Tavantis raised a fist into the air and shouted a word. Bringing his arm down swiftly, he bellowed again. Both sides watched as the section of wall Silver Scar stood on shook violently and collapsed. The baron’s archers that had been standing on the segment of wall screamed as they fell amid tons of stone and mortar, only to be crushed or pinned beneath the heavy wreckage.
The silver-masked wizard floated out of the dust cloud like a feather in the wind. The mage hung in the air, arrogantly looking down at his rival. “Not quick enough, Tavantis.”
“I just wanted a better shot.” A bolt of lightning issued from Tavantis’s hand. The hovering mage crossed his arms and a shimmering shield appeared before him, deflecting the lighting into the ground behind the wall.
The flames in front of the gate wavered, but Tavantis had little time to gloat. A black sphere hit near his feet, blowing the half-elven mage into the air. He landed with little grace. Rolling to his feet, Tavantis looked up at the wall once again. The other mage had emerged, dark hair woven with sticks and bones, and his face twisted with rage. Leaning over the battlements, the newcomer cried out in a strange tongue and a clap of thunder boomed. An invisible wave of power sent Tavantis into the air once again.
“You are outnumbered and outmatched. Withdraw and we will spare your life,” Silver Scar called out.
Tavantis slowly came to his feet, shaking his head.
“You are only offering mercy because you’re afraid, Silver Scum. You and Stone Crow both know even combined, you’re no match for me, and I think I have had enough of you.” Tavantis stretched out his hand. A pale blue light swirled around his fingers and the image of a hand the size of a wagon appeared in the air beside the floating wizard. Tavantis swept his arm down in one motion and the huge magical apparition slapped Silver Scar from the sky like a bug. The masked wizard went down hard, landing somewhere behind the wall.
The flames in front of the gate disappeared as the dark-haired wizard shouted again, this time sending a large chunk of ice streaking towards Tavantis. The bald mage leaped away just as it hit the ground where he had been standing. The ground and the grass around the impact froze as solid as if winter had returned to the small area.
Tavantis reached into a small pouch at his side and threw what looked like a handful of round stones into the air. Shouting an arcane word, he pointed at his enemy. The stones grew as large as a child’s fist and shot toward the mage known as Stone Crow. Their speed was too fast for K’xarr’s eyes to track; only the flaming trail each stone left in the air could be seen. The tiny spheres hammered into the wild mage’s chest, blowing him from the wall. Tavantis spun back toward the lines and shouted, “Now would be a good time, Captain.”
K’xarr raised Crimson Wave. “Attack!” he bellowed. The rebel forces surged forward, half making for the broken gate and the others for the opening in the wall. The baron’s soldiers quickly filled the gate’s archway, determined to keep their enemy out. Others took positions in the ruins of the fallen section of wall, killing any who dared try and make their way through the debris.
K’xarr and the Sons smashed into those defending the gate. Shield against shield, both forces pushed at the other, their legs driving with all the strength they had. Swords, axes, and spears chopped and hacked over the top of the front ranks, trying to kill any of the enemy they could reach.
Men from on top of the ramparts poured scalding water and dropped heavy rocks onto those below, trying to break up the assault. Those that fell were swiftly replaced by the men behind them.
“Push together, you dogs,” K’xarr shouted. Even standing on the bodies of their fallen brothers, the Sons of the Reaper would not be denied. Slowly, K’xarr and his forces pushed through the gate. War cries filled the air as the Sons stormed their way into the palace grounds.
The fighting became close-quartered and deadly, the way the mercenaries liked it. Bloody hands thrust and slashed at their enemies. Kicking, punching, and even biting, K’xarr’s company of killers broke the men defending the gate with their savage resolve. The mercenary captain and those that burst through were met with a hail of arrows and javelins. Under the cover of the barrage, Serban’s heavy infantry smashed into their ranks with a fresh company of defenders.
The soldiers encircled the rebels and tried to hold the wild sellswords at the gate. K’xarr’s sword bit into a soldier’s neck. Kicking the dying man away, the mercenary captain looked around and grinned. He knew this was his men’s kind of fight, and by all the dark gods, it was going to be another gloriously bloody day.
* * *
Cromwell heard a roar above the sound of the battle, and the Toran watched as Kian leapt beyond the wall of fallen stones. The Slayer was among his enemies.
The big warrior and what was left of Constantine’s peasant army were doing their best to keep up with the swordsman. Cromwell didn’t trust the mettle of these bumpkins. Constantine’s rebels’ courage had proven to be scant more than once. The palace defenses were tight, but Cromwell thought if he could reach Kian, the pair of them together could break them.
A blast of fire went off to his left. The silver-masked wizard had regained his wits and seemed determined to wreak havoc among the rebels struggling through the ruins of the breach in the wall. The peasants were defenseless against the mage’s power. Bodies flew into the air, burned and broken. Others screamed as the wizard sent his deadly magic into the rebels as they scattered to find cover amongst the shattered stones.
Cromwell made his way through the wreckage, his two-handed sword crushing any that stood before him. It was clear Katrina and Vladimir saw what was happening. The two led a number of rebels into the palace grounds. Cromwell was sure they were going to attempt to stop the mage. It would be a futile task; none of them possessed the strength to defeat the masked wizard.
“Ashlyn, follow me! Those peasants won’t last long against that bastard.” The young mercenary nodded, pulling her small ax from the head of her last opponent.
“What makes you think we will?” the woman asked, coming alongside him. He looked down at his ward and gave no answer.
Clearing the debris, Cromwell saw Kian. A ring of dead men lay at his feet. Silence soundlessly whirled through the air, slicing through flesh and bone, adding more corpses to the pile of butchered bodies strewn around the Slayer. Kian’s golden eyes moved quickly to find his next victim, his dark sword sending another man to Hell. His fangs bared, the inhuman swordsman waded into Serban’s soldiers, leaving only fear and death in his wake. Many tried to run, only to be cut down. The Toran recognized the monster, he had seen it before, and he had witnessed the storm of death its presence wrought.
“Ash, stay clear of the Slayer,” Cromwell said, his eyes still on his sword-brother. “The beast is upon him. He may not recognize you as a friend.”
He saw the young woman staring at the carnage Kian’s skill and fury had spawned among the palace’s defenders. Cromwell knew his warning was unnecessary. Ashlyn would go nowhere near Kian if she could help it.
The Toran began to cut his way to his friend. As he closed, Cromwell had to shield his eyes as a ring of fire went up around the swordsman. The masked wizard stood only a few yards from the Slayer, a hand held out before him. Lifting his other hand, the mage conjured a small cloud of green fog that floated over to mingle with the flames. The fire turned a strange brownish color and began to swirl rapidly pinning the swordsman inside.
Looking around for some way he could aid Kian, Cromwell saw the other wizard come floating from around the far corner of the palace. The mage’s leather jerkin was singed and burned where Tavantis’s spheres had hit him. As he descended, the Toran could see that the mage’s dark hair was charred and his face was seared. It was clear to Cromwell that the two sorcerers meant to trap Kian between them.
Without thinking, the Toran hurled his two-handed sword as the wizard neared the ground. Its thick, wide blade struck the dark-haired wizard just below the sternum and sent the caster spin
ning to the ground like a wounded bird.
Rushing forward, Cromwell saw Kian step out of the cone of flame and fog. The golden-eyed warrior coughed once and spit on the ground. The silver-masked wizard took a step back, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing.
Kian rushed towards the masked mage. Silence struck only to find empty air. The wizard had vanished in a blink. Kian joined Cromwell where he stood glaring at the wizard he had downed. The mage sat on the ground, slumped over, the sword the only thing propping the dying man up.
“You will both die for this,” the savage mage hissed, blood pouring from his mouth. “The spirt of Stone Crow will haunt your dreams. I am a shaman of…”
Without emotion, Kian struck the wizard’s head from his body. Cromwell nodded his approval and pulled his great blade out of the wizard’s torso. The body fell over, quivered slightly, then lay still.
“I guess they will have to change their name to the Circle of twelve now,” Cromwell said, slapping Kian on the back.
The Slayer answered with a low growl.
Without further conversation, the two warriors ran back into the fray. The heavy fighting was now near the gate. The remainder of the peasant warriors cautiously followed them, unsure of what else to do.
Vladimir and Katrina rushed past them with Constantine on their heels. The three were headed away from the fighting. The courtyard was full of soldiers, but the trio of rebels weaved through the fighting, ignoring the other combatants.
“They’re going after Serban,” Ashlyn called out.
Cromwell did not hear her; he was fighting alongside his sword-brother. The bloodlust and madness of war had pulled both of them into its savage arms. Neither gave notice to the small group as it ran to the far end of the palace and disappeared from sight. Nor did they care.
Pepca cringed behind a large broken block of wall as Tempest fired arrow after arrow into the enemy soldiers. They had lost sight of Ashlyn in the wild melee, and were now alone.
“Pepca, I need you,” Tempest shouted. “I am down to my last shaft.”
Pepca stood, knees shaking. She wore mail and carried a sword, but she was no warrior. It had been foolish of her to think she could be one. Her decision to join in the battle had been rash and based on principle, what had she been thinking?
Tempest dropped her bow and drew her longsword. Pepca moved hesitantly beside her.
“What do I do?” she asked, voice quivering.
“Just be quick and keep away from their steel,” her friend advised.
Two men rushed at them and Tempest stepped forward, raising her blade. With practiced skill, she blocked an attack aimed for her head and thrust her blade through her opponent’s throat. Pepca squealed as the soldier fell clutching at his neck.
The soldier in front of Pepca lifted his sword with both hands, bringing it down in a deadly arc. Pepca held her sword up, attempting to mimic Tempest. The two swords rang and the vibration stung her palm. The soldier struck at her over and over as she quickly backed away.
“Now you die, peasant whore,” the man shouted.
Pepca shrieked and pushed at her attacker with her free hand. The shove sent the soldier stumbling back several feet to land on his backside. The princess stared at her hand in awe. The strength had belonged to the wolf.
The soldier came to his feet and charged again. Before he could reach her, he was headed off by Vinsant, Payton, and Father Sobena. The former priest cut her attacker down from behind without hesitation.
Pepca could feel her hands shaking. Her bladder had nearly let go.
Payton looked at Tempest. “Vladimir and Katrina have gone after Serban, we should follow.”
Tempest looked at Pepca. “It might be best to get the princess off the field. I don’t know if chasing down a blood drinker is any safer though.”
“She doesn’t have to go after the baron. You can find someplace to keep her hidden if you wish it,” Payton said.
“Princess?” Tempest asked.
“Okay,” Pepca stammered.
“Do you know a way in, Princess?” Sobena asked hastily.
“Yes,” Pepca said, almost surprised. So much had happened, she had almost forgotten her life in the palace.
“Follow me.”
Without waiting any longer, the group ran from the bloody courtyard, the shouts of dying men ringing in their ears as they fled the fight.
It was no short distance to the far eastern side of the palace. Pepca led them to the door she had escaped from those many months ago.
The door to the palace’s second dining hall was open, and they could hear muffled voices from inside. Entering, they swiftly moved through the kitchen and out into the dining hall. Three dead men lay in the floor among some overturned benches. Katrina and Constantine stood over the corpses, and Vladimir was across the large room peering down a long hall that led deeper into the palace’s interior.
“I can hear the battle, but no one is in the corridor,” Vladimir said.
Ignoring his statement, Katrina stared at them angrily.
“What are all of you doing in here?”
“The same thing you are intending to do, kill the Baron,” Payton said, his voice low.
“Vladimir is the only one of us that can to that. We are going to seek the fiend, and you’re going to stay here out of the way. You should have known better than to bring them here, Father,” the redhead scolded. “The girls are sixteen at best, and those two boys couldn’t have seen more than thirteen or fourteen winters, I don’t care how big they are.”
Miro hung his head. “You are right. I am sorry.”
Constantine put his hand on Miro’s shoulder. “Father, I am sorry as well for what your about to see. I wish there was time for an explanation first, but there isn’t. I hope you will keep what you witness to yourself.”
Vladimir quickly stripped out of his armor and dropped down on all fours, letting the wolf come over him. With the gruesome sound of bones snapping, the rebel’s hands and feet became paws and his face elongated into a snout. Lastly, a black coat of fur covered the animal’s entire body. The huge black wolf shook itself and sat down before the former priest, its tongue hanging out.
Miro’s mouth fell open and he was wild-eyed as he tried to comprehend Vladimir’s the sudden transformation.
“That is the most fantastic thing I have ever seen,” the former priest stuttered. “But it is the work of the Beast.” Miro stared at the large animal.
“It is not the work of the Beast or any other demon, Father. The creature is our salvation,” Constantine said with a smirk.
Katrina followed the wolf to the hallway’s entrance. Vladimir raised his muzzle and sniffed the air.
“Now do what I said and remain here,” Katrina said, glancing over her shoulder with a frown.
“I will stay with them,” Constantine said. “Someone should look after them.”
Katrina looked at the rebel general, her eyes guarded.
“Do what you like.”
The wolf padded down the corridor. The redheaded rebel started to follow, then turned back. “Perhaps what K’xarr says about you is true, General.”
Constantine’s eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue. They all watched as Katrina trotted down the hall without another word.
Miro was clearly trying to come to terms with what he had seen, pacing and shaking his head. Vladimir’s change had unnerved the former holy man.
Tempest touched his arm. “Is he not one of your God’s creature’s too?”
The former priest shook his head and said nothing.
“I am not waiting here,” Payton said, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Vinsant and I have killed a shapechanger. How hard could it be to dispatch an undead nobleman?”
“Katrina is right; you are just boys. Serban will kill you both,” Pepca said gently. “Even Vladimir may not be able to destroy the baron.”
“The blood in our veins makes us more than boys, Highness. Our kind are more than
human, and you would do well to learn that,” Payton hissed.
“We are as human as anyone else. Our blood is just a different color than other people’s, that’s all,” Tempest said, incensed by boy’s remark.
Payton stepped closer to the white-haired girl. Though he was younger than Tempest, Pepca noticed he stood just as tall. “You can delude yourself all you want, girl. We are not the same as other people, we are beyond them. Our blood is who we are.”
“All this doesn’t matter,” Constantine said gruffly. “You were told to remain here, and that is what you will do.”
“I don’t take orders from peasants or cowards,” Payton said glaring at Constantine.
“You will do what you are told or I will have your mother take a switch to you.”
Payton snatched his sword from its scabbard and leveled it at the rebel general. Vinsant slid beside his brother and did the same. “If you wish to stop us, I offer you the chance now. As far as our mother goes, I would keep her name out of your filthy mouth, Trimenian.”
Constantine seethed with anger, and Pepca thought for a moment that he might take Payton up on his challenge. The rebel leader’s hand twisted on the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it. “Very well. If you want to die, go on, you little bastards.”
Payton looked his brother and jerked his head in the direction corridor.
“I am going with them,” Tempest said.
Pepca didn’t want to follow the two boys. Somewhere inside the dark palace, Serban waited.
“I will come with you as well,” Miro said, finding his voice.
Tempest touched Pepca’s mailed shoulder. “Stay. You have already shown your courage. There is no need that you do anymore.”
“I want to come, but…” Pepca said, looking away.
Tempest took the princess’s face in her hands and looked into her eyes. “I know.” Giving Pepca a quick hug, she and Miro followed the two young warriors into the dim corridor.
The Star Of Saree Page 44
