Crispin's Army

It was not the homecoming Crispin had envisaged, returning as a prisoner under armed guard. As they walked, Crispin debated in his mind whether to attempt to talk Carrick round. He was certain that the man held him no ill will, but was acting at Torfinn’s behest because he simply could not conceive of any other course of action.

They rounded the last bend, and the fortress that Vale-By-The-Waters had now become loomed before them in the moonlight, its principal barrier lined with flickering torches. As they approached, Carrick pointed out with pride the various features of the village’s defences. A skilled builder, as Crispin recalled from working alongside him on the Upper Vale longhouse, Carrick had overseen the construction of the fortifications, and was anxious for his work to be admired.

The cottages were now hidden from view behind a formidable barricade. The first line of defence was a field of iron hooks attached to logs buried in the ground, planted either side of the river, with a path through the middle wide enough to permit the passage of a wagon. Anyone seeking to approach rapidly other than along this path was likely to have his legs ripped open or broken. Beyond this, on either side of the track, Carrick explained, were deep pits filled with fire-hardened stakes, covered over with a thin lattice on which turf had been laid. Crispin followed Carrick’s pointing finger: a year or more later, the turf had mingled with the surrounding grass to the extent that the traps were virtually invisible, and he recalled the efficiency with which such a trap of his own - designed for killing animals - had finished off the Security man in the woods. Beyond the traps, the path passed between thickets of staves whose ends had been cut into forks before being whittled to lethal points. Past this barrier, the track forked to left and right around a similar man-made thicket which traversed its path. The two arms of the track rejoined behind it before crossing a double ditch and leading through massive gates, bisecting a rampart consisting of a double line of logs, the space between them being packed with earth and large stones, and topped with a palisade. The rampart and palisade continued along the hillsides above the village, and crossed the valley again above its upper extremity, where it was pierced by a small second gate. Gaps in the earthworks and a tunnel through the rampart had been cut to allow the river to pass through, between the bars of solid-looking grilles. On the corners of the rampart, ten-metre high towers rose, where guards watched carefully all comings and goings.

As they approached, Crispin was conscious of the incredible amount of labour the redoubt must have cost a village where the day to day demands of living already exacted a heavy toll. And at the same time he knew that it was in vain: a Security Commission personnel carrier could smash the defences like matchwood, and the village was utterly defenceless against an aerial bombardment. But how could he explain the might of the city’s technology to people who had never seen it?

From a watch tower came a challenge. “Who approaches?”

“Carrick.”

The gates swung open and they passed through.

At the sound of the gates swinging on their hinges, curious faces appeared at cottage doors. Crispin inclined his head and waved. At first the only responses were shy smiles, and then one or two bold souls called out, “It’s Crispin! Crispin has returned!”

By the time they reached the longhouse, the entire village had been roused, and flocked into the hall, many still clutching their bedding around themselves to keep out the chill of the night air.

Among the first to arrive were those whom Crispin’s quest touched the closest. Gund was there, and Ulf, and hovering on the fringe of the crowd, Tana’s parents, Sasha’s and Melissa’s. He read the anxious questioning in their faces and wondered what he could possibly tell them.

By the fire, Torfinn waited, flanked by Gunnar, Lars and Eirik. All glowered at the first sight of Crispin.

Crispin glanced around. He felt acutely the absence of his father. He had always imagined that a day would come when they would sit down and talk about their differences as they had never talked before. Now that was not to be.

Suddenly it occurred to him that there were two other faces missing from the crowd. Both Arne and Nold were absent. Crispin felt a chill run through him. They knew Torfinn’s secret, and Crispin knew what the old man was capable of.

Torfinn raised his hands to bid silence, and a hush fell over the hall.

“Crispin,” he said slowly, with cold deliberation. “You have returned to us. That is something we did not expect.”

“I am aware of that, Master Torfinn,” said Crispin. “I...”

“Silence!” bellowed Gunnar, his vehemence taking even Torfinn off guard. “You will speak only in reply to questions!”

“Crispin,” Torfinn continued, “your returning here makes no sense. You have wilfully flouted my authority in the past. Our society is fragile, our numbers are small. We cannot tolerate such things. The ultimate penalty must be applied.”

There was a shocked gasp in the hall. Torfinn ignored it.

“We spared you your life before because you opted for a voluntary exile. But you have returned to make trouble, and what is worse, you have brought an outsider with you. These people are too dangerous for us, Crispin. Surely you realise that?”

“Touch her,” Crispin growled, “and I will kill you with my bare hands.”

“Threatening the life of your leader now,” Torfinn hissed menacingly. “The list of your crimes grows with every passing minute. Eirik, we can delay no longer. Prepare the blade of execution.”

The murmuring of the crowd grew in intensity. They could not believe their ears. The blade of execution was something that could be found in every village longhouse, a relic from a more violent bygone era which had devolved into simply a symbol of justice. No one could recall hearing of any instance in living memory when the blade had been actually used. But then, there had not been such strange events in many generations.

Carrick and his men formed a solid ring around Crispin and Josie, their own knives drawn. Eirik, with Torfinn’s sworn promise to name him as his successor still echoing round his head and the copious strong drink, which the leader of the village had poured to celebrate his succession, still mingling in his blood, had agreed to act as executioner. But as he drew the long bladed knife from its ceremonial mounting on the end wall of the longhouse and slowly wiped the dust from it with a soft cloth, he felt the qualms of conscience. It was not justice but injustice that was being done. He took his time polishing the blade, wishing that someone or something might relieve him of the onerous burden, but knowing that such wishing was futile.

Crispin and Josie, determined not to have come through so much in order to be meekly put to the butcher’s knife, brought the relief Eirik had been silently seeking.

To the villagers, unfamiliar with the `empty hand’ technique in which the two Underground fighters were thoroughly schooled, it seemed that there were now before them not two but ten, five men and five women, lashing out with a flurry of hands and feet in all directions, seemingly indifferent to the blades flashing in the firelight all around them.

And as the villagers watched the unequal struggle before them suddenly become equal, the spell that had held them enslaved to the will of the elders for so long was irrevocably broken.

As one they surged forward to aid Crispin and Josie, who could clearly only hold out for so long against Carrick and his men. They joined in a general melee, seeking to disarm the knife wielders. Many received serious wounds for their trouble, and there were screams from others who had stumbled into the fire that burned brightly in their midst.

"Stop!”

Arne’s voice could be heard above the din, yelling from the further end of the hall. In the thick of the fighting, however, no one was in any position to give any heed to his call.

There was a brilliant flash, as Arne fired a blaster over the heads of the combatants. He had intended only to bring the fighting to a halt. He had certainly not reckoned on setting the thatch alight, but that was the result, as the dry straw and rushes quickly began to burn.

The chaos that had erupted moved swiftly to a higher plane of intensity, as little torches of burning straw began to fall on the heads of the people in the longhouse, and they began a mad stampede through the narrow exit. Some were knocked to the ground in the rush and trampled, others simply dragged bodily by their friends. Others again were pressed against the walls, until the crush broke through the thin wattle and daub in three places, spilling bodies out onto the ground outside.

The longhouse was evacuated in very short order, people rushing to get clear as the tinder dry roof became an inferno, sending sheets of flame soaring into the night sky, and then with a crash it collapsed, and the walls of the longhouse began to burn. A few men ran to the stream to fetch water, then wandered back sheepishly as they realised that any attempt to save the hall would be futile.

The fighting ceased, as all combatants stood watching the building as the blaze consumed it. It was such a spectacle that even the guards descended from the watch towers, neglecting their orders, to get a closer look, and to learn, if possible, how it had all started.

This dereliction of duty did not go unnoticed. Eyes that the years had not dimmed watched attentively as the men descended from the walls and ambled casually over to the edge of the crowd, seeking not to draw attention to themselves. When they were sure that the gates were unattended, four stealthy figures crept through the shadows to the village stables, emerging quickly, each leading a mount.

In the meantime, Crispin and Josie made their way through the crowd to find Arne, and were astonished to discover that he was not alone. Standing with him was Nold, and they were accompanied by Charlie, Simone, Mina, Ralph, Keith and Nick.

With shouts of delight, Crispin and Josie greeted their old comrades in arms, laughing at how incongruous the reunion was in the circumstances.

“Well,” said Crispin, his heart bursting with relief, “it seems the city has arrived sooner than I expected. But not a moment too soon.”

He began to lead them away from the crowd so that they could talk about everything that had happened to them, walking slowly away from the blazing longhouse. Above the roar of the fire behind them, the creak of the hinges on the great village gates was barely audible, but hunters Crispin and Arne heard it and stopped dead. Peering into the darkness they discerned movement ahead. They awaited a challenge from the towers, but none was forthcoming.

“Who goes there?” Crispin demanded. There was no reply. “Blasters out, people,” he said softly to his city comrades. “Set to minimum power. We have need of those four.”

The horsemen were passing through the gate in single file. Charlie raised his blaster and picked off the back marker, who tumbled from his saddle with a cry. Crispin and the others heard the next man urging the two ahead of him to hasten.

By the time the pursuers had reached the gates, the three remaining horsemen and the riderless animal had rounded the thicket that divided the path outside the walls, the thunder of their horses’ hoofs already fading into the distance.

“Shall we follow them?” said Arne.

“No,” said Crispin. “They can do us no further harm. Besides, I think we will have our hands full with what needs to be done here.”

Together the friends gathered up the unconscious body, which they discovered to be that of Gunnar, and carried it back to where the crowd was standing, basking in the fierce heat coming from the bonfire that the longhouse had become.

In the light of the fire, they became aware of the injuries they had sustained. Both Crispin’s and Josie’s hair, which had in recent days become thin and patchy - for reasons Josie guessed at but did not speak of - was now also singed. Crispin had sustained a gash on his arm, while Josie had a deep cut across the palm of her hand, and had clearly escaped only narrowly from greater injury, if the rent in her tunic at the level of her ribs was anything to go by.

“I think we should retire to my cottage and get ourselves patched up,” Crispin declared. “It’s been quite an eventful night.”