Vol.6, Ch.3, P.14
Ears rang. Vision shook. Yet even as I was flung free into the air, I rallied desperately my powers of sight, if only to glean what was going on inside the chamber now that it was blown wide open. And therein, I found in that instant captains and lacqueys alike all reeling from the errant blast. Astonishment flashed upon their faces; none of them had expected the stupidity that was an explosion conjured within so confined a space, much less a command post, of all places—making me, the rebel blown away, also the sole man in the scene with yet half his senses intact.
Time, I saw, seemed to slow as I then sought more desperately still for my sword. And there, at the gaping, belching, burning hole in the wall, I perceived something long and true. Like a wisp of night it was, twirling weightlessly amidst the blooming blast. And when the scorched canvas that covered it was swept away, it revealed itself in full: an abyss stark and blade-like in shape, as though shorn out of the very air.
There’s no mistaking it. That was the blacksword itself, bare and blasted free from board, bundle, and bindings. A reunion long in the making, for sure. Yet it was too soon to celebrate—for as time returned, and flames and smithers burst, and air rushed like a storm, so was I sent flying and falling away.
Down from the scene I descended. But a moment, and something jarred my shoulder hard: I’d smitten against some wall askant, which sent me then into a dizzying spin. But at once, I jolted to action—“Aaggh!”—and stabbed into the wall the dagger-glass that was yet in hand. The crude blade bit deep into the infill, gouging through and tracing a rent in the façade as I fell, till it jammed into a timber—and thus stopped my descent.
“Rgh… gha…!”
There I staggered and dangled dangerously. The shard of stained glass, digging past my glove as I gripped it, bit now into my palm and spilt a red drop unto my face. But what of the soot-steel? Whither had it gone? A frantic look, and I found it—lying yet above in the chamber of enemies.
The violence of the blast must’ve sent it tumbling, only for it to land unluckily again within the same room where it was kept. And now was the sword as still as stone, with half its blade sticking out over the ruined wall like a mocking tongue. All the same, however, might a chance budge send it slipping over the edge. But alas, it wouldn’t find me there to catch it; for as I soon discovered, I’d not only fallen a floor down… but I’d also been flung too far aside.
Indeed, I dangled now not under it, but from an adjacent façade, having been blown away aslant. Aloft and aleft the blade now lay; yet as far as I could tell, there was not a single foothold anywhere nearby from which I could leap after it. No, not a sill, nor seam, nor spout in sight to save me now; only a smooth, half-timbered surface spanning around me. For of course, the fates hadn’t been so kind as to let me pick my fall as before; that honour went this time to a spellblast, of all things.
And as I struggled to stay suspended, I could but seethe under my breath: “Had my fill… of flying and climbing for today…!”
Few men live out such a day as this, I reckoned; a day that should’ve seen naught but counsels for peace, even if troubled and vain. Well, at any rate, I should’ve liked very much to put this evil experience to use henceforth somehow, but that required surviving it, and in that moment, I absolutely knew not how.
I looked down. It seemed seven, eight-odd passūs to the concourse spanning below. Not the safest fall, by any measure. But being of the stained sort, the thick shard of glass in my grip was laden with lead, and could thus bear my weight yet. Only, there were two problems. For one, my hand thrawt with pain just to hold onto it. And the other was the concourse itself—which was now filling with foes, pointing fingers, and angry barking.
“Oy! Up there! On the wall!”
“Lo! he clings! Like the scum he is!”
This was an ill-turn, no question, but I could scarce complain. Clamber up and down some walls long enough, and one is bound to be found out soon or late, especially anear one so loudly punched open by a spell.
I turned away from the gathering Salvators and up to the blacksword as it stuck out above. Fine soot was smoking down from its tip. And though strange, the sword somehow seemed to be staring upon me—as though to appraise my mettle in this plight.
“Bastard lackwit, you…! Almost biffed us ’long with ’im, you did!”
“Where’s he got to!? Where’s the sword!?”
Shouts and growls were echoing from the hole overhead. The men therein were now on the move, having regained their wits. Spurred, I speeded my own… but to no avail. I still couldn’t puzzle out a single escape, much less a way to steal back my sword. But it mattered little; for breaking those thoughts then was more thunder from below.
“Oy! Fetch some archers! Conjurers! Anyone with—”
“No time! I’ll do it myself!”
Shooting a glance down, I found stepping forth out of the gathering a man with dagger in hand. And glowering right back up at me, he then stretched and reared the blade over his shoulder.
“Damn it!” I grumbled in panick. For that was a throwing stance, and a frightfully practised one, at that, as was soon proved.
“Rrrah!”
With a sharp cry, the wielder launched his dagger hither. Not from a hand unapt could a dagger hope to fly any straightly. But to my horror, this one was nothing of the sort, as with a whistle, it travelled truer than an arrow.
“Hkh!!”
Straight unto my spine it shot, even as I hung helplessly. And then—grack!—it struck. Only, not into my spine, but the wall itself. In the nick of time, I’d twisted my torso aside to miss the missile, leaving the dagger to stick out of the façade in failure.
Too close-run that was. But I wasn’t saved yet, for the sudden movement had also forced me to flail in place, that as I strove to right myself, the glass shard gave and slanted down. Grk! grk! it went, slipping lower and lower, and my body along with it, as my grip grew increasingly slick with blood.
“Nnggh!” I groaned, grim as death. Fall now, and there’d be no fleeing the frenzy of foes below. Immediately, I got to moving, grabbing the enemy dagger with my other hand. And then, wrenching it free, I swiftly thrust it back into the wall higher above. At the same moment, the glass shard itself was dislodged, causing me to swing wildly to and fro. And yet, I did not fall; the foe-dagger, once bent upon my death, had saved my life.
“Fie! He’s not letting up!”
“Stubborn vermin, this heretic!”
So yapped the conspirators below. But there was little time to gloat about it. Having hung on by just my right hand for so long, the wound at my flank was now shrieking with hurt. Worse still, I knew not how long this dagger in my left would hold. If I could see it, no doubt would I find a most terrible and frantic look on my face.
“Oy, the sword! O’er there!”
Next to be heard was a voice from above. Alas, the foes there had found the soot-steel as it teetered over the burning brink.
“No, man! Stop! Don’t—”
“Gaaahh!?”
A blood-curdling cry echoed thence. Someone there had tried to retrieve the weapon, only to have his hands harrowed by its hilt. Very good; not for a while at least could they do aught about the sword. The same, however, couldn’t be said of things below, whither coming to reinforce the foes was an enrobed and staff-bedight figure. My skin crawled; a sorcerer was now on the scene.
“Up yonder!” the men pressed him. “Pry ’im off!”
“Aye, I see him,” the sorcerer smoothly said. “A Gāstċēn ought—”
“Nay, man! Can’t blow ’nother hole for that worm to crawl into, now!”
“Agh! Fine, then!”
From the grudge in his groan, I guessed the Gāstċēn to be this conjurer’s forte. So much the better—but for the levin lashing and leaping now from his staffhead.
“Sċeaþatán!”
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