Demontech: Onslaught (26 page)

Realizing it was too late to retreat, Haft did the only thing he could: he heaved himself over the windowsill, tumbled into the room, and rolled in a direction that would take him past the charging enemy. His hip clipped the slavemaster’s shins as he went by, causing the man to stumble. Haft surged to his feet and stood rigid, holding his axe ready. Somehow, the Lalla Mkouma on his shoulder held her grip and kept spinning her robe. The slavemaster regained his balance almost immediately and slowly pirouetted, the sword held ready in both hands, looking intently into all parts of the room, but as quietly as Haft stood, he couldn’t be seen or heard.

Two of the guards from the corridor burst through the doorway simultaneously and were briefly jammed together in the door frame. Once through, they stood in place and looked around when they saw what their master was doing; each had his sword at the ready. Haft sidled one step away from them. The slavemaster said something that sounded to Haft like Skragish, and the two men-at-arms stood shoulder to shoulder before the door. The slavemaster backed toward them, slashing his blade from side to side.

Outside, Spinner heard Haft’s shout and then a thud and knew Haft had gone into the room. Haft was inside facing the enemy, and Spinner couldn’t leave him alone. As quickly as he could, he scuttled the rest of the way, thrust his staff through the window and heaved himself onto the sill before his eyes completely took in the tableau. He froze momentarily, recognizing the danger of the three slashing, advancing blades. One of the two men-at-arms still in the corridor stepped into the doorway, sword at the ready, to block anyone who managed to pass the blades in the room.

Spinner lunged the rest of the way through the window, landed running, hefted his quarterstaff horizontally across his front and began spinning it. The staff became visible.

“Get the man!” he shouted as he crossed the center of the room. Before the startled guards could react to his voice, the ends of his staff slammed into them and knocked them into the doorjamb. Spinner windmilled the staff into the two stunned guards again. One cried out in pain and stumbled to the side, clutching a shattered arm, the other just collapsed. A trickle of blood leaked from his left ear. Spinner twisted the staff then thrust it at the face of the man in the doorway. That guard flew backward into the fourth man, who was just turning to see if he should give up his post in the corridor to join the fight in the room. Spinner followed the third man through the doorway, felled the fourth with one blow, then kicked away the nearby swords so that none of the men-at-arms could get them quickly if they recovered enough to rejoin the fray. Spinner didn’t think any of them would; two of them looked to be dead, and it would be a long time before the man with the shattered arm fought again.

Haft moved instantly when he heard Spinner shout then race past him. He stepped forward and swung his axe in an arc that should have caught the slavemaster in his middle. But the tiny woman on his shoulder squealed in terror and stopped spinning her robe around him—he became visible again. With the fastest reactions Haft had ever seen, the slavemaster simultaneously threw up his sword to parry the swing and jumped back out of its way. The Lalla Mkouma squealed again, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and resumed the furious robe spinning.

As he looked for an opening past the axe, the slavemaster slowly shuffled his feet from side to side and slid forward, his blade held before him, its tip at chest height, shifting from side to side. He growled low in his throat as he came forward; it sounded as though he was saying, “I can’t see you, but you can’t get away from me in this narrow room.”

Haft knew that was right; sooner or later the two would be in contact. Behind him, Spinner was reentering the room after dispatching the last of the guards.

“Where are you?” Spinner asked then, as the slavemaster spun to face this new threat, and Spinner quickly added, “Don’t answer. You can see my staff, maneuver on me.”

The slavemaster chuckled, growled, feinted a lunge toward Spinner’s voice, then made a vicious backhand swing toward the middle of the room where he thought Haft was. He came closer than he knew—Haft barely managed to bow his middle out of the way of the blow of the blade. The slash struck the outside wall of the room and seemed to bury the sword in the plaster and lathe all the way into the outer stone. Haft stepped forward to strike at the unprotected slavemaster, but the blade wasn’t stuck. With lightning reflexes, the slavemaster pulled it out of the wall and danced away from Haft’s blow. Like Spinner’s staff, the axe was visible when Haft swung it. But Haft was fast enough that a corner of his blade slashed across the metal and leather armor on the slavemaster’s belly, raising sparks from the metal and slicing through the leather. Red slowly oozed around the cut. Haft moved again. The slavemaster responded with a flourish of strokes that met only air. He chuckled again then growled something before moving toward Spinner once more but this time not as a feint, and Spinner had to shield himself with swings and spins of the quarterstaff. Only Spinner’s great skill with the staff kept him from being skewered by the sword.

Haft desperately looked for an opening to get the slavemaster off Spinner, but the sword’s reach, despite its short length, was greater than the reach of his axe—and he had a more than healthy respect for that blade. The slavemaster was swinging his sword in wide arcs that carried almost all the way around to his back. Each time he swung, the tip of the blade sliced into a wall and left clean cuts in it. The swings came so fast that Haft had no time to step inside their arc and land a blow of his own. The slavemaster was slowly backing Spinner up until he was almost at the far wall.

Then Haft saw that the slavemaster’s swings were coming in an almost regular rhythm. He edged himself to a position to the swordsman’s right rear and, timing himself, brought his axe around and down as fast as he could to intercept the swinging sword. His swing missed the arm he aimed at and buried itself in the planking of the floor—but the axe handle hit the blade and carried it down. The slavemaster spun off balance and only saved himself from falling by letting go of his weapon. He darted past Haft, who was trying to pry his axe from the floor. Spinner raced after him, but the shift from defense to attack allowed the slavemaster to get to the bench, grab the longer sword, and turn to face him. Spinner pulled up short.

The slavemaster gave the room a rueful look. He started to advance again then, and for the first time noticed the emblem on Haft’s axe. He stood erect, brought the hilt of his sword to his face, and bowed in salute. When he straightened he said in thickly accented Frangerian, “I didn’t know anyone still carried the rampant eagle.” He grinned widely. “I always did want to fight the very best.” He cocked his head and looked again at the axe, which Haft was still trying to dislodge from the floor. “But you don’t know its magic, do you? So you aren’t the best. Oh, well.” With a shriek, he attacked.

Haft had to let go of his weapon and dive out of the way of the sword blow. He came up with the short sword in his hands.

Spinner struck at the slavemaster with his staff, but the slavemaster spun away, taking only part of the blow. Still, he stumbled, and Haft immediately jumped in and thrust his sword through the slavemaster’s chest.

The Jokapcul shuddered and slid off the blade. He clutched the wound in his chest with one hand and grasped the edge of the bench top with the other. He tried to stand, but his attempt was feeble and he tipped over, falling heavily on his side. His eyes misted and he gasped for air. A froth of blood bubbled from his chest and dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He said something, but his voice was weak. His native tongue had an incongruous, plaintive tone. Then his expression went blank.

Spinner and Haft rubbed the thighs of their respective Lalla Mkouma to stop the magic, and they became visible again. They looked at each other, drained by the fight they knew they could just as easily have lost. They looked at the miniature woman on each other’s shoulders who at full size would have been beautiful almost beyond belief, and burst into tension-relieving laughter. Startled, the Lalla Mkouma resumed twirling their robes, and the two men again vanished from sight, which only made the Marines laugh harder.

But they laughed only for a moment. There were more men-at-arms to be dealt with, and they had to get into the cellar to free the women before the fire reached them.

Spinner dropped to a knee to search the corpse for the key to unlock the slaves’ anklets. Haft looked on the table and through chests. The Lalla Mkouma saw there was no immediate danger and became still.

“Don’t bother,” Spinner said. “The key is too important for him to leave lying around. He had to keep it on his body or in his clothing.” He grunted as he pulled a key ring from inside the armor. “Here it is.”

One of the keys was tiny and looked exactly the right size. Spinner picked up the short sword, gave it a few tentative swings, and decided he could use it though it felt and handled differently from the saber he’d trained with. Too many of the spaces in the inn were too narrow for him to properly use his staff.

“Now let’s find Master Yoel.”

“Wait,” Haft said. As soon as Spinner told him to stop looking for the key, he’d noticed the ugly, winged demon the slavemaster had been talking to when he first looked in the window—he’d forgotten the thing in the heat of battle. The swarm of bees was still hovering near it. Spinner now saw it for the first time.

“What are you?” Haft demanded.

The fearsome-looking demon cringed back from him.

Haft grinned at the creature’s fear and hefted his axe. “I know you can talk.”

“Imbaluris,”
the demon whimpered from behind its arms.
“Naw hurd’um. Mezzger.”

“You’re a messenger?”

“Mezzger!”
the demon repeated.

“What are they?” Haft pointed at the bees.

“Zeekums. Tellum whar oo-um.”

Haft considered this. “Can they find Master Yoel?”

“Yass’um.”
The demon gabbled at the bees. They swarmed out of the window.

Haft drew back from the demon and turned his face toward the Lalla Mkouma on his shoulder. “Is it telling the truth?”

“Mebbe,”
she piped. She made a face at the messenger and said something in a language Haft didn’t recognize.

The messenger replied and vigorously nodded behind its arms. The bees returned in a few moments and buzzed at the messenger. When the bees finished, the imbaluris gabbled something Haft couldn’t understand.

The Lalla Mkouma on his shoulder listened intently, then piped,
“Ee tellum. I zhow oo.”

“Let’s go.” Spinner turned toward the door but stopped before he’d taken a full step. “Listen!” he snapped.

They heard the excited sounds of people approaching outside the room.

“Out the window,” Haft said. He was over the sill before Spinner reached the window.

The two Lalla Mkouma they’d left behind were waiting, and clambered onto their free shoulders. Climbing down the wall was easier than climbing across it had been, and they were on the ground before anyone in the corridor entered the slavemaster’s room.

The sky above the inn shone bright, and sparks flew through the air, threatening to set a grass fire around the building. Men ran about stomping on the embers as soon as they struck the ground. Some of them congregated by the slave barn, but they were unceremoniously turned away by the guards stationed in front of it. A few edged toward the forest, but once they saw how dark it was under the trees, they too turned back. Most of them, though, milled about in front of the inn, looking more like a herd of cattle huddling together for protection from a wolf pack than a mass of men who could cause problems for the two Marines. There were no women in the crowd.

Crying about the valuables they had to retrieve from their rooms before the entire building burned down, a clot of merchants was trying to force its way back into the inn. Others just stood back.

“We can distract them,” Spinner said, nodding at the merchants and their men.

“What do you mean?” Haft replied. He twisted his axe in his hands, as though aching to bury it in one of the slave traders.

“By freeing the troll. Let’s go.” He ran toward the rear of the inn.

“But we don’t have time!” Haft shouted, looking up at the flames that now engulfed most of the inn’s top level. Spinner neither replied nor stopped, so Haft ran after him.

The shed door was secured by a simple latch. Spinner stared at it for a long moment and slowly lifted his hand to it.

“What are you waiting for?” Haft snapped. “If you’re going to open it, open it!”

“I’ve heard tales . . .” Spinner mumbled. Then fast, so he couldn’t stop himself, he flipped the latch and flung the door open.

Light from the fire splashed dimly into the shed. They could vaguely make out a boxy object along one side of the small room. A cable snaked from one side of the box into a hole in the dirt floor. Another cable runneled from the other side to an odd contraption that looked like a framework with a seat, handles, and footrests. There was no sign of the troll.

Haft clutched at Spinner’s sleeve. “Time’s wasting, we’ve got to go.”

Then a shadow on the floor beyond the box stirred and rose. It moved toward them and resolved into a gnarly creature shaped roughly like a man. It was the troll, and it stood chest high to them. The troll raised a knuckly hand to Spinner and poked a broken talon at him.

“Veedmee,”
it rumbled.

Spinner recoiled from the troll so quickly he would have collided with Haft had the other Marine not already stepped back and readied his axe.

“Veedmee!”
the troll rumbled louder. It took a menacing step toward Spinner and rolled its lips to expose a mouth full of sharp, serrated teeth.

Spinner was at a loss for words. Not only did he not have any food to offer the monster, he had no idea what it ate. And it looked ready to bite him. He had to suppress the feeling that he should just hold out his hand and get it over with.