by Tom Stacey
“Only one,” said Droswain. “The others are out cold. He hit them with something very hard.”
Riella stepped over the unconscious soldier and counted two more as she neared the entrance to the cell. Like its counterpart, the iron gate was open and she stepped inside, into the narrow tunnel that led to the room.
“Gird your stomach, Riella. The main performance was in here.”
Performance? She walked forward slowly, wincing as her eyes adjusted to the light and then gasping. The torches had not been snuffed out after all but had instead been placed here, driven into cracks between the flagstones to light what now hung from the wall.
Illis’ slipskin had been pinned to the stone with two iron spikes driven through its arms. It had been skinned from neck to navel so that the borrowed human flesh hung open like a cloak, laying bare the pearly, blubbery creature inside. The slipskin was shaped like a human but with a very narrow waist and a pigeon chest that showed the silvery bones beneath, shining like glass. Its face was a pale, formless oval with narrow yellow eyes and only two slits for a nose, its mouth a cruel gash like a knife wound. In death, the slipskin’s lips had curled back to reveal sharp, spade-shaped teeth.
On the wall to the side, somebody had written in blood the words: the enemy within.
Riella jumped as Droswain spoke close behind her. “He is a rabid dog. Think what we could have learned from this thing. Now it is carrion. More meat for the birds.”
“The creature deserved to die,” said Riella quietly, though she was not sure she agreed with her own words.
“Did it? Had it harmed anyone? When I heard it talk it was afraid, not vengeful. Did young Tellisk here deserve to die?” Droswain tugged at her sleeve and pulled her around to see one of the young guardsmen from earlier. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. “He did that, your mad peasant friend. He should be hunted down.”
Riella shook her head. Callistan was not a murderer, surely he would not have killed Tellisk so callously? “Why did he leave the others alone?”
“They were hardly left alone, Riella. One of them has a lump on his forehead the size of an egg. He’ll be lucky if Callistan didn’t break his skull.” The priest shrugged and stepped closer to the maimed slipskin, inspecting it as one would a sculpture. There was blood on the sleeves of his robes where he had knelt by the dead conscript. “Who knows how madness excuses itself? Maybe Tellisk got in his way? He did kill Illis’ guards before, remember?”
“Those men drew blades on him,” she said through gritted teeth.
Droswain rounded on her “Well perhaps now he has moved on to cold-blooded murder!”
“No,” she said. “Not Callistan. He didn’t even have a knife…” Riella trailed off as she had a sudden uncomfortable thought. She felt down to the scabbard at her thigh. It was empty. Esha was gone. Maybe she had left it somewhere or maybe Callistan had lifted it from her even as she kissed him. She had thought him beaten but he had been plotting his next move. What was it Beccorban had said? “Every time I tried to hit him he was there already.”
Droswain grinned coldly. “Oh, this is brilliant. I can’t wait to tell people about this.”
Looking up at Droswain, Riella could see the savage glee in his eyes. How could a priest of the Temple Dawn delight in suffering so much?
She turned and fled from the room, pursued by the sound of Droswain’s manic laughter.
“Fall back! Fall back!” Beccorban’s shout reached even over the cacophony of battle and Loster felt the shift as the men began to disengage, falling back from the much stronger Echoes to regroup deeper in the courtyard. The new attack had been an onslaught, with at least a hundred of the huge armoured knights thundering forward to crash into their ranks. They had lost nearly fifty men with that initial thrust and now Beccorban was pulling them into the courtyard, giving them a solid wall at their backs.
“This is where you die, Los,” said Barde. He had been much quieter than normal, but now he sensed an opportunity to gloat and so pushed his way past his brother’s distracted defences and into Loster’s conscience. The Echoes watched them go, staring after them through their menacing helms. Still Antler Helm had not joined the fight. He had no need to, they were winning.
Loster ran after the others, his legs burning and his breath scorching his lungs. As he ran, he passed two sarifs who were busily lighting a line of torches that had been placed diagonally across the open ground. Loster joined the newly formed ranks of men, less now than they had been. The two sarifs finished their work and began to race back towards the main group. A dart thrown from the approaching ranks of Echoes caught one in the small of his back and he sprawled on the floor and lay still. The men began to shout encouragement to the other sarif and though other missiles came his way he avoided them all and made it back unscathed.
The first rank of Echoes stepped over the low stone wall on the far side of the courtyard and the sound of their armoured feet on the stones was a storm of metallic thunder.
“This is it, men, the greatest moment of your lives. I want each of you to pick out two of them. Make them yours, and if there aren’t enough then fight over it!” The men laughed at Beccorban’s order and Loster found himself laughing too, carefree. There was no more need to worry. These men had seen their death coming and knew that it could not be avoided. So be it, thought Loster. There have been worse deaths.
The Echoes came on until they reached the line of torches and then crashed to a halt. They stood there, silent and unmoving, and Beccorban strode forward.
“Come on, you bastards! Come and die at my feet!”
The Echoes did not react but instead parted down the middle, leaving a large aisle. That horrible shriek came again and Antler Helm filled the space, lit from beneath by the firelight so that he appeared even more demonic. He rode atop his feathered beast and now rider and mount swaggered forward with agonising slowness, stopping before the serried rows of tall knights. Loster clenched his teeth until his jaw began to quiver. The man next to him swallowed heavily and looked over his shoulder, seeking for somewhere to flee to, but there was only solid stone at their backs. Beccorban had chosen this place well. There was no chance of desertion.
Antler Helm wheeled his mount around and then drew his huge, cleaver-like sword. He pointed it straight at Beccorban and then raised it high.
Beccorban dropped his hammer and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Now!” he shouted and his voice rebounded off of the stone walls of the courtyard.
For a long time nothing happened. Antler Helm lowered his sword and then raised it again, visibly confused by Beccorban’s actions but quickly consumed again by a hunger for blood. Some of the men in the ranks began to ask each other questions and this time their officers did not stop them, either because they were too tired or because they were just as confused.
Beccorban still stood in between his men and the Echoes, his hammer on the floor, the haft resting against his thigh. He seemed to be waiting for something.
A strange, forlorn sound rolled across the courtyard and Loster thought that it had come from the strange creature, but then he felt the ground vibrate beneath his feet. He looked up at the crooked tower and saw that it was moving, almost imperceptibly. The archers! Of course! Beccorban had given a signal to the large men posing as bowmen and now they were throwing their weight into the damaged tower, pushing at the stone like mythical giants moving mountains. The tower groaned and creaked and began to tip forward more. Some of the Echoes looked up and Antler Helm turned with them just as the ancient construct gave way, its mortar turning to dust, the stones around its base cracking and exploding, torn from their timeworn seats like the roots of a tree blown over in strong winds.
Loster looked on in amazement as the tower fell, a golem with a broken back. It crashed upon the Echo formation in a cloud of dust with a noise like the end of the world. As the violence reverberated around the courtyard, everyone was silent until Beccorban, caked from head to toe in white powder,
appeared from the fog. “Kill them!” he cried and the men gave a great cheer, following him into battle.
Loster ran with them and his heart was alive. The old bastard had been planning this all along, leading the Echoes into a trap. He was beginning to see why Beccorban was so feared. He fought with more than just his strength. That could be you, said the new voice in his head, and he grinned at the joy of it.
The newly blooded conscripts fell upon the Echoes as they climbed to their feet, and in a strange parody of Beccorban’s wishes the men did fight over each kill. Antler Helm’s strange beast was trapped under the fallen stone, and it cried pitifully as twenty men drove their blades into its scaly flesh over and over. Moments before they had been doomed but now they were winning. Loster looked up at the pale grey sky. Dawn was coming. Fast.
A scream made him turn and he saw that more than a few of the Echoes had escaped the main weight of the tower. They had reformed into a square and now began to advance, cutting their way through the men that tried to stop them. Loster ran towards the new fight and dived in amongst the enemy, hacking and slashing left and right. His blows were wild but the Echoes were still dazed and he seemed to be having an effect. He skipped backwards as one tried to grab him and hacked down with his stolen blade, slicing through the metal armour with ease to cut off the Echo’s hand. It howled with rage and lashed out with a thick sword but he danced away and his place was taken by someone else just as eager for a kill.
Beccorban had never considered himself a master tactician. Many was the time in Illis’ court that his ideas had been shouted down by more formally educated men. However, today he could allow himself some pride. So many things could have gone wrong but he had wiped out over half of his enemy’s force with minimal loss to his own side. He grunted. It was doubtful they would teach the falling tower technique at the academy in Iero, if indeed Iero still stood.
Now came the difficult part, cleaning up the mess. There were still enough Echoes left standing to cause a problem and none of them were easy to kill. He ran forward and leapt atop a piece of rubble from the tower. It shifted slightly under his weight and he swore as he fell to his knees, cracking his leg into something hard and unforgiving. You’re getting reckless in your old age, he chided himself. He used Kreyiss as a staff to get to his feet, and found himself staring at a large saddle of strange, scaly hide where Antler Helm had sat moments earlier. It was bruised and ripped by the passage of the stone but there was no sign of blood or a body.
Like most men his age, Beccorban’s hearing had worsened to a degree. Birdsong was not so clear as it once had been, nor was the tinkling of a stream. Yet decades on the battlefield had attuned his ears to certain sounds, filtered through the ambient noise as if he was listening out for them. He heard the thrumming of metal splitting air long before his brain made the leap it needed to and his warrior’s instincts saved his life. He dropped his weight and rolled just as a huge, razor-sharp blade cut through where he had been. His roll was clumsy and he fell from the ruin of the tower on to the floor of the courtyard. Above him stood the frighteningly tall figure of Antler Helm, sword in hand. Two of his soldiers jumped to his defence, lunging at the massive Echo, but their blades bounced off of the dark armour. Antler Helm killed them quickly, hacking left and right and kicking their broken bodies down into the dust, as though he was irritated at the momentary distraction.
Beccorban climbed to his feet and retreated, letting Antler Helm come to him. The huge Echo leapt down in pursuit, sword held double-handed, cutting down with all of his weight behind it. Beccorban spun away from the blow and brought Kreyiss up to block the next attack, which clanged off of the hammer’s head, almost knocking the weapon from his hands. Gods, he was strong. Several more men had seen his plight and ran to his aid but he waved them away lest they join their bloody comrades on the ground. There were few who could stand against such an enemy. He thought of Callistan and wondered where he was. Concentrate. He grinned at Antler Helm, hoping it would annoy the foul creature. You’re mine, he thought.
He jumped forward, swinging Kreyiss low in the hope of crushing one of those weirdly thin legs, but Antler Helm had seen it coming and he lifted the long limb over the attack, spinning and lashing out with his huge blade. Beccorban narrowly avoided being hewn in two and was forced to throw himself backwards to miss the blade. He attacked again, ramming the hammer forward to punch Antler Helm in the face, but the Echo had the advantage of height and he used it, twisting his neck so that Beccorban could only catch a glancing blow.
Antler Helm began to speak in his rich, mellifluous tongue, so similar to the wild ranting of the Stranger in the forest all that time ago. Had it really been that long or did it just seem like it? Though he could not understand the words, Beccorban recognised them for what they were. The big Echo was taunting him, trying to drive him to a fury. Beccorban grinned again and stepped forward to attack, but a conscript darted past him from the right, trying to stab Antler Helm in the thigh. The tall warrior stepped aside smoothly and then caught the unfortunate conscript around the neck.
Beccorban could only watch as Antler Helm ripped out the young man’s throat with barbed fingers and flung the gore at him. He raised an arm to protect himself and warm blood splashed into his beard. Antler Helm spread his arms and let the body drop to join the others. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon and it made the blood on the Echo’s armour shine like a ruby. Antler Helm laughed, a deep booming sound, and it stoked the fires of Beccorban’s anger until they were glowing. Kill! Kill! Kill! sang a voice in his mind.
Beccorban threw himself forward, ducking under a wild cut and swinging Kreyiss up and under to catch Antler Helm on the chin. The Echo staggered backwards but quickly recovered and closed the ground between them, driving a spiked elbow down into Beccorban’s back. The Helhammer roared with pain as a white hot lance of agony speared into the meat of his shoulder. Beccorban wanted to lash out in response, but he was too close to use Kreyiss, though it meant that Antler Helm could not use his weapon either.
The Echo grabbed him in a bearhug and tried to lift him from his feet but Beccorban had always been a heavy man and he hung on his weight, planting his feet firmly on the ground. Beccorban threw his arms around the Echo’s waist and locked them around Kreyiss’ haft. His back was wet with blood and he knew that the wound had gone deep. He did not have long before he would begin to weaken. “Die, you bastard!” he shouted and the Echo said something back. Antler Helm drove a fist into his side and he felt his ribs break. His breath was blown from his lungs and he nearly fell, but he clung on to the Echo with all of his strength. He looked up and saw that his earlier attack had dented the faceless helm, curling it up at the edge so that he could see pale, blue-tinged flesh beneath. There was little he could do with a hammer but an idea came to him. He would probably only get one chance.
He bunched the great muscles of his legs beneath him and leapt upwards, dropping Kreyiss and instead wrapping his hand around one of the strange metal spikes that grew from the Echo’s helm. To his horror, the spikes were edged like daggers and they bit deep, but even as he felt the sharp metal squeak against bone, he snapped one off and fell back down to the floor, landing heavily on his rear and nearly passing out with the pain from his ribs.
Antler Helm stooped to say something to him and Beccorban struck like a snake, using the last of his strength to drive the metal spike up under the damaged helmet into the Echo’s neck. Antler Helm roared with pain and kicked out, sending Beccorban flying through the air to crash into a pile of rubble. He cried out as his back cracked into the stone and his vision began to blur and blacken. He could just make out the tall figure of Antler Helm approaching him.
He tried to sit up and coughed and it tasted of blood. He had failed, then. No more songs for the Helhammer, he thought. Where was that damned girl with the horseman?
He pushed himself upright and fought the nausea as his brain kept moving inside his skull. Antler Helm towered above hi
m and, though his features were hidden, Beccorban knew he was grinning.
“I will eat you last, Hammer,” said Antler Helm, in a rich, bassy voice.
Beccorban spat, making sure that a glob speckled on to the Echo’s armoured foot. “I hope I make you choke,” he said.
Loster heard Beccorban cry out and broke from his place in the battle. There, over the other side of the ruined tower, he could make out the huge figure of Antler Helm locked in struggle with Beccorban. The hammerman leapt up to try and grab the Echo’s helm but he failed and fell back down.
“He’s going to kill him,” said Barde in a bored tone.
Loster turned as an Echo attacked him from the side and brought one of his blades up to parry. He managed to deflect the cut but it had enough force behind it to send the sword spinning from his hand. The Echo screamed triumphantly but Loster had already found the space between breastplate and helmet and he drove the second blade up into the gap, releasing the handle and spinning away to race after Beccorban.
He leapt over rubble and brushed past soldiers fighting desperately against the stronger Echoes. None of it mattered to him now, all that mattered was Beccorban. He could not be killed, not when they had come so close.
Loster jumped up on to the remnants of the crooked tower and slid down the other side, ignoring the pain as the skin of his hands was rubbed away. He came up hard against two dead soldiers and tried to ignore the shock frozen on their faces. Loster hauled himself upright and grabbed at one of the fallen men’s weapons. It was a shortsword, the blade no longer than his forearm. It had been blunted against something hard and was little better than a club. He tossed it aside with a curse, his eyes scanning the ground for the other man’s weapon. There, another shortsword, though this one had been broken in two. Useless. Antler Helm was standing over Beccorban now and the old warrior tried to sit up but blood stained his beard and his eyes were unfocused and glassy.
