Then, the Dog-men were on them. They bounded up to the row of pikes and leapt high in the air. Some were caught before they landed. In front of Rabigar, a Dog-man failed to avoid a pike and was skewered, the force of its descent making its body slide all the way down the length of the pole. But others leapt powerfully over the pikes and crashed into the ranks behind. More of them came, recklessly throwing themselves into the Dramsen buffalo.
Before he knew it, a Dog-man was descending on top of Rabigar. He braced his sword arm, ready to thrust through its middle. But the creature somehow pushed his blade aside with its hind leg and crashed on top of him. Rabigar went down like a sack of oats, the wind knocked out of him. On top of him, the Dog-man grabbed his forearms with its sharp claws and pushed itself up into a seated position, its weight on his chest keeping him pinned to the floor. It opened its muzzle, revealing two rows of vicious teeth, and aimed for Rabigar’s jugular, which he knew it could rip out in one go. Before it got the chance, however, Rabigar could see Stenk’s axe coming down from behind the creature. The blow was true, the blade of the axe smacking down straight into the back of the Dog-man’s skull, killing it instantly. It collapsed on top of Rabigar, who shoved the creature off.
Stenk had his axe blade stuck, and planted his foot on the creature’s head to help him yank it free. Just as he did so, the whole rank of soldiers in front of them collapsed backwards as more Dog-men leapt into the fray. Stenk collapsed under a mound of kicking arms, legs and claws.
Rabigar quickly grasped for his sword which was lying on the ground next to him, and forced himself up. He knew he had to act quickly. The wicked claws and powerful jaws of the Dog-men gave them a distinct advantage in a scrum like this. Meanwhile, the pole-arms carried by the Krykker soldiers were now useless, and they had to be given time to get their hands on their shorter weapons.
He thrust down into the sprawling mass in front of him, being careful to avoid his comrades, and finding the exposed flesh of the poorly armoured Dog-men.
Reaching down with his left hand, he grabbed Stenk around the chest and pulled him out, all the while keeping his sword in front of him to deflect any attack. Stenk picked himself up, looking none the worse: he had even managed to keep hold of his axe. They both returned to the fray, helping the surviving Krykkers up, and fending off the Dog-men, who backed off.
Then, Rabigar saw him. Torinac lay dead amongst the bodies, his arms spread wide and his eyes staring up at the sky. His throat had been torn out. Rabigar looked around the body of the fallen chieftain. Much as he regretted Torinac’s death, far more important was the whereabouts of Bolivar’s Sword.
He turned bodies over, getting more desperate by the second. Stenk began to help him. There! Buried in the body of a Dog-man, perhaps the same creature that had killed Torinac, was the Sword. Rabigar grasped the hilt and pulled the blade free. He could feel the power of the weapon coursing through him, from his grip, along his arm, and into his chest. He held the sword aloft, marvelling at it. Now it belonged to him.
A blast hit them again, this time accompanied by a blinding light. It seemed to strike the Dog-men as much as the Krykkers. Rabigar sank to one knee, holding Bolivar’s Sword close to his body in an effort not to lose his grip on it. He looked down at the ground to avoid looking at the light. Just as he thought he would be forced to close his eye and topple over, the magic stopped again. Looking up, patches of light still obscuring his vision, he saw just in time that a new enemy had appeared. Striding past the sprawled Dog-men came the Isharites themselves.
They made straight for Rabigar, since he was the only Krykker nearby who had not collapsed from the blast of magic. A crystal sword came swinging down at him. Still on one knee, Rabigar blocked it. The Isharite pushed down on him with all of his weight, his thin, dark features snarling with hatred; but Rabigar resisted, matching his strength. Pulling back, the Isharite took a quick swing at Rabigar from the side but he was ready for it, blocking the strike again, and then regaining his feet. Another blow came for him, but he managed to block it, as if the Sword he held guided his hands.
He danced backwards, out of the reach of the Isharites who outnumbered him. Now he felt the presence of the other Krykkers, who joined him to face down the new threat.
The Isharites and the remaining Dog-men stood for a moment, staring at the Krykkers. No, thought Rabigar, they are staring behind us. Then suddenly, without warning, all of them turned and ran. They ran as fast as they could, to the far side of the camp, and kept running.
Looking behind him, Rabigar could see a group of Kalinthian Knights heading in their direction. It took the Knights seconds to reach them, and Rabigar just got a glimpse of Theron in the lead of the mounted force before they shot past, chasing down the enemy. This was when a cavalry force such as this really came into their own. The Knights would be able to chase down and harass the departing Isharite army for miles if they needed to. There would be no chance for the Drobax forces to regroup and come back at them now. They had won.
The others felt it too and a wave of relief came over them all. Stenk appeared next to Rabigar, and he gave the young man a great hug.
Some shouting ahead of them caused them to break their embrace. The Dramsens had found their fallen chieftain. Rabigar turned in the direction where the noise was coming from and strode over.
The clan gathered around in shock at the sight of Torinac lying lifeless on the ground. A strange feeling came over Rabigar.
‘Your chieftain died as a hero today,’ he intoned. ‘Now the duty and honour of wielding Bolivar’s Sword falls to me.’
The Krykkers of the Dramsen clan looked at Rabigar with blank expressions. But no-one challenged him. And that was as it should be. For this sword sang to Rabigar, and told him that he was meant to have it.
23
Samir Durg
MONEVA LED GYRMUND ALONG THE WALLS of Samir Durg, always on the lookout for sentries. She kept a fast pace, keen to make as much progress as possible while the last hour or so of night afforded them protection. When she spotted a guard, she would indicate for Gyrmund to wait while she investigated. Sometimes they were able to detour around them, or wait until they moved. Invariably, the safest and quickest way to deal with them was a knife through the base of the skull; before moving on as fast as possible.
Gyrmund needed minimal attention; he knew how to conceal himself, and was content to leave the decisions to her. What did concern Moneva, however, was his pale, drawn face, and lack of energy. It was only after they had been going for a while that she realised he must be half starved and dehydrated. While she had been eating Arioc’s rich, spiced food since she had arrived in his chambers, Gyrmund must have been on the meanest of rations, while at the same time working all day.
Moneva took more care to secure food and drink on the way. She then led Gyrmund to the top room of a tower. She had learned that these rooms were mostly deserted, sometimes serving as storage. Occasionally, Isharite soldiers used them as places to rest up or sleep.
She handed Gyrmund a pile of dry crackers, which seemed to be the staple rations of the Isharite soldiers. She also pulled out a pot of something strong smelling. She thought it might be similar to the arak that she had drunk in Arioc’s chambers. She took a sip and scrunched up her face. The alcohol in it wasn’t as strong as the arak, but it tasted of sour milk. Gyrmund took it to go with his crackers. He didn’t seem to mind the taste, and a bit of colour returned to his face once he had finished it.
They sat for a moment, looking at each other.
‘If we get out of here—’ whispered Gyrmund.
‘If we get out of here we can talk then,’ said Moneva.
She hadn’t meant to be so abrupt. It was the stress she was under. But she couldn’t do emotions—not now. It was a distraction, and Gyrmund should have known better.
It looked like he was about to reply, and then he stopped, perhaps thinking better of it. He cocked his head, as if listening to something. Moneva tuned in. It
was the sound of soldiers moving.
She got to her feet, drawing a knife. Gyrmund’s eyes widened and he grabbed his knife too.
She could hear footsteps, getting louder. If they tried to leave the room now, they were likely to run straight into the soldiers. She surveyed the room quickly, imagining a soldier coming up the stairs and looking in. Pointing at a straw mattress, she indicated that Gyrmund should lie on it. He didn’t try to argue, again trusting her judgement, which she was grateful for. She draped a blanket over him. Perhaps, just perhaps, they might mistake him for a lazy soldier and not investigate further. She chose the corner of the room that lay in shadow for herself. She draped her hair over her face and put her hands behind her back, so that her skin could not be seen. Then, they waited.
Moneva heard the soldiers entering their tower, arriving from the north of the fortress. Have we been spotted? She fingered the blade of the knife. If the soldiers were after them, they would be in the room in seconds. She knew that a fight in this chamber wouldn’t last very long. But a part of her still hoped that the soldiers were heading somewhere else.
They were moving fast. She could now hear them directly underneath the room. She listened to the hurried conversation that drifted up the stairs, but while she had got somewhat used to the Isharite language during her time at the fortress, picking up a few words, she couldn’t process anything she heard now. And then, they were gone, heading south along the fortress walls. She stayed still for a while longer, not yet daring to believe it. The sound of footsteps disappeared. Then, just as Moneva began to relax a little, a second group came past, passing directly underneath them and heading in the same direction. She detected a slight movement in the room and looked to see Gyrmund’s head poking out of his blanket.
Moneva indicated that he should remain where he was. She forced herself forwards, willing her muscles to move and peel her body away from the wall against which she had flattened herself. She was used to operating with fear swirling around her body, and steadily, if jerkily, her limbs did as she commanded. She approached the stairs down to the third floor of the tower on her belly and, edging over the gap, peered down to have a look. The room below seemed empty. Pulling herself up into a crouching position, she made herself creep down to make sure.
It was empty. She could smell the sweat and the leather of the soldiers who had passed through. She glanced outside. A new day’s dawn was throwing its light on the walls of Samir Durg. She quickly made her way back up to the top chamber.
Gyrmund had come out from under the blanket.
‘It’s empty now,’ Moneva whispered.
‘They’re going for Clarin and Herin, aren’t they?’ he asked.
Moneva shrugged. ‘I don’t know for sure, but...’
But it was the most obvious explanation.
Gyrmund nodded. ‘What now?’
Moneva sighed. ‘The sun’s up. No more night to hide us. I think we need to take a risk now. Leave this tower and head into the centre of the fortress. Go straight for the Tower of Diis. I’ll lead us, but you need to act as if you’re taking me there. Look people in the eye but don’t stare at anyone. Everyone in the fortress may be preoccupied with taking Herin and Clarin’s tower, and we can slip past unnoticed.’
For Gyrmund’s sake, she sounded as confident as she could. He nodded his acceptance of the plan.
‘What about getting in?’ he asked.
‘Here,’ she said, producing the brooch with Arioc’s sigil on it. ‘It’s the symbol of Arioc and his men. Tell them he’s sent me to the prisons there. He’s the King of Haskany—he has humans working for him.’
Wordlessly, Gyrmund took the brooch and studied it, tracing a finger along the circular shape of the serpent. She knew he wanted to ask how she had got it; about her time with Arioc. Instead, he did as she had asked, and pinned it to his cloak.
They slipped down the tower stairs unchallenged, all the way to the ground floor. Moneva nodded at the door that opened into the central part of the fortress. Gyrmund moved over and opened it, taking one step outside. He then reached inside and grabbed her arm, pulling her with him.
They had taken care of the change of guard when it came.
Six soldiers had arrived as the sun began to rise in the sky above. Clarin asked Zared and a few of his men to help with the ambush. The Isharite soldiers were surprised as they entered the tower from the walkway. They were attacked from all angles: Herin cutting off their retreat; the agile Cyprian even jumping down on top of them from the chamber above. None of them could escape, and Clarin and his men avoided injury. But killing six men isn’t easy. During the desperate fighting in the enclosed space, there was many a shout and scream, and Clarin knew that it was now only a matter of time before more soldiers came. Next time, there would be more of them, and the element of surprise would be gone.
The Persaleians busied themselves stripping the Isharite bodies of their armour and taking it for themselves. All the Persaleians, and most of the Barbarians, were now armed with a weapon of some kind.
‘What now?’ asked Zared.
Clarin was still getting used to the fact that he was in charge. Even more strangely, Herin looked at him, as if waiting for orders. He considered their situation. There was little more they could do for Gyrmund and Moneva now. He had to think of their own predicament, and the last thing he wanted was to get everyone trapped in this little tower. The Isharites would be able to approach from both directions and take their time digging them out. They would be able to use fire and smoke, and Toric only knew what else. That was no way to die.
‘We’ll close off the northern door with whatever we can find,’ he decided. He looked south along the wall. The next tower was identical to the one they were in, and would be lightly defended.
He pointed. ‘Then head for the next tower.’
Clarin looked at the Persaleians in their Isharite armour. ‘Those of you who can pass off as Isharites should go first. If they shut the door on us, we’ll be trapped. Get as close as you can until they realise something’s up and then charge it. We’ll be right behind you.’
Apart from a table and chairs, there was little else but dead bodies to prop against the north door of the tower. The young Rotelegen cousins, Rudy and Jurgen, each armed with short spears, insisted on staying back to defend the position while the rest of them went ahead.
‘Don’t hesitate to retreat when the position is lost,’ instructed Clarin, and they nodded obediently.
As Clarin watched from the doorway of their tower, armed with a spear of his own, Zared and four of his best men left the tower and moved along the walkway. To their left, crenellations had been constructed to protect the defenders of the fortress, while to the right was a sheer drop down to the inner courtyard. Two Isharites manned the wall on the far side of the walkway, and turned at Zared’s approach. They shouted over, unintelligible words in the Isharite tongue.
‘Shit,’ commented Herin, crouched next to Clarin in the shadows. His brother gripped a knife, ready to charge down the walkway.
Zared called back. Clarin couldn’t tell if the Persaleian had picked up a bit of the Isharite language, or was simply bluffing. But it seemed to work. The two Isharite soldiers waited and let Zared and his men approach. Then, suddenly, they began shouting. Herin didn’t waste any time, shooting off down the walkway. Clarin followed close behind.
Ahead, the Persaleians ran at the two Isharite soldiers. It was a narrow walkway, and for a moment the Persaleians found their path blocked. The two Isharites continued to shout out their warning. The impasse continued until they contrived to throw one of the Isharites from the wall down to the courtyard below. The second Isharite was bundled to the floor, while Zared and two of his men managed to sidestep past and run for the tower door.
Clarin edged carefully past the prone, struggling figures on the walkway, wary of falling off into the courtyard below. Then, picking up some speed, he made it through the door of the next tower. His brother was alr
eady grappling with an Isharite on the floor, while Zared and one of his men were fighting two more soldiers in the confined space of the chamber. Unable to use his spear effectively, Clarin dropped it and grabbed a soldier around the head, twisting his neck until it broke. The two Persaleians finished off the other soldier. Clarin stamped on the head of Herin’s adversary, allowing Herin to pull his knife hand free, and stab into the Isharite’s exposed neck. One of Zared’s men was seated on the floor, his lifeblood ebbing away from a stab wound in his chest. But he was the only casualty.
Clarin helped Herin up. Wordlessly, his brother headed down the stairs to make sure that the rest of the tower was empty. Looking behind him, Clarin could see that the second Isharite soldier on the walkway had been disposed of, and that Tamir was leading the Barbarians across towards them.
Shouts came from the courtyard down below. It was no surprise that their assault had been witnessed. Clarin moved over to the southern door of the chamber and looked out. As Moneva had described, beyond the next stretch of walkway was a huge corner tower. It guarded the southern wall of Samir Durg, and was a massive piece of construction, the size of a castle keep. It would have many rooms inside it, with more soldiers posted there. Indeed, as Clarin thought about it, it was quite likely that it represented the living quarters of a substantial number of Isharite soldiers.
He moved back from the door, as the rest of the escaped prisoners began filing into the tower. Herin was telling them to head down into the lower floors. A few feet away, Zared was kneeling by his dying friend’s side, whose face had gone deathly white, but whose eyes continued to stare forwards. Zared looked up at him.
‘What now?’
It was impossible for Shira to deny that they were making better progress than before. To be fair to herself, Arioc hadn’t changed the basic strategy. He had just added an extra layer of ruthlessness to the tactics.
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 65
