Stan Nichols: The Covenant Rising

‘Not on my account.’

‘If you only give me the chance, I’m sure I could -’

‘

No.

It’s past my time to leave. I must get out of here.’

It seemed to Kutch that suddenly there was an almost desperate edge to Caldason’s words, and he looked tenser and furtive. Kutch made to speak, but his guest was already deserting the study. He pounded the stairs after him.

‘Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out quite the way I expected,’ he apologised once they reached ground level. ‘But there’s no need -’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. I have to…’ He swayed, as if about to fall.

Kutch was alarmed, but something about Caldason stopped him stretching out a hand. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Caldason collected himself and straightened. ‘I’m all right.’

‘Let me mix you a healing draught.’

‘No.’ His breathing was becoming laboured. He cradled his head in his hands.

‘What ails you?’

‘Just a dose of… reality.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Caldason didn’t elaborate. All but staggering, he made his way to the swords he’d left on the floor. Looking close to passing out, he scooped them up. ‘Do you have a secure place here?’ he asked.

‘Secure?’

‘Somewhere under lock. Somewhere solid.’

‘Why -’

‘Do you?’

Caldason barked.

The boy flinched. He strove to think. ‘Well, nothing except…’

‘What?’

‘Only the old demon hole.’

‘You have one? Here?’

‘Yes. My master had need of it sometimes.’

‘Take me.

Now

.’

Growing fearful, Kutch led the way to the cellar door. Still holding the swords, Caldason negotiated the dank steps uncertainly.

The demon hole was a small vault at the cellar’s far end. It was constructed from robust stone, with a sturdy door into which a barred grille had been cut. Inside, stout iron rings were embedded in the floor, with chains and manacles attached.

Caldason lifted one of the swords.

‘Please don’t,’ Kutch pleaded. ‘There’s no need to lock me in there. I won’t tell about you.’

‘Not you. Me.’

‘What?’

He thrust the sheathed swords at Kutch. ‘Take them! And these.’ Several knives joined the haul. ‘Hide them.’ He stretched a hand to the youth’s shoulder to steady himself and peeled off his boots. A buckled belt followed them. His movements were becoming erratic. He sweated, and breath didn’t seem to come easily.

‘What is it?’ Kutch said. ‘Is somebody coming? Do we have to hide?’

‘We’ve got to trust each other. Now listen to me. Do not, under any circumstances, let me out of there until… well, you’ll probably know when. But if you have any doubts just leave me be.’

‘None of this makes sense.’

‘Just do it. Please.’

Kutch gave him a dazed nod.

‘Are those the keys for the fetters?’ Caldason waved a hand at a bunch hanging from a hook on the cell’s door frame.

‘Yes.’

‘Then chain me.’

‘You want to be chained too?’

‘We’ve no time.

Hurry

.’

With shaking hands, Kutch secured Caldason’s ankles and wrists.

‘Whatever I say or do,’ Caldason restated, ‘don’t open that door. Not if you value your life. Now get out. And stay away.’

In a state of confusion, Kutch backed away from the cell. He closed the bulky door and turned its lock.

Then he stood by the grille and watched what happened next in amazement.

His people thought honour meant something. Until betrayal rode in on a thousand horses.

The raiders came under cover of a moonless night, with no aim but murder. They were welcomed by paltry fences and open gates. A sparse watch, taken off-guard. An alarm raised too late.

They set to slaughter, and savoured the task.

But his folk were warriors, first and last, and they met the traitors. There were inexhaustible numbers to unhorse and cut down, and still they made no impression on the tide. Victory was hopeless. Yet better to die with sword in hand.

He did his share of killing. In vain he tried to organise a defence in the face of chaos. Where he could, he protected the weak.

In the confusion of running, screaming, burning and dying he saw a woman and her child cowering before a raider. She pleaded as the youngster wept, balled fists to his eyes. He hacked his way to them and struck down their would-be assassin. The pair fled, the woman clutching the boy’s hand. Then he watched, powerless, as another rider swooped in to spear and trample them.

Dead and wounded littered the ground, most of them his own people. He walked, stumbled, ran over them as he dodged and slashed. The wave of attackers seemed endless. He looked to the central lodge, the communal hub of the camp and traditional sanctuary in times of strife. Some of the more vulnerable, the young, the old and the ailing, had been swiftly shepherded there. That might include his closest kin. Now he wanted only to be with them for the end.

The great round house’s thatch was already ablaze before he battled his way to its door. His arrival, gore encrusted, panting, found the building in full flame. Victims of the conflagration, staggering fireballs, groped shrieking from the burning lodge. Around its entrance lay evidence of a particular massacre within the general carnage. The corpses of family, comrades, and siblings by right of blood oath. His despairing thought was to get away, perhaps then to join with other survivors and strike back at their enemy.

A group of raiders lashed ropes to the camp’s corral and brought it crashing down. Scores of terrified horses galloped out to compound the anarchy. The stampede acted as a diversion for his flight. He sped to a cluster of huts, several of which were also on fire, and weaved through them. His goal was the perimeter fence, the pasture land beyond and then the forest.

He didn’t make it.

A pack of the distinctively garbed attackers appeared and blocked his path. More closed off his exit. He tore into them, fighting with the frenzy of hopelessness. Two he downed at once, ribboning the throat of one, skewering the heart of the next. Then he was at the centre of a storm of blades. He took his own wounds, many of them, but gave plenty in return. Another opponent fell, chest caved, and another, stomach slashed.

His reckless fury brought a small miracle. All but a pair of his opponents were dispatched, and one of them was injured. But his hurts were too many and put paid to hopes of escape. Near collapse from loss of blood, vision swimming, a blow across his shoulders brought him to his knees. His sword slipped from numbing fingers.

He thought he saw, just fleetingly, the figure of an old man cloaked in black smoke, standing at the door of a nearby hut.

His gaze went up to the face of his killer. An ocean of time flowed slowly between them.

Then he felt his ravaged body pierced by cold steel.

Cold water battered his face.

He came round in a spasm, fighting for breath, eyes wide. His arms and legs were held fast, and instinctively he jerked at the chains binding them.

‘Easy.’

Caldason blinked at the figure kneeling alongside.

‘I think it’s over now,’ Kutch told him.

Sitting up, painfully, Caldason took in his surroundings. They were in the cramped demon hole. The hard, irregular stone floor was uncomfortable and wet.

‘How long?’ he grated, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

Kutch put aside the bucket. ‘All day. It’s late evening now.’

‘Did I do any harm?’

‘Only to yourself.’ He surveyed the Qalochian’s bruised face and grazed arms, his dishevelled hair and the dark rings under his still slightly feral eyes. ‘You look terrible.’