“Don't.” Kessligh lifted a sharp finger, his temper fully roused, and jabbed it at her chest. “Don't you even start. I tried to warn you, Rhillian, I tried to warn you what would happen-”
“Oh, so it's all our fault now?”
“Yes!” Kessligh snapped. “Yes, it's your own damn fault! The balance of power was always the only thing protecting Saalshen, and that was exactly what you started playing with! You don't understand how humans function, Rhillian-Errollyn warned you as much, as did I, as did-”
“You mean you saw this coming? Well we would have liked to know!”
“I don't know, Rhillian, one can never know for certain. That's the point! I never assume I know all possible outcomes, and I always make certain I've covered my back! Your properties were exposed, you relied upon people needing you too much to try something this drastic…and you assumed you knew enough that this would never happen! I've lost count of the number of times I tried to warn you of exactly that…but you stupid, stubborn girl, you never listened!”
Rhillian moved in a flash and drew her blade. About and behind Sasha, more blades came out, and Kiel's followed. The flickering torchlight atop the tower caught Rhillian's eyes-they dazzled and flashed past the gleaming edge of her blade. Sasha stood stunned, perhaps the only person atop the tower who had not drawn. Serrin never did such things, whatever the provocation. She could not believe it.
“Rhillian.” She walked forward, slowly. Rhillian's expression struggled for calm, a thin veneer laid over a seething mass of rage and grief. Her face twitched, her eyes ablaze in the torchlight, she seemed almost incomprehensible. “Rhillian, no.” Sasha stopped just beyond the poised tip of Rhillian's blade. “I'm so sorry for what's happened. But it's not Kessligh's fault. He doesn't mean to hurt you. He's just like that. Trust me, I know. I can't let you hurt him. Please don't make us enemies.”
Rhillian stared straight past her, eyes fixed with murderous intent on Kessligh.
“Rhillian,” Sasha tried again, “Aisha is here. She's hurt, but not badly. Errollyn says she will recover soon enough.” Something in Rhillian's expression seemed to change at that. Still her eyes did not move, but she was listening. Sasha braced herself and took another step inside the arc of Rhillian's blade. And stopped, the lethal edge poised two fingers-width from her neck. “Rhillian, whatever serrin are left will need you. Think of them.”
She reached for Rhillian's face. Trailed gentle fingers down her cheek. They left a clean trail through ash and blood. Finally, Rhillian's eyes found Sasha's, and abruptly filled with tears. As though she'd been avoiding Sasha's gaze for precisely that reason. Her lip trembled and, for the only time since Sasha had known her, Rhillian seemed utterly incapable of speech. Sasha stared back in horror. Dear spirits, Rhillian. What did you see?
Rhillian lowered her blade to one side. Sasha kissed her on the cheek and embraced her gently. Rhillian's body was stiff and trembling. She rested her cheek in Sasha's hair and murmured, “I'm sorry too, my friend.”
She turned and left, Kiel following, descending the tower stairs as she sheathed her blade. Sasha turned back to Kessligh as men slowly sheathed their blades. Kessligh, she saw, had never drawn his. His jaw was tight and his fist clenched. He was upset, she realised. One did not see that often.
“I didn't have a choice,” he muttered in Lenay. About him, men gave him puzzled looks, wondering what he said. Only Sasha understood. He, too, had never seen a serrin draw a blade for no more reason than fury. It had shaken him. “She was incapable of understanding. I can't explain to her what she's not capable of hearing. All of our languages, and we didn't have enough words.”
“Kessligh,” said Sasha, also in Lenay, walking to his side. “It wasn't your fault.”
Kessligh took a sharp breath. “No. It's never my fault. But it's always my responsibility.” He turned back to the view and resumed the previous conversation.
Alythia heard the blast of horns echo across the slope, and it seemed to foretell the end of the world. The horns were followed by a roar, arising further away, then flooding across the entire Petrodor incline, a moving wave of sound. Men ran down Fisherman's Lane toward the barricade as youngsters and women who had been up the front ran back to the rear. Alythia clutched her spear banner tightly, and felt so sick with terror that she thought she might faint. It would have been a relief. But lately, she had rarely been so lucky.
The barricade was obscured behind a wall of waiting men. Their number seemed barely half what it had been during the last attack. Alythia heard the blood-curdling shrieks of their attackers growing closer, and knew for a certainty that, this time, the defences would surely fail.
Archers were firing now from the surrounding roofs, arrow fire flashing into the uphill road, a flicker of lethal motion in the dancing torchlight. Alythia's heart pounded, and she found herself standing on her tiptoes, as if that extra height might help her see over the heads of the men at the barricade. About her, to her astonishment, came harsh yells from the women, urging their men to stand firm. Most cried in Lenay or Cherrovan tongues as many warriors’ wives had followed their husbands to this lane.
Then, atop the barricade, a tall figure stood clear of the crowd, his long, black hair falling wild down his back. He thrust his sword into the firelit sky and roared. The answering roar from the highland defenders echoed between tight stone walls and, for a moment, she could not hear the attack coming at all. The man then began yelling to the onrushing mob. He seemed to be taunting them, daring them to come. The others joined in. There were few spears or other long weapons raised now in the defence, most had been sent away to reinforce neighbouring barricades. Here the men fought mostly with swords, as highland fighters would.
The attack reached the barricade with an audible crash of bodies on piled debris. A new wave of men appeared atop the pile, scrambling on all fours to ascend. The defenders cut their legs from under them and bodies crashed and tumbled forward or back, or fell where they were and added to the height of the defences. Now Alythia could see archers standing on the roofs above the barricade, silhouettes against the red overcast, firing straight down into the crowds as fast as they could draw and loose. They were shooting any men trying to dismantle the barricade rather than climb it-she'd heard others discussing that tactic after the last attack.
Still the attackers hurled themselves up the barricade. Some seemed to throw themselves off the edge, crashing bodily down on the men below. Seeing that tactic, some highlanders were now climbing the barricade on their own side and striking down attackers before they could even clear the lip. A wounded highlander stumbled clear of the rear ranks, clutching a slashed arm, and two women rushed forward to intercept him. The rear ranks moved forward to fill the gap. Then again, as another wounded man came, only this one looked worse, cut across the side, a comrade half carrying him.
There were flashes of flame and smoke beyond the barricades, and then it seemed there was fire coming from the windows of houses further down Fisherman's Lane. “They fire the houses!” one of the women exclaimed.
“Aye, they'll burn the roofs out from under our archers,” said another. Already the thick, black sheets of smoke obscured the archers’ view of the battle below, but they stood their ground and kept firing.
“Still no crossbows,” said a Lenay voice at Alythia's side. It was a middle-aged woman with a creased face and grey-streaked hair, grimly surveying the battle. Her accent was thick Isfayen. “Your sister was right, they don't mean to break through here. Otherwise they'd have sent crossbows to pick off our archers. This is just to keep us busy.”
From the adjoining north alley, a young Nasi-Keth girl came sprinting, yelling at the top of her lungs, “They break through on Rani Lane! They break through on Rani Lane!” The girl went racing into the rear ranks of the highlanders, pushing forward, seeking a commander.
The Isfayen woman by Alythia's side ran back, shouting to the women treating the wounded, “Quickly, gather up everything! I want strong g
irls ready to lift the wounded, we may need to carry them clear!”
“I can walk, damn it woman!” snarled one of their charges, but the women ignored him. From the north alley came the unmistakable sound of battle, audible even above the racket directly in front. Smoke billowed into the sky, above where Alythia thought the Rani Lane barricade would be. She stood paralysed, clutching to her spear banner, her heart hammering. This defence would be outflanked, she realised. If she stayed here, she would die.
Ahead, there came a roar of massed voices, but this one was from the defenders. And now the wild Lenays and Cherrovan were pouring over the barricade, heading into the attack. More and more clambered over, and seemed to find plenty of space on the other side. The mobs were retreating, she realised in disbelief. And now, her only defenders were running away. A forceful, astonishing realisation struck her: she felt safer with them around.
Before she knew what she was doing, Alythia took off after them, past the north alley and up to the barricade. Smoke roiled from neighbouring windows, stinging her eyes as she clambered over crates, broken furniture and wagon wheels. A body came loose as she scrambled over the top, and slid down the barricade, loose-limbed and heavy and horrible. Alythia bit back a scream, and climbed down the far side, her wet dress catching on debris. She hauled the fabric clear, tearing it, then something sharp scraped her shin. She snatched her leg away, seeking alternative footing, and her shoe came down on something both firm and springy…she looked and saw she was standing on a man's chest where he had fallen backward off the barricade, head down and legs entangled. The warm wetness about her ankle were his intestines.
Alythia flailed away, lost her balance, and fell heavily on a pile of bodies that thudded and wheezed beneath her. One of them moved, a bloody hand reaching, pleading. Stumps of limbs protruded from the pile, some still pulsing blood, bone stark and white amidst the flesh. She stumbled frantically to her feet, nearly tripping on her spear, then again on more bodies, these felled by archers, and some still groaning. The entire lane beyond the barricade was a carpet of horrors, many shrieking and sobbing. This was what happened when highland warriors were challenged to a fight by those unworthy of the privilege.
The banner dragged at her arms, and she held the spear aloft, so that the banner flew out behind as she ran. She turned right and went up the crumbling alley. Her breath came hard, her wet dress clung awkwardly to her legs and the spear ruined her balance. It occurred to her, rather oddly, that she could not recall the last time she'd actually run. Ladies and princesses did not run, nor even stride. Only serrin and crazy tomboys like Sasha. She half twisted her ankle in a dark hole in the pavings and, for the first time in her life, wished to the gods she was wearing pants. Worse, her breasts bounced, and that was uncomfortable almost to the point of pain.
Alythia emerged into the alley mouth, and onto Rani Lane. Rani was wider than Fisherman's. Left and right, highlanders had made a defensive wall. Beyond those walls were masses of Riversiders, flailing weapons and fists and banners decorated with holy symbols, hacking away at the barrier of highland tattoos, wild hair and steel. To the right, dockward, the highlanders were pushing the larger numbers backward. To the left, slopeward, the highlanders’ line slowly gave ground, screaming and hacking and leaving tangled knots of bloody corpses in their wake for the next line of attackers to stumble upon.
Even Alythia could see what had happened-a huge surge of men had rushed down this lane, until the highlanders had stepped into the middle, like a gate into an irrigation trench. Now, some of those who had gone past the highlanders had stopped and come back to try and clear the blockage. Beyond them, the lane was increasingly empty, save for the bodies, the flames that poured from the windows of several buildings, and the remnants of the barricade, now strewn across the lane.
To the left, slopeward, the pressure bearing down on the highland line was huge. If they kept giving ground, in just a few moments they would be forced back past Alythia's alley mouth…and then the mob would be on her. Her legs were jelly, she could not outrun them. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the middle of Rani Lane, her banner held high. She stood in the clear space between the two moving highland lines as men screamed and fought to either side. A gust of cold, misting wind caught at the wet banner, unfurling it enough to show the wolf's head, its teeth grinning in the firelight.
Not all of the highland men were fighting. The slopeward line was three deep-men would fight hard, then fall back and allow the next in line to take his place, whilst those behind took some deep breaths. The dockward line was only one deep, with several reserves darting behind in case a gap would open. Some of the back ranks noticed her, and the banner, and gave a huge cheer. Others looked, and the cheer grew to a roar. Those fighting had no time to look, but they heard the roar, and seemed to take it for encouragement, for the Riversiders died at an even more furious pace after that.
Alythia spun back and forth, walking as the lines moved, careful not to trip on the bodies the dockward line were leaving behind as they advanced. One of the dockward line fell to a spearthrust, and Alythia pointed frantically with her spear, but the next reserve was already moving to fill the gap. Alythia grabbed the fallen man as she reached him and tried to pull him up-if he were left to lie there, the moving lines would roll over him and leave him to the mob. He staggered upright, slowly, clutching his bleeding stomach. Alythia tried to support him.
Something strange was happening, she noticed. Dockward, the distance between the highlanders and the Riversiders seemed wider, and strikes more sporadic. The Riversiders’ lines seemed thinner too, as though some had peeled off the back of the formation and run elsewhere. It was fear, Alythia realised. Perhaps the mob was not quite so fanatical after all, she thought, with a rush of hope. Perhaps the most fanatical ones had charged first and died. Perhaps these were the followers, who now wondered at the wisdom of certain death beneath the swinging blades of battle-crazed, snarling pagans.
Even slopeward, the highland line was spread out, giving each man room to swing. She'd seen the Royal Guards practising shield drills in Baen-Tar, packed like fruit in a barrel, each line pushing on the other in a giant contest of strength…but here, few men on either side had shields. If the mob would just rush them, the line would be overwhelmed, the highland swordsmen deprived of their superior technique and driven back by sheer weight of numbers…but now, the mob was not pressing, and the crowd behind was not pushing as hard as they might. It had been a long day; many had died. Perhaps the righteous fury was fading. Now they hung back, finding poor footing on the bodies of their fallen, and tried to exchange blows or defend with what weapons they had. Most took a terrible wound in short order, and the next-in-line appeared distinctly less enthusiastic in turn.
Now the dockward line were pressing forward faster and the Riversiders backing up. Some stumbled, and the highlanders were onto them in a flash, hacking the fallen, then driving into the gaps created in the Riversiders’ line. Spaces opened in the highland line as those men charged forward and, for a heart-stopping moment, Alythia feared some Riversiders might take advantage and spring through the holes. But the whole momentum had shifted, and suddenly, the Riversiders, still eight-to-one greater in numbers at least, tried to turn and flee toward the docks. Those at the front collided with those behind, men fell in tangles and panic spread. The highlanders howled in delight and sprang into their midst, hacking and slashing with wild abandon. Entire ranks of unarmoured men dissolved in bloody, screaming ruin and the rest fled for their lives.
Some of the older heads yelled for order, holding men back from pursuit. Some highlanders ran back to the slopeward line, past where Alythia stood with the wounded man clutching her shoulder for support, and formed a fourth rank behind the others. The remainder began picking up weapons the defeated Riversiders had dropped and began hurling them into the mob upslope. Several spears flew low and flat, doubtless impaling someone further back, then a scythe was hurled with a vicious flat spin,
raising more screams and mayhem. Some swords followed, also with a flat spin, then a sickle, a club and a number of knives. Into an unarmoured mob, packed too tight to dodge, they couldn't miss. With no weapons to spare, and their own being their only means of defence, the mob threw nothing back.
Suddenly there were arrows whistling about and Alythia ducked in horror, but they were falling into Riversiders. She stared up and saw Nasi-Keth archers perched atop the walls above-at least ten, with more arriving now above the south wall. Arrows flew thick and fast. With no protection, the Riversiders began dying in scores.
It was too much, and the survivors broke and ran. With a roar, the highland ranks charged, and scores more Riversiders who could not run fast enough, or were blocked by those behind, or tripped on fallen bodies, also died. Through the press of running bodies, Alythia thought she saw several Riversiders fall to their knees and beg mercy. And were decapitated where they knelt, to Alythia's hot satisfaction. They had to be joking. Mercy? After what they'd done?
A dozen men did not charge, but held their ground and formed a new line, watching both ways along the lane. Mostly older men, Alythia saw, and some others with wounds. Instinctively, they seemed to understand the tactics that their situation required and deployed themselves to achieve it, without needing to be ordered. But of course they would. Highland men drilled for war all their lives. These men, especially the older ones, understood warfare like Dockside fishermen understood sailing.
“All clear?” called a voice from the wall above. Against the deep red sky, Alythia saw the unmistakable dark grey hair and handsome build of Sasha's friend, the serrin Errollyn. He held that strange serrin bow, with elbow joints in its arms, that just looked dangerous. Even at this range, his eyes were visible, two penetrating green spots in the shadow of his face.
“Aye!” shouted up one of the men, above the groans and screams of the wounded and dying who now made a ghastly, writhing carpet along the lane. “Good timing!”
Petrodor atobas-2 Page 47
