by Wilson Harp
“I don’t know what happened, Bertram. Several groups came in and sat down. They looked rougher than the usual crowd but nothing too odd. Then those two giants of men came in. They walked right back to your office. I never saw their axes until they had already killed Hamish and Bront,” said one of the bouncers. “I was so glad to see you alive. Are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt, I’m not. Go make sure there are no more of those men in here. Find some healers and bring them in. Then get the city guard, I want to set them on these men like dogs.”
Bertram was still shaking from fear, but Horas could hear the anger in his voice. The owner of The High Horse must wield more power than he would have imagined if he talked about the city guard being used in such a manner.
The bouncers and tavern staff were gently but firmly herded out of the room by Donal. The woodsman wasn’t a big man, but when violence is still fresh in the air a man who is in complete control of his emotions can often be in complete control of those around him.
Horas was still shaking a bit when the last of the men left. He looked around the once pristine office. Blood pooled in various places, ruining carpets and a tapestry that had been ripped off the wall in the fight. Two vases had shattered, adding shards of fine pottery to the mess. In addition to the two massive men who had burst in, the bodies of at least ten other cultists lay strewn about near the secret door that they had charged out of.
Horas shook his head. If the one giant had not taken a knife to the throat, then Horas would likely be seriously injured or dead. He knew that Donal had fought hard against the second one, which meant that Calaran and Mirari were responsible for the bulk of the dead cultists. One of them was also responsible for the knife that had saved his life. He was sure it was Mirari who had thrown it. Horas was glad that the girl had not taken more offense at his advances the first day they had met.
Lendin was still sitting by the wall holding his head when Donal motioned Horas over to help him up.
“Are you alright?” asked Horas.
“Yeah, everything is still blurry and it sounds like a wind is rushing through the room,” said Lendin.
Horas helped his friend to his feet and led him over to one of the chairs that had been knocked over. Calaran had picked one of them up and had seated Bertram in it. He made sure that the tavern owner could see the crossbow bolt embedded into the wall. Mirari pulled a chair off the floor and set it down so that Horas could lower Lendin into it.
“Bertram, who were these men?” asked Calaran.
“I don’t know, I have some rooms downstairs that people occasionally rent out for meetings or storage,” said the tavern owner.
“Meetings and storage the city guard doesn’t need to know about?” asked the bard.
Bertram nodded. “You know that the city runs on many levels, Calaran.”
“They noted Calaran when he came in, Bertram. You knew that they were keeping a watch for him,” stated Mirari.
“I did, and I’m ashamed of it now. You saved my life,” said Bertram. “I didn’t know why they wanted you, but they apparently wanted me dead as well. I didn’t see that. I let them use my tavern for their meetings and to store their precious items, and they try to kill me!”
“What items?” asked Calaran. “Where are they stored?”
“They took them. Yesterday, in fact. They took every last crate and barrel.”
“Why were they down there?”
“I didn’t know they were. There are a few ways to get into those rooms, some of them from quite a distance away. I can’t believe I was such a fool. I have never been betrayed like this. When I find him, I will kill him.”
“Who, Bertram?”
“He goes by the name of Delacour.”
Horas and Lendin both leaned forward and started asking for more information. Calaran looked back at both of them and motioned them to settle down.
“We had suspected that would be the name behind it all.”
Bertram dropped his eyes. “Then you are in too deep this time, Calaran. Everyone knows how deep into danger you like to go and see whether you can get out. But this time, it’s too deep.”
“Do you know what he is up to, Bertram?”
The tavern keeper laughed. “I was careful. I didn’t ask questions or pry. No, I don’t know what he was up to. And even still, it almost got me killed.”
“I do know, Bertram. Do you want me to tell you?” asked Calaran.
Bertram shrunk back from the question as if the bard had just produced a venomous snake. Horas realized that the menace in the bard’s question was a direct threat. Knowledge was power, but it could also mark you for death, he realized.
“Cathos,” said Calaran.
Bertram went pale and his jaw slid open.
“Divine protect us,” whispered the tavern owner. “I had no idea, Calaran. That’s why they wanted you.”
“That’s why. I can stop them, but I need a few more small pieces of the puzzle. And I’m running out of time, so I will ask plainly: who is Delacour?”
Bertram shook his head. “I can’t tell you; it’s too dangerous,” he muttered.
Mirari started to move toward Bertram, knife in her hand. Calaran shook his head at her.
“Bertram, we have reason to believe that he will attempt to kill King Patrus or kidnap one of his children.”
Bertram looked up at Calaran.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“How can you be sure?” asked the bard.
“Delacour is the illegitimate son of Patrus.”
Everything in the room stilled. Horas realized that he was holding his breath the same as everyone else.
“Then he only needs Mirari,” said Calaran. “Only Alinor’s blood stands between Cathos and the living world.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Donal from the doorway where he had been standing guard and listening. “Orias confirmed that Alinor is dead. He doesn’t need anything else.”
“Bertram, we must leave immediately. We have to reach Black Oak before Delacour, and he has a good lead on us. Find a place to hide and stay there until you receive word,” Calaran said.
Horas helped Lendin to his feet, and the small party moved quickly out of The High Horse tavern. They had to reach Black Oak and the ruins of Balcchor before Delacour and his evil cult.
Fire and Sword
Croft sat up in bed. Before he was fully awake, he was already opening the door to his room. The sound of the door to the common room smashing open hurried his hands and brought him to sharp awareness. The cold wind of the early winter night blew in on him as he leaped onto the bar and reached up for his axe.
“Fire and Sword!” he bellowed as he freed the large weapon and jumped at the two men rushing into his inn. If the men were surprised to see a pudgy man in a nightshirt charging at them with an axe held high, they were hardened enough veterans to not let it stop them. Croft swung his axe in a wide arc. He used his own body to pivot the swing of the weapon and was able to catch one of the men with the leading tip of the blade. If there hadn’t been as much mass and speed behind his blow, it would have been a light cut along the arm. But Croft was very good at his former trade, and the seemingly mild strike sent his enemy sprawling across a table.
The second warrior had raised his sword in an overhand method, so Croft allowed his axe to pull him forward and out of the reach of the descending blade. He spun the rest of the way around, and this time let the axe drop towards the warrior’s knees. His opponent was well trained and hopped out of the arc of the axe.
Croft saw more men coming in the front door. He also heard men pounding on the kitchen door.
“Fire and Sword!” came Martel’s cry from upstairs. Croft knew that Martel, Baldric and Ermine would answer his call. There were two merchants and their four guards upstairs as well. He hoped that four more blades would join them soon.
The attackers had been slowed by Croft’s audacious attack on them. They realized they faced a man who had plen
ty of skill and practice with the great-axe he held in his hand. Four of them, including the one who had tumbled over the table, now faced him and were slowly corralling him backwards. He saw more outside. Dozens more. And some had torches. Eventually they would find it easier to burn them all rather than try to kill them one at a time.
Croft had been edged back almost to the bar when he saw a large object fly from the top of the stairs. The object, roughly dwarven in shape and size, crashed into the attackers and scattered them like lawn pins. Croft stepped forward and with a single sweep of his axe blade removed one warrior’s head from his shoulders.
The object that had scattered the attacking men started yelling and cursing as it fought its way to its feet. It was dwarven in shape and size precisely because it was a dwarf. Baldric had somehow managed to get his chain shirt and helmet on before he had dived headfirst into the group of warriors flowing into the front doorway of the inn.
The cold draft of night air had stoked the fire in the hearth, and Croft could see the tattoos and markings of the Padashite barbarians that had attacked his home and place of business. He swung his axe at several who were trying to flank Baldric.
“Croft, where?” asked Martel when he joined the innkeeper at his side.
“Behind the bar, into the cellar,” said Croft. He knew that Martel was asking where to take the women and merchants. “Ermine, get Magda and Cassie; they are busting in the kitchen door!”
Ermine nodded as she let her eyes flit across the common room. Baldric had three of them on their heels, and four others were held up between the doorway and the men in front of them. Two others eyed Croft and his axe as he kept them at bay with powerful wide strokes.
“They have fire,” said Martel. “They’ll burn us out.”
“Kill them quick; drive them with fear,” said Croft.
Baldric was pushed back by the press of men toward Croft and Martel.
“At least twenty more outside,” the dwarf said as the two men slid up beside him.
Croft’s axe took another barbarian’s leg as the warrior stepped wrong and left himself open. Martel had scored another hit as well, judging from the guttural cry that came from Croft’s far right.
A clatter and scream from the kitchen said that the Padashite warriors had broken down the back door to the inn. Cassie and Magda came out of the kitchen at a full run and headed behind the bar.
“Get in the cellar,” Croft cried out as he ducked below a sudden swing at his head. His axe blade was out of position to counter-strike, but he jabbed out with the butt of the axe’s long handle and felt his opponent drop back. Croft had learned long ago that every part of a weapon could be used to strike your opponent.
Baldric took advantage of the barbarian’s movement and stepped forward. His hammer went down instead of up as the Padashite he approached shifted his shield. The sounds of foot bones crunching were followed immediately by a howl of pain.
Baldric slipped back into the line that Croft and Martel anchored and spit as the lamed warrior dropped his sword and fell backwards into the churning mass of men and furniture in the room.
Croft heard men on the stairwell.
“Into the cellar, behind the bar!” called Martel.
The merchants and their servants would be heading to safety, but Croft sorely hoped that their guards would help fight the barbarians who were pushing in on him, Martel, and Baldric.
A large barbarian in a steel helmet pushed his way into the front door of the inn. He held a torch in his left hand and a spear with a long narrow blade in his right.
“Kill them quick!” he ordered as he threw the torch above the heads of the friends, who still held a reasonable space around them.
Croft cringed as he heard the torch land on the stairs. He had imagined his death many times over the years, and being burned alive was the worst way he could imagine dying. He swung at two of the barbarians as their commander pushed them forward. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs was followed by the image of the torch being thrown back into the group of barbarians trying to force their way into the door.
A bolt from a crossbow took a barbarian in the throat as two more men, dressed roughly and wearing armor, pushed their way between Martel and Baldric. Croft was glad to have the extra help, and merchant guards were generally solid in a fight.
A loud crash in the kitchen brought Ermine to mind. He had seen Cassie and Magda head back behind the bar and he was sure that they were safe in the cellar by now, but Ermine had never come back into the common room. She probably thought she could hold a door by herself, and Croft realized that at her best she could.
Ermine yelped in pain and the kitchen door flew open. Blood flowed freely down a fresh gash in her arm.
“Behind the bar!” yelled Croft.
Ermine dove over the bar as two barbarians came charging through the kitchen door. Croft angled toward the men and took the hand of the first with a chop of his axe. Ermine popped up from behind the bar and threw a knife at the other. Her blade sank deep into his chest, but it wasn’t a lethal throw. Croft knew she was seriously hurt to miss a throw at that distance.
“Get down there and secure the latch. You are the last line for those in the cellar,” Croft said.
Ermine looked like she would argue for a second and then opened the door to the cellar. She knew that she was out of the fight and needed time to rest.
“Finish them! Kill them all!” the barbarian with the long spear ordered. The Padashite warriors surged forward again at the line of men defending the inn. The crossbowman on the stairs was firing as fast as he could load, and both of the merchant guards had their shields. Martel and Baldric were striking the barbarians’ weapons as well as any flesh they could reach, and Croft was keeping four at bay with wide swings of his axe.
Croft heard the battle cry of the barbarian leader followed by the death wail of one of the men in the line. He felt guilty at the relief of knowing that it wasn’t Martel or Baldric. He glanced back just in time to see a crossbow bolt end the large barbarian’s life. The long spear was still embedded into the chest of the merchant guard.
Baldric and Martel both roared a challenge at the barbarians and threw themselves forward into the oncoming rush. The speed and savagery of their blows drove the Padashite warriors back, and the other guardsman used the moment to pull his compatriot to the wall below the stairs. He tossed his dead friend down and then turned back to the line.
The line reformed as Martel and Baldric slid back into place. Croft kept the left side of the line clear with broad sweeps of his axe, and the crossbowman on the stairs kept finding targets that were trying to flank the men defending the inn.
Finally, the barbarians decided to start passing torches around. Croft grimaced as he heard glass break in all of the windows and flames started finding their way along the edges of the room.
“We have to drive them back,” said Martel as he kept his blade moving. Small nicks and cuts covered him, and a sheen of blood and sweat stuck his shirt to his well-muscled torso.
The door to the cellar popped open and Ermine climbed up the steep stairs. She had an old crossbow that had been in the cellar since Croft had taken over. It was rusty and the string was frayed, but she might be able to get off a couple of shots. Her left arm was heavily bandaged, and Croft thought that Magda had already made plenty of poultice in case they made it out of this fight alive.
“We can drive them back once,” Baldric said, “but there are too many of them. They will burn us out if nothing else.”
Croft nodded. A push would put most of the barbarians against the far wall and would allow Ermine and the crossbowman time to kill a few more, but he saw at least forty Padashite warriors. He knew they would love to loot the inn and find every coin they could, but if the cost was too high they would burn his place down. But why?
“Croft, we can’t hold them much longer. The flames are catching,” yelled Martel.
Croft had opened his mouth to order the pu
sh when the sound of horns stayed his voice. They were Padashite horns, but not from the Reytrus tribe. They were horns from the Mondroth tribe, the sworn enemy of the Reytrus.
“Push!” Croft cried.
The line of men pushed into the barbarians, Croft’s great axe cleaving high, Baldric’s warhammer smashing knees, feet and groins, and the swords of Martel and the merchant guard striking and slashing at the arms and faces of the barbarians. Ermine and the crossbowman on the stairs were loading and firing the crossbows as fast as possible, trying to keep the barbarians from flanking the surging line.
A sharp sting caused Croft to stumble. He knew he had taken a good, deep stab to the leg. He had been slashed three or four times on the arms, and a cut above his eye was streaming blood down one side of his face.
“Back,” Martel sounded.
The three-man, one-dwarf line stepped back in order. The twang of the crossbows felt comforting to Croft as they settled into their familiar fighting area. The Padashite warriors still outnumbered the defenders almost five to one, but the odds had been dramatically shifted away from a massacre. Almost thirty barbarians lay dead or mortally wounded on the floor of the common room—enough bodies that it was hindering the other warriors from moving effectively.
Several of the barbarians were lighting fire to anything they could reach with their torches. The crossbowmen had too many targets to keep those with torches from setting fire to the inn. Croft cursed them under his breath. The Silver Sword Inn had stood at least fifty years, and he was not about to see it burn down while he ran it. The problem was, there were too many of them. And even more were outside, pushing to get in.
The steady flow of barbarians from the kitchen door started bringing a heavy dense smoke in as well. The larders in the kitchen had been set on fire.