by Tom Stacey
“Don’t make me go back. Can’t go back. Mists and dead trees. Don’t want to see them. Thought they wouldn’t find me.” His sobs crashed around the room.
Beccorban ran his eyes over Illis’ ragged stump. “Your arm, does it hurt?” He had seen men lose limbs before. This thing should have bled out by now.
Illis cackled and his eyes rolled back into his head. “Not my blood, borrowed, yes, yes. My arm is gone. Cut away.”
“Borrowed you say?” said Droswain. “Where is the real Illis? Did you kill him?”
The slipskin’s eyes grew wide and he crawled closer to Beccorban. He opened his mouth to speak, and behind his first set of teeth — broken here and there at the gumline where Callistan had beaten him — Beccorban could see a second, sharper set of teeth. “I am Illis!” he screamed. “You shall call me Empron!” The slipskin launched forward at Beccorban but the old warrior had seen the madness in its stolen gaze and he dealt a great thundering blow to Illis’ chin. The strange creature collapsed, unconscious, and Beccorban stood. “Chain him up this time,” he said. “He can’t hurt anyone else but himself.”
Droswain stepped forward. “Very wise, Beccorban. Now we really must think about going—” he stopped as an out-of-breath soldier burst through the crowd.
“Sir,” he gasped, fighting for breath. “Enemy sighted on the ridge.”
Beccorban felt ice form in his stomach and then quickly melt. This was it. He sighed. “All men to the courtyard. Prepare for battle.”
“What?” spluttered Droswain. “Battle? You’re going to fight them?”
Beccorban turned to him, curling his lip so that the little man might see his disdain. “Get somewhere safe, priest.”
Droswain was red in the face, quivering with rage. “This isn’t about your glory, old man! You’re risking more than you know!”
Beccorban shouldered past him and turned to Loster. “With me, lad.” He was glad when Loster simply nodded and stepped to his side. They both stalked from the room, pursued by Droswain’s cries, ringing hollowly behind them.
“You deny the gods themselves, Beccorban! We are all going to die!”
Loster followed Beccorban out into the courtyard. He was going to have to fight and he did not even have a weapon.
“I wonder what we taste like,” pondered Barde. “Is it white meat like a fowl, or salty and sweet like swineflesh?”
“Shut up!” he said aloud.
“What, lad?” Beccorban called over his shoulder as he walked.
“Nothing, nothing,” mumbled Loster with his head down. What are you doing?
The courtyard was a hive of activity, with conscripts in their painted armour running back and forth as their unseasoned officers gave commands. Loster followed as Beccorban stormed over the mossy flagstones, beckoning for Operin to join him. It seemed the young lommocel was now second-in-command. The big hammerman shrugged off his bearskin cloak and handed it to a nearby soldier. “I want as many torches as we have. Place them in a line across the ground.” He spread his arms. “Here.”
“Torches, sir, uh, yes,” Operin swallowed and Loster watched the bony lump in his throat move up and down. “The men should all have their flints with them.”
“Good, see to it.”
Operin saluted and hurried off, piping his new orders to a nearby sarif.
Loster turned at the sound of heavy breathing and saw Droswain approaching. The priest grabbed Loster’s arm possessively but he only had eyes for Beccorban.
“Beccorban, you cannot do this. You’re putting us all at risk. You’re putting,” he waggled Loster’s arm like a puppeteer, “our only hope in danger.”
Beccorban ignored him and began to march towards the highest section of wall. It was crumbled in places where the stone had given way before the onslaught of the elements and there were only a few stairs still intact.
“Vain fool!” Droswain spat, stalking after Beccorban and dragging Loster with him by the sleeve.
“Danger is upon us, priest,” Beccorban called as he climbed. When he was some ten feet off the ground, he turned and unhooked his hammer from the thongs that held it. He looked down at Loster and Loster felt pride thicken in his throat. How could he do anything else but follow this man? He gently released himself from Droswain’s grip and stepped closer, looking back up at the old warrior.
Beccorban winked at him and said, “Watch this, lad. If we survive the night, you’ll like as not hear a false rendition.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Loster.
Beccorban smiled. “I’m about to make you a legend.”
Loster’s face suddenly felt heavy and his stomach plunged downwards. He opened his mouth to stop Beccorban but it was too late.
“Men! Hear me!” Beccorban raised both his arms and arrested all activity in the courtyard. His was a voice used to commanding attention and it had not failed him. The men who were furthest away began to move closer until there was a sizeable crowd focusing on their new leader. “You know me,” Beccorban continued. “Some know my weapon, most know my dark deeds, fewer still know my face, but all of you know my name.” The soldiers moved closer still. “I am the Helhammer,” he thundered, “and I have known enemies legion. None has been greater than that which we face here today but I have not been bested yet.”
“You died!” came a lonely voice from the crowd and there were grumbles of displeasure but Beccorban simply laughed — a great resonant chuckle that tickled the small bones in Loster’s ears and made him feel more nauseous.
“Died?!” Beccorban asked the crowd incredulously. “Do you not see me here before you?” he laughed again. “No, brave Verian, you are mistaken, for I cannot be killed.” He climbed one more step and the light from the torches below him burned a huge black shadow on to the wall behind so that with one movement he appeared twice as large. “We fight for our country, we fight for our lives, but most importantly we fight for each other. Forget all else. Soon it will be you and me and the enemy.” He grinned. “But we have a secret weapon. Loster, come up here.” The big man gestured for Loster to join him on the stairs.
“Go on,” said Barde, “make a fool of yourself.” Loster gritted his teeth and clambered up beside Beccorban. A groan came from the crowd.
“He’s just a boy!” someone cried and Loster flushed bright red.
“And I suppose you are a grandfather, Plisko?” scoffed Beccorban. “I have more years in my beard than you do all over.” A few laughed and Loster wondered how the old warrior had learnt their names already. “Calm, friends. I am not here idly. I was called down from the lonely mountains — or from the grave if you’d prefer.” More laughter. “The gods foresaw this invasion. They knew we would be driven hence and so they sent us hope.” He clapped his hands on Loster’s shoulders and the young acolyte almost fell forward with the force of it. He could see a few men laughing but still more were looking at him with desperate hope on their faces. Loster did not know which was worse. He felt like he was being picked apart.
“Oh, how I love a good show,” said Barde.
“I would not be here if it was not for Loster. This boy, as you call him, saved my life. He discovered a traitor on the ship that brought us from Fend. His actions saved every man aboard. The Echoes are afraid of him, as they are afraid of us.”
Beccorban let go of Loster’s shoulders and stepped in front of him, and he sensed that his part in the pantomime was over. He looked at the faces of the soldiers, some four hundred of them. Not ten minutes ago, they had all been afraid for their lives; now they watched Beccorban as though he had taken flight and was offering them all winged rescue from the approaching enemy.
“I did not come here to die beside you. I came here to do what I do best.” He raised his hammer into the air. “To kill!” The men cheered enthusiastically. “Remember, men, the Helhammer picks his battles, and he chose to be here because this will be the greatest victory in Veria’s history. It is here, on this ground, that we will break the e
nemy. We will show them how real Verians fight. I have already sent riders out to gather help and I know that not two hours from here is a Dalvossi warband, itching to throw their weight into the struggle. They will be here before the sun rises but I will be damned before I let a Dalvossi do my work for me. Fight! Fight for each other! Fight for me!” Beccorban drew in a great breath and screamed, “Give me till dawn!” A great roar went up from the crowd and the noise bounced back off of the ancient stone walls until it was deafening.
Beccorban turned to Loster with a triumphant smile but Loster could not muster the strength to return it. He leant in close to the old warrior. “A Dalvossi warband? I didn’t know you sent out riders.”
Beccorban patted him on the shoulder. “Couldn’t spare the men, lad, but a little bit of belief never hurt anybody.”
“You’re lying to them,” Loster hissed, trying to ignore the sea of beaming faces applauding below him.
“I’m giving them something to fight for,” said Beccorban and there was just enough ice in his tone to warn Loster off further protest. He smiled again. “Besides, you’re chosen by the gods. Who knows? They might send us some help after all.” With that, Beccorban leapt lithely off of his stage to land like a man with half his years. He strode through the parting crowd and gathered his officers.
Loster climbed down more gingerly. A few men offered him shouts of encouragement but he could not meet the need in their eyes.
A horn blew in the distance and it sent shivers of terror down Loster’s spine. Men began to run this way and that, readying themselves for the first sight of their foe. Loster felt an overwhelming urge to piss.
“You’re going to die,” said Barde.
Somebody shoved the worn handle of an old sword into his hand and he looked up, shocked to see that it was Droswain. The small priest’s face was grim. “I’m sorry, Loster,” he said. “I never meant for it to end like this.” He stalked away and Loster was left alone, staring down at the dark and pitted blade in his hand. He felt sick.
Barde chuckled. “At least you’ll have company.”
XXX
The soldiers watched in silence as the Rider approached, threading his way over the broken ground before the walls. His tall frame was swathed in robes of midnight blue laced with gold that draped over his mount, a large horse of some eighteen hands, swamping the beast and only serving to emphasise the Rider’s intimidating height.
Beccorban had arranged them all into a line three ranks deep, positioning as many men as he could spare behind as much of the wall as was left standing. On the left flank the wall was still almost twenty feet high and bore the weight of one of the two towers. The tower itself leant crookedly in towards the courtyard below, but it made the whole ruin feel more complete. Here Beccorban had placed twenty men to act as archers, each crouching behind the crumbling battlements with arrows nocked. Looking up at the bowmen, Loster considered how much damage their missiles would actually do. None of them had expressed any proficiency with either the small hunting bows or wind-up crossbows they had found in the wagon and it was unlikely that any shots would even be able to pierce the Echoes’ plate. Several of them seemed to be among the largest of the conscripts and Loster wondered if their weight and strength would be better served down in the battle on the ground.
“Master tactician are we now, little brother?” mocked Barde.
Loster bit the inside of his cheek. Barde was right. Beccorban knew what he was doing. Archers were good for morale. They delivered death from a distance, raining down arrows to kill without prejudice. An effective archer could drive fear into the heart of any foe, though, as he watched the Rider close, Loster doubted the Echoes were easily frightened.
The man in line next to him blew his breath out in a great long huff. Loster wished he could rid himself of all his nerves with one such breath. His guts felt like they had been tied in knots. Where he stood the wall was a little over knee height, rising higher as it crept to his left before scaling up to the battlements and the crooked tower. Loster leaned forward, touching the tips of his borrowed greaves to the warty stone.
“Don’t do that, boy,” said a newly promoted vetero. He could not have been much older than Barde would have been had he escaped the Widowpeak. “You’ll scratch the paint off.”
Loster nodded and mumbled an apology, standing back upright. As he did, his helmet slipped down over his eyes. It was far too big for him, greasy with the sweat of all its previous owners
“They don’t make armour for boys and cowards,” said Barde.”They don’t have need for it.”
Loster set it properly on his head again and tightened the chinstrap. No one had laughed at him. Humour was not welcome here.
The Rider came close enough to hail and pulled down the hood of his robes. Loster and not a few of the men around him gasped at the ghoulish, stretched features and pointed ears. The Rider had long black hair tied into a ponytail, draped over one shoulder like a dark serpent.
“Who speaks for you?” said the Echo in curiously accented Verian. Though he was not shouting, his voice carried to every man there.
Beccorban stepped forward from the centre of the line. “I do. Whom do you speak for?”
The Rider grinned and Loster felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Greetings, Hammer. I am sorry I missed you in the Dantus. Tell me, did Kaluphet die well?” His tone was conversational but there was nothing friendly in his eyes and Loster wondered if this was how a field mouse felt when it heard the owl’s triumphant screech.
“He was eaten by wolves,” said Beccorban and Loster winced, though the Rider showed no evidence of offence.
“A shame,” the Rider said. “Eaters should not be eaten.”
“Gods, they’re going to eat us,” hissed the soldier next to Loster, but nobody replied to him. All eyes were on Beccorban.
“I am here to discuss your surrender,” said the Rider. “If you come to us without struggle, your men can go free.”
“Go free? You have taken their nation, beast,” Beccorban growled. “Where should they go?”
“I care not, Hammer. Know only that your land is ours again as it was before. No other human will be granted this boon. Go while you still can.”
Beccorban paused and hung his head,s and Loster felt his heart quicken. Surely he wasn’t considering it?
Finally Beccorban turned to face them. He shrugged and spread his arms. “There you have it, lads. That’s the price. Let any man speak who wishes to spend me thus.”
Loster bit down on his tongue. He imagined himself standing there asking the same question. How many would buy their safety with your flesh? he wondered.
“Speak,” said Barde. “This is a gift from the old man. Speak and we can be away from here.”
Loster bit down harder until his eyes watered from the pain. He wouldn’t give in to Barde. Not this time.
“It matters not,” sneered his phantom brother. “Cock your ears. Someone else will do your dirty work for you.”
Loster looked down the line of crimson painted soldiers. Not a single man so much as blinked, lest it be taken as an acceptance of the Rider’s offer.
Operin stepped out from the line and turned to face the men. The young lommocel unsheathed his sword and raised it to the starry sky. “Helhammer!” he cried.
One or two of the men shouted it back and before long every one of them was calling out, “Hel-ham-mer! Hel-ham-mer!”
Loster laughed aloud and added his voice to the chant, raising his borrowed sword and revelling in the silence in his head. “Hel-ham-mer! Hel-ham-mer!”
Even over the shouting, Loster could hear Beccorban’s booming laugh. It was a wondrous noise — daylight after a dark and stormy night.
The Rider grimaced and leaned on the pommel of his saddle. He reached down into a sack tied to his mount’s bridle and removed something that looked like a large rock. With a casual flick of his arm, the Rider threw the strange object high over Beccorban’s head to land in
between the old warrior and the chanting troops. It rolled and tumbled over bumps and tufts of grass until finally coming to a stop.
Loster gasped and felt his chest tighten. It was a human head and, though it was hard to make out details, its long silver hair, matted with blood, betrayed it. He thought again of the slipskin masquerading as the Empron. Illis. The chanting died away.
“I brought an old friend for you, Helhammer, though I’m worried you may not recognise him. It was supposed to be a gift but then, as I understand it, you already have one of those.” The Rider raised his voice. “Look, mighty Verians, upon the face of your empire.”
Beccorban did not bother to turn around but simply stalked back to the walls. “Ready yourselves, men. We have work to do yet.” His face was grim and he was pursued by the oddly human laughter of the Rider, who wheeled his mount and faded back into the shadows.
Beccorban cursed inwardly and strode back to the line, loosening Kreyiss in her thongs and drawing her forth so that he might have something to squeeze. He had been outplayed. The envoy had no intention of accepting any surrender. It had all been a mockery; theatre so that he could crush the morale of these frightened boys further. What do the Echoes have to fear from these farmhands and raw recruits? Is it just cruelty on their part? He hopped on to the low wall and turned to face the shadows of the distant treeline. There was no reason for any more subterfuge. The Echoes would attack from the front, a testing move that could very well overwhelm his meagre force. He spat and took a deep breath, hoping that the cool air might quench the bubbling rage that was beginning to mist his vision. Let them come. By all the gods he was ready for them. He had felt this rage before. It was his killing rage and it had taken him to many dark places, but now he was unburdened by guilt — his was a righteous anger, directed at an unworldly force that sought his destruction. Let them come.
The sour smell of vomit washed over him and he grimaced. You’re fighting for all of them, Beccorban. You’re all going to die here. Make them die like men. A faint tinkling sound announced the arrival of a light rain. Beccorban looked up into the heavens and closed his eyes as the cool water caressed his face. He pictured soft feminine hands and her face came to him. Though the features were muddy, it was as if he could feel her presence and he felt at peace. Watch me work, my love. He grinned and let it come forth as laughter, knowing that the soldiers nearby would think him mad. Thank the gods for rain! Without it, this would have been too easy!
