Read Online The Fall to Power by Gareth K Pengelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
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His eyes widened in horror as the thought struck him like a slap to the cheek, even as the screeching sound of spiked vambraces scraping down the inner wall of the courtyard squealed through him with a shiver.
“Men! Turn, run for the Keep! We are outflanked!”
The twenty warriors took heed of the urgency in his voice and flew into action, filing out the door and making to break from the shelter of the gatehouse and into the bright sunlit courtyard, but before they could even get ten paces, a black figure dashed away and into the courtyard, leaving broken chains in his stead, the heavy spiked portcullis coming screeching down from thirty feet up.
Most of the troopers stopped, loosing arrows after the receding figure, but one sprinted at full pelt in an effort to roll under the descending gate.
Half of him made it to the courtyard.
With a resounding clang of metal on stone, the heavy iron grid blocked their path, sealing them like rats caught in a trap of their own devising, the lone figure pinned, groaning in hushed agony through lungs pierced with rusted black iron.
From the bright sunlight outside, a figure coalesced, dark and menacing.
Ranclif gave a gulp as he recognised the white hair and cold eyes from tales told in the night to scare young children into going to bed.
Memphias.
The Khrda spoke through the square gaps in the portcullis, his voice calm and polite with only a hint of condescension.
“Guardsmen, you have done your duty to your Lord. But your duty to your King demands that you surrender. Return to your guardroom and rest; we will return later and, should you co-operate, you will be allowed to continue your service under whatever new master your King sees fit to appoint as replacement to your traitorous Arbistrath.”
His only reply was the streaking, invisible point of an arrow, aimed impeccably at his face, but his hand moved in an impossible blur, snatching the missile from the air and holding it fast.
Ranclif lowered his bow with a gormless look of disbelief, as the Khrda turned away with a grunt, dropping the arrow and began to march across the courtyard, stopping for an instant to issue a single order to his men.
“Burn them.”
The guardsmen shuffled backwards in fear as two Khrdas came forward from the pack, each hefting black ceramic containers emblazoned with etchings of flames. They hurled them, the flasks shattering against the portcullis and spraying their contents far and wide, the clear, reeking liquid soaking the straw-covered floor of gatehouse and the unfortunate man who still lay, impaled, before spontaneously combusting, the wave of heat washing over the troopers and rippling the air.
Through the smoke and chemical fumes that stung their eyes, the troopers fought their way to the winding mechanism for the front gates, all the while trying desperately to ignore the agonising screams of their trapped comrade.
With grunts of exertion, they heaved on the windlass with all their might, spurred on by the advancing flames that tore their way through the dry straw of the floor. Slowly, the heavy front gates began to part, allowing the cooling rush of fresh air to blast through. They didn’t wait for the doors to fully open, for they were only men and the gates were designed for horse and cart, instead squeezing their way out as soon as the gap allowed, standing and blinking in the sudden brightness of the causeway.
Ranclif stood, hands on knees, his fevered lungs drawing in great gulps of
His eyes widened in horror as the thought struck him like a slap to the cheek, even as the screeching sound of spiked vambraces scraping down the inner wall of the courtyard squealed through him with a shiver.
“Men! Turn, run for the Keep! We are outflanked!”
The twenty warriors took heed of the urgency in his voice and flew into action, filing out the door and making to break from the shelter of the gatehouse and into the bright sunlit courtyard, but before they could even get ten paces, a black figure dashed away and into the courtyard, leaving broken chains in his stead, the heavy spiked portcullis coming screeching down from thirty feet up.
Most of the troopers stopped, loosing arrows after the receding figure, but one sprinted at full pelt in an effort to roll under the descending gate.
Half of him made it to the courtyard.
With a resounding clang of metal on stone, the heavy iron grid blocked their path, sealing them like rats caught in a trap of their own devising, the lone figure pinned, groaning in hushed agony through lungs pierced with rusted black iron.
From the bright sunlight outside, a figure coalesced, dark and menacing.
Ranclif gave a gulp as he recognised the white hair and cold eyes from tales told in the night to scare young children into going to bed.
Memphias.
The Khrda spoke through the square gaps in the portcullis, his voice calm and polite with only a hint of condescension.
“Guardsmen, you have done your duty to your Lord. But your duty to your King demands that you surrender. Return to your guardroom and rest; we will return later and, should you co-operate, you will be allowed to continue your service under whatever new master your King sees fit to appoint as replacement to your traitorous Arbistrath.”
His only reply was the streaking, invisible point of an arrow, aimed impeccably at his face, but his hand moved in an impossible blur, snatching the missile from the air and holding it fast.
Ranclif lowered his bow with a gormless look of disbelief, as the Khrda turned away with a grunt, dropping the arrow and began to march across the courtyard, stopping for an instant to issue a single order to his men.
“Burn them.”
The guardsmen shuffled backwards in fear as two Khrdas came forward from the pack, each hefting black ceramic containers emblazoned with etchings of flames. They hurled them, the flasks shattering against the portcullis and spraying their contents far and wide, the clear, reeking liquid soaking the straw-covered floor of gatehouse and the unfortunate man who still lay, impaled, before spontaneously combusting, the wave of heat washing over the troopers and rippling the air.
Through the smoke and chemical fumes that stung their eyes, the troopers fought their way to the winding mechanism for the front gates, all the while trying desperately to ignore the agonising screams of their trapped comrade.
With grunts of exertion, they heaved on the windlass with all their might, spurred on by the advancing flames that tore their way through the dry straw of the floor. Slowly, the heavy front gates began to part, allowing the cooling rush of fresh air to blast through. They didn’t wait for the doors to fully open, for they were only men and the gates were designed for horse and cart, instead squeezing their way out as soon as the gap allowed, standing and blinking in the sudden brightness of the causeway.
Ranclif stood, hands on knees, his fevered lungs drawing in great gulps of
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