Ruin
Page 71
Then, without any warning, no visible tell that Corban spotted, Sumur was pushing forwards, almost opening Corban’s throat with his first blow, the blade-tip scraping off Corban’s torc, the second strike glancing off his mail-covered shoulder, the third met with Corban’s blade, the fourth deflected by the iron strips in Corban’s bracer, the sixth avoided by a leap as Sumur tried to cut his feet from under him. Three more blows came at Corban’s head in sharp succession, each one powerful enough to take his head off if not deflected. Corban rolled and rotated his wrists, elbows, shoulders, shifted his weight, sending the blows slipping a finger’s width wide of his head each time.
It is like fighting a giant, his strength is incredible.
Sumur’s blade came at him faster and faster, the strength building with each blow; the Kadoshim starting to move in circles about him, halting Corban’s steady retreat back to the gates of Drassil.
Instinct overcame Corban’s fear then, his mind shrinking to the man and blade before him, reading the shift of his feet, the contraction and extension of muscle, the tilt and bunching of balance. At first it was enough that he managed to block each blow, but slowly his body began working faster than thought, the constant drills of Gar and the sword dance flowing through his limbs without conscious direction, and he began to counter Sumur’s blows. First one in three or four, then every other blow against him and he was striking back.
They exchanged another flurry of blows, Corban using every form within the sword dance, and while he managed to push Sumur back a dozen steps and defend against his attacks, he could not break through the Kadoshim’s guard.
They parted, Corban breathing heavily, muscles and tendons strained and screaming for respite, bruises throbbing beneath his mail shirt where blows had sneaked through his guard, blood trickling down one leg from a shallow cut above his knee. Sumur was unmarked but looked . . . irritated.
I’m still alive, Corban thought. It came as quite a shock to him.
He knows the sword dance as if he were it, can strike with every conceivable combination, can counter the same. If that is all I can meet him with I am going to die – sooner or later I will tire, will slow down, and his strength and stamina are not changing. If anything his strength is growing with his anger. A memory flashed through his mind, of Gar standing over Akar in the weapons court.
‘What’s the matter?’ Corban breathed with a forced grin. ‘Can’t you kill me?’
Sumur snarled at that, powered in at him, blows coming from every angle. Corban blocked them all, just, then forced his body to change course, stepped in instead of obeying instinct and swirling away. He headbutted Sumur full on the bridge of the nose, punched his sword hilt into Sumur’s face as he staggered back a step, slammed his wolven-claws into the man’s belly, punching through chainmail links deep into soft flesh, ripping the claws free as he swept away.
Thank you, Coralen.
Sumur paused, looked at him with his head cocked to one side, dark drops of blood smearing his lips, dripping from his mouth. He did not seem to notice the wound in his belly, even though blood was dripping, pooling about his feet.
I have to take his head. I can hardly touch him, and when I do, I deal a blow that would kill any other man and he does not even notice it.
The uselessness and frustration of it threatened to overwhelm him.
No. Gar’s words from a million training sessions came back to him, ordering him on. I endure. I try again.
‘Surprised?’ Corban said. ‘Perhaps I’ll get to add your head to those of your kin that are decorating Drassil’s gate.’ He gestured behind him towards Drassil and then followed in before Sumur could respond. Their blades rang, a concussive, harsh rhythm, echoing off Drassil’s walls.
Abruptly pain ignited along Corban’s thigh, a line of burning fire, a downwards glimpse showing him a red line, bleeding heavily, soaking into his breeches. Sumur spun out of reach, Corban blocking a backswing with his wolven claws, taking too much of the power from Sumur’s blow, a pain stabbing through his wrist.
This is how the end comes. The slow creep of a myriad small wounds, blood draining away, muscles bruised, worn, weary, tendons stretched too far, too many times, exhaustion squeezing in upon your mind and body, all combining to slow you by a heartbeat for that one fatal blow.
No, he screamed at himself.
Sumur smiled at him. ‘Your heart, I can almost taste it.’ He licked his lips.
If I’m going to die I’ll make a song of it, at least. Don’t want Tukul waiting for me on the bridge of swords without a smile on his face.
He hefted his sword, taking the weight in one hand, striking like a smith at the forge with both arms, blade and claw, on his fifth or sixth stroke he felt his blade slam into Sumur’s chainmail, caught Sumur’s sword between the blades of his claw, punched him in the mouth, pulled away, pivoted on a heel, taking two blows in quick succession upon the shield across his back, as he spun, catching fragmented glimpses of the world around him – men in red cloaks, silent and staring, a horse stamping a hoof – as he came out of the spin swinging his sword low at Sumur’s calf, Sumur jumping over it, Corban using the brief moment Sumur was weightless to step in close, hook his foot behind Sumur’s ankle as he landed and push with all his strength against the Kadoshim’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Corban swept forwards, his sword rising and chopping down, into the churned dirt as Sumur rolled away, rising smoothly to his feet. Corban could hardly breathe, the exertion of that last attack draining him of all energy and will. He stood staring at Sumur, leaning on his sword, tip buried in the ground, heart thumping in his chest, mouth hanging open as he sucked in great lungfuls of air.
He is too good, too fast, too strong. They call me Elyon’s champion? Where is he now?
Sumur walked towards him. His left arm and shoulder were hanging oddly, his clavicle was clearly broken, but it did not alter his movement, the pain not even registering upon the Kadoshim’s face.
‘You’ve done well,’ Sumur said, his voice a demonic rasp, ‘better than I’d ever have imagined, but the end is, has always been, inevitable.’ Corban saw the coiling of muscle in his legs, the bunching of tendons in his wrist as Sumur prepared for the death lunge and knew exactly what the once-Jehar was going to do; he also understood that he could not stop him. At the same time he remembered another duel, one he’d watched so long ago, in a feast-hall on Mid-winter’s Eve.
Tull.
As Sumur moved, so did he, flicking his wrist to spray dirt from his blade-tip into Sumur’s face, blinding him for a moment. Sumur took a step back, raising his sword in front of him to defend against the blow that he presumed would come at his head, at the same time Corban spun in a circle to his right. He came out of his spin to Sumur’s left, ending up almost behind the Kadoshim, Corban’s sword chopping into the back of Sumur’s neck, landing perfectly at the spot where the skull ends and the back and shoulders begin.
There was the wet sound of an axe splitting damp wood and Sumur’s head flew through the air, a trail of dark blood arcing in its wake. The body collapsed, feet twitching, and a great black mist poured from the open wound, forming into a winged creature above the corpse.
Corban stood, feet planted wide, chest heaving, not quite believing what had just happened. What he had just done. Then he noticed the silence, heightened all the more by the thump and roll of Sumur’s head as it hit the ground and came to a rolling stop.
The winged shadow above Sumur’s corpse screeched in fury, its wings appearing to beat in an attempt to reach him, then the wind was tearing at it and in moments it became a tattered, shredded banner, and then, nothing – less than a sigh upon the air.
Corban looked up, saw Jael staring open-mouthed, behind him his warband, every last one of them silent in disbelief. Then he heard a roar from the walls of Drassil, rolling down to him like a great cascading wave, engulfing him, the sheer shock and joy of the moment making him grin. He punched his sword into the air and added his vo
ice, exulting in his victory.
As the cheering died down Corban walked to Sumur’s severed head, reached down and held it high by its hair.
‘Keep your word, Jael,’ Corban yelled. ‘Your champion is defeated. Go back to Isiltir.’
Jael stared at him, something between awe, fear and rage flitting across his features, then he snapped a command to the mounted warriors around him. They looked at him, seeming to hesitate, but Corban guessed what was going to happen. Jael barked his command again and first one warrior kicked his horse and snapped his reins, then another and another, until a score of them were riding towards him.
Corban looked back at the gates of Drassil, knew he’d never make it in time, so he set his feet and held his sword high with two hands.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. And then, louder, he bellowed, ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE,’ more rage spilling from his voice than he knew he felt.
The enemy hooves pounded towards him, warriors bent low over their saddles, spears and swords pointing his way. The ground trembled. Dimly he recognized the sound of Drassil’s gates opening, heard the enraged, frantic yells of warriors as they raced from the gates to his aid.
You will be too late, he thought calmly. Go back.
He concentrated on the closest rider, no more than two hundred paces away now, two score heartbeats, maybe less, focused on the rhythm of the hooves, the rise and dip of the spearhead in the warrior’s fist. A part of his mind registered that it was one of the warriors who had ridden out with Jael, not the one with the banner, but the one he had thought was Jael’s champion.
Strangely, out of nowhere, he remembered Coralen’s kiss in the doorway to his chamber, could almost taste a hint of apple.
I wish I could see her one more time, if only to tell her . . .
A new sound had crept into his awareness, the rumble of hooves from behind him, closer than those in front, and mixed with it the thump of something else, something as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.
The sound of wolven paws.
As if to confirm it, he saw fear spread across the face of the closest rider bearing down upon him.
He looked back, saw Storm pounding towards him, her fangs bared, muscles rippling with each bound of her powerful legs, and beside her Shield, his mane whipped by the wind, hooves a hammer blow, the two of them matching pace. Behind them a swarm of warriors were pouring from the gates of Drassil, Balur and the Benothi forging ahead of them.
Before him the riders were closing, a score of warriors intent upon his death.
Then he knew what he had to do.
He sheathed his sword and turned his back on the enemy riders, took a deep breath, focused on Shield’s hooves, the rhythm of his gallop, and he set his feet as the stallion approached. He bent his knees, went onto the balls of his feet, began to move, to run and then Storm and Shield were almost upon him, Shield a mountain of muscle and mane so close he could smell him, see the sweat streaks in his coat, and he broke from a run into a sprint, Storm pounding past him, both Corban and Storm’s muscles bunching, leaping at the same time, Corban’s heart thumping in time with the pounding of Shield’s hooves. He reached out, grabbed a fistful of the stallion’s mane, and used the horse’s momentum to hurl himself into the air.
There was a heartbeat that felt like an eternity as he was weightless, flying, legs scissoring, then, with a solid thump he was in the saddle, hands reaching for the reins and Shield was angling away, pounding through a gap in the approaching riders and then he was free, galloping across open space along the front of Jael’s warband, wind whipping his black hair out behind him like a banner.
Some of Jael’s warband were actually cheering him.
Behind him the sound of screams rose up as Storm tore her target from his saddle and ripped him apart.
He guided Shield in a loop, slowing to a canter, glimpsed Storm leaping and snapping amidst the riders sent to kill him, saw spears rising and falling and felt a hot rage bubble up. From Drassil warriors were still pouring, Jehar on horseback amongst them, hundreds charging across the open space. Horns were blaring along the lines of Jael’s warband and suddenly they were lurching into movement, stuttering forwards.
The plan was to stay atop the battlements, let their warband break upon the walls of Drassil. Guess we’ll need a new plan.
He heard Storm growling and snapping, saw horses rearing and plunging around her.
With a snarl he drew his sword and urged Shield back to a gallop.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
ULFILAS
I have a bad feeling about this.
‘Charge them, charge them, kill them!’ Jael was screeching close to Ulfilas’ ear.
The warband was moving, but sluggishly.
They are still reeling from what we have just witnessed. And in truth I do not blame them for being hesitant about joining battle with these people.
Ulfilas was still coming to terms with what he’d seen.
The greatest duel between two men that I have ever witnessed – maybe that has ever happened. I cannot believe that Sumur lost. It had been like witnessing two storms collide at sea, a maelstrom of furious, deadly movement, utterly beautiful to watch. At first it had seemed an inevitability that Corban would die – he was an exceptional warrior, clearly, but Sumur had seemed too perfect, too clinical, too fast and powerful, but then, slowly, almost by sheer, dogged will and determination, Corban had edged back into the fight, gone from just trying to stay alive for a few moments longer to having a slim chance, and finally, mostly by a combination of heart and wits and a general stubborn refusal to die, had taken Sumur’s head.
And what the hell was that thing that came out of Sumur?
‘What are you DOING?’ Jael was screaming at him, almost apoplectic with rage. ‘Lead the warband forward; you are my bannerman.’
Don’t you think you should be leading them? You’re our King.
Ulfilas ignored the sense of foreboding growing in his belly, grunted at Jael and kicked his horse forwards, warriors on foot behind him lurching after him. Horns were blaring. The score of riders that Jael had set upon Corban were dead or dying, that wolven the size of a horse ripping half of them to pieces and still running amok just a few hundred paces ahead.
And the first man that beast tore apart was Fram, Jael’s first-sword; after Sumur, that is. So that’s his two finest warriors down before the battle is even joined. Not the most inspirational of starts.
Ulfilas was rapidly losing heart for this conflict, but a voice in his head was shouting at him that to turn and run would be the end of him. And that’s true enough, I don’t doubt. If we are broken here any that survive the battle will then have to survive the long march through Forn. Don’t fancy that much, so we’d better get on and win this battle.
The men of Isiltir were responding to the horn blasts and Jael’s screams urging them on, sweeping forward and curling in upon the lesser numbers that had swarmed out from the open gates of Drassil.
That at least is a stroke of good fortune. At least they are coming out here to fight so we don’t have to try and climb those walls. Our numbers may still win the day.
Ulfilas felt a warrior’s respect for Corban, even if he was his enemy. That running mount had been a thing of beauty, undertaken with sharp iron bearing down upon him, mere heartbeats separating him between life and death. It was as if the running mount had been distilled into that one moment, learned and practised by every warrior in every realm throughout their youth for that exact purpose.
Warriors on foot swept past him, running into the battle, the score of Jehar the same as Sumur, which gave Ulfilas a flare of hope – all of a sudden I’m wishing Nathair had forced a hundred of them upon us, like he did on Gundul and Lothar.
He saw the Jehar slam into a knot of enemy warriors only fifty paces ahead of him, a mixture of giants and men who looked remarkably similar to the Jehar that were with him, except that they wore surcoats with the white star blazing upon their chests.
I am no coward, but I am no fool either, and I have no death-wish upon me.
He saw that he was about to enter this battle whether he wanted to or not. He slipped Jael’s banner into the leather cup on his saddle that usually held his spear, drew his sword and kicked his horse on, choosing a warrior who looked like one out of Gramm’s hold.
Someone normal to fight.
His horse’s shoulder ploughed into the man, sending him reeling, Ulfilas’ sword rising and falling, crunching into the warrior’s helm, dropping him instantly.
He kicked his horse on, swinging left and right with his blade, leaving a wake of bloody wounds and dying men. He started to think that they could still win this battle, though all was chaos and blood around him. It was almost impossible to tell how the battle was faring. He hacked at a spear jabbing at him, snapped the shaft, stabbed into the face of the warrior wielding it, heard a scream, saw the man go down, and dug his heels into his horse.
For a moment there was a lull around him. To his left he saw Corban, still upon his horse, hacking at men of Isiltir with maniacal energy; close to him there was a flash of white fur and fangs, and about the young warrior a knot of fighters gathered to protect him – a huge man with a war-hammer, a red-haired woman with wolven claws like Corban’s, dripping with gore, and one of the Jehar mounted and trailing arcs of blood with his sword – he looked remarkably like the warrior who had unhorsed Ulfilas at Gramm’s hold, only younger and more battle-frenzied.
Not going that way, then.
He yanked upon his reins and suddenly there was one of the Jehar in front of him – one of his Jehar – fighting a silver-haired giant with one eye and a black axe. The Jehar was fast, darting in and cutting at the giant’s leg, eliciting a howl of pain or rage, but then a huge knife smashed into the Jehar’s chest, hurling it from its feet. The injured giant lumbered forwards and swung his axe, taking the Jehar’s head off as it tried to rise, and then there was a screeching shadow-demon materializing in the air right in front of Ulfilas, his horse screaming and rearing. He managed to control his mount, saw another giant striding forwards, smaller, slimmer – female? It’s so hard to tell the difference – but still clearly a giant, two belts criss-crossing her chest with an abundance of those oversized knives sheathed in them. As Ulfilas watched, she bent down and recovered her knife from the chest of the decapitated Jehar and then looked about for a new target.