Alliance for Antrim Page 3

  Chapter 3

  Attack

  Anson stirred in his half sleep, disturbed by a silent but noxious sensation. Abruptly, he sat up in his bed and started furiously rubbing his eyes. Painful, weeping eyes forced him to stumble out of bed and throw open the room’s large lead-paned window. A stiff breeze came through the window, bringing with it a pungent reek. The fresh air did not reduce the burning effect on his eyes. Muted sounds of other residents complaining, along with thumps and door openings, collected into a rising din. He quickly realized the unfamiliar odor and his discomfort were connected and the source was outside the building.

  Though he could not see very well because of the mounting irritation and watering eyes, the complaining voices outside his loft indicated others were suffering the same. The acrid odor was completely unfamiliar to him, despite his years of experience with peculiar smells and smarting eyes from concocting herb medicines and alchemic liquids. In fact, such disagreeable effects were common hazards for apprentices but usually the unpleasantness was confined to a room. In this case the outside air was fouled.

  He fumbled over to his cot and dropped to sit on its edge, using the bedcover to blot his streaming eyes. After a few minutes, the stinging sensation started to subside, allowing him to gather his senses and figure out what was happening. The clamor outside turned to tormented outcries punctuated by metallic clanging suggestive of swordplay.

  A sudden slam of the downstairs door startled Anson. Still seated on the edge of the cot, his head jerked up but his body froze in terror at the staccato sound of heavy boots on the stairs. When the clumping stopped, someone started to break down the door to his room. It only took a minute to smash the door to pieces. He was in grave danger and the only means of escape was the open window. A man dressed in a red uniform burst through the door, spotted Anson, and in a single continuous movement lunged forward and thrust a sword at him. The sword pierced his bedding just as Anson jumped from the cot and scrambled head first out the window. The attacker cursed his missed stab, wrenched loose the sword and ran back to the stairs, where he tripped over some large fragments of the broken door.

  Anson landed on the stout hedgerow in the darkness below his window. The thick mesh of leaves and pliable, twiggy branches cushioned his fall and allowed him to slide to the ground. Without giving thought to the possibility of injury from the fall, he jumped to his feet. Hearing the voices of likely pursuers, he ran halfway round the hedgerow, instinctively using it for cover. He stopped abruptly when he came to a wounded horse lying on the ground, its sides heaving with pain and neck craning in its futile struggle to get up.

  Anson winced at the sight of the suffering animal, but he dare not tarry. In the dark, he tried to sidestep around the horse but tripped over the body of its rider, who had also fallen. He recognized the fallen man as Orris, the captain of the small garrison of Royal Armsmen assigned by the Antrim king to protect the village. Orris might be beyond medicinal help, but there was no time to stop and check. He and Anson had become friends upon the mage’s willingness to tend the frequent cuts and bruises acquired by the soldiers in their training. Now that the soldier lay dead or dying it was very difficult for Anson to leave him untended, but the need for self-preservation compelled the mage to flee. He told himself he would return later to bury his friend if the worst happened.

  Shouts from attackers came from all directions, along with screams and moans from victims. With Orris fallen and separated from the other Armsmen, the situation must be desperate. Huxley must be under attack by Gilsum soldiers. How could this attack have come with no warning? The fouled air and its disabling effects must have been a factor. Was this high magery at work? Perhaps it was true that a mage with skill enough to foul the air now aided Gilsum.

  Huddled back against the hedgerow, Anson looked out over an adjacent courtyard bordered on all sides by cottages and other types of small homes. A few structures appeared to be on fire. Dozens of villagers were running in all directions, some chased by armed pursuers. A quick scan showed several shadowy images of bodies lying around, most of them unmoving and most likely unsuccessful defenders of Huxley. A new round of shouts pierced the air, not the sounds of victims but from those in control.

  Near the center of the courtyard townspeople of all ages were herded together, some dressed in sleep garments and others barely clothed at all. A ring of Gilsum Guardsmen shouting threats and orders for compliance quickly cordoned the tightly massed crowd. The captured throng rapidly grew in size with others marshaled from all sides. There were no Antrim Armsmen in sight to provide defense and the townspeople were offering little resistance.

  For an instant, Anson thought he should sprint across the courtyard to the hostage group and lose himself in the anonymity of the milling crowd. Thinking that compliant civilians would not be slaughtered, he took a step in that direction then stopped abruptly. It would be suicidal for him to surrender. By the light of day, he would surely be discovered for the mage he was and a source of high reward for the man who executed him. For the moment, he was safer in the shadows of the hedgerow. A moment was a short amount of time.

  It was too dark to make his way to any of the hiding places he had planned for emergencies, and there were too many attackers to find sanctuary anywhere in the village. Quelling his rising state of panic, he tried to figure out some hope for escape. There was the deliverance spell, but to try that he needed to get to the old palimpsest. He needed it to jog all the words from memory and in proper order to draw the spell, if it would even work. There was no better option. He would chance the deliverance.

  It was only a short distance from the hedgerow to the library, and unimpeded it would probably take no more than a few minutes to reach it. Before setting off, Anson quickly cast a spell of indifference to keep himself from being noticed. Even amid the violence of combat and hysteria, this spell should allow him to pick his way safely along the hedge and through the town. He had used this spell many times and expected it would work, as it had earlier this night, as long as he made his way without stumbling or losing his concentration. It was essential to the effects of any spell that a mage remained focused, which Anson thought he could do even in the middle of a battle. He could maintain the spell if he did not physically engage anyone or lose his concentration, so he murmured the words and quickly stepped away from the hedge cover. The spell took effect just as the Guardsman who had stormed Anson’s room appeared from the adjacent side of the hedge. Anson slowed at the soldier’s approach, taking care not to diminish the spell’s effect by engaging him in talk or action. With an upraised sword, the Guardsman ran right past Anson, seeing his intended victim, even turning his head toward him for an instant, but not acknowledging him in any conscious way. The Guardsman’s sword bobbed up and down with the swing of his arm as he ran off.

  Anson drew a deep breath of relief watching the soldier run out of sight. Once again, the mage moved off in the direction of the library when someone shouted off to his left. The shout came again. It was an order to halt with Anson realizing another Guardsman was shouting at him. He was detected! His concentration had lapsed and the indifference spell failed. Anson froze in fear as this soldier stalked up to him with a pike at the ready position, its tip already bloodied.

  “You! Move to the square!” the Guardsman ordered. “Join the other dung shovelers before I run through you where you stand!” he bellowed, jabbing his pike at Anson.

  Terrified and confused, Anson was unable to get his mind and body coordinated. Before realizing it, he started to run away. The Guardsman followed, shouting and cursing, but also gaining. Anson looked back but that proved to be another mistake because he tripped over a scattered load of firewood. As Anson went sprawling, the soldier caught up to him. His sides heaving from exertion, the red-uniformed Guardsman stood over Anson with a menacing smile. “You should have followed orders the first time, fool. You’ll pay the price now.”

  As the soldier drew back his pike for a fatal thr
ust, Anson pulled himself up and backed off slowly. Feinting jabs with his weapon and glaring with a taunting smile, the Guardsman backed his victim against a large tree and lunged. Anson dodged enough that the point only nicked his arm and stuck firmly in the tree. The wooden shaft broke from the effort of pulling it free, leaving the tip imbedded in the tree. With a curse, the attacker swung the remainder of the shaft and flattened Anson with a blow to the head.

  Flat on the ground, Anson was too stunned at first to notice any pain. Only semiconscious, his senses swam. Barely hearing a cruel laugh from the Guardsman, he was grabbed by the shirt and forced to stand up. The soldier glared at Anson.

  “I’ll kill you with my hands, boy. I’ll squeeze your neck until your eyeballs pop.”

  Anson reacted instinctively. He grabbed the man’s beard with one hand, kicked him in the knee and pulled him down to the ground. They rolled around, Anson defending himself from blows by the other man but not striking any on his own account. With punches beginning to take their toll, the mage was nearly subdued as the other tried to pin him to the ground. The soldier did not let up and repeatedly swung his fists as they rolled back and forth on the ground. With all the strength he could muster, Anson lurched and forced the Guardsman on his back. Before the man could react to this surprising move, Anson swung a loose forearm and knocked off the soldier’s helmet. Wriggling both hands free, Anson dug his fingertips into critical pressure points by his assailant’s ears. Before the soldier could figure out what was happening, Anson shouted a litany of spellwords made potent by his own fury and fear. The Guardsman gurgled a bit before his hands splayed and entire body went limp. In less time than it would have taken to kill someone with a spear, the soldier from Gilsum expired with the mage from Huxley collapsing on top of him.

  Anson was stunned at what had happened, unbelieving at first. He was not even sure what spell he drew; it was so quick and powerful. The soldier’s face was oddly serene, but there was no doubt he was dead. Anson had never killed a man, or even a beast. When he fully perceived what he had done, he fell forward and buried his head in shame on the Guardsman’s breast. This was the gravest of sins for Anson, an abuse of his skills. Distraught by this killing at his own hand, he sobbed over the lifeless form. How unraveled the order of the land had become when the most gentle of its people must kill or be killed.

  Slowly his wits gathered and he realized he was still in mortal danger. There were many more Guardsmen about, any one of whom would retaliate on sight. Fortunately, Anson and the body were hard to spot in the dark, partially obscured among some trees. Anson pushed off the dead man and staggered a few steps away. Leaning against a tree, hidden by its shadow, he remembered his plan to get to the library. After a few deep breaths to further collect himself, he canted another indifference spell with a dogged effort to maintain his concentration. Calmly making his way past several cottages and open areas he came to the small, one-room building he called the library. A Guardsman blocked the open doorway armed with a drawn sword, shooting glances in all directions. Anson quietly walked past the sentry, who actually stepped aside to maintain vigilance not realizing a young mage moved past him to attempt an unlikely escape.