Metrotis interrupted. He seemed to be questioning Sigurd on what he was saying, but Sigurd just shrugged and pointed to Wulf, perhaps making an excuse. Wulf couldn’t be sure though – the exchange was too quick to keep track of.
Wulf let his head drop and looked at his hands. They were calloused and worn from their constant battle with the chains that bound him. He wondered how he would feel if his own family was in Sigurd’s position, then realised that they were in the same position, if not dead already.
“Sigurd!” Wulf snapped his head up. He had not meant to speak sharply but his frustration was rising. “Take your family home. Get back to your islands, but I cannot say they will not come to you there.”
Sigurd turned sharply to look at him, ignoring Metrotis completely for the moment. “They?”
“If they come for this empire of Adarnans, then it is done. Take your family and leave, my friend – whilst you can.”
A shout echoed from the corridor outside – it sounded like one of the gaolers – followed by a clash of blades and a heavy thud.
Metrotis’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Wulf and Sigurd, his eyes wide with fear and surprise.
There was silence from the corridor.
Wulf stood slowly. This could be your chance. Hope was dangerous, yet he allowed himself to think there might be a realistic prospect of escape. Perhaps the remnant of his people had come north in force to take the city, perhaps they had not run and hidden as Metrotis had always maintained.
Sigurd turned to Wulf and nodded slowly, his eyes darted nervously towards the corridor. The fisherman moved gingerly to the door and stretched out his hand for the latch.
The door burst open.
A dark figure materialised beyond Sigurd and rushed towards him. Sigurd raised his hands reflexively for protection. It was to no avail; the tip of a sword burst through his back, and sprayed a fine mist of blood across Wulf’s face.
Wulf’s body responded on instinct, his arms shot up and he rushed forward. Pain erupted in his wrists as the chains binding him snapped taut. He strained against them, fire burned in his shoulders, but the iron did not yield.
Metrotis let out a yelp and scampered away from the carnage towards Wulf. He crossed the line on the floor – and the safety it represented.
As Metrotis retreated, the attacker – a hooded man dressed in grey – withdrew his sword from Sigurd’s twitching body and stepped into full view. Sigurd hit the floor with a thud, his head cracking on the slabs as his body juddered feebly, his life quickly fading away.
A second, shorter man dressed the same as the first, long blond hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, entered the cell. Sigurd’s killer turned and whispered something to his comrade, and the second man moved back into the corridor and disappeared from view.
A woman’s scream pierced the air, distant and muffled but long and forlorn. Wulf guessed there must be more attackers nearby. Disappointment flooded his body as he realised his people had not come to find him. This was an attack on the Adarnans. His own involvement was an accident.
Metrotis stood frozen to the spot in front of Wulf, staring at the assailant, his arms outstretched in supplication. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, please.”
Wulf reached out, grabbed Metrotis and dragged him backwards so fast that he lost his balance and landed in a heap on the cot. He looked at Wulf and raised his hands defensively before his face, abject terror shining in his eyes.
“Metrotis,” Wulf snarled. “Stay.” He had often heard Metrotis using this command with the man – who Wulf was certain was also a captive – in what he assumed must be another cell nearby.
He turned towards the hooded killer, bared his teeth and smashed his fists into his chest three times. The frenzied rattling of chains echoed in the cell. “Come. Come to Wulf!”
The man moved forward cautiously. He drew a small, wickedly pointed knife with his left hand. He gave his sword two practice swings as he approached, loosening his arm for the fight to come.
From the man’s movements, Wulf felt certain that he knew how to fight.
He stepped back, letting the chains hang loose to the floor. The killer would make his move – a straight, sword-led charge or a quick lunge and retreat. His sword was short in the fashion of the Adarnan men and Wulf thanked the gods for this: his reach would not be long.
Heart pumping, blood coursing through his body, Wulf tried to force himself to relax. The battle rage rose. Grasping tendrils of berserker fury fought for control of his body, pleading with him for release, but he forced them back down into the pit of his stomach. This was no time for rage; he needed his wits about him.
When the hooded man made his move, it was fast. He feinted right. Wulf’s body reacted without thought, responding even as he realised it was a trick, a feint. He cursed himself for the miscalculation.
The attacker switched his footing with practised speed, aiming a stab with his knife, directly at the heart.
Wulf twisted to avoid the blow. He whipped the slack in his chains forwards, they were not long enough to reach the hooded man’s face, but his head flinched backwards instinctively nonetheless.
It was all the distraction Wulf needed. He grabbed the man’s sword arm below the wrist, then twisted him around with all his strength and clutched him by the throat from behind. With a great heave, he drove the man’s own sword through his back, up under the ribcage. The man let out a gurgling scream as the blade clove his heart, and then slumped, heavy and lifeless in his arms.
Wulf dropped the corpse in disgust and turned to Metrotis. He twitched his arms so that the chains rattled again. “Free,” he said. “Metrotis… free… Wulf.”
Metrotis was shaking, but he managed to nod his head in understanding as he gasped for breath. He stood, reached into a pocket and produced an iron key, then fumbled – almost dropping it – as he unlocked Wulf’s wrist shackles with trembling hands.
Wulf smiled and rubbed his wrists. Somehow, the pain felt good, it felt like freedom.
Freedom.
If he could get out of the building, he might have a hope of leaving the Adarnans behind, of finding his people.
He looked down at the body of Sigurd. His friend looked peaceful in death. A large pool of blood grew slowly around him from the gaping wound in his chest. The fisherman’s palms had been sliced open, probably when trying to grab the blade of the sword that killed him.
Sigurd was a distant kinsman, dead by the hand of an unknown and cowardly enemy. Those who attacked unarmed men had no place in this world, it went against all the laws that Alarus – great god of the sky – had laid down when he created the world. Such men should be consigned, screaming, to hell, where they would burn for eternity. He forced his gaze away from Sigurd. Somehow the man became the echo of every fallen kinsman, the shadow of past pain. He could not allow his people to suffer more pain.
Metrotis looked into his eyes. The man was afraid, his eyes flicking from the bodies in the room to the open cell door. “Wulf, you must help… us.” The words were slow, deliberate, and spoken in heavily accented Wicklandish.
A shout echoed through the building, distorted by distance, a death cry perhaps. He frowned as he registered the strangeness of Metrotis’s words “You learned my language?” he replied in Wicklandish.
Metrotis nodded quickly. “Yes, a little, yes. You learn Adarnan. I guess that already.” He drew a breath, hesitated. “…I learn Wicklandish… a little.”
Wulf laughed as he had not laughed since leaving his homeland, sudden mirth erasing – temporarily at least – thoughts of his people. He clapped Metrotis on the shoulder with such force that he winced. “You learned Wicklandish…” He shook his head at the sheer wonder of it. “Wulf likes you. You are tricky.”
In that moment, he decided that the little man would live. For now at least.
Metrotis shrugged. His eyes darted to the blood-soaked sword buried in the back of the hooded attacker. “Yes, well, yes… Tricky.” He paused
and eyed the body again. “Like you though, Wulf. Like you.” Another scream echoed through the corridor outside. Metrotis flinched. “Wulf, I get help… Will you help? I free you...”
Wulf nodded. He needed to move. He needed to run with the sun on his body and the wind in his face. First though, above all things, he needed to vent his pent-up rage. “Yes, Wulf is free…”
He knelt down and pulled the sword from the corpse at his feet. His companion winced at the noise the blade made as the suction was released. He retrieved the dagger and handed it to Metrotis, who looked at it with a puzzled expression.
I am free, he thought. I should kill this fool and run. What do I owe this man? But he knew that he wouldn’t, he knew that he couldn’t. The strong did not prey on the weak and pitiful, who could not defend themselves. There was no sport in such work. There was no honour.
“Come,” he said, and beckoned towards the door. There were women in danger somewhere in the night. One had screamed only moments ago. He could not allow the weak and the feeble to go unprotected; he had sworn to himself in the south – in his beloved Wickland – that he would never again stand aside whilst those unable to protect themselves died needlessly. The screams of his people, as they were hunted on their way north, haunted him still; they had been swept away but their pleas for help still echoed in the night.
Without another word to Metrotis, he left the cell. An open door at the end of a corridor led to what looked like open space beyond. He moved quickly towards the door, his back against the wall, alert for the sound of other attackers. There was at least one more – the man with blond hair – and there could be others. He hefted the short sword in his hand; it felt more like a toy, a long knife, than a real weapon.
“Wait!” Metrotis shouted from behind.
He froze. The man is an idiot. Perhaps Metrotis did not wish to live after all. He turned his head quickly and beckoned the little man to follow.
Metrotis shook his head, eyes wide. “No.” He pointed in the opposite direction towards an open door further down the corridor. “Wulf, come.” Metrotis scampered down the corridor and disappeared within the room.
Every fibre of Wulf’s being urged him to abandon the fool and escape to freedom, but just as he committed to do exactly that, a strangled gasp from Metrotis stopped him. He found his legs carrying him towards the door, following inexorably in Metrotis’s footsteps.
He entered the room alert, his sword held ready, expecting to find Metrotis a bloody mess on the floor.
He was greeted by carnage.
Two grey-clad bodies lay on the floor, their limbs contorted at impossible angles. One stared, vacant eyed towards the door over his own shoulder blades, his blond hair straggling across the floor.
Metrotis stood inside the room on the left. He held both hands to his mouth. A green tinge coloured his sallow skin.
In the centre of the room, towering over the tangled corpses stood a man without a soul. His expression was blank, but his body suggested murder. It was as if his eyes focused on some object in the space between him and Wulf.
Although the man wore no chains, Wulf guessed that this was the other prisoner he had heard Metrotis speaking to.
“Who this?” Wulf said, and pointed his sword at the man. There was something disturbing about his eyes. Eyes like that did not, could not, belong to any normal man.
This man would be a challenge to beat in battle, a part of him thought. A challenge many would sing of. A challenge to build a legend that might be retold for aeons.
“This is Optuss.” Metrotis spoke softly, a slight tremor in his voice. “I think he killed these men.”
Wulf grunted. Do you think so? “Kill men, good.” For the time being there would be no profit in challenge. A man who could cause such havoc might be useful; the future could wait. He moved towards Optuss and picked up one of the fallen assassin’s swords. “You know fight?” he asked the man.
“He doesn’t speak,” said Metrotis. “Careful, he’s not supposed to be dangerous.” Metrotis’s eyes were wide. “But I think he killed these men; yes, I think he killed these men.”
Wulf glanced at Metrotis. The little man was developing a talent for stating the obvious, and he was beginning to slip into the fear after battle that many tribesmen suffered from. Men who would run screaming – heedless of death – into battle, would later sit shivering, shaking, sometimes crying out for no reason. Wulf could not understand why this happened, but Metrotis would be no help in a fight.
He reached out and presented the sword to the black haired prisoner. “You take.” The man’s arms glistened in the lantern light, smooth as marble.
Metrotis tutted. “Optuss won’t follow your orders. I don’t think he’s even here with us, in any real sense.”
It took Wulf a second to translate the sentiment. He tutted in return. The man has no soul, he translated. “He kill men. He know.”
He presented the sword hilt to Optuss again. The man’s eyes seemed bottomless, like the very pits of hell.
Optuss continued to stare into the middle distance. But, slowly, his hand rose and he grasped the sword hilt.
The man’s hand touched his own and Wulf shivered. No soul. Then he turned and stalked rapidly from the room. He didn’t look back – the image of Optuss seared through his mind – but he heard movement from behind. Something, a memory perhaps, rattled the door of his consciousness – seeking desperately for a way in, for recollection and acknowledgement – but then faded as quickly as it had arisen.
“Optuss, come,” said Metrotis.
Wulf smiled. Somewhere outside there were men to fight, men who had a chance of fighting back, men who would present a challenge. Wulf and Optuss are good dogs for Metrotis.
But sometimes dogs would bite, tear and rend.
They reached the end of the corridor; it opened onto an enclosed space that was two stories high on all sides.
More figures, dressed like the others, were attacking an older man. Wulf recognised the man who had come into his cell almost every day, in the beginning, and stared at him with unblinking black eyes. The man looked like Metrotis, Wulf guessed they were kin.
The black eyed man could fight, that much was clear from the body that already lay at his feet, but Wulf doubted he could overcome the three that remained. He paused momentarily and considered running to the man’s aid. Another piercing scream echoed from a room on the second level. The man had a sword; his fate was with the gods.
Wulf ran to the nearest staircase. He mounted the steps three at a time. At the top, he risked a glance back. Optuss stood immediately behind him, impassive as a rock, his breathing steady and slow.
Below, in the quadrangle, Metrotis advanced fearfully towards the old man engaged in battle, his dagger held before him like a shield. The assassins had not seen him but it was likely that, when they did, he would be killed quickly.
There is no shame to die like a warrior, with a weapon in your hand. Perhaps Metrotis would die with honour after all and be welcomed into the halls of Alarus.
Wulf quickly turned away and moved along the upper balcony towards the sounds of struggle that emanated from an open door.
He rushed inside. Two men wrestled with a girl who shouted and kicked viciously in a vain effort to push them away. Another, older woman, lay motionless on a bed, a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth.
Two boys stood, swords raised, facing off against a pair of assassins who feinted and retreated, looking for a weakness in the boys’ defence. One lad had a wicked gash in his left forearm that bled freely, his blood trickling to the floor.
Wulf let out a great shout and rushed at the men attacking the girl. He slashed through the neck of one as the man turned – a shocked expression on his face – and cannoned into the other, sending him sprawling to the floor; a sickening crunch followed as the second man’s head smacked into the wall.
Two down.
He turned quickly. More grey-clad men rushed into the room a
nd fanned out.
The newcomers paused as they spotted him.
Optuss, who must have followed him into the room, stood next to the girl. She knelt on the floor, her hair hanging around her face, gasping for breath.
He glared at Optuss. Support would be useful: there were too many to defeat alone, he would not be able to fend off all of their blows. He would not be able to stop them from overwhelming him through weight of numbers. Optuss’s expression had not changed; he held his sword loosely at his side and appeared blissfully unaware of the danger, not even facing the enemy.
The newcomers, appearing to judge Wulf and Optuss the greatest threat, ignored the others, who continued to harry the boys, and rushed forward.
Alarus, Wulf prayed in preparation for death. He stepped towards the attackers, his little sword ready. There would be no return to the people for him, but at least he would be with his ancestors, feasting in the halls of the great god for eternity.
The first man lunged. Wulf grabbed his sword arm and pulled him off balance, then butted him in the face, and swept his own sword in a tight arc as the man stumbled back. He missed the man’s throat but sliced up through his chin. The sword mashed into the attacker’s palate and stuck fast.
Wulf yanked the blade hard to withdraw it but the man came with it, and fell into him. His right foot slipped in blood and he stumbled back and fell, slamming into the floor. The attacker twitched as his weight fell on the sword buried in his face, driving it into his brain.
Wulf tried to push the corpse away but slipped again, his feet unable to find purchase. His head cracked back into the wooden planks of the floor. As if in a dream, he caught sight of Optuss moving away, fast.
Somewhere in the distance, angry shouts of alarm sounded.
He twisted and scrambled but the floor, coated in blood, had become like ice.
A hooded man loomed over him, arm raised back, sword ready to strike the killing blow.
Phoenix Rising Page 8
