In addition to the power offered him by serving such a powerful master, Silvain enjoyed trying to decipher the mage’s motives. What good was raw power without continual personal danger to add spice? Silvain lived on a knife’s edge with Claybore. One slip and he’d find his parts strewn along the Cenotaph Road.
“The company returned to their base after heavy casualties,” continued Kiska k’Adesina, unperturbed. In another person, Silvain would have envied her unflappable nature. He had seen strong men quake at the sight of Claybore’s fleshless skull and limbless torso. K’Adesina held no fear, because of her obsession with revenge on Lan Martak. That she did not even fear Claybore counted as a mark against her. Silvain believed in intelligent fear and healthy respect.
“You project the conquest of this city to be accomplished in less than a day?”
“Master, given the way into the city, it will be yours within an hour.”
“I do not share your optimism, but I do hope you are accurate in your guessing. This city is a thorn in the side, to be removed quickly and as painlessly as possible. Then I may turn my full talents toward Iron Tongue, since he has what I desire most on this worthless world.”
“I have studied Wurnna’s defenses,” said Silvain. “While Kiska turned her strategies against Bron, I formulated an attack plan that even the sorcerers will be unable to turn away.”
“Show me.” The skull did not look at the map Silvain unrolled. The man put that datum away in his mental file. Claybore’s sensory powers bordered on the omniscient. Another thought crossed Silvain’s mind. Did the sorcerer know of Silvain’s and Kiska’s growing physical relationship? Did he approve of it as a way of keeping them both in line? The dangers sharpened Silvain.
“The main defense lies along this canyon. Iron Tongue stands atop a tower and… speaks. Armies turn away.”
“He uses my tongue.”
“Clogging our troops’ ears with wax hardly seems adequate since this is a magical and not a physical manifestation. What I propose is as follows.” Before Silvain had a chance to continue, a courier came running from the front.
“Speak,” commanded the voiceless Claybore.
The youth trembled and nodded, saying, “Master, all is prepared for the final breaching of the wall. Will you give the command?”
“Who casts the actual spell?” asked Claybore.
“Master,” said k’Adesina, “Patriccan is ready.”
“Then let Patriccan continue.”
A motion dismissed the runner, who fled as if the hounds of Hell slavered after him. Silvain and k’Adesina mounted their steeds, readying for battle. The man rested while his mind worked at full speed. This Patriccan and Kiska held a close relationship, that much was obvious. She used him—but what did the mage get in return? There were few enough sorcerers willing to prostitute themselves for Claybore. They tended to be hermits willing to live and work alone in the wilderness for the sake of their black arts. Did Kiska have some hold over Patriccan? A soldier blackmailing a mage? It seemed unlikely. Better to assume Patriccan had his own dark uses for the fragile-seeming Kiska k’Adesina.
And perhaps Silvain might turn that to his own ends.
“I want Lan Martak,” the woman said, interrupting his thoughts. The man didn’t doubt she would kill anyone between her and the object of her obsession—she might even attack Claybore for the pleasure of slaying Lan Martak.
“My dear, he is yours. The woman, also, if you please. And the spider. I shall keep you from harm while you sate your hunger for revenge.”
“It is insatiable. But these deaths will go a long way toward honoring my fallen husband.”
They rode to the foot of the hill on which Bron perched. The ancient mage Patriccan held a tiny tube of shiny silver. Seeing the two commanders, he lifted the tube and sighted through it. The entire stone wall began to glow a dim, dark red. Not satisfied, Patriccan reached to the front of the tube and twisted, as if focusing a telescope. The redness remained over the wall, but a single beam of lambent energy lashed forth, striking the wall at its base. Stone bubbled and flowed like stew in a pot. Rock vaporized and the white-hot lance of magic seared through the yards-thick barrier of stone.
Patriccan turned and grandly motioned them toward the city, his job finished.
“Kill them all!” cried Kiska k’Adesina, spurring her mount up the hill. Silvain held back for the briefest of moments, making sure that the protective barrier Claybore had erected to imprison Bron had been removed. The sorcerer was not above sacrificing all his lieutenants for some unguessable end. Sure he did not ride to a magical death at his master’s order, Silvain galloped forward until he and Kiska were side by side in the tunnel that had been magically burned through the wall.
Patriccan’s cloud had opened the path. The first wave had softened the resolve of those within. Now came the real assault. Silvain and k’Adesina motioned forward a small band of shock cavalry to precede them. Then they prepared to lead the main charge into the city. Their swords tasted the blood. And their combined cries sounded the death knell for Bron.
Inyx peered down from her tower apartment and gasped at the sight. The “feel” of the curtain imprisoning them changed dramatically. Swirling, churning like a tornado, the wall collapsed upon itself—all unseen.
“Chamberlain!” Inyx shrieked, calling for aid, pushing aside the dumbstruck servant. “Alert the city. Get Jacy. They breach the wall.”
“Impossible, milady,” said the old man. “The wall is a bowshot thick—solid stone. They cannot enter that way.”
“Dammit, they’re doing it. Oh,” she grated, unable to make the man understand. She raced off, sword coming into her hand. By the time she reached the base of the tower and spun out into the courtyard, the spell had hardened into a drill of prodigious power. She saw white-hot gobbets of stone spinning away like some gigantic Catherine Wheel. Inyx threw up an arm to protect her face when the gust of superheated air rushed out from the newly gouged hole through the wall.
From all sides came the pounding of boot soles, men and woman rushing to defend the gaping hole in their defenses. The dark-haired woman hesitated for a moment, studied the scene, then realized that Claybore wouldn’t carve such a hole unless the first force through it was truly invincible.
She reached out and grabbed Jacy Noratumi’s arm as the sallow-faced man blundered along. He appeared to be in shock. She shook him until his teeth rattled. Only then did the glazed expression begin to fade.
“Inyx,” he muttered.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t go any further until we see what comes through the hole.”
“But we must defend Bron.”
“Wait.”
Her caution proved their salvation. Those citizens crowding near the still smoking rim of the hole were whisked away like flies on a cow’s back when a billowing, churning, all-consuming cloud billowed forth. The magically incited cloud sucked up shrieks of agony and struggling bodies with equal appetite. Only when it emerged fully inside the city walls did the deadly cloud begin to dissipate. But by then it had done its work.
Inyx hissed, “Listen. Hoofbeats.”
“Th-they follow th-that thing.” Noratumi’s sword quivered as he pointed to the last traces of the deadly cloud. Inyx neither knew nor cared what had spawned the death-dealing vapor. Lan was better able to combat such things. Gripping her sword, she waited for the humans thundering through their tunnel and into the city.
She understood this type of fight. Stance wide, both hands on the hilt of her sword, Inyx readied herself for the first onslaught. The woman glanced to her right and saw that the shock of seeing this city invaded had begun to fade in Noratumi’s face. The man finally realized what she had seen from the start; his city was doomed.
“Ha-aieee!” came the war chants of the first rider.
Inyx saw the rider cut through wave after wave of defender, then bear down on her. She waited. Waited. Waited.
Sunlight caught the leading edge of he
r sword as she swung at precisely the right instant. All the strength locked up in her arms and shoulders went into that cut. Impact jolted her but the meaty feel of sword severing a momentarily exposed wrist was her reward. The rider’s gauntlet had slipped and she had taken full advantage of it.
Blood geysering from the stump, the now unseated horseman thrashed about on the ground a few yards distant. Inyx paid him no more attention. He’d bleed to death before he could staunch his wound.
The cavalry surged forward like the ocean’s tide. Inyx wiped all thought from her mind and became machinelike, working to swing her sword, parry, duck, retreat, advance. The ebb and flow of the battle lasted forever. She killed attacker after attacker, taking no time to count either victim or time.
Drenched in blood, both from her enemies and from several small but messy cuts, she finally took time to lean forward on her sword, gasping for breath. The riders had pulled back to regroup before making still another frontal assault. Their bravery wasn’t in question; Inyx wondered at the fool commanding them. Such wanton squandering of human life was abhorrent to her.
“Inyx!” came the distant cry. She turned to find the source and saw that the heat of battle had separated her from Jacy Noratumi. The man stood atop a battlement, crossbow in hand. With methodical skill he aimed, fired, and then handed the crossbow to a squire for recocking while he took another readied weapon.
“Jacy!” she called back, waving. Droplets of blood flew from her sodden sleeve. “Rally your forces. We must escape!”
The man obviously didn’t hear. He tossed aside his crossbow and took another, waving to her once more. Vexed, she started to cry out again when some sixth sense warned her of a presence.
Inyx turned and looked down the length of the tunnel. A man and woman rode side by side. The woman was unknown to her, but the man she recognized instantly.
“Silvain!”
Inyx rushed forward to gather momentum for her blow. She missed her timing slightly and instantly discarded the idea of going for Silvain’s mount. Instead, she turned the line of her attack to the woman at the dark man’s side. Inyx swung her sword double-handed and felt the nicked, battle-dulled edge sever a horse’s leg. The woman astride the horse never saw the blow. She screamed and went somersaulting through the air.
Silvain reined in, glanced at his fallen companion, and then saluted Inyx before spurring into the main Bron force. He obviously did not care if the fallen woman lived or died. Inyx suspected that to Silvain it was all one and the same.
She’d have to assure herself of a death. The red stripes on the struggling woman’s sleeves indicated high rank in Claybore’s army. That alone sealed her death warrant.
Inyx lunged, but the woman miraculously turned aside the thrust. It cost Kiska k’Adesina her footing; she went tumbling again, but out of range of Inyx’s blade. By the time Inyx had recovered, so had Kiska.
“Now you die, slut,” whispered Kiska k’Adesina, advancing with her blade firmly in hand now.
Inyx didn’t bother replying. She had already spent her breath on a hard fight. To offer idle taunts would only tire her further. She’d let her sword speak for her. She lunged, in perfect line. The tip of her sword raked along k’Adesina’s arm, drawing blood just behind the heavy protective gauntlet.
“Damn you!” cried k’Adesina. “For this you will suffer the same fate as Lan Martak!”
“What?” In spite of herself, Inyx hesitated, surprised at the other’s words. “What of Lan Martak?”
“You,” said k’Adesina, brown eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re his whore. Silvain had shown me a likeness, but the blood hid your identity. Die, bitch, die on Kiska k’Adesina’s sword!”
Inyx felt as if she had engaged a tornado in battle. Kiska k’Adesina flew into a murderous rage, her sword coming with unrelenting power. For a time, it proved all Inyx could do to simply stay alive. Tiny cuts became deeper wounds; still she fought a defensive battle. K’Adesina’s berserk power carried her onward, no matter what injury Inyx might inflict.
At one point, Inyx managed a deft leg cut, which connected solidly. Kiska k’Adesina appeared not to notice the steady gushing of blood down her leg. Every subsequent step sounded with an almost lewd sucking sound, the foot moving in a blood-filled boot. But it did not stay her rage, her attack, her venomous need to slay Inyx.
Back pressed against the city’s wall, Inyx fell into a purely defensive battle. Her earlier fights had tired her too much to deal with such insanity. Her shoulders ached hugely and weakness swept over her in waves as her body demanded tending from all the wounds she had incurred during the past eternity-long minutes of battle.
“Kiska, pull back, let her be,” came an all too familiar voice. “Martak isn’t within the city walls. We need her alive to find out where he is.”
“Kill, kill, kill!” shrieked a wild-eyed k’Adesina. “I will kill that bastard Martak and his animal later. Now I will kill his lover, as he slew mine!”
Everything linked together in Inyx’s mind. She knew this woman’s identity now; Lan had mentioned the brief encounter with her at the base of Mount Tartanius. Inyx knew she could expect no quarter, now or later. Better to fall in battle with a sword in her hand than to be the subject of intimate tortures by Kiska k’Adesina.
“Kiska, stop, I say. We must find him and the spider.”
“Find them yourself. Ever since you failed, you’ve been trying to curry favor with Claybore. She is mine!”
A whine, a gasp, and Inyx saw her opening. Jacy Noratumi’s marksmanship with the crossbow had never been better—or delivered at more precisely the right instant. He had sent a bolt arrowing down into Kiska’s sword arm, pinning armored limb to her side. Blood oozed around the quarrel, and not even her rage-insensitivity to pain availed her now. Physically unable to raise her weapon, she had to fall to Inyx’s blow.
But before Inyx dealt the killing stroke, she found her blade stopped at the top of its arc by another.
Alberto Silvain bent down from horseback, the tendons in his arm standing in bold relief as he prevented her from killing.
“No, my dear, it is not her destiny to die by your blade.” He gritted his teeth and twisted. Inyx’s sword spun from her grasp.
“And it’s not my destiny to be your prisoner.” Inyx dived underneath Silvain’s horse, away from his sword. He couldn’t swing at her without hitting his own mount. Beneath the man and his mount, Inyx wasted no time. She reached back and grabbed the stallion’s huge, dangling member and twisted as hard as she could. The horse let out a cry of pain that sounded almost human. Rearing, bucking, and kicking, the horse tried to rid itself of its assailant.
Inyx continued pressure until she heard Silvain cursing. He’d slipped from his saddle and fallen backwards. Inyx took the opportunity to leap out from her dangerous position, dodging flying hooves as she went. Noratumi’s accurate fire with the crossbow from the wall saved her from sure death several times as she ran for the stairs leading up and onto the battlements.
“Hurry,” urged Noratumi. “You can make it.” She turned blue eyes upward and saw that the man wasn’t able to aid her. He had to stay on the walkway and maintain a covering fire if she wanted to reach safety. Gritting her teeth, Inyx fought up one step after another until she lay at Noratumi’s feet. The man’s fingers bled from continually recocking the bow. Lifting herself on her hands, Inyx saw that Noratumi’s squire lay off to one side, his head at an odd angle. A small pool of blood puddled under his fallen body; a few steps further lay one of Claybore’s soldiers, a heavy club clutched in his dead hand.
“We must abandon the city,” she gasped out. “They have control of Bron now. It’s madness to stay and fight them.”
“This is my city. I refuse to leave.”
“Then you’ll be buried here with every other obstinate fool fighting a lost cause.”
“It’s not lost,” Noratumi muttered, firing the crossbow at another rider below. “It’s only a setback.”
Noratumi said nothing. He stood, fired, cursed, reloaded, and fired again. Inyx surveyed the carnage and wanted to be sick to her stomach. Ankle-deep blood flowed in places throughout the courtyard, eventually finding storm drains to gurgle down. The dead were heaped like refuse. And everywhere the fighting continued, grey-clad against Bron citizen. And everywhere the same distressing story was apparent: Claybore’s troops triumphed, slowly, bloodily, but they triumphed.
“I won’t be slaughtered, Jacy,” she said. “That was Kiska k’Adesina I fought. She wants me with a fervor that goes beyond simple hatred. Her real score to settle is with Lan, but she’s not above getting to him through me.”
“I stopped her,” he said in a tired voice.
“No, you didn’t stop her. Slowed her, perhaps, but never stopped. Look. She and Silvain down there are again on the attack. They lost track of me momentarily, but they’ll find me again. You can’t hold them off. Silvain possibly, Kiska k’Adesina never. An hour dead she’ll still be fighting.”
The words penetrated Noratumi’s resolve. “She does not fight rationally. She is…”
“Possessed,” Inyx finished for him. “If we are to defeat her—and Claybore—we’ve got to get out of here, regroup, and rethink our attack. Bron is lost, Jacy,” she said in a softer voice. “Lost.”
He sent a bolt directly for Silvain, but the man’s dark eyes spotted the incoming death-messenger, and he batted it aside with a careless swipe of his sword. But the attack had drawn Silvain’s unwanted attention. Inyx cringed when he raised his sights to the battlements, smiled, and then called out to Kiska.
[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue Page 8
