Perhaps, this time it will be different.
She rushed to her door and with a tap of her necklace, unlocked it. She grabbed the latch and pushed. As usual, the door refused to budge. “Damn that dwarf,” she said aloud to herself. She pushed violently against the door, throwing her entire weight, such that it was, against it. The door did not give way.
There was another rumble, and her room shook once more. Dust fell from the rafters. What is going on? She staggered as the tower swayed like a ship at sea. She did not know what else to do. Terrified and bewildered, she returned to the illusionary safety of her bed. She sat there, hugging her knees, hardly breathing, her eyes darting at the slightest sound. The end was coming. One way or another, she was certain the end was coming soon.
The prince was new to combat and unsure what to expect. He had hoped that merely assembling a massive force would cause the city’s defenders to surrender. The reality was altogether different. When they reached Medford, they found trenches built outside the walls filled with spearmen. His archers had launched three flights of arrows but still the defenders remained steadfast. Using shields, they fended off much of the barrage and sustained little noticeable damage.
Who are they? Alric wondered. Are my own soldiers standing between me and my home? What lies has Braga spread among the guards? Or are they these all hired men? Did my gold pay for those lines of pointed steel?
Alric sat on one of Pickering’s horses draped with a caparison hastily adorned with rough sewn images of the Melengar falcon. The animal was as restless as its rider, shuffling its hooves and snorting great clouds of frosty fog. Alric held the reins with his right hand, his left holding his woolen cloak tight about his neck. His eyes rose above the heads of the spearmen to look on the city of his birth. The walls and towers of Medford appeared faint and dream-like through the falling snow. The vision slowly faded into white as an eerie silence muffled the world.
“Your Majesty,” Count Pickering spoke, breaking the stillness.
“Another flight?” Alric proposed.
“Arrows will not conquer your city.”
Alric nodded solemnly. “The knights then, send in the knights to break the line.”
“Marshal!” the count shouted. “Order the knights to break the line!”
Gallant men in shining armor spurred their steeds and charged forward with banners dancing overhead. A whirlwind of snow launched into the sky by their passing obscured them from view. They vanished from sight, but still Alric listened to the thunder of their hooves.
The clash was dreadful. Alric felt it as much as heard it. Metal shrieked, men cried out, and until that moment Alric never knew it was possible for horses to scream. When the cloud of snow settled, the prince could at last see the bloody spectacle. Spears braced in the dirt pierced the breast of man and mount. Horses collapsed, throwing the knights to the ground where they lay, like turtles struggling to right themselves. Spearmen drew forth short swords and thrust downward, punching their sharp points into eye slits and the armor gaps at the armpit or groin.
“This is not going as well as I hoped,” Alric complained.
“Battle rarely ever does, Your Majesty,” Count Pickering assured him. “But this is a large part of what being king means. Your knights are dying. Are you going to leave them to their fate?”
“Should I send in the foot soldiers?”
“If I were you, I certainly would. You need to break a hole in that wall, and you’d better do so before your men decide you’re incompetent and vanish into the forests around them.”
“Marshal!” Alric shouted. “Marshal Garret, order the foot soldiers to engage immediately!”
“Yes, sire!”
A horn sounded and the men roared forward into battle. Alric watched as steel cut through flesh. The footmen fared better than the knights, but the defensive position of the city soldiers took a toll. Alric could hardly bear to watch. Never before had he seen such a sight—there was so much blood. The white snow was gone; it was stained pink and, in some desperate places, had pooled to a dark red. Littering the grounds were body parts—arms lay severed, heads split open, and legs chopped off. The wall of men blended in a whirling mass of flesh, dirt, blood, and an endless cacophony of screams.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Alric said, sounding and feeling sick. “This is my city. These are my people. My men!” He turned to Count Pickering. “I am killing my own men!” He was shaking now and tears filled his eyes, his face red. Hearing the shrieks and cries, he squeezed the pommel of his saddle until his hands hurt. He felt helpless.
I am king now.
He did not feel like a king. He felt like he did on the road near The Silver Pitcher when those men held him face down in the dirt. The tears were now streaming down his cheeks.
“Alric! Stop it!” Pickering snapped at him. “You mustn’t let the men see you crying!”
Fury flared in Alric, and he spun on the count. “No? No? Look at them! They are dying for me. They are dying on my order! I say they do have a right to see their king! They all have a right to see their king!”
Alric wiped the tears from his cheeks and gathered his reins. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of having my face put in the dirt! I won’t stand it. I’m tired of being helpless. That’s my city, built by my ancestors! If my people chose to fight, then, by Maribor, I want them to know it is me they fight!”
The prince put on his helm, drew his father’s large sword and spurred his horse forward, not at the trench but at the castle gate itself.
“Alric, no!” Pickering shouted after him.
Mason rushed forward and drove his hammer through the helmet of the first guard he saw. Grinning with delight at his good fortune, he gathered the man’s sword and looked up.
The mob had reached the main gate of the city. The great four-towered barbican of gray stone rose above them like a monstrous beast. It swarmed with soldiers shocked at the sight of the city rising against them. Surprise and the accompanying panic bought the mob time to clear the streets and reach the gate house. Mason heard Dixon shout, “For Prince Alric!” but the prince was the last thing on the smith’s mind.
Mason picked out his next target—a tall guard absorbed in a swinging match with a street sweeper from Artisan Row. Mason stabbed the guard in the armpit and listened to him scream as he twisted the blade. The street sweeper grinned at the smith and Mason grinned back.
He had only killed two men but already Mason was slick with blood. His tunic felt heavy as it stuck to the skin of his chest and he could not tell if it was sweat or tears of blood dripping down his face. The grin he had shown to the sweeper remained on his face, glued to his lips by the thrill and elation. This was freedom! This was living! His heart thundered and his head swam as if he were drunk.
Mason swung his sword again, this time at a man already down on one knee. His swing was so strong the blade cut halfway through his victim’s neck. He kicked the dead man aside and cried aloud in his victory. He spoke no words; words were valueless at such a moment. He shouted the fury that pounded in his heart. He was a man again, a man of strength, a man to be feared!