Demontech: Onslaught

by David Sherman

  Spinner looked with admiration at where he was sure Haft was. His companion didn’t usually think things through so clearly. “Do you have another idea?”

  “Maybe. Wait here.”

  Spinner reached for him but grabbed at air—Haft was already gone. Spinner stayed put. As long as the Lalla Mkouma worked its magic on Haft’s shoulder, he knew he had no way of knowing where to search for him. He listened. He couldn’t hear Haft’s movement, but sounds from farther away indicated that the fire brigade was getting itself better organized.

  A moment later Spinner jumped at Haft’s voice near his ear.

  “There’s another door open between here and the slavemaster’s room. We can go in there. Maybe his window is still open. If it is, the outside wall is rough enough to give us handholds so we can climb across it to the window. I looked—his shutters are open. We can climb inside and catch him by surprise. By the time his men come in to find out what the noise is about, we should have taken him and the key. We can probably get out without having to fight them.”

  Spinner stared at the empty air his friend’s voice came from. “Haft,” he said slowly, “I can’t believe you came up with this idea.”

  “What do you mean? It’ll work.”

  “I know it will. It’s brilliant. It’s just that you never think like this.”

  Haft flushed at the praise, but his voice was calm when he replied, “You always do the thinking, I never have to. This time you didn’t, so I did.”

  Spinner grinned. “Maybe I should give you more chances to think. Lead the way.”

  Haft put an unseen hand on Spinner’s arm and said, “This way.”

  The open door they headed for was the third door before the slavemaster’s room. Along the way they ducked under one throat-high shimmering light and stepped over two at ankle level.

  They reached the open door without being noticed and then leaned out the window to examine the wall. The stones weren’t cut true, and the gaps where they joined weren’t filled with mortar.

  “That looks easy enough,” Haft whispered.

  Spinner wasn’t as sure.

  Above, men were shouting as they worked to put out the fire. Below them on the ground, men were scurrying back and forth, doing what little they could to assist in the fight against the fire. Others clustered in small groups between the inn and the slave barn, watching the fire flaring from the windows on the third floor.

  Spinner examined the crowd. “I don’t see any of the women who work here,” he murmured.

  Haft grunted. He didn’t see any of the women either. “Maybe they’re on the other side of the building.”

  Spinner didn’t reply. He turned his face toward the Lalla Mkouma that had first climbed to his shoulder. “Do you understand what we’re going to do?” he asked.

  “Yss,” she replied. “Ee goam oo.” She pressed her miniature bosom into his cheek as she leaned around his head to chatter something at the Lalla Mkouma on his other shoulder.

  The other chattered back, then clambered to the floor and up onto a small table. “Ee way’um ere,” she piped. Seconds later she was joined by one of Haft’s Lalla Mkouma.

  “Haft, are you ready?” Spinner asked.

  “On my way,” Haft replied. He climbed through the window, probed down with his toes, searching for a hold, and found one quickly. Reaching across with one hand, he found a space between stones where he could get a firm grip. He pulled himself out the rest of the way and let go of the sill. In a few seconds he had shuffled far enough away from the window for Spinner to follow.

  In seconds Spinner found himself clinging to the outside wall, high enough up that if he lost his grip and fell he might break a leg when he hit the ground below.

  “Stop,” Haft said when he reached the closed shutters of the next window. The shutters were well-constructed and tight; as far as he could reach, he couldn’t find a fingerhold across them. But the sill protruded from beneath the shutters. “I’m going to try to go below the window,” he said, his voice at normal volume. By then the people on the ground were making enough noise to mask any noise he and Spinner made. Haft stretched one leg downward; it was a long stretch before his questing toes found another gap they could slip into and hold his weight. He lowered himself and the protruding sill offered better purchase than the stones had.

  “I’m across,” he said when he reached the other side. The stretch down wasn’t as difficult for Spinner because he was taller, but the traverse wasn’t as easy, likewise because he was taller. But he made it to the other side with no more difficulty than Haft had.

  The shutters of the next window were open; the sill would give an easy grip and allow them to pass it quickly. But it was one of the rooms the men-at-arms occupied, and a lamp was lit inside, so anyone there might hear them. Haft stopped at the side of the window, shifted his hands and feet, then stuck his head inside the window to look around. There was only one corner of the room he couldn’t see into, but the room looked empty and the door was closed. He could lower himself far enough to cross with his hands on the stone below the sill or he could take the chance that nobody was in the corner he couldn’t see.

  He told Spinner what he saw and what he was doing and took the chance. He was across the window faster than he’d covered any other part of the wall. Now it was only a few more feet to the slavemaster’s window.

  “Wait here while I look inside,” Haft whispered when Spinner caught up with him.

  Haft listened carefully at the corner of the window. Even if nobody was talking or moving about, occupied rooms tended to sound occupied. No one was talking in the slavemaster’s room or moving about, nor could Haft hear any breathing. But the room sounded like someone was in it; his ears didn’t detect the hollow quality of an empty room. He slowly eased himself down the wall to where his fingers could get a purchase on the stone of the wall below the sill, and took another shuffling step to his right so he could look over the sill.

  No one lunged at him, no one was even looking in his direction, but what he saw inside the room made him more afraid than he had ever been. Not even the gray tabur or the seven Jokapcul cavalrymen he and a wounded Spinner had faced frightened him as much.

  The slavemaster was alone in the room. He wasn’t wearing the nondescript cloak he wore when he went to the slave barn. In its place he wore armor of leather and metal plates similar to the armor worn by the cavalrymen, but more ornate. A finely wrought, ornate sword stood ready to hand. It was longer than the Jokapcul cavalry sword. Another sword, shorter than the saber issued to the Frangerian Marines, was next to it. The shorter sword wasn’t as ornate as the longer one, but it was more suited to swinging in that room. Haft thought if he was armed and armored thus, the slavemaster must truly be the master swordsman the Golden Girl said he was. What unnerved him, however, was something else. The slavemaster was hunched over, talking to a hideous winged demon with red, glowing eyes. The demon was the size of a large owl and had claws bigger than the claws on the biggest eagle Haft had ever seen. And they were both talking Jokapcul.

  Haft suddenly wished that Spinner hadn’t noticed the odd anklets on the serving maids, that he hadn’t asked the Golden Girl about them, that she hadn’t told him, that he himself didn’t care about the evil of slavery, that they had simply continued on their journey. Two young Marines, especially two very good and self-confident Marines like them, could go up against a very good swordsman and expect to win. But a sorcerer, or even a high wizard, was entirely too powerful for them to face, and this slavemaster was certainly that.

  He was about to move back, to urge Spinner into the open window they’d passed moments before so he could tell him they had to end this quest, to give it up, when an unearthly scream came from the side. He jerked his head in that direction and saw another apparition, one even more frightening, hovering a few yards away: a hoard of bees silently buzzed just beyond Spinner’s other side. They were in a formation, mimicking the shape of a winged demon like the one the
slavemaster was talking to.

  Abruptly, the bees began buzzing loudly. They swarmed past Spinner, around Haft, and into the open window to the slavemaster and the winged monster. Slavemaster and demon jerked their heads toward the bees. The buzzing of the swarm changed in pitch and tone, then the winged demon looked past it to the window and garbled something. The slavemaster jumped to his feet, the smaller sword in hand, and raced toward the window.

  Realizing it was too late to retreat, Haft did the only thing he could: he heaved himself over the windowsill, tumbled into the room, and rolled in a direction that would take him past the charging enemy. His hip clipped the slavemaster’s shins as he went by, causing the man to stumble. Haft surged to his feet and stood rigid, holding his axe ready. Somehow, the Lalla Mkouma on his shoulder held her grip and kept spinning her robe. The slavemaster regained his balance almost immediately and slowly pirouetted, the sword held ready in both hands, looking intently into all parts of the room, but as quietly as Haft stood, he couldn’t be seen or heard.

  Two of the guards from the corridor burst through the doorway simultaneously and were briefly jammed together in the door frame. Once through, they stood in place and looked around when they saw what their master was doing; each had his sword at the ready. Haft sidled one step away from them. The slavemaster said something that sounded to Haft like Skragish, and the two men-at-arms stood shoulder to shoulder before the door. The slavemaster backed toward them, slashing his blade from side to side.

  Outside, Spinner heard Haft’s shout and then a thud and knew Haft had gone into the room. Haft was inside facing the enemy, and Spinner couldn’t leave him alone. As quickly as he could, he scuttled the rest of the way, thrust his staff through the window and heaved himself onto the sill before his eyes completely took in the tableau. He froze momentarily, recognizing the danger of the three slashing, advancing blades. One of the two men-at-arms still in the corridor stepped into the doorway, sword at the ready, to block anyone who managed to pass the blades in the room.

  Spinner lunged the rest of the way through the window, landed running, hefted his quarterstaff horizontally across his front and began spinning it. The staff became visible.

  “Get the man!” he shouted as he crossed the center of the room. Before the startled guards could react to his voice, the ends of his staff slammed into them and knocked them into the doorjamb. Spinner windmilled the staff into the two stunned guards again. One cried out in pain and stumbled to the side, clutching a shattered arm, the other just collapsed. A trickle of blood leaked from his left ear. Spinner twisted the staff then thrust it at the face of the man in the doorway. That guard flew backward into the fourth man, who was just turning to see if he should give up his post in the corridor to join the fight in the room. Spinner followed the third man through the doorway, felled the fourth with one blow, then kicked away the nearby swords so that none of the men-at-arms could get them quickly if they recovered enough to rejoin the fray. Spinner didn’t think any of them would; two of them looked to be dead, and it would be a long time before the man with the shattered arm fought again.

  Haft moved instantly when he heard Spinner shout then race past him. He stepped forward and swung his axe in an arc that should have caught the slavemaster in his middle. But the tiny woman on his shoulder squealed in terror and stopped spinning her robe around him—he became visible again. With the fastest reactions Haft had ever seen, the slavemaster simultaneously threw up his sword to parry the swing and jumped back out of its way. The Lalla Mkouma squealed again, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and resumed the furious robe spinning.

  As he looked for an opening past the axe, the slavemaster slowly shuffled his feet from side to side and slid forward, his blade held before him, its tip at chest height, shifting from side to side. He growled low in his throat as he came forward; it sounded as though he was saying, “I can’t see you, but you can’t get away from me in this narrow room.”

  Haft knew that was right; sooner or later the two would be in contact. Behind him, Spinner was reentering the room after dispatching the last of the guards.

  “Where are you?” Spinner asked then, as the slavemaster spun to face this new threat, and Spinner quickly added, “Don’t answer. You can see my staff, maneuver on me.”

  The slavemaster chuckled, growled, feinted a lunge toward Spinner’s voice, then made a vicious backhand swing toward the middle of the room where he thought Haft was. He came closer than he knew—Haft barely managed to bow his middle out of the way of the blow of the blade. The slash struck the outside wall of the room and seemed to bury the sword in the plaster and lathe all the way into the outer stone. Haft stepped forward to strike at the unprotected slavemaster, but the blade wasn’t stuck. With lightning reflexes, the slavemaster pulled it out of the wall and danced away from Haft’s blow. Like Spinner’s staff, the axe was visible when Haft swung it. But Haft was fast enough that a corner of his blade slashed across the metal and leather armor on the slavemaster’s belly, raising sparks from the metal and slicing through the leather. Red slowly oozed around the cut. Haft moved again. The slavemaster responded with a flourish of strokes that met only air. He chuckled again then growled something before moving toward Spinner once more but this time not as a feint, and Spinner had to shield himself with swings and spins of the quarterstaff. Only Spinner’s great skill with the staff kept him from being skewered by the sword.

  Haft desperately looked for an opening to get the slavemaster off Spinner, but the sword’s reach, despite its short length, was greater than the reach of his axe—and he had a more than healthy respect for that blade. The slavemaster was swinging his sword in wide arcs that carried almost all the way around to his back. Each time he swung, the tip of the blade sliced into a wall and left clean cuts in it. The swings came so fast that Haft had no time to step inside their arc and land a blow of his own. The slavemaster was slowly backing Spinner up until he was almost at the far wall.

  Then Haft saw that the slavemaster’s swings were coming in an almost regular rhythm. He edged himself to a position to the swordsman’s right rear and, timing himself, brought his axe around and down as fast as he could to intercept the swinging sword. His swing missed the arm he aimed at and buried itself in the planking of the floor—but the axe handle hit the blade and carried it down. The slavemaster spun off balance and only saved himself from falling by letting go of his weapon. He darted past Haft, who was trying to pry his axe from the floor. Spinner raced after him, but the shift from defense to attack allowed the slavemaster to get to the bench, grab the longer sword, and turn to face him. Spinner pulled up short.

  The slavemaster gave the room a rueful look. He started to advance again then, and for the first time noticed the emblem on Haft’s axe. He stood erect, brought the hilt of his sword to his face, and bowed in salute. When he straightened he said in thickly accented Frangerian, “I didn’t know anyone still carried the rampant eagle.” He grinned widely. “I always did want to fight the very best.” He cocked his head and looked again at the axe, which Haft was still trying to dislodge from the floor. “But you don’t know its magic, do you? So you aren’t the best. Oh, well.” With a shriek, he attacked.

  Haft had to let go of his weapon and dive out of the way of the sword blow. He came up with the short sword in his hands.

  Spinner struck at the slavemaster with his staff, but the slavemaster spun away, taking only part of the blow. Still, he stumbled, and Haft immediately jumped in and thrust his sword through the slavemaster’s chest.

  The Jokapcul shuddered and slid off the blade. He clutched the wound in his chest with one hand and grasped the edge of the bench top with the other. He tried to stand, but his attempt was feeble and he tipped over, falling heavily on his side. His eyes misted and he gasped for air. A froth of blood bubbled from his chest and dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He said something, but his voice was weak. His native tongue had an incongruous, plaintive tone. Then his expression went bla
nk.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Spinner and Haft rubbed the thighs of their respective Lalla Mkouma to stop the magic, and they became visible again. They looked at each other, drained by the fight they knew they could just as easily have lost. They looked at the miniature woman on each other’s shoulders who at full size would have been beautiful almost beyond belief, and burst into tension-relieving laughter. Startled, the Lalla Mkouma resumed twirling their robes, and the two men again vanished from sight, which only made the Marines laugh harder.

  But they laughed only for a moment. There were more men-at-arms to be dealt with, and they had to get into the cellar to free the women before the fire reached them.

  Spinner dropped to a knee to search the corpse for the key to unlock the slaves’ anklets. Haft looked on the table and through chests. The Lalla Mkouma saw there was no immediate danger and became still.

  “Don’t bother,” Spinner said. “The key is too important for him to leave lying around. He had to keep it on his body or in his clothing.” He grunted as he pulled a key ring from inside the armor. “Here it is.”

  One of the keys was tiny and looked exactly the right size. Spinner picked up the short sword, gave it a few tentative swings, and decided he could use it though it felt and handled differently from the saber he’d trained with. Too many of the spaces in the inn were too narrow for him to properly use his staff.

  “Now let’s find Master Yoel.”

  “Wait,” Haft said. As soon as Spinner told him to stop looking for the key, he’d noticed the ugly, winged demon the slavemaster had been talking to when he first looked in the window—he’d forgotten the thing in the heat of battle. The swarm of bees was still hovering near it. Spinner now saw it for the first time.

  “What are you?” Haft demanded.

  The fearsome-looking demon cringed back from him.

  Haft grinned at the creature’s fear and hefted his axe. “I know you can talk.”