Furies of Calderon (71 page)

“There!” Amara cried, grabbing at Pirellus’s arm. “The one who shot me! He’s covered with a wood-crafting and headed for the gates.” She pointed at a flickering over at one side of the courtyard, hardly visible behind the struggling
legionares
with their backs to the gate.

“I see him,” Pirellus replied. He glanced down at Amara and said, “The Stead-holder exhausted himself with that wood-crafting. Good luck.” Then he rose and stalked out into din and whirl and scream of the fight in the courtyard.

Amara looked behind her to find Bernard sitting where she had left him, his eyes open but not focused, his chest heaving with labored breaths. She went to his side and took her canteen from her belt, pressing it against his hands. “Here, Bernard. Drink.”

He obeyed, numbly, and she remained beside him, turning to watch the fight. The
legionares
were having a hard time of it. Even as she watched, a giant of a swordsman, Aldrick ex Gladius, closed in on the shieldwall, swept one blade aside, danced past another, and killed a man in the center of the line with a sweeping cut that sheered through his helmet and skull, dropping him to the ground on immediately senseless legs. Without pausing, he engaged the two men on either side of the first. One of the men moved quickly and got away with no more than a crippling thrust to his biceps. The other lifted his shield too high in a parry, and Aldrick spun, sweeping his leg off at the knee. The man screamed and toppled, and the mercenaries surged forward hard against the shields.

Pirellus appeared among the Legion ranks, his black blade flickering. One of the Knights Aeris, his dive too low, clutched at his belly with a sudden scream, and tumbled to the courtyard. One of the mercenaries on the ground, wielding a forty-pound maul in one hand as though it weighed no more than a willow switch, swung his huge weapon at Pirellus. The Knight commander slipped to one side with a deceptively lazy motion, and his return blow struck off the man’s hand at the wrist. The maul fell heavily to the ground. A third mercenary darted his blade at Pirellus, only to be parried and almost casually disarmed, the sword tumbling end over end to rattle against the wall of the stable not far from Amara.

“Fall back to the gate!” came Aldrick’s bellow. “Fall back!” The mercenaries retreated, quickly, dragging their wounded with them, but a similar shout from Pirellus caused the Legion troops to halt their advance as well. Neither Aldrick nor Pirellus retreated, leaving the two men standing a pair of long steps apart.

Pirellus extended his blade toward Aldrick and then swept it up before his face in a gliding salute, which Aldrick mirrored. Then the two men dropped into a relaxed on guard position.

“Aldrick ex Gladius,” Pirellus said. “I’ve heard about you. The Crown has a pretty bounty on your head.”

“I’ll be sure to check the wanted posters next time I go through a town,” Aldrick responded. “Do you want to settle this, or do you need me to go through another few dozen of your
legionares
?”

“My name is Pirellus of the Black Blade,” Pirellus said. “And I’m the man who will end your career.”

Aldrick shrugged. “Never heard of you, kid. You’re not Araris.”

Pirellus scowled and moved, a sudden liquid blur of muscle and steel. Aldrick parried the Parcian’s first thrust in a sudden shower of silver sparks, countered with one of his own that proved to be a feint, and whirled in circle, blade lashing out. Pirellus ducked under it, though the blow struck sparks from his helmet and clove away part of its crest, to lie glowing and smoldering on the straw-strewn ground.

The two men faced one another again, and Pirellus smiled. “Fast for an old man,” he said. “But you missed.”

Aldrick said nothing. A heartbeat later, a slow trickle of blood dribbled down from beneath the rim of Pirellus’s helmet, and toward his eye.

The swordsman must have driven the helmet’s rim into the cut Pirellus had taken earlier, Amara reasoned, opening it again.

Now Aldrick smiled. Pirellus’s face had gone sallow beneath his brown skin. He lifted his lips at Aldrick and came forward, sword lashing out in swift blows, high, low, high again. Aldrick parried him in showers of silver sparks. The swordsman shifted onto the offensive himself, blade sweeping in short, hard cuts at the smaller warrior. Pirellus’s black blade intercepted each blow, sparks of a purple so dark as to hardly be visible exploding at each point of impact. The blows drove the Parcian back a number of steps, and Aldrick pressed forward ruthlessly.

As Amara watched, Pirellus almost took down the swordsman. He slipped beneath a cut, slammed the swordsman’s arm aside with his open hand, and drove his blade at Aldrick’s belly. Aldrick twisted aside, and the Parcian’s blade struck more dark sparks from Aldrick’s armor, cutting through it like paper. The thrust missed, though it drew blood in a long scarlet line across Aldrick’s belly. Aldrick recovered, parrying another thrust, and another, while Pirellus followed him up with determined strokes.

The swordsman seemed, to Amara, to be waiting for something. It became apparent what, in the next few seconds. Blood, running over Pirellus’s eye, forced him to blink it closed, and he snapped his head to one side in an effort to clear it.

In that moment, the swordsman moved. Aldrick slipped inside the Parcian’s slow thrust and lashed out with his foot in a short, hard kick, a simple stomp, as though he’d been driving a spade into the earth. But it wasn’t a spade his boot hit. It was Pirellus’s already wounded knee. The bones broke with a clean, sharp crack, and Aldrick drove his shoulder into Pirellus’s, throwing him to one side.

The Knight Commander’s face showed nothing but determination, but as he stumbled, he put weight on his knee, and it simply could not support his body any longer. He crumpled to the ground, turning for another cut at Aldrick as the swordsman stepped toward him.

Aldrick parried the blow aside with casual power, more indigo sparks erupting.

Then, with a step to one side and a swift cut, he took Pirellus’s head from his shoulders.

Blood spurted in an arch as the Knight Commander’s body fell to the stones of the courtyard. His head rolled to a stop several yards away. His body lay twitching, his sword arm, even in death, slashing left and right.

Amara stared at the fallen Knight in horror, as her instincts screamed at her, forced her to remember that Fidelias was still on the move and had not been stopped. She rose, uncertain what she could do to stop what was happening in the courtyard. Aldrick turned on a heel and, without even pausing, began to stalk, alone, toward the
legionares
guarding the gates.

Before he could reach them, the wood of the barricade groaned, let out a tortured scream, and began to warp and writhe. Splinters and shards of wood exploded out, sending
legionares
reeling back from them in stunned horror. Then the wood itself began to writhe and move, the legs of tables twisting and clutching, planks shattering, the wagon letting out a tortured scream and then collapsing upon itself.

The Marat, on the other side, began to shove hard against the barricade, and without the hastily constructed stability of the various pieces, the barricade itself began to wobble and crumble in.

Fidelias appeared, not far from Aldrick, and then turned to signal one of the Knights in the air. The man swept down and grabbed Fidelias beneath the arms, lifting him back to the roof of the barracks, and Aldrick ex Gladius stepped over Pirellus’s fallen corpse to lead the other handful of mercenaries after them.

The
legionares
at the gate formed up to face the incoming Marat, but the invaders leapt on them with an unyielding savagery and began to drive the men near the gates back step by slow step.

Amara rose and rushed into the stable to shout to the archers, “Take up a shield and sword! Hold the gate!” Men rushed about in the stable’s interior, taking up weapons and rushing outside to join the defense at the gate.

When Amara returned to Bernard, he had regained his feet. “What’s happening?”

“Their Knights came in. We bloodied them, but they managed to weaken the barricade. Pirellus is dead.” She looked at him. “I’m not a soldier. What do we do?”

“Giraldi,” Bernard said. “Get to Giraldi. He’ll send more men to reinforce the gates. Go, I’m not up to running yet.”

Amara nodded, and fled, sprinting across the courtyard and up the steps to the wall. The fighting there was more hectic, and she stepped over the body of a Marat, proof that they had gained purchase on the wall at least once.

“Giraldi!” she shouted, when she reached the command area over the gates. “Where are you?”

A grim Legion shieldman, his face half-masked in blood turned to her. It was Giraldi, his eyes calm despite the bloodied sword in his hands. “Countess? You said you were looking for the horde-master. And there he is, finally,” grunted Giraldi. “There, see?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Amara said, her voice numb. “Pirellus is dead.”

“Crows,” Giraldi said, but his voice was too tired for it to be much of an oath. “Just seems like someone should pay him back for this.”

Amara lifted her head, something hot and hard and terrible pulsing in her belly. The fear, she realized, had vanished. She was too tired to be afraid, too
afraid
to be afraid anymore. There was a sort of relaxation that came with inevitability, she realized, a sort of mad, silent strength. “Which one is he?”

“There,” Giraldi said, pointing. An arrow shattered on his shield, and he didn’t flinch, as though he was too tired to let it bother him. “See, the tall one with the birds all around him and the Aleran spear.”

Amara focused on him and saw the Marat horde-master for the first time. He was marching steadily through the ranks of Marat hurling themselves against the walls, his chin lifted, an arrogant smirk on his mouth. Black feathers had been braided into his pale hair, and several of the herd-bane stalked behind him like some deadly guard of honor. Other troops went before, chanting.

The horde-master’s troops began to part for him, crying out in a steady chant as they did. “Atsurak! Atsurak! Atsurak!”

Amara brought up Cirrus in a vision-crafting, determined to learn this man’s features, to find him and at all costs to kill him for leading the horde against them this day. She memorized the shape of his nose and cruel mouth, the steady breadth of his shoulders beneath a thanadent-hide cowl, the—

Amara caught her breath, staring, and willed Cirrus to bring her vision even closer to the horde-master. Riding at his hip, through a thin braided twist of cord he used as a belt, was the signet dagger of an Aleran High Lord, its gold and silver hilt gleaming in the morning sun. Even as Amara stared, Cirrus let her see the dagger’s hilt, the crest wrought in steel upon it Aquitaine’s falcon

“Furies,” she breathed. Aquitaine. Aquitaine himself. No one more powerful in the realm save the First Lord Aquitaine’s Knights, then, Aquitaine who subverted Fidelias, Aquitaine who had attempted to gain knowledge of the palace from her, in order to—

In order to kill. Gains. He means to take the throne for himself.

Amara swallowed. She had to recover that dagger at any cost. To bring such a damning piece of evidence before the Senate would finish Aquitaine and terrify anyone working with him into loyalty again. She could prove who the
true
culprit behind today’s vicious deaths had been, and though she had thought she hated the horde-master now striding toward the buckling defenses of Garrison’s gates, she felt a sudden and furious rage against the man whose ambitions had engineered the events of the past several days. But could she do it? Could she recover the dagger?

She had to try. She now realized why Fidelias had wanted her out of the fortress. He had wanted to hide this very thing from her, knowing full well that only she and perhaps two or three other people in the fortress would recognize the signet dagger for what it was. She shook her head, forcing her thoughts to focus, to take one thing at a time. “Giraldi! We need reinforcements,” she stammered. “The gate is about to fall!”

Giraldi grimaced, and as she watched, his face fell, the lines in it deepening, making him look as though he had aged years in the space of a breath. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, and jerked his chin toward the field below the fortress. “Look.”

Amara looked, and when she did, the strength went out of her legs. She leaned hard against the battlements, her head swimming, her heart pounding in light, irregular beats.

“No,” she breathed. “No. It’s not fair.”

Out on the plain, beyond the savage horde of Marat below, there had come another horde, every bit as large as the first. This one included elements of cavalry, though she could make out little beyond that. Cavalry, useless for taking a fortified position, but the ideal troops for raiding into an enemy’s lands. Fast, deadly, destructive. The sheer numbers of the newly arrived enemy had, she knew, abruptly changed the fight from a desperate battle to a hopeless one. She looked up at Giraldi and saw it in his eyes.

“We can’t win,” she said. “We can’t hold.”

“Against
that
?” He shook his head. He took his helmet off and wiped sweat from his brow, replacing it as arrows buzzed through the air.

She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking. The tears were hot and bitter. A stone-headed arrow shattered on the merlon above her, but she didn’t care.

Amara looked up at the Marat, at Atsurak about to take the gates, at the enormous number of Marat still fresh and unbloodied, now moving quickly over the plains toward the fortress. “Hold,” she told Giraldi. “Hold as long as you can. Send someone to make sure the Civilians have started running. Tell the wounded to arm themselves to fight as best they can. Tell them—” She swallowed. “Tell them it looks bad.”

“Yes, Countess,” Giraldi said, his voice numb. “Heh. I always figured my last order would be ‘pass me another slice of roast’!”

He gave her a grim smile, turned to swing his sword at a climbing Marat almost absently, and headed off to follow her commands.