Blades of the Banished - Robert Ryan Page 0,65

answer him. He gasped for breath and squatted down, careless of the blood and gore about him. He needed rest. But the fighting was not done yet.

The shadows lengthened. The day drew nigh to its end. One final assault was made while the sun still hung in the sky.

Lanrik watched, but he felt little fear. He was numb. He had seen more death and pain and destruction than most saw in a lifetime. He would never be able to un-see much of this, and if he lived, he knew some images would trouble him all the days of his life. Yet for now, all he felt was a great weariness, but at the same time a steady, driving, indomitable will – a determination to fight, to not give in, to continue until the last.

But it was not elugs that came against them next. Lethrin strode forward. The drums were stilled. The great creatures moved in silence. Armor they wore, but he knew that their skin and flesh was hard like rock anyway.

A storm of arrows fell upon them. They did not stumble. Spears flew and crashed amid their ranks; they paid no heed. Ladders they carried, sturdy constructions designed to take their great weight, and these they thrust against the walls.

The lethrin climbed. They were not swift like elugs, but dart and spear hindered them not, nor cast rock. The men dislodged some of the ladders, using long poles to do so, but it was slow work and though the lethrin did not climb swiftly, it was fast enough.

Yet Lanrik had met their kind once before, and old legends spoke of them also. And Aranloth had counselled him, so he was not unprepared.

At his signal, men brought vats of oil to the threshold of the wall. These were emptied over the timber of the ladders, and the lethrin also. Archers stepped forward, flaming rags, soaked in the same oil, wrapped around their arrowheads. They let fly the shafts.

Fires burned. They were slow to catch, but they did not go out. A reek rose. The lethrin died in silence. Many toppled, flaming through the air. None retreated. Some few made it to the battlement.

At another signal from Lanrik axmen came forward. They hewed and struck, and the lethrin hammered back with heavy maces. Many men died, but the axes bit where swords would not, and the lethrin began to fall.

Lanrik joined the fray. He had no axe, but found that Conhain’s blade, forged of Halathrin steel, cut where all of Esgallien’s swords would not. Three lethrin he killed, including the last alive on the battlement.

The soldiers cast the bodies into the reek of smoke and smoldering oil below. Yet no few of their own had also fallen. The stretcher-bearers were busy, and many wounded were taken away with horrific injuries from the great maces.

The sun dropped low in the west, and then sunk below the horizon. In the quiet, an elùgroth came forward. He walked slowly, his hands held high. He did not carry his wych-wood staff.

Lanrik sent word along the lines. Do not shoot unless he attacks.

Aranloth stood nearby. “He will not attack. Not tonight. His day will come tomorrow.”

The elùgroth came to a halt below the tower, facing River Gate.

“I am Gar-galen,” he said, “and I command this army. Who speaks for Esgallien?”

Lanrik answered. “I do.”

The elùgroth looked up a moment without answer.

“I do not bandy words with nameless vagabonds,” he said at length. “Fetch me your king.”

Lanrik grinned. “A vagabond you name me, but your own words give lie to your insult. You know who I am. I have given you cause to do so.”

The elùgroth’s face darkened. “Just get your king, and I will treat with him.”

“You’ll treat with me, or you can wait before the wall like a starving dog pawing in vain at a closed gate.”

The elùgroth stiffened. “I have killed many for less than that,” he said.

Lanrik drew his sword. The great blade of Conhain gleamed with the last dull rays of the dying sun, and his eyes burned fiercely.

“Then come. Come kill me now – if you can. I’m a warrior, but you’re a great sorcerer. Come kill me, or speak your piece and go. I have other, and better things, to do than play word games with the likes of you.”

The elùgroth raised his hand. His pallid skin shone palely in the dusk. He hissed, and it was a sound more animal than human.

“Speak!” cried Lanrik. “Or go back whence you came!”

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