The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (30 page)

His five opponents cursed and
threatened, dancing about, probing at Caelwen and his lone ally, a
young, inexperienced guardsman from House Veril, of all things!
Politics and blood be damned!
Caelwen would have given his left testicle to have Lorinal at his
back instead of this green fool. Lorinal was stupid and uneducated,
but the man could fight.

Caelwen’s breath was
ragged and loud in his helmet. This was insane! Where had these
people come from? Not that it mattered. They were going to be the
end of him, it seemed. As they closed their circle tighter and
tighter about the two combatants, Caelwen clenched his jaw. He would
take as many with him as he could.

He heard the voice again,
distinctly now, from behind: “Javelins away!”

Caelwen sighed in dismay. He
would have preferred to go as he had lived, clear headed, instead of
collapsing into self-delusion. He had heard tales of men who, in
their last moments, lived entire lives of fantasy in which they were
saved. He had never imagined he would be one for that. It was a
bitter thought.

When the man in front of him
suddenly sprouted a very real-seeming javelin in the middle of his
forehead, Caelwen was uncertain to be relieved or frightened. His
confusion ramped as the rest of his opponents brandished thin,
unhealthy appendages from their bodies.

What is going on?

He came back to his senses as
he heard his young ally shriek like a woman, “Southlanders!”

This could not be a fantasy!
Why would he hear terror in the man’s voice if this were some
soothing reaction to impending death?

The enemies in front of him
were dead. Caelwen spun on his heel just in time to see his
underling rush headlong toward a shield wall of at least a dozen
Southlanders. Caelwen cried out, “Solinas! Stand down, you
idiot!”

It was far too late. The young
fool would be butchered. These men were hardened killers, and their
blood was up. Their shields and short, brutal blades were already
streaked with gore. Try as he might, Caelwen could not help but feel
his guts churn with guilt, knowing it was his fault. He should never
have allowed politics to influence his rosters.

Solinas slammed into the
foreign soldiers, his swings wild and harmless. Caelwen forced
himself to watch. It was his duty to suffer that, his punishment for
failing. And yet, the butchery he expected never came. The
Southlanders slammed Solinas to the ground with their shields and
pummeled him into submission, some cursing him as a fool, others
praising his bravery even as they pounded him into unconsciousness.

This done, they turned to him,
raising shields and weapons again. Helmets blocked their features,
but dark, savage eyes regarded him carefully, watching for his
reaction. One stepped forward and lowered his sword and shield.

“Ilaweh is great!”
the man called out in a voice Caelwen found, to his shock, that he
recognized.
But from where?

As if he heard the question in
Caelwen’s mind, the Southlander snapped loose his chinstrap
and jerked his helmet off by its horsehair crest. Sandilianus, the
one Southlander he knew by name, offered him a fierce, joyful grin.
“We have unfinished business, you and I!”

Caelwen, despite his ringing
head, found he was still capable of chuckling at the irony. “So
we do.” He bowed deeply to the Southlander. “Can we hold
our business until we put an end to this scum?”

Sandilianus jammed his helmet
back on his head. “That we can, Caelwen Luvox.” He
stepped to his side and opened a hole in their ranks. “Have
you a shield, demon man dog?” He cackled at this, as if it
were the height of humor.

Caelwen flashed a vicious grin
of his own. “I’ll find one.”

Ahmed had no idea how it had
occurred. He had begun this battle with his brothers, but something
had happened. War was chaos. What else could be said? There had been
a fight, one of many, and he had found himself on the other side of
a writhing, screaming mass of enemies. Since then, he had been on
his own, trying to peer through the smoke and chaos to locate his
men, and fending off enemy stragglers as needed.

It was more than stragglers,
now. They had taken notice of him, a lone, easy target, and came in
twos, then threes. He put them down in small groups, but they seemed
to have unlimited numbers.

The group harassing him seemed
to grow despite his best efforts to reduce it. He had killed
several, or at least so he assumed. Who had time to verify that a
downed enemy was dead? He blocked, slashed, occasionally fled, the
only concern in his mind the urgent need to stay alive himself. Once
a dog fell, he had no time to care what became of it. He moved on to
the next.

He had hoped to find something
to put his back against, but there was precious little in the way of
cover. The scrub land where the Nihlosians had made camp was
damnably clear. He had fought well, but there were simply too many,
and he was too tired.

There were six circling him,
and for the moment, it seemed none of the others had taken notice.
If he could get clear of this bunch, he might have a fighting chance
of survival, but he was exhausted. He needed a few moments, just
long enough to catch his breath, and he wasn’t going to get
them. It might as well have been six hundred as six.

He swung about him as best he
could, holding them at bay for the moment. They were fools and
cowards, and the slightest thrust toward any sent them back-peddling
in fear. If he were less mortal, he might have held them at bay
forever, or at least until support could arrive.

Now, though, his arms were
tired, sagging. His sword was heavy in his hand, his arms wailing in
exhaustion. His shield had grown in weight tenfold, and each blow it
blocked was slower. If these dogs had any courage, he would already
be dead.

It suddenly irked him. Why did
they not wolf-pack him and end this dance? He was not afraid to die.
He was
anxious
to meet Ilaweh, and anger rose in him that
these fools lacked the prowess to beat a tired warrior of moderate
skill. He spat toward them, cursing them, daring them. “Cowards!
Dogs! Kill me! Ilaweh awaits!”

How grand it would be, to stand
before Ilaweh, knowing he had fought well and true to the last.
Could a warrior ask for anything more? And yet these wretches
hesitated. He could not simply throw down his arms and welcome them
with open arms. Why did they not
come
?

An Elgie slashed at him,
halfhearted, and Ahmed parried the blow, despite his desire to see
an end of things. “You will earn this, cowards!”

From off to his side, he heard
a commotion, and smiled. More of them. This, then, was the end.

But it was not more Elgies.
Four Nihlosian soldiers, running and screaming as if pursued by
demons, plowed into his final scene, ruining everything! Ahmed,
resolved to die, found himself shocked into near paralysis by this
new and unexpected development.

The Nihlosians, still
screaming, hacked at the Elgies with mad abandon. For a moment,
Ahmed thought they must be truly fearless warriors, but he quickly
realized that this was not a battle for supremacy, merely passage.
The Nihlosians hewed at the Elgies as they would trees or vines in
their path, using their swords more like machetes than weapons, all
the while screaming not from fury, but stark, raving terror. Their
lips were flecked with spittle, their faces pale and stretched even
for their own kind. Wide, bulging eyes stared at him, past him,
without seeing.

As the cultists parted before
them, confused and in disarray, the Nihlosians surged forward. They
swung at Ahmed as well, the force of their blows like hammers,
maniacal woodsmen felling trees. He was barely able to raise his
shield in time, and his bones wailed at the shock. His knees gave
way, and he fell to the ground. Rather than finish him, the
Nihlosians simply stepped over him as if he were a log, still
hacking with mad abandon.

Ahmed covered himself as best
he could with his shield and held on for dear life. If he was to
meet Ilaweh, he would do so with pride, but now living seemed the
more admirable goal. Feet stomped about him, bashed his shield, his
face. Screams and blood filled the air.

Now came yet another, neither
Nihlosian nor Elgie. He bore a blade in either hand, and swung with
the speed of a demon. More blood flew, more screams erupted, and
corpses fell like cord wood.

It was only a few seconds, and
more fled than died, but it was a massacre nonetheless. The silence
following was as ominous as the sounds of battle preceding it.

Ahmed coughed and raised his
shield. Four corpses lay on the ground, all bleeding from multiple
wounds. Two were Nihlosian, the other two Elgies. Amidst the
carnage, the man with two blades knelt, breathing hard, clearly near
collapse.

They eyed each other as Ahmed
staggered to his feet. The newcomer made no hostile move, but
stiffened slightly, wary. Ahmed leaned against his shield and simply
observed the man, trying to divine his intent. He would be tall if
he stood, a powerfully built man, pale of skin, but at least his
hair was black. A curious, pale nimbus surrounded him, hazy and
indistinct. Ahmed blinked, blaming the smoke, but the aura remained.

Ahmed reached out a hand and
stepped forward, cautious. The stranger nodded and took the
outstretched hand, and Ahmed gave him a pull to help him up. As he
did so, the man’s sleeve slid down his arm a bit, and Ahmed
gasped in shock. The tattoos on his arm were unmistakable. Crows,
and a mailed, clenched fist with spikes driven through: the marks of
Elgar!

Had his head been more clear,
his reflexes less worn, Ahmed might have reacted on impulse and
attacked. But something more than exhaustion stayed his hand and
begged him to withhold judgment. He locked eyes with the man,
calling upon his talents.
Who are you?

There was not a trace of evil
in him. His were hard eyes, yes, eyes that had seen much battle, but
they were innocent nonetheless.

Ahmed stood dumbfounded for a
moment, memories of his lessons as a youth echoing in his head:
Yazid explaining how he had a special gift, a talent for judging
men, for knowing the smell, the taste, the feel of evil. And yet it
failed him now, of all times?

No.
There were other
lessons to which Ahmed had given only half an ear and had both boxed
for sloth. All he could remember now was one salient point: the
followers of Elgar had not
always
been villains.

Some had been great heroes in
the old days.

Ahmed held a firm grip on the
man’s hand, staring into the warm, hazel eyes, searching, but
nothing changed.
This is a good man.
Ahmed
shook his head in amazement at the contradiction.
“You
saved my life,” he said, his voice more of a croak than
speech. He coughed again at the dust.

The stranger shrugged, his
pointed beard quivering as he offered a hesitant, crooked smile. “So
it seems. Should I have?”

Ahmed grinned back at him.
“Don’t you know?”

The man withdrew his hand and
gave a slow, contemplative nod. “You are a good man. But you
are not of the orders I know.” He paused, curiosity brimming
in his eyes, marveling. “You are new.” He took a step
back and scanned the battlefield, searching for something, then
glanced back at Ahmed. “I must save myself, too, friend. And
one other.” He turned to leave.

“Wait! My name is Ahmed
Justinius.”

The stranger smiled and nodded.
“Logrus.” He offered a slight bow, then turned and faded
into the smoke and chaos.

Ahmed stood long moments,
bemused and wondering. Had anyone attacked him, they would have
found him a very easy target, but as Yazid had often said, Ilaweh
sometimes watched over fools.

Ahmed was roused from his
musings by the sound of a familiar voice. Sandilianus, in his
command tone, shouted over the noise, “’Ware right
flank!”

Ahmed ran toward his brothers.

Maranath pulled his tent flap
aside and gazed out on the battle. While he couldn’t say for
certain why a pack of Elgies was running about setting things on
fire, he certainly had several ideas. “Do you suppose they are
here to rescue Aiul, or just to have their vengeance on you?”

Ariano shot him a withering
glare, then stepped past him to take her own stock of the situation.
“You’re not actually concerned, are you? About
them
?”

Maranath was about to respond
when a familiar voice called, “If you’re concerned about
anyone, old friend, you should be concerned about
us
.”

Maranath turned, shocked,
toward Maklin Yorn. Sadrik Tasinal hovered over the elder’s
shoulder, looking rather smug. Their presence was no accident, and
it couldn’t be a good thing.

Maranath gave them a nod of
welcome. “What brings you two here?”

Maklin regarded him with a cool
gaze for a moment before replying. “We might ask you the
same!”

Ariano stiffened at this. “We
are pursuing Aiul to stop him from meddling in Torium!”

Maklin raised an eyebrow.
“Torium, eh?” His expression was as triumphant as it was
accusatory. “A clever lie!”

Maranath was shocked at
Maklin’s tone. “Now see here, Maklin! Just what are you
accusing us of?”

Maklin opened his mouth to
speak just as a group of Elgies spilled out of a larger tent behind
him. They seemed to be both fighting and fleeing at the same time.
Was there someone in the middle of that herd of cats? Maranath
couldn’t tell.

Ariano jumped upward a few
inches and settled immediately back to the ground. She let out a
howl of fury, reached to the ground for a stone, and hurled it at
Sadrik, barely missing him. “Stop it, you little shit! You
interfere with me at your peril!”