Orb Sceptre Throne (95 page)

Hands raised him and Galene. ‘We saw you go down,’ one Black said to her, ‘and came for you.’ They took her from Torvald, one to each side.

‘Take me to the main entrance,’ she ordered, her voice tight with suppressed pain.

The party formed up around Torvald and Galene and they headed to the front of the rambling complex. In the distance the staccato blasts of sharpers came and went in great volleys that shook the night. They had not gone far when they caught a glimpse through the trees of the main approach, and Galene groaned at what was revealed.

The walkways and flagged open courts and benches had been turned into one huge killing zone littered with Moranth fallen. As they landed they had formed squares or circles of interlocking shields, yet despite barrages of sharpers and crossbow volleys Seguleh had won through to slice their way into the formations, wreaking terrible destruction before being cut down from all sides.

And to one side further defences awaited in the form of a tall mage, watching, staff at his side, seemingly content to let the fighting proceed in its own course – for the time being.

Galene straightened. ‘We cannot win through,’ Torvald heard her murmur. ‘Yet he cannot be allowed to succeed. Cannot.’ From a pouch at her side she drew a tube, about the size of a baton, enamelled a deep red. She turned her helmed head to him. ‘I’m sorry, Councillor.’

Torvald eyed the tube, uncertain at first, then horror raised the hair on his arms and neck and he lunged for her. ‘No!’ A Black restrained him. ‘Don’t call it! Please don’t summon them. Wait! Just wait. That is all I ask!’

‘Very well, Councillor. For you, a moment.’

*

It looked to Spindle as though they were getting close; damned close. The depth looked right from what he remembered of the trench. So far they’d been ignored, as the Seguleh had much more immediate worries. Wave after wave of Moranth had landed, formed up, and made for the entrances to Majesty Hall, where they were met by the Seguleh. So far, from what glimpses he could snatch, despite their munitions it looked as if the Moranth were coming off far the worse. That meant that for him and Fisher time was running out.

He straightened once more to toss a shovelful of dirt only to see a pair of sandalled feet on either side of the pit. He looked up: the feet belonged to two Seguleh who were peering down at them, swords pointed.

‘Do not move,’ one commanded.

Spindle glanced to Fisher who slowly straightened, shovel in hand.

‘Explain this,’ the Seguleh demanded.

Spindle opened his mouth to answer then gaped, shocked, and threw himself flat yelling: ‘Down!’

Fisher fell immediately. The Seguleh only had time to turn before multiple eruptions blasted about the pit, sending earth flying. Spindle held his hands over his head as stones and clots of soil struck him. Fisher recovered first; he straightened, shaking his hair and brushing dirt from himself.

‘What was that?’ he demanded, speaking overly loud as everyone does after enduring blasts.

‘Just a hit and run,’ Spindle said, picking up his shovel. ‘C’mon. We’re almost there.’

But attention had been drawn; only one of the Seguleh had been taken down. The other had limped off, and now more were on their way. Spindle had barely scooped up the freshly fallen soil when another two came jumping through the low brush to glare down at them.

‘Out,’ one ordered.

Spindle dropped his shovel and raised his hands. Fisher followed suit.

‘Out!’

‘Okay, okay!’ Spindle reached up to the side.

A great war whoop erupted from the woods, freezing him; it sounded like a cross between a Barghast war bellow and a death scream. Even the Seguleh flinched. Then a huge multicoloured shape jumped the pit, two swords flashing, followed by another equally bizarre-looking fellow also wielding two swords. Even more astoundingly, they drove off the Seguleh in a dazzling coordinated attack of continuous multiple strikes.

Spindle stared open-mouthed at the astonishing apparition.

‘Ha ha!’ the huge one announced, waving his blades. ‘That is how you do it!’ He peered down at Spindle and Fisher. ‘Well? Go ahead, you two – dig away!’ He motioned across the pit and Spindle turned to see a third man standing there.

‘Ah, yes,’ the newcomer said, his voice nowhere near as loud as the huge one’s. ‘Dig.’

Half stunned, Spindle retrieved his shovel to set to it once more. Fisher, he saw, was shaking his head in disbelief as he worked. ‘You know them?’ Spindle asked.

‘It’s Madrun and Lazan Door is who it is.’

Spindle tossed a shovelful of dirt. ‘I thought those were just stories,’ he hissed.

‘No – they’re flesh and blood. As for what’s attributed to them, well … some of that is my fault.’

*

At the main entrance Jan watched while more and more of the Moranth gathered. Their strategy was simple but effective. They formed into tight squares of shield-walls from behind which the rear ranks threw their munitions. And those munitions: like the punishing heavier ones used earlier, these too demonstrated a far greater killing capacity than those written of in their records.

It was to be expected, he allowed. Time had passed. The Moranth had gone their way just as the Seguleh had gone theirs.

So far they had held them off. But the cost had been horrific. Any one fallen brother or sister was too much for Jan to imagine. Yet now, before his disbelieving eyes, ten, twenty, lacerated and maimed by the salvos of munitions. Each bloody cut was a slash across his heart. Each fallen, a name and a face well known: Toru, Sengal, Leah, Arras, Rhuk.

I am responsible for this. On my head lie their severed futures. Their lost potential. How many possible Seconds cut down before they could display their mastery?

How can I possibly atone for this? What act could even begin to repair the damage wrought?

All this he watched and his heart bled.

A runner arrived. She bowed her head, begging to speak, and Jan signed his permission. ‘They have broken through in the eastern wing, Second. We were few there.’

‘I see.’ He nodded to Palla. ‘Watch here. I will go.’

‘Take at least five,’ Palla urged.

‘No. You must defend these doors. Only I need go.’

‘But, Second …’

‘No. It is for me to answer this.’ He set off before Palla could speak again. The runner followed.

Jan found the doors blasted open and another fallen: Por, the Thirteenth. Yet the price the Moranth paid to achieve this breach had been high. Their slain far exceeded the few defenders. He drew his blade and stole ahead as silently as he could. With each step he loosed the fisted hold he kept upon everything driven down within his blazing chest: his self-condemnation, his self-disgust, his rage, and above all the lacerating sorrow that threatened to suffocate him. Until at last he carried no awareness at all into the rear of the ranks before him.

Horul, of the Hundredth, quickly fell behind within the maze of rooms. The Second more than ran; he charged unchecked by numbers. He did not slow no matter how many faced him; driving, spinning, slashing until only the bellows and howls of wounded Moranth led her on. And at every turn, every room, the fallen. Each bearing only a single mortal wound either to neck or to artery or to nearly severed limb. They did not know what was coming, so swift was his advance. No chance to throw their munitions or form a defence. It seemed to her he passed through them like a breeze, utterly silent but for the hiss of his two-handed blade.

She found him standing motionless deep within the east wing; listening, perhaps. She carefully stepped over the carpet of fallen choking the room: some sort of last stand. Gore limned his sleeves and legs. Bright droplets spattered his once pure mask, like seeds on snow. He seemed completely unaware of her before him.

‘Second,’ she breathed, almost reverent. ‘Second. Never had I ever imagined …’

Awareness suddenly flooded his gaze, but not before she glimpsed something naked and utterly unguarded that drove her eyes away.
Horror. Horror and soul-lashing pain
.

‘I … live,’ he uttered, wonder in his voice.

‘Yes. You live.’

‘Not … today, then.’

‘No. Not today.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’ He eased a hand from his side, releasing at the same time a hiss of suppressed pain. Horul glimpsed the wound from a penetrating thrust. His despairing smile made her turn her mask away again.

‘Second!’

‘Bind it, Horul,’ he managed through clenched lips. ‘Bind it tight.’

*

Now that the last of the crowd of councillors, aristocrats and court functionaries had all long since fled, the Great Hall was quiet. Scorch and Leff stood watch leaning up against the rear of one of the fat columns that ran along a wall. All was hushed now; the pounding had faded away. Only the laboured breathing and occasional muted sobs of that miserable Mouthpiece broke the silence of the hall. But listening, his head cocked, Leff could make out the distant clash of fighting.

Scorch turned to him, even more anxious and confused than usual. Then he sent a meaningful glance to a nearby exit. Leff shook his head. Scorch glared, demanding an explanation.

His voice as low as possible, Leff whispered: ‘You don’t really think anyone’s gonna get through all them Seguleh, do ya?’

Scorch’s expressive brows rose and he gave a great show of the light dawning. He winked. ‘Right. What now?’

Leff hefted his crossbow. ‘Well, now we gotta guard, don’t we? Up to us. Last line o’ defence and such.’

Scorch nodded towards the centre of the hall. ‘Maybe we should, y’ know, take a look …?’

‘Right. You go ahead.’

‘Me?’ Scorch ducked his head. He whispered sotto voce: ‘Why me? You go – you’re senior ’n’ all.’

‘No, I ain’t. Equals we are. Same rank.’ He urged Scorch out. ‘G’wan.’

Cursing under his breath, Scorch edged around the column. He stepped out, leaning to peer at the throne. ‘Still there,’ he whispered. ‘Hasn’t moved a muscle.’

‘Fine. Good. All’s …’ Leff’s voice faded away as he peered closely at Scorch. ‘Wait a minute. What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

*

In the doorway, Palla ducked flying stone chips from an errant throw. She waved aside the obscuring smoke to study the blasted grounds dotted with fallen, and the Moranth squares pushing for the walls. Then she scanned the night sky, now empty of quorls.

‘I believe that is all of them,’ she called to Shun, the Eighteenth.

‘How many?’

‘I cannot be certain. Perhaps a thousand.’

‘Then we have won. These last few we will finish off.’

‘Still, they have taken too many with them.’

‘It was their gamble. They—’

A dull brown blade smeared in gore erupted from the Eighteenth’s chest and was withdrawn almost before Palla had registered that it was there. She leapt backwards an instant before it slashed again, striking shards of stone from where she had just been standing. As Shun fell a walking horror was revealed behind him in the doorway: carious face of dried sinew and skull brown with age, broken remnants of hide and bone armour, limbs of bare bone strung with ligaments and creaking flesh, legs oddly mismatched.

Ancestors give me strength! Imass!

‘Attend!’ Palla shouted, backing away as she parried sweep after sweep of the wide flint sword.

Three others of the Hundredth charged. Blows rocked the Imass in a flurry of bone chips, sliced rotten hide and bits of cured flesh, and still it came on. A downward sweep taken full on the edge of one Seguleh’s sword shattered the blade and knocked the bearer to crash against a wall and slump unconscious.

Still Palla yielded ground one hard-fought step at a time. Each overbearing attack she slipped as obliquely as she dared, feeling her blade shudder and flex on the cusp of failing in her hands. Another of the Hundredth lunged close as the creature appeared to waver, but the Imass snatched the youth’s arm and propelled him into a pillar to smack wetly and fall.

‘It’s not you I want,’ it ground out. ‘Stand aside.’

The third Hundredth took the opportunity to leap, swinging a great blow to the creature’s neck. The blade chopped but caught. The half fleshless skull atop canted but did not topple. Palla halted her own lunge as the Imass seized the lad under the chin and lifted him from the floor while it knocked the blade from its neck.

How can I save the poor lad? What could I possibly
…

Inspiration came. Palla offered the long deep bow of the ancient form, hands out from her sides. Then she struck the most traditional of the
ready
stances.

‘Your challenge is accepted.’

The Imass stilled. A second later it tossed the lad through an open doorway, where he landed amid furniture. ‘What is your rank?’

‘Sixth.’

‘Sixth? I met the First. Long ages ago. Then I wouldn’t have dared face any of the champions. Let us see how things proceed – now that I have had ample time to practise.’ It grasped the naked flint tang of its sword in both bone and sinew hands, and advanced.