The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set

by Jamie Edmundson

  Clarin looked at Herin, fear and anger boiling inside him. ‘Belwynn is in Heractus,’ he hissed.

  At least Herin had the grace to look apologetic. ‘I’m sorry about that. Then you may still have a chance to save her. Throwing away your life now gets you nothing, save a sense of false heroism.’

  ‘Alright, brother,’ Clarin said, unable to avoid putting heavy sarcasm into the second word. ‘I’ll fight you.’

  ‘No!’ said Zared, storming over, pushing away those who tried to stop him. ‘You think we can trust these bastards!?’

  ‘We’ve agreed to it,’ said the red-haired Haskan, speaking up for the first time. ‘we’ve sworn to respect the outcome of the fight.’

  Clarin held up a hand as Zared reached him. ‘Listen,’ he said quietly, just for the young man to hear. ‘If you’re right, if it’s all a trick, then we all die anyway, the outcome’s exactly the same. If it isn’t, you and your men escape this. Persala gets a new king-in-exile. Your father’s fight carries on. You have to take that chance, Zared.’

  Zared looked at him, pain visible in his features. He didn’t say anything, but he turned and walked away, rejoining his men.

  Clarin pulled the strap over his head and laid the Shield on the floor. Herin drew his own sword, built from dark blue coloured diatine crystal, and walked over to meet him. He saw Clarin looking at his weapon, before smiling.

  ‘So, we both fight with these things now,’ he said.

  ‘I’m stronger than you, brother,’ Clarin warned him. ‘You know I’ll beat you.’

  Herin’s smile disappeared. ‘We’ll see, Clarin.’

  They backed away from each other, preparing to begin. When Clarin looked over at Herin, he couldn’t help but step back in time. As a child he had idolised Herin, desperate to learn sword-craft from his father just like him. When he grew big enough, he had had two teachers, his father and his older brother, and he had loved every minute of it. Loved travelling around Dalriya and working with Herin, content to let his brother make all the decisions for them because he was so happy they were together.

  Well, times had changed. He had to forget the past. Herin had made a decision that he could never follow, and now he had to kill him.

  They closed in on each other, both holding their swords two-handed. Herin was more aggressive than Clarin had expected, trying to land a blow from the outset, and Clarin had to defend and keep moving, before he was able to counter-attack, using his strength to push Herin away.

  Men from both sides shouted encouragement, advice and insults, but the noise soon faded into the background. It became just Herin and Clarin. They had sparred together countless times, knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses intimately. Clarin could never have guessed that he would ever have to use that knowledge to kill his brother.

  Herin came at him fast again, feinting high and then spinning his blade low. Clarin’s attempted block didn’t go low enough and Herin’s blade landed, rasping his ankles. Herin had left himself open, though, and Clarin was able to give him an elbow in the face before he leapt away. Now Herin let Clarin come on to him, moving left to right, forward to back. This was more Herin’s way, using his speed and agility to entice Clarin into making a mistake, or if none came, slowly tiring out his bigger opponent. Clarin gave him nothing. He stuck to his form, not doing anything rash, not wasting energy. But his blows were that bit heavier, that bit more dangerous than Herin’s, and he only needed one to get through.

  Herin advanced again, plunging his sword with incredible accuracy into the gap above Clarin’s right greave. A sharp, burning pain erupted where the crystal blade struck. But again, Herin’s aggression gave Clarin the chance to land a blow of his own. Herin pulled his sword up to block his head and the top of his body, but Clarin put all of his weight into a mighty blow that crunched onto Herin’s thigh, twisting the armour. Herin pulled away, but Clarin was satisfied to see that he was now limping. His brother’s movement was compromised, and Clarin had the advantage.

  Maybe that realisation was what prompted Herin to launch another, reckless attack. He moved inside Clarin’s swing, thrusting his blade up, piercing through chain mail and into Clarin’s armpit. Clarin lurched to the side, delivering a massive two-handed swing that connected square on with Herin’s bicep. Herin pulled away. He still held his sword, but it dangled limply. He could no longer move his arm.

  This was it. His brother could no longer move properly, or swing his sword. Herin transferred the weapon into his left hand, not looking like he was ready to give in. But he couldn’t win from here.

  Clarin was sweating profusely from the fight. He felt his face burning up. He edged towards Herin, who backed off now, wary of getting involved in another exchange after coming off worse each time. Clarin darted forwards in an effort to close the gap, but Herin anticipated it, scurrying away.

  Clarin felt dizzy now. He had to stop to get his breath back.

  Herin waited, watching him closely, not making a move of his own.

  Clarin hefted his sword up, readying himself for a final effort. He tried to wipe away the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. His sword suddenly weighed a ton. Then, it slowly dawned on him, his mind so foggy that his thoughts travelled at a snail’s pace. This wasn’t normal. Herin had only scratched him three times.

  Poison.

  His brother must have put poison on his blade. That was why he had attacked so much, why he had been prepared to take Clarin’s blows. Because each cut Herin had made had put more poison into Clarin’s bloodstream.

  Clarin turned to face his friends. They won’t have realised. He had to warn them. But his throat had constricted and he couldn’t get any words out.

  Now Herin came for him, slowly, stalking like a cat with a baby bird. Clarin could barely focus on Herin’s approach, his eyes watery, his gaze hazy.

  Herin skipped towards him. Clarin tried to swing out, but his legs were jelly and he tottered forwards, dropping to his hands and knees, his sword sliding from his grasp.

  This was unfair. If he was going to be killed by his own brother, at least let it be from a fair fight. Not this way.

  Not like this.

  He looked up, trying to make his eyes focus.

  A blurry black shape came towards him.

  The last thing Clarin saw was the sole of Herin’s boot.

  23

  Rescue

  BELWYNN! WHERE ARE YOU? came a shout. It took her a moment to process it. Part of her mind told her it must be Theron, but it didn’t sound like him.

  Soren!?

  We’re here, he added. Where are you? he repeated.

  I’m with the Madrians. The— she panicked, desperate to get her words out, struggling to describe her situation so that he would understand. The infantry on the battlefield. The ones who are still fighting.

  Right. We’re coming.

  Hold on! she directed her soldiers. Reinforcements are coming.

  Theron? she shouted. Soren is here!

  Seconds passed without a reply, and she feared he was dead, but then she heard his voice.

  Good, he said, no doubt struggling to talk to her while fighting. Stay alive, Belwynn.

  Belwynn was now forced to fight as the Madrians were surrounded and one by one, pulled down and killed. Philon fought by her side, more than once stopping a blow that would likely have killed her. She tried to keep the rhythmic work of the Madrians going—left arm shield, right arm spear—but they were tiring now, and the truth was few of them were soldiers.

  It was hardly noticeable at first, but the pressure on them slowly started to ease. Then, it became clear that the Drobax on the left had started to reduce in number. They began to disappear altogether. Belwynn looked over in that direction and saw three figures walking towards them. Three figures she knew very well.

  Soren held aloft Onella’s Staff, and around him was a large, invisible shield of magic, which the Drobax couldn’t penetrate. It was just the same as the spell he had used in the Wild
erness to defend against the vossi, rebuffing all attempts by the Drobax to penetrate it.

  Next to him was Gyrmund, the two men leaning on each other for support as they slowly approached. Gyrmund held a bow, and was loosing arrow after arrow at the Drobax. Each time he released the string, a thrum echoed across the battlefield. It was a sound that Belwynn realised she had been hearing in the background for some time now. Each arrow sped from the bow at a frightening velocity, and each seemed to find its mark, puncturing through flesh and armour alike, embedding in Drobax chests and skulls.

  Ahead of them Moneva led the way, her two short swords drawn. Whenever a Drobax got too close and was repulsed by Soren’s magic, she was there to strike it down, moving the corpses out of the way so that they didn’t trip the other two.

  They continued to advance, clearing a path through to Belwynn and the Madrians. The ground was littered with Drobax pierced by arrows from Gyrmund’s bow, and yet he still had more to fire.

  ‘The Jalakh Bow,’ Belwynn whispered to herself as she watched them approach.

  The Drobax had had enough. No longer willing to stand and wait for their turn to be killed, they turned and ran away. It turned into a wider rout. On both sides of the battlefield, Belwynn could see the Drobax detaching from the knights and running back the way they had come.

  She walked over to her brother, each collapsing with exhaustion into each other, no need for words. Pulling herself away, she embraced first Moneva, then Gyrmund.

  ‘You got the bow then?’ she asked.

  Gyrmund smiled ruefully. ‘Not a moment too soon.’

  ‘Your fingers!’ said Belwynn, staring where the skin had been rubbed off and was red raw.

  ‘Hmm, don’t think I’ve ever fired that many arrows at once,’ he said, keeping his smile.

  ‘I’m sorry about Elana, Belwynn,’ said Moneva. ‘The creature is here?’

  Belwynn nodded, pointing to the other side of the battlefield, where the enemy was located, still not defeated. ‘The creature is Siavash,’ she told them.

  Soren’s face twisted up, full of hatred.

  ‘Then let’s waste no more time.’

  ‘It isn’t Siavash himself,’ Belwynn tried to explain. ‘He has somehow occupied the body of Prince Dorian. Tycho struck him with a sword before the battle. It didn’t do anything. I think, because the body is already dead.’

  She watched their faces register this: repulsed, fearful, hate-fuelled. They all knew they had to kill the creature.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she asked them.

  They turned around, looking towards the left flank of the army. Two figures were heading in their direction. One was Tycho, hobbling as he walked and grimacing in pain as he leaned on the second man.

  Pentas.

  ‘How-,’ began Belwynn, astonished to see the wizard here.

  Soren shrugged, allowing himself a grim smile. ‘The Isharites failed to kill him. He found us on the Jalakh Steppe. Got us here.’

  Pentas gently lowered Tycho to the floor.

  ‘Philon!’ the big knight called over, his lungs apparently unharmed, even if he carried a bad leg injury.

  Philon came over, and they clasped hands.

  ‘I’m done,’ Tycho admitted. ‘Can’t walk or ride. Will you take my place? We’ve taken a battering but some of them can still fight. We need to take the bastards out while we still have the chance.’

  Theron joined them, tired looking but uninjured. He assured Belwynn that Evander still lived. Leontios arrived soon after, his small band of knights somehow escaping their encounter with the Drobax horde relatively unharmed.

  With screams coming from the direction of the River Pineos, the Knights were forced to agree that they had to deal with the Drobax to the north first. They couldn’t just allow a slaughter of Kalinthians to take place, nor leave an enemy force at their back.

  Theron, Leontios and Philon led those Knights free of injuries to the river. The injured knights and the Madrians remained, casting anxious looks to the south where Siavash, Straton and the other leaders were presumably dealing with repercussions of the Drobax retreat.

  It was difficult for Belwynn to bear. Injured men and women looked at her, mute pleas for help on their faces. Elana would have been busy healing them by now. But Belwynn didn’t have such powers. She could talk to them, instruct them to fight and kill, but couldn’t save their lives when they were dying. She was a poor replacement for Elana, and she wished the priestess was here.

  Instead, she walked amongst them, praising their efforts, reassuring them that Madria was still with them. A small group were fussing over a body, and Belwynn saw that it was Bemus. Elana’s disciple had fallen amongst her flock, his body mutilated from half a dozen wounds.

  ‘On your feet, those who can,’ came the rich voice of Pentas the wizard, full of authority. ‘They are coming for us.’

  He pointed ahead. Rows of infantry were coming into view, a slow, methodical approach compared to the Drobax. In between these units, and on the flanks, were mounted soldiers, the Knights of Kalinth loyal to Galenos.

  Theron, Belwynn said, they are coming for us. Come back as soon as you can.

  Will do, Belwynn, he replied. Try to hold them off.

  Belwynn ordered the Madrians to form ranks. They did so without complaint, but they were heavily outnumbered, by fresh troops.

  If Siavash attacked now it would be over in minutes. But his infantry moved slowly, and his cavalry went at the same pace.

  Belwynn glanced behind her. She imagined she would see Theron and his Knights riding to the rescue, but they weren’t in sight.

  ‘Soren!’ Pentas shouted.

  It looked like Galenos’s knights were done with sticking to the pace of the infantry. Perhaps the Grand Master only now realised just how vulnerable his enemies were, with the knights off the field. For a charge had been ordered. They left the infantry units behind, riding for Belwynn’s Madrians. Each carried a lance under an arm, which they would soon level and aim at the front rank. The flag of the Kalinthian Knights, detailing Stephen defeating the Dragon, came with them. Belwynn suspected that Galenos himself rode there, keen to take his revenge on his enemies.

  The Madrians had to hold against them. If they turned and ran, it would be a massacre.

  Pentas and Soren walked towards the approaching cavalry, past Belwynn and the Madrians, then stood waiting. Some of the knights looked confused, unsure whether they should target the two wizards or ignore them.

  Then, both acting at the same time, they unleashed. Fiery bolts leapt from Pentas’s outstretched hands and from Onella’s Staff.

  Bright flames burned across the intervening space and struck mounts and riders alike. Horses crashed to the ground, turned and sped away in fear, ignoring their rider’s commands. Soldiers fell from their mounts, pulled on reins in a panic, crashing into one another as they did so.

  Pentas and Soren began to walk forwards now, sending more fiery arcs at individual riders foolish enough to stay too close.

  Gyrmund then joined in, releasing the string of the Jalakh Bow, the thrumming sound echoing around. His arrows could travel farther than the wizard’s flames, targeting those knights who thought they had gained a safe distance. The Knights wore full armour, but the arrows more often than not found a way through anyway—puncturing chest mail, finding unprotected faces. If in doubt, he targeted the horses. Although armoured, there were bigger gaps in the beast’s defences, and Gyrmund’s accuracy with the bow allowed him to find them.

  The charge was over almost before it had begun. The flag lay smouldering on the ground: maybe Galenos with it. Pentas and Soren had devastated the enemy with their power. And for the first time since the Drobax had appeared, Belwynn believed they would win the battle, because they now had two wizards with them, and the enemy had none.

  With the outcome of the battle poised on a knife edge, the enemy continued their march. Shouts rang out, as they tried to speed up the march of the infantry. B
elwynn understood that Straton’s best chance was to drive her Madrians from the field before Theron returned. Pentas and Soren still stood against them, but how much more did they have to expend after seeing off the knights?

  The infantry came faster, save for the unit on the right, which began to fall behind.

  Hold firm, Belwynn instructed the Madrians. The Knights will return soon.

  The enemy drew closer and now Belwynn could see the front rank. Leading the soldiers was Siavash, still in the body of poor Prince Dorian. His men marched with him, fooled into thinking they fought to return their royal family to the throne.

  I can see you, came Theron’s voice. We will be there soon.

  Relief flooded Belwynn.

  The enemy now came faster. Soren and Pentas unleashed their magic yet again. The soldiers either side of Siavash were caught in the flames. Clothes were set alight, as warriors desperately covered faces with arms, or rolled on the ground to put out the flames.

  The fire didn’t stop Siavash, however. His clothes burned away, his skin melted, but the body of Prince Dorian kept on coming. An arrow whistled into his chest, but he still came on, pulling his spear back. It plunged into Pentas. The wizard grabbed the shaft, trying to stop Siavash from pushing it further into his body.

  Soren raised Onella’s Staff, but Siavash reacted quickly. Pulling the spear from Pentas’s grasp, he cracked the blunt end of the weapon into Soren, once then twice, the second blow knocking him over.

  Belwynn ran towards them, leaving the Madrians behind, desperate to stop Siavash. She watched as he turned back to Pentas, raising his spear to finish the wizard off.

  Pentas shot an arm out, sending a blast of magic that sent Siavash flying into the air, landing in a heap several feet away.

  Pentas’s head dropped to the ground.

  Soren slowly pushed himself up with his staff.

  Siavash got to his feet, Dorian’s body smouldering from the flames. But it seemed that nothing could kill him.

  The Kalinthian soldiers had stopped. They now looked at their prince, clothes and skin burned away, but still standing nonetheless. Only now would they begin to ask themselves what manner of creature they served.