'Dace, for the sake of Heaven, let's find a way out of here!' cried Tarantio.
But Dace ignored him. He took three running steps, then pitched sideways into the wall and half-fell.
Blood-drenched and swaying, he made it back to the main tunnel and saw the bodies of a score of Daroth and as many Corduin men. Picking his way through them he heard the sounds of battle up ahead.
'I'm coming for you!' shouted Dace, his voice echoing through the tunnels. He stumbled on, then fell to his knees.
'Stop, Dace,' Tarantio urged him. 'Stop now. We are dying.'
Dace sat with his back to the wall and gazed down at his blood-drenched clothes. There was no feeling in his right leg now, and his vision was swimming. 'I am not going to die in the dark,' he said.
With a great effort he rolled to his knees, then got his good leg under him, forcing himself upright. As two Daroth warriors came into sight, Dace blinked sweat from his eyes. 'Come on!' he called. 'Come and die, you ugly whoresons!'
They rushed forward, but the first suddenly swayed to his left with a crossbow bolt through his skull. The second lunged at Dace. The swordsman's blade flashed up with impossible speed, blocking the thrust. Off-balance, the Daroth fell forward and Dace's blade swept through his thick throat. 'Where are the rest of you?' shouted Dace. Then he fell unconscious into the arms of Ozhobar.
Dressed in black leather leggings and a silver satin tunic shirt, the Duke stood silently in the park. Though surrounded by men he was alone, as he always had been. His eyes scanned the hillsides, remembering far-off days when he had played here with his brother. Bright and adventurous, Jorain had been the only person to reach the shy, introverted child the Duke had once been. When he had died he had taken a part of Albreck with him. A loveless marriage, and twenty years of ruling a people he neither liked nor understood, had been the life of Albreck following the death of Jorain. You would have been so much better than I, thought Albreck. The people loved you.
Albreck switched his gaze to the catacomb entrance. Reinforced by two elaborate stone pillars and a white lintel stone, there were steps within that led down to the crystal cavern. Jorain had told him it was an entrance to Hell, and the six-year-old Albreck had been afraid to enter.
Now the childish game had become a reality. It was an entrance to Hell.
And I have come here to die, thought Albreck. The thought made him smile, he didn't know why. Are you waiting for me, Jorain? he wondered. The Duke had brought no sword or dagger and he stood now, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever would follow. He glanced at Karis. The warrior woman was now wearing a dress of white silk she had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Duke's wife; around her slim waist was a blue sash. She looked so incongruous now, surrounded by warriors, like a virgin bride waiting for her groom.
'Why do you need the dress?' he had asked her.
'Don't ask, my lord,' she said.
Under torchlight, Karis was organizing the placements of the five ballistae, forming a wide semi-circle some hundred paces from the entrance to the catacombs. Four hundred crossbow-men, in three ranks, were positioned between the weapons: the front line kneeling, the second standing, the third, higher still, positioned on the backs of a circle of wagons.
The Duke saw the veteran warrior Necklen approach Karis and take her by the arm. He could not hear their conversation, but he could see anxiety in the warrior's face.
'There is no need for you to die,' said Necklen, moving alongside Karis. 'I could do it!'
'I am not planning to die,' she told him, 'but it is a risk I cannot avoid. You said it yourself - how can we get them to mass in the centre of the killing circle? This is the only way I could think of.'
'All right. But why you? Why not me?'
'You have no rank, old man. They would believe in an instant that it was a ploy.'
'And it isn't?'
'No, it is not. Now go to your position. And do as I bid.'
'I couldn't kill you, Karis. Not if my life depended on it.'
She put her slender hands on his shoulders. 'Thousands of lives may depend upon it. And if it comes to it, promise me you will obey my order. Promise me, Necklen, in the name of friendship.'
'Let someone else do it. I'll stand beside you.'
'No! If you cannot do your duty, then get you gone and I'll find a man who can.' The sharpness in her tone stung him, and he swung away from her. She called to him instantly, her tone contrite. 'I love you, old man. Don't let me down.' He couldn't speak, but he nodded and walked back to his ballista, checking the load and the release pin. Then he took up his hammer.
The Duke approached Necklen. 'What is she doing?' he asked.
'Getting ready to die,' whispered the old man.
'What do you mean?'
'She is going to talk to them, forcing them to mill around her. She'll ask for peace. If they say no - which they will - she will raise her hand. When she drops it, the killing begins.'
The Duke said nothing, staring at the woman in the white dress standing in the moonlight. She looked so frail now, ghostlike and serene. He shivered.
A soldier at the catacomb entrance called out: 'I can hear them. I can hear the screams.'
Karis strode forward. 'Get back to your position,' she told the soldier. Gratefully the young man ran back to the wagons, climbing to the back of one and retrieving his crossbow. Karis stood some thirty feet from the white stone of the entrance and waited, longing to see Forin emerge unscathed. A few crossbow-men made it into the torchlight, and stood blinking; their friends called to them and they sprinted for cover. Then Vint appeared, blood on his face and arms. He ran to Karis, but she ordered him back. 'The Daroth are right behind. You must take cover,' he said.
'Get back. Now!'
He hesitated, then ran to where Necklen stood, his face pale, his eyes haunted.
Forin came last, his armour once more dented and split, a deep gash upon his brow masking his face with blood. He stumbled towards Karis and grabbed her arm, dragging her back. Her hand lashed across his face, the sound like a whiplash. 'Let go of me, you stupid ox!' His hand fell away and he stood staring at her. 'Get back now!'
'They are upon us.' He reached for her again.
Spinning on her heel she pointed to a crossbow-man. 'You! Aim at this man's heart, and if he isn't moving when I drop my arm - kill him!' She raised her hand. 'Now move, goat-brain!' she thundered. Furious, Forin stalked back towards the wagons.
Karis let out her breath. She wanted to call out to Forin, to explain. But there was no time. The first of the Daroth moved out into the torchlight, which glistened on his ghost-white face and beaked mouth. 'No one shoot!' yelled Karis. 'Where is your leader, Daroth?' she asked. Heat began to grow inside her head.
'It is time to end this war. It is time to end this war! It is time to end this war!' She repeated the thought over and over, like a prayer. 'I wish to speak to your leader,' she said, aloud. More and more Daroth were moving out of the entrance now, spreading out, staring at the ballistae and the crossbow-men, their jet-black eyes unreadable. A warrior taller than the others stepped through the mass. 'I am the Daroth Duke,' he said. 'I remember you, woman. Say what you have to say, and then I shall kill you.'
'And what purpose will that serve?' she asked him. 'In the few months since we have learned of your threat, we have already designed weapons that can destroy you in great numbers. We are an inventive people, and we outnumber you vastly. Look around you now. How many more of your people must die in this insane manner?'
'We do not die, woman. You cannot kill us. We are Daroth. We are immortal. And I tire of this conversation. You have gained time, and you will now destroy more of our bodies. Then we will sack the city and kill everyone in it. So give your order - and let it begin.'