Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  ‘I say, Starn,’ Hagalle yelled, pulling his sword from the belly of a cadaver and frowning at its blood-drenched yellow robes. ‘Wasn’t that Duke Farian’s man, Torpin? Bigger pain in the arse in death than he was in life.’

  The ghoul stumbled towards the Emperor and spewed black vomit over his breastplate. Hagalle backslashed almost nonchalantly and the creature’s head flew into the air. The body teetered, the hands still feeling about for someone to throttle. Hagalle lopped an arm off at the shoulder and booted what was left of Torpin into the mass of undead. The ghouls leapt upon the former herald, ripping away grey flesh with gore-spattered jaws.

  Starn’s breaths were sticking in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Hagalle took the lead with long loping strides, but Starn only had short legs and he was hardly in the best shape of his life. Mrs Starn’s apple pie was likely to be the death of him, he thought as he took a quick breather, leaning against a wall.

  Dalglish stood at the mouth of the narrow alley, urging him on. Starn held up a hand and sucked in some deep rasping breaths. A sound like a hundred melons being pulped came from behind and he looked back to see the death-knights riding over the ghouls and hacking them out of the way with rusted blades. The front two were almost through. Now or never, Starn told himself, and sprinted for the alley.

  Dalglish and two others flowed back past him and locked shields. Hagalle grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged him after the retreating troops.

  ‘Keep going, General. Don’t want to lose you now.’

  The clash of blades on shields rang out behind as Starn struggled away from the melee. Two more soldiers ran to aid Dalglish and slow the advance of the death-knights. Good strategy, Starn thought. Dalglish had the knights bottle-necked. They could only come on two abreast, the shield wall giving ground one step at a time.

  ‘More of them up ahead!’ someone shouted down the line.

  Hagalle was straining to see over their heads and cursed. ‘Where the Abyss are they coming from?’

  Starn lacked the height to see. ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘Too damned many,’ Hagalle said.

  ‘Over there,’ Starn said, spotting a passage between two houses and leading the way. The troop pounded after him until they reached an open square with an ornamental fountain at its centre. A broad avenue led away to the east, and cobbled alleyways ran to the north and west.

  ‘We can’t keep running,’ Hagalle said. ‘The men are exhausted and our passage north is blocked.’

  Starn grimaced and then pointed to the broad base of the fountain that stood a couple of feet above the ground. ‘Form up there,’ he said. ‘Shield wall facing the avenue.’

  He was certain the death-knights would come that way, otherwise they’d lose the advantage of numbers.

  Dalglish backed into the square with two bloodied men.

  ‘Good show, Captain,’ Hagalle said. ‘Get those men behind the shield wall.’

  Dalglish took his place in the wall beside Starn. ‘Last stand time, eh?’ He forced a grin that didn’t extend to his eyes.

  ‘We’ll get out of this,’ Starn said, not knowing who he was trying to kid. ‘We have to. Told Mrs Starn I’d be back for our anniversary.’

  Starn eyed the opening of the passageway they’d come through. As he’d expected, there was no sign of pursuit from the undead knights. Some of the men started to relax and lower their shields.

  ‘Stay alert, lads,’ Starn said, pointing to the avenue with his sword. ‘They’ll not give up so easily.’

  The rumble of hooves rolled towards them, funnelling down the avenue and rising to a thunderous roar.

  ‘Steady,’ Starn mumbled to himself. ‘Lock those shields!’ His throat was raw from shouting. ‘Stand your ground, and let’s see if we can break this wave.’

  He did a quick headcount as the knights came into view amidst a swirl of dust. Sixteen men standing, two of them badly wounded. One fragile line against a cavalry charge at least a hundred strong.

  ‘General,’ Dalglish spoke in his ear. ‘Don’t want to add to the gloom, but back there, in the alleyway, the ones we cut down just got up again. They can’t be killed.’

  Starn chewed on the edge of his moustache. So this was it, then. No more of Mrs Starn’s apple pie. No more lazy nights on the porch sipping wine. Still, best be grateful for the times he’d had. He almost wished he was like the Nousians; right now he’d have loved a god to thank for Mrs Starn. Wonderful woman. The best.

  And then the knights hit.

  The force was colossal, driving the shield wall back against the fountain. Men screamed, bones snapped, blades clashed. Starn felt like his face had been slammed into a wall. He was surrounded by a blurry confusion, his ears assaulted by the din. Someone fell, clutching his arm. He tried to grab the fellow and then saw the fingers were mere bones. He struck at the severed hand with the pommel of his sword as it started to crawl towards his shoulder. He managed to slip the blade underneath and flick the thing off. Someone pulled him back and two soldiers stepped in front with shields raised. Starn shook his head, trying to restore his vision. The plinth had saved them, he was sure of it. The front horses must have tripped and those behind ploughed into them.

  There was furious fighting all around him. The man in front screamed as a sword punched through his back. Starn stabbed past his thrashing body, his blade grating against metal. To his left, Hagalle stood out above the others, his broadsword rising and falling with savage fury. But Dalglish had been right. No sooner had the death-knights been struck down than their bones crawled back together and they returned to the fight.

  Another soldier fell, blood spurting from his throat. Dalglish stood alone against two mounted foes. Starn forced himself forwards and parried a blow from one as Dalglish hammered his sword into the other’s horse, dislodging the rider. Starn jumped out of the way of a hoof and sliced the leg off at the knee. The horse tottered and the rider fell forward straight into the path of Starn’s backslash. The helmeted head clattered to the floor, righted itself, and glared at him with flaming eyes.

  Dalglish staggered, blood spilling from a gash to his arm. Starn caught him and lashed out, denting a rusty shield. Four more riders pressed towards him and he had to lower Dalglish to the ground to face them. Hagalle’s sword still clove into the death-knights, but Starn could see no one else standing.

  He turned the blade of one skeleton rider and grabbed the rim of its shield with his free hand, wrenching the arm out of its socket. The horse fell to its side, hampering the approach of the other three and affording Starn time to snatch up the shield. Another horse reared up, flailing about with its hooves. Starn stepped under them and slammed the shield into the beast. He met a vicious swing from a death-knight with his sword and punched the shield into its face. Another parry, a backward step, and he tripped on something, toppling onto Dalglish. A death-knight swung down, but Starn got behind his shield, his arm numbed by the force of the blow. He tried to stand, but his feet got caught up. The death-knight raised its sword again, then suddenly veered away to the left as if carried away by a tidal wave. White shapes flashed by amidst the undead, bright steel scintillating in the sun. Starn fell on his side and could see nothing but Dalglish’s bloodless face staring wide-eyed up at the sky.

  ***

  Maldark heaved against the living corpses piling on top of him, but knew it was hopeless. He felt the closeness of death and was relieved. If it was just about him, he’d have stopped struggling right then.

  Throwing aside caution, he clung onto his hammer with a death-grip and narrowed his eyes. Heat coursed through the haft, singeing his fingers. Maldark gritted his teeth and hung on, the weight of the dead pressing him flat. He twisted his head to breathe, but his lungs refused to expand. A colossal roar burst forth from the hammer, accompanied by an explosion of golden light. The mountain of undead shuddered and then disintegrated, the ashes of the ghouls blasted into
the air.

  A new vigour flooded Maldark’s body and he surged to his feet brandishing the hammer that now shone with the intensity of the sun. More and more undead lurched from the buildings, jaws gaping and dripping gore. Maldark spun, searching for any sign of his companions. The dead had closed the path behind. He could see nothing but a great ring of putrid flesh tightening around him. Raising the hammer aloft, he bit down thoughts of unworthiness and let the words of the psalm pour from his lips.

  ‘ “Why, O Lord, are they multiplied that afflict me? Many are they who rise up against me.” ’

  He swung the hammer in a wide circle, following its arc and spinning with increasing speed. As he whirled, thoughts of betrayal rose to torment him; the faces of dead friends, the broken bodies of the grandchildren of Eingana.

  Beams of amber streamed from the hammer-head, driving back the hordes of undead.

  ‘ “I will not fear thousands of the people surrounding me: arise, O Lord; save me, O my God.” ’

  Unfaithfulness stabbed him like a rusted blade. He had no right to call upon the Lord. The only faith remaining to him was clutched firmly in his hands.

  He continued to draw upon the puissance of his hammer, his veins swelling, his skin stretched to bursting. His eyes snapped wide and a scream tore from his throat as golden light exploded with the brilliance of a million stars.

  The undead wailed and then flew towards him, sucked by tremendous force. Wave after wave spun towards the hammer-head, vanishing into the air the instant they touched it. As the last of them passed from existence, Maldark collapsed to his knees, feeling as if he’d aged a century. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart rattled against his ribs, but it didn’t matter. He’d triumphed, and in some small way he’d started to atone.

  The hammer sent a trickle of warmth up his arms, settling his breathing and granting him the strength to stand. The radiance faded from the head and the haft grew cold as ice.

  The chill extended to his spine, the nape of his neck. A shadow fell over his mind and Maldark clenched his teeth. There was always a price to pay. As he’d expected, his use of the power in his hammer hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Perhaps there was still time. If he could just make it to a building…

  Barely had he taken a step when a gigantic black hand materialized in the air before him. Maldark felt a sickening dread he’d not experienced for centuries; a naked vulnerability at the core of his being. He’d felt it before, back on Aethir. That was the day he’d betrayed Eingana.

  ***

  Fleshless hands closed around Hagalle’s neck. He rammed his elbow back, wincing as it struck bone. A skeletal rider flung itself from its horse, but he ran it through the ribs even as more hands pulled him from behind. He shifted his weight, twisted and hurled his assailant over his head to crash into the nearest death-knights. A blade clanged off his breastplate and Hagalle chopped down, severing an arm. Something white flashed to his right. He spun, ready to strike.

  ‘Climb up.’ A sandy-haired youth on a grey horse offered his hand.

  Hagalle swung into the saddle behind him and gripped hard with his knees. The horse reared as two of the undead cavalry charged. The lad hacked the head from the first knight and the grey smashed its hooves into the other’s horse, splintering bone and pitching the rider to the ground.

  ‘Hold on,’ the youth called over his shoulder as they thundered towards a line of undead horsemen.

  Hagalle toppled backwards, but managed to catch hold of the lad’s cloak. His sword arm trailed behind, and it was all he could do to keep his grip on the weapon. They hit the death-knights with a thunderous crack. Shards of bone shot all around them, but the lad leaned low against the horse’s mane and Hagalle buried his face in the cloak.

  ‘We’re through!’ the lad cried as they hit the broad avenue and kept going.

  Hagalle turned his head and saw a dozen or so white-garbed knights following them. The death-knights were in disarray, but they were already re-forming.

  ‘Stop,’ he called out. ‘We must go back.’ The youth slowed to a canter as the other knights drew alongside. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘That’d be suicide.’ ‘Do you know who I am, boy?’ Hagalle growled, and then he caught sight of the lad’s face. ‘I know who you are.’ It was Barek Thomas, the lad Hagalle had recently crucified. ‘And you’re too important to lose.’ Hagalle shook his head. Curse his cowardly body, he’d started to tremble now he was out of the battle. ‘Why?’ Barek met his gaze. ‘Because that’s what we were trained to do.’ 148

  Hagalle rubbed at his temples. It made no sense. ‘My men,’ he muttered. ‘We can’t leave them.’

  ‘They’re dead,’ Barek said.

  A red-haired knight rode alongside. ‘As we’ll be, if we don’t keep moving.’

  ‘Glad you made it, Justin,’ Barek said. ‘Elgin? Solomon?’

  Justin pointed to a brawny youth and a skinny runt sharing a water-skin and casting nervous glances back towards the square.

  Barek nodded, but there was no joy in his eyes. There were only twelve riders remaining.

  ‘How many…?’ Hagalle started to ask.

  ‘Too many,’ Barek said, spurring the horse on as the death-knights drew up for another charge.

  ***

  Maldark dropped his hammer as the black hand snatched him up and soared into the air high above the city. A chilling voice cut through his awareness.

  ‘I know you.’

  The voice had a grating quality. It sounded clipped and artificial, but there was no denying who it belonged to.

  ‘Sektis Gandaw.’ The name left Maldark’s lips like a curse.

  ‘Maldark the turncoat. How did you get here?’

  The giant fingers tightened around his ribs.

  ‘A swirling eye,’ Maldark said. ‘A stormy sea. The Lord cast me into Gehenna and I passed into the Abyss. Next I appeared upon a red mountain in the desert.’

  ‘Mystical nonsense,’ Sektis Gandaw said. ‘And to think I held such high hopes for the dwarves. That’s what happens when you throw in rogue genes. I assume you know where the statue is. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thou art the all-seeing one,’ Maldark said. ‘Why doest thou not tell me where it is?’

  The hand released him and Maldark plummeted towards the ground. He closed his eyes and steeled himself for death, but the impact never came. His head was wrenched back and there was excruciating pain in his face and neck. He hung suspended by his beard, which was gripped by the thumb and forefinger of the giant hand.

  ‘I’d rather hoped,’ said Sektis Gandaw’s voice in his head, ‘your face would come away with the beard. You dwarves are too full of surprises. See how easy it is to kill you. You’re nothing but an insect. You were at the centre of a power surge, dwarf. Tell me, where is the statue? Do you have a piece?’

  ‘What if I do? Doest thou forget, I’ve seen inside your mountain? Thy secrets are known to me. The black hand lacks the power to carry objects through the planes. Death holds no fear for me. Perhaps God will still be merciful. Drop me.’

  Maldark spasmed as sparks erupted around the hand.

  ‘Nothing!’ The hand shook him. ‘What have you done with it?’

  The fingers started to blink in and out of existence and Maldark fell.

  ‘I’ll find it,’ Sektis Gandaw’s voice echoed as the hand winked out of view.

  Maldark dropped limply through the air. He held his arms wide and smiled. He hit something, bounced, and then tumbled down a rooftop. Instinctively, he clutched at the guttering as he rolled over the edge. Pain lanced through his shoulder and he let go, bouncing off a ledge and landing with a sickening thud on the ground.

  He lay there for a minute and then gingerly started to test his limbs. Nothing broken, but he was going to hurt like hell on the morrow. He rolled to his knees and carefully stood. His skull felt like it was being pounded with a thousand sledgehammers and he staggered and nearly collapsed. Shaking his head to
clear it, he took a faltering step and tripped over the haft of his hammer. Strange sort of luck, Maldark grumbled internally as he lifted it. Arnochian granite. He patted the hammer-head. Must have kept Sektis Gandaw from detecting what was within. Whatever claims the Technocrat made about the creation of the dwarves, they had more tricks up their sleeves than he could account for.

  Shouldering the weapon, he muttered a prayer for the others and stumbled in the direction of the river. He was sure he’d seen a tavern there. A drink or two to restore his soul and then he’d summon his boat and return to the ocean. Sektis Gandaw had the scent of him now. There was no point imperilling the others.

  ***

  What is that fearsome clatter?

  ‘You drop something dear?’ Starn mumbled into the dirt.

  What on earth was he doing on the ground? Last thing he remembered was opening a bottle of Shiraz out on the porch. Can’t have drunk that much, surely.

  He covered his ears with his hands as a roaring tumult passed all around him. It sounded like a river bursting its banks, or the approach of a cyclone.

  ‘Ethna? Ethna, are you all right?’

  He had to get back to the house, shutter the windows. Oh, where was Mrs Starn?

  And then he remembered.

  Starn sat up and watched the death-knights thunder past, pooling at the mouth of the southern alleyway and then filtering through two at a time.

  Dalglish groaned beside him. ‘What’s that racket?’ he rasped.

  Dalglish was lying in a puddle of blood, most of which seemed to be coming from his arm. Starn fumbled about in his pocket for his handkerchief and applied pressure the way the surgeons did. It was then that he noticed another wound—a bubbling slit beneath Dalglish’s breastbone. Dalglish’s eyes opened a little and his cracked and dry lips parted.