'Engage!' ordered Nunan.
The prayer echoed from the sides of the valley and bounced from the cliff behind. The sarissa infantry lowered their weapons and drove them into defenceless dead. Some of the living cried out at what they were doing. Nunan, following the line in, saw tears on the cheeks of triarii. The flanks of gladius infantry pivoted down their slopes. The Bear Claws moved in. Weapons clashed. Men were screaming.
The dead marched on. Those who encountered sarissas were driven back but did not fall. They walked, they pushed themselves up blades and those who came behind them did the same. Alarm started to filter across the centre of the legion. The Bear Claws' advance stalled almost as soon as it started. The sarissas could not make any more ground. Step by step, the dead forced gaps in their defence. Dead legionaries impaled on the long blades, began to walk up the shafts. And the more the legionaries held their weapons secure, the more they helped those making the grisly walk towards them.
Not knowing what to do, the sarissa infantry began to back away. Centurions roared for them to hold but between each shaft, the dead were closing. The right flank marched into the dead at pace. Nunan heard the crunch of impact. Shields up, the gladius infantry ploughed in. Swords hacked around and over shields. Nunan saw the dead sway inwards. Men and women lost their balance, falling into others who were still facing forwards, not realising for a moment that they were being attacked from three directions.
Nunan's hope rose but it was a brief flicker. Almost immediately, the dead on the flanks began to turn. Feverish strikes from the Claws battered and bludgeoned heads and bodies. Dead with smashed skulls dragged themselves back to their feet and tried to move on. Those with sword arms chopped from their bodies still moved forwards, adding to the weight. The initial push was stopped. Dead filled in behind those pushing back outwards on the flanks. And still they walked up the centre along the sarissa shafts.
To put down any of the dead took so many strikes, so much energy. And now they were beginning to strike back. Nunan had expected the blows of the dead to be directionless but they were not. Dead turned to face their attackers and struck out. Bear Claws were shouting at them to stop, begging them to remember who they had been, calling out names. And while one might falter and drop his sword, another would not.
Standards began to waver. Nunan could see the Claws shift backwards. Dead were on them in the centre. He looked but could not believe, while a man who had walked right up the shaft of a sarissa thrust his blade into the chest of the screaming legionary who held it. He collapsed, dragging his attacker down. But the dead man still tried to move forward. Into the gap came more, trampling over those in their way. Sarissas were dropped from dozens of hands, disrupting the advance further but nothing was stopping it. Gladiuses were drawn. The front rank closed again.
A bellowed order saw a renewed rush into the enemy. Nunan saw soldiers possessed by a frenzy, crashing their swords again and again into the dead that faced them. Bodies were dismembered, heads smashed inside their helmets, legs cut from underneath. The dead began to fall, yet as fast as they did they tried to rise once more. They were not tiring. They had no fear of death or pain. The fury of the assault began to dissipate.
The Claws were creaking. Arrows came overhead but those they struck ignored them, only breaking shafts that obstructed movement. And still the Tsardon commander lived. Nunan could hear him. A lone voice in the silent army.
'We have to get the leader,' shouted Nunan. 'More arrows centre. Press, Claws.'
Horns sounded again. They, like those they commanded, were uncertain, losing heart. But they moved in again anyway. Shields forward to batter a path, swords looking to disable, eyes front and fearful of any strike. No one wanted to become like them and it showed. A timidity was falling on them.
'Nunan!'
The general turned. Roberto Del Aglios was running towards him. Others were with him, carrying crates and a brazier. Engineers. He frowned. Behind him, the cries of his legion reached a new level. The line was under threat. The legion was retreating.
'Hold!' bellowed a centurion. 'Hold.'
'God-surround-me, General, we can't stop them. We can't even contain them.'
'Then help me,' said Roberto. 'We no longer have a choice.'
The crates were placed on the ground, the engineers levering up the lids to reveal straw-packed flasks. Nunan stared down and then up at Roberto.
'You can't mean this,' he said.
'Got a better idea? Some must perish that the rest can live to fight another day.'
'But this isn't just death, this is cycle's end.'
'I know,' said Roberto and Nunan could see the conflict in his face. 'Now will you help me or not? I will throw the first flask.'
Nunan scanned the engineers. They were with him but there was a sheen to their faces that told of the crime they were abetting. And more were running down the road too. Shouting for Roberto to be stopped. The Order.
'What is going on, General?'
'Speaker Barias does not agree with me,' said Roberto. 'I can see his point.'
The orders and shouts of the infantry had an edge of desperation to them. Centurions were looking to Nunan and he was not looking back.
'You have to make a choice,' said Roberto, his tone sharp, voice loud enough to carry to the rear ranks. 'Give them something or watch them fall and join the dead.'
Nunan paused.
'You haven't the time, General,' said Roberto. 'Examine your conscience later. We have to destroy these now before the cavalry is broken and the Tsardon hit us full force. Take the fear from your soldiers.'
Nunan nodded. 'Light the tapers,' he said. 'Yes, General,' said an engineer.
The Order delegation were pounding down the road at a sprint. Roberto glanced in their direction.
'Don't let them divert you.' He beckoned to the engineers. 'Quickly. One for each hand. Pray as you throw.'
Nunan turned to the hornsman. 'Signal disengage.'
The hornsman stared back. 'General?'
'Do it,' snapped Roberto. 'Or the Bear Claws die here and now.'
Tapers were lit. The engineers were ready. Julius Barias and three Order Readers were roaring, their fury understandable but their self-control gone. Nunan felt cold inside. His mind raced, his pulse likewise and he fought to control a shiver in his arms. He nodded at the hornsman and the disengage was sounded. Roberto picked up two flasks and proffered them to the engineer holding the taper.
'May God forgive us this day,' he said.
'May our friends forgive us,' said the engineer.
The disengage was heralded across the line and Nunan heard instant confusion. Centurions were looking to him for explanation. They were going to get one but they weren't going to like it.
'You'd better be right, Roberto,' he said.
'Trust me.'
The legion was moving backwards. It was a controlled move designed to produce a gap of four yards, then ten, quickly and without casualties. But of course the dead weren't like any other army, happy to rest and defend the inevitable arrows. They just moved up and the gap was under pressure.
The engineer lit the fuses on Del Aglios's flasks and those of another two engineers whom he'd convinced to his thinking. Nunan bent to take flasks himself. Del Aglios was moving forward to the back of the line and into it, shouting men from his path. Julius Barias sprinted past yelling his rage. Del Aglios cocked an arm to throw. Barias grabbed it, tore the flask from his hand and threw it away behind him where it smashed on a rock and threw fire over the grass; a sudden flare in the dim light.
Del Aglios turned on him, fuse burning down his second flask.
'Touch me again and you'll feel the flame, Barias.'
'I am an officer of the Omniscient and you will—'
'And I'm a man trying to save my people and my country,' said Del Aglios.
He shoved Barias so hard that the Speaker stumbled and fell backwards and into the arms of his Readers. In the next motion, he'd switched his
second flask to his throwing arm and hurled it in a high tumbling arc.
'General, no!'
It was the voice of a centurion. Others joined it and every eye watched the flask. The flame illuminated the clear liquid sloshing within, the upturned faces blanking in realisation. It hadn't even landed before Roberto was shouting for more. But then it did. Cannoning into the helmet of a dead Bear Claw legionary. The naphtha sprayed wide, the flame igniting it as it travelled, sending a sheet of flame that covered twenty.
Four other flasks followed quickly, shattering in the centre of the dead army. The Bear Claws took another pace backwards. The cries of condemnation began to ring out but they were drowned by the shout of the dead. Weapons dropped from every hand, burning or not. Every face turned towards the Bear Claws. Eyes that had been blank registered betrayal. And from the mouths of those aflame came a dreadful keening wail. Within it, Nunan was certain he could hear a scream of 'why?' and the sound tore at his heart and drained his determination.
'No more!' he shouted. 'No more fire. Claws, let's get into them. Save all you can.'
The dead did not raise a hand. In their midst, the single living Tsardon was trapped. The Bear Claws waded back into the attack. They carved and hacked and bludgeoned. Nunan pressed forwards to be seen in the centre of the action, stamping out fires, trying to send the screaming dead back to the embrace of God, trying to save them from the demons on the wind.
But while they did not fight back, the dead had found their voice. The wail had become a howl. It spoke pain and dread. It dredged horror from the deepest recesses of the human mind and flung it at the living who could do nothing but try to scythe the limbs from their former comrades and try to bring them new peace.
Yet on the ground, even those with arms hanging by a thread or with heads crushed in or cut from their necks still tried to move. Nunan felt nausea growing. Around him, men and women could not control themselves, vomiting, calling out for it all to end but knowing it could not.
'Finish the job,' called Nunan. 'We must.' - He stopped talking before his voice broke. In front of him, a dead legionary was a sheet of flame. He battered his shield into the man's body, sending him sprawling backwards. He chopped down, taking the sword arm off at the elbow then dropped to his knees to heap dirt on the burning, writhing body. To roll it over to extinguish the naphtha flames that he himself had thrown.
'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,' he muttered. 'Forgive me.'
And in the next instant, the dead dropped soundlessly to the ground. Crumpling where they had stood and leaving just one man standing. The tattooed Tsardon commander.
Silence washed across the battlefield. The growing dawn illuminated the smoke-blown carnage. The air stank of burned cloth and flesh. From down the road towards the castle, Nunan could see the sutviving cavalry turn and pound up towards him. Prayers were being said in every quarter. And those accusing eyes turned from the dead all around them, fixing on him and Roberto Del Aglios.
'This crime cannot go unpunished,' said Julius Barias from behind him.
Nunan turned to see the speaker moving through the ranks of exhausted, bemused legionaries. Nunan put up a hand to still the voices that rose in support of the Order minister.
'You will wait before coming into the area of combat,' said Nunan.
'This is not combat. This is slaughter. It is murder.'
Nunan stepped up to him and waved legionaries away from them. 'I will not have you cause trouble down here. This is not the time or the place.'
Kell, leading her sweating, tired horses and riders, pulled up around the edge of the battlefield on the slope heading up to the crag. Nunan turned.
'General Kell,' he said and smiled. 'It is good to see you still upright. The Tsardon?'
'Withdrawn,' she said, her gaze and that of every rider on the dead, some still smouldering though legionaries moved among them to do what they could. 'I didn't know why, they almost had us but now ... what happened here?'
'Desecration and heresy happened—'
'Speaker Barias you will be quiet. Remember your place.' He turned back to Kell. 'We'll talk later. Best get your horses seen to at the rear staging area. We've still got work to do here.'
'Are you all right, Pavel?'
Nunan shook his head. 'No one is all right, Dina.' He raised his voice. 'Bear Claws! We must have all our fallen dismembered and buried. You do God's work now and I will be with you. Today, you are all heroes of the Conquord. Today you must honour your comrades and pray for them.'
Barias opened his mouth to speak but Nunan grabbed his cloak.
'And you, Speaker Barias, will do your appointed task in this legion. Spread no dissension. No matter what your feelings we still face six thousand Tsardon and we must not fall before them. Do I make myself clear?'
'General Nunan—'
'Do I make myself clear?'
'Yes, General.'
'Good. Bring the bodies into the trees to bury. I will be with the surgeon, my wife and the ambassador when you are done.'
Nunan turned away and breasted through the legion, which was coming to reluctant order under the insistence of its centurions. He found Roberto already walking back towards the crag, his head hung low, his bearing stooped.
'It had to be done, Pavel,' he said when Nunan hailed him. 'We had no other choice.'
'But what have we started? And where will it end?'
Chapter Twenty-Seven
859th cycle of God, 35th day of Genasrise
Gorian's scream of frustration had brought them all running. He had tried to hide the pain but his head was pounding and he had no idea if he had been successful. In those final moments, he had lost control of them all. Their wills, so easy to subvert, had reasserted themselves in their moment of greatest fear.
It had left Gorian weak, furious and not a little confused. He pushed himself from the chair in his adopted chamber and walked away a few paces, palms to his temples.
'What did they do, Father?' asked Kessian, who had been with him the whole time, supplying the well of power for him to direct the battle. The boy looked none the worse for the shock but then he had merely been a conduit, not the architect.
'They burned them,' he said, disbelieving. 'Omniscient followers threw fire over their own people. They would deny them the embrace of God. That cannot be allowed. They were my people. I made them walk again. They had no right. No right to do that to my people.'
Gorian found his anger lending him new strength. Two Dead Lords stood in front of him now along with the King's son, Rhyn-Khur.
'A weakness, Westfallen?' asked the prince.
'A crime,' said Gorian. 'One that will not go unpunished.'
'Who by, you?' Rhyn-Khur made no attempt to keep the sneer from his voice. 'Lost your army, didn't you? You are weak without them.'
Gorian shook his head. 'Don't make that mistake, Rhyn. Not ever.'
'We should have pressed on. I could have broken their cavalry. Then we would have fallen upon them, destroyed them. Your caution has led us nowhere. We can still win today. They are in disarray. Order the attack.'
'No,' said Gorian. 'We cannot risk it. We already have the victory we need today. We must produce dead under control. What you suggest is not control and they have just shown intent we hadn't foreseen.'
'Perhaps you did not, but nothing they do surprises me or any warrior of Tsard. At heart, they are godless. Quick to turn their backs on their faith if it suits their purposes. That the Ascendancy flourishes is evidence enough. Today merely reinforces that which we already knew.'
'It changes nothing. I must think and I must rest. I must tell our forces in Atreska and Gestern what has happened here and then we must move forward again.'
'Ridiculous,' said Rhyn. 'We should move forwards now. They are in disarray and hiding under a cliff. We must slaughter them now and move on at once.'
'We will do no such thing,' said Gorian quietly. 'They are going nowhere. You can move to surround them but no more. I want the
m in my way. Undamaged if we can. And with Roberto Del Aglios leading them to battle at the gates of Estorr.'
Rhyn stared at Gorian, hatred undisguised. 'My father made a grave error leaving you in charge here.'
'I'll be sure to let him know. Now leave me. There is much to do and I need my strength.'
'You are incompetent, Gorian Westfallen. My father will see it and command will be mine.'
Gorian laughed. 'Your protestations are pathetic. I am in charge because only I can ensure the victory of our combined forces. No one is about to take command from me. Least of all you, my Prince.'
Rhyn-Khur pointed at him. 'One day, Westfallen. One day.'
He spun on his heel and stalked out of the room. The Dead Lords remained. The chamber was cold. A new fire had been laid but its warmth had not reached all corners. It was a bleak castle, this Conquord structure. Not designed for comfort. But it was strong and functional and that was something not to be dismissed. More than that, it boasted plenty of escape routes for the quick individual, both back into Tsard and into lonely Conquord lands.
'Lord Garanth has been taken alive,' said Gorian.
The Dead Lords registered barely a flicker. They stood side by side in the chamber. They were a fascinating breed. Priest, jailer and executioner. Tsardon with a link to those who had passed from life to death that could neither be denied, nor understood. Gorian was still trying to fathom it. They had energies that no other living person bar an Ascendant exhibited but like passive talents, they used those energies without comprehension.
'Then he must be rescued,' said one, filed front teeth giving a whistle to his words.
'He knows what he must do, Lord Runok.' Runok was a man barely able to string a sentence together. One for whom the tattoo had become more than a badge; it was an obsession. 'He will speak and then he will listen and I will hear.'
A Shout for the Dead Page 27
