Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  He swung his weapon round to counter the attack, blocking with his spear’s momentum, then quickly dropping his spearpoint to thrust at Father Michael’s exposed chest.

  Father Michael in turn used his forward movement to turn side on, allowing the point to slide past. They both stepped away and adopted perpendicular stances, facing one another. Father Michael glanced down at red stain appearing on his shirt. A cut, but not deep enough to be serious. The pain could wait.

  He kept his body side on to Eilion, presenting a narrower target, his left foot leading, his right planted to the rear, knees bent, weight on the balls of his feet. He had seen Eilion fight plenty of times. He was very good with a spear, better than Father Michael. He kept his spear level at waist height, his hands wide apart, as Father Michael stepped right, so he followed, maintaining the smile, though his eyes were intent, never leaving Father Michael’s.

  Eilion thrust. Father Michael blocked, dropping his spear then raising it up for a quick stab. Eilion was already swaying backwards, anticipating the move.

  Father Michael attacked again, thrusting up towards Eilion’s head; it was blocked easily. Father Michael quickly reversed the shaft to butt Eilion’s weapon away. He followed up with another head stab. Eilion’s spear was in the wrong position to defend. He had him!

  But then he felt pressure on the spearhead, forcing it away when it was just an inch from Eilion’s face, sliding down the side of his breastplate, useless against the armour. Damned Shaper!

  He stepped back to get away from his opponent’s spear. They continued to dance around, the Gifted probing Father Michael’s defence. Eilion was just stringing this out now, waiting for him to tire. He had used much of his stamina in his night-time assault. But he was fitter and stronger than he had been in a long time.

  He blocked a thrust, stabbed back. The spear was yanked forwards and he stumbled. Eilion was on him in an instant, sliding his blade into Father Michael’s left leg. He shouted in pain as he felt a wash of hot blood spill down his calf.

  He hobbled backwards swinging his spear in a wide arc. Eilion was already beyond its range. He didn’t need to close, his Gift was doing all the work. Father Michael looked at his leg, a nasty gash in the lower side of his thigh. Nothing had been severed but the blood flowed freely. He was running out of time. He needed an edge, something Eilion couldn’t counter.

  ‘I thought I had killed you already,’ Eilion said, moving slowly, easily. ‘That rock I sent at your head should have smashed you. It would have any normal man.’

  ‘I’ve got a thick skull,’ Father Michael retorted.

  ‘Thick, yes. I look forward to taking it back as a trophy. I look forward to being the man who finally bested the great Champion,’ laughed Eilion.

  There it was. It was his arrogance. His belief that he couldn’t be bested. That he would live to be honoured.

  And Father Michael knew what he had to do.

  To beat Eilion he had to embrace the truth of his life. That there was a higher power than him. The Emperor. And he had pledged himself to his service.

  Father Michael hefted his spear and threw it at Eilion. The Gifted leaned back and dodged the throw. And, for a second, he took his eyes off Father Michael.

  Pulling his shortsword free Father Michael forced himself to close the distance, ignoring the tearing pain. Eilion swung his spear round, slicing along and through Father Michael’s right side.

  Against the white hot agony Father Michael kept going, his blade held high. Eilion raised his spear to block the downward strike of the blade, catching its edge and forcing it away. But Father Michael was there, his left hand closed on Eilion’s throat. His forward momentum pushed Eilion back as the Gifted let go of his spear with his right hand and gripped Father Michael’s left, trying to pry it off. Father Michael began to squeeze.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eilion finally drop his weapon and now both hands were trying to pull Father Michael’s fingers away. Mistake. He brought his shortsword down at an angle, looking to stab into Eilion’s neck.

  He met a wall of resistance. His arm shook as he tried to force it down but he was making no headway. And then the blade began to turn. Slowly, by degrees, the sword twisted in his hand. He sought to fight against it. He tried to let go of the weapon, so he could get both hands round the bastard’s neck. Yet the same force was keeping his hand gripped tight on the pommel. Emperor but this Gifted has power! He could feel beads of sweat burst on his forehead. Could see the sharp metal orient itself towards his body. The point wavered as he tried to redirect it. He was losing. He couldn’t choke the Gifted and fight his own weapon. Father Michael closed his eyes.

  So be it.

  He opened them again and locked his gaze on Eilion. The Gifted was staring right back. His eyes were wide, but not panicked. He was focussed on using his Gift. At the edge of his mouth a smile started to form. He could sense his triumph.

  Father Michael snarled. The blade would soon be at a point to drive down into the gap between the collarbone and shoulder blade, a killing space. He locked eyes with Eilion once more and relaxed his right arm, ending his battle with Eilion’s Gift. The force of the Shaper’s power, now with no counter force against it, drove the blade down past his collar bone deep into his right side, already opened and bloody.

  Father Michael screamed. And he used it. He used the pain, rage and shock and channelled it into his grip. Eilion’s eyes, his irises almost completely black, registered surprise and confusion. He increased his probing of Father Michael’s left hand and in response Father Michael roared and started to lift.

  Now Eilion was panicking, Father Michael could see that the man was losing focus, losing control of his Gift. He surged again and Eilion was off the ground. Father Michael was shaking all over. His energy almost spent. His sword arm won free of the Shaper’s power and he thrust his weapon vertically into the poorly protected groin area of Eilion’s armour. Eilion screamed. Father Michael thrust again, and again, and started to feel the heat of blood on his hands. And Eilion was still screaming.

  He let go and Eilion fell to the floor writhing in agony. Father Michael felt a wave of weakness wash over him. His vision swam and started to fade. He shook his head and fell to his knees next to Eilion. Taking hold of Eilion’s hair, he raised his sword and pushed it into the Gifted’s neck, where it stayed, quivering slightly.

  Before him, Grieg and Loras had locked shields in preparation for an attack. Not much he could do about that. He turned towards the Emperor, tried to catch his breath but ended up coughing. The jerking of his chest was agony, his ruined right side flaring in pain. He put a hand towards it. All he could feel was wetness, hot and free flowing. He was done.

  Father Michael swallowed. ‘Your Grace. The field is yours.’

  The Emperor, his face grave, nodded.

  Father Michael closed his eyes. There was nothing more he could do. He had fought for his Emperor and had been victorious. His life had meaning. Now it was time for rest. He fell on to his left side and waited for nothingness. Yet he could still hear the words of those around him.

  ‘My champion has won. Yours is dead. Now, stand down,’ ordered the Emperor.

  ‘No, Your Grace. With respect.’ It was the female, Loras. ‘Your champion is dead and your eight Riders are not enough to best us.’

  ‘Submit now!’ shouted Grieg.

  ‘We will not!’ responded the Emperor. He heard Cadarn ordering his people to prepare to shoot.

  No. Father Michael opened his eyes, tried to push himself up, but he had no energy. All he could see was the sky and it was greying out. It was not supposed to end this way!

  ‘Then your Riders die,’ shouted Loras.

  ‘They will not!’ cried another voice, a female voice. ‘Kill them!’

  And as the world turned black he swore he heard the sound of thunder and the cries of monstrous beasts charging towards them. One of the Hells, it would seem, had finally come to claim him.

  Fat
her Michael’s Hell was not as he had imagined it. He was accepting of his fate. He had too much blood on his hands, so much that even his rebirth and service to the Living God was not enough to forgive his sins. Yet his personal damnation was a strange sensation of floating, as if on a raft, upon a gentle but unrelenting sea. And there was the sound. Not of wave but of chanting: guttural, yet melodic in its way, droning on and on. He could not feel his body, if he still possessed one. At least he could not seem to move it. It was like he was frozen. A captive on this sea. At times he experienced intense bouts of cold and heat. Of pain. If he had no body then it must be his soul that was being tormented. For much of the time he would feel nothing, as if he were asleep. Then, awareness, if only for a few moments. He felt moisture, the sensation playing about his lip; so he did still dwell in his body. And then something being poured into his mouth. Liquid, something hot. He felt it in his mouth, and something touching his throat, forcing him to swallow. What punishment was this? He gagged but kept it down. It felt good. He drifted once more. And at some point, when a kind of wakefulness took him again, it occurred to Father Michael that the experience he was having felt very familiar and – as he could now recall – it was not something that should be happening to a dead man. He tried to move his lips and found a response. He prized them open and tried to ask a question. All he could muster was a gravelly hiss. Yet it was answered. Some kind of growling response that sounded like a word, yet not one he could place. A demon?

  Moments passed. He felt pressure on his forehead.

  ‘Michael? Can you hear me? Are you in there?’

  It was a female voice.

  Ellen?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – CADE

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Cade.

  ‘By a bloody great river,’ said Issar.

  ‘And you are in charge of intelligence? Is that right?’ she asked.

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘You’re bloody useless is what you are,’ muttered Cade. The river was called the Tuul after the town that marked its entry into the seas in the north. All stuff she’d never known before she’d had to learn to study maps.

  They sat together, their backs to one of the wagon wheels. It was a warm mid-autumn day and the shade from the sun overhead was just on the comfortable side of cool. She chewed on a long blade of grass and surveyed the scene.

  Stretched out along this side of the riverbank was a riot of people and beasts. Here and there she saw a few enterprising folk get fishing rods out. Good luck with catching anything with this racket carrying on. At this point the far side was maybe a hundred yards away.

  ‘At least we get water,’ said Issar.

  ‘Not so good for getting across though, is it?’ Cade observed.

  ‘We’ll find a bridge.’

  They ought to. The maps said there was one nearby. There should be a load of them. The river marked the extent of the Empire. They cross the Tuul and they were home. Home. Now there was a notion that she had not thought of for a while. The Rookery had been home. The cavern had been home. What was home? She pushed herself up off the floor, her body no longer complaining with the effort.

  She spat out the blade of grass, following it with a gob of spit. Coming up from the south was a cloud of dust generated by a group of horses – Devlin and his staff. She waited with her arms crossed as they drew up. Devlin was in the lead, riding upright and easily. He carried an axe slung over his shoulder, and wore a mismatched set of bastardised chain and plate. The dwarves may be short in stature but that was mostly in the limbs, they were a similar fit with the size of their torsos. Those following him were similarly attired. Cade had to admit, they looked the part.

  ‘What’s the word?’ she asked.

  Devlin stalked over, a frown creasing his face.

  ‘We found the bridge. It’s a mile south of here.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘They’re coming.’

  Cade nodded. It was always going to happen, she was amazed it hadn’t happened sooner. ‘How far are they?’

  ‘Scouts say the main force is five miles out.’

  ‘Shit.’ Cade looked at the people by the river. ‘They know we’re here?’

  ‘Yes. They’re already skirmishing with our rearguard. They must know we’ll be heading for the bridge.’

  Cade rubbed her face. ‘Issar? Where are most of our people?’

  ‘North of here, Cade,’ said Issar.

  She nodded. ‘Let’s get them moving then.’

  Devlin summoned some of his riders. ‘Spread the word. Tell folk to gather their stuff and head south. No point in trying to hide it. Tell ’em the dwarves are coming.’

  ‘That might spread a panic.’

  ‘They’ll need a little of that in their legs,’ countered Devlin.

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘My fighters will try to slow them down. We’ll form a screen, hold them for as long as we can.’

  ‘Understood. Let’s go.’

  Devlin climbed on to his horse, issuing more commands.

  Cade wondered how everything could hold together before it collapsed. She had little faith in humanity as it was. Folk started to stir and move. Voices grew louder, urgent. Cade climbed on to the wagon and nodded at Evan. He nodded back, his face grim.

  ‘Hey, Issar. You coming?’

  ‘Reckon I am,’ he said, already hauling himself up next to Cade.

  ‘Come on, Krste, we’re leaving!’ Cade shouted to her bodyguard. He jogged up holding a couple of water canteens and threw them into the back. Evan set the wagon in motion and Krste swore as he fell back on to the ground. A second try got him on board as the wagon picked up the pace, joining the stream of people heading south.

  Cade swayed and rocked with the motion, watching the crowd around her. Folk were starting to get strung out as those with stronger legs forged ahead. She looked back. How far back did the stream go? If the dwarves were mounted it would be a problem. A little way ahead she spotted a woodland and figures entering the treeline. Some of Devlin’s skirmish troops, armed with bows. How close were the dwarves?

  The bridge was also in view. It was already crowded with people. Directly ahead was a dirt road leading from the woods and continuing on westwards beyond the river.

  ‘Evan. Park us up by the bridge,’ she ordered.

  Evan steered the wagon away from the crowd, wisely parking it on the southern side so as not to block the flow of panicked Tissans. Cade stood up on the driver’s seat and looked east towards the treeline. The road was not straight, and disappeared from view a little way in. There were still some of Devlin’s skirmishers on the fringes but they were pushing in. Gods Below but she had no way of knowing what was going on, or how much time they had. There was still a damnably long line of people coming south along the side of the river. It was plain that if the dwarves got here before they were all across, it would be a massacre. And then? Their pursuers could just cross over the bridge and continue the slaughter. Several supply wagons were starting to cross over, their drivers forcing their near-panicked mounts through the crowd. The bridge itself was barely wide enough to fit more than a wagon anyway, and she heard the scream of one woman who became pinned against the waist-high barriers that ran the length of the bridge. Further up she saw a man fall from the bridge into the river. She watched his struggle as the current took hold. He didn’t look like he could swim and his head quickly disappeared under the water. Emperor help them if one of those wagons broke down on the bridge. They’d be done for. She spotted Sent at the head of their supply train trundling towards the bridge. She caught his eye and waved his wagon over.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘The dwarves are somewhere beyond those woods.’

  Sent looked north and shook his head.

  ‘We’re too strung out, Cade.’

  ‘I know,’ she shouted, over the cacophony of tramping feet, crying voices and baying cattle. She shook her head. While they were blundering around all t
he dwarves had had to do was follow the roads. How else would they cross this river except by bridge? The nearest ford was fifty miles north. She looked at the bridge and then leaned over to look at its supporting beams.

  ‘We need to stop the pursuit.’

  ‘How?’ asked Sent.

  ‘We need to destroy this bridge somehow once we’re all over. It’s the only way we can buy time.’

  Sent stood up and pointed. ‘This is Tissan made. Look at the piles, early Empire. That’s quality the like of which we haven’t seen for many years.’

  ‘Can we do it?’

  He looked up at her. ‘I know what you are thinking. Even if we got a score of axes on it, it’ll take too long,’ he stopped and rubbed his head. ‘We could rip up some of the planks on top. Create a gap.’

  Cade looked back towards the wood.

  ‘We need to buy time. Sent, get across. Empty three wagons. Park them right by the bridge. And get a work crew ready, we’ll need strong arms.’

  Sent’s eyes narrowed in understanding.

  ‘We’ll do what he can.’ He clapped his driver and motioned him on to the bridge. She watched the supply wagons bully their way through the crowd who responded with angry shouts and raised fists. They’d be more pissed if that food didn’t make it across.

  ‘Evan. Get our wagon over there too. Issar, stay with him.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Issar.

  ‘I need to speak to Devlin. He’ll be where the fighting is.’

  ‘Be careful,’ he warned.

  ‘You know me.’ She jumped off the wagon and started to jog.

  ‘Hey, boss. Cade!’ She turned as Krste hurried up to join her. ‘Here.’ He handed her one of the two cocked crossbows he was carrying.

  She took hold of it and then the proffered bag of bolts.

  ‘You might need it,’ he advised.

  ‘Hope not,’ she replied.

  They pushed on, following the road of beaten, rutted earth through the wood.

  There was shouting up ahead, around a sharp bend in the road they found a number of horses, their reins held by a young dark-haired woman she didn’t recognise.