Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) (114 page)

"Now there is only one Pontiff again."

They forged on through the shelf-stacks, the learning of the ages knocked down and trampled underfoot, precious manuscripts falling through the air like flapping birds, bookcases toppled like trees, the tall stone of the library echoing with the crash of them, the clash of metal, the screams of desperate men. The Himerians were cut down without mercy, whether they fought to the last, or dropped their swords and begged for their lives. There was to be no quarter given or taken this day. This was the end of a world.

The Torunnans spread out in the shadowed vastness of the library, scattering for the hunt. Knots of them cut their way through and through the ranks of the enemy until the building was full of disparate mobs of struggling men, and all order was lost, and each combat a fight of individuals.

They harried Aruan until at last he stood at bay with few about him, cornered in a dark wing of the ancient building deep in shadows, his eyes glaring hatred and a kind of madness, and the stench of the beast rising about him. Corfe stood before him, on his face the calm smile of a man who has almost finished his day's work.

Bardolin strode forward then and clashed swords with Corfe himself, but the Torunnan King seemed to have grown in the shadows of the ancient building until he loomed like some giant warrior out of legend. He knocked Bardolin aside with one mailed fist, and kept going with his eyes fixed on Aruan.

The beast erupted out of the Archmage, uncontrollable and baying. The armour it wore burst its straps and fell from its body and it became a huge monolithic darkness within which yellow eyes gleamed and long fangs clashed in its slavering muzzle. It lunged forward and, careering into a tall shelf full of books, sent it tumbling over. The heavy wood caught Corfe on his left side and knocked him off his feet. The Answerer skittered across the stone floor. The wolf-Aruan towered over him, and then bent to bite out his throat.

But two more shapes sprang forwards, their swords stabbing out above their prone King. Felorin and Baraz, charging like champions at the huge shifter, yelling defiance. The wolf leaped back with preternatural speed and ripped free a heavy shelf from the wall. This it swung in a great arc that caught Baraz across the side of the head and broke his neck. It raised the heavy wood again, but Felorin ducked under the swing and stabbed upwards. He missed, but the wolf fell back swiftly, holding the shelf before it like a shield. Then Felorin's mouth opened and he dropped his sword to the floor with a clatter. He half-turned, but something smote him deep once again, and he sank to his knees.

Bardolin pulled his sword free and stepped back as Felorin collapsed face-up on the floor. There was a haziness to his outline, as if he possessed more than one shadow, and indeed as he turned back to the King it could be seen that a second shadow detached itself from him and left to be lost in the gloom of the library. He strode forward, and behind him the great wolf followed.

Corfe's left arm was broken, and the ribs on that side had been cracked and displaced. He tasted blood in his mouth and a harsh gasp of pain left his lips as he struggled to his feet, then bent to retrieve his sword. His bugler and colour-bearer were dead behind him, at whose hand he knew not, and though fighting could be heard all through the library, here at this end he stood alone.

He bowed his head a moment, looking first at Felorin's dead, surprised face, and then at young Baraz, whose grandfather had once taken Aekir. A single tear glittered under his eye, but his face was as set and stern as that of an ancient warrior on his sarcophagus. The kill-song of the tribes seemed to resonate in his mind, louder even than the sounds of fighting still echoing through the library. A fine, dark song to end with.

He would not call for help, not today.

Bardolin faced him while the wolf padded off to one side, circling. Corfe stood swaying and the Answerer seemed impossibly heavy in his good fist. He pointed the sword into the floor like a staff to steady himself and stared at the man who had been Golophin's protégé, his apprentice, his friend. He had, as the wizard had said, a soldier's face, and Corfe knew, looking at him, that at another time or in another world they would have been friends. He smiled. That other world awaited him now, and was not so far away.

Bardolin nodded as if he had spoken his thought aloud, but there was something else in his eye. It looked beyond Corfe, behind him -

The wolf attacked. Corfe, warned by the movement of Bardolin's eye, wheeled round, forgetting his pain. The Answerer jumped up, light as a bird again in his hand, and as the great beast's paws came raking down he stabbed inwards, felt the point break flesh and sink half a handspan, no more. The claws raked the flesh from his face and fell away. There was a shrieking bellow, like the sound of an animal caught in a trap, and the wolf tumbled to the ground stiffly as a felled tree. Before it hit the flags of the floor it was no longer an animal, but a naked man in old age. And Aruan lay there with blood trickling from a wound over his heart, and he lifted up his head, hatred burning out of his eyes. He aged as Corfe stood there, his face becoming lined and withered, his muscles melting away, his skin darkening like old leather. He dwindled to bare, sinew-frapped bone and his stare was lost in the twin orbits of an empty skull.

Corfe staggered. His flesh hung in rags below his eyes and the blood was pouring in a black stream down his breastplate. Now Bardolin strode forward, and his broadsword came up. His expression had not changed, and his face wore still a mask of gentle grief.

Corfe managed to beat aside his first lunge. The second smote his breastplate and knocked him backwards. He came up against a scribe's angled desk and knocked away a third.

"No!"

There was a sudden blazing radiance, and Golophin stepped between them with the werelight spilling out of his eyes and burning around his fists. He was breathing heavily, and even his breath seemed luminous. Bardolin retreated before him, though there was no fear in his eyes. "Get back, Golophin," he said calmly.

"We did not agree to this!"

"No matter. It is necessary. He must die, or else it has all been for nothing."

"I will not let you do this, Bardolin."

"Do not try to stop me. Not now, when we are so close. Aruan is gone - that was the bargain. But he must go too."

"No," Golophin said steadily, and the light in him increased.

Bardolin's cheeks were wet with tears. "So be it, master." He dropped his sword and out of him a light flooded to match Golophin's.

Corfe shielded his eyes. It seemed to him that there was stroke and counterstroke in the midst of a storm of whirling and leaping brilliances. Books caught fire and blazed to ashes, the stone floor was blackened, but he felt no heat. The ground under him trembled and shook.

The light winked out, and when Corfe had blinked away the searing afterimages he saw that Golophin was standing over a prostrate but conscious Bardolin, his chest moving in great heaves.

"I'm sorry, Bard," he said, and cocked one fist, upon which a globe of blue werelight shimmered like a broadhead trembling at full draw.

But then a shadow flew out of the gloom of the wrecked library, and as it approached it took on shape and definition until it seemed to Corfe to be a young girl with a head of heavy bronze-coloured hair. He shouted at Golophin but his voice was no more than a harsh croak in his throat. The girl-shadow sprang upon the old wizard's back and his head came back and he screamed shrilly. She seemed to melt into his body, and his werelight was sucked into a growing darkness near his heart. For a moment he metamorphosed into a writhing, grotesque pillar of wildly gyrating limbs and faces, and there was a last, blinding flash of light, and the pillar crumpled to the floor like a bundle of tortured rags.

T
HE ONLY SOUND
was the cutting rasp of Corfe's breathing. The air was heavy with the stink of the wolf, and another reek, like old burning. Corfe grasped his sword and crawled one-handed over to Golophin's body, but there was nothing there except a shredded robe. The fighting in the library seemed to have ended, and though men's voices could be heard far down the aisle of book-stacks none but the dead seemed to remain around him.

He crawled on, until he came across Bardolin's body in the gloom, and there he halted, utterly spent. It was done. It was over.

But Bardolin stirred beside him. He raised his head and Corfe saw his eyes glitter in the darkness, though no other part of him moved.

"Golophin?"

"He is dead."

Bardolin's head fell back and Corfe heard him weeping. Moved by some feeling he could not explain, he released his grip on the Answerer and took the wizard's hand.

"He could not do it, in the end," Bardolin whispered. "He could not betray you." Corfe said nothing, and Bardolin's fingers tightened about his own.

"There should have been a better way." He said in the same, wracked whisper. His eyes met Corfe's again. "There must be a better way. It cannot always be like this."

He looked away, and Corfe thought he could almost feel the life slipping out of him. It was growing lighter. The darkness outside the tall windows of the library was clearing. Lifting his eyes, Corfe saw a shard of blue sky breaking through the clouds far above. From farther down the library came the sound of men approaching, Torunnans by their speech.

"It will be different now," he told Bardolin. But the wizard was already dead.

O
UT ON THE
fuming expanse of the battlefield, the remnants of the Torunnan army had come together in a great circle, and were beleaguered there by a sea of foes while behind them Charibon burned unchecked, its smoke hiding the light of the sun. Around them were piled a monstrous mound of corpses, and the teeming regiments of the Himerians attacked with merciless persistence, men clambering over the bodies of the dead to come at each other. The Torunnan circle shrank inexorably as thousands upon thousands more of the enemy came up on all sides and the flyers beat black in the air above their heads, and within the dwindling circle men cast away hope, and resolved to sell their lives dearly, and their discipline held firm despite their shrinking numbers. They would make an end worth a song, if nothing else.

Another army came marching over the horizon out of the west, and the Torunnans watched its advance with black despair while the Himerians were inspired to fresh heights of violence. But the keen-eyed on the battlefield paused as they watched it, and suddenly a rumour and a strange hope swept the struggling tercios and regiments that battled there.

The approaching army opened out and shook into battle-line with the smooth efficiency of a machine. And now all on the western edge of the field could see that it was clad in black, and its soldiers carried pikes on their shoulders. As they drew near, the Himerian attack faltered, and the rumours grew until they were being shouted from man to man, and the Torunnans lifted their heads in wonder.

Thus the Fimbrian army, fifty thousand strong, came marching to the aid of their old foes the Torunnans, and the forces of the Second Empire took one look at that sable juggernaut, and began to flee.

Twenty-Three

T
HE SKY WAS
striped with the smoke of the burning. Charibon was aflame, and from the blazing wreck of its streets the clerics of the monastery city were streaming in black crowds, like nothing so much as rats fleeing their nest. The armies had encamped about the Citadel of the Knights to the south-west, and thousands of Torunnans and Fimbrians were lining the hills, watching as the capital of the Second Empire consumed itself.

On the battlements of the citadel, Comillan of the Cathedrallers, Marshal Kyne of the Orphans, and a pair of Fimbrian officers stood and watched. Couriers came and went, presenting despatch-scrolls to the silver-haired Fimbrian who wore a circlet on his head.

"And so it ends," he said with satisfaction. "A close-run thing, at the end. We were not sure if we would make it on time."

Comillan and Kyne said nothing. They were blackened and bloodied, painted dark with the residue of carnage. In their eyes were the memories of what they had seen and endured. They seemed to be staring at something far away. The silver-haired Fimbrian looked them up and down with his head tilted slightly to one side, a professional appraisal.

"He did well, gentlemen. He did what he came to do. He saved the west."

"No other could have done it," Comillan rasped, black eyes flashing.

"Had you been half a day quicker, he'd be standing here now, and half our army with him," Kyne said quietly.

"We did our best," the Fimbrian said with a shrug. "It was a hard march."

Comillan and Kyne looked at one another. There was something beaten in their eyes.

"If you'll excuse us, gentlemen, we must go. I have tercios mopping up in the south. We'll dine later." The silver-haired Fimrian bowed slightly and withdrew. His comrade leaned on the stone of the battlement after he had gone, and spat over the edge.

"Who is he?" Comillan asked the man.

"Him? Name's Briannon. He was Elector of Neyr once."

"What is he now?" Kyne asked.

"Well, as of a few weeks ago, he's been voted Emperor of Fimbria."