Gates of Ruin (Magelands Eternal Siege, #6) by Christopher Mitchell (top 10 books of all time .TXT) 📗

‘That’s enough,’ said the militia officer; ‘I want none of that. Go home; we’ll take it from here.’

Corthie tried to recall what had happened the night before, but his memories were full of gaps. He remembered arguing with Naxor in the house boat; something about Belinda, and then he had gone out, but after that? Nothing. His head was pounding, and his limbs and joints ached. He closed his eyes, but then everything started to spin, and a wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he threw up into the gutter, splashing the officer’s boots.

‘Gods above,’ the officer muttered, stepping back. ‘Where’s that wagon?’

‘It’s here, sir,’ said another voice.

‘Get him in the back, and don’t treat him too kindly; the bastard’s just ruined my new boots.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Four crossbow-wielding militiamen came into view, while another two moved round to Corthie’s shoulders and began to lift him from the gutter. They heaved him up, then dragged him across the road to where a large wagon was waiting, a large, barred cage positioned upon its wide chassis. Inside were half a dozen others who had already been arrested by the militia – four men, a woman, and a young boy. The cage was unlocked and opened, then four of the militiamen pushed Corthie inside. His head struck the floor of the cage, and then his legs were shoved in and the cage was closed and locked. Corthie remained where he was, sprawled over the filthy wooden floor, and the wagon began to move, its wheels juddering over the uneven cobbles. He glanced out through the bars at the street, and caught a glimpse of Van, watching from the shadows by a market stall.

‘Could you move your leg?’ said a voice inside the cage.

Corthie turned. His left leg was tangled in the grimy old cloak of one of the men.

‘Aye, no bother,’ Corthie grunted. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and leaned against the bars.

‘Rough night, lad?’

‘I can’t remember a thing. Where are we going?’

The man grinned, displaying his lack of teeth. ‘This your first time being picked up in the old drunk wagon, eh?’

Corthie nodded at the young boy. ‘He’s a bit young to be drunk.’

‘The lad’s probably been picking pockets.’

‘No, I ain’t,’ said the boy, ‘so shut your mouth.’

The old man laughed. ‘We’re off to the city jail,’ he said to Corthie. ‘If it’s your first time, you might get let off with a fine, but only if you’re contrite and polite to the magistrate – he hates drunks.’

‘I might have smashed up a tavern as well.’

‘Then you’d better pray for a miracle, lad, cause the magistrate particularly hates violent drunks.’

‘I also threw up on an officer’s new boots; that I do remember.’

The old man cackled with glee.

Two of the other men in the cage were eyeing Corthie with suspicion.

‘You got a problem?’ he said.

‘Depends,’ said one. ‘You Banner?’

‘Nope. Why do folk round here assume I’m a Banner soldier?’

‘It’s your accent,’ said the old man; ‘it’s difficult to place, it is. Where you from?’

It was an obvious question, but Corthie had no ready answer. He had tried a variety of responses in the bars and taverns he had been frequenting, but none of them had convinced anyone.

‘He’s a Banner deserter,’ said one of the other men; ‘just look at him; he’d be as well having “soldier” stamped across his forehead.’

‘I have a military background,’ Corthie said, ‘but not with any Banner.’

‘Yeah?’ said the old man. ‘Who have you fought?’

‘Greenhides.’

Thinking it was a joke, most of the others in the cage laughed.

‘If you’ve served here in Kinell,’ said the old man, ‘then you’d better watch your step in the city jail, lad.’

‘I’ve never served in Kinell. I only arrived in Kin Dai a little while ago. And, I freely admit to knowing next to nothing about the politics of the place, or why you lot seem to hate everyone else in Khatanax. Especially the Fordians, apparently.’

‘Green-skinned scum,’ muttered one of the men.

The wagon pulled to the side of the road next to the waterfront, and they waited as the militia jumped down from the front and moved off into a crowd. Corthie closed his eyes against the harsh sunlight. Had he really trashed a tavern? His guts were churning, and his headache seemed to be peaking, sending bolts of pain through his skull. He remembered to check for his battle-vision and, to his surprise, found it stronger than ever, almost as strong as it had been before Yoneath. He immediately pulled on some, and his hangover eased a little. He almost cried out in relief, but kept his expression muted. Had his powers recovered? He opened his eyes and glanced around, and his battle-vision responded, flooding him with sensory information.

Great timing, he thought. His battle-vision had returned, and he was locked in the back of a drunk wagon. A memory from the previous evening flashed through him, an image of Naxor shouting about how they had to leave Kin Dai right away, and something about Belinda… That was right, Belinda had been in contact, and there was something else, good news he seemed to recall, though he couldn’t remember what it was.

Four armed militiamen approached the rear of the wagon, dragging a semi-conscious man along the street. They unlocked the cage, and threw the man in before anyone could react, then quickly locked it again. Corthie pushed the fallen man from his legs. He groaned, and fell unconscious again as the wagon jolted ahead. They turned away from the waterfront and entered a network of tight streets, where many of the buildings seemed older.

‘Is this the centre of Kin Dai?’ said Corthie.

‘It’s the Old Quarter,’ said the toothless man. ‘The city jail is close by; not far to go.’

Corthie nodded. ‘Why did you get picked up?’

‘They accused me of running a gambling den,’ he said. ‘It’s untrue, of course. Gambling’s illegal in this city.’

One of the other men snorted.

‘What if you’re found guilty?’ said Corthie.

The old man shrugged. ‘I’ll