Waylander by David A. Gemmell

There was no pain, he realised, as his lifeblood rose up and choked him.

On the battlements above, Jonat – helmet gone, sword dulled – watched helplessly as the Vagrians swept over the ramparts. A warrior ran at him; he parried the blade and sent a dazzling riposte ripping through his throat. Dropping his sword, Jonat swept up the man’s sabre and tested the edge. It was still keen and he grinned.

Drenai warriors backed away from the advancing enemy and fought a steady retreat down the winding stairwell to the next floor. From below Jonat could hear the sounds of battle and knew in that moment that the siege was over. Anger rose in him, and all the bitterness of his twenty-seven years washed over him. No one had ever listened. From the moment when, as a child, he had begged for his father’s life, no one had ever really listened. Now was the final humiliation – to die in a lost war a mere five days after his greatest promotion. Had they won, Jonat would have been hailed as a hero and become one of the youngest First Dun officers in the Legion. In ten years he could have been a general

Now there was nothing … he would not even make a footnote to history.

Dros Purdol, they would say – was not a battle once fought there?

Once out of the stairwell the Drenai formed a fighting wedge in the main corridor, but the Vagrians were now coming from above and below. Karnak and Dundas emerged from the left with a score of warriors and linked with Jonat’s group.

‘Sorry about this, old lad,’ said Karnak. Jonat said nothing as the enemy charged from the left and Karnak met them with an insane counter-charge, his axe cleaving into their ranks. Dundas – beside him as always – fell with a spear through the heart, but Karnak’s furious assault left him unmarked. Jonat cut and thrust at the advancing warriors, screaming his rage and despair. An axe hit his breastplate, careering up to crack sideways on against his head. Jonat went down, blood streaming from a shallow cut to his temple; he tried to rise but a Drenai warrior, his Head cloven by an axe blow, fell across him. The sounds of battle receded and Jonat passed into darkness.

One by one the Drenai were cut down until only Karnak remained. He backed away, holding the great axe high as the Vagrians advanced with sword-points extended, shields raised. Karnak was breathing hard and blood ran from wounds in his arms and legs.

‘Take him alive!’ called an officer. The general wants him alive.’

The Vagrians rushed forward and the axe swept down. Fists rained upon the Drenai general and he slipped on the blood-covered floor. Booted feet thundered into his face and body and his head snapped back, striking the wall. His fist lashed out weakly, then finally he was still.

On the second floor the surviving priests of The Thirty had barricaded themselves within the Keep library. Dardalion listened to the hammering on the door, then called the priests to him. None of them was armed, save himself.

‘It is over, my brothers,’ he said.

Astila stepped forward. ‘I will not fight them. But I want you to know, Dardalion, that I regret not an action, not a single deed.’

‘Thank you, my friend.’

The young Baynha approached and took Dardalion’s hand. ‘I regret the use of the rats against common soldiers, but I feel no shame at our battles with the Brotherhood.’

‘I think we should pray, my brothers, for time is short.’

Together in the centre of the library the small group knelt, and their minds swam together. They did not hear the final splintering of the door, nor the crash of the barricade, but they all felt the first sword-blade that pierced Astila’s heart, that cut Baynah’s head from his shoulders, and the other sharp swords which plunged into unresisting flesh. Dardalion was stabbed in the back and pain swept through him …

Beyond the dying fortress, Kaem stood on the balcony of his quarters watching with barely concealed glee as the battle moved into its final stages.