by Tom Stacey
Something large moved by his side and he wrenched the reins away in reflex. He looked down to see the large slipskin with the hammer grinning up at him through a bloodied and bruised face. “Didn’t want you having all the fun,” it said in a convincingly human voice. Callistan frowned. He had seen that hammer before somewhere but could not place it. It was just one more ghostly memory in the impenetrable fog of his past. He shrugged and stared after the burly wielder. His jaw still throbbed where the bigger man had caught him with a right hook. This slipskin had chosen a host of considerable strength but that would not save him when the time came. For now though, they were allies.
The tall knight with the antlered helm held up a gauntleted hand with long, eerie fingers and the others came to a stop. Callistan tapped Crucio in the ribs with his heels and the horse gamely upped its pace so that Callistan had to stand up in his spurs to avoid a bruised behind. It felt good to be in the saddle again with the smell of horse and fresh grass around him. He held his falcata out to one side, low and menacing and ready for the backhand cut that his arm ached to make. Eight was a large number and each of them was encased in metal, while he wore only cloth. It did not matter. He would kill today, as he had killed yesterday, and he would keep on killing until they had all paid for what they had done to him. He looked sidelong at the bearded giant beside him. He too would die, though not before he had used that hammer.
The enemy were closer now and Callistan could feel the adrenaline pulsing through him, begging him to charge, begging him to draw blood. Not yet. The charge had to carry the explosion of energy from Crucio’s legs all the way through to the swing of his own arm so that the falcata could do what it had been designed to do and cut through armour like it was clotted cream. He was close enough now to make out the etchings on the armour of the tall warriors. It was in a strange flowing script that he could not read, though it too tugged at his memory somehow; familiar and yet alien at the same time, like a hand with too many fingers.
Each warrior was staggeringly tall and so thin that they seemed fragile. Even though he was mounted, the top of their heads would easily reach his. Their limbs were long and birdlike yet their armour spoke of terrifying power, beaten as it was into sharp angles and cruel points. Their helms were featureless walls of silvery grey with a thin visor that hid their eyes, and each of them was totally silent. Something in Callistan’s head told him that he should be afraid, that others would be. These strange warriors were like nothing he had ever seen. But he could not bring himself to feel fear. Instead he viewed them with a calculated boredom. The joints were the weakness: with limbs that thin, the falcata would make short work of them. The metal they wore looked light. With enough force it would probably split like the skin of an apple. He rolled his wrist so that the sun caught his blade, then kicked Crucio into the gallop, leaving the large slipskin behind.
The horse leapt under him and the wind pulled his hair back from his face so that it streamed behind him like a pennant. Crucio’s hooves were thunder on the grass and each step tore a clod of dirt from the earth and flung it far away. He aimed for the warrior with the antlered helm and noted that they still had shown no notice of him. They are far too confident, he thought, and he grinned, for he had found himself again, and for this moment at least, he was at peace with himself.
As he closed on the lead warrior, another stepped in front. Callistan jerked Crucio to one side, aiming for the gap to the left of his new target so that his sword arm would be free to strike. The tall warrior brought up his own massive sword to parry but it was too late. Callistan slashed his falcata up from below in a vicious sweep that should have taken the tall warrior’s head clean off. However, his sword, honed to razor sharpness, glanced off of the metal helm with a ringing sound and sent a jarring vibration up into his shoulder. It rocked him back in his saddle and he nearly lost his seat. Crucio fared better, shouldering through the line and running free on the other side.
Callistan pulled himself upright again and shook his head. That blow should have cut through metal and flesh and bone with ease. He wheeled Crucio around and headed back to the fight, just in time to see the big slipskin in his bearskin cloak bear down on the enemy line. The hammerman was at a full run with his weapon held high over one shoulder, and Callistan thought that he had left himself too open. Indeed, one of the armoured warriors must have thought so too, for he stepped from the line with his sword held out straight like a spear. But the slipskin spun as gracefully as a dancer, pivoting on his heel to bring the hammer around in a flashing arc that drove the flat weight of the killing end straight into the side of the armoured warrior’s head. A deafening clang rolled across the grass and the freakishly tall soldier flew sideways, toppling the warrior next to him.
It was more than Callistan could have asked for, and he thundered down on the fallen like an avenging god. He hung over the side of his saddle like a polo player and gripped his falcata in two hands, holding on to the horse with the strength in his thighs alone. As Crucio led him through the broken line he swung with all of his might and was rewarded with the fleeting resistance of flesh as he struck at the neck of one of the tall warriors. He had found the seam where the helm reached the gorget and a large head flew through the wintery air to land with a thud in the grass.
Callistan whooped with the joy of it and whirled his mount around to face the line once more. Yet it was a line no longer. Instead the big slipskin had wrought havoc with his hammer and had turned all before him to a carnage of metal and flesh. Two of the enemy were down, lying motionless on the grass. One was a body without a head, another the victim of the hammer’s first strike, armour dented in places that oozed black blood into the thirsty soil. To their credit, the others seemed unaware of their losses. A quarter of their force had been killed in ten seconds but the fight was still very much theirs to lose and several of them began to lope towards him. Callistan knew he would struggle to mount a successful charge again. He patted Crucio on the neck and the big warhorse snorted with delight, breathing heavily and happily. He had played his part in this battle and now Callistan wanted to join the fray on foot.
He leapt lightly from Crucio’s back and swung his sword back and forth like a child beating at summer grass with a long stick. The big slipskin was facing off against two tall soldiers, and had Callistan not just seen him dispatch one so easily, it would have seemed that he was unfairly matched. Callistan’s already wounded body still ached with the bruises that giant in a man’s flesh had given him, and though he was still set on killing his newfound ally, he felt a healthy respect for the grizzled old bastard. The leader of the dark-armoured soldiers jabbed pointed fingers at the bearded hammerman, sending a third at him. The tall soldier sprang forward menacingly to join his fellows, sword held low across his knees. Callistan watched him go and then turned to face the other three. Two does and a stag, he thought. Easy.
The first stepped forward while the other stayed back near the knight with the strange helm. He was over seven feet tall and his body, encased in form-fitting armour, had all the lithe and graceful lines of a young girl. Yet it was a dark beauty, laced with a cruelty that spoke of blood and a hedonistic suffering. His sword was long and thick and curved slightly like a sickle, and he held it loosely in one gauntleted hand, his fingers sticking out over each other like reptilian teeth. Callistan did not break his stride but strolled towards the demonic figure with a spring in his step. He was smiling.
And then something happened that he did not expect. The tall warrior reached up with those sharp, tapered fingers and lifted his helm from his head, and the smile froze on Callistan’s face. He struggled to maintain his expression but he could see from the gleam in his enemy’s pale red, goat-like eyes that the theatre had achieved its desired effect. The demon’s face was long and narrow and a pale blue in colour but otherwise human in appearance — though weirdly distorted and stretched. Its mouth was a cruel gash rimmed in blood-red lips, and as it grinned at him he could see teeth that had
been filed down to wicked points. Its hair was long and lustrously black, tied in a ponytail that at once betrayed vanity and practicality. But most curious of all were the creature’s ears, for they were pointed like something from a children’s story.
It spoke next and its tone was deep and guttural. The words it formed were completely unintelligible but its language was mellifluous and strangely seductive. Callistan found himself listening too intently. He shook his head and gripped his falcata until the skin pulled white across his knuckles. What are these creatures?
Still talking, the tall, pointy-eared warrior swung his sword in a casual backhand that should have cut Callistan in half. Instead the horseman sidestepped smoothly and the blade whirred past him. Callistan swept his sword out at waist height with two hands, using the twist of his hips to give the blade the killing force it needed. His opponent skipped backwards on nimble feet, then that great sword came down again, a dark blur against the grey sky. Callistan rolled aside so that his enemy’s weapon buried itself in the turf with such force that he half expected the ground to shriek in pain. The tall enemy spat hatred at him and its eyes gleamed with fire. It leapt over the blade it had embedded in the earth and, as it landed, wrenched it free to whirl the length of metal at Callistan’s head. Callistan fell backwards and tumbled on a loose rock, but rose again with speed, stepping backwards to keep his distance from that long, sharp reach.
The creature was too fast and it knew it. Though clearly not a man, it was not difficult to read the triumph on its face, and Callistan had the terrible feeling that he was being toyed with. He could only thank the gods that two of his opponents were holding back. He ached to see how the big slipskin was faring against three at the same time but knew that if he took his eyes away from his opponent for even a second he would feel the bite of cold steel. For the first time Callistan wondered if he had just got himself killed.
He could see Crucio waiting in the background with his ears pressed flat to his skull, and some way behind the small figures of the other slipskins on top of the ridge. The tall knight came on again with huge strides that ate the distance, and Callistan scrambled backwards. He needed to find a weakness in that wall of metal. The knight was armoured from head to toe and he did not have the speed nor the reach to find the chinks between the plate as easily as he had from horseback. In truth he had not imagined these soaring warriors to be so fast on their feet, and now he was beaten.
He stared into the pale red eyes of his enemy and saw his own death there, and suddenly he felt the beginnings of an incalculable rage. He had attacked the slipskins because they were trespassing. True, he had sworn to himself to rid Daegermund — if not the world — of those foul skin-stealers, but he would not have attacked so suddenly and without thought had they not come so near Mela’s grave. The big one had knelt to touch her doll and a curtain of red mist had closed over his eyes. The next thing he knew, he was stepping from the clearing into a fight with something that outmatched him physically. Yet now he had done it again, this time through nothing more than sheer arrogance.
The unfairness of it all lit along his spine like oiled paper and then exploded at once into his skull in a jet of white hot fury. He let out a bestial scream and did what the tall enemy in the dark armour could never have expected.
He charged.
He charged with his sword held out to the side, and the tall, pointy-eared demon with the red eyes froze in its tracks. Its savage grin became a rictus of confusion as Callistan closed the last few paces and batted aside the proffered blade as though it were a windblown weed. The knight tried to scurry backwards but it was too late. Callistan was inside its reach and he placed the heel of his hand on the pommel of his falcata and used it as it was never designed to be used, driving it like a spear into the centre of his target’s breastplate. For all the strength of that strange, thin metal, it could do little else but split and puncture as the steely extension of Callistan’s wrath drove through without slowing to erupt from the other side of that strange, thin body, glistening with black blood caught in the weak light of early day.
The knight gasped and fell to one knee before toppling sideways and tearing Callistan’s sword from his grip. Callistan walked around the shuddering and heaving body and came to a stop in front of its face so that he could look his enemy in the eye as it died. It tried to say something but coughed up frothy blood instead and then, with a final convulsion, went still. Callistan watched as its great red eyes dried in the indifferent breeze, then wrenched his sword from the body with a squeal of tortured metal.
A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the big man was still fighting — two of his foes were down and the other was stepping warily backwards. Antler Helm stood nearby, watching impassively. Alone. Where was the other?
A scream reached his ears and he turned to see the missing knight stalking towards the orchard.
Mela! He had to protect her.
Riella watched with fascination as the two men fought the tall soldiers. Beccorban was a marvel to behold, leaping and twirling with a heavy grace while the savage length of Kreyiss whipped around him to sow death wherever it landed. The noise rung across the field with a curious rhythm as though the old warrior were a blacksmith, his enemy ready to be quenched. With the warhammer in his hands, he seemed twenty years younger.
But if Beccorban was a marvel then the blond man was something frightening. He rode his horse with the skill of one born to ride, twirling and wheeling the nimble creature between the gaps in the wall of armour before him. There was a terrifying and brutal efficiency to the way he fought. He never overstretched, never made his horse work harder than it had to, and before long there were only six enemies left standing. Riella looked on, her lips parted slightly. She took a few involuntary steps forward, as though her feet wanted her to join the fray. Her cloak fluttered open as the clawed hand of the wind tried to snatch it from her.
Beccorban was left with three, while the stranger was being pushed back by his opponent. The knight with the spiked helm stood motionless nearby with another, watching. Riella could not be sure he was the same knight they had seen in Kressel but it made sense. They had known they would be followed but never this soon. Is that how they had taken the second city? With terrifying speed?
Beccorban took down one of his opponents with a savage strike, swaying out of range of a big sword and lashing out with Kreyiss in return to break bones and splinter plate. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Oh gods,” breathed Loster and Riella flicked an irritated gaze at the boy. Man, indeed.
The blond horseman was on foot now. It made him seem less lordly and imposing but he was no less skilled. He moved with the fluidity of a dancer; the long curved blade he carried was a glistening blur in the morning light that was met time and again by the darker, thicker line of the other’s blade. What are these creatures? she thought. Where have they come from? She felt fear foam in her gut and ruthlessly quelled it. If the two men died then she would have to fight. The boy will run. He has that look.
The tall knight forced the blond man back and he fell. Riella bit her lip and then gasped with relief as the horseman sprang to his feet and struck clear of his enemy’s weapon. She looked sidelong at Loster again. He was gripping the fabric of his trews but it did not stop his hands from quivering with fear.
One of the tall soldiers near Antler Helm strode forward with purpose. Riella thought that he meant to outflank the blond cavalryman but then realised, with a plunging feeling, that he was coming straight at them. The tall warrior broke into a long-legged run and Loster took a step backwards. “R-riella!” he whimpered as Mirril screamed.
Riella cursed. “Loster, take Mirril and hide in the orchard.” He nodded, seemingly glad that she had taken responsibility away from him. She hoped he could see the disgust in her eyes. Riella drew Esha from her belt and pushed Mirril towards him. “Go, now!”
Loster took the girl by the hand and began to run towards the trees. She wa
tched them go and then turned back to the approaching knight.
In the distance, Beccorban was a blur of motion. Pray let his anger be swift. Soon it would be too late to save them.
Loster took a deep breath to calm his heart. He breathed in the musty, over-sweet stench of the rotten orchard and tried not to gag at the taste. What are you doing? he thought. You should be with Riella.
“Coward,” came Barde’s voice. “Weak.”
He shook his head to quiet the noise and Mirril whimpered at the sudden movement. “Be quiet!” he snapped, immediately regretting the tone. “I’m sorry, Mirril.”
“Can we go? Please, can we go?” Mirril half-stood and began to tug at his arm. “Loster, please!”
“Go on, run away with her. Two little girls fleeing like scared birds.”
“Shut up!” Loster shouted and Mirril cried out. “I’m sorry! Not you, Mirril! I wasn’t speaking to you!”
“We need to go!” She pulled at his arm, leaning back to put the full insistence of her weight behind her.
He wanted to give in to her, wanted to turn and run away through the trees until the sound of metal against metal was a memory and there were no more demons to chase him, but he knew it was pointless. Whatever he and his brother had unlocked in the Widowpeak could not be stopped. Those tall grey men in faceless helms would follow him to the ends of the earth and still he did not know why.
“Loster!” Mirril screamed and he snapped out of his reverie.
“I’m sorry, Mirril. We can’t go. We can’t leave the others.” He breathed in deeply and felt a sharp pain as something deep in his lungs clicked. He stood and his knees threatened to fail him but now he was resolved and none of the voices in his head would turn him aside.
