God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  “I know this is the time for a speech,” the Prophet said. “This is supposed to be the time where great kings and queens make great words for great wars.” She shook her head. “But I have none for you now. Words will not protect this city. Speeches will not save lives. The gods have no ears for the wagging tongues of mortal boasts. They will not care what has been said here.

  “But they will be watching. They will see what you did here today. They will see how you stood against thousands. They will see the many lives you saved, even if you laid down your own to save them. And they will smile. This is what they put us here to do. This is why you were chosen.”

  She raised her hand to them, palm open in benediction.

  “Heaven is watching.”

  And many hands were raised to her, their palms likewise open. And, in one harmonious thunder, hundreds of voices replied.

  “Heaven is watching.”

  She opened her mouth, as though she wanted to say more. And Pathon found himself wanting to hear more, to hear what else heaven had planned for him. So he stayed silent, staring at her, his body tight with a tension he didn’t recognize.

  But not for long.

  Overhead, the shrill warble of a bugle rang out. He looked up, along with the rest of his brothers. One of the scraws—the winged beasts the once-hated Sainites rode—came wheeling overhead. Its rider released three short blasts, over and over.

  “The tulwar are in sight,” the speaker said. He glared over his soldiers. “To the point, Karnerians. Fist formation. The Sainites will join us. You know what to do.” He looked back to the Prophet and the Foescribe. “Heaven is watching.”

  The Prophet nodded and began to head back to the watchtower. Even as his brothers pushed past, Pathon found himself lingering, staring at the Prophet as she left, keeping as clear an image in his head of her that he could hold on to during the battle.

  He felt a heavy gauntlet on his shoulder. He looked up. The speaker glowered at him.

  “Marcher,” he said. “To the front.”

  He nodded, turning to go as the speaker hurried with him. They did not go far before a voice called out to him.

  “Speaker.”

  The speaker paused, then turned to face her. The Foescribe stood, the usual inscrutability of her face giving way to something intent and focused.

  “Madam?” he asked.

  “I have overseen six campaigns with success,” she said. “I will not see the Empire disgraced by a pack of savages. I—” She paused, swallowed. “Return victorious. Return alive.”

  “Madam.” He inclined his head.

  Pathon didn’t dare still be there when the speaker turned. He rushed to catch up to his fellows. They ran through their camp, snatching up their long spears and tower shields. They hurried toward the gap in the hills where Harmony Road wound through.

  Across the way, he could see the Sainites mustering. Their crossbowmen were rushing forward, too, in good order, as their scraws wheeled overhead. Their leader, that fearsome Blacksbarrow woman, snarled orders at them as they did.

  Pathon found no hate in his heart for them as he gazed upon them—even as he remembered how many of his brothers they had killed. They were here, just as he was here, for a reason.

  Heaven had chosen them. Heaven had chosen him. Heaven had chosen this battle.

  He fell into the rank, just as he had rehearsed. The second row of the phalanx, Dachon behind him, Apala in front of him. The rows of Karnerians filled the road, just wide enough to form a wall of shields and spears. He held his own closely, staring over the rim of his shield toward the distant horizon, toward the creeping dawn.

  Toward the black shadow that stained the horizon, growing ever closer and ever darker.

  Gariath had once thought being too stupid to live as being a confined illness that only that afflicted his former human companions.

  Now, from high on the ridge, he could see that it was really more a trait inborn to the race.

  “So few of them.” Chakaa hummed from beside Gariath, staring out over the desert, painted blue by the desert sun. “Should we have brought less? This won’t be fun at all.”

  Gariath didn’t humor her. He was no tactician, but the situation was obvious to him.

  The humans—the ones wearing the black armor and carrying the long spears—had settled in a thick square formation in the middle of the road that led through the barrier of hills surrounding the Green Belt. Behind them lay the other humans—the ones wearing blue coats and stupid hats—in a long line. And behind them were a rabble of other humans—reserves, maybe. Or maybe just spectators. Who knew.

  He looked beyond them all, to the city that had just been a stain on a map until now. Cier’Djaal’s walls rose high, but not high enough. Its houses lay silent beyond, a heap of tinder and kindling waiting for a torch. Its gates stood open, mocking him to come and cleanse its filth from the world.

  All he needed to do was get through those humans.

  “I don’t like this,” Gariath growled.

  “Nor do I.” Mototaru plunked himself down beside Gariath. With the stem of his pipe, he idly began to draw shapes in the sand. “It appears they’ve put aside their differences and united in the face of greater adversity, learning empathy for their foes and, indeed, themselves.” He sneered out over the road. “They’re always doing this shit.”

  “There can’t be more than a few hundred,” Chakaa said. “Against us, what chance do they stand?”

  She gestured out below. Beneath the high ridge they had chosen, the tulwar swarmed forward in a tide of black and gray fur, the steel of their weapons like the flashing crests on the crowns of waves. The warriors with stout shields and swords led the rush forward; the bellowing roars of Daaru at their head could be heard, even from here. At their flanks, gaambols shrieked and howled as they scrambled forward, their riders waving spears in the air. And behind them all, upon huge wooden platforms, came the drums. Massive things that took eight tulwar each to lift, bending their backs so they seemed like many-legged insects with leather backs. Two tulwar each stood upon the platforms, pounding out a steady rhythm that drove them forward.

  “Plenty,” Mototaru said. “We hadn’t counted on them closing off the other roads.” He shook his head. “I’m still not sure how they did that.”

  Magic, Gariath knew. The stink of it was still in the air.

  “They have the advantage of terrain,” the old tulwar murmured as he sketched out a crude map in the sand. “Inside that pass, our numbers mean little.”

  “Then send my clan in,” Chakaa said. “We shall knock politely.”

  “The other tulwar will not ride with the malaa,” Mototaru said. “But it’s no matter. We can still win this.” He sketched two crosses in the sand. “Have our army take up defensive positions here and here. We hold tight until tomorrow. Then, we can make a decisive—”

  “No.”

  Gariath’s growl cut through their conversation. He folded his arms across his chest, fixing his black eyes on the square of soldiers.

  “The longer we wait, the bolder they become,” Gariath snarled. “They will reinforce, they will grow stronger, they will think they can win. We hit now. We hit hard. We break them in one strike.”

  “A brave strategy,” Mototaru muttered. “But brave doesn’t beat smart.”

  Gariath’s answer was not for the old tulwar. He stepped forward, to the very edge of the ridge. The sun climbed high behind him, painting his red skin an angry, molten gold color. He spread his wings wide. He threw his head back. He craned his jaws open wide.

  His roar carried down the ridge and across the sand. And like a fire, it spread. Into the ears of every warrior, every archer, every rider below. Out of the mouths of every father, every mother, every tulwar. Their mouths opened wide. Their blades went high. Their voices shook the sky to pieces.

  “RISE UP!”

  “RISE UP!”

  Pathon heard them. A thousand voices in a single, endless roar. Heavy d
rums pounding thunder through a clear sky. Many feet making the sands shudder beneath his. The sound of their fury was strong.

  “Stand strong, Sons of Karneria!”

  But fury was nothing to faith.

  “Daeon’s eyes are upon you!”

  And a thousand tulwar were nothing to the voice of the speaker.

  “You are weapons wrought from iron! Forged in the furnace of the Empire!” The speaker stood at the edge of the phalanx, his sword held high and pointed toward the enemy. “Every impurity hammered out! There is no room in you for fear, for hate, for anything but your duty!”

  Pathon felt the words course through him. His heartbeat slowed. His breath came out in long exhales. Moisture rimmed the edges of his helmet. Through the visor, he could see them.

  They appeared as a stain on the horizon, a spilled bottle of ink rapidly splashing down the hill. The rising sun was behind them, painting their fur black. No formation, no lines, no phalanxes; they came rushing forward as a tide, as strong and formless and unstoppable.

  “Battles you have fought! Foes you have slain! All have you led you to this moment! This war! This divine mission! There is no death! There is no failure! There is only this moment and the eternal post that awaits you by the Conqueror’s side!”

  And as they drew closer, he could see the colors. He had heard of this, their “war paint”—the colors that flooded their faces when their rage was up. And with every step they took, they were more and more color than black. In wild patterns, in brilliant flashes, in yellow and red and blue, he could see them: their war paint, their yellow fangs, their giant eyes. Thousands of burning stars in an endless, encroaching night.

  “Humanity’s fate is upon your shoulders! Daeon stands with you! And heaven is watching!”

  The speaker raised his sword high, screaming to be heard over the thunder of their charge.

  “CLOSE THE FIST!”

  Shields out. Spears up. Heads low. Every man in the phalanx knew his place. They pressed together. Steel to steel. Shoulder to shoulder. Every soldier a wall for the man on his left, a skewer for the man on his right. They had done this a thousand times.

  Never against a foe like this, though.

  Through the gaps in the shields, he watched them draw ever closer. A mass of long limbs and painted faces and dirty armor and screaming, fanged mouths. The only way to differentiate them was by the flashes of silver in the tide of darkness. The last thing he saw was the steel of their weapons.

  And then, the tulwar were right in front of him.

  “RISE UP!”

  Their voices were thunder in his ears.

  And then, lightning.

  The mass of bodies collided with the shields in the first line, thousands of pounds of flesh and fur and hacking steel. Many died, impaling themselves on the long spears. But more stood, plowing past their dead to attack. Their swords lashed out, trying to get past the shields; he could feel blood spatter the sand, splash on his feet. But swords were mere metal. It was the force of their charge that struck the hardest.

  The shields in the first line were pushed backward. The man in front collided with his shield. His spear went over his comrade’s shoulder, thrust at the tulwar as best he could. Until he, too, was driven back. He felt himself pressed against the shield behind him, felt the spear rise over his shoulder, felt his feet caught in a tangle of legs as he was forced to move back.

  The tulwar no longer seemed like a tide. They were too big for that. They were a storm, sweeping over the shields and spears. Many died, cut down by spear thrusts and falling with shafts broken in their chests. Many were carved apart by stabbing swords that shot between the shields.

  But there were many, many more.

  Their long, killing blades flashed between the shields and painted deep wounds in the arms and legs of the Karnerians. Their heavy swords hacked gashes in the shields, threatened to splinter them. Those wild few with colors more vivid than the rest climbed over their fellows and leapt into the phalanx, swinging wildly before they were hacked down.

  They were pushing. They were slashing. And always, they were screaming.

  “Rise up!”

  “Rua Tong!”

  “Tho Thu Bhu!”

  Words he barely understood. Words overwhelmed by the animal screeching in his helmet, the blood pounding in his ears, the sound of sand crunching beneath his feet as he was pressed ever backward. But those weren’t the words he needed to hear.

  “Stand firm, you faithful!” the speaker bellowed. “Give not a foot that is not soaked with blood! Let no savage threaten you! Let no pagan drive you—”

  “Oi!”

  A word he didn’t know. A voice he didn’t expect. The beating of long, feathery wings followed by an avian screech.

  “You Karnies look like you’re having trouble!”

  Overhead, Blacksbarrow flew atop one of the great, winged scraws. The sight used to send Karnerians running for cover. But now Pathon saw what the Sainites did. Blacksbarrow held a spear aloft, the banner of Saine flapping in the wind as she flew over the battle. And she laughed, longer and louder and fiercer than any tulwar could scream.

  “Lend these scalps some help, boys and girls!” She wheeled her scraw overhead, flying to the back of the line. “SAINITES! OPEN FIRE!”

  Screeching. Whistling. Singing. Bolts flew over his head, over his shield, past his spear. The Sainite crossbows hummed. In swift, elegant arcs, they sent starving birds to seek meat. And the tulwar fell.

  Not many, not at first. The ones in front continued to press, not at all tired even as they hacked through wood and metal. But more birds flew, more bolts sang, more bodies fell. And soon, the press of flesh no longer seemed quite so heavy, the sound of their fury not quite so strong.

  And he knew the time had come.

  “Raise your spears, men of the Empire!” the speaker roared. “March to glory!”

  He felt the words course through his body, through the phalanx. Their retreat stopped. The men at the back ceased giving ground, started to push into the next line, who started to push into the next. Soon, Pathon felt the shield at his back pushing him forward, and he pushed into the man at his front.

  The tulwar redoubled their efforts, screaming louder, hacking swifter. But it didn’t matter. Spears shot out, caught them in shoulders and throats and chests. They fell, the fortunate dead and the unlucky dying. And those latter ones, Pathon felt his boots upon.

  The Marchers did their job, moving forward slowly. Every step brought a new corpse: a new spear wound, a new sword cut, a new skull crushed beneath iron boots. They pounded blood into the sand, crushed bone into mortar as they pushed their foe back upon a road of skin and screams.

  “It’s going better than I hoped.”

  Haethen’s voice was clinically flat as she stared through the spyglass. Heedless of Asper’s stare boring into her face, her focus was on the battle.

  “We lost a few men in their initial rush, but nothing disastrous,” the Foescribe said. “The Sainite volley managed to turn the tide.” She frowned. “Foolish of Blacksbarrow to fly her scraw in like that. We have no idea where their archers are.”

  “But it’s good, right?” Asper strained to see from the watchtower, but without a spyglass, it all looked like one black blob pushing against a bigger gray blob. “We’re doing good?”

  “We’re doing well,” Haethen said, correcting her. “Or we would be, if there were such a thing in battle. But there is only victory and defeat. Our line is holding, at least. The tulwar can’t bring all their numbers to bear inside the pass. Things are going as we planned.”

  “That certainly sounds well.”

  “It sounds good, yes. If the plan we made is sound.” She swept her spyglass over toward the flanks of the army and the great mill of gaambols there. “I don’t like the look of their beasts. If those things get into the Green Belt, they could reach the watchtower in twenty breaths.”

  Only at this did she look over toward Asper. She
ran an appraising eye over the dusty chain mail, the stitched leather, the dented shield. She frowned.

  “Which wouldn’t concern me as much if you wore more armor.” She glanced at the scanty few soldiers—a few Djaalics and a pair of Sainites—left to defend the watchtower. “Or if we had more men to spare.”

  “We need everyone we can get down there,” Asper said. She glanced over Haethen. “You’re not wearing any armor, either.”

  “I’m just a strategist. I’m prepared to die. I’m not prepared for what happens if I lose the Prophet, though.”

  Asper stared down at the melee, frowning. “I should be down there. I should be leading them.”

  “You speak to heaven, Prophet, not to soldiers. Let Careus and Blacksbarrow do their jobs. Besides, if things go to shit, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to—” She paused, held her spyglass up. She grimaced. “Fuck. They’re making a move.”

  “What?” Asper reached for the spyglass. “What’s happening?”

  “You!” Haethen ignored her, pointing toward one of the Sainites. “They’re getting ready to charge with their beasts. Alert Blacksbarrow!”

  The Sainite nodded, then rushed to the edge of the watchtower. From his belt, he pulled a pair of brightly colored flags. And, with gestures neither woman understood, he began to make various signals with them. Out in the distance, a scraw screeched and wheeled around in the sky.

  “Let me go down there,” Asper said. “I can help them.”

  “You can get killed.” Haethen walked to the edge of the watchtower, waved at someone below, then gestured toward the front. “And I can’t allow that. Heaven will understand, if it is watching at all.”

  “It is,” Asper said, giving her a hard look. “Believe that it is.”

  “I believe in heaven, Prophet.”

  She looked below. Upon the sands, a team of Karnerians in white robes began to haul a massive wheeled platform across the sands. Upon it, a colossal figure shaped of white stone knelt, horned head bowed. A grim look creased Haethen’s face.