The Open Gates

  Einar Smashednose, just Smashednose if you had seen his face, walked through the gates of Lynetor, the old warrior’s cloak hiding his ever-wringing hands. The soft rasping of dry skin, then a pause, he felt for the haft of his sword, his dagger, and the rubbing of callus on callus resumed. He didn’t know he was doing it. Einar Smashednose had too many ticks, too many old scars and old tricks, and this was just another.

  Ahead of him walked the honourable party of which he was apparently a part, commanders of the levy and mercenary companies alike. Lord Herik strode at the front, Lords Jung and Becker flanking him. They were the first through the gate as if they hadn’t already brought plenty of armed men to make sure there wasn’t any foul play that morning.

  Herik’s virile black mane and woodland green cape wafted in his wake, and even Smashednose had to admit that he cut an imposing figure. In their month-long wait, Smashednose had seen him spar with weapons. He wasn’t bad with a sword and was more than capable on horseback. Herik was proud, cocky, but he was a leader. The only obvious chink in Herik’s armour was the medicus that was always present in his company. It puts a damper on death or glory for the true king when you are paying a fortune to have a healer on hand that can tilt the Balance of the world to keep you alive.

  Dying in an apothecary’s tent is a poor bastard’s game.

  The medicus was a tall man, his great bulk hidden underneath voluminous golden vestments. He had been staggering up the slope just in front of Smashednose the whole way from the camp, and was breathing so furiously that the old warrior was surprised he hadn’t fainted.

  Behind Smashednose, the pettier nobles and lower officers marched across the drawbridge, a scant few of the other mercenary commanders among them. They looked sorely out of place in the midst of the ambitious, young nobles who were all too aware of the potential historicity of the moment, trying all too hard to look serious.

  “A feast in a captured castle, while Lord Ignate wins battle in the south,” Smashednose said. “Herick will want to be crowning his nephew king at week’s end.”

  “A glorious finish to the campaign.”

  Smashednose’s number two, Silker, walked on his right. The old warrior had almost forgotten the man was there. Silker had never been in the habit of drawing attention to himself.

  “Can only hope so.” But there was little optimism, and as they passed beneath a murder hole in the gatehouse above them, Smashednose stepped to the side. There was still a little time yet for a malicious bastard to pour burning oil on them as they entered. He watched the murder hole, but none came. Still, it paid to be a pessimist.

  “Thanks to the Constable surrendering after his thirty days, it’s been an easy siege,” Silker said. “I would say that not a man died in the last month but…”

  “But tell that to Ralke Grey,” Smashednose finished.

  “Yes. Is the council angry?”

  “Very,” Smashednose said. “But right now they think they’ve won the war. They’ll overlook Ralke’s death so long as they have victory. It’s a royal pain in my arse, though. Ralke’s brother was screaming for a pound of flesh during the commander’s council. He all but accused me of murder. Have you found anything out?”

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  “No,” Silker said. “But they’re probably right. It would have been one of ours.”

  “Fenris?” Smashednose said.

  “He’d be the one to do it, but he was in the merchant’s camp all night,” Silker said. “It’s a good defence.”

  “It had better be. But if it is settled the way it started, it’ll not matter much.”

  They passed through the other side of the gatehouse and were inside the walls. This side of Lynetor Castle was perched high on the rocky crown of the hill, made the courtyard small. It was packed tight with materials for repairs, rocks to lob over the sides, and even a caldron for boiling oil. It was, Smashednse noted, not lit.

  Silker lowered his voice and hissed, “It started with Ralke Grey butchering our men on trees.”

  “Means nothing to Herik,” Smashednose said. “He’s paying us now. Fight, bleed and kill. That’s the job.”

  A small cluster waited for them before the doors to the hall, the Constable of Lynetor at its front, his wife and two daughters by his side, all flanked by an honour guard trying to look imposing, regal and yet unthreatening in the midst of their surrender. It settled into a posture of uncertain hostility.

  A hush began to fall over the incoming party, conversation giving way to the sound of slowing footfalls and the chinking of scabbards against armour. They stopped a good few yards before the constable, gathering in a horseshoe to get a view of the proceedings.

  “Lord Herik, noble company,” the Constable announced. He had a high-pitched voice, hoarse with age, but he used it well. He stepped towards Herik, into the formation’s centre. “I grant you entry through the gates of Lynetor.”

  There was a chuckle through the crowd, some of it, Smashednose knew, would be coming from his own men, but Lord Herik took the moment with the lordly gravity in which it was offered. Uncle to the future king, might as well be king himself, Smashednose thought. Lord Herik broke away from his men, met the Constable in the centre.

  “I accept your invitation,” Lord Herik said it as much to the Constable as he did the watching throng. “I return kind for kind and offer you peace for peace.”

  “Well met, lord.” The Constable took a gilded mace from the hands of one of the honour guard. It shone of silver and polished steel, twisting in on itself, looking as much a great flower as a weapon. That said, it was heavy enough by the way the elderly lord held it, clutched in both hands. He took a knee, proffered it to Lord Herik. “I surrender the stewardship of Lynetor Castle and its people into your gracious care.”

  Lord Herik didn’t take the mace immediately. He watched it as the Constable’s shoulders began to tremble, the ring on its handle lightly rattling. There was a glint of malice that flashed across his face. Pleasure at pain. The old Constable had made Herik wait, kept the army squat and idle for a month. Sure, hardly a man had died, but he had imposed patience on Lord Herik, and Herik would impose the same upon him. The sight was almost comforting for Einar Smashednose. Even amongst all the politicking and games in the battle for succession, things the old warrior cared little about, it could still be hammered out into the simple petty elements of anger, pride and grudges. Herik was no different.

  The crowd was bracing for the mace to clatter on the stones when Lord Herik finally took it from the trembling constable. The old man was left red-faced, catching his breath with his hand on his knee, while Herik turned to his men. He heaved the mace above his head with one hand, regal mask cracking a little as he strained to raise. It was heavier and the Constable a little stronger than expected, but he thrust it skyward all the same.

  “Men,” he boomed. “Lynetor Castle is ours.”

  A chorus of cheers sounded, sword shaking, chest smashing like they stood on the ruined battlefield of their enemy. When it quieted, Lord Herik gave a speech. Something about true kings, honoured lords and dead tyrants. Death to Philippe the Bane. Death to his traitor barons. Einer Smashednose wasn’t listening. His mind was south. There would be a true battlefield, broken bodies lying like scattered seeds in mud. There would be a speech there too. Glory to the true king. Death to the traitors. They were taking it for granted that Lord Ignate would be delivering it. If Einar Smashednose was a praying man, he would have prayed that they were right.