by David Hair
His nephew Cabruhil drew his own bow and stepped to the window. ‘Not so well as we can,’ he replied brashly. He was only seventeen and thought himself invincible.
Ghujad caught his shoulder. ‘No, nephew. Never appear at the same place twice.’
Cabruhil coloured and slithered to the next window, scanning for targets. ‘We should rush them,’ he said. ‘There is hardly anyone over there.’
‘They’re there,’ Ghujad told him. ‘The myrkas’ – the mercenaries – ‘tried to cross fifty yards downstream, over a footbridge. Thirty got over, then it collapsed and hundreds of the Jhafi scum emerged from every rat-hole and cut them to pieces.’ He smiled cheerily: he viewed Rondian casualties as a bonus.
The third member of their scouting party, Lekutto iz’Fal, a squint-eyed man with a swift blade, asked, ‘What have we found, cousin?’
‘Rats,’ Ghujad replied. ‘A nest full of them.’ The Jhafi had been known among the Harkun as ‘The Rat People’ for generations. ‘Across the canal it’s thick with them.’
‘Is this a good place to force a crossing?’ Lekutto asked.
‘As good as any.’ They all winced as a catapult launched from somewhere to the rear and a few seconds later, a rock whistled overhead and smashed into the far bank, exploding in shards and a burst of flame. Fifty yards away across the filthy waterway one of the defenders laughed derisively.
We’ll teach you how to laugh, Ratman.
‘This place will do,’ Ghujad told Lekutto. ‘That building, there: see how it’s fallen into the canal? It’ll be easiest to cross there. Bring timber to lay across the gap and set archers to provide covering shot from the roofs.’
‘Half the defenders over there are women,’ Cabruhil sneered.
‘Handy,’ Lekutto quipped. ‘We won’t have to go looking for them after their men are dead.’ They all chuckled, then Lekutto added, ‘I’ve heard that the Nesti queen is a tribaddi.’
‘So it is said.’ Ghujad wrinkled his nose. ‘When we find her, you can fuck her back to righteousness. But first we must cross this canal: we punch through, then push on to the castle. We’ll take Nesti keep, not the Rondians.’
Ancestors, behold! We’re going to crush the Rats in their holes once and for all. ‘This is the beginning, kinsmen,’ he told Lekutto and Cabruhil. ‘Inside a year, all of Ja’afar will be ours.’
*
‘Lady, I wish you wouldn’t—’
Cera put her finger to her lips and cut off Justiano di Kestria’s latest plea. ‘Seir Justiano, I have to do this. I must be seen by my people; I must share their struggle.’ She ignored Justiano’s worried expression and with Tarita in her wake – the maid had refused to go back to the palace – she shuffled along the crowded alleyway that ran behind the canal-front houses, her escort of Rimoni legionaries trailing behind.
The alley was filled with armed men and women, and children too. All were battle-stained and exhausted, but they moved with quiet purpose, handing bundles of arrows along their lines, or packages of food. When they saw her they all looked twice, the first time blankly, without recognition, then the second time with widening eyes. Some tried to acclaim her, but she put her finger to her lips lest the noise draw enemy bombardment, then seized their hands and pressed her lips to their cheeks. She had no idea how many of her people she’d kissed in the past two days, but it felt like thousands.
There had been absolute tumult when the outer gates had broken, and for a terrifying two hours there’d been no certainty that they could hold against the Harkun and Rondians, but Justiano had led his heavily armoured Kestrian knights in on foot, buying time for the bulk of the defenders to retreat across the canals to their new defensive line, as they’d planned. Too many had died – both Jhafi and Rimoni – trapped in the wreckage on the far side of the canals as the defences crumbled. But Justiano had prevented a rout.
Since then, Cera and Tarita had been going amongst the defenders, without fanfare, to encourage whoever they could, and show her people she loved them. This was no ordinary battle, fought between trained soldiers; this was the whole community, working together to prevent annihilation. Sharing the ordeal was the least she could do.
Timori had begged to be allowed to do the same thing. ‘Father would allow me,’ he’d said brightly, bringing tears to her eyes. So he was off with a strong guard, somewhere south of her, facing the Argundian mercenaries.
But her sector was where the major breakthrough had come, on the north flank where the Dorobon were deployed, aided by thousands of Harkun. The opposite side of the canal was filled with nomads, hovering just out of sight in the ruins. Arrows had flown incessantly for two days and nights, and there had been dozens of attempts to force a crossing, turning the canal into a slaughterhouse. So far they were holding: the townsfolk standing firm against the nomad warriors, for all they were losing three to one in casualties. They were giving all the strength they had, but only the canal and bloody-minded willpower were preserving them now.
‘If we stop believing, we’ll be destroyed,’ Cera muttered to herself, but she pasted a smile on her face and on she went, moving from one person to the next: a young man, wounded; a young woman, his wife, maybe, asleep beside him, a spear clutched in her lap. An old man with one eye holding a bow. Cooks. Washerwomen. Smiths. Message-runners, young children. She blessed them all, kissed them, let them hold her hands, even kiss her feet, an honour she felt unworthy of. It was painfully awkward, and yet they rose from their knees stronger than when they knelt.
Then the dreaded cry went up again. ‘They come! Harkun!’
Someone screamed a warning as a rock plummeted into the building two doors down, smashing through the roof. Everyone roused and surged towards the canal. Cera grabbed Tarita, or perhaps it was the other way round, as men burst from the houses behind, wiping their faces and spilling food bowls, as they dashed to the front line. Justiano tried to reach her, then the building between them shuddered and a wooden support beam crashed through the brickwork, crushing the people beneath. From over the canal came the wailing ululation of Harkun warcries.
As the wall above them teetered, Tarita pulled Cera into the nearest doorway, which faced onto the canal. The building had been gutted and was now packed with two dozen of her people, of all ages and genders. Most were holding crude spears, and some at the front were shooting bows through holes in the walls. Through those portals, Cera caught glimpses of Harkun tribesmen only thirty yards away across the canal, bursting from cover. They were carrying planks looted from destroyed houses. Three men dropped instantly, pierced by arrows, but more came, and retaliatory fire sent arrows back this way too, hurtling through the windows and thudding into the packed defenders. Choked cries were torn from the lips of those they struck. A man in front of Tarita went down, a shaft transfixing his throat.
‘Cera! Be careful!’ Tarita cried, pulling her back towards the door, as a wall of Harkun stormed over the planks and launched themselves at the building. Wild-eyed nomads shrieked as they plunged their spears and scimitars through the windows. The Jhafi defenders fought back, fighting furiously, but they weren’t real soldiers and it quickly showed. In these close quarters, the strength and the honed savagery of the warrior took over and she saw defender after defender beaten down – and then the Harkun were pouring in. A young woman she’d blessed just a few moments before the attack was brutally gutted as she tried to protect her fallen husband. Her killer stepped over her, his eyes fixed on Cera. He lunged.
Tarita leapt forward, her dagger in hand, and batted away his thrust, but the man just bellowed angrily and smashed the tiny maid in the face with his left fist, sending her flying limply to crunch into the wall. Then he turned on Cera again.
For a helpless second, she froze—
—as a straight sword swept over her shoulder from behind and into the attacker’s chest. Justiano di Kestria shouldered her aside, kicked the corpse off his blade and parried another blow from the next attacker.
‘Pleas
e, my lady, you must get out!’ he bellowed as three more of his knights barged into the room. One grabbed Cera and threw her behind them and she stumbled, cracking her knee and cried out in pain. Then she crawled to Tarita, who was unconscious, but at least she was breathing. She threw her arms around her and hauled, dragging her out into the alley as more men poured in from the rear: Nesti legionaries, moving with calm urgency. A pilus saw her and called, ‘Get to the rear, you stupid bitch! Get out of the rukking way!’
She grabbed the man by the arm. ‘Please, my maid—! She’s hurt—! Help me!’
The pilus bent over Tarita. ‘She’s dead,’ he said, wrinkling his nose and pulling away as if death were infectious. He clearly had no idea who either girl was.
‘No, she’s breathing,’ Cera said, in her most imperious voice. ‘She’s not dead – I need you to help me!’
The cohort commander scowled impatiently, but he looked around and snapped an order and a young legionary pulled Tarita from her arms. ‘There are healers at the rear,’ the pilus said. ‘Genas will see her to them.’ He bent over and dropped his voice, spoke in Cera’s ear. ‘It’s a broken neck, girl. She’s better off dead.’
Cera clutched the wall, her throat seizing up as she stared at the man, but he’d already stepped away and was ordering his men forward. The man he’d assigned – Genas – threw a resentful look back over his shoulder, then hauled Tarita away from the front line and laid her down in a line of wounded and dead men at the next plaza before running back towards the canal. He clearly hadn’t recognised his queen either.
Cera pulled out her family brooch to identify herself, then shrieked until she got help: a Sollan priest of the healing order, who dripped water into Tarita’s unresponsive mouth until she swallowed convulsively. Cera squealed with relief and tried to speak to the maid, but she’d slipped back into unconsciousness. A few minutes later a stretcher-bearer took the girl away, leaving Cera feeling horribly lost and alone, just another terrified and bewildered young woman in a falling city.
So she went back to the front line.
My people must keep believing . . . even if I don’t.
The attack lasted all day and well past dusk. Three more times the Harkun forced their way over the canal, forcing their way two or three streets further in, before being hurled back by swarms of desperate defenders. The last counterattack was led by the lamiae-magi, though the mere presence of the snakemen terrified the defenders just as much as the attackers. But as darkness closed in, the Jhafi regained the canal by dint of pushing men into the area in such great numbers that the Harkun had no choice but to give back the ground, foot by bloody foot.
Cera found her way back to the citadel in the dark, to be met by near hysteria when she was recognised. Apparently the rumour had gone round that the queen-regent was dead, or a prisoner. Timori, who’d been waiting anxiously, rushed to her arms. He was white with exhaustion and beside himself, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Others crowded in, Pita Rosco, Comte Inveglio, the house servants, all crowding about her and weeping in relief.
Pita grabbed her and almost squeezed the air from her lungs. ‘Where in Hel have you been, girl?’
‘Trying to help,’ she panted. She pushed free, grateful but anxious to appear womanly and calm, not some teary-eyed ragazza. ‘Are we holding?’
Piero Inveglio bowed. ‘My Lady, we’re holding. They tried to punch through in four places along the canal, and they breached us in two, but we’ve held them off.’
The court – Mater Lune knew who all these people were – cheered, while a burst of pride surged through her, filling her eyes and threatening to reduce her to a sobbing mess again. ‘Thank you, all of you,’ she choked out.
She gave orders for them to find Tarita and bring her back to the Krak al-Farada, then at last she corralled Pita Rosco, Piero Inveglio, Justiano di Kestria and Saarif Jelmud in a private chamber for a meeting.
‘How long can we hold?’ she asked them.
Inveglio exhaled heavily. ‘Against another attack like today? Dusk tomorrow, perhaps? We almost lost everything today, my Queen.’
‘It is as Piero says,’ Justiano added. ‘The mercenaries attacked on the southwest flank with mage-support and we were broken. But those lamiae: they took down a mage-knight and that stiffened us.’
‘Rondian battle-magi don’t like to fight toe-to-toe, and they don’t like arrows,’ added Saarif in a low voice. ‘They like to kill from safety; but my archers made sure the skies weren’t safe, and so took away their vantage points. Then we just threw bodies into the gaps, all day long. Only the darkness saved us, really,’ he concluded grimly.
That summation chilled them all. Then Pita raised a hand and reported, ‘On our right, the northern flank, the Dorobon broke us quickly, using their windskiffs above, and Fire-gnosis below. But we were lucky: there is a secondary canal behind the first at that point, much wider, and we fell back to that and they couldn’t cross, not with so many archers protecting us. I think we wounded one of their magi.’
She listened with an ashen face. ‘Can we do the same tomorrow?’
None of the men responded with conviction. ‘If we’re fortunate, then maybe,’ Inveglio replied at last, for them all.
‘But we’ll not surrender,’ Saarif glowered.
‘Cera, in some ways the presence of the Harkun is helping us,’ Pita said. ‘Though I’d prefer a lot fewer of them! But their presence is removing all doubt from our minds. Even the smallest child knows that this is a fight for survival.’
‘It is so,’ Piero agreed. ‘The people know that the Rondians come to conquer, not slaughter. But the Harkun are here to kill us all. Their presence unifies us.’
‘We must send Gurvon Gyle our thanks,’ Cera said drily. ‘But can we win?’
‘If Riban were to send aid, perhaps,’ Justiano said in a low voice, but they all knew by now that Aranio wasn’t coming.
Pita Rosco put his hand on hers. ‘Lady, we must think beyond this battle. We’ve been moving the apparatus of governance out by the mountain road for a week or more now; not just the vital documents and holy relics, but pregnant mothers, newborns and the like. The Viola Rift Fort can only house a few hundred, but it’s something.’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘My Queen, you and Timori should join them. It would give us hope, knowing that you’re safe.’
‘No,’ Cera said flatly. ‘I’ll not hide while my people fight.’
The men looked at each other. To her relief, they didn’t ask again.
‘Then that just leaves prayer,’ Justiano di Kestria said. ‘We can always pray.’
*
Hans Frikter had beer froth in his moustache when Gurvon Gyle stepped unheralded into his tent. Gurvon had flown all night to get there, reaching Forensa mid-morning, as the camp was preparing for battle. He was tired, and the sight of his legion commander sitting around swilling ale did nothing for his mood.
I never lose my temper – I know exactly where it is. ‘What in Hel are you doing, Hansi?’ he barked. He flashed a blazing look around the command tent at the Argundian magi with their thick beards and complacent faces. ‘Drunk before a fight!’
‘Nay, Gurv,’ Frikter laughed, ‘we’re not drunk.’
‘Takes more’n a couple of beers to knock us over,’ one of the battle-magi drawled.
‘Just settles the gut,’ another guffawed, slapping his own ample girth. ‘From las’ night!’
‘Shut up and get out,’ Gurvon snapped and the tent fell silent, the Argundians glancing at their commander for guidance. Gurvon realised he’d overstepped and raised a hand. ‘All right, lads. That came out harder than it was meant. But I just want to know why this assault has taken almost two weeks, and it’d better not be because of the drink!’
They all glared at him, not in the least bit placated. ‘It’s ’cause them fuckin’ Noories can’t fight,’ one grumbled.
‘They’re holding you off,’ Gurvon retorted.
‘He means the Harkun,’
Frikter added, hooking a finger through his belt. ‘All right lads, off you go. I need a word with the paymaster.’
The battle-magi left, still sourfaced. Frikter looked at Gurvon crossly. ‘All right, we all know you’re the boss, Gurv, but you don’t come into my command tent and throw your weight around. My lads don’t like Noromen, and they don’t like big-headed boss-men coming in all high and mighty.’
‘Sorry—! I know, you’re right.’
‘I’ll do what I like in my own bloody command tent.’ Frikter belched. ‘And for the record, my boys could down a keg each and still beat any Noorie in a scrap.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Gurvon exhaled impatiently. Damned chest-beating Argies: they’re all the rukking same. ‘Listen, Hansi, seriously: what in Hel is going on? Why do the Nesti still exist?’
Frikter pulled a sour face. ‘Gurv, it’s just not so easy as we thought it’d be. These Jhafi, they’re fighting like cornered nyxen. You know the nyxen, the Argundian wildcat? You say “Boo” and it’ll run, but you corner one and it’ll come for you, claws and teeth flying. These Jhafi are like that. The whole populace is fighting – shooting bows and throwing spears and rocks and whatever. We’re not fighting an army: we’re fighting a city.’
‘Give them a whiff of mage-fire! That’s usually enough.’
‘We have, Gurv, but they just keep hanging on. We must’ve killed five of theirs for every one of ours, but they keep on fighting.’ Frikter shook his head. ‘It’s these fuckin’ nomads you brought in. The Jhafi hate ’em – they hate ’em worse’n the Estellans hate my people. An’ I don’ trust ’em neither, an’ nor should you.
‘I don’t, Hansi, not for a moment. But two legions weren’t going to be enough for this job.’
‘Sure it was, providing we was all on the same side. But I’m jus’ waiting for Heale to fuck me over and he’s coverin’ his pucker-hole jus’ the same, an’ meanwhile these Jhafi and Harkun are going at it tooth and nail.’