The Sorcery Within

by Dave Smeds

  Lonal thrust repeatedly, pulling his jabs short to gain speed. The soldier blocked the first two but from then on was always a fraction of a second too late. Lonal opened superficial cuts all over his opponent's torso, limbs, and face. In a few moments, the man was too disoriented to stop the killing blow to his heart.

  Shigmur and Lonal pushed past the dying man as fast as they could, racing for the main entrance to the inn. Elenya stayed in the kitchen, succeeding in barring the exit there, as well as the one small window. The inn was meant to be defensible; they would turn that to their advantage if possible.

  Lonal reached the doorway. A large party of men was bearing down on the entrance. He had no choice but to stand his ground and try to hold the portal, leaving Shigmur to try to secure the two windows.

  Metal clashed. The foremost soldier was halted by the war-leader's weapon. The garrison ignored the windows for a bit too long. Shigmur managed to close off one and reach the other in time to harry the man stepping through.

  The battle was furious. The Zyraii knew that they stood little chance if the inn were breached. For the moment, the enemy could only attack one at a time, but it would take only one suicidal charge to force them away from their position of strength. Shigmur's first antagonist had fallen dead across the sill, eliminating the possibility of easily closing the shutters.

  It was a temporary stalemate. The garrison men were not the equal of either Lonal or Shigmur. Furthermore, many of them were sluggish with Mother's Breath. Intent on their jobs, Shigmur and Lonal didn't notice Elenya join them.

  “The horn!” she cried.

  Lonal ducked a slash and chopped off the man's sword hand. Elenya repeated her entreaty. This time it registered. During the lull while the crippled man got out of the way of his comrades, Elenya and Lonal traded places.

  Once free, Lonal lifted to his lips the ram's horn that hung on a chain around his neck and blew a series of six notes.

  * * * *

  Falol was on the battlements when he heard the horn blast, and he knew immediately what it meant. The call was repeated several times. It echoed off the mountainsides.

  The vice-commander looked to the road. The Zyraii had stood and were mounting their animals. Another horn call rose from their center. Moments later, a far larger party of Zyraii appeared around the bend in the road.

  “Archers!” Falol shouted. The alarm was passed. Men running to the fight at the inn turned and rushed to the walls. The guards at the gate house doubled their alertness.

  Falol cursed. Only a handful of his soldiers were moving normally. Several others were trudging slowly to their positions, but most had simply not stirred at all. There should have been nearly one archer for each embrasure; instead, there was one for every ten.

  The Zyraii were charging en masse, riders in the lead. In their wake ran foot warriors carrying ladders.

  “Fire at will!” Falol growled, picking up his own bow. Almost at the same moment, an arrow whizzed past his nose.

  The soldier next to him crumpled and fell, shot through the ear.

  Falol ducked behind the merlon. Arrows were pouring over the battlements. He could see at least three of his men down. Most of the others, like him, had sought refuge. He peered out through the embrasure to his left. Zyraii warriors had risen from hiding places behind the rocks near the fortress and were applying covering fire.

  Falol took aim, fired, and hid behind the merlon again. When he looked, the warrior he had shot at was limp across a boulder, a shaft protruding from his chest.

  The Zyraii archers were more exposed than the men of Xurosh, but the nuisance they created was critical. The fortress bowmen now had to guard themselves and divide their offense between two sets of enemies. The riders were well within range now but were suffering minimal casualties. Within moments they would be at the walls.

  Falol shot three more arrows, receiving one through the sleeve for his trouble. The scratch on his arm swelled his anger. There were Zyraii everywhere! The fortress was fighting back like a child.

  The first ladder slammed into place nearby. He helped push it over before the climbers could start. The man next to him took a demonblade in the throat.

  Screams rang out as a cauldron was tipped, drenching the Zyraii trying to ram the gate. Two of them went to their knees, clutching their scalded flesh. The others picked up the ram, stood in the sizzling puddles of oil, and resumed the effort.

  The gate would hold, Falol knew. But the garrison, crippled as it was, would not be sufficient to keep the ladders away forever. Soon it would be time for swords, he thought, laying a sweaty palm on the pommel of his weapon.

  He saw flickers in the sky. The barbarians were sending fire arrows over his head, into the wooden market stalls and awnings in the courtyard below.

  * * * *

  Lonal, Shigmur, and Elenya knew as soon as the shuttered window of the inn burst that they couldn't hold the room. They back-pedalled into the kitchen, their enemies close behind, and reestablished themselves at its entrance. Lonal, the most rested, held the passage.

  Shigmur and Elenya had only a brief respite. The door to the kitchen's side exit smashed inward, and solid blows were landing on the window. They moved to intercept the intruders. These three openings were the only inlets. If they all survived, they could hold the kitchen. Their next retreat would be the cellar door. That would put them in a disadvantageous position on the stairs.

  Elenya felt blood trickling down her ribs. She couldn't feel the wound. She was aware only of the heat in her muscles, the steady pull in her lungs, and the burden of making a decision each second on which her life depended. She held the side door. A huge, burly man, seeing her slight form, tried to overrun her; he met his end that much faster. His body tripped the next man, who became fodder for her swordplay. The one behind him was sluggish, no doubt from the poison, and lasted only a few seconds.

  Caught in battle fever, she lost all sense of the happenings around her. It was only when her opponents hesitated that she smelled the smoke.

  The pause was momentary, but suddenly Elenya could hear the desperate sounds of war from the battlements. Behind her attackers, she saw figures scurrying to put out fires. Many of the stalls had been disassembled during the morning, the awnings rolled up, but lack of fully functional workers had prevented completion of the task. Most of the arrows landed on stone or packed dirt, but several had found fuel. She saw an Azuraji civilian from her caravan beating out a burning wagon, only to be struck himself.

  The garrison soldiers redoubled their attack. With each fresh opponent, Elenya wondered how long she could keep up the pace. The wound in her side—a shallow slice—bothered her now. The loss of blood would weaken her.

  Another man down. She could almost count the number left. Was it five, six? If she could last, they would soon run out. The rest of the garrison was too busy now with the attack beneath the battlements or the fires to reinforce the group attacking the inn.

  Something grabbed her ankles. She tumbled backward, landing hard on her rump.

  One of the men she had defeated was still alive and had managed to tackle her. His grip was weak, however. She pulled free as she fell, rolling backward and regaining her feet in time to meet the charge through the door. She parried, halting the progress of the lead man.

  A jab from the side clipped her elbow.

  She spun, instinctively lashing out. Her sword thudded into the leather armor of a garrison soldier.

  The side! He should not have been there. She retreated, blocking two enemies at once, and her heart caught in her throat.

  Shigmur lay on the floor by the window, an arrow through his throat. Three men had climbed in over the sill, and the archer was standing just outside. The first man had come for her, the other two were closing on Lonal.

  * * * *

  Falol swung his blade like an axe, hewing a gash in the head of the Zyraii at the top of the ladder. The warrior fell, knocking off the next two climbers. Falol allowed on
e of his men to take his place, so that he could reconnoiter the battle.

  At three places down the battlements, Zyraii had achieved the top and had established footholds. For the moment, these parties were being held at bay, thanks to the armor worn by the garrison, but the ladders continued to appear, and there were not enough men left to fend them off.

  Down in the fortress, two buildings were burning. The firefighters had all given up in order to defend the walls.

  They were losing. Slain desert men were piled in layers at the foot of the walls, but the demons would not be stopped. Falol lifted his horn and sounded the retreat. They would fall back to the southern keep.

  The soldiers in the rear ranks responded with obvious eagerness, hurrying in an orderly fashion toward the bridge. But Falol and others in the front rank remained. They would hold the walls and the gate until their comrades were safe.

  Falol hefted his sword once more and discovered that his arm moved more slowly than it should have. He was stiff all over.

  The Zyraii sorcery was at last affecting him. Surely he would be mown down the next time he tried to engage in battle. Falol felt his gorge rise at the prospect.

  He refused to be helpless. While he retained control over his body, he would at least determine how he was to die. He wouldn't give a barbarian the satisfaction of slaying him.

  A ladder slammed into place at a nearby embrasure. Falol stepped forward, waited for the Zyraii to scale most of the way, and plunged downward to his death, taking the lead climber with him.

  * * * *

  Elenya shouted, but it was unnecessary. Even as Shigmur had silently died and Elenya had been driven from her position of strength, Lonal had finished off his last foe. He turned in plenty of time to meet the new attack coming through the window.

  His attackers stopped short. Realizing they had failed to surprise their victim from the rear, they sidestepped. The archer at the window recognized his cue and fired at the war-leader.

  Lonal had noted how Shigmur had died and was ready. He leaped out of the arrow's path. Before the bowstring had stopped vibrating, the archer received a demonblade in his chest.

  Elenya and Lonal hurriedly joined each other, trying for the cellar door. They were blocked off by the rush of men. Instead, they backed into a corner, and were instantly surrounded.

  There were eight of the garrison left. They, fresh and well-armored, regarded Elenya and Lonal for a moment. The latter were both wounded. Sweat poured down their faces. Their breath came in wheezes and rasps.

  “Who's first?” Lonal grinned.

  They heard a fortress horn blaring. A shadow of doubt filled the soldiers’ eyes.

  Lonal and Elenya seized the initiative. They worked in unison, one attacking while the other covered. The eight, daunted, yielded a pace, then another. One man went down. Lonal and Elenya remained in their corner.

  “Get the bow!” one of the soldiers cried.

  The rearmost man scurried to the window and plucked the bow out of the dead archer's grip. Lonal and Elenya pressed again, but decisive moves eluded all parties. The skirmish was aborted. The crowd parted. The man with the bow took aim and released.

  Lonal caught the arrow in his fist.

  The garrison soldiers stared at the war-leader, who broke the arrow in two. Suddenly they made up their minds. The horn of retreat, the shouts and the clatter of running boots outside, and the smoke streaming in from the common room all had their effect. First the man with the bow threw the weapon down and bolted. The others were only a few steps behind him. They made for the bridge and the southern keep.

  Elenya, when she had caught her breath, said, “That's a good trick. Will you teach it to me?"

  “I just learned it myself,” Lonal answered.

  For a few moments, all they could do was stand in place and feel exhausted. Then, slowly, they found their demonblades and picked them up. Elenya also took Shigmur's and returned it to its sheath. As she kneeled over the body, she thought how content the war-second looked. He had died the warrior's way, as he would have wished.

  “He will play the Bu again,” Lonal stated passionately.

  She nodded sadly. “There's a fight out there,” she said. “We'd better go."

  They emerged from the small service alley beside the inn into a cloud of smoke. It took them a moment to see that the men swarming on the top of the battlements wore white robes. The last of the garrison were vanishing over the bridge. The gate of the southern keep was closing, threatening to abandon a pair of mercenaries who, slowed by poison, were not able to run fast enough.

  The only remaining active resistance to the invasion was by the gatehouse. The guards had held the great portal of the main fortress until their companions were safe. Now completely surrounded by Zyraii warriors, hope cut off, they fought all the more desperately.

  Elenya and Lonal rushed to the fray. They were almost too late to be of any use, but Lonal killed a soldier just in time to prevent him from stabbing a Zyraii in the back. When the rescued Po-no-pha turned to them, they saw it was R'lar.

  “Well met, nephew,” the war-second said.

  “My pleasure."

  R'lar hugged his sister's son, then noticing that only Elenya accompanied him, said, “Shigmur?"

  Lonal bowed his head.

  Their grief was cut short by the sound of the iron gates rising. Zyraii riders flowed into the courtyard. The bloodshed was momentarily over. The Zyraii had taken the northern fortress. The only battles still being fought were against the fires.

  The victors, when they realized Lonal was among them, raised a shout and gathered around him. Quasham, war-leader of the Olot, though he had lost an eye in the attack, shrugged off the man who was bandaging him and, handing Lonal his demonblade, kneeled down before him.

  “I will follow you, opsha!” he declared.

  Lonal reverently spotted the weapon with blood from one of his superficial wounds and handed it back to Quasham. He postponed other congratulations, turning instead toward the southern keep, which reared its formidable mass on the other side of the bridge.

  “Secure the fortress. When night falls, we must take the keep, before they discover the source of their affliction."

  The fight was not quite over. There would be more lives lost, and possibly more snags like those caused by Falol and the wizard, but God was with them. Lonal doubted the garrison would hold the spot as long as his father had. Joren's spirit would rest easy tomorrow.

  * * *

  XXXVII

  “THERE IS A DRAGON IN THE SKY!"

  The messenger stopped in the center of the briefing room of the Royal Elandri Naval Headquarters, out of breath. Many of those in the room knew the man; he was not the kind to joke. Keron was the first to rise from his stately chair of office. The other high officers were right behind him. They ran, full-speed, to the building's tower.

  They climbed up the inner walls of the great ventilation shaft, frustrated at the slow, lazy spiral of the stairs. Finally they emerged on the watch platform at the top, their elderly and middle-aged bodies complaining of the exertion, and stared in horror over the battlements.

  It was true.

  The Dragon wheeled joyously in the air above Firsthold, sunlight resplendent on his body, awesome in speed and size.

  “He has wings,” one of the vice-admirals whispered. “He flies."

  Many of the men could not take their eyes off Gloroc, but soon Keron and a few of the others turned toward the northern horizon, where they spotted a large warship. It was not one of theirs. Not far from it a ship of the harbor patrol was burning.

  The high officers had met because they had not received word from their northeastern patrols for almost a week. Now they understood why. Even the fleetest scout ship could not outrun a dragon. As if in confirmation, Gloroc opened his great jaws and spouted a purple, narrow bolt of flame. It was so bright the observers had to turn away.

  “Gods! How can we fight that!” asked one of the tower guard
s.

  “His supply of flame is limited,” Keron said.

  The Dragon glided over them, its great, dark eyes directed at the royal palace. Soon Keron and all those on the platform felt the insides of their heads violated by triumphant, malevolent dragonspeech.

  "Spawn of the wizard! I have come for you! I will have back what was stolen from my parents! See if you can stop me!"

  One of the catapults on the top of a nearby tower flung a load of rock shards at the Dragon. He ignored the attempt. Gloroc stayed high, out of range of the city's siege engines and far above any attack the ships of the harbor patrol could mount. The shards fell harmlessly into the ocean, sinking and ultimately settling on the city's dome.

  He still respects our strength, Keron realized. He did not, however, understand why the Dragon had come. Gloroc had always been cautious. What did he hope to prove here, at the stronghold of the royalists? Like most of the cities built by Alemar Dragonslayer, it was completely underwater, save for the tall ventilation towers and the Tower of Trade, and the only access was through the towers or the airlocks far under the surface. The airlocks, if kept sealed, were impregnable, and the towers had the advantages of height and the catapults permanently mounted at their tops. The Tower of Trade, where merchant ships loaded and delivered their wares, was even now being barricaded. In addition, the home fleet was huge. Furthermore, Firsthold had been built on beds of thrijish coral. The proximity of the coral negated the Dragon's sorcery, reducing him to dependence on his physical powers alone. How could Gloroc, with one ship to back him, pose any significant threat? To come close enough to use his flame or physical strength would make him vulnerable to counterattack.

  The Dragon flew back to his ship, dipping so low that the men in the towers momentarily thought he had collided with it. When he rose again, he had something clutched in his foreclaws. He flew straight to the center of the harbor and hovered over a particular vessel.