Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  The collection of spirits watches me for a time, then, one by one, they turn aside. As they go, they fade, as if the essence of their souls were moving away at great speed to some unguessable destination.

  The last Mor, the one who first approached me, lingers to fix me with a final stare. It raises its inner hands, fingers twining in a gesture, of what, I do not know, and then it, too, turns aside and fades away. The residue of its fear lingers on the air like a bad smell.

  The world slowly brightens around me. Pain from my bruised knees speeds the process, until I am once more myself. I hear my sister's heartbroken weeping, quiet now.

  "Sister, what—” I begin in a whisper.

  The lieutenant moans once again, thrashing beneath his blanket, drawing my attention outwards. I place my hand on his forehead, shushing him. He moans when I touch him, then his eyes fly open. He sits, his hand scrabbling at his belt, grasping for the sword that is not there.

  "Gently, soldier, gently. All is well,” I say, wondering even as I say the words if they are completely true.

  "You have blood on your face,” he says.

  "Just a nosebleed. It's nothing. How are you feeling?"

  "I ... I dreamed of the Mor,” he replies, looking this way and that. “It was so real. It ... they ... were trying to tell me something. They were so scared."

  He looks at me, and his eyes go wide. “It was you they feared. They were terrified of you."

  "It was just a dream. Do not trouble yourself about it,” I tell him.

  Liar, my sister whispers to me, venom dripping from the word.

  Together we watch the men finish the cairns. The snow changes into rain.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My first sight of the Armitage surpasses every childhood story I have ever heard.

  It seems as if I have known about the fortress wall forever—it always played a prominent role in my mother's many stories of the Imperial City—but still the sheer physicality of it is nearly overwhelming.

  I know all of the relevant facts: how four men, standing on one another's shoulders cannot reach its summit; how its gates resemble tunnels more than doorways, such is the wall's thickness; how the entire length, running nearly ten-score miles from the shores of Lake Tywyn in the east to the coast of the Sundown Sea in the west, is dotted with watchtowers and barracks, each large enough to be considered a fortress of its own.

  Even still, the sight of it, stretching like a mighty serpent, its ends lost in the blue haze of distance, is sufficient to steal my breath away. From this distance I cannot see the individual blocks which form the mighty wall; it is a thick line of startling geometric precision, its top serrated like teeth, studded with crenellations.

  The main gates, named the Lion's Mouth, I remember, are made from two titanic slabs of some strange, seamless stone, reinforced with thick bronze bands. None remember the artifice that made them now, and I wonder how the City's engineers will repair the damage I see gouged upon them. The lion's head that gives the gates their name is taller than two men, made of polished brass. It glitters like ruddy gold in the wan sunlight, proud and defiant.

  From my vantage point atop the last of the rolling foothills I see the sprawl of the Imperial City behind the wall, a wild tangle of buttressed rooftops and countless chimneys, studded with the gleaming domes. Spires jut upwards like the spears of giants, many topped with strange symbols. A pall hangs over the city, a great gray-yellow cloud, the legacy of a million fires. Tall stacks rise above the cloud, spewing columns of dark smoke into the air. The black clouds roll out, over the Northwatch Cliffs and across the fertile lowlands to the south, dense enough to blot out the sun.

  Behind me, I hear the men toiling up the last hill. They are not silent, far from it, but I can see from my vantage point that there are none nearby to hear. The last three days, ever since we left the road, have been hard going, but the threat of discovery by some passing Mor patrol was too high to travel along the easiest route.

  The lieutenant, Stathis of Brannock, orders the men to stop, then moves up behind me. His splinted arm, held immobile against his side with a twist of knotted cloth, makes him clumsy. Behind him, I can hear a second set of footsteps, much lighter and more graceful; Lia's I can tell.

  "Gods, Kirin, couldn't you have chosen an easier ascent?” Stathis complains, dropping to a nearby log. He fumbles with his water skin and offers it to me, and I take it with a nod of thanks. I drink deeply, then pass the skin to Lia.

  "An easy ascent is an unsheltered ascent, as you well know,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Best to use what cover we can, lest a passing patrol stumble across us. The City's defenders need every man on the wall."

  "Aye,” he agrees, smiling. “I'm just grousing. You know full well that a complaining soldier is a happy soldier."

  "If that is the case, then breaking your arm must have made you ecstatic,” Lia says, arching her eyebrow. Despite myself, I laugh.

  Stathis nods, an answering grin twisting his lips. “A touch for the lovely mage then, is it? Well, I suppose I've earned it. I know I've done my share of bellyaching since the mountains."

  "More than your share,” I answer, then laugh again at his pained expression. Gods, I have missed this, this easy, soldierly bantering. It seems like an eternity since I was able to tease and be teased in such a manner, but ever since Gamth's Pass, all my good humor seems baked out of me, like water from a fired clay pot.

  The memory of that place, and the massacre which followed, stills the laughter in my breast. Lia and Stathis chuckle for a few moments more, then fall silent. Together, they follow my gaze downward, towards the great plain below.

  As far as the eye can see, the rolling ground before the mighty wall has been trampled flat. Great burned patches, black and charred, surround every trace of human habitation. Blackened timbers and splintered chimneys, all that remains of what was once farms and ale-houses, of granaries and inns, rise like bones from the destruction.

  Always with the Mor it is like this, this wanton destruction. It is as if the mere sight of human habitation enrages them, driving them into a frenzy. Only when every last shingle has been burned, and every stone has been rent from its fellow, do they stop.

  In the distance, I see the Mor war host, a vast, shifting horde, a stain on the earth. The totality of them presses on my heart, stealing away my breath. There are thousands of them, tens of thousands, milling in scattered groups beneath the towering wall. Surely their entire nation, every able-bodied warrior, shaman and chief, has come.

  "This is why the Armitage was built,” Lia says, looking down on the vast assembly. “After the first Mor attacks on the City, when we were nearly wiped out as a race. The Armitage was constructed to defend the southlands under the Northwatch Cliffs. Its bones were cut from the spine of these very mountains and its mortar was mixed with the blood of countless workmen. It is their grave; their cairn and monument, and it has never fallen.

  "Since it was built, the Mor have come three other times, each time murdering everyone and burning everything between the mountains and the great cliff. Three times they have attacked, and three times they have been stopped, here, under these walls."

  I know all this, but remain silent. Speaking would lessen the power of her words. Instead, I nod.

  "How will we reach the gates?” Stathis asks. I do not reply. He often asks questions of himself in this manner; it is his way of thinking through things. Lia however, as always, answers.

  "The Mor do not understand the concept of a siege,” she says. “We studied their tactics extensively at the College."

  "I, too, have studied them,” Stathis replies. He sounds annoyed at the interruption, but Lia presses on, oblivious.

  "Then you know they will not entrench, as a human army would do, but rather will attack, every day, wave upon wave, until they are either broken or the walls crumble."

  "That will never happen! Not while the men of the Imperial Army dra
w breath!” Stathis exclaims.

  "And not while the Elemental Mages stand beside them,” Lia agrees, laying a placating hand on his arm. When he has calmed himself, she continues.

  "All we need do is wait. Eventually the defenders will send out a sortie, and when they do we shall rush the enemy's rear."

  Stathis looks at her with wide eyes, an expression of mingled respect and fear. “Rush towards the Mor? All due respect, but there are thousands of them down there. What good do you think our company can do against such a force? Shouldn't we travel along the wall, to a watchtower further along?"

  Lia shakes her head. “The Mor will have patrols roaming all along the wall, and you have seen the strength of even a small force. Plus we could wander for days and not find a clear gate, and I am sick to death of walking."

  I see the shape of Lia's plan in my head, and find it has merit. “We won't attack them,” I say. “It would be suicide. We'll wait for something to distract them. An exploratory force, or a cavalry sortie; something that will break up their formation. Then we'll press straight through them before they can turn to face us, and join forces with the defenders and head inside with them."

  "Aye,” Lia agrees. “They cannot risk opening the gates for a force as small as ours, but they will have a retreat planned for any force sent outside the wall. We just need to join up with it."

  Stathis frowns, then nods. “I see the wisdom of it. Do they always teach such thorough battle tactics to Imperial scouts and pretty young apprentices at the Colleges?"

  "That and much, much more,” Lia answers. I see the first flicker of lightning in her eyes.

  "Gather your men,” I say to the lieutenant, rising. “I'll scout ahead and find us a place to lie low. Once I find a place large enough to shelter us, I will return for you, and we will approach under the cover of darkness."

  "Gods be with you,” Lia says, her hand on my shoulder. I do not have the heart to tell her the same.

  * * * *

  The sentries shift and speak, quietly, to each other, as the rest of the men try to claim a few hours’ sleep. The company lies in the rubble of a burnt granary, sheltering behind the tumbled walls. The men have been here for hours, ever since darkness spread its cloak across the land, concealing their descent from the foothills above.

  I wish we could have a fire, but it is out of the question. The Mor are only a mile distant, perhaps less, and its light would betray us instantly. So we huddle in the cold wind, pressing tight to the charred stones.

  I sigh and open my eyes, abandoning even the pretense of sleep. I dozed for a few hours in the late afternoon, while I waited for the sun to go down, and I am not tired. Lia snores gently beside me. I smile; the young elementalist has picked up many soldierly habits since we first met.

  I rise, and her eyes open, alert for trouble. I hold out an open hand. “I'm just going to check on the sentries. Go back to sleep."

  She nods and turns aside, pulling her cloak up to her neck. Her chestnut hair falls across her face, and I resist the urge to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

  I keep low as I move between the sentries, using the walls for cover. There are rumors that the Mor, being underground creatures, might be able to see perfectly well in the dark, but no one is really sure. Best to not take chances.

  I find the two guards, chatting quietly. They speak of their fallen companions. Tears gleam on their stubbled cheeks, but their faces are grim, hard with resolve. They sit on chunks of stone, only their heads visible over the tumbled wall. Even as they reminisce, their eyes move unceasingly across the open ground. I exchange a few brief words with them and tell them to wake their relief, then head back to my bedroll.

  The sentries’ vigilance calms me. I did not know what to expect from these irregulars, militia soldiers one and all, but so far their professionalism has impressed me. Some are veterans of the Imperial Army, retired but still more than capable of taking up arms in defense of their homes and lands, but many others are simply farmers, or millers, or weavers. Then I remember that all of them have one important thing in common: they have faced the Mor and lived to tell of it. Such an experience changes people; they are no longer the men they were.

  "Is anything amiss?” the lieutenant asks softly as I resume my place beside Lia. His wakefulness is no surprise; he is a trained soldier and commissioned officer, and I would have been disappointed with anything less.

  "All is well,” I whisper back. “The guards are all awake and alert."

  "They're good men,” he says, settling back.

  "They have a good commander,” I say. I think of my last commanding officer, the pompous Lieutenant Hollern. Stathis compares quite favorably to the memory. He is everything Hollern was not: confident rather than tentative; bold and assured, not restless or agitated, expecting and receiving obedience rather than demanding it. These men are luckier than they know to have him watching over them.

  "How's the arm?” I ask. “Does it pain you?"

  "Of course. This isn't the first time I've broken bones, gods know. It'll take longer than a week for the infernal throbbing to go away,” he says, scratching at the sling. “I feel so naked without my shield."

  "You'll have it again soon enough. When we get to the City I'll—"

  I fall silent as trumpets sound from atop the wall. The martial sound, defiant and brazen, stirs my blood. Beside me, Lia rolls from her crude bed, eyes wide.

  "What is happening?” she asks. “Is it the army?"

  "I don't know. Maybe,” I say. All around, the men are waking. I hear the muted clink of armor and the rasp of steel as weapons are checked. I scurry towards the sound, Lia and Stathis just behind me. Together, we reach the fallen stones, and peer over them.

  Out in the darkness, I hear the sound of the Mor, moving. They do not call out to one another as men would; the only sound is the rumble of their countless heavy footfalls. It makes the earth tremble.

  I see a line of flickering light at the top of the wall. Hundreds upon hundreds of small fires. I hear a new horn note, familiar to any soldier trained with the bow.

  "It's an archer's signal,” I say. “They must be readying fire arrows."

  Seconds later the sparks leap into the air, each a tiny comet. A bone-chilling whistling reaches my ears, the sound of scores of feathered shafts flying through the night-dark air.

  We watch, spellbound, as the fiery arrows arc upwards. They trace parabolas of fire across the black sky. As they reach their zenith, I hear a call, someone shouting commands in a strange tongue.

  The air explodes as fire spreads outwards from the burning arrows, forming radiant paths in the air. Lia grips my arm, her fingernails digging into my leathers with the force of her excitement.

  "Fire mages!” she exclaims.

  The flames twist and bend, spiraling into a vortex of fire, then pull together, tighter and tighter, until they form a spinning ball. It lights up the night like a miniature sun, dazzlingly bright. I feel heat on my face, as if I stood near a blazing campfire; I can only imagine how intense it must be closer to the source.

  The Mor give voice to their eerie hooting calls. I shade my eyes with my hand, and see the enemy, arrayed below the wall. They shift and seethe, a living tide of rock-hard flesh. The flight of arrows rains down into the mass of bodies, but if the missiles do any lasting damage, I cannot see.

  The ball of flame shifts once more, responding to the calls from atop the wall. It forms a shape, a body, sinuous and lithe. I see a mighty leonine head coalesce from the twining flames, wreathed in black smoke, streaming like a huge mane. Its eyes are stars of white-hot fire.

  The fire lion roars with the voice of a forest fire and looks down on the gathered host. It springs downwards, landing amongst the Mor. It is huge, bigger than any natural animal, towering over even the tallest Mor, but the enemy has vast numbers. Vast.

  The fire beast strikes at the enemy with blazing swipes from its fiery paws. When it hits, the targets are covered in livi
ng flame, which flows down their bodies like water. Those afflicted often stand their ground, ignoring the intense heat. The Mor rush forwards, waving their upper claws and their stone weapons.

  "How can they withstand it?” Lia gasps. “Are they indeed so mighty? How can they keep fighting, even as they are burned alive?” All around, the men mutter to themselves, echoing her question, until Stathis barks a command for all to be silent.

  The lion renews its assault, cuffing the Mor aside. Flaming bodies are hurled into the night. Some do not rise, but others do, despite the terrible damage they must have endured. The fire beast turns in place, spinning to face the enemy that rings it, but always the Mor are there, stabbing at it. The press of bodies thickens as more and more of the warriors rush to assist their brethren. The lion roars again, as if in mortal pain.

  I see a flicker of movement, something moving at the base of the wall. I squint, staring at the spot, and see a rectangle of blackness slide open. It is a sally port; a small door, perfectly concealed and invisible when closed. A moment later, a second one opens further along the wall.

  A stream of equine shapes flows from the opening. Dozens of horses gallop out from the safety of the wall. As soon as they are clear, they shift, forming a skirmish line. The two lines converge, riding along the Mor front.

  The horsemen lower their lances and sweep back and forth, along the line of assault. Even the Mor are no match for such concentrated force, and I see several ridden down, pierced by multiple lances. The Mor warriors, trapped between the rampaging fire creature and this new, more earthly threat, begin to raggedly retreat, moving away from the Lion's Mouth.

  Ahead, I see the enemy ranks thinning, until large gaps appear. I see clearly the base of the wall, tantalizingly close, just over a mile distant.

  "This is our best chance!” I hiss, turning to the lieutenant. “We must make a run for the sally port. Now. While the enemy has other concerns to distract them,” I say, pointing to the still-open gate.

  "Better that than try to advance in the daylight.” Stathis nods. “Men!” he calls out. “Stick close to your fellows and head for the closest gate. Not the main gates, do you hear me? They'll not risk opening them for any reason."