Guy shouted, ‘Archers, there’s your target!’ and a storm of arrows descended about the broad-shouldered moredhel. With a scream the horse was down and the rider fell and rolled. He leaped to his feet, unharmed, and pointed toward the keep doors. A dozen goblins and moredhel raced forward, to die under bow fire. Most bowmen concentrated upon the moredhel leader, but none could harm him. The arrows would harmlessly strike some invisible barrier and bounce off.
Then a ram was carried forward, and while dozens of invaders died, it at last reached the doors and was brought to bear. Moredhel archers kept the defenders down, while the rhythmic pounding began.
Guy sat with his back to the stones, as flight after flight of moredhel arrows sped overhead. ‘Squire,’ he said to Jimmy, ‘hurry downstairs and see if de la Troville has his company together. Order him to be ready at the inner door. I think we have less than ten minutes before they’re inside.’ Jimmy hurried off, and Guy said to Amos, ‘Well, you pirate … it looks like we gave them a good run.’
Hunkering down beside Guy, Amos nodded. ‘The best. All things considered, we did all right. A little more luck here or there, and we’d have had his guts on a stick.’ Amos sighed. ‘Still, there’s no use dwelling on the past, I always say. Come along, let’s go bleed some of those miserable land rats.’ He leaped to his feet and grabbed the throat of a goblin who had just cleared the wall. The creature had not seen any defenders, and suddenly there was Amos, seizing him by the throat. With a jerk he crushed the creature’s windpipe, and cast him back down the ladder, dislodging three more who were right behind him. Amos pushed the ladder away as Guy slashed with his sword at another who climbed through a crenel beside Amos.
Amos stiffened and gasped and, looking down, discovered an arrow in his side. ‘Damn me!’ he said, apparently astonished by the fact. Then a goblin breasted the wall, and struck out with his sword, the impact nearly spinning Amos around. The former sea captain’s knees buckled, and he fell hard to the stones. Guy cut the goblin’s head from his shoulders with a savage blow.
He knelt next to Amos and said, ‘I’ve told you to keep your damn head down.’
Amos smiled up at him. ‘Next time I’ll listen,’ he said weakly, then his eyes closed.
Guy whirled as another goblin came over the wall, and with an upward thrust he gutted the creature. The Protector of Armengar, former Duke of Bas-Tyra, slashed right and left, bringing death to any goblin, troll, or moredhel who came close to him. But the outer wall of the keep was breached, and more invaders swarmed over, and Guy saw himself being slowly surrounded. Others on the wall heard the call for retreat and hurried down the stairs to stand within the great hall, but Guy stood over his fallen friend with sword ready, not moving.
Murmandamus walked over the bodies of his own soldiers, ignoring the cries of the dying and wounded around him. He entered the barbican of the keep, passing the shattered outer doors. With a curt motion of his hand he ordered his soldiers forward with the ram to begin the assault upon the inner door. He moved to one side while they began beating on the door, their comrades seeking to rid the walls of Sethanon archers. For an instant all within the killing ground of the barbican were intent upon the splintering door, and Murmandamus stepped back into the shadows, silently laughing at the folly of other creatures. With each death he had gained power and now he was ready.
A moredhel chieftain ran into the killing ground seeking his master. He brought word of the battle in the city. Fighting over spoils had broken out between two rival clans, and while they had been distracted, a pocket of defenders had escaped certain annihilation. The master’s presence was required to keep order. He grabbed one of his underlings and asked Murmandamus’s whereabouts. The goblin pointed, and the chieftain shoved the creature away, for the dark corner he indicated was empty. The goblin ran forward to work upon the ram, for another soldier had fallen to arrows from above, while the moredhel chieftain continued to look for his master. He asked about, and all said that Murmandamus had vanished. Cursing all omens, prophecies, and heralds of destruction, the chieftain hurried back toward the section of the city where his own clan battled. New orders were about to be given.
Pug heard Macros’s words in his mind. They are trying to break through.
Pug and Macros’s minds were linked, with a rapport beyond anything Pug had experienced in his life. He knew the sorcerer, he understood him, he was one with Macros. He remembered things from the sorcerer’s long history, foreign lands with alien people, histories of worlds far distant, all was his. And so was the knowledge.
With his mystic eye, he could ‘see’ the place they would attempt to enter. It existed between their physical world and the place where Tomas waited, a seam between one time frame and another. And something like sound was building, something that he could not hear but could feel. A pressure was rising, as those who sought to enter this world began their final assault.
Arutha tensed. One moment he had been watching Pug and Macros standing like statues, then suddenly another moved in the vast hall. From out of the shadows came the giant moredhel, his face a thing of beauty and horror as he removed his black dragon helm from his sweating brow. Bare of armour, his chest revealed the dragon birthmark of his heritage, and in his hand he held a black sword. He fixed his eyes upon Macros and Pug and moved toward them.
Arutha stepped out from behind a pillar, standing between Murmandamus and the two motionless mages. He held his sword at the ready. ‘Now, baby killer, you have your chance,’ he said.
Murmandamus faltered, his eyes growing wide. ‘How –’ Then he grinned. ‘I thank the fates, Lord of the West. You are now mine.’ He pointed his finger and a silver bolt of energy shot forward, but it was warped to strike the blade of Arutha’s sword, where it danced like incandescent fire, pulsing with white-hot fury. Arutha flicked his wrist and the point of the blade touched the stone floor. The fire winked out.
The moredhel’s eyes again widened, and with a shriek of rage he leaped toward Arutha. ‘I will not be denied!’
Arutha narrowly avoided a blow of stunning savagery, which caused blue sparks to leap when the black blade struck the stones. But as he moved back, his own sword flicked out and he cut the moredhel upon the arm. Murmandamus shrieked as if some grave injury had been done, and staggered back a moment. He righted himself as Arutha followed the blow with another, and was able to parry the Prince’s second thrust. With a look of madness, Murmandamus clutched the wound, then regarded the crimson wetness upon his palm. The moredhel said, ‘It is not possible!’
With catlike quickness Arutha lashed out, and another cut appeared upon the moredhel, this one across his bare chest. Arutha smiled a smile without humour, one as savage as the moredhel’s had been. ‘It is possible, scion of madness,’ he said with studied purpose. ‘I am the Lord of the West. I am the Bane of Darkness. I am your destruction, slave of the Valheru.’
Murmandamus roared in rage, the sound of a vanished age of insanity returning into the world, and launched his attack. Arutha stood his ground and they began to duel in earnest.
Pug.
I know.
They moved in concert, weaving a pattern of power, erecting a lattice of energies against the intruder. It was not so mighty a work as that used to close off the great rift at the time of the golden bridge, but then this rift hadn’t been opened yet. But there was pressure and they were being tested.
The pounding on the door continued as the wood began to splinter. Then came the sound of distant thunder, growing louder. The pounding on the door halted for a moment, then resumed. Twice more the booming sounded, as if coming closer, as the sounds of fighting seemed to be increasing. Then from outside came unexpected cries, and the pounding of the ram on the door ceased. Then an explosion rocked the hall. Jimmy leaped forward. He pulled aside the slide that covered the peephole, then yelled back at de la Troville, ‘Open this door!’
The commander of the company signed his men forward as the sounds of fighting reached his
ears, and it took the strength of most of the men to move the half-detached door. Then they heaved and it opened and de la Troville and Jimmy raced through. Before them men in brightly coloured armour ran through the streets, battling moredhel and goblins on every hand. Jimmy shouted, ‘Tsurani! By damn, it’s an army of Tsurani!’
‘Can it really be?’ said de la Troville.
‘I’ve heard enough stories from Duke Laurie to know what they’re supposed to look like. Little fellows, but tough, all in bright coloured armour.’
A squad of goblins turned before the keep retreating from a larger company of Tsurani, and de la Troville led his own men out, taking them in the rear. Jimmy hurried past, and heard another loud explosion. Down a broad avenue he could see a black-robed magician standing before a smoking pile of barrels and an overturned wagon that had been used as a breastwork. The magician began conjuring. Within a moment there flowed from his hands a heavy rolling ball of energy which struck some target beyond Jimmy’s line of sight, exploding in the distance.
Then a company of horsemen came galloping into view, and Jimmy recognized the banner of Landreth. Riding alongside came Kulgan, Meecham, and two black-robed magicians. They reined in and Kulgan left his mount, nimbly for one so stout. He approached Jimmy, who said, ‘Kulgan! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life, I think.’
‘Have we arrived in time?’ asked Hochopepa. Jimmy had never met the black-robed man, but, given his arrival with Kulgan, Jimmy assumed he had some authority. ‘I don’t know. Arutha vanished some hours ago with Pug, Macros, Tomas, and a dragon, if you can believe Galain’s report to du Bas-Tyra. Guy and Amos Trask are around here somewhere.’ He pointed toward some fighting in the distance and said, ‘Du Masigny and the others are over there somewhere, I think.’ He looked around, his eyes wide with terror and exhaustion. His voice began to sound thick with emotions held too long in check, rising with a near-frantic note. ‘I don’t know who’s left alive.’
Kulgan put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, realizing the boy was close to collapse. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. Looking at Hochopepa and Elgahar, he said, ‘You’d better look inside. I don’t think this battle is truly over yet.’
Jimmy said, ‘Where are all the Dark Brothers? There were thousands around here only a … few minutes ago?’
Kulgan led the boy away, while the two black-robed magicians ordered a squad of Tsurani soldiers to accompany them into the keep, where the sounds of fighting could still be heard. To Jimmy, the green-robed magician said, ‘Ten magicians of the Assembly came to join us, and the Emperor sent part of his army, so much did they fear the appearance of the Enemy upon this world. We created a gate between the portal on Stardock and a place less than a mile from the city, but out of sight of Murmandamus’s army. We marched three thousand Tsurani here along with the fifteen hundred horse from Landreth and Shamata, and more are coming.’
Jimmy sat. ‘Three thousand? Fifteen hundred? They ran from that?’
Kulgan sat next to him. ‘And the Black Robes, whose magic they cannot oppose. And the news that Martin is upon the plain with the army from Yabon, four thousand strong, less than an hour away to the northwest. And I’m sure their scouts saw the dust from the southwest, where the soldiers from Darkmoor are marching beside those from Malac’s Cross, followed by Gardan’s regiments from Krondor. And all can see the banners of Northwarden to the northeast, and in the east the King comes with his army, one or two days away at most. They are surrounded, Jimmy, and they know it.’ Kulgan’s voice turned thoughtful. ‘And something had already disturbed them, for even as we approached we saw bands of Dark Brothers quitting the city, fleeing for the Dimwood. At least three or four thousand seemed to have already abandoned the attack. And many of those between the gate and here were not organized, and some even seemed to be falling out among themselves, with one band fighting another. Something has happened to blunt the attack at the moment of victory.’
Then into view came a detachment of Keshian dog soldiers, running rapidly toward the sound of battle. Jimmy looked at the magician and began to laugh as tears started to run down his cheeks. ‘I guess that means Hazara-Khan’s come to play, too?’
Kulgan smiled. ‘He happened to be camped near Shamata. He claims it was coincidence he was having dinner with the governor of Shamata when Katala’s message to come to Stardock with the garrison arrived. And of course the facts that he convinced the governor to let him bring along some observers and that his people were ready to march within an hour are also coincidence.’
‘How many observers?’
‘Five hundred, all armed to the teeth.’
‘Arutha’s going to die an unhappy man if he can’t get Abdur to admit there is an Imperial Intelligence Corps.’
Kulgan said, ‘But what I can’t fathom is how does he know what’s going on at Stardock?’
Jimmy laughed a genuinely amused laugh. He sniffed as his nose began to run and smiled. ‘You must be joking. Half your magicians are Keshian.’ He sighed and sat back. ‘But there must be more to it, mustn’t there?’ He closed his eyes, and tears of fatigue again ran down his face.
Kulgan said, ‘We still haven’t found Murmandamus.’ Kulgan looked to where more Tsurani soldiers ran down the street. ‘Until we do, it’s not over.’
Arutha ducked a savage slashing backhand blow and thrust in return, but the moredhel jumped backward. Arutha’s breath came with difficulty, for this was the most cunning and dangerous opponent he had ever faced. He was incredibly strong and only slightly slower than Arutha. Murmandamus bled from a half-dozen minor wounds, cuts which would have weakened a normal opponent, but which seemed to bother him only a little. Arutha gained no advantage, for the battle and this duel were bringing him to the edge of exhaustion. It took all the Prince’s skills and speed to stay alive. He had a limit on his ability to fight, for he had to keep himself between Murmandamus and the two sorcerers, who laboured over some mystic duty. The moredhel had no such concern.
The duel had fallen into a rhythm, each swordsman taking the measure of the other. Now they moved almost in lockstep, each thrust answered with a parry, each riposte with a disengage. Sweat poured off each and made hands slippery, and the only sounds heard were the grunts of exertion. The fight was coming to the stage where the first to make a mistake would be the one to die.
Then a shimmering filled the air to the left, and for an instant Arutha glanced away, only catching himself at the last. But Murmandamus didn’t remove his eyes from his opponent and seized the moment, levelling a blow that skidded along the Prince’s ribs. Arutha gasped in pain.
The moredhel drew back to slash at Arutha’s head, and as his hand came forward, it was brought crashing against an invisible barrier. The moredhel’s eyes widened as Arutha staggered upright and thrust, skewering Murmandamus through the stomach. The moredhel howled in a dull ululation, staggered, then fell backward, pulling Arutha’s sword from weakened fingers.
Arutha slumped to the floor as two black-garbed men ran forward to grip him. They hovered over the Prince. Arutha’s vision clouded and cleared, focused and unfocused, until the room was stable again. He saw Murmandamus smile, as the moredhel spoke in a menacing whisper. ‘I am a thing of death, Lord of the West. I am ever the servant of Darkness.’ He laughed weakly and blood flowed down his chin, to drip upon the dragon birthmark. ‘I am not what I seem. In my death you accomplish your destruction.’ He closed his eyes and fell back, his death rattle filling the room. The two men in black looked on as from Murmandamus’s body a strange keening sound came. The figure on the stones puffed up, seeming to swell as if suddenly inflated. Like an overripe pod, from forehead to crotch, Murmandamus’s body ripped, revealing an inner body of green scales. Thick black liquid and red blood, with clots of meat and gouts of white pus, were spewn about the room as the green-scaled body seemed to burst from within the husk that was Murmandamus, flopping on the floor like a freshly landed fish. In this terrible convulsion a leaping flame of bright r
ed appeared, evil and filling the hall with a stench of ages of decay. Then the flame vanished and the universe opened around them.
Macros and Pug staggered where they stood, each somehow aware of a change in the fighting nearby. All their attentions were focused upon the place between the universes where the aborning rift was beginning. Each time a thrust came from the other universe, they answered with a patch of energy. The battle had reached its peak a moment before, and now the thrusts were weakening. But still there was danger, for Pug and Macros were also exhausted. It would require the utmost concentration to keep the rift between universes from opening. Then pain exploded in their minds as a silver note, a shrieking whistle, sounded a signal. From another quarter a different, unexpected attack came, and Pug could not answer. A thing of captured lives, taken in terrible death and held against this moment came flowing toward the rift, dancing like a mad and stinking red flame. It struck the barriers Pug had erected and shattered them. It tore open the rift and somehow moved between Pug’s perceptions and the place where the battle raged, obscuring his sense of what occurred there. Pug felt slightly dazed. Then a warning cry from Macros refocused his attention on the rift, which now stood open. Pug worked frantically, and from some deep hidden reservoir of strength he drew forth the energy to grip the shredding fabric that held the universes apart. The rift closed violently. Again came the thrust, and again Pug barely held, but he held. Then from Macros came the warning, Something got through.
Something has come through, came the warning from Ryath.
Tomas leaped down from the dragon’s back and waited behind the Lifestone. A darkness grew within the hall, vast and powerful, a thing of nightmare taking form. Then it stood forth. It was ebon, without feature and definition, a being of hopelessness, and it was aware. Its outline hinted at a man shape, but it bulked nearly as large as Ryath. Its shadow wings spread, casting gloom about the hall like a palpable black light, and about its head, like a crown, burned a circle of flames, angry red-orange and seeming to cast no illumination.
The Riftwar Saga Page 175
