The wizard’s staff flared brighter the closer Tygra got.
Without looking at the wizard, Tygra passed her within touching distance and stepped out onto the broken span, warily testing what remained of the bridge as he went. He stopped near the jagged edge and knelt on one knee to tie an end of the rope around the sword’s hilt and cross-guard.
Even with leather gloves on, Tygra carefully gripped the sword’s blade in one hand and the hilt in his other. Without a word, he indicated with a nod of his head to the man called Silurian, asking him if he was ready.
The greasy-haired man on the far side of the gap nodded, adjusting his stance.
Tygra swung the sword back and forth twice and then launched it over the abyss.
Silurian reached out and caught the weapon’s hilt, struggling to hang onto it as the sword’s tip clanged off the broken face of the bridge at his feet.
A fetid odour wafted into the cavern heights, borne on a discernable breeze.
Everyone wrinkled their noses and cast their eyes on the dead serpent at the pillar’s base. As one, they all took in a heavy breath. A swirl of brackish water washed across the cavern floor. The tide was coming in—heralded by a distant screech that reverberated down the tunnel.
Abomination
Pollard never shied away from anything. Standing over eight feet tall, he rarely had reason to. As fierce as he was in his own right, he had the sense to recognise that the creature shaking the solid stone platform beneath its feet was going to be difficult to take down on his own, if not impossible. Judging by how the rest of those assembled gave the Sentinel a wide berth, he really didn’t have a choice. The massive battle-axe in his hands gave him little solace.
He had lost track of his companions in the pandemonium. King Malcolm was quite obviously dead. Yarstaff lay somewhere behind the beast, unmoving. A quick glance confirmed that Pik, the captain of the king’s guard, lay motionless against the wall. Pantyr Korn lay broken in a puddle of blood near the edge of the stage. Of Rook, there was no sign.
Had the Gritian militiamen possessed extreme courage, they had a chance to attack him from behind and he would’ve been powerless to do anything about it. The presence of the Sentinel, however, threw their bravado to the winds. No one in the hall wished to risk an encounter with the beast.
The Sentinel’s elongated face parted, revealing a mouth lined by jagged, meat-rending teeth. Towering four feet higher than Pollard, the dark-skinned beast lunged, raking the air in front of Pollard with a mighty swipe of its talons.
Pollard sidestepped out of harm’s way, banging his shoulder off the second-tier wall. Movement from down the aisle caught his attention. Sadyra! And Olmar! Where had they come from?
Olmar lumbered past Sadyra brandishing a sword at the confused guardsmen milling about the base of the steps. Where was his black hammer? As big as Olmar was, he looked to be wielding a child’s toy.
A guardsman dropped in the aisle, a crossbow quarrel protruding from his face. Sadyra dropped to a knee, hurriedly inserting another bolt into her weapon.
Pollard fleetingly wondered where she had come by a crossbow. And where was Alhena? All these things went through Pollard’s mind in an instant—his inner calm surfacing in the face of imminent death.
With a mighty roar, he swallowed his hesitancy, hefted his axe, and swung with everything he had at the Sentinel.
Bracing himself for impact, he staggered forward and sideways under the momentum of his swing. Surely the axe should’ve bitten into the abdomen of the beast, but the creature no longer stood before him. So great was his swing that he lost his grip on the weapon and it flew into the audience benches, shattering two different rows before clanging to the Chamber floor out of sight.
A movement out of the corner of his eye had Pollard diving to the stage floor and rolling away, the act saving his life as the Sentinel rematerialized on his left side and swiped its great paws at his head.
The beast bellowed its displeasure. Its head perked up, ignoring Pollard, red-slit eyes focusing on the new threat bounding up the central aisle. Two quick, stage vibrating steps saw the Sentinel at the top of the stairs.
The militiamen milling about below stumbled and fell in the rows of benches in their haste to get out of its way.
“Olmar! Sadie! Run!” Pollard shouted, desperation cracking his voice. He scrambled after the creature, unsure how he was going to be able to dispatch it without a weapon, but those were his friends down there. People he had fought amongst and nearly died with. He wasn’t about to let them be killed.
In one fluid motion, the beast landed in the aisleway beyond the cowering guardsmen.
Pollard shuffled along the stage, his feet restricted by the shackles binding them. There was no way he could reach the creature in time, but his anxiety lessened as Olmar stopped and turned around.
High Bishop Abraham Uzziah’s voice rose above the calamity, urging his men to give the beast chase and bring it down. The guardsmen looked questioningly to the stage, their eyes full of fear, but the high bishop berated their cowardice, promising certain death to anyone refusing to comply. A group of reluctant militiamen filtered out from between the benches, half-heartedly giving chase.
Pollard descended the steps in two hops and raced after them as fast as his fettered feet permitted. Up ahead he watched dumbfounded as the Sentinel, running down one side of the aisle, suddenly disappeared, only to reappear on the aisle’s far side.
Olmar’s distinctive voice echoed around the massive cavern. “Run!”
The group of pursuing guardsmen directly ahead of Pollard came to a sudden stop. Pollard hammered into the back of the closest man and chucked him into the bench beside them. He had no time for them—the Sentinel chased Sadie.
Those closest to him turned in shock and fell back, brandishing their weapons.
A bright flash lit up the exit. A fireball sizzled over Olmar’s head, bearing down on the Sentinel, but the creature no longer stood in the missile’s path. Pollard felt the heat arc past him, the fireball exploding against the lower stage. A wizard?
Pollard put his hands up as the guards forced him backward. The closest man swiped a sword at him, its tip missing his stomach by a whisker. They weren’t looking to make him their prisoner.
Sadyra and Olmar needed him, but he failed to see a way past the guards. The stage loomed up behind him. Once there, he’d have to fight several seasoned militiamen armed with swords and polearms—remounting the steps fast enough to avoid them was not an option with his ankles bound.
Two guards bearing halberds split off the group, moving to either side of the aisle, flanking him to prevent him from slipping away between the benches.
He reached the bottom of the stairs faster than he thought, the bottom step catching his heel and tripping him. He fell hard onto his backside. He stood again, hands out before him, his gaze darting from one man to another, wondering who would attack first.
“Pollard!” Rook’s voice called out to him. The bowman stood amongst the first few rows of busted benches, the wooden seat rests around him nothing but shattered boards. Rook bent down and hefted a great battle-axe in his hands. The weight of the weapon strained Rook’s features as he lumbered awkwardly forward and heaved the axe into the air.
The guard flanking Pollard on that side dipped back to avoid being hit.
Pollard caught the axe handle in both hands. Before the guards had time to react, he snapped his feet wide against the corner of the stone step and chopped at the chain. Sparks flew as the heavy weapon bit through the rusted chain link and dug a chip out of the rock.
Bringing the mighty weapon back in front of him, eyes wild, Pollard thundered his outrage.
The flanking guard on the opposite side chopped his unwieldy halberd at Pollard’s head.
Pollard flung out a hand, grabbing the halberd below its cutting edge and shoved it against the stage—his other hand drove the central haft of the axe head under the man’s chin with such force that
the guard crashed in a heap between the first two rows of benches.
Without missing a beat, he swung the battle-axe at the militiamen, intercepting two swords that dove in toward his exposed side. The guards bearing pikes stepped backward to jab at him.
The guard who had ducked away from the axe when Rook threw it also backed off to give himself room to swing the nasty blade atop his halberd. Pollard didn’t have time to deal with him as the men in the aisle attacked.
From the corner of his eye, the man with the halberd suddenly stood up straight, gasping. A sword tip ripped through the front of his green tunic—Rook clenched the man’s shoulder with one hand and drove a pilfered Gritian sword through his back.
That was all the advantage Pollard needed. As the four remaining guards were momentarily distracted by their colleague’s demise, he spun in an increasing circle, the axe head splitting polearms and bone alike. Both lancers dropped to the ground in a futile effort to keep their entrails from spilling onto the floor.
The two swordsmen stepped back, wanting nothing more to do with him. As one, they turned and ran.
A deafening roar escaped the Sentinel. The creature had almost reached the Chamber exit, but it stopped and staggered backward, a shower of flames visible around it. As much as Pollard detested wizards, he appreciated the usefulness of one right now. He couldn’t fathom where a wizard had come from, but he was grateful the magic user seemed to be on his side.
Rook struggled close by, pulling his sword free of the man’s ribs. As the blade scraped free, the bowman stepped over the dead guard and together they ran down the aisle.
The guardsmen pursuing the Sentinel scattered into the bench aisles, avoiding the thrashing beast as it swatted at the flames clinging to its chest. Judging by its feral growl, it wasn’t used to getting hit.
Abraham’s voice resounded throughout the cavern, ordering his men to take down the beast.
Two of the braver guards ran up behind it, but the Sentinel spun on them, its foreclaws raking the nearest man’s face from his skull. The second guard drove a barbed halberd at its midsection—shock written on his face as the polearm sliced into thin air.
The Sentinel reappeared behind him, wrapped a set of talons around his neck, and tore his throat out.
The exit tunnel lit up again. A sizzling ball of fire ripped into the Chamber.
The Sentinel winked out.
A crossbow bolt whistled past Pollard’s head. He ducked after the fact, watching as the errant fireball detonated against the head of an unfortunate guardsman who had stepped into the aisle to take a swipe at the beast’s back.
The Sentinel reappeared just to the side of where it had vanished. It rushed the shattered doorway, stooping low to get at…Alhena?
Pollard blinked several times. Standing in the Sentinel’s path, Alhena raised his walking stick, the dark wood surrounded in a yellowish-brown hue. Beside him on one knee, Larina concentrated on loading a crossbow upon her thigh. Olmar stood behind Alhena while Sadyra took up a position on the opposite side of the doorway to Larina, her crossbow levelled at the beast.
Alhena’s staff pulsed. A ball of flames writhed quickly along its length, coalescing at its tip. The old man’s lips parted, but Pollard couldn’t hear his voice over the guttural roar of the beast as it reached out and grabbed Alhena’s staff.
Knocked askew, Alhena’s staff discharged the fireball, delivering a glancing blow off the side of the beast’s head. Two quarrels buried themselves in the creature’s ribs, knocking it backward.
Olmar’s panicked voice rose above the din, “Pops!”
The Sentinel roared louder than the sailor. It hoisted the offending wizard into the air and opened its fanged maw to snap at Alhena’s head.
Alhena’s staff discharged a smaller blast that flew harmlessly into the air.
Biting hard into its skull, Pollard brought his battle-axe down with every bit of strength he possessed, cleaving the Sentinel from crown to hip before the axe head came to a shuddering stop. The Sentinel collapsed to the ground in a gory heap, its weight too much for Pollard to bear. He dropped to his knees and worked at extricating Alhena from its clutches.
Alhena’s blank, white eyes were open, but Pollard couldn’t tell where the old man was looking, if he was looking at all.
“Pollard Banebridge. Am I glad to see you,” Alhena said through a stifled cough.
Pollard sensed Alhena was in considerable pain, but with so many damned robes, he couldn’t tell if the Sentinel had done him any real damage to him or not.
Abraham’s voice screamed from the stage, “Seize them! Don’t let them escape!”
Rook stepped up to Pollard, his sword daring any of the encroaching militiamen to do as the high bishop commanded. “I hate to break up your reunion, but we have bigger issues to deal with,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
The guardsmen outnumbered Rook and Pollard ten to one. The death of the Sentinel had bolstered their courage. They came together and surrounded Rook, Pollard and Alhena.
Pollard ignored them. He lifted Alhena to his feet. “Can you stand?”
Alhena swayed, leaning on his staff for support. “Aye, I will be fine, but first…” His staff flared to life as his white eyes observed the militia closing in on them. “I suggest you back off, good men of Gritian. I do not wish to harm you.”
Olmar’s voice thundered into the cavern.
Alhena smiled and stepped aside, as the crazed mountain of a man charged into the Chamber. “But I cannot speak for him.”
Sadyra and Larina entered behind Olmar with their crossbows loaded.
Pollard wriggled the battle-axe free of the Sentinel’s corpse and slapped the handle in his palm, rising to his full height. He spun around to face the guardsmen.
Two dozen militiamen split up and dove amongst the empty audience benches to avoid the wrath of the two largest men in the cavern.
The guards’ reaction turned High Bishop Uzziah’s face purple with rage. Standing at the top of the steps he shook his fist. “Seize them, damn it, or I’ll see you all in the dungeons!”
A couple of men shuffled uncertainly but kept their distance.
“Uzziah is mine.” Pollard strode toward the platform where Abraham breathed harsh, angry gasps—his white beard streaked with spittle.
In Pollard’s eyes, Abraham was ultimately responsible for the king’s murder, and quite possibly, Yarstaff’s as well. The Voil lay unmoving on the stage beside the dead monarch. Pollard growled. “Prepare to die!”
Olmar, Sadyra and Larina followed. The guards stumbled farther back into the benches, giving them a wide berth.
The high bishop’s eyes widened at Pollard’s approach. He reached into his robes and produced a ceremonial dagger—a religious symbol, more ornate than practical—and held it out before him.
Pollard threw the battle-axe away. The weapon crashed noisily to the aisle below. He reached out and clasped the bishop’s wrist, twisting his arm until he dropped the knife. He wrapped his other hand around Abraham’s throat and hoisted him into the air, bringing the cleric’s face a whisker away from his own.
“Yarstaff had better be alive or I’ll crush you.” Pollard thrust the high bishop away.
Abraham stumbled backward holding his throat. He fell over a dead guard.
Rook mounted the steps and rushed to Captain Pik. Examining the captain, he shook his head. Pik was dead.
Pollard snarled and strode across the stage, stopping momentarily beside Pantyr Korn’s lifeless body. He cast another glare at Abraham who had gotten back to his feet.
Rook’s voice sounded behind Pollard. “Uzziah, order your men to clean this place up. Attend to the injured and get the dead out of here.”
Pollard passed Jibrael’s corpse as he approached his little friend. His breath caught in his throat. Poor Yarstaff hadn’t deserved this. According to Wendglow, Yarstaff had lived for over four centuries in a state of living hell, serving his masters and saving countless live
s from the Soul Forge. The misshapen creature had finally been given the chance to enjoy life under a sky complete with a sun, moon and stars, but the only thing he had experienced since stepping on Zephyr soil was animosity and prejudice. Many in society correlated his race’s appearance with the devastation wreaked upon Zephyr. Pollard’s blood boiled.
Dropping to his knees, he found it difficult to ascertain whether Yarstaff still drew breath. His vision blurred with tears. Beside Yarstaff, King Malcolm’s mutilated body and blank stare confirmed the monarch’s fate.
“Clean up this mess.” Abraham directed his men, no compassion evident in his voice.
Pollard snapped. Jumping to his feet he located the first discarded weapon he could find. Hoisting a pointed polearm into the air before him, he strode toward the bishop.
“Pollard, no!” Alhena called after him.
Abraham gaped at the lance’s advancing tip. He put his hands out to clutch at it, but his strength was no match for Pollard.
Pollard drove the lance into Abraham’s stomach, the point extending well beyond his back before Pollard hoisted him writhing into the air. “You deserve no more mercy than you gave King Malcolm. Or Pantyr. Or Pik. Or anyone else your demented mind has betrayed. Feel my justice.”
“You big Lummox, put him down.” Sadyra’s voice reached through his rage. Her small hands felt cold on his bicep as she tugged at his arm. “That’s the high bishop, you big oaf.”
“Come on Pollard,” Larina’s voice chimed in.
Larina? Right. Where had she come from? Pollard’s thoughts whirled in his head as if in a dream. Wearily, he let go of the polearm and High Bishop Abraham Uzziah dropped to the stage in a heap of misery.
Two guards rushed onto the stage and hovered over Abraham, unsure what to do with him.
Rook glowered at the dying bishop. “Leave him. Save those that are worth saving. This one is not.” With that, he put an arm around Pollard’s back and together they went to see if there was anything they could do for the little Voil.
The Wizard of the North Page 32