Vaunt was at his side. ‘The more men we send them, the longer they’ll hold, sir.’
‘The more men we send them, the more men we lose,’ Mace countered, and though the words cut him he met Vaunt’s gaze as he spoke. ‘They’re not coming down alive and they know it, Major. I’m sorry.’
‘Permission to—’
‘Denied.’
He gazed to his left, all the way down to First Bastion where Crys had disappeared and the wide sweeping left-hand curve of the city. The merchant quarter was around that bend. Merchant quarter sat next to the temple district, and he knew the Mireces were in there, working their way closer, burning and killing as they came.
Godsdamn enemy is everywhere now, tightening the noose. I’ve got the ideas and the plans, I just don’t have the numbers any more.
‘Vaunt, check the gate out of the merchant quarter is still locked. Then bar and prop it from this side. They make it through there and we’ll be fighting on two fronts, so station a Fifty outside that gate with orders to send a runner as soon as they assault it. That’ll be our signal to pull back into Second Circle, so make sure he’s fast and loud.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Vaunt didn’t move. ‘And the Fifty on the gate?’
Vaunt was asking all the difficult questions today. ‘If they can, they pull back and we cover their retreat with bows from Second Circle’s wall. If not, they make sure they’re not taken alive. I can’t imagine the Mireces will have anything good in mind for prisoners.’ He grabbed Vaunt’s shoulder. ‘Make sure they know.’
‘Sir, how do we win this? I mean, once we lose the wall, we lose our way out.’
Mace spat, or tried to; his mouth was dry as bone. ‘War of attrition,’ he said. ‘You weren’t at the Blood Pass Valley, but the plan’s the same. Kill them all. If they haven’t the numbers to overwhelm us, we survive the day. And the next day. And the next. Whoever has the biggest army at the end wins.’
He gestured to the breach. ‘That’s why I can’t reinforce those men. That’s why I can’t send anyone with Major Tailorson on his suicide mission. That’s why I’m praying Carter and the Wolves are alive and make it back to us. We preserve numbers, we put weapons in the hands of the populace, and we kill those who stand against us.’
Vaunt licked cracked lips with a pale tongue. His throat clicked as he swallowed. ‘I’ll lead the men on the district gate.’
‘Denied, Major. I need you with me.’
Vaunt sucked in a deep breath and then looked Mace square in the eye. ‘It wasn’t a suggestion, sir. You risk your life every day. Well, it appears I’ve learnt from the best. I’ll bring them back, sir. You just hold the Second Circle gate on the King’s Way; I swear we’ll be coming through it.’
Mace blinked and then saluted Vaunt. ‘I understand why my father had such respect for you, Major. Fight hard; run fast.’
‘You know it, sir.’ Vaunt dashed away, calling to the men lined up at the base of the breach. He gestured south, and Mace’s heart swelled when the men snapped to attention, every one of them stepping forward to volunteer.
‘These men,’ Mace muttered to himself as they double-timed it past him, unashamed of the sting in his eyes. ‘These fucking men. And women,’ he added as Tara’s cocksure, angry face flashed across his inner eye.
‘Incoming!’
It was a different voice from the breach, startling Mace from his reverie, and he felt another little piece of his soul splinter away. He hadn’t even known the first soldier’s name, and he didn’t know this one’s. Didn’t know his face or his family. Knew only that he’d called out a warning and Mace had left him to fight alone.
He ducked into the shelter of the wall and gave himself a mental shake. ‘Get a fucking grip, Koridam. Time to make the old man proud.’
Threescore men made it down alive from the breach defences into the killing field, a wave of East Rankers and Mireces only strides behind. Second Circle’s archers took most of them, but then the defenders turned at bay and fighting erupted again.
Mace wasn’t willing to sacrifice those threescore men, no matter what he’d said to Vaunt. Without conscious thought or decision, he bolted out of the King’s Way gate into the killing field and intercepted an Easterner with a spear, the weapon passing him so close it tore a hole in the leg of his trousers. Mace’s shield broke the fucker’s face and sent him over backwards, and then a small flood of his own hard-faced, grim-eyed West Rankers flowed around him and into the attackers.
West is best. The old adage had been disproved time and again over the last days as Palace Rankers, Personal Guards and even some of the City Watch did things that would earn them a commendation in any other conflict and now passed unremarked. Still, it was a comfort to see men he’d known and trained with for years surge around him like water round a boulder and take it to the enemy, in line and in step, parting to let the fleeing defenders through and then snapping shields together, an impenetrable wall.
The stingers positioned in the King’s Way gate loosed, pinning men to the debris and scattering others like spilt salt. They all knew their orders; they all knew where they needed to get to if they were to stay alive, and with the fleeing defenders clear of the field and through the gate, Mace’s line began shuffling backwards, in line and in step again, men behind guiding them, archers loosing from the walls, the stingers being wheeled inside for later use.
‘Wait!’
Mace glanced left and then roared, ‘Stand! Left flank friendlies. Stand!’
The shield wall stopped again and the enemy pressed forward, howling, some running to meet Vaunt and his sprinting Fifty – or what was left of them. More Mireces behind Vaunt – they’ve broken through the district gate, we have to move – and Mace ordered his end of the line to advance, pushing the enemy back and opening a path behind them straight to the gate for Vaunt and his men.
‘Come on!’ he bellowed, ducking a sword and thrusting back, catching the man a slicing cut through his scalp that sheeted blood into his eyes, blinding him. Mace knew better than to step from the line to end him, though every nerve in his body screamed at him to do so – one less man to face, one less threat.
Vaunt was fucking slowing, letting his men pass him, herding them to safety. ‘Move your fucking arse, soldier!’ Mace screamed. Instead, Vaunt stopped to help a man with an arrow in his guts, slinging his arm over his shoulder and dragging him forwards.
Mace lunged forward to help, but the shields to either side restrained him. ‘Let me through,’ he yelled, but they didn’t.
‘Fucking run!’ came a shout from further along the line. ‘We can’t hold!’
‘Going to kill you myself, Vaunt!’ Mace added, though the labouring major needed no encouragement. His face was red with strain, the man in his grip grey but still conscious, mouth a straight line of agony as the arrow jolted in his guts with every limping stride. ‘Thanks,’ he panted as he passed behind Mace.
‘Pull back,’ Mace ordered and the line shrank from two deep to four, shortening and retreating at the same time until the rear ranks could slip through the gate to safety, those in the front line defending with increasing desperation.
Mace paused to cover the men flanking him as they ducked inside, and then a fist in his collar yanked him backwards with a strength he couldn’t combat. He twisted in his captor’s hands and saw Hallos, the burly physician wrestling him backwards. His free hand held a short club with a lump of iron on one end; Mace could see hair and blood caked into the metal.
‘We need you,’ Hallos growled. ‘Alive.’
A dozen of his soldiers were still outside and they halted, an unbroken line of battered steel and weary flesh, winning the defenders enough time to slam the gates.
‘Rilpor!’ one yelled and the others took up the cry, stiffening the line and offering themselves to the enemy to ensure that others survived.
‘No! Let me go,’ Mace shouted, struggling, but Vaunt added his strength to Hallos’s and Mace’s view of his men was cut
off just as the Mireces crashed into them. The line wavered, buckled and broke, overwhelmed by a sea of blue. A heartbeat later, the gate slammed shut, sealing them outside, sealing their fates.
‘No!’
CRYS
Fifth moon, midday, day forty-three of the siege
South Tower One, southern wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
Whose bloody stupid idea was this anyway?
Oh. Yeah. Mine.
The guard wall was chill against his cheek as, breath by breath, Crys lifted his head to see down into the temple district below. The wall was a mess of broken weaponry and scattered bodies. The Mireces had forced the tower doors, swarming inside and killing their way up to the allure and then along it as the multiple breaches destroyed the defenders’ cohesion. Scores of the dead wore Mireces blue, but most were Palace, South and West Rank.
The catapult in South One had been intact and unguarded, so Crys had sawn through the rope connecting the throwing arm to the winch, then done the same trick with the candle and the pitch as he’d left in the gatehouse, wrestling some barrels into position as well. By the time the tower went up, he’d be long gone.
Parts of the long, wide temple district below were on fire, like much of the city. The grand temple though, where the royal family went to worship, stood serene and intact beneath him and Crys felt a stab of worry. That’s where they’d perform their sacrifices, washing the Light from the stone with blood. And Blood.
The thing inside snarled at that, and Crys felt a compulsion to throw himself off the wall and defend the temple. An urge he didn’t think was his. No. Patience. He could feel the voice’s resentment, but it held its peace and Crys focused on the men scurrying about below. No one was approaching either tower base, so he was probably safe for a while.
No, we’re not. Behind.
Crys dived sideways without wasting time looking, and an arrow clattered off the stonework above his head.
‘Captain Tailorson.’ The voice sent tendrils of oily anger curling into Crys’s gut, and he turned slowly, breath heavy and almost liquid in his chest.
‘Major, actually,’ he said. Galtas hawked and spat on to the allure. Dismissing the correction. ‘Your missing eye the reason you can’t shoot an arrow for shit?’
Galtas tossed the bow behind him. ‘Just getting your attention,’ he said. ‘Didn’t want you dying at someone else’s hands, did I? Besides, your presence – your corpse, I should say – will be the perfect alibi.’
Crys shifted his feet and smiled. ‘Treachery is like wine to you, isn’t it? Sorry to let you down, though, but you’re the one who’s going to die.’
They drew steel at the same time, stalked each other along the allure, their only witnesses the dead.
‘You sure?’ Galtas asked with a wicked smile as he limped on a bandaged, splinted leg. He was slow. ‘Your Wolf friend did.’
‘Ash?’ Crys laughed and the Trickster inside coiled in satisfaction. ‘Ash isn’t dead.’
Galtas frowned, clearly not believing him. He shrugged and his smile came back. ‘Whatever you say. Your family is, though, I know that for a fact.’
His tone was so calm and casual that it took Crys a second, but when his brain caught up with his ears he stopped moving, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. ‘What did you say?’ he asked.
A broad grin smeared across Galtas’s face. ‘You know, considering Mara’s had three children and one not that long ago – Wenna, your sister, right? Well, despite that, your Ma’s surprisingly tight. You know, down there.’ He gestured. ‘Well, she was at the start.’
Crys swallowed puke and felt the yellow glow start in his eyes.
‘Would not stop bloody screaming though. Mouth like a fucking fishwife. Had to take her tongue in the end, muffle some of the noise.’ Galtas watched him intently and obviously saw what he wanted to in Crys’s expression, because he nodded once. ‘There it is,’ he murmured, approving. He set his feet and waited.
Rage bubbled up in Crys’s soul and spilt into every limb, tingling with ice and fire and overtaking the voice murmuring restraint. He screamed, one long bellowing cry as he ran at Galtas. ‘Kill you,’ he raged, spit frothing from his mouth. ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’
There was nothing of caution and little of finesse in Crys’s attack. Blinded by tears and choking on fury, he threw himself at Galtas who, laughing, parried and thrust back, the blow screeching across Crys’s chainmail. Crys pivoted on his right foot, out of the line of attack, and elbowed Galtas in the face with his sword arm. The man staggered, staggered again as his injured leg took his weight, his single eye glittering with sudden tears. He pulled a knife in his free hand, swept low and sliced it through Crys’s thigh.
Crys howled and Galtas hopped back, fist on the guard wall to take the weight from his leg. Crys hobbled for Galtas and closed just fast enough to slam the knife out of Galtas’s hand with his blade. His sword came back up to cut into the armpit, but the man stepped into his guard and grabbed his wrist even as Crys did the same. They strained, holding each other’s swords at bay, both struggling on a wounded leg, panting into each other’s faces.
‘Fucking … bastard,’ Crys grunted, and headbutted the taller man. Missed his nose, but the rim of his helmet split open Galtas’s chin and rocked him back on to his bad leg. He stumbled, grip weakening for a second, and Crys managed to club him on the shoulder with the pommel of his sword.
Galtas dropped his head and rammed it into Crys’s chest, breaking their mutual grip. The air blasted from Crys’s lungs and in the second it took him to suck in more, Galtas disarmed him.
Crys leapt back again, his cut leg shaking and threatening to dump him on the stone. No weapons. He snatched the helmet from his head and used it to parry the next attack. All he could do now was defend.
No. Attack.
Crys ignored the voice. God or no, it clearly had no idea how to survive a fight like this.
Crys’s heels came up against the low wall of a small redoubt built into the inside face of the wall. He threw himself into it and the skin came off his palms as he hit the ground and rolled, shoulder taking a battering from his armour, and then he came up facing Galtas again.
‘Sword, spear, shield even …’ he muttered, but the redoubt was distressingly empty of all but himself and a slumped figure cradling his own guts in his lap. ‘Bollocks.’
Galtas lunged over the wall and Crys, roaring, battered the sword away with the helmet and then drove up, into Galtas’s face, the crown of the helmet splintering a couple of teeth and knocking him backwards.
Crys scrambled over the low wall and on to Galtas, snarling like an animal. He knocked Galtas’s sword hand away and got a grip on the helmet’s rim with both hands. Straddling the prostrate figure, he smashed the helmet again into the man’s face. And again: knocked the sword away with his elbow and hit him again. And again.
Hit him over and over, bash bash bash, until Galtas’s face wasn’t a face any more, was red and white and mush and splinters of bone and the twitching had stopped and Crys’s arms were shaking with the effort.
And one more blow, because he could, because the bastard wasn’t – could never be – dead enough for Crys.
Bash.
Crys was splattered in gore, the helmet dented and crusted with blood and hair and slimes of brain, and he threw it aside and forced himself to his feet. Chest heaving, he managed to spit on the corpse and stagger, groggy, for South Tower One.
Between him and it were three Mireces armed with bows and spears. Crys ran at them, nothing else for it. The archer loosed and on instinct Crys slapped the arrow out of the air. His hand spasmed in agony and as his arm came up again he saw the shaft had skewered the web between his thumb and forefinger.
He yelled in pain and ripped it free, using it to stab and gouge at the enemy. He knocked a spear aside as he barrelled into them, but they were three and he was one, and injured, and exhausted. A fist crashed into his jaw and he rocked back, punched in his turn and
managed a glancing blow to the nearest spearman’s cheek.
Something, spear butt maybe, drove into the back of his head and stole his strength and sight. He felt his knees, chest and then face smack the stone. And then he felt nothing.
Ash …
Crys couldn’t quite tell if he or the thing inside opened his eyes and saw the world. He suspected both of them would react the same.
He was in the square outside the grand temple and there were bodies strewn across it like autumn leaves blown together, if leaves were bloody, torn and tangled. Some in Rank uniforms. Most in civilian dress. Men. Women. Children. Infants.
The sun’s position told Crys he’d been out for a couple of hours, though whether that was long enough for anyone to miss him he didn’t know. It wasn’t like they could mount a rescue anyway, not here. There were Mireces everywhere, and trickles and dribbles of East Rankers were filing in from the merchant quarter, the killing field, the breach.
Mace has surrendered First Circle. Enemy’ll be guarding the gates into Second, but enough can be here for … whatever this is.
That answers our question about a rescue then.
‘Sire? Sire, he’s awake.’
Crys grunted at the boot in his ribs, the pain triggering memories and hurts elsewhere. The rip in his hand was crusty with dried blood, the digits stiff and unresponsive. His leg was a sharp, throbbing, insistent hurt that pulsed in time with his accelerating heartbeat, and the back of his head felt as though someone was holding a burning coal against it.
A figure squatted in front of him, the sun behind him so Crys had to squint. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hello, Corvus. Killed any princes lately?’
The Mireces king put his head on one side. ‘It’s funny you should say that, though it wasn’t my hand that did the killing, just like it wasn’t with your beloved Janis.’ He winked. ‘But Rivil’s dead.’
Despite everything, Crys felt an unexpected stab of pain. No matter what he’d done, Rivil had been his friend once, had favoured him and laughed with him, drunk and gambled with him. ‘Who did it?’ he asked.
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