James West - Shadow and Steel

Beyond the hall waited a corridor lined with staggered doors, the walls hung with tapestries fouled by coats of greenish mold. Wild cries and curses from outside the building drove them from the corridor into another hall. Leitos made for a set of double doors twice the size as those they had crashed through. Ulmek had said he would give them a twenty count to get through, and while Leitos had not bothered keeping count, he knew they had plenty of-

The doors burst inward with such force that they flew off their hinges, and crashed to the floor. Backlit by the golden dawn, two hulking shapes with horned heads rushed through the doorway, their guttural howls shaking the air.

Leitos and Robis dodged to one side, both colliding with a stack of benches. The other Yatoans changed course too late.

Desperately trying to untangle himself from the heap of shattered wood and stinking fabric, Leitos gave a warning shout, as the first Alon’mahk’lar swung a spiked cudgel the size of a small tree. The weapon found its mark, and the Yatoan fell, his skull broken. The second Yatoan collapsed with a drawn-out scream, as the other Alon’mahk’lar raked its talons across his chest and belly.

For all his earlier fearfulness, Robis proved his deeper courage by flinging Leitos aside, and attacking. His sword hacked and slashed with no great skill, but with an immense, desperate strength.

Leitos reached for an arrow, only to discover that his fall had snapped the bow in his hand. He flung it aside, and in the same motion drew his sword and dagger. He stalked forward, looking for an opening.

Robis chopped his blade against the first Alon’mahk’lar’s bloody cudgel, sending chips of wood flying from the haft. He swung again, and the Alon’mahk’lar answered the attack with its own. When the two weapons met, Robis’s blade shattered. The youth fell back, hands clutched to his belly.

Before the demon could finish its deadly work, Leitos’s arm flashed, and his dagger sank into the creature’s throat. As the Alon’mahk’lar stumbled backward, blood boiled from the wound and flowed over its chest. In an effort to pull the dagger free, the demon-born savaged its own flesh with its talons. It tripped and crashed to the floor, kicking and clawing.

Leitos spun to face the next Alon’mahk’lar, barely in time to deflect its great sword. Even that glancing blow rocked Leitos to his heels, left his arms and shoulders numb. He staggered, trying to bring up his blade, but instead the hilt fell from his tingling fingers.

With a deafening roar, the Alon’mahk’lar lunged, sword falling. Leitos threw himself into a forward roll. The demon-born’s blade slammed against the floor, spraying a shower of sparks and broken tiles. Moving with terrible agility, the Alon’mahk’lar wheeled and came after Leitos before he could get to his feet, leaving him to scramble on all fours.

The demon-born’s sword fell again, and just missed cleaving Leitos’s spine. Another stroke clipped the sole of his boot, and sent him tumbling across the floor. He collided with one thick leg of a massive table, twisted himself around, and dove headlong underneath it.

The falling sword disintegrated a section of the tabletop. Torn nearly in half, the table collapsed, pinning Leitos. Fighting for breath, he struggled to get free of the tremendous weight. The Alon’mahk’lar laughed, and eased around for a killing blow.

From the corner of his eye, Leitos watched the demon’s sword sweep upward, and then pause before its lethal descent.

In that moment of hesitation Leitos imagined his father, and Belina, and what remained of the Brothers, all standing over his mutilated corpse. In his mind they did not wear expressions of grief or anger, but looked on him with blank eyes and smooth faces, as if they, too, were dead.

“No!” he cried, throwing up a hand between him and the Alon’mahk’lar. The demon-born unexpectedly staggered back. Its glittery eyes swelled wide in the shadow cast by the cliff of its brow. The creature caught itself, shook its head, and abruptly laughed again, its terrible voice watering Leitos’s eyes.

Robis abruptly landed on the demon-born’s back. He caught hold of a horn in one hand, and used the other to rake his dagger across the Alon’mahk’lar’s neck, the keen blade passing through its hide to grate over bone. The Alon’mahk’lar’s laughter became a bubbling gurgle, as a torrent of blood poured from the wound. The sword fell from its spasming fingers, and the demon-born pitched over with Robis still sawing away, and smashed through a pile of chairs.

Robis rolled to his feet, and ran to heave the shattered table over on its side. Gasping, he gave Leitos a hand up. Instead of letting him go, Robis dragged him close and rasped into his ear, “She is not for you, outlander.”

Dazed by the skirmish, still trying to catch his breath, hurting head to toe, Leitos could only stare in bewilderment at the big youth.

“ Belina ,” Robis clarified. “She is not yours.”

Leitos jerked free and took a cautious step away, remembering how easily Belina had persuaded Robis into clearing out the Yatoan camp in order to free him. Now he understood she had used his love for her against him.

“Belina will decide in her own time, and in her own way, to whom she will give herself.” Leitos had no worry that she would chose him, nor would he want her to. He had loved her sister, the woman he had killed. Once he revealed that to Belina-as he must do, at some point-he could not expect forgiveness.

“We’ll see, outlander,” Robis said, shoving Leitos away.

Trusting that Robis would not stab him in the back, Leitos caught up his sword. Next he moved to the first Alon’mahk’lar, plucked his dagger free of its throat, and wiped the blade clean on the demon-born’s studded leather kilt. The last thing he did was to take a bow and quiver off one of the dead Yatoans. When he straightened, he realized the yelling back the way they had come had gone silent.

“Come on,” Leitos ordered, glancing sidelong at Robis. “If we do not hurry, we will end up fighting alone, until we are both dead.”

Where nothing else might have, those words gave Robis a violent start, and brought him around to what really mattered. Surviving.

After Leitos and the Yatoans began their diversion, Ulmek led the others into an alley. Before they reached the end, a hulking man stepped into view. Behind him came others, a handful, all dressed as Brothers of the Crimson Shield, snug robes the color of sand and dust. Some carried scimitars, others straight-bladed or curved swords; others held daggers fashioned like long spikes.

Ulmek stepped smoothly into a guarded stance, his sword held before him. “Halan … it is good to see you, old friend.”

“He is a friend no more,” Adham warned, standing abreast Ulmek. “None of them are. Look at their eyes.”

In the shade cloaking the alley, the Brothers’ eyes glinted silver.

“I had hoped you were wrong,” Ulmek said with quiet regret.

“Behind us!” came an alarmed shout.

Belina spun to find that way blocked by horned Alon’mahk’lar. They advanced, fearless and cruel, their guttural murmurs rumbling within the tight space. They bore massive cudgels with spiked heads, huge and crudely forged swords, axes and mauls.

“Where is your son, Izutarian?” a possessed Brother asked in a croaking voice that made Belina’s skin creep.

Adham faced the demon-infested men with a brittle smirk. “You sound sick, Ke’uld. Perhaps you should lie down and rest?”

Ke’uld stared at Adham with eyes as blank as a dead man’s. All the demon-possessed wore the same expressions. Yet, besides the flashes of dull silver, there was life in those eyes, an unholy life escaped from the deepest reaches of the Thousand Hells. Hunger and hate radiated from their stares.