The first bridge appeared through the haze ahead of them. Ako saw it was a fine-looking structure, made from massive wooden beams, with a gentle arch to it and wide enough for two wagons to pass each other.
Valo Peli, carrying his bow in one hand, spoke through a coughing fit. “This is a famous bridge. It will be a sad day when the bridge is burned and all we have left are the pictures.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Of course. Each of the bridges in Kemeklos has a name. This is Sky’s Arch.”
Ako pushed some smoking embers off the bridge and into the river with his boot. Looking down, he saw the Jupol was gray and sludgy in the dim light. One body, no two, both face down, were being borne along slowly by the current.
At the other side of the bridge, they passed through what looked like a gate, but on either side of the gate were just houses. If the gate had ever had doors, they were gone now. Ako waved at the gate. “Useless.”
“Kemeklos once had an inner wall,” Valo Peli answered. “It was…” He coughed for a long time and had to stop to recover.
“You should go back. This is no place for you.”
“No,” Valo Peli responded. “No. I have a debt.”
“You can’t pull a bowstring if you can’t breathe,” Ako said to him.
“I can breathe, and I can fight. There will be less smoke up at the palace.”
Ako didn’t think there was much chance of that being true, but he wasn’t going to argue the point.
Unencumbered by armor and inspired with dreams of wealth, the Red Crane looters were moving along rapidly. The Keltens in their steel plate were hot and slow. Like heavy tortoises, thought Ako, but the rabbit lost to the tortoise in the end, didn’t he?
On the other side of the river, they followed a main road past seven or eight streets till Kalarvo directed them down a side road. Unfortunately, they soon ran into a region of burning houses. The narrow street they were in was filling up with smoke, and flames leapt out at them from blackened buildings. Instead of turning back, Kalarvo ran forward, and Ako had no choice but to follow as fast as he could. His armor was heating up, and he felt faint from the heat and foul fumes. Breathing the superheated air spat out by the flames was a torture, but he couldn’t stop drawing breath. By Sho’Ash, he hated this burning city!
They all managed to avoid the flames without being set ablaze and reached an area where the street widened and the fires were only on one side. Turning left, they crossed another bridge, this one made of brick. Ako thought it best not to ask Valo Peli any questions about the bridge. Ako’s face mask was dry as the desert, and he started coughing just like just the old man. Lathe, seeing Ako’s distress, handed him a waterskin, one of several he had draped around his neck.
“Keep it!” the new knight told him. Ako drank some precious water, wet the cloth, and rewrapped his face mask.
The road turned again, heading north, Dimly, behind clouds of smoke, a mound of vague size loomed, only a bit darker than the air around it.
“That’s the palace, ahead.” Kalarvo pointed at the darkness.
For the first time, they met enemies. Across the road was a barrier made from overturned wagons, broken furniture, and piles of bricks, thrown up in haste. Some of the looters had halted, just out of bowshot. Streaks of blood in the ash marked where they had dragged their companions away from enemy arrows.
Valo Peli let out a wheezing laugh and directed his clansman to kneel so he could get at the young man’s pack. He pulled out a ball, which Ako recognized from the battle of Wheat Town—it was lopor.
“Lathe?” Valo Peli held the ball out to his former apprentice.
Lathe took the ball and pointed up the street. “Master. They are behind the wagon?”
Valo Peli nodded weakly.
“I’ll need to get closer, into that old wine shop.” Lathe indicated a building much closer to the barricade.
Ako thought it absurd that nearly a hundred men were being held up by no more than a dozen Kitran behind a roadblock that children could have made. But, he reflected, this was one of the worst-trained groups of soldiers he had ever fought with. Even the Red Sword irregulars had more combat experience than these criminals and rowers. He strung his bow, and the other Keltens did the same.
“Who wants to draw some arrow fire?” Ako called out.
“I will,” shouted Frostel, of course.
“Other people might want to prove their courage, don’t you think?” Sir Ako said him, reprovingly.
Frostel stamped his feet on the gray-dusted street. “Who will dare to match me in bravery? Who among you wishes to be thought a man?”
One of the looters, a brawny man with no tattoos on his face, raised his ham-sized fist and shouted, “I am! I am Vai! As sturdy a man as you, Frostel.”
Ako thought Vai looked like one of the construction workers he had seen months before in Tokolas. Vai went to a building, wrenched a large wooden shutter off a window, and then strode forward, holding the shutter in front of him like a siege shield. Two other strong men, apparently friends of Vai, did the same. Soon the three were going up the street together. The rest of the looters began to edge their way up the street, behind Vai. The Keltens moved up with them, bows at the ready.
Ako didn’t see the Kitran archer, but he heard the twang of a bowstring. The arrow grazed Vai’s arm and broke the wood of the shutter his companion held. Vai’s companion tried to duck behind the lower half of his broken shutter, but a second arrow flew out and struck him dead. Wiyat ventured a shot, but it sailed over the wagon and disappeared into the murky air.
Lathe ran up along the left side of the street, and a Kitran archer, previously hidden behind the bricks on the right side of the barricade, stood up with his bow drawn. The Keltens loosed two arrows: one hit the Kitran archer in his shoulder. The Kitran archer’s own arrow flew just a few feet before skittering along the street. Lathe reached the doorway of the wine shop and then forced his way inside. While Vai and his surviving friend halted in the street, many of the other looters pelted the barricade with stones. After a minute, Lathe appeared at the balcony of the second floor of the wine shop. His ball of lopor was smoking, and he threw it far and accurately. The ball hit a wagon wheel at the barricade and instantly exploded.
All the looters had seen Valo Peli’s exploding bolts at the battle of Devek. Thus, when the ball exploded, the Keltens and twenty or thirty of the looters started running up the street towards the barrier, now partially obscured by smoke. An arrow struck Ako below his right shoulder, but his steel arm brace was only dented. However, his sword slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Ako had to kneel down behind his shield, facing the direction where the arrow had come from, while he forced his fingers to pick up his ash-covered fine blade.
Several more arrows, sent by his own people, flew over Ako’s head. Two of the Kitran archers who stood up to shoot were felled. Then the mass of looters, accompanied by the Keltens, ran over the barricade, and the sounds of hand-to-hand combat filled the air. By the time Ako reached the fight, only four Kitran warriors remained: two stood back to back, waving their weapons, surrounded by a ring of shouting men. The other two Kitran on the right-hand side of the barricade took flight down the street, while thrown stones rained down in their wake. Jay took careful aim and shot one in the back. The other turned a corner and disappeared from view. To Ako’s left, Frostel barged through the ring of looters with his large glaive held in front of him like a shovel. He knocked one Kitran to the ground, avoided the other’s axe, and used the base of his pole arm to kick the feet out from under the last Kitran standing. The ring of looters closed in tight, and the Kitrans were both pierced by many swords.
While the looters continued up the streets, Ako called a brief halt. The smoke here was noticeably thicker, and the sun was nearly unrecognizable: a glowing orange ball hanging in the east above the houses
. Valo Peli sank to his knees, coughing weakly. Lathe offered his old master a waterskin.
“How many more balls of lopor do we have?” Ako asked.
Valo Peli couldn’t talk, but he held up five fingers.
“Does anyone other than Lathe know how to use them?”
Kagne nodded. “I used several at the burning tower. Lighting them up today is easy!”
Ako snorted at Kagne’s attempted levity. He turned to Kalarvo and demanded, “How many entrances are there to the palace?”
“Only two,” Kalarvo replied. “The prime gate up ahead and the ancient garden gate on the north side.”
“How much longer will it take us to get to the north gate?”
At this, Valo Peli waved his hands in negation. “No. No,” he rasped. “The north side…all the large mansions. The Kitran broke through the north walls…will be thick with soldiers, pillaging and committing other outrages. The prime gate—our only chance.”
“Gather as many arrows as you can find. I don’t doubt this prime gate will be defended.”
Ako saw that Frostel had gone ahead with the main body of Red Crane looters. The man was a natural leader; there was no denying it.
On they went. Some of the Red Crane looters had peeled off from the main group and were looking for valuables in the buildings alongside the road. In this effort they were disappointed; when the looters came out of the buildings, they had only painted wood and jugs in their hands.
They reached a primary east–west road. Sounds of fighting came from the east, many buildings were on fire, and burning embers were constantly falling out of the sky, around them and on them. Remnants of smashed barrels, blackened from fire, littered the street, apparently having been launched over the walls of Kemeklos by huge Kitran ballistas.
Above them there was nothing but a black-and-gray haze. The sun could not be seen. Ako’s throat felt like it was coated with sawdust, and sweat dripped down his face. The desire, the need to turn around and leave this hellish place was a near-constant scream in his mind, but he beat down all such thoughts, over and over again. Yes, he hated this place. Yes, it was a nightmare of heat and fumes. Yes, he had visions of burning houses collapsing on him. It didn’t matter. He was going to the palace, or he would die in the attempt.
Lathe and Valo Peli’s bodyguard were on either side of the older man, helping him along the street.
“This is the third bridge,” Kalarvo announced. The bridge was so wide and flat Ako had thought they were entering a plaza. The surface was made of stone and seemed as solid as bedrock. Valo Peli sat beside the balustrade and gasped for air.
Ako made a decision and knelt next to Valo Peli. “Old friend, I’m sending you back with your clansman. Lathe will carry the pack of lopor balls. They won’t be wasted. If you stay with us, you will slow us down, making it less likely we will find Sandun.”
Valo Peli looked up at him with a pained expression.
“My spirit is willing, but my lungs…are weak.” Valo Peli squeezed some water out of his nearly empty waterskin and held his hand up to his mouth for a few moments. “You are right, of course.” He coughed again. “My clansman and I will go back to Sky’s Arch bridge…so it doesn’t burn down before you. May Sho’Ash and Eston protect you all.”
Ako smiled and helped lift Valo Peli to his feet. “May the Great Sage guide your path.”
On the other side of the bridge was a large plaza, with lines of trees planted in raised stone boxes. The leaves of the trees were gray with ash; a few had been hewn down with axes. Tall columns of white stone loomed out of the smoke; sometimes two stood close together, connected by delicate-looking metal fancies. This was the chief entrance to a grand palace; the architecture left no doubt of that.
Signs of fighting appeared. Newly dead bodies were sprawled about. Footprints came out of blood pools now covered with a thick layer of sludge. There were no wounded here; every man or barbarian warrior was dead. Ahead, from the direction of the barely visible walls, came faint sounds of shouting and cries. A few men came near: Red Crane looters, looking for him.
“The gateway to the palace is held against us,” one thin man with a black dot tattooed on his forehead said. “We need your arrows and spears to get through.”
“And lopor!” said Vai, now holding a spear and a Kitran shield.
“How many hold it against us?” asked Ako.
“Not that many,” the thin man replied. “Who would defend a gate to a palace of treasures just so others can steal everything? Only prize fools, Eston’s truth!”
Or very disciplined soldiers, sanguine about getting their share of the spoils, thought Ako.
A large battle had taken place in front of the gate. As Ako moved closer, keeping out of view, he saw many dead men and, for the first time, a few wounded Red Swords. One badly injured Red Sword fighter lying on the paving stones turned his head and spoke to Ako as he come close.
“The army of Kunhalvar has come to save us. The Mavana…” But the man couldn’t finish his sentence. A choking death rattle was the last sound he made. The Red Sword holy advisor knelt beside the dead warrior and commended his spirit to the Mavana’s care.
There were many unbroken weapons here, and the Red Crane looters picked a quantity of shields and Kitran helmets. To Ako’s eyes, they now looked more like a detachment of Turan infantry than Red Crane soldiers, except for the lack of body armor.
Through the haze, Ako could see the prime gate was broken in pieces, partially demolished, and the stones all around it were scorched with soot. Perhaps a hundred Kitrans held a shield wall in the ruins of the huge gate with a small group of archers behind them. The Keltens kept out of sight while Ako met with Frostel and the Red Crane commander behind a white marble column.
“Here is my plan,” Ako told them. “I want your men to gather, just out of arrow range, right in front. I want two groups of men to argue, shouting. One group wants to attack this gate, the other wants to go to the northern entrance. Eventually the north side wins, and everyone runs off east. I hope the Kitran will send their archers out to shoot at your stragglers. Striking from here, we will kill them. Then, turn your men around and approach the prime gate, throwing stones and whatever else they have, distracting the Kitran defenders. My men with their strong shields will form up on the west side, and we will run close and throw our balls of lopor at the defenders, and then everyone charges!”
“A good plan. I like it!” Frostel exclaimed. “I have nothing better.”
The first phase of the plan worked better than Ako had hoped. After several minutes of shouted debate, Frostel cried out, “To the north gate!” He set out at a trot, and the Red Crane looters ran after him in a disorganized mob, heading east. Kitran archers rushed out from behind the shield wall and started firing arrows at the retreating looters. Then the previously hidden Keltens cut them down with a rain of deadly fire; at least twenty Kitran archers died, including the Kitran commander who had come out to supervise the attack.
Frostel led the Red Crane looters back to the gate, and they yelled and jeered at the Kitrans, throwing stones and even spears. While this noisy demonstration took place, the Keltens moved to the west side of the gate. At Ako’s command and with shields held firm, the Keltens ran swiftly at the Kitran defenders.
“Halt!” shouted Lathe, and the Keltens pulled up. Arrows from the enemy slammed into shields and skipped off the flagstones, and then two smoking balls thrown by Lathe and Kagne flew into the Kitran ranks and exploded with a mighty blast. Without delay, the Keltens advanced into the black, pungent smoke. Ako could hear Frostel yelling, “Charge,” but could see almost nothing ahead of him.
“Halt!” Lathe shouted again, and two more balls were hurled into the ranks of the Kitran warriors dimly seen ahead. They exploded with staggering booms.
“Quick!” Ako cried, and he ran forward at the head of his shield mate
s.
The Kitran defenders had been knocked to the ground, stunned by the lopor blasts. Many were injured, bleeding from their ears and noses. As Ako started hacking at them with his sword, he found most of them were wounded. And the Kitran soldiers fought sluggishly. These were not rested, elite Kitran warriors; these were second-rate troops, apparently survivors of the fierce battle that had ended only an hour or two earlier. Ako’s heart leapt in joy as he found them easy prey for his blade. Beside him, Jay was cutting the enemy soldiers to pieces, shouting, “This for Birumaz! This for Miri! This for the Rutal-lil!”
After what seemed like only a fragment of time to Ako, the surviving Kitrans broke and ran. Arrows from Basil, Farrel, and Sume laid them low, one after another.
Frostel came up and hugged Ako and shouted in his face, “You are a supreme warrior! I am honored to fight by your side! I name you brother. We shall find Sandun and leave Kemeklos to the God of Fire, to do with as he pleases.”
Ako grinned and pounded Frostel on his back. That had gone well. Perhaps this wasn’t a doomed effort after all. Everyone was still alive; only Damar was injured, from an arrow that had somehow pierced under his gorget but missed his main vein by an inch. Sume was taking care of him. Lathe was limping from the reopened wound on his leg, so Kagne sat him down and wrapped his wound again with a clean rag. Both men said they could continue.
“Stick together,” he told them. “The Red Crane looters are on their own now.”
Indeed, the Red Crane looters hardly paused to search the bodies of the dead Kitran before they hurried through the gate and into the palace complex. On the other side of the walls of the palace, the air did seem fresher. Either no buildings were burning or the high walls around the palace kept some of the dreadful vapors out.
“Your turn, Holy Man,” Ako said to Kalarvo. “Where is my friend locked away?”
Kalarvo pointed straight ahead. “That way! However, I suggest we follow along the inside of the wall, as there are bound to be soldiers of the evil one seeking for…” At that, he stopped. “Never mind. Let’s follow the direct path.”
The Fire Sword Page 46
