Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [86]
The courtyard was packed tight with defenders. But they wielded long, heavy swords and axes, the kind warriors had used for hundreds of years. They were not made for infighting.
The rebels’ bat’telhmey were a different story entirely.
Lighter, more versatile, they represented a huge advantage in close quarters. And Kahless had equipped fifty of his best fighters with them.
Cutting and slashing, the outlaw led the way into the citadel, with Morath barely a step behind. Nor did Kahless’s warriors disappoint him. Battering and thrusting, they followed him inch by bloody inch.
The fighting was intense, unlike anything the outlaw had seen before. But his bat’telh served him well. Like a hunting bird, it swooped and swooped again, each time plucking a life from the enemy’s midst.
Blood spilled until it was everywhere, making the ground slick beneath their feet. Warriors fell on both sides, slumped on top of one another, glutting the confines of the courtyard with their empty shells.
And still the two sides battled, matching blow with clanging blow, war cry with earsplitting war cry, neither side willing to yield. Kahless’s men fought for freedom from the tyrant, Molor’s men because they feared his wrath. But in the end, both sides suffered their share of casualties.
Nor did the outlaw wade through the struggle unscathed. By the time he came within reach of the tyrant’s keep, he was bleeding from a dozen wounds. But he was only vaguely aware of them, his heart pounding too hard for his head to keep up with it.
A year earlier, he would never have imagined thiswd never have believed it possible. Yet here he was, a mighty force behind him, knocking on the tyrant’s door.
With a vicious uppercut, he dispatched one defender, then skewered another one on his point. A backhanded blow sent a third warrior to the afterlife.
Suddenly, the inner gate was naked before him. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed into it with all his strength.
“It didn’t budge. And the siege engine wasn’t narrow enough to make it into the courtyard.
But there was more than one way to skin a serpent.
Raising his battelh as high as he could, he sent up a cry for help. And before he knew it, a dozen rebels had appeared to add their strength to his.
Morath, of course, was the first to lean into the gate with his friend. Digging in with their heels, the others did the same. Then they pushed as hard as they could, grunting with the effort.
At first, there was no more progress than when Kahless had tried it himself. But a few seconds later, the outlaw heard the shriek of bending iron.
“Harder!” he roared. “We are almost in!”
They drew deeper, finding strength they did not know they had, and used all of it against the gate. There was another shriek of twisting metal, and all of a sudden the thing surrendered to them.
Flinging the gate wide, Kahless took in the sight of Molor’s torchlit anteroom. It was full of tall, powerful warriors, who grinned at him with eyes full of venom and mouths full of sharpened teeth.
The tyrant’s personal guard, two dozen strong. The most devastating fighters the world had ever known. Or so it was said.
Kahless tightened his grip on his battelh. One way or the other, he repeated to himself, remembering the words he had spoken at Tolar’tu. One way or the other.
Then, as a handful of his men clustered about him, he his weapon high and charged into the midst of the raised enemy.
C H A P T E R
The Modern Age The house was an impressive one, broad and angular as it bulked up against the faintly pink underbelly of the sky.
It dwarfed the other buildings in this wealthy and lesstravelled part of Navrath.
Still, Lomakh was no longer quite so awed by it as he had once been. After all, he had visited the place several times in the last year, on the occasion of one splendid feast or another. Its owner-a wealthy and prominent member of the high council-was quite fond of extravagant