Free The Fall to Power by Gareth K Pengelly Page A

by the ancient symbols as surely as night-time moths to a lamp. Minutes. Minutes might just be enough.
    A smash of splintered wood, followed by cries of alarm and the crashing reports of metal on metal from far down the corridor.
    Or then again, maybe not.
     
    ***
     
                  “Hold, men!”
                  The Lieutenant’s voice rang loud and clear through the corridor, rising high above the din of battle – or slaughter – in an effort to stem the tide of fear that swept the guard.
                  The Khrdas came at them, down the wide corridor, flipping over the hastily erected defences, dodging arrows and gutting the stalwart defenders with a hideous grace. The sheer speed and ferocity was overwhelming the Pen-Tulador town guard, more suited as they were to putting down tavern brawls and bringing sheep rustlers to justice than fighting close-combat warfare against elite soldiers. The sharp defensive stakes they hid behind in groups were next to useless against the agile infantry, made for stopping the charging bulk of horse.
                  “Damn,” Hofsted growled to himself, “we’re getting slaughtered.”
                  He looked to his side, the green recruit – what was his name? Marlyn! – stood, knowing he should run but not knowing whether forwards or back. The Lieutenant grabbed the horn, thrusting it into the young soldier’s hands, giving him a job to do.
                  “Sound the retreat, lad – we fall back to the main hall and protect the shamans at all costs.”
                  The youth nodded, placing the horn to his lips and blasting out a clarion call to signal withdrawal.
                  The officer snarled as his men streamed past, through the heavy door behind him and into the hall proper, the stragglers being cut down like animals as they were overtook by the pursuing assassins. Behind the carnage, Memphias himself, striding calmly down the hall, eyes and smile fixed on the glowering lieutenant.
                  He backed his way through the door as the last of the survivors piled in.
                  The corridor was lost. But, with a little luck, they might hold the hall just long enough to get their Lord – and his spiritual allies – to safety.
                  With the help of his men, he slammed the door to and slid the heavy iron bolt across.
                  And prayed that it would hold for long enough.
     
    ***
     
    The defenders of Pen-Tulador were gathered close about the shamanic circle in the centre of the hall, shadows cast long and stark in the light of the candles and the torchlight from the walls. The hall was large – though not Pen-Merethia large – and the soldiers had a good distance between themselves and the door which they eyed with suspicious eyes and trembling sword arms.
                  “How much longer?” hissed Arbistrath, eyes never straying from the door.
                  “Shh…” bade the flame-haired shaman, as she stood, hands holding, together with the woman stood opposite her, a bowl of water that gently rippled in time to some unseen rhythm.
                  About the circle, around its edges, other shamanic novitiates knelt, eyes closed, humming a strange and dreary chorus that seemed to resonate in the echoing hall, coming from everywhere at once. The air was greasy, filled with static that prickled the skin and raised the hairs on the back of the neck. The tongues of all gathered about swam with a strange metallic taste, like they were sucking the blood from a sliced finger.
                  Without warning, the heavy wooden door, banded with iron, blew to pieces, spraying the room with sharp splinters of wood and causing soldiers to raise their hands to protect their eyes, before a howling gust of wind swept about the hall, blowing out in