David Weber - How firm a foundation

“That’s… ridiculous,” Sahndahl managed, feeling his hand creep to the sword at his side.

“Oh, come now, Colonel!” Athrawes chided gently. “You know I’m telling you the truth. Clyntahn’s decided murdering Daivyn may destabilize Corisande again. Especially if he can blame it on Charis… again.”

Those blue eyes were even colder than his smile, a fragment of Sahndahl’s mind observed.

“Lies! Lies! ” Vandaik shouted suddenly from behind Sahndahl. “This man is an acknowledged heretic and blasphemer-an enemy of God Himself! How can you even consider the possibility he might be telling the truth?!”

“Ah, now there’s the problem, isn’t it, Father Gaisbyrt?” Athrawes asked, and the Schuelerite stiffened at the revelation that the Charisian knew his name. “And a bit of a problem for Father Zhames and Father Arthyr and Brother Bahldwyn and Brother Zhilbyrt, too, isn’t it?” the heretic continued, naming each of the inquisitors in turn. “Because you know they are considering it, don’t you, Father? Thanks to that butcher in Zion you serve, everyone’s considering it, aren’t they, Father?”

“Lies!” Vandaik screamed. “Yield now, heretic, or die!”

“Let me see.” Athrawes tilted his head to one side, eyes contemptuous. “Surrender, and be tortured to death later for Clyntahn’s amusement, or die now, seeing how many of his inquisitors-and their flunkies I’m afraid, Colonel,” he added, eyes flitting back to Sahndahl, “I can kill first. Let me see, let me see. Which one should I choose…?”

“Heretic bastard! ” Vandaik screamed. “Do your duty, Sahndahl! Seize him! Seize him and all the others, as well, or answer to Mother Church!”

“I-” Sahndahl half drew his sword, then froze as Athrawes waved an index finger at him like a chiding tutor. The Charisian Guardsman’s sheer force of will seemed to freeze all of Sahndahl’s men. It certainly froze the colonel himself!

“If you try to execute that order, or to seize Prince Daivyn or Princess Irys, or to prevent them in any way from leaving this castle of their own free will, Colonel, a lot of people are going to die.” There was no humor at all in Athrawes’ voice. “Most of them will be yours.” He looked very levelly into Sahndahl’s eyes. “I have no desire to kill any man simply because he has the misfortune to serve a corrupt and evil master, but the choice is yours. Stand aside, or try to take us. Live or die, Colonel. Make the choice.”

“He’s insane! ” Irys Daykyn whispered, watching from the third-floor window, listening to the conversation with Earl Coris’ arm around her shoulders. “My God, he’s out of his mind!”

“Maybe he is,” the earl replied, shaking his head, but there was something very like admiration in his tone. “Maybe he is, but, Langhorne, it feels good to hear someone take one of those sanctimonious pricks on in public!”

Irys’ head turned. She looked up at Coris’ profile, and her eyes widened as she saw the fierce, triumphant grin on her guardian’s face.

“You like him!” she said almost accusingly.

“Like him?” Coris cocked his head consideringly. “Maybe. I don’t know about that, Irys, but by God you’ve got to admire his style! ”

“That’s bold talk for one man alone standing in front of fifty,” Sahndahl replied at last.

“There’re good men enough standing behind me,” Athrawes said evenly, “and you’re standing in front of me. If you want to survive this night, Colonel, be somewhere else. Now.”

Sahndahl stared at him, ice crawling through his veins as he digested the total certitude in the Charisian’s voice and remembered all the fantastic tales about “ Seijin Merlin.” But the colonel was a veteran. He recognized tall tales and impossible legends when he heard them. And he was no coward. It was entirely possible Athrawes might kill him, especially at such a short range, but not even a seijin could defeat forty-five Royal Guardsmen plus the inquisitors with them.

And better to die cleanly fighting someone like Athrawes than answer to the Inquisition if the Prince or the Princess get away, a small, still voice said deep at his core.

“I thank you for the warning, Captain Athrawes,” he heard his voice say, “but I think not.” He drew a deep breath.

“Take them!”

Sahndahl’s sword came out of its sheath.

That, unfortunately, was the first-and last-thing that happened the way he’d planned, because Merlin Athrawes’ hands moved.

Phylyp Ahzgood, watching from the window above the tower door, hissed in disbelief. No one could move that quickly-no one! One instant the seijin ’s hands were at his side, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes locked with Colonel Sahndahl’s. The next instant there was a pistol in each hand, as if they’d magically materialized there and not been drawn from the holsters at his side.

And then they began to fire.

It was hopeless, of course. One man, with only two pistols, against fifty? Even if he was a crack shot who never missed, the most he could hope for would be to fell four of them before the others charged up the stairs and swarmed him under. But Merlin Athrawes seemed unaware of that, and the blinding brilliance of a muzzle flash ripped holes in Coris’ vision.

The seijin fired from the hip with both hands, and the measured “CRACK,” “CRACK,” “CRACK” of his fire pounded the ear like a hammer. Yet even as he fired, Coris realized something was wrong. There were no flashes from the pistols’ pans. No up-flash of igniting primer, no sparks as chipped flint struck the frizzen. There were only the long, stabbing flashes from the muzzles, more brilliant than ever against the night’s darkness as they spewed flame, smoke, and death.

And they went right on spewing all three of those things.

Impossible! Coris thought as the seijin fired his fifth shot. Then his sixth. His seventh! His eighth!

Sahndahl had been the first to fall. He sat at the top of the stairs, both hands pressing at the blood-gushing wound in his abdomen, head shaking in either disbelief or denial while his eyes glazed their way into death. Captain Mahgail screamed in rage as his commander fell and charged the stairs, sword in hand. Behind him, forty-five more men hurled themselves towards the single figure in the blackened armor standing at their head.

But each time Merlin Athrawes squeezed one of those triggers, another man went down-screaming, unconscious, or dead- and he went right on firing.

Courage that might have brushed aside his fearsome reputation was no match for the drumbeat of death and destruction thundering and flashing from his hands. The cloud of gunsmoke was so dense they could scarcely even see him through it, but still he fired, each muzzle blast illuminating the cloud of smoke like Langhorne’s Rakurai, and the heavy bullets plowed through them like the sword of Chihiro himself. As their formation tightened to charge up the steps, some of those bullets tore through two or even three bodies, and King Zhames’ Guardsmen broke.

They fell back, stampeding into the darkness, and the Inquisitors who’d launched them gaped at the demonic apparition at the top of the stairs.

Merlin Athrawes had downed thirteen Delferahkan guardsmen with ten shots, and he raised his right hand deliberately.

“My regards to Vicar Zhaspahr, Father!” he called, even his deep voice sounding somehow high-pitched and frail after the thunder of so much gunfire. “He’ll be along shortly!” he added, and an eleventh thunderbolt leapt from the pistol. Gaisbyrt Vandaik was almost fifty yards from the tower stairs, but the heavy, soft lead bullet struck him squarely in the center of his chest and punched cleanly through his heart.