Redemption (Book 6)

by Ben Cassidy

  The Great Fang blocked each strike, and deflected every lunge.

  Kendril fell back, defeated and out of breath.

  The Great Fang shook his head. “Is this really all the great Demonbane of Vorten has to offer?”

  “Tuldor’s beard,” Kendril said, “don’t you ever just shut up?” He thrust the rapier at the chieftain yet again.

  The Great Fang parried the attack, then cut in with a quick riposte.

  Kendril dodged back. He felt the edge of the Great Fang’s longsword swipe across the steel cuirass he wore.

  The armor he wore was saving his life, but it was also slowing him down, making him more sluggish than usual. He had fought so long without it as a Ghostwalker that it was hard to get used to it again.

  The Great Fang flexed his muscles and smiled patronizingly. “Come, Demonbane. Face me like a man. You do not want to die like a terrified woman, do you?”

  Kendril took a couple steps back, his booted feet sliding a little in the mud. He reached up and yanked off the lobster helm, then dropped it off to one side. The cold drizzle and wind felt suddenly strange and fresh on his sweaty and bloody face.

  The Great Fang nodded approvingly. “You shed your armor. For a true warrior, the strength of his arm and the courage of his heart is all the armor he needs.”

  “Whatever,” Kendril grunted. He reached up and yanked hard on the straps that held his cuirass in place. Once loosened, he shook off the steel armor. It slid to the ground with a heavy thud.

  A sudden cold gust of wind cut across the field, chill and bitter.

  Kendril snatched a Jombard short sword off the ground, and held it in his off-hand. “All right, Fang-boy, let’s dance,” he snarled.

  The Great Fang lowered his head and charged forward.

  Kendril leapt to meet him.

  Blade clashed on blade, hammering into the night air. Both men grunted and panted as they ducked, weaved, and parried.

  Spinning around, Kendril slashed open the top of the Great Fang’s arm with his short sword. He retreated, bringing both his swords up again.

  The Great Fang caught his breath, smiling at the blood that ran down his arm. “Now that is more what I expect from the man called Demonbane. Some fire at last.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” Kendril spat. His arms were ached, his back felt like it was one giant black bruise, his leg throbbed relentlessly, and his head was still ringing. Still, he felt somehow freer without the armor.

  Almost like he felt like himself again. The real Kendril.

  The Great Fang threw himself at Kendril.

  Kendril was ready for him. He parried the pounding blow of the chieftain’s sword, then slashed back with his rapier.

  The chanting of the Jombards grew louder.

  Kendril turned, then stabbed with his sword.

  The Great Fang grabbed Kendril’s wrist with a vice-like grip, stopping the thrust. He smiled, then kicked Kendril hard in the stomach.

  It was like getting kicked by a horse. Kendril flew back and slipped in the mud, then slammed onto his back. He retched, unable to breathe. Pain was his whole world.

  “It is done,” the Great Fang intoned. “The mighty Demonbane falls.” He moved forward, and lifted his sword.

  Kendril weakly lifted one of his blades to parry, hearing a rumbling of thunder.

  No, not thunder. Horse hooves.

  “You’re favoring your left leg,” said the Great Fang casually. He stomped his foot down on Kendril’s injured thigh.

  The world went a sickening black for several long seconds. Kendril didn’t scream. The pain was so unbelievably bad that he couldn’t make a sound other than to gasp. His rapier fell out of nerveless fingers.

  “So falls the great Demonbane,” came the Great Fang’s voice, floating in the darkness above Kendril. “What a—”

  A gunshot sounded, then another. There was a growing roar of approaching horses.

  Kendril felt the weight of the Great Fang’s foot lift swiftly off his leg. He lay still in the mud, barely able to move, his eyes closed.

  The Jombards began to chant and shout. Arrows hissed through the air. A bugle blew.

  “Sir!” Beckett’s voice.

  Kendril managed to peel his eyes open. The giant man’s red bearded face hovered right over him. “I told you...to go back—” Kendril croaked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Beckett. “I am sorry to say that I am disobeying your orders.” He looked up. “Sergeant, give me a hand with the General. And hold those bloody Jombards off.”

  Kendril wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or angry at Beckett’s appearance. It didn’t matter anyway, though.

  About ten seconds later his world faded into a painful blackness.

  Chapter 19

  The door to the tanning house opened abruptly, letting in a cold gust of wind and a speckling of rain.

  Kara started awake, lifting her head off Joseph’s shoulder. She looked around for a moment, blinking her bleary eyes. “Joseph. I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” said Joseph with a kind smile. He leaned back against the wall.

  Renaald tromped into the large room, shaking rain off his cloak with a curse.

  Olan lifted an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “They’re back,” Renaald rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. “With a couple hundred dragoons, too.”

  Tomas gave a knowing smile.

  Callen looked hopefully over at Yvonne and Olan. “That—that might give them a chance, right? To hold the walls against the Jombards?”

  “It’s certainly better than trying to hold it with that ill-trained rabble they have right now,” Olan said under his breath. He stared hard at Renaald. “Kendril?”

  Renaald gave a slow nod. “I saw him. He looked hurt, but he was there.”

  Yvonne sighed. “So what’s your plan, Olan? Hang out here in this warehouse until the Jombards overrun the walls?”

  Kara struggled to her feet. “We have to see Kendril. We can tell him—”

  “The last time we saw Kendril,” Olan interrupted, “he almost shot me in the face, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly eager to rush back to talk with him again.”

  Tomas gave a shrug. “Plus, we threatened to kill him. Then we almost did.”

  Renaald turned flashing eyes at Tomas. “If I had been sent to do the job, it would have gotten done.”

  “Right,” Tomas returned, his voice thick with sarcasm, “because you did so well the last time you tangled with Kendril.”

  Renaald’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

  “For Eru’s sake,” Kara exclaimed, “are you all really this stupid? Are you still going to sit around and argue about whether Kendril’s a traitor or not?”

  “Perhaps,” said Olan drily, “it’s because we haven’t all bought into your notion that Kendril is the savior of Rothland.”

  “All right,” said Kara, “forget prophecies and chosen ones. We have a whole Jombard army marching for the walls of Redemption. It’s going to take every able-bodied person to hold them off, at least until we can evacuate the town.” She looked around at all the Ghostwalkers in the room. “Kendril may be a jerk at times, but he’s a first-class soldier. He’s fought the servants of the Seteru before, and he’s won. Are you going to watch him burn now out of spite?”

  Olan grimaced, but didn’t reply.

  Yvonne chewed her lip. “The woman has a point, Olan,” she said softly. “This is hardly the time for us to be turning against each other.”

  “A point?” Renaald snorted. He looked straight at Kara. “Someone tell me why she’s still alive? She admits that she was possessed by Indig—”

  “Shut up, Renaald.” Olan crossed his arms. “All right, Kara. Since we’re all apparently listening to you now, what do you suggest we do?”

  Joseph stepped up behind Kara and put a hand on her shoulder.

  Kara swallowed and looked around at the skeptical faces. “We need to go to Kendril. Help hi
m however we can. If we stand with him we might be able to save Redemption. If we stay here—” She glanced around the dusty, rotting interior of the warehouse. “Well, we won’t accomplish anything, will we?”

  “That sounds like a fine plan,” Olan said unenthusiastically.

  Kara narrowed her eyes. “Better than sitting around and waiting to be killed by the Jombards, if that’s what you mean.”

  “There’s one thing you haven’t considered, though,” Olan continued.

  Kara cocked her head. “Really? What’s that?”

  A nasty grin spread over Olan’s face. “Once Kendril finds out you’re alive, he might very well kill you himself.”

  The town hall was a disaster. Papers littered the floor, desks and chairs were broken and turned over. The place looked like a mob had been through it. Almost anything of value had been ransacked.

  And there was mud all over the carpets. Lord Blackstone would have been horrified.

  Kendril limped over to the wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily. He surveyed the damage with a frown.

  So he was the acting governor and mayor now. Great.

  “Sir?” Beckett tromped in to the hall, kicking a shattered vase out of his way. “Your leg, is it—?”

  “It’s fine,” Kendril said briskly. It wasn’t fine. Every step he took felt like someone was jamming a red hot dagger into his hip. But he didn’t have time for pain. Not now. “Have we got the dragoons on the wall?”

  Beckett nodded. “Aye, General. Markus is organizing the defense. We just might be able to hold with the men and supplies we got out of Stockade. Gives us a fighting chance, at any rate.”

  Kendril winced, then turned and leaned his back against the wall. “We can’t hold indefinitely. Not unless we get reinforcements from the mainland. Until then we can only delay the Jombards.”

  Beckett nodded soberly. “Aye, sir, I understand. We’ll give those howlers a good bloody nose before they reach the harbor, though.”

  Kendril clamped a hand on his leg, and tenderly rubbed it. “How is the evacuation going?”

  Beckett shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Send someone to find out,” Kendril snapped. “I want the civilians out of the town as soon as possible. Any ship that’s still floating is to be loaded and sent out to sea. Anyone left in the town is to be armed and put on the wall.”

  Beckett took a step forward. “Sir,” he said quietly, “are you sure—?”

  “I said I’m fine, Captain!” Kendril fired.

  Beckett straightened. “Yes, sir.”

  Kendril clenched his teeth together for a moment against the wave of pain that emanated from his thigh. It was all he could do not to gasp.

  “The east gate will be the hardest hit, sir,” Beckett said. He turned for the door. “With your leave, I’ll get the defenses organized there. Markus will probably need the extra hand.”

  “Good,” said Kendril.

  Beckett wrenched open the front door to the town hall, and stepped out onto the steps. Cold wind tugged at his buff coat.

  “Beckett,” Kendril said suddenly.

  The militia captain turned.

  “Wilkes. Where is he?”

  Beckett was silent for a moment. “Last I heard, sir, they had turned the old brewery into a kind of hospital. I think they took him there.”

  Kendril nodded. “Good. Thank you, Beckett.” He looked out the open door and caught sight of the eastern horizon. His face fell. “More fire,” he whispered. “You would think the Jombards would run out of things to burn.”

  Beckett followed his gaze, then gave out an unexpected belly laugh.

  Kendril gave the man a confused glance.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Beckett said as he touched his hand to his coonskin cap. “That ain’t no fire. That’s the sun coming up.”

  The brewery was crowded with cots and blankets spread out on every bit of available floor space. Moans and coughs came from several of the wounded soldiers and civilians that were crowded inside. A few candles spluttered here and there, providing what little light there was to see by.

  Kendril walked to a cot at the end of one of the walls, next to a stack of barrels.

  Wilkes lay on it, whimpering softly. His arm and shoulder were swathed in blood-soaked bandages. His eyes were closed, and his face was deathly pale.

  Kendril walked to the foot of the cot, trying his best not to limp. The pain in his leg was so sharp that he wanted to scream. “Wilkes,” he said softly.

  The boy opened his eyes, and blinked as he focused on Kendril. “General,” he said in a scratchy voice. “You’re here.”

  “Yeah,” said Kendril, “I’m here.” He sat down on the side of one of the barrels, glancing down at Wilkes’ horrible wound. “How are you doing?”

  “My...arm hurts really bad, sir,” Wilkes choked. “Like fire, all the way down to the fingers.” His eyes watered up, and his voice began to break. “The doc says he’s—that he’s going to have to—to take it off.”

  Kendril didn’t say anything. He didn’t even know what to say. The boy was only sixteen.

  “Did—did you kill it, sir?” Wilkes said. Tears of pain and fear ran down his cheek.

  Kendril gave a short nod. “Yeah, I killed it, Wilkes. You did fine.”

  Wilkes shook his head. “I’m—I’m not like you, sir. Not brave. I—”

  The surgeon came over, wiping his hands on a smudged towel. His glasses were pushed back up on his balding head. His eyes were bloodshot and weary.

  Kendril guessed that his own eyes were fairly bloodshot, too.

  “General,” the man said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were in here.”

  Kendril got to his feet. In the candle-lit room he managed to recognize the surgeon as the one who had been assigned to Stockade with the militia. “Just checking in on Wilkes here. He says you intend to—” he stopped as he was talking, glancing down significantly at Wilkes’ arm.

  The surgeon sighed. He pulled a large rolling table up. It was covered with vicious looking knives and saws. “The lad’s arm has been chewed almost to a pulp,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Bone has shattered into pieces. With the amount of dirt and mud that got into it—” He gave a helpless shrug. “We either take it off now or there’s a good chance he’ll die.”

  Wilkes closed his eyes tight. He bit his lip so hard that it blushed white.

  “I see,” said Kendril in the same quiet tone. He felt stupid and useless.

  “You’d better go, sir,” said the surgeon quietly. “I have to do this quick. There are other men to see to after him.”

  Kendril nodded dumbly. He turned towards the door of the brewery, his mind a fog of exhaustion and self-blame.

  The Jombards were coming. All Redemption was looking to him. No, not to him. To Lord Ravenbrook. The Hammer of the Jombards. Their savior.

  “Right, lad,” said the doctor quietly. He knelt down beside the boy. “We’re going to do this quick, do you understand?’

  Kendril stopped and glanced back behind him. He couldn’t move another step forward.

  “Y-yes,” stammered Wilkes. His voice squeaked with fear. His whole body trembled.

  Kendril turned back around. He walked over and sat down next to Wilkes, then grabbed the boy’s hand tightly.

  Wilkes blinked up at him in surprise. “S-sir?”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Kendril said quietly.

  “Here you go, son,” the surgeon said, handing down a small, gnawed piece of wood. “Something to bite down on. I’ll go fast.”

  “For Eru’s sake,” Kendril said sharply, “get him a shot of whiskey or something first.”

  The surgeon paused. “Right, sir. Of course.” He fumbled around in his bag.

  Wilkes squeezed Kendril’s hand tighter.

  Kendril held on, ignoring the throbbing pain from his leg and hip.

  The surgeon re-emerged with a flask of something
strong. “Here you go, son.”

  Wilkes sputtered as he drank, then coughed. He looked up at Kendril. “Please, d-don’t go, sir.”

  “I won’t,” said Kendril. He looked over at the surgeon. “All right, do it.”

  The Jombards were just outside the wall.

  The countryside was just beginning to lighten with the first signs of morning, and already plumes of smoke darkened the horizon. Every farmhouse, cottage, and mill outside the walls had been set ablaze. It looked as if many of the fields had as well.

  Captain Beckett grabbed the top of the palisade wall with both his gloved hands, his face clenched with anger. “That’s the livelihood of a lot of people out there going up in flames,” he growled.

  Captain Markus came over beside him. His carbine was slung over his shoulder, and his slouch hat was pulled down low over his head against the stiff morning breeze. He looked out at the line of barbarians. “What are they waiting for, I wonder?”

  Beckett looked down at the eastern gate of Redemption that stood just below the ramparts where they were standing. “To break through this gate they’ll need more than spears and axes.” His gaze switched to the dark line of forests to the northeast. “Odds are they’re cutting down trees to make battering rams and ladders.”

  The sound of chanting and howls came from the Jombard lines. Banners and devices with obscene symbols and runes fluttered and snapped in the morning breeze.

  “How are we on powder and shot?” Beckett asked. He kept his eyes on the barbarian lines.

  Markus shielded his face with his hand from the biting wind. “Good, except for cannon shot.”

  Beckett nodded. “I’d love to put some shots into those howlers to teach them not to stand within range, but we’ll need the grapeshot for when they close with the walls.” He looked down the ramparts on either side.

  Dragoons and militiamen lined the defenses, their faces tired but determined. The dragoons all had carbines. The militiamen had a mix of old guns, crossbows, and hunting bows.

  “We’ll be able to put a good volley into them when they come,” Markus said with satisfaction. “And they’ll have to come at us sooner or later. As long as we can keep access to the docks they can’t starve us out, and they don’t have the ships to blockade the harbor.”