Rhapsody: Child of Blood

34

“They’re moving quickly; they are almost to the door.”

“What?” Achmed’s unpleasant face went blank with surprise. He ran to the door of the library and through the glass windows of the connecting hall. From that vantage point he could see ten men entering the garden, walking gingerly through the bloody snow.

Leading them was a man in a heavy gray hooded mantle, flanked on either side by white wolves. When he reached the tree in the garden’s center he stopped and looked up at it, then walked around it with interest.

Upon seeing the leader, a faint buzzing filled Achmed’s inner ears; he was unsure if he heard it, or merely felt it. He ducked back through the door and, with an agile shrug, swung the cwellan from his back and into his hands.

Even back inside the tower, behind the solid wall, he could feel the vibration rattling in his skull, emanating from where the man in the gray cloak stood. He felt the pounding of blood in his ears, and the buzzing noise grew louder. Achmed quickly closed the door.

“Did they see you?” he asked Rhapsody.

“No,” Rhapsody said, “at least I don’t think so. I just caught a glimpse of them coming before I came to warn you. What do you think they want? Are they in league with Cifiona, or are they here to find the children?”

“If they’re here for the children, it’s not to help them,” Achmed said. “I got the same sick feeling when I saw their leader that I had when I saw the House back on the trail.”

“Oh, lovely,” Grunthor said. He held his snickersnee at the ready. Suddenly a look of concern swept over face. “Oh, son of a whore—Oi left my poleax out there.”

“I don’t think there’s enough room for you to use it in here, anyway,” Rhapsody said.

“It’s not that, miss. When the bastards see it they’ll know we’re still around.”

“Marvelous,” Achmed sighed. “Rhapsody, take the brats upstairs. Grunthor, get your bow out and barricade this door as soon as I’m through it.”

“You’re not going out there alone, are you?” Rhapsody put her arm around a small boy who was beginning to sob in fright.

“I’m at my best when I’m alone. Now get them upstairs.”

Achmed cracked open the door. The guards had not yet entered the hall where the children had been kept. Quickly he slipped through the door and Grunthor closed it behind him. The giant slid the crossbar in place before going to the library desks and quietly stacking them on their sides to form a barricade near the stairs.

Rhapsody gently ushered the children up the steps. Despite her best efforts, she could not hide the concern in her voice.

Blinking through the shadows like a cat, Achmed traversed the long hall unseen, even though some of the brigands entered the room before he had finished. The men carried themselves with the gait of the well-trained and were well armed. All but their leader wore ring mail, and several carried crossbows.

Crouching in the corner, all but invisible, Achmed closed his eyes and listened. He counted fifteen soldiers, not including the nine who had been left outside the main door, and their leader. He cursed himself for letting Rhapsody and the children get caught in the tower, but it had been the preferable option. At least while they were there Grunthor could hold their attackers at bay for a long time while he picked them off slowly from outside.

Achmed decided to get a start on that. He crept through the door Grunthor had smashed from its hinges, into the long, bloodstained hall, and through the outer windows that lined it. The nine men outside the House died before their leader had left the garden.

Inside, Grunthor waited patiently behind his makeshift fortress of desks. He kept an arrow nocked to his long recurved bow, and had stuck the tip of his snickersnee in the floorboards near him. After a moment, he heard a slight rattling of the door, then a series of thuds, like a man trying to shoulder his way in.

Grunthor smiled. This door was thick, and even he would have had serious trouble smashing it in without the aid of a log. Then they heard a light noise, as if someone was knocking.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” It was a man’s voice, warm and pleasant, tinged with humor. “It isn’t very nice of you to lock me out of my house, you know. Let’s be reasonable, shall we?—let me in. I know you’re in there.”

“BUGGER OFF!” Grunthor roared.

Suddenly the door burst apart in an explosion of dark fire. Burning splinters flew across the room, flames burned in black hues, and smoke filled the air.

Six or seven soldiers ran into the room. Grunthor began loosing his yard-long arrows. He heard the distinctive thud of crossbow bolts embedding in the heavy oak desks, and returned fire. One crossbowman was down; his other shots had missed the two who had leapt for cover.

Of more immediate concern were the three swordsmen who charged across the room toward his makeshift barricade. He managed to down one of them with an arrow in the thigh before the other two jumped the desks. More followed from the door. The first met with an arrow driven by Grunthor’s hand into his chest; the second managed to get to his feet before the huge fist of the Bolg smashed into his face, crushing the front of his skull.

Grunthor grabbed his snickersnee as four ran around the sides of the barricade. The giant had to stay on his knees to avoid the crossbow bolts that were slamming into the staircase and the desks in front of him. With a quick lunge and a thrust, he dispatched the first, but he knew he would momentarily be flanked and outnumbered.

The Sergeant parried the blow of the next and turned to defend against the third, only to find the man spinning to the ground with a smoldering wound in his forehead.

A lithe form sped across his field of vision as Rhapsody left her victim and engaged the other man who had made it past the barricade. Grunthor smiled as he turned his own attentions on the soldier who was attacking him. He was surprised when the man was able to parry his blow without losing his grip on his sword. Grunthor lunged, thrust, and slashed, with little effect, receiving a deep cut to his forearm before dispatching the well-trained guard.

“Nice form, soldier,” he said to the corpse in admiration.

He turned to assist Rhapsody just in time to see her knocked down by a kick to her knees. He cleaved her opponent in two and Rhapsody quickly regained her feet.

“Oi’m quite glad to see you, miss.”

Rhapsody smiled. “The feeling’s mutual,” she said.

They turned to face any new adversaries about to rush them when they were knocked off their feet by another sudden explosion of dark fire that set the countless bookshelves aflame.

As Achmed slipped behind the altar in the garden, he saw the man with the wolves raise his hand. A blast of black fire sprang forth from his palm, blowing the heavy tower door into pieces. At once a number of his troops rushed the door.

Achmed flexed his hand, then raised his cwellan to his eyes to sight his targets with care. The first to fall were the two guards who stood by the doors to the garden. The next shot was aimed at the man in the gray hooded cloak.

The leader turned as the silver disks approached his head, but the missiles never hit their mark. Instead, the shining projectiles flared suddenly and burned away within inches of the man’s eyes. He smiled as he raised his hand.

At once a ball of ebony flame sailed through the air and exploded at the base of the stone altar. The ground shook slightly, the frames that held the dead children collapsed to the ground, and the stone altar cracked, but Achmed backed away, uninjured.

As he heard the footfalls of soldiers rush into the garden, Achmed sprang once more into action, loosing a deadly hail of disks into the eyes and throats of the brigands, but their commander was out of his line of fire. At the entrance to the hall, a wall of dark flames had risen to block his way. Achmed swore, and moved swiftly to the main door, the only other route he knew to the tower. Silently he cursed the fact that the fires were black; obviously the lore of such dark power had not been lost with the Island.

Grunthor and Rhapsody rolled quickly to their feet as the fire spread and the smoke choked the air. In the doorway they could see the silhouette of a man. Grunthor grabbed one of the hand axes from his weapons belt and hurled it at the figure. The twirling hatchet never reached its mark, vanishing in a dark flash.

“Come now,” the voice said, “you’re trapped here—throw down your weapons and I will let the fires fall. Refuse, and I shall be forced to let you burn to death.”

The voice in the shadow of the flames was sweet and rich, like honey on a warm day. Something in the words made her think back to their time after exiting the Root.

Rhapsody closed her eyes, and calmed her spirit. She concentrated on the fire.

“Be at peace,” she said.

At once the flames responded, the bonfire fed by the books and scrolls died down to flickering embers.

From the door she heard cursing and within her heart she felt a tug at the edge of her perceptions. At once the fires began to rise back to life.

Panic shot through her, and in response the flames burst forth even higher. She realized her mistake and quelled the flames once more, but she felt effort in the act, as if another will was struggling with hers. She gripped the sword tightly and tried to channel her thoughts and feelings through the blade. The effect was immediate. The fires were snuffed out, and a howl of frustration and pain came from the doorway.

Rhapsody moved in front of the barricade to face the enemy who had brought forth the black fire. Through the billowing smoke all she could see was an indistinct outline. It paused for a moment and then was gone. She doubted he could have gotten any clearer view of her than she had of him, though her hood had fallen back, revealing her face and hair, shining in the light of the diminished fire. She expected that the sight of the sword had something to do with his hasty exit. She and Grunthor raced to the door, but the shadowy figure was nowhere in sight. Upstairs she heard the children wailing.

Achmed had gotten as far as the long hall before he saw the gray-cloaked man racing toward him. The approaching figure’s left hand held a black longsword, with a single distinctive white stripe down its blade. He felt a tingle of power from the sword, and a wave of nausea from the figure.

The man stopped long enough to look the Dhracian over quickly. Achmed could not make out much of the man’s features beneath the war helm and cloak, but he could clearly see startling blue eyes and an insolent smile.

With a single motion Achmed shouldered his cwellan and drew the long, thin blade that he carried. He seldom used it, seldom had the need, but the complete failure of the cwellan to strike its target made him decide not to risk wasting time with another missile attack. The commander of the now-dead troop smiled more broadly, nodded, and jumped through the outer window.

Dropping his sword, Achmed shrugged, bringing his cwellan back into his hands, and ran at once to the shattered pane. The man was rolling to his feet. Achmed took aim, but the sudden appearance of the white wolves in the hall turned his attention to his own defense. The great beasts ran at him, but neither had a chance to leap to the attack before Achmed downed them with the weapon of his own invention.

When he turned back to the windows, the man with the great gray mantle was gone.