by Ellis Knox
The goblin reached back with one long arm, to sweep the man’s head from his shoulders. Her white blade slashed and the one long arm dropped to the ground. She spun and slashed again, cutting the beast open. She stood a mere two feet from the man. She spoke to him close and low as if confiding a secret.
“Get off the wall,” she said, then she ran on.
The silence of her charge dissolved and now she heard shouts and screams and curses, the clang and clash of battle. Her glance flicked along the length of the wall; goblins were landing every few feet.
From well up ahead she saw five goblins swept off the wall by a great wind. From behind she heard thunder. But she also saw a Roman soldier die screaming beneath bloody claws. She charged onward, cutting down goblins as she came to them. Too late, too late. The words came to her in Leuva’s voice.
She came to one of the platforms that bolstered the wall every few hundred feet. Goblins were everywhere now, but the platform was being defended by five Therving warriors and four Roman soldiers, along with two terrified civilians who cowered in the center. The worst attacks were coming from ahead and from below as more leaped up. She whirled around to defend but there were no goblins, only the matron, puffing hard.
“Get off the wall!” Inglena shouted, though she knew the nearest stairs were a hundred yards away or more. The woman would not survive. Too late.
Inglena turned and charged onto the platform. After some quick work, the area was cleared, but worse was ahead.
“Follow me,” she called.
She did not look back, or she would have seen no one followed her. The others could not had they tried, for more goblins swarmed over. Inglena entered her tunnel of silence again. She heard nothing but her own breath, felt nothing but her heartbeat, saw nothing but goblins, endlessly. Her white sword danced, weightless in her hand and her white deerskin was drenched in blood.
More goblins came over the wall. Her progress slowed, then stopped, and all she could do was fight in place. Her shadow grew longer, her reflexes slowed, and even the dancing white sword moved more slowly. And still the goblins came.
She was sunk deep in fighting. Her muscles threaded in pain she ignored. She felt invincible as she moved back and forth along the wall, wherever goblins landed. She was still feeling invincible when one crashed into her.
The blow knocked her sideways. She swung, a little too late and with too little force. The blade bit deep into the creature’s shoulder and stuck there. She crashed into the wall at the same time, and lost her grip. The goblin reared up, blood squirting from neck and chest, then tumbled forward between the merlons. Inglena grabbed for the sword and caught it just as the goblin pitched over the side. The force pulled her forward. Half her body hung over the side. For an instant, sword, goblin and warrior perched above a mountain of corpses, then the goblin twisted, the sword tore loose. Inglena held it by her fingertips.
Trembling, she eased herself backward, secured her grip. She started to get to her feet but her legs betrayed her and she slid to the ground. She looked to one side and saw packs of goblins, too many to count, bounding toward her.
“Stay down!”
A girl appeared before her. Inglena saw black hair, blue eyes, then she was blinded by light. She heard a great roar and felt heat on her flesh. The sound went on, breath after breath, heartbeat after heartbeat. Then it stopped.
Inglena opened her eyes. The girl was standing, swaying like a sapling in a wind. There was a smell of fire and burning metal. She looked to the side. Smoke rose from blackened goblin corpses.
“Queen Inglena?”
A young girl she did not know stood before her. No older than fourteen or fifteen, just in the year between girl and woman, her dark skin and mass of curly black hair declared her to be Roman, not Therving.
“Did you make that magic?” Inglena asked, remembering not to call it sorcery.
The girl looked uneasy, then spoke in a small voice as if revealing a secret.
“Yes,” she said to her feet.
“Fire is good,” Inglena said. “You did a good thing. What is your name?”
“Aletha, respected madam. Aletha of Epirus.”
Madam? Inglena felt a single jab of being old, like a bee sting in the stomach.
“Call me Inglena and I’ll call you Aletha,” she said, “and we’ll find out together who is respected, yes?”
The girl looked up. Her smile was quick but heartening.
“Can you show me?”
Aletha nodded then, before Inglena could protest, scrambled onto a crenel.
“Be careful!” she cried. The girl was perched between the merlons at the very edge, like a hawk against the sky.
“It’s all right,” the girl called back, “I’m not afraid.”
But I am! Inglena thought. She swallowed hard. She told her feet to move, to climb up after the girl and fetch her back down, but she could not move, fearing she might cause the girl to go over the side.
Aletha held her arms out, hands close together. She began to sing, or chant, or perhaps it was only a wail, rising and falling in tone and volume. A few feet beyond her fingertips, flames appeared. They danced like a campfire in mid-air, then plummeted forty feet to land on goblins below. Scattered cheers rang out, but Aletha turned to Inglena and said, “I can do better.”
She did not wait for a reply. She faced outward again, and again her voice rose and fell. She sounded more confident this time, but all Inglena could think was come down, please come down.
Well out from the wall came an explosion. A ball of yellow flame appeared, as large as a wagon, then dropped like a stone with an eerie whirring sound. Cries of wonder turned to even greater cheers.
Aletha looked back and down at Inglena. She was frowning.
“That wasn’t right either. I try again.”
A third time Aletha stretched out her arms. A third time her crying song rose, even higher this time, though not as loud. She held a note. Her voice wavered in a tremolo, then her body shivered. She weaved dangerously on her perch.
“No,” Inglena whispered. She reached out, but still her feet would not move.
Then fire poured from the girl’s hands like water, mere inches from the wall, an orange waterfall. Aletha weaved back and forth and still the fire poured out from her hands. Inglena bounded forward. She grabbed Aletha by her tunic even as the girl was leaning far out into thin air. She planted her feet and yanked. Both women fell backward onto the walkway.
The song stopped. The fire stopped. Inglena could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. She was on her back, looking up at the soft blue sky with great mountains of white clouds moving slowly across it.
Her heart continued to race, and icy jolts darted through her limbs. This lasted only moments, then she heard voices. Feet approaching. Face above her. She made herself roll over and pushed herself to her feet.
“You see?” Aletha said. “I said I could.” She was out of breath, but proud. Cautiously, Inglena looked over the side.
Below her, ugly red flames were running up and down the mountain of bodies. The girl had set the whole thing on fire.
Cheers rang out, far and near.
Word spread faster than the fire, and orders ran quicker still. Bring wood. Bring oil. Bring whatever will burn. Over the side with it boys. No, not there, just here where the devils are piled deepest.
Soon, citizens had started their own bonfires and flames climbed into the afternoon sky at four points along the walls of Constantinople. They leaped like goblins from the bodies of goblins, and the Horde fell back before the heat.
Some looked up at the reddened sky, at the twisting columns of black smoke, and shuddered, remembering Hadrianopolis. Most, though, were too busy with their frantic labor, their tired bodies driven by a wild hope. The goblins that had been at the very edge of overwhelming Constantine’s mighty walls would be turned to ash. The gates—holes in those mighty walls—were being sealed with sand, a gift from the sea that had gi
ven so much to the City. The world was slowly being turned upright again.
So they worked without rest, barely pausing to look skyward, to note the sun setting behind heavy clouds coming in low from the Euxine Sea. Their ears tuned to the sound of fire and did not hear the Horde going to sleep. Night came on and the bonfires of Constantinople clawed at black clouds.
The sun lowered westward, throwing long shadows among the goblins, so that the ground everywhere turned dark, like a black, troubled sea under heavy clouds. Here and there, buildings stood up like islands, their sandstone glowing orange in the leaping fires. The Horde had drawn back from the heat; their milling shapes made black rivers of the streets.
The fires drove the defenders from the walls. For the most part, soldiers, warriors and non-combatants alike stood no closer than a block away, watching red and orange dance in the sky, as if the world had become a hearth.
Further back, the City was alive with torches, its streets busy. Wagons clattered from the sea walls to the land walls, laden with every sort of combustible. All across the City, houses and shops stood open to feed the workers and soldiers, tending their wounds, even offering beds for sleep. Everywhere, runners brought messages, the City Guard (now fully under the authority of a certain innkeeper) walked in patrol.
In one of the houses, Marcus and Inglena lay on a makeshift bed. Both were naked, partly from the heat of the day, partly from their own heat, for they had just made love. It had happened of its own accord, almost without desire. They had come into the room together, disrobed, and fell into each other’s arms without a word. It was a warding, an incantation of bodies against the horror of the world outside. Now they were spent, too tired to worry, too tired to fear, secure for the moment, because they were together. If the world were to come through the door, it must take them both.
For a long time they lay unmoving in the darkness, only their fingers touching. Marcus spoke first.
“Something will fail,” he said, speaking to the ceiling.
“My warriors are ready,” Inglena said. Her voice was as soft, and as strong, as silk. “It was all I could do, this morning, to keep Thrasimund from charging out to an honorable death.”
“The gates, most likely. If the fire gets up into the beams, a whole tower could collapse. The Gate of Atalos is the weakest.”
“Warriors are stronger than walls,” she said. “Those were his words.”
“It has the most wood inside,” he said.
“Marcus,” Inglena said, and she turned on her side to face him. “Constantinople has the strongest walls I have ever seen.”
“Strongest in the world,” he replied. “And the goblins have the strongest army I have ever seen.”
“It is not an army,” she said, “it is a Horde.”
He turned to face her. She put her hand to his cheek and stroked his black beard.
“Your beard grows long,” she said, smiling.
“Hasn’t been cut since Duros,” he said.
“We must have it trimmed, when the fighting is done. I think I prefer it trimmed.”
“Something will fail,” he said again.
She touched her fingers to his lips. “Then we will fight in the streets.”
He took her hand in his. Even in the darkness he could see her eyes. Two stars shining.
“Yes,” he said. “We will fight in the streets.”
He heard her sigh. The two stars vanished. Marcus closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
A Coracle in the Reeds
After the fire at the villa, Julian became relentless. He rose before the sun and would not stop until darkness hid his steps. He chose to travel on open ground, for they could move more quickly there, but with each day more goblins appeared and they had to hide more often. If they got close, he had Avitus hold hands with Petra on one side and him on the other. Petra kept her hand on the dog, but whether Bucephalus was also invisible they could not say. In the event, no packs came near.
He knew he was pushing them. He could feel it in Avitus’ faltering grip, see it in Petra’s stumbling gait at day’s end. He told himself it could not be helped, there was no time.
Neither child nor slave complained. Petra’s eyes, when she looked at him, were wide, filled with some mixture of awe and fear, as if she looked upon a madman. He supposed he might be one.
He had seen men gripped by gambling madness, as their money slipped away, followed by possessions and property. As they made ever larger, more desperate bets, their faces took on the sheen of madness—sweating flesh, glowing eyes, lips glistening from being licked. Was that now his face? He wiped his cheeks, and his palm came away damp.
But the gambler could always choose. He could walk away and no one would die, however great the catastrophe. Julian, though, had no choices. He had only a path. There were to be no more families slaughtered.
Each night, Avitus sat with his head down, wrists on his knees, his hands dangling like limp flags. He had no strength left, yet every morning, he somehow found it again. The girl, too, trudged behind, brave and grim. Each night she leaned into her sturdy dog, falling asleep at once.
They will have to keep up.
When Julian slept, goblins raced through his dreams. Rullianus stood before him, blood pouring from his belly as he recited all the things Julian ought to have done differently. It took most of the night.
When at last the four reached Constantinople on another bright, hot morning, they stared for long minutes, too tired to understand what they were seeing.
They stood at the edge of a low cliff about a mile from the Sixth Hill. Julian saw the vermilion tent, draped like a shroud over something—a stable, perhaps. Why would they take that? Again the thought that the Gniva possessed a human intelligence troubled Julian’s thoughts.
The Horde washed against the City’s walls like some dark tidal flood. Smoke trailed heavy and black here and there. Julian forced himself to pay attention. Something was wrong.
“Avi, look there.” He pointed. He tried not to notice how Avitus had to drag his head up to look.
“I see the Horde, master.”
Julian was too tired to be impatient. “Look closely, there near the Tower of Saturn.”
“Lots of goblins there,” Avitus said.
“They’re going over,” Petra said. Julian glanced at her. She was leaning forward, her hand shading her eyes.
“That’s what I see too,” he said. “The wall is breached.” He had to drag the words up his throat.
At their feet, the mountains fell steeply away into a valley, at the bottom of which lay the headwaters of the Golden Horn. The pines which had sheltered them for the past days gave way to tangles of gorse and berry bushes, which in turn yielded to a carpet of rushes at the bottom.
Julian viewed the scene for a long time without speaking. Petra started to say something twice; each time, Avitus hushed her. With a shy look at the slave, she reached out and tugged at Julian’s sleeve.
Julian pointed toward the blue water of the Golden Horn. “We go that way.”
“On a ship?” she asked, eagerly.
“Something like that,” he said. “We’d best get going. Getting down there is going to take some doing.”
They scrambled down the steep slope, the need for silence vying with the need for haste. Julian slid for much of the way, grabbing onto stumps and bushes to keep the slide from becoming a tumble. The dog was first down, followed by Petra, then Avitus. Julian took the lead again once they were at the bottom. The near-vertical, rocky ground became horizontal and muddy almost at once. The hawthorn and gooseberry and scrub grass turned to cattails and lily pads and papyrus. Julian gathered the others to him.
“We need to stay close together,” he told them, “or we’ll lose each other in these reeds. All we need do now is find a boat.”
Petra nodded, though she had never seen a boat. Bucephalus was busy examining small bubbles that surfaced through the mud.
“This wa
y.”
They searched for an hour. Midges bit at them, and clouds of gnats descended on them like speckled fog. The soft ground pulled at their feet and Petra lost a sandal. She was furious, not because she had lost a shoe but because she had lost a prize. “I found those,” she declared, though in fact she had stolen them from a farm. “They’re mine.” She dug all around, but could not recover it. Giving up at last, she removed the other sandal and grasped it firmly in one hand. “You won’t get this one, you,” she told the marsh.
Not far away, Julian called out, “I found our boat,” and everyone came over.
It was a round cup of a vessel, about five feet across, with a pole stuck into the mud and a plaited grass rope securing it to the pole. Petra looked at Julian and wrinkled her nose.
“That ain’t big enough,” she said.
“Yes it is,” Julian said. “It’s just right.”
“You won’t fit,” Petra said.
“Remember? I’m not going,” Julian said.
“I can’t go alone,” she said.
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll have the dog.”
“But I can’t row!” She drew the last word out into a wail.
“You won’t have to.” Julian got down on one knee so his eye was level with hers. Bucephalus drew close, as if to be included. Flies buzzed furiously.
“You are going to get into that boat. Stay close to shore, but not too close. The current will move you along. You can use the pole to guide and to push away if you need to. When you get near the City, you will see the docks. They’re big wooden platforms and there will be other boats tied up to them. Go there. Once on shore, tell people you want to see the City Prefect. Have you got that so far?”
Petra nodded, her face solemn. “Go in the boat to the docks. Find the City Prefect.”
“Very good!”
“I’m scared, Julian,” she glowered at him. “I ain’t stupid.”
Julian smiled. “Of course you aren’t. You are the smartest girl I’ve met.”