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  The soldiers around them yelled, “The Azaltar! The Sessa!” and the cry sped down the ranks.

  “Allow me,” Straker said to the soldier, appropriating the hooked pole. Right now, this was a better tool than a sword. With the strength of five men he pushed off ladder after ladder, the Bortoks on them falling to injury or death on the rocks. Karlenus chopped at the wood of other ladders, or split Bortok skulls while Roslyn stabbed them in their faces from above.

  But there were always more, and the Bortoks got thicker as the three approached the break in the wall from atop the battlements. Not only did the enemy pour through in their hundreds, but they climbed up the broken sides of the gap and assaulted those above them. The huge men, even larger than the Calaria, each the size of Karlenus, smashed their way through to the top and drove back the defending warriors.

  A lone knight in plate-mail stood in front of Straker, a soldier to either side of him, facing the enemy on the narrow wall. For a moment he dueled with the savage warrior before him. The Bortok rained blow after blow upon his shield, but the knight turned them adroitly. His men-at-arms stabbed and chopped with poleaxes, in this way allowing three to fight one. The Bortok fell, wounded, but a fresh one took his place.

  Straker slipped behind the thin line of soldiers guarding the walls. He glanced back toward the plateau and saw mobs of militia, called from their usual work on farms and in workshops, running to reinforce the castle.

  He wondered whether they would be enough. Maybe he should’ve let the sawmill workers come—but militia couldn’t handle these Bortok barbarians.

  The knight held the oncoming Bortoks until one particularly large specimen struck a resounding blow on his shield with a giant spiked mace, a brutal and inelegant weapon. The knight ducked and dodged, but the spikes caught the shield in an underhanded attack and nearly ripped it from his arm. Instead, the knight followed it into a backward somersault, rolling to his feet in an amazing display of agility.

  Unfortunately, this left the two men-at-arms exposed. The Bortok backhanded one off the battlements, though to Straker’s eye it appeared the soldier was probably dead before he hit the ground.

  The other would have died too had not Straker stepped up and caught the strike on his own shield.

  The Bortok’s power smashed the shield and caused Straker’s feet to skid backward. Unlike in heroic showvids, strength did not naturally equal stability, and was an imperfect substitute for sheer mass.

  But Straker did have strength. His enemy didn’t know it, but the human was at least twice as strong and twice as fast as the barbarian warrior. Before the Bortok could reverse and sweep again with his huge weapon, Straker whipped his sword in a strike that took one of his foe’s hands off at the wrist.

  His blade felt light in his grip—probably too light. It occurred to him he’d be more effective with a longer, heavier blade, something to make up for his shorter reach compared to either type of humanoid here in this diz. Or perhaps…

  Straker swung his sword around a full three-sixty and chopped off the wounded Bortok’s foot at the ankle—a target he could easily reach. The man-thing fell heavily, and the knight moved forward to stab the Bortok in the throat.

  “Well done,” the armored man said, faceless within his full steel helm. “I am Drake. You may take Nelen’s place at my side.”

  Straker didn’t bother to argue rank. The knight was obviously highly skilled, and the quality of his arms and armor showed him to be a man of high position. Instead, Straker sheathed his sword and picked up the Bortok’s mace, shaking free the dead hand still clutching it. He then shrugged off the remnants of his smashed shield and took the weapon he’d captured in a two-handed grip. “Sure. Let’s go.” He strode forward.

  The next Bortok quickly fell to Straker’s oversized mace, and the next, and the next. The most difficult part of using it was the size of its haft, nearly too thick for his hands.

  He’d smashed at least ten Bortoks aside by the time he cleared the broken end of the battlements that overlooked the gap. The knight had followed him all the way, and so had Karlenus and Roslyn. Together, this elite band ensured no enemy got behind Straker, or got to the top anywhere within their reach.

  The soldiers nearby had taken up a cry of “A-zal-tar! A-zal-tar!” and with renewed energy they swept the rest of the Bortoks and their scaling ladders from this side of the battlements.

  The other side, though, was in trouble.

  Despite archers and ballistas, the left flank of the castle was in danger of being overrun. Below him Straker could see the inner wall holding against the milling, climbing Bortoks, but across the gap the ladders gave them a free road to the top, and the enemy warriors were fighting their way along the battlements.

  Straker measured the distance across the gap. He was pretty sure he could make it, and maybe the lithe, light Roslyn could as well, but he doubted Drake or Karlenus would.

  “Karlenus,” he bellowed above the din, “find something—a log, a beam, a ladder—to cross the gap. I’ll seize the other side.”

  “You’ll—”

  Rather than explain, Straker turned to Roslyn. “Follow me if you’re sure you can jump so far. If not, help Karlenus and Drake. We’ve gotta get across and clean them off the battlements. If you can’t cross the gap, try to work your way around from the other side. We can’t let them take the top of the walls.”

  Hoping Drake would follow his instructions as well, Straker turned back to the gap. It reminded him of when he contemplated leaping from the Glasgow apartment building, but this distance was shorter, and the consequences of missing were a lot less lethal.

  Well, probably less lethal. Missing the jump and landing among the climbing Bortoks might kill him just as quickly as a hundred-meter fall to concrete.

  Do or die, Straker told himself, and then he sprinted for the broken end of the battlements, focusing resolutely on the other side where he would land. He felt the toe of his boot overlap the edge of the cut stone, and then he went airborne, his great mace above his head.

  He landed with a comfortable margin behind him, but ran into the back of a Bortok. None of the enemy had given any thought to a leaping attack—it seemed completely impossible—and so he was able to set himself and hew down three before they realized he was among them.

  His spiked mace caught in the flesh of the fourth one he smote, and the moment he lost trying to yank it free bought him a heavy blow to his mailed back. Fortunately, the fine steel armor, tight-wound and riveted for a prince, held with only a bruise—but a bruise he felt all the way through to his healing ribs.

  A high-pitched shriek caused him to turn in time to see Roslyn land from her

  leap and, without pause, take his attacker in the kidney with her sword. She fought with a dagger in her left hand, whirling and stabbing, agile and deadly.

  Straker left his oversized weapon and snatched up a Bortok sword, this one a large war-blade, not for carrying on the belt like the ones they’d taken from the capture party. It fit his two hands better than the haft of the mace, and was much easier to maneuver.

  His smashes turned into slashes, not as precise as Drake’s blade work, but still fast and strong. He felt his overworked muscles complain, but desperation drove him as he fought his way to Roslyn and stood back-to-back with her.

  They defended themselves for long minutes this way, Straker facing the mass of Bortoks lining up to murder him, Roslyn keeping them off his back and killing them as they clambered up the rubble.

  But Straker felt himself tiring. Despite biotech strength and healing, he was running on fumes. He’d gone three days with one short night’s sleep and his injuries were far from healed. He now bled from a score of slashes and cuts, and the blood loss, while slow, would eventually bring him down.

  Suddenly, something slammed to the stone behind him. Roslyn jumped back with a cry. “Well done, Karlenus!” she shouted.

  Straker glanced back and saw Karlenus had found a half-meter-wide woode
n beam and dropped it across the gap, with the help of Drake and a dozen soldiers. Other fighters with polearms and bows fended off Bortoks as the giant wood-worker pounded across the improvised bridge, great axe in hand.

  Drake sent five or six soldiers ahead before calmly walking across as if he were taking a stroll. His sword moved constantly, licking out and stabbing at any Bortok nearby. When a warrior reached with long spear, Drake sliced the iron point off it, leaving the Bortok with nothing but a pole.

  “Straker!”

  Roslyn’s yell reminded Straker he had killing to do. He’d become mesmerized watching the knight’s skill and poise. He ducked under a Bortok’s sword and drove the point of his two-handed blade up under his enemy’s chin. As the barbarian fell, he reversed and delivered a roundhouse blow, chopping completely through another Bortok’s axe handle and into his torso.

  The warrior toppled off the wall with an expression of utter surprise. Straker wondered how much of his own success was due to the Bortoks’ underestimating him when they saw him. It was as if a platoon of battlesuiters encountered a young teenager in lightweight athletic gear, who nevertheless started destroying them with their own weapons. It might take them a while to comprehend.

  Karlenus stepped up beside Straker and together they advanced down the battlements, clearing it as they went. More troops from the other side reinforced across the beam-bridge. They guarded the champions’ backs and the space they’d already secured.

  More than once Straker saved Karlenus by blocking a Bortok blow or killing his opponent. Though strong and enthusiastic, the wood-worker was not skilled in battle. When he took a wound to his leg and stumbled, Straker moved in front of him.

  As he’d hoped, Drake filled in where Straker had stood, and the battle became very different. Instead of having to support Karlenus, Straker simply concentrated on killing what was in front of him.

  In fact, Drake supported Straker. Several times he was able to take a moment from dealing with his own opponent to lance out with his long sword, stabbing Straker’s Bortok in a vital spot—a hamstring, a throat—before quickly shifting back to his own. The man was a marvel of efficiency, expending minimum energy for maximum result.

  As was the way of battles, the tide turned suddenly. One minute Straker was knocked back, so weary he contemplated rotating out his front-line position for a break. The next, the Bortoks were running, streaming back toward their own lines.

  “Roslyn, please send for my spyglass,” Straker said. Roslyn sent a messenger running, and soon brought the device from his room. Straker put it to his eye and scanned in the area he’d seen—

  —there. For just a moment the figure was framed in his field of view, standing atop a small hill, watching the Bortoks retreat around him with an expression of irritation.

  It looked very much like Myrmidon.

  Chapter 18

  Straker in Calaria

  Straker put the spyglass back in its case and leaned on the battlements of High Tollen, unwilling to sink to the ground as most of the other Calarian soldiers did. Gods and monsters, he was tired. His vision swam as the sustained adrenaline of combat washed out of his body, but a leader’s instinct kept him standing, refusing to let the troops see weakness.

  Myrmidon. What the hell was the man playing at? Was he behind this Bortok invasion? It seemed likely. He probably helped the barbarians make these catapults, playing adviser to the Mak Deen. If so, why? Not knowing stoked his simmering fury.

  “You’re not the Azaltar I expected, but you’ll do, I suppose,” said Drake’s droll voice from his shoulder. Straker turned to see the knight remove his helm and pull off his gauntlets. The man’s scaly face was slim, as were his elegantly long fingers, more like a musician’s than a warrior’s. He bared his pointed teeth at Straker. “Your strength was welcome this day.”

  Drake’s tone seemed oddly ambivalent, as if he weren’t entirely happy with the situation. Straker cudgeled his tired mind and tried to figure out what the knight’s problem was. “My strength was welcome, but not…”

  “Your sword work leaves much to be desired. If you wish to play your role properly, I can rectify that.”

  This guy’s manner was beginning to irritate Straker. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I can train you—if you have a different kind of strength.”

  “I’m as strong as I need to be, and I really don’t need you talking down to me.”

  Roslyn stepped up from behind and placed one hand on each man’s shoulder. In a low voice she said, “This is not the time or place for heroes to argue.”

  “Of course, Sessa. Your pardon,” said Drake. To Straker, he said, “Meet me in the sword-hall at the sixth chime tomorrow.” Then he strolled off, speaking encouraging words to the soldiery, slapping their backs and joking with them.

  “Who the hell does that guy think he is?” Straker asked.

  Roslyn smiled. “He is the Baron Drake, the king’s swordmaster. He trained me—still does, for I have much to learn. Do not be put off by his manner. He is perhaps over-proud, but if you humble yourself, you will learn much.”

  Straker turned his head and spat off the battlements. “I’m not a humble guy.”

  “All men are proud. That’s what makes them men, and desired of women, but there is a time to bend to a master. Did you not have teachers? Did you not show respect?”

  Straker thought of his Academy days, and some of the instructors there. He also remembered his mechsuit training, by crusty old suit-warriors whose withering blasts of profanity masked a deep desire to ensure he was ready for combat. And then there was his Kung Jiu sensei Rohaka, whom he’d never bested, even with genetically enhanced strength and speed. “Sure, okay. I can do that. I’m not too old to learn something new.”

  And remember, you’re mortal, Straker reminded himself, since there wasn’t anyone else around to say it. This Drake was a killer. Straker wasn’t at all sure he could take him in a fight—and he hadn’t believed that about anyone in years.

  Until now.

  But he had to admit, that fact itself meant he really should take the student’s role here, that Drake really did have something to teach him. All right. Better to be humble than stupid. It would be stupid to pass up a chance to gain battle skill.

  If he had time. Playing Azaltar had to end as soon as he could escape back to the real world.

  “You’re thinking about leaving,” said Roslyn.

  “Are the Calaria mind-readers?”

  “You wear your thoughts on your face, Derek Straker.”

  “I never told you my first name.”

  Roslyn grinned. “You talk in your sleep. I will not reveal your secret name to others.” She moved to embrace him. “I wish we could—”

  Straker put his hand on her breastplate and held her away. “Yeah, me too, but that’s not gonna happen. My vows to my own woman don’t disappear with distance.”

  “You vowed exclusivity?”

  “Um, you mean monogamy?”

  “Mon-no-gam-my. What is that?”

  “It means having only one woman.”

  Roslyn turned her head away, but looked back at him slyly, sidewise. “It is said that the woman loves the man’s honor, but honors only the man’s love.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Think on it. It will come to you.”

  Straker snorted. Women and their convoluted minds made his head hurt.

  Other things hurt now. He was growing stiff inside and out—his muscles, his joints, the layer of blood, sweat and dirt on his body and armor. Fighting hand-to-hand was far different from mechsuiting. It was much more gritty and personal.

  Straker took in the carpet of the dead. Soldiers were being rousted to their feet by their sergeants, the fit to begin the cleanup, the walking wounded sent to whatever passed for medicos here. The unarmored militiamen, who’d helped stem the tide, now began carting off the Calarian dead and tipping the Bortok bodies off the walls to the rocks below. Carrion bird
s already circled and landed to feast, and a pack of jackal beasts emerged from the forest’s edge, warily sniffing the air.

  Ballista crews and archers remained at their posts, alert for any renewed Bortok attack, but the sun was falling toward the horizon. The enemy wouldn’t come again today.

  Too bad a sally or raid seemed impossible. The Calarian forces were spent, and barely numerous enough to hold their walls, while the enemy seemed endless.

  But the Bortoks’ morale had broken. They weren’t fearless Hok or emotionless Opter drones. If they took a few days to regroup and rebuild their catapults, the Calaria would have trebuchets and they’d be safe at least through the coming winter. By then, Straker would have escaped this diz.

  Somehow.

  Straker heard booted feet approach, and he turned to see King Fillior, his retinue behind him. “Hail, Azaltar!” he said in a speechmaker’s voice. “You have honored us with your wisdom and battle-prowess this day in our hour of need!”

  Roslyn nudged him. “Say something impressive,” she hissed.

  “Ah, thank you, O King Fillior of Calaria. I only did my duty, and I am honored to have fought alongside such brave and noble soldiers. We killed a lot of Bortoks today, and we’ll kill some more if they come at us again, right?”

  The soldiers cheered.

  Straker continued, warming up. “Because nobody takes our land, or kills our livestock or our people without paying a heavy price. This wall here is as far as they came, and it’s as far as they’re ever gonna come.”

  More cheering. Straker turned to Roslyn. “That’s all I got. I bet they’d like to hear from their fighting princessa.”

  Roslyn squeezed his arm and turned to the growing crowd. “People that I love! We held them here today, we’ll hold them tomorrow, and soon we’ll drive them from Calarian lands. And if we’re too few right now, winter will do it for us. Then we will reclaim your farms and fields below, we will rebuild our defenses and our strongholds, and next spring we will replant, with the wisdom of the Azaltar and his new war machines to aid us.” She raised her blade as the soldiers chanted her name.