by Marc Turner
A booming sound struck up as the undead host began again their assault on the city gates. There were coins on the guardroom table, and they rattled with each blow from the battering ram. When the door from outside opened, a wall of noise spilled into the guardroom, closely followed by Reynes’s cinderhound, the general himself, and a hatchet-faced woman Ebon recognized as Captain Hitch. Chancellor Tamarin brought up the rear. He paused on the threshold and wrinkled his nose before entering. Hitch slammed the door shut.
Collapsing into a chair, Reynes pulled a flask from his shirt pocket and took a swig. For a while no one spoke.
We’ve all woken up to a different world. At least those of us who got any sleep at all.
“Before we start,” Janir said, “I would like to know how a Shroud-cursed army managed to creep up on us without so much as a word of warning.”
Ebon frowned. “We went through this in my father’s chambers.”
“A meeting to which I was not invited.” Janir looked from Reynes to Mottle. “Let’s hear what these fools have to say for themselves. Hells, I could do with a laugh.”
“This council has not been called for your entertainment,” Ebon said. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “General, I would hear your thoughts on the disposition of the enemy.”
Reynes roused himself. “I’d reckon their numbers at maybe eight thousand, with more arriving from the forest every bell.” He took another drink from his flask. “Their ranks are also being swelled from the boneyards round the city.”
Ebon grimaced. The awakening of Majack’s burial grounds had been just one more harrowing development in the longest of nights, but at least the cemeteries were, for the most part, outside the city walls. More fortunate still, it seemed whatever sorcery animated the dead was unable to breach the wards woven into the walls of the palace’s throne room. For now the khalid esgaril remained a skeleton. “Is there any sign of a command structure?”
“Not a sniff. No officers, no command centers, no horns, no signals at all. It’s quiet as Jirali’s grave out there, but the damned orders are coming from somewhere. At dawn, the attack on the walls broke off in the blink of an eye.”
“Your Majesty,” Captain Hitch said, “whoever’s running the show ain’t military. The stiffs just claw at the walls like they mean to scratch their way in. Where’s the siege engines? The scaling ladders? The bastards ain’t even bothered to strip the branches from that battering ram of theirs.”
“Do they have any archers?”
“Not a bow or an arrow between them.” Hitch touched her forehead, then added, “Watcher be praised.”
“Clearly they did not come equipped for a siege.”
“They did not come equipped at all,” Janir said. “Most of them have no armor, some don’t even have weapons.”
“And yet if the walls are breached…” Ebon left the thought hanging. “The gates have to hold.”
Mottle cleared his throat. “Your humble servant has spun wards of air about all four of the entrances to the city. The enemy’s battering rams will not so much as mark the wood.”
“And if the wards themselves are dispelled?”
“Impossible! Impregnable! Impenetrable!”
Janir banged his hands downs on the table, making the coins jump. “By the Abyss, someone’s raised a whole army of Shroud-cursed corpses! You think a bit of air is going to stop him?”
The old man scratched at an armpit. “What Mottle may cede to the enemy in brute force—and he makes no admission in this regard—he more than makes up for in guile, craft, cunning…”
As the mage rambled on, Janir’s face turned an ugly shade of red.
“Enough!” Ebon said. “The truth is, we do not know what the enemy is capable of. So, we are back to the gates. If the undead break through, we will have no choice but to retreat to the palace.”
Captain Hitch spoke. “The streets leading from the marketplace have been sealed off.”
“With carts, yes. Not good enough. I want the windows of the buildings surrounding the square blocked up, walls of stone built across the roads. Let’s make the marketplace a killing ground. The same with the other gates.”
Hitch shrugged. “As you like.”
The murmuring of the spirits in Ebon’s mind was getting louder, but he paid it no mind. “What have we missed? The river? Have the Water Gates been lowered?”
Reynes looked up from stroking his cinderhound. “Aye, though the enemy have no boats that we’ve seen.”
“What about the threat from within the city? The Necropolis?”
“Its grounds have been barricaded. A few of the stiffs had already flown the coop, but Vale’s tracking them down with the help of Sergeant Ketes. There’s still the problem of what we do with the undead once we catch them.”
Janir snorted. “Throw them in the river. Raise the Water Gate—”
“I hardly think,” the chancellor cut in, “that the Merceriens will thank us when that particular catch washes up on their banks.”
Ebon’s tone was cool. “More to the point, Domen, undead or not, these are Galitians. We do not just flush our people away like refuse. A way may yet be found to help them.” He turned to Mottle. “Mage, what of the earth tremors during the night? Are they the work of the undead?”
The old man cocked his head. “Something stirs, my boy, deep beneath our feet. The city around you is naught but a skin over the shifting bones of innumerable generations. We must hope that the weight of ages suffices to deny the involvement of whatever skulks below.”
It was becoming increasingly difficult for Ebon to hear the mage’s words above the drone of the spirits. A new note ran through their misery, he realized. Fear. Were they afraid, then, of what lurked underground?
Janir was speaking. “What of the granaries, the wells? With the river poisoned—”
“Supplies are not a problem,” the chancellor interrupted. “Much of the harvest has been gathered already, and so far the wells show no sign of succumbing to the infection that blights the river.”
There was a scrape of wood on stone as Janir rose from his chair. He began pacing. “And the palace? If a retreat proves necessary, how many wells are there within the fortress’s walls?”
Ebon exchanged a glance with Tamarin. “Two,” he said. Not nearly enough. “What if we start moving the people out by river? Once through the eastern Water Gate, any boat would be vulnerable to attack for only a few moments before the current took it out of range.”
Reynes spoke. “We’ve barely a handful of boats in the city, and precious little wood to build more.”
“Then I suggest we find some. Strip buildings, bridges. Anything that will float.”
“We’re talking about saving a few hundred at most. Not enough to make a difference.”
“What of the royal household, your Majesty?” the chancellor said. “Perhaps it would be prudent to evacuate your family now, along with other dignitaries.”
Like yourself, no doubt. Ebon’s thoughts strayed to Lamella. If the city walls were breached she would have little chance of escaping the undead. He would have to move her to the palace now, whatever his mother’s objections. Even then, though, the safest place for her was outside the city. He paused, then said, “No, the royal household stays.”
“I fail to see what contribution they can make to the war effort.”
“That is not the issue, Chancellor. What message does it send out if my family is seen to flee? We are trying to allay the people’s fears, not fuel them further.”
Tamarin held Ebon’s gaze for a moment before nodding.
Ebon turned to General Reynes. He had to raise his voice to hear it above the moaning of the spirits in his head. “What about support from outside the city? Who commands at Culin?”
“Arin Forbes,” Reynes said. “But the messenger we sent won’t have reached him yet.”
“Another day at least, then, before Forbes gets here.” Time. Time is what we need. “Culin’s garrison has, w
hat? Six hundred men?”
“Aye, give or take. With any normal siege, Forbes could hit and run—wear them down. But against the stiffs…”
Ebon nodded. “We have to find another way. Mottle, we need to know more about what we’re facing.”
The old man smoothed his crumpled robe. “The bounties of Mottle’s ineffable genius are ever at your disposal, my boy. Indeed, your humble servant retired to the palace library this very night.”
“What did you find?”
“A veritable trove of treasures! Such wonders of erudite scholarship—”
“The facts, mage. Just the facts.”
“If only it were that simple. As you know, the enemy force is comprised predominantly of an ancient people—the Vamilians—whose civilization was destroyed during the Second Age. The exact date is a matter of contention, but scholars so rarely agree—”
“Who they are is irrelevant,” Janir said. “I think we can assume they have not raised themselves from the dead. The question is, who controls them? Why are they here?”
The mage sighed. “Alas, Mottle is not all-knowing, though at times it may appear otherwise…”
The voices of the spirits swelled still further in Ebon’s mind, but he couldn’t afford to show any reaction with Janir in attendance. “On the wall, you mentioned we were dealing with a power to rival the gods. Do you sense some immortal’s hand in this?”
“Mottle does not deal in speculation, as you well know. But any god interfering on the mortal plain must expect his or her schemes to be countered.”
“The convergence you spoke of.”
“Precisely.”
“Have you been able to sever the threads controlling the undead?”
Mottle’s tongue darted across his lips. “Ah, as to that … If truth be told—and Mottle is never less than scrupulous in such matters—the threads have, thus far at least, resisted the totality of his efforts. Yet Mottle remains hopeful. Confident, even.”
Janir threw up his hands. “He can’t even cut one of the bloody threads. What chance does he stand with an entire army’s?”
Ebon was only half listening. The spirits were now gibbering with fear, and their dread was beginning to grip him as if it were his own. His hands shook, and he hid them beneath the table. Only Rendale appeared to have noticed his discomfort. In response to his brother’s look, Ebon shook his head. “What of the consel’s sorceress?” he said to Mottle. “Has she fared any better?”
“Mottle does not sense in her the ability to succeed where your humble servant has been … temporarily thwarted. In any event, the woman’s skills lie elsewhere. Her power is demon-aspected.”
Demons. Ebon’s eyes widened. The consel’s four armored warriors.
Janir spoke. “Where is she now?” His gaze swept the room. “Has anyone seen the damned consel?”
Blank looks.
The domen’s face darkened. “Shroud’s mercy, I’m surrounded by idiots! Did no one think to have the snake followed? Did no one consider he might open a gate and let the enemy in?”
For once Ebon was grateful for his uncle’s booming voice, because without it he wouldn’t have been able to make out his words. “The consel is trapped here just as we are. To open the gates would be to invite his own death.”
Janir loomed over him. “Not if he intended to carve his way clear. The whole thing’s perfect for him. Let the undead raze the city, save himself the trouble come the spring. Does anyone here doubt he would do it?”
Ebon hesitated, then nodded. “Mottle, see that he is watched. But be discreet.”
“Mottle can be nothing less, though the prospect of spying leaves his conscience sorely tested.”
“As is our patience, mage,” Janir grated, “by your endless prattle.”
“It is difficult for Mottle to keep his silence when he has such wisdom to impart…”
The wailing of the spirits escalated again. Mottle’s lips were moving, but Ebon could no longer make out what he was saying. The spirits’ fear broke over him in waves, and he found himself struggling against the urge to flee the guardroom … Away from the walls. His chest felt tight. Something is coming.
Mottle was watching him now, and Ebon took a steadying breath, then whispered, “Mage, take us to the battlements. I sense … something…”
The old man raised his hands. “Dearest friends. Pray forgive this unseemly interruption, but Mottle suggests a hasty adjournment to the wall may be in order.”
Reynes looked across. “Why? The sentries would have warned us…”
The general’s voice trailed off.
Still reeling from the spirits’ wretchedness, it took Ebon a moment to realize the thud thud thud of the battering ram had stopped.
Rising from his chair, he stumbled to the stairwell.
CHAPTER 11
LUKER SCANNED the buildings to either side of the rubble-strewn street. The sun had bleached the walls of the red mud-brick hovels a rusty hue, and tufts of straw had torn loose from the roofs to ripple like prairie grasses. Ahead the road shimmered in the heat, and the wind stirred the dust into eddies that swirled as high as the tops of the buildings before falling back to earth. The sound of stones settling came from his left, but when he looked across he saw only a wither snake slithering through a pile of debris. Still the Guardian’s hand hovered over his sword hilt. The place didn’t have the smell of a trap, but he wouldn’t relax his guard just yet. For while an arrow or crossbow bolt had no chance of piercing his wards, Jenna didn’t have the luxury of defenses such as his.
“What is this place?” the assassin said from beside him.
“Ontep,” he replied. “Used to be a base for slavers raiding across the Shield.”
“And?”
Luker guided his horse round the wreckage of a house. Potsherds cracked beneath the mare’s hooves. “Emperor shut it down. Many years back now, before the Arandas campaign.”
“Then why are we here?”
Luker gestured along the street. “Temple. Other side of the marketplace.”
“A temple?” Jenna’s voice carried a note of humor. “Why Luker, I had no idea you were so devout.”
The Guardian did not respond.
As a boy of seven he had walked these same streets with his father when the sandclaws’ migrations drew them to the western fringes of the Waste. He could still smell the stink of the town’s slave pens, hear the roar of the spectators at the blood pits, feel the bristling tension on the air as slavers and townsfolk rubbed shoulders with tribesmen from the plains. It had never taken much of a spark to light the kindling, and sometimes it had been Luker’s father who had provided it, doused up on juripa spirits and still stupid with grief at the loss of Luker’s mother. The Guardian hawked and spat. Too bad he’d been traveling beyond the White Mountains when the emperor gave the order to bury this place. He’d have liked to have been here to watch the work done, maybe even pick up a spade and help with the digging.
As he neared the center of the settlement he saw signs that people had been here recently: the remains of fires within the doorways of buildings; horse droppings baked dry in the sun; scuffed tracks down sheltered side streets. Tribesmen, most likely, or survivors of the emperor’s purge come to take back what was theirs. So where are they now? The walls of many of the buildings were covered with cracks, but seemed sound enough. Someone should have claimed this place.
He entered a dusty basin surrounded by crumbling buildings and littered with pieces of wood and straw. The air carried a hint of decay, but the gusting winds made it impossible to determine its source. At the top of a flight of steps a hundred paces away stood the temple. Its doorway was a jagged wound in the building’s façade, as if something huge had forced its way through an opening too small to accommodate it. Blocks of stone were scattered across the stairs below.
Luker drew up his horse. The ground was pockmarked with indentations, and he dismounted to examine them. The marks had been made by clawed feet, three talons
in front, a fourth behind and to the side. Both the breadth and depth of the impressions suggested one big Shroud-cursed bastard of a creature.
And they were fresh.
The jingle of bridles marked the arrival of Merin and Chamery. When the tyrin spoke, his voice sounded as dry as the dust beneath Luker’s fingertips. “What is it?”
“Tracks,” Luker said. “Not from any plains creature—”
Chamery’s lisp interrupted him. “Tracks, Guardian? Are we here to admire the wildlife, then?”
Luker looked at him. Chamery’s pupils were dilated, and his hands trembled on his horse’s reins. The boy was brimful. Of course—the smell of rot. The mage must be drawing in the energies released by whatever had died. “Where’s the corpse?” Luker asked. “Where’s this stink coming from?”
“The temple.”
Of course it is.
Chamery’s tone was mocking. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of the dead?” Then, before Luker could respond, he spurred his horse toward the shrine.
Merin set off after him.
The Guardian could sense Jenna’s smile at his back. He stood and rolled his shoulders. The time was fast approaching when he would have to put the boy in his place, even if that place was a shovel’s height under.
Leading his horse by the reins, he made for the temple. The stone steps at the foot of the building were scratched and cracked. At the top, he wrapped his mare’s reins round a fallen block of stone and joined Merin and Chamery at the doorway. Peering into the gloom he saw a chamber with another doorway in the far wall. The central part of the floor had caved in, and there was blood on the tiles round the hole. A stink rose from the shadows below, like a corpse washed up in a sewer. The walls and what remained of the floor were frost-rimed, the air so cold it snatched the warmth from Luker’s breath even as it passed his lips. Echoes of alien sorcery left the Guardian’s stomach churning.
Merin spoke from beside him. “Looks like we missed a fight.”
“I recognize the smell now,” Luker said. “A pentarrion. I think we can assume it’s dead.”
“Perhaps whichever god owns this shrine took objection to the creature setting up home here.”
