A Shout for the Dead

by James Barclay

  But hundreds were caught within its spitting, grabbing compass. Roof slates were plucked from buildings and hurled as deadly missiles in every direction. Gesteris dragged Vasselis below the parapet. They felt impacts and heard shattering against the wall.

  Down here there was relative calm. Vasselis crawled towards the watch tower. Above the howling of the wind, he thought he could hear the screams of men and women. There was the rumble of falling stone. He crawled up the few stairs and made the shelter of the tower. It was shaking. Slates were ripping from its roof and shattering on the cobbles of the courtyard.

  Vasselis looked down at the fountain. The Ascendants were shuddering. The water covered them. From the sky, rain was attracted to them, spewing onto them like it came from pipes in the sky. Hesther was near them, clutching onto the fountain side. Vasselis could see she was talking to them, shouting at them.

  Back outside, the apron was empty of people. The column of cloud had turned left and was heading down towards the forum and the dock. The strength of the wind lessened. Vasselis ran for the stairs and braced himself against the outside of the spiral as he raced down.

  He burst out into the courtyard. The Ascendants all fell sideways into the fountain. The rain ceased. Up in the sky, the cloud rumbled. One fork of lightning struck down at them. It impacted the fountain statue. The top of the rearing horses triumphant exploded. Shards of stone flashed out. Something whistled past Vasselis's ear, he turned and saw it shatter on the inside wall. Slowly, slowly, the crack in the statue widened. Two of the horses fell gently sideways, tumbling into the fountain, opposite the Ascendants.

  Their Work had spared them. It would not be the same outside the gates.

  The cloud cleared as quickly as it had come. The evening light returned to the city. The wind died to nothing, leaving just a roaring in the ears as a reminder. Vasselis turned and ran back towards the gate. Gesteris was already ordering them open. Vasselis came to his shoulder and waited.

  The gates rumbled open, straining on damaged hinges. They looked out on to a soaking arena of carnage and destruction. Soldiers still in possession of their wits ran out to try and help who they could. The majority looked to their officers for direction or pushed past Vasselis and Gesteris on their way back inside the palace.

  Vasselis walked out. He gave up trying to count the bodies strewn across the apron. The sound of crying had overtaken that of the wind. Buildings along the processional road had been torn open. Stunned citizens walked and staggered amongst the fallen. People were screaming for help, sobbing in their pain.

  He felt sick. Ordinary citizens bent and twisted in unnatural positions. He counted eight hanging from the upper floors of ruined buildings, hurled there by the force of the wind. Bits of clothing covered the ground. Shattered tiles crunched underfoot. The setting red sun made the whole rain-soaked apron appear covered in blood.

  Right outside the palace of the Advocate. He put his hand across his mouth and knelt by the first victim he came across. A man. Middle-aged. Lifeless. Blood had dribbled from his mouth and his body was canted at an angle from his legs; his back snapped clean.

  'May the Omniscient take you to His embrace. I am sorry.'

  'Sorry.' Gesteris scoffed. 'Too late, Vasselis. Way too late. I might as well have hurled my stock of powder over the walls. At least it would have been quick.'

  Vasselis stood. He could see the Advocate coming towards them. He touched Gesteris on the arm and the senator turned, hissing in a breath. She was white with shock. Both her hands clutched at her mouth and she walked unsteadily, as if she might fall.

  ‘I only wanted to send them home,' she said, lost. Tears were on her cheeks, her hair matted with the rain, her clothes soaked, ‘I only wanted to scare them away.'

  Gesteris stalked up to her. 'There is no justification for this. None. This is slaughter. And all they were doing was throwing fruit. I can no longer stand by you, my Advocate. I will not.'

  Gesteris swept his helmet from his head, dropped it on the ground at her feet and walked back into the palace grounds. Herine sagged to her knees and began to cry.

  And Vasselis stood and watched, unable to offer her any comfort.

  No trumpets or horns heralded the first day of genasfall. No celebration, no prayers and no feast. Bear Claw and Tsardon helped each other to move as fast as they could but still the dead were catching them.

  Hope had flared when their scouts first reported the splitting of the dead force and the change of direction. But it was brief. Those same scouts reported the sacking of Hasfort, the theft of artillery and the strengthening of the dead. All the while, Kell had rested her exhausted legion and the erstwhile prisoners. She had to shadow the enemy. She should have attacked them but there was no realistic chance of success. Civilian losses were inevitable until they could mount a defence of a scale and solidity that might stop the dead advance.

  After leaving Hasfort, the dead had turned south and east. They moved back onto the trail that would eventually take them south down the western side of the Kalde Mountains and bring them onto the approaches to the Gaws. And they upped their pace. Not by much but then it didn't have to be. The dead barely paused, let alone stopped, and the living were flagging in front of them.

  What had been twelve miles became ten, eight and five. Now it was barely two. And with another ten days of walking before they reached the questionable haven of the Neratharn border fortifications, the famous Jewelled Barrier, Kell knew they would be overtaken. She walked beside her horse with a limping Ruthrar who had, like her, put a crippled warrior aboard. No one was to be left behind.

  Every foot was shredded and covered in blisters. Every leg roared protest. Every shoulder sagged under the weight of supporting those who by rights should be lying flat on their backs for five days to regain some strength at least. But they could not. The relentless advance of the dead kept even the most damaged legionary walking if there was no horse to ride. Fear was a prime motivator. Yet the horses too were beginning to fail.

  is there something else we could have done?' said Kell. 'Turn from their path, let them continue to Neratharn. Should we have attacked them at Hasfort? Look at the artillery they've taken.'

  'No,' said Ruthrar. 'You cannot afford to think that way. Attacking at Hasfort would have been suicide. They are chasing us, Dina. We all believe that. Better we lead them to an army rather than to some helpless city further south.'

  Kell nodded. 'I know you're right.' 'But even so, we cannot outrun them.'

  'It seems ridiculous, doesn't it?' said Kell. 'The dead are making no more than two miles an hour and yet they are closer and closer to our footprints.'

  Ruthrar winced with every step he took. 'Perhaps not even that pace. But it adds up to forty miles in every day. No man, no horse can match that for long. We have achieved more than I imagined.'

  'But it isn't going to be enough, is it? We aren't going to make it to Neratharn. Not like this. They'll be on us in two days. Three at the outside.'

  'How far short are we?'

  'Does it matter?'

  'Of course it matters,' said Ruthrar. 'Because some of us have to make it to the border to speak to my king and to your people. Your cavalry should ride away. Make distance enough before their horses drop. Take another path.'

  'Leaving the rest of us to stand in their way and die?'

  'That is unworthy of you, General,' said Ruthrar.

  Kell felt the sting of guilt. 'I'm sorry. But I look around at what we have become and I am proud to be a part of it. Twenty days ago we would have cheerfully killed each other. Now Tsardon supports Estorean in common purpose and we are stronger as a result. To divide our force is to throw that away.'

  'I don't think so,' said Ruthrar. 'It will test it but you will see that all walking and riding here know what is at stake should we fail to reach Neratharn and warn off my king. He marches with twelve thousand Tsardon warriors. They need to be fighting with the Conquord, not against you. Only then do we have a ch
ance of success.'

  Kell nodded. 'Then we will come to a parting of the ways. Because I will not ride away from my people and you must.'

  'Another will travel in my stead.'

  'You are the senior voice,' said Kell. 'None here doubt your courage and your desire but I will not risk our message not being heard by King Khuran and by whoever it is that leads the Neratharn defence. Pray Davarov has survived. At least then the Conquord will not turn and run.'

  'I would be honoured to fight beside him.'

  'So would we all.' Kell and Ruthrar stared at each other. And she

  felt sad that their friendship was to be so brief. 'Well ? What will you do?'

  'Speak to my warriors. As you must speak to your people.'

  ‘I have a better idea. Double time for another hour and let's stop and speak to all of them together.'

  'You know that standing in front of the dead will barely give them pause. We are four hundred and fifty, they are six thousand and more.'

  Kell smiled. 'That is not my intention.'

  There was no protest when she ordered them to increase their pace. And she kept them there for as long as she dared. There was something keenly satisfying about knowing distance was being put between them and their enemy. Even though all knew it was temporary.

  When she brought them to a halt it was on the top of a rise, a foothill of the Kalde Mountains. They could all look back and see the dead. Thousands marching across the open ground leaving a trail of blackness behind them. It looked like death and the stench of them carried on the breeze even up here.

  She made sure everyone saw them. The carts pulled by dead men. The artillery pushed by the dead and heaved by the dead. Tsardon and Conquord dead. She shuddered, thinking of who might be marching as part of this dread foe. With the horses being tended by cavalrymen already appraised of what would transpire, Ruthrar and Kell gathered their forces together and spoke as one. Two voices delivering the same message in languages that none who heard them would ever have thought to be spoken in unity, even friendship.

  ‘I look on you and I am more proud to be a Bear Claw today than at the scene of any victory of our glorious past,' said Kell.

  Only the wind and Ruthrar's words competed with her. Claw stood with Tsardon warrior. It seemed churlish to separate them. Her people stood a little taller, some at the expense of their own pain. She waved them down.

  'Sit. Please, this is not the time for formality. It is the time we have feared and now must face. Any chance to rest must be taken and this is our last.' She took a deep breath. 'None of you is stupid and none of you is blind. The dead are catching us. As we are, we cannot outrun them all the way to Neratharn. And we must see our messages and our desires communicated there. If we do not, all of this we have achieved will be in vain.

  'So we must ask one more thing of you. And that is to turn and fight. Not to win, because we cannot. And not to sacrifice yourselves for nothing, which would be unforgivable. But to disable and to weaken. To give those that must fight after us a better chance to win.

  'Some will go on. Twenty riders taking a string of spare horses to give them the chance they need. Ten Conquord, ten Tsardon. I will stand and fight with you. Prosentor Ruthrar must, as you all now know, deliver our message and stop the pointless shedding of more blood that will only give strength to our foe.'

  Not a sound. Not a voice raised in objection. Only a weary acceptance of fate mingled with relief that the running had ended; and that the chance to deal out some small revenge was upon them.

  'You know what comes at us. And it will roll over us if we stand in a line before it. So we shall not. Let us challenge the dead. We know they will fight as they did when they lived. In line, disciplined. So we will skirmish. Get amongst them. Target their artillety pieces and their wagons. Do what damage we can, while we still stand. Stop them in their tracks. Even for a short time. Make those who impel them think again. Make the dead themselves confused. For such we have also seen. Shout the names of those you recognise. And do not seek to kill. Disable.

  'If each one of you fells two of the enemy before falling yourself, then we will have reduced them.'

  She paused. Ruthrar still spoke and his men were wearing the same expressions as Kell’s.

  'We are all afraid. We dread ending up as one of them. But all we can hope for now is that those who come after us will send us back to the embrace of God one day. And we can pray that somewhere within us, if we are to be the walking dead of tomorrow, we can fight back. Make our wills stronger than those who make us walk and fight.

  'I go to my death with you. I go to my death believing that one day I will face my friends and be able to lower my blade, not raise it. Make that your oath and no longer fear your fate.

  'Are you with me?'

  The dead would surely have heard the roar rolling down the hill.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  859th cycle of God, 1st day of Genasfall

  ‘If you see Pavel Nunan ...' said Kell.

  ‘I will tell him that I have ridden with his wife and she is the bravest, most honourable soldier it is been my fortune to meet. That he must be proud and that if our peoples are ever to forge peace, then she, Dina Kell, must go down in history as the one who took the first step.'

  Kell blushed, ‘I was going to say, make sure he looks after the children and don't stop them joining the legions but you can add what you like, of course.'

  Ruthrar bellowed a laugh and hugged her suddenly. She could do nothing but hug him back. When he released her, he had to wipe his eyes and she wasn't sure if the laughter had turned to tears or if they were as a result of his mirth.

  'And I will never forget your modesty or the calm voice of your command. My next born daughter will carry your name.'

  'That is greater honour than I deserve,' she said. 'Now go. The dead

  are at the base of the hill and we're trying to give you some breathing

  space.' ‘I

  He bowed and turned, shouting his riders to him.

  'Dolius?' Kell called. 'A word.'

  'General Kell.'

  'Keep him safe. If we get through this, by which I mean, the Conquord, we need him to be alive. I'm sick of fighting the Tsardon, Captain. If I am to give anything to you after I am gone, let it be that thought. We need another path. The Conquord has to seek peace with these people. Think what we can achieve together.'

  ‘It has been an honour to serve.'

  'Likewise, Captain. Get going.'

  Kell knew she was being profound, pompous even. But when could you say these things if not in the hours before your death? The standing army, four hundred and thirty-seven Tsardon warriors, Conquord legionaries and Conquord cavalry, watched the lines of horses go, led by the twenty who would carry the story to Neratharn and beyond.

  The dead had indeed reached the base of the hill. More accurately, it was the rise between two hills. The only place to march an army. The hundred horses and skilled riders even now cantering away could go where artillery could not. Kell was confident they would not be caught.

  The first time they had faced the dead, in darkness and with the shock of the knowledge consuming them all, there had been such fear. This time, it was not so. She felt determination around her. A willingness to embrace their fate. How long that would continue when contact was made was anybody's guess. Kell would use it for as long as it lasted.

  She signalled them to move to their starting positions and they began to spread around the rise up which the dead were coming. They had shown no recognition that the Conquord was waiting for them. Tsardon and Conquord dead marched in close column seven wide. The artillery and few wagons were surrounded by dead and more dead came after. Thousands more.

  Kell wished they had naphtha. Anything to make decent fire. Artillery was so vulnerable on the move. It was a strange reality they faced. She had supported Roberto's decision to use fire to disrupt the dead advancing on them outside the castle. But now, knowing she would see those s
he knew, knowing she was almost certain to join their ranks, she could think of no bigger crime. Yet one she would willingly commit, or suffer as victim.

  Below them, the dead were finally beginning to react. There was some ponderous movement, a spreading of the ranks. Some looked to climb the steeper sides of the upslope against those spreading above them. Others hemmed in around wagons and artillery.

  It was time. Kell drew her sword. She'd dropped her buckler, meaning to use her blade two-handed. She nodded left and right. Horns were sounded and answered.

  'Good luck everyone,' she said. 'Keep your friends close. And remember. Those you face are not the living as you knew them. They are the dead and we must return them to God's embrace. Let's go.'

  As a plan it was little more than hopes and dreams stitched together.

  Untried, unlikely to succeed. But then they were facing a force that outnumbered them by as much as fifteen to one and who didn't feel pain or fear. The joint Conquord and Tsardon forces advanced as quickly as they could. No one ran. Mainly they trotted as best they could, ignoring the pain and knowing it would all be over soon enough.

  Kell walked with those heading for the front line. Hers was a vital task and that which was taking the greatest initial risk.

  'Keep with me. Break only on my order.'

  A hundred Conquord were with her. Ten abreast. A single maniple attacking the front of a full legion and more. Ahead, the dead were moving with greater purpose but still with the air of direction by an incompetent. Kell held her sword in front of her, making and remaking her grip.

  The breeze washed over her, travelling uphill. With it came the sick stench of death and disease. It was rot and it was the odour of a fetid swamp and an animal, torn asunder and laid out in the heat for ten days. It was shocking and it caught in the nostrils and stuck in the throat. It clung in the lungs and stung the eyes. Kell blinked away the tears fogging her vision.