Tol nodded.
‘You should have just said that, lad. We’d have listened to the Demon Slayer.’ The knight looked him over. ‘You don’t look like I expected.’ It was a knight’s apology – not an actual apology, but about as close as a man might hope for from one of the Reve. He met Tol’s gaze without flinching. ‘Might want to say who you are next time instead of drawing on your brothers. The Reve take a dim view of that kind of behaviour.’
‘It’s been a rough day,’ Tol said, the corners of his mouth curving in a crooked grin. ‘Go, Sir Knight. We need Isallien directing our forces.’
The knight clapped Tol on the shoulder. ‘Sorry about your father, Krom was a good man.’
‘Not you two,’ Tol said as the knight’s companions made to follow. ‘I need you up there.’ He pointed to the shadowy mass of movement down the street where the noise was greatest. ‘We need to hold that line.’
‘Fight beside the Demon Slayer?’ The taller of the two men grinned. ‘That’ll be a story to tell.’
‘If we live long enough,’ Tol said. He gestured down the street. ‘Go, I’ll bring more men. We have to slow their advance until the other lines fall back to where we are.’ Tol turned away and raced off into the night, jinking down a side street towards where he had seen a group of armoured Meracian knights. Knights Reve were the greatest swordsmen in the world – excepting, perhaps, the Sworn – but Tol knew that two of them wouldn’t be able to hold off the Gurdal advance forever, and a wall of heavily armoured Meracian knights might make all the difference.
The knights were pretty much where he’d seen them from the roof, their heavy armour not allowing them to move quickly. They were easier to convince than the Reve knights, and once Tol explained the line was weakening and the battle could turn sour, the reserve patrol readily followed him – albeit at a much slower pace, their armour clanking loud enough to be heard over the background wail of battle.
This is where I belong, Tol thought as he rounded the corner of the intersection into the wide road. He slewed to a halt, almost stumbling into the back of the defensive line; in the intervening minutes, the Gurdal had pushed further forward, almost up to the crossroads from where they could spread out like cancer and strike the defenders from behind and the sides. We have to hold, Tol thought as the cacophony of clinking armour grew behind him. He drew Illis’Andiev and shouldered his way through the men, horrified as he realised the line was only a few men deep. How many have already fallen down this street? he wondered. Tol squeezed between two soldiers and raised his sword high. ‘For Galandor!’ he yelled, throwing himself forward into the melee.
31.
A sea of angry and frightened faces stretched back into the gloom as far as Tol could see. The sheer number of men pouring down the street stunned him, and for a moment he stood there open-mouthed. A spear lanced towards him, and he parried it awkwardly, feeling something snag the fabric of his tunic. The shock brought him to his senses, and he put aside the magnitude of what he faced, narrowing his attention into one tiny area in front and shutting out everything that didn’t matter; here, only the man in front of you was important, and if you forgot that you got dead real fast.
Tol lashed out with Illis’Andiev, a serpent-like thrust taking down the spearman. Before the man hit the ground another soldier was already taking his place, a thick wall of bodies bristling with steel and spears slowly edging their way through the city.
‘Hold!’ Tol yelled, deflecting aside another strike and downing his opponent with a counter-strike. He parried a blow from his left as the man next to him fell and his killer came at Tol. He was fighting two men now, Illis’Andiev moving as fast as Tol’s arms could swing. He took down one, the angel-made steel sliding through the man’s flesh like it was silk. The second fell a moment later, and Tol sensed the presence of someone else next to him, the line once again whole.
‘Hold, damn you,’ he shouted, striking down another man. He took a step forward this time, arms already tiring as he met the next opponent. Every strike took an eternity now, and Tol felt like he was wading through water as he parried and struck, parried and struck.
He caught glimpses of heavy armour around him, and knew the Meracian knights had arrived at the front line. Another man fell to Illis’Andiev, and Tol felt the rest of the line push up to join him. He lunged forwards, the tip of Illis’Andiev slicing a Gurdal throat, and Tol brought his back foot forwards, inch by inch gaining ground on the Gurdal. He had no time to look about him, but he sensed the line move with him, slowly forcing the fight away from the crossroads.
He had no time to see who guarded his flanks – the press of Gurdal attackers was relentless – but he caught glimpses of their swordplay, and through this he slowly became aware of the skills of his comrades. To his left, a heavy broadsword weaved in languorous, deadly strokes, its weight bringing added speed to every downward strike. Sometimes Tol caught a glimpse of a mailed fist wrapped about the hilt, and he knew that one of the heavily armoured Meracians stood beside him. To his right, a plain, unadorned blade moved in the most economical fashion he had ever seen. Tol felt secure with an experienced sword-arm next to him, a veteran who knew that flowery flourishes had no place in such cramped confines and wasn’t ashamed to simply do what needed to be done – no fuss, no style, just raw practicality. A true master, Tol realised, as the sword moved ceaselessly, never sticking to a recognisable pattern, and constantly shifting its rhythm like a drunkard’s warbled tune.
Tol struck another man down, realising as the ache in his arms deepened with every swing of his sword that the owner of the plain sword had the right of it: conserve energy and stick to simplicity. Another man fell to Illis’Andiev, but Tol couldn’t move forward for all the broken bodies lying at his feet. We hold here, he told himself, knowing that soon enough even that would not be possible; either the line would buckle and retreat or he – like so many men on both sides – would fall to a man less tired or more skilled.
Tol duplicated the style of the man on his right, no longer trying to feint or off-balance the Gurdal, but instead defending their attacks and using each as a springboard to strike back. Again and again Gurdal fell in the howling maelstrom that was the centre of the road, but they still kept coming. The sword moving to Tol’s right showed no sign of slowing, its measured – if erratic – pace never diminishing. Always, its owner knew where the sword belonged, and always it arrived with perfect timing. It was – even in the midst of a pitched battle – a breathless display of savage perfection that Tol felt matched his own brief moment at Siadendre’s gates. And I had an angel’s sword whispering in my mind. This man bore only a plain sword, and the skill was entirely his own – not borrowed from a sentient weapon. I stand beside the Reve’s best. Tol flicked another strike aside, launching Illis’Andiev into his attacker’s torso before he could recover. And if this man beside me isn’t one of the Reve, he really should be.
Screams were sounding to the left and right, at the edges of the line. Plenty, Tol knew, belonged to dying Gurdal but at least some came from the men who stood alongside him. Inch by bloody inch the line was retreating under the weight of Gurdal numbers as tired men faced fresh attackers. Tol saw fear etched on many faces, sure his own looked no different, but with more Gurdal piling down the street there was no escape for them as they reached the defensive line.
Tol retreated another pace as the Gurdal pressed forward, and sensed the whole line shift with him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the men in front of him, but he had no idea whether there were soldiers behind him or whether this was the last knot of men. In the end, it made no difference: he would stand alongside them until his legs gave out or a Gurdal spear broke through his defence. All that lives, dies, the Sudalrese were fond of saying. It seemed as good a motto as any.
Another Gurdal fell to Illis’Andiev though it was a close-run thing as Tol’s arms burned like a Havakkian hearth in mid-winter, each swing, each stroke stoking the fires to the point where each swin
g of his sword brought a torturer’s pain; exquisite and peerless. The men beside him still stood, though the knight to his left was slowing and Tol heard the occasional grunt – accompanied by a steel thunk – as more and more blows passed his defence and struck the knight’s armour.
The knight retreated a pace under the weight of a thrust spear, and Tol found himself stepping back alongside him, somehow sparing a brief eternity from his own combat to sever the spear at the haft. It wasn’t much, he knew, but it might buy the knight enough time to right himself and retaliate.
Tol parried a strike coming at his chest, but the force jarred him and one foot slid backwards in the dirt. He felt it happen, knowing as the foot lost traction that something – or part of someone – was underfoot. He was powerless to stop it, the bulk of his weight on that foot as it slid uncontrollably and took his balance with it. He tumbled backwards, seeing his opponent blink – the surprised smile of a man who couldn’t believe his luck just beginning to form on his lips – and Tol landed hard, his breath whooshing out. It seemed to take the last of his energy with it, and his arms stubbornly refused to move as the Gurdal loomed over him. His mind went blank; no last words, nor thoughts, just a sudden, hollow feeling of despair that was destined to pass in short order.
The plain sword to his right – wielded by a shadowy figure in the dark – moved impossibly fast. A sideways slash opened the throat of the man the wielder duelled, and Tol saw a flash of movement as a hand fled the sword hilt and appeared back in Tol’s periphery a moment later.
The Gurdal in front of Tol was moving now, stepping forward with his sword a hair’s breadth from descending in the last moment of Tol’s life. Tol drew in a breath and tried again to rise, his eyes on the Gurdal. The man staggered and Tol saw a dagger’s hilt buried in his throat. The man clawed at his throat as a shadow to Tol’s right retreated and the hand which had thrown the dagger grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
‘Idiot,’ Tol heard someone mutter as he was pulled back, passing between the precious few bodies left in the line. He saw, as he was dragged through the dust, the line had fallen back to the mouth of the crossroads. He glimpsed feet – some armoured, some worryingly naked of protection – in both intersections, and realised that reinforcements had arrived. He must have found Isallien, Tol thought.
Someone dropped a sword next to him, and hauled Tol upright, his back resting against a sandpaper wall.
‘Idiot.’
Tol looked up and laughed. Standing over him was the unmistakable bedraggled figure of Kartane. It was him, he realised. He was the master fighting next to me. ‘You were amazing,’ he managed to say between breathless laughs.
Kartane scowled, and an expression appeared on his face that Tol didn’t recognise. He looked almost bashful, as if nobody had ever complimented him.
‘And you, you idiot boy, are supposed to be up on the rooftops killing demons,’ Kartane said. ‘Or did you think we don’t really need our archers?’ He flopped down into the dirt beside Tol and sighed. ‘I need a drink,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible over the clash of steel not thirty yards away.
Tol struggled to get his breath back. His arms and legs still burned, the wound in his side hurt with every breath and as he laid Illis’Andiev gently in the dirt he realised his hands were shaking. ‘I killed it,’ Tol said once he’d got his breathing under control. The darkness, he decided, just made the sounds of battle worse.
‘There were two of them in Meracia,’ Kartane said. ‘You really think they only brought one here, when there’s so much at stake?’
Tol cursed under his breath. ‘I followed the archers but I saw the defenders in this street were falling back quicker than the rest of the city.’ Tol hit his thigh, but it didn’t bring any sensation back to his numb limbs. ‘I sent a knight to get Isallien up there and rounded up some men to shore up the defensive line.’ He glared at Kartane, aware he was justifying himself to Kartane like a child might to a parent. ‘I had to do something else the city would already be lost.’
Kartane looked at him for a moment, carefully searching Tol’s eyes, then finally grunted as though he had decided to accept Tol’s excuse. ‘Isallien was a good idea,’ Kartane conceded. ‘He’s a smart, sneaky bugger, that one.’ He took a deep, fortifying breath, and began the laborious process of getting to his feet. ‘You still need to be up there where the men can see you,’ Kartane said. ‘There might be more demons and there’s no way you’ll hear them down here in the melee, is there?’
‘I guess not,’ Tol admitted as Kartane held out an arm and hauled Tol to his feet.
‘It’d be pretty bloody not funny if we lost you to a stray spear just before a horde of demons arrived. If your angel don’t turn up, then you – idiot boy that you are – are the only thing we’ve got that can stop them.’
‘I get it!’ Tol snapped.
Kartane nodded, a grin creasing his mouth. ‘Break’s over, lad. Get yourself somewhere where you can do good as something other than a pincushion.’
Tol picked up his sword and clasped Kartane’s arm. ‘I’ve never seen anyone fight as well as you did back there.’
He held his breath as Kartane’s face clouded over in anger. Here it comes, Tol thought.
Kartane fingered a slim tear in the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Fuckers ruined my shirt,’ he growled. ‘I’ve had this shirt since Westreach.’ He looked down at the hole, a small stain of blood holding the fabric to his arm. ‘Perfectly good shirt.’
‘Thanks for saving me,’ Tol said. ‘Again,’ he added.
‘Don’t die,’ Kartane told him curtly, turning on his heel back towards the defensive line.
‘You stay alive, too,’ Tol shouted after him as he watched Kartane’s sweat-soaked back weave its way between the soldiers to the fighting. Tol sighed, and set about finding a way up to the rooftops.
Please, he thought, no more demons. Not today.
32.
Tol hauled himself over the edge of the roof, and came face to face with a long knife, its tip less than a foot away and moving in entirely the wrong direction. It was that kind of night.
‘Idiot,’ the archer muttered, pulling the thrust short and favouring Tol with a scowl that would have made Stetch proud. ‘You’ll get yourself killed, sneaking up on us like that.’
The archer held out a hand and helped him to his feet. Tol recognised the man as one of those he had accompanied earlier in the wake of the demon’s death. Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘You were right,’ Tol said as he dusted himself off. ‘It’s chaos down there.’
The archer grunted. ‘Won’t be much better up here once the Gurdal start climbing.’
Let’s hope they don’t figure that out, Tol thought. He wasn’t overly hopeful though, it was turning into that kind of night where everything that could go wrong happened at precisely the worst possible moment.
‘Post a couple of men to keep watch,’ he suggested. ‘Kick them off the walls before they’re clear.’
The archer stared at Tol like he was stupid. ‘Why do you think I nearly stabbed you?’
Before Tol could answer, a scream tore through the night. Up here on the rooftops, the clamour of battle was reduced to a muted din, but he heard the scream as clear as a church bell pealing for mass. Where there’s one, Tol thought, just as another scream followed the first, this one ending abruptly as though the voice was suddenly silenced. Another followed, a different voice this time, and Tol scanned the night-clad rooftops. Shadows moved here and there, marking the positions of archers, but Tol tried to pinpoint the noise. Several rooftops away he could see shapes moving too quickly for archers at work. In among them, a rough, misshapen outline danced a ragged jig and Tol knew that the Gurdal had brought more than a single demon. Definitely that kind of night, he thought.
He hadn’t realised he was already marching across the roof until the archer who had nearly skewered him grabbed him by the arm. ‘You were lucky once,’ the archer said,
‘but by the state of you I don’t think you’ll survive another one.’
His eyes were wide, the whites shining in the amber moonlight. Tol knew the archer had guessed exactly what was producing those noises. He tried to smile, but felt it come out more as a grimace. ‘You want to take this one?’ The archer let go, and Tol hurried across the roof, each step reminding him of every hurt he had taken.
Damn me, he thought, he’s probably right. Tol ran lightly across a plank to the next roof. Who else is there, though? Kalashadria had not come, and Tol knew it would take her precious minutes to arrive, even if he called her right now. And in those minutes, many men will die. He stopped at the edge of the roof. There were no more planks connecting to other roofs now, and there was a seven-foot gap to his left that separated him from the slaughter taking place. Life seems to be a series of events where there is but a single choice. He started walking backwards, taking a good dozen steps away from the edge. And that choice is never a good one. Tol sighed and forced his legs to move, building up speed as he ran across the roof. The edge was looming closer and closer, but he couldn’t seem to make himself run any faster. I’m not going to make it! It was too late to turn aside now though, so Tol forced a final surge of speed and hurled himself off the roof, over the street and towards the next roof.
Oh, shi—
Breath and thought whooshed out of Tol as his chest hit the edge of the roof. He clawed with his arms, trying to find purchase on the crumbling stone as his body slowly slid down the wall. He ended up with his chin poking over the lip of the roof, arms splayed out wide. His downward slide stopped, toes scraping uselessly against the wall below.
Why do I always seem to fall off things? Tol wondered as he slowly, painstakingly pulled himself upward. Inch by inch he hauled his body over the edge, sure that the archers across the street were having a good laugh at his expense as he paused halfway, rump and legs dangling over the edge. Laugh it up, he thought, taking a few breaths to build his strength. There’s little else to laugh about this night.
Angel's Knight (Angelwar Book 3) Page 22
