He knew he should leave, should run home as fast as his legs could carry him, but he found that the thought of turning his back on whatever or whoever—the shadows made it impossible to tell for sure—had killed the guard was even worse than staying where he was. At least here, he could see the bandit, if that was what it was. Even as he had the thought, half a dozen other figures joined the first, and the group began to make their way along the battlements, in his direction. Oh gods.
As they drew closer, Simon saw that they were only men after all, but the realization didn’t give him as much relief as he would have liked. Men, maybe, but that didn’t make the city guardsman any less dead.
Simon the Brave would have stood up then and said something tough, would have fought and beaten them all. But, cowering behind the wall, he realized that he wasn’t Simon the Brave. He never had been. Simon the Small, maybe. Simon the Scared. But certainly not Simon the Brave. Movement on the battlements caught his eye, and he looked further down the wall where three figures were making their way up the steps. They wore heavy robes, but even in the near darkness he could see that their arms were too long and too thin, just like Blake had described.
The bogeymen. They were real. Just as the long swords they carried were real. Barely daring to breathe, Simon turned back to look at the bandits and saw that one seemed to be staring right at him. He prepared himself to run, but the figure made no move toward him, and a moment later it turned back to the three bogeymen. Then there was a pop in the air, and the robed figures charged forward, impossibly fast, their swords leading.
***
The Speaker and his brothers watched the three abominations as they stepped off the stairs and onto the battlements. A quick look at the other side of the wall showed that his brothers there had finished off the regular guardsmen and were even now sprinting toward him and the others. He wondered at the child crouched by the top of the stairs, but dismissed it immediately. Whatever poor luck had brought the child to the walls on such an ill-fated night, it was clear he was no threat.
He turned back to the three figures in time to see them rush forward with their unnatural speed. The first was on them in seconds, the narrow battlements making it impossible for more than two to wield their long blades at once. Its sword flashed toward the nearest Akalian, and the black-garbed figure responded with a perfect parry. Or, at least, what would have been perfect, had the magi’s dark arts not invested the creature with a speed far beyond that of normal mortals. So instead of turning the creature’s blow, the Akalian’s sword arrived too late to keep the slender blade from slicing a deep, bloody furrow across his left arm. The creature tried to pull the blade back, but didn’t manage it before the wounded Akalian dropped his own blade and grasped the creature’s, keeping it in place, the sharp edge cutting into his hand and his arm deeply where he held it.
The creature had time to cock its head in the vaguely confused way of its kind, then two more of the Speaker’s brothers lunged forward, their swords impaling it before it could pull its own blade free. The creature collapsed, and the wounded Akalian’s blood soaked left arm hung limply at his side now. The Akalian bent to retrieve his sword, but his fingers wouldn’t obey his commands, and he stood a moment later, weaponless.
He met the Speaker’s eyes then, and though his wounds made him incapable of communicating using the intricate hand-language which belonged to them and them alone, his eyes spoke well enough. And so the Speaker wasn’t surprised when the next creature rushed forward, and his wounded brother charged. A slender blade flashed out, tearing through the Akalian’s stomach, but his momentum sent him stumbling into the sword’s wielder, and they both fell to the ground.
The Akalians didn’t hesitate, their own blades flashing out, and if some of the blades seeking the struggling creature found their brother, then he and they took it as no more than a kindness.
In another second, the thing was done, and two more corpses lay on the battlements. And now there are eleven of us, the Speaker thought, as he and his remaining brothers turned to face the last of the creatures.
***
“Hold the fucking line!”
The bellow came from somewhere off to Darrell’s right. He couldn’t be sure over the din of battle, but he thought he recognized the voice as that of Sergeant Wendell, and he spared a thought to hope the man made it through the next few hours as he waited for the next of the creatures to come upon him. The swordmaster stood in a line hundreds of soldiers across, a line that buckled as the creatures attacked.
Harsh breaths from beside him drew his attention. A young soldier stood there, his eyes wide and wild. “D-demons,” he rasped. “They’re demons.”
Darrell could understand the man’s fears, for whatever they were, the creatures were not human, not any longer. And when they’d appeared on the western side of the army, fifty of them at least, they had done so silently, with none of the shouts and horn blasts that usually accompanied an attack. They’d raced toward the army like wraiths come to harvest the souls of the damned, and though he had fought them before, even the swordmaster had felt a surge of panic at their silent approach.
“Not demons,” he said, as much to himself as to the other soldier. “And whatever they are, they still bleed. They still die. Remember that, lad.”
If the soldier meant to answer, he didn’t have a chance, for a second later another one of the creatures charged Darrell’s spot in the line, and he and those to either side of him were too busy trying to keep from dying to talk. Normally, such an attack against an established line would have been suicide, but the creatures’ great speed meant they could attack and retreat with little chance of falling victim to a counter stroke. Not that they did retreat. Whatever else the mage’s dark workings did, it seemed to make his victims care nothing for their own survival. Each appeared intent only on taking as many soldiers with them into death as they could.
And take they did, their long slender blades reaping a bloody harvest on Perennia’s army, and for every creature that was brought down, half a dozen defenders fell with him. As if summoned by his thoughts, a creature charged Darrell’s part of the line. Its blade flashed out, lightning-quick, and it was only his long years of experience that allowed the swordmaster to anticipate the strike and duck under it. The sword passed inches over his head, embedding itself in the heavy shield of the man on Darrell’s left. The creature tried to jerk the blade free, but before it could, several blades lashed out, and though they were panicked, uncoordinated strikes, the combined blows proved enough to bring the creature down.
“See?” he said, turning back to the young soldier. “They…” He cut off as he saw two others dragging the young soldier back to the line of healers stationed behind the army. Darrell only got a glance at the young soldier before he was hidden from view by others stepping forward to fill the gap he’d left, but it was enough to see the deep gash in his neck, the blood almost black in the ruddy glow of the torches spaced out behind the battle line.
Dead then. Suddenly feeling very tired, Darrell swept his gaze around the area behind the line and saw what appeared to be hundreds of the dead and wounded, the army’s healers shuffling around the bodies, doing what they could to mend them or, as more often was the case, to ease the agony of their passing into Salen’s Fields. How many were there? he wondered. Two hundred? A thousand? There was no way to tell for sure. Too many, that much was certain, far too many for the hour or two that had passed since battle was joined.
And even those terrible losses were nowhere near as bad as they could have been. As they would have been, had Caleb not prepared the army with the caltrops that were even now being thrown over the shoulders of the defenders to litter the ground between them and the creatures who moved wraith-like in the darkness. Thanks to the devices of the youth’s design, many of the creatures were wounded, their feet torn to ribbons by the time they made it to the line, but still they fought, as if such wounds meant nothing to them. Still they killed.
> There was a shout nearby, and Darrell pulled his gaze away from the dead and dying to where more creatures were rushing forward. He forced down the bitter ache of exhaustion and sadness that threatened to overcome him and raised his sword, preparing to meet the charge. There would be time, later, to grieve for the wounded. If, that was, any of them survived.
***
Captain Gant scanned the latest casualty report, his jaw muscles working furiously. “This just from the southern side?” he asked the sweaty, panting messenger in front of him.
“Yes sir,” the man said. “Sergeant Biladen wished for me to tell you that he’s in need of reinforcements.”
Of course he is, Brandon thought, who isn’t? But he gave a sharp nod. “Very well—go back to the sergeant and tell him that he’ll have the men he needs. Hurry now.” The messenger nodded and left the tent at a run, leaping into his horse’s saddle and speeding away, but Brandon noticed the way the man slumped in his seat, clearly exhausted. He sympathized. He, too, was tired, weary from coordinating the army’s troops and healers, exhausted from report after report—all of them bad, it seemed—of casualties, of reinforcements, and of the healers running low on string or gut.
He glanced at May. The club owner had proved invaluable since the battle had started, seeming to know exactly how much of each supply they had and where the quickest place to get it would be. Still, he could see his own worries, his own fears etched on her features. Battle had only been joined a few hours before, and already nearly a thousand troops lay dead or wounded. For at least the fifth time since the fighting began, Brandon fought down the urge to send a messenger to Aaron, asking for the Virtue-bearers to reinforce the army’s flagging line.
After all, he knew the importance of what they planned, knew that, should the Akalians manage to get the gate open, the Virtue-bearers would be needed to push through the troops inevitably waiting on the other side. Aaron had said that he would split the bearers up, if needed, but only in the greatest extremity, for to do so would be risk losing their one chance at a quick victory. And Brandon didn’t believe they were at that point—not yet. But they were getting closer by the minute, and if the Akalians didn’t manage to get the gate open soon…well, better not to think of that.
“Celad.”
“Sir?” the messenger said, stepping forward from where he waited against the tent’s wall along with three others.
“Go see that Sergeant Senler’s squad is sent to Biladen’s aid. You know where?”
“Yes sir,” the man said, which was just as well as they’d spent the hours of the night before going over where each commander would be.
“Good, and Celad?”
“Sir?”
“The healer’s on the southwestern side are running low on gut and bandages. See they’re sent some.”
“Of course, sir.”
Then the man was gone, and Brandon took the spare moment—there had been few enough in the last hours—to glance once again at the map of the terrain around Baresh. All along it, markers denoted each squad’s deployment. Beside the map, a pile of quickly-depleting markers waited, and he grabbed the one representing Senler’s troops, moving it onto the map. On the other side of the table sat several other markers, and he did his best not to look at the pile that had been rapidly growing in the last hours, for those markers represented squads that had been crippled in the fighting or—in a few cases—slaughtered outright.
All this slaughter already, and when the sun rose in a few hours’ time, it would do so on a field covered in the dead and dying, yet still there had been no sign of Baresh’s army. Where are they, damnit?
He saw May looking at the tent flap with a mixture of fear and anxiety. “I’m sure he’s fine, May.”
“How can you be sure?” she said. She didn’t sound angry, only tired and scared.
“We would have heard news. Besides, I placed him near Aaron and the others—if there’s a safer place to be during the battle, I don’t know of it.”
She didn’t press him further, which was just as well. He’d done what he could, but the truth was, Brandon’s own thoughts were dark and growing darker, and he had little comfort to give. Still, none of the fear had left her face, and he was just opening his mouth to try again, when another messenger rushed in. “Commander,” he said, bowing low to Brandon.
Brandon waved a hand dismissively. “No time for that, lad. Tell me, what news do you bring?”
“A behemoth and twenty speedies, sir, on the north-eastern flank, third quadrant.”
“Third quadrant,” Brandon said, rubbing at the scruff on his chin, glancing at the map. “That’s Sergeant Tenal’s section isn’t it?”
“Not anymore, Commander,” the messenger said. “Tenal’s dead, sir—one of the speedies done for him.”
Brandon grunted. He hadn’t been close to Tenal—the man had been with Cardayum’s army—but Brandon had made a point of meeting with each of the squad leaders before they’d left Perennia, spending as much time with each as possible, getting a feel for their strengths and weaknesses. Tenal had been one of the best.
Shit. Behemoths and speedies—they were the names the soldiers had given to Kevlane’s creatures, and he supposed they were as good as any other. “Very well,” he said, his mind going over the troops still held in reserve, and a moment later the messenger departed with orders to bring two squads to aid the quadrant he’d indicated.
No sooner had the messenger left than the tent flap was thrown open, and one of the guards poked his head in. “Forgive me, Commander, but you’re needed out here.”
Brandon shared a troubled glance with May before heading out of the tent. As he stepped outside, he was immediately struck with the smell of blood, and he cleared his throat, glancing around at the army spread out around him, at the corpses—gods, but he’d never thought to see so many—scattered behind the line. A groan from nearby drew his attention, and he turned to see a man sitting slumped across a horse.
The rider was swaying drunkenly and his horse’s flanks were covered in several deep cuts, running with blood. The man, too, looked no better, one of his hands clamped around the shaft of an arrow buried in his gut. “Help him,” Brandon said, motioning to one of the guards, but before they could reach him, the man let out another groan and toppled from his saddle.
Brandon hurried forward and knelt in front of the man. He recognized him as one of the scouts they’d sent to watch the army’s flanks. Uner, he thought was the man’s name, and looking at the wounded scout, a feeling of dread began to build in Brandon. “What is it, man? What’s happened?”
“T-the commander,” the man hissed, blood bubbling from his mouth as he spoke. “I need to…speak to…Commander Gant.”
“I’m he, lad. Now, what’s happened?”
The scout blinked, looking at Brandon as if seeing him for the first time. “It’s…the woods, sir. I…they’re coming.”
Brandon’s heart began to gallop in his chest, but he forced himself to remain calm, all too aware of the healers and messengers watching him. “Who’s coming, Uner?”
The man’s gaze was unfocused, distant, as if staring at something only he could see. “My wife’s gonna…be so mad that I…hurt myself. Again.” He grasped Brandon’s hand with a desperate strength. “Can I see her, Commander? I’m tired and…I’d like…I’d like to explain what happened, before I sleep. So…so she won’t be mad.”
Brandon clenched his jaw, swallowing the emotion that suddenly welled up in him. The man’s wife was miles and miles away in Perennia, but Brandon nodded. “Of course, lad,” he said, his own voice haggard and coming out in little more than a whisper. “We’ll get her, just as soon as we’re done talking. Now, why don’t you just tell me what you meant—who’s coming?”
“B-behind me,” the man said. “They…” Then he trailed off, took one last, hitching breath, and was still. Brandon recognized that stillness, for he had seen it far too many times in the last few hours.
He
crouched there for several seconds, his jaw working, until one of the guards spoke. “General? What do you want us to do, sir?”
Brandon cleared his throat, rising from the body. “Get one of the stablemen to see to his horse.” He turned to the guard. “Which direction did this man ride in from?”
“West, sir.”
West. But how? Brandon turned, looking off into the darkness of the distant trees. There’d been no signs of troops to the west, and it didn’t make sense at any rate. For one, if there had been troops there, the army would have passed by them during their march to the city. Unless they were hiding, lying in wait. He looked back at the scout’s corpse. Not killed with a sword, this one, but an arrow. And for all the many dangers they presented, Kevlane’s creatures did not use such weapons, and that could only mean one thing.
It could have been a single enemy scout, perhaps, but the man hadn’t said “he” or “she” but them. Not one man then, but from the way the scout had spoken, many of them. Gods watch over us. “Send runners,” Brandon said. “We need all of the reserve companies ready to support our western flank.”
“Commander?” the guard asked. “The western—”
“You heard me,” he snapped. “Do it now, lad.”
As the guard departed, Brandon turned back to the east where the western gate of Baresh still remained stubbornly closed. Had the Akalians run into more trouble than they could handle? Were they, even now, lying dead along the battlements? Had they even managed to reach the top of the wall at all? Questions that would be answered all too soon, and he feared the only answers would be dark ones indeed.
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