The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  The human should have been crushed. Should have been smashed into pulp.

  She wasn't. Instead, she leaped up at the last second, the matriarch's claws just missing her, tearing through her crimson cloak. She wasn't even a grown woman, Tharok realized in shock. She was just a girl, black-skinned, her teeth bared in effort. He grunted in surprise when she landed in a crouch on the matriarch's back, her bloody blade held before her.

  "Impressive," growled Tharok, his whole soul thrilling at the coming combat. "Come, little human. Come and meet World Breaker."

  The girl seemed to see him for the first time, her gaze traveling up his body, her eyes growing wider as she took him in. Tharok bellowed a laugh and threw himself at her, launching off both feet, moving as fast as he could, World Breaker swinging down to cleave the world in two.

  The space on the matriarch's back was limited. The girl was crouched at the base of the matriarch's tail, with no room to retreat, so she threw herself into a forward roll and somehow escaped beneath him, her balance so exquisite that she managed to tumble up the matriarch's spine.

  Tharok landed, slipped, reached down to arrest his fall, laughed as his stomach lurched, and then strode toward the human, whose helm had fallen free. It spun as it tumbled out of sight, and he marveled again at how young she seemed, younger even than Shaya, her skin as black as his own.

  Tharok breathed in deep, gripped World Breaker in both hands, and launched a blistering attack. No massive swings; now an endless series of stabs and cuts, the huge scimitar wielded as if it were a short sword, its bulk and weight like nothing in his hands.

  The human parried, but the force of his blow nearly knocked her sword from her hand. She began to deflect and sway around his attacks, moving so quickly he couldn't believe it.

  No one could move that fast. But she did.

  Her blade snicked out and opened a cut along his left arm, down the inside of his forearm to the elbow.

  Tharok stepped back, stunned. The girl failed to press her attack, her chest heaving as she watched him to see what he would do. Tharok stared at his arm. The cut sealed closed; strength returned to his left hand, and he gripped the blade again and grinned at her, baring his tusks.

  For the first time, he saw fear on her face, and he relished it. She leaped at him, all feints now, a flurry of attacks that he could barely block. By the Sky Father, she was as fast as he was! The outrage made him see nearly black. He was wielding World Breaker! He was Medusa-Kissed! This could not be!

  Cuts began to open along his arms and thighs. She moved with remarkable assurance, ducking and weaving. He couldn't land a blow.

  Cool control flowed through his mind. He was letting his rage get the better of him. His attacks lacked all subtlety. This was not the way to defeat her.

  Tharok took a step back and gave the matriarch a sharp command.

  She dropped out from beneath them and banked away to the left. Both Tharok and the human were suddenly weightless and plummeting down toward the courtyard below.

  The human was caught completely by surprise. Tharok wasn't. He swam forward and hammered a terrible blow at her. Desperate, she went for a full block. Her blade caught fire, blazed up white, but World Breaker burned black in response and her blade shattered.

  Tharok roared. They had but seconds until they struck the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the matriarch powering toward them, cutting in like an arrow.

  "Die!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, then he brought World Breaker down with all his strength, slamming it against her chest plate. The force of the blow blasted her down into the earth, which cratered around her as she hit, and then huge claws snatched him out of the sky and the matriarch flew up, skimming up the inside of the wall and then clearing the top.

  He reached out, took hold of one of her horns, then pulled himself around and landed between her wings. Raising his blade, he roared his exultation and defiance.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The trumpets blew. Tiron was standing directly behind Ramswold, his blade in hand, trying through his sheer presence to exude enough calm to keep the Order and their men calm and collected, ready for what was to come. It was nearly impossible.

  Ramswold slammed his visor down and raised his blade, careful not to strike the ceiling of the tunnel. "For the Order! For justice, for honor, for glory! Onward!"

  The dozen knights behind Tiron cheered. Leuthold's militia let out hoarse cries behind them, and then Ramswold ran forward.

  Tiron felt that old fire begin to course through his veins. Here we go. If this battle be my last, let me sell my life dearly.

  They ran out into the cylinder, turned left and dove into their stairwell. Never before had Tiron seen such a marvel of engineering. He was wearing his chain, but, despite his insistence, the rest of the Order had donned their plate. Still, Ramswold fairly leaped up the steps, taking them three at a time, and Tiron was hard-pressed to keep up. The fires of youth! The tromp of sabatons echoed all around them, the cries and screams growing ever louder, and then suddenly they spilled out into the base of the central tower.

  "To the top!" cried the trumpeter, waving them toward the next stairwell. "To the top!"

  Ramswold turned to obey, but Tiron reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "Wait."

  "Wait?" Ramswold's voice nearly cracked with outrage. "Wait?"

  "Follow me," Tiron growled, and smacked the back of Ramswold's helm. "Now!"

  Ignoring the trumpeter and the other columns that were emerging from below and racing blindly to the tower top, Tiron strode out into the main courtyard.

  He didn't run. He walked, sword at the ready. His mood was growing darker and more foul by the moment. He could almost sense the violence taking place just out of sight, feel the invisible tremors that came from blinding agony and blood loss.

  Battlefields like this were his home. This was where he had been raised, where he had forged his identity. He found himself growing calm. It never paid to follow orders blindly, to rush into battle without knowing what to expect. Let the other five hundred race up to the tower top. He wanted to see what awaited them first.

  Ramswold and his Order followed him out into the evening light, into the great open courtyard. Its emptiness was eerie, its vast echoing space almost disorienting. Tiron clenched his jaw and turned, walking backward so he could look up the height of the tower and see what was taking place above them.

  "What are we doing?" Ulein sounded near tears. "The battle is above!"

  Tiron slowed, then stopped. Dragons! His heart stutter-stepped, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Dragons. Not one. Not ten. Too many to count. They were soaring high above the courtyard, made tiny by distance, circling and interweaving through the sky. Tiron saw one drop what looked like a huge statue, some crudely carved idol, from its grasping claws. The figure tumbled down toward their tower top – and missed.

  It fell along the inside of the tower and hit the flagstones of the courtyard with a heartrending crash. The flagstones buckled, a shockwave of dust and air blasted out, and Leuthold's militia screamed and fell, five of their men nearly crushed by the dropped statue.

  "What the hell?"

  Why the fuck were dragons dropping statues on them?

  Realization hit Tiron like a sledgehammer as he saw enormous stone men rise across each tower top and begin to demolish the ballistae. Ramswold was screaming at him, ordering him to return to the tower, but Tiron ignored him. Those weren't statues. They were monsters.

  A massive, blue-pebbled arm emerged from the crater before them and clutched at an obliquely angled flagstone, then a demon from the heart of a mountain hauled itself upright, its yellow eyes blinking away dust.

  "Well, fuck me," Tiron said. "That's a troll."

  Others had fallen into the courtyard along the inside of the wall. They were now climbing out of their self-made holes.

  Ramswold ceased his screaming.

  Nobody else was emerging from their towers. Everyone wa
s racing to the top, to the battlements.

  The Order fell back in dismay as the troll rose to its full height. It was humanoid in shape, but twice the height and width of a man, its body covered in cracked stone. It picked up a section of shattered flagstone the size of a wheelbarrow and threw it like a discus at Siffrid.

  The flagstone sheared through the knight's body at the waist, spraying blood and spinning Siffrid around like a toy. He collapsed, rolled, and lay still, dead before he hit the ground.

  "Move!" Tiron's roar nearly tore his throat. "Circle it! Move! Don't stand still!"

  But Ramswold and the others stood there gaping. Tiron ran forward, cutting into their line of sight so as to bestir them, still roaring. They were dead – the fact hit him like a blow between the eyes. One troll, they might kill. But six or eight or ten of them? They had minutes to live.

  Tiron approached the troll at an oblique angle. It focused on him, turning to follow his approach, flinging an arm out to try to grasp him around the waist.

  Leuthold let out a bark. A moment later, spears rained against the troll, most of them bouncing off its stony hide, but a number sank into its stomach and chest where no rock was encrusted.

  Tiron gripped his blade with both hands and swung at the troll's descending hand. His family blade, ancient beyond kenning, with an edge that had never dulled, sheared through the troll's fingers, which fell like wizened branches to the ground.

  The troll roared and snatched its hand back, and at that sound the Order came to their senses.

  "For the Ascendant!" Ramswold cried, and charged it directly. The others converged on the troll, and together they hacked at it.

  "Aim for its stomach!" Tiron shouted. He darted in, but couldn't get close enough.

  The troll swept an arm out and knocked three knights flying. Then it bunched up its fist into a boulder and pounded it straight at Isentrud, who raised her shield and was knocked to the ground.

  More spears flew in, and one sank deep into the troll's mouth. It spasmed, and Tiron and Ramswold ran toward it. They both stabbed deep into the troll's gut, then Tiron grabbed Ramswold and hauled him to the ground as a fist swooped through where they'd been standing.

  The troll reeled. Another knight stabbed his sword deep into its chest, and then it went down, toppling like an ancient tree, groaning as it collapsed onto its back.

  "Up," Tiron grunted, urging himself on. He rose and looked across the courtyard. Trolls were crossing the yard toward them. Quickly, he counted seven.

  They had no chance.

  All concerns, all worries left him. He hauled his blade free of the troll's gut. Ramswold did the same and stared in dismay at its broken tip and mangled edge. Tiron's had remained undamaged.

  "All right, men," Tiron called out. "You wanted a battle fit for a legend? You've got one."

  The trolls moved at a deceptively fast lope – but not toward them. Instead, they converged on the massive iron grating that covered the ramp down into the heart of Abythos. Almost as one, they reached down, took hold of the bars, and began to heave.

  "What are they doing?" Isentrud's voice was slurred.

  "An assassination team?" Ulein stepped up beside Tiron.

  "Wait." Tiron bit his lower lip and stared at the tower tops. The battles taking place up there looked heinous, vicious. Bodies were falling over the sides, trolls were roaring, the ballistae were being reduced to firewood. The walls were teeming now with human troops; the tower tops were swarming with them.

  Tiron turned to stare at the grating. That made no sense. Why open a way down with nobody to take advantage of it?

  "It's a ruse," he said.

  "What?" Ramswold stepped in close. "How?"

  The grating was groaning, beginning to deform. Long, ropey muscles stood out in stark relief under the trolls' hides. They were doing the impossible. They were tearing the grating apart.

  "The front gate," said Tiron. "They're going to breach it."

  The wyverns began to dive down from the sky and strafe the battlements, their shrieks like nails scratching down glass. It was a mind-numbing sight, one that Tiron knew he would never forget.

  A dull boom suddenly shook the ground, and Tiron turned to see plumes of dust drifting down from the gate. A second boom sounded, and the masonry that had blocked the gate tunnel cracked.

  Pick a course, you fool! Don't stand here marveling!

  "Kill the trolls!" Tiron pointed with his blade. "Stop them! Place them between you and the gate and attack from them from the far side!"

  Ramswold needed no further urging. He punched his blade into the sky and ran, leading his Order, the shining knights racing across the vast open courtyard with their cloaks streaming, their legs eating the distance as they threw themselves at the seven trolls.

  Tiron charged after them, ignoring the pain that flared in his knee, keeping an eye on the gate. "Swing around them!" he shouted. The damn fools! They were running right at the trolls. "Attack them from the other side! You'll be flanked when the kragh break through!"

  The Order ignored his yells. Screaming their war cries, they charged the first troll with the militia hot on their heels.

  Tiron cursed and swung wide to distract as many trolls as possible as the gate thundered and shook, the screams of five thousand soldiers mingling with the roar of tens of thousands of kragh, and overhead the wyverns shrieked their defiance, plucking man after man from the walls only to drop them to their doom.

  Tiron angled his approach to attack a troll whose back was to him. Family blade gleaming in his hands, he ran in close and hewed with both hands at the back of the troll's knee, swinging from the hips.

  The troll let out a bellow of pain and shock and released the grating it had pried up a yard from the ground. Its leg buckled and it fell, but Tiron was already past, moving low into the thick of the blue giants, swiping and swinging, moving as quickly as he could so they'd not be able to track him. He cut at ankles and knees, not seeking to kill but simply maim, thrilling at how his sword cleaved through the rock hides.

  Then the world went white.

  He rolled, over and over, and came to a stop on his back. His head was ringing, and he couldn't hear the battle. He couldn't feel his limbs. He blinked, suddenly alone in an island of silence. He felt as if he were looking up from the bottom of a deep pit. A huge wyvern was flying down toward him, and in his delirium he saw the biggest, blackest kragh he'd ever seen fighting a Virtue as they fell through the air.

  Tiron watched, bemused, as the kragh smote the Virtue and blasted her down into the ground, only to be snatched out of the sky moments later by that same monstrous wyvern.

  A troll appeared over him, a huge hand reaching down toward his head. Tiron felt the first tugs of panic, but he felt as if he were immersed in honey. He tried to rise, but he was moving too slowly. The troll's fingers wrapped around his skull, and its palm pressed against his face, dry and dusty like the floor of an abandoned room. It began to squeeze as it pulled him up to sitting.

  Pain shot through his head like rivers of fire. He felt the plates of his skull flex, and then the hand went limp and fell into his lap. It had been severed at the wrist. Grimacing, Tiron shoved it off onto the ground.

  Ramswold was standing above him, Tiron's blade in hand, recovering from the huge cut he'd just delivered as the troll reared up with a furious bellow.

  Tiron climbed to his feet as Ramswold threw himself aside, narrowly dodging a fist that crashed into the ground where he'd been standing. A trio of spears bounced off the troll's hide, then a knight ran to aid Ramswold, only to take a stony fist straight in the head. The knight's legs went out from under him, and he flipped and crashed down on his shoulders, his head a mangled ruin.

  A massive explosion shook the citadel, and the huge gate doors crashed inward. Tiron didn't even turn to stare. He snatched up a ruined blade from the ground – Ramswold's – and staggered behind the troll as it turned to track the sidestepping lord. With a raw cry, Tiron hacked
with both hands at the troll's knee. The blade barely cut into its stony flesh, but the distraction was sufficient; Ramswold darted in as the troll glanced back at Tiron and slammed his blade into the troll's gut, right up to the hilt. Ramswold then ducked under the troll, running between its legs and drawing his blade free, and the troll groaned and toppled forward.

  Only then did both men turn to face the gate, both panting for breath, sweat streaming down their brows. Tiron took his sword back gratefully. It felt light and wicked in his hand.

  The massive passage to the world of the kragh was standing wide open, and a flood was beginning to pour into the citadel, an unstoppable tide of kragh who bellowed as they surged over the huge chunks of rubble – hundreds of them, their maws wide open, their axes held high, racing right toward the grate where Tiron and Ramswold were standing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  There was no time to force her way down the stairwell, shouldering aside the men who were climbing up. Kethe ran lightly to the far side of the tower and leaped up onto the battlements just as the main gate blew inward, sending rubble and rocks exploding into the courtyard.

  The drop was twenty yards. Kethe closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and gave a fervent prayer: My soul to the White Gate.

  She stepped out into the void.

  There was a screaming rush of wind, her cloak tore at her shoulders, and she opened her eyes just in time to see her blade burning bright as the ground rose up to meet her. Her spasm of terror was immediately sublimated into the song of the White Gate.

  She hit the flagstones, which shattered around her, ragged, circular cracks appearing outwards from where she had slammed into a crouch. She felt no pain, nothing but the raging song of the White Gate in her heart, in her soul.

  The kragh were streaming through the broken gate, racing in a screaming riot toward where trolls were battling a score of knights and tearing at the entrance to the shafts and tunnels below.