A Kingdom Besieged (31 page)

C
HILD STOOD BEFORE A DOOR
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Several times along the way they had encountered others travelling the Hall of Worlds. All but one time the encounters had been peaceful and the one exception was a band of roving slavers who had sought to subjugate Child and Belog. She killed them all and they feasted on them.

‘We’re here,’ she said softly, looking at the glyph above a door.

‘Ah,’ said Belog. ‘I remember.’ He suddenly looked sad. ‘Kalkin,’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ said Child. ‘That bastard. He just won’t stop meddling.’

‘Where does this one exit?’

‘LaMut, in a tavern.’

‘I know that place. It’s rough and tumble, but as we are we’ll alarm them.’

‘We’ll change our appearance. We know how.’

Again he paused, thinking. Then he said, ‘Yes, now I remember.’ He closed his eyes and suddenly his form shifted. Where the squat, broad-shouldered demon had stood there was now a small, bandy-legged man, with a balding head surrounded by a fringe of wispy white hair. He wore a slightly tattered and faded orange robe, as well as a long faded blue cloak. He grinned. ‘Going to have to learn to eat like I used to. That should be a very interesting trick. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to eat something that wasn’t alive just a moment before.’

She nodded. ‘We have many things to relearn.’ Then she let out a long sigh. ‘What was the last thing you remember?’

He didn’t need to ask what she referred to. ‘Something wondrous. A god returning and a horror defeated. When we get something to eat I’ll tell you about it.’

Just before she stepped through the doorway to Midkemia, Child’s shape began to change. Her features flowed and reformed, and she shrank until she was a third of her previous size. Now she was a human woman with dark, grey-shot hair, vivid dark eyes, high cheekbones and a slender body wearing a blue ankle-length dress. ‘That made me hungry,’ she said, ‘Do you have any oranges?’

Reflexively, he reached for a satchel on his hip that wasn’t there. Sadly he said, ‘No, I don’t.’

‘You always used to, you annoying little man.’ She spoke with affection more than scolding, and her now-human features struggled to process memories she knew were not her own. She took a breath as if steeling herself to something ahead that was going to be very difficult; then turned, and stepped through the door.

Belog had never seen that expression before; but the memories of the man he now was had seen it many times before. The woman he knew as Miranda was deeply worried.

The demon body that housed the memories of Nakor the Isalani now followed her through the portal.

Men shouted and screamed as the attackers roared. The assault was loud and unexpected, and threw the smugglers’ caravan into confusion. Hardened mercenaries turned in panic to confront enemies on all sides. The forest was thick, with a triple canopy of branches blocking out most of the sun, threatening to envelop them on all sides. It was late summer in the southern half of Midkemia, but this part of Novindus was already chilly at night and temperate during the day. It had been the perfect time to risk the deep forests west of the Ratn’gari Mountains.

Braden of Shamata didn’t hesitate, a decade of battle-honed skills coming into play. Neither overly cautious nor impulsive, he trusted his instincts to keep him alive more than the commands from officers whose only right to give orders came from a purse of gold or a marque handed down by an official in some faraway government. He glanced to his right and saw his old companion Chibota nodding as he gripped his sword and readied himself for the attack. Others were turning to look where the screams originated, but these two practised fighters knew better. The attack would come from the nearby brush. They flexed their knees and hoisted their shields, turning slightly outward from the line of march so as to be almost back to back. Each man trusted the other not to make a mistake that would get them killed.

Time seemed to slow as the attack unfolded. The rear was hit first, causing most of the men to turn to see what was behind, thus drawing their attention from the closer threat. They were on a narrow trail, barely enough room for three men to stand shoulder to shoulder, with enough deep brush under the trees to hide attackers. Those attacking the fighters were familiar with the terrain; the mercenaries were not.

As both Braden and Chibota had anticipated, the attack came from their right and left respectively, but the form of the attackers shocked both seasoned warriors, causing hesitation that almost cost them both their lives. For the attackers were not human, but creatures unlike any either man had encountered before.

Men and tigers had been blended in a horrific fashion, giving them huge upper torsos and broad shoulders. Their powerful arms ended in outstretched claws and their ability to leap over the men they attacked had them instantly in the midst of the mêlée. These tiger-men were dressed in short-sleeved tunics of black, trimmed with orange, and short trousers cut above the knees, but otherwise were unarmed. With the fangs they bared and the claws that slashed at the mercenaries, it was clear they did not need weapons.

Braden glanced at his long-time companion who nodded once, and then they attempted to battle forward. The tiger-men’s attack was without art: the stealth before the ambush had been almost perfect and there had been only seconds for the most practised mercenary in the company to anticipate the assault. But the closing circle had gaps in it and one of the attackers stood before the two fighters from the north. Like all big cats, these creatures could cautiously stalk prey, but once the assault began, it was all sound and fury. They fought like tigers. Unlike lions – or even packs of coyotes – tigers were solitary ambush predators and now it was an uncoordinated brawl.

Braden shouted, ‘Move forward!’ Chibota grunted an answer as he slashed downward with his sword against a creature trying to rake his shield with its claws. The sword dug deep into the monster’s shoulder just below the neck, and as the dark-skinned warrior yanked the blade free he was rewarded with a cat-like scream and a fountain of blood. He turned a half step and rammed the point of his sword into the exposed side of the creature attacking Braden, causing that tiger-man to howl in shock. Braden quickly ended its life.

Both turned as one and saw they were alone in withstanding the assault. Behind them their comrades were going down under a swarm of the creatures and even further behind them the animal-men were on top of the baggage carts, having killed the drivers and handlers.

‘Run!’ shouted Braden, but as he turned back he saw that Chibota had already apprehended the situation unfolding around them and had come to the same conclusion.

Racing down the narrow trail, they came to a slight clearing out of sight of the fight, pausing for just a scant second to sheath their swords and swing their shields over their backs, then they were off again, running as fast as their feet could carry them. Over hard ground and through heavy undergrowth they lengthened their strides to a dangerous pace. The forest provided scarcely enough visibility for them to move forward at any speed. Braden had no doubt the tiger-creatures knew their way around without hesitation and would be on their trail in minutes.

Crashing through low-hanging branches, they heard the sound of their footfalls change. Braden glanced down and saw a patch of stone beneath the trail. ‘Hey!’ he said, panting from exertion. He pointed down and Chibota nodded. This trail was crossing an ancient road of some sort. Perhaps it might lead to a defensible shelter.

‘Which way?’ asked Chibota, as the sounds of pursuit became audible.

Making an arbitrary choice, Braden picked the right-hand side of the road. ‘That way!’

Sounds from behind them announced that the chase was on and Braden hurled himself forward, unmindful of tearing brambles and undergrowth. He knew their only chance lay in finding a good strategic position, somewhere they might defend until the tiger-men grew weary and left. In an open fight, they were doomed.

The ancient stone path led slightly uphill, then levelled off and suddenly the two fleeing mercenaries bolted into a clearing. A stone building almost invisible until they were nearly upon it rose up suddenly before them. It was covered in ages of dirt and detritus, with plants gripping it as if fearful of losing their hold.

They had little time to examine the structure, any curiosity they might have otherwise felt obliterated by the surge of panic within as they realized this was where the ancient stone pathway ended and there was no way around. Behind the stone building rose a hillside thick with trees and brush and if there was a way up that hill it was not obvious and the exhausted fighters had no time to scout around.

As one, they turned and backed towards the ancient building’s open doorway, a black maw behind them that was inviting only relative to the terror that was coming rapidly toward them. ‘Into the doorway,’ said Braden. ‘That will keep them from—’

A growl of rage accompanied an orange-and-black striped form as it hurled itself into the clearing and in one leap was upon them. Chibota lashed out with his sword. But he was a moment too late. The blade cut through air instead of his attacker and the shield didn’t keep claws away from his throat.

A crimson fountain sprayed for a moment and Braden barely had time to lunge with his sword as the creature turned with a cat’s fluidity. The point of the sword scraped across bone and hard muscle, causing enough pain that the tiger-man recoiled with an angry yowl of pain. But the lunge pulled Braden off balance and he stood exposed for a moment with his shield held away from his body. Before Braden could recover, the tiger-man lashed out with talons that sliced right through Braden’s chest armour. He wore simple jack: heavy padding covered over with quilted fabric, double-stitched for reinforcement. Surprisingly durable against sword-points and daggers, it was all he could afford to purchase on his meagre earnings as a caravan guard. His willingness to go along with this smuggling attempt had been fuelled by his hope of buying better arms and armour when they reached their destination. The pain that shot across Braden’s chest as the claws sliced through his muscles made him gasp. He was slow in bringing up his shield to protect himself and the tiger-man struck again, giving Braden a deep cut on his shield arm just below the shoulder. Instinctively Braden stepped back, deep into the doorway, feeling his left arm go completely numb. He knew he was moments away from being gutted by this creature if he couldn’t somehow fend him off, and even if he did, other tiger-men would soon arrive. Braden struck out again with his sword, and the creature retreated.

His left shoulder was in agony and he could not move his left arm at all. He felt the dangling weight of his shield, hanging useless at his side. His sword came up feebly up to receive the creature’s next assault.

But the tiger-man hesitated and crouched, his ears flattened back against his skull as his face contorted into a snarl and then a hiss as if his rage had turned to fear. Braden could feel blood running beneath his armour and knew that he had two wounds to staunch if he was to live through the next hour. He crouched, breathing slowly to keep from fainting.

But the creature didn’t attack. Snarling, it kept its yellow cat-eyes fixed on Braden, but it would not cross the threshold. Suddenly two other tiger-men appeared, bounding into the clearing, but like the first they paused at the threshold of the stone building and withdrew a step.

Braden had no idea why they refused to come into this darkened hall, but counted it a gift from the gods. He backed deeper into the tunnel which he realized now was heading downward, into the heart of this hillside.

The three tiger-men paced outside the entrance, yowling and snarling. Braden backed slowly until he was sure they would not follow, then turned and moved into darkness. The light from the entrance fell away quickly and he had to feel his way along. He put away his sword, as his left arm was useless and he needed his right to keep himself steady. It was agony to get the shield off his left arm: unfastening the straps so that he could slip it off caused shocks of pain to course through his shoulder. He had dislocated joints before in combat, but this was something different. He knew he needed to find a place to rest and bind his wounds soon, or he would find himself in the Halls of the Death Goddess within hours.

The stones beneath his hand were smooth to the touch. He took a step and felt something crack under his boot. He knelt in the gloom and saw a pile of ancient torches. Praying that whatever oil was in them would still light, he fumbled in his belt pouch for his flint. He moved one torch to his feet, put down the flint, pulled a dagger from his belt and positioned it between his boots. It was awkward striking flint and steel this way, but he had no other option. Sparks flew about haphazardly, but one large one struck the torch and it began to smoulder. Ignoring the agony in his shoulder and chest, Braden leaned forward and blew on the ember. It grew red-hot, then sprang into flame. He quickly picked up the torch and turned it, spreading the flames across the entire head, and then looked around. The torches at his feet were the only thing he could see within the circle of light his small flame cast. He raised the torch high and saw he was near a wall that stretched off into the gloom. He could barely make out the opposite wall. The tunnel was wide here and slanting downward. With only one hand he had no means of holding spare torches, so he prayed silently to Tith-Onanka, the God of Battle, that this light would last for long enough for him to survive.

He moved down the hall.

Braden staggered into a larger chamber. He could feel the weight of ages washing over him as if a tide of history had been unleashed. This room was so immense the illumination from his torch left corners darkened. What he saw moved him nearly to tears.

Deep within the heart of this hill, far below the surface, some ancient ruler had hidden his treasure. In piles rested items of beauty and precious craftsmanship, goblets studded with gems, chains of ebon and gold, piles of fine silks now fragile with age. One handful of fine gold chains piled near the entrance would have made Braden richer than any man he knew. Dryly he considered that he would die wealthy.