The second proved to be a master bladesman. He was a genius both at surviving and delaying.
Gathrid began to wonder why the thing insisted on holding its ground. It had no long-term hope.
He saw why soon enough.
On the narrow veranda surrounding the Raftery the remaining Toal were assembling ballistae and training them down the Hundred Steps. One salvo would end the threat of the Swordbearer. He might deflect a shaft or two, but not an entire flight.
He retreated a dozen steps, sheathed his weapons, vaulted from the Steps to the steep, rocky slope of Galen. He felt neither trepidation nor lack of self-confidence as he scrambled across and up the hillside. The knowledge and skills of mountaineers came to his mind and muscles freely. He reached the veranda before the Toal could realign their weapons.
He had, he thought, achieved his potential as Sword-bearer. This was the state to which every would-be possessor of the blade aspired.
Two more Toal perished before his ferocity.
He staggered to a wall. The last had taken him to his limit. His heart was determined and his will demanding, but his flesh could be pushed no farther.
And three Toal remained. One held the Steps. One blocked the Raftery door. The third was among the ballistae, the strings of which Gathrid had slashed. It was closing in on him, sensing his weakness. Its sword swayed like a cobra about to strike.
Tracka engaged the Toal on the Steps. He used a blade plundered from one of the thing's comrades.
Rogala scampered back and forth behind the general, looking for a chance to plant his knife. Down among the Pillars and Victories Ventimiglian artillerymen were setting up engines with which to support the assault. The last defenders there had surrendered.
Gathrid knew the artillery would not save him. It could not be brought to bear in time.
He tottered away from the Toal, scattering mortals, slaying several. Each gave him a bit more strength.
He stalked them in moments when he was not beating back some thrust by the Toal.
His bad leg began to bother him. His conscience called him vampire.
He went on, ignoring that pitiful little voice. They were just cattle. He would use or slay them as he saw fit. ...
With the fulfillment of the Swordbearer's potential came Nieroda-thinking, Suchara-Chuchain- Bachesta-Ulalia thinking. He did not realize he was becoming more and more like the things he hated.
It was ever thus. The more mighty, evil and implacable the foe, the more like him one had to become to overturn him. Then, lo! There was a new power risen, scarcely distinguishable from that which had fallen.
So it went. The Lords of Darkness are crafty.
There were not enough Reds to give Gathrid the strength he needed to face several Toal. And the Toal guarding the Raftery entrance was spiriting the few available inside.
Gathrid glanced down the Steps. Tracka continued his duel. The Toal appeared on his way to victory. The general did not possess the tireless energy of a Dead Captain.
He caught Rogala's attention, beckoned him.
Now, he thought, we'll find out where Suchara stands.
She was not yet ready to write him off. But she was tempted. Nearly a minute passed before Rogala plunged off the stairs. He scrambled up the slopes like some hairy rock ape.
Gathrid's antagonist pushed him hard, driving him to an edge of the veranda overhanging a precipice.
Rogala charged the Toal from behind. He hit as the Toal spun to face him.
Gathrid drove Daubendiek into the thing's side.
This time he avoided meeting the Toal on the nether plane. Having driven it from flesh sufficed.
He could regain strength for a killing match while the thing sought a new body.
He pushed through oily smoke to survey the course of the battle.
Heavy bloodshed had not been avoided.
Tracka was weakening. But now the ballistae below were ready. That would be the Brigade's final victory.
A human wave had hit Ventimiglian positions along the line where rubble met housing the besiegers had not razed. Nieroda had ordered Bleibel back from the waterfront.
Gathrid turned to the Toal blocking the doorway.
There would be no passing the creature. It stood deep inside an entranceway too narrow for effective sword-play. It had discarded its own blade in favor of a fire-headed lance.
"Keep it busy," Rogala growled. "I'll fix it."
A roar drew Gathrid to the head of the Steps. Halfway down them smoke boiled up from a corpse porcupined with ballistae shafts. The Ventimiglians had disposed of Tracka's Toal.
The Thaumaturge-General staggered onto the veranda, looked at the doorway. "So close. So damned close."
The remnants of his Brigade were being battered by a mob. Gathrid supposed Nieroda had begun assembling them even before his departure from the Maurath.
She always seemed aware of his movements.
Rogala barely had time to complete his task, securing the Staff of Chuchain from Gathrid's horse as Bleibel's first armed breaker arrived. He had wasted time rescuing his boxed intimate, Gacioch.
He barely outhustled the surge, which washed against the Pillars before receding. To Gathrid's eye it looked like every adult male in Sartain had come to relieve the Raftery.
The-dwarf collapsed on his behind, gasping, after galloping up to the veranda. Attempts at speech gurgled through his foam-flecked lips. Retreating Ventimiglians cursed him as they tripped over him. Weakly, he offered Tracka the Staff. He communicated his idea by gesture.
Tracka caught on. He barked orders. Soldiers dragged a ballista around. They restrung and cocked it. Tracka tumbled the Staff into its trough. "Move!" the general growled at Gathrid.
The Toal saw what was coming, but had its orders. It could do nothing but try to turn the Staff with its lance.
It failed.
The Staff lightninged into its chest, smashing armor and bone. The Toal hurtled backward, clacking as it tumbled into the deeps of the council chamber. A wail of dismay rose inside the Raftery.
Gathrid whipped inside.
Down on the main floor the Toal thrashed like a cat with a broken back. The Brothers were fighting one another to get through exits to lower levels.
"Inside! Inside!" Tracka growled. A stream of Ventimiglians poured in. Bleibel had reached the Steps. The once strongest and proudest of Ventimiglian brigades had been reduced to a handful over two hundred men. More were fighting below, but they were doomed.
"Clear them out!" Tracka ordered, indicating the Brothers. His troops went after them. They were too panicky to use their sorcerous skills. Tracka told Gathrid, "Hell of a mess, isn't it? Now they get a shot at kicking the door in."
"Uhm." Gathrid stepped back outside.
Rogala, with Gacioch hooting him on, Was tottering toward the doorway. Bleibel's face appeared over the marble horizon of the veranda. Combat clamor continued among the Pillars and Victories.
The lower slopes of Galen were carpeted with citizen corpses. The mounds of dead were only lightly freckled with bodies in Brigade uniform. Sartain would have much to mourn.
"You lied to me!" Bleibel panted.
"When? I didn't say I'd save the Raftery. I told you I'd get the Brigade to leave without fighting the Guards. But you wouldn't let me."
"Why did you do this?"
"Because Nevenka Nieroda is running this place."
"The Emperor sent orders to seize you. You have to answer for treason and the murder of Count Cuneo."
Gacioch guffawed. He made rude remarks concerning the intelligence of a prince who expected Daubendiek to swear fealty.
Gathrid smiled at the Colonel. "Did he tell you how you were going to arrest me?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"But, being as stubborn as everyone else, you're determined to get yourself killed trying."
"Who knows?"
"You're too late to rescue the Raftery. Tracka is cleaning it out. Tell Elgar that."