“A wooden plate? Then how does he smell?” Bran asked sceptically.
“Awful.”
The twins didn’t even groan at the old joke.
Mihai shrugged.
“Look, why waste time worrying? The petru said that we were to lure the cavalry off the road, so that’s what we’ll do. That’s all we can do.”
“It isn’t enough,” Boris explained. “We are strong. We can fight. We should… We should… What’s that in the trees?”
Mihai looked up, just as his mount suddenly stopped, digging her hooves into the road. He took a quick glance back over his shoulder, and saw that the first of the Kislevites was so close that he could see the whites of his eyes. Although the man’s uniform was ragged and muddy, he still held his lance high. The steel tip glittered wickedly.
Mihai licked his lips nervously, and then followed Boris’ pointing finger back to the forest. The tops of the trees were crashing and swaying as if caught in some invisible storm. For one innocent moment, Mihai actually assumed that it was just the wind in the branches.
With a sudden jolt of terror, he realised that there was no wind. Beneath the slate-grey cloud, the day seemed to be holding its breath. That meant that the approaching commotion could only be one thing, or, rather, two things.
Mihai’s mare whinnied in sudden terror, and started to jink back towards the approaching lancers.
“What can they smell?” Bran asked, fighting his mount as she tried to turn. The horse that he had been leading had already pulled her reins from his hand and fled, galloping back towards the approaching Kislevites.
“Oh gods,” Mihai said. “It must be those damned giants.”
Boris and Bran stopped struggling with their horses for long enough to give him identical expressions of horror.
“The ones you and Dannie saw?”
Mihai grunted an affirmative, and looked back down the road to the approaching horsemen. Now that they were back on solid ground, the Kislevites had bullied their stallions into the old three abreast formation, and the tips of their lances were already lowered as they thundered forward.
With a cry, Bran was thrown from his mount. He rolled and bounced back to his feet, but his mare was already gone, galloping away from the horrors that were approaching through the forest.
Not a moment too soon. As she turned tail and ran, there was a thunderous snap as a tree trunk split, and a huge moving cliff of dirty skin and mouldy rags appeared between the trees.
Mihai bit his lip as the monstrosity lurched into view ahead of them. He didn’t need to turn back down the road to see that there was no escape there. So, caught between a hammer and an anvil, he gave the only order that he could.
“Dismount,” he cried, leaping off his horse. As soon as she was free, she bolted, and the three Strigany found themselves standing on the road.
“What now?” Boris asked, his eyes wide with terror as he felt the packed earth of the road beating with the impact of the giants’ footsteps.
“Hide,” said Mihai, but it was already too late. Before he could take a step, the last stand of trees at the edge of the forest parted as easily as a bead curtain, and, stomping through the splintered trunks as happily as a village idiot through a field of corn, the first of the giants emerged. It belched thunderously and contentedly, and then looked down to see the three humans who stood beside the path.
The three Strigany froze beneath its gaze. For a moment, the giant’s features slackened in idiot surprise. Then it blinked its dark, watery eyes and, after giving another good-natured belch, it stomped on past them.
The Strigany scurried into the undergrowth by the side of the road. They were close enough to the passing monster to see the cracks in its yellow toenails, each of which was as large as a shield, and to smell the full ammonia stench of its unwashed rags.
“There’s the other one,” Bran hissed into Mihai’s ear, and he turned to watch another giant following in the footsteps of the first. Its face was a blank slab of mindless indifference, but it carried a tree trunk in each hand. The crude clubs swung in rhythm with its footsteps, and it was making a deep, rumbling noise in its throat, which could have been an attempt at a marching song.
“Cheerful fellows, aren’t they?” Boris asked. Mihai said nothing. He was thinking about the destruction that these two had wrought on a forest of ancient oaks, and what would happen when they reached his people’s encampment.
He thought about his father, and Dannie, and Petru Engel. He thought about Chera. Then he tried to think of a plan, a way of stopping these two walking breathing catastrophes from falling upon his people.
As he thought, there came, like a gift from Ushoran, the key to the problem.
The giant’s handler was following his two charges on the back of an ancient-looking mule. The man’s leather coat was flapping around his knees as his mount trotted gamely forward, and the tin cone of his loudspeaker was slung on his back. He wore a sword at his side, but he was obviously more comfortable with the purse of coins that he was counting. Safe in the shadow of his charges, he remained oblivious to the rest of the world. His eyes glittered as he counted his coins.
“See him?” Mihai hissed to the twins, as the man drew level. “I think that we should ask him for a quick chat.”
“How can you think of thievery at a time like this?” Boris asked, his tone a mixture of admiration and horror.
“It’s not thievery,” Mihai hissed, “at least it’s only incidentally thievery. He’s the giants’ handler. We get him, we get them, probably.”
“Probably” Boris repeated miserably, swapping an identical look with his twin.
“On my signal,” Mihai told them. “Go!”
The three men darted from their cover. Terror lent a frantic speed to their attack as, bent double, they sprinted towards their prey.
Bran was the first to reach him. He ignored the man, and seized his mule’s bridle, feeling the warmth of the beast’s breath on the back of his hand, as he gripped the leather. The rider squawked in surprise and fumbled to draw his sword, but, before his fingers had even properly grasped the hilt, Boris had grabbed one leg and tipped him from his saddle.
Mihai caught him as he fell, twisting the man’s arm up behind his back, and pressing a dagger into the small of his back.
“What do you want?” the man yelped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with fright.
“Mihai!” Bran hissed.
“We want to offer you a job,” Mihai told the man.
“Mihai!” Bran hissed again.
“In a minute,” Mihai hissed back, and then turned back to his captive. “In fact, we want to hire you and your friends.”
The man’s eyes rolled in his head.
“Well, I’m flattered,” he squeaked, “but we already have an employer.”
“I’m sure we can beat any offers you might have received. I can offer you an intact liver, for example.” Mihai smiled winningly and pressed the tip of the dagger deeper into the man’s back.
“Mihai!” This time both Boris and Bran called him, and neither was whispering anymore.
“What?” Mihai snapped, turning to them. Then he saw the face of one of the giants, which had turned and now loomed over them, curiosity twisting its features. It was a horrible expression. Especially, Mihai considered, when the thing bared the rotten tombstones of its teeth.
“So,” Mihai said cautiously, “as well as leaving your kidneys intact, how about we match what you’ve been paid already?”
The giant’s handler pursed his lips.
“I don’t know,” he began. “Loyalty is hard to put a price on.”
The giant took a single, earth-shuddering step forward.
“Name your price,” Mihai said, and, despite the knife that still pressed against his ribs, the giant’s handler smiled.
“First of all,” he said, “how about you remove that knife from my back? Now, if you’ll just let me have a word with my colleagues,” he said, ea
sing away from Mihai’s knife, and unslinging the cone of his loud-hailer. “I’ll have a word with them. If you don’t mind, of course?”
“Be my guest,” Mihai said, nodding. Then he cautiously stepped back, sheathed his knife, and waited to see if the man was as disloyal as he hoped.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Anybody can make plans. Anybody can give orders. A leader must do more than this. A leader must give hope, and he must give it even when he has none himself. After all, how can there be endurance without hope? How can there be courage? How can there be victory?”
—A Tale of Ushoran
Buried in the damp and the darkness, Brock had thought that the pain would be the worst of it. Although his wounds had been dressed after the fight, he had refused the most powerful of the petru’s unguents. He knew that, today of all days, he would need his wits kept sharp, his judgement unclouded. If that meant that the agony from his smashed gristle and cracked ribs had to be left as unchecked as a fire in a burning house, then so be it.
He was, after all, Kazarkhan.
It wasn’t the pain that kept him sweating in the cold embrace of his hastily dug burrow. It was the constant, nagging fear that he had made a mistake.
There was, after all, so much that could go wrong with the plan. If the mercenaries realised that the bulk of his forces were hiding beneath their wagons, covered only by scrapes of soil and breathing tubes, there would be a massacre, Their foxholes would become graves, and the strongest among them would die without even wielding their weapons.
Then again, what if the inner stockade didn’t hold? What if he and his men burst from the ground to fall upon the rear of an army that had already slaughtered the women and children?
Brock wriggled at the thought and listened to the muted sounds of battle. Should he have left more men on the surface? Should he have put everybody behind the stockade and hoped to hold off their attackers, rather than to trap them between the hammer of his warriors and the anvil of their families’ defence? That was what many of his people had advised, during that hurried council of war the night before. If he hadn’t still been bloodied with Ushoran’s blessing, they probably would have outvoted him, too.
However, he had been bloodied with Ushoran’s blessing.
“Relax,” Brock told himself. “One way or another it will all be over soon.”
And so it was. Even as Brock heard the first whistles of the Striganies’ retreat, somebody jerked at his breathing tube, hard. He ignored the taste of blood as the thing cut his lip and concentrated on making himself lie still. Through the earth all around him, he could feel the reverberations of running feet as his people fled from the outer perimeter and stampeded past his ring of hidden men into the sanctuary of the inner stockade.
What if they come in waves and we’re caught between them?
“Then we’ll fight them both,” Brock muttered in the darkness, and then spat out a crumb of soil.
The rushing of feet continued, although they sounded heavier, iron-shod, or perhaps that was only his imagination. Either way, he fidgeted with the communication cord that connected him with the men hidden beneath the nearby wagons. Once he pulled, they would pass on his signal, and the ground beneath their wagons would erupt with hundreds of the Striganies’ strongest fighters.
What if I give the signal too soon?
Brock waited and waited. He counted his heartbeats to try to keep some sense of time as, alone on the darkness, the seconds stretched out into infinity. For the first time, he realised how fast his heart was beating, hammering in his veins and hissing in his ears.
He swallowed dryly, and there was a crash and a cheer from above. He prayed to Ushoran that the splintering wood was that of the outer stockade, and not the inner. Images of the slaughter that would take place, if the mercenaries reached that central sanctuary, sprang unbidden to his mind, and he winced.
Brock waited until he sensed another rush of feet charging past above. Only then did he scrape away the covering of earth above him, and slowly lift his head from his bolt hole.
After so long spent in the darkness, the daylight was painfully bright. He squinted through the wheel spokes of the wagon that rested above him, trying to make sense of the noise and the rushing figures that were charging past.
Their knee-high boots and steel greaves marked them out as mercenaries. So did the sound of their exultant voices and the wild laughter of men who knew that the battle was almost over.
Brock sank back down so that only his eyes and the top of his head showed above the loose earth of his hiding place. He made no effort to count the mercenaries as they charged past his hiding place. There were too many of them. All he did was wait until the tide of them had washed past and the first sounds of the struggle on the inner barricade had begun to ring out.
Then, and only then, did he pull on the communicating cord and drag himself up out of the cold stillness of the earth. All around him, other men slithered from their hiding places, emerging from the ground like the restless dead.
From up ahead, Brock heard the clash of steel on steel, and shouted orders and curses. A woman’s scream momentarily eclipsed all other sounds. It was cut off suddenly.
The Kazarkhan exchanged a glance with the nearest of his men, a domnu he had never met until the night before. Without a word, Brock drew his cutlass and signalled the advance.
As they slipped forward to the battle ahead, he felt a tide of relief wash over him. The waiting was over, and so were the doubts. Now, there was only kill or be killed, the euphoria of victory or the merciful release of defeat. For the first time since his victory in the ring, the Kazarkhan felt at peace.
Perched on the barricades, Dannie lunged forwards, to chop through the Estalian’s throat with a grunt and a single, perfectly-timed, blow. He blinded another with the back stroke, opening up a deep, bloody crevasse in the front of the man’s skull. He disembowelled his third victim as he tried to vault the barricade. Glistening intestines spooled from the wound, and the stink of his innards clogged Dannie’s nose.
He ignored the stink, just as he ignored the animal screams of the dying man. One of the children would put the dying man out of his misery soon enough, be it with a razor blade to the jugular, or an iron to the head.
He ignored the patch of damp numbness that was spreading down his left flank, too. He supposed that he had been cut, but he couldn’t remember how. He didn’t have time to remember how.
Anyway, he thought as he lunged forward to reach another victim, it doesn’t matter. Only Chera matters.
He snatched a glance across at his beloved, suddenly needing to see her as much as a drowning man needs air, and his heart swelled.
She was perfect, he thought, as he watched her swing her billhook against a pair of mercenaries. The way she moved was fluid with supple strength. Then there was the beauty of her face, the whiteness of her teeth and the dark flame of her hair. She was like a lioness defending her cubs.
In that moment, she turned, and their eyes met.
For a moment, Dannie stood still, stunned by her beauty. It would have been the death of him, if, warned by some instinct, he hadn’t torn himself from the magnificence of her gaze, and peered back to the battle. At first, he wasn’t sure what had caught his attention. Then he had it. It was a sound, a sound that was different from the screams and cries, and the clash of steel on steel.
Dodging a thrown javelin, he squinted over the melee of mercenaries in front of him. They had stopped their advance and, as their captain bellowed at them, they broke away from the barricade, and fell back.
A chorus of wild jeering broke out around Dannie, but he didn’t join in. This was no victory. Although the men were falling back, they were doing so almost reluctantly.
Then Dannie saw what they were doing among the abandoned wagons of the outer camp, and his breath caught in his throat.
“They’re running,” Chera exulted, her face beautiful with joy, despite the spattered blood that marke
d her porcelain skin.
“We’ve won!” somebody else called, and another cheer went up, as the last of the Estalians disappeared into the confusion of abandoned wagons.
Dannie watched, nervously, unconvinced. It wasn’t until the shouted orders of the Estalians sharpened into the steady, rhythmic pulse of a galley slaves’ drummer that he was sure of what they were doing.
“The wagons!” he cried, pointing at the nearest of them with a blood-smeared cutlass. “They’re using the wagons.”
The cheers along the Strigany line died away. Silence fell upon them, as they watched the wagons that the Estalians had seized. The men swarmed around half a dozen of them, and they were pulling them away from the inner stockade.
“So, let them steal a few wagons,” somebody said.
“No,” Dannie said, shaking his head. “I don’t think that they’re stealing them. I think that they’re going to use them.”
“What as?”
“As a battering ram,” Chera answered, and Dannie cast her another loving look.
She was so intelligent.
He was still beaming when the Estalians paused, turned, and, with a roar of combined effort, turned to push the wagons back towards the inner stockade. As they drew nearer, the wagons moved even faster, momentum taking over.
Dannie knew the vehicles were heavy, made of solid wood. Most of them were full of food, pans, tools and what not. All that weight was running on perfectly crafted, perfectly sprung wheels. He watched the hubs of the nearest blur as its speed picked up.
“Get off the barricades,” somebody said, and Dannie found himself hand in hand with Chera as they leapt from the earth bank, and sprinted away from their posts. Behind them, the wagons rattled closer, bouncing easily over the litter of corpses that lay outside the stockade, and crashing into it with a bone-splintering force.
A few of the Strigany, who had been too slow or too stubborn to leave their posts, were caught under the avalanche of careening wagons and splintered stockade. Those that survived didn’t survive for long. The Estalians finished them off as they swarmed over the wreckage of the crashed wagons and into the compound beyond.
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