape down the road? Could we drag Camarl between us, and if so at what cost to him? As I looked I saw the hapless man I’d yelled at turn straight into the arms of two eager youths. They’d come running to see the commotion and immediately tried to wrestle him to the ground. “No, let him go!” I yelled.

A whip split the air above their heads with a vicious crack. I saw Amalin Devoir’s grey horse fighting to get its bit between its teeth, nostrils flared and eyes rolling wildly. The musician had the reins bunched in one hand as he laid about him indiscriminately with his lash, Allin clutching the seat with both hands. The lads and the man I’d sent for help all fled, ducking low with hands protecting their heads.

“Devoir! Casuel! Back off and get the Duty Cohort,” I yelled with a force that tore at my throat.

Devoir looked back over his shoulder but the confusion blocking the road made reversing impossible.

“Camarl is hurt!” Temar shouted with equal urgency. Allin caught sight of Messire kneeling beside the prostrate Esquire, her jaw dropping before she turned to relay information to Demoiselle Avila and Casuel, one hand gesturing.

“Temar!” I moved swiftly to intercept one man scrambling over the debris of scaffolding with evil in his eyes and a sword in each hand. Temar was about to follow but a hail of stones and juggling balls from two acrobats appearing in the mouth of an alleyway forced him to duck and dodge backwards. Temar snatched up a piece of broken panelling from the carriage to protect his head, moving to shield Messire and Camarl with his body.

The man facing me dropped to a wrestler’s crouch. He had the brutish and battered face of a prizefighter but he had two blades and, for all I knew, was perfectly able to use them. He thrust at me, each hand in turn, clumsy strokes but fast and unhesitating. Moving back I felt splintered wood treacherous beneath the soft half-boots I was wearing. I took a two-handed grip on my sword and went in hard, circling the blade round and back on itself, half parrying, half attacking. Swordplay learned for the stage made a novice of the man, who instinctively fell into the trap of anticipating my strokes and moving to parry too early. Now I had the initiative I tempted him into an upward sweep and then ripped a sudden sideways cut underneath his arms. As I sliced his chest open his arms flung back in nerveless shock and I wrenched my blade up still further, tearing the notched steel into his bull neck. He collapsed, gurgling through a spray of blood.

I wiped drops off my face to see Temar smashing his improvised buckler into the head of some new attacker. The man turned and would have escaped down the nearby alley but the jugglers blocked his way and I realised they had their own problems. A swarm of what looked like ruddy, greyish hornets swirled around them, but there was no buzzing and whenever one of the dots darted in to land on cloth smoke rose briefly from black scorch marks. Angry red blisters appeared on the jugglers’ exposed hands and faces, raised by scarlet sparks glowing and vanishing so swiftly they deceived the eye. I saw Allin still hanging on grimly to Devoir’s frivolous gig, plump face intent with hatred as she glared at the acrobats. An empty brazier some way beyond the alley was smoking emptily but for a fading crimson light.

Devoir had beaten his horse into trembling submission, the poor beast too terrified to know whether it should flee forwards or back. Demoiselle Avila was struggling down from the back, Casuel wringing anguished hands as he followed her, cowering inside his ostentatious robe. Avila ignored the commotion all around as she headed straight for the doorway behind me. Temar ran forward to draw her into our frail circle of protection as fast as he could.

I’d have gone too but a vicious fistfight erupted in front of me, stones and broken wood hurled indiscriminately from the sidelines, and it was all I could do to stop the combatants falling over me, the Sieur, the Esquire. Temar and I were jostled from all sides, unable to tell hapless Festival-goers from murderous masqueraders, so forced to drive all comers off with harsh words and harder blows. Casuel yelped with outrage as I stood on his foot, but that served him right for trying to shelter between me and Temar. A stinging pain licked around the back of my neck.

“Shit, Devoir, watch that cursed whip!” But I forgave the musician when I saw he was laying about with it to keep the brawl from crushing Demoiselle Avila and the Sieur as they knelt in the doorway, busy with Esquire Camarl’s wounds.

A brazen note pierced the tumult, Den Janaquel’s horns finally giving notice of their imminent arrival. The strident signal came again, warning everyone to get clear or face the consequences. Efforts to struggle free of the fighting redoubled all around us and I saw several masqueraders ripping off their masks in hopes of disappearing into the anonymous crowd.

But three weren’t abandoning their disguises and I wondered just who they might be, hacking a way through the turmoil with vicious swords, the bland wooden faces of folk tale heroes still tied on tight. They were heading for the alley opposite.

“Temar!” I yelled, pointing, as the crush around us lessened.

“Run them to earth, Ryshad!” The Sieur was at my elbow, a sword in his hand, Master Devoir with him, whip ready.

Temar and I used sword pommels, flat blades, fists and elbows to try to force a path to intercept the bastards. We were just too late and the three men hared down the alley, turning into a ginnel running between the backs of the close-packed buildings. I was after them like a loosed courser, Temar hard on my heels.

“Just run, man,” he was raging, and I realised we’d caught Casuel up in the pursuit. With the narrow alley giving him nowhere to step aside to let Temar pass, all he could do was run with us.

The masqueraders were holding their distance but only at the cost of running at full tilt, not daring to try any doors or gates into yards or outhouses. Using every effort I could summon I was gaining, and I heard Temar behind me mercilessly driving Casuel on with ever fouler curses. The masqueraders turned a sharp corner into a wide alley. As I skidded after them, I realised the far end opened into a walled yard. A broad stone arch was carved with archaic flourishes, vines heavy with leaves and fruit on either side of open gates. I recognised it for the yard behind the Popinjay and frustration burned in my heaving chest. If they got out into the busy northern end of the Primeway, we’d lose the bastards for certain.

“Bring that down!” I turned to yell hoarsely at Casuel who was leaning in the corner of a wall, half doubled up, one hand clutching his throat. “Block their way!”

“Noseless sons of pox-rotted whores!” spat Temar, racing past me.

That youth had been spending too much time with mercenaries. But I had no breath to say so and I ran after him.

Ahead of us the first masquerader was nearly into the yard, but just as I thought he’d escaped us the carved vines reached out from either side of the arch. They laced themselves together, coiling around each other, quicker than the eye could comprehend. A barrier of pale strands blocked the villain’s way but he was running too fast to stop himself slamming into the crisscross of writhing stone. The tangle knotted and twined around him, each tendril swelling into a branch reaching up and outwards. Tugged this way and that the man struggled frantically, yelling in terror as he was lifted clear of the ground. His cries of fear turned to anguish as his body was twisted with audible wrenching, sinew and bone no match for the implacable pull of the rippling lattice. A final hideous snap silenced his howls, leaving his body hanging contorted in the coils of the warped vines.

The second man had stumbled to a halt a scant arm’s length away but in the moment he took to recover his balance a yellow limb snaked out from the living archway. Leaves once wrought from solid rock waved softly as the sinuous vine coiled around his legs. The man screamed in horror and hacked at the curling stem but his blade simply struck sparks from the stone. A second tendril darted out to wrap itself round his sword arm, smothering it. As he tore at it with frantic, bleeding nails, new shoots sprouted to snarl around the hand he’d had free a breath before. New leaves budded and opened all over the intertwining stems now rooting his feet to the ground. But the vines binding his arms were still curling upwards in an insane parody of growth, racking the man ever more painfully. He shrieked some inarticulate curse with his last strangled gasps as the heedless branches forced him backwards in an agonising curve. His spine snapped like a dry stick.

All this happened in no more time than it took me and Temar to catch up to the third man. He was frozen in horror, but hearing our steps behind him he whirled round, eyes white rimmed with panic visible even through the holes in his mask. He was too appalled to raise his sword and I was too surprised. With a move nine parts instinct to one part training I punched him up beneath the rim of the mask, catching him full in the soft flesh beneath his jaw. He collapsed to his knees, choking and pawing at his throat.