Whistling as he watched—the dragon’s back was as high as the walls—Sunbright hoped the beast would merely take his quarrel to the One King and leave the city unharmed. He hated to think he might be responsible for the deaths of dozens if—
That hope evaporated along with a score of sheep and goats. As Wrathburn passed the pens, he snuffled and blew a firestorm of flame that slaughtered the livestock. Charred, smoking lumps were all that remained, except for an occasional bleating goat, its skin scorched half away. Even the battered corral stakes burned. The barbarian didn’t know if Wrathburn was simply being destructive in a mean-spirited way, or if he cooked the animals to eat later. Either way, it seemed Tinnainen was going to pay for harboring the One King, occupied willingly or not. A wail of terror from the folk along the city wall echoed the thought.
But Sunbright had his own worries, his own tasks. Drawing Harvester, he trotted wide behind the dragon to keep out of the beast’s line of vision. He had women to rescue, and scores to settle.
There were only three guards at the gates now, two orcs and a human. Trembling, they lifted their pikes as the dragon approached and called, “Halt in the name of the One—”
Wrathburn wheezed, and flames shot from his nostrils. The stone gateposts blackened, the wooden doors ignited, even the granite threshold blistered. The guards shriveled to charred twists dotted with molten metal. Screams sounded inside the gates as people’s clothing and the thatch on houses ignited. Terror had come to Tinnainen.
Wrathburn ducked to peer through the gates, his head as high as the stone lintel painted with a red splayed hand. Inserting his snout, the beast lifted. With a groan of grinding stone, the lintel pulled loose of the supporting gateposts. The small flanking towers crumpled like sugar cones. Blocks as big as bushel baskets bounced off the dragon’s scaly head, but except for blinking, Wrathburn didn’t seem to notice. Growling, the dragon jerked his nose clear, and the whole gate structure collapsed onto the smoldering mess that remained of the One King’s guards. More screams sounded within, but they were fading as the people fled out the city’s smaller gates.
Sunbright had to get into the city, and his chance came as Wrathburn slowly turned and paced along the city wall. The dragon arched a neck armored with red scales and peered over the barrier, sending more blocks cascading into the muddled streets. At one point he huffed and puffed a jet of flame that billowed high. Obviously someone had offered resistance, or perhaps simply a tempting target.
Sunbright skipped nimbly over the rubble and wreckage of the main gates. At one point his hobnails skidded down a blood-slick surface. The stumble saved his life, for just before him crashed a huge stone block that could have snuffed him like a candle. With a hasty glance upward, he dashed through the crumbling walls into the city proper.
Chaos, not the One King, reigned. Townsfolk were largely gone, having fled to leave the fighting to the soldiers, but here and there ran fat traders who’d rescued their strongboxes and fathers who dragged children. A scorched dog ran between Sunbright’s feet, howling. A dozen thatched roofs burned, flinging flaming tendrils of straw and reeds into the sky and swirling into the street. Blocks from the city wall had smashed in roofs, crushed a well, sent market stalls tumbling like dominoes. Like rats spilled from an upset grain sack, looters yanked stalls apart to grab unguarded goods. One thief slashed a knife at a merchant shielding his wife, demanding the man’s purse. Loping past, Sunbright kissed the thief across the back of one knee with Harvester’s keen blade. Hamstrung, the would-be robber collapsed. “Run for the hills!” yelled the barbarian over his shoulder as he sped on.
The king’s palace was a madhouse. Three stories tall and flat-roofed, it was one story higher than the city wall, and this third story was reinforced along that side with ramparts and stations for ballistae and catapults. An orcish general waved his arms and shouted frantically for soldiers to arm a ballista, a giant crossbow. The oncoming Wrathburn watched the activity with bored detachment, as a boy might study ants. At a shout, the ballista’s restrainer was cut. A tremendous pung-clack resounded, and an arrow nine feet long slashed the air, glanced off Wrathburn’s shoulder, and plunged half its length into stony soil.
Hissing, the dragon reared upright like a bear, planted giant talons on the ramparts of the third story, scattering the defenders like teacups, and blasted hellfire in one sweep across the roof.
Sunbright watched all this while peering around the corner of a house that was still standing, for he didn’t want Wrathburn to glimpse him. There wasn’t even a scream or whimper from the palace roof. If that had been the king’s main defense, the battle was over. People and soldiers raced and shoved their way out of the wide doors of the palace, and Sunbright had to wait until the flood stemmed. Sword cocked over his shoulder, the barbarian slipped inside.
Compared to the chaotic streets, the interior of the castle was quiet, most of the defenders on the roof dead. Someone must have left a trapdoor open, for the stink of scorched death wafted down the stairs as Sunbright ran up.
The second floor held the main hall and throne room. As always, the One King occupied the throne. Sunbright wondered if it would be burned from under him. The king calmly addressed a tiny knot of sweating courtiers and orc commanders. Behind the throne, Sunbright glimpsed the rainbow shimmer of a familiar gown.
On his left hand, Sunbright heard a rustling of papers from a clerks’ alcove, where Angriman gathered paper and parchment to his bosom as if they’d form a shield against an angry dragon. Sunbright padded into the room as silent as a leopard, yet the minister whirled. Gray-faced and pouchy, he demanded, “What have you done? What have you done?”
“Brought you something,” said the barbarian evenly. Reaching behind his back, he snapped the rawhide whangs that tied a bundle to his scabbard. Onto the table he tossed a thick book crammed with lumpy vellum pages. It landed with a thump. The ancient, cracked cover sported a ruby as big and evil as a dragon’s eye. He added, “Though it’s more of a trade, really. Wrathburn wants the king’s crown—with his head mounted inside.”
The angry man shook all over, spilling papers. “You weren’t to bring the dragon here!”
“The king commanded I enter the dragon’s lair and retrieve the book. So I have. So I shall take Greenwillow and go.” And Ruellana, he added mentally. “Now stand aside or die.”
“You’ll destroy the dream! You’ll leave the world to wallow in chaos and disharmony!”
This was blather taken from the king’s speech, and could go on for days. Unwilling to kill an unarmed man, Sunbright edged the minister aside with his sword and strode toward the throne. Courtiers and soldiers parted, some hurrying to the door. Ruellana was not in sight, but Greenwillow rose from her bench, golden shackles still chained to it, and smiled when she saw him. The barbarian nodded formally, both a greeting and a command to wait.
The One King also rose and, for the first time, departed his throne to step onto the flagstones and block the barbarian’s path. He was taller than Sunbright had reckoned, especially with his heavy, gaudy crown with backswept wings of silver.
The barbarian held his sword by the pommel and blade. “I fetched your book; now free Greenwillow.” And be quick, he thought. Grinding, tearing, stone-rending noises were increasing by the second. The dragon was ripping through the castle as if it were a stale cake, and this was his destination.
Calm as a pillar of ice, the monarch proclaimed, “None may command the One King. Your offense must be punished.”
“A real king honors his bargains,” spat Sunbright. “Defend yourself!”
The king stood still, hands by his side.
Sunbright didn’t know what to think. He hated to kill an unarmed man, but the king had access to any number of weapons in the hands of the nearby courtiers who watched the contest of wills. And Sunbright had given more than fair warning, been overly generous with this oath-breaking snake.
Rearing back, slinging his sword behind him, Sunbright sucked
wind, gave a mighty battle cry, and slashed Harvester in a great, glittering arc at the king’s neck.
The sharp sword with the arched and hooked tip slammed to a halt against the king’s cheek and bounced off, as if Sunbright had hacked at an ironwood tree.
Hurled off balance by the force of his blow, the barbarian staggered, shuffled his feet, and brought Harvester up in automatic defense. Aghast, Sunbright prayed. What in the name of Mystryl’s mysteries …?
The One King had barely moved. No blood appeared at the long cut on his cheek. Instead, dark gray smoke flowed outward.
Courtiers gasped. Soldiers dropped swords.
In the dragged-out silence, with only the rending and booming of falling stone in the background, there came a slow, soft chuckle, as dry as last year’s dead leaves.
For the first time, the One King exhibited emotion. He was laughing. But not properly, head back and shaking, but with the same deadly calm as always. The mouth was like a black slit from which issued the slithering chuckles.
Then, more horror. The king reached strong, corded hands to his face, and dug thick fingernails into his eyebrows below the shining crown. Smoke swirled faster from the wound that was not a wound. People groaned involuntarily as the monarch tugged, then tore the skin from his own face.
Shreds of false skin hung limp from his hands like taffy. But no one noticed, for they stared, pop-eyed, at the smoke-wreathed face.
It was dark gray, shriveled like an old leaf, with wrinkled pits for eyes and mouth, and only slits for a nose … and a parchment-wrapped skull.
“Lich!” grunted an orc.
“Lord of the undead!” rasped another.
Fiend, monster, Sunbright’s mind reeled off the names. And master trickster and schemer, plying the patience of the dead to work its evil ways amid living men.
Gripped by terror, Sunbright backed involuntarily, his feet clumsy and heavy. Harvester’s tip dragged on black marble to strike sparks. There seemed to be only one thought in his mind, and that was to run, hard and fast.
Then all present turned as the rear wall of the castle broke and crumbled. Great blocks of stone crashed down into the hall or fell to clatter outside. Weak sunlight illuminated the room.
Then it was blocked completely by a scaly face and glaring yellow eyes. Smoke spilled from Wrathburn’s nostrils as he rumbled, “King! I want you!”
Chapter 12
Sunbright backed farther away from the lich king. Fearsome as it was, the threat of the dragon receded. The beast could only destroy his body. A lord of the undead could destroy him utterly, body and soul and being.
The lich that had been the One King seemed to revel in the humans’ terror. It raised healthy-looking hands above its hideous, rotted visage and shrilled a mad, screeching laugh. Smoke continued to dribble from the deep cut in the parchment skin of its cheek, but a single swipe of the man-hand sealed the wound.
This was nothing he could fight, Sunbright knew. There was no way to kill something undead. And a lich was the most powerful undead thing of all, it was rumored, an indomitable spirit wedded to an indestructible body, centuries or eons old, perhaps once a true and mighty sorcerer-king in the dim, distant past.
Whatever, attacking the lich would have the same result as attacking the dragon: a senseless and painful death, or worse. In the superstitious turmoil of the barbarian’s mind, he feared the lich might simply will him to death with sheer terror.
And the dragon was rumbling, hissing, the lich keening some weird cry or incantation like nails on a slate.
More of the walls collapsed until, looking up, Sunbright saw portions of the apartment he’d occupied above. Plaster and blocks fell like lethal rain. The courtiers and soldiers had finally had enough and raced for the far doors. Seeking only to free Greenwillow and flee, the barbarian bulled his way through them.
The elf threw out her chained hand, shouted something Sunbright couldn’t hear over the crash of masonry. Whatever it was, he thought, it would wait until he’d gotten her out.
A strap whisked past his nose, snugged around his throat, and tightened like steel. His wind was cut off, his lungs empty. At his ear, the minister Angriman hissed, “You’d destroy the dream, so I’ll destroy you!” He gave the thick leather belt around Sunbright’s throat a savage twist.
Backing, Sunbright lashed out with his elbow to ram the man’s gut, then stomped to crush the minister’s instep under a hobnailed heel. But dumpy, pouchy Angriman must have been a soldier at one time, a good one, and was still tough as oak. Dodging the wild swings, he jerked the barbarian backward until he crashed into the side of the ebony throne. By the time Sunbright thought to stab overhead with his sword, the minister had ducked behind the massive structure. He could strangle his victim without being stabbed.
Sunbright would be out of the fight in a moment anyway, for his vision was blackening like storm clouds. He flailed and kicked, but only managed to shoot a foot from under himself. He fell, hung by the throat. He had his sword but precious little good it would do him. His last image was of Greenwillow, thirty feet away, hopping up and down and making a chopping motion. His eyes must be deceiving him.
How humiliating, to survive a dragon and a lich, only to be killed by a crazed clerk.
Then he got it.
He tried to suck a deep breath and got nothing, gave up, arched his back, aimed as best he could through the red, swirling air, and flung Harvester hard.
Spinning like a birch leaf in autumn, the heavy sword sliced the air and thudded point-first into the heavy oak bench to which Greenwillow was chained. He’d hoped to get the weapon close enough for her to sever the chain’s links, but his aim was better than he imagined. Harvester’s heavy nose slammed through the links as if they were paper, and Greenwillow was free.
That was all Sunbright saw as the world flooded red and black. Maybe the dragon had finally coughed and blistered him into another world.…
Dimly he heard an elven shriek, and the pressure on his throat disappeared. Gagging, he sank onto the floor, found it wet with blood not his own. Immediately a cool hand was tugging him back up. Through a roar like the ocean he heard Greenwillow shout his name. Lumbering to his feet, he draped an arm around her shoulder. He croaked, “Harvest—”
“I’ve got it!” She hauled him along bodily while her severed chains clanked and his boots dragged. Slowly vision returned, and he could see to walk.
Or run. Greenwillow dashed to the wall the dragon had almost leveled. Sunbright could have reached out and touched the creature’s smoking nostrils. Wrathburn rumbled at the lich in a guttural language while the lich shrilled and waggled its arms like a skeleton outraged at being dead. They were arguing, but about what? Possession of the crown? Was that why Wrathburn had, so far, withheld his wrath and burn?
Possibly, for as the two staggered for the far doors, the dragon stopped arguing, snuffled, and filled the room with fire. Smoke and flame exploded around them, and Sunbright threw the unprotected Greenwillow, who wore only a thin silk dress, ahead of him, then landed on her. Over his shoulder he glimpsed the lich, reduced to a true skeleton that slowly collapsed. Angriman, wounded in the head by Greenwillow, was reaching for his master and his dream when his skin turned black and ignited. Then burning paint, wood, cloth, plaster, and everything else in the room gave off such smoke it blew clouds out every exit.
Retching, crawling, Sunbright collected Greenwillow in one arm and clutched her to his chest, while she dragged Harvester between his legs. Together they half fell down the stairs, then tumbled outside as hot smoke gushed all around them.
Shielding his eyes, Sunbright looked up at the palace. It was completely engulfed in flames. Fire licked through the windows and flared through the roof. Pressed flat by the leaden sky, smoke roiled from above and spilled out holes to writhe, like giant snakes, in the streets.
Sunbright ran down the side of the palace, along the front and down another side. Greenwillow had hiked her skirts to show long legs
flashing as she pelted with him. Her chains jingled. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“Ruellana! She might still be inside!” Heat and flame drove him back from the small door they’d entered upon first reaching the city. “She must be on the third floor!”
“There is no more third floor!” hollered the elf. “Stop trying to be a martyr! She would have gotten out early; she knows to take care of herself first!”
Even in fire and battle, he thought, Greenwillow found time to be catty. But she must be right. No one would stay in a castle while a dragon was peeling off the roof. The two trotted back to the street where a crowd stood well back and watched the palace burn.
Sunbright stared, squinting. “That’s the end of the One King, I’d say.”
“True.” Greenwillow rubbed a smudge on her nose, chains clinking at her wrists. “If he walks out of there, maybe he deserves to take over the world.”
“No, he’s gone,” said a woman’s voice behind them. “Imagine being so taken in by his mad dreams. We must have been mesmerized.”
The pair spun about to find Ruellana standing behind them. Her bright red hair was raked straight and streaked with soot, and stripes marked her throat. She wore a queer costume: a red leather vest and silk shirt, red-striped trousers with flop-top boots, and a white baldric with a basket-hilt sword. It looked like a dancing girl’s idea of traveling togs, or perhaps the costume of an actor playing pirate. She held up a bundle of dark green, black straps, and an ornate sword: Greenwillow’s clothes and tackle.
Sword Play Page 17