Karis’s plan was not working.
Alone in the dark Ozhobar listened to the distant sounds of battle, the screams of wounded men, the clash of steel, the hissing song of crossbow strings. Appalling sounds, he thought.
Evil.
Ozhobar was not a religious man. He had prayed only once in his life. It had not been answered, and he had buried the ones he loved, the plague continuing to sweep through the islands causing misery and desolation to those left behind. But one did not need to be religious to understand the nature of evil. The plague had an evil effect, but was merely a perversion of nature; it was not
sentient. The Daroth, on the other hand, Ozhobar believed to be evil incarnate. They knew what they were doing, the pain they caused and the despair they created. Worse, they had fostered hatred in their enemies that would last for generations. And hatred was the mother of all evil.
‘You will not make me hate you,’ thought Ozhobar. ‘But I will kill you!’
The sounds of fighting died away. Ozhobar lifted the glass from his lantern, exposing the naked flame, then rose and glanced down the sloping tunnel. He could see no movement, so he closed his eyes and listened. At first there was nothing, then he heard the sound of boots upon stone. The mouth of the tunnel was over 100 feet from where he now stood. Lifting the lantern, he moved behind the huge pottery ball and lit the oil-soaked rags wedged into the holes.
Ahead he could see flickering shadows as the Daroth moved up the slope.
Ozhobar sat down with his back to the wall, placed his boots against the burning ball and thrust hard. It began to roll, slowly at first on the gentle slope; then it gathered pace. The Daroth came into sight. Ozhobar took up his crossbow and aimed it, sending an iron bolt into the ball, shattering a section of the pottery. Blazing oil spilled out, and flames erupted through the Daroth ranks.
Not waiting to see the result Ozhobar scrambled back, replaced the glass on the lantern and then climbed further up the slope, traversing a ledge that brought him out high above the cavern floor. He could clearly see the stream of burning oil flowing out of the tunnel. A flash of bright light came from the far side, and he saw Daroth warriors fleeing from the mouth of a second tunnel. Two of them were engulfed in flames, their comrades staying well back.
Ozhobar’s assistant, Brek, came into sight, emerging
from a cleft in the tunnel. The Daroth saw him and surged forward. Brek ran towards a tunnel mouth, but a jagged spear smashed through his back and he fell.
High on the ledge, Ozhobar felt the sting of grief. Brek had been a good man, solid and trustworthy. With a sigh, Ozhobar watched the Daroth milling in the centre of the cavern. Then they broke into a run and surged forward.
Towards the waiting crossbow-men.
Three volleys of bolts plunged into the advancing Daroth, but there was no slowing them now. Tarantio killed two, then dashed to his left as a spear smashed into the rock by his head. Three huge warriors ran at him. Cut off from the main body of defenders, he ran into a narrow tunnel, then turned swiftly and drove his blade through the white skull of the first pursuer. A spear slammed into his left shoulder, the serrated blade tearing up through his collar-bone. Blood sprayed from the wound. Tarantio swept his sword across the Daroth’s belly, then backhanded a cut that half-severed his head.
The pain from his wound was intense, blood was flowing freely inside his shirt and pooling above his belt. Movement was agony, but he scrambled further back into the tunnel, searching for an exit. Another spear flashed past him.
Spinning once more, he swayed away from a wild, slashing cut. His riposte passed through the Daroth’s forearm, to send the limb spinning through the air. Still the Daroth rushed him, his great fist clubbing into Tarantio’s chest and hurling him from his feet. Tarantio rolled as the creature leapt for him feet-first. Pushing himself upright, the swordsman plunged his weapon into the Daroth’s chest. ‘Now die, you whoreson!’ he hissed.