Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1)

by Ward, Matthew

  I didn't catch a word of Droshna's bellowed reply. No sooner had Constans finished speaking than a great cheer rose up from his end of the barricade. It spread infectiously as other voices took up the cry. Droshna shouted again, but again his voice was lost in the cacophony. Abandoning any further attempt, the brute swung his sword from the ground, and thrust its broken point toward the barricade. The fallen horde surged forward and our cheers died.

  That first wave was mere fodder to test our strength. Not one wretch amongst them had been a warrior in his former life. They were murderers, torturers and betrayers – the lowest of the low who'd sought Malgyne's favour not out of a desire for victory, but for survival. They came screaming and keening, a black tide driven to the barricade by fear of their master.

  The air hummed with crossbow bolts. Shafts buried themselves in torsos and limbs. Still they came on, whooping their eagerness. Here or there a fallen did not rise and I saw that each victim had a bolt buried in its skull.

  I turned back to where I'd last seen Arianwyn. "Find Nierev," I shouted. "Tell her to aim for the head or not at all."

  Arianwyn nodded, and then a cry dragged my attention back to the barricade. The fallen were upon us.

  They may have been tough, but their paucity of coordination cost them dearly. They made no attempt to synchronise their attacks. The quickest and strongest hauled their way up the barricade; the slow and the weak were trampled onto the jagged outer face. Thus did those who reached the crest do so without the support of their comrades, and found the weapons of three or four defenders waiting. Our blades hacked down, and the first black blood flowed.

  My section of barricade was all but untouched by that initial attack. These fallen were afraid of my sword and showed a willingness to attack anywhere but where I stood. Revelling in the advantage this gave us, I roamed the crest, moving always to wherever I was needed. A few quick sweeps of white flame seemed enough to drive the fallen back, but they always came back again the moment I had moved on.

  Quintus had chosen his sergeants well. They fought defiantly, never losing sight of the larger battle. As the fallen concentrated their attack on the centre of the barricade, the sergeants on the flanks sent men and women to bolster Quintus' line, ordering them back as the attackers reacted to exploit that new weakness.

  The crossbow fire grew sporadic, but it was more effective for that. I assumed Nierev had received Arianwyn's message, for every shot buried itself in a fallen's skull. I had no idea how the marksmen managed such feats through the darkness and mist.

  We had the better of that fight, but our losses mounted. In ones and twos, praetorians and constables were dragged over the crest and into the mass of fallen. Some died as they fell, throats torn out or hearts pierced by wicked knives. Others were trampled down onto stakes or bludgeoned to death at the foot of the wall they'd fought so hard to defend.

  I watched helplessly as clutching hands dragged a screaming constable from the barricade and into the mob. Feral teeth tore into his flesh. By and by the screams faded, but their memory lingered.

  Arianwyn was determined to prove her worth, even if she couldn't fight, and busied herself behind the barricade, pulling the wounded and dying clear. The former to receive help. The others to pass with what peace and dignity they could.

  Jaspyr and Fredrik prowled ever at her side. Had I been more confident in the barricade's strength, I'd have asked Arianwyn to send them into the fray. The fact she hadn't already implied she too worried that they were too heavy. I decided not to press the matter unless things grew more dire.

  I don't know how long that first attack lasted. All I knew was that suddenly the fallen were gone from the barricade, the survivors running back across the bridge, their slain mingled with our own dead at the barricade's foot.

  A ragged cheer rose up amongst our lines. Defenders set aside their weapons and looked to their wounds. Perhaps a hundred of the fallen had been slain, whilst we'd lost thirty or so. Not a bad rate of exchange, but unsustainable. And those had been Droshna's weakest troops.

  "That wasn't so bad." The speaker was a young man – a ridiculously young man – whose blood-stained tabard proclaimed him a soldier in the Tressian army.

  "That was only the beginning," said Jamar, honing an axe he'd inherited from a dead Thrakkian. "There'll be plenty more of that before we're through."

  And so there was. Droshna sent such waves three times in the next hour. Each was repulsed as easily as the first, but by the time the last had scattered, fully a third of our defenders had been slain, and half as many again had been seriously wounded.

  Then, and only then, did Droshna launch his true assault.

  We heard the next attack before we saw it. Dark voices boomed from the alleyways, their harsh cant rolling across the bridge like a wind gusting straight from Otherworld. The rhythmic thunder of booted feet underpinned the song, a sonorous march that shook the timbers of our barricade, and cast a shadow onto even the stoutest heart. Droshna had grown bored with our defiance.

  Quintus clambered to the barricade's crest, and set his back to the bridge. "Hold your positions!" he bellowed. "You turn tail now, and you'll answer to me!"

  No sooner had he spoken than a line of grim warriors, clad head to foot in battered plate and ragged chain, flooded the distant bank. Their black shields bore no heraldry, and their blades gleamed with sickly green light. These were not the wretches we'd already faced, but fallen legionaries – the finest warriors in our enemy's service.

  No battle-cry sounded the advance. The pitch of the chant deepened, and they swept onto the bridge, shields raised high to protect against our crossbows. Quintus swore, his curse lost beneath the clamour, and readied his sword.

  Other attackers had slowed as they reached our barricade, daunted by the fight to come. Not so the legionaries. They picked up speed in the final approach, as if they could sweep us aside through brute force alone. Timbers shuddered as the first began to climb. Black blood flowed as the defenders hacked down.

  To my right, a praetorian swept two legionaries from the crest, all the while screaming a challenge to those on the slope below. Strong hands fastened about his shins, dragging him downwards, and the challenge became a scream of terror. The praetorian abandoned his axe, scrabbling for purchase on the timbers. I grabbed at him, my fingers closing around his. Then the praetorian's hand slipped from mine, and he was gone.

  With each passing second, our situation grew more desperate. The legionaries rarely fought as individuals, but as part of a coordinated assault. They attacked one section of barricade merely to provoke a weakness in another. We all but lost the leftmost span in the first few minutes. The sergeant in command had sent the bulk of his warriors to help Quintus' embattled centre. The fallen, scenting opportunity, threw themselves at weakened flank like men possessed. The chanting mass crashed home, and I knew with sickening certainty that I'd never get there in time. I searched desperately for someone who could. "Jamar!"

  The big man understood. He always understood. His next strike swept a legionary over ramshackle rampart. Then he ran full tilt for the endangered flank, the heavy Thrakkian axe dangling from his hand as if it weighed no more than a feather.

  He arrived as the fallen reached the crest. The axe gleamed as it left his hand, spinning end over end to bury itself in a legionary's ribs. A second fallen hacked down. Jamar caught the woman by wrist and throat, and heaved her into the river.

  Breathless, I at last reached Jamar's side, what remained of Quintus' pitiful reserve close behind. It wouldn't be enough – a blind man could have seen that – but it was all we had. The only fleeting upside, was that I'd seen nothing of Alfric. Though there was still unfinished business to settle with my brother, I was just as glad not to attend to it.

  A screech of tortured wood split the air. Desperate screams and a rumble of timber on stone followed close on its heels. The rampart trembled beneath my feet, and the barricade's leftmost span collapsed, dashing its defenders
to the roadway far below. A dozen dead, at least, in one moment of misfortune. Worse, the fallen had a clear path to the barricade's rear. Someone had to plug the gap.

  "Go!" Jamar planted a palm against my back, shoving me into the breach.

  The first legionary bellowed his last as my blade severed his spine. Alerted by the dying scream, another fallen rounded on me. I twisted the sword free, first into a hasty parry, then into a desperate back-cut that dashed my attacker to the cobbles.

  Three more legionaries stood between me and the breach. These unhappy odds soured further when my previous opponent, still clinging to life, grabbed my ankles with equal determination. I hacked down, half-severing his head, but the damage was done. A sword hissed towards my skull, too swift to parry. I flung myself backwards. The blow sliced only empty air, but my heel snagged on a corpse, throwing me off balance.

  I'd have been done for in that moment, but for Jaspyr and Fredrik. Moving with all the grace and fury of their flesh and blood counterparts, the bronze lions burst from the mist, bearing my attackers to the ground. As metal claws shredded armour and flesh, I glanced towards the marketplace and saw Arianwyn watching me pensively. I waved to show her I was unharmed.

  Then I caught my breath, and went back to the fight.

  My intercession – or, more honestly, that of Arianwyn's guardians – had bought enough time to retake the breached section, so I reoccupied my old position.

  "Argh!"

  Constans tumbled from the barricade, clutching his arm. A praetorian moved forward into the gap and felled Constans' attacker, but another fallen hacked the praetorian down. I was there now, my sword's flames tracing bright patterns as it battered against shields and helms. Two legionaries reeled away. A third barged me with his shield, slamming me back against timber.

  Jamar now held that section of barricade alone, but somehow his presence stalled the attack. Brute force was his weapon as much as the axe in his hands, and neither shield nor armour could offer any protection against those punishing blows. It took other men three or four good hits to slay a fallen, but Jamar cut one down with every blow. As the fallen went back, praetorians moved to Jamar's side and the barricade was saved.

  At least for the moment.

  Battered and bruised, I regained my feet. Constans did not. He sat on the cobbles, a pained expression on his face. His hand was clamped around his upper arm and blood seeped between his fingers. Constans, an eternal, was bleeding.

  "It appears that I'm no longer as eternal as I once was." His voice shook. "I thought this might happen."

  It wasn't a serious wound, but I supposed it was what the wound represented that pained Constans more. For me, it was another telltale of our failing strength. Impervious Quintus was morose, Arianwyn was a mage who couldn't use her magic, and Constans was an eternal rendered mortal. I thanked Ashana for Jamar. Only he seemed undiminished by our predicament. Indeed, he seemed positively enlivened.

  I left Constans there. He was safe enough, and I was needed back on the barricade. I reached Quintus in time to see him despatch a fallen with a precise thrust through his visored helm – the last such fallen alive on the barricade. Once more, Droshna's attack had stalled, but our defenders now numbered only fifty effective combatants.

  "We'll not survive another attack," I said.

  Quintus grunted, and cleaned his sword on a corpse's tabard. "Aye, the thought had occurred to me."

  "We've bought Karov as much time as we can. It's time for your escape plan."

  "I agree. Can you...?" Another formation of fallen appeared out of the mists at the northern end of the bridge. "Take over!"

  He jumped down behind the barricade, and ran to a jumble of straw and broken timbers. There, he seized a burning brand from a nearby fire, and plunged it deep into the makeshift beacon.

  Quintus backed away hurriedly as fire blossomed. Flames leapt into the sky with mad energy, glorious even in the Otherworld-tainted light. I knew Nierev would see those flames and withdraw her forces from the rooftops, but hers were not the eyes we most needed to see the signal. I'd been incredulous of the plan when Quintus had first told me of it. Now, as fiery reflections flickered across the Estrina, I just hoped it would work.

  The fallen moved onto the bridge. Droshna advanced with them, a towering spectre of death come to claim his due. It struck me that we'd chosen exactly the right time to call a retreat. But we couldn't leave the barricade yet. If we did, the fallen would be on us in seconds. Quintus had shared his plan only with his closest allies, and many of the defenders stared at the flames, wondering what they signified. The rest stared at the oncoming fallen and wondered how they'd possibly survive.

  The attackers' leading ranks had reached the first arch when the bridge lurched. Muttering broke out around me, a consternation that only grew louder when the roadway shook a second time. Running to the bridge's side, I arrived in time to see a great chunk of stonework tumble away into the churning waters.

  Droshna knew something was wrong. With blade and bellow, he urged the fallen on – though I noted he did so whilst retreating to the northern bank.

  Again the bridge shook. This time the crack in the southernmost arch split wide. A section of roadway vanished into the depths. Moments later, the southernmost pier finally gave way with a terrible, soul-wrenching groan. The arches to either side shattered under the stress, showering stone and scores of fallen into the Estrina. Then, slowly, majestically, the pier toppled sideways and vanished into the rushing waters.

  A ragged cheer broke out from our lines. With the bridge gone, we all knew the attack was ended – at least for now. A handful made it across the final arch, but Jamar led the surviving defenders over the barricade and hacked them apart. As the hale looked to the fate of the injured, I sought out Quintus.

  I found him beside the signal bonfire, staring moodily across the water. For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of Droshna staring back, then the mist shifted and he was gone.

  "We're not yet done, me and him," Quintus said quietly.

  "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," I replied.

  "He's killing my city. We'll never be done 'til one of us is gone."

  "I don't understand why you didn't break the bridge at once."

  "It's all about buying time," Quintus replied wearily. "If we hadn't fought them here, they'd have spent that time finding a way across. Now we've cost them a few more hours. That's time Karov can use to get more citizens to safety." He sighed. "And all it cost was the lives of brave men and women."

  "They volunteered. They all thought the price worth paying."

  "Doesn't make me feel better about it. Particularly as I'm still standing here, without so much as a scratch." He stared at the northern bank. "They'll find a way across, I've no doubt about that – they'll probably attack the Tower of Dawn – it's practically a bridge in and of itself – but that's Solomon's problem for now."

  "If he chooses to make it so."

  "Indeed."

  The surface of the Estrina heaved, and Zorya hauled herself onto the bank. She had green slime tangled in her sculpted hair, blackish river-mud caked smeared across her limbs. The right arm of her blouse had all but torn away. Her 'flesh' was chipped and cracked – presumably where she'd used her shoulder as a battering ram. A fine network of cracks ran across that shoulder, vanished under her clothes, then re-emerged to trace across her neck and right forearm. It wasn't the cracks that caused me most concern, but the pale blue light that emanated from them. How much, and how permanent, the damage the sentinel had done to herself by saving us, I couldn't say.

  Zorya stood upright, water cascading from her sodden clothes. She curtseyed to Quintus with a precision and delicacy that belied her horrific appearance. [[I trust that will suffice?]]

  "Aye miss, it was very well done indeed. You have my thanks." Quintus turned to me. "The other reason we didn't destroy the bridge sooner is that it took Zorya pretty much every minute that you were asleep to dig out the footing
s and pry apart the pier. The thing would likely have fallen over before the year was out, but if Droshna had attacked so much as an hour sooner, we'd all be dead by now."

  I stared at Zorya, awestruck.

  [[Please do not stare at me in that fashion, Master Edric. I am aware that I am improperly dressed. I can only apologise.]]

  I shook my head. "Sorry Zorya, my mind was wandering."

  [[Take care it does not get lost. We might not find something so small without a good deal of searching. We do not have the time.]]

  Quintus shook his head. "I'd better get things moving. We'll get the wounded on carts and head for the nearest gate. I assume you'll be joining us, my lord?"

  "No," I said. "At least not immediately." Zorya had put an idea in my head, and I saw no good reason not to follow it up. "I'm going back to the Tower of Stars."

  Six

  We parted from Quintus' convoy of tired and wounded soldiers a little more than an hour later. The commander was determined to meet up with Karov's forces, and refused to delay whilst I completed my errand at the Tower of Stars. If we wanted to meet up with him again, Quintus told us, we'd find him either at the eastern gate or at the guard house. We said our farewells and went our separate ways.

  The Tower of Stars was in a sorry state. Quintus' engineers had done what they could. Metal braces and great balks of timber now lent strength to its weakened walls. With luck and calm weather, the Tower of Stars would survive long enough to receive proper repairs, but its battered and fire-blackened walls looked terribly vulnerable. I almost wished the mists of Otherworld had reached this far – they at least would have concealed some of the fortress' wounds.

  Thus far, the Tower of Stars lay outside of Otherworld. We had emerged from the mists some streets back and were heartily glad to have done so. The fallen were unable or unwilling to advance beyond the boundaries, and being outside the mists was as close to a guarantee of safety as could be found in the city.