Tilgar led them through the maze of streets, Sarnakyle quickly snagging something from an abandoned shop as they walked. The sounds of the fighting had grown faint, although the arrows still flew overhead.
Finally, they came to a rough stone building in the town square. Outside stood Hunfrith, waiting impatiently, a sword in his trembling hand. "All of the remaining housecarls are inside," he said. "The King's Men have elected to stay and fight."
Tilgar shook his head. "The loss of life is wasteful, but it will buy us some time. Let us go."
As Hunfrith turned, something swooped out of the shadows. Siggard raised his sword, a cold sweat running down his back. One of those shadowythings from Blackmarch had arrived, and from its strange form emerged razor sharp claws.
"Go!" Sarnakyle shouted, raising his hand and uttering an incantation. A bolt of fire exploded from his palm, splashing into the creature to no effect. Then Siggard struck, slashing out with Guthbreoht while shouting a war cry. As he moved, he was aware of Tilgar and Hunfrith dashing into the building.
The thing recoiled as Guthbreoht touched it, and Siggard struck again and again, until the strange monster fell back and dissolved into the darkness. Whether it was dead or just mending its wounds, Siggard did not know. Regardless, he was certain the time had come to flee.
Siggard backed into the building, followed by Sarnakyle, who closed and barred the door behind them. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder, nearly striking out with Guthbreoht, but something in the sword's song stopped him. "Come, the way is clear," Earl Tilgar's voice said, and he and Sarnakyle turned to find themselves facing a large staircase leading into the earth.
Tilgar led them down, a torch in his hand, and Siggard soon lost track of the number of steps they descended. When they got to the bottom, they found themselves in a large, torchlit tunnel. Deep in the tunnel they could hear a multitude of hushed but fading voices, as though a large number of people were moving away.
"Come with me," Tilgar said, and he took several steps forward. Then he wrenched one of the torches from the wall. There was a great roar from the earth, and several tons of stone fell down the staircase, sealing it.
"Now they cannot follow," the earl said, and led them into the tunnel. "These passages have been here since the earliest days of the town," he said, motioning to the rocky gray walls. His pale face flickered in the torchlight. "Recently, they were expanded into an escape route, and several of them were sealed off. This will take us well into the west, where we can begin to make our way to the capital. Hopefully, the archdemon will be too busy in Brennor to stop us."
"When were they evacuated?" Siggard asked. "There have to be ten thousand people in the town."
"We started evacuating people shortly after your warning," Tilgar replied, quickening the pace. "We had them wait in the tunnel, to avoid revealing its existence. A quarter of the housecarls went with them, just in case the tunnel was discovered. The signal I sent was the one to begin moving people out of the passage, not into it."
How long they walked, Siggard could not be certain. Deep in the musky earth, without sun, moon, or stars, he had no way of measuring time, and with his deepening fatigue, the entire experience seemed like a waking dream.
Suddenly, from behind them there was a dull rumbling, like a distant thunder. Earl Tilgar smiled grimly. "I do not think Brennor will be the fortress Assur had hoped," he said, but he would not say more.
Finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Dawn's amber glow broke through the gloomy earth, and they emerged from a hill into the cloudless morn. Siggard shivered at the morning chill, and Sarnakyle pressed something warm and soft into his hand.
"I noticed you had lost your cloak during the fighting," Sarnakyle said. "So I got you a new one. If I can find the shopkeeper, I will pay him for it."
Siggard nodded wearily and pulled on his new black cloak, wrapping it about himself like a second skin. He looked around to see a large group of milling people, people from every age, craft, and discipline. They stood behind a cluster of hills that Siggard surmised must be large enough to hide them from the sight of any watcher from Brennor.
Siggard climbed the hill and peered over the rocky tor. As he looked toward the distant town, his eyes widened. The walls of Brennor were no more, lying in a crumbled heap. The castle still stood, surrounded by the abandoned town, and the windows of the keep shone with an unearthly red light.
When he came down, Tilgar smiled in grim satisfaction. "The final orders of the city guard were to bring down the walls. One of Brennor's great secrets is that any enemy who takes the place will only gain a small fortress. The King of Entsteig has never allowed one of his own towns to be used against him."
Tilgar turned to a housecarl, asking if Wulfgar still lived. When the answer came back as a negative, the earl shook his head sadly and began to give marching orders.
"Siggard, I would be grateful if you would stay with us," Tilgar said, placing his hand on the warrior's shoulder. "Your sword arm would be a great help."
Siggard shook his head. "I'm going to rest here, and then go back to Brennor at nightfall."
Sarnakyle startled. "Are you mad, my friend? What can you possibly hope to accomplish against a demonic horde?"
"I'm going to kill Assur," Siggard replied coldly.
"You know what that glyph means," Sarnakyle insisted. "Assur is invincible."
Siggard smiled grimly. "The murderer of my family is in Brennor, so I will seek him out and destroy him if I can. I know he can't possibly expect me."
"If you do this, you will probably die, Siggard," Tilgar said. "Are you certain that's what you want?"
Siggard affixed the earl with a cold stare. "Everything I love is already dead. If I must perish trying to avenge it, then so be it. But one way or another, I swear that Assur will die at my hands by daybreak."
11
RECKONINGS
While an army can accomplish more than one man, there are times when an individual can achieve that which a legion cannot.
Siggard strode through the night, his hand resting on Guthbreoht's hilt under his black cloak. He was careful not to walk too fast, lest he attract unwanted attention from the castle of Brennor.
The refugees had left around midday, Earl Tilgar giving Siggard explicit instructions of where they would be going, and to find them if he survived. Sarnakyle had offered to help, but Siggard had refused. The last thing he wanted to do was endanger the wizard's life, particularly when Earl Tilgar would have a far greater need of magic protection than he.
After the refugees had departed, Siggard had cleaned the caked blood and gore from his sword and mail-coat, checking both for rust. He had oiled the sword, and blackened the mail with coal, removing as much of the shine as he could. Then he had waited for sunset.
Siggard finally reached what was left of the gates of Brennor. The wall truly had crumbled, and the air reeked of death. From the faint light of the castle windows, he made out bodies lying throughout the rubble. No doubt the crows and carrion eaters had eaten their fill during the day.
He made sure his cowl properly covered his face, and began to walk through the town. Most of the buildings he passed were scarred and hollowed out from the last of the fighting, and the corpses of guardsmen lay sprawled over the street. He slowly picked his way across the carnage, careful not to disturb anything.