With the six soldiers in the rear courtyard stood a man dressed in a tunic, trousers and a cloak. He did not wear a helmet, only a hood, and, even though Varayan could not see his features, he could see the man's pale skin illuminated by the flames that were spreading throughout the tavern. Something about him was unsettling, but Varayan turned his eyes back to the rooftop before him.
Forven dropped to the roof, slipping slightly. He managed to catch himself from falling and started after the others, his heart slamming hard against his ribs.
Gorric was the last out of the tavern and he too nearly lost his footing on the rooftop. Seeing the attackers below in the courtyard, he caught sight of one with a crossbow and cursed quietly to himself. He wished that he had picked up the shield of the man he had knocked unconscious in the bar room.
There was a shout from down in the courtyard as the attackers spotted the fleeing Rotians.
"Watch out," warned Gorric, seeing the crossbowman taking aim. The target was either Khir or the barkeeper.
The bolt was fired from the crossbow and Khir ducked, but it was not meant for him. The barkeeper, seeing the edge of the roof just ahead, made a dash for it. The bolt caught him in the side and he was thrown off the rooftop by the impact.
"Get off the roof," yelled Gorric to the others, who had ground to a halt seeing the barkeeper's demise.
"Gorric," said Forven, pointing at the pale man in the courtyard. "Look there."
Gorric turned his head and saw the strange man holding out his right arm towards them, muttering quietly. Looking back at Forven, his expression showed that he did not understand.
Before the five rotians could react, the pale foreigner made a gesture and the stable roof shuddered as the sound of wood breaking was heard below them. The roof pitched sideways and the five men found themselves slipping towards the courtyard. They landed heavily on the muddy ground.
Gorric looked back at the stable, to see the supports splintered. He realised that his sword was not in his hand and, looking around, he saw it lying just out of arm's reach. His body ached from the fall but he rose quickly and scooped up his weapon, turning to find the attackers standing before him. The five who carried swords and shields stood ready to strike, whilst the crossbowman - having reloaded - shifted his aim between the group of rotians.
The pale man who they had seen gesturing moments before they fell approached at a safe distance behind the soldiers. He regarded them with a cold stare and an almost mocking smile.
"Any ideas?" Gorric asked the others, aware that they were at the disadvantage.
The other four, mud-spattered and sore from the fall, did not answer and instead watched the foreigners for any sign of attack.
Gorric took a long look at the one who was unprotected. It was the first opportunity he had to examine one of their assailants upclose. The man was tall and thin, yet he held himself with an almost arrogant stance, regarding the rotians as if they were prey that had just been cornered by the hunters. In a way, Gorric supposed that they were. The man's features could be seen beneath his hood and were similar to those of any Rotian, yet there was significant enough difference to tell them apart: the pale skin and lips, the alien clothing and even the bone structure in the face. They were not Skardan, nor Morassian. These attackers were something very foreign to the Rotian Kingdom.
For what seemed like an eternity, they stood staring at one another. It was clear that the attackers were taking this time to study the rotians, as they held the upper hand.
"So, what happens now?" asked Varayan, more to the foreigners than to the others.
The hooded foreigner turned his gaze upon Varayan and frowned, then he muttered something in a language unknown to the rotians.
"It seems they don't understand us," noted Forven.
Then, the hooded man took a step back and, pointing towards Rynn, uttered a word in the crossbowman's direction. Instantly, the crossbow was leveled at the young acolyte and the attacker pulled the trigger.
Forven reacted as quickly as he could and leapt towards Rynn, pushing the acolyte aside. Rynn tripped and found himself on his back in the mud once again. The crossbow bolt caught Forven in the thigh, causing him to yell in pain and fall to one knee.
Gorric saw the soldiers before him all glance towards the cleric and took his chance. He swung his sword at the nearest foreigner and caught him off balance. The man was surprised when Gorric's sword struck him hard on the breastplate and he reeled backwards, slipping in the mud.
Suddenly, the other four soldiers were moving, two towards Gorric, one towards Varayan and the fourth heading for Khir. The Rotians backed away.
Rynn looked around, seeing the soldiers move past him in pursuit of his fellow escapees. He jumped up and turned back towards Forven. His breath caught in his throat when he saw that the hooded foreigner was approaching the injured cleric. He had to help Forven. Fear clouded his mind, yet he forced his feet to move, stepping towards the foreigner.
The hooded man reached beneath his cloak and produced a curved dagger, then grabbed hold of Forven's arm.
"Forven," cried Rynn, throwing himself at the foreigner.
There was the flash of a blade and Rynn felt a sharp pain across his chest. He stumbled and fell to the side, clutching the fresh wound where the foreigner's dagger had sliced through his robes. He expected to see the man bearing down on him, but instead saw Forven back on his feet, attempting to grapple the dagger from his hand. Rynn could see Forven's wound clearly, blood trickling down the cleric's leg.
The hooded foreigner was clearly not as strong as Forven but he was faster. He reached out with his free hand and took hold of the crossbow bolt, then twisted it. Forven's hold on him weakened as his wound was aggravated further.
Breaking clear of the cleric's grip, the foreigner seemed to move with an inhuman speed and he sliced the dagger across Forven's chest, just as he had done with Rynn. Forven's legs quivered and he fell to his knees once again.
Rynn tried to stand, but felt as though his legs were weighted down. He caught sight of the dagger in the foreigner's hand and could see strange symbols etched down the length of the blade. It almost seemed to glow, but it must have been his eyes fooling him through the rain.
There was a movement to one side and Rynn saw the crossbowman - his weapon reloaded - trying to find a clear shot at Gorric. The young nobleman seemed to have good battle sense though and was keeping the two soldiers before him in the way.
A sudden wave of heat washed across Rynn and he turned to see the tavern ablaze, flames licking at the timbers holding the building together. Then, with his mind swimming, the acolyte looked back towards Forven and the hooded foreigner. What he saw made a chill run the length of his spine.
The foreigner crouched over Forven's still form, which now lay in the mud. He was wiping his cruel dagger on the cleric's robes, cleaning it of blood. Rynn could see the gaping wound across Forven's throat, the wound that had ended his friend's life. Tears welled in Rynn's eyes and he cursed himself for not being able to help.
"Ardan protect us," was the only thing he could whisper.
The foreigner stood, dagger gripped in one hand still, and turned towards Rynn. With a cold smile on his alien face, he strode towards him and, as he reached the prone acolyte, he said something in his strange language and laughed.
Rynn looked up at him, blinking as the rain fell onto his face. "Why?" he asked the man, knowing that he would not understand but feeling that it was the only valid question at this point.
With a slight shake of the head, the foreigner raised his dagger. There was a sudden movement and Rynn was amazed to see a familiar figure leap onto the man's shoulders, catching him by surprise. Varayan's weight pitched the foreigner forward and they fell to the ground. The curved dagger was thrown clear and both men came up face to face.
"Rynn?" Varayan called to the acolyte. "Time to go." He had seen Rynn in trouble as he avoided the blade of one of the soldiers and had ducked the att
acker's swing, then sprinted for the hooded foreigner. He did not know why he was risking his life for someone else, but it was an instinctive reaction and now he had to see it through.
"Something's wrong," exclaimed Rynn. "I can't stand."
Varayan looked into the eyes of the man before him and saw a burning hatred there. He had interrupted the man's murderous activities and this had obviously upset him.
As the foreigner began to mutter something beneath his breath, something told Varayan to act quickly otherwise the bizarre power this man wielded might be unleashed on him. He remembered the splintered stable supports and realised that he did not want to be next. He pulled his knife from his belt and lashed out, catching the foreigner across the right cheek and missing his eye by inches.
The man cried out at the unexpected attack and put a hand to his pale face, staring at Varayan in shock.
"How do you like it?" Varayan asked him, turning and running to help Rynn to his feet. As he pulled the drenched acolyte from the mud, he heard Gorric's voice call his name and he glanced over his shoulder to see the attackers all momentarily halting their advance as the hooded man cried out something which sounded like a curse. They all seemed surprised at the man's injury, even the crossbowman had lowered his weapon. The fifth soldier, whom Gorric had knocked into the mud, had only just managed to get back into position and stood as if caught between continuing the attack or moving to protect the cursing man.
Gorric was moving away, towards the alley that they had originally intended escaping by. Khir was with him, waving frantically at the young thief. Varayan made a break for it and, with Rynn weighing him down somewhat, ran for the alley.
"Take him," Varayan said to Gorric as he approached, and pushed Rynn towards the stronger man.
Gorric grabbed the acolyte and moved off down the alley. Khir and Varayan saw the soldiers turning back and heard their cries of frustration at seeing their victims escaping. The crossbowman loosed his bolt, but it was too late and the four men had vanished into the dark streets.
Balthus, staring towards the alley, lowered his hood and felt the strange sensation of both blood and rain running down his face. The wound from the knife stung, as it had cut deep. He turned to the nearest soldier. "Find them," he growled at the man. "Find them and kill them."
The soldier nodded and called for the others to follow him as he ran for the alley.
Balthus watched them leave the courtyard, then turned to find his dagger. It was his only possession of real value; a gift from Sephonis, if it could be classed as that. The blade was etched with runic symbols, which allowed Balthus to wield it faster than he would a normal blade. It was also lighter than most other daggers. Where Sephonis had originally found it was a mystery, but he did not want to lose it in this mud-drenched courtyard of a doomed tavern.
He caught sight of it and stooped to pick it up, remembering the face of the one who had attacked him. He was a young rotian who had foolishly made an enemy of an invoker. The wound across his face would heal, but a slight scar would always remind him of this encounter.
With a frustrated sigh, Balthus cleaned the mud from his dagger. He saw the body of the rotian he had killed and walked over to it, looking down at the robed man whose blood was swirling in the mud. Who was this man? His robes seemed to represent something and Balthus wondered as to what profession he had been in. He was no magic-user, as he had been no match. Perhaps one of the religious men he had heard other Shada-Kavielians discussing.
Balthus looked back at the alley once more, then headed back towards the main square at the front of the burning tavern.
Celestius heard Brenn call his name, but could not see him anywhere. The defenders of Barentin were fighting a losing battle. The tavern had been set alight and all Celestius could do was hope that his son and the others got out in time. He stood with two town guardsmen, his back to the flames destroying the tavern. The other defenders were lying dead or dying and only a handful of guardsmen remained standing in the square.
Ahead of him, he could see the man he assumed to be one of the officers of this invading force. The tall man, dressed in full battle armour, had ridden his horse into the battle, killing the Barentin defenders as they fought for their lives. He had then dismounted and continued his slaying on foot.
"Go," Celestius ordered the two men next to him. "Help where you can, but retreat if necessary. Try to get people out of Barentin."
"Sir, if we could group our defenses together, then we might be able to drive them back," said one of the guardsmen.
"Don't be a fool," snapped Celestius. "Look around. They have set fires all around the town. From the cries I heard, the docks have gone also. This is a battle we cannot win. We've lost many men and they have lost but a handful. Do as I say and help people escape."
"Where do we go?"
Celestius looked at the guardsman, whose expression was one of defeat. "Anywhere but here. Head for Tamriel if you can. The bridges may not be the safest route though. If need be, go north."
"Are you coming, sir?" asked the guardsman, moving away.
"No." Celestius fixed his gaze on the dark officer who was slowly cutting through the final defenders. Looking down, he saw the body of one of the attackers at his feet and he bent down, picking up the soldier's shield. Then, he strode towards the officer.
As he approached him, Celestius could see that the man was a seasoned warrior. The officer's shield turned aside attacks and the speed of the retaliation caught most guardsmen off-balance, lunging and slashing with brutal precision. His blade was covered in the blood of those he had felled.
Celestius could feel the man's intense presence and almost found himself admiring the officer's fluid motions, even when weighed down with the armour he wore. The man's cloak seemed to be his symbol of rank, as none of the other attackers wore one. Celestius took a deep breath and realised the possible error in judgement in fighting this man.
The dark officer saw Celestius approach and turned to face him. A soldier ran to intercept Celestius, but the officer called out to him in his foreign tongue. The soldier reluctantly stepped back and allowed Celestius to move closer to the officer.
Clearing his mind of negative thoughts, Celestius made a sudden move towards the officer. His sword met the opposing shield and he was stunned by the speed of the parry. Then, the officer's longsword lunged out and Celestius leapt to his right to avoid being skewered. As he did so, he punched out with his shield and connected with the officer's breastplate, pushing the man back. Taking the advantage, Celestius brought his sword around in a sweeping arc, cutting upwards at the end to try and take the officer in the armpit. However, the experienced warrior spun to his left to avoid the blow, lashing out with his own blade. Celestius blocked with his shield, feeling the man's strength as they connected.
He was suddenly aware that most of the fighting had ceased in the square and the nearest attackers had turned to watch the battle between their officer and Celestius. He realised that he was trapped here now and all he could do was fight.
For a moment, he thought of Gorric, then he was focused again as the officer attacked, this time with two savage overhead blows in succession. Celestius parried them, but his arm was numb from the impact. He lunged out, hoping to somehow find a way through the armour. A wave of pain struck him as the officer turned his blade aside with his own and then followed around with his shield, catching Celestius across the face and sending him sprawling to the mud.
Dazed, Celestius pushed himself up, sword still clutched in his hand. He heard the officer move towards him and glanced up to see the vague outline of his opponent approaching. He swung his shield out in the hope of deflecting any attack, but there was none. He stood and shook his head clear, then saw that the officer seemed to be regarding him with interest.
"Take a good long look," said Celestius.
The officer did so, looking him up and down, then said something that was directed at the nobleman but not understood.
Celestius sprang forward, leading with his sword. The officer sidestepped and Celestius was forced to duck his opponent's blade. They turned to face one another and the officer moved quickly, stabbing out with his blade towards Celestius' sword arm. All that Celestius could do was parry the sword aside with his own, as he could not bring the shield around fast enough. However, he realised that the officer had played him right into his hands.
With a powerful strike, the officer brought his shield around and smashed the sword from Celestius' hand, causing the nobleman to turn slightly with the blow. Too late, Celestius saw the clever follow-up strike from the officer's sword. It cut deep into his side and he cried out in agony, dropping his shield and falling backwards. He looked up at the foreigner standing over him and clutched his side. His blood seeped from the wound and he knew that it was over.
His mind became filled with images of Gorric, Elna, Kithia, Cassi and even Khir. He had no doubt that these foreigners were here to conquer and he prayed that his family were kept safe from harm. Somehow, he was positive that his son had escaped the tavern before it caught fire. He smiled as he pictured his wife and children at their home in Tamriel and a warmth washed across him. Lost in his dying thoughts, Celestius never saw the officer raise his sword above him.
Draliak looked down at the rotian's still body. He felt invigorated by the battle, yet held a certain respect for his dead opponent. He admired those brave enough to face him alone.
"I want his sword," stated the commander to his nearest men.
One soldier scooped up the blade from the mud and offered it hilt-first to Draliak, who took it and examined it.
"Rotian design is strange, but sturdy enough." Draliak sheathed his own sword, then glanced around the square. The victory was their's. Barentin was burning and it's populace were either dead or captured. It was over quicker than he had expected.
He heard someone approaching and looked over his shoulder to see Balthus picking his way past the bodies. The invoker was wounded across the face and Draliak could see the anger in his eyes.
Severed Destinies Page 8