Resurgence
Page 22
‘Wakan,’ she repeated. What was that word?
Gantak pointed at the fire, at the sky, at him, at her.
‘Wakan,’ he repeated.
Nutaaq loomed over her. ‘All things. Strength. Power.’ He took a space between them. ‘Life.’
‘Wakan is life?’ she asked of both.
Nutaaq nodded. Gantak spoke to him. A question of sorts.
‘Gantak says he will teach you. You have it. Wakan.’
The implication was clear. There was more to this than just making pretty shapes with flame. The shaman could see something in her. Yarn’s voice came unbidden again, words she had used before. ‘Study. Control. Mastery.’ What if it were possible. The Nidhal had learned to command the elements. It was magic, their Gift. And therefore was her Gift not magic also? Oh, and now she walked down a path of heresy. The Gifts were god-given, Emperor-given. But in truth – a truth that Yarn had tried to make evident – the Gifted were constrained by words, by dogma. Caged into behaviour by those who wished to use them. Their Gifts were not given by anyone, they simply … were.
‘Yes,’ she said, first to Nutaaq and then to Gantak. ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I would like that very much.’
CHAPTER 29 – MICHAEL
Father Michael picked up the roughly rectangular stone block and placed it next to the others. He stepped back and inspected his handiwork. Yes, by any measure it was a wall. Not pretty, and lacking any mortar to seal the gaps but, using his best judgement to fit the individual blocks together, he had a wall four foot in height and he had two corners built both ready to extend.
Jenna joined him in studying the structure. ‘Nice work, Father. You can build mine next.’
He smiled. He liked the Eagle Rider, she had a playful sense of humour but a caring heart. ‘You might have to wait a while. I’ve no idea how to build a roof.’
‘You could start with just using the tent canvas. Stretch it over your walls and make sure there’s a pole in the middle to slant the material so the water runs off. It’s a start at least.’
He nodded appreciatively. It was a start. Around them other structures were under construction, an attempt to create a semi-permanent home. They’d already been here a week and potentially would be for much longer, months, years. So they were doing their best and using the materials at hand. Stone was one thing they were not lacking in. It was a pity that all the tradesmen, all the folk who knew how to build, were still in New Tissan. It would be a long time before they came home.
‘Have you heard anything from Bryce?’ he asked.
‘No, not yet. And I don’t expect to for a week or two yet. It’s a damn long way to fly.’
‘Of course, I forget.’
She ran a hand through her hair, pulling her fingers across sharply, untangling knots. ‘Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing I’d like more than to head south and look for Owen.’
Father Michael thought for a moment and looked around their camp. The Nidhal were already settled and had erected simple shelters backing up against the piled stone perimeter, the vargr sharing the space with their riders. Many lolled in the shadows, heads down, dozing. He couldn’t think of a safer place to be.
‘Why don’t you, then?’
‘Huh?’ Jenna looked at him with surprise.
‘I mean it. We are not going anywhere.’
She shook her head. ‘But that would leave you blind.’
He shrugged. ‘We have the Watchers. And you’ve seen those vargr, they can smell trouble a mile off.’
‘Father, what kind of soldier would I be if I deserted my post?’ she said, with a frown.
He looked at the pile of stones he’d gathered, appraising which piece should start the next course and he realised he was enjoying himself.
‘I am the expedition leader, if I order you to go it wouldn’t be desertion, would it?’ he said, bending down and running his hand over a flat-bottomed stone block.
Jenna laughed. ‘If you put it like that, let me have a think. Maybe I’ll just go on an extended reconnaissance for a few days.’
Father Michael patted the block. Yes, it would do.
‘See you later, Father.’
He waved her off. The canvas would do for now. But what if it really rained hard? He needed to think about drainage.
Michael awoke to find his fire extinguished and the world bathed in a strange glowing mist. He shivered and pulled his blanket away. He needed to go for a piss. Pulling on his trousers and boots he decided his robe was not needed, only the linen undershirt he slept in. He was fine with the cold, and stepped over the foundation stones and took a moment to gain his bearings. It wasn’t that he didn’t know which way to go; it was just that the whole damn camp had disappeared. Almost. A few dull, yellowish lights marked where fires still burned, but they were scattered. The last thing he wanted to do was stumble into someone else’s sleeping space or worse trip over a sleeping vargr. That wouldn’t end well. Alright, he just had to find the perimeter.
The easiest way was right behind him so he turned and walked past his bedroll, and another twenty paces he hit the remains of the wall of the warehouse. Turning left he followed its route. Thirty paces on, it turned left again. A hundred paces beyond that he stepped over the low rubble wall and on to the lane between the ruins. He carried straight on, confident that he would hit the river. Getting back might be more of a challenge. Soon enough he reached the old walls, turned left again and found the route they had cleared. A dark shape loomed before him. It turned at his approach. A Nidhal.
‘Evening,’ Michael said in his best cheerful voice.
The Nidhal grunted and returned to its vigil.
Michael passed him by and reached the water’s edge. He looked both ways. Downriver. He turned right and wandered along the wharfside. After thirty seconds, he stopped and undid his trousers, letting them drop to his ankles and leaned out a little. Once done, he pulled up his trousers then lent over and washed his hands. Damn but the water was colder than he’d expected. Standing up he flicked his fingers then folded his arms.
As he looked out across the water, unable to see the other side, he had to admit the feeling of solitude was good. He felt entirely content to be on his own. He closed his eyes and allowed the night sounds envelop him. A bird called out. Something splashed.
Then he heard a creaking sound, like wood under a load, and the gentlest of thumps. What was that all about?
It came from somewhere further along the wharf. It must almost be at the end of it. Curiosity rather than caution got the better of him and he turned towards the sound.
Walking along the wharf he was conscious of his own footsteps that must surely announce his arrival. Instead sounds came to him. More creaking, and thumps. He stopped. He could feel the vibrations on the wooden boards under his feet. What was this? He took a few more tentative steps. There was something there, just ahead of him, several large looming shadows. Much bigger than Nidhal or human. There was whispered talk, more movement.
Michael was at a loss. Surely whoever it was would see him soon. But then his caution kicked in, his instincts started to scream at him. This was wrong. He needed cover. Where to go? He turned towards the city wall. Staying as light on his feet as he could, he spotted the stone blocks appearing as a black line before him and then fell flat on to the cold, hard ground, pushing his side tight against the unyielding rock. He turned his head towards the river, staring into the mist.
The shapes started to pass by, more than several, many more. They were moving slowly, stealthily, and for their size, the footfalls seemed muffled. The shapes of spears and clubs swinging in the dark were unmistakable. Two of the strangers stopped. One started sniffing and took a step forward. Michael buried his face into the ground. Another spoke, it sounded like a question of some sort. A growling deep response. Then the questioner hissed something and the soft muffled thumps started again.
They were moving away.
Michael gave it a few more anxious seconds
then gently pushed himself up. He crept back towards the wharf and looked left and right. He turned away from the direction of the shadows and hurried on. Emerging out of the mist was another black form, butting against the side of the wharf itself. A ship’s prow. He went closer to it. It was long and low in the water. And it appeared empty of life. Suddenly a dark figure appeared at the prow, rising like a ghost from a crypt.
Michael took a step back, shaken.
The figure leaned forward and a hand, a human hand, gripped the edge of the craft.
‘What are you waiting for?’ it hissed, the voice familiar.
‘What?’
‘Warn them!’
That was the Reader! Michael shook his head. Warn? Oh, mercy.
He turned and ran. His mind started to buzz, his thoughts turning to strategy and tactics. He couldn’t just start shouting. They were in front of him. He needed to get around them. He veered left and hit the wall. He leapt, scrambling over the blocks and to the far side. Here he was on the old lane running parallel. He picked up speed.
Ogres. They had come back. But not as friends. His arms pumping, he charged down the lane. He looked to the right, hoping to see them, hoping to overtake. But was he too late. He reached the opening in the wall where he had passed the sentry. He halted for a moment. There! Something on the ground. He hurried over. The Nidhal was down. Its head was a crushed mess of bone and blood. Next to it was its spear. Good, he needed a weapon. He gathered it up in his hands and turned for the warehouse. He picked up speed again, holding the weapon to his side. It was now or never.
‘Ware! Ware. We are under attack!’ he bellowed. ‘Ware, Ware!’
The ogres were ahead of him now, looming large, clambering into the camp. Something screamed. Someone shouted. Michael was still on the street angling towards the north side of the camp. A form reared in front of him. He didn’t hesitate. Unleashing a war cry Michael thrust the spear forwards and slammed into the ogre.
The creature staggered back, even as Michael felt the spearhead enter flesh. He pushed forwards using all his strength to drive the metal deeper. The ogre’s knees buckled. As it fell an arm lashed out and connected with his left shoulder. His grip on the spear was lost and he fell away, hitting the ground.
Rolling, he regained his balance, ignoring the numbing pain. Just ahead, the ogre was wrestling with the spear, trying to pull it out. Michael scrambled behind it and got one arm around its muscled neck, trying to get it into a choking lock. The creature yanked the spear out and reached its hands up to try and reach Michael’s face. He leaned back, shaking his head away from the questing fingers.
Then it turned its attention to his arms, gripping them tight, painfully so, trying to prise them away. Michael squeezed harder. The ogre mewled a little, struggled to rise, before it collapsed again. Now it tried to buck forwards, attempting to throw Michael over. That wouldn’t work. He was too damned big for that.
Finally, through shock, lack of air and blood loss, the fight left the ogre. Its grip loosened, the arms fell away and the tenseness in its neck eased. Michael held for a few more seconds, then released. The ogre fell forwards on to its face. Taking no chances, he released his grip and leapt for the spear, taking hold, swinging it round, and burying it into the exposed neck, grinding it in. He let go and searched the ogre’s belt, his hand alighting on to the grip of a knife. He pulled it from the sheath. It was a good twelve inches. Better for close work.
Only then did he focus on the chaos before him. He could see next to nothing, but the noise made up for it. Shouting, howling, growling, metal meeting metal, meeting flesh. He went for the wall, leaping over it into a nightmare of shifting shadows. There were more lights now. Flames piercing the dark. Michael strode on. Something big flew through the air, colliding with something equally as large. He ducked instinctively, then, looking up, found another ogre running by. Michael flashed out with his blade, striking home, but the ogre carried on, vanishing into the mist.
He carried on through the nightmare realm of struggling forms, stumbling over another dead Nidhal. As he fell forward his hand landed on the pelt of a vargr. It came away sticky with blood. Another ogre bore down towards him, swinging a club. Michael ducked, lowering his knees to the ground, felt the club pass over his head even as he rammed his knife into the ogre’s gut. He felt the blade meet armour and slide off. It fell from his grip as he rolled away, putting distance between himself and the ogre. His opponent did not follow.
Michael crouched low. He needed another weapon. He needed his bearings. He heard a shout, a human voice. He made for that. There was a fire just ahead, sparking and flaring into the night. Emerging from the mist he saw a struggle before him but one he could scarcely believe. An ogre was writhing on the ground fighting with a glowing rope. One that twisted and wound around its arms and legs. The ogre roared in agony as its clothing smoked and singed away. And then that same rope slithered around its neck. It roared anew as the smell of burning flesh reached Michael’s nostrils. Then he realised it wasn’t rope but a long tendril of fire that flexed and writhed like a living thing, like a snake. Another tendril emerged from that fire, to wrap itself around its prey. He shook his head. He had been rooted to the spot mesmerised. He realised where he was and who controlled the fire. Gantak sat cross legged, gazing intently at the ogre, his lips moving. Next to him was Ellen. She too was speaking, though he could not hear the words. Her face was fearful, but she kept her focus, not even acknowledging Michael’s presence.
‘Get down!’
Michael reacted without thought. He dropped to his knees. The thrum of several bolts passed over his head. A grunt. Michael spun around. An ogre staggered back into the mist and did not return.
‘You alright?’ asked Fenner, as his squad took up a position around the fire and started to reload. He reached down with one hand, the other cradling his crossbow.
Michael gripped the hand and regained his feet. ‘Yes. Just about.’
‘Well this is a shitshow!’ announced Fenner. ‘We can’t–’
Another huge shape burst into the circle of light knocking the pair of them aside. Michael rolled with the force of the blow, turning to see the ogre smash into the other marines. A club fell upon Beautiful’s head with a sickening wet crunch. The ogre turned and swung the club into Coyle’s chest and he spun away. Wendel moved behind the ogre, knife drawn, but it elbowed him in the face and he dropped the blade, falling to his knees. Michael was up and running for the knife. He scooped it up, but the ogre was already there, club raised. And he recognised the carrier – the queen. He looked up and watched the club as it began to fall to meet him.
Before it could connect, the club halted its trajectory and the bare muscled arms holding it were yanked back, each wrist now gripped by a flaming band. The queen looked confused rather than pained. Then she started to pull against the restraints.
Michael took his chance. He leapt forward and buried the knife in her shoulder blade. She snarled and snapped at him and her foul breath that stank of dead things washed over him. A cry, and Fenner was there stabbing his shortsword into her stomach, trying to work through the chain and leather. Michael pulled his knife free for a better shot. And one of the ogre queen’s arms shot out and grabbed his neck. He felt his eyes bulge at the shock. The fire was still about her wrist. So strong. She started to squeeze. He reached up, the knife forgotten, and tried to loosen the fingers about his neck.
His vision began to shrink and grow dim. He heard rather than saw Fenner be pushed away with a gasped, ‘Fuck.’
He was being lifted off the floor, his toes reaching out to stay grounded. He had no air.
And his world went black.
There was a distant thrum and a smacking sound. The pressure on his throat released. His vision returned a little, swimming back into a fuzzy clarity. The ogre queen still retained that confused look; her eyes crossed as they tried to focus on the bolt that protruded from her forehead. Her hand spasmed and Michael dropped.
Michael fell to his knees as a wave of exhaustion and pain hit him. He started to cough.
‘Did I get her?’ asked Wendell, from somewhere behind him.
‘Dead on,’ confirmed Fenner.
‘Really? I couldn’t see a bloody thing. It was all stars. I dink my dose is broke!’
A gentle hand touched Michael’s shoulder. ‘Father? Michael. I think it’s over. The fighting has stopped.’
Aye. He turned and spat, reaching up to massage his neck. But did we win?
The mist finally burned away with the morning sun. It revealed bloody carnage. Within the walls of the warehouse where they had camped, the ogres had wreaked havoc among the Nidhal. There were bodies everywhere. Broken forms lay scattered, limbs spread at odd angles, necks twisted, heads staved in. There were a couple of vargr down. Sprinkled among them were the larger bulks of ogres. Michael stared at the fire, the ogre queen a charred mess in the middle of it. He watched survivors pick through the wreckage. A few riderless vargr tore and gnawed at an ogre body. None tried to stop them. Gantak and Ellen were gone, presumably ministering to the wounded. Off to one side, the bodies of his friends, Beautiful and Coyle lay spread out, covered over by their blankets. Michael closed his eyes. Last night had been unlike anything he had known. For all his years, fighting and slaying, he had never been in such a melee. Was this what war was truly like? Were battles this chaotic, this random? Where chance, not skill played such a part. What horror.
‘Father.’
He opened his eyes to see Fenner limping towards him. Behind him came the Reader Sasha, her hands tied, and bringing up the rear was Wendell. His nose had been set straight and he sported two black eyes.
‘Found her on the boat,’ said Fenner. ‘Just sat there on her lonesome.’