The White Fox
Page 20
They faced each other. Sardâr was in full golden armor, his dark hair cascading in the wind. Iago was his exact mirror—covered in riveted silver, black cloak now a cape billowing menacingly around him, his black mane making him look even more like a limber beast. The sounds of the siege below—the hurled rocks and roaring fire spitters—were oddly muffled. The crimson light highlighted the uneven rock.
Then Iago leapt forward, his spears raised. However, Sardâr was ready. He sidestepped at the last possible moment, parrying the edge of the lance with his blade. And the two of them were dancing, ducking, dodging, blocking, and counterattacking through the air, a dual whirl of supernatural swordsmanship.
Sardâr reflected Iago’s blow with the butt of his sword and kicked him hard in the stomach. Iago staggered backwards, momentarily stunned. Sardâr took the advantage. He launched forward, the tip of his curved blade pointed directly at Iago’s heart. But his enemy whirled and struck back—it had been a feint. Sardâr felt the edge of a wicked metal spike collide with his back, and a spark of lightning shot through him. He fell forward.
Iago stepped over him, the edge of his lance brushing Sardâr’s neck. His eyes were ablaze with savage pleasure.
Sardâr’s gaze slipped to the right. His sword was lying motionless a few feet away. If he could just reach it …
“Well, Sardâr, you really have lost your touch,” Iago said erratically, not bothering to conceal his glee. “I expected this to last at least a little longer. I’ll raze this fortress to the ground, and the Emperor will reward me with Tâbesh on a platter. Very soon the throne room in Khălese will be back in use. It might comfort you to know that you died to save your kingdom from decadence. Then again, maybe not. You always were a traitorous fool.”
He raised the spear, about to strike, but paused. “Oh, and comfort yourself also that Adâ won’t be grieving for too long. I always had a soft spot for her. She shall make a fine queen consort in the new state—”
“No,” roared Sardâr. He released a blast of alchemical energy, and his blade flung back into his hand. In the same motion he leapt off the ground, flipping over Iago. He twirled on the spot, slicing with his blade. However, Iago was quick enough. He blocked the strike with his spears crossed in an X, but Sardâr had been expecting this. He brought his gauntleted fist crashing into Iago’s stomach, and this time he felt it connect properly and something crack underneath.
His enemy staggered back a second time, clutching his stomach, his face contorted with agony.
Sardâr waited, catching his breath. A trickle of blood ran down his mouth, but he ignored it, his gaze fixed on Iago.
Iago, still breathing heavily, raised his arms and let go of the lances. They hovered in midair, soon joined by five more that spun into reality. The elf turned his hands, and the spears all turned to point directly at Sardâr. Iago lowered his arms, and the spears sped towards him like arrows.
Sardâr immediately threw a barrier around himself and felt the first two arrows strike. But they were too strong. Driven by Dark alchemy, they spun around him in a tornado formation, coming closer to his body with every revolution. The whipping air was too fleeting to breathe, sucking air out of his lungs. Soon he’d either suffocate or be shredded to pieces. He clutched the Shard around his neck. He knew what he must do. But did he dare?
Fire exploded outwards from Sardâr’s body, breaking the whirlwind of lances and sending them clattering across the rocks. As Iago watched with horror, the inferno expanded, and out of its peak rose Sardâr, eyes ivory with spiritual energy, enthralled in hornlike flames. The ram gave a beautiful, terrifying cry and launched at the dark elf. He was knocked flat, and there was Sardâr above him, his blade raised, incendiary sparks encircling him like a gigantic halo.
“I would give you mercy, Iago,” Sardâr said in a deadly whisper, “but you deserve nothing less than to die an extremely painful death. And I have no qualms about giving it to you.” He moved the blade from Iago’s neck over to his heart.
But in that moment, the elf had drawn something from his robe and was grinning evilly at Sardâr. “That’s right. You know what it is. Pure haruspex—extremely brittle. If you kill me, this stone breaks. And you know what happens then, don’t you?” The look of shock and comprehension must have been clear on Sardâr’s face, for Iago grinned even wider.
“Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I think this is where I step out. And mark my words, Sardâr Râhnamâ, you will rue the day you crossed me.”
Before Sardâr could register what he meant, Iago, laughing manically, was becoming less and less corporeal, and in a second he was gone with a trail of smoke. Sardâr made a grab for the stone, but it was too late. The shiny black surface collided with the stone and exploded in a flash of crimson smoke.
As the balcony sank gently back to ground level, Sardâr despaired in horrified realization. There was an immense cracking above him. High above, the disc was fissuring, thin sinews of darkness weaving like a spider’s web over the crimson core. It shattered.
Chunks of the same black and red imbued glassy substance smashed to the ground all over the battlefield. Everywhere they hit, the shadows gathered, forming pits of dark energy. So the myths were true. The Cult had discovered a substance—haruspex—that could channel the Darkness under mortal control. But if that control was broken, then there was a direct and unfettered rift through which Darkness could surge.
Everywhere around him, demons began rising out of every pit. They were all recognizable from the mythological almanacs he had studied—amphibious preta, slithering drekavacs, winged lempos, grinning, hyena-like hellhounds, and even hideous, terrifying furies. In the sky, where the disc had shattered was now a maelstrom of churning darkness, a crack in the fabric of space.
Slowly, Sardâr stood and picked up his fallen sword. He was standing in the middle of the bridge, now devoid of goblins. He was dimly aware of the battle between dwarves and goblins somewhere behind him—a battle of mortals, who had no real quarrel. A meaningless battle, one that would bring only needless suffering to both sides, but one, thanks to Iago, that would soon be over.
Demons were moving towards him in both directions. Raising his weapon, he gave a terrible shout and readied himself for a battle to the death.
Chapter XII
a new alliance
The West Dining Hall was lit by lanterns hanging from the walls. There had been an echoing explosion only moments before that had sent the mass of dwarves contained within it—not only refugees but civilian inhabitants of the fortress—into a frenzy of panic. The long wooden benches had been pushed to the edges, ready to barricade the doors if necessary. Guards stood around the room, and many looked just as frightened as those they were charged with protecting.
Jack and Lucy were in a corner. Jack was seated on the hard stone floor against the wall, whilst Lucy was pacing relentlessly up and down. Evidently, she had learnt something from Sardâr. Jack and Lucy knew what the other one was thinking. They had just spent three weeks of intense training learning how to defend themselves, and now they were stuck in this room, unable to help with the battle.
“We’ve got to help,” Lucy said finally, halting her pacing for a moment. “What’s the point of all this”—she gestured at the rather unnecessarily embellished armor she was clad in from neck to foot—“if we can’t use it?” Her hands were clenched into fists.
Over their time here, something had awoken in her: Jack saw in her a new force he could not have imagined only a month ago. No, that was unfair. He had known it was there all along, that underneath the shallow obsession with being a normal teenage girl there had been a steel—an urge to take life by the horns—in Lucy, ready to break out. He had sensed it back in the orchard after their trip to London, but it had taken an entirely different world to set it loose. Now it was here to stay. And he was not going to let himself pass up the opportunity to match it with his own awakened vigor.
Jack stood suddenly and strode over to the door
, which was flanked by two guards in green tunics. Lucy grinned and jogged over to join him in sizing up the guards. They both appeared distinctly nervous from the crashing noises coming from outside.
“I’m sorry, but we’ve been ordered by the king to not let anyone in or out of this hall. It’s for your own safety.”
“But—”
“No. Please make your way back inside.”
Lucy looked like she was ready to punch the guard who had spoken, but Jack placed a warning hand on her arm. He hoped this could be settled without the lasting damage that Lucy’s fists were now able to inflict.
There was a small flash of white light, and both guards lulled forward onto their knees and fell to the floor.
Jack glanced around, but no one seemed to have noticed. “Let’s go.”
“Will they be okay?” Lucy asked, only slightly concerned, as they passed them.
“… I hope so …”
Jogging, they reached the Entrance Hall only a few minutes later via the West Hall. An eerie silence had descended over the place and not just because it was completely deserted. Shouts could still be heard from somewhere above, but there seemed to be no more rubble being hurled at the fortress or mechanical fire spitters firing flaming ammunition. Did this mean the battle was over? The churning Jack was feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that wasn’t the case.
They turned to the right towards the main entrance. At the sight of the sealed inner door, Jack suddenly realized they had no way of getting out. There were, of course, no axes just lying around to open the gate with.
But before he could voice the problem to Lucy, there was a shout from behind them. “What are you doing here?”
They turned to see the king’s nephew, Bál, and a regiment of guards behind the wooden roundel in the center of the chamber making their way towards them.
“Civilians are meant to stay in the guarded areas.”
Jack glanced at Lucy. She had that look in her eye—the same look she’d had in the training room and when demanding answers from Sardâr. She was ready to make her stand, and so was he. Just as he could see her hands curling into fists, so he began reaching for the end of the alchemical mental tape.
“We’re going to help Sardâr and the others,” she said defiantly, staring down at Bál. That, Jack could see, was something she had learnt from Adâ.
“We don’t want to fight you,” Jack added, trying to lower himself to the dwarves’ eye level without labouring the point about the difference in height. He looked Bál straight in the face. In those normally disdainful eyes, he thought he could see the same sense of duty that he was now feeling to those trapped outside. The dwarf stared back at him, not coldly, as so often he had done before, but with a new sense of shared goal. He said nothing for a moment, and Jack did not look away.
“So do we,” Bál said finally, facing his regiment. “I do not expect everyone to follow us. It may well be a suicide mission. But we have a warrior’s duty to those outside. If any dwarf wants to leave, let him leave now.”
None of the dwarves moved. On the contrary, many of them unsheathed their weapons and nodded at him.
He turned to Jack and Lucy, who also nodded at him. He smiled a little awkwardly. This was really the first time they had found themselves speaking, let alone on the same side. “This is very brave for elves,” he remarked, though not unkindly.
“We’re not elves,” Lucy blurted out. Bál looked confused.
“We’ll explain everything if we survive this,” Jack replied, smirking slightly at his own optimism. Bál shook his head, evidently deciding that now was not the time to open up a discussion about race relations.
One of the dwarves placed his axe into the slot in the stone, and the door sprung open. Jack looked to his right at Lucy and to his left at Bál. They both nodded in solidarity. Then they all turned and proceeded out into the darkness.
The valley was completely devastated.
Rocks hurled by the attackers and parts that had crumbled off the fortress were scattered everywhere, interspersed with fallen metal gangways and pipes. Corpses of goblins were visible, some crushed by piles of rubble, but most bearing gaping wounds. The giants were landmarks in their own right, the wild crimson light gleaming off their bald heads and huge stomachs. Bile-inducing creatures—they could only be demons—crawled over them, devouring their flesh like a swarm of carnivorous insects. The entire scene reminded Jack of photos he’d seen of bomb attacks in Afghanistan or Iraq. He could only think that the Cult had summoned the demons and fled the carnage—he could see no black cloaks anywhere.
Bál signalled for Jack, Lucy, and the troops to come closer. He was some way off to the left in front of a high, sloping rise of rubble.
Checking to see that their presence was as yet unnoticed, Jack and Lucy made their way over to him, keeping low. Closer in, they too could hear scuffling on the other side of the rubble, the noises of people trying not to be seen or heard.
Bál held up his arm for silence, then, as quietly as he could, clambered upwards to look over the edge. As he glimpsed what was on the other side, he shouted out in shock and anger. There were cries from whatever was on the other side, though they didn’t sound like dwarves or demons.
The others drew their weapons, and Jack leapt up the rise ahead of Lucy. There, cowering below a large chunk of the fortress wall, was a small group of reptilian goblins. Bál raised his axe to bring it down upon them, but Jack caught his arm and pushed it aside.
“What are you doing?” the dwarf hissed at him furiously.
“They’re not going to hurt you,” Jack reprimanded him. It was true; the goblins hadn’t even drawn their weapons. Moreover, they looked in a seriously shaken state themselves. They were covered in debris and dust, and one of them was putting pressure on a blood-soaked shoulder wound. Glancing around the immediate area, Jack could make out the half-buried corpses of their fellows. He felt a surge of sympathy for this band of survivors.
“We don’t want any trouble,” said one in a Slavic accent, possibly Russian, her bulbous eyes still firmly fixed on Bál’s axe.
“We promise we’ll just go,” another put in. He looked like he was in medical shock. “We didn’t really want to come in the first place, but the man in black came along and killed our chief, and …” He trailed off, blinking, as if trying to erase an image perpetually burnt in front of his eyes.
Jack found himself feeling slightly surprised at just how normal these goblins were. Having spent three weeks enclosed in an environment highly hostile to them, he had taken the dwarves’ word for it without questioning it himself. But then, he supposed, that was racial stereotyping—just the same here as it was on Earth.
“What happened?” Lucy asked the group at large.
“We were attackin’ the fortress,” a third said, this one seemingly the leader, “giants and all, and then the black sun shattered everywhere … and demons started comin’ out of the ground.”
In unison, Jack, Lucy, and all the dwarves looked upwards. There was no longer the obsidian black orb with its red core hanging amongst the clouds like a gigantic celestial sphere. In its place, there was something that could only be described as a tear in the fabric of the sky. It was a pit of the deepest black imaginable—everything around seemingly drawn into it. Staring at it made the bile rise in Jack’s throat, just like it did when he saw the hellhound and the lobster demon.
“Look,” he said, tearing his gaze away from the whirlpool above them, “we’re going to search for our friends who were fighting here. There might be more of yours still alive too. We could use all the help we could get.”
The leading goblin turned to his group. Slowly, with wide eyes, they all nodded, even the one with the bleeding shoulder. He got to his feet, followed by the others. “I’m Vodnik.” He offered his fist to Jack, evidently surprised when he shook it. It took him a few moments to explain that it was customary in his tribe to press knuckles together as a sign of greeting.
So, as an unlikely group of humans, elves, dwarves, and goblins, they made their stealthy way through the valley. It felt like a graveyard, the crimson light and oppressive silence giving a deadening sense to the place. No sign of goblin or dwarf life stirred on any side. Farther on, the fallen body of one of the giants barred their path. They stopped, all intensely aware that they could not stay in one spot for too long.
Something shifted in the shadows above, and a shape leapt from the top of a corpse to land in front of them. It was a hellhound, its skull-like head twisted into a horrific grin.
Jack felt the taste of bile rising in his throat again, and the image of Alex being stabbed rose in his mind once more.
More demons were weaving in and out of the rubble around them, congealing from shadows as if little more than dark liquid.
“Up there,” Vodnik shouted, gesturing to a pile of low rocks to the right of the giant corpse.
They hurried over to it, and as they scrambled over the top, Bál swung his axe, colliding hard with the snapping hellhound’s skull. It was knocked sideways, but almost instantaneously it got back to its feet, shook its head, and began stalking towards them. Apparently stunned by the ineffectiveness of his prized weapon, the dwarf scampered over the top and joined the others in the huddle on the other side.
More demons were oozing out of the shadows here, and the ones that had just apparently escaped were climbing over the corpse to cut off their path to the fortress. Faced on all sides by enemies, the group formed an outward ring—the dwarves hoisting their axes, the goblins drawing thin scimitars from sheaths on their belts, and Jack and Lucy lifting their brand-new broadswords from the scabbards clipped to the back of their armor. Both of them almost instantaneously dropped them; they were much heavier than the wooden swords, and it only then occurred to Jack that they hadn’t actually used any real weapons yet.