Walk Through Fire (11 page)

He spun and flung his arm out at a soldier’s leg, knowing the man would try to deflect the attack. Kroke lunged at the soldier’s open head with his other knife. The blade slipped through the slotted opening of the soldier’s visor and sank into the man’s eye.

Kroke managed to take out three more soldiers, but not without gaining several new wounds of his own. His sudden burst of desperation initially caused those he faced to lose focus. But, the soldiers had regained their composure and came at him methodically.

Kroke lashed out as a spear came in from his left. He ignored the attack in order to make another kill, knowing his death would come soon anyway. Blood spilled forth, covering his hand in crimson red. Embracing the moment, he lingered in that position, waiting for his own death to follow.

But death never came. A long sword held by a tall mercenary with sweat-soaked hair sliced through the air, shattering the spear shaft. Jonrell followed up with an upward stroke that lopped the man’s head off before he moved on to the next soldier. Kroke rejoined the fray, fighting back to back with Jonrell just as he had days before.

Despite his wounds, the small reprieve renewed Kroke’s energy. His senses refocused. He grinned.

“Can you hold the alley alone?” Jonrell shouted. “We’re starting to break on our left.”

Kroke crouched and waved Jonrell away. Since they had regained position, there was no one around except the men running down the alley toward him, hoping to flank the Hell Patrol’s position.

But first they have to get through me.

* * *

Raker’s mace smashed against the side of his opponent’s helm. He heard the clang of steel and crack of bone at impact. Teeth flew in the air and the man hit the ground, lower jaw hanging like a loose sail.

“I saw that look you gave me. How’d that fancy cloak and shiny armor work out for you?” He spat on the man, allowing himself to feel smug for a moment.

A raspy scream caused him to turn and Raker watched one of Hezen’s men get pierced clean through one side and out the other. The spear point pushed into another soldier beside him. Two men splattered to the ground in a heap of flesh. An old woman climbed over the men and pulled out a cleaver at her belt, hacking away until they stopped moving. She looked up with narrowed eyes. “One Above, Raker. Pay attention,” said Hag.

She cast him a scowl and picked up the lid of a kettle in her off hand. Using it as a shield, she waddled over and engaged the next man who dared underestimate her.

Raker spat and tightened the grip on his mace. ”I knew they were there. You find your own!”

It wasn’t true, but he wouldn’t dare tell her. He knew she’d hold it over his head if he did. Besides, it’d only be a matter of time before he’d have to do the same for her and he’d make sure to get his remarks in as well.

A soldier met his eye and ran toward him. Swinging his mace, Raker angled the weapon so it came around the man’s shield and cracked into the back of his opponent’s skull. The man fell, spitting out a piece of his tongue in the process.

“Gotta keep your jaw clenched when you fight, son. Didn’t you learn anything after all that time with us.” Raker’s mace slammed down across the man’s nose. The young man was too frightened to do anything but raise a bare arm to protect himself. His body went limp.

Didn’t even try to attack me.
He spat again. “I guess you didn’t learn a thing.”

* * *

The air was unusually cool despite the late heat wave that had plagued the Hell Patrol the last few weeks. Coupled with a breeze coming off the docks that cut through the side streets, Krytien should have found comfort in his black robes. But the garments clung to his body, heavy with sweat, as he tried furiously to stave off the repeated blasts of sorcery sent against him. Initially, Hezen’s mages were content with only blocking his own efforts, but as their numbers grew, they struck out against him and the army.

He regretted imparting some knowledge to the mages in Effren’s army while the Hell Patrol was under contract. Some picked up on a few of the spells and tricks he taught them. Yet anything they learned was due more to their own efforts than his ability as a teacher. Most of what Krytien understood about sorcery he knew by feel. He often shunned the rigid guidelines Amcaro and the other High Mages of Cadonia touted. Only for a brief time did he receive any formal instruction, unheard of for a mage who wore the black robes.

Krytien felt the power of Hezen’s mages grow as even more joined in support of their brethren—more than he had ever attempted to hold off. Tendrils of blue light sought their way through the invisible shield he had erected around much of the Hell Patrol’s position. He wondered how he would continue to last against such odds. A lesson from his old master, Philik, came to mind.

“The only thing that can stop a mage is their imagination and their ability to push themselves. People see the different color robes and they see the experience and power of that individual. What I see are the barriers that individual still has left to bring down. You have shown the ability to break down those barriers more quickly than most.”

Thinking on his former instructor’s words, Krytien opened himself up. He had only tried to access such power once before, and that had been in the presence of Philik. If not for his old master reigning him in, the result could have been disastrous.

But I’m older now. Wiser. And I have no other choice.

He reached into places he had not gone before to gain the power to push back against those who sought to do him and his friends harm. The sudden surge of power surprised him and he felt Hezen’s mages recoil, siphoning power away from their attacks to protect themselves. He had found them.

Sweat dripped from his nose and onto his lips. His jaw clenched and his outstretched arms tensed as he worked to better control himself.

One Above, Philik. You never prepared me for this. Just how much can one man access from the world?

Glacar ran past Krytien, roaring, as his bloody ax clove a man in two, from shoulder to waist. The brute yanked the gore covered weapon free and set to work on another.

Krytien searched for Ronav and saw him fighting against foes on all sides. Krytien marveled at how Ronav could will himself to continue on despite his weakened state.

There is no reason why I cannot do the same. If I can hold out a bit longer, I’m certain Ronav will figure a way out of this.

* * *

Jonrell stumbled out of Kroke’s way lest he become an inadvertent victim in the killer’s furious assault. Something must have snapped inside of the man. Kroke had stared death in the face less than a minute before when Jonrell killed the man attacking him. Then at each other’s backs, they cleared away the rest of the squad trying to overwhelm the assassin. Washed in enough blood to scour him of the filth from the tunnel, Kroke fought like something out of a nightmare.

Completely besieged in the narrow street, the Hell Patrol slayed Hezen’s men by the score. But unlike those they fought against, when one of the mercenaries died, an endless supply was not available to take their place. If not for the narrow streets and cluttered alleys, Hezen’s army would have already flanked their position and overrun them.

Eventually reinforcements will arrive and they’ll figure out a way to surround us.

Several injured were pulled free though Jonrell knew the effort wasted, entrails snaking out of open stomachs and blood sputtering from severed limbs.

Krytien glowed to his right as tendrils of power maneuvered their way through the fog to reach out and ensnare him.

One Above, how is he even standing under such an attack?

Ronav and Glacar took up position next to Krytien, turning away men by the dozen.

A familiar squeal cut through the sounds of battle and Jonrell spun. A small girl in black leathers crouched behind a mercenary ducking under a large shield, trying to protect himself and the girl from two attackers. Jonrell sprinted to help as Cassus lost his sword. A soldier stepped into Jonrell’s path, but Raker’s mace crashed into the side of the man’s head, clearing the way.

Jonrell’s first cut tore into the helm of one soldier from behind. His second swipe severed the other man’s leg at the knee.

Jonrell shouted at Cassus. “What are you doing with her in the middle of the action? She shouldn’t be here!”

“And where do you want me to go? If you haven’t noticed we’re under attack.”

“Get her to the ship! The two of you alone can do a better job of ducking and hiding.”

“No,” said Yanasi, peeking around Cassus’s leg. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Jonrell ignored her. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

“And desert the others? I may not be the man you are, but I’m better than that. If you’re staying, so am I,” said Cassus. His friend stiffened and stood straighter, looking ridiculous with his chin thrust out defiantly.

He knew Cassus well enough to know that nothing would change his mind. Jonrell clenched his teeth and turned away.

In the few short moments it took Jonrell to reach Cassus, the Hell Patrol had been pushed backward almost fifty paces.

“Jonrell!”

A deep throaty voice sounded over the cacophony of clashing steel and wailing battle cries. Jonrell sprinted to Ronav and helped finish his opponent.

“What are you doing?” Ronav asked through sunken, half crazed eyes.

“I thought you needed a hand,” Jonrell replied as he parried a spear thrust and sliced the wrist of the man who overextended himself.

“I didn’t ask for help. I can handle this,” said Ronav. Jonrell heard the grit in his voice, but saw a man weary with fatigue whose armor hung loose on his much thinner frame.

Ronav’s sword caught the blade of another as his foot came up and sent the soldier sprawling backward. Glacar pounced with his ax and finished the man off. Ronav gasped for air.

Where is he finding the strength? He shouldn’t even be able to stand by now, let alone fight.

Jonrell recalled the words Ronav told him over a week ago.
“A commander must always look to be in control. Never must he admit that a situation is hopeless. If I lose hope then what’s to stop others from doing the same?
“Of course you can handle it. I only wanted another taste of the action.”

That answer seemed to quell any anger in Ronav and he nodded. “You need to get to the ship.”

“I can’t leave the men.”

“You can and you will. Take the worst of the injured as well as any officers you can grab.”

“That will only weaken you here.” He pointed.

Ronav nodded. “We need to switch strategies. Ahned hasn’t even shown up yet. Things will change then. I know this part of the city well. The street will continue to narrow. That will work to our advantage.”

“But that’s suicide.”

Ronav grabbed Jonrell’s collar. “No, that’s sacrifice! A commander does what he has to so his men will survive. This is no different than what we did at Hezen’s camp. Do you understand?”

Yes. But I won’t be here with you this time.
He nodded.

“Good. Then get moving. We’ll give you as much of a head start as we can before making a run ourselves. Now go!” Ronav turned, swinging his great sword, slaughtering two men at once.

Raker ran up beside Jonrell, moving to where a line began to form. Jonrell grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him about.

“What’s the matter with you?” Raker sprayed.

“Ronav wants us to get as many as we can back to the ship, specifically the injured.”

“Well, good luck with that,” said Raker.

The mercenary started to turn toward the battle line, but Jonrell’s grip was firm. “He said to grab officers too.”

“Now wait a minute. . . .”

“I don’t like this any more than you, but if I have to hit you over the head with that mace myself, you’re going to come.”

Raker looked down at Jonrell’s fingers as they dug deep into his wrist. “Fine. Who do I grab?”

Jonrell looked to his left where a bloody and battered Kroke leaned against a nearby wall, standing amidst a heap of bodies piled all around him. The man breathed heavy and though he was no longer under duress, he clenched two daggers like he was ready to face the One Below himself.

“Grab Kroke first. I doubt he can walk by himself. Then start toward the docks. I’ll be right behind you.”

* * *

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says.

Raker grumbled those thoughts to himself as he sprinted over to the battered assassin. Kroke eyed him warily.

Not only am I forced to leave Ronav and the others behind but now I gotta help this crazy fool.

Raker smiled, stained teeth shining.
No sense in letting him know what I think of him.

He looked down at Kroke’s daggers. “How about you put those things away? Jonrell told me to come and help you out of here. We’re heading for the docks.”

Kroke grunted and sheathed one of the blades. The other, a wicked knife with a curved blade and hilt shaped like an eagle, he only adjusted his grip on. Raker realized the dagger had once been Jonrell’s though he wasn’t sure how or why Kroke had it.

“This one stays,” said the assassin.

Raker eyed the gore covered blade, blood dripping down and over Kroke’s hand. He gave a shrug. “Whatever. Just make sure if you do any stabbing, you go after the right person.”

“I know how to use a blade,” Kroke said in a tired voice.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.” Raker flung Kroke’s free arm over his shoulder and hurried down the long avenue. “You sure don’t weigh much.”

“Ask them if that matters.”

Raker grinned and spat.
Maybe he ain’t as bad as everyone says he is.

Chapter 11

O
ne Above, they won’t let up.

Krytien withdrew, parrying every sorcerous strike hurled at Ronav and the ragged line of those who had stayed to fight. It was disheartening to see their outfit melt away, even if he knew it was the right thing to do.