by Ellis Knox
Something of Julian’s old charm shone through, for the girl smiled in return.
She did so, but she kept stealing glances at the tiny boat.
“Tell him I am going to kill the Gniva.”
“The what?”
Julian grimaced and looked at Avitus. “No one will know the word, unless some of Inglena’s people managed to reach Constantinople.” He looked back to Petra.
“Tell him I am going to kill the leader of the goblins.”
“All right,” she said. “Who is Inglena?”
“She’s …” he faltered. “… a woman I know.”
“Oh?”
“A princess.”
“Oh. Like in the stories?”
“Not like in any story. They will write whole new stories about her.”
Petra gave a smile Julian thought was much too knowing for her years. “Never mind that,” he said. “What matters is that message. It is important.”
“Truly?”
“Most seriously truly. Everything may depend on it, which means everything may depend on you.” He paused for effect, but she looked away again, to the coracle.
“And I have to depend on that.”
Bucephalus interrupted them with a low growl.
“We can’t stay,” Avitus said in a whisper. Julian nodded. The dog might have growled at nothing more than herons or a fox, but goblins would be around sooner or later. Julian lifted Petra into the coracle. He had no idea how he would lift the dog, but Bucephalus solved the problem by leaping in himself. His landing nearly capsized the boat. It shipped water, but stayed upright. With much effort they moved the coracle through the cattails and into open water. Julian made her repeat her instructions, which she did flawlessly and a little impatiently. Then she threw her arms around his neck and said, “Be careful. Don’t die.”
“Don’t you worry, my brave girl. I have it all planned out.”
He set her back into the coracle, gave her a big wink, then pushed the boat firmly away. The stream’s current soon caught it and she sailed away into the golden afternoon sun, the coracle rotating slowly.
“She’ll be all right,” Julian said to himself.
“She’ll be all right,” Avitus said.
Julian lingered for a final wave before turning and plunging toward the indistinct shore.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Thunder
A crash woke Marcus.
“What was that?”
“Thunder,” Inglena said. She lay her hand against his cheek. “Only thunder.”
Still clouded by sleep, he raised his head. The sound boomed again and he was reassured. Deep, rolling thunder he could feel in his chest. He smiled in the dim light. Dawn, then. Or was it later than that? He sat up suddenly.
“Only thunder again, love.”
“No. I mean, I know. But is it late?”
Inglena sat up as well. “I … I’m not sure.” There was daylight somewhere, without a doubt, but with the clouds it was hard to tell.
“Let’s get up. I’m rested enough.”
In truth, Marcus felt good. There was something to be said for falling asleep from exhaustion. He felt good enough to kiss Inglena playfully as they dressed. She stroked his neck in return.
“You must stop that, Marcus, or I shall never get dressed.”
“I would not be sorry,” he said, and he kissed her again. She did not pull away.
Thunder sounded again, this time in a loud crash that came from right overhead. The two lovers broke apart.
“All right, all right!” Marcus said, only a little angry. “The gods have spoken!”
Inglena giggled, but they both finished getting dressed. By the time they strapped on their weapons, their mood had become serious.
They stepped outside and were instantly drenched. Rain battered down in huge drops that set up a steady, rapid drumming against the tiled courtyard. Marcus grimaced; he should have been outside sooner. He could still feel her touch against his skin.
Not today. The thought floated wispy and desperate. I will not lose her this day.
Something crashed that was not thunder. It was too sharp, too fragmented. Inglena shook her head in incomprehension, but Marcus knew at once.
“The wall!” he shouted, and broke into a fast trot.
“What is it,” Inglena called, running after him.
Marcus shook his head. “Gather your fighters,” was all he said.
Thunder rolled and, within it, another sharp explosion. Near the Lycus, it sounded like. A horrible sound followed, a deep rumble, like a landslide. Men’s voices cried out. Thunder boomed again.
Marcus sped even faster. I will not lose her today.
A minute later he saw it. Along a fifty foot length the wall had collapsed. The machiolation was gone, the parapet was gone, the soldiers were gone. In its place, an ugly sag, a wide U shape in the wall, filled now with steam and smoke, brick and rubble protruding from its sides like bones from a wound. At its deepest, the breach was no more than ten feet above the street.
Soldiers had already gathered on the open ground nearby. Marcus spotted a tribune.
“Plautus! Take ten men and get repair parties organized. Go up the Atalos Tower and work from the west side. I’ll take the east side. Use whatever you can lay hands on, just throw it in there! Fill now, fix it later.”
Plautus did not argue or question. Eleven good Roman soldiers ran off to do what should need a hundred. There are more soldiers already on duty, Marcus told himself. They will do all they can. He turned to Inglena, who had just arrived and was standing open-mouthed.
“Inglena, your people need to defend. Stay on the streets, chase down all who get through. Block off the streets if you can. Understand?”
Rain darkened her clothes and slicked down her hair. “Block the streets. Kill any who get through,” she said.
Not today. “That’s it. Those stones are still hot from the fires—you see the steam. Goblins won’t come through for a little while yet. We’ll get this patched up. This is Roman work. We know how to do this.”
She nodded. He couldn’t tell if she believed him, but there was no time. He signaled to his men and headed for the stairs.
The breach was a quarter mile west of the Saturn Tower. By the time he reached the edge of the collapse, goblins were already trying to get through, but the heat was intense and the smoke was overpowering. Marcus got as close as he could, which was near to the crumbling edge of the walkway, but he had to retreat again. With that heat, no one was going to be able to get down in there for a while, but nothing was going to get through, either.
Even as he thought this, a goblin hurtled out from the smoke and crashed to the street below. It twitched a few times then died without being able to get to its feet. At least it caused the civilians to scatter. Thervings moved in and occupied the space.
Marcus shook his head in disbelief for a moment, then realized that if these monsters would jump into water and drown, over and over again, it was not unreasonable to think they would pass through fire just as blindly. But if they came on like a flood, then he would just have to build a dam. He turned back to the men following him.
“Get every civilian you can. Tell them to bring anything stone you can find. Anything metal as well. Tear down walls, tear up streets. Anything is permitted. Get a steady supply coming up here. You men will need to direct the traffic, or these know-nothings will be walking on top of each other. One line up, one down, pile the stones along the inner side. Gather the ten strongest men and bring them to me. They’ll be the ones actually throwing the stones down.”
And hurry, he added silently, knowing they did not need to hear it.
Another goblin vaulted through the smoke. He saw it more plainly and realized the smoke was clearing, as was the steam. He had longed for rain since July, but now it came as an ally of the enemy. The pile was cooling. More goblins would be coming.
While the goblins tested the breach, seemingly at random, Marcus o
rganized work gangs and the first stones were tossed into the rubble. The wall was so thick, even its collapse left it fifteen feet high or so. Men and women worked in a frenzy to regain every foot possible. Soon, though, far too soon, the attack came. The Horde became a living spear hurled at the City’s open wound.
Fighting and building now took place simultaneously. Some brought stones, beams, even furniture. A team of men were busy dismantling a catapult and throwing the pieces into the opening. One brought the wheel of a wagon, wrestling it up the stairs of the tower, then rolling it to the point where the wall had collapsed. Everything went in, and if one struck a goblin, that was a bonus. At the same time, the archers threw spears, for the rain had made their bows nearly useless.
Goblins got through, nevertheless. The charged, leaped, died. The early deaths paved over the coals of the pyre, giving passage to others, and the rain fell in curtains. A pack made it through, and was cut down on the street below by Therving warriors. Then more came, and still more, and the warriors’ numbers dwindled. After a quarter hour, a hundred goblins were loose in the streets of Constantinople. A half hour after that, it was a thousand.
“Pardon me, sir, this fellow says he needs to see you.” One of the soldiers had returned. Next to him stood a thin, ropey fellow in what was obviously borrowed clothes and an absurdly tall fur hat. A Therving. “I wouldn’t a’bothered you, First, but he says he can help. Think he’s one of them rixen.”
The Therving ducked his head. “Is Commanding Marcus?”
“Can you help?”
“Can I help.”
“He means ….” The soldier started to say.
“I know what he means. Get back to your job, Grevius, and thank you. I’ll handle this one.” He turned to the Therving.
“Your name?”
“Is Yangi. Five Rivers.” He waggled the fingers of one hand.
“What can you do?”
“This.” He stretched out his arms with the left crossed over the right, then looked at Marcus and nodded. He had very big eyes, which made him look too much like a puppy. The wet hair hanging in strands added to the image.
Marcus felt time trickling by like sweat down his back.
“What does this do? Be quick. I’m fighting a battle here.”
“Wall.”
“Yes, the wall is broken.”
Yangi swept his crossed arms upward and said again, more firmly, “wall.”
“You can build a wall?”
“Make. Short time.”
“Only lasts a short time? No matter, I’ll take it. You make your wall out here,” he patted the outer wall where it had broken—the stones were still warm—and gestured toward the other side. “As high as this. From down there, up to here.” He pointed with exaggerated motions, as if he were explaining to a child.
“Yes,” Yangi said. “Yes, that.”
Marcus took a breath. “Do it.”
Immediately, Yangi sat down and began taking off his boots.
“Oh gods and devils,” Marcus muttered, but he refrained from interrupting. He made himself look away and turned his attention to the breach once more.
Rain poured down as heavy as ever. Through the sheets, he could now make out the other side and was gratified to see that Plautus already had men at work over there. He was chagrined that he’d beat him, but a moment later he heard voices behind him. He turned and there came his own work crew—tall, wide men, two of them shirtless, one with just a tunic, all of them built like blacksmiths. They were carrying their own rocks.
Marcus just pointed. The men came up to the edge, let go their burden, and turned back to where a pile of rocks was already accumulating. No skill was needed. This was simply filling a hole. One of the men, having thrown an enormous cube of limestone with arm and shoulder, glanced over at Yangi.
“Who’s he, then?”
Yangi, having removed his boots, stood barefooted on the wet stone of the walkway. He held his arms out again, crossed, in front of his belly. He leaned against the broken merlon next to the gap.
“Likely to fall, he keeps doin’ that.”
“He’s one of the rixen,” Marcus said, intending that to be the explanation.
“Barbarian sorcerer? Ain’t seen one of them. They all little fellas?”
“Just keep the stones coming, citizen,” Marcus said.
He stayed near the breach, partly to keep the work going smoothly, but partly in case a goblin happened to gain purchase on the wall itself. He had his sword out for that event. All the while, he kept glancing at Yangi.
The rixen was slowly raising his arms. He stamped about with his feet, or shouldered into the wall, then re-crossed his arms, right over left now, and raised his arms a little. More fussing, then left over right, and a little higher. Marcus wanted to tell him to just raise his damned arms straight up, but didn’t dare do anything that might break the spell. Or the concentration. Or whatever it was that happened with rixen magic. He hated depending on something he could neither understand nor control. He took a new grip on his sword, just to feel something solid.
Then, to his surprise, a goblin came up from the pile below and instead of leaping through the gap, bounced back. There was no thud, no sound, and certainly no wall. It just came up and caromed off. More came through, but then they began to bounce off as well. A cheer went up from the men.
“Keep working!” Marcus shouted. He heard the same shout from Plautus.
Yangi’s arms were now above his head, roughly at the height of the top of the merlon. No more stamping around, no more criss-crossing. He stood motionless, except his arms wavered a bit. Marcus took a guess.
“Hurry!” he urged his workers. “As fast as you can. He can’t keep that wall up for long!”
Yangi held his position for longer than Marcus dared hope. After five minutes, his arms began trembling. After ten minutes, his legs were trembling too. Marcus wanted to prop him up, give encouragement, anything, but still dared do nothing.
Goblins bounced off the invisible wall as steadily as the rain. How many goblins had got through? Hundreds? Not thousands, but more than dozens. In his heart, Marcus offered the sacrifice of a white bull if Mars would let the rest of the city wall hold.
With a wrenching groan, Yangi fell. He pitched forward and had Marcus not caught him, would have fallen into the breach. The man trembled violently in Marcus’ grasp. He eased Yangi to a sitting position and called for water.
Goblins came through again, but not so many. Stones were filling the gap, but now as many were rolling outward or inward as were stacking up. The patch needed bracing.
Marcus knelt beside the Therving. He took one hand. It was ice-cold to the touch.
“Yangi,” he said, “Yangi, listen to me. You have to try again. I need more time,” but the rixen did not respond. Marcus stood up.
“Bring up timbers. We need to brace the gap.”
“Already got some, First,” a voice further down the wall called out. “More’s coming. We’ve got the engineers and the masons as well.”
A sharp crack sounded from somewhere further down the wall. Marcus knew at once what it was—the wall was breaking down. Again the rain was the enemy, for the torrent of cool water on hot stone was accelerating the process. He pictured water seeping into cracks like fingers. The City’s defense was being torn apart by water from heaven and monsters from hell. Another splintering sound, seconds long, came from behind. How are we supposed to repair all the breaches? He shook his head. One problem at a time.
“You hear that?” Marcus said as he knelt again. “We’re ready. But we can’t put men in there because the goblins will just kill them. They need protection. One more wall. Please. I beg you as a comrade.”
Yangi gave a shuddering sigh. “Tired,” he said. He raised his arms and let them flop.
“We’re all tired, brother. Are you too tired to die? Because that’s what we’ll all be doing, if we don’t get this patched up. You have to do it now; there is no later.�
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He was not at all sure the barbarian understood all that, but Yangi did nod. He did get to his feet. He did cross his arms. The rest would have to be on trust.
“All right men, down we go.”
Twenty Romans descended into an oven of stone and steam. They turned to fight the goblins, but the monsters rebounded off Yangi’s wall.
Marcus put them to work helping the engineers.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Forum of the Ox
Inglena slipped on the wet marble surface of the street, hit hard, and bounced back up, rubbing her hip. She took off at a run again, trying to catch the goblin pack up ahead. The rain came down so hard, she felt she was pushing her way through a curtain. One of the dark shapes ahead slipped and fell, and she grinned fiercely before she killed it.
She and her people had been able to contain the goblins when they came through only in packs, but then hundreds of goblins had poured through the breach, so many so quickly, her makeshift cordon of Therving warriors was quickly overwhelmed. The goblins went off in every direction. There was no battle to fight, no line to hold.
This was all right with her. This running down streets was not so far different from running down paths, with buildings as trees. This was individual combat, the kind of fighting she knew, the kind of fighting her Therving warriors loved best, though they would have wished for horses.
Around her she caught glimpses of ordinary people trying to fight goblin packs. Despite the claws and the teeth, despite the terror they must feel, these people, some people, were trying to fight back. In one alley she saw a cart painted a cheery blue with yellow stars on it. It was overturned, and people hung out from balconies, hurling pans and bricks down upon two goblins that were tearing at it. The monsters leaped up the side of one building, fell back down, and left the alley. Inglena slashed one with her sword. It veered away, limping badly. The people in the window cheered. She waved back, then began running, calling out to her Thervings to follow.
The City itself funneled the goblins’ onrush. Buildings blocked their way, even people blocked their way, and the goblins took the easiest route, surging into the widest streets.