by Ellis Knox
Julian charged. The blade went in up to the hilt. Die!
The Gniva did not die. It twisted violently at the blow, arms flailing, throwing Julian to the side.
He hit the ground hard. His arm felt as if it were shattered. His head rang for a long moment. Where was the Gniva? He saw dirt, rolled over, and saw sky. He tried to scramble up, but his nerveless arm betrayed him and he managed to get only to one knee.
The Gniva was doing some sort of mad, ghastly dance. It leaped and whirled, ran a few steps, then whirled again. Each time, blood flew from the creature in crimson globs of spray. It ran five steps, clawed futilely at its open wound, then whirled again.
The sword lay on the ground nearby. Goblins stood watching, seemingly unwilling to approach, or unsure of what to do.
The Gniva stopped its movement and shuddered, then it turned to face Julian. It stumped forward, fighting for balance. Julian froze.
Come on, you. I’m dead. Easy prey. Just a little closer. I still have a knife, and one arm that works.
A rush of movement behind the Gniva, and there was Avitus, brandishing his slim Scythian knife. He leaped onto the Gniva’s back and began to stab wildly.
The beast threw him off. Julian shouted, managed to get to his feet, but he was too late. He was in time only to see the long arm arc high, like the sweep of a scythe, Avitus beneath.
His sword lay in the dirt. Julian snatched it up. He knew he was shouting and probably weeping, but he heard nothing but his own ragged breath. The Gniva had its back to him, leaning over Avitus. Its arm scythed again.
Julian closed and swung low, slicing deep, just behind the knee. The Gniva lurched and went down on its side, twisting. Julian plunged the sword into its chest, putting all his weight into the blow, aiming for the heart. The Gniva spasmed and went still. Julian left the sword in place. He stood and looked around him. Goblins were all around, but at a distance. They seemed unreal to him, like shadows.
Avitus lay nearby, curled on his side as if sleeping. Julian rushed to him and knelt. Avitus’ eyes were open wide. His breath came in shallow, quick breaths.
“Is it dead?” His voice rasped horribly.
Julian nodded. “You killed it.”
“Liar.” Avitus groped with one hand. Julian took it and held it gently. There was no strength in it.
“I cannot make us disappear,” Avitus said.
“That’s all right,” Julian said. “We’re done now. It’s dead.”
“Me too,” Avitus said. He might have tried for a smile, but a sudden pain made his face contort. His eyes closed tight. A deep shudder passed through him. Then his eyes opened again. They were clear, without pain.
“Say the words,” Avitus said.
“I free you, Avitus.”
This time, he did indeed smile, a wan, frail thing barely perched on his face. His lips moved, but Julian could not hear what he said. The light went from Avitus’ eyes, his hand slipped away, and he was still.
As if in salute, Roman horns sounded three quick blasts. The sound, now much nearer, gave strength to Julian’s limbs. He stood up and flexed the fingers of his right hand. It was working again.
Good, he thought, dully.
Still the other goblins hung back. Julian took three steps to the fallen Gniva and the creatures retreated. He pulled out the sword, exulting in the bitter blood that welled out. He raised his sword.
Something hit him from behind. Hard, as if a tree had struck him. He pitched forward. He saw earth and sky rotate past, and for an instant he was on a hill in Dacia, tumbling from his horse. This time, he thought, I’ll pull my sword.
Didn’t he already have his sword? He couldn’t feel it. Where was his arm?
He lay on his back. Above him, enormous white clouds stood like mountains with gray bellies. There was no fog. That was long ago. Before Avi died.
“Little bird,” he said, or tried to say. His voice might have been lost in the other sounds. Trumpets. Soldiers shouting. He even heard the ragged cries of Therving warriors.
His view was obscured by the narrow face of a goblin, and then Julian understood. He’d been felled. Struck from behind. The creature raised one arm. Blood dripped from its talons as if to testify to the fact. Julian tried to roll away, but his body would not obey. He felt no pain, only a limp immobility, like a jellyfish on a beach. This thing has killed me, he thought. Well, well.
He felt himself sliding, going down a long glass hill. No handholds. He hoped he would reach the bottom before those bloody claws tore into him.
Then, an odd thing happened, a thing so surprising he clung for a moment at the edge of the long slide: the goblin’s head came off. It sprang up and to the side, and the goblin’s body crumpled. Above and behind, a woman wielded a magnificent white sword. All around her, dark shapes teemed, but she struck left and right and no claw touched her, and no blood stained the sword as it worked.
Julian clung to the edge, even though the glass of the hill had turned to ice and was melting under his fingers. This was his vision, but it had turned backward. He was supposed to save the beautiful princess, beset on all sides. You fool, Julian, you got the ending wrong.
But no, he was remembering the vision. That princess had blonde hair. Surrounded by a sea of dark shapes.
He gazed at the blue sky and the white clouds with their gray bellies, and he saw Inglena with her gleaming sword, and of course her hair was black.
He let go, and fell forever.
When Inglena had reached the top of the Sixth Hill she looked wildly around for the Gniva. Blood covered her beautiful horse. Its hair was mottled and smeared. Her own clothes were still mostly white at the shoulders, but her leggings were the same dark red as the horse.
Goblins covered the summit, swirling like dark snow driven by a whirlwind. Many were leaving, mostly toward the City, but several bands charged at her. She cut them down steadily, moving forward over a carpet of bodies.
Her attackers began to pull back, and she saw the Gniva plainly. Her heart flamed up, for the monster was facing away from her. She would ride it down.
A little beyond the Gniva, she saw Julian. He was just getting to his feet. In a single heartbeat he advanced and stabbed the Gniva, then went flying. The monster advanced on Julian. Crying out, Inglena charged, even as she saw the Gniva spinning, flailing wildly, blood spraying from its chest.
Then she lost sight of them. Goblins closed in around her and she had all she could do to battle them. She caught a single glimpse of the Gniva falling to the ground. She screamed in fearsome glee, and goblins died all around her, under the white sword.
She fought her way forward. The mass of goblins parted and she saw. The Gniva lay unmoving. A red madness swept over her. She leaped forward and ran her sword into its chest over and over. Only the sight of Julian getting to his feet stopped her.
Avitus lay at Julian’s feet. A goblin struck Julian from behind. He spun and fell. Blood gouted from his back.
She cried out and sprang forward. Nothing was easier than taking off the goblin’s head. Nothing was harder than to see Julian bleeding on the ground at her feet, next to Avitus. His head lay at an odd angle. His eyes were wide open, unblinking.
All around her, goblins moved forward.
She raised her sword to them.
“No,” she said in a clear voice, “you cannot have him.”
Marcus stood at the summit of the Sixth Hill, almost overwhelmed by what he was seeing. Nearby lay the tattered shreds of bodies. Stumps of trees, broken masonry and jars. In the distance, goblins swarmed, filling the valley of the Lycus River, stretching along the walls of Constantinople from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmara. He heard a Roman trumpet shrill, heard Therving warriors utter their wild cries. But here at the summit, the battle seemed over. Directly ahead of him rose a wide berm of goblin corpses piled high as his own head.
All are dead. The words from Hadrianopolis tore at him.
Ursinus, bloodied from a dozen wounds, le
aned heavily on the standard’s staff. Rufus Panneus stood next to him.
“What’s happened here?” he asked.
A glint of light caught Marcus’ eye, a color he could not mistake, from beyond the pile of corpses. He ran forward and scrambled up the wall of bodies. Scarcely aware of the handful of soldiers who followed anxiously after him, he climbed and found that the wall formed a circle.
In the middle of the circle, Inglena stood over the body of Julian. Marcus slid down the inside. The stench of goblin blood filled his nostrils.
Inglena saw him and took a step forward, sword at the ready, then she stopped. Her eyes were wild and staring.
“Inglena, it’s me, Marcus.”
He needed to say her name, for she was barely recognizable. She was soaked by rains of blood, the deerskin dark with it. Her hair hung matted and dripping. Her face and hands were crimson. The white sword pointed at him, unstained.
“Inglena,” he said again. “It’s over. The goblins are running. We have won.” He pointed at Julian’s torn and bloodied corpse. “He won.”
Inglena lowered her sword.
Marcus dropped to one knee next to Julian and with his fingertips closed his General’s eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The Iron Gates
Marcus and Inglena returned to Constantinople in the heat of the afternoon. With them they brought the bodies of Julian and Avitus. Ursinus, badly mauled but still on his feet, carried the legion’s standard before them. The citizens cheered the XII, but they whispered about the blood-caked sorceress with the white sword, and would not come near. For all the courage and deeds of the Legion, the legend of the City’s last stand became known as the Charge of the Warrior Queen.
The Grand Chamberlain met them on the Mese with a litter and bearers for Julian. Marcus refused to go further until a second was fetched for Avitus. They then were taken to the First Hill, into the protection of the Imperial Palace, where they stayed for the next two days, seeing no one. The Grand Chamberlain received all reports and left them alone. Marcus and Inglena ate some, slept more, and held each other often.
Beyond the walls, the goblins were nearly all gone, dispersing gradually once the Gniva was dead. Isolated packs still roamed, and soldiers emerged to clear them away. Citizens emerged on the second day to help retrieve bodies. Goblin corpses they dragged to the far side of the Seventh Hill to be burnt in a great fire. Black, oily smoke boiled in the skies for a day and a night. Roman bodies were returned to families where possible, and all were given a state funeral. Thousands of hands turned out with buckets and rags to wipe the City’s bloodied walls. People spoke of facing the entire length with marble, for the stains had baked into the stone.
Julian’s funeral was held separately, near the imperial palace. Lady Helena had Avitus laid alongside Julian, both entombed on the family grounds. The citizens wondered that a freedman should be so honored. Common opinion ran that he and Julian must have been lovers. Helena paid no attention.
On the fourth day, word arrived that the Western Emperor would be arriving with his army in another three weeks. People looked at one another and thought again of Lucius Julianus Metellus, and what he had done for the Empire.
That same day, the keeper of the Inn of the White Dog brought an orphan girl and her dog to the palace of the Metelli.
Tykonos urged Petra forward.
“Come, girl, don’t be shy.”
Petra took a few steps, then stood gawking again. She had never seen such splendor. She was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to walk on the mosaics of the floor. Tykonos stood at an open doorway at the end of a grand hall. Servants held the two doors wide. Even the clothes of the servants were finer than those of the shopkeepers of Hadrianopolis. Tykonos gestured again.
“Do not keep the Lady Helena waiting, Petra. It is rude.”
Bucephalus pressed against her side. She ran her hand over his coat and smiled. He was freshly washed, but he had not suffered it quietly. She doubted any of Tykonos’ people would try that again.
She went through the doors. Across the room sat a gray-haired woman. She sat erect, her hands folded in her lap. But her face looked kind.
“So you are the famous girl … and her dog too, I see. Come, sit here beside me. I won’t bite if Bucephalus does not.”
Petra stopped cold, her hand to her mouth.
“Go on,” Tykonos said, giving her a little push.
“What’s wrong child?” Helena asked.
“Sorry,” Petra said. “You look like him.”
Helena smiled. “I should hope so,” she said, but her mixture of grief and amusement was almost more than Petra could bear. She hastened to sit on the bench.
Bucephalus followed.
“I shall leave you, my Lady,” Tykonos said.
“Have the servants bring you food and wine, Tykonos. You have the thanks of all my days. You know this.”
“You are most gracious, Lady,” Tykonos bowed and left.
“Now then, girl.” Helena turned her eyes to Petra. “Tell me about my son.”
Tykonos asked Petra for details as they walked back to the docks.
“She wanted me to remember everything,” Petra complained.
“You were the last to see him, girl. It’s only natural for a mother.”
“I know. Or, I guess I know. But I just couldn’t. Not every little thing.”
“Did you tell her about Avitus?”
“Uh-huh. Was that wrong?” She looked up at Tykonos, head cocked.
“No, that was fine.”
“You said I shouldn’t tell no one.”
“Should tell no one,” Tykonos corrected.
“I should?”
“No! You said it wrong, that’s all. Oh, never mind.”
They walked.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, Petra. You did nothing wrong. I’m glad Avitus proved his worth, and I’m glad the Lady Helena knows of it.”
“Me too. She’s a nice lady.”
“She placed a great deal of trust in that Scythian,” Tykonos said.
“She’s very sad.”
“Naturally. She’s all alone now.”
Petra considered this.
“She could be my mother,” she said after a while.
“Gods, no!”
“Then she wouldn’t be alone.”
“Don’t be foolish. She is a great lady, a noblewoman. You are common.”
“I’d be a good daughter.”
Tykonos chuckled. “I’m sure you would. But, no. It is not possible.”
“How about you?” Petra asked. “I could be your daughter.”
Tykonos looked at her sharply, one eyebrow raised.
“Even though you are a very great man,” she added.
“Hush now, girl,” Tykonos said, but he did not chuckle and remained thoughtful as they returned to the Inn of the White Dog.
Three days after the funeral, Marcus and Inglena emerged from their mourning. They had already decided between them what needed to be done. Inglena sent her Thervings in pursuit of goblins. All reports said the Horde was broken. The goblins now were small bands of a few score, or ran in individual packs. They had scattered in every direction, but the bulk were moving into Thessaly. The general opinion was that Greece would suffer much hardship in the coming years. After two weeks of hunting, word came that Thrasimund had fallen, killed by goblins when he chanced to be caught out alone. Inglena then called back her warriors, saying she would lose no more. For them, the war was over.
Marcus did not send out the Legion. There was little enough of it left, and every man surviving had injuries. Citizens took the men into their homes, and for weeks the XII barely existed. He wrote to Emperor Gratian requesting that every surviving soldier be allowed to retire with full honors.
Tykonos came by frequently. His comings and goings were widely noted, for these days the Greek innkeeper traveled always in the company of a young girl and her enormous war dog. The st
ories about Petra and Bucephalus were nearly as extravagant as those about Inglena, and Tykonos did little to discourage them. When they thought he could not hear them, those at the Inn of the White Dog started to call Petra, “little daughter.”
Three weeks later, the Western Emperor arrived, bringing ten legions with him, all veterans of his Rhineland campaigns. Two days after that, he sent his troops out to hunt goblins.
He also had news for Inglena. She and Marcus were called to meet with him.
The young man stayed outside the City, refusing to take quarters in the Imperial Palace, saying it was the residence of the Eastern Emperor, not the Western.
His hair was dark brown with reddish highlights, which he wore longer than was customary in the east. Intelligence showed in his gray eyes and strong brow, while kindness showed in his mouth. Inglena thought he looked very much what an Emperor ought to look like.
His news was that the Thervingi were to have a home.
“Lucius Julianus Metellus wrote to me,” Gratian said to her. They sat in his campaign tent on the Fifth Hill, outside the city wall and well away from markets and palaces. “He requested a favor.”
Inglena waited for him to explain. She felt too awkward and uncomfortable to venture into conversation. Her own clothes had all been ruined during the fighting, and the servants in the palace had insisted that she could not go before the Emperor in deerskin. So she wore the dress of a Roman noble woman. All she could think about was getting back to her quarters and squirming out of the long, soft clothing that made her feel she was wearing little more than a waterfall.
Gratian smiled at her, which made her feel even more awkward.
“I’ll be quick,” he said. “I am sure you have many pressing affairs.”
“He wrote to you?” Marcus asked.
“From Duros, on the Ister, just before he marched to Hadrianopolis. I gave it little consideration, for he asked much of me. Since that time, however, I have seen the many sacrifices and heard of the great courage of the Thervingi.”