Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (62 page)

 
          
He
brought them down the alley, turning where it crossed another, deeper into the
jumbled ways behind the harbor. Calandryll shifted the satchel to his back,
hand on scabbard, aware of the buildings looming overhead, quiet, shuttered
against the noonday heat, the sky a thin strip of hazy blue high above. Sea
gulls screamed from the waterfront, but in that narrow road the only sounds
were the dramming of their boots and the drone of insects. Xanthese hurried
before him, Bracht at his back, their route running parallel to the water, the
alleys tortuous as the warren of the Beggars Gate, but, at this hour,
unpopulated.

 
          
"Best
we avoid the Rotor's men," Xanthese called over his shoulder. “Menophus
would as soon no questions be asked. Nor you, either, lest I miss my
guess."

 
          
Neither
Calandryll or Bracht offered answer and the scarred man took them deeper into
the maze until they came to an open place, where the blank walls of storehouses
formed a little square with no other exit than the alley down which they had
come. Shuttered windows like eyes closed against sight of treachery stood high
on the walls and cobblestones glistened in the hot sun. Xanthese scurried to
the far side of the square, his shortsword suddenly in his hand, his face no
longer obsequious, but harsh, set in lines of undisguised hatred.

 
          
Calandryll
heard the slide of steel on leather as Bracht drew the falchion, his own blade
loosed but an eye's blink later.

 
          
"To
the side! Put a wall at your back!"

 
          
Bracht's
voice brooked no debate, no hesitation, and he sprang to obey, suddenly aware
of the soft footsteps that padded in the alley behind.

 
          
Five
men appeared at the mouth, dressed as was Xanthese in loose tunics and breeks,
for all the world like sailors or wharf rats, each bearing a shortsword. They
spread across the exit and Xanthese moved to join them.

 
          
"You
die for this!"

 
          
Bracht
addressed himself to their betrayer, his threat met with a contemptuous smile.

 
          
"You
think so?" Xanthese was changed. The fawning manner was gone and he seemed
taller, even commanding, as if before he had played a part and now revealed
himself. "It shall be you who dies, Kern. You and the Seccan puppy."

 
          
"At
the hand of a cringing wharf rat?" Bracht laughed. "I think
not."

 
          
"A
cringing wharf rat?" Xanthese chuckled, and for an instant he assumed his
earlier demeanor, mocking the freesword. Then, subtly, features and stance
shifted again and he was menacing. "You face Chaipaku now, Kern!"

 
          
Calandryll
gasped, unable to stem the wash of naked terror that flooded him. He could see
it now, in the cold eyes and the professional way they held their swords. This
was no ambush organized by some opportunistic thief: these men were of the Brotherhood.
He felt sweat slicken his palms even as an awful chill slid unpleasantly down
his spine.

 
          
"Aye,
that frightens you." Xanthese looked to him now. "And so it
should."

 
          
He
heard himself ask, his voice husky, "Why?"

 
          
"Your
brother sought our service." A dagger not much shorter than the sword
appeared in Xanthese's left hand. "It seems he considers you a threat. But
then you killed one of us—Mehemmed? He was young—he was told to watch you, to
discover where you went—but you slew him and now you pay the price."

 
          
"I
slew him," Bracht said. "He was careless and I gutted him like a pig.
As he deserved."

 
          
Xanthese
laughed again, the sound echoing off the high walls.

 
          
"Do
you seek to anger me, Kern? Do you seek to make
me
careless? You cannot.
I am older than Mehemmed and I shall lay your entrails at your feet and watch
you die. I shall enjoy that."

 
          
From
the corner of his eye Calandryll saw Bracht's lips draw back from his teeth,
the expression as much snarl as smile.

 
          
"I've
not had much practice of late," he said. And sprang forward.

 
          
He
was fast—his move took Calandryll by surprise— but the Chaipaku were equally
swift. Shortswords and
^!
daggers rose to meet the assault, steel
clashing loud on steel, and Bracht sprang back to the protection of the wall,
shirt cut, the falchion defensive before him. Xanthese wiped a thread of blood
from his scarred cheek and nodded, his own smile feral now.

 
          
"Good.
But not good enough. And I doubt the puppy's so skilled."

           
The raw contempt in his voice grated
against Calan- dryll's terror, stirring anger. The words were true—he knew he
stood no chance against these assassins, even with Bracht at his side:—and he
must die here, but rising like the sun to dispel his fear he felt the heat of
rage. He was no threat to Tobias, had no desire to usurp his brother, and yet
that false assumption must now leave him dead in this lonely square, the way to
the Arcanum left open for Azumandias to take. He cursed his brother and the
Chaipaku with heartfelt rage, determining to sell his life as dear he could.

 
          
The
six Chaipaku advanced.

 
          
And
Bracht said softly, "Use your magic now. Destroy them with a storm, or
fire—but destroy them."

 
          
He
shook his head helplessly, gaze darting from the assassins to the Kem, and
said, "I know not how to summon it!"

 
          
"Even
I cannot defeat six of the Brotherhood." The falchion shifted like a
living thing in the freesword's hand. "Magic must aid us, or we die here.
If you must, render yourself unseen."

 
          
Calandryll
hesitated, unwilling to leave his comrade. Even aided by the spell Varent had
taught him it seemed unlikely he could slay so many Brothers: the spell offered
escape only for him.

 
          
"Use
it!" Bracht urged. "One of us at least may survive."

 
          
He
waited still, loath to take that path, and said, "I'd not desert
you."

 
          
"Better
that than die," Bracht snapped. "Use it!"

 
          
He
opened his mouth to utter the spell, but even as he voiced the first strange
syllables the assassins closed, their advance so swift the words died stillborn
on lips that faltered, gasping as blades flashed in the noonday sun and death
sprang ferocious toward him. He forgot the spell as he instinctively raised his
own sword, thinking only of defense.

 
          
Steel
clashed on steel, sparks shining bright, and he danced back, aware of fleeting
pain against his ribs, of a warmth and wetness he knew was blood even as he
parried. Fear grew, and anger with it, a mounting rage that his brother's
groundless jealousy should threaten his quest, should intervene now, to leave
him dead in Kharasul after so perilous a journey, after surviving so many
dangers. It grew, becoming a consuming thing, as great as the fear provoked by
the grinning faces of the Chaipaku as they advanced, confident of slaying him.

 
          
And
halted as he roared and hurled himself against them, careless of their blades,
his own a whirling, thrusting thing propelled by a force he did not understand.
It seemed then that he was possessed, for he did not know what he did, only
that they fell back before him as if driven by a silent wind so strong it sent
them stumbling across the square, their quarry become their attacker. He went
after them, riding tne magical wind, offensive now, their swords desperate in
defense.

 
          
"Berserker!"
Xanthese barked. "Dylus—ward the alley! You others take him. Leave the Kern
to me."

 
          
He
sprang at Bracht as the others moved swiftly to obey. The falchion turned his
cut; was itself deflected by a
flanking
blade. Bracht danced sideways along the wall.

 
          
Calandryll
darted to his left, advancing on the Chaipaku, separating them from Bracht and
Xanthese. A Chaipaku grunted as the straightsword drove against his ribs, more
surprise than pain in the sound. He spun, blade flailing before him, and
Calandryll cut low, seeing the tunic severed, the dull red hue of dragon's hide
armor beneath brightened by flowing crimson. The blood seemed fuel to whatever
magic aided him and he launched himself at the assassin, sword raised high.

 
          
A
helm lay hidden by the headdress: Calandryll felt his blade turned, heard the
clash. He swung the sword at the unprotected neck, the Chaipaku stunned long
enough he made no move to duck. Steel met flesh. Crimson blossomed over the
assassin's shoulder. Calandryll hacked again, all his strength in the blow, and
saw the head roll free, bouncing between the shifting feet of the others, who
gaped and struggled to press forward against the force that opposed them.
Calanaryll saw the body stagger, sword arm working a moment longer before it
fell, its blood spraying its companions. He sprang once more to the attack,
raining ferocious blows at heads and shoulders, held back a while by sheer
sword skill: even faced with magic, the Chaipaku were fierce opponents.

 
          
Two
faced him, moving to either side, the third scuttling to take him from behind,
and he saw the two sent staggering, human leaves blown on a glamorous wind. He
spun to deal with the other, not knowing whether it was fear or rage or magic
that worked his arm. He turned the man's sword and drove his own in a savage
slash against the ribs, the power that gripped him lending him such strength
that again he saw dragon-hide armor sundered, the Chaipaku screaming as ribs
broke and steel hacked flesh. He cut again, where armor ended and the neck
began. The Chaipaku jerked, his shortsword dropping as his dark eyes dulled.
Blood jetted and he fell to his knees, then onto his face. Calandryll turned to
meet the survivors, and saw the man, Dylus, who had remained to ward the exit,
stiffen, sword and dagger dropping from hands that rose to clutch at the red wound
across his throat. He was thrust aside, falling limp as his life drained out.
In his place stood the warrior woman, capless, her golden hair drawn back like
Bracht's in a loose tail. She wore, as best he could tell, no armor beneath her
tunic of white silk, nor any on the long legs, but in her hands was a bloodied
saber, and in her eyes—storm grey, just as Bracht had said—he saw fierce
satisfaction as she charged across the square, the saber swift as Bracht's
falchion, and equally deadly.

 
          
One
of the Chaipaku sprang to block her
_;
the other faced Calandryll, no
longer confident, but fighting with a desperation born of terror, of the
knowledge that he encountered a power beyond his understanding. Calandryll was
no wiser, aware only that in some manner he did not comprehend, magic again
stood between him and defeat. He ducked under a scything blow and countered
with a cut that sent the assassin staggering back, not sure whether the
mysterious force or his own resolve hurled the
man
against a wall smeared now with blood.

 
          
The
woman's eyes flickered in his direction, and a blade cut dangerously close to
her side. She turned it with almost casual grace, spinning clear of the attack,
parrying the thrust as her foot rose to land between the Chaipaku's legs. He wore
no armor there, for he yelped, bending, and the saber hacked across his exposed
neck. He grunted and collapsed onto the cobbles.

 
          
Smiling
grimly, the woman raised her saber in salute as Calandryll deflected a blow and
sent his straightsword darting over the wielder's arm, hard into the soft belly
below the hide armor. He twisted the steel and stepped back as the assassin
shrieked, face paling as agony gripped him, then cut, almost casually, to the
side of the neck. The Chaipaku's shriek ended abruptly as his head lolled to
the side and he fell against the wall, adding his own marks to the stains
already there.

 
          
Across
the square he saw Bracht turn Xanthese's sword; dance clear of the dagger in
the Chaipaku's left hand and riposte a stroke that drove the falchion deep
 
into the assassin's windpipe. Xanthese
grunted, an awful choking sound, and spat blood. He made no attempt to retreat;
seemed even to reject the knowledge of his death as he attacked again. Bracht
parried the blow and backed away, luring the Chaipaku onward, the red hole in
his throat spilling gore over chest and breeks. Hatred drove him, it seemed.
Calandryll saw it burning in his eyes; heard it in the ghastly wheezing that
came from gaping lips and opened neck. Bracht took him farther across the
square, each step leeching out more of his life. Then the Kem halted and
feinted a cut, parried the counterstroke, and thrust forward, the falchion
driving into the lower belly. Xanthese screamed then, as best he could, and
fell down on his knees. Bracht kicked his sword aside and swept the falchion
hard across the neck: the Chaipaku toppled forward into the pooling of his own
blood.