A vast wave reared up out of the water. Reaching like claws. In the crest of the wave Thalia saw eyes and roaring mouths.
The bank collapsed where Tal was trying to scramble up it. The wave towered higher. Sucking up all the water, so that the dry riverbed was exposed. In the black mud were ancient bones.
“Go! Go!” She tried to spur the horse to the bank where Tal was floundering trying to get the horse up.
The wave hit. Broke over Thalia. Claws tore her from her horse.
Blind in the water, thrashing, fingers squeezing her throat, trying to force open her mouth. Pulling her into pieces. Ripping at her heart. The water was lit up in a flash of silver. Her head downwards, seeing fresh dying bodies, old broken Altrersyr bones.
Anger rose up in her. The holiest woman in the Sekemleth Empire of the Golden City of Sorlost. The Queen of the White Isles and Ith and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea. The Beloved of God. She would not die like this.
The water burst. The river retreating. Falling away.
Gold light. Warmth. Perfume. Flowers, birds singing, soft summer rainfall, the drowsing hum of bees. Cool swirl of water lapping around her ankles. No sign of her horse. Or of Tal. Dead things poking up through the water. The water looking up at her with sad defeated broken eyes.
Thalia splashed across to the bank and scrambled up. Mud and roots pulled at her clothing; she brushed them away scornfully. A crow came low overhead shrieking. She raised her head and it wheeled away with a cry of pain. Sat down panting on the bank in the sunshine, watching the shallow river dance. Saleiot, she thought. To shine, to sparkle, to dance like the sunlight on fast flowing water. She thought suddenly of Marith sitting by her side on the banks of a stream in the desert, throwing stones into the water and telling her who he was.
On the far bank a great cloud of dust had been thrown up by the fighting. Smoke, also, in thick heavy plumes. The sky was pale grey. A light rain falling, bright in the morning sun. Tiny figures hacking and pushing. A wall of sarriss raised at the back like a wall, then they dipped all together, smooth as an arm lowering, she saw them move forward, heard a shout and a crash as they met something. Another flash of silver on the horizon, dazzling, reaching up into the sky. A scream. Shadows falling. An answering burst of red-gold dragon fire. More screams.
Two men came slithering down the bank opposite, splashed across and pulled themselves up. Very near her. Both wounded, ripped open, pink raw burns. Their armour was mangled, like something had smashed at it. They wore red and yellow badges and Thalia realized they were Illyian. They moved oddly, awkwardly, groping about them as if they could not see. They had not noticed her, stumbled off past her up the riverbank. She thought they had been blinded. Then she understood. The battle was being fought as she saw it, in summer rain and fresh morning light. But the battle had brought a darkness over all their eyes.
The men disappeared behind a clump of trees. She should have killed them, she thought. Her enemies. She sighed. Got to her feet to walk back to the camp.
A noise. On the Illyian side of the river the gestmet stood. Watching her. Its antlers were broken and fire blackened. Its face burned down to the bone. A gash ran down its right shoulder. Red and raw and filthy with rot. It looked at her very sadly. Dumb animal eyes.
Chapter Fifty-Five
We are alone. Utterly alone.
“I told Landra Relast to leave me in peace,” I say to it. “Can you not accept that?”
A bird sits on the burned antlers. A red bird with red and black wings. It flaps its wings. The gestmet does not speak.
“Leave me alone,” I say to it. Three times, now, it has come to me. Each time, I have sent it away before it speaks to me.
On the lich roads, when first we came to the White Isles, we walked there and I was afraid. The things that walk the lich roads: I was so afraid of them.
“I wish that Marith had killed you.”
The human mouth opens. The burned face cracks with blood.
“He will, I should think.”
“Then perhaps you should leave him be. Leave me be.”
Dumb animal eyes. “I cannot. I will pursue him to his or to my death. You should understand that, Thalia Altrersyr.”
And now I feel anger. I make the light come, all around me, lighting up the gestmet’s wounds. Still, still, you think me his prisoner!
“I do not need to justify myself. Not to anyone.”
The bird cocks its head at me. Flaps its wings. “Ethald emn enik,” it trills.
The gestmet says, “Bronze and iron cannot kill him. But you could still kill him, Thalia Altrersyr.”
“I know that I could kill him.”
A sound in my ears of birdsong. Bees and insects. The sound of the rain. The earth shifts and softens beneath my feet. Flowers growing up around my feet. The gestmet steps towards me, its head lowered, its antlers out towards me. Dead blind eyes on the burned antlers open and close. Its antlers are sharp. Like weapons. It lowers its head to gore me.
“Ethald emn enik,” the bird trills.
It steps towards me. Light flickers on its antlers, on the wings of the red bird.
“If you touch me, I will kill you,” I say.
“Please, Thalia,” it says.
“Tell Landra Relast and Tobias also.”
It turns away and raises its head and is gone. I watch it run into the green of the hills.
Chapter Fifty-Six
All morning, Tobias and Landra had sat on a hill watching the battle flow around before them. Kind of like watching a dye vat boiling up cloth. Lines moving hither and thither. Pushed forward. Pushed back. Breaking, being swallowed up the other side, going down trampled and dead. A charge of horses against light armed footmen and the ground would go red and pulpy. Stained. Spearmen raising and lowering in formation, long shafts like the movement of a loom. Two lines of the spearmen meeting was like watching hands clasping. Found himself, in fact, interweaving his own fingers and clasping his hands.
That hadn’t happened for a while now. Most of the spears had long since been lost or dropped. Lines had pushed and shoved and held and broken, and the surviving spearmen were down to hacking crudely at each other with fat little swords. Long time, they could hold on, just shoving at each other, shoulder to shoulder, like drunks supporting each other, kind of funny intimacy to it he’d never have suspected, never having been a one-in-the-ranks spearman himself. Front row must be half buried in each other. Pressed up in each others’ thighs. Until one side broke and fell apart and the other lot ran through them shouting. Or a mage or a dragon turned up and deep-fried them all. But finally mostly given it up now. A few reserve lines still trooping in, one neatly holding off a charge of heavy-armoured horse. But mostly dead or hacking inexpertly at each other and getting expertly hacked down by the sword guys, who’d been worse than useless spinning around en masse in clever circles holding metal tipped tree trunks but had a demonstrably better grasp of how to cut someone’s arm off with a short fat blade.
A cavalry-on-cavalry charge early on in the proceedings had been simply spectacular. Slower than they looked when they were coming towards you personally, heavy-armoured horses, he’d noted with interest. Then the smash, and bloody bits actually bloody flying up in the air. Crashing past each other, crashing into anyone severely unlucky enough to be thinking a line of massive armour plated horses made a good defensive barrier between you and the enemy, pulling round excitedly to see if anyone else had survived it, then doing it all again from the other end.
Actually, it looked kind of funny, from a distance, that bit, the aftermath of a big cavalry charge. Great lords on great horses slightly surprised to find themselves still alive popping out the back end of the battle with nothing left to fight but a couple of crapping themselves runaways who’d adopted a strategic defensive position very deep field. Always looked a bit sheepish, you imagined. Had to have a quick row with the horse about turning round.
It was fascinating, seein
g it all spread out like this. An education. Didn’t often get a chance just to sit and watch and judge a battle on artistic merit in his line of work. Only needed a pint and a pie to make a proper good day out.
Raeta had woken them before first light, hissing there was something up in Marith’s camp. Not surprising: classic time to attack, dawn, over the river, mist rising, hopefully catch the enemy half asleep. Suited the boy’s taste for drama, also. The Illyians had been lined up on the other side waiting for battle. Good hard looking lot of them, horses, long spears, heavy iron armour, red flags. The three of them had been settled in a good sheltered spot on the ridge of hills shielding Marith’s camp. Bit near Marith’s camp, for Tobias’s liking, but it wasn’t like many people would be looking their way. Scrambled up a bit higher on the hillside, bedded down in a thorn bush out of the rain to watch.
“I have to … to do something,” said Raeta. “Stay here.”
“Do something?”
“Be careful,” said Landra.
Raeta nodded. Shadow of antlers and branches and leaves nodding, branches blowing in the wind.
“Be careful,” Tobias said.
The sky began to lighten. On both sides of the river, the darkness seemed to stir. Crowds building into armies. Lines eyeballing each other, grim faced.
The sky turned palest pink silver. Flickered on iron and bronze.
With a yell, Marith stormed straight over the river at the Illyians. Straightforward half-suicidal cavalry punch charge.
The Illyians just stood there, long rows of spearmen, long rows of cavalrymen also with spears. Arrows shooting over their heads ripping up the water, cutting a big swathe in Marith’s horses before they even got off their side of the bank. A couple of mages chucking fire at Marith, making the water burn. Lot more Illyians than there were Islanders. Lot more. Lined up five, ten deep.
He’s going to do something clever like pull back and do something clever, thought Tobias. Marith’s archers started shooting banefire. The Illyians began to burn. But that in itself was a bit surprising as a tactic, seeing as Marith and his friends were charging straight at the things they’d just started setting on fire. Also because the miss-shots had an inevitable tendency to fall on Marith’s own men.
Marith didn’t pull back. The horses came over the river, a good third of them falling behind him dead or dying, went straight into the Illyian spears. A crash Tobias could feel up there watching. Landra, despite herself, he heard gasp and scream. Beautiful shining Marith disappeared in a mass of spears and horses. The Islanders kept shooting banefire. So now they were basically under orders to barbecue their own king. A file of Islander infantry started across the river, spears in perfect formation, marching slowly through the water towards the seething morass that had just swallowed up their horse. The Illyians kept chucking mage fire and arrows at them. The Islanders kept up the banefire back. The footmen kept marching through it all up the riverbank and straight into the Illyians. Stoic fuckers there.
He’s going to do something clever, thought Tobias.
Bugger me if I know what.
Die?
That would be both clever and extremely helpful.
Another line of infantry, light armed swordsmen this time. Having to queue to get across the river, the lot in front of them were having such a job of it fighting their way up the bank. Marith had got impressively far back in the Illyian lines, from the churning boiling patterns of the fighting, but he couldn’t possibly think he could get enough men all the way through this to turn and flank …
Shadows came down at the Illyians. Came out of the dawn sky like a plague. Spat down on the seething battle lines. Impossible, from that far away, to pick out individual figures, but Tobias saw, he was sure he saw, Marith raise his sword arm in welcome.
The press in the river redoubled. Men almost fighting each other to get across and fight the Illyian troops. Pushing forward. Rain of arrows. Maelstrom like a red dyeing vat.
Mage fire ripped upwards. The shadows were burning. The shadows were unpicked like loose thread. Rose up in a cloud, shrieking murder. Scream after scream after scream. Wild light exploding. The air smelled of burning flowers. Sizzling hot meat. Mage fire shot upwards again, again the shadows were burning. Tumbling tossing upwards. Little dark holes in the world. A column of fire erupted in the midst of the battleline. Again, Tobias thought he could see, somehow, from half a mile away on a hillside, Marith Altrersyr fighting a mage with his eyes singing joy. The fighting boiled in turmoil. A horse charge hit a wall of mage fire. Went up as steam. Landra covered her ears at the screaming. Raging torrents. The river running red.
Though he’s not actually doing as well as I’d have thought he should be, Tobias thought then. Seeing as he’s Amrath returned King Ruin King of Death and whatnot. Only bloke in Irlast worthy of getting between beautiful Thalia’s beautiful thighs. Not quite being creamed, but actually not as far off it as you’d think. All those people crossing and they weren’t actually getting very far. And the famous shadows they’d heard so much about in Ith were a bit of a wash-out, if one was being brutally honest. Never want to fight one himself, obviously, but the Illyian magecraft was shredding them. Some big shiny huge bird thing falling on Marith’s cavalry from behind, cutting them up bad like so many meat pies. Gold and silver feathers, light incarnate, plumed head like horns or branches, eagle talons long as men are tall. Singing, up in the sky as it killed them. Sweet lark song. Chorus to the summer dawn.
Cavalry dispatched to pie crumbs, the bird god thing turned on the shadows. The shadows did the sensible thing and bricked it. The bird thing gave chase. Mage fire blazed through the ranks fighting. Lines moving and eddying, pushing, Marith’s troops wavering and then gathering themselves to push on. Going forward a bit. The remains of Marith’s cavalry grouping for another charge.
Where’s the dragon? Tobias thought suddenly. They’d seen it fly over the mountains every morning for days now, spurting flame and generally showing off. Marith had called it. Marith had a dragon. So where …?
A commotion at the back of the Illyian lines. Men beginning to split off. Legging it? But they’re kind of winning. He saw horses coming up from beyond a bend in the river. Moving fast. So why …?
Oh where. Oh why. Oh hell. Bastard had a whole other army crossing somewhere. Plus a dragon. Could be as careless as a baby with the men here, because there was a whole other lot plus a dragon crossing somewhere else, heading round towards the back of the enemy in the classic old hammer and anvil technique.
Maybe the boy had learnt something from following him and Skie around.
Mage fire broke again over the horses charging. Marith himself was lit up a moment in the rush of light. Could tell it was him, ’cause he was the only person who came out the other side.
Funny, how small he looked. Thought he’d have grown bigger by now. Like a giant. Towering over the wreck of the world. Should be bigger. Big as dying. Since every single fucker dying here was only fucking dying ‘cause of him.
Marith cut down Illyian soldiers. Light shining. Light and joy. Kill and kill and kill and kill. Death! Death! Death!
He’s cutting it mighty fine, though, thought Tobias, even so. His losses to the mage fire alone must be enormous. Hammer and anvil strategy and all, but at the moment he’s more just getting hammered. Almost as hammered as he was last night.
Moment of intense smugness with himself for thinking this up. Need to repeat it to Raeta later, get her to really appreciate it. “Almost as hammered as he was last night”—
Moment broken. Great big solid dark shadow falling over the hillside from behind them. Hot metal smell and a roar.
Oh look! There’s the dragon! It’s flying over Tobias’s head!
The dragon plunged red and gold. Swept out over the brow of the hill. Plants withering. Air boiling. Warm sun beat of its wings. So close Tobias could almost touch it. Silver staring eyes.
The boy’s eyes. The same staring grief shame pleasure hate joy.
It hung suspended up over the battlefield, watching down, its body humming still. One great beat of its wings. Its neck twisted. A shudder ran down the muscles of its flanks.
Its tail flicked. Sucked in breath like a bellows.
Dived. Spewed out flame.
The whole world disappeared in a blast of fire. A hot wind blew back over Tobias’s face. Hot metal smell. Roast meat stink, rolling in his mouth. Better than steak. Chorus of a thousand desperate voices screaming. A tiny shining figure, head raised in triumph, silhouetted against the flames.
The dragon soared up into the wet sunshine. Rainfall sparkled on its wings. Mist rising around it. Warm clouds of metal and blood. Danced in triumph. Dived. Breathed out fire again.
Watching felt like slow eternity. The most beautiful thing a man could ever see. Scoured the mind clean of anything other. Couldn’t remember there was anything other before this moment. Just a dragon dancing on the wind.
A blast of white light shot upwards. Great towering twisting wondrous pillar of light. Smashed into the dragon. Dragon shrieked like the whole world hurt. Hung in the sky crackling all over silver. Madly beating its huge wings. Roared fire. Vomited up fury. The pillar of light collapsed.
Some magic broken. Tobias could almost draw his eyes away from the dragon back to the battle beneath. Figures frantically running, regrouping. The one he knew without seeing was Marith Altrersyr surged forward, horse rearing, slashing out with his sword, horse’s hooves treading blood. White light burst out around him. Like the dragon he shrieked, shook it off. A ragged line of horsemen formed up behind him. Charged the Illyian ranks.
Slaughter.
Trampling men like rotten waste.
The Illyian lines were retreating. Pushed back towards where the other army of the Ansikanderakesis Amrakane was marching up. The hammer and the anvil. The dragon swept the skies, herding them on. In his mind and his heart, Tobias heard the paean echo. “Death! Death! Death!”
The Tower of Living and Dying Page 36
