As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Rome saw Heram appear in the gateway passage. Rome hesitated. Heram would tear through the pikemen like paper. The evacuation of the square had barely begun. Only a few people had made it to the narrow street that was the only exit. He badly wanted to charge Heram. With the axe he could hold Heram back, giving his men and the Tenders time to get out of the square.
But if he did that, he would lose his chance to drop the buildings on either side of the narrow street. He might be able to hold off Heram, but the rest of the Children would pour through that opening into the city unhindered and the slaughter would be terrible.
All this passed through his mind in an instant and then he turned and ran for the narrow street, drawing the axe as he went.
Tairus was on top of the wall when Rome gave the order to fall back. He started yelling at soldiers to get off the wall, shoving men toward the stairs.
Tairus looked down into the square just as Heram entered. A snarl of Children stood between Heram and the ranks of pikemen and he began slapping and kicking them aside. Fearfully, they fell back away from him until all that stood in his way were the pikemen. They were crouched, the butts of their weapons set on the ground, jammed in place with their feet.
Heram charged. A dozen points skewered him. Pikes flexed. A couple broke.
But the pikemen held. Somehow, unbelievably, they held.
Heram bellowed with rage and began slapping at the pikes, shattering a few more. He grabbed one and lifted the man holding it into the air, then threw him. He waded in deeper, snapping more of the weapons and killing two pikemen with his huge fists.
Then Shorn arrived, wielding the massive club.
“Let him through!” Shorn yelled. “Let him through!” Then he yelled something in his own language, directed at Heram. To Tairus it sounded like a challenge. Heram looked up from the pikemen, saw the foe that had humbled him the day before, and roared his response.
The pikemen opened their ranks and Heram roared through.
Immediately they closed their ranks once again, before any of the Children had a chance to make it through the gap.
Heram and Shorn closed on each other. Shorn swung first. Heram made no effort to dodge the blow, but simply let it strike him on his left side, then clamped his arm down over it, pinning the weapon to his side. Shorn let go of the club and punched Heram once, twice, in the body.
Heram smiled.
Heram swung a two-handed blow that Shorn dodged. Shorn hit him again, in the face this time, hard enough to rock Heram’s head back. But as he closed to hit Heram again, the big man lunged forward and got his hands on him. Muscles flexed and Shorn was drawn into a lethal bear hug.
Shorn managed to get his arms free before they were trapped and he began hammering Heram in the face and head, savage blows that could have shattered trees.
But Heram’s smile only grew wider and he pulled Shorn closer, his massive arms inexorably closing.
Shorn fought and twisted but even his great strength was no use against Heram.
Tairus hung there for a moment at the top of the stairs, watching, knowing the strange warrior was doomed. Rome swung the black axe against the building on the right side of the narrow street and a long crack ran up the side of it. If he didn’t leave now, he would be trapped here.
“Gorim’s balls,” he snarled. He turned and ran to the nearest ballista—fortunately it was loaded—and spun the heavy weapon clear around, sighting on the struggling forms of Shorn and Heram.
Shorn had driven his thumbs into Heram’s eyes, punching deep into his skull, but the huge man’s hold did not release. The smile was still on his face.
Tairus sighted along the shaft of the bolt. The angle was bad. He’d never been any good with these things the few times he’d practiced with them. He’d be lucky not to kill Shorn.
He squeezed the trigger.
The weapon recoiled as the bolt released.
The bolt took Heram in the back, staggering him. Shorn took advantage of the opportunity and twisted free.
Tairus didn’t wait to see anymore. He’d done what he could. He ran down the stairs.
The rendspear was like the flicking tongue of a serpent, stabbing Reyna over and over. Each wound he dealt her closed within moments, but he could see that they hurt her and where each one had been there remained a thin, purple scar, evidence that the wounds were not healing completely. As powerful as she was, the Pente Akka was still poison to her.
Reyna spat her rage and swung at Quyloc over and over again with claws as long as daggers, but each time he danced away, spinning, moving, striking again and again. Her speed was breathtaking. There was no way he could match it. Had he been simply responding to her actions, he would have been dead already. But he had been here before. He had fought the hunter. The way to survive was to react before she acted. His mind instantly registered details too small for conscious awareness, and in the same instant his body responded. Before she launched each blow, he could see how her weight shifted minutely and he was already leaving the area and counter attacking. He was only dimly aware of his body. It was almost as though it belonged to someone else. Strength and speed he didn’t know was his flowed through his limbs.
Even as he fought a battle with absolutely no margin for error, he could not help but marvel at what he did. Though the ground was littered with broken stone and the bodies of the dead and dying, not once did his footing falter. He sensed the low wall surrounding the statue at his back and jumped back and up, clearing it. She swung at him again and he dodged the blow. She hit the statue instead, shattering the stone like rotten ice.
Always as he retreated he made sure to stay close to Reyna, stabbing her over and over again. He wanted her to stay focused on him. He needed her to be so angry she couldn’t think. Most importantly, he needed her to be so angry that she attacked him physically, rather than with the draining attack. Just the brief touch of the first one she’d thrown at him had been enough to nearly paralyze him. He wasn’t sure if he would be as lucky the next time.
Step by step he drew her in an arc away from the narrow street. He needed to give the others time to retreat. He needed to get her far enough from the narrow street so that when he made his break for it she would not be able to stop him. It had to be timed perfectly. If he broke too soon, she would escape the square. Too late, and he would be trapped here to die.
Though he did not once turn and look, because of the heightened awareness granted him by his contact with the spear, he knew Rome’s exact progression. He felt Rome pause at the bottom of the stairs when he wanted to attack Heram, felt him make his decision and run for the exit. He felt the tension build in Rome’s arms and shoulders as he drew the axe back to strike at the base of one of the buildings.
All at once he knew it was time—the buildings were seconds from collapsing—and he made his move. Reyna slashed at him and he slid to the side, letting her clawed hand hiss harmlessly past his shoulder. Then he stabbed her quickly in the arm pit, leaning into it, just enough to nudge her off balance so she staggered a bit.
In that brief opening, he slid behind her. Swinging with both hands, he slashed the spear blade across her hamstring, down near her ankle. The tendon split and she went down. Then he ran for the exit.
As carefully as he had planned and executed it, still it wasn’t enough. Even as she hit the ground, Reyna healed and bounced back to her feet with lethal speed. He could feel her behind him, too close. The narrow street was just ahead, but it might as well have been miles away. Every detail of the scene imprinted itself on his mind. A line of soldiers was running down the narrow street. Heram was roaring. Rome was swinging the axe at the building on the left. The one on the right was already trembling, spider webbed with cracks.
But she was too close. And she’d started thinking again. He felt her raise her hand, felt her preparing the draining attack.
Twenty-six
Netra ran toward the city gates. She’d put up w
ith Ricarn’s questions as long as she could, but when she felt the barrier start to waver she couldn’t take it anymore and took off. If the city fell now it wouldn’t matter what the Lementh’kal meant about her being the doorway. Nothing would matter anymore.
She ran down the cobblestoned streets, driven by the ever-increasing knowledge that the battle was fast swinging against them. Her heart went cold when the barrier finally fell. She wasn’t going to be in time. As she got closer her passage was slowed by citizens and soldiers fleeing the square and she shoved her way through them heedlessly.
But when she got to the entrance to the narrow street a soldier grabbed her and stopped her. “You can’t go in there!” he shouted. She tried to twist free of him, but then she saw Rome swinging the axe, saw the buildings on either side of the street shaking.
She was too late.
Tairus was running across the square when Quyloc made his break. He knew it was coming, knew Quyloc was leading Reyna away to give the rest time to flee. He saw Quyloc duck under Reyna’s attack, hamstring her and take off running. The buildings flanking the narrow street were trembling. He cursed his short legs. He was too far away. He wasn’t going to make it through there before the buildings fell.
Then he saw Reyna slow and raise her hand and knew what she was about to do.
He stopped and pulled his axe from its sheath. Could he get lucky twice in one day?
He threw it at Reyna’s back as hard as he could.
There was no way this would work. The axe was completely, perfectly not designed for throwing.
It hit Reyna in the back and stuck.
With a scream of rage, she reached back and pulled it out. She turned toward him, her eyes brightly lit with her hatred, and he knew he was going to die then.
But then she threw the axe down, turned and ran after Quyloc again.
Quyloc made it into the narrow street just as the building on the right teetered and began to fall. Around him ran other soldiers. At the other end of the narrow street was Rome, waving him forward, shouting something he couldn’t hear.
He felt Reyna enter the narrow street behind him. Chunks of stone fell in a rain around him. A soldier just ahead was struck on the head by one and went down. There was nothing Quyloc could do for him. Nothing he could do for any of them or for those still fighting in the square.
The wall to his right buckled suddenly and it was only his preternatural awareness that allowed him to sense it coming and leap away at just the right moment. Two soldiers near him weren’t as lucky and went down with cries. Reyna was slowed as a falling stone hit her on the shoulder.
He was just reaching the end when both buildings finally surrendered completely to gravity.
They collapsed with a roar. Reyna was buried under a mountain of shattered stone.
Tairus watched the buildings fall, burying Reyna, and he pumped his fist, shouting exultantly.
About two seconds later the reality of his situation hit him and he turned around. The pikemen were still holding the Children at bay, but there were only about half of them left. He saw a few glance over their shoulders at the fallen buildings and knew what was going through their minds.
There was no point in fighting any further. They’d done what they set out to do and now it was all over except for the dying.
He turned the other way and saw Shorn. He’d recovered his club and was savagely pummeling Heram with it. Blinded as he was, Heram couldn’t defend himself. His head looked misshapen from the beating and one arm was badly broken.
“Hey!” Tairus yelled. He pointed at the faltering pikemen. “It’s time to go!”
Shorn took in the situation at a glance and he nodded. He took off running for the gateway passage and Tairus did as well. As he ran, he shouted to the pikemen to open a lane. They parted right as Shorn got to them, a narrow passage opening between them.
Shorn passed through their ranks and fell on the Children like an avalanche. He swung the huge club in great, scything swings, knocking the Children flying.
“Follow him!” Tairus yelled and he and the remaining pikemen charged through in the big warrior’s wake, through the shattered gates and out to freedom.
Twenty-seven
Shakre looked up at the gaunt figure of Gulagh standing on top of Wreckers Gate and her heart went cold inside her. It was tall, almost twice the height of a person, but excruciatingly thin. Its skin was the black of a plague victim. Its eyes were empty holes rimmed in red; nothing human looked out from in there. Open sores covered much of its body, dripping viscous, yellow fluid. It was disease and famine brought to life.
She turned to Elihu and received a shock. There was no revulsion, no fear on his face. Instead, his eyes were shining and he was smiling. She looked at the other Takare and saw the same expressions everywhere. A few were holding their hands up, as if to embrace the figure that looked down on them. Suddenly distrustful of her own senses, Shakre looked back at the Guardian and experienced a moment of extreme disorientation. For just a second she saw a beautiful, shining figure of white and gold. Then the moment passed and again there was the black, diseased thing looking down at them. She grabbed Elihu’s arm and shook him until he turned his face toward her.
“What is it?” he asked, his smile faltering. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you see?” she asked him.
Elihu looked back at the figure. “What do you mean?”
“What do you see?”
“You’re not making any sense. I see the same thing you do. He’s beautiful. He’s shining, all white and gold. He’s here to welcome us home. We should have come sooner.”
“That’s not what I see at all. I see a black, diseased thing.”
Elihu gave her a curious look. “Perhaps you are confused then.” He turned his face upwards once again.
“No.” Shakre shook her head. “Something is happening and for some reason it’s not affecting me.”
Without looking away from the Guardian, Elihu squeezed her hand. “You are troubled and afraid. We all are. We have been running for a long time. But it is okay now. We are home and we are safe.”
“No, we’re not,” Shakre said fiercely. “You have to believe me. You have to trust me on this.”
“I do trust you,” Elihu replied, still not looking at her. “But I don’t want to talk right now.”
Shakre looked around, hoping for an ally. Youlin and Rehobim were standing in a group nearby and she ran over to them, shoving people aside in her desperation. There were some irritated mutters at her passing, but no one really reacted. They were too busy staring up in awe.
She made it to Youlin’s side. The young Pastwalker had her hood back and was staring up with the same glassy look in her eyes as everyone else.
“Pastwalker!” Shakre hissed. “Youlin!” When Youlin didn’t respond she stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and shook her by the shoulders.
It took a moment, but then Youlin’s vision cleared somewhat and she focused on Shakre. “What is it, Windrider?” she snapped.
“It’s a trick. Whatever you’re seeing up there on top of the wall, it’s not real.”
“Move aside,” Youlin said. “I am not so easily fooled.” She tried to pull Shakre’s hands off her, but Shakre held on.
“You have to listen to me,” Shakre said desperately. “Something is about to happen. Our people are in terrible danger.”
She was suddenly shoved hard from the side and fell to the ground. She looked up to see Rehobim standing over her, his face twisted with anger. “You will not touch the Pastwalker!” he yelled. His hands were balled into fists. Two of the Takare flanking him drew knives from their belts.
Shakre stood slowly, her hands out, placating. She could be dead in seconds. “I’m sorry, Rehobim,” she said. “I was wrong.”
Her words satisfied the other two Takare. They turned their gazes back to the figure on the wall. Rehobim glared at her for a moment longer, then turned his face up as well.
Inside were hundreds of people, all dressed in white robes and holding up garlands of flowers. With welcoming smiles on their faces they beckoned the Takare in.
Shakre blinked and the white robes were replaced by dirty, gray rags. The garlands of flowers were no more than dead weeds. Everyone was emaciated; many had running sores or strange growths. Their smiles were grimaces of horror.
“Enter,” Gulagh said.
When the Takare hesitated, Gulagh opened its mouth and began to sing. The song had an immediate effect on the Takare. The few frowns of suspicion there were faded and were replaced with smiles of joy. Gulagh sang a wordless melody that spoke of home and sunshine and warmth. Even Shakre was not immune to it. It was as if a hard shell around her heart cracked and she could breathe.
Shakre had another moment of disorientation. The blackness that was Gulagh shimmered and faded, replaced once again by the shining, beautiful figure. The song seemed to wrap around her heart and she felt tears in her eyes. She was so tired of running and fighting. It was all she had ever done. Here was her chance to finally set all her burdens down. Why did she always resist everything?
Slowly the Takare began to move forward. Some of them laughed. Even Pinlir, the dour man who had lived only for revenge since the outsiders killed his father, had a smile creasing his lined face. They began throwing their weapons down. Shakre found herself moving with them. It really was so much easier to give in.
Golden flakes, glittering like bits of sun, appeared then, carried on Gulagh’s song, pouring out of the Guardian’s mouth in a cloud. The flakes swirled around and were carried out over the Takare in a cloud that began to drift earthward.
Oblivion's Grasp Page 17