The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  Dropping to a crouch, he secured his longsword between arm and torso before wending his way around to the hill’s north face. With the front of the stronghold stretching along his line of sight, he inched down through the shrubbery. Reaching level ground, he set himself behind a cluster of low bushes and peered through the gaps at the nearby mob of villagers. White-knuckled fists clutched bows, cudgels and long knives, and a murmur of voices drifted to his hiding place; with his centuries of observing others, he detected a plethora of emotions from the besiegers – among them hatred, exuberance, resolve, and fear-tinged bravado. He could use those against them, and perhaps turn a number of them away, but not the majority. Whatever the outcome, it was going to be bloody.

  And that also means for me, he thought, acknowledging the irony that the attackers were not alone in their fear and resolve.

  As he watched and listened, a commotion began among the group, and Ellidar stared in wonder as a flame wisped into life upon the string of the nearest man’s bow. The flame licked its way higher, and the villager cast his bow to the ground. “Gods forfend!” he cried. “Me bow’s on fire!”

  “Witch magic!” another man shouted.

  “Demons!” a third declared, and Ellidar frowned in familiarity at the speaker’s paunched middle and flaccid, jowly features. “You don’t scare us, outlanders!” he called through the doors. “Not you, not your giant, and not your witchery!”

  Witch? Giant? What tricks does the lady Jalis have up her sleeve?

  “You will not find victory here!” the man continued. “If you surrender now, I promise your deaths will be swift!”

  “Not on my watch.” Ellidar rose from the foliage, his sword at rest over his shoulder, and the gathering turned to face him in stunned silence. Several of the men raised their bows, only to cast them away as, one by one, the strings caught fire. As he strode towards them, a single arrow streamed through the group and grazed past his pauldron. “Stay your hands and live,” he said, “or continue this foolishness and die.”

  “Oh, aye? What’s this, then?”

  He came to a stop at the edge of the group and cast a cool look upon the speaker. “Ah yes, now I know you, Onwin – the coward who trembled within a loft and put an arrow through a defenceless man’s eye. A good shot, I’ll give you that much. But how do you fare with a blade?” He raised his voice so the whole mob could hear, and, he hoped, Jalis and Oriken. “I have a message for you from an acquaintance of mine. His name is Sabrian. Your ancestors murdered his friends and placed their heads upon your oak. He will be greatly displeased if you kill the outlanders he has come to know as friends, and you should all know that I share his sentiment.”

  Onwin sneered. “Is that so? You have me at a disadvantage, stranger. I like to know the names of the outlanders I kill.”

  “You have never killed an outlander, hunter, and that will not change today. I am Ellidar, knight-paladin of Valsana, guardmaster of Castle Lachyla, sworn sword to King Mallak Ammenfar, and ally of the worthy. You and yours”—he slid the longsword from atop his shoulder—“are not among the worthy. Retreat now and return to your village.”

  “You would rob us of our vengeance, would you?” Onwin spat. “Even while a Servant of the Slain carries our First Warder away?”

  “They killed our people!” one of the villagers exclaimed.

  Ellidar shook his head. “They did not.”

  “They’ll bring armies from the north!” another called from the rear.

  “This is the brabbling of fools,” Ellidar said tiredly. “Fools who do not want to listen. By my reckoning, fools who wish to die.”

  “We won’t let them walk away from here,” Onwin warned.

  Ellidar chuckled. “Oh, come now, hunter. Drop the mask of bravery. The cowardice you displayed in the city suits you much better.” He drew a breath and addressed the whole group. “You have been misinformed. Stop this and go back to your homes or follow this man and die.”

  A mixture of doubt and resoluteness passed among the faces of the villagers, but none spoke or moved except to clutch their weapons tighter.

  “We have no choice,” Onwin said.

  “You had a choice.” Ellidar gripped his longsword in both hands. “You just made it.” He charged. The nearest man raised his club. Ellidar swiped the longsword and smashed the weapon from its wielder’s grip. With a backslash, he tore the man’s throat open. As he turned to the next man, he flicked a glance at Onwin and noted with disdain how the fat hunter backed away to the rear of the group.

  The doors to the stronghold scraped inwards, causing all heads to turn as a man of considerable height and girth stepped over the threshold, the muscles of his arms like thick cords of steel as he brandished a wooden crutch in one hand and a greatsword in the other. The weapon dwarfed Ellidar’s own by a full foot.

  “Not too late to join the fray, am I?” the giant bellowed.

  Oriken stepped into view beside him, the blade Ammenfar in one hand and a second gladius in the other. Then Jalis emerged with her daggers at the ready.

  Ellidar grinned. “The more, the merrier!” he called, then loosed a battle-cry and tore into the mob.

  Demelza stood behind Maros, clutching Henwyn’s longbow with an arrow nocked to the string. The wounded bowman stayed to the rear of the room, attending the one who had taken an arrow to save Demelza’s life. As her friends stepped into the battle, she raised the bow and pulled back on the string.

  Shoot any who try to enter, Jalis had instructed, and although there were faces within the group who had never caused her harm or spoken to her with malice, she intended to do as Jalis said.

  She watched the giant limp among the villagers, his huge sword slicing left and right, catching some of the men and spreading others away to be torn into by the one in the shiny clothes. Oriken’s two swords were a whir as he hacked and stabbed, swiped and deflected the blows aimed at him. Jalis ran among the throng, seeming almost to dance as she glided up behind one hunter and drew her silver blade across his neck, then leaped away from a slashing dagger and ducked beneath a club to stab her black blade into another hunter’s guts.

  Clubs smashed into the shiny one, knives slashed across the giant, and the clash of metal rang out as Oriken swatted his wide swords against one long hunting knife after another. Demelza cried silently as the numbers of her fellow villagers dropped, and Jalis, Oriken, Maros and their new friend bore wound after wound.

  She counted the remaining villagers. Fifteen. Fourteen… Maros stumbled and dropped to one knee with a roar that was cut short as a club smashed into his face. Releasing his weapon and crutch, he grabbed his attacker and half-rose, then sank back down to slam the man’s spine over his knee. Demelza gasped as a distinct snap resounded through the clash of weapons and the groans of the dying. Maros rose once more, punching a villager who dared approach him and snatching up his huge sword. Jalis sprinted behind the giant and leaped towards the backs of two men fighting Oriken. As she landed, her daggers jabbed into their sides, and from out of nowhere Onwin stepped up behind her, his hunting blade flashing for her head.

  “No!” Demelza screamed, but Oriken’s sword was already smashing into the hunter’s weapon to send it flying from his grasp. Onwin turned and ran, dodging around the shiny man as his sword plunged into another villager’s middle.

  Demelza’s heart was pounding as she counted again. Seven, six…, Almost as one, the remaining hunters and other villagers cast their weapons to the ground and held their hands out for mercy. Demelza stepped out into the mud. Oriken glanced her way as she ran past him and sprinted for Onwin. Her shoes slid in the mud, but she gained ground with each step.

  “Onwin!” she shouted. Dropping to a knee, she raised the bow.

  He glanced back, then stopped and turned fully around as fury spread over his face. “You! I should have—”

  “But you didn’t,” she said, and her arrow sank into his heart. Onwin stared dumbly from her to the arrow, then pitched to the mud. Sh
e rose, her whole body trembling as she walked back to her friends, stepping around the fallen men.

  “You didn’t use your magic,” Jalis said.

  “No.” Her voice quivered. She glanced back at the lumpy shape with the arrow sticking from it as if pointing to the stars. “He’s still dead though, ain’t he?”

  Oriken gritted his teeth against the pain of his fresh wounds. Staggering to the fortress wall, he leaned against it. “Well done, Dee,” he gasped.

  “Traitor,” one of the downed men spat, casting Demelza a seething look.

  “That’s enough from you,” Maros rumbled. Limping across, he plunged his greatsword deep into the man’s torso and looked around at the remaining four survivors. “Anyone else have any prevailing quibbles they’re just dying to get off their chests? No? I take it you all want to live, then?” He hobbled over to one man, who stared up at him defiantly. “Give me one good reason why I should grant you that wish?”

  “Because they have lain down their arms.” Ellidar’s voice rang across the grim arena. “Show them mercy, good jotunn. There is more at stake here than mere slaughter.” As the knight angled around the bodies, he closed his eyes and staggered but righted himself, pressing a hand to a bloody patch on his side between the silver rings of mail.

  Maros issued a low growl. Narrowing his eyes at the middle-aged villager before him, he said, “What’s your name, feller?”

  “Dal Ebran.”

  “And why’d you come to kill us, Dal Ebran?”

  “My son.”

  “Your son’s one o’ these, is he?” Maros gestured around the fallen men.

  Dal shook his head. “He… Tan was volunteered for the mission to return the stone. He never came home.”

  Oriken shared a glance with Jalis, and together they crossed to the man. “I don’t recognise the name,” Oriken said. “And we sure as shit didn’t kill your son. Didn’t kill any of you, for that matter, until now. So what’s your problem?”

  Dal turned to Demelza. “I don’t know why you’re here, but you were with my boy in that place. Onwin said he was killed by the… by your companions. Please, if you know something of him—”

  “I don’t know nowt,” she said. “I never not liked Tan. He weren’t nasty to me. He were walkin’ behind me, then, when I looked back, he were gone. If my friends say they never killed him, then they never killed him.”

  “I may know something of your son,” Ellidar said, “and I may be able to reunite you with him. But you will have to do something for me in return.”

  “Anything.”

  “Go with me to the city.”

  Dal eyed him warily. “Is that all? And you say I will see Tan alive again?”

  Ellidar inclined his head. “That is my hope. But I cannot say for certain. What I can say is this: Whether alive or… something other, I will ensure you speak with him again. And, Valsana be willing, he will return with you to your village.”

  “Why would you do this for me, after all this bloodshed?”

  “Because I am a man of honour. And because… I will soon be dead. I need you to ensure I live again.”

  Dal blinked. “Have you turned my son into one of you?”

  “I have done nothing to him. But another may have, which is why we must not tarry.” Ellidar looked pointedly at him. “Dal Ebran, I will undoubtedly fall on the journey home, and for you to have any chance of seeing your son again, you must drag me the rest of the way. Do you agree to this?”

  Dal gave an abrupt nod. “I do.”

  “And, if we extend mercy to your three acquaintances here, will you ensure that their hatred and fear does not subvert your promise?”

  “You have my word in the name of the goddess, and in the name of my boy.”

  Ellidar nodded. “Take your men and wait by the wall. No harm will come to any of you.” He looked to Maros. “Is this well, friend?”

  Maros grunted. “It’s anything but fucking well. Truth be told, I don’t have much of a clue what any of you are talking about”—he glanced at Jalis—“and I reckon I ain’t likely to find out, either, so have at it.”

  Ellidar gestured for the villagers to approach the fortress wall. As they did so, he looked to Jalis and his chiselled features cracked into a smile. “It is good to see you, lady. Very good indeed.”

  “You too. If not for you and Maros showing up, Oriken, Demelza and I would likely be three more bodies to join the skeleton within the fortress.”

  The knight’s brow furrowed, then he shook his head. “No matter. You are safe, and all is well with the world.”

  “Not all,” Wymar called weakly from within the fortress as he raised a hand for their attention. “Man dying in here, you sons of bitches.”

  “He saved me,” Demelza said. “Don’t let him die.”

  Oriken took a lit torch from the wall and made his way into the room, with Maros following behind.

  Beside Wymar, Henwyn rose from a squat and shook his head. “I stopped his bleeding as best I could,” he told them, gingerly touching the bloody bandage around his own forearm. “It’s all we can do. The arrow’s popped a lung.” He glanced down at the ashen-faced mill owner. “I’m sorry, Wymar.”

  “Fuck yourself, freebl—” Wymar broke into a cough, and pink blood frothed at his lips.

  “Perhaps there is a way.” Jalis said from the entrance, turning a pointed look on Ellidar.

  The knight regarded her for a long moment, then drew a breath and approached Wymar. “What skills can you offer a community?” he asked.

  The mill owner glared at him. “Are you joking? I’m close to death here, and you—” Another bout of coughing wracked his frame. When he was finished, he glanced questioningly at Maros.

  “Don’t ask me,” Maros said. “I’m just a barman and a quill-scratcher.”

  Jalis dropped to her haunches beside the dying man, her lips pursed in consideration. “Wymar, if there was a chance you could live, but there were severe restrictions, would you take it?”

  “Damned right I would.”

  She nodded and looked up at Ellidar. “If it wasn’t for this man, I’m guessing that Maros and Henwyn wouldn’t have reached Caer Valekha when they did. If not for Wymar, it would be Demelza lay there dying instead. And, not to undermine your own arrival for which we’re all very grateful, but in a way he also saved the lives of Oriken and I.”

  Ellidar smiled. “That is all I need to know.” To the mill owner he said, “Will you join me?”

  “Doesn’t sound like I have much choice. Lead the way.” He closed his eyes and drew several shallow breaths. “Tavernmaster?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re not… a total arsehole, after all,” Wymar rasped. “You can settle your debt… at a later date.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, friend.”

  “What about me?” Henwyn asked.

  Wymar barked a weak laugh. “You? You’re still a c—”

  “Come now, miller,” Henwyn chided. “There are ladies present. And do you really want to end on that note?”

  “I suppose not.” Wymar’s eyes cracked open to regard Henwyn. “You’re a gobshite, but I thank you for doing what you could. And you can take that… or leave it.”

  Henwyn nodded. “I’ll take it.”

  “One more thing,” Wymar said to Maros. “My son’ll mind the mill, but you have my blessings to tell him… to get rid of that other gobshite, Renfrey. The man’s a drunkard and an ingrate.”

  Maros grinned. “With pleasure.”

  Wymar closed his eyes again and, after a moment, Demelza knelt and tapped him on the shoulder. He cracked one eye open and gave her a weak nod.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Any time, girl. Any…”

  Oriken passed the torch to Henwyn and gently brought Dee to her feet. As the mill owner’s last breath rattled from his body, she placed her head on Oriken’s chest. Pausing only briefly, he put his arm around her shoulders and looked at Ellidar. “We
ll,” he sighed, “we outlanders didn’t win any popularity votes down here, did we?”

  “On the contrary. You won the gratitude of many of the cityfolk, myself included.” The knight raised an eyebrow at Jalis. “Both of you. And Dagra.”

  She smiled. “Than you. We were thieves in your home and you showed us civility. Had we realised…” Her brow furrowed, and she said, “But how did you know they were heading to kill us?”

  “The one with the axe and bow,” Ellidar said. “Wayland chose to return, as Gorven predicted. He waited only for his friend to die. There is gallantry in that.”

  Demelza lifted her face from Oriken’s chest. “Wayland?”

  The knight inclined his head. “Yes, lady. He lives.”

  She rubbed her eye. “I’m glad. Will you see him?”

  “I will.”

  “Tell him I’m safe. That’s all he wanted.”

  The knight touched a fist to his chest. “On my honour.”

  Oriken cleared his throat. “Listen. I’m sorry about all I said back in the castle. Emotions were sort of high.”

  Ellidar inclined his head, then pointed to the sword on Oriken’s hip. “You have accepted a charge as meaningful as my own. The blade Ammenfar contains the essence of Mallak, the last king of Lachyla.”

  Oriken blanched. “Really?”

  The knight cast him a flat look. “Figuratively.”

  “Ah.”

  Turning to the open doors, Ellidar called for Dal Ebran. A moment later, the villager stepped to the entrance. “You may tell your companions to enter and carry this one outside,” Ellidar said, gesturing to the dead miller. “He will accompany us.”

  Dal’s face was stony, but he gestured for his companions, and together they carried Wymar’s body from the fortress.

  Oriken strode to the corner and snatched up his packs, wincing as he slung them over his shoulder. “You can forget it if you think I’m staying here tonight,” he told no one in particular. Stepping outside, he caught a seething look from one of the villagers – a bearded fellow with blood covering half of his face, who looked him squarely in the eye.