Codex Alera 01 - Furies of Calderon

by Jim Butcher

  “The gate,” Amara gasped. “The firepots. Get them off the gate. Hurry.”

  Bernard’s face went pale, and he pelted off across the courtyard, back toward the walls. A Marat, dazed from a fall from the battlements above, lifted a stone-headed hatchet, but Bernard flicked a hand and the hatchet’s wooden haft abruptly spun in its owner’s grip, the back of the stone whipping into the Marat’s temple, and sending him in a loose tumble to the ground.

  Amara felt a dull pain in her shoulder and back, and it was too much effort to stand, but she watched as Bernard bounded up one of the ladders and onto the wall. He took his bow in a two-handed grip and clubbed his way past a Marat fighting a pair of legionares and ducked past the flashing claws of a wounded herdbane that lay on its side, raking wildly with its remaining leg, to reach Pirellus’s side. He gripped the Knight Commander’s shoulder and shouted to him over the din.

  Pirellus’s face blanked with incredulity, but Bernard pointed up, and Pirellus turned in time to see the first of the other pair of litters sweeping down, mailed Knights Aeris all around it. His eyes widened, and he shouted to his men on the walls, even as a roar of wind sent men flat to the battlements and drove leaping Marat back and away from the walls.

  Bernard lost his bow but stayed on his feet, drawing on the strength of his fury, Amara knew. He grabbed Pirellus and another man beside him and dragged them forward and off the wall, to fall into the courtyard beyond.

  Amara’s eyes swept back up to the litters, to see Fidelias in one, pointing down and calling something to one of the men in the other, a tall, thin man with pinched features. The man stood up, eyes closed, and reached out his hand.

  In answer, the firepots, waiting on the walls beside the firecrafters now pinned down by the gale winds above them, exploded into blinding flame.

  The firestorm swept over the walls above the gates, where Garrison’s Knights were pinned down. Scattered and whipped to a dangerous fury by the wind, more of the flame nonetheless rushed out along the walls, playing havoc with legionares, Marat, and predator birds alike. The fire went over the walls like a scythe, sending men screaming to the ground, running from the flames, rolling frantically to put out their own burning bodies. Some even leapt off the battlements and into the savage Marat horde waiting below.

  Amara watched in stunned horror as the litters swept down to the courtyard, where a half a dozen disorganized legionares attacked the invaders. Aldrick ex Gladius dismounted from the litter and, with the Knights Aeris with him, met them and drove them back.

  Fidelias stepped from the litter and walked to the gates. As Amara watched, he glanced around him, eyes quick and hard, and then laid his bare palms against the heavy wood. For perhaps half a minute, he stood there, eyes closed. Then he withdrew, barked an order to his men, and limped back to the litter. Aldrick and the others withdrew to the litter, and the whole of the group swept up into the air again and out of sight.

  Amara regained her feet, finally, and recovered her sword. She lifted her head to see what Fidelias had done to the gates.

  She saw them shudder. Then she saw dust fly from one of them. And then the cruel, rending talon of one of the herdbane ripped through the heavy beams of wood as though they were paper, and tore its way back out again.

  She could only watch in numbed horror as the Marat, howling like madmen, hauled the gates of Garrison to kindling before her eyes, and began to pour into the fortress.

  She swallowed, her head still whirling, her hand trembling as she gripped her sword, and stepped forward to meet them.

  CHAPTER 37

  Amara looked left and right as she approached the gate, even as the Marat began to tear their way through it. To one side, several of the young legionares stood, stunned and horrified, staring as the Marat poured in. To the other, scorched bodies and badly burned men lay, scattered as they had fallen from the walls above, along with a dazed-looking Bernard and Pirellus, gathering themselves together after the explosion on the walls and the fall after.

  “Form up!” Amara shouted, toward the legionares, but she wasn’t sure the young men even heard her. She singled out one of the young men in a centurion’s helmet and barked, “Centurion! Hold the gate!”

  The young man in his fine cape looked from her to the gate to the shattered walls above, eyes wide, mouth trembling. “B-back!” he stammered, though it seemed that no one listened to him. “Fall b-back!”

  Amara looked to the other side in desperation. “Pirellus!” she shouted. “Get up! Command the Legion!”

  Pirellus, his helmet blasted from his head, the hair on one side scorched nearly to his scalp, stared at her in blank incomprehension.

  The Marat tore through the last fragments of the remaining gate, and the first, a burly young warrior wielding a stone-headed axe, shoved his way through.

  There was no time for anything else. If the Marat gained control of the gates, they would be able to pour into Garrison, and nothing would stop the weight of simple numbers from smothering the Aleran defense. Though her head still spun and though the injury on her back still pained her, Amara threw herself toward the sundered gates.

  She heard herself let out a shrill cry, even as the Marat warrior turned to face her and swept the axe in a great flat arc meant to shear her in half at the hips. Instead, she reached out for Cirrus and leapt, throwing herself neatly over the axe, and sweeping her blade out at eye level. The fine steel of the blade bit into the Marat’s face, and he dropped to the ground with a scream, even as one of the huge warbirds tore its way through the gates.

  Amara tried to dodge from its path, but the beast’s beak shot out and gripped her left arm in a sudden, crushing grip. Pain flashed through her, and she knew that only the mail had kept her arm from being snipped off at the elbow. The bird shook its head violently left and right, throwing Amara about like a puppet, until she slashed desperately at the base of the bird’s thick neck, eliciting a brassy shriek and causing the bird to hurl her away from it.

  Another Marat came through the gates, but the wounded herdbane whipped around at the sudden motion, snapping and lashing with its brassy beak, driving the Marat back. Amara let out a cry and drove forward, thrusting with the guardsman’s sword, sinking it into the bird’s vitals and whipping it forth with a half-twist that sent the beast snapping and clawing its way to the ground in a welter of gore.

  Amara gasped for breath as the Marat warrior came through, aiming another cut at this one. He dodged to one side, making way for a second, this one a lean young woman carrying an old Aleran saber. The Marat female thrust at Amara’s face, and the young Cursor swept the blow aside— only to be hit hard in the flank and thrown to the ground by the first attacker.

  She struggled and fought against him, letting out a furious, futile cry, but he had gotten inside her guard and pinned her sword arm to the ground. He lifted his fist, his face emotionless, and drove a blow into her mouth that stunned her for a moment, left her silent. Then he said something in a guttural tongue, satisfaction in the tone, as his hand gripped her hair, hard, and he turned her head slightly toward the woman, who lifted the old saber for a downward blow.

  Scalping me, Amara thought. They’re taking my hair.

  There was a sudden shriek, high-pitched and panicked. The Marat warrior leapt back and off Amara, even as his companion lifted her saber and engaged the furious, reckless assault of one of the young legionares. The young man hacked and chopped with his Legion blade, more in elemental fury and brutality than in any coherent assault, and drove the pair away from Amara.

  He turned back to the other young legionares, and Amara recognized the young man who had been on guard at the gates the day before from the purpling bruise on his jaw. “Come on!” he snarled, to his companions. “Are you going to stand there while a woman fights?” He turned back to his opponents with a cry of, “Riva for Alera!” and attacked again.

  First one, then two, then several more legionares surged forward with sharp cries of fury, joining toge
ther in a shieldwall that contained the tide of Marat struggling to pour in through the shattered gates. But the young legionares, though they acted in concert, began to be driven back step by steady step.

  Amara felt herself hauled back along the ground by one elbow and barely managed to keep hold of her sword. She looked up, dazedly, to find Healer Harger crouching over her, fingers touched lightly to her temples.

  “The arm’s broke,” he said a second later, voice rough. “Maybe some of your teeth, too. There are broken rings in the mail over your back that are cutting into it, and something is sprained. But you’ll live.” He shot a glance up at the embattled gate, then gave her a quick smile and said, “Bravely done, girl. Shamed those city boys into the fight at last.”

  “Pirellus,” Amara managed to gasp. “Other side of the gate. Stunned.”

  Harger’s eyes widened. “Great furies, he lived through that?”

  “Bernard. Pulled him off the wall.”

  Harger nodded, tense, and hauled her to her feet. “Show me. If anyone can do anything, it will be Pirellus.”

  Amara gasped with the pain and saw the Healer wince and draw in a quick breath of his own. He steadied her, and then she lead him forward, around the slow pressure of bodies and the desperate thrust and hack of weapons at the gate, to where she’d seen Bernard and Pirellus moments before.

  She found them, Bernard just now starting to stagger to his feet, Pirellus still on his hands and knees. Harger went to the Knight at once, touching fingers lightly to his temples, then grunting and shaking the man roughly. Harger hauled back a hand to deliver a slap to the Knight Commander’s face, but Pirellus caught the Healer’s wrist as it swept toward him. He shook his head once, blinked his eyes, looked up at the gates, and then staggered to his feet to stare up at the walls.

  Then he spun, looking around the courtyard, and nodded to Amara. “Countess,” he said, voice haggard. “That blast will have heated the stones, but they’ll cool quickly, and Marat will be coming over them even if we hold the gate.”

  Amara swallowed. “What do we do?”

  “Move these legionares up to the walls,” Pirellus said.

  “Then who will hold the gate?”

  His chin lifted a fraction. “I will.”

  Amara stared at him. “Alone? Who will command the Legion?”

  “They won’t need much commanding in this,” Pirellus said. “They’ll hold the walls, and I’ll hold the gate, or we’ll all be dead in the next few moments.”

  “How can they hold the walls?”

  “They can’t for long,” he said. “You’ll have to figure out something.”

  Amara snapped, “What? That’s not a plan!”

  “It’s all I have,” Pirellus said. “Countess, I hope to the furies you’re clever as well as brave. If you don’t find some way to get them off of us, we’re dead, right here, right now.” And with that, he nodded to Amara and stepped toward the melee at the gate. He paused, halfway there, to pick up a long, heavy length of wood that had been one of the drawing traces of a cart crushed by falling debris. He turned crisply and handed it to Bernard as the dazed Steadholder stood up.

  “What do you want me to do?” Bernard said.

  “Follow me,” Pirellus said. “Keep any strays off my back. Stay out of my way.” Then he turned and walked into the struggle at the gate. With a few harsh, barked phrases, he stepped up between the young legionares and drew his sword. Within seconds, three Marat warriors lay bleeding on the ground, and their advance halted.

  Pirellus snarled orders at the young legionares, and after a frantic half-moment they moved, breaking into a pair of elementsand heading up the stone stairs to the battlements, slopping buckets of water ahead of them to cool the heated stones as they went.

  Pirellus stood in the gates alone. Amara saw him set a grim, polite little smile onto his lips. He bowed to the Marat standing just beyond the gate and then with the fingers of one hand beckoned them forward.

  Bernard gripped the heavy wooden pole and swallowed, looking back at Amara. His eyes were a little wide, and he drew in an unsteady breath, but he turned back to the gate and stood perhaps ten feet behind Pirellus, standing steady.

  Amara felt a scream of frustration well up in her, even as the Marat again began to come through the gate, by ones and twos. The Parcian swordsman met them, more than a match, and first one, then another, then another of the barbarians fell to the dark sword. But even Pirellus was not untouchable. A pair of warriors came through together, facing him. Pirellus neatly parried a thrusting spear and spun to thrust toward the other warrior—and suddenly hesitated, faced with a half-naked young Marat woman.

  He did not pause for so long as the space of a breath before he lunged forward, driving the dark sword between her breasts, but that hesitation cost him. The Marat beside him swept the butt end of the spear at his leg, striking the side of his knee with a crunch of impact, and if Bernard had not stepped forward to drive the young warrior to the earth with an overhand sweep of the thick wooden pole, Pirellus might have been killed.

  Instead, the warrior grimaced, moving with no more than a slight limp, and continued what Amara knew would ultimately be a hopeless, if heroic defense of the gates.

  Harger came to her side, his eyes sunken, worried, as they traveled up to the walls, and Amara looked to see the legionares there engaging the enemy, heard the screams of the warbirds and of their Marat masters.

  “Lady,” Harger growled. “What do we do?”

  Amara wanted to scream at the man out of sheer frustration and fear. Even as she watched, a young legionare fell from the wall, screaming and clutching at his face, blood pouring from his fingers. He fell no more than a few feet away. Bernard barely dodged a suddenly thrust spear as he swept another Marat from Pirellus’s flank.

  How was she to know what to do? She wasn’t a military commander. The abrupt destruction of Garrison’s Knights had crippled their defenses, she knew. How was she to know how to overcome that loss?

  Amara drew in a sudden breath. She wasn’t.

  She sheathed her sword and seized Harger’s sleeve. “Healer. Take me to Count Gram.”

  He did so at once, leading her to the center of the fortress, where a pair of senior legionares stood guard before the door of a heavy, practical structure of brick. Amara swept past them and into a building, up a flight of stairs, and into the Count’s bedchamber.

  Gram lay in his bed, his head to one side, his face grey, eyes sunken. There were flecks of some kind of white film on his lips, and his broad, capable hands lay limply on the sheets, looking frail, the skin as thin as parchment.

  Amara looked at the man and swallowed. She knew that what she was about to do might kill him. She did it anyway. “Wake him up, Harger.”

  Harger let out a shaking breath. “Lady. I can, but it could—”

  “I know it could kill him, Healer,” Amara said. “But if the walls or the gate falls, he’ll be dead either way. We need him. The garrison needs him. I do not think that he would wish us to let them fall when he might be able to help.”

  Harger looked at her for a moment and then shook his head. The old healer sagged for a moment, his face drawn. “No. I don’t suppose he would.”

  “Get him moving,” Amara said, quietly. “I’ll get the guards to help carry him.”

  She went downstairs to the two legionares there, returning with them to Gram’s bedchamber. She found Harger standing over the old Count, whose face was flushed with unnatural color. Gram dragged in a panting breath and opened his eyes, squinting at her. He grunted and said, “Harger says my Knights are gone. Just the green troops left.”

  “Yes,” Amara said, her voice tight. “They’re on the walls. Pirellus is alive, but wounded, holding the gates alone. We need to get you out there—”

  “No,” Gram said. “Don’t bother. Won’t do any good.”

  “But, sir —”

  “Fire,” Gram croaked.

  “The enemy used the Knight
’s firepots against them. Made them explode on the walls.”

  Gram closed his eyes. “Are they all at the gates?”

  “No,” Amara said. “They’re up on the walls again, too. Spread all along them.”

  “Can’t be done,” Gram said, sighing. “Even if I wasn’t hurt. Even if we had more firepots. Can’t call up that much fire, that wide.”

  “There’s got to be something you can do,” Amara said, dropping a hand onto his.

  “Nothing,” Gram whispered. “Can’t burn something that wide. Not strong enough.”

  Amara chewed on her lip. “What about another kind of crafting?”

  Gram opened his eyes again. “What?”

  “A firecrafting,” Amara said. “The Marat can’t counter it with anything.”

  Gram looked from Amara to Harger, then back again. “Fear,” he said. “Fire.”

  “I don’t know if they’re afraid of fire —”

  “No,” Gram said, his expression weakly irritated. “Get fire. Get a torch. You.”

  Amara blinked at him. “Me? But I’m no firecrafter.”

  Gram waved a hand impatiently, cutting her off and fixing her with glittering eyes. “Can’t walk. Someone else has to carry. Are you afraid, girl?”

  She nodded, tightly, once.

  He cackled. “Honest. Good. Get a torch. And get ready to be brave. Braver than you’ve ever been. Maybe we can do something.” Gram broke off, coughing, the sound weak, his face twisting into a grimace of pain.

  Amara traded a look with Harger, then nodded to one of the legionares. The man stepped out, returning with a torch a moment later.

  “Here, girl,” Gram whispered, beckoning with one hand. “Bring it close.”

  Amara did, kneeling down by the bed and holding the torch out to the wounded Count.

  Gram closed his eyes and reached his bare palm into the flame. Amara winced, almost drawing the torch away, but Gram did not stir or flinch, and his flesh remained, it would seem, untouched by the fire.