David Chandler - Honor among thieves

He seemed completely unaware that a horde of deadly berserkers was bearing down on him, only seconds away.

Malden could only watch in terror as that human flood came boiling toward his friend. Had Cythera sacrificed so much, had Slag lost his arm, had all of his own desperate hopes and Cutbill’s schemes and the fears of an entire city come down to this? To a dwarf playing with a piece of hot wire?

Malden could just make out a tiny hole bored into the closed end of the bronze tube. He watched, not knowing what to think, as Slag carefully inserted his wire into the hole-and then dropped his staff and ran as fast as his short legs could possibly carry him.

“Go, go, go!” Morget shouted. It sounded like he was right below Malden’s feet.

Then there was a sound that Malden had never heard before. A sudden, horrible noise, louder than a lightning strike, which ran through his body and threatened to crack his bones.

The noise alone was enough to strike a man dead.

But the noise was only a side effect of what Slag had wrought upon the world. Immense gouts of smoke and sparks burst from the mouth of the engine. The force it unleashed drove the engine backward, sent it flying into the front of a house directly across from the ruins of Ryewall. It smashed through plaster and beams and set the whole building ablaze.

In the gap, the berserkers froze in place as they were buffeted by the explosion. They seemed transfixed as a thousand whizzing noises shot past them, a million trails of sparks and fire. Iron tacks, horse brasses, broken and twisted pieces of door latches, soup spoons and farthing coins, andirons, candle snuffers, leather punches, signet rings and steel spurs-any metal scrap that Slag could find at the last moment, dozens of pounds of the stuff, countless pieces-came flying out of the mouth of the tube so fast and with so much force that they cut through flesh, shredded tissue, shattered bone into fragments. Lines of blood appeared on every berserker face and hand. Severed limbs tumbled through the air, as time itself slowed to a crawl. Whole bodies were taken to pieces as thoroughly-if not as neatly-as if they’d been worked on by a master butcher. Hair caught flame. Shields went spinning away like wagon wheels. Iron axes fell from broken, bloodied hands.

Those few berserkers who survived the blast stopped in their tracks. Their mouths hung open, their eyes wide, but no longer with the fury of battle. For the first time in the history of the eastern clans, someone had discovered a way to break the berserker trance.

Not howling, not foaming at the mouth any longer, but crying for mercy, the berserkers turned and ran as fast as they might for the safety of their own camp. Not a single one of them made it through the wall.

“What in the Lady’s name was that?” Hew asked.

Croy had no answer. He’d heard that noise, like the sky had split open, seen the gout of baleful fire that lanced straight out from the breach in the wall. What could create such a tongue of deadly flame, he could not imagine.

What he did know was that it changed everything.

A melee battle like this was always a scene of chaos, of commanders shouting to know what was going on, of soldiers running back and forth, operating under orders that had been countermanded though they did not know it, of whole formations wheeling the wrong way because it was impossible, in the thick of things, to get a proper view on the proceedings. A good commander learned to take the temperature of a battle, to rely not on hard facts but on intuition, and respond accordingly. Croy had developed almost a sixth sense for such things.

A moment before, he was convinced that Skrae had already lost, that the Army of Free Men was about to break and rout. That he was helpless and should retreat himself, if honor would have allowed it.

Now there was a different smell in the air. A smell at once hopeful and terrifying. It seemed that he still had a chance.

Some great miracle of magic and fire had burst from the walls of Ness, some work of sorcery, perhaps, or witchcraft or… or divine favor or… it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he must, absolutely must, take advantage of the change before things settled and went back to how they’d been. “Press, and don’t let up,” he commanded. “Get our footmen over to the left-it’s mostly thralls over there. Thralls who will surrender quickly, and open a wedge. We can split the horde in half, let the Free Men take one part and-”

“Was that sorcery, do you think? A demon set loose?” Hew asked softly.

Croy trudged over to him across the frozen ground and smacked the knight’s greave with the flat of his blade. The impact seemed to shock Hew back to his senses.

“Press the fucking attack,” Croy said.

It was not a word he used often. It had the desired effect. Hew rode forward to relay the command. Croy stomped after him. The steel armor he wore weighed him down, made his movements sluggish. He longed to be out of it. He longed to go running into the fight, to lose himself in swordwork.

Yet suddenly the barbarians were all moving away from him. Running toward the city. Did they run to get inside the walls? Yet it looked like they were being pushed toward one of the intact sections of wall, not toward the gap they’d made. Whatever infernal force had been set loose in that gap had cast terror into the hearts of the barbarians. They were not alone in their fear. Even the Skilfinger knights seemed loath to get close to the fires that still burned near the city. Croy waved Ghostcutter at them. “Push them up against the wall so they have nowhere to retreat! Press the attack!”

He heard his command repeated in the Skilfinger tongue. His translators were still alive, then. Good.

“Onward!” he shouted, and a ragged cheer went up all around him. He ran as fast as he could toward the main force of barbarians, heedless of how many casualties he took, heedless of his own safety.

He arrived just in time to find Morget coming toward him, leading a host of reavers. The giant barbarian had an axe in one hand and Dawnbringer in the other, and he showed no sign of fear at all.

Very good, Croy thought. Here, at last, was an enemy who wouldn’t run away.

Yet before he could reach Morget, Sir Hew came riding past again, Chillbrand swinging low to touch as many barbarians as it could reach. Hew made no attempt to cut them, he just tapped his magic blade against their exposed skin wherever it presented itself. Their faces turned blue and they dropped their weapons to hug themselves for warmth as the Ancient Blade’s magic stole all the heat from their bodies. Chillbrand flashed down to touch Morget, but the chieftain was too fast for Hew. He ducked low and rolled between the legs of Hew’s steed, disemboweling the beast before he rolled out the other side.

Hew was an old and seasoned warrior. He’d lost plenty of horses in his time, and knew how not to be thrown. Half sliding, half jumping, he landed on the frozen ground on one knee, his shield already coming up as Morget advanced on him.

“You’re not the one,” Morget growled.

Sir Hew started to rise, even as Morget hammered at his shield with Dawnbringer. The Ancient Blade burst with light again, again, again.

Hew pushed forward with the shield, trying to knock Morget down. He might as well have tried to bull his way through a hill. Morget’s axe came down and split the side of Hew’s vambrace wide open. There was blood on the blade when it came back up, and Hew’s shield arm fell limp at his side. Croy raced forward to help his old friend, but he could only watch in horror as Morget twisted around at the waist, all the strength of a rushing river in his axe arm.