Hurl turned; it was the bearded old fellow. He wore long dark robes of some rich cloth Hurl knew she'd probably never even touched in her life and came marching up to Rell who stopped him with one glistening wet sword point. The man should thank all the Gods that he was unarmed.
Storo crossed to him. He touched the rim of his helmet. ‘Magistrate Plengyllen. What can I do for you?’
‘Do! Do!’ the man spluttered. ‘These are sacred precincts! Holy grounds! How dare you pollute-’
‘There's been a coup,’ Storo cut in. ‘Fist Rheena has been murdered.’
The magistrate subsided at that. He straightened his robes. ‘Yes. I was informed that assassins…’ His voice trailed away and his eyes bulged. He pointed. ‘You! Burn protect us!’ He backed away, arms raised, then fled through a portal shouting, ‘Guards! Assassins! Murder!’
‘Should I shut him up?’ asked Sunny.
Storo waved him off, sighing, ‘Never mind.’
‘Reinforcements!’ Shaky called from the double doors.
They pushed their way through the halls of the City Temple. Hurl reflected that Fat Kepten had come with a lot more men than the Captain had thought; that or that Storo had underbid, not wanting them to back out right from the start. In any case, Kepten's men – plain hireswords or true-believing soldiers out of uniform – kept coming. Though the garrison did keep out of it, as the Captain had said they would. Whenever crossbowmen massed at a corner or doorway Shaky and Hurl rousted them with munitions. The squad made it plain that whenever Kepten's crew resorted to missile-fire they'd return in kind, and theirs blew up. They took the hint. Hurl wasn't sure why they hadn't come with any alchemicals of their own, but they did have the mages. Ropes of flame would lash out only to be snuffed by Silk. Some kind of shadow thing took a bite out of the Captain only to disappear in a flash of blinding pure white light. Hurl's old friend Runty even appeared in their midst, knifed three including her, and brought down Jalor only to be thrust through the back by Rell. Shaky took a knife in the side and dropped a sharper closer to himself than the enemy. The Captain took the brunt of that. Hurl thought it a shame; the Captain been doing damn fine until then.
After kicking aside the bodies blocking the outer doors, only the Captain, Hurl, Sunny and Rell remained standing. And only Rell was in any shape to fight. All through the night Hurl had wondered why the Captain had constantly shouldered the Genabackan youth to rear guard. Now she saw the light. Canny Captain. Reserves. Rell was by far the best fighter of them all and he was fresh. The poor lad fairly vibrated with the need to slay.
Weaving, the Captain leaned against the stout oak doors and wiped an arm across his glistening face. Hurl sheathed her long-knife and opened her satcheclass="underline" two left. She looked to Sunny who held up one finger then tried to smile; he could only muster a grimace.
The Captain pushed open the outer doors. In a brightening pink light, past white marble stairs, on stone flags surrounding the broad empty marshalling grounds, stood Fat Kepten and some fifty men. The men, Hurl noted, standing far apart. The sight took the strength from her legs and she nearly sat right then and there.
Storo straightened, his jaws working against the pain, and he pushed his helmet back to point to Kepten. ‘It's nearly dawn, Orlat. The garrison's watching. They know me. They don't know you from a mule's arse. Maybe you should pack it all in and go back to fishing.’
Kepten gave a low laugh. ‘Like I said, Storo. We really could've used you. Too bad. You have no idea who you are up against. As you can see – I brought the whole crew. Tell you what. One last chance. You lay down your weapons right now and you'll have safe passage. Right now. You've done yourself proud, I have to say. But it's over now. Time to walk away – no shame in that.’
Hurl looked to the Captain. Would he accept? Surely they were finished now; how could they beat more than they'd faced so far? They'd had a damned good run. In truth, they got farther than she'd thought possible. Then she blinked away the sweat and salt stinging her eyes. Damn this mind-numbing exhaustion! These pirates would cut them down the minute the weapons left their hands! Surely the Captain must know that.
Storo hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat. ‘No, Orlat. It's you that's got no idea who you're facing.’ The Cap'n nodded to Rell. ‘Your turn. We'll guard your back. Hold the door, lad.’
The swordsman's eyes were practically shining. His voice thick with emotion he barely managed, ‘You have no idea the gift you have given me…’
‘Take it easy, lad. I plan on living through this.’
The youth ducked his head, murmuring, ‘I plan on nothing.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ snarled Sunny. ‘Here they come.’
With a roar, the first of the squads charged.
True to his promise, Rell held the door. Hurl was astonished by his form, speed and, most of all, his ruthless surgical efficiency. He seemed to have been trained exactly how to cut for maximum disabling or plain maiming power. Men fell gushing blood from severed thigh arteries, inner arms slashed, necks slit, disembowelled and eviscerated like fish. Hurl found it terrifying to watch; it was more a slaughter than a fight. Blood painted the bright white marble steps black. She wondered if it would ever be scrubbed away. Sunny merely stepped in now and then when some wounded fool tried to crawl closer for a jab.
All the while she stood behind Rell, a cussor raised in one hand, with a look in her eye that she hoped promised utter annihilation the moment Rell should fall. She liked to think that put a bit of hesitation into their limbs.
In any case, the siege ended with a furious yell from Orlat. The men backed off and Hurl did a quick head-count. Twenty-nine men still standing. Rell had put out of action or outright slain over twenty-one men. Astounding. She glanced back to see the Captain down, slumped along the wall, head sunk to his chest. Damn. Loss of blood. All those holes Shaky's sharper had punched in him. Orlat, she could see now, was far beyond banter. He gestured angrily and the remaining men spread out.
‘This has gone too far, Storo,’ he called. ‘Should've backed down when I gave you the chance.’ He nodded to some unseen presence and his two mages appeared at his sides, the old gal and her near twin, a rail-thin old guy with grey brush-cut hair. They snapped their arms down and both burst into flames.
Hood's grin.
‘Take ‘em!’ Sunny yelled, throwing his last sharper. Both mages thrust their arms forward as if repelling something and Hurl felt the heat wash over her even from that distance – the breath of a kiln glowing yellow. The sharper burst in the air long before reaching the mages.
The cussor even felt warm in Hurl's hands. Togg's shit! She thrust the munition back into the satchel then backed off to slide it far down the hall as gently as she could. She returned to find Sunny and Rell arguing.
‘Leave me,’ Rell was saying.
Sunny had him by the jerkin. ‘No. We gotta retreat. Jump them inside on the sly.’
‘I have my charge. Go if you wish.’
All the while the heat was devastating. The mages advanced side by side, twin pyres, ropes of flame chaining between them. The Warren of Thyr unleashed like Hurl had never seen or heard of. Some kind of ritual battle magery. The metal fittings of her armour made her wince when they touched her flesh. The hairs on her arms were crisping.
‘We have to retreat,’ she shouted to Rell. ‘Don't be a fool! They've won this round.’
But the damned fool would not budge.
‘Fine!’ Sunny snarled and he backed off, shading his face from the heat. Hurl threw one last begging look to Rell who shook his head, then to her shame she too was driven back by the excruciating heat. And where was Silk!
They dragged the Captain with them up the hall. The mages had advanced into view. The blood pooled at the threshold and stairs boiled, steaming, then crisped, flaking into ash that flew driven into Hurl's eyes. The corpses abandoned before the entrance burst into flames. The unfettered power of the Warren drove seared flesh into the air like smoke. Greasy soot coated Hurl's face and arms. She gagged worse than she ever had in the sewer. Through the haze she saw Rell still held the doorway, swords raised. Smoke streamed from his smouldering hair. Somehow, he hadn't even shifted from his ready stance. How was such inhuman discipline possible?