The Rebel Prince

DAY ELEVEN: THE MACHINE



THEY TORE through the forest, spurring their horses brutally onward until the poor animals’ flanks were lathered, their mouths streaming with foam. None of the other horses could match the two royal mounts, and while the King and Razi raced ahead, Wynter, Sól and Christopher made up a trailing rear guard, dodging and weaving to keep up as best they could on the increasingly dense forest paths. It was a horribly dangerous way to ride. They stayed low in the saddle to avoid overhanging branches and prayed to their various gods that their horses did not break a leg.

Wynter risked a look at Christopher. He glanced her way, questions and fear in his eyes. Razi travelled straight as an arrow on the path before them, his head low to his horse’s neck, his eyes fixed on his father’s back. Sól was slightly behind them, bringing up the rear. There had been no time for explanations, and though they all rode together, each was separated into their own frantic bubble of anxiety.

Boro tried to keep pace, but even his valiant determination could not match the horses’ speed. Wynter heard him bay in horror as his master drew ahead, his howls quickly fading beneath the drumming hoofbeats. She glanced back to see the poor hound, already far behind, still running frantically to catch up.

A branch swept perilously low, almost knocking Razi from his saddle. Christopher yelled, and Wynter ducked only just in time as it swooped past. She tore her attention from Boro and focused forward again, her eyes on the path and the figure of the King forging the way ahead.

Goddamn it. She should have known that Jonathon would never have given in. He had not been sitting in sullen acceptance, awaiting his heir’s arrival. How could she ever have thought it? Rather he had been stewing in guilt and despair while his men waited elsewhere in ambush for his son. It is a better prospect than that which lay before me this morning. Wynter could only imagine what lurked in waiting for Alberon – but she was fairly certain, now, that it involved the King’s small, highly trusted squad of personal guards; and she was fairly certain it involved her father’s Bloody Machine.

The narrow path broadened and the watery forest light brightened. Daylight streamed through the thinning trees ahead, and the King was a broken silhouette against them as he charged up the widening path. They broke into the open on a slight rise as the King pulled to a halt, looking down: to their left, perhaps a hundred yards from them, the shambolic remains of an abandoned forge house; to their right, lower ground and another loop of the overgrown road cutting through the dense forest. They clustered together at the tree line, panting and breathless, their panicked horses stamping and breathing hard. Wynter’s heart was thundering in her ears. The King stared anxiously to the road.

‘There!’ he said. ‘Oh, God! There!’

And here they came! Alberon and Oliver, trotting warily from the darkness of the trees. Behind them, astride his own shaggy pony, followed the little servant, Anthony. His small face aglow with his own importance, his pots and pans a-jingle, the child looked all about him, full of glee. Four wary soldiers flanked the Prince, their crossbows drawn and ready, their eyes on the forge.

‘Good Lord!’ cried Razi. ‘Mary!’

Wynter snapped her attention to the last pair of riders emerging onto the road and gasped in disbelief at the sight of the Lady Mary riding from the shadows. Dusty and uncomfortable on a stately dappled horse, the lady looked exhausted, her tired face very pale. Grave as ever, Hallvor pulled her painted mare to the lady’s side and looked keenly around.

‘Mo mhuirnín!’ whispered Sól, startled by his friend’s unexpected presence.

‘Why on earth—’ Wynter gaped at the lady in horror. Why? Why would Alberon have dragged that poor woman with him?

‘That damned pup!’ hissed Razi. ‘Did he think to hide behind her skirts?’

‘He took the little boy, too,’ said Christopher, staring at Anthony. ‘Perhaps he could not stand to leave them with the Wolves.’

Alberon was squinting up at the forge house, his eyes blinded by the sun. For a moment, no one noticed the King’s party swaddled in shadow at the edge of the trees. Then Jonathon broke from his trance and trotted his horse into the sunlight.

Mary saw him immediately. Her face lit up at the sight of Razi by the King’s side, and she said something, smiling. Alberon turned. His eyes hopped from Jonathon to Razi, to Wynter, and he relaxed.

You are all here, his grin said. We have done it.

Wynter straightened, intending to warn him, but Alberon had turned already to Oliver, who was still focused on the forge house. Alberon spoke and Oliver turned sharply, seeking. His eyes found the King, and his face softened into hope. He half-raised his hand, then dropped it again as if uncertain of his place.

‘Cousin,’ whispered Jonathon. He lifted his hand in greeting.

An expression crossed Oliver’s tired face, gratitude perhaps, or relief: some emotion too strong and too deep to register as anything other than pain. Then he broke into a hopeful smile and lifted his hand again. Wynter saw his mouth form the word ‘Jonathon’.

At the same moment, a metallic rattle broke the silence of the glowering ruins of the forge house. A loosely packed drystone wall fell, clattering to the grass, and the King’s guard stepped into view as the lethal elegance of Lorcan Moorehawke’s Bloody Machine was revealed to the riders on the road.

‘No!’ bellowed the King.

Even if his soldiers heard him, even if they witnessed his raised arm – and Wynter was never certain that they had – what could they have interpreted from it? Only that the man who had sent them here was ordering them to strike as planned. The huge men at the side of the machine began to crank an iron handle.

Wynter cried out and spurred Ozkar forward, screaming at Alberon to get down. At her voice, two of Alberon’s soldiers turned towards her, raising their bows in alarm. The other two stared helplessly at the sleek iron monster now levelling its gaze upon them from the ruined wall.

Cogs turned. Barrels rotated. There was a kak kak kak of huge ratcheted pieces moving together, and then, one after another, a series of deafening bangs rent the evening air. The machine and its crew were quickly obscured as streams of smoke poured from the revolving barrels. Harsh flashes of light blinked through the sudden gloom.

Oliver, his face appalled, stood in his stirrups and spread his arms as if to shield the Prince. Alberon spun, screaming at Anthony to ride! The little servant gaped at him, boy and pony frozen in horror. Wynter thundered down the slope towards them. Behind her, Christopher yelled her name; then all sound was lost under the rapid percussion of the machine’s fire as she descended into the shallow, smoke-filled valley.

The soldier on Alberon’s right flew from his horse, his head bursting apart in a fine mist of blood and brain. Alberon’s gelding reared in terror and a row of scarlet wounds erupted across its massive chest. Blood instantly drenched its belly, and it took three dancing steps back, still reared on its hind legs like a circus horse. The soldier on Alberon’s left jerked back in his saddle, his crossbow discharging into the air with a heavy thwock. His throat was shredded, and Anthony was instantly coated in an abrupt wash of the poor man’s blood. The little boy cried out once as the blood hit him, then he went absolutely still, his eyes white and round in his dripping face, his horse quivering beneath him.

Alberon’s horse slammed down onto all four legs and stood for a moment, wide-eyed and rigid, blood streaming from its nose. Then it keeled over, carrying the Prince with it. Alberon rolled free before he could be crushed in the horse’s spasming death throes.

Oliver yelled and spun in his saddle, reaching for Alberon, ‘Your Highness!’ he cried. ‘Here!’

‘Just run!’ screamed Wynter, spurring Ozkar on. ‘Albi! Just RUN!’

The machine continued to bark out death. Smoke rolled across the field of grass.

The ground by Mary and Hallvor spewed up four successive puffs of dirt as the gun spat into the earth at their horses’ feet. Mary’s mount reared and the lady screamed, clinging to its mane in terror. Hallvor grabbed for its bridle.

The men at the machine tilted the barrels and, still cranking, swung the gun back the way it had come. The trees beside Hallvor splintered. The leaves by her shoulder tore. Her painted mare staggered as a shot punctured its neck. In the moments left to her, the healer spread her arms and twisted her body to cover Mary. Hallvor’s shoulders disappeared beneath a shocking fountain of blood. She was thrown violently into Mary’s arms, and the two women went down behind the falling horses.

Wynter’s scream was echoed by Sól’s. Even as she galloped towards the place where Alberon had fallen, she twisted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the women. Sól was galloping towards them. Still screaming in horror, her face hot with tears, Wynter was engulfed in a choking billow of acrid smoke.

Up ahead, one of Alberon’s remaining soldiers took aim at the machine. It spat its mindless fire and he toppled back onto his horse’s rump, his eyes wide and staring to the sky. Behind him, Alberon climbed unsteadily to his feet. He looked about for Anthony, who still sat, frozen in horror, on his little horse. Oliver was pulling his own frenzied mount around, trying to put himself between the boys and the machine. He was yelling at them, his voice drowned by the barking gun. He lifted his eyes to see Wynter thundering towards him and swung his arm in dismay, shouting soundlessly for her to get back.

The machine barked.

Oliver jerked a rattling puppet-dance as a series of shots caught him. He fell momentarily from view, and Wynter screamed his name, her voice a painful scratch in her abused throat. Then Oliver rose into sight again as he dragged himself back into the saddle. Slowly, he pulled his horse around to stand between Alberon and the gun. Wynter stood in her stirrups. She screamed Oliver’s name once more. Alarmed by her bellowing, thunderous advance, Alberon’s last soldier raised his bow and took shaky aim at her.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! We’re on your side.’

The machine swung back for another sweep. The soldier lurched as a shot caught him under his arm. He loosed his arrow as he fell.

Wynter ducked. The arrow shot past. She glanced behind to see Jonathon fly from his horse. He hit the ground, the bolt jutting from his shoulder, and rolled just in time to miss being trampled by Christopher’s little mare. Razi jerked his own horse to a skidding halt and galloped back to his father.

Ozkar stumbled and Wynter was thrown without warning. She flew through the unresisting air and hit the ground with a violent smack. There were stars and blackness. She rolled head over heels on the rough ground, staggered to her feet and kept running – heading blindly through the smoke and the fear, heading for Alberon.

The harsh sound of the gun ceased without warning. In the sudden, unexpected silence, Ozkar thundered past, trailing smoke as he headed for the trees. Wynter flinched but kept running. Her ears rang with the aftershock of the gun; she only dimly registered the sound of horses and men screaming in pain around her. Her own heart was the loudest sound; that, and the name Alberon, repeated constantly in her head.

A stray horse loomed, its shoulders black with gore, and Wynter slapped it aside.

Above the chest-high pall of smoke, Anthony sat atop his little horse – a small boy drenched in blood. He was gazing at the men in the forge house as they released the spent barrel-ring and hoisted a fresh-loaded one into its place. Their crewmates carried the first away to be reloaded. The gun crew heaved the lever to engage the new barrels, and Anthony watched with no emotion as they swung the gun around to face him.

Alberon rose from the river of smoke and reached for the child. Shoving his hands beneath the boy’s armpits, he dragged him from the saddle, and Anthony slid like a sack of loose grain into the Prince’s arms.

Spinning with the limp child cradled to his chest, Alberon looked for somewhere to go. Anthony’s little head lolled to his shoulder, his eyes wide and blank and staring. Desperate, the Prince glanced up at Oliver, who still swayed protectively in the saddle above him. Alberon’s expression fell as he registered the knight’s chalky face. Oliver’s tunic was scarlet from shoulder to hip. A sheet of blood coated his horse’s side and dribbled in a steady stream to darken the ground at its feet.

Alberon roared in wordless horror. Oliver, still gazing down upon him, slid slowly sideways from the saddle.

‘Albi!’ screamed Wynter, still running. ‘Albi! Run! Run before they can fire!’

Razi’s deep voice cut above the residual whine in her ears, a muffled bellowing somewhere behind her: ‘STOP, YOU CRETINS, IN THE NAME OF THE KING! IN THE NAME OF THE KING!

’ Deaf from the gunshots and blinded by the smoke, the men at the forge took careful aim and once again began to crank the handle. The machine coughed its brutal roar. Great gouts of earth sprayed from the ground, arcing a curved path towards the Prince.

‘Get down!’ screamed Wynter.

Alberon twisted his body to shield the little boy, and ran. Oliver’s horse staggered under another rain of fire. Oliver spilled lifelessly to the ground. The horse fell.

Shots followed the Prince’s hunched retreat, biting the ground at his heels. Wynter reached for him, as if to pluck him from death’s relentless path. The smoke bit her eyes and throat as she drew breath again to scream. Alberon jerked. Blood erupted from his shoulder. He jerked again. Blood sprayed from his hip. Anthony’s small hands flew up as the two of them spun. Blood flew from Alberon’s mouth and he hit the ground, Anthony still clutched to him like a doll.

Alberon rolled, once, twice, three times, then came to a stop, still shielding Anthony with his body. For a moment, rigid tremors shook him. Then, to Wynter’s horror, her friend seemed to deflate, and both he and his little servant lay corpse-still on the smoky ground.

The machine cranked on. The earth puffed up in a series of lethal explosions as the shots arced a path from Alberon to Wynter. She ran towards them, her mind filled only with Alberon’s lifeless, sprawling body; the horrible way the ground was darkening where he lay. Something hit her, shoving her sideways, and the ground spat up by her foot as the arc of the machine passed by.

She was tumbled over and over, a band of iron clamped around her waist. Then a slim weight pressed upon her, holding her down. A lilting voice in her ear shouted above the noise. ‘Stay easy, you bloody fool!’

Christopher was lying across her, pressing her into the ground as he jerked his crossbow up and took aim. She struggled against him, trying to reach Alberon, and Christopher elbowed her hard in the ribs. ‘Stay still!’ He took aim, fired, and Wynter looked up to witness one of the machine crew lurch back, Christopher’s arrow jutting from his brow. There was a brief pause in the firing as the machine crew regrouped, and Christopher rolled onto his back, trying to reload.

Wynter began slithering beneath the smoke to Alberon.

‘Razi!’ bellowed Christopher. ‘Stop!

’ Wynter twisted, gaping back over her shoulder.

Running from the curled body of the King, Razi had leapt onto his horse. With a cry, he pulled the terrified animal around and, just as the machine began to shoot again, galloped straight for it.

Wynter lurched to her feet in horror. Christopher, still lying on his back, took aim and fired. Another of the machine crew fell, and the machine temporarily dipped its nose, shooting aimlessly into the earth. Men who had been working in the background ran forward with the fresh-loaded barrel-ring, heaved it into the ready position, then took their fallen comrades’ place. They pulled the muzzle around to aim at Razi and fired.

Razi kept going. Wynter saw shots tug his tunic. Saw one shred the corner of his doctor’s bag. Razi leaned forward in the saddle. He settled against the horse’s neck, and Wynter realised he was going to try to jump the wall.

She began to run, waving her arms. ‘Stop firing!’ she screamed. ‘Stop firing!’

Behind her, Christopher leapt to his feet and took aim again. His bolt clattered harmlessly against the metal carriage of the machine, but the men swung the weapon in response and drew down. Wynter skid to a halt as the gun’s multiple eyes turned to stare at her.

The machine fired, BAM BAM BAM, the shots running towards her in a straight line. She leapt aside. The ground puffed by her foot. Shots cut a path from her to Christopher.

‘GET DOWN!’ she screamed.

He did not get down. Instead he stood, legs akimbo, slapped the bow to his shoulder and fired once more. A gunner sprouted an arrow from his chest and fell from sight. Christopher went to reload. The last round hit him. He dropped, and the machine fell silent as it ran out of shots.

In the ringing silence, Christopher curled on the ground, his eyes bulging, his hands clenched around his thigh. Blood poured from between his fingers. Wynter skidded to his side, snatching her scarf from her neck, and wrapped it tightly around his wound.

‘You fool!’ she cried, knotting the scarf. ‘You fool!’

‘Razi!’ he yelled, struggling to see over her shoulder. ‘Stop!’

The men at the machine were scrabbling to reload. Frantically they hauled the lever to release the spent barrelring and allowed the next one to clang into place. All the time, Razi was thundering towards them. He shouted ‘hup’ and his huge mare launched from the ground. There was silence as she tucked her legs and sailed across the tumbled remains of the wall. Rider and horse trailed ribbons of smoke behind them, as if they were made of cloud, descended from the sky.

At the sight of all that great weight of horseflesh bearing down on them, the terrified men lifted the muzzle of the reloaded gun. But it was too late, and as they released their first shots, Razi and his beautiful horse crashed down on top of them. Wynter howled in despair as gun, men and horse toppled sideways in a horrible screaming tangle and fell behind the wall.

‘Razi!’ yelled Christopher.

Wynter staggered to her feet and stumbled forward through the smoke. Within the ruins, Razi’s big mare was kicking and neighing, trying hard to gain its feet. There was a man screaming in there somewhere, and Wynter was sure he was caught beneath machine and horse, that massive weight grinding him against the ground. Suddenly, and with a huge surging effort, the mare lurched upright. Clumsy, staggering, the big animal managed to haul herself from the wreckage of the machine and back over the wall. Clattering her way across the uneven scatter of rocks, she sank to her knees on the grass and toppled to her side, shuddering in agony and fear. She was a terrible mess, her lovely body torn, her legs ruined. Wynter staggered past her, blinking against the tears and the smoke. That poor man’s screaming ceased abruptly. Without his voice, it was very quiet. Out of sight behind the wall, someone began a piteous moaning.

Wynter dropped to her hands and knees and began an awkward clamber across the fallen stones, wanting and not wanting to see what lay on the other side.

It took a moment for her to register a man’s hoarse voice, calling over and over on the battlefield behind her: ‘Alberon! Alberon!’

She paused and looked back. Jonathon, the arrow still jutting from his shoulder, was staggering towards his son’s body.

As the King lurched past, Christopher pulled himself to his elbows and twisted anxiously to look over his shoulder. Sólmundr was carrying Hallvor’s body across the field towards them, his face streaming with tears. The warrior strode through knee-deep smoke, his blood-soaked friend held out before him like an offering. Hallvor’s head lolled in the crook of his arm, her long hair hanging to the ground. Mary stumbled along behind, her hand knotted in Sól’s tunic, her eyes fixed on the healer’s lifeless face. ‘Tá sí marbh!’ cried Sól. ‘Tá Hally marbh!’ and Wynter had no doubt in her mind that Hallvor was dead.

Gravel rattled loosely behind her, but Wynter didn’t turn. She could not take her eyes from Jonathon, who was just then falling to his knees at Alberon’s side. She dropped down onto the sun-warmed stones and watched as the King turned his son over. Jonathon knelt for a moment, his hands poised, staring down at Alberon’s limp body. Then he grabbed his son’s tunic, pulled him into his arms, and screamed at no one in particular.

‘He breathes! He breathes! Save him!’

There was a small movement at Wynter’s side, and she turned to look into Razi’s dusty, bloodstained face. He blinked at her, those big brown eyes, flecked all through with gold.

‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘save him.’