“You must go, at least you.” Selot went on, “There's no hope of survival here. Whether you stay or not, won't change a thing. This is the end for me. He won't take me alive, you have my word,” he said with all his courage, “You must leave! Go! Now! I'll try to give you as much time as possible!” Slowly, Marrhit took out his biggest sword and one of his two knives for hand to hand combat.
“No,” he answered.
At that moment, above the notes, above the singing, the sinister noise of many military horns sounded. They had found them. They had them surrounded. It would be a massacre. As if by enchantment, the music stopped. Prasheema closed her eyes and began to pray. Rotmandis and Deserters came to their senses. They looked down at the instruments as if to ask why they had been playing. They stopped singing, disoriented. They looked around. They saw the two tense Xàmvetems, with swords in hand. There was a very long, icy silence. Then, once more the sound of horns was heard, much closer now. On three sides at least. Soon enough, everyone understood. They all realized at once. Selot gripped his sword tightly, wheeling around on himself, looking for the enemy through the vegetation.
“What are you waiting for, Marrhit? Go now. You won't have problems getting through their lines,” he said in a low voice, in the ghostly silence that had been created.
“No,” his brother reechoed.
“Damn it, get out of here. They'll butcher us.”
“We keep getting it wrong. Now, we'll do what is most unlikely, something they won't be expecting.”
“What are you saying?”
“I will stay here with you. And this will go against the idea he has of me. You have changed me, little brother.” Selot halted and turned to look at him. It couldn't be true. He lowered his sword for a second.
“I beg you, save yourself. At least save yourself. For Sabre.”
“No,” Marrhit went back to repeating with calm resolve. “It ends here.” The horns sounded loudly in the forest. They were very close now. They could hear the orders of the captains. Gules lifted his bow and shouted out a Rotmandi war cry. He did it three times. On the fourth cry, everyone joined him and it went on for the fifth and sixth times too. All possible weapons appeared in the hands of the Rotmandis and Deserters. Their roughly hewed bows, small swords that this people had never been interested in rendering more efficient, and blowpipes with poison, were all in sight. The Deserters gripped the same weapons they had used for the Kingdom of Dar. They knew this would be their last battle. There was a type of serene ferociousness painted on their faces that infected everyone. Kurt began a farewell chant.
Selot and Marrhit stood back to back. “Baìah!” they shouted as loud as they could. Marrhit used all the power in his voice and transmitted an energy to Selot who had never felt something like that before. They transformed into a sole warrior at once. They felt each other's movements and thoughts. They were joined in their minds, eyes, hearts, bellies, and every muscle; there was an ironclad determination that allowed the warrior in them to fight right up to the very end of their life.
The army came. It was a compact wall of men and metal, screaming soldiers and praetorians that advanced on every side of the forest. It was a terrible body to body encounter, the cruelest that anyone could remember. Many Rotmandis died at first impact, pierced through without being able to defend themselves from the well-trained soldiers of the kingdom. The stench of blood saturated the air, together with the shouts of encouragement and screams of the injured. The praetorians who had survived the battle from the previous night, focused solely on the two Vetems, while the soldiers attacked the others.
Selot and Marrhit faced scores of adversaries who attacked them under the orders of their captain. Selot, who now stayed true to the promise he had renewed by his own choice, gave every advantage to Marrhit, who had become a war machine. The speed with which they wheeled their four swords did not even allow the praetorians to see from which direction the blows were coming. They moved in perfect harmony, placing themselves like an insurmountable border in front of the military wave and the Rotmandis. The one tactical advantage the Rotmandis had, was the ground on which they fought, with their isolated platforms of the settlement high above the intricate undergrowth of the forest. This broke up the oppressive power of the numerous soldiers of the kingdom. The two young warriors steadily held their position on the main platform, so they could offer Gules and his people a stronghold as they organized their attempt to flee. It was a desperate strategy, and the captain of the fragile Rotmandi militia knew it too. They would not abandon their position until their last breath had been drawn, and they transmitted that unbeatable certainty to all the Rotmandis with all their will. Kurt also took up his defense, basing it on the Rotmandis' own. Selot heard him call out in the Rotmandi language, “Gules! We'll cover you! Go!” Selot saw out of the corner of his eye that Prasheema was cutting the connecting links of the platforms to allow a group of women with small children in their arms, to escape. Older children ran ahead and moved through the trees like squirrels. Prasheema wore a tempered expression without fear. There was an bow on her back and she carried a blowpipe. He watched her use it a couple of times, hitting soldiers who became aware of that small flow of living beings. By that gesture alone, Selot felt he could give his life a hundred times over. Gules called for the attention of the two Xàmvetems, screaming over the clamor of the battle. He looked at them, rendering his eyes transparent. Marrhit and Selot saw the simple tactic Gules had formulated in his mind. By drawing as many soldiers as possible onto the central platforms to isolate them completely, it would allow others to save themselves. They nodded. They would hold the platform where they now found themselves: the biggest one, the most central. It would be the last one. They accepted. They had already decided. Prasheema exchanged glances with Selot before disappearing through the trees. Nothing more was needed.
It's been an honor knowing you, mother. He watched as she hit another soldier with a precise aim of her bow and then he saw her jump onto a smaller platform, inciting the mothers to move faster.
As many Rotmandi fighters and Deserters as possible met towards the central platforms, they brought the soldiers with them.
The praetorians were despondent. They didn't know which way to launch their assault on the two warriors. They asked themselves how they could resist their continual attacks for so long. They tried with arrows, but the two warriors always managed to block themselves behind the dead bodies of their comrades, who were now piling up on the platform. They anticipated almost any move and any change of strategy. They attempted throwing the metallic nets to capture them, but while one defended the other, the second was able to intercept and distance them with a swing of the double swords they used. They seemed to be invincible and wore unperturbed expressions. It looked like they were busy with a demanding chore rather than at war. They struck the adversaries in front of them with the same force and precision as the ones who were not in their line of sight. The right part of their bodies and that on the left, seemed independent of the other and so it was, that each one was in fact two warriors. The captain sent his best men to the upper level to conduct an attack from up high, but the two warriors foresaw that, too. They fought until the last useful second against the enemy on their same level; then, as the younger defended them both, the second took up his bow and rapidly eliminated the fifteen men hidden above them, in quick succession. They cooperated without yelling out instructions above the sound of the encounter, without touching, without looking at one another, without even a simple sign on their faces. Suddenly, Marrhit and Selot were in their own time zone and linked in spirit whereby one was no longer distinguishable from the other, if not for the role that they had reciprocally given one another. United with the same intention, they were perfectly aware of everything that happened around them. They saw every single grain of dust that floated around them, the pollen that drifted slowly in the air, the movements of the adversaries, their swords, the blows that would not even come close, unt
il their physical exhaustion overwhelmed them. That tiredness however, was still a long, long way off. The captain of the praetorians ordered more men, calling for as many as possible. It was inconceivable that there was no weak point, and he had to find it. He watched them carefully to discover it. The extraordinary fact was that he couldn't send more than a certain number of men to confront them, simply for the limited amount of space. At the same time that maximum number wasn't enough to put the two warriors in difficulty, because the speed and precision of their blows was greatly sufficient to eliminate all those around them. Even an error, just one mistake, would be enough, but since they had begun the attack, they had not taken one wrong step. Marrhit exchanged glances with those who had not yet come into contact with his swords, and he terrorized them by inserting the sensation they had already been fatally struck into their minds. Some of them were not able to react, and remained paralyzed on the spot, stunned. Marrhit was not able to do it on too many though, as it consumed too much of his energy. In that communal area where their spirits lived, Selot asked him not to go beyond his limitations which could trigger his illness. This was not for his own survival, which was no longer an option, but for the group that was escaping. They fought on without the slightest sign of abating until sunset neared. By now, almost all the praetorian guards were dead and so too, the Rotmandis and many of Kurt's men. The battle ensued over the bodies of the dead. The color of the platforms, clothes and faces could longer be seen through the hue of red blood. Gules was exhausted, but still miraculously alive. He owed that to many of his men who had blocked the fatal blows with their own bodies, so their captain could press on in organizing the escape groups.
Selot finally felt the tiredness come between his chest and his arm. The solitary warrior union with Marrhit gave way as a result. He screamed out of desperation for not having enough energy to remain in symbiosis. Marrhit tried to keep him clasped to him, but he couldn't do it. Their coordination faltered. Almost no one noticed, but the captain of the praetorians did. Finally. They couldn't resist forever!
“Gules!” Selot shouted above the clash of metal and the cries of the battle. Gules turned to him and let him look into his eyes. They are almost all saved and hidden, give us until sunset.
It felt near impossible to Selot that he could resist until then. The grip of his hands on the hilt of his swords was slackening.
“We can do it!” roared Marrhit. Selot screamed again so he could pull out all the residual strength he had in his body and soul to confront every blow, using his desperation as a last reserve of energy. Selot realized Marrhit had brought up his shield. Yellow Eye was approaching. He had let his army be massacred right down to the last man before arriving to take up the fight with the two of them. They hid every thought they'd taken from Gules in the deepest part of their brains, so the Xàmvetem could not get at them. It was important if by any chance they would not have a chance to do so before falling prey to his mind. The captain of the praetorians had summoned soldiers now that his praetorian guard no longer existed. The two young Vetems fought like mad, because the Rotmandis that surrounded them were now very few in number. Kurt's group had been reduced to a handful of just ten men. Selot realized they had managed to join them there on the central platform. The few surviving Rotmandis were cutting the ropes and bridges that linked them to the others. Gules threw a glance to Selot and Marrhit. He was about to cut the last rope ladder, the last hope of rescue for them.
“Cut it!” Marrhit yelled with all the wind in his lungs, because Selot didn't have enough strength to do it. Between exertion and the shield, the younger brother had reached the extreme limits of his strength. His eyes were clouding over. He didn't know if they were tears, or sweat, or simply vital energy that was ebbing from his body. Through that fog, he saw Gules cutting the last piece of rope. He began mistiming his attack and defense. Two soldiers injured him on his side and shoulders. An arrow went through his calf. He slowed down, and his adversaries seemed to be much faster than before. When he understood that he was drawing to an end, he cast a look in Marrhit's direction to say farewell, but he saw him staring with ferocious magnetism in another direction. He followed his line of vision and met the eyes of the enemy Xàmvetem. Those irises, so different one from the other, were battling with Marrhit's. Selot felt an unexpected heat rise up in his chest, and he felt the shape of the symbol given to him by Estela pulsate on his chest. A flicker of energy came from there. He abandoned his back to back position with Marrhit, and threw himself into Yellow Eye with all his might, his drawn swords ready to fight. He would use his last breath to give Marrhit the chance to interrupt that exchange of locked stares and escape in some way, perhaps throwing himself from the platform into the underbrush as Selot fought on. “Save yourself!” he yelled with his last voice, putting himself between the two, to the amazement of the soldiers, the praetorian captain, Marrhit and Yellow Eye too; he had been far too busy with Sabre's eldest son to imagine the youngest bastard, who had been practically defeated, might interfere. He had seen Selot lag, how could it be that he had new found energy to place himself between him and the eldest son? Selot launched his ridiculous and desperate assault. His last thought was that Marrhit would remove himself from Yellow Eye's action, finding a chance of escape, but he sensed that sizzle in his brother's brain and he cried. He hesitated an instant. Marrhit's conscience was slipping away and his last attempt had come to nothing. Yellow Eye made him fly away, wiping him out with his sword. The terrible Xàmvetem saw Marrhit in the throes of his illness. Through the cadavers, he saw the younger brother try painfully to get up; he had no pity. He only needed one of them alive to draw in Sabre. The elder was good enough, and the bastard was of no use. He raised his sword to kill him.
Something stirred. Perhaps a shield. Selot saw through his foggy vision that there was less light than before, and he heard a dreadful sound, very close by; it was the sound of a sword beating against a leather and metal surface. He felt the recoil of a shield over his head. He tried to get up; a strong arm had grabbed him by the belt. He heard a scream, a strong, familiar voice. It couldn't be. He was supposed to be dead; was this his friend come take him to heaven?
“Now you can learn to fly!!!” He felt himself being dragged to the edge of the platform, and then get thrown down. He was precipitating. The landing was very painful, even though it had been softened somewhat by a thick group of giant bushes. It was one of those miracles that occasionally occurred: his blurry vision cleared and through the light of the pain he felt, he saw Marrhit had fallen a short distance away. They were alive. He got up out of a survival instinct. He looked around. And there he was, standing in front of him. It truly was Var of Atiarav. Incredible. He was smiling at him through the grimaces of pain from the impact with the ground. The world stopped. The rest lost color instantly. Var of Atiarav was standing in front of him.
“My Lord...it's you,” he said with a thin voice owing to exhaustion and a couple of broken ribs. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
“Devil be, boy, I didn't come all this way to find you dead. I need you and I need you alive!”
Above them, Yellow Eye's screams of frustration were petrifying the surviving soldiers. The friends now found themselves in the firing line of the archers. Var lifted his giant shield with its Atiarav symbols of the marquisate, and he and the two brothers sheltered from the rain of arrows. They took up their own bows and, ignoring every message of pain in their bodies, launched precise aims towards the sky. Many soldiers fell. The captain of the praetorians ran like an infuriated beast along the edge of the platform to find the best way to get off it, but there was no other way.
“This way! This way!” It was Gules, who shouted from a platform on the first level not far from them. The three of them followed his instructions. Under the protection of Var's shield, they cleared a path through the dense vegetation. They had to find a way to climb up onto the bridge or their escape, trapped by the intricate underbrush, would be too slow. Marr
hit pulled out his harpoon. He planted it, regained his strength to throw it and did so with all the concentration he could muster. He was drained. The harpoon landed in a good place and its hooks dug into a small platform on the first level. He handed the rope to Var first, then to Selot. He was the last to hold it. He heard the screams of the captain and Yellow Eye, and a confusing turmoil of soldiers. The distant screams of Kurt were ever more desperate. They reached Gules quickly, who continued guiding them. Behind them they saw the soldiers entrapped on the isolated platforms. Kurt was about to fall, and he was fighting alone now. They heard his last cry. “Light it up! Light it up!” They turned round to see. A sword pierced through his stomach and came out his back suddenly. He fell face forward. Selot closed his eyes to accompany his soul to heaven with his thoughts. Marrhit, Var and Gules all did the same, words of thanks forming on their lips. An instant later, Gules made a sign to a group of Rotmandis far off.
“What is happening?” Var asked, to make sense of all that chaos.
“A controlled fire,” said Gules succinctly. “It will encircle them and roast the entire army. Quick, let's get out of here. It will spread swiftly.” They heard a very strange hiss slither nearby, as they watched a type of fiery tail climb up the trees and onto the platforms and then explode into a furious fireball, which hastily joined its flames into one giant blaze. The soldiers cried out in terror. There was no escape route. The underbrush around the platforms on which they were trapped, also caught alight. It was hell.
The Creed Page 39
