from whence came echoes of scattered gunfire. The attackers
must have encountered the first of the pairs of North Lowing
soldiers. As per their orders, the sentries would fall back to the
barricade.
Being the only route to the upper chambers, the stair made
for a defensible position; the enemy would be limited by an
ascent only wide enough to accommodate four men walking
abreast. However, without any windows overlooking the stair,
the defenders could fire only from the doorway. DuLac’s men
would have to rotate their positions to allow time to reload. If
the assailants managed to reach the barricade, the fighting
would be close. Because of the lack of space, most of the
soldiers remained upstairs in the Main Observation Hall, ready
to serve as reinforcements.
The first pair of sentries came hurrying up the steps and
scrambled over the blockade, their boots thumping against its
oak surface.
“You may want to step back, Lord Anderson,” Captain
DuLac said. He was broad-shouldered, with a round face and
keen eyes. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“The shrapnel-gunner and I will meet the initial assault,”
Carter said. “Have your men ready.”
“Very well, sir.”
More of the sentries passed over the barricade. Finally one
of them shouted, “We’re the last. The others didn’t make it.”
Carter felt the cold fear that always crept into his stomach
right before deadly action. He drew a deep breath and blew it
out again. The gunfire had ceased. He heard pistol hammers
being cocked behind him, sharp and succinct in the silence.
From around the curve of the stair fifty yards below came
a shout, followed by the noise of running men: the jangling of
equipment, the thrumming of boots on stone. The first
assailants, dressed in anarchist gray, appeared.
“Wait for it,” DuLac ordered. “Wait for it.”
Carter strained to see the poet he assumed would be
leading the company. At last, behind the first two lines of
soldiers, he glimpsed a green robe adorned with a flaming sun.
He raised a Word of Power into his mind, drawing it into
his throat just as the artilleryman lit the fuse of the shrapnel
cannon. The weapon discharged, deafening in such close
quarters, sending smoke roiling to the ceiling. The anarchists
screamed as shot and shrapnel tore through their lines, parting
them like nine-pins, leaving the Poetry Woman revealed,
passing unharmed through the wounded and dying ranks.
Carter released the Word Which Manifests.
Falan !
A golden wave swirled toward the poetess. She lifted her
arms as if to deflect the blow, but was cast, along with her
men, far down the stair.
Face flushed, Captain DuLac cried, “First line,
fooorward!”
Lord Anderson stepped back to make room for the ten
stern-faced soldiers who crowded around the doorway, five
kneeling, their weapons braced on the top of the barricade,
five standing behind these, pistols aimed.
The enemy recovered quickly and bullets streamed up the
stair, sending one man reeling and felling the artilleryman,
who crumpled against the shrapnel cannon. Another soldier
hurriedly took his place.
“Hold your position!” DuLac ordered. “To your mark.
Take aim! Fire!”
In the midst of the cacophony, pain stabbed through the
center of Carter’s head, a tearing that could only come from a
drastic shift in the Balance. So closely aligned to the
relationship between Chaos and Order was he that he gasped
in agony, as if wounded. He fell to one knee and Duskin
sprang to his side.
“Are you hit?”
Several soldiers massed protectively around him, weapons
ready. It took a moment before he could breathe enough to
respond. “Something is happening in the chambers above. I
must go there.”
“I’ll go with you,” Duskin said.
“No. Remain here and help DuLac hold. I’ll send word if I
need you.”
Rushing alone up the stair, Carter swore in astonishment at
the seemingly limitless power of his opponents, for the Main
Observation Hall was bathed in a radiance emanating from a
poet emerging from a newly-created corridor on the opposite
wall. Face glowing with a brilliance too bright to look upon,
the Poetry Man spoke in a clear, high voice, audible even
above the din.
I am light!
Put off these bonds of mortal man,
Give way to grace, the way of gods;
Enraptured, never fear again
That you will lie beneath the sod.
I am light!
The starlight answers shining dim,
The favored moon reflects the glow;
Take hold the splintered diadem
Embrace the endless, radiant flow.
Flashes careened from the poet’s tongue with every word,
lambent whirls of energy, whipping the air like a scourge.
While the defenders stood frozen in wonder and surprise,
scores of anarchists poured from the new passage, firing as
they came. Bullets whizzed by Carter’s head, echoing off the
stone steps and walls. Soldiers reeled under the onslaught. A
North Lowing man directly in front of Lord Anderson dropped
to his knees, blood rilling down his chest.
“Get down!” Lieutenant Sedger shouted.
The men threw themselves on the ground, Carter with
them.
“It is starlight!” Phra cried, not far from Carter’s side. The
astronomer stood upright, ignoring the shells passing all
around, his expression suffused in rapture. “True starlight
brought to earth!”
Carter had already witnessed one group of men entranced
by the power of the poets. Leaping back to his feet, he gave
the astronomer a rough slap on the face and pulled him to the
floor. Somewhere in the back of his mind, even in the midst of
the danger, he thought that if anyone deserved a hard rap, it
was Phra.
The astronomer’s eyes refocused. He raised a hand to
stroke his cheek and glared at Lord Anderson. “What are you
doing?”
“If you give in to temptation, they will snare you. I need
your help. They nearly defeated me once before.”
Carter spoke the Word Which Gives Strength.
Sedhattee !
The room shook, and he immediately felt invigorated.
Perhaps because the astronomer also served the Balance, the
Word seemed to bolster him too, for his eyes lit with grim
determination.
“For the Nine Towers!” Phra cried, his voice booming
through the chamber. His words summoned a white shield,
sword, and armor, and an ivory helm for his brow, all cast
from starlight. Raising himself to his full height, he no longer
appeared a pompous aristocrat, but a Greek warrior, tall and
lean, his dark eyes flashing with the reflected rays of his pearl
blade. It seemed to blind the anarchists, for their firing nearly
&nbs
p; ceased.
“To me!” Lieutenant Sedger shouted, making use of the
momentary advantage. “Form lines to this side!”
In answer the Poetry Man cupped his hands, creating a
beam of rising crystal-blue lambency that solidified into a
clear staff. Seeing this, the anarchists quickly recovered, and
the defenders hurried to their commander beneath a storm of
fire, men dying on every side, a terrible slaughter. But as soon
as the path between Lord Anderson and the enemy was clear,
Carter unleashed the Word Which Manifests.
Falan !
The rippling bolt of power flung the approaching ranks of
anarchists off their feet, but the Poetry Man raised his staff and
the wave parted before him. The effort seemed to weaken him,
however, for he momentarily slumped against the wall.
Creating the corridor must have drained much of his energy.
Carter’s action bought the defenders precious moments to
regroup, and the North Lowing soldiers, led by a company of
the White Circle Guard, quickly formed ranks along the wall
opposite their opponents. Although the revolvers used in
Evenmere are capable of cutting a six-inch hole in a man, the
armor of the White Circle Guard could withstand a discharge
at close range, so those men were placed in the front lines.
Carter grimaced. It was the best that could be done, but it
put them with their backs to the stair leading down to the
chamber held by DuLac. If the captain failed, the defenders
would be caught between their enemies.
Clouds of smoke rose as the defenders returned fire. Men
fell on every side. Carter saw Storyteller on the ground,
writhing and clutching at his head, but dared not pause to give
him aid.
Lord Anderson turned to Phra. “We have to stop the poet.”
Dustin crouched close enough to the shrapnel cannon to
feel the heat rising from it, a position he had assumed when
one of the soldiers at the barricade fell. He was not afraid, but
filled with the old thrill that used to envelope him during a
gnawling hunt.
Then there was only time for combat, as the enemy
charged up the steps, firing wildly.
The shrapnel cannon erupted, tossing steel shards down the
stair, sending men shrieking and clutching their faces and
chests. Still the enemy advanced, their eyes blazing with a
fanaticism far different than the intellectual demeanor
displayed in former battles. One nearly reached the doorway
before a half-dozen bullets sent him spinning back down like a
ghastly, bloody top, and the illusion that this was no more than
the slaying of gnawlings deserted Duskin entirely.
He glanced at the captain, who was impassively urging the
gunners to speed, and Duskin saw that here was courage
indeed. For his part he kept calm, taking careful aim and firing
with an almost mechanical precision, yet driven by the
desperation that Lizbeth would be left unprotected, should the
company fall.
The next round from the cannon drove the anarchists back,
giving the defenders a brief respite to reload. Duskin had just
refilled his pistol chamber when the stair abruptly began to
tremble with a quaking that quickly grew in intensity.
The poet, who had vanished beyond the defenders’ line of
sight after the initial advance, strode up the steps, her face
shrouded in a green mist.
“Starlight, star bright,” she called, chanting the words over
and over in a sing-song voice. “The first star, the first star, the
first star.”
Power rolled before her, an emerald light of stars and suns
and stars and stellar mass and stars and starlight and stardust
and star-shine and stars. Always stars. A sun-hot wave rolled
along with the radiance, a licking fire, and where it touched
the steps they seemed to waver, as if in a heat mirage. Sweat
broke across Duskin’s brow; he could feel the scorching breath
of the inferno.
“Back!” the captain cried. “We can’t stand against that!”
They retreated from the barrier just before it erupted into
flames. In an instant it was consumed, melting the shrapnel
cannon into slag, leaving the doorway open. Despite the fear
of being burned alive, DuLac kept order, forcing the men to
make a tidy retreat under covering fire. They crossed the small
chamber and backed their way up the stair. Duskin and DuLac,
the last out, glanced back to see the rolling energy filling the
room.
The poetess appeared at the doorway, her followers by her
side. Bullets tore at the stair, forcing Duskin to dance
backward. The captain, two steps above him, gave a cry,
reached for his head, and collapsed into Duskin’s arms.
“DuLac!” Duskin gasped. He dragged the captain to the
top of the stair, into the arms of his men, but the officer was
already dead.
In despair, Duskin glanced around the chamber and saw
the anarchists pouring in through the newly formed
passageway. The battle had degenerated into fighting at close
quarters. The other anarchists would soon be up the stair. For
the first time he considered the possibility of defeat. Fear
gripped him as he thought of Lizbeth.
He spied his brother and Edwin Phra battling the Poetry
Man. The poet was clearly on the defensive, and his features
seemed insubstantial, as if the use of his power was consuming
him. Carter struck with his Lightning Sword, breaking the
poet’s staff. The creature fell to his knees, and Phra came in
for the kill. A shout erupted from Duskin’s lips. Here was
vengeance for the captain’s death.
With their foe vanquished, the pair turned toward the
anarchists. Seeing Carter’s demeanor and Phra’s flashing
starlight sword, Duskin stood mesmerized by the awful power
of the Master and the Grand Astronomer. Dreadful and
irresistible as ancient gods, moving together behind Phra’s
shield, carving swathes through the enemy forces at every
turn, they cowered the anarchists wherever they went.
A rush of heat arose behind Duskin, reminding him of his
own position. Glancing back, he saw the Poetry Woman
ascending the steps, the stone melting beneath her feet. He
pointed his pistol at her breast and fired, and though his aim
was true, the bullet veered away, striking the anarchist directly
behind her, who tumbled to the ground, clawing at his
shoulder. Duskin retreated, crying his brother’s name.
A blast of fire and Duskin’s shout caused Carter to turn
toward the new threat. The poetess had just reached the top of
the stair, but Lieutenant Sedger was already dividing his
company, sending some of his men to battle this second front.
Lord Anderson tapped Phra on the shoulder. “Only we can
deal with her.”
The Grand Astronomer nodded. Phra’s shield had
increased in size until it was large enough to protect both men,
and they moved together, making a backwards retreat from the
anarchists’ line. Once safely to the rear, they turned to meet
the poetess.
Immediately they encountered resistance, an invisible
force emanating from their opponent, pressing against Phra’s
shield. As one they advanced, but seemed to move in slow
motion, as if slogging through high water. Sweat beaded their
brows. Carter’s legs began to ache.
“Lord Anderson, Astronomer Phra!” the Poetry Woman
cried above the din. “Why do you struggle against what is
beautiful and true? Why do you fight against the stars
themselves?” Bullets ricocheted around the poetess, but none
touched her.
Neither Lord Anderson nor the astronomer replied. Carter
suspected they might be fighting a losing battle. Scores of
anarchists were hurrying up the stair, fanning out in an arc.
More anarchists were still exiting from the new corridor. In a
few moments the defenders would be hopelessly surrounded.
Although the force against which Carter and Phra
struggled had the feel of a physical barrier, it sapped the soul
as well. How Carter wanted to surrender to the call of the
stars, to stand forever beneath the evening sky, lost in their
wonder, hushed by their vastness! The joy of his long life used
as a snare against him, the astronomer faced an even more
terrible trial. Carter heard Phra sobbing even as they struggled.
Though bereft of their commander, at the urging of their
sergeant and Duskin, DuLac’s men had joined with the second
front sent by Lieutenant Sedger, and now formed lines behind
Carter and Phra, reinforcing them as they plunged into the
anarchists’ ranks. Lord Anderson knew he and the astronomer
must be taking the brunt of the poetess’s attack, else the
soldiers could never have stood against it. Glancing from
behind the shield, he saw the woman less than ten yards away,
her face lost in green mist. So close, yet every step an agony.
His heart hammered; his lungs rattled like a bellows. His legs
felt afire.
He had to do something before it was too late. He sought
the Words of Power. In such a crisis, the necessary Word often
came drifting up without being specifically summoned, as if
the Words themselves knew what was needed, but this time
none did. He finally decided on the Word Which Seals, hoping
to close off the source of the poetess’s power. The Word came
only with concentration, and it was hard, keeping his mind
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 22
