“See if we can kill the quick thing, keep the rest strung along,” he called to them. One of Stormfollower's Jernizen immediately whooped, drew his sword and spurred in toward the multi-legged thing, only to nearly be unsaddled as it lurched toward him and made his horse swerve.
“Use your piking bow!” Stormfollower hollered, then leveled his own and shot the thing in one of its many pelvises. The bolt went in deep and it staggered aside, losing speed as it shook itself furiously.
“Can these things even die?” shouted Sergeant Kenner from the rear of the herd. “If we drop them in the river, won't they wash up by the farms?”
“If they do, we'll deal with them later,” Linciard called back. “All the witchfolk out there are Trifolders anyway; they should be safe.”
Watching the things slogging after them, he wasn't so sure of his words. The biggest were draft-hog sized, more than enough to overturn a wagon or beat down the wall of a small house. Still, they didn't have a choice. Barring arcane intervention or a Dark bite like the one that had taken his horse and two toe-tips, there was no way to handle these things en masse.
Even individually, he wasn't sure what could be done. They were shooting the front-runners, but though that made them lag back with the rest, none had fallen—nor could he guess where their vitals were, if they even had any. Some of them bled but it didn't seem to matter, and those with hands or teeth just yanked out the bolts they could reach.
The darkness cloaked most other details, for which he was infinitely grateful. He didn't want to see human faces on those malformed heads, human eyes in that tainted flesh. Had his conditioning not worn off long ago, he knew he'd be paralyzed by mind-shock, and even without it he couldn't look long. The ruengriin were gorgeous compared to these poor things.
Fortunately they didn't have to ride far; the turn-off to Stormline Bridge was just one block up. As the mob approached the corner, Linciard steeled himself and wheeled his horse about, waving a few other lancers after him as he darted close to the crowd to keep its attention. It almost ended badly; an ahergriin snagged his horse's tail in mid-turn, jerking it up short and pitching him in the saddle, but before he could bring his crossbow up, his steed had hammered both back hooves into the thing's chest and broken free. They all sped back just ahead of the resulting surge of bodies, Linciard's heart in his throat.
From the corner, the road descended sharply to the river-wall, its pavings made ragged and treacherous by the uncommon frost. Stormline Bridge hulked ahead, the lanterns at its posts a welcome sight; Linciard couldn't see any goblins, but trusted they were where they needed to be, and would do what was necessary at the right time.
His horse stumbled on a bad brick and he braced against the saddlehorn to keep from being forced onto it codpiece-first. “Go carefully!” he shouted back.
“Tell that to the monsters!” Stormfollower hollered. “Piking things are gonna fall on us!”
He glanced back and saw the first shambling wave reach the incline. One fell, tumbled, then fetched up in a tangle of its own limbs; another clambered over it only to topple likewise and keep going. The rearmost horse screamed and staggered as the monster clipped its back leg, then collapsed to its haunches; its rider swore, fumbling for his sword as his steed tried to get back upright. Two more men reined in and shot for the creatures at the man's back, but though that dropped them, it couldn't stop their bodies from sliding onward.
“Get off and run!” Linciard shouted.
The man scrambled to do so, but his horse—just as panicked—lurched up at the same moment and pitched him from the saddle. He hit the cobbles with a crunch and a cry, one leg splayed out wrong. Before Linciard could form an order, the horse bent down, clamped its teeth on his arm and started dragging him forward at a hobble.
“What— Someone grab him,” Linciard rallied. “Everyone else, get down to the bridge, go, go!”
“Got it!” shouted a Jernizen, wheeling his horse about. It was the most-pawed of them, even the back hooves split and clawed, and moved the easiest on the incline. Within moments he was leaning out to grab his comrade by the belt, then hauling him over his steed's neck and turning from the mob. The hobbled horse let him, then shivered, something passing along its hide like a ripple of wind. An instant later, it stood sturdy again, and plunged into the descent with ears laid back.
Wait, what? thought Linciard, but there was no time for that. The press of the mob was forcing more monsters off their feet to tumble and roll after the lancers, and for a small tense eternity they were caught between the need for speed and the peril of crashing headlong down the slope. By the time they hit the bottom, Linciard was painted with sweat, his steed's sides heaving—but then there was just the slight rise and the bridge left. Glancing back, he saw the others at his heels and the slope carpeted with writhing bodies: still chasing, still roaring and moaning, but slower as they fumbled over each other.
“Go, go!” he called as he reined in at the edge of the bridge. They sped past him—two, four, six, then him wheeling in as the last.
Black water rushed not so far below. The brickwork felt too solid under his horse's hooves to be easily destroyed, but then he didn't know goblin work. Slowing to a trot, he urged the others on and turned in his saddle to watch as the fleshy tide reached the bridge.
They seemed committed now. The rear of their line was in tatters, only stragglers left above the slope or on it; the rest crowded heavy at the bottom, pushing the front-runners up or trampling over them in their eagerness to taste human flesh. A man running would have been hard-pressed to escape the small ones, their pace still threatening despite broken limbs, crushed torsos, torn entrails.
Light above, I hope the river kills them.
He crossed the wide span to join the half-circle of men beyond. A quick glance along the river showed him Pebble Bridge and Washaway Bridge equidistant in either direction; Pebble was closer to their starting point, so he gestured his men that way. “Loading the bridge now,” he told the earhook, turning to watch the monsters' approach.
'We have eyes on them,' sent Ardent. 'Hold position as bait just a little bit longer.'
He grimaced but obeyed, staring at the heaving horde as it drew closer. To think that all those creatures had been men once—maybe even some he'd known, like the lancers who'd gone to the Palace ahead of Vyslin. His comrades, his friends.
At that moment, he hated the Empire.
And still they came closer, until lantern-light gleamed on eyes and teeth and he could see the truth of their features. The mindless hunger in some, the hideous awareness in others.
'Go now. Go, ride,' came Ardent's order, and he shouted it loud as he turned and spurred away.
Three heartbeats later, the explosion struck—a gust of heat and force and sound that slapped him down against his horse's neck and staggered the beast forward, shrieking. Brick-shards glanced across his back-plate and rang his helm like a bell, one thunking into the padding on his neck hard enough to bruise.
He barked a curse but couldn't hear it beneath the roar of collapsing masonry. A second detonation sounded from the far end, and he risked a look back to see the whole wide span subsiding, its load of monsters either flung off by the sudden yaw or riding it down into the water.
On the road behind him lay two surviving monstrosities, already fumbling up from where they'd been felled by the blast. He never even thought of turning, just bent low over the horse's neck as it steadied into a gallop toward the next bridge.
He caught his comrades half-across it, all of them halted to stare toward the still-crumbling ruins. “Second round,” he rasped, gesturing them ahead. “Couple behind me. Hopefully they won't catch up while we're occupied.”
They crossed Pebble Bridge, then headed uphill on fortunately sturdier pavings. At the crossroad just ahead, a Shadow agent stood atop a building, lantern in hand. Sighting them, she motioned with it leftward to indicate Pebble Road.
Linciard was frankly ready to rest, but the memo
ry of the massive crowd at the garrison spurred him onward. The rest of his comrades were trapped there, too surrounded by magic for a Shadow Folk rescue. There had to be some end to these creatures, and if they could find it—
The lantern vanished suddenly. He squinted at that corner but saw no shape against the sky, so, puzzled, he swept the rest of the area with a look. There was a haze in the air beyond the buildings to the right, like smoke…
With a jolt, he remembered the city map, each neighborhood and district carefully labeled. He was on Bargeward Way, with Pebble Road and then Ridge Road crossing it ahead. The area to his right, bounded by these three streets, was Chisel Ridge.
Up ahead, a white shape stepped onto the road. Then more.
“Sons of pikes,” he cursed. “Ardent, I see wraiths coming out of Chisel Ridge. At least—“
Then he stopped, because they weren't wraiths—they were White Flames. In this darkness, their armor glowed with its own light, strange and throbbing and faintly pink, almost fleshy. Misshapen monstrosities shambled out to join them, followed by more white-clad shapes, which parted to let a metal-clad figure stride into position in the midst of it all. This confused Linciard, until he registered the rank-marking on the man's surcoat.
“Uh, folks,” he told the earhook, “I think the Field Marshal's come to visit. And more abominations, and a bunch of White Flames, and—oh shit, we're spotted, scatter, scatter!”
*****
Sarovy raised his head at the mention of the Field Marshal. He'd managed to follow the wall halfway to the enemy's reinforcement portal, sheltered from its tenders' eyes by the looming ahergriin and the wraiths' own ground-limited vision, but he already knew it was a lost cause. Even though the monsters ignored him, he couldn't cut through their dense crowd or even squeeze by anymore, not when the press had become so thick around him that it was a blessing he needn't breathe.
And his state was degrading. Every touch of their tortured flesh sent sick shocks through him, their ichor sinking into his thirsty skin. He couldn't look at them without the voices surging up in chorus—killer, monster, cannibal—far louder than the roars and groans of these horrors. He wished he could go toward his men, or that they could come to him, but he knew better. This could be no valiant clash of force against force. Only assassination would win the day.
Don't be insane, said a voice. He couldn't tell if it was his own or one of the ghosts of his flesh. It's suicide to go after him—if it even is him.
Yet it was his best opportunity to stop this. Slip away through the monster-crowded streets, move in on that entourage, and cut off the head of the beast. Never mind the White Flames. Never mind the wraiths. Rackmar owed him for all the blood on his hands, and he would take his payment in kind.
Yes, kill, breathed the ghosts. Kill and die. Die and be free. Set us free, set us free, set us free…
I'm not doing this for you, he thought, relenting his efforts at last to let the monstrous mob buffet him back the way he'd come. There was a doorway nearby, partially bashed in. He could push through, find a side-window, climb out and take to the street. I didn't kill you; I avenged you. You're not my burden to bear.
Set us free, set us free, set us free!
I would if I could. Enkhaelen—after this, perhaps he can extract you. Fix me. But for now, just shut up, would you? Shut up.
They didn't. He knew arguing was pointless, a sign that he was losing focus, but in this miserable press he couldn't do anything but stumble along and listen to them. See the images they impressed upon the insides of his eyes: their terrified faces melting in his grip; his own in the mirror, twisting, transfiguring.
She'd reached out to him. How could she have done that? How could he have dreamed of reciprocating?
He could hear the others on the earhook, strained, frightened, struggling for their lives. He didn't belong with them—nor with the specialists, who'd looked upon him with such fear when he'd first emerged from his remembrance. He was a monster even to them, one step away from madness, and he—
No. I belong. I'm the captain. They followed me here. I—
Followed you to their deaths.
Fumblingly he reached up to the winged-light pendant, its hard shape pressing into his skin under the jacket, and for a moment he felt the template strengthen—but then it ebbed again, the voices roaring in like waves. The shoring-up that Scryer Yrsian had done was broken.
If he lost himself…
Better to do it among enemies than friends.
I started this. Brought them here, swallowed the Empire's lies, let all these murders happen. Shed innocent blood with my own hands.
I take all responsibility. And I will end it.
There—the door. He half-fell half-shoved himself through into the dark interior, navigating by the feel of the wall as the cacophony of cries dulled behind him. Those in his head never ebbed, but neither did they rise, remaining like the buzz of flies in his ears as he groped blindly for an inner door, a side room.
There. Dusty chamber, shuttered windows. Small beds, a scatter of left-behind toys: rag-dolls, blocks. Painted walls too dim to see by the mage-light that slipped in from outside, just a suggestion of sun-circle and garden flowers nodding their bright heads.
Window. Shutters to pull back, bubbled glass casement to unlatch and push open. Dark street beyond, flecked on one side by portal glow, on the other only night.
Hesitation. Fingers rising to the buzz behind his ear, the silver curve.
“Nemirin, take care of them,” he said in a voice gone to rust and ruin.
Then he pulled it off, dropped it in the toybox, and was gone.
Chapter 29 – Fall or Fly
'Who's Nemirin?' sent an officer on the earhook network.
She didn't know these men well enough to guess which one, nor did she answer. A chill had set in, cutting off her voice and misting her eyes. She wanted to call it silly—shake it off and focus on her task—but she'd known this was coming for a while.
Since the beginning, almost. Since the crack in the crystal.
With effort, she pushed the reaction away and snapped, “Find the captain,” to her cloak of eiyets. They hissed her orders onward, into the Shadow Realm and to the agents standing by inside the umbral wall. They would locate him, she didn't doubt—but from a distance. Wherever he was, whatever he had planned, it would be somewhere they couldn't go.
Somewhere she couldn't.
That's just how it is. I'm needed here, coordinating. This is too big to throw away for one man.
There were times when she hated the Shadow Folk's stubborn neutrality. If they'd interceded earlier, more strongly—
We would have killed him. Stop marinating in woe and get back to work.
'What do you mean, sir? Take care of who?' That was Linciard—out of breath, distressed, but still active. A relief after his last sending.
'He's off the network,' came Izelina's response.
'What? Why? Where'd he go?'
“I'm looking for him,” Ardent cut in. “Your situation, lieutenant?”
'Solo. Me and my lancers split up. Not sure where I am, but nothing's— Nope, there's a monster. Flaming pikes. They're not quick enough to catch us, but they're persistent, and we can't ride around in circles forever. Eventually we'll intersect each other's tails.'
“We can grab you and the horses if you can find solid shadows.”
'Well, have your people flag mine down, because I can't tell the difference.'
“Will do.”
'Vrallek, Arlin, Sengith, are you still there? Sergeants?'
A rough chorus of replies came through the hook, some no more than grunts. Linciard started running through situation reports, so Ardent took a moment to pass more orders through the eiyets, then glance around at the condition of Rakut Center.
The Blaze Company ranks here had been depleted by the last assignments, just thirty of Linciard's men left—now under Sergeant Benson. Short and bulky and flustered, the sergeant had his
troops gathered in nervous ranks in the square, as if ready to repel an assault by the crowds of civilians and the sprinkling of Shadow Folk and Trifolders who'd remained here. To the side, medics worked over Scryer Mako, Magus Lahngi, Medic Shuralla and the other injured; Lark sat nearby, looking weary but still talking with the goblin ambassadors. Behind them, several metal elementals awaited orders.
There wasn't any housing around the Center, the area mostly shops and district governance, but someone among the civvies had organized the taking and distribution of braziers, fuel, chairs, benches, rugs and blankets from the locality. Small fires glowed everywhere, accenting the lantern-light; in several places, people were brewing tea. Ardent glimpsed the Lord Governor, the Mother Matriarch and a few other officials drifting amongst the folk, so at least they were doing their part.
Still, there were hundreds of people caught out here, too nervous to go seeking shelter down dark streets, and thousands more huddled in the homes and inns and shops of Rakut and Lakeshore, further north. Ardent was glad she'd moved them here, but it made her nervous to have so much vulnerability at her back. So many old folks and children, and too little protection.
“Send to the Regency,” she hissed in eiyenriu, feeling all the eiyets on her shoulders perk up. “Major attack on holdings. Imperial monsters and wraiths. Desperate need for reinforcement. Deliver first to Regent Ereshti.”
A handful of eiyets chattered and vanished into the seething horde. Ardent chewed her lip, wondering how this would go. She should have petitioned to the Regency days—no, weeks ago, but this had been such a small operation then. She hadn't been able to put into words why she thought it so important.
Now, with conditions dire, she cursed herself. She could have sent as soon as she'd learned the Chisel Ridge complex had been compromised, but she'd hesitated, and then chaos had intervened. She'd balked at calling to her mother for help, and people had died for it.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 85
