by C F Welburn
Balagir bit his lip, surveying the east, and still there was no sign of the relics. Perhaps Ginike had been right. Maybe they lay in a stupor, surrounded by last night’s empty wineskins, lost in dreams of long distant glories.
They could not wait forever. The flaw in the plan was that neither could they retreat. For all the innocents were contained within the keep, with only a force of archers to repel them. He looked across the valley to where Beringal crouched, and still no order came. A sense of helplessness and frustration mingled with dread along the ranks.
The still dawn carried Zyrath’s rasping demands that the gate be opened. Balagir refocussed his spyglass to see Yorvic answering from the battlements and heard Zyrath’s roar at the stocky man’s defiance. Shortly afterwards, a rain of arrows peppered them, and they withdrew beyond range.
But the lizard lord was not so easily dismissed. Seizing the panels from the broken siege engines, they formed a canopy and advanced upon the gate. By the time they reached the portcullis, they resembled a many-legged, spiked animal; yet it had worked, and they began bashing at the door. Rocks were cast down from above, most of which missed or bounced harmlessly off the wooden carapace. A few largatyn slumped to their knees but were kicked aside by their less than compassionate allies, and swiftly replaced. Hot oil doused others, sending them shrieking with melted faces and dripping candle limbs to the wayside; horrendous a spectacle as it was, it was barely noticeable against such numbers. Like swatting flies in a fish market.
Knowing that if they did not act, they would witness a merciless massacre, Beringal’s hand was forced. His horn sounded once, and the men, terrified and cursing, breached the hills, pouring down into the valley as water fills a boat pushed below the waterline.
They crashed into the startled flanks, leaving the enemy scant time to raise their arms. Those upon the northern hill would have seen, and Balagir could only hope they would withhold a while, assuming their leader capable of sweeping up these defiant lingerers. For the nonce this proved true, though it was only a matter of time before the would-be ambushers were the ones pressed on all fronts.
Steel clashed, an overture to the grunts, hisses, and wails of both friend and foe.
Balagir swept his sword before him, not so much singling out an enemy as cutting a direct path towards the keep’s weakening gates. The blade, seldom used since its augmentation, began to show its worth, for here he could establish the charge Hoki had boasted of.
His first strike sundered ribs, his second head, the third cleaved shoulder, the fourth severed arm, and the fifth glowed, trembled, and sent a group of enemies several feet into the air. Doom had finally paid for itself. They came crashing back down on their allies, breaking necks and impaling themselves on allied pikes.
He smiled grimly; found a rhythm.
Hack, slash, stab, swipe. Boom!
Parry, thrust, riposte, lunge. Whoosh!
They flew like scattered pebbles into the dawn sky. Crumpling the heads, snapping the spines of those they descended upon; a rain of stunned scales.
Despite his efforts, the enemy were many, and by now in full attack. In the distance, louder than any sword clash, the gates finally sundered, and he beheld a black mass sliding through its splintered remains like so many swarming insects. The archers ceased to shoot, drew their blades, and descended to defend the inner bailey.
Balagir spotted the large form of Zyrath and altered his course. He dispatched foes in a red rage, feeling the smoke trickling into him with each kill. The black kind. The one that made his eyes darken and his mood foul. But this was no time for morals, and he needed every ounce of ire he could muster to cut his way through the swarm.
Once more: cleave, skewer, cut, dice. The hilt glowed, then: Crack! And again, and over; a madness taking him until even his allies drew back, uncertain of who upon the field to fear the most.
And then he was there, unsure of how he had arrived. His face and hands were slick with sweat and the oily blood of the slain. Some may well have been his own, but even pain could not touch him.
He reached the outer bailey, now littered with largatyn and most of the archers. Some still fought. At the broken entrance to the inner chamber, the women and children cowering in the shadows within, a lone man stood stemming the tide. Yorvic. He looked tired; his face was wet with red. Balagir growled, clearing the courtyard in twenty bounds and dispatching a quarter of that number in the process, arriving with the blade charged.
Yorvic was on his knees, his head slumped, his blade in the mud. The lizard lord raised his weapon.
“Zyrath!” Balagir roared, and he slowly turned, an evil gleam in his cold eyes.
“I had hoped to find you here,” he barked. It may have been a laugh. He delivered a brutal kick into Yorvic’s chest, sending the captain skidding into the broken doorframe. All his attention was bent on Balagir now; they began to strafe. The sounds of skirmish faded into the background, and it became apparent that both the archers and surviving largatyn within were fixed upon the confrontation.
It was almost a shame not to milk it. Balagir would have relished making a spectacle of their foul ruler. But his sword was charged, and there were still many enemies without. So, he ducked the largatyn’s wide swipe, hearing the scimitar sing over his head, and dug his blade into a black scaly shin. The air rushed from the blade, and Zyrath’s leg was swung around with such force that it carried him whirling into the wall. Dazed, he focused on the uselessly twisted limb. With a defiant hiss he dragged himself up the doorframe, but it was no good. Balagir was on him and took the clawing hand away with a sundering stroke. One. The lizard lord screeched and tucked the stump beneath his other arm to stay the blood. He weakly raised his blade, but Balagir connected with it in such fury, it hummed and danced out of his grip. Two. Next, he descended through the bone of his forearm. Three. Zyrath slithered away, kicking until Balagir loped off his foot. Four. The talisman glowed, and Balagir stepped around him until he looked down in his eyes.
“What… are you?” Zyrath said. But Balagir, black-eyed and blood-drenched, was sick of talking. His blade did that for him now, and he pierced the largatyn’s throat with just enough force to activate the charge. His large head left his body with a popping sound to ricochet off a high point on the wall and fall into the midst of the screaming women and children. A swirl of blackness engulfed Balagir, a thick tendril of smoke linking him and the dead body like a ghastly umbilical cord, feeding him such sordid nutrients. He strode over, skewered the head on the tip of blade, and strode up to the battlements; allies scurried from his path.
He gained the vantage point and saw the entire largatyn force was now engaged, pouring down the hill, hemming in their small, tiring force. They had made an impression, as a hundred axes might upon a forest, but trees were plentiful.
“The Dunn!” a wounded archer cried, gesturing wildly with his good arm. Balagir turned to see Dunn Fannon’s blue banner jostling around in a sea of black. He cursed. The young Dunn was already weak and wounded. Why had Beringal not stopped him? But the tactician was nowhere to be seen. Nor were the relics for that matter. Slowly the blues and the yellows of men were fading to black. Balagir’s eyes glistened like polished coals as he wiped his bloodied brow on the back of his sleeve. He turned to the archer, who regarded him with wide eyes.
“When they get within range, launch this into their ranks,” he said, letting Zyrath’s large head slip to the stone rampart with a wet thud. “It’s time they knew fear.”
With that, he left the archer pale and gawping and slid down the ladder, back out into the maelstrom.
His sword was uncharged, though it did not remain so for long as he threw himself at the nearest foe. He absorbed black energy from the enemies he slew like a sponge dropped in oil. His mood was foul and his hand relentless, yet hack as he might, three more replaced each of those who fell. No amount of rage nor powerful sword could alter the fact that they were in trouble, and after some progress, he tired and began to
stumble. His lunges became lacklustre. He could no longer see the Dunn’s banner, engulfed in the black storm. Someone crashed into him, and he went down on his knee, into an eerie silence below the surface. The floor was littered with bodies and blades; horlock, man, and largatyn alike. Red, yellow, blue, black. A boot caught him under the jaw, and he tasted blood. Had it been friend or foe? In this madness it no longer seemed to matter. Everyone was fair game when pandemonium took hold. A man would strike wildly to save himself.
He struggled to rise, but a blow set his ears to ringing. Blood ran into his eyes, hot and slick. He twisted to see the fierce largatyn, cruel cudgel in sinewy arm. A knee in his back sent him to all fours. This was it; down here like a dog he would go without a glimpse of the sky. The cudgel fell and grazed his shoulder, bringing a pain that felt far off. Desperately he threw himself at the legs of his would-be killer, the greasiness of blood foiling his grip. With feet stretched out behind him, he found something solid—one of the corpses that had begun to mount—and he pushed away using both boots and band as he had done in Iceval. It worked, for he swept his foe’s feet from beneath him and sent several more staggering.
In the small space that had cleared about him, he adopted and refined the technique, this time wielding his blade before his head. He found another foothold and propelled himself forward like an unseen striking serpent, sweeping legs, buckling knees and bowling bodies. His sword must have hit at least twelve unfortunates—ally and enemy alike—for thrice in his trajectory the energy boomed and pulsed outwards, sending bodies cartwheeling aside.
When his momentum waned, he initiated it once more, making them fly like a hammer on teeth.
It became his purpose; his existence. Nothing else mattered. There was no sky, he had no legs. He crouched and pushed and slashed and scattered. A low sickle through corn; a deadly, unnatural thing that slew below the surface.
The ground beneath him inclined, and he knew he had crossed the field; he had neared the point where he had last seen Dunn Fannon’s banner. He rose, strange to be upright and feel air, and cut into those suddenly surprised to find him in their midst. There! A flash of blue. Ephemeral but vivid. He pushed on, muscles bunched and burning, body crying out to a mind that would not heed it.
Dunn Fannon lay unconscious, trapped by the large largatyn that lay lifelessly across his chest. He had done well, the young Dunn, holding them off this long, but they were aware of his helplessness and surged, eager to be the one who finished him. Balagir stood and swept a wide arc, momentarily clearing the area. This was to be his last stand. Alone on an island of corpses as the black wave lapped and crashed against the shore.
From this vantage, he took in the view. Overwhelmingly black, but shrunken. They had taken many with them before they were beaten, at least there was that. The day would not be theirs, but the largatyn would never forget this dark dawn and the culling of their kind.
They were also leaderless. The wounded archer had fulfilled Balagir’s command, for an uncertainty seemed to grip them with the knowledge that Zyrath had fallen. Still, it was not enough. Whilst it would cause a certain chaos, it would also inspire. The door for opportunity stood open for those belligerent enough to breach it.
Balagir grimaced, weary beyond measure. He stabbed when they pressed, swept when they surged, and, every time Doom glowed, sent a section careering. One man cannot stop a tide, however, no matter how small the beach. Some things are just too relentless. His sword began to slip; his grip weakened, his hands slick. Era, knowing he was done, swept out, desperately attacking the faces of those that shrieked and swiped at her. She did well, but her despair was desperate; a cornered child that lashes out; a dog with only its growl as defiance. Who knew what would happen to her should he fail. She certainly was not keen on finding out. A large grey hand grasped after her, and she eluded it. Another swiped her aside, and she disappeared behind a writhing wall.
Balagir sagged. No one could deny his effort. It was just a shame that history was written by the victors. Who knew how they would paint such a savage beast.
And then, just as the wave pressed in and the blades were raised, he heard it. A distant horn. A deep thing that rattled his teeth. He sensed confusion, and strained to peer beyond the snaking, stabbing limbs.
On the top of the eastern hill, two large figures descended, scattering the grey hordes or else leaving them dead. Another blast, this time from the west, and two more intimidating shapes descended, reaping great carnage.
Balagir smiled a weary, bitter smile. Late was better than never. He pulled himself up and swept a wide, painful arc at those distracted about him. Once more his circle was clear.
Then he saw a flash of red; Roje was there somewhere, pushing towards him. And more yellow banners—Dunn Elohim? He later could not recall what proceeded. Consciousness ebbed as instinct flowed. A mechanical routine took over, as though he were a drone driven by the hive mind. All he knew was that after, his arms could not heft a blade of grass, let alone one of steel. And that the circle of dead that surrounded him reached to the very sky, as though he peered up from a well in which he and Dunn Fannon were trapped in the bottom.
Leaderless, demoralised, and afraid, the descent of the relics and the final foray of the united men had been enough to break the largatyn’s will.
He was not sure how many had fled, but once the process had begun, they fell apart; picked off and singled out from the herd.
A face peered down into the well; a red-bearded face and a short, black-haired woman. Slowly the bodies were pulled away until a hand could reach him. Dunn Fannon’s battered blue body was borne away by medics, and Balagir stumbled, blinking into the noon light. The scene was one of horror. Not an inch of the ground from Eskareth’s walls to the northern foothills was bodiless or unbloodied. The largatyn were gone, but the men who remained could have numbered little more than five hundred.
Then Kiela was there with Ginike… Was that Inverna there with her blue eyes? And Raf Isil limping, supported by the gillard? His head sagged, and for a time he knew nothing. Only a slow movement that felt part of a dream.
When he opened his eyes, he still sat upon the field, surrounded by the ashen. Kiela looked at him worriedly. Her eyes were dark and strange.
“Balagir,” Ginike said, snapping his fingers. “Are you in there?”
“I’m here,” he groaned, knocking the ashen’s hand aside as though it were an annoying fly. Ginike had that effect, he dimly recalled.
“Your eyes…” Kiela said, unable to finish.
“Your eyes,” Balagir said, looking around at the grey smouldering faces. But he had the impression from their concerned solidarity that he had far surpassed their transgressions. What he had become remained to be seen. He certainly did not feel himself. He looked around woozily; to the side, several paces away, sat four large ashen. He rose with a grunt and approached.
“Well, well. Look who’s back with us,” Tye said.
“Glad you made it,” said Ivorn.
“You took your time,” Balagir growled.
The relics shared indignant looks.
“Now there’s gratitude for you,” Quevil grumbled.
“I hope we didn’t keep you from your wine for too long,” Balagir said angrily but felt Roje’s restraining hand on his arm.
“Not now,” he said quietly. Balagir let his shoulders slump. He was too tired. He could never take them all, no matter how much he would have liked. Hero was a poor choice of name for ashen such as these, though they would doubtlessly be dubbed such now, in the eyes of the survivors.
“If you’re done with us then?” Tye said.
Balagir looked them over one by one. The blood which covered them spoke of their effort, but it had been their boost of morale and of fear to the unsettled enemy that had truly turned the tide. Their arrival seemed to have won the day, but their tardiness had cost many lives. He remained grim-mouthed and nodded. About them the smoke circled as their oaths were fulfilled.
“You’ll not stay?” Ginike asked.
“With these ingrates?” Quevil spat, looking as much at Balagir as the men who had already returned to the keep. “Bah!”
“No,” Tye said, rather more levelly. “We’ve done what we said. We’ve our own ends to pursue.”
Balagir shook his head and turned his back on them. He would not treat these wastrels with the obsequiousness they appeared to demand. He felt a violent urge swell within him, and then shivered and regained composure. Had he become a black-eye? Was he now another Gorj?
He sat and massaged his temples as the relics muttered and left. He was aware of the others regarding him uncertainly and finally met their eyes. He noticed Unvil for the first time, stretched out behind them, bloodied and bandaged.
“You going to survive?” Balagir asked, not intending his words to sound as cold as they had.
“Was waiting for you,” said the jaegir, with unprecedented respect. “Let’s get to the fire.” There were murmurs of agreement, and Balagir noted for the first time that all of them bore more than one wound.
“The largatyn are done,” Roje said. “I don’t know what will become of Iylleth now.”
“Largatyn?” Unvil scoffed coarsely. “Bloody one of them that did this, wasn’t it,” he said, jerking his head towards the keep.
“Well, you do sort of look like—” Ginike recklessly began.
“Say it!” Unvil urged, reaching for his sword, decrepit as he was.
“Enough,” Roje intervened. “Whilst there are many differences between the jaegir and largatyn, you are more similar than the men. Panic was rife.”