Free Master of War by David Gilman

Blackstone pointed – to talk meant inhaling lung-destroying smoke. The cart seemed their only chance. If they could push it hard enough through the burning timber walls they might have a way of breaking out. Burnt straw swirled through the air, the fire’s updraught sucking it from the floor as sparks and splintered timbers tumbled from the roof that would soon fall in. The doors of hell had been opened.
    They pressed their bodies against the cart, but despite the archers’ strength its weight could not be moved. They retreated beneath its broad oak planking. Blackstone covered his mouth with his hand, trying to draw air into his lungs.
    ‘There!’ he shouted above the roaring fire. ‘That corner!’ He pointed. The fire smothered everything, but one corner burned more slowly. ‘They made repairs! That’s new wood. It’s the weakest part!’
    There was no time left. He ran at the corner planking, his hair singeing, the heat blistering his face, and threw his shoulder against it. The freshly cut, slower burning wood gave an inch or two. He tried again and this time his brother hurled his bulk against it. The wood nearly splintered away. The other two men began kicking the planks and when Richard shouldered the loosest, it gave.
    They burst through the fire into the night. Stumbling and gasping, they dragged each other but then could run no more and fell again, retching from the smoke, eyes streaming. Men ran towards them; Sir Gilbert took one of Blackstone’s arms, a horseman the other, soldiers did the same with the other survivors and dragged them to the safety of the trees. Two soldiers ran from a trough carrying buckets and threw water over the choking, smouldering men. The barn collapsed, sending a fireball of sparks pluming high into the darkness.
    Blackstone lay on his back. As his eyes cleared, the stars were red, glittering in the firmament, sucking up the dead men’s souls. Clutched to his chest, like a priceless prize of war, was his father’s war bow. The leather case was singed, but the weapon was unharmed. He needed luck to stay alive, and his superstition was strong enough to know that as long as the war bow remained in his keeping its good fortune would protect him. As dawn broke the smoke-blackened men gazed at the smouldering barn. Their comrades’ remains lay indistinguishable from the charred timbers. The survivors drank thirstily, trying to ease their raw throats.
    ‘Sir Gilbert!’ one of the hobelars called.
    The men turned to see where he pointed. John Nightingale was on all fours crawling from the bushes. His hair was matted with dried blood and he retched vomit into the dirt and over his jerkin. He sank back on his haunches staring blankly at the charnel house that had been a place of safety and laughter for his comrades.
    Sir Gilbert strode quickly to him as two of his men hauled Nightingale to his feet. The boy squinted. His sour, dry mouth croaked. ‘Water, Sir Gilbert… water. If you please.’
    Sir Gilbert gripped the boy’s chin. The stench of vomit and stale cider confirmed what he already knew. One of the hobelars picked up the stone bottle and tipped it upside down. It was dry.
    ‘Give him water!’ Sir Gilbert commanded, then turned to the survivors. ‘Was this man posted as sentry?’
    Except for Blackstone’s brother, who could not hear the demand, the men averted their eyes.
    Sir Gilbert would have none of it. He grabbed Will Longdon roughly. ‘Did Bray post this man?’ he demanded. Longdon had no choice. He nodded.
    Sir Gilbert pushed him back and turned to Nightingale, who drank desperately from a waterskin. Sir Gilbert snatched it away. ‘Where’s your bow stave and arrow bag? Where’s your goddamn sword, you pig shit? And your knife?’ The knight’s threatening voice was chilling. Blackstone could feel that something terrible was about to happen, something perhaps more terrible than the barn’s destruction.
    ‘Get a rope,’ Blackstone commanded one of his