A Circle of Iron (Eldernost: Book 1)

by Greg Benage

  Chapter 8

  Over the next two weeks, the crew killed nine wights, and the wights took at least twenty scavs. Only three of the wights merited staking, but Thorn couldn’t say if his message was getting across or if it was just hard to catch a wight in the act. Jem kept the other scavs in line and they paid their bounties, but the grumbling was getting louder. Thorn figured there might have been a revolt already, except the bravos weren’t coming around anymore. The scavs might be dying, but at least they weren’t being robbed first.

  Thorn had gradually come to realize there were a lot more wights in the ruins than anyone thought, and more by the day. On a couple of occasions, he’d seen wights fighting each other, usually over a scav. Still, he might never have gotten a sense for their numbers if it hadn’t been for the body paint. They were all unique and he rarely saw the same one twice.

  “When I was soldiering,” Thorn said, “there were a couple dreams I had every night.” The crew was walking in a line down a narrow street with hollow, ruined buildings crowding in from either side. They were trailing a group of scavs who’d decided to break off from the usual work sites and push deeper into the city. Thorn heard his own words bounce off the cracked and crumbling stone.

  “Tell me about them,” said Quinix. He looked up at the roofs above their heads, and into the darkness of the gaping doorways and windows they passed.

  “The first one, I went out to fight on the morning of a big battle and I realized I was alone. My army was gone. The enemy stood across the field and laughed at me. Then their commander called the archers. They moved forward, drew and loosed their arrows, and they turned the sky black over my head. All those shafts in flight, and all meant for me.”

  “That sounds terrible,” Quinix muttered.

  “Well, they were of a kind, but the second was worse. Like the other, I woke up on the morning of the battle. But this time, I woke up in the enemy camp. I knew, somehow, that my army had moved on and the enemy came in while I was sleeping. I was surrounded by the enemy and I had to creep out of that camp before they realized I didn’t belong there.”

  Big Odd spoke up from the back of the line. “I like that one better than the one with a thousand arrows falling out of the sky on me.”

  “Maybe, Odd, but you weren’t there. Loneliest I ever been, waking up in that camp surrounded by the enemy.”

  “I’m starting to feel that way about the ruins,” said Quinix.

  Thorn nodded. “I’m not sure when it happened, but I think we’re in an enemy camp. Only difference is, they already know we’re here.”

  “If there’s an army of wights in here,” Mara said, “why haven’t they come after us?”

  “Wights are solitary creatures,” said Quinix. “They hunt alone. They aren’t wolves—they don’t hunt in packs.”

  “Maybe they ain’t here just to hunt,” said Thorn. “This feels more like the raids on the timber camps. Maybe they see us as scouts, and they don’t want to attack the scouts until they’re ready to move on the main force.”

  “I’d rather be in the Duck,” said Big Odd. Thorn glanced behind him and saw the big man turn a full circle, his longspear gripped tightly in both hands.

  Thorn gestured for the line to stop, and then motioned Quinix up. “Let’s have a look at that scrying tablet.”

  Quinix removed the wooden plate from his pack and set it out where the cobblestones were mostly level. He poured the iron balls from the pouch into his hand, and then dropped them one by one onto the surface of the scrying tablet. The balls spun around and around, crossing the orbits of the others, back and forth. Thorn had to blink his eyes to keep his vision from losing focus as he watched.

  There were nine balls in all, and none of them dropped off the edge of the plate. Thorn counted four on each side of them, spaced out in twin arcs, nice and even, and one behind. The first thought that flashed through his mind was that it looked a lot like a hexing circle. Except this time, it was his crew that had been tricked.

  Quinix’s mouth dropped open and he drew in a breath, but Thorn held a gloved finger to his lips. “Steady, boy,” he said quietly. “Go ahead and stow that away.” He got Big Odd’s attention and drew a circle in the air with his hand. Big Odd nodded. The mastiff growled and the hackles on the back of his thick neck stood up.

  Thorn would have liked to draw his sword if he was about to be ambushed. On the other hand, he figured baring steel might be just the signal the wights were waiting on. He looked down the street and saw an intersection about fifty strides ahead. If they went straight, they’d be heading towards the falls and deeper into the city. That was no good. If they went left, the street would lead them down to the river. Not much better.

  “How far you figure we are from the western edge of the ruins?”

  Quinix looked around and his brow creased. “Half a mile. No more.”

  Thorn nodded. “All right, let’s tighten up the line a bit. We’ll go on up to the next street there and head west. It’ll drop us into the wood, if we get that far, but it’s better than where we are.”

  “What if that street’s a dead-end?” Mara asked.

  “It ain’t. Let’s move, nice and easy.”

  Thorn took three steps before the wights attacked.

  A pale form streaked down from above and landed lightly on its feet in front of him. The wight was painted head to toe in black stripes, offset against its bone-white skin. It bared its teeth and hissed. The wight advanced, gripping bronze knives lightly in both hands.

  Thorn took a step back and drew his sword, letting the wight get the smell of the iron in the blade. The wight came at him with no warning, bursting into sudden motion, and it was so fast Thorn didn’t see much but a blur of black and white. He retreated, thrusting blindly, trying to keep some distance between himself and his attacker. The wight spun aside and Thorn saw the glint of sunlight on bronze. He felt the light touch of metal across his left bicep, and then a burning pain blossomed in his arm and shoulder.

  The mastiff saved him, as he had so many times before. The huge dog leaped from behind Thorn and struck the wight in the chest, slamming it onto the cobbles flat on its back. The dog had its jaws on the wight’s throat and shook its head savagely, but Thorn saw the creature grip one of the knives and lift it for a killing blow. He scrambled forward and brought his sword down on the wight’s arm, cleanly severing its hand.

  Thorn looked back down the street. Mara was firing her bow up at the rooftops, one arrow after another, draw, aim, loose. Quinix was standing behind him, clutching a stone in one fist and his knife in the other, though Thorn didn’t expect him to do much with either. Blind Tom stood calmly with his head cocked to the side, doing about as much as a blind man probably could, considering the circumstances. Big Odd faced away from Thorn, his spear leveled, backpedaling slowly up the street towards the rest of the group.

  Over Big Odd’s shoulder, at the other end of the street the way they had come, Thorn saw a wight step out into view. His hands and arms were red from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. Thick stripes wound around his legs, a red line ran down his chest and belly and one side of his face was painted red. The wight held a short bronze sword in one hand and a hatchet in the other. He spun the sword in his hand and advanced towards Big Odd.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out which one was Redmourn. Thorn yelled, “Run!” and waited long enough for Quinix, Mara and Blind Tom to get past him before he turned and followed. He heard wights dropping into the street behind them, but he didn’t look back until they reached the intersection. What he saw opened up a hollow pit in his stomach.

  Big Odd wasn’t running. He was still standing in the middle of the street, waiting for Redmourn to come on. “Odd,” Thorn screamed, “get out of there!”

  Big Odd darted a glance over his shoulder and grinned. Then he gave his head a little shake and turned away. He slammed the butt of his spear against the cobblestones and dropped into a crouch. Thorn could see half a dozen wight
s, at least, between him and Big Odd. Mara pulled at his arm but he pushed her away.

  When Redmourn was still fifty feet away from Big Odd, the wight broke into a sprint. The giant balanced on the balls of his feet and lined up the deadly iron spear tip with the center of the wight’s painted chest. At the last moment, Redmourn dove and rolled forward in a tight ball, right in close under the spear. He came up and the sword flashed high, the hatchet low, and then he spun away, his momentum carrying him past Big Odd a few paces down the street.

  The axe had bit into the inside of the big man’s knee, and it buckled. Blood fountained from Big Odd’s throat where the sword had opened it. He crumpled to his one good knee, the other leg flopped out at an ugly angle. Redmourn tucked the hatchet and sword in his belt and grabbed Big Odd by the hair to stop him from toppling over. He held him there and looked down the street. He looked right at Thorn, but no other expression crossed his face. He tore the iron torq from the big man’s neck and tossed it away.

  Then, very slowly, Redmourn leaned down, nuzzled Big Odd like a lover and drank from his gushing throat.

  Thorn couldn’t move. He couldn’t count the number of battles he’d been in, the number of men he’d seen die, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Redmourn raised up again and looked back at him. The unpainted side of his face was slick with Big Odd’s blood, like half of a dripping red smile. Thorn’s head swam and his vision blurred.

  A wight came at him, and then tumbled to the side when an arrow thudded into its chest. Mara stepped up in front of Thorn, grabbed the front of his tunic in one fist, and screamed, “Move, damn you!” Her spittle sprayed Thorn’s face and he blinked. He pulled her roughly to him, stuck out his sword and felt it slide into the guts of the wight charging at Mara’s unprotected back. The creature dropped its bronze knife and looked down in dumb fascination as Thorn pulled his sword free. Blood welled from the wound and burbled from the wight’s mouth onto its chin. Thorn stepped forward and chopped the sword down into its skull, cutting through an eye socket all the way down to one high cheekbone.

  “Let’s go,” Thorn said, and he and Mara rejoined Quinix and Blind Tom. They trotted down the side street, moving as quickly as they dared without sacrificing readiness. A wight dropped down ahead of them and it opened a long red wound on the mastiff’s flank before the dog brought it down and tore out its throat. Mara paused and aimed her bow up at a painted face that appeared on the rooftop. She loosed, but the arrow clacked off stone and the face disappeared.

  The street curved to the right and climbed a low hill. A narrow alley opened onto the street and two wights were there, rushing out of the darkness at Blind Tom. Mara took one down with an arrow through the throat. Thorn intercepted the other, catching an axe with the blade of his sword and deflecting it. He slammed his fist into the wight’s throat and it stumbled, choking. Thorn caught it under the arm with his sword on the backswing and it bit deep into the wight’s chest and shoulder. He yanked the blade free and kicked the wight in the chest, knocking it back into the darkness of the alley.

  How far to the edge of the city? Quinix had said it was half a mile. Thorn could see the edge of the forest ahead as they crested the rise. It seemed impossibly distant. And then the wood, in among the whispering trees—no refuge there. A long way back to the town, a mile, maybe more? Thorn looked behind and saw the painted faces of the wights coming on. Too many to fight. Redmourn was back there somewhere and he’d be coming, too.

  “Run!” he yelled, and they abandoned all pretense of a fighting retreat. They fled, and the wights came after them, silent as wolves pursuing their prey.

  The street ended in a small square with a great oak growing in the center of it. Beyond was what might have been a garden but had long ago been taken back by the wild. They ran through the dense undergrowth, Thorn in the lead hacking a trail with his sword. At the back of the garden was an intact wall, ten feet high and covered in ivy. A bronze gate covered in green patina was set into the wall. Thorn’s foot crashed into it and it fell away from the stone. Quinix went through, then Mara.

  Thorn turned to help Blind Tom through the gate and found him standing there, facing the garden, his iron knife in his hand. He drew a deep cut on the palm of his other hand and smeared blood on the blade, and then he leaned down and traced a five-pointed star in the earth. When he was finished, he thrust the knife into the center and stood up.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Thorn shouted.

  “They won’t want to come over the wight’s cross. They’ll be slow about it, but they’ll come over eventually. They’ll come over the wall. I can slow ‘em down a little. Or I can go with you and slow you down. Reckon I’ll stay.”

  “No one’s staying—”

  “Stop arguing, Caleb. You know I’m right and you ain’t got the time. Give me a sword.”

  Mara glanced at Thorn as she went past and handed over her sword. “Never use it anyway,” she said. “But it’s good iron, Tom.” He nodded and smiled. He pulled off his pack and reached around in it, pulling out the leather bag that held his hexing stones.

  “You take these stones, wizard,” he said. “I reckon you’re the only one will know what to do with them.” Quinix’s eyes were shining as he stepped forward and took the bag. “Thank you. I will do my best.”

  Blind Tom nodded again and turned back towards the city, towards the oncoming wights. They were in the square now, almost to the garden. The mastiff sat on his haunches at his master’s side. “You go on with Caleb, dog,” said Blind Tom. The dog whined, but he didn’t budge.

  “Looks like he plans to stay, too,” said Thorn. “You tell your father, and your grandfather, and all the rest of them back to the day the world was born…” Thorn’s throat tightened up. “You tell them your friends have a score to settle for calling you back too soon.”

  “Hmph.” Blind Tom gripped the sword in one hand and stroked the short fur between the mastiff’s ears with the other. The wights came on, moving like pale shadows on stone.