The King's Ring (The Netherworld Gate Book 2) (33 page)

Swords clanged together then, and he knew that the other men from his group were embattled with the enemy. He said a silent prayer for them, hoping that the gods would give his men enough strength to stave off the enemy until the first trebuchet was fully destroyed. Some of his men would be hacking at the machine itself, while the rest would be holding the enemy away so the fire could not be extinguished.

After only a few more seconds he launched another satchel of oil and struck a second trebuchet. He reached down and held out his hand to rip another lantern from the ground, but just before he reached it an arrow struck his horse in the neck. The animal cried out and its head dropped to the ground. The world seemed to slow down for Alexander as he found himself catapulted from his saddle and flying through the air over the lantern and into the tent behind it. He landed with a clamor of metal and wood. The tent poles collapsed and the cloth of the tent fell all around him. Puffy, man-like shapes scrambled around under the cloth; punching, kicking and striking out with swords and daggers. Their movement made it hard for Alexander to steady himself as the canvas tent swirled all around like waves of the sea.

The knight somehow got his feet under him and started hacking at the men under the canvas. The first swing of his sword nearly cleaved a man in two and left an enormous red stain on the tent. His second strike slammed into something hard. Either the man under the canvas had managed to dress in a hauberk, or he had some sort of shield, but it didn’t deter the knight. Alexander struck again and again until the man fell under the weight and agony of crunching bones and splitting flesh. The third man was able to crawl out from under the tent before Alexander could reach him, but it did nothing to spare him from death. A sword crashed down from behind as one of Alexander’s men rushed in to the fray to find his commander.

“My thanks,” Alexander offered. The other knight nodded and quickly turned his horse away. Alexander looked around and realized that the enemy was rushing in all around. He had only a few seconds before they would be on him and his men. He looked beyond to see five more fires glowing bright against the dark of the night. A smile washed over his face as he saw the blazes creep upward into the sky. The other trebuchets were also on fire, he knew. His joy inspired him into action.

He rushed to his dead horse and pulled his shield up from the ground beside the fallen animal. He steeled himself and raised his sword as three soldiers charged him. The first swung a mace, but Alexander blocked the blow with his shield. Immediately the second soldier struck out with his spear, striking under the upraised shield, but it glanced harmlessly off of Alexander’s steel plate armor. The knight, not flinching an inch at the attack, thrust out with his sword and caught the third soldier in the left shoulder, just above where the collar bone rests. The soldier dropped his sword and fell to the ground. Alexander pressed the attack. He put his weight behind his shield and jumped forward, throwing the first two soldiers back a few feet. With them out of the way, Alexander slashed back with his sword and slew the third soldier.

The spearman was the first to rush in again, but Sir Alexander was ready. He lowered his shield on the spear, just behind the point, and drove down until the spear stabbed into the ground and the shaft snapped in the spearman’s hands with a resounding crack. The soldier stood baffled. Alexander swung his sword with a mighty yell. The soldier instinctively raised the remnant of the spear shaft to block the incoming blade, realizing too late that the wood would not deflect the gleaming steel of the knight’s sword. The spearman slumped to the ground, covered in blood.

The mace-man roared defiantly and jumped in to avenge his comrade. He beat down on Alexander’s armor. The clangs were deafening and hard, but the armor held true. Only the smallest of dents formed as the mace struck again and again. Alexander stepped back and to the side repeatedly until the mace-man overextended his swing. Then the knight moved as swiftly as an eagle strikes a fish. The knight sliced off the mace-man’s arm just above the elbow and then he drove his shield into the man’s face like a giant, flat hammer. The soldier’s face was smattered with blood and teeth were chipped, cracked, or replaced with gaping holes. His eyes glazed over and were almost like glass by the time that Alexander brought his sword down on the soldier’s neck.

A loud clang made Alexander turn on his heels. One of his men had been knocked from his mount. He rushed in, hacking and slicing at the enemy soldiers in his path. He slammed into a spearman’s back with his shield, sending the man flying forward to the ground. He ducked low under the swing of an enemy ax and struck out to hamstring the enemy. The man went down yowling like a castrated bear. Finally, after hacking through a few more soldiers that were eager to get at the fallen knight, he pushed through the throng. The knight’s helm was leaking blood under the visor. The chest plate had been pounded in on the knight’s chest and a fairly sizeable hole marred the fine steel.

Alexander moved beside the knight and kept swinging his sword at the enemies crowding in. Three soldiers engaged him from the right. He worked his sword and shield furiously to keep them at bay, but it was a losing battle. Two soldiers rushed in on Alexander’s left and wrested his shield away from him. He tried to back up, still swinging his sword to parry the strikes of his enemies, but a heavy, sharp strike slammed into the back of his left knee, right where the armor was weakest. The force of the blow ripped through his leg and pain shot through the whole left side of his body. He arched backwards and flung his arms out to keep his balance. A mace slammed into his chest, a sword crashed into his side. The armor groaned and strained under the onslaught. Every sharp jolt made his leg throb and ache. At last it was too much for him. He fell to his back and his sword was kicked from his hand.

Alexander could feel heavy blows slamming into his chest, abdomen, and legs. The steel plates moaned and started to give away under the force. Denting steel crowded in on his flesh, and started to tear his skin. A sudden blow, like that of falling stone, stove in his visor. His nose broke under the pressure and his vision went dark. He didn’t know if his eyes had been injured or if his helmet obscured his sight, he only knew that he had been blinded by the strike. He was just about to resign himself to death when he heard thundering hooves and shrieks of men.

“Form up,” he heard a voice shout, but he was too far gone to recognize the man. The battle raged on around him. He could hear the ghastly screams of the dying, the screeching of metal on metal as armor, shield, and sword grinded against each other in the melee. The minutes seemed hours as he lay there helpless on the ground. The sharp pain in his left knee was giving way to a pounding throb that made him black out more than once as the fight raged on around him.

A loud crash of metal right next to Alexander’s head woke him from unconsciousness. Something tapped the side of his helmet. Was it a finger? He had no way of knowing. It tapped a few more times and then a horrible
screeeetch
filled his ears as the object scratched along the side of the helmet. The sound sent shivers down his spine and made him cringe. He jerked his head away and the sound was gone. He could still hear the stomping of horses and the clamor of battle around him. Some men were shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words over the din of the combat.

He struggled to bring his hands up to his helmet. He had to know what was going on around him. He fumbled with the clasps for what seemed like an eternity before he got the contraption off. Torch-light blinded him as soon as the helmet was off. The sudden blast of light made him recoil and throw his arm over his face, yet it was a relief to know that he still had his eyesight. As he slowly brought his arm down he saw knights encircling him, battling as fiercely as any knight of legend he had ever heard of. Many of them had blood covering so much of their armor that it was impossible to tell if it was theirs, or the blood of their fallen enemies that circled their feet in disgusting piles of limbs, weapons, and blood.

He pushed up from his elbows and looked down to his left knee. He saw the crimson puddle around the joint and knew instinctively that there was little to no hope of saving his leg, even if he survived the battle. He removed his gauntlets and set them at his side. Then, with his fingers free to work, he set about removing his armor to release his body and inspect his wounds. He knew that this would expose him to enemies, but he also knew that he had been down for a long time now, and he had lost a lot of blood. He would have to try to assess his wounds and stop the bleeding, despite the risk.

His chest plate almost did not come free. So many areas had dented in far enough that the armor clung to his skin like an angry cat. When he finally managed to pull it free there was blood flowing from several gashes and puncture wounds in his chest. They stung immensely, but he could tell that none of those wounds were deep or serious, so he pressed on. He pulled the armor from his legs, being as delicate as the circumstances permitted when he worked around his left knee. At one point he had to lift his knee enough to get his hand under it to remove the armor. That was the worst pain of his life. All at once he felt as though a fire was burning in his leg, an anvil was on his chest and head, and that he would vomit. His vision darkened until only small tunnels of light remained. Still he pressed on. He knew that he had to treat his wound now, or he might not get another chance.

He breathed in deep until his vision cleared and then he finished pulling the armor away. Even in the dark of night, with only the light of torches and nearby fires, Alexander saw blood covering his knee and most of his lower leg. He turned the leg over, biting down to fight against the pain. A deep gash ran along the whole back of his knee horizontally. He inspected close and could see the white of bone, turned a gruesome pinkish-red from the blood. Then he noticed a metallic shimmer inside. He reached in with his thumb and index finger. His flesh burned as he went in, but he knew he had to retrieve the metal before he could close the wound. He yelled out in agony as his finger and thumb pinched a shard of metal that had lodge in the back of his femur, just above the knee. He pulled and wiggled the shard free and fell flat to his back immediately. He writhed on the ground, howling and sputtering a thousand curses as the pain washed over him more than it ever had.

A pair of hands pushed down on his shoulders then and his eyes popped open. He was relieved when he saw Asin, one of his knights. His relief was stolen by another pair of hands that seized his right leg. He looked down, but could not tell who it was under the blood-smeared armor. A third pair of hands seized his left leg. He howled, but the knights held him down. He could feel the rough, stinging sensation of cloth being shoved into the wound. The pressure was immense.

“It’s no use,” one of them said. “Give me a leather strap, or a belt.” A moment later something wrapped around Alexander’s thigh like a great snake and constricted. He fought against the pain. He tried to worm free, but his men held him down. A few moments later the darkness took him again, and all was quiet.

Talon pulled his cloak tight around him to fend off the cold wind and the light rain. As he approached the city walls of Tantine he dipped his head down and let his hood hide his face. It had been a day since his battle at the Sierri’Tai castle, and he needed to find some food before he could move on toward the location of the Netherworld Gate.

He fingered the ring in his pouch, as he had done a hundred times since leaving the castle. The green jeweled prize was more alluring than anything he had ever known, except, perhaps, a good bottle of wine. He slipped the ring onto his finger. The metal felt cool against his skin. He wrapped the edge of his cloak around his hand to both hold the cloak against the wind, and to hide the ring from view.

He was able to walk right past the lone sentry at the open gate. Talon assumed that the rain made the guard reticent to emerge out from under the small awning that protruded from the wall. The elf just nodded and waved him through the gate without saying a word. The assassin smiled and walked in under the cover of the rain.

This town was different than the others he had visited on the elven isles. There were many buildings of stone down the street, some of them several stories high, but here next to the gate all of the homes and shops were made of wood. The roads were dirt, now turning to mud by the falling water, and seemed the worse for wear in this part of the city. Some old, wooden crates and barrels were stacked next to most of the wooden buildings. He could only assume what might be inside; food perhaps, or maybe cheap ale.

He walked on until he saw a long building with a wooden sign above the door, swinging in the breeze. The sign bore the telltale symbol of a tavern; a large, foaming mug with amber colored liquid dribbling along the outside. He knew he shouldn’t tempt himself by being close to drink, especially when it was cheap and plentiful, but he needed to get out of the weather and fill his belly. He also didn’t want to risk going into the nicer parts of the city where the citizens might have heard about his recent exploits.

He removed the emerald ring from his finger and put the item away. Then he pushed the wooden door open and stepped inside. His boots left footprint shaped water marks behind him on the floor. He spied the barkeep right away and walked up to him. The elf was short, maybe four and a half feet tall. The only reason Talon even saw him was because he walked along a platform behind the bar. Tiny, pointy ears poked out from under a mat of unkempt brown hair. Red eyes stood firm behind a long, pointy nose, and his lips were thin and pink. Talon realized that this particular elf was a member of the Nizhni’Tai race, cousins to the taller Svetli’Tai race of elves.

“What can I get for you,” the barkeep shouted.

“Do you have a room that I can have for the night?” Talon asked.

“No, I don’t happen to have a room to give you for the night,” the elf replied. “But, I have a room that you can rent for a silver penny,” he put in with a wink. When Talon didn’t crack a smile, the barkeep narrowed his eyes and he wrinkled his nose a bit. “I also have some stew and a mug of grog for another silver penny, if you like.”

Talon looked behind the bar and noted the many bottle necks sticking out of wooden racks behind the elf. For a moment he was tempted to take the barkeep up on the offer, but he was too close to his goal to give in to his temptations now, he knew. “Keep your liquor,” Talon said. “I’ll take the room and the stew, though,” he added.

“Very well, but it will still cost two silver pennies,” the elf replied.

“Give me some water then,” Talon replied with a shrug.

“This is a tavern,” the elf snorted. “If you want water, go outside and point your head to the sky, then open your mouth. Rainwater is cleaner than any water this city has anyway.”

“Very well,” Talon grumbled. “Pour me some grog.”

The elf whistled sharply through his teeth and another elf came running out from a doorway to the left of the bar. “Stew and a cup o’ grog,” the barkeep barked. The other elf nodded and scurried back through the doorway.

Talon tossed two silver pennies on the bar. The elf snatched them up and bit each one before depositing them in his pocket. The assassin seated himself at the bar, and a few moments after that a wooden bowl was set before him, filled with steaming brown liquid with darker brown chunks in it. A metal cup was set next to it so fast that some of the drink spilled onto the bar.

“Slow down, Hretta,” the barkeep shouted. “You can’t go spilling on the customers!” The other elf ran back through the doorway without a word. “Don’t pay any mind to her,” the barkeep said. “Here’s your key. You’re in room three. It’s the last door on the left of that hallway there.” The elf pointed to a short hallway and then turned to wiping down some tankards.

Talon poked at the chunks in his bowl with the spoon. He thought they looked like meat, but he wasn’t sure. He slowly put a spoonful into his mouth. The stew was watery, almost tasteless, but at least it was hot. The hunks of meat were chewy, stringy, and bland. Without thinking, he reached for his drink and swallowed half of the contents in one gulp. Like the stew, it was watery, but there was a definite flavor to the grog. It was like an old friend, an old, mischievous friend. Still, no matter how much he wanted to drink more, Talon restrained himself. He was only going to have the one drink. He was not about to squander his success now.

After a few more bites of the bland stew he drained the contents of the mug. He set the cup down and pushed it away. The barkeep moved to grab the cup and refill it, but Talon put a hand over the cup. The barkeep shrugged and walked to another part of the bar and started wiping it down. Before Talon could finish the stew, his head began to feel a bit fuzzy. His vision blurred a time or two, but Talon shook it off. Talon figured he was simply exhausted from the trip. It had been a while since he had eaten anything substantive, though he wasn’t sure the stew could be called that either. He pushed the bowl away and slid down from his stool. He started to walk toward the hall but he stumbled a bit and his hand shot out to the bar to steady himself.

What’s wrong with me?

He knew he wasn’t drunk. A single cup of liquor would never have been enough to do that. Still, his stomach felt a bit nauseous. His head felt foggy and a bit light. He decided he was just tired. He figured the best thing to do would be to get to bed as soon as possible.

He pushed off from the bar and walked down the hall. He opened his room with the key, went inside, and closed the door behind himself. He removed his cloak before dropping down to the bed. The soft mattress welcomed him warmly. The assassin kicked off his boots and settled in to sleep.

*****

“Well, what did you find?” the short elf asked.

“He didn’t have much on him,” the man replied. “Just a few more coins and this ring here.” The man held up a silver ring with an emerald set in it. “What do you think we can get for it?”

“I’m not sure, Nimby, let me see it.”

The man produced the ring and handed it to the elf. “That man had a pretty nice sword with him too, but I couldn’t get it out from under him. The guy collapsed on the bed and was sleeping too heavily. How much of the powder did you put in his drink?”

“He was a big man,” the elf replied. The elf raised the ring up to scrutinize it in the light. “This is a nice piece.” The elf turned the ring over in his hand. “This will fetch a very fine price. It’s a shame you didn’t get his sword if it’s half as exquisite as this ring.”

“Nah, it was too hard. The guy was way too heavy. Snoring like a lumber jack. More than half of the sword was buried under him.”

“No matter,” the elf said. “This ring will do nicely. You should head out immediately and take it to our contact in Tuport.”

“How much should I ask for it?” Nimby asked.

“No less than three hundred gold,” the elf asserted. “This ring is fit for royalty.”

“Alright, I’ll head out in the morning.” Nimby slipped the ring into a small leather bag and fit the bag neatly into his boot for safekeeping. “I need to stop off at my house and pick up the other things in our stash to sell in Tuport anyway, and I don’t think that guy will be waking up until noon tomorrow.”

“Don’t try anything funny either,” the barkeep shouted after him as the thief walked out the door. “I will hunt you down like a rat if you cheat me on this!”

“Bah,” Nimby grumbled with a wave. “Have I ever cheated you before?” The door swung closed.

“I’d rather he go right now, waitin till morning just doesn’t sound like a good idea,” the barkeep mumbled as he absently wiped the bar down for the last time that night. “Hretta,” he called out over his shoulder. A moment later the little female elf was back in the room, looking up at him. “Did you finish the dishes?”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“Did you sweep and mop the kitchen?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then wipe down the tables out here and sweep the floor too. I’m going to bed. It’s late and I’m tired.” He slung the towel over his shoulder and walked into the back room, headed for the stairs that would take him up to his apartment above the kitchen. He paid no attention to the sigh, or the hurt look on Hretta’s face as he left.

*****

The barkeep’s eyes fluttered open.
Clang! BOOM! Clank!
Alarmed at the commotion from downstairs he sat up in his bed. “Hretta!” he cursed. “Always making a mess!” A soft voice moaned beside him. He looked down and saw Hretta in her nightgown, turning over in her sleep. He slid off of the bed and reached for the top drawer of his pine-wood dresser where he kept his dagger. He could see the light under the door, and the clamor continued downstairs. He hoped that it was just some kids looking for food or stealing liquor, only a week ago he had chased two street urchins out of his tavern, but he feared that it was something else. Perhaps the stranger was awake and looking for his ring.

He steeled his nerve as he slipped his leather vest over his chest. He silently eased the door open and slithered out, being careful not to draw attention to himself or wake Hretta. Not that he cared if she was disturbed, but he didn’t want her to alert the intruder by screaming or talking loudly.

He stepped lightly on the wooden stairs, delicately placing his feet so as not to make the wood squeak or creak as he descended to the kitchen. His small size, coupled with his inherent elf abilities, enabled him to sneak all the way to the door leading from the kitchen into the main hall of the tavern. He pressed the door just hard enough to open a crack to peep through. His blood stilled in his veins. There were no street urchins in the tavern. There was only the cloaked stranger with the magnificent sword.

A dagger sailed across the room and embedded itself on the other side of the door, right where the barkeep’s face would have been if the door hadn’t been there as a shield.

“I know you’re there, come out,” the stranger slurred.

“Whatever are you doing?” the barkeep said, flailing his arms about as he pushed through the door. The thought of running had crossed his mind, but he knew that his short legs could never hope to outrun the tall stranger. So he decided to play the role of an innocent barkeep, as he had done on many previous occasions after robbing patrons. But this time he felt his nerves like never before. The air in the room was cold, almost steely, and it unnerved him.

“Where is my ring?” the stranger shouted.

“I don’t have any ring,” the barkeep said. “You paid with coin, not with jewelry.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, you pint-sized, pointy-eared dope.” The stranger pulled his sword, and the blade hissed against the scabbard. “I know you have it.”

“I don’t!” the barkeep shouted with his hands up in the air. He knew his dagger would be of little use to him now. Fear gripped his heart and his throat seemed to fill and choke on thick air as he searched for words. “You are drunk, my friend,” he started. “We can look for it together if you like, but please stop tearing up my tavern, and put your sword away. There is no need for hostility here.”

“I am not stupid” the stranger spat as he stepped closer to the barkeep. “Where is that other fool that was in here earlier? You and him are working together aren’t you? You drugged my food.”

“I am certain that I don’t know what you mean,” the barkeep protested.

“This sword has a name,” the stranger said.

The barkeep raised his eyebrow and stared at the blade. He was trying to decide whether the stranger was crazy when the man leapt forward and seized him by the throat. Up the barkeep went into the air. He kicked his legs, but nothing could resist the power of the cloaked man.

“Its name is Drekk’hul, though I was thinking about calling it ‘Elf’s Bane.’”

“The dark blade…” the barkeep whispered with sudden dread. “You wield the dark blade? That cannot be!” he stammered.

Talon sneered and pressed the point of his blade to the barkeep’s soft, white belly. A drop of blood slowly seeped out around the tip of the blade and the elf squirmed horribly. “I’m impressed,” Talon said. “The last elf to feel the bite of this blade screamed when it touched him.” The assassin dropped the elf to the floor and back away a couple of paces.

“I swear, I don’t have your ring,” the barkeep said as he huffed to catch his breath again.