by CS Sealey
“Let foes of the southern lands,” the men cried in a great chorus, “feel our blades of fire!”
“Advance!”
The allies began to march up the lower city street toward the Ayon barricade. All around them was a sea of screams and shouts, the sounds of sword upon sword and the crackle of flames as small fires began to spread. Another flurry of arrows came flying toward them and, again, Rasmus gave the order to stop and raise shields. There was a scream and a man a few feet away from him fell to his knees, his hands clutching at an arrow shaft in his shoulder. As the injured soldier was guided to the rear of the group, another man took his place.
“Advance!”
Rasmus gave the order to raise shields three more times before they reached the barricade. Enclosed in the dome, Rasmus heard a series of loud thuds as the Ayons threw pieces of broken furniture at them in an attempt to slow their progress. But there was fire in their hearts now. This was their home.
“Charge!” Rasmus cried.
The dome broke apart as the allies lowered their shields and raised their swords. The front line scrambled over the top of the barricade, quickly followed by the second and third. Rasmus pushed his way forward, ramming his shield forcefully into the face of an approaching Ayon soldier. The man fell, blood issuing from his nose, and was quickly set upon by two of Rasmus’s comrades.
The barricade was not heavily manned and did not take long to overcome. With minor casualties of their own, the Ronnesians picked off the Ayons one by one, then reformed their ranks on the upper end of the street. Ahead, Rasmus could just see the second city wall, its gates standing open. A great battle was being fought in the shadow of the high wall but it was impossible to tell who had the advantage, it was merely a sea of blue and crimson surcoats, dotted with the plain clothes of civilians who had taken up the sword and answered the call to liberate Te’Roek.
“Advance!” Rasmus shouted again and the allies moved steadily forward.
They passed one intersection, then another, each time spying small conflicts being fought down alleyways and narrow streets. It seemed as though every corner of the city had risen up and was fighting the oppressors.
A force of Ayon soldiers ran into view just ahead of them on the road, turned and formed ranks, creating a defiant wall of metal, flesh and leather armor. They had already seen battle, Rasmus realized, noticing the splatters of blood streaked across the men’s faces and surcoats.
“Forward!”
The allies ran, the sound of their boots like thunder upon the cobblestones. The Ayons ahead stiffened their front line in readiness and raised their swords. Rasmus knocked aside a blade with his shield and crashed into the Ayon front line. Blue shields hit crimson ones and the Ayons staggered back.
“Support!” Rasmus shouted over his shoulder.
Instantly, a man grabbed the back of Rasmus’s armor and pushed. He lost his footing but his ally steadied him and pushed harder. Beside him, other soldiers were doing the same, lending their strength to the man in front to help push the Ayons back. Inch by inch, the allies forced their way up the slope toward the middle city wall. Sweat was sliding down Rasmus’s forehead and stinging his eyes but he pushed on.
When the main street neared the gate, it widened and joined up with another street. Here, the fighting was fierce and many bodies were strewn across the bloody cobblestones.
“Break! Break!” Rasmus shouted and felt the man who had been supporting him release his grip on his armor. He twisted aside, creating a break in their defensive wall and, instantly, a Ronnesian soldier lunged, dealing an Ayon in the front line a lethal blow. All along the allied front, others were doing the same.
“Hold!” Rasmus shouted, moving back into the ranks for a brief respite. “Hold! And…break!”
Again and again, they struck through the gaps in the shields, thinning the Ayon numbers and pushing them further up the slope. Their composure was waning fast under the controlled assault from the Ronnesians and Rasmus knew they now had the advantage.
“Attack!” he shouted and burst through the shield wall.
Those who could not keep upright were crushed underfoot. Small openings in the heaving assault started to appear where men had fallen and fighting quickly ensued within them. All strategy disappeared.
Rasmus grabbed the blue surcoat of the Ronnesian man in front of him and hauled him back onto his feet. Seeing a opening on his right, he darted forward and stabbed an Ayon in the shoulder. The man screamed in pain and collapsed, clutching at his wound. Taking this opportunity, Rasmus surged into the gap and began to hack at the crimson-garbed bodies around him. He disregarded everything else, focusing only on his own fight. He felt his body give over to the heat of battle and his senses became attuned to the sounds of weapons clashing and the scream and thud of falling victims. He was acutely aware of the eruptions of blood that burst from the wounds he dealt his Ayon foes and the feel of it splashing across his skin. He fought on, always pushing forward.
After what felt like hours, Rasmus became aware that he was surrounded by Ronnesians and even some of Prince Korrosus’s Tarek soldiers from the Kilsney encampment. The Ayons were being forced back and the gateway was now clear.
He felt suddenly weary and withdrew from the front line, moving back through the ranks to give himself time to breathe. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing splattered blood and sweat across his brow. He looked around and spotted another force of blue-garbed soldiers hastening up the adjacent lower city street. At their head was Commander Mainar and a very weary looking Captain Elroy. Grinning, Rasmus raised his arm and saluted.
“The lower city market district is liberated, commander.”
CHAPTER 72
The tall sorcerer was pacing in the dining hall, preoccupied by his thoughts. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head was bowed and his mouth was drawn into a thin line of determination. Zoran had seen that look on many men’s faces, but where he would normally have sprung casually from his hiding spot to take down his unsuspecting victim, he bided his time. Emil Latrett had told him that Archis Varren’s magic had the ability to sense the approach of both the gifted and ungifted and that the man’s reactions were as fast as a cat’s.
The Ayon general paused and glanced out an open window. Reports, maps, letters and other documents were scattered across the table along with discarded quills, inkwells and sealing wax. A slight gust of wind dislodged a curled piece of parchment and sent it fluttering to the floor. Varren stiffened and turned with lightning reflexes, a ball of fire appearing in his open palm.
Zoran raised an eyebrow. Emil had not been wrong about the sorcerer’s instincts. As Varren calmed, realizing nothing but the wind had startled him, Zoran shifted in the rafters. Varren slumped heavily into one of the high-backed chairs at the table and let his head tilt back onto the cushion. Zoran saw the man’s eyes close. Varren knew that the city was lost, that was evident enough. Even a powerful sorcerer could not save the Ayon occupation now.
The plan was simple enough, as long as all involved played their part without incident. The assassin crawled along the rafter until he was directly above the sorcerer, hidden in the shadows. He made almost no sound as he slid his legs over the beam and untied the stays on the sheaths housing his knives. The time to strike was approaching. He would follow the plan but his life was more important. Should things take an unexpected turn, he would make a break for it. He was not going to die for another’s cause.
Archis Varren had now not moved for a long while and Zoran wondered whether he had somehow fallen asleep, as his body suggested. He waited a few more moments to make sure. The sorcerer remained still, his chest the only indication of life as it rose and fell steadily beneath his dark jacket. Zoran reached within himself and felt the reassuring presence of his powers; they would be ready if he needed them. He reached for his knives and drew them out as he dropped from the rafters.
The instant he began to fall, he realized his mistake.
There was something else there in the air with him, another presence. It felt as though invisible eyes were scrutinizing him – Varren’s ethereal eyes. Zoran’s knives seemed twigs in the face of such power.
Varren launched himself from the chair, a ball of flame in his outstretched hand. Zoran knew he could do nothing, even as he threw his knives with deadly accuracy toward Varren. The sorcerer twisted and spun, dodging the weapons as though foreseeing their paths. The instant Zoran’s boots hit the floor, Varren threw his ball of flame directly at the assassin’s face. The blinding light and searing heat of the magic surrounded Zoran for a moment, before his own elven powers flared. Scarcely a heartbeat later, Zoran felt his skin turn cold and the fire dispersed, leaving his skin untouched.
Obeying his instincts, the assassin darted away, skirting around the walls of the dining hall, seeking space, keeping the large table between him and the sorcerer. His eyes stayed on Varren, who was watching him equally as intently. There was an uneasy silence in the wake of the loud bang of Varren’s spell.
“You were the menace at the execution,” Varren said thoughtfully. “At last we meet. You are an interesting specimen.”
Zoran said nothing. His mind worked quickly and his eyes shifted around the room. He had been outwitted but the battle was not yet over.
“What possessed you to side with the Ronnesians?” Varren asked, dispersing the ball of flickering fire he had summoned to his hand. “I doubt they have enough gold to pay someone of your talent.”
Still the assassin remained silent. He and Varren continued to circle. Where were the others? If they were sticking to the plan, Emil, Tiderius, Markus and Kayte should have arrived by now. Surely a few guards would not have delayed them so long. Perhaps the other Ayon mages had finally arrived.
“But, of course, they have paid you nothing so far,” Varren continued, a slight smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “They promised you a lot. One thousand pfenns – a rich sum, one they cannot possibly pay. Do you think they will waste money on you when their city lies in ruins?”
Zoran remembered what the shaman had told him and tried to force other thoughts to the forefront of his mind but it was very hard. The sorcerer was undoubtedly reading his thoughts and there was nothing he could do to stop him. He had managed to surprise Varren with his powers once before but there was no chance he could do so again – he should back down. The Ronnesians could fight Varren.
“So you are not alone in this venture?” Varren asked, his smile widening. “I should have guessed as much. But I must disappoint you. My companions will be taking care of Latrett and the others as we speak. They will not arrive for quite some time, if at all. It’s just you and me, Zoran Sable.”
“You are trying to use your gift to intimidate me,” Zoran said, “but it will not work.”
“Yes, trained in multiple forms of resistance to torture. The rack, hot irons, bleeding, poison…I am impressed you are still alive. Lord Renshala must have taken an incredible risk to set you free like that.”
Zoran could find nothing to say. His past was being read to him like the pages of a book. He was now only two dozen yards from the main doors. If he could reach those, he might be able to escape. There was no chance he would be able to leave the way he had come – through the window. As though in response, Varren glanced at the doors and, with a grand sweep of his arms, they slammed shut. There was no other way out now but through Varren himself.
Then we must fight, Zoran thought.
“Not at all, my friend,” the sorcerer said. “There is another way.”
Zoran looked quickly about him, though he already knew there was no other door leading out of the dining hall.
The sorcerer shook his head. “No, no. Another way out of this situation.”
“I fail to see one,” Zoran said, clenching his fists. Whipping his cloak back, he reached into his belt for two small daggers and hurled them through the air. Before the weapons had traveled a few yards, Zoran released his magic and began to break apart. The sand-like particles of his body split into a swirling vortex and hurled across the room. Varren dodged the flying daggers and only had a split second to throw up his arms in defense as the coil of twisting sand engulfed him. A spark of magic erupted into a ball of light amid the vortex and then blasted outward, blowing the coil momentarily apart.
Zoran pulled his form back together and prepared to attack again, but the blast had weakened him and he was hesitant to attack so recklessly again. It would not be so easy to overcome the sorcerer as it had been at the failed execution. Varren was ready for him this time – his eyes were flaming white and flickers of pure blue energy darted about his fingers.
“Make a deal with me, Sable!” Varren shouted over the howling wind of the vortex. “I know what it is you seek! You have been exiled for too long. You need a companion who understands your mind and gift. You wanted to experiment but that was against your brothers’ creed. It is not against mine!”
Zoran tried, without success, to blot out the sound of the sorcerer’s voice. He attacked again, splitting his form into two swirling coils, which circled Varren at a terrible speed. Unable to see clearly, Varren angrily shot spells into the blur with increasing intensity, weakening Zoran’s enchantment.
Then Zoran spied an opportunity. He quickly rematerialized close to the doors and attempted to force himself through them. He hurled his weight against the heavy wood and felt it shift slightly. Frantically, he tried again and twisted the handle but something was keeping the door firmly shut.
“There is no escape,” Varren snarled.
Zoran felt a searing pain rip through him and he collapsed to his knees. He found it hard to breathe and his lungs contracted sharply and painfully. His anxious hands released the door handle and clasped at his chest, his knuckles white. Then he felt his heart lurch and burn with agony. He had experienced this sensation before when he had faced submersion torture. He was about to die.
He turned painfully, his mouth open wide in the attempt to suck in air. Varren stood above him with his hand outstretched, his fingers slowly closing into a fist. The spell was a strong one – Zoran could not escape. If that fist closed fully, he knew his life would end.
“Listen to me, assassin,” Varren said sternly. “Your life, as you undoubtedly feel, is in my hands. I will return that life to you for one thing. Will you consider it?”
Zoran tried to speak but found that he could not. Instead, he nodded.
“Leave this place and never return. Never again do business with the Ronnesians or any of their allies.”
Zoran nodded, his brow dotted with sweat. He was conscious of his hands shaking and an unnerving numbness creeping up from his feet. He nodded again, this time more frantically, wishing more than anything to taste the air and have his heart beating freely.
“Then I release you, Zoran.”
Air exploded into his lungs and he fell to the floor, his face pressed into the polished marble, chest heaving. He was only slightly conscious of the dark shape of the sorcerer moving away from him and picking up what sounded like Zoran’s knives and daggers. He continued to gasp and rolled onto his back, trying to control his breathing. Eventually, his breathing slowed and deepened, and his shaking limbs stilled.
“Remember this day,” Varren said, kneeling by his side, “for I shall not let you live the next time you cross me. But should you choose to take up my offer, I will welcome you as a brother.”
“Offer?” Zoran asked, straining to sit up.
“You have incredible abilities and skill but you have been sheltered all your life. We could discover the old magics together. I think we are alike of mind, more than any of your own kind. We could learn so much from each other, Zoran.”
There was a distant explosion. Zoran rose shakily to his feet and accepted his weapons back, one by one. It felt strange, acting so civil to the sorcerer after such a savage but fruitless battle.
“I think now is the time for us to leave.”
“Yes,” Varren said, anger etched in his words. “My soldiers have been outwitted. I fear the city is lost and it is beyond me to recover it.”
Zoran fixed his last knife in its sheath and arranged his cloak carefully. He took a few steps toward the door and then paused. “I killed many of your men in the weeks leading up to this battle. Their deaths are the cause of your men being so disorganized today.”
“I will not hold it against you should we meet again. Only, take care not to repeat the occurrence.”
Zoran nodded and turned the handle. This time, it opened unhindered. The corridor beyond was thick with smoke and the courtyard at the end of the passage could scarcely be seen. Without another word or backward glance at the sorcerer, Zoran disappeared into the smoke.
He reached the courtyard and ascended the stairs two at a time. On the next level, he hurried along the open corridor to the main balcony. Soon, he was standing above the firmly bolted castle gates. It had been a dangerous climb up the side of the castle wall and it would be no less dangerous on the way down, but he stepped onto the balustrade without further hesitation. Spying his first handhold, Zoran sprang from the balcony, caught the protruding piece of decorative masonry and began his descent.
When he reached the forecourt, Zoran glanced up and saw a dark figure standing on the balcony above him. Their eyes met and, after a moment, Zoran nodded. A cacophony of explosions and distant shouts erupted within the castle. The mages were waging a fierce war, one Zoran was no longer part of. On the balcony, Varren turned and disappeared into the corridor beyond.
The forecourt was littered with bodies, each one shot down by Ayon archers. Zoran hurried to the stairs, zig-zagging to avoid the arrows. He did not stop, not even when he saw more Ronnesian soldiers burst through the upper city gates and hurry on up the slope to the castle. Where the streets were clogged with fighting, he scaled a wall and took to the roofs. Running and vaulting, he pushed aside the lingering pain from the confrontation with Varren. He did not think of the battle being waged around him; he only thought of reaching the second headquarters, collecting his effects and leaving the city for good.