'Trierarch Kashilli.'
'Yes, skipper.'
The huge Ocenii marine turned to him. Dark-skinned and tattooed, he loomed over them all. His hair was jet black and he kept it tied and braided at the nape of his neck. A single ring was through his left nostril. Iliev didn't approve of jewellery but Kashilli was a proven marine and he didn't interfere with the personal superstitions of his best killers.
'Disembark and hold passage four south. Check the lift status.'
'Yes, skipper,' he said. His large brown eyes studied Iliev. 'You think the dead are here, don't you?'
'What else is there to think? Just remember what I told you about Jhered's encounters. If a man does not respond. If he is dull of face, appears injured or diseased, then he is our enemy. Move to disable. Legs, heads and arms. Tell the squad.'
'Done, skipper.'
'And pass this word also. If the Isle is taken, we must raise the quarantine flags. If I fall, take it on. Someone has to make it to all the towers across the Isle.'
Kashilli turned back and began barking instructions to the squad while weapons were checked and strapped on. Thirty-six men ready to retake their home for the whole of the Ocetanas. Iliev's aide reappeared with his light leather breastplate, dual short swords and knife belt.
'Is there naphtha aboard?' Iliev asked.
'Only in the bellows and pipes, my lord. Nothing hand held.' 'We'll bring as much back as we can. Kashilli, you hear that?' 'Aye, skipper. It's in the dry stores first level above the docks. We'll liberate it.'
'Good.' Iliev raised his voice. 'Crew of the Ocetarus. Be ready to leave fast on my order or the order of any Ocenii, should I fall. Ready the bellows, keep the pipes trained on the dockside. Let no one on board you suspect is no longer your friend. Ocenii, to me.'
The ship was inside the dock now. Iliev could feel the vast space where upwards of eighty triremes could be berthed comfortably. It felt empty, which was of some comfort. The single Conquord trireme they could see, sail still up and slapping slack against the mast was dark and quiet like the cavern. The tiller man angled the ship into the berth.
'I need room for oars port and starboard. Not too close to the angle, there.'
'Yes, my Lord.'
The lanterns forward lit the harbour wall. Iliev could see a lone body sprawled with his leg dangling over the edge. His back was bloody, his clothing torn. Iliev frowned. He was an Ocetanas and he had not been reawakened.
'Ocenii, I have seen a brave man reduced to madness by the walking dead. Remember yourselves and remember your training. Look to each other. You have brothers either side of you. See to it that none fall, only to rise and walk against you. Are we ready?'
A roar greeted his question.
'Then I commend all our bodies to Ocetarus. May He bless our work and give us the strength to reclaim our land for Him. Bring torches. When we are done, we will burn the bodies.'
The ship nudged the harbour wall. On a command from Kashilli, the Ocenii swarmed up and over the prow rail, jumping the short distance to the land or running along the ramming spike. Their feet slapped loud on the stone. They split into two groups. The first headed left and out of sight but for their lanterns, making for passage four south. Kashilli led them. Iliev took the second group. Moving directly ahead down the wide approach that led to the dockside from the lift stations.
They ran past trolleys and small carts stowed to the sides of the passage, waiting cargo and supplies that would not be coming. Iliev leapt three more bodies on the way. He paused at the fourth, waving the squad onto their target. This man was no marine, no sailor. His clothing was that of a legionary. Insignia of the twentieth ala, the Stone Fists of Gestern.
'Dear Ocetarus, save us. The dead are crossing the ocean.'
Any lingering hopes that this was all the result of an outbreak of disease were gone. Iliev took to his feet and caught his squad by the lift stations. Splintered wood, broken tackle and cut rope littered the bare rock.
'They tried to slow them, skipper,' said a marine.
'But we must assume they found a way. Come on. Passage four. It's been a while since we've done the long run up there.' Iliev turned and led them back to the harbour side. He shouted information over to the ship on his way past. 'Kashilli?'
'Skipper.'
The marine resolved himself from the gloom at the passage head. His men were already inside it. 'Report.'
'Bodies scattered up the passage as far as we've gone. I'm securing the dry stores. Looks like everyone went up to the plateau and the palace.'
'Right. Change of plan. When the dry stores are secured, pick four to maintain guard while the ship's crew take everything they can lay their hands on. The rest of us, up the passage but let's not make this a competition. Any one up there is either dead, walking dead, or very well hidden by now.'
'Yes skipper, these bodies are stiff. This didn't happen just now.'
'But just now is when we'll finish it.'
The long, steep slope of passage four led directly into the cellars of the Ocetanas Palace that ran below the hypocausts. It was a cold, dark walk and Iliev wanted squad seven to arrive ready to fight. They walked silently and quickly. Steady pace, regular breathing. He could feel their apprehension, he shared it.
‘If it talks, it's still alive,' he said. 'Let us not kill those who have done so well to survive.'
‘If there are any,' muttered Kashilli.
‘Indeed.'
The few bodies were long behind them now. Any who had escaped this far had probably made it to other defensive positions. Doors should be shut and bolted. So many places to hide in the palace. Iliev brightened momentarily. Of the two thousand odd who lived and worked here, some must surely have survived.
The cellars had been a battle ground. Dozens of bodies lay amongst the wine jugs, the crates and the stacked pottery, tiles and blocks of marble all stored there. It didn't take long to see how the fight had gone. Arrows had come from the two sets of doors at the opposite end of the cellars to the passage but they hadn't stopped the advance. Shafts lay on the ground. Others stuck in some numbers from bodies that had been hacked apart.
Iliev could almost feel the desperation in the defenders as they realised their attackers would not stop. Would not lie down. When a thrust to the heart was of no use, what would a man think? Ocetanas lay amongst them. About twenty were here. And ahead, the doors had been chopped open.
'Read this, Ocenii,' he whispered. 'When you strike you must be quick. Hamstrings, knees, ankles. Our swords may not dismember. Any of you good with axe or longer blade, help yourself. Plenty here.'
A couple of the marine oarsmen took him up on his invitation. One hefted a wood axe in both hands. Another picked up the curved blade of a Tsardon. Iliev raised his eyebrows. He led them through the doors. Light was beginning to filter down. Ahead of them, a stairway led between the hypocaust vents and up into the palace proper. Kitchens and storerooms were before them.
It was quiet up here too. He bade them leave their lanterns behind. All of them knew this place. It was the centre of their lives. He paused.
'I feel as you feel. Use your anger at this desecration, for silence is desecration here. Feel no pity. Strike without mercy.'
'Skipper,' came the hushed response.
'Kashilli. Go along the eastern wall. Raise the flags. I'll take the western.'
'Aye, skipper. Skipper? The rosters and placements?'
Iliev felt a rush of cold through him. 'I'll bring them. Good thought. Let's go, Ocenii.'
They split at the grand dining hall. It was laid for a feast. Crockery sparkled under polish, cutlery shone. Candelabra stood along every table. Chairs were decked with individual colours. Ready for the celebration of light, the end of the Quietening for another cycle. A feast that would have to wait.
Iliev took his men and ran out to the right, across the inner courtyard and up the stairs to the admiralty offices. Not a man, not a body. Just quiet. The paintings looked down on the
emptiness, the rugs muffled their footsteps. The cool of the marble calmed their nerves.
Iliev waved a marine forwards to open the admiralty doors. He glanced around the landing that overlooked the courtyard and fountain. Ranks of closed doors. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. The doors swung silently open. Amidst the papers stacked on tables, the models of vessels and the tapestries of Ocetarus, bodies. Men and women he knew. Some still carried the terror of their deaths. Blood matted the rugs. The place stank. Flies had already found the corpses.
The squad ran in. Doors to ante-rooms were thrown open. His own office was tidy and empty of life or death. There were papers spread on his desk. He moved around to look at them. He sank into his chair, picked up one or two. The rosters. Positions of ships. Manpower. Destinations and resupply rotas.
‘I didn't leave these out like this,' he whispered.
'All clear in the admiralty, skipper.'
Iliev looked up and nodded. 'Take the squad up to the palace towers. Hang the flags. You know where they're stored. Every tower. Don't miss one. Keep your eyes open.' 'And you, skipper?'
'I'll be up presently. I don't think there's anyone here.' The marine nodded, dubious. 'I won't pass that on.' 'Don't. And go. I'll pack this up.' 'Aye, skipper.'
Shouting for the squad, the marine trotted back out to the landing. The stairs up to the roof and towers were next to the admiralty doors. Soon, he could hear footsteps going up and crossing the space above him. Iliev tried to think. This didn't ring right. Someone had been here looking at his papers. There was purpose here. This was not merely an attack of the dead to harvest more bodies.
So the fact they had found no one was confusing. Surely the enemy would take these papers. They held such key information for anyone wanting to avoid the fleet. Or indeed to find it. Iliev shivered. If you'd come all this way, you would not leave behind what you came for. He was wrong. They were here. Somewhere.
Iliev stood up and drew his short blades. Shouting came to him from above. A single scream. The door to his office swung open.
Chapter Fifty-One
859th cycle of God, 53rd day of Genasrise
That the man did not expect him to be there was almost comically apparent. He had walked five paces into the office before drawing up short and beginning to move backwards. Others were at the door. This first man was alive. The rest were not. 'Looking for something?' asked Iliev.
The man spat an insult. He was Tsardon. Head shaved and covered in tattoos. His teeth were sharpened at the front and he wore heavy furs over dark leather armour as if the land was still gripped by dusas. He drew a mace from his belt and hefted it in his left hand. But he was confused. He became aware of the sounds from above.
'That's right, I'm not alone,' said Iliev.
He came around the table. The Tsardon backed off another pace towards the door. Dead moved in behind him. Six of them. Iliev came on.
'Who—?'
'This is my office,' said Iliev.
'Too late for you,' said the Tsardon, his accent thick. 'We already swarm the sea.'
'Not as late as it is for you,' said Iliev.
He ran at the Tsardon who raised his mace. He was no soldier. Iliev ducked the flailing blow and rose, slashing one blade across the man's thighs, the other into his face, letting his anger give him power. He roared the name of God. The Tsardon cried out and pitched backwards.
The dead behind him shuddered but came on, walking around the Tsardon who was yelling something in his own language now, through his pain.
'Come on,' said Iliev. 'Scare me.'
The dead came in. Gesternans, or they used to be. Just legionaries.
Gladius bearers. Four still had their shields on their arms. All bore wounds and sores. Their skin was discoloured, armour and clothing torn and in need of repair. One walked dragging his left leg behind him. They stared at him, eyes blank but he could have sworn something flashed inside them just for a heartbeat. He couldn't worry about it now. The sounds of fighting intensified above his head. He needed to get to his men.
Iliev rushed forwards. He didn't expect them to flinch but he knew he had the edge of speed. And he did not fear them. Swords and shields were raised in front of him. Iliev stepped smartly to his left, planted his foot and round-housed the right-most soldier. Their balance was poor. The dead man toppled over to his left and fell, upsetting another two. Iliev pounced on the fallen man, slashing his blades across his hamstrings, cutting as deep as he could.
Iliev drove to his feet. The dead were turning to surround him. He buried one blade to the hilt in the thigh of his next target, dragging it clear, chopping down hard on the wrist with his other. The hand went limp, sword clattering to the ground. He was standing now. He butted the dead man in the forehead. The man staggered back. Iliev helped him on his way, pushing him hard in the chest. He collected two others and fell back through the door.
Iliev dropped to his haunches. A blade whipped over his head. He balanced and swept out a foot, tripping a walking dead who crashed to the ground. Iliev bounced and dropped with his knee in the small of the Gesternan's back. He felt bone give. Iliev rolled aside and came to his feet. Two were down, unable to rise. A third had no weapon but came on. The Tsardon was trying to rise. Blood poured from his face and down his legs from the cut at his waist. He was in a bad way.
Iliev waited for the dead to move in on him. Again he dropped to his haunches. He hacked his blades in from left and right, catching the back of an enemy's knees. Joints collapsed and the man fell. Iliev sprang back out of his way. Three more walking, three down but still trying to move in on him, impelled by what, he couldn't begin to imagine.
The dead were slow. Too slow for the Ocenii. Iliev ran at them again. There was space behind them. He dropped and rolled, bowling one aside. He came up quickly, delivering multiple strikes to the rear of calves, ankles, driving deep to snip hamstrings. The dead staggered on a pace before they began to turn. Iliev grabbed the Tsardon by the arm and dragged him out of the office. He howled in pain. Iliev dropped him and closed the door, turning the lock.
'Time enough,' he said. 'You. Tell me what I want to know.'
'You know enough. That you are finished.'
'Do I look finished to you?' Iliev knelt and grabbed him by the collars of his furs. They stank. The man's eyes began to roll back in his head. 'He speaks through you, I know he does. Can you hear me, you bastard? The Isle is mine again. And I am coming for you, burning and sinking every ship you have taken on the way. Fear me. Fear the Ocenii.'
Iliev dropped the Tsardon back to the ground. He was still breathing but it was ragged. The cut to his waist was deep and he was bleeding to death. Iliev got up, unlocked the doors and kicked them open. The dead faced him.
'Gentlemen, I'll be needing my papers,' he said.
And he closed the doors behind him.
'Hammers and axes!' roared Kashilli. He smashed his fist into the face of a dead man and pitched him over the cliff wall to tumble two thousand feet over rock and into water, if just one of you bastards gets away from here, tell them we need more hammers and axes.'
The flags were flying on the eastern turrets of the Ocetanas Palace. Kashilli had led his squad onto the walkway and wall that marked the length of the Isle's inhabited area. It had watch towers every mile. Four in all. And the same along the western edge where Iliev should be emerging. One flag was raised on the skipper's side and they were fighting hard, he could see that at a glance.
And a glance was all he could spare. The dead had boiled up the stairway from the first watch tower and rushed them down the path. More had emerged from nowhere behind them as if on some prearranged signal. He had lost three good men. Now it was his turn. Ocenii with axes were at their rear. He was at the head, a wood axe gripped in one big hand.
'Keep moving forwards. Don't let them stall us.'
Three abreast they stood despite the risk of injuring each other. Kashilli on the outside, swinging his axe in. Twenty dead stood in fro
nt of them. There were more, many more on the lawns and in the gardens below. Most weren't moving but some were bunching and walking towards the steps.
Kashilli battered his axe into the side of a dead man. He felt the ribcage shatter. Kashilli growled and kept the swing going. Heaving the dead off balance.
'Push them over! Go, go.'
The other two turned and helped the dead on. Three more tumbling, this time into the gardens. They'd be back. Kashilli had a moment's space. He grabbed the axe in both hands and swept it low and very fast. The blade carved through the legs of a Gesternan dead and deep into the knee of the second. The one fell, scrabbling with his hands. The other collapsed forwards. Kashilli barrelled into him, shoving him backwards into others. One fell from the path. Gone without a scream to the mercy of Ocetarus.
It gave him an idea.
'Stand back. Follow in my wake. Heave them over. Cut at the legs.' He grasped the axe firmly. 'I want that tower. There's oil and wood to be had there.'
Kashilli stared over the blade at the dead. They were coming on again. Two abreast but clumsy. Some behind walking faster than the damaged ahead. It gave them a stumbling, undisciplined look. But effective enough because they showed no emotion or distress from the horrific wounds some of them carried. It was bad work but someone had to dish it out.
'I will deliver you to mercy,' he said and shouted to clear his mind. 'Ocetarus awaits you.'
The dead in front of him had one eye and half a face. Brain oozed from cracks in his skull. Kashilli sheared his axe through the unfortunate's neck, catapulting him into the wall. His head flew out over the ocean, the body spasmed but did not fall. It tried to move but the legs would not coordinate.
A Shout for the Dead Page 51
