A Shout for the Dead

by James Barclay

  'Oh, Yola.' Hesther sighed. It was the sigh of disappointment and the sharp-tongued seventeen-year-old still reacted to it. 'You've lived here all your life and you haven't learned a thing. You have to win arguments. Herine will be turning in God's embrace hearing your words.'

  'Look where it got her,' said Yola. 'For all the arguments she might have won, she lost the biggest of them all and now she is dead. We have to go our own way. Be strong for those who love us and want us. Not for those fickle ones who hammer on the gates pretending to forgive us.'

  'Then let's do that,' said Mina, speaking for the first time. Her voice was tiny. She was struggling badly with what they had done. 'There are people out there standing willing to die for people like us. Let's help them.'

  Hesther smiled. 'And how will you do that? I thought you were refusing to work anything that might hurt people.' 'Yola knows something.'

  'Shut up, Mina, I told you not to say anything.' 'Well I don't always listen to everything you say. Anyway, this is important.'

  Hesther stared at Yola until she could not help but blush. 'Well?'

  'A Land Warden feels things in the ground. Things that other Ascendants can't. Even the best.'

  'It was me told you that, wasn't it?' said Hesther.

  Yola nodded. 'When I was wondering why things came to me through my feet, or so it seemed.'

  'And what have you felt?'

  'The dead. Now they are close, if I push out with my mind, I can sense them. Or rather I can sense the lack of life energy, but it's still moving, if you see what I mean.'

  Hesther straightened. ‘I have felt it too but I didn't really know what it meant. Go on.'

  'Well, beneath the earth something in the base energies is changed. The slow-moving gentle powers we love so much, Land Wardens like us? They are altered.'

  'She thinks it's what drives the dead, makes them move,' said Mina.

  Hesther opened her mouth then covered it with a hand, hoping. Hoping.

  'And can you do something with it?' she asked. Yola nodded. ‘I think so.' 'What, child?'

  ‘I can interrupt it, I think. Or make it so the changed energies can't advance. Like a barricade or something. If it works it'll make the dead stop.'

  Hope kindled inside Hesther. Real hope they would escape all this. 'Over how wide an area can you project this work? The City?' 'No,' said Yola. 'Too big. But on the palace, I can. This is home, I understand how the energies work here.' 'Are you sure it will stop them?'

  Petrevius shrugged. 'We don't know. But there's only one way to find out, isn't there?'

  Hesther thought hard. ‘I really need to know how confident you are about this.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that if the dead break through, you can protect the palace, at least for a time. But I'm thinking that when Marshal Vasselis and Elise Kastenas hear about this, they'll have another thought. And that's that they can bring all the dead here, and you can beat them at the walls. So that's what I need to know before I send out a message. Can you really do this, Yola?'

  The walls of the Jewelled Barrier were broken. By what manner of means, Khuran hardly cared. He sent his warriors on the charge to finish the job. He would walk behind them to come upon Gorian

  Westfallen and dash his head from his neck with a single blow. Such was the fate of murderers of the Khur dynasty.

  Eager to feel flesh beneath their blades and see the blood of their enemies smear the ground of the Conquord, twelve thousand Tsardon warriors charged towards the cloven stone. The mighty structure, the Conquord's greatest folly, torn down by a single man.

  Khuran, sword over his shoulder, saw the earth shove the concrete and stone aside as if it was paper. And he saw it cross the open space towards the dead.

  'Get the Gor-Karkulas. I will own them.'

  His shout rang out over the rear lines of his men and was no doubt passed quickly among those who would compete for the prize. Khuran even managed a smile. Those who sought to best him were always too late to see their error. It could not be done. He would take new wives, have more sons. Rhyn-Khur had been a great prince and would be mourned, but his death could not be allowed to be the epitaph of the Khurs.

  The rolling wall of earth and mist rumbled outwards, shaking the ground beneath his feet. He stumbled slightly, placing a hand on Kreysun's shoulder for brief support. A chink of uncertainty opened within him. He paused in his march. The wall reached the dead and engulfed them and the Gor-Karkulas. The triumphant roars of the Tsardon stuttered. Voices fell silent. Behind the wall, in the void, nothing seemed to move. Victory was theirs yet Gorian's devilry still came on.

  The front lines of his warriors faltered, coming to a halt. The ground shook, heaved and split. As far as he could see, north and south, the wall moved at him. A great land wave. By the time his men had turned to begin their escape, it was already too late. Perhaps it always had been.

  Khuran looked briefly over his shoulder at the wide open spaces of the Atreskan Great Plains at his back. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but stand. Kreysun turned and grabbed his arm.

  'Go, my King, you must run!'

  'Run? I will face my death. It will not claw me down a coward.' Khuran, King of Tsard turned to his doom.

  'And with such acts, do we understand our own folly,' said Kreysun. The land wave crested above his head.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  859th cycle of God, 12th day of Genasfall

  'We have to stop. Please, Paul just for a moment.'

  A mile. Perhaps less. That was all they'd made. Tortuously slow but the one feeling the pain was Arducius. Every pace over the bleak, dead swamp was a new agony for him. His broken leg dragged through the sticky slime, bumping over boulders hiding beneath the surface. He moved with a hopping motion under Mirron's support and though he didn't complain once, the sounds that escaped his lips were truly awful to hear.

  But they could not afford to slow any further. Blanking the eastern horizon and closing in their inexorable way came the tens of thousands of dead that Gorian had created with his wave. Their movements slow and deliberate, silent and efficient. They were no more than three hundred yards behind now. And all heading for the same small space.

  They had crested a rise in the ground and there, less than a mile away, an oasis of life and health. A glade of trees and waving grass. Perhaps an acre in all. They could see figures moving within it. Probably more of the dead. But Gorian was in there too. Jhered didn't need an Ascendant to divine that. He prayed Kessian was there too and alive, but he wasn't holding his breath. The rank stench that bubbled up from below his feet made him wish he was.

  Mirron's voice cut through Jhered's carefully laid thoughts. He had been trying to ignore everything but placing one foot in front of the other while Ossacer, a heavy burden in his arms, coughed and wheezed, scaring Jhered that each latest breath would be his last.

  'All right. A moment, no more.'

  Jhered crouched and let the ground take Ossacer's weight. Jhered's arms were beset by a constant ache and cramp. He stretched them and groaned as the blood flowed into the crushed nooks and crannies of his muscles. Mirron helped Arducius down. He lay flat on his back in the mire, not caring what it held. It wasn't deep here, only an inch or so but right there at its surface, the reek had to be overpowering. He seemed not to notice.

  'Not just your leg, is it, Ardu?' said Jhered gently.

  The young man managed to move his head from side to side. He drew in a breath and flinched.

  'Ribs?' suggested Jhered.

  'Yes,' gasped Arducius, his words a little slurred. 'My right arm too, at the wrist. Always was weak, that one.'

  Arducius managed to smile and Jhered sat in awe of his courage, wondering where he dredged it from when everything was surely lost. Two crippled Ascendants out of three attempting to face the world's most destructive power. Not promising.

  'Anything else, dare I ask?'

  'Whole lot
of bruising deep down. Bleeding inside, I expect. I think I might have broken a cheekbone. Hard to say, that side of my face is numb.' Arducius pushed himself up on his good arm. ‘I know what you're thinking, Paul. I can still Work.'

  ‘I can help him.' Ossacer's voice was dry and cracked, barely more than a croak. 'Let me touch him.'

  'Don't let him touch me,' said Arducius. 'Ossie, don't be stupid. Keep what you have for you.'

  'Too late for me, Ardu. Let me heal. It's what I do. It's all I do.'

  Jhered looked down at him and saw the teenager he had first taken into the wild.

  'No one under my command ever gives up,' he said, it is not too late. If it were, I would not be carrying you. Do you understand?'

  Ossacer drew back his lips. 'Yes, sir, General, sir.'

  He tried to move his arm to approximate a salute but it didn't come off. Jhered shook his head.

  if I had half the strength and courage of you two, you three, I would be able to carry the lot of you.' Jhered looked back to the east. 'But now we have to move. And we can't stop until Gorian is dead. Either that or we join as his ... disciples, or whatever you want to call them.'

  'Slaves,' said Arducius, holding up his good arm for Mirron to take and help him to his feet. His foot.

  'Better term,' said Jhered. 'Come on, Ossie. Let's be having you.'

  They set off again. Jhered's arms were immediately on fire and he could only imagine how Arducius must feel. The escaping whimpers told him enough. The dead had closed the gap by half and were making better ground than the four living bodies. Jhered estimated their speed at a little over a mile an hour, so the dead were doing something like double that. He had a moment of clarity, as if looking down over the scene. The crippled chased by the dead. The slow pursuing the slower. Whatever the outcome, Harban had surely been right; the world had turned on its head.

  Down the slope they travelled, all of them desiring the flat ground on the approach to the glade, where the camber of the land put less stress on their muscles and bones. Their ears were filled with the sound of the dead walking. Forty or fifty thousand pairs of feet dragging through the thick sludge which sucked and grabbed. It was an unearthly sound.

  In his dreams, Jhered had always heard Armageddon accompanied by thunder and the battering sounds of pure power and energy. But this, this dredging scrape was worse. He tried to blot out what it meant. The sheer number of people Gorian had slaughtered. But as they approached he found he couldn't. He wanted to turn and apologise to them all, one by one.

  Perhaps it was right that they closed on those whose mercy had let Gorian live. Here they were, all of them alone in the wilderness. Perhaps they deserved to die for what they had done ten years ago. A tear fell on to his cheek. So much innocent waste. Such an insult to the Omniscient.

  'No point in blaming yourself, Paul,' said Ossacer.

  Jhered started and looked down at him. Those sightless eyes were boring into his body, seeing everything. He appeared very slightly recovered.

  'But what a mess we have made of our world,' said Jhered. 'All these people, taken from the earth before their time and denied the embrace of God. How can I not blame myself?'

  'Because mercy is the greatest act a man can perform,' said Ossacer. He coughed and a little blood spattered Jhered's cloak.

  'Don't talk, rest.'

  Ossacer's hand grabbed Jhered's arm just for a moment. 'It is what the recipient of that mercy chose to do that shaped the world. Who are we to judge who does and does not deserve another chance?'

  Jhered let another tear fall but he nodded. A new determination grew within him. It lent strength to his legs and his arms. And brought belief to his mind.

  'Well, we're judging now,' said Jhered. 'And I find Gorian wanting. Mirron, Ardu, faster. We owe it to all who follow in our footsteps.'

  Ossacer smiled and closed his eyes.

  Roberto cut the rope net away from the crates and dug his gladius blade in to lever open the nailed-down lid. Davarov was next to him, bawling orders at the few hundred whom they could see on the broken, angled, crumbling walls of the Jewelled Barrier. North and south, lost in the distance, they could hope that some survived but they were not facing what was coming at the gaping rent where the gates had been. Not a single catapult was still standing.

  There were plenty of places where the dead could walk straight through and into Neratharn. And there were thousands of them to do it. The original Gesternan and Atreskan dead who had survived the Conquord bombardment were up and walking again. Many carried new injuries but swords and spears were in perhaps a thousand hands. Those many thousands of Conquord dead caught under the wall and in the camps and compound when the wave struck were walking away west and could be ignored.

  Behind him, though, was the major problem. The Tsardon army. Roberto found it hard to believe that any had escaped and that meant around twelve thousand new dead. Fresh dead without the problems of decay and only those of injuries sustained during their very recent demise.

  It should have been hopeless but for two things. First, Davarov didn't understand the term and had already engendered a fighting spirit in his few remaining legionaries. And second, through a mounted magnifier that had survived the desttuction of the barrier, Roberto had seen a handful of figures making their slow and obviously painful way up a rise and away towards where he had to pray Gorian was based. The broad back and imposing figure of Jhered had been unmistakable and the other three had to be the Ascendants, all surviving the wave by some Work or other.

  Roberto couldn't help but feel bitter about their survival while having to be simultaneously thankful. He might hate all they stood for but he had to want them to succeed. And quickly.

  'Up to the roof and the standing causeway!' bellowed Davarov. 'To the General. One force, one defence. Move.'

  Roberto prised off the lid and grabbed at the first metal flasks. He handed one to Harban and another to Davarov. Harban had appeared from the front of the fort. Davarov thought him fallen but he'd found foot- and handholds in the cracking stone more than adequate to ensure his survival. He was completely unharmed but an anger burned in him that would not be tamed. Those he had come to save had died out there. Two of them.

  'Feel the weight and heft,' said Roberto. 'This stuff goes up on impact so throw hard.'

  Davarov nodded and bounced the flask in his huge hand. Roberto held out his to stop him.

  'Carefully, old friend. Drop it and this ends here and now.'

  The dead moved in. Arrows and some spears were being thrown at those closing to almost spitting distance but it was a futile exercise. The dead did not stop for such wounds. The Tsardon were almost within bow range too. Roberto stared at the sea of dead and tried to believe he could survive this. He searched the faces for Khuran or Ruthrar but could see neither of them. Ruthrar's mission had been in vain and it saddened Roberto. He had believed in the intelligent prosentor who had ridden to what had turned out to be his death. They could have done with his muscle up here.

  Soldiers were gathering on the half of the fort roof still standing. The steps up to it were cracked but had not fallen and its stability had kept the wall standing for another forty yards north. South, it was a gaping mess where no one moved. Below them, dead Conquord legionaries were picking themselves up and moving off west. Shambling, clinging onto weapons with broken hands, pulling themselves over razor-sharp debris if they could not walk. Tragic sights in every direction. It was best not to look, nor to think.

  Roberto felt a hand on his shoulder and turned from the scenes.

  'Want to give me one of those?'

  'What are you going to do, Julius, drop it on my head?' Roberto chuckled and passed him a flask. 'Send them back to God, Speaker Barias.'

  'As many as I can.'

  Barias was in a state of shock and the dust still covering his face accentuated his condition, but his eyes were focused and that was good enough.

  ‘I might even end up being glad I saved you,' said Ro
berto. ‘I'll put in a good word with my mother when we get back. So long as you don't still want me burned.'

  'Perhaps a clean slate is a good place to start,' said Barias.

  Roberto nodded, smiling. ‘I can live with that.'

  'Roberto.'

  Davarov's voice held surprise. Roberto looked out into Atreska. The dead had stopped. The tide had ceased to flow in. They stood ten yards from the walls now, stretched back a hundred, and north and south, covered many hundreds more.

  'The odds aren't too great,' said Roberto.

  Davarov bounced his flask again. 'We can even it up a little.'

  'Wait for them to move.'

  Soldiers lined the wall, the steps and the causeway. More stood the other side of fallen stone with rock and spear in hand. Anything that might keep the dead at bay when they came. Abruptly, the face of every fallen man and woman turned towards the fort. Mired in slime, cut and damaged but staring right up at the roof. Mouths opened.

  'Del Aglios.'

  Roberto stumbled back and sat down hard, clutching his flask to him. His name, from ten thousand dead mouths. It shuddered through him like the wave through the stone of the barrier.

  'What in the Omniscient's glory was that?' he said.

  'Del Aglios.'

  The words ripped through him, tearing the heart from him. The living let slip their courage just a little. Roberto got shakily to his feet and looked out over the mass of the dead. Their faces still towards him. Roberto breathed in deeply, dragging his will back within him. Yet still he could not shake that sound from his mind.

  'That bastard,' he said. 'He can see me through their eyes. How can he do that? He can see me.'

  'Yeah? Well here's something else for him to have a look at.' Davarov cocked his arm and hurled his flask down on the dead. 'Swallow that, you gutless bastard.'

  The flask struck an Atreskan breastplate and exploded. Shards of metal carved through the surrounding dead. The force of the explosion battered out in an oval, shearing dead from their feet, tearing limbs from bodies, decapitating. Rending flesh. Thirty disappeared in a welter of blood, shattered armour, skin and bone.