by Gary Meehan
The wall: a mile back up the pass and the last defensive position before Hil itself. Afreyda was stationed there with her men. Megan hoped they had nothing to do but stamp their feet against the cold.
She exercised royal prerogative and ignored Willas’s question, asking her own instead. “How are we doing?”
“We’re holding on. Just.”
“For how long?”
“Depends how determined they are.”
They were witches; of course they were determined. “What can I do?”
“If you could get me a thousand more men and some of those guns, that’d be a start.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Megan. “When do you need them by?”
“A couple of hours ago?” said Willas with a wry smile.
Megan stared at the gates. Beyond them was a narrow corridor through the mountains, defended on either side by hidden archery emplacements gouged out of the rock. “Have the witches found the passage yet?”
Willas shook his head. “They’re still trying to push over the pass. I don’t know what’ll happen if they do find this way. The gates’ll hold up for a while, but—”
“Open them,” said Megan.
“They work better closed.”
“I need to get past.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You want guns, captain? I’m going to get them for you.”
She made for the gates. Stomping echoed around the cavern as Willas hurried after her. He placed his bulk in front of her. Megan tried to go around him. Willas sidestepped into her path.
He took her by the arm—gently, but firmly—and led her into a natural alcove in the rocks. The background noise lessened; the ambient smell didn’t. Saviors knew what this cranny had been used for.
“I can’t let you go out there,” said Willas.
“I don’t need your permission,” said Megan.
“My mountains. What I say, goes.”
“I have to do something,” said Megan. “Do you know how many deaths are already on my conscience?” In her dreams they were all there—Eleanor, her grandfather, Lynette, Silas, Clover, Odette, Brother Brogan, the families of Thicketford, the countless people whose names she never knew and whose anonymity amplified her guilt. “I can’t stand by doing nothing while people are fighting and dying.”
“Yes, you can. That’s what being queen is about.”
“No one ever stopped Eleanor.”
“And look at how that worked out for her.”
The emotional wound that Willas’s remark reopened was as raw as any of the physical ones suffered by the injured men sprawled around them. “The witches have come for me,” said Megan. “We can use that against them. They don’t think straight where I’m concerned.”
“We can’t risk you.”
Megan felt more like a young girl imploring her father to allow her to go to a party than a queen making a last, desperate gamble to avoid annihilation. “Captain, if they break through, we’re all dead or worse. Please, I can do this. And more to the point, I’m the only one who can, the only one they’ll come after no matter what.”
Willas let out a sound that was half sigh, half growl, and looked up to the rocky ceiling of the cavern. “For both our sakes, don’t tell Afreyda about this.”
Megan picked her way through the rocks, wincing every time an arrow flew over her head or gunfire echoed around the mountains. She wished just for once she could come up with a plan that didn’t involve probable suicide. The gray furs the Hilites had provided were doing a good job of camouflaging her, but sooner or later one of the witches would spot her, fire, give chase. Knowing that’s what she wanted didn’t make it any less scary.
She made her way down the witches’ left flank. They were arranged in tight ranks of slowly-but-inexorably advancing guns. Men were visible through the smoke; some flitting about as they fed the monsters; others protecting them, shields painted with the star-broken circle strapped to one arm, axes in the other. Corpses or soon-to-be corpses were scattered around the fighting force. A detached head stared at its body, eternally alarmed to see the rest of itself from such an unexpected angle.
Megan passed beyond the witches’ rearguard. Down in the foothills she could just make out massed horses: the witches’ cavalry waiting for the guns to clear them a path. Something to worry about later. She lowered her hood and shook out her hair. The icy wind blasted so hard against her skin it was painful, but the witches had to see it was her. She edged closer, hefting the crossbow in her hands. Willas had told her it had an effective range of three hundred yards, less if she wanted to be accurate. She didn’t care about that: she just wanted to be noticed. Megan smiled to herself. Didn’t every girl?
She broke cover and pulled the trigger. The weapon shuddered as it released its pent-up energy, flinging the bolt toward its target. Even above the cacophony, Megan heard the sharp chime of iron striking iron. She fought the urge to flee. They had to see her. A crossbow bolt whizzed past her head. That sorted out the being-seen bit. She abandoned her own crossbow and ran.
Lungs straining, muscles burning with acid, Megan pelted up the mountain path. Bolts and arrows continued to fly at her, making her nostalgic for the days when the witches had been terrified of hurting her. A projectile screeched overhead and smacked into the rocks. She lost her footing and tumbled to the ground. Witches approached, their shapes solidifying as they advanced through the fog. Megan scrambled to her feet and continued running.
She reached the passage. The high walls of the narrow corridor blocked out the sun and muffled the noise of the battle, reducing everything to a dreamlike state, and like in a dream Megan kept on running but didn’t seem to advance. Her limbs grew heavier and heavier. The gates seemed as far away as ever, their presence not encouraging but taunting.
Something snapped under her foot. An arrow. She glanced over her shoulder. A witch bowman was steadying himself, preparing to fire. Megan could expect no help, no rescuing arrow shooting out from one of the slits concealed in the rock. She threw herself to the ground, rolled in the shingle even as the arrow flew over her, and pushed herself up before her body could realize it liked the idea of staying down.
The gates were getting closer. She could see soldiers through the gap, torchlight flashing on their armor. Just a few more steps. Pain flashed through her shoulder. Megan didn’t have the breath to cry out. Her legs started to give way. Her run became a fall. But exterior became interior. She tumbled to the floor. Hands grabbed her, dragged her away. The world darkened. A slam echoed around the chamber. She had made it.
Megan groped behind her to examine the source of the stinging in her shoulder. A throwing knife. She pulled it out, wincing as she did so. The tip glistened with blood. Her blood.
“You can actually hit people with these things?” she said, holding the knife up to Willas.
“Not very well,” he said. “You’re still alive.”
“Your men must adore your cheerfulness.”
Willas motioned at her furs. “Let’s see what the damage is.”
Megan peeled off her top layers. Some of the men blushed and looked away. All this carnage and they were still agitated by a pair of breasts.
Willas called for more light and peered at the wound. “It’s not very deep,” he said. “Won’t need stitches.” He grabbed a bottle of spirits from an adjutant and splashed it over Megan’s shoulder. The sudden burning prompted vehemence that made the men blush all over again.
“I’m not sure that was regal,” said Willas, tying a bandage around Megan’s shoulder.
“Sod regal,” said Megan. “Did they . . . ?”
Willas called out. A soldier scurried up to him and delivered a report. “A detachment of guns has broken off,” Willas translated for Megan. “Headed this way.”
“Don’t dissuade them too hard.”
“We know.”
Soldiers started to stream past, heading for tunnels that stretched the length of the passage outside.
As well as the archery emplacements concealed in the rock, there were hidden exits from which men could pour out and fall upon besiegers. Megan pulled her clothes back on and made to follow.
Willas pulled her back. “You’ve done your bit,” he said. “Let the men do theirs.”
Megan slipped on a puddle of puréed innards and almost went head first into the cavity that once contained them. Willas caught her at the last moment. She stabilized herself, tried not to gawkgawp at the man a gun had pulverized. It was impossible to say whether he was a Hilite or a witch.
It was carnage all along the passage. Blood glistened scarlet against gray rock as if part of some psychotic attempt to add color to the mountains. Corpses were strewn about, their wounds steaming in the icy air. Limbs lay separated from their owners, now nothing more than cooling meat. One man had had his helmet driven into his skull, his eyeballs bulging out from the pressure. And there, amidst the death, hunkered the objects of the exercise, three guns, smoke wafting out of their ugly iron mouths.
Megan picked her way over to one of them, her footsteps squelching more than she would have liked. It sat in a wheeled carriage, ropes protruding from its front like an insect’s feelers.
“Doesn’t look very impressive,” said Willas.
Impressive enough to conquer two continents. “Stand in front of it and say that.”
“How does it work?”
Megan pointed at a cart at the far end of the passage, which contained the ammunition. “Fill it with gunpowder and one of those iron balls. Light the fuse and stand well back.” She remembered the witches’ invasion of Eastport, when an exploding gun had taken down one of their own warships. “Well well back.”
Willas shouted orders. Hilite soldiers began to drag the guns around and back to the entrance to the passage. It wasn’t much—three guns against Saviors knew how many the witches had—but it might be enough to turn the battle.
She was about to follow them when a soldier came dashing through the gates and up to them. He delivered a breathless message to Willas, who pulled a face and started issuing more orders.
“What is it?” said Megan.
“The witches’ cavalry has broken through,” said Willas. “They’re headed for the wall.”
The wall—Afreyda. Megan’s feet were already moving before her brain gave the order.
thirteen
Megan dashed through the mountains until she found the tunnel closest to the wall and scrambled along it. Winter light almost blinded her as she burst out on to the rocks, but she couldn’t wait for her eyes to acclimatize. She kept on moving, kicking up shale and stones as she half ran, half fell down the mountains. She had to get to Afreyda, make sure she was safe.
The wall was less a wall and more a heap of rocks that stretched from one side of the pass to the other, held together by ice, obstinacy and its own weight. It ranged in height from something a child could peer over to a good ten feet tall. There was no gate, just a narrow gap at the center that served as a chokepoint. Witch horsemen were attacking it, lobbing grapefruit-sized balls that fizzed and exploded, before wheeling around and racing away as bolts shot back in reply.
Afreyda was in the thick of it. Near her, jammed up against the wall, a dozen teenagers were rearming crossbows, arms whirling as they wound strings back. Occasionally a bolt would pop out and career to the ground, prompting jeers and cheers at the poor unfortunate who had almost speared themselves. They seemed awfully young to be in battle, but they weren’t much younger than Megan; some looked older. If the witches reached Hil there wouldn’t have been much point in sparing them the action, and didn’t they deserve the chance to fight for their homes, their freedom, their way of life?
Afreyda scowled at Megan. “What are you doing here?”
“I wondered if you were free for dinner.”
One of the witches’ devices sailed over their heads and exploded a few yards away, knocking them off their feet. Megan lay there, ears ringing, coughs racking her lungs, before Afreyda hauled her to her feet.
“It is not safe.”
“I’ve been in worst places,” said Megan, patting herself down.
“That is no excuse.”
“Eleanor wouldn’t have minded.”
Afreyda diverted a girl carrying a brace of crossbows and pointed to one of the ladders that led to the top of the wall. “Yes, well, I would like a word with her.”
Wouldn’t we all. “Willas has guns,” Megan said, trying to change the subject.
“I am very pleased for him,” said Afreyda. “Maybe now he can give me my archers back.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did he get guns?”
“Er . . . luck?”
“What did you—?”
There was a sequence of booms from the vicinity of the gap in the wall. Soldiers raced for cover. Megan grabbed Afreyda and pulled her to the ground, shielding her body with her own as dust rolled over them.
The booms faded. Afreyda disentangled herself from Megan and got to her feet, brushing down her uniform. “They are trying to collapse the wall.”
No, that wasn’t their plan. Horsemen burst out of the fog and raced up the pass. Afreyda snatched a crossbow from one of the reloaders and fired. The bolt buried itself in a witch’s back. He toppled off his mount and hit the ground without offering any resistance.
A score of crossbows followed Afreyda’s example, their strings thrumming like a badly tuned band. More witches fell: some instantly, some staggering on for a while with bolts sticking from their torsos, some thrown from wounded horses and set upon by vengeful infantry. Not all though. Some were streaking ahead.
Another horseman raced out of the smoke by the gate. There was an explosion—one of the witches’ devices detonating late or early. The horse staggered, disorientated. Afreyda drew her sword and ran, up an outcropping that formed a makeshift ramp, and launched herself at the rider. Her blade arced. A string of blood flew through the air, the droplets as bright as rubies.
A free horse. Even as Afreyda was picking herself up, and its witch rider was facing the prospect of soon knowing if his cause was just, Megan hurried to the animal and grabbed its reins. She had no time to be scared, to dwell on the ease with which it could kick or trample her to death. The witches couldn’t be allowed to get to Hil, to get to Cate.
Megan swung herself up into the saddle. Afreyda screamed her name.
“Get your own ride!” she shouted back, before kicking the horse into a gallop.
The cold wind blasting into her face made tears stream from her eyes. She blinked them away, counted the number of witches she was pursuing. Three of them. One of her. The rational part of her cleared its throat and offered up the polite suggestion she was perhaps outnumbered. Megan was well used to ignoring it by now.
The rear witch glanced back and saw her. He fumbled around his saddle, grabbed something, hurled it at Megan. She swayed to one side as an ax spun past, whistling as it cut the air.
From out of her belt Megan pulled the blade that had hit her in the shoulder. She recalled everything Eleanor had taught her about throwing knives and immediately discounted it. She urged the last drop of speed out of her horse, drew a little closer to her target, and threw.
The knife whizzed past the witch. The curse had barely escaped Megan’s lips when the next horse along reared and threw its rider. The witch slammed into the ground head first and was still. As Megan shot past the now-meandering animal, she saw her blade sticking from its rump. A success of sorts. She shouted an apology at the animal and kept on going.
After the initial burst of speed, horses of both pursuer and pursued were slowing. They were getting higher. Snow blanked out patches of ground as if the world hadn’t finished being painted. The air was getting thicker, condensing into a freezing mist. Megan wondered how long she could keep going, if she should keep going. How was she going to deal with the two remaining horsemen if she caught them?
Movement in the corner of her eye, hoof beats echoing her own. Afreyda had
taken her order seriously and commandeered the mount of one of the fallen witches. She was soon riding beside her. Afreyda took the reins in one hand and drew her sword.
“Flank him!” she shouted at Megan, pointing her sword at the rear rider.
Megan kicked her horse back up to a gallop, praying it wouldn’t rebel. The gap between her and her quarry narrowed, close enough to see the sweat frothing on horseflesh. A final push drew her level. The witch’s head snapped around. He snatched up a battle-axe and swiped at Megan. She jerked out of the way, but stayed close enough to remain a target. The witch struck again. A scream bounced around the pass. Not Megan’s—the witch’s. Distracted, he’d failed to see Afreyda come up on his left, nor spotted her sword until it embedded itself in his arm.
He lurched round, swung his ax. Afreyda had already anticipated the attack and moved out of range. The witch’s arm ended up wrapping around his own chest, almost knocking him out of his saddle. He tried to stabilize himself. His injured arm could barely grip the reins. Megan drew a dagger and moved in close. The witch raised his arm to strike. Megan lunged, burying her knife into his exposed armpit. The witch cried out. His ax clattered to the ground. He pressed his arm to his side, concentrating on remaining upright. Afreyda’s sword broke his concentration, broke everything.
Just one witch left, but that last burst had pushed their horses too far. They dropped to nothing more than a canter and a reluctant one at that. The last witch pushed on further and further ahead. Then, just as he was about to disappear over a ridge, a figure stumbled out of the mist, heading straight for him.
The rider was going too fast to pull up. Horse met man with an inhuman shriek. They tumbled to the rock floor. Moments later Megan and Afreyda caught up. Afreyda dispatched the dazed rider with a quick thrust. Megan slid off her horse and examined the other man.
It was Aldred, head gashed from the horse’s hoofs, fingers frozen around the straps of a bag.
Soldiers soon arrived, bringing news the witches’ cavalry had pulled back, panicked by being fired upon by the captured guns. The men hauled Aldred, who was in a state of semiconscious delirium, on to the back of one of their horses. One of the soldiers assured Megan he’d ministered to many battlefield injuries, but when she pressed him on how many he’d successfully treated he became vague and told them he’d see them back at the wall.
