by John Gwynne
Their weapons clacked a staccato rhythm as they moved with the tempo of their contest. Akar was technical, fluid, perfect, like all of the Jehar; Coralen was movement and fury, but she was without her wolven claws, using just a practice sword. Akar broke through her guard with a feint and lunge and punched his blade against the flesh a fraction below her ribcage.
You just killed me.
That made her mad and she grabbed his blade, dragged herself up it and sawed her own weapon against Akar’s throat.
‘What was that?’ he asked as he stepped away.
‘You killed me, but not instantly. I was practising taking my enemy to the bridge of swords with me.’
He smiled at that and nodded his respect, then touched his hand to his throat, fingertips coming away bloody. Even though her blade was made of wood she’d managed to draw blood.
‘I am not your enemy,’ Akar said.
‘What?’
‘I am not your enemy,’ he repeated, ‘and I do not wish to die whilst training on the weapons court.’
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
She’d been first on the weapons court this morning, expecting to see Corban, fully intending to give him as many bruises as was physically possible during a morning’s training. When he had not turned up it made her angrier, her only option to take it as a personal insult.
He is avoiding me.
Akar had been the first unfortunate man who had asked her if she wished to spar with him.
This is not working. I need to see Corban and tell him what I think of him. What I think of a man who gets kissed by a woman and then avoids that woman for a ten-night. And especially when that woman is me. Me, who’s punched and kicked and bitten a score of men that tried to kiss me, and now . . .
She screamed internally.
Coralen strode from the court, slamming her practice blade into a wicker barrel as she left. She strode through the wide streets of the fortress, heading for the great hall, her eyes scanning for Storm as she went. If Corban was not in there she would try his chamber.
She reached the great hall and walked through the open gates. This chamber still managed to fill her with a sense of awe. It was just so huge, the branches snaking across the roof high above. She stood on the steps that led down onto the main floor and took it all in. She thought of Dath and Kulla at last night’s festivities and smiled, then remembered them kissing, which reminded her of something else, and she scowled.
She saw Meical sitting on a bench at one of the tables, alone and with his head bowed.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him still. He is usually doing something every moment of the waking day. Maybe he’s seen Corban.
A horn blast echoed through the chamber, off from the right. She looked about, not seeing anyone, frowning, then realized what it was.
One of the tunnel alerts.
‘To arms!’ she bellowed. ‘Foe in the tunnels. To arms, to arms.’ She was running, a sword in her fist without realizing how it got there, searching for the tunnel with the horn-blower. The blasts kept coming, people taking up her cry, Coralen hearing it spread through the chamber and out of the gates into the courtyard beyond.
Must close the tunnel, seal the doors.
Glancing left and right, she saw Meical running, speeding after her, others heading for the gates. Then she saw the tunnel. A warrior was standing at its rim blowing on his horn, others heaving on the huge trapdoor. A giant joined them to help, but then the horn-blower was shouting at them, gesturing for them to stop.
Then Coralen was there. Strange sounds echoed out of the tunnel, hooves and feet and what sounded like a great wind.
‘Close it,’ she yelled at the men and giant standing with ropes on the huge trapdoor, holding it hovering.
‘No,’ the horn-blower shouted at her, a huntsman from Narvon who had joined her team. ‘We have scouts in there – my brother is down there.’
Coralen paused a moment, looking into the tunnel. It sloped down gently, a hundred paces in two pools of torchlight revealing only emptiness. In theory any enemy in the tunnel should be at least half a day away, the scouts inside equipped with horns and fast mounts to spread the alert as quickly as possible. But she didn’t like the sounds coming out of that tunnel.
They could be a long way back – sound travels far in those tunnels, especially if it’s made by those in a hurry.
Then the clatter of hooves separated from the others, growing louder with every moment, and suddenly a rider was visible in the tunnel, galloping through the torchlight, hurtling up the slope towards them. His mouth was moving, shouting, but nothing could be heard over the crashing of his mount’s hooves and the strange sound rushing up behind it, a scraping, grinding sound, like a thousand knives scratching at stone.
‘Close the gates,’ the rider screamed as he exploded from the tunnel, Coralen rushing to take his reins, his horse sweat-streaked and foaming at the mouth. The rider’s eyes were wide with panic.
Coralen was planning on asking a few questions but instead she turned to the men holding the huge trapdoor and yelled and screamed at them to close it. Its hinges creaked as it began to come down.
A huge roar boomed through the tunnel, bursting up into the chamber like a blast of wind in the worst of storms, a physical thing that rattled chests and burst eardrums. In the tunnel something appeared, something huge, a flat muzzled head with small eyes, long fangs, thick powerful legs with razored claws.
No.
‘DRAIG!’ screamed Coralen and the door came crashing down, all efforts at lowering it with control gone. Coralen had one last glimpse inside the tunnel, the draig looming close, someone upon its back, and behind it warriors, some mounted, others running, iron glinting, then the door was down, a cloud of dust billowing up.
Men were at the bolts, trying to throw them across, the giant and others reaching for the great oak beam that slotted through iron collars across the door.
Someone grabbed her arm and spun her. Meical.
‘What did you see?’ he asked, voice calm, controlled.
‘A draig, a rider upon its back.’
‘Nathair rides a draig,’ Meical said.
‘Aye, it was him,’ Coralen breathed. She would never forget the sight from Murias. ‘And the Kadoshim are with him, hundreds of them.’ She looked up at the scout rider. He was wild-eyed, in the grip of panic. Gripping his wrist, she shook him.
‘How are they so close?’ Coralen asked him. ‘Where are the other scouts?’
‘They move faster than the wind,’ the scout said, ‘that draig . . .’ His face spasmed, remembering something terrible. ‘They caught up with the other scouts, ran them down.’
The giant slid the oak beam through the first iron collar. Warriors were everywhere now, a few hundred at least, iron in their fists but most not in their war gear. More were pouring into the chamber as the horn blasts spread warning through the fortress.
‘Where’s Ban?’ Coralen asked Meical, grabbing his arm as he turned away.
‘He . . .’ Meical paused, a mixture of grief and guilt crossing his face. ‘He took Storm down one of the tunnels—’
‘What!’
‘Not this one – this one goes south, yes?’
‘Aye.’
‘No, the one by Skald’s chair. He is safe.’
‘Why did he do that?’
There was a huge, concussive boom on the trapdoor, shaking it, dust boiling from its edges, locks rattling, some of the bolts flying loose.
It’s not going to hold. Coralen knew beyond any doubt.
‘Make ready,’ Meical yelled at the top of his voice.
Gar swept through the doors, a few score Jehar at his back, other people appearing from all directions – Wulf and a handful of axe-throwers, Javed with his pit-fighters, Coralen saw Brina and Cywen standing upon the stairwell that led to Corban’s chamber, Dath and Kulla bleary-eyed and tousle-haired behind them.
At least he has his bow.
‘Where is Ban?
’ Gar yelled as he drew near.
‘In the north tunnel; Meical says he’s safe,’ she said, nodded a greeting to Enkara, who was along with him, her leg not fully recovered from when her horse had fallen upon it.
Another impact upon the trapdoor, the oak beam the giant had slid across splintering with a piercing crack, another dust cloud rippling outwards.
‘Back, get back,’ Coralen cried, trying to herd them all away from the trapdoor. They are too close: if the doors break, a hundred men will be slain in the explosion.
Meical and Gar added their voices, then others, and slowly the milling, confused mess edged backwards, forming a ring about the trapdoor, leaving a space of ten or twenty paces.
And that will be our killing ground, Coralen snarled to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet, eager now. Wish I had my wolven claws. Have to do it the old-fashioned way. With her left hand she drew a knife from her belt.
There were a few moments of silence, dust settling, armour creaking as everyone waited.
Then the trapdoor exploded in a deafening burst of wood and iron, a dust cloud billowing out to envelop them. The draig within the tunnel roared its fury and crashed into the chamber, shadowy figures swarming behind it.
Then all became chaos.
The draig ploughed a way through the ring, eviscerating a dozen men too foolish or too brave to leap out of its way, Nathair hacking from side to side with a longsword. A horde of enemy surged after the draig, breaking through the immediate ring and hurling themselves into the warriors who were gathering deeper into the chamber. Meical did not wait for the enemy but strode into the dust cloud behind the draig, one man sealing the gap against so many, his sword a dull gleam as he was obscured; moments later a shadow-demon screeching into existence in the air, and Coralen knew Meical had his first kill.
Gar ran in after him, bellowing, ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’ and Coralen followed, screaming at the top of her lungs, all those in the circle adding their voices and surging forwards.
Kadoshim were everywhere, but among and behind them emerged other warriors – ones clothed like the pirates they had stolen the ships from in Narvon, in kilts and vests of leather with short swords and bucklers. Coralen liked them; they were much easier to kill than the Kadoshim. In what felt like no time at all her sword and knife were slick with blood and half a dozen men were dead or dying in her wake.
The Kadoshim were shrieking like the demons they were, frenzied in their killing, and wherever they went the people of Drassil fell. A handful of paces ahead of Coralen Gar and Meical stood like an island against them; almost every other heartbeat a shadowdemon formed like a black marker above them.
A face surged out of the press at her, iron rings in an oily beard, an iron-bossed buckler punching at her face. She swayed to one side, slashed the arm behind the buckler with her sword, stepped in close and punched her knife into a belly, ripped sideways as she stepped away, giving the warrior a shove in the chest to send him stumbling backwards, leaving a trail of his intestines on the floor. Another warrior stabbed at her, blinked when she was no longer where he expected her to be, then choked on his own blood as she raked his throat with her knife.
Then a Kadoshim was coming at her and she was retreating, slashing with sword and knife, opening a wound across its thigh, a wrist, along the ribs, but it did not seem even to feel the injuries, let alone be slowed down. Blood seeped from the wounds, but slow and thick, not sheeting like she expected. Step by step she retreated, forced steadily out of the ring, towards Skald’s throne and away from the warriors who fought desperately to contain the warband that was forcing its way up and out of the tunnel. A sliver of fear worked its way into her belly as her defences became frantic and ragged. She felt her body weakening, her lungs burning as the Kadoshim pressed on, unrelenting, blow after blow merging into one seamless, constant attack. She blinked what she thought was sweat out of her eyes, but it was blood, a cut over her eye appearing that she hadn’t even felt and the blood wouldn’t stop flowing. The sliver of fear grew.
I may die here. How did Corban make fighting these things look so easy?
Then a warrior swept around her, black-clothed, wielding a curved sword, Akar. He spun around the Kadoshim, coming to a standstill with his back to them both, sword held out to his side in a two-handed grip, dripping black globs of blood. The Kadoshim staggered on a few steps and its head rolled to the side, then toppled to the ground with a thud, its body following a few moments later, mist like black ichor forming in the air, hissing its rage at the world and then evaporating.
Coralen nodded her thanks to Akar and then he was gone, a dozen Jehar moving with him, chopping into the tide of Kadoshim and Vin Thalun that were flowing from the tunnel.
She ripped a strip of cloth from her shirt and tied it around the cut on her forehead, took a moment to look about the room.
More warriors were still entering the chamber. She glimpsed the child-king’s shieldman, Tahir, leading scores of Isiltir’s red-cloaks in a charge down the steps at Nathair upon his draig.
The ring that had formed around the trapdoor was getting steadily pushed back, thinning and starting to fray as more enemy kept emerging from the tunnel, though the numbers of the fallen enemy seemed uncountable, piles of them stacked in an ever-widening circle.
We cannot hold them much longer.
Even as she watched, a break came in their circle and Kadoshim and Vin Thalun poured through it like a flood, spreading into the chamber, turning back to attack the defenders from behind.
Coralen looked about wildly, trying to find her friends in the chaos, having a mind to fight beside them if this was going to end the way she thought.
I wish I’d spoken to Ban. Please, Elyon, let him be safe. Let him live.
A great roar echoed through the chamber, for a moment drowning out the din of battle, and Coralen looked to see Balur One-Eye standing upon the steps before the gate, black axe in his hands, Ethlinn and the might of the Benothi behind him. With another roar he strode down the stairs, began to run towards them, the Benothi following like an avalanche, the ground trembling. They hit the Kadoshim and Vin Thalun that had broken through the circle, scattering them like straw dolls, axes taking Kadoshim heads, warhammers crushing Vin Thalun to pulp, and behind them the defenders started to rally. Coralen saw Dath had gathered a dozen archers to him and they were lined along the staircase that led to a higher floor, raking the enemy with flights of arrows. To the other side Wulf had rallied his axe-men to him and they were hurling blades at Nathair’s draig and the enemy that thronged around him. Elsewhere she glimpsed Javed, soaked in blood, a knife in each hand, Vin Thalun dead or dying all about him. He was smiling viciously, his pit-fighters about him carving a bloody swathe through a knot of Vin Thalun warriors. Coralen felt a new surge of hope and with it energy, and she leaped back into the battle, wanting to find Gar and stand beside him.
He was still standing close to Meical, the two of them blood drenched and ringed by a tideline of corpses. Coralen joined them, protecting one and then the other as Vin Thalun and Kadoshim hurled themselves at the two warriors. She stabbed and hacked and chopped until her arms grew heavy and her hands slippery with blood.
Others joined her, spreading in a half-circle to guard the flanks of Gar and Meical – Enkara and Hamil, Akar and a dozen other Jehar.
The flow of enemy from the tunnel started to slow, one last wave surging towards them. Coralen turned a blow with her knife and buried her sword in a Vin Thalun chest, blade sticking between ribs as she tried to tug it free. Another Vin Thalun saw and lunged at her, sword plunging towards her unprotected side.
Something smashed into his chest, hurling him away from Coralen in an explosion of blood. He hit the floor and rolled, Coralen seeing one of Laith’s throwing knives sticking from his chest. Laith bounded up, a fresh knife in each hand, covered in cuts and other people’s blood. Farrell was with her, his war-hammer slung across his back, the giant dagger in his hands slick with bloo
d.
‘Better for Kadoshim,’ he growled. ‘Where’s Ban?’
Before she could answer a new sound rose from the tunnel. Battle lulled around them and many paused to look. A rhythmic thump rumbled out of the tunnel, reverberating in pulsing waves. A line of new Kadoshim emerged, flies buzzing about them, a warrior at their head, tall, lithe, gripping a longsword and clothed in mail, but Coralen’s eyes were drawn to his face, parts of it burned charcoal black and peeling, silver hair growing in tufts on his head, elsewhere singed to stubble or burned clear.
‘Calidus,’ Meical snarled.
Behind him and the new Kadoshim marched more warriors, these in disciplined rows with long shields and short swords in their hands, iron caps on their heads. Coralen remembered them from Domhain, when she had been part of a night raid against Rhin’s invading force. They had been the only force that hadn’t panicked, and days later she had been told that their wall of shields had broken Domhain’s warband.
Hundreds of them were marching from the tunnel, an endless column of men twenty shields wide. Coralen felt her heart sink.
Calidus saw Meical, sneered and strode straight at him. Meical stepped to meet him, their blades clashing with blinding speed; the sheer sense of power rolling off their blows was staggering. Then one of the Kadoshim was lunging in, something different about him from the rest, flies swarming around him. He lashed out at Meical, caught him a glancing blow and sent him crashing to the floor, rolling backwards. Calidus followed and Enkara stepped between them, sword raised high, turned Calidus’ blow as it swept towards Meical, a backswing from Enkara slashing across Calidus’ eyes and sending him reeling. Behind her Meical pushed himself to his knees, then the other Kadoshim was lunging at Enkara. He had no blade in his hands, just grabbed her, somehow swaying past her curved sword and gripping her wrist. He gave a savage yank and her sword was spinning away, Enkara pulled close to him. With one hand he gripped her face and twisted.
Coralen heard Enkara’s neck snapping from twenty paces away, the Kadoshim discarding her lifeless body to the ground.