by Jim Butcher
Amara felt it inside of her first, a panicky little thrill that raced through her belly and thighs, turned her legs watery and uncertain. Her hand started to shake, and she lifted her other to hold the torch steady. Gram let out a slow, quiet sound of pain, and the sensation in her redoubled, mindless and sudden fear, so that she had to fight to keep from bolting from the room. Her heart abruptly raced, pounding frantically, the pain of her wounds seemed to increase, and she suddenly could not get a breath.
“Girl,” Gram rasped, opening his eyes again. “Listen to me. Get this out to the front. Out in front of all of the Marat. Get it to where they can see it.” He let out a wheezing breath, his eyes closing. “Don’t drop it. And don’t let the panic take you. Hurry.”
Amara nodded, rising to feel her body trembling, weak with fright.
“Steady,” Harger said. “Get out there. Hurry. I’m not sure how long he can hold the crafting.”
Amara had to stammer twice before she managed to say, “All right.” She turned and walked from the chamber, fighting to control her breathing, to keep her paces steady, even. The fear flowed through her like winter ice, cold little chips of it flowing in her blood, making her heart skip painful beats. She could barely keep her thoughts focused on the gates, on carrying the torch without dropping it — though she struggled to remember that if she dropped it, or if she surrendered to the fear and fled, that Gram’s efforts would be for nothing.
She felt herself begin to sob as she walked into the courtyard, felt her body begin to weaken with the mind-numbing terror. More than anything, she wanted to turn away from the gate, to flee, to take to the air and leave their savage enemies far behind.
Instead, she kept on, toward the gates, growing weaker, less steady, by the step. Part of the way there, she swayed and fell, and her tears blinded her. But she kept moving forward, crawling on her knees and her wounded arm, clutching at the torch and keeping it from falling to the ground.
Suddenly, from right in front of her someone screamed, and she felt herself hauled to her feet with terrifying strength, facing a towering giant with blazing eyes bearing a cudgel the size of a tree in one fist.
She fought against the terror, against the sobs that choked in her throat. “Bernard,” she said. “Bernard. The torch. Get me to the walls. Get me to the walls!”
The giant scowled and roared something at her that had her choking down a hysterical scream. Then he simply picked her up under one arm and carried her to the stairs and up them, to the frantic, screaming panic of the battlements. She felt herself come down on her feet again, and she staggered forward, toward the walls above the gates.
She could not think, could not control herself over the last few feet. She staggered forward, screaming and sobbing, bearing the torch aloft and certain that death was there for her, breathing softly, black wings rustling like those of the crows that waited, waited somewhere in the predawn darkness to sweep down on the eyes of the dead.
Somehow, she gained the battlements over the gate and stood above them, a sure and simple target for Marat archers, the torch held aloft.
It went up in a sudden furnace of sound and heat, an abrupt river of roaring light that shot into the sky and lit the ground for a mile in every direction. All of that terror, all of that fear in her blossomed out with the torch, poured out with the sudden, raging flames, swept out of her, magnified a thousandfold, onto the ground beneath.
There was an instant, horrible stillness, as the power of the firecrafting swept over the Marat below. And then a scream, born in one moment from thousands of throats, rose up into the air. The pressure of the Marat assault vanished, more quickly than it had arrived. The pale tide of Marat warriorsabruptly flooded back from the walls of Garrison, howling in terror, joined by the whistling, panicked shrieks of the fleeing warbirds. The battered legionares defending the walls began to cheer, as the Marat were swept under by the firecrafting and broke and ran.
Amara saw them go, even as the terror flowed out of her, poured out together with whatever strength she had left. She staggered and nearly fell from the battlements, only to be supported by Bernard, who had appeared behind her. She leaned back against him, exhausted and barely able to keep her eyes open, while all around her Aleran warriors threw defiant cheers after the fleeing enemy.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the sky was lighter. She sat on the battlements, wrapped in Bernard’s cloak. Numb, aching, she swayed to her feet and looked up and down the wall and down into the courtyard below.
The wounded, the dying, and the dead lay everywhere. Healers and surgeons alike labored with the fallen, with men burned so badly that they could hardly be recognized as human. Amara watched as one man let out a choking shriek and then stiffened, a blackened hand curled into a claw. The legionare with him, himself sporting a scarlet-stained bandage, drew a cloak over the man’s head. Then, with the help of another legionare, he carried the body to a growing number of rows of corpses on the other side of the courtyard.
She turned and looked down the walls. Perhaps a dozen legionares stood along them, young, strained, unwounded, holding their spears at attention.
On the battlefield below the walls, the crows had come for the dead.
They swarmed over them in a croaking black carpet, wings flapping, eyes glittering with glassy hunger, uncaring of the loyalties of the fallen. They hopped from body to body, tearing at tongues, eyes, and when Amara saw one of the bodies stir, only to be buried in the winged beasts, she felt her numb belly twist and turned away.
Bernard appeared a moment later, his face strained, and handed her a ladle of cold water. She drank.
“It’s bad,” she said, quietly.
“Bad,” he agreed. “Even once we get the lightly wounded back on their feet, the garrison lost two-thirds. There are only three Knights still alive, counting Pirellus. The gates are broken, and there’s no way to replace them — and the enemy can jump the walls in any case.”
“How’s Gram?”
“Harger says he isn’t likely to wake up again before he dies. That last crafting took too much out of him.”
“Crows,” Amara swore softly. “He’s a brave man.”
“Yes.”
“The Marat are coming back then,” Amara said.
“Soon.”
She closed her eyes, wearily. “What else can we do?”
Bernard said, “I don’t know.”
“We should get the women and children out. The men’s families. Put them in wagons and send them toward Riva as fast as they can go.”
“We can’t. Those Knights didn’t just take out the gates. Some others got into the stables and panicked the horses. It drew the attention of maybe half a dozen herdbane. There aren’t any horses left.”
Amara looked up at him. “Can they flee on foot?”
“I’ve talked to Pirellus about it, and Giraldi. Even on the causeway, the women and children can’t run faster than the Marat. Even if we hold on to Garrison for as long as possible. There just aren’t enough men—and most of the families won’t leave. They’ve decided that they’ll stay and fight, rather than be killed running. Pirellus is keeping their spirits up. Telling them that reinforcements are bound to come from Riva.”
“No,” Amara said, numb. “I never thought they’d have so many Knights Aeris to use to cut off the Valley. I don’t think anyone could have gotten through that many.”
Bernard nodded, once. “We’ve sent out runners, on foot, to warn the steadholts. We’re hoping to buy them some time. If they head for Riva right away, they might make it out of the Valley . . .” He let his voice trail off, tiredly.
Amara stood up beside him and leaned against him. He leaned back, and the two shared a long moment of silence in the predawn stillness.
“You should go,” Bernard said. “You can fly out of here. You should take word to the First Lord.”
“Even if I could still fly,” Amara said, “my duty is to do what I can to stop what’s hap
pening here. To find out who began it. Bring those responsible to justice. I couldn’t just leave.”
“There’s no reason for you to die here, Countess.”
“There’s no point in this argument, Steadholder. I can’t fly. Not now. I’m too tired.” She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. He felt strong and warm, and she took whatever comfort she could in that.
After a moment, she felt him move an arm around her, and she pressed closer to him. “I’m sorry, Bernard,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster. I didn’t do something differently. I’m sorry about your sister, your nephew.”
He swallowed. When he spoke, his voice came out rough, quiet. “Nothing to be sorry for. I just hope to the furies that they’re all right.”
She touched his arm, and they stood together, quiet, with the caws of the crows before them and the moans of the dying behind.
The sky lightened further, and Amara felt Bernard draw in a sudden breath. “Merciful furies.”
She opened her eyes and looked out onto the plains beyond Garrison, now being lit as the sun rose over them, and shone down upon a sea of pale bodies.
The Marat.
Thousands upon thousands of Marat. They stretched from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. Twenty thousand. Thirty. Fifty. She had no way to accurately estimate numbers that vast. She looked out at them as the horde poured slowly closer to Garrison over the plains. Enough to drown the defenders of the little fortress. Enough to swarm over the Calderon Valley. Enough to rampage over the unprepared lands beyond and to destroy thousands of defense-less Aleran communities.
She glanced up at Bernard and then stepped forward, away from him, to lean one hand on the battlements, watching the enemy come on.
“You’d better get Pirellus,” she said, quietly. “Tell him to get ready.”
CHAPTER 38
Though they were not cold, Isana’s feet were battered and bruised by the time she dragged the shambling Odiana out of the rough undergrowth of the woodland and out onto the causeway that ran the length of the Calderon Valley. She had barely caught her breath in the predawn darkness when she heard the drumming beats of running horses coming along the road, swift and steady.
She seized Odiana’s wrist and dragged her back toward the edge of the causeway, but it was too late. Riders, blazing along the furycrafted stones of the causeway, were already upon them and all but ran them down before bringing their horses, huge, plunging shapes in the darkness, rearing and fighting to a halt.
“Mistress Isana?” gasped a startled young man’s voice from the darkness. “What are you doing out here?”
Isana blinked up at the riders, startled. “Frederic?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young man said. He spoke quietly to the horse and then slid from the animal’s back, keeping a hand on the reins. “Furies, ma’am, but we didn’t think we’d see you again. Are you all right?”
The other rider slid down, and Isana recognized Steadholder Roth from the pale white shock of hair drifting around his head. He stepped to her at once and embraced her. “Thank goodness, Isana. We feared the worst.”
She leaned against the old Steadholder, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in her arms and legs, and had to have Rill’s help to keep the tears from her eyes. “I’m all right. It was a near thing, but I’m all right.”
“Who is this?” Roth asked, looking up past Isana to squint at where Odiana sat beside the road, looking at nothing, her expression listless.
“It’s a long story. I’ll take care of her. But what are you doing out here?”
“Outriding,” Roth said and turned to nod back down the road.
From down the causeway came the drum of more hooves, the rattle of cart wheels strained by the pace. Isana watched as more horses, some pulling heavy farm carts, others bearing riders, came down the road toward them. Frederic let out a sharp whistle and waved his arms, and the carts began to slow to a halt as they approached.
“But what are you doing?” Isana demanded.
Roth’s expression looked very tired in the dimness. “Isana. The Marat got into the Valley yesterday. Sometime last night. They attacked Aldoholt and burned it down. As far as we can tell, no one made it out.”
Isana took a deep breath, shocked. She felt dizzy. “Everyone?”
Roth nodded. “We saw the fires at dawn, and Warner and his boys went to check it out. He sent them out to warn Garrison and to Riva. The two heading for Garrison were murdered. We found them cut up not two miles back. We don’t know about the others.”
“Oh no,” Isana breathed. “Oh, furies, poor Warner.”
“Then, tonight, Frederic here was out in the fields working.”
Frederic nodded. “That big rock. I didn’t get it before the storm, and I couldn’t sleep and all, so I was back there tonight, Mistress Isana. And these two men just fell out of the sky.”
“Out of the sky? Knights Aeris?”
“Yes, ma’am. And one of them was all in black, and one was in Rivan colors ma’am, and hurt, so I hit the other one on the head with my shovel.” His voice had an anxious note to it, as though he wasn’t sure he’d done correctly. “That wasn’t wrong, was it?”
“Course not, boy,” Roth snorted. “He was a messenger from Garrison, Isana, sending to Riva for reinforcements. Said a Marat horde was on its way. And someone wanted him dead pretty bad. He had an arrow in him, and they’d sent a Knight to chase him to ground. Frederic here put a dent in the murderer’s noggin that won’t come out for a while, or we’d have asked who sent him.”
Frederic ducked his head.
The wagons halted, and a moment later Otto and Warner had both hurried up to them and each hugged Isana, Otto with warm relief, Warner with stiff, quiet determination.
“So you’re heading to Garrison?” Isana asked them.
Warner nodded. “We sent messengers to Riva, through the woods, where anyone watching from the air wouldn’t be able to follow them. But it will take them longer than by the air or the roads, so we’re heading out to fill in the gap ourselves.”
Isana looked back at the wagons, at the people filling them. “Great furies, Warner. You must have brought half of your holders.”
“A bit more,” Otto said, anxious. He wrung his hands. “Everyone able or who can do some useful crafting, Isana.”
“These people aren’t soldiers,” Isana protested.
“No,” Warner said, quietly. “But all the men have done their time in the Legions. Isana, if Garrison falls, there’s nothing that’s going to stop a horde from doing what it did to Aldoholt to every steadholt between here and Riva. Better for us to give our help and it not be needed than the other way around.”
“What about the children?”
“Some of the older ones led the youngers into the back country. Beggar’s Cave and such places. They’ll be safer there than in the steadholts, until this blows over.”
Isana blew out a breath. “What about Tavi? My brother? Has anyone seen them?”
No one said anything, until Frederic rubbed at his hair and said, “I’m sorry, Mistress. No one’s seen or heard from anyone that ran out the night of the storm. We figured you all was dead or—”
“That’ll do, Frederic,” Roth said, sternly. “The woman’s exhausted. Isana, you and this girl get in the back of the lead wagon, there. Otto, get something warm in them and around them, and we’ll get moving again.”
“Right,” Otto said, and took Isana’s arm. He reached down for Odiana’s, but the woman flinched from him and let out a high-pitched little sound.
“I’ll do it,” Isana told him and leaned down to touch Odiana’s chin. A broiling storm of emotion flowed up her from the touch, and Isana had to work to hold it away. She lifted Odiana’s face to hers and murmured, only moving her lips, “Get in the wagon.”
Odiana stared blankly at her, but rose when Isana tugged on her arm, and climbed up into the wagon willingly enough, settling in a back corner, eyes flicking out from behind h
er tangled hair to watch the other holders in it. Isana climbed in beside her, and a moment later, the wagon began rattling down the causeway again.
Someone passed her a heavy blanket, which she draped over the both of them, and a moment later a flask of something hot. She drank, some kind of spiced wine that burned in her belly but made her limbs feel warm and less tired. She passed the flask to Odiana, who had to hold it in her hands for a long moment, as though she had to work up the courage to drink, and who curled up beneath the blanket and dropped into what seemed to be an exhausted sleep a moment after.
“You look exhausted,” Otto said, from across the cart, his face sympathetic. “Try to get some rest. We’ll be in Garrison soon, but try.”
Isana passed him the flask and shook her head. “I’m not tired, Otto, honestly. I’ve too much on my mind.”
But after she sat back again, she leaned her head against the back of the cart, and didn’t wake up until the driver called back to Otto, “Holder! There it is!”
Isana jerked awake and sat up enough to see ahead of the cart. The morning was cold on her face and throat, and the icy coating on the ground gleamed in the pale light of a dawn that was not far away.
Smoke hung over Garrison like a funeral shroud.
Isana’s heart lurched into her throat. Were they too late? Had the fort already been attacked? She climbed up onto the driver’s seat of the wagon, even as the driver, one of Otto’s holders, began to cluck to the horses that pulled the wagon, slowing them from their fury-enhanced speed. Their breath steamed in the dim light.
As they approached, Isana saw a single young legionare on guard duty above the western gate of Garrison. A second look showed that he wore a heavy swath of bandages over his forehead and left eye, and that those bandages were so recent that they were still spotted with blood. A dark bruise discolored his cheek, though it looked a day old, at least. As the group of wagons and horses closed, the young soldier leaned out, staring at them.
Warner raised a hand to the guard. “Hello the gate! Let us in!”
