by Jim Butcher
The young man stammered, “Sir, you shouldn’t be here. The Marat are attacking, sir. You shouldn’t be bringing holders here right now.”
“I know the Marat are attacking,” Warner snapped.
“We’ve come to help, and everyone here has something they can do. Let us in.”
The young legionare hesitated, but there was a motion on the wall behind him, and a man in a dented Centurion’s helmet appeared. “Holder Warner?”
“Giraldi,” Warner said, with a curt nod. “We heard you were having company and thought we’d invite ourselves over to help you entertain them.”
Giraldi stared down at them for a moment and then nodded. “Warner,” he said. “you’d be better off turning around and heading for Riva while you still can.”
His words silenced every holder on the ground below.
Isana stood up in the wagon’s seat. “Good morning, Centurion. Have you seen my brother?”
Giraldi squinted down and then his eyes widened. “Isana? Oh, thank the furies. Your brother is here. He’s inside at the east gate. Isana, the Count’s been badly wounded, and Livia is back in Riva with her daughter. Harger and the legion crafters did what they could, but they say without more skilled help he won’t live.”
Isana nodded, calmly. She let her awareness slowly out toward Giraldi, gaining the sense of the man’s emotions. Anger, weariness, and most of all despair hung on him like a coating of thick, cold mud, and Isana shivered. “I take it the Marat have already attacked.”
“Just their vanguard,” Giraldi said. “The rest of the horde will be here within the hour.”
“Then we’d best stop wasting time with talk, Giraldi. Open the gates.”
“I don’t know if the Count would —”
“The Count has no say in this,” Isana said. “And if the Marat take Garrison, they’ll be able to destroy everything we have. We’ve the right to fight to defend our homes and families as well, Giraldi, and every man here who is of age is a Legion veteran. Open the gates.”
Giraldi bowed his head and nodded to the young legionare. “Furies know we need the help. Do it.”
The holders moved into Garrison in short order, and Isana noticed that adult men — the veterans — drove all the wagons. They pulled into the fortress as though part of the Legion on duty there, lining up their wagons in neat rows in the westernmost courtyard. Men started caring for the horses at once, unhitching them and leading them to be watered and sheltered from the winter winds. Every Legion camp was laid out identically, enabling veterans and newly transferred units to be exactly aware of the operations and layout of any camp they came to. Even as some men picketed the horses, others began forming up the veterans into files outside the armory, and Giraldi and another young legionare began to outfit them with shields, swords, spears, breastplates, helmets.
Isana stepped down from the wagon, holding Odiana’s hand and leading the dazed woman, who kept the blanket wrapped around her like a sleepy child. “Harger,” Isana called, spotting the healer supervising a number of young women, barely more than children really, who were shredding bedsheets into bandages.
The old healer turned when he saw her, a tired smile touching his face. “Help,” he said. “Well, maybe we can make a fight of it after all.”
She moved to him and embraced him quietly. “Are you all right?”
“Tired,” he said. He looked around them and then said, “This is bad, Isana. Our wall isn’t high enough, and our Knights went down in the first attack.”
Isana’s throat tightened. “My brother?”
“A little banged up, but well,” Harger said. “Isana, we’ve got less than an hour. By the time the sun rises, you’ll be able to walk from here to the watchtowers on Marat shoulders.”
She nodded. “There, see Steadholder Otto? He’s a strong crafter. Not too delicate, because he mostly crafts injured livestock rather than people, but he can mend broken bones better than anyone I’ve ever seen, and he can do it from dawn to dark. There are one or two other men at least as skilled as a Legion watercrafter, and many of the woman are better. You have injured?”
“Plenty,” Harger said, his eyes calculating. “Really? Women better than a Legion watercrafter?”
“See Otto. He’ll get our healers over to help yours. You’re in the eastern courtyard?”
Harger nodded, blinking his eyes a few times. Then he clasped Isana’s shoulder. “Thank you. I don’t know if it will do any good in the long run, but there are men dying who won’t have to now.”
Isana touched her hand with his and said, “Where can I find Bernard?”
“On the wall above the gate,” Harger said.
Isana nodded to him and started toward the far side of the fort. She passed the commander’s quarters and the officers’ barracks at the center of the fort, then walked briskly past barracks after barracks. She found the first bodies at the near side of the eastern courtyard, in the stables. Dead horses lay inside, crows already darting in and out of the stable’s doors, their raucous cries rising from their darkened interiors. More bodies littered the courtyard around her — Marat, and the great predator birds had been tossed into a rough heap at one side of the courtyard, where they would be out of the way of the troops moving about inside. Legion casualties were laid out in neat rows on the other, troops wrapped in their cloaks, heads covered to keep the crows from their eyes.
The rest of the courtyard was filled with the wounded and the dying. A bare scattering of legionares stood watch on the walls, but there seemed to be so few of them.
Isana walked forward, stunned at the carnage. She had never seen anything like it. Pain pressed on her, sensed from the wounded like heat radiating out from an oven. She shivered and folded her arms. Behind her, Odiana, still following closely and holding her hand, let out a small, frightened whimper and did not lift her head.
“Isana!”
She looked up to see her brother running toward her, and she didn’t fight either the tears that sprang to her eyes or the smile that touched her mouth. He embraced her, hugging hard, and lifted her up off the ground as he did it.
“Thank the furies,” he rumbled. “I was so afraid for you.”
She hugged him back, hard. “Tavi?” He froze for a moment, and the motion sent ice running through her. She leaned back, taking his face between her hands. “What happened?”
“After the flood, I lost him. I couldn’t track him in the storm. I managed to get the Cursor girl out of the water, and then we came here.”
“Was he alone?” Isana asked.
“Not entirely, if you count that Fade was still with him. I thought you’d have found him after the flood.”
She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t. Kord pulled me out of the river, Bernard.”
Her brother’s eyes went flat.
“It’s all right,” she assured him, though she folded her hands over a little quiver of fear in her belly at the memory of Kord’s smokehouse. “His son, Aric, helped us escape. I got away from him.”
“And came here?”
“Not alone,” Isana said. “I had just reached the causeway when Warner and the rest came down the road. I rode here with them.”
“Warner?” Bernard said.
“Warner, Otto, Roth. They brought all their holders here. Yours too. They’ve come to help.”
“Those idiots,” Bernard sputtered. But his eyes glittered, and he looked back toward the wall and the shattered gates leading into the fort. A rough barricade had been shoved into place, consisting of a pair of wagons upended, barrels, and bunks. “How many did he bring?”
“Everyone,” Isana said. “Nearly five hundred people.”
“The women, too?”
Isana nodded. Bernard grimaced. “I guess we’ve got it all resting on one throw, then.” His eyes went past her to Odiana. “Who’s this?”
Amara swallowed. “One of Kord’s slaves,” she lied. “She saved my life. That’s a discipline collar on her, Bernard. I couldn�
��t leave her there.”
He nodded, glancing back at the walls again, and let out a slow breath. “Might have been kinder to. It’s not going to be good.”
Isana frowned at him and then at the walls. “Bernard. Do you remember when we had our holdraising?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Everyone in the Valley helped with that. Brought up the whole steadholt, walls, all in one day.”
He blinked and turned to her, his voice suddenly excited. “You mean that we could make the walls higher.”
She nodded. “If it would help. Giraldi said they weren’t high enough.”
“It might,” Bernard said. “It might, it might.” He looked around. “There. That centurion there, he’s the engineer. See the braid on his tunic? We’ll need his help. You tell him, and I’m going to round up our earthcrafters.”
Bernard hurried off. Isana approached the man, who glanced up, blinked at her, and then scowled at her from over a bristling grey mustache. He listened to her without speaking while she told him of her plan.
“Impossible,” he said. “It can’t be done, girl.”
“I’ve forty summers, Centurion,” Isana retorted. “And it must be done. My brother is bringing our earthcrafters right now.”
The Centurion faced her more squarely, his face and throat flushing a deep red. “Holdfolk crafters,” he said. “This isn’t a barn raising. These are siege walls.”
“I don’t see how that matters.”
The man snorted in an explosion of breath. “These walls are made of layers of interlocking strata, girl. They’re hard, flexible, heavy, and can stand up to any kind of pounding you care to dish out. But you can’t just make them higher once they’re in place, like some pasture fence. If you go toying with the wall, you’ll disrupt the foundation, and the whole thing will collapse. We won’t have a wall at all, much less a taller one.”
“As I understand it,” Isana said. “You might as well not have the wall as it stands in any case.”
The man blinked at her for a moment, then scowled and bowed his head, snorting from beneath his mustache.
“I understand that it might be difficult, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it? If it works, we might be able to hold out against them. If it doesn’t . . .” Isana shivered. “If it doesn’t, then I’d just as soon it didn’t take too long in any case.”
“No,” the engineer said, finally. “If there was a chance, it might be worth the risk. But these aren’t engineers. They’re holders. They don’t have the kind of strength it takes.”
“You’ve never had to live in this valley, have you?” Isana said, her voice wry. “Not everyone with a strong fury wants to be a Knight. There are boys barely more than children in my steadholt who can tear boulders larger than a man out of the ground. And as I see it, we have nothing to lose.”
The engineer eyed her. “Impossible,” he said, then. “It can’t be done. If I had a full corps of Legion engineers, it would still take me half a day to get that wall higher.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not a corps of Legion engineers,” Isana said. “Will you try?”
A new voice cut into the conversation. “He’ll try.”
Isana looked up to see the Cursor standing not far away, wearing her brother’s too-large clothes and a borrowed tunic of mail. She wore a sword at her hip, and her left arm had been splinted. Amara looked tired and sported a bruise on throat, abrasions on her chin, but she regarded the engineer calmly. “Coordinate with the Steadholders. Make the attempt.”
The engineer swallowed and then inclined his head to her in a bow. “As you wish, Countess.” The man turned and hurried away.
Amara turned to face Isana, the slim girl’s expression quiet, calm. Then she glanced past Isana, to where the water witch still stood, wrapped in her blanket, her expression distant, and hissed a quiet curse. She reached for her sword.
“Wait,” Isana said, stepping close and putting a hand over Amara’s. “Don’t.”
“But she’s —”
“I know who she is,” Isana said. “She isn’t going to hurt anyone now. She saved my life—and a slaver put a discipline collar on her.”
“You can’t trust her,” Amara insisted. “She should be locked up.”
“But—”
“She’s a Knight herself. A mercenary. A murderer.” The Cursor’s voice snapped with anger. “By all rights I should kill her right now.”
“I will not allow that,” Isana said, lifting her chin.
Amara faced her quietly. “I’m not sure it’s your decision to make, holder.”
Just then, a tall, dark-skinned man with the look of a Parcian, his armor magnificent but stained with smoke and blood, stepped over to them. “Countess,” he said, calmly. “The horde is nearly here. I’d like you to stand with me. See if you can spot their hordemaster.”
Amara glared at Isana and turned to the Parcian. “Do you think killing him will do us any good now, Pirellus?”
He smiled, a sudden flash of white teeth. “As I see it, it can hardly hurt. And in any case, I’d rather make sure that whatever animal is responsible for this,” he gestured around vaguely, “doesn’t go back home to brag about it.”
Isana withdrew a pair of steps, then calmly turned and led Odiana away from the pair. “Come on,” she murmured to the collared woman, though she knew that Odiana could not hear her. “They’re terrified and angry. They wouldn’t treat you fairly. Let’s find someplace for you to be out of sight until we can get through this.”
She hurried through the courtyard to one of the large warehouse buildings at the far side. Even as she opened the door and hurried in, a group of holders, bundled up in their homemade winter cloaks but wearing Legion steel, went tramping by in neat files, heading for the gates. Another file, led by Bernard and the engineer, speaking in hushed, intent tones, went past right behind them.
Isana opened the door and led Odiana into the warehouse. The interior was dark, and she could hear the scrabble of rats somewhere inside. A rangy grey tomcat rushed past her legs and into the darkness, intent on a meal. Crates and heavy sacks stood in neat, ordered rows, their contents clearly labeled. It was too dim to see clearly, so Isana looked about until she found a furylamp and willed it to life, lifting the clear globe in her hand and looking up and down the rows.
“There,” she said, and started to tug the woman forward, continuing to speak in a low, quiet tone, hoping that the deafened watercrafter would at least find some comfort in the intent of the words. “Bags of meal. It will be softer than the floor, and if you cover up, you might be able to get some sleep. You’ll be out of everyone’s way.”
She hadn’t taken a dozen steps when the door to the warehouse slammed behind her.
Isana whirled, holding the furylamp aloft, shadows dancing and spinning wildly in the room.
Kord, dressed in a dirty cloak, dropped the heavy bolt down over the reinforced door of the warehouse. He turned to Isana then, eyes gleaming, and smiled, his teeth as grimy and smudged as the Steadholder’s chain about his neck.
“Now then,” he said, his voice quiet, almost purring. “Where were we?”
CHAPTER 39
Amara nodded to Pirellus. “But will they be able to raise the wall?”
Pirellus shrugged. “Again — it can’t hurt. The wall isn’t going to slow the Marat down as it stands in any case.”
Nearby, Bernard and the engineer had led nearly a hundred men and women, ranging in age from those below Legion age to a wizened old grandmother, who doddered along with the help of a cane and the arm of a brawny, serious-looking young man Amara recognized from Bernardholt. “Are you sure it isn’t a terrible risk? We held it before,” Amara pointed out.
“Against Marat who had never seen a battle,” Pirellus said. “Halftrained, green troops. And we were nearly destroyed as it was. Don’t fool yourself. We got lucky. There are five times as many of them out there now. They’re experienced, and they won’t be operating in s
eparate tribes.” His fingers drummed on the hilt of his dark blade. “And remember, those Knights are still out there.”
Amara shivered and abruptly looked behind her. “Exactly. Which is why, Mistress Isana, we should —” She broke off abruptly. “Where’d she go?”
Pirellus looked around behind him, then shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. There’s a very limited amount of trouble the woman can make in any case. That’s the advantage of certain death, Cursor—it’s difficult to become impressed by further risks.”
Amara frowned at him. “But with this help—”
“Doomed,” Pirellus said, flatly. “We’d need three times that many troops to hold, Cursor. What these holders are doing is admirable, but unless one of their messengers got through to Riva . . .” He shook his head. “Without reinforcements, without more Knights, we’re just killing time until sunrise. See if you can spot the hordemaster, and I’ll try to help them sort out the wounded and get more men back on their feet.”
She started to speak to him, but Pirellus spun on his heel and walked back to the other courtyard. His knee was swollen and purpling, but he did not allow himself to limp. Another talent she envied in metalcrafters. Amara grimaced and wished she could will away the pain of her broken arm so easily.
Or the fear that still weakened her knees.
She shivered and turned to walk toward the gates, purposefully. The barricade had been hastily removed, as the earthcrafters had begun to set up for their attempt on the walls. A squad of twenty legionares stood outside the broken gates in formation, on guard, lest any Marat should try to slip through undetected. The possibility seemed unlikely. Even as Amara walked beneath the walls and out into the open plain beyond, stepping around the grim and silent young men, she could see the Marat horde in the slowly growing light, like some vast field of living snow, marching steadily closer, in no great hurry.
Amara walked out away from the walls by several yards, keeping her steps light and careful. She tried not to look down at the ground. The blackened remains of the Marat who had perished in the first firestorm lay underfoot and all around, grotesque and stinking. Crows flapped and squab-bled everywhere, mercifully covering most of the dead. If she looked, Amara knew, she would be able to see the gaping sockets of the corpses whose eyes had already been eaten away, usually along with parts of the nose and the soft, fleshy lips, but she didn’t. The air smelled of snow and blood, of burned flesh and faintly of carrion. Even through the screen Cirrus provided her sense of smell, she could smell it.