The Diamond Isle

15

Somebody was running along the street, smashing windows with a chain.

A roadblock of wagons sealed one end of the road, manned by dour-faced militia. At a distance, an angry mob faced them. Every so often, people ran forward to lob stones. Houses and a shop burned and no one was trying to put them out. Behind the barricade, mounted troopers were arriving.

Sheltering in the mouth of a nearby alley, Quinn Disgleirio and a pair of Righteous Blade members watched the confrontation.

‘What started it?’ Disgleirio said.

‘There was a raid on a local house,’ one of his companions explained. ‘The militia were heavy-handed, as usual, and this crowd gathered.’

‘It doesn’t take much to set off a riot these days,’ the other added.

‘Well, we don’t need it,’ Disgleirio told him. ‘There’s enough oppression on the streets without inviting more.’

‘Can’t see us stopping it now,’ the first Bladesman reckoned.

‘No. But we can try to limit the damage.’

There was uproar at the roadblock as uniformed riders moved through the crowd, laying about them with clubs and sabres.

‘Looks like we’re too late,’ the second Bladesman said.

The fight quickly turned into a rout. People scattered, pursued by baton-wielding militia, and the first of the runners were approaching the alley where Disgleirio and his men sheltered.

‘Chief?’ one of his companions queried.

‘Protect as many as you can.’

They stepped into the slush-covered street, drawing their swords.

The stream of fleeing protestors was turning into a flood. Some were cut down by the cavalry chasing them; others fell, to be trampled by the charging horses.

Disgleirio and his men fanned out, three rocks in the current of panicked humanity.

‘Stand firm,’ he instructed, ‘and watch your backs.’

A screaming woman dashed past, two militia on her tail with blades in their hands, but they lost interest in her when they saw the trio of Bladesmen. Disgleirio left his comrades to deal with the troopers. His attention was on a cavalryman sweeping along the street, lashing out at fleeing citizens.

The Bladesmen and the militia engaged. Those trying to escape gave them a wide berth as two frantic duels spilled from the pavement into the road.

Disgleirio concentrated on the trooper’s galloping horse. As it drew level he slashed at the rider, hewing the man’s leg. The rider cried out and tumbled from his saddle, hitting the ground heavily and bouncing several times on the cobbled surface before coming to rest. His horse bolted into the jostling crowd.

But Disgleirio had no time to enjoy his luck. Another group of militia was sprinting his way. He turned back to his men just as one downed his opponent; the other had already triumphed and stood over his prone adversary.

‘More!’ Disgleirio yelled, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Cluster!’

At his command they swiftly came together in a well practised manoeuvre. They formed a circle, shoulders touching; sword in one hand, dagger in the other. A formation some called the Porcupine. When the fresh group of law-enforcers arrived, hotfoot, they faced a defensive ring bristling with steel barbs, but as they outnumbered the Bladesmen two to one or more, they thought to overwhelm them.

One of the militia fell immediately, lung punctured. Another reeled away bearing the yawning gash of a knife stroke. A third toppled with his chest perforated.

Odds thinned, the Bladesmen abandoned their huddle and set to in a general melee. A quick and bloody round of swordplay ensued, the participants huffing steam in the chill air. In short order, two more foes suffered lethal strikes. The remaining pair of militia, lightly wounded, took to their heels.

The Bladesmen caught their breath, sweat freezing on their brows.

‘They’ll be back with reinforcements,’ Disgleirio panted. ‘We can’t do much more here. I think it’s time to-’

‘What is it, chief?’

‘Who is that?’

They followed his gaze.

A slim, lithe individual with cropped fair hair had appeared on the street. He or she-it was impossible to tell which-was armed, and attacking people seemingly at random, whether they had weapons or not.

‘Is it a glamour?’ one of Disgleirio’s men asked.

‘I don’t know what it is. But I’m going to find out. You two get yourselves clear.’

‘But, chief-’

‘We’re taking a risk just being here. Now do as you’re told!’ He began jogging towards the apparition.

As he approached he got a clearer look at the figure, and decided that on balance it was female. He also saw that she had a somewhat alarming countenance, with unusually large, intense eyes set in a face so pale he thought she might be ailing. But there was nothing feeble about the way she lashed out at anybody within reach.

When he was just short of a sword’s span from the woman, Disgleirio stopped. He took in the litter of corpses and groaning wounded.

‘Yes?’ Aphri Kordenza said. Her tone was casually irritated, as though addressing a bothersome vagrant.

‘Who are you?’

‘A concerned citizen. What of it?’

‘Are you with the militia?’

‘Do I look like I am?’

‘Then why are you doing their dirty work?’

‘Because it pleases me.’

‘Murdering innocent people gives you pleasure?’

‘You talk like a priest. If you don’t like it, try stopping me.’

‘That was my intention.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so in the first place? I can’t abide idle chatter.’

She moved so fast it was all he could do to fend off her first blow. The second and third came as swiftly. And she had strength as well as speed; her strikes jarred Disgleirio to the bone. Driven back, he was forced on the defensive, parrying her blade but unable to attack. Her skill and agility shook him. He was a master swordsman, but she was easily his match.

Pulling himself together, he began to rally. He even got in some offensive strokes. But the more he picked up, the greater the woman’s onslaught. Her passes were increasingly vicious, and landed with ever more accuracy. Disgleirio deflected them, and paid her back in kind, though it took all his expertise. He was holding his own but making no headway.

As they fought, he noticed another strange thing about the woman. Whenever she lifted her left foot there was a glimmer of light beneath her heel. At first he thought he’d imagined it, but then she had to leap to avoid one of his swings, and he saw an arc of tiny blue sparks flowing between the ground and her foot. It made him think she was magically vitalised in some way, but he was too preoccupied to dwell on it.

They continued battering and weaving, narrowly avoiding shrieking passers-by and riderless horses. The woman’s movements were so fluid it was hard for him to connect with her blade, never mind land an effective blow. He felt leaden-footed by comparison, and feared he was about to take a lethal hit.

Suddenly he wasn’t alone. His companion Bladesmen appeared and ploughed into the fray. The woman was unfazed. If the look on her disquieting face was anything to go by, she actually relished the challenge. She widened her attack to engage the newcomers, her blade playing against theirs fast and firm. The rattle of steel was unabated as they dodged and twisted, seeking an opening. Then she cleaved flesh.

One of the Bladesmen staggered, a hand to his chest, blood pumping through splayed fingers. He went down, beyond help.

Disgleirio cried out. His remaining companion powered into the woman. Unblinking, she glanced away his blade and laid open his arm, wrist to elbow. He howled and withdrew.

‘I told you to get out of here!’ Disgleirio roared, shoving him aside.

The wounded man lurched clear, clutching his gushing arm. Disgleirio swung back, ready to resume the fight.

The woman had gone. He scanned the street, trying to distinguish her slender form in the milling chaos. Then he caught sight of her. She was standing in the wide entranceway to an abandoned building on the opposite side of the road. He began elbowing his way towards her. But with a dozen paces to go, he froze.

In the doorway, a bizarre scene unfolded. The woman stepped smartly to one side, leaving an impression of her shape etched in the air. Rapidly, the outline filled. Bones, viscera, organs, arteries and veins appeared, then a casing of flesh. The blank face of her double took on features, which as they clarified strongly resembled the woman herself, though on closer inspection they displayed a more masculine set. Finally, clothes formed, identical to the garb the woman wore. The resultant being could have passed for her twin brother.

The doorway where the pair stood was gloomy, so it took Disgleirio a few seconds to notice something else. Some kind of fine web connected the twins. It was moist and gelatinous, and Disgleirio couldn’t shake the thought that it was a monstrous afterbirth. As he watched, it split and was instantly absorbed into the woman’s body.

He had never seen a meld before, but knew he must be looking at one now.

The twins exchanged affectionate smiles, and in unison walked out into the street. Curiously, both of them seemed to have a slight limp.

There were less people about, the bulk of the mob and their pursuers having moved on. But there were still enough to make Disgleirio worry for their safety.

His fears were justified.

The twins were staring at him. She made a comment Disgleirio couldn’t hear, and they laughed. Then she started to march his way. At the same time, something remarkable happened.

At first, her twin didn’t move. Then slowly, with all the ease and lightness of a child’s kite, he rose from the ground. When he reached the first storey of the building, he levelled, stretching his arms and legs out straight. The next second he was slicing through the air.

Quinn ducked. The glamour-twin swooped over him, just clearing his head. But the attack he expected didn’t come. Instead, the man swerved and flew down the street. He made for a knot of protestors nursing their wounds, diving at them. When they saw him coming, those who were able tried to scramble out of the way. The glamour-twin puffed his cheeks and spat a gout of flame which enveloped many of the crowd. The stragglers ignited, turning into fireballs, blundering and screaming. Their tormentor turned and made for another bunch of people further along who, seeing what had happened, were trying to outrun him.

Disgleirio watched in horror, to the extent that he momentarily forgot the woman. Then a movement caught his eye. She was almost upon him, charging, sending her sword in a great swipe that he had to jump aside to avoid. Their blades collided and the duel restarted.

Meanwhile, the glamour-twin soared over cowering bands of citizens, raining fire down on them. A buggy ploughed through the scene, the driver desperate to escape. The twin disgorged a spume of flame at it, and carriage and driver went up like tinder. The spooked horse, towing a blazing funeral pyre, surged in panic. With a grinding crash the buggy overturned, spilling its grisly load. The horse galloped on, dragging the burning remains and scattering onlookers.

Somebody loosed an arrow at the airborne man from an open window. His fiery breath charred the bolt before it hit. Veering, he headed back. Another arrow skimmed his way, but it was sufficiently off target for him to ignore. He turned his wrath on the archer, huffing flame through the open window and converting him to cinder. The room blazed, venting oily black smoke.

Disgleirio was only dimly aware of the slaughter. He was embroiled in a swordfight he was beginning to think he couldn’t win. The woman’s stamina never seemed to flag, confirming his instinct that she was replenishing her vigour magically.

They fought on, each seeking a chink in the other’s guard. Had either of them been a lesser talent the game would have been over long since. As it was, Disgleirio feared her staying power would be the decisive factor.

But as they fenced, he formed an impression. He could have been deceiving himself, but he got the feeling she wasn’t finding him as easy a mark as she thought. Self-deception or not, it gave him heart. His pace went up a notch. He dared to hope.

In the event, his determination wasn’t put to the ultimate test. He became aware of a vibration underfoot. It soon translated to the sound of thundering hooves. A large body of riders was approaching. His opponent heard it, too, and as though obeying some silent signal, they disengaged and backed away from each other.

Other sounds began to overlay the hoof-beats. Shouting, screams, the pounding of boots on cobbles. Disgleirio and the woman turned towards the source. Several hundred people were running their way, chased by a contingent of cavalry wearing the distinctive scarlet tunics of the paladin clans.

A handful of lead runners darted past Quinn and his adversary. More and more followed, until they were engulfed by a torrent of terrified people. Disgleirio lost sight of the woman, and after a moment resisting the tide he joined the stampede. All was chaos. He was carried along in a sea of frightened faces and bellowing voices. His shins were kicked and his ribs elbowed. He was jostled and shoved.

Somebody grabbed his arm and held on tight. He struggled violently, then saw it was the wounded Bladesman he’d ordered away. Following his lead, half dragged, he fought his way across the pugnacious flow of humanity. They eventually broke out onto a less densely packed stretch of pavement. The Bladesman hauled Disgleirio across it and into a gap between two decrepit shanties.

‘Thanks,’ he panted.

‘I know you told me to leave, chief, but-’

‘Forget it. It’s a good thing you didn’t.’ He glanced at the bloodstained, makeshift cloth binding the man’s arm. ‘How is it?’

‘I’ll live. What the hell was that flying thing, chief? And the woman?’

‘I think we ran into a meld.’

‘I thought they were a myth.’

‘Apparently not.’ Disgleirio looked out at the passing crowd and the paladins harassing them. ‘We can’t do anything here. Best to get away.’

His companion nodded. ‘Er, what’s that, chief?’

‘What?’

‘Your tunic.’ He pointed.

A scrap of paper was half stuffed in Disgleirio’s pocket. He took it out and unfolded it. There was writing on it, in block capitals. They read: INVASION OF DIAMOND ISLE IMMINENT. EXPECT MORE RAIDS ON