Within the Hollow Crown (27 page)

Chapter 77: Battle of the Turin-Sen

For almost a full day, Eye-Patch led Jareld, Thor, and Corthos through the dark caves. He knew his way around, and was able to take safer paths, and avoid certain critters that roamed the tunnels. Their pace was faster now that they had an expert guide.

Finally, they reached a certain set of tunnels, and Eye-Patch showed them the landmarks on the map. Jareld was impressed. They were back on track.

“Do you know where we are?” Jareld asked Thor. The new tunnels they had entered were built, not dug out. This was not a worm tunnel, nor an archeological dig. It was a castle, and historically, that could mean only one thing.

“This is the Castle Zenith,” Thor said.

“We must be in the East Corridor,” Jareld said. He had studied the castle’s designs as part of his third-year class called Famous Fortresses.

“They built a castle,” Corthos said, “Under these here caves?”

“No,” Jareld said. “They built it on the top of a mountain. Long story.”

“If this is the East Corridor,” Thor said, “Then the Tapestry Room must be right around this corner.”

Thor wandered off in that direction while Jareld looked at the map. Corthos and Eye-Patch looked at the walls, the carpeting, and all the other things that incongruously made this part of the Caves a Castle.

“Jareld,” Thor called as he turned the corner, “I think it’s… Oh no!”

And then Thor died.

It was a quick death, according to temporal measurements. It took eight seconds for Thor to go from a healthy young man to a corpse. But subjectively, according to Thor, they were the longest eight seconds of his life. The level of pain would usually cause a person to pass out, but in this case the magic wouldn’t let you. The spell was sadistic. It kept you awake to experience the torture. And then it killed you.

Gerard had found them again. He had lost the track when Corthos took out two of his men, but he found them when they were in the custody of the Pirates of Scratchy. He had been planning a full on assault, but when they broke out, he knew he could cut them off at the Castle Zenith.

When Thor had turned the corner, he saw Gerard with his ten remaining soldiers, ready to strike. Thor was only able to stare in shock as the light of the spell hit him, and he screamed in agony that he had never known before.

Jareld, Corthos, and Eye-Patch had never seen that magic used before. They had not been present at the wedding, nor the tournament, so it was a fresh hell for them.

Jareld’s stomach sank. It took him entire thoughts to understand what had just happened, but he didn’t have time to process it. Just as it occurred to him that Thor was probably dead, four archers turned the corner and fired at him.

Corthos grabbed him and tried to pull him to cover, but he wasn’t fast enough. An arrow caught him in the arm. Eye-Patch ducked the other way, trying to retreat back to his caves.

Another volley of arrows came. One caught Eye-Patch in the leg, dropping him to the floor. Corthos used his good arm to swing Jareld into a recessed doorway. The Turin progressed down the hall.

“Open the door!” Corthos demanded of Jareld, seeing that they couldn’t cross the hall without getting hit with an arrow. Or worse, with a spell.

Eye-Patch tried to crawl his way back to Corthos, but he was already facing the wrong way, and he moved too slowly. Two more arrows landed in his chest before he could get to cover, and he never moved again.

Jareld started fiddling with the door, but there were two problems. First, it was locked. Second, it was rusted. Whereas sometimes the two cancel each other out, this time they worked in harmony to create a very jammed door.

“Can ya open it, matey?” Corthos called, drawing his sword. The soldiers were dropping into melee range, and had put away their bows. They would be upon them in seconds.

“I can’t!” Jareld said, his voice cracking. Was Thor really dead, he thought? Wait, no, that didn’t just happen. Open this door. Now! We have to wait for Thor. His mind was a scramble of thoughts, but in the end, one thought came through loud and clear: Open this door or you’re going to die.

Jareld grabbed a rusted bit of metal from the framework on the door. He started jimmying the lock, though he had no light, and wasn’t sure if this was a feasible solution.

Two Turin soldiers stepped in the doorway, blocking them off. Corthos started swinging wildly, to keep them at bay, but he had no room to maneuver, and he didn’t want to trample Jareld.

Jareld jammed the metal bit into the lock, but could only get a repetitive clicking sound from the mechanism. Also, there were a lot of clashing swords behind him, which was making it hard to concentrate.

Corthos struck down one of the Turin soldiers, who fell into the crowded doorway with Jareld. Corthos stepped out, because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to swing his sword, and immediately took a gash on the side of his stomach.

Jareld grabbed the fallen man’s sword. He may not have been able to use it in a fight, but he thought it would make a great improvisational tool.

He thrust the sword forward, into the lock, then chopped down with it, tearing the frame away. Now he had open access to the locking mechanism. He dropped the sword, picked up the metal shard, and turned one last lever--

Jareld stumbled into the room, going eight feet in before coming to a dead stop. When he straightened up, he was face-to-barrel-chest with another Turin.

“Holy shit!” Jareld called.

Then, he noticed that the Turin wasn’t alone. He was sharing the room with two men and a woman. A smoking door closed behind them. Jareld caught his breath, staring at the newcomers. Actually, one of them was Count Michael Deliem. Who he knew.

“What the…?”

“Jareld,” Michael called, “How in the name of all that is holy did you end up here?”

“Quick!” Jareld said, “Corthos is in trouble. There’s another Turin out there. Help!”

Halmir and Vye drew their swords and headed for the door. Michael also drew his sword and stepped forward.

“You’re hurt,” Michael said, “You wait here with Flopson, we’ll take care of this.”

“Be careful,” Jareld managed to say, before he collapsed into an old, rickety chair.

---

Corthos was almost finished. He was losing consciousness, probably from a combination of loss of blood, lack of sleep, and extreme exertion. And it was a losing fight. Gerard was just waiting in the background, watching his soldiers do the work. Corthos had gotten one of them early, but the fight had turned against him fast, and now it was all he could do to keep his arm swinging.

Then a miracle happened. Well, not really a miracle, but to Corthos, he may have thought divine intervention had been involved. From the door that Jareld had opened, three new warriors emerged and slew three of the Turin right away. Within seconds, the tenor of the fight changed.

With renewed hope, Corthos and Michael fought side by side as they engaged the last of the Turin soldiers. Meanwhile, Halmir and Vye went to the end of the hall and challenged Gerard.

---

Jareld’s breath was coming back to him. His mind was starting to process things. It
didn’t like any of the things it was figuring out. Thor was dead. Thor was dead. And that man out there killed him.

“Excuse me,” Jareld said to the jester in the room, “Are they still fighting out there?”

“Indeed they are, stinky.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t had a decent wash in weeks.”

“Just weeks, you say?”

“If they’re still fighting, then some of the bad guys must be alive, right?”

“Sounds about right.”

Jareld took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned down and picked up the sword he had used as a lock pick, staggering for the door.

---

Gerard could see he was losing the fight. He would have been able to handle Vye on her own, and he would have been able to deal with Halmir on his own.

But together, he couldn’t keep up. They were experts, all three, and even if one of them slipped, the other would jump in and cover. Quickly.

He needed time, and he didn’t have much. He called upon the stone of the earth to help him. The very walls of the Castle started to crack, and soon they erupted, firing slabs of concrete at Vye and Halmir.

It was enough to slow them down. Neither took a hit, as they both used their own reserve of energy to turn the stone aside, but it let Gerard move away and make up some space.

He started casting a spell. It was a spell of insidious design, meant for only the
direst circumstances. He could run, he knew. He could escape through a portal of smoke, and return to his homeland. But he was not like Eric. He was a soldier, sent on a mission. There was an historian in the other room, and it was his job to kill him. He got one, but he needed both, and he couldn’t leave the job half done.

The spell would give him increased strength. It would give him increased stamina. It would make him faster, more alert, more skilled. It was called The Beyond, when it was taught to him. It borrowed from your potential future in the magical equivalent of tampering with the space-time continuum.

The downside of it, of course, was that it left you very weak when you were done. It would only last a few minutes, and then he would be vulnerable. But if he could die in the service of the Turin-Sen, he would find it worth it.

And if he was victorious, and vanquished all his foes, and then had time to recover and return home, well, then he would be a hero. He could always hope.

The stones stopped flying, and Vye and Halmir renewed their attack. Vye feinted left while Halmir struck right, but it didn’t work. Gerard didn’t even flinch at Vye’s movement, and parried off Halmir mid-swing. He then swung full around, faster than Vye would have thought it was possible, and caught Halmir hard in the torso.

Vye attacked. Gerard countered, swinging twice for every one of Vye’s swings. Vye could barely keep her sword in front of her, making fast sweeps to keep from taking a hit.

Halmir rebounded, though still bleeding, and flanked Gerard. He was slower than usual, and Gerard was moving like lightening, but with Vye as a spoil, they once again landed a stalemate.

But it didn’t last. Vye was on swing one hundred, thirty. Her arm was going to give out soon, but in the meantime, it got slower. Gerard didn’t bother to use his sword. He swept his hand fast at her, and she went flying through an oak door behind her, breaking her left shoulder as she collapsed in the splintered wood.

---

Jareld entered the hallway just in time to see this. Corthos and Michael had taken care of the riff-raff, and Michael was attending to the injured pirate.

“Jareld, what are you doing?” Michael started.

Jareld didn’t respond, but just kept moving toward Gerard and Halmir as they fought. He was limping. And slow. To Michael, it was like watching a tortoise crawl toward a volcanic eruption and declare that he was going to stop it.

“Jareld, you have to stand back. You’ll be killed.”

Flopson emerged, juggling as always.

“Flopson,” Michael said, “Can you keep an eye on Corthos?”

Flopson turned to Corthos.

“Not without some serious mental scarring.”

---

Halmir knew he had only one choice. Gerard was moving too quickly for Halmir to keep up. Soon, Gerard would kill him, and then he would easily destroy the others. He had to play the only card left to him.

He, too, called on The Beyond. A last ditch effort. A last stand. Everything on the table for this game. No rematches. No tomorrows.

And like lightning, Halmir was back in the fight. He was bleeding from three open wounds, and two of his ribs were broken, but he was moving like a cheetah, striking like a python, and taking damage like an elephant. He was unstoppable.

Unfortunately, Gerard was still unhurt, and had learned the spell much better. Even with Halmir trying to match his ante, Gerard still had the upper hand. Halmir lasted exactly forty-five seconds longer than he would have otherwise. He bought forty-five seconds with his life.

Gerard speared the end of his sword into the shoulder of Halmir’s sword arm, pinning him against the wall. He left it there, twisting it, turning it, tearing out the tendons and muscles and bones. Halmir screamed in such a way that even Jareld, walking mindlessly down the hall, had to pause.

Then Gerard pulled the sword out. Halmir had only that second to do anything. He had bought forty-five seconds, but now he had only one, and it wasn’t enough. He tried to switch the sword to his other hand to continue the fight with Gerard, but he was too slow. He was fast, but Gerard was faster.

Gerard plunged his sword all the way through Halmir’s torso. He went through the sternum, through the cartilage and tissue, and through the left ventricle of Halmir’s heart. Halmir didn’t scream. There was no air left in his lungs. He fell on his knees, then fell to the ground.

Gerard pulled his sword out, now dripping with the blood of his brother-in-arms, and turned to Jareld. Michael was standing at the historian’s side, ready to give it his best shot. Behind them, Corthos was struggling to get to his feet. Flopson was juggling daggers.