by Jim Butcher
Kitai and Maximus came out of the command tent, and stood watching with Tavi as the Knights Aeris came in to land in two groups, one dropping into the landing area of the former slave Legion, the other landing in the First Aleran’s—except for a single armored figure that came down not twenty yards from the command tent.
“Crassus!” Tavi called, grinning. “You’re looking well.”
“Sir,” Crassus replied with an answering smile. He saluted Tavi, who returned the gesture, then clasped forearms with the young officer. “I’m glad to see you got back in one piece.”
“Tell me,” Tavi said intently.
“It’s working,” Crassus hissed, his eyes bright with triumph. “It took us a bloody lot of crafting to pull it off, and the witchmen aren’t at all comfortable, but it’s working.”
Tavi felt his mouth stretch out into a fierce grin. “Hah!”
“Bloody crows!” Maximus said, frustration and delight warring in his voice. “In the name of all the great furies, what are you two talking about?”
Crassus turned to his half brother, grinning, and embraced him. “Come on,” he said. “See for yourself.”
Crassus led them all to the cliffs overlooking the sea below Molvar. In the silver light of the moon, the sea was a monochrome portrait of black water and white wave-caps—and riding upon that dark sea were three white ships, ships so enormous that for a moment it seemed that Tavi’s eyes had to be lying to him. And he’d known what to expect.
He turned to see the faces of the others, who were simply staring in disbelief at the enormous white vessels. They watched as tiny figures moved about on the decks of the sail-less ships—engineers of the First Aleran, whose tiny forms upon the white decks showed the true size of the ships: Each of them was nearly half a mile in length and more than half as wide.
“Ships,” Max said, his tone dull. “Really. Big. Ships.”
“Barges, really,” Gradash corrected him, though the old Cane’s own voice was sober and quiet. “No masts. What’s making them move?”
“Furycraft,” Tavi replied. “Witchmen are using seawater to push them.” He turned to Crassus. “How many levels deep?”
“Twelve,” Crassus said, something smug in his voice. “Cramped for a Cane, but they’ll fit.”
“Ice!” Kitai exclaimed suddenly, her tone enormously pleased. “You crafted ships from ice!”
Tavi turned to her and nodded, smiling. Then said, to Gradash, “I remembered the ice mountains you showed me as we arrived. And if the leviathans truly avoid them, we should have no problems with them on the way back to Alera.”
The old Cane stared at the ships, his ears quivering. “But the ice mountains. They roll like taurga with itchy backs.”
“The keels go fairly deep, and are weighted with stone,” Crassus assured the Cane. “They should be stable, provided they don’t take a big wave broadside. They won’t roll.”
“Roll, crows,” Maximus sputtered. “Ice melts.”
“It also floats,” Tavi said, feeling a little smug himself, though he probably didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t been working himself to exhaustion for days to make them happen, after all.
“The firecrafters have been making coldstones nonstop,” Crassus told Max. “There are enough of them there to keep the ships from melting for three weeks, by which time they’ll have made more—and the engineers stretched a granite frame throughout. They think they’ll hold, if we can avoid the worst of the weather.”
Tavi slammed a fist on the pauldrons of Crassus’s armor. “Well done, Tribune,” he said fiercely.
“So,” Kitai said, smiling. “We get everyone on the ships, and we leave the Vord screaming their frustration behind us. This is a fine plan, Aleran.”
“If the weather holds,” Max said darkly.
“That’s what Knights Aeris are for,” Crassus said calmly. “It will be hard work, but we’ll do it. We have to do it.”
Canim horns brayed from the earthworks, pulsing out in odd, baying signals. Tavi held up a hand for silence and watched Gradash.
The old Cane took in the horn calls and reported, “The first of the main body of Lararl’s regulars have been sighted, Tavar.”
Max whistled. “One crowbegotten fine retreat, if they held together all the way from the fortress.”
Tavi nodded agreement. “And that means that the Vord won’t be far behind. We need to get moving, people. The enemy is close.” He began giving rapid orders, rounding up a couple of couriers to get them out to the right portions of the Legion, when a surge of terrified realization from Kitai hit him like a punch in the belly. He stopped in the middle of his sentence and turned to her.
“Aleran!” she said, staring out at the breach in the earthworks where the First Aleran was stationed.
Tavi spun to see the First Aleran under assault. Enormous blue-armored Canim had, in the midst of passing peacefully through their positions, suddenly whirled to attack. In the bright moonlight, Tavi could see the Shuarans hacking into the surprised Alerans, fighting in perfect unison and entirely without regard for their own lives.
He sucked in a breath and realized what had happened. “Taken,” he spat. “Those Shuarans have been taken by the Vord.” He turned to the others, and said, “The Vord aren’t close. They’re here.”
CHAPTER 44
The Vord surged toward the defenses around Molvar in a great, dark wave, and the last defenders of Canea rose to meet them in a single, enormous roar of defiance and hate. Signal horns, Canim and Aleran alike, bayed and shrilled across the fey, silver-lit landscape, and from the west poured a great wave of the enemy, chitin gleaming and winking beneath the great eye of the winter moon.
Tavi knew that he was speaking, because orders were flying off his lips more rapidly than he could keep track of them, and all around him officers of the Legion were slamming out salutes and sprinting away, but it seemed that he didn’t actually understand anything he was saying. His thoughts were racing, trying to cover every possible outcome of the next minutes and hours, anticipating everything, taking every measure he possibly could. Then he was swinging up behind Kitai onto a taurg and racing toward the battle.
The First Aleran had hacked down the taken Shuarans, suffering ruinous casualties in doing so—anything taken by the Vord was enormously strong, oblivious to pain, and fought with mindlessly suicidal ferocity. Though the taken Canim were down, several Alerans had joined each of the fallen enemy upon the earth—and the enemy’s ruse had paid a dividend. The Legion’s ranks had been badly disrupted, and the Vord’s first thrust came hard on the heels of their opening gambit.
The Legion was being driven back from the breach in the earthworks, while more Vord—always more Vord—assaulted the rest of the defensive positions, preventing the Canim from coming to the Alerans’ aid. Now the Legion fought to defend a twenty-foot-wide corridor, the opening in the earthworks. Ten-foot walls flanked the opening, and legionares with spears crouched in ranks atop those walls, thrusting their weapons into the press of armored Vord bodies below, while the infantry fought with shield and sword to keep the Vord from forcing their way through the engineered bottleneck and past the fortifications.
Tavi drew his sword and flung himself from the plunging taurg as the beast began to ride through the scattered and reeling legionares who had been driven out of position and away from their various centuries. “Legionares!” he bellowed. “To me!”
“Captain!” called a dazed legionare.
“Form up on me!” Tavi called to the scattered soldiers. “You, you, you, you’re spear leaders! Line them up! Legionares, fall in on this line!”
Once he had the men organized into a fighting century, a block ten files long and eight legionares deep, he sent them forward, to the support of the men already fighting. He did it over and over, until the scattered soldiers were accounted for, and realized as he did that the Vord had imitated the enemy yet again. Tavi’s group might have hunted down and killed the nearby queen a few days befo
re, but the Vord were returning the compliment—the taken Shuarans, it seemed, had focused their efforts upon killing the centurions within each century. Crested helms lay far more thickly among the fallen Alerans than they should have and in the press of battle, without the leadership of the men wearing them, the organization vital to the Legion’s order of battle had frayed.
The additional centuries helped to stiffen the lines, though Tavi knew that it would only be for a few moments—fortunately, those moments were enough.
The air screamed as forty Knights Aeris swept down upon the battle. Tavi lifted his sword, signaling Crassus, who flew at the head of the Knights—each of whom flew paired with another Knight, carrying a third armored form between them.
“Crassus!” Tavi shouted into the din of battle, pointing to the walls overlooking the bottleneck. “On the wall!”
But the young Tribune hadn’t needed Tavi’s gesticulations to see where his help was needed. Signing instructions to his men, Crassus touched down on the wall overlooking one side of the breech, along with half of his flight. The other half landed on the other side, where each pair of Knights Aeris deposited the men they’d brought to the fight—the Knights Ignus of the First Aleran.
Tavi couldn’t see what happened from his vantage point on the ground, behind the Legion’s wall of shields, but heartbeats later, there was an enormous roar and hellish blue-white light flared ahead of him, burning the black silhouette of the massed ranks into his vision. The Legion let out a shout of exultation at the return of their Knights, and surged forward, driving the Vord back into the sudden vacuum the Knights Ignus had burned into their ranks.
Tavi sprinted up to the earthworks to join Crassus, but by the time he got there, the situation was in hand—at least for the moment. The Vord had reeled back from the breach, and every time they began to press in more closely, one of the Knights Ignus unleashed a blast of fire in their midst.
“Max is coming,” Crassus panted to Tavi. His face was streaked with sweat from the effort of his recent furycrafting. He turned to point back toward the city, where Max and a column of armored figures were marching at the quick step from the Legion camp outside the city walls. “He’s bringing the engineers and our Knights Terra. We’ll close up the breach and—”
On the outer earthworks, Canim horns blared and brayed, and at that signal, dozens of ritualists appeared among the Canim on the walls. All of the hooded figures threw back their pale mantles, dipped their hands into the pouches of blood they wore slung at their sides, and cast scarlet droplets into the air. Again, Tavi wasn’t in position to see the results of the working, but he saw the great, billowing clouds of greenish mist form and fall, and heard the screams of agony among the Vord as it descended upon them, scouring the earthen walls clean of attackers.
“Form up!” bellowed a strident voice from the breach below. “Crows take your idiot eyes, form up! Dress the ranks before they hit us again!”
Tavi looked down to see Valiar Marcus—absent his crested centurion’s helmet—striding among the Aleran lines. The First Spear’s armor was horribly dented over his left shoulder, and that arm hung limply at his side—but he carried his centurion’s baton in his right hand and made liberal use of it, shoving soldiers into line, rapping them sharply on their helmets to get their attention. Marcus had thought quickly, Tavi saw. The scarred veteran must have realized that his crested helm had marked him as a target when the battle had gotten under way and he’d removed it. A quick scan showed Tavi that there was a notable absence of crested helms among the ranks—but the centurions were still visibly doing their jobs, maintaining their presence by virtue of their batons, voices, and sheer force of will.
“It’s going to take us several hours to load the supplies and all the refugees,” Tavi said. “We have to hold them. Marcus is in charge of the breach. Support him. I’m going to talk to Varg.”
“Aye, Your Highness,” Crassus said, slamming a fist to his heart. “We’ll do our part, never fear.”
Tavi rushed up to the walls, taking advantage of the brief respite in the battle as the Vord recoiled from the massive scourge of acidic blood magic the ritualists had released upon them. He had to pace almost half a mile along the walls until he found Varg, who was striding the wall among his own people.
Tavi nodded to him and began speaking without preamble. “Three hours. We have to hold them that long at least.”
Varg looked from Tavi out to the field, where the Vord were still pouring in from all over the countryside. The base of the wall was a ruin of melted chitin and half-formed bodies, all that was left after the ritualists’ counterattack. “Three hours. That could be a long time.”
“It will take that long for the transports to dock and for our people and supplies to load on,” Tavi said. “There’s no point in rescuing them now only to let them starve to death at sea.”
Varg growled out his agreement. “What of our fighters?”
Tavi laid out the withdrawal plan for him. “None of which matters if we can’t hold now.”
Already, the Vord had recovered from the sting of the first repulsion, and were beginning to mass again, preparing to assault the earthworks once more en masse.
“We will hold,” Varg growled. “We will wait for your signal.”
For three hours, more and more Vord poured in from all across the countryside, their numbers growing ever larger, their attacks more focused and cohesive: and for three hours, the last defenders of Canea cast them back.
The casualty rate was hideous, the worst fighting any of them had seen—and for the First Aleran, that was saying something indeed. Once the earthcrafters had closed the breach in the earthworks, the Legions fought to defend a relatively tiny section of the defenses—proportional to their numbers.
It was the Canim who carried the lion’s share of the battle.
Shuarans and Narashans fought side by side, reserve forces of warriors charging forward more and more frequently to come to the aid of hard-pressed militia fighters in their far lighter armor. Ritualists screamed to the night sky and sent death in multiple, hideous forms down upon their attackers—Varg had, it turned out, been bleeding volunteers from his people a bit at a time, regularly, on their way to Canea, saving up a store of blood for the ritualists to use. They unleashed it on the Vord, holding back nothing, to terrible effect, until they were pouring their clouds of acid down the faces of the earthworks not to kill Vord, but to further dissolve the corpses that were piling up higher and higher, building a ramp for the Vord that followed in their wake.
For the Alerans, the fight was grueling and desperate. Blocks of legionares, working together, could fend off the wave-assaults of the enemy, but when a formation was broken, or when any of the men were isolated, death followed close behind. Antillar Maximus, leading a cadre of Knights Terra and Ferrous, launched himself time and again into the fray, where the more deadly weapons of the powerful Knights would crush the Vord like so many toys, driving them back from the more vulnerable legionares.
Tavi did everything he could to make sure the men could fight on stable ground, and to facilitate the rotation of the rear ranks with those in the fore, fighting the exhaustion that was certain to do them more harm, in the end, than any Vord form or poison. Those wounded too badly to be able to walk were taken from the field, stabilized, and loaded onto the ships that waited for them at the bottom of the city of Molvar. Other wounds were quickly closed, then the men were sent back to the defenses, until there was barely a spear in the Legion who wasn’t at least half-populated by the walking wounded.
When the Vord press became too great, firecrafters would lend their aid to the defenses—but the Knights Ignus quickly tired, and soon only Crassus remained capable of laying out the supporting fire the Legions required to survive. Tavi could only urge the young man on, silently, from his position at the rear of the fighting, and wonder at how the young Tribune could keep rising to his feet, again and again, to destroy more of the Vord.
&nbs
p; Meanwhile, behind the battle, the civilians filed down the stairways hurriedly crafted into the stone, down to the water, there to board the vast ice ships. Canim families bore crushing loads with them, everyone lending a hand to the effort to pile supplies on the ships, the knowledge of the certain death that howled at the earthworks driving them to cooperation and orderly conduct more surely than any law or tradition ever could.
Twice, the Vord breached the earthworks and began pouring down the terraces—but both times, Anag and the Shuaran taurg cavalry charged, shattering the momentum of the advance, which was then pushed back by blocks of Varg’s elite warriors, led personally by the Warmaster.
And then, after more than four endless, nightmarish hours, the horns Magnus had stationed at the piers began to sound the retreat.
“That’s it!” Tavi screamed, turning to the trumpeter he’d kept near him. “Signal the Canim! Sound the retreat!”
As the silver trumpet shrilled, the First Spear turned to Tavi from his place in the ranks, eyes searching. Tavi flashed Marcus several hand signals, and the veteran centurion began barking orders that were repeated instantly through the ranks.
Once more, the Canim horns brayed, and the ritualists came forward for one last, mass summoning of blood magic. The Vord reeled back from the destruction—and in that moment of opportunity, the defenders turned and withdrew from their positions.
“Go!” Tavi shouted, waving men past him, willing them to retreat in good order, to escape, to survive. “Through the city gate and down to the ship! The route is marked by our colors! Go, go, go!”
Four hours of hard fighting made a poor prelude to the mile and a half of hard marching the men would have to make before they could board their ships, but none of them seemed anything less than eager to take to his heels. Despite the hours of slaughter and havoc they and the Canim had wreaked upon the Vord, the enemy numbers outside the walls had not visibly diminished—this was a battle they could not possibly win, and they knew it. They could only hope to survive.