C l scheel, p.7
C L Scheel, page 7
The long row of smoldering braziers, set along the battlement, were re-kindled and the flames leaped to life, casting dancing light across the warriors’ faces. The archers stepped forward, awaiting the command to ignite their arrows. They knew they were the first line of defense against the oncoming skags.
A flaming arrow to the throat usually stopped them, burning them to death before they could smother the fire. If they managed to get past the archers, the skags would use ropes, crude ladders, even themselves as a living pyramid to climb the walls of the great city. No sword or spear could stop them, at least not for long. Severed limbs re-grew, deep wounds closed and torn flesh regenerated in a few moments.
If they managed to reach the top of the battlements, only then were swords of any use. The archers stepped back and the best swordsmen moved forward, ready to sever their heads before the skags could enter the city. This was the only way swords could stop them.
The last dull light of day faded to dusk; the snow thickened. Akken'ar spotted movement in the dense stand of trees and heard the familiar high-pitched gibbering. No one knew if the skags were intelligent enough to speak a language, but somehow they communicated with one another.
"I can smell them,” Zykov muttered.
"...enough to make a man puke,” Akken'ar overheard one of the archers below say to his companion.
"Order the torches lit, so we can see them coming."
"At once, my lord,” Zykov said, turning toward a junior officer standing nearby.
"And, General...?"
"Highness?"
"Send someone to escort the Lady Wordsayer to the sanctuary. It is safer there."
"As you will, Highness."
Akken'ar again focused his attention on the cluster of black trees, watching for any sudden movement. He should have thought of the Wordsayer the moment he knew about the skags and chastised himself for leaving her in the dubious care of Master Jonovar. Fortunately, Master Eika's presence would temper the Wordkeeper's determination to question Lady Suzanne any further about the Tearstone. That she even possessed the relic had been a complete surprise and only confirmed her identity as the Wordsayer. But it troubled him that the blessed saint had chosen a woman for such a grim task. Had this fact been known, or had it been a part of the saint's design?
Akken'ar had never before questioned his duty concerning the prophecy—until now. Lady Suzanne changed everything. The weight of his duties had suddenly doubled when he found the Wordsayer. He must make certain she fulfilled her part of the prophecy by reading the Text. And she must survive. He would not allow her to suffer the same fate as his beloved Kiamma...
Zykov was at his elbow again. “We are ready, my lord."
"Good.” Determination set Akken'ar's jaw, made him push all other thoughts from his mind except defeating the skags.
The huge torches along the ramparts lit the ground below in a dim, cold light. The far trees had melded into the darkness. Akken'ar covered his mouth and nose with the black wool helm-cloth and drew his sword.
The gibbering from the trees suddenly stopped.
"Here they come,” Zykov said.
The horde emerged from the cover of the forest into the open, howling like crazed animals as they raced toward the walls of san'Sorafel. Whether running on two legs or scrabbling on all fours, they moved faster than anyone thought possible—a mass of deranged creatures, clothed in filthy rags, and ravenous with hunger.
"Now,” Akken'ar ordered.
"Fire!” Zykov bellowed to the archers.
Volley after volley of flaming arrows streaked through the pelting snow into the oncoming skags. Many fell, screaming helplessly as the fire ignited the rotting, dry cloth covering their bodies. But the rest kept coming.
Akken'ar watched as they came closer. Even after a lifetime of fighting them, panic still threatened to overwhelm him. He had become more adept at suppressing it, but watching the skags hurtle themselves at the walls of his city took all his resolve, all his courage.
"They've got ropes!” he heard someone shout.
He looked down. From below, he saw two of the larger-looking creatures scrambling up the backs of their comrades, who had braced themselves into a living ladder. Once standing on the shoulders of the top-most skags, they hurled loops of rope upward toward the iron spikes thrusting outward from the walls.
The archers responded with a furious deluge of arrows, striking the climbing skags. They fell to the ground writhing as the fire engulfed their rags, but one managed to smother the flames in the snow and again, began its climb up the living tower.
Akken'ar frustration rose as he saw the one skag manage to climb closer to the top of the wall and out of the archers’ range. “Get your spears on it!"
The noise of clashing weapons, shouting warriors and the skags’ high-pitched shrieks all added to the madness and confusion.
Zykov hurried up to him. “We're running out of arrows, my lord."
"How many left?"
"No more than a hundred."
Akken'ar nodded. “We must make every arrow count; none are to be wasted. Give the order. And Zykov, select four men. Have them search the city for any stored arrows or weapons that might have been overlooked."
"Done, my lord.” Zykov hurried away, shouting to his officers.
The snow had subsided allowing the light from the torches to expose the chaos below. The onslaught slackened somewhat; the still-smoldering bodies of the skags struck by flaming arrows lay in black stinking piles scattered over the white ground. Many crouched or lay huddled together, panting and waiting for the hideous rapid-regeneration of limbs and wounds to finish so they might attack the wall again. Akken'ar knew the skags would not stop until they breached the city wall, or until every one of them had been killed.
A wild cry of alarm made him look down the line of archers braced along the battlement. In a single horrifying moment, one skag, straddling the shoulders of his comrades, managed to reach the lowest iron spike jutting out from the wall. Hanging by its arms, the full length of its body could be seen beneath its clothing—the maggot-white skin riddled with hundreds of battle scars and the scabs of disease. With impossible strength, it climbed the remaining spikes until it neared the top. A fury of sword cuts and swift blows from spears failed to dislodge it. With amazing speed, the creature reached up and grabbed the sleeve of the nearest archer, dragging him over the side. The man screamed, desperately clutching the edge of the battlement and the hands of those trying to pull him back.
A single sword-stroke beheaded the skag and a well-aimed kick to its chest sent it tumbling the ground. But it was too late for the archer. In spite of his struggles to save himself, he too, fell, landing hard on the packed snow.
The skags howled their victory and immediately turned from the wall, descending on the lifeless archer and the headless body of their comrade. At last, they had what they wanted.
Akken'ar beat his fist against the stone wall. “No!"
He spun around and raced down the tower steps, firing orders to the officers closest to him.
"Get my horse. And I want six men—four swordsmen and two of our best archers."
General Zykov was at his heels. “What are you doing, my lord?"
"Open the postern gate,” he snapped.
"This is madness! It is too late for the archer. The skags have him now."
Akken'ar whirled on the general. “What would you have me do? Let them drag him off?"
"The archer is dead..."
"That may be, but I'll not see one more of my people become a meal for those things!"
"My lord ... !"
"Cover us from above, Zykov. You know what do. Whatever happens, don't let any of them get inside.” He swung onto his horse then nodded to his hastily gathered warriors.
Men at the postern gate—the small side door within the west gate, large enough for a single horse and rider to get through—suddenly pulled it open and Akken'ar spurred his horse into the cold night.
Surprised by seven men on horseback carrying swords and bows, the skags turned and ran for the woods leaving behind their wounded still crawling in the snow. Swiftly, Akken'ar and his swordsmen beheaded them, then turned their horses after the remaining skags.
They were faster than Akken'ar imagined—dragging the body of a tall man over snow and rough terrain—but the skags were no match for fresh horses and seven warriors determined to kill them. In moments, the seven descended upon the stragglers. The creatures were forced to drop their prize, but not without a fight. Growling and hissing they held their ground by forming a circle around the archer and their headless companion.
There were only a dozen creatures left, but even with the advantage of carrying weapons, Akken'ar knew the odds were still against them. The skags would attempt to kill their horses first, leaving the warriors on foot and a long way from the city gates.
The skag closest to him wasted no time with posturing. Enraged, it leaped at Akken'ar's horse, trying to sink its teeth into the animal's throat. The prince fought to control the terrified horse as he struck at the creature with his sword. The remaining skags joined their comrade, leaping and snarling at the six other warriors.
The struggle seemed to go on interminably, as each time Akken'ar's men succeeded in wounding one of the skags, it simply dropped to the ground and waited until its wounds or missing limbs regenerated.
Finally, a fierce blow from his sword severed the skag's arms at the elbows, forcing it to relinquish its hold on his horse. It fell, gibbering and squirming to the snow. Akken'ar gave no mercy. He swung down and planted his foot firmly on the skag's back. In one stroke, he severed its head.
Akken'ar dropped to one knee, breathing hard, gathering his strength. Disgust filled him as he looked at the vile creature, its black-red blood oozing into the snow. How much time was expended destroying these things, he thought wearily. How many times must his people fight before the skags were destroyed? If only he could find a way to behead or burn them all at once.
He looked up in time to see his men decapitate the last of the creatures. Bloodied and weary, men and horses stood in the midst of the carnage, waiting for his orders.
Using his blade for support, Akken'ar pulled himself to his feet. “Get the archer,” he said quietly.
Akken'ar mounted his horse, then motioned for the archer's body to be laid across the saddlebow in front of him. In somber silence, the warriors urged their horses into a swift walk, never once looking back.
* * * *
SUZANNE STARED THROUGH the barred window of her room, rubbing her hands against her upper arms. In spite of the warming fire, she felt uncomfortably cold. Maybe it was nerves or impatience.
At least she had some answers, but not nearly enough to satisfy. Both Master Eika and Master Jonovar had revealed only small pieces of information, dispensing each fragment like a rare jewel, as if too precious for anyone to have but themselves.
Suzanne felt sorry for Akken'ar—a powerful but weary man, caught between leading his people and his sworn duty to the Scribes. She had felt his simmering wrath in the chamber where she had been questioned. He clearly detested Master Jonovar and had only wary respect for Master Eika. Prince Akken'ar was a warrior, like Sheriff McKenna, governed by a strong moral code, but trapped by the strictures of duty.
A breathless messenger had interrupted Master Jonovar's interrogation with news that a horde of skags had massed outside the west gates of the city.
Akken'ar acted swiftly; the Wordsayer was to be escorted to her chamber and guards posted outside her door; the Scribes were to protect Ironhold—the sanctuary and the Library. Every available warrior was to take his post at the outer walls.
Two hours passed and she had heard nothing since. Suzanne glanced at the window again. It was dark and she now appreciated the importance of the thick iron bars bolted across the glass.
A soft knock announced Miri's return. She entered Suzanne's chamber carrying a beautiful outer robe made of deep green velvet, heavily embroidered in gold thread.
"I hope it will fit,” Miri said shyly as she slipped it over Suzanne's shoulders. “You'll want to look your best for the ritual ... when the time comes."
A strange feeling came over Suzanne as she studied her reflection in the tall mirror set near the window. She didn't recognize herself. The robe, a garment made for a formal ceremony, made her appear poised and elegant and Miri's admiring gaze affirmed approval of her appearance.
Suzanne pulled the edges of the robe together to ward off another chill and ran an admiring hand down the intricate embroidery-work. She wondered who was the last person to wear such a beautiful garment. It was made for a princess. Or, a bride. “Was this Princess Kiamma's?"
"Yes. She wore it the day she was wed to His Highness."
"I should have known,” she murmured. “Will he not be angry if he sees me wearing his wife's wedding attire?"
Miri shook her head. “No, my lady. I think not. It was so long ago. Besides, there is nothing else fine enough for you to wear. I think Prince Akken'ar will be pleased."
"How did the...? How did Princess Kiamma die?"
"I was only a little girl then, but my mother told me that the princess had gone riding one afternoon, outside the city gates. She had an armed escort, but they stayed out too long. As they returned to the city, the skags ambushed her and her guards. They were all killed, the horses too, and dragged off.” Miri looked away, her eyes filling with tears. “The prince never found her..."
"I'm very sorry,” Suzanne whispered, fully understanding the depth of Akken'ar's loathing for the creatures and the urgency of her task.
Another knock at the door ended Miri's recounting of Princess Kiamma's terrible death. The maid hurried to open the door. Outside were the two fierce-looking warriors and Master Eika.
"Forgive me, Lady Sayer, but His Highness has ordered that you are to be escorted to a safer place. It is vital that you come with me."
"Are the skags inside the city?” Suzanne asked anxiously.
"No. The prince is only taking further precautions. Please...?” Eika gestured for her to follow him.
Suzanne gathered the magnificent robe closer to her and hurriedly followed Master Eika through the dark keep. She saw no other warriors except the two escorting her and the scribe, and assumed all the others were fighting skags. It occurred to her how thinly stretched the prince's resources were. No wonder he was so anxious for her to read the Sacred Text.
Master Eika turned down a wide hallway that joined the main part of the keep to a separate wing. The corridor looked much older than the keep itself, its high windows were cracked and broken allowing small birds to nest in the cornices and crevices near the ceiling. It smelled musty like damp stone and mold. There was something else, something she could not quite name ... a familiarity. At one time the corridor must have been an architectural wonder, a hallway in a great building or ... a library.
The keep must have been a library, she reasoned—at least, a part of what was left of it. There was no escaping the reality of her situation. She had traveled forward in time to witness the outcome of a terrible natural disaster that had occurred over a thousand years ago.
Master Eika stopped suddenly. The ancient corridor ended, opening into a large open courtyard paved in flat gray stones. There was no garden or pattering fountain to break up its cold severity. Snow filtered down from the black sky, coating the stones in a thin layer of sparkling white. Colonnaded passageways encircled the courtyard on all four sides and directly across from Suzanne, another opening led up a dark stone stairway, deeper into the keep.
"We go this way,” Master Eika said, indicating they should turn left. Half-way down the open corridor, the scribe stopped before a pair of double doors, scarred and battered with age. The two attending guards took their positions on either side, while Eika produced a simple brass key and opened the right-hand door.
"Is this where I will read the Text?” Suzanne asked.
"No, my lady. This,” he said opening the door,” is the Library. It is safe in here."
She stepped inside and gasped. From floor to ceiling, on every wall were books, hundreds perhaps thousands lining the shelves. Two long tables of old mahogany, polished to a high gleam had been placed in the center of the room. A few chairs, battered with age, had been placed before the tables. The ancient fabric covering the seats, was faded and riddled with holes; the stuffing protruding like dirty straw. Large Turkish carpets, shabby and threadbare, lay over a wooden floor that creaked with every step.
"I thought, Lady Wordsayer, you would care to see our second-most valuable treasure.” Eika moved around her solicitously and gestured to the nearest bookshelf.
Suzanne approached the shelf, overwhelmed by what she saw and awed that so many books had survived. She cocked her head sideways and scanned the titles.
"These are the common texts, sometimes called the manuscripts of common knowledge,” he said.
She ran a light finger over the spines of the shelved books. Akken'ar had read some of these; this was the source of his knowledge and education.
Titles on farming, animal husbandry and wood-working tools met her probing gaze. Looking up to the next row, she saw more books, some in other languages, but all on non-technological subjects: saddlery and harness-making, stone masonry and carpentry, but nothing on electronics, machinery or communications. There were a few texts, old to her, on printing and bookbinding, but all written before the advent of electrically-powered presses.
Master Eika seemed pleased, almost proud of himself as he showed her the remainder of the library. “I hope this meets with your approval, my lady. I have striven to keep everything in order and in good repair. Every sunpass, apprentice scribes assist me for many weeks restoring or copying a few of the texts ... some are so fragile."
Suzanne strolled through library, continuing to scan the titles. No literature or fiction, but a few volumes of Shakespeare. She noticed a distinct lack of history, theology or philosophy books. There were, however, plenty of books on nature and natural studies, but nothing on the hard sciences: chemistry, physics or advanced mathematics. It was as if someone had deliberately excised all materials on technology and its correlated skills. There were some texts on astronomy and a few books on ocean life lining the topmost shelves. But most curious of all, there were no books on reading, writing, grammar or spelling.
