Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

His lips parted over a clenched grin.

“Come on, then. Come on! ”

At the edge of his vision, the axman rushed in. Nicely done, it only just missed his blind spot. He jabbed down, hoping to skewer a foot, at a minimum trip the fucker up. Keep the other end of the staff high because—

Skirling shriek, as the other dwenda came leaping at him, above head height.

He’d seen them do this before, too. Still, the scream and the shadowy figure seemingly in flight sent a spiked chill through his heart. He struck upward, lance blade almost vertical. The sword edge went whistling past, way off. But hard on its heels came a black-booted foot, and it caught him a crack across the side of the head. He stumbled. Head full of stars. Felt the axman rush him again and must swing to counter.

“Skaranak! It’s down!”

But there was a weird moaning on his lips now as he blocked with the lance, locked up the ax, and shoved back. The human shout seemed to come from another chamber, somewhere distant under the temple roof, and didn’t make much sense anyway.

“Eh?” he found he was snarling at the thing he faced. “Eh?”

Time froze. The ax haft and lance shaft skittered back and forth against each other. He reckoned he had forty pounds on the dwenda, but it was still driving him back. And the other one would be on him any fucking second…

He jolted downward, sharply, ran the lance shaft savagely down and onto one of the hands holding the ax. The dwenda shrilled and gave an inch of ground. Egar whooped and pivoted off the shift it gave him, swung all his weight into the shove. The dwenda staggered sideways, nearly went down. A shadow shifted, off his other shoulder. But now the moan on Egar’s lips was swelling to something else, something summoned. He could feel his own pulse, thundering through his ears, under his collarbones like the tremble of the ground at An-Monal. He swung to face the new threat, jerked the lower lance blade back to hamstring his stumbling opponent. Felt it slice something, heard the shriek of damage done, and howled his response at the ceiling.

“ Egar! Let’s go!”

No time, no fucking time ! The sword tip came slicing—close as his last shave, he’d later swear, as he rolled his neck out of the way. And the second dwenda, there behind the blade like some flickering demon out of fevered dreams. He struck out, felt himself sliding into the berserker gap, gave voice now to the full, ululating cry. Vaguely, he felt the dwenda sword tag him across one thigh—sudden heat, there and gone. It didn’t matter, Harath, the girl, some vague wisp of thought about a rope, nothing mattered now , he could fucking die here for all it mattered, so long as he gutted these two first—

He struck out again. Blade clash, blue sparking fire. Howl!

The axman was back in the fight, limping but still fast. It didn’t matter. He wove the staff lance before him, strode in, took some blow or other across the shoulder, howl, howl, howl , wheel and whoop and strike—

The dwenda, bracketing him now…

“Egar!” Harath’s whiny fucking Ishlinak pussy scream…

Didn’t matter, didn’t fucking—

Ax blow. Lick of sword. He drank it in, waded through it. Whirled and struck. Somewhere he was bleeding but wasn’t that the whole fucking point—

Something changed .

Like a tumble into chilly water, like the breath of a ghost. Something crashed down from the ceiling. He caught a fragmented glimpse—huge block of shaped stone plummeting, one of the Urann statue’s sculpted hands. It split and shattered on impact with the dusty ground.

The dwenda recoiled.

Both of them, like cats hit with scalding water. For all the block hadn’t fallen anywhere near them. But the air, the air was ice, and—

“The rope, Egar! Grab the fucking rope! ”

And there was life again, like a door to a lighted room swinging closed at the end of a corridor. He saw the gentle pendulum sweep of the rope end, six yards off his left shoulder. Hurled the staff lance at the nearest dwenda and sprinted for it, flat-out.

“ Come on , for Urann’s sake!”

He grabbed the rope end, hauled himself up. Sag of the fight aftermath through his guts like sudden sickness. Numbness in his thigh. Climb, you stupid bastard, climb! He went up with the speed of long custom, hand over hand, spindling and swinging about with the momentum of his grab. Caught sliced, dizzying glimpses of what was below him—the dwenda, still down there, blunt-helmeted heads tilted up at him—soft puff of white-stone dust, drifting up in the gloom where the masonry had fallen—freshly shattered chunks of stone—more figures moving in the deeper gloom behind—harsh, unhuman chuckling…

Climb! Climb!

He reached the ragged break in the roof, panting and snorting like an old horse pushed too hard. Vaguely aware of wounds, and the slow seeping realization of how close he’d come. Hands grabbed him, dragged him clear of the hole. He rolled over on the cool stone, looked up at the starry sky and the white speckling slash of the band. Blinking out the last red edges of the berserker rage. Jangling like a set of jailer’s keys.

The girl’s face craned over, blocked out some sky, peered down at him. Pretty face, he registered vaguely.

“Fucking Dragonbane is it?” Harath, spitting furious, coiling the rope. “Get yourself killed for a fucking slave ? What’s the matter, you think Ast’naha’s already carting your ale to Urann’s feast in Sky Home? You hear any fucking thunder up there, old-timer? Come on, get up! Move! We’re not out of this yet.”

Egar gave himself one more breath lying down. Draw and hold, release. Rolled to his feet and peered around.

They were alone on the roof. No sign of alarms raised, either up here or beyond. The trailing caress of a breeze—he caught the wafting, damp smell of the river on it, the flowering weeds along the banks. Spotted the faint white broken glimmer of bandlight across water, and the red-yellow stain of the city’s lights on the sky to the west.

The cool, dark calm of everything around him—dislocating shock after the fight below.

“All right,” he said, not quite steadily. “Let’s go see if our ride’s there.”

THEY GOT DOWN THE SIDE WALL WITHOUT INCIDENT, LOWERED THE girl first in the sling, secured the rope at the top and slid rapidly down after her. No time to fuck about, and no gloves—so add scorched palms to the damage tally for the night. They stood, braced either side of the girl for a couple of moments, knives out. But there was no sign of the night patrol.

“All inside by now,” Harath guessed. “Turning the place upside down, see what the fuck just went down.”

Egar nodded, wordless—still breathy from all the exertion. Still working out what the fuck went down himself. Harath tapped at the dangling rope with his knife tip, instinctive herdsman’s thrift in face and tone. “Hate to leave that hanging there, you know.”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Come on.”

They skulked away from the silent, darkened bulk of the temple and down to the river, Egar with a small survivor’s grin now hanging crookedly off his mouth by one corner. He found he had time for sudden carnal recollection, what the girl’s arse had looked like, going up with that rope slung under it. Stir in his groin at the thought, but oddly it was Imrana’s face that he saw.

Sort that out if you could.

The boatman was waiting in midriver, just where he’d dropped them before. Harath whistled sharply, stood up and windmilled his arms. It took a moment or two, but finally the man bent to haul in his anchor, paddled the boat about with his oars so it was facing them, and dug in on the stroke.