by Jim Butcher
Ehren almost sagged with relief. The only thing that prevented it was that it would have hurt a very great deal. The injuries to his body had been closed and stabilized, but it would be weeks before he could move normally again. “Yes, sir,” he said. He found his eyes clouding up, and he blinked them several times until they were clear again. “Thank you, sir.”
Bernard put an arm on his shoulder, and said, “Easy, there, young man. Come on. Let’s get to work.”
The view of the battle from the little citadel’s tower was spectacular, even at night. Large furylamps, on the walls and towers of both the defensive ramparts and the citadel, illuminated the Calderon Valley for half a mile. Originally, the Valley’s trees and brush had grown up to within a bowshot of the old fortress at Garrison, but they had long since been cleared, for the expanding little city, then cleared back more, to the edge of the range of the mules. It left the ground utterly devoid of features an attacking force could use for cover.
The vord covered that ground like a turbulent black sea. Despite the efforts of the firecrafters and the crews of the mules, which had been spread out on rooftops behind the first wall, the vord had finally covered the ground and were fighting their way up the walls, hacking out climbing holds and coming up in lots of a dozen creatures at a time, until the Legion engineers could earthcraft the holds out of the wall’s surface, returning it to unbroken smoothness. Men fought and bled atop the wall, but nowhere near so ruinously as they had only a day or two before. The frontage of the entire fortification was less than three-quarters of a mile, and the sides of the Valley were no wider, there. The vord had to pack themselves in to reach the walls, to the point where their advantage of numbers did them the least amount of good.
Though, Ehren reflected, that was quite a bit different than counting for nothing.
Even though the Legions could face the vord at a point of maximum concentration, where the firecrafting of the Citizens and the freemen’s mules could do the most harm, the Aleran Legions remained badly outnumbered. Ehren watched as one segment of the wall rotated weary legionares out for a fresh cohort. The vord needed no such cooperation. They simply kept coming, an endless tide. Ehren counted, out of habit, noting that only six men of the eighty-man century had been lost during their hourlong rotation on the walls. And yet it was entirely possible that their losses, proportionately, were worse than those being inflicted upon the vord.
The hollow booms of firecraftings continued to rumble irregularly through the night, accompanied by the scattered popping sounds of the occasional launch of fire-spheres from a mule, but even those were infrequent. Ehren asked Count Calderon about it.
“The firecrafters are resting in rotation,” he said quietly. “They’re exhausted. There are just a few of them on duty to prevent any breaches of the wall. And we’re running low on ammunition for the mules. Right now, there are workshops being established in the refugee camp east of the city to manufacture more fire-spheres, but it isn’t coming along as fast as we’d like.”
“How fast would we like it?” Ehren asked dubiously. A stray sphere from the last mule launch had come down inside the ramparts, and a supply wagon was burning enthusiastically.
“Twelve million of them an hour would be ideal,” Calderon replied.
Ehren choked. “Twelve mil—An hour?”
“That would be enough for one hundred mules to loose two-hundred-shot loads at their maximum rate of fire, nonstop,” Bernard said. He squinted out at the battle. “With that, I could kill every vord in this swarm without losing a man. We’re going to have to figure out a way to manufacture these things more quickly.”
Ehren shook his head. “Seems so unbelievable. When Tavi showed me the sketches for this idea, I thought he’d gone insane.” He paused. “More insane.”
Two more mules launched their payloads, and a column of fire brought more vord screams to the predawn darkness.
Suddenly there were sharp, high-pitched whistles drifting down from the bluffs on either side of the little city. Bernard looked up sharply and swallowed. “There. Here it comes.”
“Here what comes?”
“The enemy’s flanking attack. It’s the weakest part of this position, defending against an attack from the west.” Bernard gestured at the two bluffs. “The vord are going to try to take the heights, then come down on us.”
“The Marat are stationed there, I believe,” Ehren said.
“Yes,” Calderon said. “But if the vord have reinforced their flankers . . .” He bit his lip and beckoned Centurion Giraldi. “Signal the Marat.”
Giraldi saluted and stomped off to dispatch a messenger as the battle upon the bluffs resumed, with the screams and howls and cries of the Marat, their beasts, and their foes echoing down into the Valley.
“It would be nice to be able to see what’s happening up there,” Ehren said.
“Probably why they did it at night,” Calderon replied. “Show up with a much larger force and try to hammer through before anyone realizes there are a whole lot more of them this time.” He shook his head. “Did it ever once occur to whoever is in charge over there that they aren’t the only ones who can furycraft a decent trail up onto the bluffs?”
Ehren turned with the Count in time to see three bright white signal-fire arrows launched into the air over each bluff. There was a brief pause, then the sounding of horns somewhere out on the plains.
And then there was a low, rumbling thunder.
As Ehren listened, it began to grow closer—and much, much louder. He hurried to fumble a farseeing into existence between his hands, to let him look out east onto the plains beyond Garrison. And there he saw, surging toward the west, an enormous mass.
Horses.
Thousands and thousands of horses, and pale barbarians armed with spear and axe and bow and sword riding upon their backs.
“Hashat would have killed me if I hadn’t let her in on the fun,” Calderon confided. “And it was something of a challenge to work out a battle plan that included a reasonable use of cavalry in a bloody wall battle.”
The horses split into two columns, flowing around Garrison like a river, then surged up what sounded like plank-lined earthworks leading onto the bluffs on either side of the city. Moments later, Marat cavalry horns caroled brazenly through the dark, and the sounds of thundering hooves and fighting continued on the heights. For a few moments, there was nothing but noise and confusion, but then the trumpets started calling more excitedly and from farther west upon the bluffs—the Marat were again driving the enemy back.
Bernard nodded once in satisfaction, and said, “My Valley.”
And then a low, throbbing bellow rolled through the air and made the soles of Ehren’s feet vibrate. A second one, from vaguely the other direction, rose and slowly fell again as the first call died away.
“Bloody crows,” Bernard snarled. “Signal Knights Aeris,” he called to Giraldi. “I need lights on those bluffs!”
It took only a few moments for the orders to be relayed and the Knights Aeris and Citizens to overfly the bluffs, dropping spherical firecraftings in clusters of blazing light. Count Calderon stood watching as they fell, and the light illuminated the vast, shadowy mass of vordbulks, one of them upon each section of high ground, so heavily surrounded with vordknights that they resembled animated carcasses surrounded by buzzing flies.
Ehren stared at them for a second, unable to believe his own eyes. “Those,” he heard himself say through a dry mouth, “are quite large.”
Giraldi spat. “Bloody crows. But those things can’t attack us from up there, can they?”
“They don’t have to attack us,” Bernard replied. “They just have to walk up and fall on us.”
“Oh, dear,” Ehren said.
“We have to hold them off,” Bernard breathed. “Slow them down. If we can slow them down . . .” He gave himself a shake. “Giraldi. Tell Cereus to concentrate his forces on the northern bluff. Set the trees on fire, create spines of stone to wound t
heir feet—whatever he can think of. Kill them if he can, but he is to slow that bulk down.”
“Yes, sir!” Giraldi snapped, and went about carrying out Bernard’s orders.
“Slow them down?” Ehren said, bewildered. “Not kill them?”
“It’ll be worse if they arrive simultaneously. And they’re so heavily armored—and just so crowbegotten big—that I’m not sure if we can kill them,” he replied. “But I think we just have to hold a little longer.”
“Why?” Ehren asked, blinking. “What difference is it going to make if they’re here in half an hour instead of ten minutes?”
“Because, Sir Ehren,” Calderon said, “like your own demise, not everything here is as it seems.”
CHAPTER 49
Gaius Octavian’s host dismounted at the mouth of the Calderon Valley, much to the relief of riders and mounts alike. Fidelias watched the entire process, bemused. How different would the role of cavalry be if horses could talk?
And draw swords.
And eat their riders.
He thought there might be a great deal less running about.
Fidelias shook his head and struggled to focus on the task at hand. Such wandering thoughts might perhaps be natural in the face of exhaustion and near-certain death, but they wouldn’t help accomplish the mission.
The captain came riding in from a nearby patch of woods on his big black, his singulares trailing at a slight distance. Though the trees had been a quarter mile away, he had insisted. It would never do, after all, for the Legions to see their Princeps beholden to the call of nature just as they were.
Fidelias swung down from his own horse and walked over to join the captain.
“. . . know you aren’t used to performing in this role,” Octavian was saying to two young men—a cavalry centurion named Quartus and Sir Callum of the First Aleran’s Knights. Both were the right arms of Maximus and Crassus, respectively, within the First Aleran. “But you’ve been trained well,” Octavian continued. “You’ll do fine.”
Both young man replied in the affirmative and, Fidelias thought, tried to look more confident than they felt. But then, the captain was doing the exact same thing. He was just a lot better at it than the other two. It also said something about him that, even here, at the last, the captain had arranged matters so that he could have a moment to bolster their spirits before the rest of the commanders of the host arrived.
It took only moments for the command staff of both Legions to reach them, along with Varg, Nasaug, and Master Marok in his vord-chitin mantle. To Fidelias’s surprise, Sha was there as well, clad in Hunter grey, pacing along in Varg’s shadow.
“Gentlemen,” Octavian said. There were no murmurs to be quieted—everyone was tired, though only the Cane didn’t look it. Their fur simply seemed a bit limper than was usual. “Let’s get right to it. There are two and a half million enemy troops packed into the next fifty miles or so. There are about forty thousand of us. So there are plenty of vord to share. Let’s not be stingy.”
A rumble of laughter went around the group. Nasaug looked amused, though Varg didn’t. Varg looked patient.
“Garrison is about fifty miles from here, on the causeway. They’ve still got almost a hundred and fifty thousand legionares and support from another hundred thousand Marat.”
“That isn’t enough to face the vord directly,” Nasaug said, his deep voice resonant.
“No,” Octavian said. “It isn’t. Somewhere between here and Garrison is the vord Queen. Once we kill her, we aren’t facing an army anymore. We kill her, we have a chance.”
Sir Callum lifted his hand. “Sir . . . ? Um, how are we going to find her?”
Octavian gave him a wolfish smile. “Well, Sir Callum. It appears that some blackhearted villains destroyed the vord’s food storehouse at Riva, then proceeded to burn out the croach that was supposed to be their supply line.”
Another rumble of laughter went around the group.
“As a result, there are more than a million vord thirty miles east of here, at the site of an old steadholt called Aricholt. They’re completely motionless—asleep, in some kind of hibernation.”
“How do you know this?” Varg asked.
“Sorcery.”
Varg eyed Octavian, an expression far more intimidating on a Cane’s face than an Aleran’s, then flicked his ears in acknowledgment.
Marok let out a thoughtful growl. “Some of my monastic brethren once pursued similar disciplines. If the vord can do that, they will not need as much food to survive.”
Octavian nodded. “I think they must be the vord reserves. And I think the vord Queen will be nearby.” He looked around the circle. “Gentlemen, we are going to come down on them in force and annihilate them.”
Silence fell on the circle.
“Sir,” Sir Callum said slowly. “Attack a million with . . . sir, that’s . . . the odds are . . .”
“Twenty-five to one,” Varg said quietly.
“Shall we wait for them to wake up and come to us?” Octavian asked, his mouth spread in a wide, confident grin. “No, Sir Callum. The time for being cautious is long past.”
“What if they wake up?” Callum asked.
“What if they don’t?” Octavian countered. “What if the vord never need them? What if we do nothing while the vord at Garrision overwhelm the Legions?”
Callum frowned and bowed his head. Then he nodded.
“We’re going to hit them as fast and as hard as we can,” Octavian continued. “And we’re going to inflict a crowbegotten lot of harm on them. While that’s happening, I will lead a strike team after the Queen. As the most experienced Aleran present, Valiar Marcus will be in command once I am gone.”
Fidelias felt his stomach drop out. He began to say something, but Octavian shot him a level look, and he subsided.
“Varg will be his second,” Octavian continued. “Our objective is to eliminate the vord reserves at Aricholt, then fortify our position. Questions?”
No one spoke.
“All right, then, gentlemen,” Octavian said, smiling. “Let’s get to work. Oh, Master Marok. Would you be willing to speak with me privately for a moment? Thank you.”
Fidelias watched the assembly break up as the captain moved over to one side, speaking quietly with Marok. The Cane listened and made short replies. He nodded once, then he and the captain exchanged bows.
The captain strode over to him after speaking to Marok. “Marcus,” he said.
“That’s me.”
Octavian’s mouth tugged up at the corner. “With any luck,” he said, “I’ll be busy elsewhere once the music starts.”
“I heard,” Fidelias said.
“I’m not going to ask you if you can handle it. I’m telling you that you bloody well will handle it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Octavian nodded, and said, “We’re going all out. Maximum damage to the enemy. Everyone, everyone, including me, is to be considered expendable.” He looked back down the column. Hundreds of men and Canim were visible even within the ritualists’ concealing mist. There was pain in his eyes. “We can’t let the Queen escape us. And we can’t allow those reserves to be used against Garrison. No matter the cost.”
“I understand, Captain,” Fidelias said quietly. “I’ll get it done.”
Tavi rode at the head of the column the rest of the way to the engagement. Moving down the causeway, it took them a little more than an hour to make the trip, and his mouth was dry the whole time, no matter how many times he drank from his water flask. Scouts and outriders reported infrequent contact with the enemy. They wouldn’t have been able to see much—the host was still riding veiled beneath Master Marok’s misty cloud. Of course, the reverse also held true. It was difficult for the host to see out. They had to rely heavily upon their scouts to be their eyes and ears.
They turned off the causeway to cover the last three or four miles to Aricholt upon a nonfurycrafted road. In the darkness, the ride was an eerie one. Vord cries
drifted up and down the valley. Garrison was only another half an hour or so away upon the causeway, but that was plenty of distance to muffle all but the most piercing cries of the vord, who must have been laying siege to the place. The distant crackles and booms of firecraftings came through clearly, though. From the sound of it, there were still plenty of Citizens standing up to the vord—either that, or the idea he’d shared with his uncle by letter, about the mules and the fire-spheres, had actually paid off. If that was true, he’d be a little startled, he’d admit. He never thought that one would work out.
A scout from the Free Aleran appeared out of the mist ahead of them, riding his horse back at an easy lope. He pulled up next to the command group and saluted Tavi.
“Report.”
“Sir, the steadholt is up ahead. It’s covered in the croach and . . .” He shook his head. “The reserves you talked about are there.”
“Asleep?”
“Maybe,” the man said. “They weren’t moving.”
Tavi looked over his shoulder at Fidelias, and said, “Signal the halt. Quietly.”
Fidelias nodded. Signals were passed by hand gesture and lowered voice back down the column.
“I want to see this for myself,” Tavi said. “Everyone else, remain here.”
“I am going,” Kitai said.
Tavi eyed her. He had no desire whatsoever to expose her—expose them—to danger, but he gave in to the inevitable on the lesser risk. “Fine. But we’re only going up to look, and we’re doing it under sound, sight, and earth veils.”
Kitai shrugged her shoulders. “As you would, Aleran.”
They rode out together, and Tavi pulled up a windcrafted veil around them as they did. Without being told, Kitai managed the crafting that would hide the sounds of their passing and another that would make the earth more pliable beneath the hooves of their mounts, greatly reducing the amount of vibration they sent through the earth as they walked, in an effort to avoid detection by enemy earthcrafters who might be standing sentry duty.
They rode about half a mile before leaving the protective mists around the host—and were immediately bathed by the light of a waning moon. Predawn hovered in the east, a cold blue light that was only barely brighter than the darkness of night.
