‘We’ve got to go,’ came Herin’s voice, who had been keeping an eye on the tower. ‘They’re coming.’
Clarin rushed over to see. A group of spear-wielding Isharite soldiers were walking in double file towards them, along the walkway that connected the corner tower with their own. It was now or never.
He signalled the Bear-man over and they looked into each other’s eyes. They made a connection—an understanding, of sorts. Beneath the fur and the protruding jaw, this creature was probably no less intelligent than he was. Clarin was asking it, almost certainly, to go to its death. But then, they were all likely to die anyway.
The Isharite soldiers marched along the walkway, looking confident. Then, they set eyes upon a great beast emerging from the tower. The Bear-man roared its defiance at them, and Clarin could see them quail, momentarily, before they regained their composure. Then, it charged. Clarin ran behind, gripping a spear, ready to assist with the attack.
No doubt, Clarin considered to himself as he ran, being charged by a Bear-man would be terrifying. Commendably, the two Isharites who found themselves at the front of their line held their ground, spears at the ready. But, as the creature hurtled towards them, jaws open and teeth out, they thrust their spears forwards too soon. Understandable. Understandable, but a fatal mistake.
The Bear-man stopped in time. It grabbed hold of the top of each spear and pushed them to the side. Then, before the Isharites could react, it was in amongst them. Its clawed hands struck at armour, grabbed at weapons. When the claws found purchase, they pulled the Isharites off their feet, throwing them from the wall. Even if the claws didn’t connect, the Bear-man’s powerful limbs battered them to the ground. The Isharites still thrust their spears forwards to defend themselves. One of them found their target, the blade skewering the flesh of the creature’s thigh.
The Bear-man was so big that there was no room for Clarin to fight alongside it; but, by leaning against the crenellations, he could thrust his own spear forwards. He found the groin of a soldier who had, understandably, been focused on the wild swings of the monster.
Despite its injury, the Bear-man continued to slice and crush, until the neat line of soldiers had disintegrated. Not stopping, it charged forwards once more.
Clarin followed, leaving the sprawled Isharites on the walkway for those behind him to deal with.
A small group of soldiers stood by the door and hurriedly tried to close it before the Bear-man arrived. All too late. The first through tried to shut it on those still on the walkway, who shoved it open, trying to escape. The creature hurled itself at them before they could defend themselves. It crashed into the door, trapping a soldier against the wall, who screamed in agony.
The Bear-man had pushed the door wide open. The Isharites stabbed at it, with spears and swords. The Bear-man fell on them, swinging its arms and snapping its jaws.
Clarin followed it through, thrusting overarm with his spear into the midriff of a swordsman. The blade of the spear didn’t get through the soldier’s chain mail, but the force of the blow caused the Isharite to double over in pain.
Dropping his spear, Clarin knelt down and grabbed the sword out of his enemy’s hands. It was made from crystal—the very crystal he had been mining this time yesterday. He felt a certain sense of justice as he chopped into the Isharite’s neck, driving him to the ground—chopping twice more to make sure he was dead. The sword seemed like a decent weapon—surprisingly light, and easy to use in the confines of the tower.
Clarin got a quick view of the interior of the tower. As elsewhere in the fortress, the third floor connected one section of walkway to the next. This room was open plan like the others they had been in, but much larger. The Isharites were arriving from all directions: from the walkway opposite, and from the floors both below and above them.
Herin and Tamir joined them, with the rest of the Barbarians. A desperate struggled ensued as they tried to force their way into the tower, and the Isharites tried to force them out.
The Isharite soldiers were well fed and stronger. They were better armed. The Barbarians, however, knew that they were fighting for their lives. A wild kind of fury overtook them, as they sought revenge for the weeks of captivity and brutality. Clarin joined in with it, glorying in having a sword in his hands; revelling in the chance to fight one last time, when it had looked like his life would be snuffed out in a slave pit.
Several Barbarians fell to Isharite crystal in those brutal minutes of hacking and thrusting. The Bear-man, whose path of destruction had given them the momentum they needed, was finally driven to the ground from multiple wounds, the Isharites desperately spearing its exhausted corpse to make sure it was dead.
But more Barbarians took the place of their fallen kin. Behind them were the Persaleians and the Dog-men. And it seemed to Clarin that it was the Dog-men who finally turned things decisively in their favour. He had been wary of them, unsure whether they would fight with the other prisoners or betray them. But they seemed to understand that if the Isharites won, they would be killed too. Their agility and strength was superior to anyone else’s, as they leapt at the enemy. Their barks, and the vicious snaps of their jaws, were somehow more terrifying than spears and swords.
The Isharite soldiers, who had seen many of their comrades killed, now decided that they had suffered enough. They didn’t turn and run though. It was an orderly retreat, and Clarin and Herin were obliged to continue to harry them, as they turned the corner and made for the walkway at the front of the fortress.
‘Secure the ground floor,’ Clarin shouted at Zared, turning his neck and shouting as loud as he could. With relief, he saw the Persaleians following the command, heading down the steps to the lower rooms, where there would be other entrances into the tower.
The Isharites ahead of Clarin backed off further, until Herin was able to shut the door on them. Clarin slammed home the wrought iron bolt. It would hold for a while, but they would have to try to shore it up further. For now, though, the priority was securing all the other entrances into the tower.
As fast as he could, his legs now trembling from the exertion, he made his way back to the third-floor room. He hadn’t seen such a bloody massacre before in his life. The walls were painted with blood. Some of the Barbarians were lying or sitting in the gore, too injured or exhausted to move. Wordlessly, he moved through them to the stairs, and headed down to the next floor. Here, he found himself in a small hallway with doors to three separate rooms off it. It seemed deserted, and he moved to head down the next flight of stairs to the ground floor.
Hurrying back up the stairs was Cyprian, the small Persaleian that Gyrmund had befriended.
‘Ah, Clarin. The ground floor is secure,’ he said seriously, as if he was reporting to a general in an army. ‘Just in time, though. Soldiers are gathering down in the courtyard. We’ve also located a small larder and a small armoury.’
A wave of relief crashed over Clarin. No more soldiers, for a while at least. Food and weapons as well.
‘Well done,’ he said, giving Cyprian an embrace.
There was one more entrance to secure: the door which they had entered from. Forcing his tired body to move again, Clarin slogged his way back up the stairs to the third floor. He moved gingerly to the door of the tower, the floor slick with blood.
‘Wait!’ came a shout.
Ahead of him, running at full speed along the walkway, came Jurgen and Rudy. Not far behind them was a group of Isharite soldiers. Clarin had forgotten about the two cousins, and had come close to locking them out. They skidded into the room, slipping over on the wet floor, eyes wide at the sight of the carnage that had taken place there. Clarin slammed the door shut and locked the bolt, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘We held them off for as long as we could,’ said Jurgen, his breathing ragged from his exertions.
‘Well done,’ said Clarin.
Herin emerged from the top floor, followed by the Dog-men.
‘The Persaleians ha
ve secured everything on the ground floor,’ Clarin told his brother. ‘What’s up there?’
‘Two bedrooms on the next floor,’ said Herin. ‘One of them has a set of stairs leading up to the tower roof. You get quite a good view from up there. Not a bad place for a last stand.’
25
The Kill
PUT HIM HERE,’ BELWYNN SAID TO two Krykker soldiers, who had walked a third man into camp, his arms wrapped around their shoulders.
They laid him down gently, looking exhausted from the effort it had taken to get him there. They showed her where the injury was: a heavy weapon of some kind had hit the top of their friend’s thigh, leaving a massive dent in his armour. There was very little to see without removing the armour, and a broken bone was unlikely: but Belwynn understood that it could be a serious injury nonetheless. She would get Elana to see to him sooner rather than later.
Belwynn’s job, in the aftermath of the battle, was to organise the injured: directing where they should be laid down, providing water and other necessities. She made the initial assessment of their injuries. She would then explain this to Belwynn, and help the priestess prioritise who she should see.
The injured were, mercifully, far fewer than she had feared. The battle had gone as well as anyone could have expected, with Rostam’s forces chased from the field. Groups of Krykkers were already making their way back to camp, whereas the Knights were still out there somewhere, harrying the enemy to ensure that it was as complete a victory as possible. She was yet to see the return of any familiar faces, but one of the Krykkers had assured her that Rabigar was alive and well.
Pentas appeared. Belwynn and Elana stopped what they were doing as he approached, his red eyes drifting over the injured soldiers, wearing his laconic smile.
‘Victory!’ he declared, his smile getting broader, though Belwynn was still unsure of its sincerity.
‘What happens next?’ Belwynn demanded, keen to get some straight answers. ‘Can we reach Samir Durg from here?’
Pentas raised one eyebrow. ‘This army cannot reach Samir Durg. It barely has enough supplies to get there, never mind to conduct a siege. Meanwhile, the Isharites will simply raise another army against it. I would say that you have achieved all you could have hoped for.’
‘What, then?’ asked Elana, sounding angry. ‘What of Belwynn’s brother and friends?’
‘This army cannot reach Samir Durg,’ Pentas replied, ‘but I can. I will be going back presently. It will be an interesting visit, if nothing else.’ He looked at Belwynn. ‘Although it will tax my powers, I can take you there if you wish. Who knows? That staff, or the dagger you carry, may come in handy. Of course, I would be taking you into a highly dangerous environment, one that I myself may not escape from alive. I can’t guarantee your safety.’
‘Will we be able to rescue Soren?’ she asked.
Pentas made a face. ‘That, I cannot promise. With a lot of luck, your friends may rescue him. Have you tried speaking to him recently?’
She hadn’t. She tried, opening that channel of communication that had been so natural since childhood, but that had barely been used in the past weeks.
Soren?
She was met with silence again. But then, was she? This time felt different, as if her brother was there, even if he wasn’t speaking.
Soren?
Belwynn?
He sounded distant; confused. But this was the first time that he had answered her in two weeks.
‘What is it?’ interrupted Pentas, who was studying her closely.
‘He’s there. He replied,’ Belwynn said, her voice shaking.
Where are you? she asked Soren.
I don’t know...
His voice had that same, groggy quality to it.
I’m in a prison.
How are you? Are you well? Belwynn asked, trying to keep the sound of panic from her voice.
Gyrmund is here. Gyrmund and Moneva. They’re helping me.
‘He says that Gyrmund and Moneva are with him.’
Elana beamed at the news. Pentas pursed his lips thoughtfully.
‘What about the other two?’ the wizard asked.
What about Herin and Clarin? Belwynn asked Soren.
No. Not here.
Belwynn shook her head.
‘Listen, Belwynn,’ said Pentas. ‘You need to tell him to make his way to the Great Hall. It’s the large building, right in the centre of the complex, with a domed roof.’
Belwynn passed on the instructions.
‘I need to leave as soon as possible,’ said Pentas.
‘I’m coming,’ said Belwynn.
She ran over to her small pile of possessions to grab Onella’s Staff. Toric’s Dagger was already tucked inside her belt.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ asked Elana as Belwynn returned. ‘What if the weapons fall into the hands of Erkindrix?’
Belwynn looked to Pentas. He didn’t seem sure himself.
‘What do you think?’ the wizard asked Elana, returning the question.
Elana considered it. Was she having a private conversation with Madria? Was it all intuition? Belwynn wished she knew. The priestess sighed.
‘Take them,’ she said.
‘I don’t see any gain in bringing you,’ Pentas said to Elana. ‘You are more use here, I think,’ he said, gesturing at the wounded soldiers she still had to treat.
Elana nodded. ‘Agreed. Good luck to you both. Madria goes with you.’
Pentas offered Belwynn his hand. When she took it, he placed his other hand onto Onella’s Staff. He began the spell of teleportation immediately. As before, when the wizard had transported her out of Edeleny, into Kalinth, Belwynn felt her stomach drop. Her mouth filled with the taste of bile. Then came the sensation of moving, the air on her face and arms; but her vision was too blurred and indistinct to make sense of where she was going.
For a while they travelled in this way, though it was hard to say how long the journey took. When they stopped, they were inside a building. Belwynn stood bent double, waiting for the room to stop spinning as she slowly regained her senses.
She looked at her surroundings. The room was expensively furnished and lightly scented. Belwynn presumed they were in Pentas’s personal chambers. A stone fireplace was the centrepiece. It had a wooden surround that had been decorated in swirling red and green colours. Tapestries hung on the walls, and rugs adorned the floor. Wooden chests lined the room. In the middle was a table, with red velvet covered chairs adding yet more luxury.
‘Very nice,’ she commented, standing up straight as her body recovered from the journey.
‘Yes, well. I have to keep up appearances.’
‘So, your appearance is that of a mighty sorcerer of Ishari. But in reality, you are a humble servant of Madria?’
Pentas smiled his enigmatic smile. ‘Yes, in essence. I’ve never claimed to be an Isharite, though. I was born in Persala, as I believe I mentioned when we first met.’
He had, Belwynn recalled.
‘The Isharites don’t mind?’
‘Oh, they mind. Many of them mind very much. But I am a very powerful wizard, you see. And power matters the most to Erkindrix—and to Diis. So, while I have never been fully trusted, I have made myself very useful to them over the years. My behaviour has raised some suspicions from time to time, but never enough to see me removed.’
‘And what dark deeds have you done to make yourself useful?’ Belwynn asked him.
‘What choice did I have?’ Pentas answered passionately. His cool demeanour began to slip, at last. ‘When the stakes are so high, how else should I have dealt with such a threat to Dalriya? A heroic stand, destroyed by the combined wizardry of the Isharites? What good would that have done? No, I have swallowed my pride—ignored my conscience. For this moment. To engineer a situation where maybe, just maybe, Erkindrix is vulnerable.’
He looked at her with those inscrutable red eyes. Was he looking for praise? Waiting for her to condemn him further? B
elwynn had nothing else to say. Right now, she just wanted to find her brother.
‘If you are ready,’ he said, ‘it is time to act.’
Pentas’s apartments were in a tower in the north-west corner of the fortress of Samir Durg. From here, he led Belwynn out to the massive compound that lay inside the high walls of the fortress. She hadn’t really known what to expect of the place: her mind had pictured, in a vague way, some dark lair where the Isharites hid and plotted their conquests. She hadn’t expected this. The walls were crenelated, and sparkled with crystals that had been embedded amongst the stone. They were punctuated by countless towers, of different shapes and sizes: some large and military looking; some with turrets; some slim ones ending in tall spires. In the middle of the space stood a great stone building, topped with a golden dome.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Why would anyone who owned this need to conquer more?’
Pentas looked around him, as if examining the site for the first time.
‘No,’ he said. ‘If there is beauty here, I can’t see it.’
They walked to the stone building in the middle of the fortress, passing some soldiers and other officials who seemed busy with their own business. Some of them took surreptitious, interested glances at Belwynn. Clearly, however, none had the authority to ask questions of Pentas, who strode to his destination with authority. The guards stationed by the entrance respectfully gave way, and he led Belwynn into the building. They walked down a stone corridor, Belwynn’s fear growing as they did. Pentas stopped.
‘Around this corner,’ he said, ‘are the doors to Erkindrix’s Throne Room.’
He studied her face, his own becoming almost gentle.
‘Once we’re inside, I cannot control what will happen, Belwynn. You must follow my lead. I want you to talk to Soren now. I need you to explain to him what he needs to do.’
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 67
