Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  Starn was about to signal the company forward when he was barged out of the way, catching the side of his head on the wall. ‘Ooh, quite a knock that,’ he mumbled as the Emperor strode past into the alley and stood there, hands on hips.

  Indomitable, Starn thought. Like a god of battle. He felt a tad unworthy cowering by the wall. Not a good show to have the Emperor take the lead. Not good at all.

  The thirty men of the Imperial bodyguard flowed past him, taking up their positions around Hagalle with seamless precision. Shields were raised in a defensive circle, but the Emperor stood a good head above the tallest of the soldiers and suddenly looked vulnerable. A single arrow was all it would take. It didn’t matter that the enemy thus far had been reported as walking corpses; a good general always had to plan for the worst.

  The shield wall parted for Starn as he took up his place beside the Emperor.

  ‘Makes a change,’ Hagalle growled. ‘The scouts were right. Nothing. No movement in the northern suburbs. What would you say, General, press on to the central district and get a good look at the enemy ourselves?’

  Starn scrunched his face up and tugged at his moustache. He’d have preferred a steady advance with the main army, but Duke Farian had been left to arrange that whilst Hagalle insisted on going ahead to make sure the scouts hadn’t been lying. Starn had learnt long ago there was no point arguing with the Emperor. He was a man of action, a brave man— whatever the slanderers might say. A man worthy to be followed.

  ‘Lost your tongue again, Starn?’ The Emperor rolled his eyes and Starn lowered his, feeling an utter disappointment.

  ‘I was going to say…’ he stammered, hating himself for his inability to speak in front of authority.

  ‘What is it I pay you for, Starn?’ Hagalle raised his voice and the sniggers started amongst the soldiers. ‘Because I’m damned if I can remember. Wait here for Farian, if you like, but us men are pressing on. I want a good look at these ghouls for myself. You can never have too much reconnaissance, Starn. Never.’

  Starn looked up, straight into the mocking eyes of Dalglish. As Hagalle pushed through the encircling soldiers and headed towards the junction at the end of the alley, Dalglish pulled off his helmet to run his fingers through his slick red hair.

  He opened his mouth to say something, a wicked curl twisting the edge of his lips, but Starn had had enough of that sort of thing.

  ‘Attention, Captain Dalglish. Let’s not forget our places, eh?’

  Dalglish sneered, but put his helmet back on and clicked his heels together.

  ‘Keep close to the Emperor, Dalglish. This is a risky business. Every man at his best, what, what.’

  The troops had to jog to keep up with Hagalle, who stood at the crossroads with one hand resting on a twenty-foot tall iron post, atop which was a glass sphere. The way ahead broadened into an avenue flanked by rows of identical posts. Starn wished he could show them to Mrs Starn. She’d always had a love of the Ancients, but there was little evidence of their civilization in Jorakum. Compared to Sarum, the Capital was something of a baby.

  The streets to left and right of their position were sorry affairs, strewn with all manner of stinking waste. Black rats scampered about the refuse and occasionally raised their beady eyes to look at the company.

  ‘Straight on,’ Hagalle said. ‘Can’t see the enemy taking up positions down those shit holes. Place is a bloody disgrace. Makes you wonder what on earth Zara Gen has been doing all these years. I rather suspect Sarum will be having an election far sooner than he expects.’

  Dalglish flicked a look at Starn and then left and right along the streets. Starn guessed his meaning, put his fist to his mouth and coughed.

  ‘Not well, General?’ Hagalle said, turning on him, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Um, no, Emperor. I mean, yes, I’m fine. It’s just that, as Captain Dalglish has rightly pointed out…’

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ Hagalle said, his shoulders bunching up around his ears.

  Starn tugged down the front of his breastplate and stood to attention. ‘The area isn’t secure, Emperor. If we continue on without…’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Hagalle said. ‘Stay if you like, but I don’t have the time for this.’

  ‘Permission to speak freely, Emperor,’ Starn said in an unusually strident voice.

  Hagalle glowered, but then raised an eyebrow and inclined his head. ‘General.’

  ‘We should wait here for Duke Farian to catch up, deploy a rear-guard to make sure our retreat isn’t compromised, and send scouts east and west.’

  Hagalle gave him a slow handclap. ‘Tactically astute, as ever, General, but you are forgetting one thing: all the reports have been of a motley band of zombies who haven’t moved from the front of Arnbrook House.’

  ‘With the exception of the black carriage,’ Dalglish whispered in Starn’s ear.

  ‘What?’ Hagalle growled. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘The black carriage, Emperor,’ Dalglish said, his cheeks turning redder than his hair. ‘Scouts said it headed east across the city with an escort of cavalry.’

  ‘And that frightens you, does it?’ Hagalle said.

  Dalglish lowered his head.

  ‘So,’ Hagalle said. ‘Unless anyone else has anything to add…’

  The Emperor’s eyes scanned the troops, but no one dared meet them. ‘Good. Excellent. Then let’s move it.’

  Hagalle turned on his heel and strode ahead, the rest of the troop scrabbling about him with shields raised and eyes darting everywhere. Dalglish shrugged, and Starn took a deep breath before following the others.

  They’d gone no further than fifty yards when a loud clopping started up from a few blocks away. Hagalle halted, and the company once again surrounded him. The noise began to swell, rolling towards them like an approaching tidal wave. Starn was all too familiar with the sound.

  ‘Cavalry!’ he barked. ‘Orderly retreat. Let’s get back to the alley.’

  Hagalle looked like he was going to protest, but was swept along by the soldiers following a direct order from their general. The main body of troops walked backwards, facing the oncoming wall of noise, but Starn and Dalglish turned to take the lead. Starn’s blood almost froze in his veins as dozens of shambling corpses spilled out from the rat-infested streets they’d just passed.

  ‘What the Abyss?’ Dalglish said, drawing his sword and banging it against his shield to alert the others.’

  Starn looked back the other way. A bank of fog roiled from the buildings edging the business district, and shadows were starting to take shape within it. The Emperor was staring like a startled rabbit, his jaw hanging slack. The men were casting nervous looks about and looked ready to break.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Dalglish called.

  Starn spun. The corpses were shuffling towards them. Many were missing arms, and some had only one leg. They crawled, hopped, and slid, drawn on by inhuman appetites Starn could only guess at. Some of the soldiers were shaking, and none besides Dalglish had drawn their swords.

  ‘You men!’ Starn found his parade ground voice and jabbed a finger at the twenty he wanted. ‘Two ranks deep, lock shields, and wait for my order.’

  ‘Sir!’ they yelled in unison, drawing their weapons and lining up in front of Dalglish.

  ‘Captain,’ bellowed Starn. ‘We’re going to smash through and run. Understood?’

  Dalglish licked his lips and nodded.

  ‘Is that understood, Captain Dalglish?’

  ‘Sir, yes, sir!’

  ‘Soldiers,’ Starn indicated the remaining ten. ‘Orderly retreat. You will protect the Emperor with your lives. Is that understood?’

  ‘Sir, yes, sir!’

  Hagalle was watching him. He nodded and drew his own broadsword, his eyes darkening, jaw setting. ‘Bloody good show, General.’

  Hagalle looked out front to where mounted knights were emerging from the mist. The horses were fleshless, their eyes blazing with red fire. The riders wore faded
tabards and ancient chainmail with broken links. They carried kite shields bearing the Nousian Monas, and blades nicked and brown with age.

  ‘Must be about fifty,’ Starn estimated out loud.

  ‘Not counting that lot,’ Hagalle said, as two more companies rode out from the side streets up ahead.

  ‘A hundred and fifty, then,’ Starn said, straining to see how many corpses were milling behind. Another hundred, at least, he guessed, but he fancied their chances with them more than against the cavalry.

  The undead horsemen formed up into tight wedges, making their intentions perfectly clear.

  ‘Captain Dalglish,’ Starn yelled. ‘On my command hit them hard and keep going.’

  The mass of dead were so close Starn could see the lifeless whites of their eyes and the blackened stubs of teeth. The stench was overpowering—worse than the leg ulcers that had tormented his poor old mother.

  ‘Steady,’ his voice rolled out. ‘Steady.’

  Dalglish cast a worried look over his shoulder. The corpses were almost upon them.

  Starn’s heart was pounding so loud he worried he might not be heard above its clamour. Sucking in a deep breath, he roared at the top of his voice. ‘Charge!’

  The shield wall surged forward and slammed into the undead. Bones splintered and rotting flesh pulped over the pavement. The soldiers in the back rank heaved, pressing against their colleagues with their shields. Those in front hacked and stabbed, carving through the first wave of corpses with ruthless efficiency.

  A chilling screech sounded from behind and Starn swung to see the cavalry sweep forward. They gathered speed, raised their swords, and charged.

  ***

  ‘Hurry!’ Gaston shouted as a window shattered and claws raked through, heedless of the jagged glass. ‘We need to leave now.’

  Maldark swung his war-hammer, crushing a hand. A head appeared above the window sill, its lips cyanosed and eyes sunken, tongue black and bloated like a slug. Gaston rammed his sword down its throat and ripped it free. The creature’s eyes swelled with blood and gore spewed from its mouth. Gaston winced at the pain in his ribs as he twisted to make sure the priests were clearing the room.

  Maldark smashed another ghoul in the face, spilling brains. Two more pushed through the window. Gaston hacked the head from the first with a double-fisted blow, and Maldark used his hammer like a battering ram to send the other flailing to the street below.

  Ioana ushered Cadris, Agna, and Rhiannon out of the attic and onto the stairs. Gaston backed towards them, weaving his sword through the air as three more slavering corpses dragged themselves into the room. Maldark spun, the hammer arcing viciously and crushing a knee cap. Gaston lunged, skewering an eye and backslashing across the throat of the next. Claws tore at his face and he fell back, raising an arm for protection. Maldark bellowed and threw his weight against the three, bowling them out of the window. Gaston ran to his side and peered out. Scores of ghouls were scuttling up the walls like grotesque spiders. The street below was teeming with undead. They were pulling people from their homes and ripping into their flesh. Screams mingled with growls, causing Gaston’s heart to sink. His breaths came hard and fast; his arms were leaden and shaky.

  ‘Always hope, boy,’ Maldark said, taking him by the shoulder and shoving him towards the door. ‘Keep moving. Protect the priests.’

  Maldark exited behind him and locked the door. Gaston squeezed past the priests on the stairwell and held up a hand for silence. He took the last few stairs to the ground floor on the balls of his feet, poking his head around the banister. Shadows passed across the shuttered windows, but the room was empty. Behind him Agna was panting, her face grey and drawn. Fat Cadris was a quivering mess, eyes darting every which way. Rhiannon was tight-lipped, her pupils like saucers. For a moment Gaston thought she was petrified, but then she met his gaze and he saw her grim resolve. She was scared half to death, like they all were, but she wasn’t ready to fold.

  Gaston crept to the front door and peered outside. A mass of undead hissed and snarled from the alleyway to the left. They immediately stopped their frenzied feeding and began to lurch towards him. He stole a look to the right. The street was clear and there was a flash of red. He blinked and looked again. It was Governor Gen waving from an adjacent alley. Behind him Gaston saw the glint of armour and swords.

  ‘Quickly!’ Zara Gen yelled. ‘We’ll cover you.’

  A score of soldiers rushed from the alley and set up a line of shields across the street. Gaston recognized Captain Harding at their centre barking commands, eyes rooted unflinchingly to the advancing corpses.

  Gaston turned to the priests on the stairs. ‘To the door,’ he said. ‘Run to the right. The militia will buy us time.’

  Ioana went first, angling behind the shield wall. Rhiannon had to half push half shove Cadris, and it seemed to take forever for his waddling bulk to cover the distance. Agna was even slower. By the time she was halfway across, the undead slammed into the militiamen with such weight that the line began to sunder.

  Maldark roared and charged into the throng, his hammer rising and falling with tireless regularity. The first ranks of undead fell before his onslaught and Harding barked commands to his men. The shield wall began an orderly withdrawal back towards the alley. All the priests, bar Agna, had made it and the retreating troops almost collided with her.

  Gaston sheathed his sword and sprinted from the doorway to sweep Agna up. He dumped her in the arms of Zara Gen and then pushed his way through the militiamen. The undead pressed forward like un unstoppable mudslide, hundreds more pouring from the tributary streets.

  The soldiers locked shields behind Gaston and Maldark, casting nervous glances at Harding. Gaston caught the Captain’s gaze and shuddered. He could just as easily have been looking in a mirror.

  ‘Go,’ Gaston said. ‘We’ll hold them as long as we can. No point us all dying.’

  Harding was about to protest when Zara Gen called out to him.

  ‘You heard the man, Harding. Follow me, and that’s an order.’

  Maldark crashed his hammer against the ground, sending a shock-wave through the first ranks of undead. Amber lightning sparked from the hammer-head and the air about it started to shimmer.’

  ‘You too, boy,’ the dwarf growled at Gaston. ‘You can do no more here. Look after Mater for me.’

  Maldark suddenly lunged at Gaston and bundled him into the alleyway. One of the soldiers caught his arm and dragged him after the others. A loathsome cry went up from the undead and they swept towards the dwarf.

  Gaston sprinted to catch up with the priests, the militia taking the rear in case Maldark couldn’t hold off the horde. Rhiannon was urging Cadris forward, and Zara Gen struggled on with Agna over his shoulder. Ioana led the way like a frantic mother hen. When Gaston reached her, she touched his arm with shaking fingers.

  ‘There are too many of them,’ she said. ‘I could try to stop them,’ she fingered her Monas, ‘but my faith…I don’t know if…’

  ‘Keep moving, Mater,’ Gaston said. ‘Otherwise Maldark’s efforts will be for nothing.’

  A cry from behind made him turn. Zara Gen lowered Agna to the ground, clutching his chest and breathing heavily.

  ‘Can’t go on,’ he panted. ‘Leave us here. I’ll stay with her.’

  Gaston jogged towards them. ‘No way, Governor. You go. I’ll stay—’

  Something dark hurtled into him amidst the sound of breaking glass. Shards tore into his skin and hands gripped him around the throat, squeezing the breath from him. Zara Gen grabbed hold of the creature, but was struck across the face and sent flying into the wall. Gaston tried to pry the fingers from his neck, but they may as well have been made of steel. A rotting face pressed close, jagged teeth straining for his flesh. Gaston recoiled from the stench and kicked out with all his strength. His vision was starting to blur, his struggles growing weaker.

  He saw a flash of movement behind the creature. Something white wrenched its head a
way. Gaston fell to his knees, panting for breath as Rhiannon slammed the ghoul into the ground and kicked it in the ribs, over and over. The creature shrieked and sprang up, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into the side alley. Gaston forced himself to stand and staggered in pursuit. By the time he reached the alley, the ghoul’s dismembered body was strewn all over the ground, but there was no sign of Rhiannon. He flopped against the wall, too exhausted to take another step.

  ***

  Skeletal steeds pulverized the shield wall, their riders hacking left and right.

  Inevitable, thought Starn, but ten brave men had bought them precious seconds.

  Up ahead, Dalglish drove a corridor through the ghouls, his men bunching into a wedge, cutting and thrusting with desperate fury.

  The Emperor roared and spun to face the death-knights rolling over his men. A horse disintegrated from a double-fisted strike with his broadsword, the rider hurtling from the saddle, but immediately crawling back towards the fray. A score of riders wheeled to confront Hagalle, but he stood his ground, just as Starn knew he would. Hagalle bellowed his defiance and swung his sword in a wide arc, keeping them at bay.

  Starn glanced back and saw that the last of Dalglish’s men were through and running like the clappers as the undead closed ranks behind. With no time for thought, Starn grabbed Hagalle by the collar and dragged him towards the gap. The Emperor swore, but then saw what was happening and charged into the opening, kicking a corpse out of his way and trampling it underfoot.

  Two ghouls moved behind the Emperor, but Starn was upon them, stabbing and slashing. He whirled as a death-knight reared up on its fleshless horse, grabbed a ghoul by the hair and threw it in the rider’s path. Hagalle smashed his way through to the far side and Starn dashed after. More ghouls lunged at him, claws gouging his breastplate. Starn dived, rolling and clattering his way beyond the undead. Hagalle stepped over him and swept his blade into the horde, spilling putrid entrails to the ground. He backed away, hacking wildly, giving Starn time to find his feet and run.