Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

  “That is all I can ask.”

  The Hunter knew how temperamental a mob could be once something got its blood up. The moment these prisoners let loose on their captors, their torturers, nothing short of a miracle would stop it from turning into a massacre. He hated the thought that Elivasti innocents—the children, people like Rothia simply trying to exist—would suffer, yet he had no choice. Too much hung in the balance to hesitate.

  “Then let us make our move.” He shot a glance at Kiara.

  “We’re right behind you.” She winked. “Watch your own ass for once.”

  With a grin, the Hunter turned and strode toward the eastern edge of the Pit.

  A marked change had come over the camp. Thousands of pairs of faces turned to follow the Hunter’s movements, and his keen ears picked up the whispers that spread through the camp like a brushfire in a dry forest. Life shone in eyes that had been dull and empty an hour earlier. Men, women, even children clenched their fists and bared their teeth. A low hum began to build around him.

  Yes, he did, indeed, have an army.

  He caught sight of a trio of blue-armored Elivasti moving through the pitiful shelters a short distance in front of him.

  “Ho!” he called out.

  They turned to him, and confusion twisted their faces.

  “Detrarch Ryken?” one of the men asked. They stopped their roving patrol, turning toward him with questioning glances. “What brings the Blood Sentinels to the Pit?”

  “The Sage’s orders,” the Hunter called. He didn’t speed up—no sense warning them anything was amiss—but his eyes narrowed as he closed the distance at a steady pace. Five, four, three, two…

  He sprang into action too fast for the foremost Elivasti to even cry out. His mailed fist crashed into the man’s face, snapping his head back and lifting him from his feet. His heavy boot struck the knee of the next Elivasti, and the man sagged with a cry. The third Elivasti actually managed to raise his truncheon, but the Hunter simply drove the heavy grip of his Scorchslayer into the man’s teeth. Blood spurted from mangled lips as the guard staggered backward. The Hunter leapt toward him, seized his neck in a powerful grip, and yanked hard. A loud snap and the man sagged.

  “What--?” the Elivasti with the shattered knee began.

  The Hunter cut him off with a kick to the face and the man sprawled backward into the muck, unconscious. The Hunter glanced behind him and caught a glimpse of Kiara, Ryat, and their band slipping through the camp. Kiara gave him a nod—they’d finish off the Elivasti. Three more suits of armor and truncheons could save three more lives, give the prisoners an edge against their captors.

  He moved on.

  He didn’t slow as he strode toward the eastern side of the Pit, to the stairs leading up to the gate and freedom beyond. The single two-man patrol he came across died before they even realized they were under attack.

  More and more captives watched his passing with animated expressions on their once-lifeless faces. The sight of their captors being killed lit a spark of hatred in their eyes. The Hunter met their gazes, nodded, and raised a mailed fist as he strode past. Ryat’s army would grow until it rolled over the Elivasti like a thunderstorm.

  The time had come for him to play his most important role.

  He plastered a look of wide-eyed fear on Ryken’s features, then sprinted the remaining distance through the camp.

  “Help!” he cried. “Help me.”

  He slowed just as he reached the end of the sea of shelters and staggered into view of the ten guards stationed at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What happened?” the sergeant asked.

  “The bitch attacked me!” the Hunter snarled. He cradled his right arm to his chest. “She and two others knocked Iyadar and Engen out with bloody stones and tried to kill me.”

  “Bloody hell!” The sergeant turned to his men. “You five, go deal with it. Show them what happens when they lay a hand on one of our own.”

  “Aye, sir!” The five men saluted, then ran off in the direction of Kiara’s shelter.

  “Do you need help, Detrarch Ryken?”

  The Hunter waved the sergeant away with his left hand. “I’m fine!” he snapped. “Just keep your damned prisoners in line. The Sage will hear of this at once!”

  The sergeant paled, but managed to spit out. “O-Of course, sir.”

  The Hunter stumbled up the stairs as fast as he could go without breaking the pretense of an injured man. By now, the guards would have run into Kiara, Ryat, and the others. The rest of Ryat’s people would be moving through the Pit, eliminating any Elivasti they found. There would be hundreds, perhaps even thousands, surging toward this staircase and the three remaining guards.

  It was up to him to get that gate open.

  He pounded a mailed fist on the wicket gate. “Open up!” he shouted.

  A window in the gate slid open, and a face appeared. “Detrarch Ryken?”

  “Open this bloody door at once, or I’ll tell the Sage…”

  The sound of a bolt sliding home echoed through the solid wood and the small door swung open.

  “You imbeciles!” he shouted as he stepped through. “A handful of men got it in their heads to attack me and my escort. If you don’t get down there now, we could very well have a full-scale riot on our hands!”

  The Detrarch’s face paled and his eyes flew wide. He whirled to the nearest Elivasti. “Bar the gate at once!”

  “No, you fools,” the Hunter snapped. “Open the bloody thing, get down there, and help them control the situation.”

  “But Detrarch Honsul said—”

  “I don’t give a rat-licker’s asshole what he says!” The Hunter’s voice cracked like a whip, and the officer winced. He tapped the crossed red fists on his breastplate. “Do you see this? This means I am the one you answer to, above anything your Detrarch tells you.”

  “But, sir—”

  “NOW!” the Hunter roared at the top of his lungs. “Get down there and squash the bastards like bugs, or I’ll report directly to the Sage about the monumental fuck-up by…?”

  The sergeant blanched. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He turned and snapped orders to his men, sending all fifteen through the postern gate and down the stairs to reinforce the others. “Yerch, get the men in the barracks here now. We’ll need them handy should things escalate.”

  “Good.” The Hunter’s voice had a hard edge. “Perhaps this can still be salvaged and the Sage does not need to hear about it.”

  Relief flashed in the man’s violet eyes. “We’ll get it in hand, Detrarch.”

  “Maybe you ought to see to it personally?” The Hunter narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’d like me to mention you to the Sage by name.”

  “Of course, sir.” The Elivasti snapped a salute, then ducked through the wicket gate.

  The Hunter whirled. “You!” He stabbed a finger at one of the Elivasti standing by the windlass. “Is there any way the prisoners can open this gate from within?”

  The man gave a furious shake of his head. “None, Detrarch.” He motioned to a metal locking bar that stopped the wooden windlass from turning. “With this in place, not even a giant could turn the wheel.”

  “You are certain?” The Hunter frowned as he came to stand beside the man, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Absolutely, sir.” The man straightened. “The gates are too heavy for even a hundred strong men to lift, and this is the only way they open.”

  “Perfect.” The Hunter turned a vicious grin on the man. “You have my thanks.”

  With that, his hand moved from the Elivasti’s shoulder to the spikestaff on his back, ripped it from its holder, and drove the spiked tip up into the back of his skull.

  The three remaining Elivasti stared at the Hunter in stunned silence. For a moment, none of them moved.

  “Well?” The Hunter fixed them with a hard stare. “Aren’t any of you going to try to kill me?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Eli
vasti before the gate seemed incapable of comprehending what had happened. A Blood Sentinel, the special unit serving the Sage directly, had killed one of their own.

  The Hunter could see their minds working, registering the bewildering information their eyes were sending to their brains. He sighed. “I gave you a chance.”

  He released his grip on the spikestaff, and the Elivasti he’d killed sagged to the floor. His right hand, covered with the blood that had gushed from the man’s skull, closed around the trigger mechanism of the Scorchslayer. The gemstone set into its stock flared bright, runes glowed along its wooden length, and a loud humming filled the air. A moment later, dazzling light split the air in front of the Hunter as the weapon spat a bolt of lightning.

  The crackling bolt leapt the distance to the nearest Elivasti in a single heartbeat and slammed into his armor, lifting him from his feet and hurling him backward into the gate. Flesh and bone crashed against solid wood with such force that not even a thick casing of blue armor could cushion the impact. The man clattered to the ground in a limp pile of armor, never to rise again.

  Damn! The Hunter stared down at the Scorchslayer. This is bloody awesome. He’d have to work on his aim, though. Not quite like firing a crossbow. More kick, and it pulled higher.

  The sight of the lightning bolt seemed to snap the Elivasti from their shock. Anger pierced the surprise numbing their brains, and they drew their spikestaffs to charge him.

  “Now we’re talking!” The Hunter dropped the Scorchslayer, picked up the spikestaff—still covered in the Elivasti blood—and whirled it around his head.

  Both Elivasti reached him at the same time and thrust their spikestaffs at him with the practical, brutal efficiency of trained spearmen. Unfortunately, they faced a foe far deadlier than a barbarian or desert raider.

  The Hunter brought his spikestaff around so fast it whistled as it sliced the air. The solid shaft cracked against his enemies’ weapons with enough force to knock them wide. Before the Elivasti could recover, the Hunter brought the reverse end of the staff whipping around. The sharpened steel spike sliced through the throat of the first Elivasti, tore through flesh, and continued traveling across to lay open the second guard’s cheek to the bone.

  The first man fell, blood gushing from his lacerated neck. The second fell back with a cry and clapped a hand to his cheek. His eyes never left his blood-soaked hand as the Hunter drove the spiked tip of his staff through the man’s armor and into his chest.

  “Now, Garnos!” the Hunter shouted.

  A blue-armored figure burst from the shadows of the causeway and raced toward him. Sorrow shone in the man’s violet eyes, a sharp contrast to the blood staining his hands.

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You take care of reinforcements?”

  Garnos nodded. “The messenger never made it, but the moment they hear the gate opening, they’re going to come running.”

  “Then we’d better make our move quickly.” The Hunter turned toward the windlass. “You know how to work this thing?”

  “I do.”

  Garnos grunted with the effort of pulling the heavy steel locking bar free, then dropped it and set to work rotating the thick handle of the wooden windlass. The Hunter bent to working the crank beside him. Within moments, the first loud, angry grumble of the gate thundered through the stone corridors as the massive construction began to rise slowly.

  Shouts of alarm echoed from the barracks behind them.

  “Faster!” the Hunter shouted. He whipped the handle around as fast as he could, but the gate rose only a finger’s breadth for every revolution. Sweat dripped down his forehead from the exertion yet he did not slow.

  Loud thumps sounded from the building, but no Elivasti spilled out. The Hunter shot Garnos a questioning glance.

  “I jammed the lock with a spikestaff tip, but it won’t hold them for long,” Garnos said, his brow furrowed.

  “When it comes time to fight, can you handle this alone?”

  Garnos hesitated. “I…think so.”

  The Hunter nodded. “Then I’ll hold them off long enough for reinforcements arrive.”

  “There won’t be any from this side.” Sorrow flashed in Garnos’ eyes. “Too many of my brothers have given in to the evil of our situation.”

  The Hunter grunted as he cranked the handle as fast as he could. “Then let’s hope Rothia got enough people to the rooftop to weather the storm.”

  The gate slowly rose from its resting place with a racket of groaning chains and creaking wood, spilling dust built up over centuries. Like a giant rising from an eternal slumber, the gate lifted into the air. The Hunter cursed as he saw sharp spikes edging the bottom of the gate. They were nearly as long as his legs, and sat in deep holes in the stone. They’d have to raise the gate half the height of a man just to make enough room for someone to slip beneath the spikes.

  Shouts of alarm and screams of pain echoed through the opening, nearly drowned out by the deep-throated roar of an angry horde. The Elivasti below would be overwhelmed, and the first of Ryat and Kiara’s mob would surge up the stairs. They just had to get the gate open and hold it until then.

  The Hunter’s gut tightened as the thumping from the barracks turned into a loud crash, and the door burst open. Blue-armored Elivasti spilled out with angry cries. Their eyes flew wide at the sight of the opening gate.

  “Traitors!” the man in the lead shouted as he drew his spikestaff and charged.

  “Garnos?” the Hunter asked.

  “Go!” Garnos said. “I’ve got this.”

  The Hunter knelt, scooped up the Scorchslayer with his left hand, and dipped his right hand in the blood pooling beneath the nearest dead Elivasti. He pressed the trigger and felt the weapon come alive as the gemstone consumed the blood. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the recoil.

  The Scorchslayer bucked violently in his hands, and a bolt of lightning sizzled across the short distance to punch into the chest of the foremost Elivasti. This time, the Hunter actually hit what he’d aimed for. The force of the impact knocked the man backward to collide with the Elivasti charging behind him. Six of the fifteen went down in a tangle of limbs, clattering armor, and spikestaffs.

  Without hesitation, the Hunter dipped his hand in the blood again and pressed the trigger. For a long moment, nothing happened. His heart stopped, then started beating when the gemstone and runes brightened once more. The lightning bolt slammed into another charging Elivasti. The man’s head exploded in a spray of blood, gore, and bone.

  But the Hunter wouldn’t have time for a third shot. The Scorchslayer needed a few seconds to recharge, reload, or do whatever it did when it tapped into the magick of Enarium. In that time, the remaining Elivasti would reach him.

  He slid the Scorchslayer along the ground behind him to keep it out of the hands of his enemies, then stood and hefted his spikestaffs.

  One against fourteen, he mused silently. This is going to be fun.

  Instead of waiting for the charge, the Hunter leapt forward with a blitz attack. His sudden movement caught the nearest Elivasti by surprise, and his lightning-fast thrust drove into the man’s gut before he could evade. The Hunter ripped the spike free, whirled the staff once to block another attack, then slammed the metal-shod end into the side of a second man’s head with bone-crushing force.

  Three charged him at once and more came on behind them. The Hunter couldn’t press an advance, but he couldn’t retreat either. He had to keep them from getting to Garnos. Kiara, Ryat, and the others within the Pit needed that gate open.

  He grunted in pain as a sharp steel tip punched into the muscle of his left shoulder. The impact knocked him off-balance, and he barely managed to evade another whirling staff as the spike pulled free of his flesh. Twisting from one attack and leaping over another, he spun his spikestaff in a blurring wall of wood and metal.

  “Kill them!” a voice shouted from behind the three men facing the Hunter, but he had no time to see who it was. It too
k all of his concentration to keep his enemies from punching holes in his armor and flesh. He’d spent enough time training with polearms—spear, lance, halberd, even the strange weapon the Shalandrans in the far south of Einan called a glaive—to know which end went where, but he’d take a long sword and Soulhunger any day.

  At this moment, he had neither, and wishing he had them wouldn’t help. He’d have to make do with the weapons at hand.

  With a growl of rage, he whipped one spiked end of the staff across and up in a diagonal motion that laid open a forearm, throat, and jaw. Two of the three Elivasti fell back, while the third slumped to one knee, hand clapped on his neck in a vain attempt to slow the gush of blood. The Hunter cracked the end of his staff onto the forearm he’d wounded with enough force to crack bone. Before the spikestaff fell from the Elivasti’s numb fingers, the Hunter bent and attacked low to sweep the man’s feet out from beneath him.

  But the movement exposed him to a stabbing strike from the third man. The spike carved a line of fire along his shoulder and down his back. It missed anything vital, but when the Hunter straightened, the sharpened metal tip opened a second gash. The movement also tore the weapon from the Elivasti’s hand, and he fell to a quick jab of the Hunter’s spikestaff through his chest.

  The battle cries and roars of the horde below grew louder, and the Hunter fancied he could hear bare feet slapping on the stone stairs, feel a low rumbling in the ground beneath him. He just had to hold for a few moments longer, keep the Elivasti off Garnos until Kiara and Ryat reinforced him.

  The Elivasti seemed to sense this as well, for they charged him in a tight-packed knot, their spikestaffs extended like the spears of a Fehlan shield wall. The Hunter had an instant to react. He couldn’t evade ten weapons aimed at his chest and midsection, couldn’t dodge to the right or left. He had only one choice.

  He leapt.

  Faster than the Elivasti could react, he took a single running step forward and threw himself into the air with all the force of his inhuman muscles. He coiled his body into a tight ball to give him as much height and spin as possible. His jump lifted him, armor and all, over the chest-height spears, then he snapped his limbs outward. His arms, legs, and torso crashed into the line of staff-wielding Elivasti. His weight bore them to the ground with cries of pain.