In the gateway Serbitar was joined by Suboden, the captain of his Vagrian bodyguard. Only some sixty men were still alive out of the force which had originally arrived.
‘Go back to the walls,’ said Serbitar.
The fair-haired Vagrian shook his head. ‘I cannot. We are here as your carle-guard and we will die with you.’
‘You bear me no love, Suboden. You have made that plain.’
‘Love has little to do with my duty, Lord Serbitar. Even so, I hope you will forgive me. I thought your powers were demon-sent, but no man possessed would stand as you do now.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, but you have my blessing,’ Serbitar told the blond carle-captain.
The gates splintered suddenly and with a roar of triumph the Nadir burst through, hurling themselves upon the defenders spearheaded by the white-haired templar.
Drawing a slender Ventrian dagger, Serbitar fought two-handed – blocking, stabbing, parrying and cutting. Men fell before him, but always more leapt to fill the breach he created. Beside him the slim Vagrian carle-captain hacked and hammered at the oncoming barbarians. An axe splintered his shield, but hurling aside the fragments, he took a double-handed grip on his sword, bellowed his defiance and launched himself forward. An axe crushed his ribs and a lance tore into his thigh. He fell into the seething mass, stabbing left and right. A kick sent him sprawling to his back and three spears buried themselves in his chest. Feebly he sought to lift his sword for one last time, but an iron-studded boot stamped on his hand, while a blow from a wooden club ended his life.
Vintar fought coolly, pushing himself alongside the albino, waiting for the arrow he knew would be loosed at any second. Ducking beneath a slashing sword, he disembowelled his opponent and turned.
In the shadows of the sundered gates an archer drew back on his string, his fingers nestling against his cheek. The shaft leapt from the bow to take Vintar in the right eye and he fell against the Nadir spears.
The remaining defenders fought in an ever tightening circle as dusk deepened into night. The Nadir cries were silenced now, the battle tense and silent but for the sounds of steel on steel on flesh.
Menahem was lifted from his feet by the force of a stabbing spear that tore into his lungs. His sword whistled down towards the neck of the kneeling lancer – and stopped.
Lightly he touched the blade to the man’s shoulder. Unable to believe his luck, the warrior dragged his spear free and buried it once more in the priest’s chest.
Now Serbitar was alone.
Momentarily the Nadir fell back, staring at the blood-covered albino. Much of the blood was his own. His cloak was in tatters, his armour gashed and dented, his helm long since knocked from his head.
He took three deep shuddering breaths, looked inside himself and saw that he was dying. Reaching out with his mind, he sought Vintar and the others.
Silence.
A terrible silence.
It was all for nothing then, he thought, as the Nadir tensed for the kill. He chuckled wryly.
There was no Source.
No centre to the universe.
In the last seconds left to him, he wondered if his life had been a waste.
He knew it had not. For even if there was no Source, there ought to have been. For the Source was beautiful.
A Nadir warrior sprang forward. Serbitar flicked aside his thrust, burying his dagger in the man’s breast, but the pack surged in, a score of sharp blades meeting inside his frail form. Blood burst from his mouth and he fell.
From a great distance came a voice:
‘Take my hand, my brother. We Travel.’
It was Vintar!
*
The Nadir surged and spread towards the deserted Delnoch buildings and the score of streets that led to Geddon and the Keep beyond. In the front line Ogasi raised his sword, bellowing the Nadir victory chant. He began to run, then skidded to a halt.
Ahead of him on the open ground before the buildings stood a tall man with a trident beard, dressed in the white robes of the Sathuli. He carried two tulwars, curved and deadly. Ogasi advanced slowly, confused.