The Crossover (2 page)

“We will enter in an orderly fashion,” said the Captain, “following our original battle plan. The only difference is, you’ll win more of the honor and glory than we’d expected. It’s damned tight in there, and I see some of you are already prepared. You have three objectives: offer aid to our wounded soldiers, kill any man with a beard—no quarter!—and find any and all exits to the plains above. We will wipe this place clean of any Eastern taint this day.”

• • •

Each Striker led his men into Tirfa-Wold. Each strike—a dozen soldiers, give or take—approached quietly, as if respecting the awesome silence. They marched up the switchbacks and filed into their allotted caves. The first strikes entered the lowest caves.

“Figures,” a soldier in Lodrán’s strike grumbled. “We get to march all the way up.”

“At least we’re traveling light,” said another. “We might be the ones to find the exit, too.”

At last, they boarded the landing craft and went ashore. The Striker lined them up and gave the orders—and indeed, they were assigned the topmost caves. They were separated into threes, and Lodrán, Endrik, and a third impressee named Torba were the last of the last.

“Too bad we can’t just march right back down,” Torba grinned, as they mounted the steep switchbacks. “But they’d see it on shipboard, no doubt.”

“Ssh,” said Lodrán. “I think I saw something in our cave.”

“A rat?” Endrik asked.

“A bearded rat.” Lodrán made himself stop chewing his mustache. “I have an idea.”

Lodrán led them along the narrow path to the cave; the others waited as he walked in front of the cave mouth as if passing it. From within, an Easterner howled a war cry and charged, intending to push Lodrán down the cliff. But Lodrán threw himself at his attacker’s feet.

The Easterner thought quickly—too quickly—and jumped. His leap carried him over Lodrán and over the edge of the walkway. He fell, screaming until he struck an outcropping.

Endrik and Torba rushed in. “Are you all right?” Torba asked.

“Better than he is,” said Lodrán, scrambling to his feet. “Look—light-shafts. We won’t need those torches.” He opened his pack and tossed several torches aside.

“He left us some weapons,” said Endrik. “You were wanting some knives?” He offered three to Lodrán.

Lodrán took one in hand. The design was unfamiliar, but the balance was good. He grinned and slipped them into his belt.

Endrik laughed. “Good thing he didn’t just throw his spear. You’d have been dead before you finished falling off the cliff.”

Lodrán nodded. “You two stay here,” he suggested. “I’ll go have a look. You can watch my back.”

“Fair enough!” Torba laughed.

A little farther in, Lodrán heard shouts and sounds of fighting. Still, he felt almost at home here. The rough-hewn walls of Tirfa-Wold were unlike those of Nightwalk, and the light-shafts gave enough light to see by, but such details were slight after four days on shipboard. Hoping for the luck of the Hand, he crept forward. A spear was not his usual weapon, but even a short sword was near-useless in these tight passages. Those who practice the Silent Art learn to adapt.

Threading his way deeper into the caves, chewing his mustache, cat-silent, he picked turns at random. An obstruction up ahead resolved into an Eastern soldier, standing with his back to Lodrán. Closer he came, spear raised and ready to throw, to within six feet before his quarry sensed danger and turned. Lodrán flung his spear, catching the soldier in the throat. The man gurgled and pulled at the spear, falling to his knees and then sideways. Blood pooled around him.

Lodrán felt his stomach lurch, but forced it quiet. While he did not make a habit of killing, this kill was not his first. He would likely have to kill again this day, unless he wanted to rejoin Endrik and Torba. But if the raiders had not already sent their plunder back East, he intended to have fair pay for his forced servitude. It would be easier to collect, though, before it was loaded on the warships and guarded all the way home.

The soldier gave a final twitch and lay still. Lodrán looked him over, and noticed the shield. It was obviously designed for spear-fighting in narrow places, less than a foot wide and a little longer than his forearm. Strapped to the forearm, it left the wrist free to wield a spear two-handed.

“Sorry, friend,” Lodrán muttered, “but I think I’ll need this more than you do.” He took the shield, the unbloodied spear, and two more throwing-knives.

Not much farther down, Lodrán came upon one of the Cream of Ak’koyr. He was alive, but a broken spear jutted from a bloody left leg. Another dead Easterner lay nearby, and pieces of a huge sword were scattered around both living and dead. Seeing Lodrán, he raised his broken sword, then lowered it. “How did you get past the other?” he demanded.

“I caught him from behind. Can you move?”

“With that in my leg? I can’t even crawl. Damn this place and those who built it.”

Lodrán slipped his pack to the floor and tossed a few bandages to the wounded warrior. “Should I pull it out?”

“Just do it and shut up!”

Lodrán jerked the spear out, trying not to think about it, before the warrior could brace himself. The big man gasped and pressed the rags to the gushing wound, then allowed Lodrán to bind the wound with more rags. Lodrán cut a length of rope, filched from the ship, and tied it above the wound. He slipped the broken spear under it. “If it bleeds too much, twist it,” he said. “Wait here.”

He trotted back to the dead Easterner and returned with the bloody spear. He helped the injured warrior stand, then gave him the spear. “Make your way back out.”

The spear bowed a little under the weight of the warrior. “What do I fight with?” he snarled. “Damned sword broke—”

“With any luck, you don’t fight. I left two men at the cave we entered. They can help you back down and get you to the landing craft. Make a report to Captain—the Captain—”

“Captain Shalor.”

Lodrán shrugged. “Right. Make your report. Maybe they can heal you.”

“What if I’m attacked?”

“With any luck, you won’t be. If you try to play hero right now, you’re done.” Lodrán thought a moment, then gave him his short sword. “This is the best I have. Unless you’d rather use that spear.”

The Cream of Ak’koyr hefted the sword. “What am I supposed to do with this toothpick?”

“Survive,” said Lodrán. “If you don’t want it, I might be able to use it.”

The warrior glared at him, then limped away, carrying the sword.

• • •

To Lodrán, it seemed like hours before he found anyone else. Then, in a rough chamber, he nearly stumbled upon them before he realized it. A dead Cream warrior lay atop two dead Easterners. A third Easterner, wounded, leaned against a wall. A second glance at the Cream warrior suggested that he also had considered the narrow confines of Tirfa-Wold: his shield was chopped down and he clutched a short sword.
Too bad it didn’t help
, Lodrán thought.

He returned his attention to the lone survivor. He bled from several gashes in his arm, leg, and side. His spear was intact and bloody. Lodrán and the Easterner watched each other, looking for an opening. At last, the Easterner raised his spear for a throw. Lodrán whipped his shield arm down and back; a knife leaped for the Easterner. Encumbered by the shield, his knife went wide of the Easterner’s chest. But the hilt struck the spear and knocked it out of his hand. Lodrán advanced.

“Quarter!” the Easterner cried, raising his hands.

Lodrán stopped, but held his spear at the ready. “Where is the plunder your people took?”

The Easterner looked confused, and Lodrán repeated the question as best he could in the Eastern tongue.

“That way.” The man pointed down a hallway. “You will find a room with a stairway. Go up. But it’s guarded.”

“Keep your life, then,” said Lodrán. “I will take these weapons, though.” He took the spear and the Ak’koyr short sword. “Play dead. We have orders to give no quarter.”

“Then—then why—” the Easterner waved his hands.

“I am here against my will, so I do not follow all orders.” He grinned. The Easterner smirked, gave him the head-nod bow, then sank to the floor.

Tunnels and hallways branched away, and Lodrán considered each one carefully before continuing on. He came upon another dead Cream warrior. Either no Easterners went down with this one, or they were carried away. The hallway appeared to widen just ahead. Lodrán stepped over the dead man and gasped.

He stood just inside another chamber, hewn out of the cliffside rock. One of the Cream of Ak’koyr stood, back to the far wall, facing four Easterners. Oddly enough, he did not wear the uniform of Ak’koyr’s elite warriors. There was blood on him, but the way he hefted his sword suggested it might not be his own. Three more spearmen lay dead, and one of the living was wounded. In truth, Lodrán had forgotten how well the Cream of Ak’koyr could fight in an open space, and the Easterners had paid a high price for forgetting as well. But for now, they stood out of reach, unable to use their numbers to advantage while their foe kept to the wall. The metal monster snarled fluent taunts in the Eastern tongue, to Lodrán’s surprise, as he brandished his sword.

Lodrán threw his spear; the wounded Easterner fell and the others turned to face the new threat. Seizing the opportunity, the warrior lunged forward and cut down another spearman. One of the remaining two charged Lodrán, leaving the other to his fate.

Lodrán had just enough time to draw his short sword, and the spearman hesitated. He glared at Lodrán, and raised his spear for a thrust or throw. Lodrán made ready to dodge, focusing on the spear head—

Suddenly, the Easterner grunted and fell. Behind him stood the big swordsman. “Thanks for the help, sold—
Lodrán
? What in the dung-choked streets of the Seventh Round are you doing here?”

Lodrán gasped as he recognized the stranger, then grinned. “I was dragged here by Ak’koyr’s press gang. And you, Chelinn?”

Chelinn chuckled. “On rare occasions, Ak’koyr and I have similar ends. But they need not know that, so I stowed away on their flagship. Listening to what one might call their battle plans, I rather expected this. The Easterners have skimmed the Cream, but they’re outnumbered and the common soldiers will give them more of a fight. I intended to find what I wanted and begone before either side knew I was here.”

“What do you want, then?”

Lodrán’s old friend looked beyond the walls. “Did you ever consider that the raiders have had a great deal of luck?”

“Raiding Mostil was daring, certainly.”

“They attacked when they knew it was safe. The Northern Reach is ready for them, now. Ak’koyr itself is lousy with warships and trained warriors. Roth’s Keep would take too long to plunder. Mostil was likely their last success, and I expect them to depart back East soon.”

“All right.” Lodrán shrugged. “So they can tell when when a prize is left unguarded? They have an Oracle?”

“Perhaps.” Chelinn shook his head. “But more likely, a scrying-stone.”

“Any decent sorcerer can scry,” said Lodrán.

“But not safely over great distances, and not into the future. Oracles are often unreliable. Thus, reason suggests they have one of the Eyes of Byula.”

Lodrán’s eyes went wide. “And Ak’koyr is unaware?”

Chelinn laughed. “No, they came to the same conclusion as I. Thus, the raid. The Cream was to have dealt with the resistance. The common soldiers would then go to work searching this complex for what the raiders have looted, and carry it on board. Captain Shalor would locate the Eye and bring it back to the Council. They, in due course, would have turned it over to Protector Dian.”

“And you were going to relieve them of the burden?” Lodrán smirked.

“Indeed. But I haven’t had much luck finding it. I know it’s nearby, is all.”

“That way.” Lodrán pointed. “We need to find a room with stairs.”

The big warrior-mage cocked his head. “How do you know that?”

“I offered a spearman his life in exchange for the information. He did say the place was well-guarded.”

“We’ll see just how well-guarded.” Chelinn grinned. “Shall I lead?”

“Certainly.”

• • •

Beyond the chamber, the hallway widened. Lodrán brought out his crossbow and checked his throwing knives. They made brief plans, then moved out. Lodrán was in his element: dark corridors to conceal him, and a trusted friend like Chelinn out front. At the moment, success seemed all but certain.

After a few minutes, they found the staircase and began a wary climb. They were seen before they reached the top, and three Eastern spearmen clattered down to face them. Lodrán loosed his crossbow, and the quarrel stuck in the spearman’s shield. But it distracted the spearman long enough for Chelinn to finish the job.

Another Easterner threw his spear, but Chelinn’s armor turned it and the assailant ran back upstairs faster than he’d come down. That left only one opponent for Chelinn, and it was over before Lodrán had his crossbow cocked again.

“Well, now they’re warned,” said Chelinn. “Onward, but be ready to retreat.”

“No sense in using Ak’koyr’s tactics, eh?”

Chelinn snorted. “Indeed. No treasure is worth dying for.”

They moved with caution, reaching the top of the stairs to find an empty room.

“Must be a hidden door, then,” said Lodrán, looking around.

“Not hidden. It’s in the ceiling.” Chelinn pointed up at a trap door near one corner of the ceiling. “He scuttled up a ladder and pulled it up behind him, I suppose. I could Lift you up there, but I couldn’t back you up.”

Lodrán looked at the walls. Like all chambers in Tirfa-Wold, the walls were rough-cut—plenty of knobs and nooks, and the ceiling was only ten feet high. He dropped his pack and crossbow and scuttled up the wall. A gentle press, and the door moved.

“It’s open,” Lodrán whispered. “I can’t say what’s waiting for us behind it, though.”

“Back away,” Chelinn whispered back, rising to float alongside him. Wind rushed into the room, gathered below, and slammed into the trapdoor with all the subtlety of the Cream of Ak’koyr. The trap door burst open, and Chelinn was up and through with Lodrán close behind.