David Drake - Master of the Cauldron

"-and see if I can't bait some quail in for a meat course, eh?"

"Yes, of course," Ilna said, looking for stones she could use to grind the grain. She was hungry enough that she didn't think she'd take the time to parch it first. A packsaddle would do fine for the lower stone…

Chalcus began gathering brush for the fire, his face immobile. Occasionally he had to use his knife, a crudeness that the fine steel didn't deserve; but these were hard times, for people as well as for blades.

Davus spread grain at several places where the bank was open and in sight of the sand-spit; then he crossed back. Pausing, he looked up at the spire of black and crystal not far to the north.

"I don't know why the creature would come down from his Citadel," he said musingly. "The Old King walked the land at intervals to mete out justice."

He gave his companions a lopsided smile. "His version of justice, of course. Perhaps the New King does the same. These poor devils may have offended in a fashion that no human being could understand."

Ilna had expected the broken flap to be uselessly brittle, but on trying she found it quite sturdy enough to grind the hard kernels against the block beneath. Davus must have tapped with the skill of a diamond cutter to split it so easily.

"How will we enter the Citadel, friend Davus?" Chalcus asked, feeding fuel to the fire he'd just sparked. "If we're to climb that wall of rock, I'll say that it's a task that lay beyond me."

"And it's certainly beyond me," Ilna said. "Though I'll try if I must, of course."

"Of course," Chalcus murmured. "Though you hate stone; and if there were a thing you feared beyond your own self, dear one, that would be stone as well."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. He was hard and knew very well how hard she too was; but Ilna's breath still caught with the warm certainty that this man, thisman, loved her.

"There's an internal passage from the base to the crown," Davus said. "A natural vent originally, I'm told, but improved over the years. The route shouldn't be a problem in itself."

"Is it guarded?" Chalcus said, his voice returning to its natural lilt. Ilna smiled to hear the tone. There might shortly be better work for his blades than willow stems.

"There'll be someone there," Davus said, standing with his hands together at his waist, looking down the trail. "It won't be easy dealing with her."

Ilna looked at the tree lying in the streambed. It'd been a palm, but the fronds jad long vanished and the trunk was crumbling. Originally it must've fallen across the path, but travellers like the ones frozen here had wrested it out of the way of their donkeys.

On it, looking back at her with sightless eyes, was a lizard. Like the humans, it'd been turned to stone.

"We'll deal," said Chalcus with bloody cheerfulness.

"It depends," said Davus, "on just how skillful we are."

As he spoke, he flung a pebble sidearm. Not one but two decapitated quail shot into the air in a scatter of feathers, dust, and their own spouting blood.

"It depends…," Davus repeated. This time there was no doubt of the satisfaction in his voice.

Sharina wasn't sure that she and Tenoctris had any business thrusting themselves into a group of armored men rushing to assault a building. Tenoctris obviously felt otherwise: she was trotting toward the temple at the best speed her old legs could manage.

Sharina threw the older woman's left arm over her own shoulders and grabbed her around the waist with her right hand. If she was that determined, there was no choice for a friend but to help.

Stretching herself, Sharina was able to join the second line of soldiers as they ran up the temple steps. Five Blood Eagles formed an arc in front of them with Lires watching their backs. Ascor seemed to view his job as protecting Princess Sharina while she went about her business instead of preventing her from doing that business.

A squad of regulars had paused to wrench the hearthstone from the altar; they started up the steps with it. The slab was a thick piece of fine-grained limestone, blackened in the center and burned slightly concave. It weighed as much as any four of them put together.

The troops chopping at the temple door with their swords backed away at a shout from their commander. The soldiers carrying the block of stone staggered onto the porch, paused to organize, and lunged forward on command. They smashed the square stone battering ram corner-first into the door where the leaves joined.

The doors sprang partway open but caught on the crossbar and staples which the blow had bent but not broken. The altar top slipped from the hands of the men wielding it, dropping to the porch edgewise before toppling to the left. The troops shouted warnings and jumped in various directions, one of them tripping on his own feet. He slipped beneath the falling slab, but another soldier grabbed his belt and jerked him clear just in time.

A pale figure inside the temple tried to push the leaves closed. A soldier thrust his sword out to stop him. A javelin thrown by a man who'd just reached the porch glanced off the swordsman's helmet, knocking him silly but then catching its proper target in the throat.

The troops who'd carried altar top hit the doors again with their boots or shoulders. They struck in near unison though they didn't have any formal coordination so far as Sharina could tell. The leaves flew back.

Inside were three People, two in tunics with drawn swords. The third lay on his back, clutching at the spear that'd killed him. The first soldiers through the door chopped the People down. It wasn't a fight, even though the troops had dropped their shields to lift the hearth.

As the leading soldiers entered, Sharina carried Tenoctris inside also. The ring of Blood Eagles, now shield to shield, kept them as safe from jostling as they'd have been in the middle of an empty plaza.

The cult statue was wooden and only slightly greater than life size, an old image that hadn't been replaced when the temple was repaired. There was a door to the right of the statue, ajar when the troops burst in. A man came through it, another of the People. He was older than the others, unarmed, and wore a ring with a brilliant sapphire on his right index finger. When he saw the troops, he turned to flee.

A thrown javelin caught the man in the middle of the back, flinging him down the stairs he'd come up. The blood that sprayed from his mouth was the bright orange-red like that of an ordinary man speared through the lungs.

Soldiers charged into the cellars, sounding like a wagon full of old iron tipping even before one stumbled. He and half a dozen of those ahead of him crashed through the railing.

Sharina halted in the middle of the sanctum, holding the older woman back. "Tenoctris, we can't go down now," she said.

"But I want to see what they're doing there!" Tenoctris said. "I'm afraid it'll be smashed if we wait."

"We'llbe smashed if we don't wait," Sharina said. "I'm sorry, we can't."

Ascor nodded strong agreement. "We'll get you there when things settle a bit, milady," he said, his lips close to the old wizard's ear to be heard over the racket.

From the cellars came shouts, mostly unintelligible but one very clear, "Got'em got'em got'em! They's dead! The ones as was painting is dead!"

"Oh!" said Tenoctris. "Oh, I did hope we'd capture living prisoners. That would have been helpful."

Additional troops were still trying to force their way down the stairs. Are they insane? Sharina thought. And in a way they were: they were soldiers ignited by battle. Fear and bloodlust drowned their ability to think.

Aloud she said, "Ascor, where's the commander? I need the commander."

"Captain Rowning!" Ascor bellowed. "Here to the Princess! Now! Now!"