The Assassin's Edge (Einarinn 5) (59 page)

Temar struggled to see what had rolled the runes of the battle anew. It was Darni and his fugitive troop, crashing out of the trees beyond the encampment. Some carried clubs of green wood instead of swords but the raking stubs of branches scored viciously into exposed arms and faces. There were as few of them as Temar had feared but determination to purge the shame of being put to flight made every man fight with the strength of two.

“Hold fast!” Muredarch’s resonant voice pierced the uproar as the pirate line quaked once more. Then it held, pirates bracing themselves in an ominous parody of trained troops.

“Back!” At Muredarch’s command, the line began a slow retreat.

“Break ’em!” Halice’s roar rose above renewed abuse from the mercenaries.

“To me!” His troop drew up either side of Temar, a solid rank of leather and steel. Temar thrust and cut, intent on blood and revenge but the pirates held their line, trading chances to wound Temar’s men for the safety of incoming blows. This was no rout but a disciplined retreat, step by slow step, towards the safety of the stockade.

If Muredarch secured himself in there, Temar thought furiously, they’d have to burn him out. As he thought this, scarlet flames soared beyond the melee, taking him so completely by surprise that a pirate sword darted over his guard to slice deep into his forearm.

“Curse you!” Temar rammed his blade full into the face of the man who’d wounded him, obliterating the bandit’s shout of triumph. He ripped his sword free, gouts of blood and mucus on the dulled steel. As the dying man fell backwards, Temar broke free of his own line, men on either side of him instinctively closing the gap. Temar darted this way and that to try and see what was happening by the stockade, straining to hear any clue in the all-encompassing noise.

The stockade was ablaze. Scarlet magefire licked ever higher, black smoke billowing into the clear blue sky. Was this Allin’s doing? As Temar wondered, pain erupted inside his head and he staggered with the shock, clapping a hand to his temple expecting to feel some dart or the score of an arrow. He squinted at his palm through tear-filled eyes but there was no blood.

The battle fell into chaos; all-pervasive pain wracking friend and foe alike. Men and women fell to their hands and knees, some clawing at their heads so fiercely they drew their own blood. Others folded around their anguish like wailing babes. Temar’s legs wavered beneath him but he forced himself to stay upright. Feet numb, he staggered towards the beached
Dulse
, clumsy waves of his sword sufficient to turn away a shrieking pirate who crossed his path.

“Oh my little son, who will guide you to manhood? I am burning, all is burning, fire all around. I have not the strength of will to turn it aside. Forgive my weakness.” Moin’s anguish tore at Temar. Had his own father burned thus with searing grief even as the fever of the Crusted Pox consumed him?

Darige wept for his parents’ loss, eyes parching faster than tears could refresh them, sore lids sticky and slow, unable to hide the brilliant death flickering all around. “How will you live without the bounty I earn you? Who will bring you fuel and food to ward off the killing cold of winter?” Skin reddened, blistered, scored and splitting, Darige envisaged his aged father grey and frozen, starved to death in his bed.

Temar dashed guilty tears from his own eyes. If he hadn’t sailed for Kel Ar’Ayen, bold and foolish, he’d have been there to comfort his grandsire on his deathbed. Why had he left the old man to die bereft of any of his blood?

“Why did I never tell you I loved you, Duhel? Now I will die and you’ll never know. I’ll never know the touch of your lips, your body meeting mine. Ilkehan said we should keep ourselves free from such ties but where is he now I die so utterly alone?” Yalda struggled for breath even as the false air scorched her throat and lungs. Her hair curled in futile retreat from the ascending flames, crumbling to nothingness, all the beauty she’d been so proud of turned hideous.

Screaming with all the living torment of death consumed by fire filled Temar’s mind. Fighting the pain, the excruciating memories and regrets, he reached the ship and seized the tarred and knotted netting hanging down the side. Blood from his wound made his sword hand slippery. Howls and weeping assailed him from all sides and the pain in his head felt as if it would crack the very bones of his skull. “
Tur-ryal
,” Temar gasped. “
Tur-ryal en arvenir
.” That gave him enough clarity within the sanctuary of his own mind to haul himself up a few meshes. “
Tur-ryal en arvenir mel edraset
.”

The aetheric ward pushed the pain that surrounded him to the outside of Temar’s skin. Even if he still felt flayed alive, it was just sensations of burning assailing him, not the searing bitterness of futile self-recrimination. He gasped, frozen with dread as he felt a death wish pass over him before realising, agony aside, he was of no interest to Muredarch’s three adepts. They were intent on spending their final breaths in visiting bloody retribution on the mages who had brought this fiery fate to consume them.

Temar felt the dying Elietimm turn their murderous will on Larissa. Soaring flames filled his vision, eyes open or closed and he saw the girl ringed in silver magelight. Her defences were tarnishing, melting before the Elietimm onslaught and Temar wished with every fibre of his being that he’d studied more Artifice. He racked his memory for any incantation that he might use to aid the embattled wizard. It was no good, he was no use, he just didn’t know. That realisation was more painful than the agonies hammering at his half-warded mind. There had to be something he could do. If he couldn’t reach Larissa, he had to try to help the other mages. He fell over the rail of the
Dulse
to land with a resounding thud on the deck. Sailors all around were struggling with the overwhelming pain, one man screaming, fallen from the rigging to shatter both legs into splintered bone.

Temar struggled to his feet to see Guinalle on the aftdeck, kneeling beside Allin who lay in a crumpled heap. Temar’s heart twisted with the worst torment yet.

“Guinalle,” he rasped, staggering towards her. “As you hope for Saedrin’s grace, help me!” She looked up, ashen, clinging desperately to Allin’s hands. “It’s the Elietimm. I’ve shielded Allin and ’Sar but I can’t reach Larissa.”

Temar nodded and wished he hadn’t. “They’re in there.” He pointed towards the inferno that was the stockade and took a deep breath. “You have to end it. You’re the only one who can reach them. It’s the only way to save the mages.”

Guinalle looked at him, horror struck.

Temar seized her hands. “You’re the only one who can give them mercy. By Ostrin’s very eyes, would you let them die like that?”

If Guinalle had been pale before, now her face was the bloodless ivory of old bone. She crushed Temar’s hand against Allin’s cold fingers so hard he feared he’d carry the marks for the rest of his days.

“Do what you can for her,” Guinalle whispered hoarsely, screwing her eyes closed, dark bruises in their hollows. “And ’Sar.”

Temar struggled to wrap his fragile ward around Allin. His inadequate skills were immediately thrown into disarray by an elemental chill, slippery and hard as ice as he tried to reach past it. The still cold of lightless caverns lost beneath the earth penetrated her very bones, refuting the Elietimm Artifice’s insidious boast that inexorable fires consumed her. Temar struggled to lend Allin whatever strength he could in denying the insidious appeal to the affinity within her, as the Elietimm sought to let elemental fire loose to destroy the wizard from within. What about Usara? The cold numbed Temar’s wits like a fall into freezing water but he tried again, holding Usara in his mind’s eye as he sought in vain for the mage. The chill became the bitter burn of midwinter wind and Temar recoiled from it but, before his skills deserted him utterly, he realised the cold protecting Allin was preserving the other wizard too.

“
Eda verlas Moin ar drion eda. Verlas Yalda mal ar drion eda. Darige verlas ar drion eda
.” Guinalle was chanting a litany that Temar had never heard before, tears streaming from her closed eyes. “
Ostrin an abrach nur fel
,” she added in fervent prayer.

The screaming agonies of the dying enchanters faded but slowly. Temar could still feel the scarifying pain through the shreds of his untutored warding as he scrubbed cold tears from his face. Down on the shore, he saw some were recovering faster than others.

Muredarch was one. The big man was charging up the slope towards the edge of the trees where Darni stood swaying over a fallen figure that could only be Larissa. Intent on his prey, the pirate leader didn’t realise Halice was pursuing him, mercenaries behind her dragging themselves to their feet with desperate determination.

“Look after Allin.” The effort of leaving her behind nearly broke Temar’s resolve but he drove himself to a cable hanging over the side of the ship. He welcomed the burn of the rope on his palms, the throbbing ache of the gash in his forearm; any pain to distract him from his frantic worry for Allin.

He ran past pirates and mercenaries stirring and senseless, the echo of the enchanters’ death pangs lessening with every step. Determination to exact full penalty from Muredarch filled him with new energy. The pirate leader had reached Darni now and was hacking at the warrior’s guard. The big man was defending himself but with nothing like his customary skill, every block weaker, every movement too slow for safety. Temar nearly cried out to give Darni new heart but seeing Halice was there, he held his tongue. Darni fell and Muredarch roared with triumph but Halice cut his jubilation short. The woman fell on the marauder’s unprotected back, her clotted sword sweeping across to lay open bloodied flesh and the white gleam of rib bones.

With a roar like a wounded bull, Muredarch turned on her, great two-handed sword wheeling round. Halice took a double grip on her hand-and-a-half blade and met the stroke with a block that stopped it dead. She stood braced then jabbed at Muredarch’s eyes with the pommel of her weapon, sliding out from beneath the killing arc of his sword as he recoiled. He swung at her again, to cut her legs from under her but Halice met the blow with a low parry that turned into a slicing thrust of her own. She moved lithely out of danger and spat at Muredarch.

Temar wanted to shout, to let Halice know he was coming to her aid but dared not lest he distract her. Muredarch raised his mighty blade above his head but the mercenary didn’t stay to be poleaxed. She darted forward and sideways and brought her own sword upwards to slice beneath Muredarch’s armpit. Temar couldn’t restrain a breathless cheer as he saw fresh blood bright in the sunlight.

Halice’s move had taken her past Muredarch and the pirate looked murderously at Temar. One arm was clamped to his side but he could wield that colossal sword single-handed. He lunged towards Temar, madness in his eyes. Halice stabbed him in the back, the point of her sword emerging just above his hip. Muredarch fell to his knees and Temar swept a single fluid stroke to cut his mighty head clean from his shoulders. The warm gush of blood from the stump of the pirate’s neck soaked Temar’s side and thigh. He barely felt it in the hot exultation at the black-hearted villain’s death.

“Nicely done, Messire.” Halice wrenched her own blade out of Muredarch’s corpse and saluted Temar with it. Beneath the sweat and grime of battle, she was pale. “I take it that was enchanters trying to split all our skulls?”

Temar grimaced. “Sharing their death agonies when they were caught in the fire.”

“Did Allin fire the stockade?” asked Halice.

Anguish closed Temar’s throat for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She’s hurt.” He moved to head back to the ships. A groan halted him.

“Shit, Darni.” Halice dropped to her knees by the fallen warrior. His face was a ghastly mask of blood, cheek sliced and broken teeth white where a blow had shattered his jaw. Muredarch’s second blow had hit lower, cutting a huge gash into the big man’s shoulder, muscle and sinew severed. Darni’s blood soaked a crumpled figure beneath him.

“Help me,” commanded Halice. “That’s Larissa.”

Temar’s hands shook as he stripped off his jerkin and tore off his shirt, damp with sweat and stained with his blood and others‘. Darni groaned, chest labouring as they laid him flat on the gory turf. Temar winced as he did his best to staunch the warrior’s grievous wounds. “Will he live?”

“It might be better for him if he didn’t.” Halice was grim faced as she felt for the beat of Larissa’s heart. “This one’s making her excuses to Saedrin. Shit. Darni could have taken Muredarch. It was trying to defend her body did for him, the fool!” But the woman’s tone was more sorrowful than angry.

Temar frowned. “I can’t see any wound.” All the blood on Larissa was Darni’s; spent in defence of his master’s beloved. He had half expected to find the mage-woman a blackened, contorted corpse.

Halice shook her head in bemusement as she searched the mage’s body with careful hands. “Poldrion only knows what killed her—and he won’t tell.”

Darni groaned again, eyes rolling in his head as he tried to blink away the blood blinding him. He hauled his uninjured arm up to point at the still blazing circle that was now the Elietimm’s pyre.

Temar groped for his meaning. “Larissa fired the stockade?”

Darni’s closed his eyes in unmistakable confirmation.

Temar looked at Halice. “She took the full force of their hatred. I felt it.” He found himself on his feet. “I have to see Allin and ’Sar.”

He stumbled, running for the ships without waiting for Halice’s answer. Mercenaries recovering from the assault of Artifice were slaughtering still-stunned pirates with brutal desperation, not even a thought of offering any chance to surrender. Rosarn on the shore was directing her troop to strip fallen and captive alike of every weapon and anything of value. Temar didn’t care. Halice could order division of the spoils as she saw fit. All Temar cared about was Allin.

Every joint and bone in his body protested as he hauled himself up the side of the
Dulse
yet again. The cut in his forearm was a burning gash. “Demoiselle Guinalle, where is she?” he barked at a sailor slowly coiling a rope more from habit than need.