“It has scented the child,” said Skilgannon.
Hefting his ax, Druss ran through the doorway. Skilgannon swung to Diagoras. “Hold the doors for as long as you can.”
“Rely on it,” said the Drenai, drawing his saber and a razor-edged hunting knife. Then Skilgannon followed Druss into the building. There were two sets of stairs. Druss was climbing those on the right. Skilgannon took the left.
Diagoras moved back into the doorway, scanning the buildings and alleyways that led out past the warehouses toward the tavern. Jared and Nian stepped alongside him, longswords in their hands. Garianne remained on the rampart steps, some thirty feet away, her double-crossbow in her hands. The howling of the Joining came from above, followed by screams.
No soldiers had emerged from the tavern. This astonished Diagoras. When Druss had said he was going in to talk to them he had been incredulous. “Are you mad? They’ll come down on you like rabid wolves.”
“Probably not,” was all Druss had said.
Diagoras had waited with Skilgannon. “You agree with this insanity?” he asked the Naashanite.
“It has a good chance of working. Picture it yourself. You are having a meal and in walks the enemy. He has absolutely no fear of you. We expect fear from our enemies in certain situations. Where he is outnumbered, for example. Or trapped. By contrast there are places where our own fear is much less. Like inside our own fortress. Now, you have a single warrior, striding in, hugely outnumbered and yet fearless. It will give them pause for thought. Bear in mind also that their morale is low.”
“So, you think he will just tell them to leave and they’ll do it?” asked Diagoras.
Skilgannon thought about the question. “I’d say he might have to kill a few. The rest will not interfere.”
Diagoras shook his head. “You are a different breed, you two,” he said.
Now, as he stood in the shadows of the entrance, he began to feel more relaxed. Druss and Skilgannon were inside the citadel, and his own role seemed far less perilous. No soldiers were attacking him. No flashing blades, no piercing of his flesh. Jared obviously had the same thought. He grinned at Diagoras. “So far, so good,” he said.
Diagoras was about to reply, when Garianne suddenly waved at them, and pointed out beyond the gates.
That was when Diagoras heard the pounding of hooves. The first of the twenty riders galloped through the gates. He pitched from his saddle, a crossbow bolt through his neck. His horse reared. A second bolt thudded into a man’s chest. Then Garianne was running along the ramparts above them.
A group of riders saw Diagoras and the twins, and spurred their mounts forward.
The Drenai officer swore—and hefted his saber.
Other Naashanites jumped down from their mounts and ran up the rampart steps toward Garianne, who was reloading her crossbow. Diagoras backed up the steps to the citadel doors. A horseman galloped at him. Diagoras ducked under the mount’s neck, plunging his saber into the rider’s unprotected left side. The man fell back. The horse reared, dumping him from the saddle.
Jared and Nian charged into the milling horsemen.
On the ramparts Garianne shot the first man running at her, then turned and sprinted toward the roof of the gate. Several of the riders at the rear of the group lifted bows from their saddles. An arrow slashed past Diagoras. Other riders had dismounted and were running toward the citadel. Diagoras leapt to meet them. Garianne scrambled up to the gate roof, then turned and shot a man through the head. Two others were climbing toward her. Running forward she kicked the first in the head, hurling him back to the ramparts. The second lashed out with his sword. The blade twisted in the man’s hand, the flat of the steel thudding against Garianne’s ankle. She fell heavily. The man grabbed at her. Savagely she struck him in the face with her bow. Losing his grip he slipped back to the ramparts.
Diagoras had three men attacking him, and was backing away, parrying furiously. Nian raced to his aid, his longsword cleaving through the back of a Naashanite’s neck. Seeing his chance to attack, Diagoras leapt in. His saber glanced from a breastplate, but his hunting knife plunged home between collarbone and neck. A sword slashed across his shoulder. With a grunt of pain, Diagoras let go of the hunting knife and spun to meet this fresh attack. Blocking a second wild cut he twisted his wrist, sending his own blade in a deadly riposte that opened his attacker’s throat.
Horses were screaming and rearing, and the cries of wounded men filled the air. Diagoras was under attack again. A blade tore into his side. Diagoras stumbled. Before the death blow could be struck the Naashanite grunted and staggered back, twisting as he fell. Diagoras saw a crossbow bolt in his back.
Now the Naashanite archers turned on Garianne. Shafts struck the rampart wall close to where she was crouched. Rising she coolly shot a rider from the saddle, then ran along the wall.
Diagoras forced himself to his feet. He felt light-headed. He saw Jared go down, a lance through his back. Then Nian hacked the lancer from his saddle and, dropping his sword, ran to his brother. Diagoras charged across toward them, slashing his sword across the face of one man and plunging the blade through the chest of another. Nian hauled Jared to his feet. “Pick up your sword!” he heard Jared yell. Nian ran back toward the weapon. A black arrow materialized in his back. He stumbled and fell. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword and he half rose. Another arrow slammed into him. With a roar of pain Nian gained his feet. Turning he ran at the archer on the horse. The man tried to loose another shaft, but his mount reared. Then Nian was upon him. The longsword clove through the man’s side. As he fell from the saddle Nian brought the sword down on his skull. Jared was facing two men. He no longer had the strength to hold them back. One ran in. Jared weakly lashed his blade at the man. The blow was blocked. The second dove in, plunging a long dagger into Jared’s belly. Nian, seeing his brother’s plight, screamed at the top of his voice. He charged the men, who fell back. Instead of chasing them, Nian dropped his sword once more and knelt beside his fallen brother. He kept shouting his name, over and over.
Diagoras could see Jared was dead. The two men Nian had attacked rushed in. One stabbed Nian in the neck, the other slashed his sword down onto Nian’s skull. Diagoras charged them. One tried to defend himself, and died with Diagoras’s saber through his neck. The other backed away, and was joined by four others. They advanced on Diagoras.
“Come on then!” yelled the Drenai. “Which of you whoresons wants to die first?”
They stood for a moment, swords ready. Then, as one, they backed away a few steps, before turning and running back toward the tavern. Diagoras blinked sweat from his eyes, trying to make sense of their flight.
Then he heard sounds behind him. Slowly he turned.
A large group of heavily armored horsemen were sitting their mounts. Their armor was black, their helms full-faced, with high horsehair plumes. Each man carried a lance, and a sword, and a small round shield, bearing the sign of the spotted snake.
The line of horsemen parted and a woman rode in. Diagoras found his pain forgotten as he gazed on her. Her hair was raven dark and held back in a single braid, through which silver wire had been entwined. She wore a white, flowing cloak, and silver chain mail. Her legs were bare above knee-length riding boots of black leather, embossed with silver. Lightly she leapt to the ground and approached Diagoras.
Stupidly he tried to bow, but his legs gave way. Stepping in she caught him.
“If this is a dream,” he said, “I never want to wake.”
“Where is Skilgannon?” she asked.
Skilgannon stepped across the bodies of the two soldiers and moved forward warily. There were a number of doors on the landing, all of them open. Coming to the first room he stood outside, listening. Hearing nothing he took a deep breath and stepped quickly through the doorway. The first man rushed at him from across the room, sword raised. In that moment Skilgannon heard a whisper of movement from behind. Dropping to one knee he reversed the Sword of
Day, ramming it backward. The curved blade sliced up through the attacker’s belly and clove his heart. The Sword of Night slashed out, half severing the leg of the second attacker. The man screamed and pitched to the floor. Another soldier loomed in the doorway, holding a crossbow. Skilgannon rolled to his right as the string twanged. The bolt ripped into the carpeted floor. Rising swiftly Skilgannon leapt at the crossbowman, who dropped his weapon and ran for his life. Out on the landing several more soldiers had arrived. Skilgannon tore into them, spinning and leaping, his blades flashing. Blood-spattered, he ran on to the second staircase.
The howling of the Joining had ceased now, and Skilgannon guessed it had been cut down.
He ran up the stairs. Another crossbow bolt hissed by his head. Two swordsmen blocked his path. They died. The crossbowman tried another shot. Skilgannon dived forward, rolled on his shoulder, and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. The crossbowman grunted as the Sword of Day plunged into his heart.
A long corridor connected the third landing to the stairs Druss had taken. Skilgannon could hear the sounds of battle. Taking no time to check the rooms as he passed, he sprinted along the corridor. He came to two open double doors, leading to a large dining area. Druss was battling furiously against a dozen opponents. Several bodies were already sprawled on the timber floor. The survivors were seeking to circle him, but the axman spun and whirled, the huge ax glinting in the lantern light. Blood flowed from a cut on Druss’s face, and his jerkin had been slashed in several places. His leggings, too, were damp with blood. A soldier more daring than the rest darted in. His head bounced to the floor, a gush of blood pumping from his severed neck.
Skilgannon ran to Druss’s aid. Seeing this new enemy, the soldiers tried to re-form. Two went down swiftly under the slashing Swords of Night and Day. Another died, his spine smashed to shards by Druss’s ax. The remaining men broke and ran toward the double doors.
Skilgannon stepped in toward Druss. “How badly are you hurt?” he asked.
“Hurt?” responded Druss. “Pah! Scratches only.” He was breathing hard and once more looked weary and gray in the face. Only days ago he had been close to death. Skilgannon looked at him and shook his head. “Don’t be concerned about me, laddie,” said Druss. “I can still climb the mountain.”
“I don’t doubt it, axman.”
“Then let’s find Boranius.”
Druss hefted his ax once more, but Skilgannon paused. “The child will be with him, Druss,” he said.
“I know.”
“He will seek to make you suffer. It is likely he will kill her in front of you.”
“I know that too.” The old man’s eyes were cold now, like polished steel. “Let’s find the whoreson and finish this.”
Together the two warriors headed for the final staircase.
21
* * *
In the Roof Hall Morcha waited with five swordsmen. Boranius, bare-chested, and wearing his ornate mask of black iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair, the catatonic child Elanin in his lap. There was blood on Boranius’s chest, seeping from the four talon marks that scored his skin from shoulder to belly. The huge gray Joining lay on the floor before him, its own body pierced by a score of wounds. It was still breathing, and its golden eyes were open and fixed on Boranius. Its spine was severed and it could not move.
“See the hatred there?” said Boranius, with a harsh laugh. “How it would love to come at me again. A large pool of blood was spreading from beneath the dying beast. Boranius took hold of the child’s blond hair and tilted her head toward the Joining. “See there, little one. Daddy has come for you. Isn’t that sweet?”
Morcha looked away.
So, he thought, it all ends here. All the dreams, all the hopes, all the ambitions. He looked around at the decaying Roof Hall, then back at the blood-smeared man in the black mask. Boranius was stroking the child’s hair, but there was no reaction. Her eyes were open and unblinking. Morcha drew his cavalry saber. It was a beautiful weapon, with a filigree fist guard and a pommel stone of emerald. It had been given to him by Bokram, as a reward for his loyalty and bravery. He glanced at the five swordsmen and saw the fear on all their faces. They had all run here from the hall below, where they had faced Druss and Skilgannon. They knew they were going to die.
Morcha swung back to Boranius. “Lord, if you will just put the child down. We will need you to fight.”
“Oh, I will fight, Morcha. I will kill them both. First, though, you can tire them for me.”
“Tire them? Are you insane? Do you not know what is happening here?”
“Skilgannon is coming, and the axman. Of course I know. How is it that two warriors have breached our defenses and are now climbing my stairs? I will tell you, Morcha. It is because I am surrounded by dolts and cowards. After today I will raise a fresh force. Only this time I will pick the fighting men myself. Your judgment has proved to be sadly defective.”
Morcha stood silently for a moment. “You are right, my lord. My judgment has for years been defective.” Before he could go on the sound of horses’ hooves echoed up to them from the courtyard below. Morcha ran to the window and looked out. When he turned away there was a grim smile on his face.
“It seems, Boranius, that you will not be raising a new army—even if you kill Skilgannon and Druss. The Witch Queen is here, with a company of her guards.”
“I’ll kill them too,” said Boranius. “I’ll cut the bitch’s heart out.”
Skilgannon stepped into the hall, followed by the black-clad axman. The five Naashanite swordsmen backed away, dropping their blades. Morcha sighed, then glanced at Skilgannon.
“You have done well since those early days,” he said. “I still have fond memories of the bathhouse.”
“Put up your sword, Morcha. There is no need for you to die here.”
Morcha shrugged. “There is every need. Defend yourself!” He leapt forward, his saber slashing through the air. Skilgannon swayed. A piercing pain shot through Morcha’s chest. He stumbled and dropped his saber, watching it clatter to the floor. Then he slumped against the wall, and slid down.
“Oh neatly done,” said Boranius. Rising from his seat, still holding to the child, he drew one of his own swords. Resting the blade against Elanin’s waist he stepped away from the chair.
“It is good to see you, Axman,” he told Druss. “I have heard so much about you.”
Druss slowly advanced on the masked figure. Blood seeped through the child’s thin, blue dress. “One more step and I will slice her open, and you can watch her entrails fall to the floor.”
Druss paused. “Excellent choice,” said Boranius. “Now be so good as to lay your ax down.”
“He will kill her anyway, Druss,” said Skilgannon. “He is just prolonging the moment.”
“I know what he is doing,” replied Druss, his voice cold. “I have met his like before. Weak men. They are all the same.” Even as he spoke Druss let Snaga fall to the timber.
“Now step forward so that I may savor this moment,” said Boranius. Druss did so, moving within range of the sword Boranius held at the girl’s side. “You know what happens now, axman?”
“Of course I know. You are going to die. I am going to kill you.”
“If you move I shall kill the child.”
“That’s what I am waiting for,” said Druss, coldly. “The moment that sword slides into her you won’t be able to use it against me. And then, you whoreson, I will break every bone in your body. So let us not wait. Do it!” he thundered, stepping in. Shocked Boranius instinctively stepped back. The dying Joining growled, its jaws snapping toward Ironmask’s leg. The sword in Boranius’s hand flashed down, striking the Joining across its snout. Blood sprayed out. In that moment Druss dived forward, snatching Elanin from Boranius’s grasp. The silver blade swept out. Druss turned his back, protecting the child, and threw himself to the floor. The sword sliced through the back of his jerkin, scoring the flesh. Boranius screamed in fury and charged t
oward the axman.
The Sword of Fire lunged toward Druss’s unprotected body.
The Sword of Day parried it.
Boranius leapt back, drawing his second sword from the scabbard hanging between his shoulders. Then he faced Skilgannon. “Oh, I have waited long for this, Olek,” he said, his voice muffled by the iron mask. “I shall carve you like a banquet swan.”
The Swords of Blood and Fire glinted in the lantern light as the two men circled. Boranius sprang forward and their swords clashed. Time and again the music of the steel rang out.
Morcha watched them, his pain forgotten. The two warriors seemed to glide across the timbered floor, their swords creating glittering arcs of light. The fighters spun and moved, ever faster, and yet perfectly in balance. The deadly blades clanged and clashed, hissed and sang, the razor-sharp steel seeking to sheath itself in soft flesh. Back and forth across the hall the two men fought without pausing for breath.
Morcha became aware that others had entered the hall. Looking up he saw Jianna, the Witch Queen. Alongside her was the old swordsman, Malanek. Black-clad guards thronged the hall, and beyond them stood an old woman, leaning upon a gnarled staff. Morcha knew he was dying, but he prayed to be allowed to see the end of this incredible contest.
Both men had suffered wounds. Skilgannon was bleeding from a shallow cut to his face, Boranius had been sliced across the left bicep, the skin flapping, blood flowing.
They fought on.
Inevitably they were slowing now, and once more circling one another. Then Boranius spoke. “You remember Greavas, Olek? Ah, you should have heard him squeal. He was brave enough when I cut away his fingers. But when I sawed away at his arm his cowardice came through. He begged me to kill him.”
“Don’t let him goad you, laddie!” called Druss. “Stay cool and cut his heart out!”
Boranius leapt to the attack. Skilgannon parried desperately, then spun away. Boranius followed. The Sword of Blood lunged toward Skilgannon’s throat. He parried it, then blocked a cut from the Sword of Fire. Off balance now, Skilgannon went down on one knee. Boranius launched a fresh assault. Skilgannon hurled himself to his right, rolled and came up, just as Boranius swung his right-hand blade in a murderous arc. The Sword of Night came up, the blades chopping through Boranius’s fingers. With a scream he fell back, the Sword of Fire dropping from his mutilated hand. Boranius backed away.
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