Chapter 16: 16

Barrin tried to contain his fury, flexing his grip upon the knife, forcing himself not to plunge it into the lifeless body of the outpost commander over and over again. The edges of his vision clouded as he stared at her empty eyes, glazed, looking as though they stared into his soul, taunting him with the information that she had torn from him. He breathed deep, closing his eyes and pushing himself up, setting his face like stone as Father had taught him.

Push the feelings down. Tamp them. Temper them. Let them boil and churn inside but show nothing for others to see. Maeal had said nothing and he didn’t know whether he thought that a good thing or bad. He turned away from the body, taking the weapon belt from her and fastening it around his waist. The knife he tucked into the back of his breeches and the sword and dagger released from their sheaths.

“Those words ...” Maeal stirred after some time. “She said ‘Shumma-Vohk’, but I do not know the words after that. Do you recognise ...”

“No.” He knew many languages. Spoke them like a native, but those words were unfamiliar. “She teased us with those words, nothing more.”

“But ...” Maeal stopped as he turned his gaze to her and she made an involuntary step back.

He had said he would try to spare the mercenaries within this outpost, but he no longer had any wish to. Angered more by his foolishness than anything else, knowing he should have secured the commander before asking his questions, his ire needed release and the fact that he doubted he could leave the outpost without meeting other mercenaries pressed him toward an action that could ruin his chances of finding answers from Gaharri.

Without even looking, he stepped outside and began to stride toward the stairs leading down. He showed no caution now, taking the stairs two at a time, casting glances at each landing before hurrying on. At the lowest floor, he saw two guards beside a door and knew he had found the cell of Gaharri’s daughter.

Before the guards could begin to react, Barrin crossed the distance, plunging the dagger into the body of the first guard, impaling her against the wooden wall beside the door. The second guard fumbled to bring his spear to bear, but Barrin gave him no space, pressing himself in close and thrusting the sword up, through the guard’s gut, into his chest, killing him in an instant. He hadn’t made a sound. They had not managed to take a breath and their weapons only now reached the floor, clattering to a stop.

“Free the child. Placate her.” Barrin turned away, heading for the door leading to the courtyard. “Do not come out until you hear silence ... the sword. The black blade. Where is it?”

“With the horses. Some thirty yards away behind a stand of rocks.” Maeal struggled to release the catch on the cell door. “Why?”

He couldn’t say. He only knew that holding a sword that was not that crescent-moon blade felt wrong. The other sword deserved to feast on the blood of these mercenaries. The sword he now held nothing but an imposter. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he knew how odd it sounded. A sword was a sword. A blade was a blade. They held no significance other than what he needed in any given moment. Yet he craved that sword. He needed it.

That only fuelled his anger. He would not become enslaved to a sword! With blood dripping from the weapons in his hand, Barrin opened the door and strode out without any care. At first, none reacted, continuing whatever routine they engaged in, but, eventually, eyes began to turn, bodies began to move, weapons became raised. This was a fight! This was life! Not a fool sacrificing themselves upon a blade he had not even tried to use.

The first came to him and Barrin roared his lust as he swept the spear head aside with the dagger, following that with an overhead arc with the sword toward the mercenary’s head. He avoided that, but that only placed him back in the path of the dagger and Barrin buried it into the man’s side, twisting and pulling it out again.

Two more came at him and they faired no better, thinking their training could save them. They pressed forward, side-by-side, thrusting spears toward Barrin, but he was no static army, facing the enemy across a blood-soaked field. He spun away, sprinting to the side, following the curve of the wall, until he encountered another, bearing a halberd. The axe-like head plunged down toward Barrin’s shoulder, but he moved like a cat, jumping, placing a foot on an upright of the wall and kicking back.

The halberd slammed into the packed dirt of the courtyard and Barrin fell back down, connecting the sword blade against the wrist holding the halberd shaft nearest to him. It didn’t sever the hand from the wrist, not fully, but it caused the mercenary to shriek in pain, dropping the weapon and reaching for his hand that dangled by a thread of bloodied flesh.

The other sword would have severed the hand. The other sword would have cut through flesh and bone and wood in one sweep. But he did not have the other sword. Something scraped against his side, bringing white hot flames of pain coursing through him, forcing him to drop the unwanted sword. A spear, thrown from a distance. Thoughts of that other sword had made him careless and he would not allow that to happen again.

He gripped the shaft of the spear, the head stuck in the wall behind him, and ripped it free. In the same movement, he flipped his hand, sending the dagger flying, tumbling end-over-end until it thudded into the shoulder of a mercenary racing toward him, almost tossing them backward with the force of the throw. The spear spun in his hand and he thrust outward, catching another mercenary in the gut. That woman’s momentum propelled her far down the shaft, her hands clutching at it, seeing her own blood staining the wood. She looked confused.

An arrow thudded into the woman, ending her lingering life and Barrin pulled it free, slamming it down into the skull of another that had come too close. They were gathering around him now and he needed space. He ducked, another arrow whistling through the strands of his white hair and he stood upright holding the dropped halberd. With another roar, he swept it around in a crescent, forcing those before him to take a step back, lest they found themselves cloven in two.

Another arrow. This time it embedded itself into his shoulder, but it was as a bee sting to Barrin in that moment. It gave him no discomfort. Did not slow him down. Did not diminish him. Defiant, he stared up to the archer at the lookout tower, snapping the shaft and leaving the pile inside his body. Barrin tossed the halberd up, caught it underhand and lifted it to his shoulder. He saw the eyes of the archer widen as Barrin threw the halberd with all his might.

The archer could do little but jump out of the way of a weapon unused to such a tactic. No-one threw halberds, only a fool would try, but Barrin was no fool. He could not stop there. Another attack, from the side, and Barrin caught the attacker by the chin, gripping the top of his head with the other hand and, with a vicious twist, snapped the man’s neck so badly, he almost gazed dead eyes toward his own backside.

Barrin found another sword, perhaps the same sword. Another. It didn’t matter. None were his sword. None could compare with the beauty and magnificence of that black blade. None could ... Something scored against his forehead, a curtain of blood falling over his eyes and he raised his voice in rage once again, only, this time, another call answered. Two calls. He swept his forearm against his brow, clearing his vision in time to see the creatures bearing down upon him.

The first clamped its jaws upon his arm, the other turned its head, mouth opening wide, showing vicious, sharp teeth as it tried to bite Barrin’s face, only for Barrin to bring his other hand up, grabbing the bottom jaw of the creature and pulling it down. He knew most of the power of the dog’s bite came from the lower jaw and, even though those teeth scratched against his fingers, he knew it could not clamp down as hard as it could otherwise.

He and the dogs tumbled backward, becoming a ragged ball of arms and legs and docked tails. It felt as though the mercenaries now held back, expecting the dogs to finish what they could not, but they would find no comfort here. Barrin ignored the dog biting his arm, it could not kill him there. Instead, he lifted the other arm and brought it down, the dog’s head first, back against the hard-packed ground. Twice more he slammed the dog’s head into the dirt and he felt the hound trying to scramble back, trying to shake his hand from its jaw, but Barrin’s grip remained unforgiving.

One last strike and the dog yelped its last and Barrin released its jaw, the long tongue lolling from its mouth. The other dog let Barrin’s arm loose and leapt backward, growling, its head lowered as Barrin’s blood dripped from its teeth. Barrin had not realised how big the war dogs were. Almost the size of wolves, their short, sleek black and gold fur almost impressed Barrin. Beautiful, in their own way, but they were enemies. Human or not. They needed to die. One lay dead already, the second howled its defiance at Barrin and a third stood behind, held in reserve. Bigger even than the other two.

Barrin returned to his feet, stumbling until he steadied himself. He had no weapon. To the sides he could see some, dropped by the enemies that littered the courtyard, but none he could reach before the second dog, or the bigger third, attacked. He caught his breathing, slowing it, and gripped the body of the dog he had killed. The other dog growled a warning, baring its teeth and setting its feet ready to pounce.

With a strength few could muster, Barrin launched the body of the dead hound toward its compatriot and rolled the other way. The dog avoided the body of its kennel-mate and began to rush to catch Barrin, but Barrin had armed himself. The hound died in an instant, impaled upon the spear Barrin had raised, leaving only the final, bigger hound. Barrin pushed himself to his feet, wiped the blood from his eyes once more and stared at the hound-master, daring him as the dog itself strained against the chain about its throat.

The hound-master licked his lips, eyes flickering everywhere. To the bodies of the other dogs, to those of the mercenaries Barrin had despatched, to the other mercenaries that yet lived. There were far more dead bodies than those who still breathed and Barrin copied the hound-master. He swept his eyes around the courtyard, impressed, himself, by the slaughter. With a deliberate crouch, he folded his fingers around the grip of a sword, shaking the dust from the blade before returning to his full height.

No-one moved. When the dogs had attacked him, it had given the survivors the time to assess the damage Barrin had caused, the extent to which they had lost this battle against one man. He knew what they thought. That, together, they could beat him, but at what cost? How much they had already lost. The courtyard, the erstwhile field of battle, had silenced save for the occasional bark and howl from the remaining war dog and Maeal took that as her signal to emerge.

She led the child, arm around the girl’s shoulders, out from the tower. She rarely showed any emotion, but Maeal showed it now. Against the caravan guards, she had suffered almost as much as Barrin and reacted as she should. Against the subterranean creatures of the lost city, they hardly seemed human, and thus she had shown little care. Here, these people had done nothing to her and that difference showed in her demeanour. She stared at Barrin as she passed, heading toward the gates of the outpost, covering the child’s eyes.

No-one stopped her. No-one even stirred to try. As she neared the gates, one mercenary unfastened the bars, sliding them out of their hooks, and pulled open a gate for Maeal.

“Had you shown loyalty to your captain, none of this ...” Barrin waved the point of the sword at the dead and then swept it in a slow arc, taking in all that survived. “None of this would have happened. Consider your choices and wonder whether you chose correctly.”

With one, last, look at those he had killed, nodding at his handiwork, Barrin spat blood to the parched, packed dirt and turned to follow Maeal. Not his best work. Distracted by thoughts of that damned black blade, it could have ended far worse, but it wasn’t bad.

He didn’t look back as he passed through the gates. He doubted any of those that remained had the fortitude to stab him in the back.