The Sapphire Rose
Page 66‘Lead!’ Sparhawk commanded then. The lead had been Bevier’s idea. Each sarcophagus in the crypt beneath the Basilica had been surmounted by a leaden effigy of its inhabitant. The sarcophagi were now unadorned, and the effigies had been melted down. Bubbling cauldrons stood at intervals along the tops of the walls, and at Sparhawk’s command, they were pushed forward and overturned to pour down in great silvery sheets on the Rendors clustered at the base of the wall. The shrieks this time did not last for long, and no man ran blazing from the attack after he had been entombed in liquid lead.
Some few, then more did reach the tops of the walls. The church soldiers met them with a bravery born of desperation, and they held the fanatics long enough to permit the knights to come to their aid. Sparhawk strode forward at the head of the phalanx of black-armoured Pandions. He swung his heavy broadsword steadily, rhythmically. The broadsword is not a weapon with much finesse, and the big Pandion Knight did not so much fight his way through the shrieking Rendors as chop open a wide path. His sword was an instrument of dismemberment, and hands and whole arms flew spinning from his strokes to rain down on the faces of attackers still on the scaling ladders. Heads went sailing out to fall either on the outside of the wall or on the inside, depending on the direction of Sparhawk’s swing. The knights following him and disposing of the wounded were soon wading in blood. One Rendor, quite skinny and waving a rusty sabre, stood howling before the man in black armour bearing down on him. Sparhawk altered his swing slightly and sheared the man almost in two at the waist. The Rendor was hurled against the battlements by the force of the blow, and the remaining shred of flesh ripped as the upper torso toppled outwards. The man’s lower half caught up on one of the battlements, the legs threshing wildly. The Rendor’s upper torso did not quite reach the ground below, but hung head downwards from a long rope of purple bowel that steamed in the cool night air. The torso swung slowly back and forth, jerking slightly downwards as its intestines gradually unravelled.
‘Sparhawk!’ Kalten shouted as Sparhawk’s arm began to grow weary. ‘Get your breath! I’ll take over here!’
And so it went until the top of the wall was once again secure and all the scaling ladders had been shoved away. The Rendors milled around below, still falling victim to arrows and to large rocks thrown down on them from the walls.
And then they broke and fled.
Kalten came back, panting and wiping his sword. ‘Good fight,’ he said, grinning.
‘Tolerable,’ Sparhawk agreed laconically. ‘Rendors aren’t very good fighters, though.’
‘Those are the best kind to face,’ Kalten laughed. He pulled back one foot to kick the bottom half of the skinny Rendor off the wall.
‘Object lessons again?’
‘Why not? A man who’s attacking a defended wall is entitled to know what’s likely to happen to him, wouldn’t you say?’
Bevier came hurrying down the bloody parapet. ‘Ulath’s been hurt!’ he shouted to them from several yards away. He turned to lead them back to their injured friend, and the church soldiers melted out of his way. Perhaps unconsciously, Bevier was still brandishing his lochaber axe.
Ulath lay on his back. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and blood was running out of his ears.
‘What happened?’ Sparhawk demanded of Tynian.
‘A Rendor ran up behind him and hit him on the head with an axe.’
Sparhawk’s heart sank.
‘Maybe the Rendor didn’t swing hard enough,’ Kalten surmised.
‘I saw the blow. The Rendor swung as hard as he could. That blow should have split Ulath’s head like a melon.’ He frowned, tapping on the bulging knot of horn that joined the two curling points jutting from each side of their friend’s conical helmet. Then he examined the helmet closely. ‘Not a scratch,’ he marvelled. He took out his dagger and scraped at the horn, but was unable to even mar its shiny surface. Then, finally overcome by curiosity, he picked up Ulath’s fallen war-axe and hacked at the horn several times without even chipping it. ‘That’s amazing,’ he said. ‘That’s the hardest stuff I’ve ever come across.’
‘That’s probably why Ulath’s still got his brains inside his head,’ Kalten said. ‘He doesn’t look too good, though. Let’s carry him to Sephrenia.’
‘You three go on ahead,’ Sparhawk told them regretfully. ‘I’ve got to talk with Vanion.’
The four Preceptors stood together some distance away where they had been observing the attack.
‘Sir Ulath’s been hurt, My Lord,’ Sparhawk reported to Komier.
‘Is it bad?’ Vanion asked quickly.
‘A Rendor hit him in the head with an axe, My Lord.’
‘In the head, you say? He’ll be all right then.’ He reached up and rapped his knuckles on his own ogre-horned helmet. ‘That’s why we wear these.’
‘He didn’t look very good,’ Sparhawk said gravely. ‘Tynian, Kalten and Bevier are taking him to Sephrenia.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Komier insisted.
Sparhawk pushed Ulath’s injury to the back of his mind. ‘I think I’ve put my finger on some of Martel’s strategy, My Lords. He saddled himself with those Rendors for a specific reason. Rendors aren’t really very good at modern warfare. They don’t wear any kind of protective armour – not even helmets – and they’re pitifully incapable of any form of swordsmanship. We swept them off the top of that wall the way you’d mow a hayfield. All they really have is a raging fanaticism, and they’ll attack in the face of insurmountable odds. Martel’s going to keep throwing them at us to wear us down and to reduce our numbers. Then, after he’s weakened and exhausted us, he’ll throw in his Cammorian and Lamork mercenaries. We’ve got to work out some way to keep those Rendors off the walls. I’m going to talk with Kurik. Maybe he can come up with a few ideas.’