Revenant

by Bevan McGuiness

  A faint glow, red and orange, flickered ahead from around a corner that turned to the left. Myrrhini’s eyes. She had somehow slipped ahead too fast, too silently to be natural. There was another brief flash of blue. Slave quickened his pace to catch her up before —

  The scream ripped through the silence.

  Slave moved quickly towards where Myrrhini would most likely be crouched on the ground, clutching an agonising, but minor, burn to her arm and hand where she had touched the sigil. She was, because she had. She had also somehow moved herself magically again, but what Slave was more concerned about was the sound of clawed feet approaching at a rapid rate. He grabbed Myrrhini and shoved her back around the corner, ignoring her whimpers of pain. She was about to say something when the first roar of predatory hunger reached them.

  ‘Learn to be silent,’ he hissed at her. Pushing her further back into the passage, he drew out his Claw and advanced on the beast. The moment he grasped the Claw, the corridor seemed to burst with silver illumination. He saw the stal lizard immediately.

  It was smaller and faster than the xath lizard, but with its ten paired legs it could climb walls equally as well as it could run along the ground, making it a dangerous opponent.

  Were he unable to see it, this would have been a deadly encounter. As it was, Slave simply ran at the lizard and then, just as he was about to come into range of its large, heavy jaws, he sprang, executing a tumbling roll to land on its back, driving his Claw deep. The lizard died with a gasping rattle.

  Slave rose from the dead creature’s back and looked around. In the shimmering silver light, the whole area took on a mystical, arcane feel. The corridor was short, opening into a large, natural cavern dominated by a pool of water in the centre. The similarities to the labyrinth beneath Vogel could not be coincidental. Was this some sort of shrine? If so, to which of the things interred beneath Vogel?

  Beside him, Myrrhini touched him on the arm again.

  ‘You can feel it too, can’t you?’ she whispered.

  Slave shook his head.

  ‘How can you not feel the power in this place?’

  ‘How did you know I shook my head?’

  ‘I See everything.’ Myrrhini squeezed his arm, pointing with her free hand at the pond. ‘Can you see that?’

  Slave stared, his eyes widening in disbelief at what was now visible in the pool.

  15

  The forest thinned as they moved further east until they were once more travelling in open plains. The vast Great River of Kings to their right provided water and fish to eat and now that they were far enough away from the Wall, the banks were no longer precipitous. The waters were less brown this far east, with some hint of their crystal-clear glacial origin. Now that he knew where the Revenant was heading, Keshik allowed himself to remember the Kuriltai with its crisp mountain air and the ice-cold waters of the waterfall that supplied its deep wells.

  Set as it was halfway up the western slope of the mountains, the Kuriltai was impervious to frontal attack. It was vulnerable to siege, so its water and food supplies were kept full. With a full complement of Tulugma, the Kuriltai could stay warm, well fed and secure for ten or twelve Crossings easily.

  But now that it was all but deserted, the army of the Revenant would overrun it in days, leaving it a smoking ruin, robbing the world of an age of military secrets.

  The Revenant’s army stretched along the Great River of Kings as far as the eye could see. It marred the earth like an enormous scar. Smoke rose from the scattered remnants of two villages. Even from his vantage point so far west, Keshik could hear the chaotic noise of thousands of people talking at once and smell the stench of their unwashed bodies. However, unlike an army, it had no structure: it lay amorphous and slug-like, slowly oozing its way east.

  ‘Ice and wind,’ Hayde whispered. ‘Look at that.’

  ‘Don’t look at it, see it,’ Keshik chided. ‘Look.’ He pointed. ‘There are no outriders, no scouts, no guards. There are no eating sites, no latrines. No chain of command. That is no army — it is a mob. An insane mob.’

  ‘So, what? Do we just walk down there and start killing them?’

  Keshik allowed himself a thin smile. ‘In effect, yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How does an army respond to a flanking attack?’

  ‘Retaliation.’

  ‘Dead soldiers retaliate?’

  ‘No, obviously. Word is sent to the commanders and a retaliating force is sent out to respond …’ Hayde’s voice trailed away as he started to understand Keshik’s strategy.

  ‘Now do you see why this is not an army?’

  ‘And how we are going to defeat it — yes.’

  Keshik crouched. The sounds of sleep drifted through the unusually still night air. Just beyond the low bushes lay twenty scarred, filthy, stinking members of the Revenant’s army. Behind him, ten Tulugma crouched, waiting for his signal. Slave had explained his strategy and his reasoning clearly, in detail, but it still worried Keshik. He had to admit it made sense according to the teachings of Tulugma himself, but still … He took a deep breath and raised his fist. Silently, the Tulugma arban rose and advanced.

  Keshik led the way, picking his way swiftly across the flattened grass towards the first of the sleeping wretches. It was a man, possibly a father, maybe even a grandfather by the grey in his hair. Across his face, through an eye, were the twin scars. His mouth hung slack in sleep, twitching from time to time as he dreamed.

  What does a madman dream of? Keshik wondered as he cut the man’s throat. The blood, black in the moonlight, flowed smoothly from the wound. Keshik stabbed him through the heart, just to be sure, before moving on to the next sleeping victim.

  The arban was done with their killing in less time than Keshik believed possible, and vanished silently into the night. He led them away from the stinking camp, back to where the rest of the Tulugma waited.

  Slave suddenly appeared by his elbow, like smoke in the dark.

  ‘As I said it would be?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Keshik answered. ‘No one moved, no one noticed.’

  ‘Every night, we can reduce the size of this army, and every day we can harass them. In time, we will destroy them.’

  ‘Tomorrow night I will send out twenty arbans,’ Keshik said.

  ‘But tomorrow, we test their speed in the open ground.’

  ‘But tomorrow this whole thing might end.’

  ‘No,’ Slave assured him, ‘this thing, the beast that leads them, has one aim, and it won’t be bothered with us. Not yet.’

  There were two things that worried Keshik about the exchange: the thought that the Revenant would at any stage bother itself with them and the idea that they could destroy this army ‘in time’. Did they have time? Was there a time limit at all? Keshik went to ask Slave, but the man had already vanished into the night. As he looked around for him, Keshik caught the glint of red eyes staring at him.

  Tatya.

  What was that monster doing here? She followed Slave around with that shambling old barin, like some sort of tame pet, but like no pet Keshik had ever known. The memory of the sound of her tearing the head off a man back in Mollnde was still clear, even after so long. Maida had told him about Tatya’s exploits in the Hidden City and he could not bring himself to trust the spurre shapeshifter. She embodied the chaos the Revenants were bringing back into the world.

  Their horses were restive as they waited, obscured behind a low hillock. The Revenant’s army trudged past, oblivious to anything but their own compulsions, their madness, their hunger. Keshik watched with horror as the Revenant itself walked ahead, pounding the ground with massive feet, flattening, pushing aside anything that stood in its path. It towered above its army, at least three times the size of the biggest warrior, looking neither right nor left in its focus on the mountains so far ahead. Every wretch following in its path showed the same inhuman focus. Drool trickled from many open mouths while vacant stares revealed empty mind
s. Even as he watched, Keshik saw some fall exhausted, only to be trampled underfoot by their fellows. Some followers gnawed on unidentifiable bones or slabs of meat, while others voided their bowels as they walked, with no thought to anything. The stench that rose from the army was indescribable, as was the overall sound they made — a blend of grunts and moans that rose and fell with some melody beneath comprehension or intelligence.

  The army took a long time to pass, but pass it did, leaving detritus and bodies behind. Keshik held the six arbans of skilled mounted warriors in check until the stragglers were nearly a hundred paces ahead. When he was satisfied, he raised then lowered his fist. The sixty horses sprang into motion, breaking into their planned attack formation. Two arbans went left of the column, two right, and the remaining two went straight at the rear. The flanking arbans went at different speeds, one moving ahead of the other to create a long, raking line of archers to harry the outer line while the middle arbans rode low in the saddle at half speed, spears set. They rode in a double-sided blade formation, stretching out to slam into the rear guard like a huge dagger. This would normally be a suicide mission, used only in dire circumstances to disrupt a charging or set opponent, usually executed at full gallop, and never at a retreating force. But this was no ordinary retreating force.

  When the flanking arbans were in position, Keshik lowered his own spear, the signal for the two attacking arbans under his command to move into a dead gallop and the flankers to start firing. He crouched over his horse’s pommel, the smell of the enemy in his nostrils, the fear a knot in his gut, the exultation of the fray in his heart. He could see his arbans out of the corner of his eye, stretching out behind him to his left, keeping perfect formation. Sunlight glinted off steel-tipped spears arrayed like a Lacu’n harvesting machine. In the thrill of approaching combat, time slowed as it so often did, and his senses grew keen. He saw, heard, smelled everything in startling clarity. He heard the slither of arrows slicing through the air as the first volleys were released, he smelled the change in the enemy’s consciousness as they reacted, he saw the first glimmer of understanding dawning on the ranks ahead as their steps faltered, preparing to turn to face their doom.

  When the first volley of arrows landed, they exploded with small puffs of smoke or splatters of fluid as the various chemicals from Camaxtli’s stores released their noxious effects. Poisons spread among the front ranks of the unsuspecting army, causing some to fall dead or scream in pain. Weapons were tossed to the ground as men and women clasped their hands to their faces, trying to shield themselves. A second volley of arrows slammed into the dazed and screaming army. By the time Keshik’s arbans smashed into the fighters, trampling the first rank under churning hooves, dozens were already dead or incapacitated. Keshik raised his swords and drove further in.

  In an instant, he was surrounded by bodies, some falling, some raising weapons, some throwing themselves with manic ferocity at his horse, seeking to slash, kick, bite at the deadly intrusion. Keshik’s spear — bloodied from three kills — snapped as a woman threw herself on its shaft. The sudden weight sent him lurching sideways, allowing another fighter to grab at his arm. He dropped the broken, useless shaft, focusing all his strength on regaining his seat before drawing his sword. Around him, the tide of humanity surged in to flood the attackers. He heard one of his arban scream in horror as his horse was dragged down, to be swarmed by the heaving mass of humanity. The screams were abruptly cut off. Keshik did not allow himself to think about what was going on under that pile of scarred wretches; his mind had to be clear. His arm rose and fell as he chopped at the grasping hands, the snapping teeth, the inexpertly wielded weapons. He swung at a man who was trying to bite his leg despite having had both his arms hacked off. Screaming, drooling people fell with hideous wounds only when the blood loss was so severe that they no longer had the strength to stand.

  Over the screams, he heard the sound of a horn.

  Already?

  Keshik wrenched his horse around and urged it into motion, to retreat, to flee this madness. At first the horse baulked, rising in anger and fear at the crush of bodies, but it was a warhorse trained and skilled, so it drove on, rising to trample, its forelegs lashing out as it cleared a path. Keshik hacked and slashed, driving his horse on with his legs and knees. The raging beast surged, then it was free, as men and women fell aside. Once it was moving, it sprang into as much of a gallop as it could, and they were out, racing free, heading away, back to where the rest of the Tulugma waited.

  The rest of the arbans galloped free. Keshik chanced a glance at them: their numbers were thinned. They had lost some, but there was no chance of going back for the fallen. Once they were down into that mass, there was no hope, but he knew his army had taken more than they had lost. One man — an experienced knife fighter named Ciaran who should have known better — let out a whoop of excitement, but fell silent at Keshik’s glare. The man had broken discipline and would be punished later, but for now, Keshik was glad he had survived. His pleasure was short-lived, however, as the sound had alerted some in the Revenant’s army. With a loud groan, a small band broke away from the main column and shambled with surprising speed after the retreating arbans.

  Keshik pulled his mount out of the gallop and wheeled around. The rest of his arban followed suit, matching his movement with skilful discipline. Without words, they drew swords and galloped back at those advancing on them.

  They cut their enemy down easily, although several Tulugma were distracted, falling more easily to the Revenant’s followers, when one of the horses stepped in a hole and fell, squealing, with a broken leg, catapulting its rider over its head. The Tulugma landed badly and was quickly dealt with. Keshik himself chopped down those tearing into the fallen man. When they were all dead, Keshik led his arban away. He felt no sense of victory, and none of the usual elation of surviving a fight.

  Slave was waiting when they got back to the camp. Tatya was sitting motionless by his side, the big barin looming behind him. Myrrhini was sitting cross-legged beside Slave, opposite Tatya. They all fixed their eyes on Keshik as he approached. The sight of Slave’s disturbing silver eye, Myrrhini’s flaming gaze and the blue-pupilled stare of the spurre was enough to make anyone hesitate, even a swordmaster of the Tulugma.

  Keshik dismounted and led his horse towards his gyrn. Maida was seated by the entry flap, busy sharpening her sword. At the sound of his approach, she rose. A frown crossed her face at the sight of the blood spattered over Keshik’s armour, but it faded as she noted that he was uninjured.

  ‘We need to break camp,’ Keshik said to no one in particular. Hayde, who always seemed to be hovering in earshot of Keshik, heard the order and ran off to pass it on to everyone he came across.

  The camp was dismantled and the army was ready to move in good time. Keshik led them northward, along the banks of the slow-flowing Great River of Kings. On the far side of the river, distantly visible against the blue sky, was a line of dark green trees, the lush forest that followed the river and its precious water. On this, the northern side, the forest was broken and smoking, evidence of the passage of the army of the Revenant. Everywhere lay the detritus of the Revenant’s army — discarded gear, half-eaten scraps, the occasional body left behind to die unnoticed as the mindless push east continued.

  They followed the army for days, staying far enough behind to avoid notice. Three times during each day, Keshik sent arbans forward to harass the enemy. Each time, they came back flushed with excitement, but without their full complement: some Tulugma fell with each encounter. Far fewer than those of the Revenant’s force, it was true, but Keshik had fewer lives to spend. It rankled that anyone who fell was lost, with no chance of survival. The savagery of those under the Revenant’s thrall was unlike anything he had ever seen.

  No, he corrected himself. He had seen its like before — in Slave’s rage.

  When night fell, both groups stopped moving, one to fall into dreamless slumber, the other to prepare for more slau
ghter.

  Keshik, with Hayde and Maida, had organised the arbans into a roster of attacks. Despite her own lack of Tulugma training, Maida led an arban, one composed entirely of Habigga. Their job was to follow after the initial attacks, seeking any who might follow an arban back to the camp; this had already happened several times. Tonight, Maida would be tracking Keshik’s arban with her collection of assassins.

  Keshik tightened the straps on his armour, checking for anything that might rattle or slip. Ciaran approached with eyes deferentially low. Keshik scowled at him, but did not send him away.

  ‘Keshik,’ Ciaran said. ‘I let you down before.’

  Keshik grunted, continuing to check his armour.

  ‘I am Tusemon by birth, but Rilaman by choice,’ Ciaran went on. ‘I wish to make amends for my failure.’

  ‘You have been disciplined — it is forgotten.’

  ‘It is not forgotten.’

  ‘You are questioning my word?’

  ‘Not yours,’ Ciaran said quickly. ‘But the others in our arban have not forgotten.’

  ‘We lost a man through your lack of discipline, what do you expect?’

  ‘I want to ride at your side when we engage the enemy tonight.’

  Keshik hesitated, weighing up the man’s request. The arban was arranged around a structure which was adhered to rigorously. The discipline was their strongest weapon against the chaos of the Revenant’s force. To change the structure simply to ease one man’s conscience was unnecessary, but Ciaran was a good fighter. He had not seen much action, spending most of his life so far cloistered in the Kuriltai, but he did learn quickly.

  ‘No,’ Keshik said, coming to a decision.

  Ciaran’s face fell. He began to walk away but Keshik grabbed his arm. ‘The arban is working well, I don’t want to change the structure, but we can exchange places. You lead us into battle. I will follow you.’

  Ciaran shot Keshik a glare that he could only read as simple rage, but bowed in acceptance of his leader’s order before turning to walk away. Keshik considered his decision. The change was not large, it was simply a new position for each fighter. The arban was well organised and a different face at the lead would not compromise the structure in the way that a second person riding beside the leader would. The riders all knew the way the arban functioned and would carry out their tasks no matter who rode ahead. So what was Ciaran angry about? Keshik dismissed the question — it did not matter as long as Ciaran did his job.