Empire of the Saviours (Chronicles of/Cosmic Warlord 1) (62 page)

Torpeth scampered towards the Minister, thinking to stop his betrayal before it could go any further, but at that moment Praxis turned his face away from his squirting gurgling victim and saw the holy man coming.

‘You’re too late!’ cackled the Minister through his red teeth, as he abandoned the warrior and heaved up the other end of the crossbar. ‘Now, master! Deliver us from evil!’ There was a crash against the outside of the gates and they began to shudder open.

‘Awake! Awake!’ Torpeth screamed to the ramparts and the sky. ‘Treachery! Awake to our nightmares made flesh! Awake, my people, or never wake again! Payment is due! Here is the moment of our true testing! The others are here with blade and flame! Oh where are the gods? Awake!’

Hands wringing and eyes rolling wildly, Torpeth ran for the inn as the flames of the sun began to devour the earth, and as Azual returned at last to Godsend.

Samnir pushed Jillan and his bow through the small window in the room where Jillan’s parents had once slept, and then tried to squeeze out after him. The soldier got one arm and his head through, so knew he should be able to make it. He pushed off the ground with his feet, only to find himself caught in midair in the narrow aperture. He was hanging half in and half out, without sufficient purchase to drag himself through. He kicked with his legs as if swimming, tried to wriggle with his torso and pulled at the bricks outside with his one free hand.

Jillan took hold of Samnir’s arm to haul him out.

Samnir slapped him away. ‘Behind you!’

Out of the grey light came a ghoulish figure, its eyes fully black voids. ‘Come to me, boy,’ it snarled at Jillan in a many-layered voice as if there was more than one entity within it.

‘Use the sword!’ Samnir grimaced as he twisted his arm inside the house to push the blade of sun-metal past his body and head, singeing his hair as he did so.

Other ghouls came out of the grey, their movements jerky, as if they were pulled by invisible strings and another’s will. The first ghoul lurched towards Jillan, who ducked, but the possessed Godsender fell on top of him, teeth gnashing at his cheek. Jillan craned his neck back and pushed against the man’s chest with one hand, for his other was pinned beneath him.

‘Hold on, lad!’ Samnir shouted as he heaved himself forward a few more inches. There was a crash behind him in the house as the front door finally gave way.

Jillan realised Samnir wasn’t going to get to him in time and flung out his arm to grope for the sword, his fingers curling around the hilt. The Godsender’s teeth bit into his cheek and he screamed. He stabbed with the sword, its point going through the monster’s temple and coming out the other side. The man’s eyes cleared, returning to their normal brown; he blinked once and then fell dead on top of Jillan.

Jillan rolled the deadweight off him, pulled the sword free and immediately swung it through the neck of a slobbering maid who raked at him with her fingernails. The blade sheered effortlessly through flesh and bone and her head tumbled to the ground. It came to rest and stared up at him accusingly.

‘I don’t want to kill you!’ Jillan cried in distress at a familiar man in the garb of a carpenter who lumbered towards him. ‘Stay back!’

The carpenter cocked his head and spoke in the voice of the Saint. ‘Then stop fighting me, boy. You have caused all this. How many must die before you submit to the authority of your elders and betters? They only have the best interests of you and the People at heart. You cannot fight an entire Empire, Jillan. Stop this before it is too late. Even now the pagans are being slaughtered because of what you started. Even now innocents are caught up and lost in the ensuing chaos. You have instigated a genocide, boy. They will all die!’

Jillan lowered the sword. ‘If I stop fighting, you must stop the killing.’

‘No!’ Samnir shouted and kicked back against something hard, at last propelling himself far enough for his centre of gravity to drag him out and towards the ground.

He landed inelegantly, but rose quickly and punched the carpenter so hard in the face that the man spun all the way round. ‘Give me that!’ Samnir demanded, swapping the sun-metal blade in Jillan’s hand for a normal long knife. He grabbed Jillan by the scruff of the neck and all but lifted him off his feet as he hauled him down the alley at the side of the house. There were howls behind them as the People of the Saint gave chase.

‘They’re not themselves,’ Jillan cried in despair as Samnir hacked down an old couple ahead of them.

‘I’ll say!’ Samnir replied grimly. ‘But they never were the friendliest bunch, eh?’

They dashed out of the alley into a slightly bigger one and Jillan guided them through several twists and turns until they reached the main street. They slid to a stop, dozens of Godsenders spread out and standing motionless before them, waiting in the half-light. To their rear Jillan and Samnir heard the panting pack of hunters closing in on them. The eyes and heads of the Godsenders turned towards the soldier and boy and immediately saw Samnir’s bright sword. In eerie concert, they came forward, silently at first and then with hungry snuffles and yelps of excitement.

‘Shit! We’re going to have to do this the hard way. Stay close to me, boy. We’ll fight back to back if necessary. Jillan! Come on!’

The naked woman stroking Aspin’s brow smiled dreamily at him and smacked him so hard across the face that she all but dislocated his jaw. That’s not how the dream’s supposed to go, he thought as he was brought violently awake. The woman grew stubble, her nose became wide and her brows heavy. She stank. ‘Thomas?’ he asked blearily, wondering if the blacksmith’s blow might just have fractured his skull.

‘The enemy are inside the gates!’ Thomas shouted. ‘Get your bow. Now!’

Thomas turned away, kicking others awake and bellowing for them to rise. Most struggled up, including Chief Braggar and Slavin, but a handful were so lost to drink that they didn’t even stir.

The blacksmith got to the door of the inn, only to find it barred from the outside. There was the smell of smoke. Flaming torches were thrown in through the windows and the shutters slammed closed. A table that had seen liquor spilled on it during the earlier celebrations caught alight and fire roared up to the ceiling, billowing more smoke through the room.

‘Awake, you dogs!’ Thomas roared, backed up from the door and then smashed into it with his shoulder and powerful frame.

The door cracked and sagged. Thomas backed up again and hurled himself forward. The door burst open and Thomas went sprawling onto the ground. There were Heroes ready and waiting with swords of sun-metal raised. One immediately swung with his weapon at Thomas’s head, but an arrow flashed out of the inn door and took the Hero through the throat. Mountain men jumped over Thomas, giving him life-saving moments to get to his feet and bring up his massive hammer.

Dozens of Heroes pushed at the pagans with their shields, trying to use weight of numbers to keep their enemy trapped inside the burning inn. Thomas flexed his mighty arms and chest and put deadly momentum into his hammer, its head crumpling shields, shattering ribs and bowling men over. More Heroes stepped into the gaps left in the wall of shields. Thomas swept the hammer again, smashing through two helmets and dashing a third man against the ground. Another swing, but this time a blade of sun-metal was thrust forward and the hammer was decapitated. Thomas now used its long handle as a staff, but the Heroes were at least six ranks deep around the inn, so he couldn’t create more than swinging room for himself.

‘For the gods!’ came a full-bloodied battle cry, and Chief Braggar charged into the Heroes with head down, shoving the Hero in front of him back onto the sword of the man in the rank behind. Braggar held a blade of sun-metal that his warriors had seized when they took Godsend, and he used it now to carve a wide semicircle out of the front rank. Slavin stepped into the gap behind his Chief, a long thin spear in each hand with which he darted forward with unerring accuracy, spiking an eye here, a throat there, an open mouth and any unarmoured armpit exposed by a raised arm. No Hero had a chance to strike a blow at Braggar while Slavin protected him. Dying men loosed pathetic cries, begging for their blessed Saviours or their mothers to help them.

Aspin and several more warriors forced their way out of the inn, shooting arrows and casting short javelins. It mattered not that their hands shook slightly, for the Heroes were packed so tightly that it was hard not to hit one of them.

‘One step forward!’ cracked out a commanding voice at the back of the Heroes, and the ranks advanced as one, treading on fallen comrades as necessary and stamping down hard to establish a secure footing.

Thomas’s staff had been chopped in two. He twirled the ends in his hands as short fighting sticks, smashing knuckles, blocking swinging attacks at the arm, cracking elbows, breaking noses and punching up under chins. He clubbed and drummed his way forward, knowing every step he took was another life from the inn saved. He was now right among the Heroes and knew that any moment could be his last. He increased his speed, his arms feeling like red-hot metal and his lungs working like bellows. He worked the iron in his muscles as if he were back in his forge. Roaring flames, stifling heat and blinding smoke were all around him. He fought the eternal dragon, the dragon of life and death, and laughed deeply, for this was the struggle he’d always been meant for, the struggle that gave him meaning, that made all his suffering and loss a wondrous joy.

Somehow, Braggar was still at his side, the bull-shouldered youth not about to be outdone by a mere lowlander. The Chief’s bare torso was severely cut and burned all over, blood sheeting down his front and back, but each injury only seemed to add to his rage and strength. His eyes rolled with madness as he ran berserker, all thought for his own safety gone, any sense of self gone as he gave himself over to the elemental force and will of the gods. He’d won himself a second sun-metal sword and plunged forward with them as a dread and maddened aurochs would, twin points held low and threatening.

‘Spears ready! One step forward! Thrust!’ came the voice again, its commanding tone slightly shaking now.

Then Torpeth was running across the heads and shoulders of the Heroes, his ululating cry spooking the ranks and creating disorder as much as the small but devastating daggers in his palms. He leapt and landed with both feet on top of one man’s helmet, going straight into a crouch and swinging his daggers down below his feet so that they punched through the man’s ears to spike his brain. The near-naked holy man sprang up and landed his feet on either side of another Hero’s head. The daggers sliced through the man’s throat from both directions. He hopped onto another man, landing on one foot and kicking in the face of the man behind. Spears stabbed towards him, but he never stayed in one place long enough for them to arrive. He landed hard on another to break his neck and then jumped and skipped his way up and down the ranks, his every step and touch bringing death, every moment a final cry from a different member of the Empire’s army.

‘One step forwa— Argh!’

The mountain men now poured from the inn, coughing and spluttering, but most with weapons and all ready to fight. The force of over a hundred Heroes sent ahead to kill those within the inn had been entirely undone.

Thomas looked towards the north gates. The main body of Heroes was finishing off the mountain men on the walls and those who had been sleeping in the nearby barracks. Wave after wave of heavily armoured Heroes still marched through the open gates, and now the terrible figure of Saint Azual appeared. The region’s ruler towered over all of them – apparently more formidable even than when Aspin and Thomas had faced him in Hyvan’s Cross – the rising sun creating a glaring halo around his head so that it was hard for the several hundred surviving defenders to look upon him.

Jillan released his arrow and took the baker in the leg, the same baker who had always sold bread to his mother but now seemed intent on killing him. The baker hardly broke step and kept coming.

‘Shoot to kill!’ Samnir castigated him. ‘We can’t afford to waste shafts.’ The soldier sliced and lopped off limbs that reached for him.

They were in a running battle along the south road, more and more of the Saint-possessed inhabitants coming out of side streets to swell the mob. They brayed for Jillan, for blood and the glory of the Empire.

The majority of the frenzied Godsenders came on behind Jillan and Samnir, but there was still a scattering of them ahead. Two came angling in at Jillan: he shot an arrow into the forehead of one and Samnir used his momentum to body-check and slam the other into the ground.

‘Pick your feet up, lad,’ Samnir panted, and cursed as an oversized lumberjack came across their path.

Jillan dared a glance back over his shoulder. ‘They’re gaining on us!’ he cried in a panicky voice and fumbled an arrow from his quiver, only to drop it.

The lumberjack dived for Jillan, momentarily catching Samnir off guard. Big hands grabbed the front of Jillan’s tunic and pulled him to the ground. Samnir stamped on the lumberjack’s back, keeping him flat, sank his sun-metal blade into the nape of the man’s neck and withdrew it. The soldier cut through the man’s wrists and pulled Jillan up, one of the lumberjack’s separated hands still gripping tightly to Jillan’s front.

The pursuing townsfolk were now all but upon them.

‘Head down and get to the Gathering Place, where we’ll have more room to manoeuvre. Don’t stop, whatever happens!’ Samnir ordered fiercely, pushing Jillan on ahead of him.

‘Jiiillan,’ came a collective moan from behind them. Jillan dared not look back now. He was forced to discard bow and quiver so that he could run more freely. Besides, the weapon would do him no good in the close fighting that was surely about to descend on them.

His lungs burned and his legs shook with effort. ‘We’ll never make it!’

You will if you release me, you fool!
the taint railed at him.
You’ve been given magic for a reason. Give up this self-doubt or the Saint has already won
.