The stairs ended at a wide landing running off both left and right. Tobias led them right. Several doors opened off the landing: they went through them methodically, killing anyone they found. Another servant girl, her body already a mass of blood where she must have escaped from another squad of their men; two old men, petty court functionaries from the look of them, holding blunt swords in shaking hands. They killed and killed until Marith’s head spun.
To fight in battle was exhilarating: he’d heard that often enough from his arms master and his father’s warriors; he’d sat in his father’s hall a thousand times listening to songs of Amrath’s great victories, His battles, the glory and joy of a great host marshalled for conquest, the beauty of a duel between two heroes well matched in combat fighting to the death. As a child, he’d taken such pride in the deeds of his ancestors: Amrath, His vassal and good-brother Eltheri Calboride, Fylinn Dragonlord, Hilanis the Young King. Growing older, the stories repelled and fascinated him in equal measure. He understood them better, or perhaps he better understood himself. A shared comradeship of men, bound together by life and death, balanced bright as fire between the two but barely thinking of either, priding and measuring themselves and each other only by their prowess in killing, deliberately blind to anything deeper, more complex, more difficult to understand. He’d realized some measure of the truth of it, out there in the desert with the men around him. Found some comfort in it, even.
But this, this butchery of servant girls and old men, this was something else. Something that drove the pain in him, and fed on it, and fed it in turn. He tried to find ways of making his victims hurt before he killed them. It irritated him when Rate or Alxine or Tobias got to someone first. Mine, he thought angrily as he saw the others kill. That death should be mine.
Two men were slumped on the ground ahead of them, one half sitting, half lying, trying to hold his head on, skull cracked through to the bone and the brain matter beneath, the other crouching beside him, trying to help but horribly injured in his chest and arms, bloody and burnt. They turned wild eyes towards the squad as they approached. Marith walked forward and killed them both, a slow sword thrust in the neck to one and a series of violent kicks to the head to the other, spilling grey pulp over the marble floor.
Tobias came up to join him. ‘You stupid bastard, Marith. They were two of ours.’
Laughter. He looked down at the bodies. ‘It doesn’t matter now, really, does it? Dead’s dead.’
They were in the state apartments of the palace now. The walls were lined with silk hangings, the air around them soft as breath. The floors were gold and gemstones, the ceilings carved perfumed wood. Every window shone illuminated as in midday sunlight, brilliant as diamond or with rich colours casting patterns on the walls. They were not lit from within or without. They were lit by themselves. Mage glass. Light glass. There was a piece of it set above the throne in the Great Hall at Malth Elelane, another in the chapel of Amrath, but they were small and clear, precious handspans of colourless glass. The extent of it here made Marith’s eyes hurt to look.
They’d been through four or five more rooms before they encountered any further resistance. Five guards, swords already bloodied to the hilt, although two were injured. One badly, his face pale and clammy with pain. They came running down the corridor towards them, then pulled to a stop and came into a defensive formation.
Tobias pulled his men up in turn. There was a body lying on the floor, between them and the group of five. Marith looked at it absently. It was one of theirs, he vaguely recognized the face as someone Emit had talked to. The eyes were open, with an angry look to them.
The two groups eyed each other warily. Purely on numbers, the Sorlostians had the slight advantage, though the mercenaries were still virtually unharmed. The stand-off was broken when a young man came screaming down the corridor, pursued by two more mercenaries. The youth almost collided with the Sorlostians and suddenly the defenders were surrounded, four in front, two behind. Tobias roared to attack.
Bloody, struggling confusion. The corridor was narrower just here, decorative columns and big golden candle sconces making the space harder to negotiate. The presence of a dead body in a pool of blood didn’t exactly help: Marith felt his feet slide nastily in the gore as he came forwards. His boots would be completely ruined, soon. Swords wheeled, difficult to fully control in the confined space. He had to pull himself sideways to avoid Rate’s blade as one of the Sorlostians parried it wide. Tobias swore loudly at Rate and knocked the blade safely away.
‘Bloody watch yourself, boy,’ Tobias grunted towards Marith. Marith smiled sweetly back. Gods, this was so much fun. He hacked viciously at the nearest opponent, almost catching Rate in the hip when his blade went wide. Tobias grunted again but didn’t move to protect Rate the way he had Marith. Interesting. He wondered what Tobias would do if he just turned and hacked one of their own men down in front of him.
One of the Sorlostians managed to catch him on the shoulder, his blade grating against Marith’s armour, momentarily unbalancing him. He lashed out but missed and struck the wall, his arm jarring as the blade struck the stone with a screech. The impact sobered him a little, jolted a bit of self-control back into him. He might sometimes think he wanted to die, but he certainly didn’t want to die here, hacked up by hired guards who didn’t even know who they were fighting. ‘Amrath!’ he shouted again and stabbed his adversary in the chest.
The man crumpled, hanging for a moment impaled on his blade then collapsing at his feet. He was still just about alive, his eyes and mouth moved like a fish, staring up at Marith. It looked like another face: Marith saw the mouth open, the eyes searching him. He stared back in horror, bile rising up in his throat. Fell back against the wall, his sword clattering from his hand. Dying. Dying and dead and gone. All the light running out of him, cracked away to nothing. Empty. That’s all living is, dying. But I was happy once, he thought desperately. Happy. Alive. The room swam around him. He could taste blood and raw alcohol in his mouth, thought he was going to be sick or faint. ‘Marith!’ someone shouted. The eyes gulped and twitched. Dying. Dying. He fell to the floor and smashed his head against the wall. Bright light flashed before his eyes. ‘Marith!’ It sounded like Carin’s voice. Help me, Carin. Help me. Make everything go away. He screamed and screamed and screamed.
When he opened his eyes again, there was a small pile of corpses on the floor in front of him. The man he’d killed was at the bottom, face half hidden. Alxine was sitting leaning against the wall, his face a bloody mess; Rate was patching him up with a piece of torn cloth. ‘You’re lucky,’ Tobias was saying. ‘Could have had your eye out.’