‘Kenzin.’ He was looking at the shore, but turned as he heard his name, staring at her like a stranger. Katarina slapped Stetch away and tottered towards him, her ankle still hurting. ‘Kenzin Morrow.’ Her unsteady legs built up speed and she crashed into him, trying to wrap her tiny arms around his generous girth. ‘Kenzin!’
He laughed, a deep boom. ‘Hello, child.’ He patted her, and started shouting at the crew. ‘Bring her up, lads.’
‘That wasn’t the deal.’ Kartane’s voice cut across the hubbub, the deck falling silent at the naked malice in his voice. Nobody moved.
‘Deal was to rescue the girl,’ Kenzin replied as Katarina pulled herself away and stared up into the face of a man who had taught her what it truly was to be Sworn, and had then turned his back on his brothers. And me.
‘Send them back,’ she said quietly. ‘That idiot saved my life…he…’ She couldn’t find the right words, but as he looked into her eyes, Kenzin seemed to understand how important this was.
‘Send the boat back to shore,’ he bellowed. ‘And get bloody archers on deck, you lackwits!’
‘Thank you.’ Katarina fell against him, the last of her strength fleeing as her legs collapsed and she slid down towards the deck. As her eyes closed she heard Kenzin sigh, ‘Never could deny you.’
22.
Tol saw her fall. He heard the muted cry of pain as Katarina collapsed to the dust. He couldn’t hear what Stetch growled at her, but it wasn’t hard to guess. They were exposed in the middle of the square, and the sound of the Gurdal was growing steadily louder. Stetch’s head jerked up and Tol followed it. Six Gurdal were emerging from the road to his left where it fed into the corner of the open ground. Victoria, Kartane and Salazar were moving towards the gate, but Katarina was still on her knees, and Tol realised the last of her strength had gone. He looked from the Gurdal to Stetch, judging the distance. They’re not going to make it, he realised. Stetch looked back, and Tol didn’t need words to see the question in his eyes.
Go, Tol mouthed. ‘Make for the gate,’ he called over his shoulder as the injured stumbled towards him. He took a deep breath and launched himself from the alley with a wordless cry as pain burned through him. He lumbered into the open, legs scissoring awkwardly as Tol pushed himself past his limits.
I will not fail.
He ran for a point two-thirds of the way between the Gurdal and Stetch.
I will not fail.
He saw Stetch scoop up Katarina, moving swiftly for the gate and freedom. A fast, long-legged stride, but not quite enough to outdistance their enemies.
I will not fail.
The Gurdal had seen him now but were still pursuing Stetch and the prize draped over his shoulder. Tol forced his legs to pump harder, lungs burning as every wound cried out for his attention.
Faster still; a few paces more and he’d be between them, a one man barrier. Tol stumbled to a halt in the sand, relieved to see Stetch nearing the gate. Slung across his shoulder, Katarina’s deep brown eyes peered back at him, her mouth parted as if surprised. Tol felt peace wash over him as he stared into those umber pools, reluctantly turning away as the Gurdal came racing towards him.
I will not fail.
His fingers tingled, and he thought Illis’Andiev agreed with him. Tol shifted his stance as two spearmen rushed him. There was nothing else now, no distractions, just a simple need: kill them all and buy Katarina time to escape.
The spears rushed towards his gut. Tol slid forward, jinking around the one on his right and brushing aside the other with the flat of Illis’Andiev. He brought the blade up and over in an arc as he glided between them. Tol didn’t look, didn’t need to look; he moved and death followed. A third man was raising a curved sword to strike down, but Tol let momentum carry him forward. He saw the fight unfolding, the myriad pieces snapping together like the first blurred image of an awakening as the eyes focused. He flowed forwards, Illis’Andiev whipping blink-fast from right to left. The Gurdal began to fall just as his sword reached the apex of its swing. Tol’s feet moved in concert without thought, the pendulous swing of his arm sending him shuffling through the sand to his right as another warrior tried to avoid him. Even as Tol landed his body was moving, because this wasn’t a series of movements, but one flowing motion that changed as a leaf in the wind. His torso bent, Tol’s body leaning far to his right. His left leg came up as a counterbalance, snapping to the horizontal as his torso slowed to the point of no return, the absolute hair’s breadth of balance from which there was no recovery. Illis’Andiev snapped out, its tip caressing the jugular of the running man as a fourth warrior thrust his spear forwards. This was part of the dance though, and Tol’s left arm already had his dagger in an underhand grip. He moved without thought, a twitch of his muscles snapped his torso back towards the vertical and he felt the dagger catch on something as he brought his left arm swung across his body, fending off a blow. Illis’Andiev completed its parabolic journey back from whence it came, striking the spear-holder’s neck just hard enough to shift him a little to Tol’s left, giving him a clear view of the last man two feet behind the others. The dagger – a stone compared to the peerless perfection of Illis’Andiev – twirled unseen in Tol’s fingers, leaving them at just the right moment to arrow through the space vacated by the dying man’s head and bury itself into the right eye of the last man. The movement slowed to a conclusion as Tol freed Illis’Andiev with a flick of his wrist, both men hitting the sand together and sending up small swirls of dust.
Tol stood there, dumbstruck. He glanced down at the carnage; six men dead in moments. Did I do that? It had felt otherworldly, as though for a few brief moments the perfection every warrior strived for yet never quite reached had been attained. More Gurdal appeared at the edge of the square, the first slowing as they saw the carnage Tol had wrought. He blinked, and suddenly it was over, that strange, almost trance-like state gone and leaving just a wistful memory in its place. Tol’s legs buckled, and he only just kept himself upright as a tidal wave of exhaustion washed over him.
He looked back towards the alley. Riedel, Vrillian and Benvedor had obligingly begun to trudge towards the open gates, the Sworn man supporting Benvedor and his injured leg. They were almost level with Tol now.
‘Keep going,’ he said, his voice sounding raw and breathless. The sun was rising now, but already he was sweating like it was noon. His injuries, too, dormant these last moments, were waking with fury.
‘For the gates,’ he tried to shout at the others as the Gurdal stepped out into the dawn. It came out as a strangled cry, his throat raw and dry.
The survivors were moving, Tol saw, but several of them were staring at him like he had a second head. ‘Move!’ He raised Illis’Andiev – it seemed to weigh as much as a fat woman – and pointed at the Gurdal.
Finally, the others began to gain momentum, a ragged trickle of blood-spattered bodies shambling across the open ground like the walking dead. It was going to be close, Tol thought, but they might just make it to the gates before the Gurdal. He turned his back on the approaching soldiers and started moving towards the small gap in the wall. Every pace brought new pain, and his strength waned with every step, each a little slower than the last. Riedel, Vrillian, and Benvedor didn’t seem to be faring any better. We’re not going to make it, Tol realised.
He took another day-long step. But Katarina escaped. Another step, this one taking a lifetime. I finally did something right.
*
‘Kraven?’
Someone was shaking him, a break in the dull monotony of pain that every movement brought. Tol looked up. Rachel’s face was lined with concern. She looked less pretty, he thought.
‘You have to move!’
Tol blinked as something stirred in the part of his mind that was no longer his own, a presence that had – somehow – escaped him these last minutes. He remembered why it was so important he survived, why he needed to be there when she faced the demons. Kalashadria.
He t
urned awkwardly. The others were strung out in a ragged line, the last few catching up with him. The Gurdal were a large mob, growing larger in his vision with every second.
‘Did you hear me?’ Fingers dug into his biceps, barely noticeable amongst all the other hurts. ‘We have to go.’
‘Get to the shore,’ Tol said. ‘If Morrow doesn’t see us, he’ll think we died.’ She hesitated, and Tol pulled her fingers away. ‘Get to the shore,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’ Still Rachel wavered, and he remembered an earlier vow, one made in a convent. ‘I swear.’ She gave a brisk nod, called out to Suranna and Bruna, and set off for the gates at a run.
Tol backed away from the approaching Gurdal, drawing level with the retreating trio of wounded as others joined him. They were looking at him like he knew what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to escape.
‘Kal!’ His cousin was there at his side. ‘Arrows!’ Tol looked at the others. ‘Form a line,’ he said, loud as he could manage. ‘We retreat back to the gate, shield the injured.’
And they did just that, a ragged line formed around him, marching backwards to the beat of a bow’s twang. With each one, a Gurdal fell, but more and more were coming now. A dozen? More? Tol couldn’t count.
Kal’s bowstring fell silent, and seconds later the Gurdal crashed into the line with warbling cries of fear and rage. Isallien and Catardor flanked Tol, and the three retreated back as one. Spears and the occasional sword lashed towards them and Tol parried each awkwardly. One Gurdal fell to a lucky strike as either side of him the two Reve knights shifted and swung with an elegance beyond Tol’s tired body.
Another step back, and Tol lunged forwards, Illis’Andiev penetrating a man’s chest. A spear swung towards him, clattering to the sand as Isallien drove his own blade deep into the Gurdal warrior’s torso. Tol looked for another enemy but the Gurdal were all dead, a dozen or so men lying motionless in the sand. Isallien grabbed Tol’s arm.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Tol nodded wearily, hearing the twang of Kal’s bowstring start anew as Isallien guided him towards the city gates. Benvedor was waiting there, his pale face illuminated by the first rays of dawn as he leaned against the pitted yellow stone.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re almost free.’
Sir Benvedor shook his head wearily. ‘Think I’ll stay a while.’ Tol followed the knight’s gaze as he looked across the square where more Gurdal were emerging from between the buildings. ‘Might take a few with me, I reckon.’
Tol resisted Isallien’s pushing and stood firm. ‘We can all make it.’
‘They’d catch us on the shore,’ Benvedor told him, ‘and with this leg I won’t make it that far. Best you go now, lad.’
‘You can’t hold the gate alone,’ Tol argued as Catardor and Isallien together pushed him beneath the worn stone arch of the gate.
‘I’ll stay,’ Kal said, but Vrillian – looking just as pale as Benvedor – gave him a rough shove. ‘Get gone, boy,’ he said. ‘We’ll hold.’
Tol looked back as Isallien and Catardor manhandled him towards the shore. In truth, he was so tired that they were mostly what stopped him collapsing.
The injured Sworn man moved to stand with the two Reve knights, but Benvedor shook his head, his voice carrying on the air. ‘Live to fight another day, brother. Take my squire with you, he’s proved himself this night.’
Tol heard Kal protesting, but Riedel turned and ushered him along in Tol’s wake.
Brave men, Tol thought as he reached the shore. The rowboat was almost there, and the three women were wading out to meet it. Above the splashing water Tol heard the clamour of battle: the Gurdal had reached the gates.
He waded into the cold water alongside Isallien and Catardor, somehow folding himself over the side to collapse in a heap. A scream came from the gates as Riedel and Kal squeezed in, Kal’s head turned back to the gates.
‘For Galandor,’ someone bellowed.
Tol closed his eyes.
23.
Morafin woke slowly. She blinked the turgid slumber aside, a blurred image resolving itself into a slatted wooden sky – the final proof of life; why would heaven be adorned so?
Vague, misty memories surfaced as full consciousness returned. She had tried to kill Tol Kraven, and been killed. No, not killed. The creature had come, and it had offered her a choice: death, or righteous vengeance; a promise that had seemed too good to be true. Now, however, Morafin was thinking she had chosen correctly. She turned her head, and found a man inches away, his face covered in a dark, black beard. Almost as black as the thing that had saved her. After her rebirth there had been more: hazy, dream-like memories of people carrying her, a house, and later a ship. The rolling motion she felt told her that she was still on the water.
‘About time you were up,’ the man said.
Morafin opened her mouth, but only a rough croak escaped her lips. The man, it seemed, had been expecting this and gently held a cup to her lips.
‘Slowly,’ he said as Morafin tried to slake her thirst.
‘Where am I?’
‘Near where you are going.’
The man was clearly a fool, so Morafin reached for her knife and discovered that it was not there. She also learned her limbs were slow to respond. She felt as weak as a child.
Perhaps not such a fool, Morafin thought as the man smiled indulgently at her attempt to arm herself.
‘Striking me would bring you no comfort,’ he said.
‘No?’ Morafin thought it might at least be satisfying, if somewhat short-lived.
‘You have been chosen by our Lord, to be his hand on our world.’ He raised a finger like a patient teacher. ‘But even a hand must know its purpose.’
Morafin spoke, her voice so low he had to lean forward. She grabbed his throat and stared into his eyes. Odd. There is no fear there. She smiled. ‘Talk fast.’
He nodded, and Morafin released him, pleased to see pink welts circling his throat. ‘Lord Vidrikan – by whose mercy and charity you now breathe – has decided to indulge your desire for revenge. We are sailing to the Spur.’
‘Tol Kraven,’ Morafin said. ‘Tol Kraven must die.’
‘He will, in time,’ he confirmed with a nod, ‘but that is not your task.’
Morafin bolted upright, and this time wrapped both her hands around his neck. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ she snarled. The man’s expression gave her pause; not only did the man show no fear of death, but he was smiling. She held him a moment longer, but reluctantly released him.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘your strength is returning.’
‘You are trying my patience.’
‘You have been chosen by the Lord Vidrikan himself,’ he told her, ‘but not to kill Tol Kraven.’
‘He promised me!’
The man’s index finger rose again, and Morafin felt a growing need to see how far she could bend it backwards.
‘He is not to die yet,’ he replied, voice perfectly calm as if they were discussing the harvest. ‘Lord Vidrikan has plans for Tol Kraven; he has forbidden you from killing him.’
‘Then what would he have me do?’
The man offered her a tolerant smile. ‘Come now,’ he said smoothly, ‘you do not fool me. In your fevered dreams, Kraven was the only name you uttered, again and again. You will not so easily give up your quarry.’ The finger that needed breaking rose again. ‘But you should.’
Morafin sighed. ‘Why?’
‘Because to disobey Lord Vidrikan would be a grave error of judgement. His benevolence gave you life anew, his anger…I have seen him kill people, and it is not a pleasant experience.’
Morafin shrugged. ‘I’ve already died once.’
‘That?’ the finger crooked towards her neck. ‘A single little wound?’ He gave a solemn shake of his head. ‘He begins with the toes.’
‘The toes?’
‘Yes, the toes. Next, he moves to the fingers. From there, he begins on the softer par
ts – a little here, a little there. Then, after you have screamed yourself silent, our Lord may move on.’ He glared flatly at her. ‘The crunching of toes and fingers is one thing – and I have seen some stand it passably well – but there’s something about watching a creature eat your steaming innards that really breaks a person.’
Morafin was silent for several seconds. ‘He eats them?’
He shrugged. ‘He saves such fates for those who displease him. You, however, are extremely fortunate. Few have been given the opportunity before you.’
‘Opportunity?’ It really didn’t sound like one, however Morafin looked at it.
‘Lord Vidrikan has many agents, but few have been blessed with his blood in their veins. It saved you, and made you more than you once were.’ He leaned forward. ‘Please our lord and you may become his chosen on our world, the agent first above all others.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Few could hope for such a chance.’
‘I’m listening.’
He spoke softly, with urgency, telling Morafin of the demons’ plans for their world, and the power that would be bestowed on the human who served Vidrikan and his keen best. ‘Please him,’ he whispered, ‘and power awaits.’
It was, Morafin had to admit, rather tempting. ‘Tol Kraven must die. If he can accomplish that, then I am his.’ As she said it, she realised it was true. The idiot had killed her brother, caused the death of everyone at Icepeak Abbey. Then – as if that wasn’t enough – he had brought death and destruction to her home. Morafin had seen the broken bodies afterwards, seen the chaos Kraven had wrought. And everyone thinks he’s a hero.
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