Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  “Come.”

  He led him at a sprint to the south wall. Maricius was there, his visage slipping as though its normal stoniness had collapsed in avalanche. All along the battlement a queer silence had gripped the men, faces slack, eyes wide and disbelieving as the fires of Estpont beat against them.

  Anzo noticed a new odor wafting up on the thermals of the blaze, sour reek of churned rot. Something whirred past his ear. He caught a purple-black flicker in the air, heard buzzing. Curses spread through the defenders, men waving in irritation. Something pricked Anzo’s cheek. He slapped it and brought his hand away with a huge fly splashed to bright red across his fingers. What the...?

  “Lady Varya.” Maricius’ voice was husky as he turned to Anzo. “Where is she?”

  “She passed out, in my quarters.” Anzo leaned into a crenel. “What is happening, Legate?”

  Columns of flame seethed from Estpont, hammering Anzo’s face with heat that set his eyes to watering. He wiped them furiously, had seen something gathered about the wreck of the town’s wall. Squinting, he watched as figures colored black by the glare shambled into ranks below Terminus. He thought they were Vhurrs, massing again, until he noticed smoke drifting from charred limbs, saw tags of fire sputtering on bits of cloth crisped to flesh, mail hot and melted against torsos.

  Terror screamed from Anzo’s chest but died in a mouth gone parched.

  More figures emerged from the inferno behind the ranks, trudging stiffly, some shedding bits of their bodies and coming to stand, smoldering amongst their silent fellows. Faces seared to the bone stared up at the walls of Terminus, eyes boiled from empty sockets. Arrows protruded from some, axes or broken-off shards of swords from others. Ruined panoplies still gave enough detail to reveal Legion- and Auxiliary-issue gear.

  “Our dead...” Maricius’ hand shook as it gripped Anzo. “The Lady Varya...you have to get her!”

  The unholy ranks rustled and started up the hill, hundreds of them, the uncollected slain of the Estpont fight. They made no sound, only the clack of brittle limbs and clang of fused metal as they jostled one another. The charnel reek intensified, clogged the nostrils and burned the eyes. An archer turned from his station nearby and began to sob quietly. The sky warbled with flies.

  Anzo put his hand to the hilt of his scimitar, had to flex his fingers to get them under control and wrench the weapon free. “Kill them.”

  “They’re already dead!” Maricius’ voice shook on the edge of panic.

  Anzo stared into the Legate’s face. “Then kill them again!”

  A bowman slapped an arrow into the oncoming tide. Fletching quivered in a scorched chest, sent a walking dead man stumbling back a step before it resumed its forward course. More archery followed to the same effect. A ballista loosed a shot that smashed through the corpses, shattering bodies like a fist through baked clay. But even that small victory contained failure, bits and pieces twitching, a torso dragging itself upright and after its unholy comrades with one good arm.

  “Keep it up with the artillery!” Maricius barked down the wall. “Solid shot only. And no more arrows! Save what we’ve got.” He unsheathed his sword. “We’ll have to meet them with steel.”

  The first reached the base of the south wall, where archers, having abandoned their bows, helped Legionnaires heft boulders and pieces of masonry over the side. Rock splintered animated bone, pulped what remained of musculatures. None made a sound. More corpses mounted the piles of the crushed, scrambled to get a grip on the imperfections of the wall. Those following up began mounting the leaders, clambering over their backs to stand on their shoulders, formed a scaffolding of the living dead.

  A dead man reached the crenel before Anzo. He leapt up into the space and kicked it in the jaw hard enough to part skull from neck. Decapitated, it still fumbled for his pant leg, fingertips burnt to the bone raking through the fabric to leave icy trails across the flesh beneath. Roaring in a combination of fury and loathing, Anzo slashed the arm off at the elbow and followed with a boot heel to the thing’s chest, sent it tumbling from sight.

  Maricius snarled and hacked away the ankles of a corpse mounting the battlements in front of him. By a fluke of physics, it flopped forward over him and began clawing and snapping at his shoulders, knocking his helm loose and going for the exposed back of his neck. Sartorus pulled the thing off his Legate but it floundered in his arms, an elbow shooting back to strike the bandaged side of his face. Yowling, he fell onto his back and it went for his throat.

  Anzo rushed past the recovering Maricius to the young man’s aide, gripped the tacky shoulder of the dead man and wrenched it off. It flailed at his legs, nearly ripped a foot off before Anzo could chop its arm and then its skull from the body. What remained continued to thrash and flop across the flags until it tumbled off the parapet into the courtyard below.

  Screams of pain and panic spread along the south wall. An archer fell with his face ripped away and an animated corpse gnawing on his windpipe. More dead swarmed into the gap and rather than fight, some of the Imperials broke and scattered. Noncoms and officers bullied the men back into position or summoned help from other quarters, cornering the dead and crushing them against the wall, but similar breakthroughs were occurring everywhere.

  Horns blatted from the smoky dark. A tide of Vhurrs surged into the firelight, following up the unholy assault with hundreds of screaming warriors, scaling ladders carried atop shoulders. Distantly, Anzo could hear the crash of battle along the ridge top overlooking Estpont as the barbarians hit that sector, as well.

  “They’re inside!” Maricius pointed his sword.

  Anzo spun to see chaos in the courtyard as Legionnaire and civilian joined to fight off a dead horde pouring into the open space, crowding at the door to the mess, swarming up the stairs onto the north wall. Men struggled for their lives against those who’d given theirs up on the parapet around the northeast tower.

  “They got through the postern, somehow,” Maricius groaned.

  Anzo sucked in a breath, ice shards knifing his innards. The door into the tower swung open and loose on wrenched hinges.

  Anzo didn’t hear Maricius’ shouts as he streaked across the wall, rounded the southeast tower, and dashed across the river side. Nearing the tower entrance, he smashed a walking corpse aside, ripped another off a Legionnaire, then shouldered the man aside. Bodies lay in the doorway. He vaulted over them but lost his footing and crashed down on one knee. Something had a grip on his boot. Pain crunched his ankle. Wrenching about, he yanked his foot free of the jaws of a living corpse then drove the boot heel into its forehead with enough force to send ichor jetting from withered ears.

  A deep scream carried down the stairwell—then cut out. Anzo clambered up the stairs, ignoring the throb of his heel and the sensation of blood sloshing in his rent boot. He slipped once as he neared the top. Blood was drooling over the stone treads. With a maniac surge of strength, Anzo exploded up the last steps into the hall outside his quarters.

  Sparto sprawled halfway out the door, his neck a bitten-away ruin, eyes wide and unseeing, face locked in a last rictus of terror. Shadows moved in the room beyond. Bellowing, Anzo lunged through.

  A huge form turned at his arrival. Nubs of dozens of broken-off arrows protruded from its torso and tags of soiled tunic clung to boulder-like shoulders. Skin had the purple-gray shade of rot. Strange markings, not unlike those wrought on demon-possessed berserkers, had been carved into it. Something had been nailed to its spine, a soaked bit of parchment.

  Despite the ravages of the grave, it had the face of a friend.

  “Heathen...”

  Anzo wobbled in horror, the vengeful energy of before evaporating in an instant. He felt the weight of his scimitar distantly, knew he should swing. Behind the thing that had been Heathen, Varya thrashed on the bed, moaning, calling out.

  The Heathen-corpse reached for Anzo. Reflexively, he brought up his scimitar. Heathen’s hand caught it before the edge cleaved his shoulder.
Mountainous strength built behind the grip, the bones of Anzo’s wrist fluttering together on the brink of snapping. His fingers began to unpeel from the scimitar handle, numbness washing up his forearm. Heathen’s mouth opened to reveal yellow-black teeth and flies puffing free.

  With a scream, Anzo flung his full weight against the thing. Its grip loosened as it stumbled backwards, the backs of its legs smacking the edge of the bed. Impact jostled Varya an inch into the air. Her eyes fluttered.

  Anzo bent Heathen back towards her, sliding the edge of his weapon towards Heathen’s rotten neck. The abomination crackled and popped, things breaking inside it. But still it resisted with an echo of its former, living power. Its jaw clapped, seeking flesh. Eyes darkened to the color of bruises stared unblinking, unseeing into Anzo’s.

  “Varya...” Anzo rasped. “Varya, dear, you’ve got to help me.”

  Her eyes jolted open then widened in shock. She started to scoot backwards to the corner of the bed.

  “Help...me...”

  Focus overcame terror instantly. Her lips moved in a flurry. Purple pinpricks seared from her pupils. Ozone charged the air and suddenly she was at the Heathen-thing’s back with fingers clamped about its skull. Energy snarled from her hands, bathed the dead face in fire. Heat and glare shriveling at his eyes, Anzo squalled and threw himself to the floor.

  The Heathen-thing straightened to its feet, towered over them as the purple blaze swirled about its head. Familiar red whiskers puffed into ash and flesh peeled off. The bone beneath went yellow-white then faded to a smear of black in a magical blowtorch. Stiffening again, it dropped to its knees. The flames died out, left a crisp of neck and a plume of smoke and ash reeking of charred meat and powdered bone. What had once been a friend and brother crashed to the flagstones and was still.

  “Thoth...what...” Varya shook her head wildly. “What happened?”

  Heathen stared at the corpse, every part of him trembling. “Heathen...”

  “What was that?”

  Anzo looked at Varya, understood the disorientation. She didn’t see. She doesn’t know—thank whatever careless, blind gods there may be. “Nothing.” He noticed the tag of parchment tacked to Heathen’s back again and leaned forward to pluck it loose. It was soggy with blood but still legible. A bold script he recognized with a gulp scrawled across it.

  So, yes, I was lying and the giant’s skull hasn’t become my chalice. But we have contrived other amusements for him, as you can see. If you haven’t found your much-deserved place in Arshann’s embrace and you’re still alive to read this, accept our gift to you, Weasel. And know this: I will find you yet. Theregond.

  ***

  Battle raged all through the hell-shot night, the walls of Terminus shuddering under the assault. By dawn, the Vhurrs had surged uphill from the ruins of Estpont and taken the Legion road south of Terminus, bending the remnants of the town garrison and the Secundus back at an east-west right angle to the fort.

  The road north of Terminus was lost, as well. Vhurrian fury and unholy havoc had momentarily panicked the Legion lines into rout that only a desperate sally of Mauricius’ last reserves from Terminus had stemmed. They had reformed in an irregular line at an angle to the fort, arrayed in battered ranks atop an uncertain chain of knolls and rises that could barely be called hills. Below them, the Vhurrs raged, swarming across the open ground, lapping against the north wall of Terminus, raising their cries of triumph and promises of doom to the heavens.

  Barbarian cavalry, long absent, swarmed down from the north, a jostling stain spreading in and out of dips in the landscpe. Riders in black crowned with tossing white manes galloped at the lead. There had been no word of Enu and his cohorts.

  Anzo, watching the Arriaks approach from the battlements with Varya at his side, tasted the coppery bite of terror on his palate. The Way Forts to the north were cut off. The route south was cut off. The Imperials held a narrow corridor, still, but were locked in claws that would crush them if they tried to back out. They held a salient, now, inside the Salient.

  The sun lifted from haze above the Bulwarks, fiery and clear. Anzo sighed as its warmth caressed his face, small comfort allowing him a moment without pain and despair. Varya hugged against him. Figuring there was no harm at this point he leaned over her and kissed the top of her head.

  She looked up and he tried not to see the strain carved into her face. “What was that for?”

  “I was supposed to let you know how I feel.” He chuckled. It seemed so stupid, so wasteful to admit it now.

  She brushed his face, fingertips rasping against bristles and specks of dried blood. “I know, Anzo.” The hand slid away, cupped against her lips. Her voice was difficult to hear. “I suppose this is it, then?”

  Anzo didn’t answer, lifted his face to the sky again, let the sun warm it.

  Mauricius hobbled towards them, gait increasing as he pointed west. “Enu!”

  Anzo and Varya turned together. Through the gap still held by the Imperials, a small party of cavalry, no more than fifty riders, galloped for Terminus. The Khazulan Tribune was unmistakable at their head. Anzo wanted to smile but the pitiful remnants—fifty men out of over three hundred!—stole any relief at his friend’s survival.

  Ragged cheers followed the holdouts’ passage to the gates. The huge oaken doors growled open to admit them. A groom accepted Enu’s horse and the Kharzulan dismounted with a grimace. With care, he picked his way across the courtyard, trudged up the stairs to the north wall, and limped to Mauricius. His armor was gashed and caked in filth and blood. He still had no helm and a shallow cut on his ebon scalp oozed.

  “I’m sorry, Paulus,” he rasped and offered a salute.

  The Legate returned it with a smile. “You did all that could be done.”

  “We made them pay for every foot. Way Fort Five is lost. We think Six is still holding out. But every outpost between that and Four is gone. They’re in the Salient. Some were breaking off from the main body and are probably at the outskirts of Trebactunum by now. In another day, they’ll be west of us, too. We’ll be hemmed-in.” He wiped his face. “There were so damned many of them. But we made them pay.”

  The Legate touched the Tribune’s arm. “Again, all that I could ask.”

  “There are probably eight thousand behind that, coming down.” Enu glanced at the oncoming barbarian cavalry. “They were tricky bastards, those white-haired demons.” His gaze met Anzo’s and he extended a hand. “It’s good to see they didn’t get the two of you.”

  Anzo accepted his hand and Varya detached herself to give the Kharzulan a hug. “Together again,” she said softly.

  Enu smiled. It didn’t last as he looked at his commander. “What are our orders, Legate?”

  Mauricius sighed and looked across the torn fields of slaughter. “I’d say they’ve got twenty-five thousand left—maybe thirty. And we’ve got—” Words cut out with a bitter twist to his lips. “Our artillery is practically spent. Our arrows are nearly gone, too. Food, water, and medicines are already a problem.” He scowled at the barbarians churning below Terminus’ walls and across the countryside beyond. Softly: “The Salient is lost.” He shook himself, voice crystallizing in command. “Enu, rally what remains of the Secundus. You’ll need a detachment to escort the wounded. Herzok has done well. Give him command of the infantry. You’ll break out to the west.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes. I’ll be taking volunteers to hold Terminus.”

  Varya gasped. Anzo ground his teeth.

  “I’m not going to leave you!” Enu shook his head.

  “And I’m not in the habit of having my orders questioned, Tribune,” the Legate snapped.

  Varya gripped Anzo’s arm. “Anzo...”

  “We’ll stay with you, Maricius,” he proclaimed.

  “No, that’s not it, Anzo.” Varya shook him. “I can hear Him!”

  He turned to her. “I know, dear. They’re coming.”

  “Not him!” Her eyes shined as
tears poured free. Not tears of pain, Anzo saw in shock, tears of joy. “It’s Thoth! I can hear him again!”

  A din was rising from the south. Legionnaires on that wall were waving. Shouts rose. The signal lantern on the southeast tower was flashing out wild patterns.

  Maricius’ small group limped to the opposite side of the fort. Below the walls of Terminus, the Vhurrian tide was receding from the Legion road. Growls of anger boiled through the barbarians, fights breaking out, chieftains roaring orders or bickering with each other. As battered, dumbfounded Imperials watched, the great mass that had cut off the southern route withdrew into the Lydirian and began a wide, lumbering passage around Terminus to the north to link up with comrades there.

  “What is this?” Maricius rubbed his eyes as if he didn’t believe them. “What are those idiots doing?”

  Clarions sounded from the south. Sunlight shimmered off something, a rising metallic tide rumbling up the road. Maricius turned to look to the signal atop the southeast tower then slapped the battlements before them. “I’ll be damned!” He cackled. “I will be damned! They made it!”

  The Vhurrian withdrawal continued, increased in pace and frantic energy as the horizon to the south filled with a great, glittering line too well-dressed to be barbarian. Groups that had lingered, shouting defiance at the mangled Imperial defenders, suddenly lost heart and broke for the main body, turned the retreat into the beginnings of rout. More horns sounded behind them and purple banners glittered atop spreading, serried ranks.

  The relief force out of Hadron had arrived.

  Cheers rippled across the walls of Terminus. Men forgot composure and disintegrated into wild celebration. Word spread from the fort to the lines across the fields in a great, roaring wave.

  Varya flung herself into Anzo’s arms. “They’ve come! Ossys is with them! I can hear Thoth, Anzo!”

  Anzo squeezed her hard but a sight from below stole the relief swelling from his breast.

  Lingering on the bank of the Lydirian, just outside the steaming ruin of Espont, a group of riders watched while the last of the Vhurrs extricated themselves from the ground south of Terminus. Robes of white flicked warmthlessly in the sun as hooded men chattering amongst themselves. At their fore, a massive, red-bearded figure glowered.