Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (19 page)

 
          
They
fought on, Calandryll's breath becoming ragged, perspiration shining on his
face, the saber growing heavier in his hand. He would have given up, acceded
victory, had pride not fueled his anger. Several times he thought he must win
through to score a hit, but somehow his blade was always turned, his attack
ending with the mercenary's blade slapping anew against side or chest or belly.

 
          
"I
think," Bracht said after a while, still smiling, his breathing even,
"that by now you'd be dead."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded despite himself and extended his sword. Bracht raised his left hand.

 
          
"Enough,
my friend. I'll concede that you're not without some talent."

 
          
"What?"

 
          
Calandryll
lowered the saber, gaping: it seemed Bracht had taught him how little he knew.
The Kern chuckled and said, "You've much to learn, but the makings are
there. Perhaps I can make a freesword of you before we reach Gessyth."

 
          
"You
withdraw your objections?"

 
          
Bracht
bowed and for a moment Calandryll thought he was mocked by the courtesy, but
then the Kern said, "You're not the milksop I thought—yes, I withdraw my
objections."

 
          
"And
you'll teach me bladework?"

 
          
"I'll
do my best,"
the Kem promised. "Now, let's drink some ale together to seal that
bargain."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded: he had, he felt, passed a test and now the freesword offered a measure
of friendship. He sought to accept the offer.

 
          
"I've
a thirst," he admitted.

 
          
"Then
let's slake it," Bracht said, sheathing his blade.

 
          
They
began to douse the lanterns, working their way from the rear of the bam toward
the door. They were halfway along the wide aisle, the rearward portion
shadowed, when Calandryll caught the waft of almonds on the dusty air. He
turned, staring about, anticipating the appearance of Varent, but the
ambassador was nowhere in sight. The odor grew stronger and he saw the air
between his position and the door shimmer, the silvery moonlight rippling with
a mercurial insubstantiality.

 
          
"What
is it?"

 
          
Bracht
appeared to sense his apprehension, swinging to face him with a hand on the
falchion's hilt, his swarthy features alert.

 
          
"I
am not sure." Calandryll pointed to where the shimmering air began to
coalesce. "Magic, I think."

 
          
Bracht
followed his gesture and mouthed a low-voiced curse as his sword slid free;
Calandryll gasped, raising Varent's saber.

 
          
The
air no longer shimmered, but grew solid, figures fashioned from the depths of
darkest nightmare talcing form. There were four of them, shaped in obscene
semblance of men, but lacking any element of humanity. Wolfish heads sat on
bullish necks, those columns descending into massive shoulders, like the arms,
corded with muscle that bulged the grey, reptilian skin. From the hips extended
long legs, feathered and birdlike, ending in scaled yellow feet from which
jutted curved talons. The creatures' eyes were red, and their jaws were lined
with fangs, parting to emit slimy streamers of luteous drool. Each one held a
long, black-bladed sword. The smell of almonds gave way to a midden stink as
the hideous quarter advanced.

 
          
Calandryll
stared, horrified. Bracht snatched the lantern he had been on the point of
dousing and hurled it at the centermost abomination.

 
          
The
fragile glass shattered, bathing the monster with oil that ignited, flame
washing over the grey torso, wreathing the furred skull in a corona of fire.
The thing
flung back its head and roared an earsplitting bellow of pain
and fury, its midnight blade scything wildly as it stumbled against its
companions, interrupting their advance. Bracht shouted a challenge and sprang
to the attack, his falchion slicing deep across the chest of the closest monstrosity,
the cut sending a spray of black blood high into the air. The beast ignored the
wound, bringing its sword round in a sweeping arc that would likely have
severed the Kem's neck had he not ducked beneath the swing to drive his own
blade into the feathered abdomen. His wrist twisted as he withdrew the
falchion, opening a gaping wound in the apparition's belly, the black blood
pulsing in thick gouts that seethed where they splashed over the floor.

 
          
The
burning horror still staggered, still roared, as its skin crisped, peeling from
the Dones, and for long moments Calandryll could only stare, frozen in disgust.
Then a black sword swung toward his face and he reacted without thought: the
saber rose, deflecting the blow, though the force of it jarred his arm. He cut
again as the sword was swept to the side, gagging on the stench of the awful
thing as he stepped close, slashing across the ribs. Saliva splattered his
cheek, burning, and he ducked, dancing clear of a blow that shivered great
splinters from one of the barn's uprights. Red eyes empty of any emotion save
hate stared at him as a third cut arched at his chest. He parried, feeling his
blade knocked away, and the creature snarled in triumph as it drew back its
massive arm, pre- patory to spitting him. He flung himself to the side, barely
evading the thrust, and the ebon sword imbedded deep in the splintered pillar.
Faster than he had believed he could react, he brought the saber up in a
two-handed grip; and down as if the sword were an ax.

 
          
The
thick wrist was severed, the hairy grey hand still clutching the hilt as it was
parted from the arm. A thick jet of the black blood spurted from the stump and
the monster, propelled by its own inertia, staggered forward. Calandryll
reversed his stroke, the saber rising to intersect the rib cage. A shriek of
outrage dinned against his ears as the beast toppled; then became a grunt as he
drove the saber into the exposed back, twisting savagely, experiencing a
fierce, bloody pleasure as he felt the blade grate on bone.

 
          
He
spun, seeing Bracht carve a gory wound across the chest of the fourth
monstrosity, dancing back as the gutted beast attacked from the side. The thing
should have been dead: entrails hung stinking from the raw-lipped opening in
its belly and its leathery torso was curtained with the outpouring from
Bracht's first stroke. It still moved, however, joining its companion to press
the Kem hard, back along the bam. The burning creature stood in flames,
howling, its sword dropped as it clawed at its chest and face, blunt nails
tearing loose long strips of hide, its blood sizzling noisome. Calandryll
ignored it, darting to Bracht's aid.

 
          
He
saw the mercenary parry an attack and hack ms falchion viciously across a
reptilian belly, spinning as the second blade angled at his skull, turning that
blow to step inside the monster's reach and ram his sword between the ribs. He
pivoted, dragging the abomination with him as he yanked his weapon clear,
pome
darting between opened jaws to plunge deep into the throat. Calandryll
attacked from behind: a double-handed blow that clove down into the shoulder.
His victim snarled and spun to face him: the saber was tom from his grasp,
point jutting from the thing's chest. He leaped back. Bracht, still engaged
with the hideously wounded brute, shouted, "Behind you!" and he
turned again to find the aberration he had thought he had slain advancing.

 
          
Black
blood welled from the sundered ribs and the feathered legs were slimed with the
stuff, the taloned feet leaving seething imprints on the floor as it came
forward. Both arms were outthrust, the stump of the wrist sending thin spurts
of blood at his face, the remaining hand clawed, ready to seize him and drag
him in range of the champing jaws. Charnel breath offended his nostrils and he
sensed more than he heard the whistle of the sword that descended at his back
and flung himself sideways.

 
          
He
landed heavily against a stall as the sword struck the stone floor of the bam,
sparks showering in pyrotechnic display, and for an instant the two awful
creatures faced one another. Then both turned toward Calandryll.

 
          
He
pushed away from the stall, running back along the aisle. It seemed the
perverted beasts were impervious to wounds: Bracht still fought with a creature
that bled from its ravaged throat, bone showing where the falchion had opened
its ribs, great gashes across its belly; the two that lumbered after him should
be dead: one was split from abdomen to sternum, the other wore Varent's saber
in its back. But all lived. The only one that took no part in the battle was
the creature Bracht had set aflame: that had ceased its howling and now lay in
a crumpled, charring mass at the center of the bam. Calandryll snatched a
lantern from its peg and flung it at the armed monstrosity.

 
          
Savage
delight filled him as burning oil bathed the aberration in long tongues of
flame. He saw its advance falter, the lupine jaws part in a roar of agony: he
took a second lantern and hurled it at the handless beast. That, in turn,
yowled and began to beat at the fire that wreathed its grey torso. Swiftly, he
darted across the aisle, grabbing a third lantern, a fourth, sending them both
in whirling arcs at the flaming horrors.

 
          
The
barn was abruptly lit with hellish effulgence. Pale moonlight was lost in the glow
of the ghastly living torches that roared and staggered in an agonized dance
that filled the place with flickering red light, shadows capering wildly as the
jet sword flailed, striking the unarmed monstrosity.

 
          
He
looked to Bracht. The mercenary was agile as a cat, and his proficiency with a
blade was indisputable, but the ghastly thing that pressed him was
supematurally strong, and undaunted by its wounds. Pure sword skill kept the
Kern alive, but in time even he must tire, and then fall victim to the sweeping
blows of the black sword. Calandryll glanced round: there were no more
lanterns. He could think of nothing save to shout, “Fire slays them!"

 
          
Bracht
answered with a tight grin, sidestepping a blow that would have gutted a slower
man, and danced backward. The abomination came after him: he parried a cut and
retreated down the bam. The monster followed: Bracht paused, luring it on. He
parried a vicious attack, riposted a cut to the belly, and continued his
retreat.

 
          
Each
dancing, backward step brought him closer to the flaming creatures. Calandryll
shouted, “Ware the flames!" and he risked a glance at the burning
monsters.

 
          
The
survivor scuttled forward, jet blade raised high. Calandryll screamed,
"No!" as Bracht seemed to slip on the seething floor, lurching a step
back, then falling to his knees as the dark sword descended. The Kem rolled,
falchion ramming upward into the monster's feathery groin, the force of the
thrust combining with the momentum of the beast's own attack to lift it off its
feet, tumbling it over the mercenary into its burning companions. It toppled
against the closest creature, embracing the
thing
as it fought to regain its balance, howling as it
felt the fire touch its hide. Its howling grew fiercer as the flames took hold
and it spun in a wild circle, black sword striking the other, that in turn
flailing mindlessly so that for a moment the two things fought one
another."

 
          
Bracht
rose smoothly to his feet, poised to counter an attack that failed to
materialize. Instead, all three creatures staggered in helpless circles,
ripping at their own skin, dark blood spitting and sizzling, the wounds they
opened in themselves seeming to fuel the flames until they fell down, wailing
now, and cmmpled into ash.

 
          
Through
the stink of their spilled blood Calandryll caught the waft of almonds and saw
the fiery air shimmer. Then, suddenly as they had come, they were gone The
scent of almonds faded; the stench of burning blood dissipated. Clean moonlight
lit the bam and the air once more smelled of hay and leather. It was as if no
battle had been fought.

 
          
"Ahrd!"
Bracht sighed, shaking his head. "What were those things?"

 
          
Calandryll
shrugged. Varent's saber lay unsullied on the floor and he stooped to retrieve
the blade. It should have been nicked, should have been stained, but it was
pristine. He looked to where the dark sword had imbedded in the pillar, but
that, too, was gone, the wood unmarked where it had struck. He shook his head,
staring at Bracht. Then felt his belly roil and doubled over, emptying his
dinner onto the stone.