by Sam Sykes
“But I trust in steel.”
Bones snapping. Skin popping. Blood spattering. The stink of dead meat cooling in the air, then cooking in the sun—was it morning already? Or was it later now?
Pathon had lost track of time somewhere. Had lost track of everything, really.
All he knew now was the march: the endless enemy before him and the road of the dead beneath him.
He pressed on, marching in formation with his brothers. Every step brought the thrusts of spears. Every thrust brought the screams—sometimes the tulwar, sometimes his brothers, sometimes they just seemed to come from nowhere. He didn’t have room in his head or his heart to worry about that.
All he knew was the march.
“Onward, brothers!” the speaker boomed relentlessly, his voice as steady as any drum. “To the last body! To the last breath! Heaven is watching!”
Pathon kept his head down, kept marching, kept moving. Bolts flew overhead as the Sainites followed behind, shooting when they could. Tulwar continued to crash into the phalanx, continued to be cut down. And they kept marching.
Until they stopped.
Something happened. The first line came to a halt suddenly, the men behind them falling into place. Something coursed through the phalanx, a feeling that flowed from brother to brother. First, a mutter. Then, a word. Finally, a scream.
And, somewhere far away, an animal shriek.
Pathon looked up. Between the shields of his brothers, he could see the tulwar thinning out. The warriors melted away, falling back to the flanks. They formed a great, empty corridor of sand before them. And at the end of it, a great cloud of dust came billowing forward.
There were tulwar in it, riding on the shoulders of great creatures that loped on all fours. Hairy monsters with naked, leathery palms, big red eyes, and snouts full of fangs. They were spurred on by tulwar riders, striking their flanks with long spears. They let out animal screeches, their voices frantic with feral intensity as they rushed forward in a massive charge.
“CLOSE THE FIST!” There was panic in the speaker’s voice, panic as they tightened their ranks together.
Pathon’s eyes were on the creatures. How many of them were there? How fast were they coming? How long until they arrived? What were they called? The Foescribe had told them, once. What was the name she used?
“YENGU THUUN!” one of the riders roared, a voice right in his ear.
Ah, right.
Gaambols.
One of the beasts spurred itself faster than the rest. It tore ahead of the pack, howling. The Karnerians set their spears, braced for it to come charging and impale itself on their spears.
It didn’t.
It ran.
It leapt.
It sailed over their heads, came crashing down in the midst of them like a meteor. It brought its great simian fists down, flailing and shrieking, tossing Karnerians aside like they were sacks of flour. Their screams were added to a chorus of violence, of clanging metal and bodies crashing into bodies. The few who kept their wits about them turned toward the beast, thrust spears into its flanks, tore the rider from her saddle. But the gaambol didn’t stop. The sight of blood made it more enraged, caused it to kick out with its legs, grab men, and smash them on the ground.
More men turned to face it. More men turned to fight it. More men died when two more of the beasts came charging forward, crashing into the line.
The ranks fought to keep control of themselves. But the men fought to keep away from the flailing fists, the gnashing fangs, the lashing spears of the riders. The tulwar didn’t seem to be in control of their mounts. They simply were along for the ride as the gaambols screamed and thrashed and bit and tore and smashed and painted the ground with blood.
The sounds of the dying were in his ears. And then, there was the sound of his own death coming.
A bellowing roar, deeper and fiercer than the others. Pathon turned and saw it coming: a gaambol half as big as any of the others. It loped more slowly, hauling its massive bulk along. Its teeth were long as spearheads. Its eyes burned like fire. It did not scream, it roared. And behind it, a dozen more gaambols roared with it.
Pathon turned, holding his shield high. If this was what heaven demanded of him, this was how he would die. Fiercely, determinedly, and, he hoped, swiftly.
The massive gaambol drew closer.
The massive gaambol let out a snarl.
The massive gaambol leapt.
There was another screech—not man, not gaambol. There was a flash of movement. Something fell out of the sky; something big as a boulder smashed into the gaambol’s side and bore it to the ground.
The beast flailed, its defiance turned to raw panic as it tried to pull for purchase. Pathon could see nothing but fur flying and blood spattering and feathers beating, at first. But as the monster’s roars turned to howls of pain and then to whimpers of agony, he saw it.
The scraw lent its savagery to the attack, clawing with its talons and stabbing with its beak, painting the gaambol in a hundred wounds. But it was the lance, its banner soaked in blood and its head thrust deep into the creature’s side, that finished it. And, soon, the lance was torn free, blood flowed freely onto the sand, and the beast lay still.
The other gaambols, as if struck by something, suddenly changed. They screamed in what sounded like terror, leaping free of the melee. They dropped their victims, spit out the dead, turned, and ran, with riders cursing commands at them, joining the rest of the beasts who fled back down the lane, leaving a lone scraw and her rider, waving a bloodied lance, after them.
“That’s right, you hairy cocks!” Blacksbarrow roared. “Run back to your fucking monkey masters and pick fleas out of their assholes! You think twice before you show your ugly fucking faces on my road again, you pieces of shit!”
Drums thundered in reply. Something happened. The tulwar massed again and began rushing forward. The gaambols had done what they needed to. The ranks were broken, the Karnerians shattered. Blacksbarrow spit a curse and spurred her mount into the air, back toward the line.
“Hold on, Karnies! We’ll back you up!”
“Save your mercy, Sainite!” The speaker, voice booming once again. “Daeon’s mightiest comes to aid us!” He pointed his sword to the very back of the line. “Bring forth the Faithbreaker!”
The Faithbreaker.
Pathon saw it. Carved from white stone, wrought in the naked and muscular shape of the Conqueror himself, kneeling in contemplation, his horned head bowed. It stood at the back, on the wheeled platform that the Machine Cult had dragged here. That the Machine Cult now climbed on top of.
They in their white robes clambered on the statue’s limbs, on its back, onto its shoulders, madly racing to see who would be the one to reach the horns, to see who would be worthy to offer himself to it. Pathon didn’t know the names of the two men who reached it first. Their names weren’t important. They would be remembered for their sacrifice.
“I have been chosen!” one of them screamed.
He spread his arms wide and flung himself down upon the statue’s horn. His fellow followed, impaling himself on the other horn. The white stone burst out of their backs, their blood flowing down the creature’s brow, into its face.
Its face that rose, of its own volition, and gazed out over the battlefield.
And spoke.
“Death to pagans.”
Booming from a born-deep place, it spoke. It stood up. It walked. Wearing a crown of corpses and a cloak of blood, it stepped from its wheeled platform and made the earth tremble. Twelve feet tall, heavy enough to shake the sky, it thundered forward. Sainites scrambled to get out of its way. Karnerians hauled their wounded out of its path. It didn’t look down. It didn’t stop. It strode past Pathon, into the fray, repeating over and over:
“Death to pagans.”
The tulwar tide drew up short. Those brave few—and they were much fewer now—hurled themselves at it, their war cries lost in the pounding of its steps. They wer
e caught in hand, crushed in a stone grip, or simply buried in the earth as the Faithbreaker walked over them. Those sensible many—and they were many now—turned and ran.
No one knew what divine power fueled the stone from which the Faithbreakers were carved, save the scholars of the Arda Machitorum who cut out their tongues that they might never reveal the secrets. Pathon knew only as much as anyone else: Sacrifice fueled the golem, battle gave it purpose, nothing ever stopped it.
“Brother.” A body behind him. Dachon—wounded, cut, but alive—put a hand on his shoulder. “We must re-form the phalanx. Help us.”
Pathon did. Or tried to. He hauled the wounded back. He fell into line when the call was made. But his eyes were always on the Faithbreaker.
It swung its arms in massive strokes, tearing tulwar apart. It stomped its feet, grinding them into the earth. It waded forward, its endless droning voice drowning out their terror and rage.
“Death to pagans.”
Over and over.
“Death to pagans.”
And into the fray.
“Death to—”
“KUDJ!”
A howl. The tremble of earth. The tulwar parted again as three great shapes came charging forward. Loping on all fours, their massive hands carrying tremendous bulks toward the Faithbreaker. The bodies of giant gorillas, their skins the color of the red earth. The horns of rhinoceri, jutting from their brows. They came howling, swinging, bellowing.
Vulgores.
Whatever propelled the Faithbreaker made it aware of their charge. One of them came rushing forward, loping on its knuckles. It lowered its shoulder, barreled into the golem, drove it back. Its massive weight bore the golem to the ground, sent it crashing in a titanic spray of sand.
It roared, looming over the golem. It raised its fists, made to pulverize it. But before it could, a white arm shot out. White fingers grabbed the vulgore’s face. Squeezed.
The vulgore’s head exploded in a cloud of red mist, chunks of greasy gray matter and bones flying out from it. The Faithbreaker righted itself, shoving the tremendous carcass aside as the other two vulgore came rushing forward.
“Death to pagans.”
Dispassionate, droning, endless. It brought a fist forward to meet the first vulgore and caught the brute in its shoulder. There was the popping sound of bones dislocating, but the vulgore seized its arm and pulled it forward. It headbutted the golem, smashing its horn against the stone face. The Faithbreaker staggered but did not relent. It brought forward its fist again, slamming it into the vulgore’s chest.
“Death to pagans.”
Its fist burst through the brute’s rib cage. The vulgore cried out as it toppled over, carrying the Faithbreaker with it. The golem fought to dislodge its arm, struggling to pull it free with a mechanical, single-minded focus.
It never saw the rock coming.
It flew through the air, from the colossal hands of the last vulgore. It smashed against the golem’s face, tearing off a massive chunk of stone. The vulgore followed it with a charge, seizing the rock again as it tackled the golem and brought it to the ground.
With one hand still trapped in the vulgore’s companion, the Faithbreaker held up its other in a vain attempt to ward off the rock. But the vulgore was powerful, hammering against the arm with its rock, again and again, until great chunks of stone flew through the air.
It hammered its arm to a stump. It hammered its chest to rubble. It hammered its face to a mass of bloodied white bits. And all the while, the Faithbreaker continued to speak.
“Death to pagans.”
As its head was rent to rubble.
“Death to pagans.”
As its body was pulverized.
“Death … to …”
As it was smashed to pieces.
Pathon had no words for it. No one had said a Faithbreaker could be destroyed. No one knew it could. The golem was Daeon’s greatest weapon, sent to his greatest champions.
And now it was rubble.
Pathon simply stood and stared. He had no idea what he was looking at anymore. The image of the pulverized golem was simply not a thing he could understand. He didn’t know how long he had been staring at it when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Marcher.”
The speaker, sword bloodier than his face, looked down at him.
“Come. We retreat back to the pass.”
Pathon looked around, suddenly aware that he was alone, suddenly aware that the sun hung high in the sky. He had stared at the rubble for so long, he hadn’t noticed that his brothers had fallen back, that the tulwar had retreated, that the battle was over. For now.
“Speaker,” he whispered, voice numb on his lips. “The Faithbreaker …”
“The Faithbreaker is a tool of sacrifice, Marcher,” the speaker said. “It is fueled by sacrifice. It is awoken by sacrifice. It is only fitting that it ends in sacrifice.”
“It is a weapon of Daeon. And we lost it.”
“So are you, Marcher. And when you pass, it will be a great sacrifice, as well.”
Pathon looked up at him, face empty. “For what, Speaker?”
The speaker turned toward the pass. “For your brothers. For this city. For its people.”
“For the Prophet,” Pathon whispered. “Heaven is watching.”
“Heaven is watching.” The speaker nodded.
And together, they returned to the pass, picking their way among the endless dead.
THIRTY-ONE
AN ANGEL FALLS FROM ON HIGH
Lenk found, when he closed his eyes, that he could almost hear them screaming.
That was impossible, of course. His tent was far away from the battle. But he knew that the armies would have met by now. And he knew how it would play out.
They would meet in a clash. They would battle, back and forth, shedding blood and spilling corpses on the ground in great, steaming heaps beneath the sun. Tulwar and human and whatever other poor fools had found their way there. They would fight like they had nothing else to live for, never knowing that there was plenty else to die for.
He played the scenario out over and over in his mind. Sometimes, it changed. Sometimes, the tulwar were victorious and overran the human defenses at the pass. Other times, the humans held firm and drove back the tulwar. Occasionally, shicts showed up and killed everyone.
But it always ended the same. And he could always see it in his head.
The earth quaked. The sun was blotted out by the titanic figure that strode in front of it. Serpents the size of pillars coiled and hissed and shrieked. A pair of great baleful eyes stared down on the battle with pity and contempt. Khoth-Kapira opened his great mouth, spoke a terrible word and …
Then, there were nothing but corpses.
“I failed.”
The words had been rattling inside his head for days. Now they had finally grown heavy enough to fall out of his mouth. He lay on the bedroll, stared up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, and said them, again and again.
“I failed,” he whispered. “I failed. I failed.”
“There was a lot about you I missed.”
Lenk leaned up on his elbows. At the entrance to the tent, Kataria sat, cross-legged. She held up an arrow, running fingers over the fletching before she checked it for straightness.
“Your weird little self-loathing monologues, though?” She glanced sidelong at him. “Not so much.”
“Well, if you had been around to listen to them, I wouldn’t have such a backlog to get through now.” Lenk eyed her. “What are you doing?”
“Counting arrows.” Kataria held up another one. “I don’t just pull them out of nowhere, you know.”
“What for?”
“Seventeen.” Her ears folded flat against the side of her head. “Seventeen I can use, anyway. I could lose maybe three and still do all right. So these …” She set three arrows aside. “Are for hunting. The rest, I’ll keep.”
“For what?”
“For whatever we
do next,” she said. “I don’t know what your plan is, but if it’s anything like your last ones, I’ll probably end up shooting people in it.”
He stared at her. “I don’t have a plan.”
“So you’ll make one as you go,” she said. “It’ll come to you, given the right circumstances.”
“No. I mean, there is no plan.”
“Fine. I’ll just start shooting people and see where the day takes us.”
“Do you not get it?” He sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. “Do you not get that this is beyond a plan? Do you not understand how thoroughly fucked I have made everything? A demon is coming. Not just a demon, a fucking king of demons. He raised monuments, he built an empire, I’ve seen it. He’s coming here to enslave everything and kill what won’t kneel, and I can’t do a fucking thing to stop it.”
Kataria’s ears rose. She didn’t look at Lenk. She simply stared at the arrow in her hands. After a moment, she set it aside, picked up another one, and began inspecting it.
“Make it eighteen,” she said. “One of them’s a little crooked, but crooked arrows can still kill. Sometimes better.”
“Your ears are too fucking big to not have heard me,” he said. “It’s over, Kat. Even the threat of Khoth-Kapira couldn’t make Gariath listen to me. He’s going to bleed himself dry on the humans and be meat when the demons finally come. I could have stopped it but—”
“How could you have stopped it when you never fucking shut up?” Kataria bared her canines at him, eyes flashing angrily. “Yeah. I know what happened. I couldn’t get Asper to listen to me, either. Things look bad now, but they’ve looked worse before.”
“They haven’t.”
“How big did you say this demon was?”
“As tall as a mountain and he makes the earth shake with every step.”
Kataria sniffed, snorted, spit out onto the sands.
“We’ve seen bigger.” She leaned back, flashing a grin. “Remember back in the wilds? Remember the island with the big squid-lady-thing?”
“She was huge.”
“Filled a whole fucking cavern. We got out of that, didn’t we?”
