The two groups crashed together, shield on shield, and for almost a minute the Vagrians gave way. Then their greater numbers began to push the Drenai back across the blood-covered cobblestones of the archway.
Sarvaj hacked and thrust his sword into the sea of bodies before him, his senses dulled by the screams and war-cries echoing alongside the clanging crash of sword and shield. A dagger rammed into his thigh and he chopped his sword across the neck of the wielder, watching him fall beneath the booted feet of his comrades. Sarvaj and a dozen others cut their way clear of the skirmish and tried to close the doors of the great Hall. More Drenai warriors ran from the battlements to aid them, but the Vagrians were too powerful and the Drenai were forced back into the Hall itself. There the enemy swarmed around the battling defenders, taunting them with their defeat. The Drenai formed a fighting circle and stood their ground, grim-eyed.
A Vagrian officer entered the hall and pointed at Sarvaj.
'Surrender now,' he said. 'It is over.'
Sarvaj glanced at the men around him. Fewer than twenty remained.
'Anyone feel like surrendering?' he asked.
'To that rabble?' replied one of the men.
The Vagrian waved his men forward.
Sarvaj stepped back as a warrior rushed at him, ducking under the sweeping blade to thrust his own sword into the man's groin, dragging it clear as a second warrior bore down on him. He parried a wild cut, then staggered as a lance clanged against his breastplate. A sword cut into his face and he fell, and rolled. Even then he stabbed upwards and a man screamed. But several warriors surrounded him, stabbing at his face again and again.
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.
The bald Vagrian general was already planning the next move in his campaign. Leave a powerful force to hold Purdol and move his troops through Skultik forest to root out Egel, before turning south to deal with Ironlatch and the Lentrians.
Something bright and dazzling caught his eye and he glanced to the left where a low line of hills edged with trees heralded the entrance to Skultik. There, on a splendid black horse, sat a warrior with armour blazing in the noonday sun.
Bronze Armour! Kaem squinted against the glare, his mouth suddenly dry. The warrior raised his arm and suddenly the hill seemed to move as thousands of riders streamed towards the fortress. There was no time to organise a flank defence – Kaem watched in horror as rank after rank of fighting men swept over the hill.
Five thousand? Ten? Twenty?
On they came. The first Vagrian soldiers watched them approach and stood transfixed. Realisation hit them and they drew their swords, only to be swallowed up by the charging mass.
All was lost, Kaem knew. Numbers meant nothing now. The enemy would drive a wedge through his ranks and his army would be sundered and dispersed.
The Bronze Warrior sat atop the hill, his eyes fixed on the fortress. Kaem saw his head turn towards the harbour and knew with a sudden chill that the warrior was seeking him.
Kaem backed from the window, thinking rapidly. His ships were still docked nearby – he could escape the destruction at Purdol and join his southern forces. From there he could plot a holding action until winter, with a new offensive in the spring.
He turned …
Standing in the doorway was a hooded figure, tall and lean, a black cloak over his shoulders, in his hand a small, black crossbow.
Kaem could not see the face under the hood, but he knew. He knew.
'Don't kill me,' he begged. 'Don't!'
He backed away to the balcony, stepping out into the bright sunshine.
The silent figure followed him.
Kaem turned and climbed the balcony wall, leaping for the cobbles thirty feet below. He landed on his feet, both legs snapping under the impact and his left thigh driving up through his hip into his stomach. He fell on his back and found himself staring up at the empty balcony. Agony seared him and he died screaming.