The Magdalenes came into the battery held by the militia from the east, and formed like the molten metal hardening in the bullet mould; suddenly they were there, a wall of steel.
“Load!” called a feminine voice among them, and they began to load their long puffers. A few had long fusils or carabins.
Kouznos saluted. “Centark?”
“Load and hold. The Magdalenes will pass behind us. Give them a count of one hundred to cross to the next position, and then fire and run like hell.”
Aranthur held up his diagram.
Syr Ippeas shook his head. “Never let it be said that my brothers and sisters had to be saved by militia, Centark. We will be the last out—your people can fire and retire.”
Aranthur shrugged at his dekark; Ippeas outranked him, and was probably right. He began to load his own carabin, which had remained slung on his back since the attack began. He opened the pan to find it primed and loaded.
He’d never fired it.
“Do you have a target?” he asked Kouznos.
“Not really,” muttered the dekark.
“Vilna?” Aranthur called.
“Here, Bahadur.”
“See anything out there? Off to the left?”
“Aye, Bahadur. Just there.”
Chimeg aimed a carabin and fired.
“Just there.”
Aranthur saw the dim shapes of men in the darkness, and he could see the glow of the enemy’s lit match. Tufenchis. He aimed and fired, with no thought of morality.
Kouznos bobbed his head. “Got it.”
“Do it!”
“Make ready!” Kouznos roared. “Look left! See the burning match? Take aim!”
Fifty musket barrels moved to the left, glinting in the light of the burning gabions.
“Fire!”
The volley crashed out.
“Go! Go! Go!” Aranthur rolled, augmenting his voice. No point to secrecy now.
The militia picked up their wounded and went up the ladders to the open, sandy ground. It was Aranthur’s third time across the darkness, but whatever the effect of the last volley, the enemy fire was slackened. Aranthur found himself with Kallotronis. It occurred to him in a moment of battlefield clarity that it was easier to cross open ground with comrades.
He had a moment to catch his breath, which slammed against his broken ribs. The Arnauts were firing, a rolling fire, men choosing targets or firing into the darkness in their own time.
“Five rounds a man left,” Kallotronis said.
Overhead, a cataclysm of occultae criss-crossed the air, and made the stars and moon pale by comparison. A flash of purple-black left lightning lines on Aranthur’s retinas, and then an answering curtain of jade green, and a detonation off to their right, as if an entire siege battery had fired together.
“Eagle. Draxos. Fucking hells!” Kallotronis spat. “All the big boys. I need better amulets for this shit.” He shook his head.
There were a dozen almost consecutive flashes, like the height of a deadly lightning storm, except in colours: black-lit purple, white and red and green and gold. Most if it was high overhead—Magi on the city walls exchanging vast gouts of power with enemy Magi in the foothills. But one fist of red-black power struck full on Aranthur’s remaining shields, and burned through in a dozen places. A woman died, incinerated. A man boiled, and the burning-soap scent filled the air and the smell of scorched flesh and superheated sand was added.
Aranthur found that his shields healed themselves, weakened but still intact. He finally understood what Inoques had done. In a flash of insight, he understood the principle, and how his red aspides were only a chrysalis stage of a wider principle of defence.
Ware, said the sword in his hand, so clearly that Kallotronis turned his head.
Aranthur threw his will into his shield, and then emptied his kuria into his will.
“Sophia!” his dekark spat.
“Centark’s a warlock, lads!” cried a voice. “We’re safe as fucking houses.”
Vilna growled, “Make ready!”
The ranks locked up, the three companies like one. Ippeas was locked in the magikal combat, one hand on a talisman. The knights obeyed the little Nomadi dekark because his voice held the absolute assurance of a veteran.
Another storm struck, but this one took longer and the pulses were easier to deal with singly.
I should be spent, Aranthur thought. How am I even functioning?
Trust me, the sword said.
The enemy infantry that had lurked out in the dark for so long came forward. Aranthur had now made enough war to feel their hesitancy. He walled off the part of his mind that maintained the shield, and demanded that it hold. Then, with power he should not have had, he tossed a string of simple, brilliant magelights.
They hung in the air, illuminating the mass of the enemy.
“Present!” Vilna sang.
A hundred barrels came down—muskets and puffers and rifled carabins together, like a single arm commanded by a single will—pointing into the illuminated mass that hesitated…
“Fire!” Vilna roared.
The volley pierced the darkness and the smoke billowed out into the brilliant magelight.
“Charge!” Aranthur said.
It was the only order he’d given, but he knew it was right. The mixed line exploded through their own smoke, but the enemy broke, unprepared for the switch from predator to prey. The moment they ran, there was no point to the charge; Aranthur was trying…
“Halt!” called Ippeas, clear and high. It was like a subjugation. The whole line halted as if on parade.
The barrage of magik had moved. Something had changed, and Aranthur felt like a swordsman whose opponent had made an error in timing.
“Now!” he said to Ippeas. “We need to get out of here.”
“Agreed,” Ippeas said. “Militia first. Load, and run.”
Aranthur waited to the very end, holding his shield up much the way his banner bearer was clutching the colours, as using the banner staff to hold himself erect. But whatever prompted the firestorm of power, it was gone, off to find a softer target, or perhaps itself defeated, bleeding or incinerated. Aranthur had no way of knowing.
He walked back with Syr Ippeas, and there was no resistance after they left the siege lines—no pursuit, and almost no fire. The shooting was dying away along most of the lines out in the darkness. Fires flickered, but the ongoing flashes of puissance were few and far between, exactly as if a cell of thunder and lightning had passed over them and was now being blown into the distance.
Aranthur was the second to last soldier to tumble down the wall of the ditch. It was part of the logic of fighting in a siege that the moment he put a wall of sand and earth between himself and the enemy he felt a lethargy creep over him, and his mind relaxed.
Ippeas took his hand.
“Well done, young syr,” he said. “Even if you did attempt to give me orders.”
His helmet was open, his tired face visible in the light of the torches at the base of the trench. He was smiling.
There was a reserve waiting on the firing step; men and women who had been in the nave, wounded, stood ready with lit matches. Ippeas gave Aranthur a hand up the inside wall, and spoke out the password several times.
“Wouldn’t do to get shot by someone a little too eager,” he said. “Coryn’s Sword, Coryn’s Sword,” he called.
The people on the firing step were cheering.
Aranthur got a leg over the parapet, and for the first time, gave Ippeas a hand.
“I confess it,” Ippeas said. “I’m tired.”
The men and women of the Twenty-second were coming up the wall, and Aranthur called out the password.
“My folks coming back,” he called, first in Byzas, then in Souliote, because the people on the wall were cheering, but they were twitchy, too alert, with too much pain and not enough sleep among them.
“Incredible.” Kallinikas grabbed Aranthur’s hand and wrung it like a d
rowning man clutching at floating wood. “You did it. Their gonnes are silent.”
Ippeas allowed himself to be embraced, and his stoic face split in a broad grin.
“We did, too,” he said. “The mine was perfect.”
“Thousand hells, yes!” Kallinikas laughed. “It was perfect. And the Magi—they had a plan of their own, and they used your whole sortie as bait.” She was wild, her hair plastered to her forehead. “Come on. The Vicar will want to see you.”
“I want to see my people off the wall,” Aranthur said.
“Same,” said Ippeas.
As it proved, by the time the seven companies that had made the sortie were assembled in the covered way, the Vicar came out. Aranthur was counting with Kouznos; it didn’t seem possible that they’d only lost three dead and a dozen wounded, all retrieved. While he counted, he ate a large wedge of military cheese. He was ravenous.
“Centark Timos,” the Vicar called.
Aranthur turned. “My lord?”
“Arrest him,” spat Vardar.
A pair of the Vicar’s Black Lobsters stepped forward.
“Sword, syr,” said one. The voice was impersonal.
A frisson seemed to run through all the troops in the covered way. There was enough light to see; the two Black Lobsters were in full armour.
Syr Ippeas was less than four strides away. He turned very suddenly, and almost as if he was enhanced, he suddenly stood between the two Black Lobsters.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“None of your affair,” Vardar snapped. “Do your duty.”
Syr Ippeas turned, and flipped down his visor.
“I am doing my duty,” said the impersonal voice of the helmet.
The Black Lobsters stepped back, drawing their weapons.
The Vicar raised an arm. “What is this? Syr Ippeas? I have ordered this man arrested. Please do not interfere.”
Again, a movement among the assault troops.
“For what?” Ippeas asked.
“He used magik on me, and released the enemy prisoners!” spat Vardar. “Even now they are no doubt preparing to seize the town.”
There was a long silence. Ippeas’ helmet nodded once.
“Of course, you ordered the execution of the prisoners.”
The Vicar’s eyes narrowed. “I realise that you are used to being an absolute authority, Great Sword, but I do not debate my orders—not in public, not in the face of the enemy. Stand down, or I will have you arrested too.”
Silence.
“You are a fool, Vicar, if you imagine that arresting this man at the end of the assault was wisdom,” said the helmet. “Or that you can arrest me. Ever.”
The ranks of the assault force were growling. Even at the point of both exhaustion and victory, men and women leant in, listening. Most of the assault’s left wing knew they owed their lives to Aranthur’s shields; some took a step forward, or two, or three.
At the word “fool,” something in the Vicar snapped.
“Damn you!” he spat.
One of the Black Lobsters raised his puffer.
Kallotronis leant over Aranthur’s shoulder, his long jezzail pointing unerringly at the Vicar.
“What in a thousand hells is going on here?” Kallinikas ran into the circle of officers. “Sophia’s tits.” She saw the jezzail. “Stop this!”
Aranthur made his decision. He raised his hands.
“I will be arrested.” Loudly and clearly, he said, “We do not need dissension.”
“I’ll back any play you make,” Kallotronis said. “I can command this army better than this old fool.”
“Walk away,” Aranthur said to Kallotronis. “Arrest me,” he said to the Black Lobsters.
He unbuckled his sword belt and handed the old sword, not to the Black Lobsters, but to Ippeas. The man had to take it, and he stepped back.
Loudly, he said, “Three more days and the General will be here. Everyone stand down.”
Vardar was struggling to speak.
Aranthur dropped his helmet on the ground. He saluted the Vicar.
“Whatever you say, my lord.”
Ippeas flipped his visor open.
The two Black Lobsters relaxed slightly. Both lowered the muzzles of their puffers.
“In irons,” Vardar spat.
The Vicar flicked a glance at the other man and frowned.
“No. No. In the nave, one hour. All of you.”
He took Aranthur by the arm, as if they were old friends, and started walking him along the gravel path to the sallyport.
The assault force stood in loose ranks, still not dismissed.
Aranthur waved, as if he was merry.
The Vicar led him through the sallyport.
“Why in all the hells did you release those Safian dogs?” He sounded more tired than angry.
Aranthur shook his head. He was too tired to mince his words. He found that instead of being afraid, he was mostly angry.
“My lord, you were about to commit a great wrong, and I put it beyond your power to do so.”
“Traitor!” Vardar spat.
“Traitor to what?” Aranthur shot back. “An Empire whose nobles endlessly place self-interest before even simple patriotism?”
“No matter how we dress you people up, you remain savages,” Vardar said. “You cannot even remain loyal to the hand that feeds you.”
Aranthur shook his head. “Foolish debate. You ordered five hundred people killed in cold blood. This is unacceptable. I’d rather die than allow it.”
“Grow up,” spat the Vicar. He looked old and as tired as Aranthur felt, but there was no sympathy in his old face. “Grow up. Welcome to the real world. We aren’t idealists. We kill people. I can’t feed them. No one should have taken them—they should have died in the storm.”
Aranthur thought of Kurvenos.
“If you kill defenceless people, then all you are is a murderer,” he said.
“Oh, shut up,” the Vicar said. “Your adolescent morality is misplaced and stupid. Put him somewhere.”
“First, tell us where they are,” Vardar said.
Aranthur shrugged. “No idea.”
Vardar slapped him.
Aranthur felt the rage, but it was distant. It was almost as if he was bored. His fatigue was total. Nothing mattered. Even the pain in his face, and the humiliation. The weight of the people he’d killed lay on him like wet black felt, and cloaked any real anger he might have felt. His broken ribs were much closer to the surface of his reality than a face slap.
“He’s colluding with them,” Vardar said.
The Vicar glanced at him.
Aranthur took a deep breath.
“My lord, if you don’t mind”—he allowed himself more than a little sarcasm—“I’ve had quite a day. If I am under arrest, I’d nonetheless like a bowl of soup and a clean shirt. I think you owe me as much, frankly.”
“He’s allied with—”
Aranthur turned his back on the other officer.
“My lord, I have a hundred witnesses that I led the fucking assault, and unlike this woodlouse, I just fought. And with the help of many other people, we conquered. We bought you some days. If you think I’m some sort of enemy spy, then I, too, think you’re a fool.”
The Vicar was angry. Through his own fatigue, Aranthur could see that the man’s age, and exhaustion, were making it harder and harder for him to see through the haze of decisions. He could see it, but it was as if he didn’t care.
The Vicar was trapping himself into a set of decisions.
I should not have called him a fool, Aranthur thought.
“Cell,” the Vicar spat. “Irons.”
6
Antioke
The cell was dark, and damp, and smelt of old despair. Aranthur had no water to wash, and a single candle; and air, and room to stand. And despite the Vicar’s orders, no one put him in irons, but then, no one offered to get him a clean shirt, either.
The candle burned down.
About six hours.
No one brought another. The hunger was the worst; he’d cast a great deal, and he’d used the enhancement, and now he had no food. After the first hour, he lay on his face on the wet, filthy floor with spikes of pain that shot into his gut and stayed there, like a sword thrust. Every few moments it would fade, and he’d start to sit up, and then the pain would strike again. When he wriggled in pain, the broken ribs would torment him.
The pain and the dark brought on the… the other.
Aranthur was never able to decide if what happened was real, or his imagination—a tentacle of the Aulos intruding into the real world, or just his guilt and his fatigue.
It occurred to him many times that there might actually be no wall of “reality” which separated his guilt and imagination from the Aulos.
But he was alone, writhing in pain. And then he looked up, and there was a man sitting in the darkness. He was thin, and pale, and light seemed to shine from him, because there was no other light.
“Remember me, do you?” the man spat.
Aranthur didn’t remember him.
And then there was another man, broader in the shoulder.
“Remember me, cocksucker?” he said.
Aranthur backed into the corner, away from the hole in the floor, and hunkered down.
“Doesn’t remember us,” the broader man said.
He turned to speak to the thin man, and when he turned, his profile, which glowed slightly, showed that the back of his head was missing.
Aranthur gagged.
“Now ’e knows us,” Broad Man said.
“’E knows you,” Thin Man said.
“I killed you,” Aranthur said.
“There oughta be a prize for yer honour,” Thin Man said. “You fuckin’ kilt me too.”
“An’ me,” said Crossbow.
Then they were quiet. But there were others beyond them in the darkness, glowing a sickly pale green and pressing forward, murmuring.
Dark Forge Page 36
