Right now, the blacksmiths and their apprentices fought for their lives.
Another of those peculiar holes in the air had appeared at the end of the street, and through it, Niall saw the land with the burning sky and the thick forest. Dozens of goblins poured out the gate, and they battled a mob of men armed with swords and hammers and clubs. The defenders had the stocky, muscular look of men who pounded hot iron for their bread. Some of them were older with bushy beards, while others were younger and leaner. Most of them wore leather aprons, and while that might have protected them from sparks, the leather did nothing against the swords of the goblins. Even as Niall looked, two of the smiths went down, slain by goblin swords.
“Take them!” shouted Ridmark. “To the rift!”
The orcish warriors roared a battle cry in their native tongue, and Niall had never heard anything that sounded quite so bloodthirsty. Ridmark moved fast, faster than a man should have been able to move, and Lady Calliande began casting a spell. The orcs and the dwarven bishop charged, and Niall ran after them.
They joined the fight against the goblins, and Niall found himself face to face with one of the creatures. It pointed its sword at him, fire crackling up the blade, and Niall realized it was casting a spell. He dodged to the side, and a bolt of fire shot from the sword and blasted past his head. The heat of it stung his face, and if he hadn’t moved, it would have drilled a tunnel through his skull. The goblins were unable to use magic as quickly as Lady Calliande, and Niall rushed forward, leading with his shield. It occurred to him that the heavy mass of wood and steel on his arm would make a marvelous weapon, so he slammed it into the goblin’s face. The creature’s head snapped back in a burst of blue-black blood, and Niall chopped down with his sword, aiming for its head. It was a clumsy, hasty blow, but his strike stunned the goblin, and his sword sank into its neck. The goblin fell, dying, and Niall spun, seeking another foe.
The battle had become a brutal, hand-to-hand struggle, and Niall shoved with his shield, pushing another goblin back. Before the creature recovered its balance, a nearby smith swung his hammer and caved in the goblin’s skull. The creature fell, and Niall stepped over its corpse, seeking another foe. Next to him he saw Bishop Caius battling a goblin with swift strokes of his heavy mace. Niall thrust and his sword caught the goblin in the shoulder. The injury distracted the creature long enough for the bishop to deliver a killing blow with his mace.
Caius nodded his thanks, and then a goblin sprang at Niall.
He reacted on impulse, bringing up his shield just in time. A descending short sword hammered into his shield, and the shock of the impact burned up his arm. Niall shoved, and the goblin stumbled back. But the creature recovered, and it went on the attack, its sword a blur of steel as it swung and slashed. Niall found himself forced back, trying to regain his footing to return the goblin’s attacks. Yet the goblin had the initiative, and he could not recover. His back struck the closed double doors of one of the larger smithies, and Niall was out of room to retreat. He braced himself, preparing to spring on the goblin, even though he knew that would likely end with the goblin’s sword in his chest…
There was a loud crack, and the goblin’s head bent to the right at a nearly ninety-degree angle, the shattered bones jutting from the torn skin of its neck. A spasm went through the creature, and then it toppled over. Bishop Caius pulled his mace free from the dead goblin’s skull, its blood and brains glistening on the head of the mace.
Niall opened his mouth to thank the bishop for his assistance, but he was having a hard time getting his breath back.
“Thanks,” he croaked.
Caius nodded and went back on the attack, but there was little left to do. The goblin mob had been driven back, with most of them slain, the survivors fleeing to the gate. Lord Ridmark strode after the fleeing goblins, and Niall wondered if he intended to pursue them into the strange forest with the burning sky.
Instead, he thrust his sword into the rift. The soulblade pulsed with white fire, and then the gate collapsed into nothingness, vanishing as if it had never existed. Niall looked around, but there were no goblins left on their feet. One of the orcish warriors walked among the fallen goblins, finishing off the wounded with quick thrusts of his dagger, while Lady Calliande healed the men and orcs who had taken wounds.
“Lord Ridmark!” called one of the smiths, an older man with a bushy gray beard, a swelling belly, a barrel chest, and arms thicker than small trees. “What’s going on? What should we do?”
“The town is under attack,” said Ridmark. “If you are part of the militia, get your weapons and armor and report to either the forum or the northern gate. If you’re not, barricade yourselves in your homes and shops and guard the women and the children.”
“But what are these things?” said another man.
“Goblins, apparently,” said Ridmark. “But like any other foe, if you hit them hard enough, they’ll go down and stay down. Get moving.”
With that, he continued down the street, and Niall and the others followed him.
###
They encountered one more rift on the way to the monastery, which had opened right in front of one of the town’s smaller churches. The nearby townsmen had barricaded themselves in the church, and the goblins were in the process of hacking down the door when Ridmark and the others arrived.
A short, sharp fight followed, and Ridmark and his allies were victorious. Two of Kharlacht’s orcish warriors were slain, but Calliande healed the wounds the other warriors endured, though he worried at the toll it was taking on them.
“I think that was the last rift inside the town,” said Calliande, blinking as she drew on the Sight. “And I’m not sure, but it looks like Antenora is blocking the stone from opening any other gates. But there’s still one in the monastery.”
“We’ve taken too long,” said Kharlacht, his voice harsh. “The goblins will have killed every single one of the monks by now.”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “Maybe not. Abbot Caldorman would not react well to an attack, but Accolon would keep his head once he realized the danger. Perhaps he convinced the monks to take shelter in the monastery’s church or crypt, and they’re holding out there.”
But Ridmark could not quite make himself believe that, and he cursed himself. He didn’t like Abbot Caldorman, and he thought the monks of St. Bartholomew’s lazy and complacent, but that didn’t mean they deserved to get slaughtered in their beds. And he had promised Arandar that he would help Accolon. What would Ridmark tell Arandar when he returned to Tarlion? That Accolon had been slaughtered as he prayed for forgiveness?
Of course, that assumed Ridmark would live through the attack. Getting killed in battle would relieve him of all his responsibilities, but Ridmark wasn’t quite ready for that.
“Hurry,” said Ridmark, and they jogged through the streets.
They came to the town gate of the Monastery of St. Bartholomew. One of the double doors stood open, and four goblins prowled out. Scouts, Ridmark thought. The four goblins saw them approaching and began casting spells, but Calliande was faster. She thrust her staff, and a shimmering wall of translucent white light appeared. The goblins’ spells shattered against the ward. Before the creatures could recover their concentration from the effort of spell casting, Ridmark, Kharlacht, and the orcish warriors fell upon the goblins.
They made short work of the creatures
“The gate is in the southern half of the courtyard,” said Calliande.
“Then let’s close it,” said Ridmark, and he strode into the monastery’s courtyard.
###
Accolon killed another blue-skinned creature with the short sword, his breath wheezing in his lungs, his shoulders and hips and knees aching from the effort of swordplay.
Some part of his mind was disgusted with himself. A year ago, fighting wouldn’t have tired him out so much. The months spent in prayer and fasting had not helped his constitution. At the time, he had thought it his deserved fate. Part
of him still did. The rest of him wished his shoulders didn’t hurt so much and that he could move faster.
He had retreated up the stairs and onto the ramparts of the monastery’s outer wall. The fighting had driven him to the watch tower that stood at the junction of the monastery’s wall and the town, and the watch tower had a narrow doorway. There Accolon could hold off the creatures without much trouble, and he had done so. Under other circumstances, Accolon thought he could have held out until help arrived.
Unfortunately, it seemed that every single one of the blue devils could use magic.
One of the creatures had almost burned off his head with a blast of magical fire. After Accolon had retreated into the watch tower’s doors, the creatures had only been able to come at him single file. The blue-skinned devils had instead settled on an effective tactic. They hurled fire or lightning or ice at him, and Accolon had no choice but to dodge inside the tower, taking cover behind the wall. The magical attacks shattered against the stone and the creatures charged the tower. Accolon had to spring out to meet them, and he found himself fighting two or three of the things at once.
He had taken hits on his left arm and his right leg, and he wasn’t sure how bad they were. He felt hot blood dripping down his sweat-chilled skin, which was a bad sign. The pain of the wounds didn’t really touch him, not yet, but Accolon had been in enough battles to know that the pain wouldn’t catch up to him until after, when the danger passed, and the exhaustion came flooding in.
Or until he passed out from blood loss, or a sword split his skull or opened his throat.
Accolon cut down another creature, and the rest began casting spells. He threw himself to the side, and a volley of lightning and fire ripped into the stone wall, some of the fire striking with enough force that hot splinters of stone grazed his cheek and arm. Blue-skinned creatures rushed into the tower room, and Accolon killed two of them. He leaped back into the doorway, and a third creature attacked him. Accolon got his sword up in time, and the blades rebounded from each other with a spray of sparks, the shock of the impact stabbing into his shoulders. He tried to riposte, but his arms were too slow with fatigue, and the creature was too skilled. Accolon found himself forced back a step, and then another. If the creature drove all the way into the room, more would come through, he would be surrounded, and that would be that.
He had thought he deserved death for what had happened for Caitrin. Perhaps this was his just fate. Yet there was a difference between God taking his life in justice and falling to these strange creatures that had emerged from a hole in the air.
And Accolon would never even know what the damned things were, or why they had come here.
He parried another blow, and he had to jump back to avoid a second, moving all the way into the tower room. That left more than enough room for the creatures to rush in, and Accolon expected them to swarm him. He braced himself, intending to attack and take down as many of his foes as he could before he fell.
Instead, the creature he fought took a half-step back, glancing over its shoulder in sudden alarm.
Accolon’s instincts took over despite his fatigue, and he thrust his weapon, his arm driving the blade forward. The sword ripped across the creature’s neck, blue-black blood spraying from the wound. Accolon retracted the sword and struck again, and this time, the creature went down and stayed down.
He looked onto the ramparts, wondering why the hell the blue-skinned devils hadn’t killed him yet, and saw a battle underway.
Ridmark Arban hewed his way into the enemy, Oathshield in his right hand, Aegisikon in its shield form on his left arm. Kharlacht fought at his left and Bishop Caius at his right, and Accolon’s mind flashed back thirteen years to the war against the Frostborn in the Northerland, how often he had seen Ridmark and Caius and Kharlacht fighting alongside each other just like that against the medvarth and the locusari. Behind them came Kharlacht’s Rhaluuskan warriors, and a young man in leather armor, wielding sword and shield with clumsy vigor. White fire flashed, and Accolon saw Calliande standing in the courtyard before the rift, casting a spell. White fire flared around her fingers, and the same glow settled around Ridmark and the others, making them faster.
Accolon could not leave his friends to face the creatures alone. His conscience had reproved him for Caitrin’s death, but that same conscience would not allow any man of Andomhaim to face a foe alone. Accolon shouted and charged, joining the fight, killing with his stolen sword.
It was over in a moment, and Accolon wiped the sweat from his forehead, breathing hard.
“Prince Accolon,” said Ridmark.
“Lord Ridmark,” said Accolon. “Thank you for coming. Those…things, whatever they are…”
“Goblins,” said Ridmark. “At least that’s what they call themselves.”
“Goblins,” repeated Accolon. He wondered how Ridmark had known that. “They would have killed me if you had not come. Thank you.” He paused. “What the hell is going on?”
“I wish I knew,” said Ridmark, beckoning. “That old elven stone in the forum has somehow activated, and it’s opening small world gates. Those goblins are coming through them. There were several gates in the town proper, and one in the monastery. Antenora’s working on a way to disable that stone, and Calliande should be closing that…ah.”
The Keeper cast another spell, white fire pulsing along her staff, and a shaft of light stabbed into the rift. The blue fire winked out, and the rift collapsed into nothingness, leaving no trace that it had ever existed save for a charred patch on the ground.
“Was that all of them?” said Accolon, following Ridmark and the others down the stairs to the courtyard.
“No,” said Ridmark. “There are at least two more rifts outside Castarium. I ordered the gate opened long enough to get the men of Ebor into the town, but then we closed it again. As soon as we’re done here, we are going out to investigate.”
Calliande hurried to join them. She paused to heal the wounds of two of Kharlacht’s men. Accolon had seen the Keeper heal wounds often enough that he recognized the signs of strain in her, the cords standing out in her neck, the tightening of her lips. She was a striking woman, though Accolon was slightly ashamed that he recognized that fact.
And a little amused if he was honest with himself. A matter of life and death raged around him, and he was still thinking about women. Though that was how his problems had started…
“Prince Accolon,” said Calliande, stepping towards him. “You’re hurt.”
“What?” said Accolon, and he glanced at himself. Suddenly he felt the pain of the cuts in his arm and leg. “It’s not serious, it…”
“Quiet,” said Calliande, and she stepped closer, put her free hand on his temple, and cast a spell. He felt the cold sensation of the healing magic wash over him, following by a crawling, itching sensation as the wounds closed. Accolon tugged up the blood-soaked right sleeve of his robe and saw that the cut had vanished, leaving only a faint pinkish-white scar. Many of the Magistri were skilled healers, but none surpassed the Keeper.
“Thank you, my lady,” said Accolon, letting his sleeve drop. He wiped more sweat from his forehead. God, but he was tired.
Kharlacht grunted. “You’ve let yourself get out of training, lad.”
Accolon wanted to snap back a response, but the orcish headman was right.
“We need to go,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “If we close those two rifts outside the walls, perhaps Antenora can keep the stone from opening any additional ones.”
“I…I need to get back to the church,” said Accolon, looking at the stone edifice of the monastery’s church. “I need to pray for forgiveness, for…”
“Forgiveness for what?” said Caius, his voice gentler than Kharlacht’s. “Violence is a serious matter, Prince Accolon, but there is no sin in lifting the sword in defense of your own life. There is especially no sin in lifting the sword to defend the lives of others. If you had not distracted the goblins, they might have
rampaged through the monastery and killed every one of the brothers and novices here.”
Accolon opened his mouth, closed it again. He hadn’t thought of that.
“You need to come with us,” said Ridmark. “Now.”
Accolon shook his head. “No, I can’t. I have to pray, I…”
“The town of Castarium is under attack,” said Ridmark. “The entire realm of Andomhaim might be under attack. More of those rifts could be opening across the realm. The rifts could be the precursor of another invasion like that of the Frostborn. We need help. We need every hand capable of lifting a sword, and Andomhaim needs its crown prince.”
“I sinned grievously,” said Accolon. “Fighting goblins doesn’t atone for…”
“It doesn’t,” said Ridmark, his voice hard, but not unsympathetic. “Only the Dominus Christus can forgive sins. You sinned with that woman, fine. Accept that and move on. If you are worried about the state of your soul, I can promise that abandoning your people and your duties in the middle of a crisis so you can wallow in self-pity will not be to your credit at the Last Judgment.”
Accolon didn’t have a good answer for that.
“So, you’re going to come with us,” said Ridmark, reaching over his shoulder, “and you’re going to take this.”
He lifted a sheathed soulblade.
Accolon blinked. “Isn’t that…”
“That is the soulblade Hopesinger,” said Ridmark. “My brother Valmark carried it, but he fell in the fighting at the castra.”
“I’m sorry,” said Accolon, shocked. Valmark Arban had seemed as grim and implacable as his younger brother. But all men were mortals, even Swordbearers. Accolon wondered how he would feel if his sister Nyvane were killed and hoped that he would never have to find out.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 18
