Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “Fifty men? Surely they must be bait.”

  “My scouts have come back from the wings, General. They found no other units within three miles. If we engage them, we will engage the fifty alone.”

  That was ludicrous. Fifty men would not stand against an army of thousands. They would not try.

  “Something here is not as it seems,” Cain said. “I want to see them.”

  They rode forwards. Either these men were not looking for a fight or there was some concealed force lying in wait. But that made no sense. Any force large enough to dent the column would consist of hundreds, if not thousands of men. Lockwell’s scouts would have seen it. Besides, this was open land, a very poor choice for an ambush.

  Fifteen minutes later he saw them. They were just as Lockwell’s man had described them – a line of fifty men in black strung out across the valley in a wafer-thin defensive line. At the point they had chosen, the river was close to the south side, and their line appeared to stretch from the water to a steep bluff on the north, two hundred and fifty yards away. There were no banners, no signs of a camp, no wagons – the whole things smelled wrong to Cain.

  “We will be cautious,” he said. “Captain, send a couple of men towards them, about a bowshot from their line and see what they do.”

  Lockwell picked two men and they rode up the valley. They turned short of the men and rode parallel to their line across to the river, then turned east again and rode back to Cain.

  “Well?”

  “I’d say they were hostile, General,” one of the soldiers said. “And Avilian. They shouted insults. I didn’t see a bow, though. They all seem to be wearing mail and carrying swords. One of them threw a rock at us. A good throw, but a miss.”

  “And what was your distance from their line?”

  “A hundred and fifty yards, more or less.”

  “And this rock, it reached you?”

  “Aye, General. A good throw, as I said.”

  It was a massive throw. Cain didn’t know anyone who could throw a rock that far, excepting himself, Caster, Narak and a few others. He must have used a sling.

  “How did they seem to you?” he asked.

  “Well equipped, but ill disciplined, sir,” the soldier replied.

  That confirmed his own impression. He still didn’t understand. Fifty men offering battle to what? Five thousand? They had no wall, no ditch, no bows. It would be over in moments. He could not see the reason behind it.

  “Lockwell, your scouts have been on both sides of the valley?”

  “Of course, General.” The man sounded a little hurt that Cain should doubt it. “They even circled behind the valley head. They found nothing.”

  The sound of hooves announced Caster’s arrival. He’d brought about fifty men with him.

  “Alwain’s men?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” Cain replied. “We have fifty men on foot. No support. No supplies. No bows. No ditches or walls. And they seem to want a fight.”

  “Well, let’s give them one,” Caster said.

  “We’ll wait,” Cain said. “I want this to be quick. We’ll take them with bows.”

  “I could go on my own,” Caster said. “There’s only fifty of them.”

  “No.”

  Caster shrugged. “As you wish. You’re the general.”

  They waited. It didn’t take long for the column to catch them. Cain gave orders and his men spread out across the valley, a line of spears and shields behind which stood five hundred archers. A squadron of two hundred men on horseback waited. He gave the order to advance.

  It looked ridiculous. A mass of soldiers advancing on a thin black line, but Cain didn’t want to lose a man. He heard some of his men telling jokes. They, too, found it farcical.

  Cain’s line stopped a hundred yards from the men. He rode up behind the massed archers.

  “Will you surrender?” he called.

  “No, will you?” The man who shouted back was in the middle of the line and looked impossibly young – about sixteen.

  “We outnumber you a hundred to one,” Cain called. “Throw down your arms.”

  “Go fuck yourself!” the young man shouted back.

  “It seems they really do want to fight,” Caster said.

  Cain drew his sword and raised it in the air, brought it down again and the archers loosed. At the same moment the line of men set off at a dead run towards Cain’s line, and they were fast, unnaturally fast. He heard Caster’s blades come out.

  “Shoot!” he cried, and his men managed one more ragged volley before the black line hit.

  Everything went wrong. The line of spearmen was brushed aside, cut to pieces. Some of the archers tried to use their bows, some drew swords and tried to fight, while still others turned and ran.

  “Cain, they’re Farheim,” Caster said. He dismounted and walked forwards into the melee.

  Cain followed. He was not Caster, but he still stood a better chance against these men than his ordinary soldiers. He saw the swordmaster ahead of him meet his first foe. It was a quick exchange. The man in black aimed a massive blow at Caster’s head, but Caster ducked, ran him through the groin and then, while the man writhed in pain, beheaded him.

  That was the last thing he saw before he, too, was faced with the enemy. It came in the form of an unshaven man of about forty with bad teeth. Anywhere else he would have said the creature was gutter trash, but he was armed, and took a swing at Cain’s head. Cain blocked the blow, but was shocked at how powerful it was. This Farheim was much stronger than him.

  He ducked the backhand easily. The man might be strong, but he lacked skill. Cain stabbed him in the thigh and he howled. A second blow cut off the attacker’s hand, the third, his head. So far, so good.

  He stepped back and looked across the valley. It wasn’t going well. A handful of the black-clad Farheim had clustered around Caster and, skilled as he was, he was fighting for his life. The rest were carving their way through the vanguard of Cain’s army.

  One of the Wolfen appeared from nowhere, a flask in his hand. He threw it and struck one of the enemy squarely in the chest. The flask erupted in flame and the Farheim was torn apart. As good as beheading, Cain supposed.

  The man ran forwards with another flask but, as he raised it, it exploded above his head, killing him instantly and knocking down a dozen nearby men.

  Cain moved forwards again. This was already a disaster. He was one of two people who could effectively fight these monsters, so he had no choice. He stepped over a couple of bodies and faced another man. This one was a little more careful. He prodded at Cain, trying to run him through with a half-hearted thrust. Cain batted the blade aside and tried his own cut at the shoulder. That, too, was blocked. The man stepped backwards, trying to draw Cain forwards, but the general didn’t respond. Instead he took a backward step of his own, and the Farheim fell into his own trap, surging forwards his eyes fixed on Cain. It was a mistake.

  Spans was on Cain’s left, and he delivered a massive blow with his axe, severing the Farheim’s head from his shoulders.

  But victory in this fight was like jam in a summer meadow, and three more of the black-clad wasps rushed forwards.

  Cain was more skilled, but it hardly mattered. Three blades raining down powerful blows drove him back. He was barely quick enough to keep them out.

  An arrow hit one of them in the head, and he staggered away, shrieking. Farheim he might be, but he’d have to draw that arrow before he regained his mind, and he didn’t have a mind.

  “He’s the one!”

  Cain looked across and saw the boy-Farheim pointing at him. That was not good. Three more turned his way. Now he was really in trouble. He thought of Sheyani. What would she be doing now? Coming forwards, he suspected. What would happen to her if he died?

  Now Cain was facing five of them, and he was overmatched. His chances to attack were non-existent. He backed away, defending desperately, trying to circle round to give his men a chance to help him
and cramp his attackers, and it worked, but it wasn’t enough. He felt a cut on his shoulder, another drew blood from his thigh. Each wound healed as soon as the blade passed away, but he was losing the fight.

  Catto suddenly appeared, leaping onto the back of one of them, dragging his sword across the man’s throat. The Farheim writhed, throwing Catto to one side, but Cain’s man had left a dagger in his back, and he stumbled forwards onto Cain’s blade and Cain finished him with a stroke, using the falling body as a shield.

  A couple of Wolfen jumped in between him and the Farheim, but they didn’t stand a chance – too weak, too slow. The Farheim came after Cain again.

  His only chance was to use his own men as a distraction. Cain was unwilling, but they were not. Every time it seemed that he was in trouble men would rush in and give their lives to buy him the second or two he needed. He wasn’t tiring, but he couldn’t see a way to end this.

  The boy Farheim, who seemed to be their leader, came face to face with Cain. He was not as devoid of skill with a blade as his men. He had a good grounding, and Cain guessed he was noble born. But the boy was also full to bursting with anger and fear. Cain could see it in his eyes, in the way he swung his blade a little too fiercely, in his recklessness.

  “When I kill you, your men will run!” the boy shouted.

  “If,” Cain replied. He’d drawn his dagger and was using that to block with his left hand. He managed a cut at the boy and saw blood. That seemed to make him angrier. He stepped forwards again and Cain cut him on the arm – not deep enough, but the boy pulled back like he’d been stung by a hornet. The balance of fear and anger shifted, and the boy stayed back, urging his followers on.

  Two of them rushed at Cain, swords raised.

  And dropped them.

  The blades fell onto the bloodied grass and the two Farheim were left looking at their hands, or where their hands had been. Their arms, too, were going, collapsing like ash in a wind.

  Cain looked at the boy just in time to see him disintegrate, falling to the ground, turned to dust.

  The fight was over. All across the valley his men had stopped among the bodies of their comrades with nothing left to fight. Cain looked around. He saw Caster dusting himself off, his clothes cut to ribbons, but still alive.

  He saw Pascha. She was standing on one of the wagons next to Sheyani, and that sight alone gave Cain some relief. They had both survived, again. It was Pascha, though, that had saved them. He pushed his way through the stunned soldiers, stepping over dozens of bodies.

  “Eran, you are a welcome sight,” he said.

  She glanced at him, but continued to look forwards at the sky over the head of the valley. Cain turned and looked. There was a storm there, dark roiling clouds full of spite, wind and rain. There was a distant rumble and the clouds quickly thinned, blowing away on a fresh easterly to reveal a more natural sky of patched white and blue.

  “Not going to face me?” Pascha said.

  “Not a storm, then,” Cain said.

  Pascha sighed. “No, Cain, not a storm, no more than those were people you were fighting.”

  “That was why you helped,” Cain said. “One god-mage against another.”

  “Quite. I will travel with you to ensure it doesn’t happen again,” she said.

  That, too, was a relief. Pascha stepped down from the wagon. So did Sheyani. She came to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “I think we will live forever,” she said. “Death turns away from us every time.”

  “Evil times,” Cain said. “We were lucky.” Cain didn’t believe that death made choices. He had powerful friends, and that helped. He should have been dead four or five times by now, but somehow his own men and those with extraordinary powers kept turning up at the last minute to pull his fat from the fire.

  In truth he hadn’t expected to live this long. As a soldier, before he’d met Wolf Narak, his philosophy of life had been to keep his head down, to not stand out. That was safer. But he couldn’t complain. He’d become wealthy, respected, powerful, and more than all that he’d had a century with Sheyani. It was certainly more than he deserved, so if he died now, he’d still won life’s lottery a dozen times over.

  Catto. He’d forgotten Catto in the delight of their rescue. He walked back to where he’d been fighting and found Spans crouched over his friend.

  “Spans?”

  The giant looked up. He’d been wounded. The side of his shirt was red and glistening, but Catto was on the ground.

  “Hey there, General,” Catto said. “Looks like we won again.”

  So he was alive, but his body was twisted.

  “I owe you my life, Sergeant,” Cain said. So many men had sacrificed themselves to protect him in the battle. He owed them all, but it was a debt he couldn’t repay. “Your back?”

  “Seems to be damaged, sir. Can’t move my legs.”

  There were hundreds of other injured men lying on the ground all around him, Cain realised. He had a remedy for that. He walked over to where Pascha was speaking with Caster.

  “Eran.” She turned.

  “Cain?”

  “You’ve chased him off,” Cain said, “but you still haven’t undone his work.”

  To give Pascha her due it only took her a moment to catch on.

  “You want me to heal them,” she said.

  “Of course. You can’t bring the dead back, which is a pity, but you can at least undo a fraction of the harm this rogue god-mage had inflicted on us.” He knew that it was against her instincts, that she would think it was interfering, that once she did it, they would expect her to do it again. Cain didn’t care. He had a sound argument, and a lot of men who would otherwise be crippled by their injuries didn’t need to be.

  “Cain, that’s not why I’m here,” she said.

  “There are hundreds of my men out there who’ll be crippled for life, and that doesn’t have to be. This wasn’t a part of our war, Eran, it was part of yours.”

  “You should be grateful for what you already have, General,” she said.

  “I am,” Cain said. “I do not doubt that you saved my life, and Caster’s, but there are many here who died to the same end, and many who now lie injured. If not for them I would have been dead before you arrived.”

  Pascha nodded slowly. “You are right,” she said. “This once I will do what you ask, but I am not your company’s healer. I will not take your side nor heal your wounded when you fight Alwain.”

  “That much I understand, Eran.”

  She closed her eyes and stretched out a hand. The world seemed to ripple out from her, and cries of surprise spread across the battlefield, sounds of joy. How could she not want to do this, Cain wondered. It was so easy for her and did so much good. He understood her doctrine – interference led to domination. If she stretched out her hand too often then people would simply wait for her permission, expect her to cure every ill, defer to her. She didn’t want that. But this? This was simple humanity.

  “Thank you, Eran,” he said. He bowed formally. There was an odd expression Pascha’s face when he straightened up. It could have been surprise, or regret, or even shame. Perhaps, Cain thought, it was unwise of a god-mage to expect to have friends.

  *

  Cain had set up camp less than half a mile from where the battle had taken place. Pascha had accepted a tent, though she could have raised any kind of habitation she desired from the ground itself. Cain was probably the best man she knew, and she had already put enough distance between them. She sat in her tent and brooded. It was a hard thing to deny your friends, and yet it was necessary. Cain’s request had been more than reasonable, but she had still been reluctant to heal his men, and yet somehow relieved when she had agreed to do so.

  Was she becoming a monster? Had she already become one? Were they all monsters – Narak and her, Callista, Jidian, Skal and Caster? It was true that she did not look at mortal men and women in the same way she once had. They were so… temporary. Beloff had cal
led them perishable goods, and in his blunt way he had been right. But didn’t we take care of perishable goods? Didn’t we try to preserve them for as long as possible?

  They were like stone, she supposed, their humanity worn away by the slow drip of centuries. But that couldn’t be right. She still cared, despite her determination to stay aloof from their affairs. But it was an abstract sort of care. She didn’t know any of these men. Her entire role of names was Cain, Sheyani and Caster. She didn’t even know Cain’s colonels. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe not.

  She poured more wine. She had called some of her own stock into the tent, pulling it through from Col Boran’s cellars with hardly a thought. For centuries the gods of the Benetheon had been unable to get properly drunk – Pelion’s curse on them – but being a god-mage had changed that. Pascha could get as drunk a she liked. She sipped the wine.

  The air in the tent shimmered and Callista appeared.

  “You found it?” Pascha asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Three villages,” Callista said. “Every man, woman and child dead. About two thousand people.”

  Pascha closed her eyes. This was how it started. Pelion had explained the mechanics to her. The more a god-mage killed the more powerful they became, feeding off the trivial magical talents of their victims, building their own. This was what had driven the mage wars over two thousand years ago. This was why Pelion had created the Sirash, blocked the talent from flowering again. But now it was out, running wild across the kingdoms, and it was all starting over again.

  “We have to find him,” Pascha said.

  “Yes.”

  “We have to kill him.”

  81 Ambush

  Colonel Tamarak sat on the ridge above the valley and looked down on his bits-and-pieces, understrength regiment setting up camp below. They were willing, he had to give them that, and the original hostility between the new men and the old was beginning to fade. In time they would become one united force. He just wished he had command of the two thousand who had left Fetherhill all those months ago.

  Now he had three hundred men. He’d insisted that they all rode, despite a lack of ability. Those that struggled would have to learn. It wasn’t a difficult skill. He’d insisted on bows, too. Every man carried one, and they’d practiced every night. He didn’t need men who could drop a rabbit at fifty paces. He just needed men who could shoot within a ten degree arc, and most of them had mastered that.