“To me, Strikers!” he shouted. “Push ’em, push ’em!”
They were pushing them, in a heaving, thrashing confusion that swayed backward a step, another step, another, shouting snarling point-bearded faces and spearpoints, curved swords, knives. Men locked chest-to-chest, no room to dodge now, naked extreme violence, blows given and taken. Then they were under the shade of the arcade’s pillars, then past it, and suddenly the combat broke into knots of men that spilled out into a big room—an audience hall, like Casull’s back in Chalice.
“Rally, rally!” he called.
Beside him a signaler pulled a horn from his belt and blew the call. The chaos gradually sifted itself into order, men coalescing with their comrades, small bands being overrun, until there were again two distinct bodies of troops. His grew, as more men filtered in, and the Vase troops retreated to stand in a clump around the high throne with its backing of peacock-inlay feathers. Some of them, he noted with glee, were standing guard at the rear entrances to the room. Adrian was there, right enough. How in Wodep’s name did he get over the wall? Think about that later.
Donnuld Grayn came panting up with his company; a couple of them were waving inlaid bows and pear-patterned quivers, or carrying silver-sheathed daggers on their belts.
“Got those fucking archers,” Grayn wheezed. “Couldn’t bear on us much, up there—good idea. Some sort of Director’s Guard, I think—lot of ’em were Southrons, war slaves, maybe.”
Esmond nodded. “We’re through the rind and near the kernel. Let’s see how determined this lot are.”
“Not too much, I hope,” the Cable officer said, rubbing his hands on his kilt to dry them. “Wodep bugger me blind, I’ve never seen anything like some of the rooms here—Director’s palace, all right, a looter’s delight.”
“Let’s get the fight finished first,” Esmond said. “Surrender!” he called to the defenders.
A roar of obscene abuse returned, and a scatter of throwing axes, javelins and arrows; men snapped up shields around him as he ducked, and he could hear things clattering off them. One man backed into him involuntarily as a shaft went into his shield with a solid whack, the point showing through the tough layers of greatbeast hide and metal facing.
“Where’s your leader, then?” Esmond called, straightening again. “Let him come out and face me—if he dares!”
The Emerald was distantly aware of a commotion at his back—Casull’s name came through, but the King could wait. A man in his early middle years stepped forward from the crowd of Vase troops, a bloodied saber in one hand and a hacked buckler in the other.
“I am Franzois Clossaw, Director of Vase by right of blood,” he called, wiping at a cut on one cheek with the back of a gauntleted hand.
His armor was plain but rich, and looked nicked and battered as the man himself; he had mustaches curled up into points like horns and a pointed beard, but the point had been slashed off at some time today, leaving him looking a little frayed at the edges. Hmmm, Esmond thought. According to reports, the Director of Vase was about seventy, and nearly twice this one’s weight.
“I thought Antwoin Clossaw was Director,” Esmond said in a conversational tone.
“My brother is dead, killed by your coward’s weapons of magic. Until the Syndics of Vase can meet and settle the succession, I am Director—and no foreigner shall sit on the throne of Vase while I live!”
“That can be altered,” Esmond purred. “I am General Esmond Gellert, commander of the Sea Striker regiment of Emerald Free Companions”—a little more elegant-sounding than hired killers—”and thrice victor of the Five Year Games, free citizen of Solinga. Let this be settled here and now.”
Franzois swallowed, looked to either side. His men were apparently ready enough to make a last stand . . . but understandably not wildly enthusiastic about it.
“You guarantee the lives of my men if I lose?” he said.
Esmond nodded, and went on at the beginnings of a rumble behind him: “I can’t guarantee the lives or estates of your nobles,” he said. “That is in the hand of my lord, King Casull of the Isles—of all the Isles.” The rumble turned to a purr. “But for your common soldiers, yes. Amnesty, and employment for those who’ll swear allegiance. They fought quite well, all things considered.”