He’s supposed to be leaving, not hacking Kadoshim’s followers into tiny pieces!
Sig ploughed on, knowing to slow down against numbers like this was to die. She slammed into more acolytes, a concussive impact that sent bodies spinning through the air. She stumbled but kept her feet, continued her relentless assault of stabbing and hacking and lunging, her arms drenched with their blood, and her enemies died about her, falling away screaming or silent, bloody and broken. But more kept coming. Blows rained down upon her, chainmail shirt turning some, a stutter of discordant thuds across her shield, red-fire cuts opening up on arms and legs, a dull thump on her shoulder, something more serious on her hip, a flash of pain and then tingling numbness.
No time for pain. No time for dying. Where’s Gulla?
It was a maelstrom of blood and chaos, and she was the centre of that storm, carving limbs from bodies, trailing scarlet arcs of blood, leaving the dead in her wake. But there were just too many of them. She tried to keep moving, to be the storm personified, but bodies heaped around her, tripping, snaring, hands grabbing, clutching at her, blades stabbing, and slowly she felt her strength leaking from her along with her blood.
A blow across the back of her leg sent her stumbling to one knee, faces lunging at her and she smashed a fist into one, sent the acolyte crashing to the ground with a pulped nose and fewer teeth than he’d had a few heartbeats ago. A sharp pain in her back, someone trying to stab her, though it felt like her shirt of mail held. She blocked a sword-swing with her blade, rolled her wrists and slashed its tip across a throat, the acolyte, a woman this time, stumbling away gurgling, dropping to her knees as she tried in vain to stem the blood pumping through her fingers.
A crunch to her head, white lights exploding before her eyes, and she fell forwards into the snow-slush, churned with blood and mud, lost a grip of her sword. She lifted her head, blood sluicing into one eye, hand reaching blindly for her sword hilt.
A calm came upon her then, legs all around her, figures seeming to slow in their rush to kill her, as if they were wading through water.
This is my end, she thought, knowing the numbers were too great, even for her and her crew, and she’d given her orders to Cullen and Keld to remain separate, to get Drem out and back to Dun Seren, unless she gave the order, the signal for them to fight. And she hadn’t. The numbers were too great alone, without feral man-beasts and whatever in the Otherworld it was that Gulla had become, and was infecting others with.
I hope they got Drem out, she thought as she tried to push herself back to her knees.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
RIV
Riv paused before the doors of Israfil’s tower, leaning upon a wall for a moment. Lights flickered through shuttered windows, high above. A deep breath and shake of her head and she was running on, shouldering the doors open and stumbling through.
Where is everybody? His guards? Ben-Elim, White-Wings?
She hurried up an empty flight of stairs, dragging herself on, ever higher, until she saw a gleam of light outlining the chamber doors. Israfil’s chambers, unguarded. Riv heard voices, dulled by the oak doors.
A hand clamped upon Riv’s shoulder, turning her.
‘What are you doing?’ Aphra and her mam hissed at her.
‘It has to end,’ Riv said. ‘Kol. He is a poison.’
Her sister stared at her, face twitching with so many emotions.
‘Israfil must know,’ Riv said.
‘No!’ her mother growled. ‘You are sick, your mind clouded. You do not know what you are saying.’
‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Riv said. ‘I know right from wrong,’ and she made to go on.
Her mam grabbed her.
‘You are not going in there,’ she said, her eyes blazing.
‘I am,’ Riv grunted, pulling away, but her mother’s grip was strong.
An arrow slammed into the wall between them, thrumming.
Bleda stood a score of paces down the stairway, a handful of his honour guard about him, including the old one who was missing a hand.
‘Let go of her,’ Bleda said.
Dalmae’s grip tightened on Riv’s arm, her other hand inching to her short-sword.
‘Come away with me,’ Dalmae said. ‘It is for your own good.’
‘I cannot,’ Riv said.
‘The next arrow will pierce your thigh. I will not hit the bone, so you may walk again, if I miss the artery. But you will always limp.’
‘Mam,’ Riv said, quietly. ‘Please. Kol is a poison.’
‘But I am so scared for you and Aphra,’ her mam said, a quiver touching her voice, so strong and determined until now.
‘Look what he is making us all do. You killed Garidas.’
Shame filled her mam’s eyes then, and with a sigh she dropped her head and let go of Riv’s wrist.
‘Thank you,’ Riv said and ran on. She reached the doors to Israfil’s chamber, glimpsed a hooded figure standing close by in the shadows of an alcove, but raised voices within the chamber drew her on. She rushed through Israfil’s doors, the voices became louder, clearer. She staggered through the waiting room and burst into his chamber, the doors swinging wide, crashing into the walls, everyone within turning startled heads to stare at her.
‘It’s Kol,’ Riv yelled, ‘Kol is the one.’
She stumbled to a stop.
Israfil was standing before the dark frame of his open window, his hands clasped behind his back, face a mixture of rage and disgust. At his side stood another Ben-Elim, Kushiel, Riv recognized – one of Israfil’s high council. Other Ben-Elim were spread around the room in a loose circle, and in the centre of the room stood Kol, a Ben-Elim either side of him, each gripping one of Kol’s arms. White-Wings flanked them, a dozen, Garidas’ men, Riv presumed.
‘It’s Kol,’ Riv whispered.
Israfil regarded her a long moment, his face full of judgement and grief.
‘I know it is Kol,’ Israfil said to Riv. His expression softened for a moment as he looked at her.
‘Sit, Riv. You look as if you are about to drop.’
‘But there’s more,’ Riv said.
‘Yes, there is, far more than I ever would have thought possible. Kol has just confessed all.’
Riv swayed on her feet, wanted to tell Israfil all she knew, anyway, in case Kol had kept anything back. But a wave of vertigo swept over her, the room tilting and spinning. She reached out a hand, found a chair and slumped into it.
‘So, Kol of the Ben-Elim,’ Israfil said, eyes fixing upon the scar-faced Ben-Elim, any vestige of compassion or kindness swept away by the disgust that filled him now. ‘You confess to improper relations with mortals, more than one, over many years.’
‘I do,’ Kol said.
‘You know the punishment for this crime?’ Israfil said.
‘Crimes,’ Kol corrected. ‘More than once, with more than one mortal. Many more. And yes, I know the punishment, though I think we should talk about one more chance.’
Israfil barked a shocked laugh.