David Dalglish - The Old Ways

Men rushed into his way from all sides. Jerico ducked underneath a swing, rammed his shoulder into a guard to send him to the ground, then continued on. Another man raced along, then dove at his legs. Jerico leapt over him, wishing he could have turned around and kicked him for such stupidity. Two more soldiers had an angle on him from the right. He pumped his legs harder and shifted his direction. If he could only gain a bit more distance, get beyond the light of the campfires…

The men were fast, though, and their swords were long. Jerico parried the first swing, but when the other thrust, he had to fling himself to the left. His momentum sent him rolling to the ground, unable to keep his balance. The tall grass helped cushion the landing, but nothing cushioned the rock that cracked against his forehead. He tried to stand, but his stomach heaved, and his vision tripled and spun. The two men stood over him, and when he took a swing, they blocked it with ease.

“Still dumb enough to fight?” asked the one on the left. Jerico closed his eyes, opened them just in time to see a boot. It connected with his cheek, jarring his head hard to the side. Spitting blood, Jerico again pushed to his feet. He would not die without a fight. One of the men grabbed his wrist, preventing a swing of his mace, and then the other held him by the throat, choking him. Jerico kneed him in the groin, and gasped in air as the man’s hand released.

“Damn fool,” said the other, striking Jerico across the head with the hilt of his sword. Jerico dropped to his knees, and he wished more than anything to have his shield in hand. But he had no armor, no shield, and then the tip of a blade pressed against his throat.

“Stand up, and die like a man,” said the soldier.

Jerico had no time to obey. The soldier jerked forward, and the sword fell limply from his hand. Sandra shoved him aside, a bloody dagger in her hand. Before the other man could recover, she cut his throat as well.

“Sandra,” Jerico murmured as warm blood ran down the side of his face.

He wanted to go to her, but the rest of the camp was upon them. Sandra swung her dagger at one, but her target parried it aside, then returned the favor with the flat of his blade against her face. Another struck her from behind, knocking her to the ground beside Jerico.

“You were supposed to run,” Jerico told her as his hands were bound behind him with thick rope. His voice sounded drunk in his ears.

“You’ll forgive me,” Sandra said, her own hands bound the same.

“Quiet, both of you,” said an older man, who appeared to be in charge of the soldiers.

“Or you’ll what?” Jerico asked, giving him a half-cocked grin.

In answer, the man struck him with his gauntlet hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Fair enough, thought Jerico as his consciousness faded.

Darius saw more familiar faces than he expected when he joined the meeting in Daniel Coldmine’s room. Two chairs had been pushed together to form a table, a crinkled map unfurled across it and held down with rocks. Daniel stood over it, arms crossed and looking miserable. Beside him was the young but sharp-witted soldier, Gregory. Darius and Gregory had met in Durham, guarding what few survivors remained in the ruins of a mansion. Together they’d held a doorway until Sir Robert arrived with reinforcements, chasing away the last of the wolf-men attackers. Darius had nodded in greeting, but Gregory gave him the cold shoulder. It seemed he was not yet willing to forgive him for his part in Velixar’s attack on the town.

In the corner, making up the last of the group, was an older man, his face covered with a wispy, gray beard. His eyes were hard, and he still bore enough muscle to show how dangerous he might have been in his youth. His name was Porter Grayson, and Daniel introduced him as the man in charge of Tower Silver. Together, the four planned the assault against the Blood Tower.

“How many does that bastard have fighting for him?” asked Porter, leaning against the wall of the cramped room.

“Luther left him with fifty of their personal guard,” answered Daniel. “I don’t know how many we killed during our retreat, but there’s also another seventy of our own men that joined his betrayal.”

“Surely they won’t fight against you,” Darius said. “Not after killing Robert.”

“Robert’s not dead,” Gregory said. He pointed toward Daniel’s bed, where several letters lay in a pile. “Cyric’s been sending orders down the Gihon, claiming he’s merely advising Robert. Every letter bears Robert’s signature, and I don’t believe it a forgery, either. Cyric is keeping him alive, using him to prevent the king from interfering. If we’re to have any help from the capital, we need to rescue him.”

Darius shook his head and looked at the parchment on the chairs. It was an excellent replica of the Blood Tower, drawn that morning by Gregory. The defenses were simple, but effective. An outer wall surrounded the tower, thrice the height of any man. Within that was the tower itself, and in between nothing but flat killing ground. On the opposite side of the river was a single entrance through the wall, its doors made of thick wood and reinforced with steel. The only other entrance was the river itself. A hundred men could easily hold the fortifications against a far larger group than what he and Daniel had.

“We don’t have the supplies for a lengthy siege,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “And I helped build those doors. We don’t have the time to build a sufficient battering ram, nor enough men to endure the archers as we try to pound through. Right now there’s only a hundred or so, and we need to retake it before reinforcements arrive.”

“Are you sure they will?” asked Porter. “What if the priests in Mordeina deny any involvement for fear of angering King Baedan?”

“They’ll still send men, even while they deny it,” Darius said, staring at the map as if he could bore a solution out of it with his eyes. “The priests always protect their own. Daniel’s right. We have to retake it now, before any more of Karak’s followers arrive.”

“If we can’t retake the walls, why not go around them?” Gregory asked. He tapped where the outer wall met the river. “If all our boats beach at once, we might overwhelm them.”

“How many men are at your disposal?” asked Darius.

“We’ve got soldiers coming from the nearby towers, and if we leave a skeleton crew in the rest, that gives us about two hundred. I’m not sure it is enough.”

“Two hundred against one?” Darius shrugged. “If we can get them on anything like open ground, how could we not win?”

“The lions,” Daniel said. “You didn’t see them. They tore through our ranks like we were children. Robert shot them with a hundred arrows from his tower, and not one pierced their skin. We try to push in with brute force, they’ll eat us alive.”

“No exaggeration there, either,” Gregory added.

Darius frowned, and thought of his teachings at the Stronghold. He’d heard the occasional story of a priest summoning lions of the Abyss, but always it had been in the earliest days of history, during the anarchy that had followed the Gods’ War. No mortal blade was supposed to be able to kill them, no mere human fast or strong enough to defeat them. If even a third of the stories were true, two beasts guarding the river would be difficult to overcome.

And what did it mean that Cyric could summon them? How great was the power given to him by Karak?

“What keeps men from walking into the river and around the wall?” he asked, pointing to the same spot on the diagram as Gregory.

“That wall goes out deep into the river,” Daniel said. “We rake the bottom every year, and add rocks when needed. Anyone trying to wade through will be in over their head, and risk drowning. Even if they make it around, they’d still be easy pickings for archers when they try to reach the shore.”