A Shout for the Dead

by James Barclay

  Yet they were the few against the many. Iliev cursed again. They had been looking in the wrong place. He'd known they would need a fleet to bring the dead across the Tirronean. The Tsardon would have to sail around the southern tip of Gestern to do it. Should have.

  But they had been out-thought. Gestern was full of the willing muscle of the dead. There was no resistance in that fair country. So the Tsardon had not risked encountering the Ocetanas and the Ocenii where the Gildenean Sea met the Tirronean. They had dismantled their ships and marched them across Gestern. An extraordinary feat. Possible only because of the sheer numbers of dead the enemy used as passive muscle. And by the time the truth was known, two hundred ships were coming from the length of the western seaboard. Too many for the Ocetanas to take.

  Whatever they did, some of the dead would make landfall.

  Iliev could see the white walls and red slates of Estorr in the far distance. Two days before they knew the horror of the dead. The only hope that the thirty vessels Iliev had gathered to him had was that they had sunk those containing the Gor-Karkulas. It was a game of chance and it was not one they would know they had won until the Tsardon turned back or the ships landed to disgorge nothing.

  Tsardon sails stained the horizon and blotted out the beauty of the ocean. In amongst them, Conquord vessels taken from Kester Isle. The reserve Iliev had gone to get but which he had found already taken. The enemy had kept them hidden until now though he didn't know how.

  Iliev wracked his brains, thinking of what he might have done differently. But there was nothing. No preparation he could have made would have eased the burden on his heart now. He had flagged the invasion warning and seen the response communicated back by the fleet. At least Estorr knew they were coming.

  'Skipper!'

  Iliev turned and looked down over the port bow. Kashilli was standing at the tiller on his corsair. 'Kashilli, how goes it out there?'

  'Stop nagging yourself like a bad wife and come and see. Enemy to be sunk. Hammers to be swung.'

  Iliev nodded. 'Back off to the stern. I'll join you.'

  Iliev trotted back down the ship, pausing at the skipper. 'Keep tracking them down. Keep those bellows going. Any dead that falls is a good dead.'

  'Yes, Admiral.'

  Iliev smiled. 'We can only do what Ocetarus allows us, Captain. The call is out and we have answered. Remember that. Fight. And watch for the Ocenii. Strike centre. We'll move out a half mile.'

  Iliev stepped on to the stern rail and dived into the sea, feeling the cold embrace him and the hand of Ocetarus caress him. He commended his body to his god and broke surface. Kashilli's shout turned him in the right direction and he struck out. There was damage to be done.

  ‘I can feel her,' said Kessian. 'She's practically just around the corner. Why can't we go to her?'

  'Quiet!' Gorian's shout only worsened his headache and exacerbated his fatigue. 'Stop your whining. Don't you realise we are not ready?'

  'Why not? Everyone is there. Arducius and Ossacer are there too. Even that man we were looking for before.'

  'Yes, and none of them will understand what I have become. Or what you have become. You know they all hate me.'

  ‘I could go to her. Bring her to you and we can be together just like you said.'

  'No.'

  Gorian groped for the right words but they would not come. The concentration of energies was flooding his mind. The sheer density of it threatened to swamp even him. Everything bar keeping his people whole and walking forwards seemed such a massive effort.

  The proximity of the Gor-Karkulas and his second army marching with Khuran had reached a critical point and the well of power he had so close to him was vast. It told him his tactics were right. Once the two armies were joined, the forces he could bring to bear through four of the Karkulas would be simply unstoppable. The energies beneath the earth thrummed as he sucked on their life forces.

  Above, where the living still roamed, hoping to defeat him, some would sense it. And they would hate it. Kessian had sampled this bleeding into the complex map Gorian had created, an unconscious attempt to right what they felt was wrong. That was how Kessian knew so much about who was on the wall, damn him.

  'How does it feel, my siblings?' he whispered. 'To know that I am here but to be so helpless. To yearn for my blood but to be so fearful of the power I possess.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  Gorian came back to himself.

  'You are like a tick in my ear, boy. Go. Leave me. Prepare. Our enemies will use foul method to try and defeat us. Our people must be strong. They must not lie down. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, Father.'

  Gorian watched Kessian disappear into the glade of trees where he had placed himself, there to find those he was sworn to command. Kessian had learned hard lessons about control of late and now he was ready.

  Gorian smiled. The sun reached him through new leaves and the grass beneath him was wholesome and healthy. It was an oasis where his people would not walk. A place of simple beauty he wanted to leave untouched. Tomorrow, his armies would be one and his power increased tenfold. Tomorrow, he could begin the march to Estorr and the throne would be empty and waiting for him when, in glory, he arrived.

  The fear was palpable. It settled on the Jewelled Barrier like a heavy dew, cloying and grasping. The refugees who had thought themselves safe behind the barrier now found themselves on a new frontline with nowhere to go. Everywhere Arducius walked, he could hear crying and praying. It was eerie. There were hundreds of fires alight across the camp sites, throwing tents and people into deep shadow between them. The sounds of their distress rose with the flames. Their hopes, like the flames, tattered on the breeze.

  All that stood between them and Gorian's thousands of dead were three Ascendants. Two legions were present also, standing on a wide front, but they were there only as a lure. They were what Gorian wanted. The balance of the Conquord forces was stationed on the barrier itself, watching the dead approach across the plains. They would be within striking distance in less than a day. The Tsardon still followed them. It was yet to be seen whether Ruthrar's mission would prove successful or whether he was the spy Davarov clearly thought him to be.

  The Ascendants walked to the frontline through the stink of the refugee camp. Disease was breaking out. Inevitable but deeply worrying. Arducius felt that Gorian would have enough on his plate fighting the battle that was to come. But should he see the dead in the Conquord midst, he could cause havoc. Roberto had insisted that any who die be mutilated beyond his use but it was naive to believe that all in the sprawling camp, some fifty thousand in number, would listen to that order. Bodies would be there, concealed, buried whole.

  'They'd do better rushing the dead when they come,' said Ossacer. 'Fifty thousand against, what, eight thousand or so? No contest.'

  'And will you be the man first to attack a walking corpse?' asked Arducius. 'They do not have the will. Feel the fear. Taste it.'

  'Anyway, he will not try and rush in. He'll do what Davarov and Roberto said was done on the other borders,' said Mirron. 'Plant some dead in the defence.'

  'Then we have to move the refugees,' said Ossacer. ‘I don't know about you but I can sense the sickness here. It is spreading fast. Diphtheria, mainly. Bad sanitation, too little food and clean water.'

  'And where will they go? There's a city of them out there. If they start to run it'll be a stampede. No wonder Davarov has the Rogue Spears circling them.'

  Arducius indicated the line of picket fires within which the entirety of the Spears infantry stood. A thin line of defence whichever way you looked at it. Ossacer was right of course, they should have been moved. Some had taken the chance to run south when first news of the enemy approach this side of the wall was given. Most, though, felt they should stay within the net of the army. Arducius wondered how many of them regretted that decision now. By the feel of the atmosphere, most of them.

  The Ascendants carried on walking.
Past the lines of artillery, past the resting army and out onto the open ground of Neratharn. Out there, only a couple of miles away, Gorian waited. They were as certain as they could be that he was out there. The direction of the sick energies running under the earth that dragged at their stamina and infected small corners of their minds told them that.

  'It's so dark out there,' said Mirron. 'So bleak.'

  She knelt on the ground and placed her palms on it, seeking clues. Arducius and Ossacer joined her, opening their minds as one and delving deep into the earth. Nausea boiled up through them. Deep below was a perversion of everything they had come to believe. A negative energy. The elements of death, disease and decay.

  So powerful. Gorian had seen it. The universal constant. Every living thing is prey to it and, ultimately, falls victim to it. As far as they could feel to the east and the west, it dominated the endless slow-moving energies of the earth, tainting them with a sick greyness that was death in all but name.

  'Is he there too, Mirron?' asked Ossacer.

  'I don't know,' she replied through a sigh that brought a lump to the throat. 'I'm not even sure I can feel him any more, even if he is out there. His energy is so distant, like a dream.'

  'You must believe, Mirron. Don't let him go, not for one moment, or he might truly be lost to you.'

  'I try so hard, Ardu, I really do. But Gorian blots out all else. His essence is all around us. It is in the air and running through the ground like a river in flood. How can we beat it. How can we hold this back?'

  Arducius rubbed his hands together and stood up.

  'We don't,' he said. 'He's too powerful for that and the dead energy map is so vast. I still don't know how he does it, do you?'

  'This path is thankfully closed to us,' said Ossacer. 'It doesn't make any sense. What do you have in mind ?'

  'What else do you think Gorian has left when he is in control of all the dead? Not much in my opinion. I suggest we give him something to think about. It'll take much of the night to get it right and make it happen with the pace we'll need.'

  'Something on the wind, Ardu?' asked Ossacer.

  Arducius nodded. 'Will you help us, Ossie?'

  'We're only killing him and putting the dead back to rest, right?' 'Only that.'

  Ossacer nodded and his eyes swam orange to calm green. 'I am with you, Ardu.'

  'What day is it after tomorrow?' asked Mirron suddenly. Arducius smiled. 'Twelfth genasfall.' 'Father Kessian's birthday,' said Ossacer.

  'A fitting day for the end to all this evil,' said Arducius. 'Remember we are one and we will always be one. Let's get to work.'

  Khuran's rage would surely be heard on the walls of the barrier. Prosentors Kreysun and Ruthrar were powerless to stop him. He roared his grief. His armour was scattered all over the tent. Cushions, canvas, blanket and clothing were shredded and slit. Feathers clouded the air. The bed was reduced to splintets.

  Khuran's blade was sharp and Ruthrar had felt its edge across his arm when he tried for the first time to calm his king. The wound bled freely but he ignored it. Khuran stood in the centre of his ruined pavilion tent, his breath heaving in and out, his sword in one hand, a broken chair leg in the other. His eyes were aflame, his face was red and his head twitched from side to side as he cast about for something else on which to vent his fury.

  The only things left whole were Kreysun and Ruthrar.

  'My King, please, you will awaken the army, put fear in them.'

  Khuran focused on Kreysun and Ruthrar felt the power of his gaze. Kreysun was trying desperately to hold himself together, not break his stare.

  'Then they should be scared,' said Khuran, his voice like two rocks ground together. 'They should fear for their lives.'

  'It is time to sheathe your sword, my king,' said Kreysun gently, holding out his hands.

  Khuran lashed out and Kreysun snatched back. The blade missed his fingertips by a hair.

  'He killed my son!' Khuran's bellow carried clear across the camp, surely. 'I want that bastard's heart on a platter. I want his eyes to stare at me in terror for what he has done to me. Get out of my way.'

  Khuran made to shove past Kteysun but the prosentor stood his ground. Khuran backed up a pace, raised his sword to strike.

  'Out of my way!'

  He struck down. Ruthrar was ready. He dived in, got both hands on the king's sword arm and bore him down to the ground. Kreysun pounced on his other arm, trying to stop the flailing chair leg from beating out Ruthrar's brains. The king glared at them both in turn. He was spitting, incandescent, and he had the strength of three men. His legs thrashed, his body convulsed and his neck bulged with his corded muscle.

  'I will have both your lives for this. Get off me. Guards! To the king. I am attacked.'

  'No, Khuran,' shouted Kreysun. 'You must be calm. You cannot get him. He is too far from you.'

  Guards had run into the tent.

  'Let me at him. I want him now. Get your bastard hands off me.'

  Khuran's struggles intensified. Ruthrar could barely keep his sword arm down, such was the strength of his fury. He turned to the four guards just standing, gawping.

  'Make your choice,' he said. 'Help us calm him or take us from him.'

  'Westfallen, I am coming for you. Do you hear me you bastard?' The guards moved in.

  'We mean him no harm,' said Kreysun. 'One of you, get his sword. He's going to kill himself or someone else before long.'

  Khuran's face was puffed like it would explode. His eyes bulged from their sockets. 'I.. Want.. Him.. Dead.'

  'Please my King, you must calm yourself,' said Kreysun, trying to catch his gaze, a gaze that had long since not seen any reason. 'Khuran. My friend, my King. Listen to me. Listen.'

  The guards could hear Kreysun's tone. They trusted him. Ruthrar sensed them come to a decision. The right one. One moved to each hand, prising open the king's grip to divest him of his weapons. The other two sat on his legs, forcing him to calm though his torso still bucked and twisted.

  With a guard kneeling on each wrist, Kreysun let go the king's arm and took the poor man's face in his hands. He fought the strength in that bull neck to bring his eyes around.

  'Khuran. Your rage and your grief. Both are felt by us all. And the Tsardon will extract their revenge on Gorian Westfallen for the murder of your son. But it cannot be tonight. Khuran, do you hear me?'

  Ruthrar could see that Khuran's face had cleared. His eyes lost their madness and he frowned. Tears poured down the sides of his face.

  'He has taken my own from me,' whispered Khuran and his voice was desperate and alone. 'My line is ended. Who will rule when I am gone. My son. My beautiful son.'

  'We have no choice but to go on,' said Kreysun. 'Westfallen is beyond the walls. Remember what we spoke about.'

  Khuran nodded.

  'Use the dead to beat the Conquord. Let them make the breach in the wall that will bring us to Gorian. Then we can strike. Whatever Ruthrar says, we cannot trust the Conquord. One worthy dead general is of no use to us.'

  'Leave me,' said Khuran.

  'What will we tell your warriors?' asked Kreysun. 'They will all have heard your grief.'

  'Tell them the fact but not the manner. But tell them this also. When the dead assault the walls, we will stand by. Not one of my people is to perish in the assault. The first blood spilled by a Tsardon will be that spilled by me and it shall be the blood of Gorian Westfallen. This is my solemn oath.'

  Kreysun knew he shouldn't but he could not help himself. The dead camp was quiet, its stench extraordinary. He imagined disease entering his body through every orifice, every cut. His eyes smarted, his nose itched and his throat was tight. But there was no other choice.

  Right in the centre of the camp, the open wagon stood. Surrounded by dead, packed ten deep. Kreysun strode towards it. A figure detached himself from the mass and the mass turned to watch him walk.

  'Hasheth.'

  'Kreysun.' Hasheth smiled, the points of his teeth
gleamed. 'Commotion in the ranks. Is there a problem my Lord Gorian should be made aware of?'

  Kreysun spat on the ground between Hasheth's feet.

  'The King knows all. Your King. It is time you and your filth decided who it is that you serve.'

  Hasheth laughed and the sound was echoed by hundreds of mouths in a foul whisper. Kreysun shivered.

  'No, Prosentor. I decided a long time ago who I serve. It is you who must make that choice. But make it quickly. Dawn and glory are not far away.'

  Chapter Sixty

  859th cycle of God, 12th day of Genasfall

  'Keep your heads down and your eyes front!' bawled Davarov. 'I don't want a single one of you dying on me, is that clear?'

  Davarov's words were carried along the crest of the Jewelled Barrier and relayed to those mustered beneath the great wall. Pitch fires burned along its length. Catapult arms were drawn back. Bows were strung. Arrowheads and stones were ready for dipping and painting in flame. The powder Jhered assured Davarov would cause great destruction was in metal flasks set among nets of stones that would be set on fire and shot over the walls. Crates of flasks were roped below the battlements on the fort roof.

  The answering calls, the flags and the punching of the air spoke that the message was clear.

  'The dead come to fight us but they will not climb this wall. Do not let them have clear sight of you. For every one of you that falls brings more strength to our enemy. Look to your friends, your brothers. You know what you must do. And do not look back into Neratharn. For there, the greatest powers known to man are ranged against our enemy. I believe in the Ascendants. I have seen them work. And they will not let the dead take our people from us.'

  Davarov stopped and looked out over the Atreskan plains from his position on the gate walls. Issuing across the last mile, they came, leaving a trail of darkness behind them. Advancing in a line that stretched for over three miles, the dead. Thousands upon thousands of them. Fear blew in on the breeze mixed with the stink of decay. And silence rolled before them. The frames of artillery moved on the horizon.