‘I see.’ He nodded to Palla. ‘Watch here. I will go.’
‘Take at least five,’ Palla urged.
‘No. You must defend these doors. Only I need go.’
‘But, Second …’
‘No. It is for me to answer this.’ He set off before Palla could speak again. The runner followed.
Jan found the doors blasted open and another fallen: Por, the Thirteenth. Yet the price the Moranth paid to achieve this breach had been high. Their slain far exceeded the few defenders. He drew his blade and stole ahead as silently as he could. With each step he loosed the fisted hold he kept upon everything driven down within his blazing chest: his self-condemnation, his self-disgust, his rage, and above all the lacerating sorrow that threatened to suffocate him. Until at last he carried no awareness at all into the rear of the ranks before him.
Horul, of the Hundredth, quickly fell behind within the maze of rooms. The Second more than ran; he charged unchecked by numbers. He did not slow no matter how many faced him; driving, spinning, slashing until only the bellows and howls of wounded Moranth led her on. And at every turn, every room, the fallen. Each bearing only a single mortal wound either to neck or to artery or to nearly severed limb. They did not know what was coming, so swift was his advance. No chance to throw their munitions or form a defence. It seemed to her he passed through them like a breeze, utterly silent but for the hiss of his two-handed blade.
She found him standing motionless deep within the east wing; listening, perhaps. She carefully stepped over the carpet of fallen choking the room: some sort of last stand. Gore limned his sleeves and legs. Bright droplets spattered his once pure mask, like seeds on snow. He seemed completely unaware of her before him.
‘Second,’ she breathed, almost reverent. ‘Second. Never had I ever imagined …’
Awareness suddenly flooded his gaze, but not before she glimpsed something naked and utterly unguarded that drove her eyes away.
‘I … live,’ he uttered, wonder in his voice.
‘Yes. You live.’
‘Not … today, then.’
‘No. Not today.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’ He eased a hand from his side, releasing at the same time a hiss of suppressed pain. Horul glimpsed the wound from a penetrating thrust. His despairing smile made her turn her mask away again.
‘Second!’
‘Bind it, Horul,’ he managed through clenched lips. ‘Bind it tight.’
Now that the last of the crowd of councillors, aristocrats and court functionaries had all long since fled, the Great Hall was quiet. Scorch and Leff stood watch leaning up against the rear of one of the fat columns that ran along a wall. All was hushed now; the pounding had faded away. Only the laboured breathing and occasional muted sobs of that miserable Mouthpiece broke the silence of the hall. But listening, his head cocked, Leff could make out the distant clash of fighting.
Scorch turned to him, even more anxious and confused than usual. Then he sent a meaningful glance to a nearby exit. Leff shook his head. Scorch glared, demanding an explanation.
His voice as low as possible, Leff whispered: ‘You don’t really think anyone’s gonna get through all them Seguleh, do ya?’
Scorch’s expressive brows rose and he gave a great show of the light dawning. He winked. ‘Right. What now?’
Leff hefted his crossbow. ‘Well, now we gotta guard, don’t we? Up to us. Last line o’ defence and such.’
Scorch nodded towards the centre of the hall. ‘Maybe we should, y’ know, take a look …?’
‘Right. You go ahead.’
‘Me?’ Scorch ducked his head. He whispered sotto voce: ‘Why me? You go — you’re senior ’n’ all.’
‘No, I ain’t. Equals we are. Same rank.’ He urged Scorch out. ‘G’wan.’
Cursing under his breath, Scorch edged around the column. He stepped out, leaning to peer at the throne. ‘Still there,’ he whispered. ‘Hasn’t moved a muscle.’
‘Fine. Good. All’s …’ Leff’s voice faded away as he peered closely at Scorch. ‘Wait a minute. What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
In the doorway, Palla ducked flying stone chips from an errant throw. She waved aside the obscuring smoke to study the blasted grounds dotted with fallen, and the Moranth squares pushing for the walls. Then she scanned the night sky, now empty of quorls.
‘I believe that is all of them,’ she called to Shun, the Eighteenth.
‘How many?’
‘I cannot be certain. Perhaps a thousand.’
‘Then we have won. These last few we will finish off.’
‘Still, they have taken too many with them.’
‘It was their gamble. They-’
A dull brown blade smeared in gore erupted from the Eighteenth’s chest and was withdrawn almost before Palla had registered that it was there. She leapt backwards an instant before it slashed again, striking shards of stone from where she had just been standing. As Shun fell a walking horror was revealed behind him in the doorway: carious face of dried sinew and skull brown with age, broken remnants of hide and bone armour, limbs of bare bone strung with ligaments and creaking flesh, legs oddly mismatched.
‘Attend!’ Palla shouted, backing away as she parried sweep after sweep of the wide flint sword.
Three others of the Hundredth charged. Blows rocked the Imass in a flurry of bone chips, sliced rotten hide and bits of cured flesh, and still it came on. A downward sweep taken full on the edge of one Seguleh’s sword shattered the blade and knocked the bearer to crash against a wall and slump unconscious.
Still Palla yielded ground one hard-fought step at a time. Each overbearing attack she slipped as obliquely as she dared, feeling her blade shudder and flex on the cusp of failing in her hands. Another of the Hundredth lunged close as the creature appeared to waver, but the Imass snatched the youth’s arm and propelled him into a pillar to smack wetly and fall.
‘It’s not you I want,’ it ground out. ‘Stand aside.’
The third Hundredth took the opportunity to leap, swinging a great blow to the creature’s neck. The blade chopped but caught. The half fleshless skull atop canted but did not topple. Palla halted her own lunge as the Imass seized the lad under the chin and lifted him from the floor while it knocked the blade from its neck.
Inspiration came. Palla offered the long deep bow of the ancient form, hands out from her sides. Then she struck the most traditional of the
‘Your challenge is accepted.’
The Imass stilled. A second later it tossed the lad through an open doorway, where he landed amid furniture. ‘What is your rank?’
‘Sixth.’
‘Sixth? I met the First. Long ages ago. Then I wouldn’t have dared face any of the champions. Let us see how things proceed — now that I have had ample time to practise.’ It grasped the naked flint tang of its sword in both bone and sinew hands, and advanced.
The whirling storms that scattered Ebbin’s consciousness to the furthest corners of his mind had receded. And all his memories came crashing in at once, bringing with them the horrifying awareness of all that had happened, caused by
Stung, Ebbin moved to scuttle off on all fours.
In his mind a hand clutched his neck. The monstrosity straddled him, gold mask turned to study the roiling
