Robert did not slow, did not dare look back. He heard the brief sound of combat, and screams of pain. Then he was at the door, slamming into it at full speed. Once inside, he flung it closed, shut the locks, and leaned his forehead against the wood.
“Dear gods,” he whispered. “What have I allowed?”
No time for that. The makings of a battle were upon him, and it was his task to lead his men. He could not be afraid, could not hesitate. Rushing up the stairs, he searched the barracks. Perhaps they could hold the tower, but how many were in there with him?
The second floor was empty, but on the third, he saw a dozen men gathered before the windows, bows in hand.
“Sir!” one said, seeing his entrance. “What word from Daniel?”
Robert didn’t understand, so he pushed aside the archer and looked out at the battlefield below. Cyric’s men had come pouring in from their camp, already within the outer wall. Near the tower and stables Daniel had formed a battle line. A hundred of his men stood firm, challenging the mercenaries sworn to Karak. Despite their inferior gear, the men seemed to be holding. The archers rained arrows down upon the enemy ranks, with perfect position from the windows.
“Daniel prepared for this,” Robert said, realizing what he was seeing.
“He did,” said one of the archers. “Forgive us, sir. We were told to say nothing in case he was wrong.”
“We can hold them,” Robert said, analyzing the fight. Karak’s soldiers fought with religious fervor, but his own men defended their homes, their lives. They also had greater numbers, plus the advantage of the archers. Yes, they could hold…
“What the fuck is that?” asked the man at the northernmost window. Robert leaned out, and there he saw the lions approaching, flanking Cyric at either side. They seemed to be in no great hurry.
“Put every arrow you have into those things,” Robert ordered. “And pray one pierces an eye.”
The men changed their aim and let their arrows fly. Cyric stepped back, as if sensing he was in danger, but the lions continued on. Several struck true, but they bounced off the dark skin as if hitting stone. The archers showed no worry, unleashing a second and third volley. Still the arrows hit, and did nothing.
And then the lions burst forward, the sudden change in speed horrifying to see. They were too big to move that fast, they had to be. The lions crashed through their own ranks, then leapt upon Daniel’s men. Swords could not pierce their flesh. Shields could not deflect their strikes. In seconds, the rout was on. Robert could not see Daniel, but he hoped he made it out somehow. Someone needed to tell the world what happened there.
The lions gave chase, but Karak’s men did not. They turned their attention to the tower, and the locked doors. The archers continued firing at the men, but they were hesitant, and Robert caught many glancing his way. Worse, he saw Cyric lift his arms, darkness shimmering about his fingers.
“Get back,” he ordered.
Two did not retreat in time. Arrows made of blood pierced their sides. One slumped by the window, the other fell through, his skull cracking on the ground below. Silence filled the room as the men stood there, looking to their leader. Robert knew they wanted hope, wanted victory, but he had none to offer them.
“Men, you have served me well, as you have your lords, and your country,” he said. “I don’t know how much your life is worth to you, or what gods you believe in. If any one of you wants to fall to your knees, I won’t blame you. But as for me, I’ll be in my room with my door barred. When they break through, I plan on killing as many as I can before tasting death. Any who still wish to fight, grab a sword and follow me.”
Every man there took up arms, and Robert couldn’t have been more proud.
At the top of the tower, they put his desk, chair, and chest of clothing against the door. Two men stood at the far side, bows in hand. The rest waited, swords drawn, listening to the cries of pain intermixed with worship outside.
“King Baedan won’t allow this,” said one, rubbing his sword with an oiled cloth. “When he finds out, he’ll send his whole army. Wish I could see the look on that priest’s face when he sees how doomed he is.”
“He ain’t going to hear shit,” said another. “Who’s going to tell the king what happened? You?”
“Daniel will. He escaped. I saw it.”
“Enough,” Robert said to them both. “Just…enough. I won’t spend what little time I have left listening to you two bicker.”
“Then how will we spend it?” asked a third. Footsteps echoed from the stairs beyond the door, and they heard scattered shouts.
“Like men,” Robert said, drawing his sword. “Clear the door. I won’t have them starve us out, and I won’t wait for that priest to weaken us with his sorcery. Let those bastards in, and we’ll give them a proper Blood Tower welcome.”
Even facing death, none there would disobey their commander. They pushed away the barricade. So far nothing heavier than a man’s shoulder pressed the door from the outside, so the locks still held. Robert held up his fingers, counting down for them to fling open the bolt. On three, he let out a cry and raised his sword.
The door burst open, and several men came barging in, their armor painted with a red lion. The first fell, two arrows in his throat. Another tried and failed to block a trio of attacks as Robert’s men assaulted him from all sides. More soldiers poured inside, the archers abandoned their bows, and at last Robert joined in. He parried and twisted, but he felt none of the youth he had when he fought the wolf-men in Durham mere months ago. He felt old, tired. He was watching his men die before him, and for what? The whims of a mad priest?
They killed two for every one of their own, but still they fell. Robert plunged himself into the gap, drenching his sword with blood. Every time he watched the life fade out from those fanatical eyes, he felt a smile stretch across his face. A counter-riposte, and another died. They were down to four, but the mercenaries were beaten back to the door. Robert dared to think they’d hold, that they’d build a wall of the dead across the stairs.
Cyric stepped into the room.
Robert felt both fear and hope. Fear, for he knew the priest’s power. Hope, because with one thrust he might end the entire conflict, maybe even send those blasted lions back to the Abyss where they belonged. The paladin was with him, but his attention was turned to the other men slashing and thrusting. The way was clear. Robert held the hilt of his sword with both hands and swung with every last remnant of his strength.
Cyric caught the blade with his bare hand. His skin shone a dull red. A few drops of blood trickled down his wrist.
“Hello, Robert,” Cyric said, smiling.
The priest’s other palm slammed against Robert’s chestplate and flung him backward, as if he’d been kicked by a giant. Crashing against his desk, he rolled to one knee, gasping for air. His helmet had cracked, and he tossed it aside. Blood poured down his face; he didn’t know the nature of the wound, only that he was blind in his right eye.
“Oh, have you finally found wisdom and kneeled?” Cyric asked as the rest of Robert’s men died to the paladin.
Robert struggled to his feet, clutching his face with one hand.
“Go roast in the Abyss,” he said.
Cyric stepped closer. He was smiling, but there was no joy in those red irises.
“I have. I came back.”
A bolt of shadow leapt from his palm. Robert blocked it with his sword, only to find the power traveling up his blade and through his gloves. He shrieked as the skin of his hand erupted with pain. Cyric grabbed him by the throat, and with strength he couldn’t possibly have, lifted him into the air.
“You won’t die here, Robert,” said the priest. “I won’t have a rebellion on my hands, nor the king interfering. So you’ll be a good little puppet, won’t you? Write all the right letters, say all the right things?”
“Fuck…off,” Robert gasped through his crushed windpipe.