The Complete Empire Trilogy (124 page)

Acoma soldiers leaped and threw their weight against the furniture used as shoring, but their efforts availed nothing. The second blow struck. Wood exploded into splinters as furnishings and bar and doors gave way, and the ram burst into the room. The invaders who manned its weight fell forward to allow ranks of swordsmen behind to spring over their backs.

The attackers who poured through the breached door wore black. Dark cloth also veiled their faces. As the leader waved his killers onward, Lujan glimpsed the dyed palm
chat identified a hired assassin of the Hamoi tong. Then battle closed between his own combined troops and the enemy. Sword met sword with an unnatural, belling clang. As Mara’s Force Commander parried and thrust to defend, he realized: some of these tong carried metal swords, a rarity in the Empire. Valued beyond measure, such weapons were never risked in combat, despite their deadly ability to cut through laminated Tsurani armour.

A Bontura warrior went down, pierced through his breastplate. Lujan switched tactics, using his bracer to deflect the stabbing sword point. He called out a warning to his warriors, and two assassins fell before they were six feet into the room. Ordinary blades could not withstand repeated impacts. Metal carved chips from the edges and shattered good resin with cracks. Six Acoma guards went down, and Lujan’s men fell back in a race to stop the enemy from gaining the door that connected the outer room to the inner complex. The battle became a two-sided struggle between the doorposts as the remaining Acoma guards, with Bontura and Xacatecas allies, jammed together to defend the rulers who huddled behind a wall of jumbled furniture.

At his Lady’s side stood Kevin, his eyes on the outside windows in the farthest, innermost chamber. The frames bounced and shivered, and plaster cracked from the sills, as the axe blows continued from outside. Warriors hammered reinforcements into place: planks ripped at need from screen tracks, shelving, and carry boxes. The shoring would delay the invasion only by minutes, and the frontal attackers were gaining. Within minutes of the first assault, the tong members were joined by an influx of black-armoured warriors who carried no house badges or colours.

Kevin weighed the odds and decided. The barricade of furnishings would not withstand assault from three sides. To Mara he said, ‘Lady, quickly, move over into that corner.’

The Lord of the Bontura watched wide-eyed as she arose and changed her position. ‘You would listen to a barbarian slave?’

Hoppara had better grace. ‘The man speaks sense, Lord Iliando. If we stay, we’ll soon be surrounded.’ The Lord of the Xacatecas moved to join Mara, then glared long and levelly at Iliando until the fighting edged nearer and the first of the windows gave way. In the instant before more assailants flooded the rear room, the stout older ruler relented.

The two Lords drew blades and positioned themselves before Mara. Kevin stayed close, but a clear step ahead, enough to move should the need arise.

The battle in the outer room intensified; there was no way to guess how many attackers entered through the breached front door. The clack and uncanny clang of metal sword meeting laminate came fast and furious, mingled with horrible cries. Defenders from the inner room rushed in two directions, some to stay the frontal onslaught and others to stave off the influx of assailants who shoved to gain access through the torn window; while at the second window the axe blows suddenly ceased.

Kevin cocked his head. Through the bang and crash of the mêlée he heard a faint scrape, through the wall at his back. ‘Gods! Someone’s found a way into the sleeping chamber!’

He hesitated, then rushed to the screen that gave access to the hall. One lamp burned, washing the corridor in a wavering interplay of shadow and light. Kevin advanced. His bare feet sensed vibrations through the wooden floor: warriors falling, and the blows of another axe. He hugged the wall by the bedchamber door, waiting, his hand on the meat knife concealed inside his robe.

A man in black armour charged through. Kevin swung around. He drove a knee into the man’s groin, then stabbed the meat knife through the hollow of the neck beneath the
chin strap. Blood ran hot over his hands as he thrust the shuddering, dying body backwards into another man who followed. Both warriors fell with a crash.

There were more, coming in a wave. Kevin cried, ‘Lujan! Back here!’

Aware that help might never come, the Midkemian crouched, dagger raised to meet the black-armoured man who jumped over the fallen pair. Lamplight flickered over a levelled sword, too long for a short blade to thrust past, and thrusting too hard to parry. Kevin backstepped into the room. The black warrior lunged.

Kevin jumped, and all but tumbled over backwards. The sword grazed the cloth over his stomach. Off balance, sure the next strike would kill him, the Midkemian flailed to stab the wrist above the man’s sword guard.

But the knife grazed flesh and bounced off the enemy’s bracer. Kevin gasped a curse, tensing to take the killing blow. Then the Lord of the Xacatecas shoved out of the corner and drove his sword into the man’s back. The black warrior stiffened. His locked legs skidded across the floorboards and his eyes rolled back as he collapsed.

Another black-clothed assassin charged from the depths of the hall.

‘My Lord! Look out!’ Kevin cried.

Hoppara spun, his guard up barely in time. The enemy blade did not spit him, but grated edge to edge in a grinding contest of strength. Metal carved the rim of the young Lord’s chest armour, gouging a groove in the plate. Hoppara grimaced in pain. He turned his wrist in a disengage, twisted, and returned a ringing blow to the side of his assailant’s head. The unarmoured tong assassin staggered dizzily back.

From the opened hallway dashed more dark-clad enemies. The Lord of the Bontura threw his stout weight into the fray. And Mara was alone, exposed in the corner.
Kevin ducked the swing of swords and crashed into a black-armoured elbow. His hand on the meat knife was slick with blood. His grip slipped as he stabbed. The enemy fell writhing between him and his Lady.

Then a pair of axes bit through wooden bracing, and the shutters behind Kevin burst inward. Plaster puffed from the wall as the heavy panels struck and rebounded, to be bashed back again by dyed fists. More tong assassins in black clothing swarmed through. Unencumbered by armour, they leaped to the sill, swords drawn from scabbards in one fluid motion. Kevin grasped the lead man’s wrist. The sword descended. He ducked sideways and jerked mightily. The assassin catapulted through the window. Both men overbalanced. In the rolling tumble as they struck the floor, Kevin’s short knife held the advantage. He stabbed before the enemy could turn his longer weapon.

Dead man and slave hammered hard into the barrier of furniture. Impact jammed the meat knife into the corpse’s sternum. Kevin yanked, with futile result, then abandoned the blade and snatched the sword from dying fingers.

Spinning, on his feet cat-fast, Kevin brought up the sword. Blade struck blade, deflecting a cut coming fast at his neck. A ringing clang met the impact, not the dull thud he expected. Kevin laughed aloud. He held a metal blade. The gods knew how, on this world that had no ores – but this was a weapon he knew.

Kevin lashed out with the strange sword and quickly found its balance. Long as a broadsword, but finely made, the blade handled with murderous ease despite the slightly curved edge.

The first man Kevin engaged stumbled back in confusion before this alien slave who knew his way with a sword. Then the eyes behind the black mask narrowed. The assassin recovered poise and fought back. Slammed by a fast reach
and practised parries, Kevin realized he faced an equal weapon and an opponent of greater skill.

Then a green-clad warrior was at his side, and another sword was harrying the assassin’s flank. Shoulder to shoulder, slave and Acoma soldier beat the tong back toward the hall. The man had a sword arm like lightning. Parry after parry, he deflected the strokes that sought his life. The Acoma warrior missed his footing, and staggered a half-step sideways. A weighted cord snapped through the splintered window and circled his unarmoured throat. He dropped his sword, fingers clawing at his neck as he strangled. As he buckled and crashed to his knees, the tong assassin who had wielded the throwing garrotte leaped through.

A second Acoma warrior and another in Bontura colours charged to take him. Alone and beaten backwards by his original foe, Kevin skidded helplessly to the side. Luck favoured him. The assassin mired a heel in a cushion flung from somewhere; he slipped, and Kevin took him in a thrust under the armpit.

The Midkemian yanked his blade clear. He cast about and saw the Lord of the Xacatecas backed against the wall by a black warrior. The stout man somehow warded off a stroke that should have killed him – as the next one surely would. Not so fast as the assassin, the Lord was still deadly quick. Kevin rushed the black-armoured warrior and struck him full from behind. Metal slid through laminated armour with a slap like a melon being punctured. The enemy died, choking on blood. Kevin leaped clear and came to stand before Mara, sword at the ready. Hoppara had stationed himself by the window; a wad of blood-sodden black lay jammed across the sill: the most recent assassin who tried to enter.

Breathing hard, and running with sweat, Kevin took stock. An insane three-way battle raged in the tiny
apartment. Knots of black warriors and robed Hamoi tong thrashed and strained and wrestled to tear down beleaguered defenders. A tong assassin broke free of the fray, spied Mara, and snapped a hand to his belt sash. A knife was going to follow, Kevin knew with a rise of the hair at his nape.

Even as the assassin moved to throw, the Midkemian had a handful of Mara’s robe. He let himself collapse, and his weight dragged her down, just as the assassin let fly. The knife thudded into the wall, kicking up grains of burst plaster. Kevin felt a yank at his shirt. He saw the pinned fold of his robe, then felt his left arm slung up at an awkward angle.

Mara lay beneath him, gasping for breath against the press of his weight. The assassin saw his opening. He leaped in, and his raised sword flicked shadow across both victims’ faces. Kevin twisted. Cloth tore with a scream as he threw his sword, point first, at the assassin. The blade caught the man in the stomach. He doubled, slammed to his knees, and pitched forward. The sword flew from his hand and skidded to stab into the skirting board. Kevin freed the last shred of his robe, then jerked the still-quivering blade from the wood.

He reached his feet just as another assassin shouldered through the window and bounded into the room. Kevin’s stroke decapitated him in midair. The corpse slammed down, spraying blood, while the head bounced with a sick, wet thump across the floor.

The head rolled on and slapped into a black-armoured warrior who charged through the rear doorway. Kevin spun to meet him. The warrior hesitated only an instant, then levelled his weapon at Kevin. The Midkemian braced for the sword blow, but belatedly realized: the man would not cross blades with a slave. In bull-mad Tsurani outrage, he chose to use his armoured bulk to smash an upstart barbarian to a pulp.

Too late, Kevin tried to sidestep. The enemy rammed him, knocking breath from his lungs and driving him backwards into the gloom of the hall. His back met heaving bodies. A vicious struggle raged between an invading mass of tong and Lujan’s most disciplined defenders. Kevin rolled left as the heavily armoured warrior crashed atop him. Half-crushed by his opponent’s sword arm, and aware by a repeated jerk beneath his flank that he had managed to fall on the flat of his enemy’s blade, Kevin struggled. He could not win free, and his own sword and hand were pinned against the wall. But neither could the other man succeed in grappling his weapon back. The warrior had no choice but to let go of the hilt and slam ineffectively at the slave’s exposed face. Kevin tried to chop at the man’s neck, but his efforts won him only a skinned elbow.

Then Kevin saw his opening. He threw his weight into his assailant and rolled him onto his back. Pulling upward, Kevin dragged his arm across the man’s throat; the sword followed, slicing deep. Throat strap, gristle, and cartilage parted. The warrior thrashed and died.

Buffeted by other fighters, Kevin extricated himself from the corpse. He ducked an assassin, raced back into the main room, and tried to locate Mara. Hoppara battled an armoured man by the furniture barricade. A Hamoi assassin was besting the fatigued Lord of the Bontura. Kevin slashed the man’s black-clothed flank and stepped past. Mara was nowhere to be seen. Leaving Lord Iliando to dispatch the wounded assassin, Kevin raced into the hallway that connected the suite to the garden. Two rooms proved empty. A corpse twitched in the third; another black-armoured soldier stared with blank eyes from the bed.

Kevin all but hurled himself through the screen into the last room. There he found Mara backed against a wall, holding a dagger, her robes spattered with fresh blood. His panic found no time for outcry. Two men in black armour
were closing in, leaving her no gap to flee. One man showed a nasty cut on his sword arm; already Mara had taught them to treat her with respect.

An animal cry of outrage erupted from Kevin as he surged into the room. The first warrior died before he had time to turn. The second backed a half-step, then stiffened as Mara drove her dagger into the gap between neck and helm.

Kevin spun left, then right, seeking the presence of more opponents. A warm weight crashed into his chest: Mara. She did not weep, but simply clung inside the circle of his arm, trembling with fear and exhaustion. He held her tightly, his sword still angled to fight.