The Trials Of Ashbarn ( Book 5), Page 2

  The first three men that leapt through the wall of fire were greeted with an arrow each; eye, throat, heart—each was dead before thudding to the floor. Unfazed by the quick slaughter, other brutes rushed in behind. Several held small shields, making themselves slightly less vulnerable. The man in black fired off several more shots, hoping to remain unnoticed in the ensuing chaos. It worked for several seconds, an eternity in the heat of battle. But by the time the eighth mercenary fell, all eyes were set on him.

  Springing to his feet, the killer abandoned his bow and unleashed his swords. The trusty weapon had done its job, but the element of surprise was no longer a factor. Steel was the only option now. Trying to keep them guessing, he rushed at the first and feigned a high slash to the head. When the mercenary raised his shield to block, the assassin tapped it lightly.

  There was no power behind the strike, but the man standing next to him grimaced, the assassin’s second blade sinking deep into his leg. The grimace became a howl when the blade tore free, leaving a large flap of skin to hang like a rag. The mercenary holding up his shield paused at his companion’s bloodcurdling shriek. The pause proved fatal, as the same blade slashed across his gut, allowing his innards to spill onto the floor.

  With more men flooding through the doorway, the mystics’ sole ally would soon be horribly outnumbered. But fear was not what gripped him. This had been a suicide mission from the start. The only thing to do now was to find a way to buy Berkeni every possible second. Mind racing, he glanced to the only possible way he could buy enough time for the others to complete the ritual. Must cut off the stairway. Hold them as long as I can.

  He dashed across the room and down the short hallway, paying no attention to the surrounding fires. The oil-fueled flames were already beginning to die down, and there was very little material here that could burn anyway. A red-haired mercenary beat him to the bottom step, but a quick three-slash combination—one on his arm and two across the chest—left him incapacitated. The assassin jumped over the larger man’s mortally wounded body, then turned to face the quickly growing mob while he backed his way up the stairs. Showing little sympathy for their fallen brother, the body was simply pushed aside as he bled out. Instead of rushing up the stairwell, the leathers stalked up single file, matching the killer step for step.

  The assassin decided the stairs were a good place to make a stand. At best, they could only attack two at a time, given how narrow the steps were. Not great odds, but better than being surrounded and eventually swarmed. He blinked before rethinking the math here. Yes, two could stand side by side on this stairwell, but could two actually fight that way? Arms flailing about like that? And what of the man opposite the wall’s support? Surely he would likely fall off the edge and die on the stone below.

  Yes, this will do, thought the assassin as he kept on backing his way up the steps. However, he didn’t want to lead them straight to Berkeni either. At some point he would have to turn offensive and hold the position. I won’t let any of you stop them. You fools have no idea what’s at stake.

  * * *

  The figures in brown cloaks surrounded the baby, each with their open hands pointed to the skylight. The infant lay there quietly throughout their constant chanting. “Ohimemackaraoome,” they moaned over and over, swaying back and forth. This went on for several minutes, Berkeni standing next to the child in silence. His eyes bounced nervously between the windowed ceiling above and the open doorway. Chaotic sounds of battle carried off the walls and down the hall, making it impossible to determine how much time they had.

  Now feeling the proper flow of energy at last, Berkeni opened the book where his finger had been reserving the page. Any one of these mystics would easily be the most powerful man within ten thousand miles of any random location. Yet here they all stood, working together as a single unit—a miracle in itself. This was the kind of raw power needed on this day. This was the kind of skill necessary to bring the world of man into a new age. There would be no margin for error. Failure was not an option.

  Berkeni smiled down at the child. He grinned back, those dark eyes glistening in the low light. “If only I were as brave as you are, little one,” the older man whispered. Suddenly his face hardened, and he refocused on the task at hand. He joined in the chant for a minute, then his eyes fell back to the book. He began to read aloud, “Tramenathokudabendin...”

  Berkeni’s eyes rolled up in his head, changing into milky white orbs. Tongue-twisting gibberish began to spill from his mouth, words that went far beyond the complexity of an ancient language. The sounds were sharp and guttural, like they were never meant to roll off the tongue of a human. His voice became a low growl, the rolling, gurgling sounds of an ancient beast.

  In a sudden gesture, Berkeni thrust his hands into the air, his eyes flashing back to normal. Lightning crackled across the sky and the rain intensified. The storm was so loud now, the drumming sounded like an army of rodents running across the rooftop. The glass in the ceiling rumbled and vibrated as if being bombarded by a waterfall. The slender man’s eyes began to glow a light blue as tiny bolts of yellow jumped back and forth between his extended hands. The jagged, staticky flashes seemed to absorb directly into his skin before leaping back in the other direction.

  His voice rang out like a bell, “Ancient guardian, hear our call. The end of days will soon be upon. I awaken you from your peaceful slumber. Accept this vessel of flesh and blood, so you may walk amongst us once more.” Lightning bolts shredded the sky. The dark room was suddenly illuminated by nature’s fury, brilliant flashes of blue and green light. “Come back to the world of man, and show the darkness what true power really is!”

  A single bolt of green streaked down from the sky and shattered the glass in the ceiling. No one looked up or even flinched while glass shards fluttered down around them. Their chanting continued undisturbed. Wind filled with rain droplets swirled around the room. Flapping hoods flew back, revealing illuminated eyes similar to Berkeni’s. Robes fluttered upward in the hurricane-like conditions.

  * * *

  The mysterious man easily parried a clumsy sword thrust, then countered with his left, opening the mercenary’s throat. Out of pure muscle memory and instinct, he immediately whirled into a five-strike counter. The prolonged assault did nothing more than shred an already dead man still on his feet. His corpse finally tumbled over the side, then hit the stone below with a wet smack. The endless line of mercenaries continued to advance up the steps, despite watching another of theirs fall.

  The assassin was confident none of these men would pose any real threat one on one. Despite their numbers I can hold them here. As long as they keep coming one at a ti— Fire shot through his side. More on instinct than controlled movement, he raised his sword, intercepting the oncoming sword strike. The leather’s eyes grew wide with terror, knowing he had just failed to take advantage of the wounded assassin. A blinding whirl of steel made short work of the stunned man.

  Backing up another step, the assassin saw the crossbow bolt lying at his feet. It had only grazed him, but left a rather serious gash. He spun his blades in a flashy blur of steel, which made the next man up leap back in caution. With a quick glance below, he saw the big man loading another bolt into his crossbow. The others surrounding him were notching arrows as well.

  Fully aware of the warm blood running from his side, he glanced around, trying to decide if there was a better place to make a stand. No place to take cover, and I’m completely exposed. I can’t hold here much longer. The man in black was ready to give his life if necessary, but there had to be some logical chance of success. If he stayed here in the open, their arrows would tear him apart. What good would that do? I need to get back to the others. They must be warned.

  He turned up the steps as another bolt whizzed past his ear, then snapped off the stone wall. Predictably, the others gave chase, thinking he was making a run for it. Timing it just right, the killer kicked backward with his heel, hitting the first advancing merce
nary square in the chest. The powerful hit launched him backward, knocking several others over the side. Not looking back to see how much disruption was caused, the man in black bolted up the steps and down the hall.

  * * *

  Swirling winds spun violently around the room, leaves and dust giving life to the twisting spirals dancing about. A constant light show flickered about the room, bolts of green and blue streaking across the night sky. The men continued their chanting, somehow able to ignore all the commotion around them. Even the sounds of battle in the hall did nothing to break their apparent trances. “Guardian, we beg of you, enter the land of the living,” Berkeni bellowed, hands reaching to the sky.

  The rain and wind slowed immediately. An eerie calm hung in the air. The men stopped their chanting and now stood in silence, a dead silence more suited for a graveyard. One man shifted his stance slightly, producing a crackling as glass crunched under his foot.

  Small at first, a slim line of golden sparkles trickled down through the open ceiling. The tiny flecks spiraled in a tightly wound funnel that seemed to connect with the infant’s belly. Within a heartbeat or two, the golden spiral had begun to thicken. The base of the funnel rotated around the child, making it look as if someone were pouring glitter on him. Then the funnel began to rage and swirl, violently spinning over him. It threatened to consume the baby or possibly carry him away into the night.

  The men watched uneasily, wondering what they had done here. Had this all been a terrible mistake? Tampering in the business of the gods was never a good idea. Uneasy looks were shared around the room, eyes filled with doubt and still an ample measure of distrust. All except one man whose gaze remained fixed on the child. Berkeni looked on, his heavy eyes unable to hide his weariness. Even with the combined efforts of these skilled mystics, the ritual had been extremely taxing.

  The swirling funnel slowed down as the last of the golden particles seemed to seep into the child. Berkeni’s legs wobbled, forcing him to reach out and brace himself against the wall. Leaning heavily and suddenly short of breath, he whispered, “It is done. This child’s destiny is now in motion, and the world we know will never be the same. The shadow is coming, and nothing can stop that now.” He wiped a slender hand across the beaded sweat on his forehead. “But at least now we have a fighting chance.”

  The door crashed open, nearly blasted off the hinges by a desperate kick. The man in black leaned wearily in the doorway, bloody blades in hand, solemnly shaking his head. His side damp with blood, it was clear he had been wounded. “Too many,” came the breathless rasp. “They’re coming.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Then we hold them here,” said Berkeni, straining to push himself off the wall. With even further effort, he stood tall and moved towards the infant. He gently scooped up the baby, then marched the infant over to the man in black, who backed away as if the child were on fire. “Take him!” the little man shrieked, thrusting the bundle into his reluctant arms. Angry shouts forced Berkeni to peek over the man’s shoulder. The mercenaries would flood the hall any second now. “We’ve already been through this and you know what to do. You hear me? I leave it in your hands. Now go!”

  Unsure, the assassin backed away slowly. Wanting to make a stand yet aware of the dire circumstances, he quickly tied the blanket corners into a single knot. After double-wrapping the end around his wrist, he bolted the other way, a single sword drawn in the opposite hand. Berkeni watched the killer streak around the corner, then refocused his attention to the task at hand. The other mystics filtered from the room. They moved slowly, lethargically, calmly taking up various positions around the hall.

  The first of many leathers—a lanky, black-haired man who hesitated when he first laid eyes on the hooded group—appeared at the top of the steps. But once a few more joined up beside him, his waning courage returned. Weapons drawn, they charged what looked to be a defenseless group of monks.

  Berkeni grinned a diabolical smile. With malice in his eyes, the ever-peaceful man snapped his fingers, producing a tiny orange flame that danced in his palm. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to pass,” he whispered, far too softly for any to hear. The spoken words were no more than his own thoughts, and not meant for anyone’s ears. “A great evil threatening to destroy the world as we know it now sits on our doorstep. I’ve dedicated my life to destroying this shadow, yet you look to stop me?” His wicked smile twisted into a grimace. “But if violence and death is all you understand, allow me to oblige.”

  Others around him began to snap their fingers. Some produced tiny ice crystals that hopped up and down in their hands like silver crickets. Others held crackling bolts of static, akin to holding a lightning storm in the palm of one’s hand. With the charging mercenaries only a few steps away, Berkeni lightly blew across his palm. The tiny dancing flame spiraled outward into a raging funnel of fire. A chorus of screams cried out as the blazing tornado consumed the first wave of men. Charred bodies fell to the ground, many crumbling to small piles of ash upon impact.

  Other mystics held their hands up to their mouths, waiting for more leathers to show. Each wore a sadistic expression similar to Berkeni’s...

  * * *

  The man in black streaked down a separate hall, holding his sword in a reverse grip, the blade riding up the side of his arm. Even at full speed, he moved along silent as death. The oblivious child yawned, swinging only slightly, as if being rocked to sleep. Needing to find a way out, the man bolted around the next corner. The tower had only been a meeting place, and Berkeni was the only one familiar with its layout. Ahead was a large stained glass window, the hallway splitting out to the left and right.

  A man in brown leather came skidding around from the left side. He stopped suddenly, eyes wide as if shocked to have actually found what he was looking for. With a shake of his head, he grinned a toothless smile. Two more rounded the corner from the other direction; the three of them were now blocking the assassin’s path. They’ve fully breached the tower. I need to get Eric out of here!

  Time slowed to a crawl as the assassin charged forward. Fully aware of his surroundings, he absorbed every detail like a sponge did water. The worn gray carpet under his feet. A dusty old chair leaning against the side of the hall. Each man’s contorted face twisting with rage. Their mouths roared open in slow motion, blades held high with murder in their eyes.

  The man in black ran up the side wall, as if to simply zip past them without engaging at all. Each assailant froze for an instant, not sure how to deal with the odd tactic. Taking advantage of their hesitation, he flipped sideways off the wall, kicking the first in the jaw. What should have been a scream leaked out as a muffled whimper. With the man’s jaw shattered instantly, unconsciousness took him quickly.

  Landing weightlessly like a nimble cat, the assassin readjusted his hold on the infant. His sword flashed as he reversed his grip again, allowing the blade’s edge to ride up the back of his forearm. Springing forward, he dashed between the next two opponents. With an upward slash, he intercepted the sword on his right in a clash of steel. In one swift motion, he dropped to one knee and spun in a circle, then reversed direction, steel flashing in two consecutive blurs.

  The first mercenary stood still for a moment, sword still raised above his head. Then the gash in his stomach released its offering of innards. Gore spilled onto the floor before he crumbled to the ground. His eyes remained open, his expression virtually the same.

  The other man screamed, clutching his stump of a leg with both hands. His foot and most of his shin laid against the wall now. He rolled back and forth in agony, alternating between curses and shrieks of pain. The man in black considered finishing him off, but decided against it. The mercenary was no longer a threat, and he needed to get the child out of here.

  Shouts were coming from all directions now. They’re everywhere. An arrow whizzed past the back of his head, the feather brushing against his ear. It snapped against the glass window at the end of the hall. It didn’t penetrat
e, but caused a spiderweb-like crack. Not bothering to look back, the assassin began running again. Another arrow nicked the top of his shoulder. It, too, cracked another section of glass.

  The man in black threw his sword at the window with all his might. With a hollow crunch, cracks spiraled all over the thick glass. Now at full speed, he left his feet and seemed to float in the air. He rotated his back towards the window, collapsing his legs and torso around the infant in a cannonball formation. Glass sprayed outward in a bloom of crystal as he exploded through.

  Even in free fall, he kept himself wrapped around the child, making no additional efforts to brace for the impact. Splashing into the creek below, an icy chill assaulted his body. Immediately after the impact, he raised the child up, trying to keep him out of the cold water. It was shallow enough to touch bottom, so he quickly made his way to land. All the while, he carefully held the crying baby, who was wet and cold but unharmed.

  * * *

  After hiking alongside the shoreline for a time, he decided it was time to set up camp. Making a fire was going to be a priority. Although the rain had stopped a while ago, the collected wood was still very damp. The man in black cracked away at his flint and steel. Tiny, orange sparks flared off the steel piece, clinging to the damp leaves before quickly losing their glow. It took nearly twenty minutes to get the fire going.

  He draped the damp blankets across sticks dug into the ground. Better the child be naked than bundled in wet wrappings. The fire was going good now, and they would be dry soon enough. Then they could figure out their next move. All that mattered now was that little Eric was safe.

  He groaned, clutching the wound on his side. The glass had also left cuts all over his body, but this wound was still the most serious. It would require stitching eventually, but for now it just needed to be kept clean. With one last glance at the sleeping baby, he hobbled back over to the creek.