by Peter Fane
The snow came harder now, swirling. Through it, Lord Lessip pointed a fat finger at the Tarn’s great guns, signaling at the new timber fortifications on the southwestern embankment. A black flag waved in return. Lord Lessip turned back along the bridge. Fresh soldiers advanced out of the barbican. But these men were different, Colj saw. They wore high silver armor and carried high silver guns. The elites of the Pretender’s Silver Guard. The source of the high silver rounds. Their faces were grim and battle-hardened. Colj grunted as a bullet punched through a gap in the phalanx, hitting his shoulder guard with a silver flash. Stormhammer and Oblivion thundered once more—SHOOM! SHOOM!—the enemy lines bursting again, clotted dirt and men, screaming silver fire, the great guns alive and unstoppable, their ancient song filled with righteous fury. A bullet struck granite beneath Colj’s shield. Vudj, his first lieutenant, took a bullet in his calf, right above the joint in his armor. Blood spattered. Vudj grunted, laughed. “Something bit me!” Another volley hit the ogres’ shields, the enemy’s fire more focused now, the Guardsmen well-coordinated, perfectly trained. They were still being cautious, however. They still wanted to take Lord Garen alive, it seemed—but that meant hand-to-hand combat with the ogres of Jallow.
“Stay tight,” Colj said. “Stay together.” The star tree’s field was almost gone, its edges well smaller than the phalanx now. The Tarn’s Great Door was just over two hundred and fifty paces behind them. The ogres picked up the pace. Stormhammer and Oblivion thundered—SHOOM! SHOOM! Smoke wafted over the bridge, the rising hills of Tarntown, a silvery fog laced with a tendril of black.
39
LITTLE DAN WAS out on the bridge with Stormy and Oblivion and Master Falmon and Lord Doldon, and he could barely believe what he saw. There were enemies all around the city, so many enemies everywhere. And the city was burning, smoke rising all around. The cannons songs blazed in Dan’s head, but they were still all wrong, and he was dizzy, so dizzy. Stormy and Oblivion sang and roared. It was so loud Dan could barely stand it, and his head was really starting to hurt. He put his hands over his ears. How was he supposed to be a good helper when he couldn’t think straight, the songs so loud and so wrong?
And then something even louder came.
It was Lord Michael’s voice.
It came—changing, growing, thundering into a giant’s roar—a lion’s roar that reached its claws for Dan’s heart.
“FOR THE REMAIN!”
40
“AS YOU WILL!” Kyla cried, hot exultation lighting up her mind. “Weapons free!”
And it was as if the entire Tarn heard her command, everything at once, the mighty fortress’s great iron batteries opening together, all the big iron on the lower bulwarks, the upper ramparts, the eternal towers—a thundering storm, the citadel raging to life. Sledder and Tellerman fired on the enemy snipers in the barbican, solid and accurate. Snow swirled. Hundreds of other sharpshooters blazed from the Tarn’s countless towers, the Tarn alight now, burning, like a living thing, a slumbering giant finally roused. And Kyla’s own weapon was a part of it, one with it, smooth and steady, the action of the ancient gun perfect, snug against her shoulder, her focus absolute.
“Call them out, Tarlen,” she said.
Tarlen nodded, eye pressed to his spyglass. “Ten paces in front of Garen’s phalanx, charging.”
“Got him.”
Her sight tracked the target.
“Goodbye.” She breathed—and put a high silver bullet through the charging soldier’s skull.
41
AND THEN COLJ heard the Vordan shriek and the Tarn’s mighty batteries opened, a thunderous rush of holy might.
“Lord Michael comes!” Colj roared, more for the benefit of the enemy’s men than his own. “Lord Michael comes!”
In front of him, on the bridge, every soldier heard and paused.
The Vordan’s black scream came once again. The enemy—even the men and women of the Silver Guard—seemed to waver, to hesitate. But the green-clad men from Gelánen did not wait; they were grim-eyed and resolute now. Lord Julane charged to their front, his jaw set, drew his pistol, and cried, “For Kendal! For Lady Margaret! For Gelánen! For Gelánen!” The men in green took up the call, surging forward, pushing against the ogres’ shields, jabbing swords in the gaps, firing into cracks where they could. Vudj laughed, “Another bite!” A charging Guardsman ran along their flank—and dropped dead, shot through the head by a sharpshooter high on one of the Tarn’s towers. Colj glanced behind him and saw that the enemy advance was too late.
Through the smoke and haze, through the fog and the fury came High Lord Michael Dallanar, the Dark Lord of Kon.
At first, he was a shadow in fog. And then he was there behind them, the great war bear Okros grunting, black armor like the dark between stars, a horde of grim bear riders following, two columns of raging death driving fast down either side of the bridge, charging headlong for the Great Seal and the Pretender’s cannon there.
“FOR THE REMAIN!” Lord Michael roared, his voice shaking the heavens.
As one, the ogres and bears roared in return, and the war music burned in their veins.
“To the right,” Colj ordered.
The ogre phalanx shifted, cleared the path, gave the enemy a view of what came: Bear riders crouched low behind silver shields, guns and lances ready, bears’ eyes black with blood lust, Lord Michael at the front. And then a bear went down, shot through the ear, its rider jumping clear, throwing off his lance, drawing a high silver blade, still charging. The Vordan screamed. A rider threw her shield into the air as she was hit, blood spraying from her face. Another bear went down, a perfect shot through its mouth, the Silver Guardsmen accurate and calm in the face of certain death. Stormhammer and Oblivion thundered again—SHOOM! SHOOM! Tarntown burned, the headlands burned, smoke everywhere. Colj grunted as more bullets hit his shield. Then the fire slowed for a moment. Colj saw the green-clad men from Gelánen hesitate, the Legionnaires and Guardsmen holding, pushing them forward, hardened veterans bracing for Lord Michael’s coming charge. Lord Michael raced toward them, too fast for the enemy artillery to track, the Vordan screaming for blood.
“Captain!” Doj shouted, his massive ogre finger jutting down the bridge. “There! At the barbican!”
The Pretender’s great cannon was on top of the Great Seal. Lord Lessip pointed down the axis of the bridge, conferring with the lead adept in her golden robes, nodding, ready to fire.
If they could kill Lord Michael, it would be worth it to sacrifice their own men.
The Great Door of the Tarn was just under two hundred paces behind Colj and his phalanx.
“Back,” Colj said calmly. “Pick up the pace.”
42
LITTLE DAN CLAMPED his hands over his ears, wobbled, dizzy, then fell down in a heap. The guns’ songs were so loud. The Chief kicked him and told him to get up and get the water. But Stormy’s song was so wrong, so loud in his head, it felt like his skull was gonna burst, his brains boiling in there. It was so bad. He wanted to help, but it just hurt so bad.
So he tried to hum something right, because the adepts didn’t sing the right song, but he could feel a black pain coming into his head. He wanted to throw up. The Chief kicked him again, kicking him to move out of the way.
“Stupid idiot! Damn you, crazy!”
The Chief’s kicks didn’t hurt. Dan could take those hits easy.
But the hits in his head were something else.
It had never hurt so bad.
And even when he tried to hum and make it right, his little song got lost somehow in Stormy’s roar, and it felt like he was falling into a black, endless hole.
43
THE WAR SONG of the enemy’s cannon filled the air as it prepared to fire. Colj could hear it, clear as day. And then Lord Michael was there and past him. He was there and then he was gone, a blur of black armor and rage through the snow, his face a mask of fury. Okros roared. The Vordan shrieked, the black mist around the dread blade devo
uring all incoming fire. Lord Michael was in front of them now, in front of his own column, tearing through the men of Gelánen like they weren’t there, heads jumping from bodies, geysers of black blood erupting. The Vordan screamed again and Marden Julane of Gelánen went down, his shoulder hacked off at the joint. Michael plowed into the men of the Silver Guard, a dozen men killed in a blink. The bear columns merged, Lord Michael at the head, a wall of the Tarn’s best bears and swords and guns and lances and armor.
They would be at the enemy’s great cannon in moments.
“Down!” Colj shouted, holding Lord Garen to his chest. “The enemy will fire!”
Stormhammer and Oblivion roared again, light and thunder—SHOOM! SHOOM! Silver smoke everywhere. It was getting hard for Colj to see.
Lord Michael killed everything in his path. He was almost at the enemy cannon now, twenty paces out, cutting a blood-soaked road through the enemy.
Ten paces: Lord Michael charging straight at the open maw of the enemy gun.
Five paces: The heads of the golden-robed war adepts tilted back in holy battle song.
And then their cannon fired—THOOM!—and Lord Michael turned great Okros’s broadside into it and lifted his shield to show a tiny star tree hanging at his belt, roots wrapped in a bright blue burlap sack, the coppery field of the tree only four paces wide, but exceedingly powerful, strengthened by Lord Garen’s lore. The enemy’s fire hit the tree’s field, exploded around it, and the little tree withered to dust.
Then Lord Michael was among the enemy’s golden-robed war adepts. The Vordan screamed. Okros roared. Lord Michael threw himself at the great cannon, cutting the adepts to ribbons, golden limbs spinning, spewing as he hacked, the Vordan’s screams echoing against the front of the barbican.
Near the center of the bridge, the rear of Lord Michael’s column was deep among the Silver Guard. A rider leapt from his mount, shot a Legionnaire in the face. Red blood spattered fresh snow. Stormhammer and Oblivion fired again—SHOOM! SHOOM! A dark-bearded legionnaire fired his pistol into the eye of a charging bear, the great beast collapsed, its rider coming up, swinging a two-handed sword of high silver. Bullets bounced off armor, high silver glowed like living suns. A tall, red-haired Legionnaire ran up behind the swordsman, shot him in the armpit before she was killed in turn by a sharpshooter from the towers of the Tarn. Empty guns were dropped, broadswords and long daggers came out for close work. Everywhere, the artillery on all sides had opened up. Everywhere, the headlands were alive with smoke and fire, the Tarn’s batteries giving it back with unprecedented fury, freed at last, black smoke drifting, mingling with silver. The war bears were wild with rage, Legionnaires fighting and falling to tooth and claw. The soldiers of Gelánen had fallen dead everywhere, green livery littering the bridge. Blood sprayed, the screams of the killing and dying merging, rising together in one wailing, pitiful cry as silver blades flashed. And there, a squad of Silver Guardsmen led by a blond sergeant rallied and swarmed over a pair of dead bears. Lord Michael was inside the barbican’s gate now. Stormhammer and Oblivion, fangs wide, wreaked havoc upon the enemy batteries—SHOOM! SHOOM!—like earthquake’s living thunder, silver smoke, white fury, the sound deafening as Lord Doldon, Master Falmon, and their war adepts poured on the holy fire.
And then Lord Garen was up and out and away from him, sliding between Colj’s legs, around in front of the phalanx, running as fast as he could, toward the barbican.
Colj shouted to his ogres, “After him!”
But it took the big ogres a moment to get out of their defensive stance. A bullet grazed Colj’s arm, drawing blood. An ogre, young Kudj, went down, a hole through his cheek. Lord Garen charged into the throng of the bridge’s insane melee, trying to get through the swarm of battling Guardsmen and Legionnaires and riders to Vymon Ruge, who was nowhere to be seen. One of the Tarn’s bear riders, who’d been staying close to the phalanx, dismounted and ran past Colj to the defense of Lord Garen, drawing a vicious sabre of high silver. The rider’s closed-faced helmet was topped by a blue plume, that streamed as he ran to Lord Garen’s side, into the thick of battle. But Lord Garen did not notice. Instead, he ran straight ahead, flinging greenish vials anywhere there was an enemy. When Lord Garen’s vials broke open, small, tentacled things covered in bumpy eyes reached for throats and mouths, clamped down, squeezed, and burrowed. A bald lieutenant leapt from the bridge, clutching his face. An enemy jumped at Lord Garen and was promptly shot through the temple by a Tarn sharpshooter, then gutted by the blue-plumed rider. Colj ran up behind Lord Garen, his giant axe swinging like a scythe, cutting a man in two. The squad of Silver Guardsmen saw Lord Garen from their cover behind a dead bear. Their blond sergeant pointed her finger at Lord Garen, shouted something, and charged. Vudj roared and leapt to Lord Garen’s defense, only to be shot between the eyes by the blond sergeant; he dropped. The Guardsmen leapt to the attack and met death at the hands and blades and teeth of ogre and bear and rider. The living roar of the Tarn’s guns was impossibly loud—SHOOM! SHOOM! Through it all, the blue-plumed rider was amid everything, beside Colj and Lord Garen, a blur of speed and precision, one moment here, the next there, his weapon red from tip to hilt, a razor’s line of silver death, sniper fire from the towers of the Tarn seeming to mark the blue-plumed warrior’s path, searing bolts from above coming fast and deadly with inhuman precision. The enemy sergeant fired straight at Lord Garen. The bullets hit his breastplate, flashed white with deflected force. The sergeant could not get past his armor, so she dropped her pistol, drew her blade, and took a bullet in the neck from the Tarn’s heights, blood spraying. The blue-plumed rider finished her off before leaping at the next enemy, a pouncing lion through swirling snow. Colj finally managed to stop Lord Garen, to get him turned around.
“Please, Lord Garen!” Colj shouted over the battle’s roar. Lord Garen looked at him, pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “I will help you look for the Cup!” Colj said. “Only stay with me! Stay with me, Lord Garen!”
But how could he do this and obey Lord Michael’s order to protect his brother? Ahead of them, deep in the guts of the barbican, Lord Michael and the Vordan and the war bears killed, the screams of the dying rising in a dread wail. At the Great Seal, a squad of bear riders had dismounted and had turned the great cannon of the enemy toward the Pretender’s iron on the southwestern headlands. It was a perfect line of fire at the enemy placements.
Then five bear riders threw off false gear to reveal the sky-blue robes of war adepts of the Tarn, and the song of the Pretender’s gun came immediately, a symphony of blood and silver. And then the great gun fired—THOOM!—and the enemy artillery on placement in front of the timber fortifications exploded in a shower of gore and iron. Soldiers screamed. The enemy gun crews realized they were flanked, that they were not able to turn their iron fast enough. Stormhammer and Oblivion thundered in unison from the Great Door—SHOOM! SHOOM!—white death and fire raining down. The enemy gun crews ran.
And then there was a loud, close shot and a blinding flash of light at Colj’s side. Lord Garen grunted. Colj turned and raised his shield—too late.
Lord Garen was hit.
He did not move.
He did not breathe.
44
“GAREN IS DOWN,” Tarlen whispered.
“From where?” Kyla asked, keeping her voice calm despite the flutter in her heart.
“Up there.” He pointed, holding his telescope to his eye. “Lesser cannon. Top there, on the barbican’s southern tower.”
Bruno barked savagely, barely able to contain himself, his fur a hissing haze of silver-grey static.
Kyla scanned, found the small cannon, found its crew—fired.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
And the cannon’s crew died.
She was a trained machine.
A killing machine.
It was a strange kind of joy.
45
LITTLE DAN COULD barely stand it, his head hurt so bad. Stormy’s song was so loud an
d so wrong, and the other noises—the blood and the screams—it hurt. He knew he was supposed to be helping, but it hurt so bad. Tears streamed down his face. He tried to get up, but he was too dizzy. He fell.
46
COLJ KNELT AT Lord Garen’s side—and then Colj smiled. Lord Garen breathed. The high silver had done its job. Lord Garen was only dazed. The armor had been perfectly tuned. Lord Garen blinked, his eyes foggy. He adjusted his spectacles, but he could barely speak. “That . . . that was a big gun.” A crooked grin. His eyes went out of focus. “Don’t tell Michael, he won’t like it . . . .”
Colj looked up and saw that Michael’s column was through barbican now, on the other side, killing. Some of his bear riders were also within it, on the roof, throwing men from the heights. Guns went off, bears slashed, the great batteries of the Tarn taking a terrible toll on the enemy positions on the headlands, the docks, the center of Tarntown. On either side of the barbican, the enemy was running in headlong panic. But the batteries of the Pretender were still firing, and other battle groups were coming up, fresh war banners waving.
The fight was just beginning.
“We must get back.” Colj looked to his ogres. “Lord Garen is injured.”
“. . . the Cup,” Lord Garen whispered. And then his eyes rolled back in his head. A snowflake landed on his spectacles and melted. Doj was there behind them with the wagon, the little dead star tree in it, the blue-plumed bear rider panting beside them now, his high silver shield raised over Lord Garen. The rider opened his visor, and it was Lady Katherine, of course—never one to obey orders. Stormhammer and Oblivion fired again at the headlands—SHOOM! SHOOM! Colj could no longer see Lord Michael, but he could track him by the Vordan’s black scream, the war bears moving with incredible speed, speed their only chance against the numbers of the enemy as they sought the Pretender’s soft center while the Tarn’s great batteries pounded the enemy’s front and flanks.