As the shadows lengthened, the web of alleys in the Shipwrights’ District bustled in a way quite unlike ordinary days. The people who lived here could generally be distinguished by their clothes alone, but among the shabbily dressed residents mingled people with healthy complexions, sometimes even with bracelets or other ornaments of the sort patrolmen might snatch. They were citizens from other districts, drawn by the rumors.
Most were afraid to go to Sailcloth Fiveways, where the fighting was taking place, but knots of people stood a block or two away, craning their necks and listening. Quite a few had climbed onto roofs to look about.
“Stand back, all of you! Back! Go home!”
Mounted guards rode around shouting. People would briefly scatter, only to gather again. They pointed after the guards, cursed them, or spat.
Since word had spread that afternoon of a strange siege beginning around Hawk House, everyone wanted to know who was fighting whom, how the battle was going, and when it would end. But the greatest subject of discussion was why they were fighting. It was the sort of story that made anyone gape.
Nikephoros, a retired general and war hero, had declared war on the Shadowhawk, foremost figure of the back alleys. His reason was that the Shadowhawk had invaded his manor without cause and insulted him. According to the Shadowhawk, however, he had merely rescued a girl whom the general had kidnapped. No one had confirmed which account was true, but the general had demanded a duel. When the Shadowhawk refused, he had mobilized his soldiers to destroy Hawk House.
Rumors that General Nikephoros was after the Shadowhawk had spread widely over the past few days. Everyone had expected something to happen soon, yet no one had foreseen this. At most, they had imagined an ambush. A siege in the middle of the city! Had it really been an ambush, no one thought the general’s mere soldiers could defeat the Shadowhawk. But this changed the story. Wasn’t siege warfare the specialty of a general who had commanded an army?
As if that news alone had not set the entire city buzzing, another rumor spread that the attack had the governor’s protection. That seemed plausible. Far from intervening to suppress the fighting, guards were driving away the gathering spectators. Because of this, even the Hand of Ilmoram, the organization to which the Shadowhawk belonged, seemed reluctant to step in and help. As one story followed another, saying the Brothers of the Hawk might be wiped out, the Shadowhawk came to be portrayed as a hero under unjust persecution. Even wealthy citizens who ordinarily took little interest in back-alley affairs began speaking his name with curiosity.
Another point of interest was the general’s use of retired soldiers from the Fifteenth Regiment he had once commanded, as though they were a private army. His glory days were more than a decade past, barely remembered by the young. Many were therefore astonished to discover that a retired general still possessed such power. His force of more than five hundred soldiers was a number beyond an ordinary citizen’s imagination. Feeding and clothing an army that size, even paying it wages, would cost an enormous sum. Was the general so wealthy?
Delphinad’s nobles generally kept only small private forces and hired mercenaries when needed. Soldiers loyal enough to obey an absurd order were difficult to find. To citizens of Delphinad, whose age of war was long past, soldiers who respected a former commander and came running at his call even after being discharged were curiosities seen only in plays.
Before long, word spread that the Shadowhawk had merely left the city for a while, and still more citizens grew angry. He had not run away. He was simply absent, and they were slaughtering his men! On a battlefield where both sides’ lives were at stake, that would not have been questionable, only natural. In a corner of the city, however, it took on a different meaning. The townspeople treated this less as war than as a game of strategy or a wrestling match. It was like overturning the game board because one’s opponent had failed to appear.
Public opinion favored the Shadowhawk. But none of that gave immediate help to Hawk House, where, by sunset, the ice sealing the front entrance had half melted, casualties were mounting, and half the rear barricade had collapsed.
“Change over! Change over! Next team forward!”
“This side’s open! Creses is hurt!”
“Take him inside! Terry! You hold this side!”
Whatever outsiders thought, for these men it was war. As Rosa had said at the beginning, absurdly small though it was, people were hurt and died all the same. In an arena, spectators might have influenced a victory, but there was nothing like that here. The fight had begun with twelve teams, and now only seven remained. Almost none were uninjured.
Gayar and Terry each met one of the two soldiers who had just climbed over the barricade. As their blades clashed, a spear thrust out from behind. Terry barely dodged. Gayar had already knocked his opponent down, and now swung a hand axe to chop through the spear shaft. Hal, waiting above, dealt with the second spear. They had repeated this so often that the patrolmen were growing accustomed to it. As though by agreement, Gayar and Terry ducked, and arrows flew over their heads, struck the far wall, and left marks before falling. The wall was already covered with arrow scars.
Raising his head, Terry said, “They’re still packed in there.”
Beyond the barricade, the alley was still full of soldiers, enough to make one’s stomach turn. It bent, hiding the far end. Precisely because it was hidden, it created the illusion of an endless stream of enemies. Gayar replied calmly.
“I was bored, so I counted them earlier. There aren’t that many.”
Terry gave a short laugh. Gayar had held that position ever since he arrived, so his claim to have counted them was not entirely idle. Hanbun, at the other barricade, had fought without relief too. Despite defeating more enemies than anyone, both men still moved with energy. The other patrolmen, by contrast, were plainly exhausted, even after rotating in four-man teams. They were suffering from the strain of an experience entirely new to them, being surrounded and attacked. No, their fatigue was quite natural. As the siege entered its sixth hour, the abnormal ones were those who could keep fighting after only a few mouthfuls of water.
Discover more from Lilly Translations
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.