Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  Even with my secret eye firmly shut, I can feel the edge of the Mor's loathing and fear, eddying around me like a foul breeze. Somehow, I can sense they know I am here. The dead have told them.

  "Gods, no,” I whisper, amongst silence. My sister says nothing. Nothing at all.

  "No!” I scream, pushing past the stunned guards and running for the steps.

  Below, the Mor crash into the wall like an armored wave.

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "You have blood in your hair,” Malthus says in a strangely calm, conversational tone. All around us, men hurry and shout, rushing to form up into ranks.

  I reach up and touch my matted hair, then abandon the gesture. It does not matter. All that matters now is that the enemy is at the wall, attacking with a fury I have never seen before. I snatch up my bow from the rack and fit the string into its notches, pulling the bow hard across my leg until it pops into place.

  Malthus watches me prepare, his own bow, one of the deep-bellied southern weapons, clutched loosely in his fist. He wears a belt sheathe bristling with arrows and his leather breastplate.

  "Put on your helmet,” I say, rushing towards the wall's edge.

  "What about you?” he asks, following me. I am unarmored, as I always am in the daylight. My leathers are in their usual place in my footlocker down in the barracks. Before today, there was no need to wear them in the daytime.

  "No time. Grab those arrow bundles; we're going to need them."

  Malthus gathers up the arrow bags and hurries to catch up. The men are already assembled, looking down nervously. Only half are armored; the rest wear their uniforms or, in some cases, their sleeping tunics.

  "Get below and put on your armor!” I yell. “You'll do nobody any good shivering yourselves to death!"

  They nod and dash away, leaving their weapons resting against the battlements, as if to reserve their place at the slaughtering table the wall will soon become.

  "Form lines! Form lines!” I hear Sergeant Cyr bellow. “Stop staring and move, you witless bloody morons, or I'll shove my foot in your gaping holes!” I place an arrow on the string and look down.

  The Mor swarm at the bottom of the wall. The base is slightly wider than the summit, but even their claws cannot find purchase on such a steep slope. They beat against the implacable stones, scrambling for purchase.

  As I watch, two of the warriors find a seam between the blocks and pull in opposing directions. Impossibly, the stones begin to grind apart as the block is wrenched out of true. I see cracks spread outwards from the gaping hole. Up and down the wall, I see other blocks being wrenched from their moorings, other cracks spreading out and up.

  "Oi!” I scream, knowing as I do that the enemy will not hear me but trying nonetheless. I draw the feathers to my cheek and loose in one fluid motion. The arrow streaks down with a thin whistle. My fingers are already fitting a second shaft to the string while the first is still in flight.

  The missile strikes one of the warriors atop its armored skull, bouncing aside harmlessly, but it draws its attention. It looks up, its lambent eyes searching for what has dared assault it.

  My second shaft speeds down, straight for the narrow eye slit. At the last moment, the Mor flinches back, away from the cruel barb. The arrow shatters on its cheek armor, spinning away in a shower of splinters, but it has done its job. The warrior reels back, its upper arms raised as shields, abandoning the block for the moment.

  The men around me cheer and add their own haphazard additions to my attack. “Hold your fire until we're in formation!” Cyr bellows.

  "No time! They're ripping the wall apart! We need stones! And mages!” I shout, seeking a fresh target. From above, the Mor are almost completely covered, offering only tantalizing glimpses of the lightly-armored seams.

  Cyr hesitates, then turns aside and whispers to a runner. The youth sprints off, calling for the stone wagons to be brought up.

  Back beyond the attacking Mor I see a second line forming. Shamans. They share in the warriors’ frenzy, stamping their clawed feet in time to their rhythmic piping. I see them forming into a new formation: a broad wedge, pointed straight at the wall beneath me.

  The shamans move forward, three dozen strong. I send a shaft towards the creature at the point of the wedge, but it is prepared for such an assault, and the arrow glances harmlessly off of its rock-hard upper arm. Somewhere down the wall, I hear the sound of carts rumbling across the stones.

  "Archers ready! Target those bloody shamans!” Cyr bellows at the newly-formed lines. Up and down the wall, men draw arrows and place them on the strings.

  "Draw!” A hundred bows are raised. A hundred strings are hauled back to a hundred pale cheeks, and a hundred eyes sight down the shafts. My own arrow's feathers tickle the skin beneath my eye.

  I focus on the slender seam between head and armored shoulder: it is a moving target no thicker than the width of my smallest finger. I take a deep breath then half let it out, willing my arm to be steady.

  "Give them hell!” Cyr shouts. A moment later the air is filled with the lethal whistle of arrows.

  My own shaft is swallowed in the mass, instantly lost from sight, but the Mor I targeted staggers as a dart, perhaps mine, perhaps another's, finds some sensitive place. A second Mor falls, twitching in the dirt, an arrow jutting triumphantly from its face mask.

  "Again! Swiftly now!” Cyr calls.

  The second volley speeds out and down, staggering more of the enemy. Arrows bristle from their armor but most only serve to slow them. The formation shifts and deforms slightly but holds together.

  "Where are my bloody stones?” Cyr yells down the wall. I see a team of engineers a hundred yards away, pulling a cart. It is loaded to the height of a man with rocks and small boulders. Something has stopped it, and the men struggle to hoist the wheels over the obstacle.

  The wedge approaches the wall and the attacking Mor warriors part to let it pass. As it does, the warriors pull in close, raising their armored upper limbs over their smaller brethren. The shamans reach forward, placing their claws on the shoulders of the figures before them. Their piping calls increase in tempo, spiraling up to a crescendo. The Mor at the tip brandishes a simple stone rod. Heat braids and twists the air around it.

  The shaman presses the tip of the rod to the wall. Sparks fly, and a terrible wave of heat rolls up towards us. I smell the flinty odor of burning rock, feel the tender flesh around my eyes stinging.

  The sparks fly upwards in a swirling cloud, burning my face and hands when they settle. The heat banishes the icy wind, and I feel fresh sweat breaking out all over my body. I squint down, through the smoke, and see the stones beneath the lead shaman's rod have begun to glow. Their baleful light grows swiftly, shifting up from red to orange, then to ruddy yellow.

  "Keep firing!” I yell, putting action to words. “We must break their formation!"

  More shafts rain down, most bouncing aside harmlessly. Behind me, I hear the cart rumble forward and breathe silent thanks—I do not know to whom—that they have managed to free it.

  The wall begins to tremble beneath my booted feet, vibrating like a plucked string. The stones are pregnant with building force; I can feel it in my nerves, and in the quaking of my guts. The stones beneath the shaman's stone rod go from yellow to white.

  Through the fiery maelstrom, I see several warriors step forward, just as the wedge steps back. They clutch braces of hammers in their inner, more delicate claws. They flinch away from the terrible heat, raising their upper arms before their delicate eyes. As one, they raise their weapons.

  "Brace yourselves!” I scream.

  The hammers fall, and the wall explodes.

  The Armitage quakes in agony, flinging men like dolls. Archers scream, some pitching headlong over the battlements. I land on my tailbone, hard, the unexpected impact driving the breath from my lungs.

  Aftershocks ripple through the stones, and I hear an ominous grinding
rumble as the wall shifts beneath me. I see cracks run through the mortar binding the stones, some rising or falling several inches out of true. I scramble to retrieve my fallen bow, then haul myself to my feet. I must see what is happening.

  The wound in the face of the wall shocks me: it is a ten-foot wide crater, roughly circular, its edges still glowing red. Sand and gravel pour from the breach like the wall's life blood. Next to it, the shamans sag, exhausted, but quickly shake off their fatigue. They tighten their wedge and step forward again, once more starting their chant. Again, the air ripples around the stone rod as the lead mystic presses it to the tortured face of the Armitage.

  "Here! Here! Hurry!” I yell towards the cart team. They see me, and resume their efforts to push the load over. It bounces on the uneven surface, creaking ominously.

  "Help them!” Cyr bellows, and several of the archers abandon their useless weapons, putting their shoulders under the wagon. It surges forward, wheels rattling. A moment later it is beside me. Below, the stones have already gone red, and are shifting swiftly towards orange.

  "Heave, you useless maggots! Heave!” Cyr screams, adding his own strength to the men's. I wait, arrow on the string, searching for an opening. Few can hit so small a target at such range, but I have made tougher shots.

  The cart, designed for such use, hooks over the top of the battlements and begins tilting over the center axle. Men groan as tons of rock are heaved upwards. Gears, similar in design to those I have seen on trebuchets and other siege machines, ratchet, keeping the enormous mass from falling back down.

  The men give a final heave, and the engineer pulls the bolt. The front gate swings open, releasing its deadly freight. A rain of stones slides down the timbers with a sound like thunder.

  The stones fall directly on the tip of the wedge. Even the Mor are no match for such a thing. Before a rising cloud of dust blocks my vision, I see half a dozen in the front crushed like insects before the stones bounce back, scattering shamans and warriors alike. The strange chanting stutters to a stop.

  For a moment there is deafening silence, broken only by the reverberating echoes of the stone slide. Then the men are cheering, slapping each other's backs. The icy wind returns, dispersing the concealing dust cloud.

  A mound of stone is piled in front of the breach, partially blocking it. Armored limbs protrude from the mass. Some wave feebly, but most are still. The remaining shamans stagger about, clearly disoriented. Some stare up at us—at me—their inhuman eyes shining with rage.

  I shoot without thought, and am rewarded by a piping scream. My latest victim drops backwards, pawing at the arrow that has blinded it. Savage joy surges through my breast. A part of me notices, distantly, that my sister does not match my hunter's call.

  The warriors recover swiftly, stepping up to the fresh pile we have made. They begin dismantling it, their powerful limbs tossing aside the stones. Soon they will clear it away, exposing the damaged section to fresh assault. I see the remaining shamans reassembling into a new, smaller wedge. They hesitate, and I realize that they do not have the stone rod; it must be buried beneath the fallen rocks.

  "Another cart! Swiftly! Their stone burner is under the pile! We must keep them from it! Archers, shoot!” I shout.

  All around me men send down a fresh volley. I glance aside, and see Cyr has joined them, wielding a fallen man's bow. He does not give orders; now he simply shoots. He catches my eye and gives me a wild grin.

  We draw and fire, draw and fire, until our quivers are empty. Men call for reloads, and pages scurry forth with fresh bags. We reload and shoot again, expending ammunition with lavish abandon. Only a few of the shafts find a mark, but slowly, slowly, we begin to thin the massed warriors. They falter, hindered by their desire to clear the rubble, contradicted by the very real need to protect themselves from our assault.

  Without warning, they break, scattering away from the death zone. The men keep shooting, screaming their defiance at their fleeing backs. The shamans withdraw, still in formation, until they too are out of range. Our fire thins, then stops.

  The men raise a cheer, abandoning cover and shaking their upraised weapons defiantly. I see that none are hurt, other than minor scrapes sustained when the wall shook. Below, dozens of Mor lie, most bristling like porcupines at every joint. Broken arrows litter the ground, as thick as fallen pine needles.

  I check my bag: only three shafts remain. I look and am appalled to see that every bag is empty. Twists of cord, the wrappers of countless arrow bundles, blow in the breeze. We have repulsed the attack, but only by expending all of our ammunition. If the Mor attack us again—

  "Sergeant,” I hiss, pointing to the multitude of cords.

  "I see it,” he replies, his face grim. He pulls aside a page. “Go to the next tower and fetch arrows. As many as you can bring. Have them send a wagonload. And more stones. Quickly now!"

  The youth swallows, then pelts off.

  "What is your report?” a new voice asks. I turn and see Captain Garrett standing behind our line. His cloak billows in the icy wind, flapping like dark wings. His eyes glitter with feverish intensity.

  "They're massing for a fresh assault, I think, but for now we've turned them back,” Cyr says.

  "Casualties?"

  "A few men toppled over the side when the wall shook, but I don't know how many. Three or four. The beasts managed to do some damage before we dropped the stone cart on their heads, but whatever weapon they were using is buried under the pile."

  Garrett looks at me. “What is she doing here? I thought I made it plain: she is no longer a member of the Emperor's Army."

  Cyr has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Apologies, m'lord, but there was no time. When the Mor attacked, we required every bow. Kirin's eye was as true as ever. She—"

  "I don't care how good her aim is, I want her off my wall,” Garrett hisses. He flinches, massaging his temple with a trembling hand.

  "Aye, sir. Kirin, it's time for you to—"

  "They're coming back!” a man shouts, fear making his voice break. The cry is echoed. A fresh surge of panic spreads among the defenders.

  I look over the plain and see the Mor reassembling. In the rear, warriors have taken up their stone-throwing harnesses. Shamans chant over fresh missiles, the stones’ rising glow visible even in the daytime light.

  Their line begins to advance. Several of the men let loose with wild shots, which fall far short of the advancing line. Cyr and Garrett both call for them to hold their fire.

  "We need to keep them away from the damaged sections until the geomages can repair the weak spot,” Garrett says.

  "Where are my bloody reloads?” Cyr bawls.

  The advancing Mor begin swinging their enchanted missiles, scattering cinders across the rocky verge. They stop just out of bow range, spinning their harnesses faster and faster.

  "Take cover!” I shout, putting action to words and crouching.

  The barrage, when it comes, strikes the face of the wall low, just above the impromptu stone cairn. I feel the Armitage shudder anew, in a way that chills my blood. Even after the thunder of their attack fades, I hear ominous crackings and groans from the mighty stones.

  I pop up over the crenellations and peer down. The assault has split the wall's face even further, widening the damage caused by the stone burner. The Mor stone throwers step back, making room for the second line to advance into firing range.

  "Tell Lieutenant Simmons to light the watchtower bonfire.” Garrett says to one of his pages. Cyr gasps. The bonfires are only to be lit in dire emergency. It will, no doubt, panic the citizens behind the wall, but it will also summon the mages who are our last chance at defense.

  The second line readies their volley. The empowered stones circle and spark with a deep, malevolent thrumming. Again they let loose, the burning missiles striking low. This time, a section of the wall breaks free in a fresh slide, blocks tumbling out to bounce across the ground like child's toys. Deep cracks zig-zag throu
gh the stones, reaching all the way to the wall's summit. Men scream as the flagstones beneath their feet split asunder.

  I grind my teeth in impotent rage. The enemy remains tantalizingly out of arrow range. I look out, at the fallen Mor, and realize what I must do.

  I open my inner eye, my secret eye, and peer down at the carnage. I see the souls of the fallen Mor staring up hungrily at me. The instant they see me, they send up a fresh cry, audible only to my quaking, cringing soul.

  I lock eyes with one of the shades and feel my blood magic responding, lashing in my belly and straining to get out. The ghostly warrior freezes, snared by my power. I bite back nausea at what I am about to do. I swore I would never again do this. Never. But I have no choice.

  I send forth all the power of my will, down along the spiritual link between us, commanding the soul to return to its fallen flesh. Amazingly, it resists, trembling with the force of its exertion. I bear down and feel the tendrils of the blood magic slipping out through my mouth and eyes. A moment later I see them, glassy tendrils of eldritch force, flowing across the space which separates us.

  They are at once lovely and grotesque, enrapturing and nauseating, moving like living things. The other Mor spirits cringe away from the flowing tentacles. They retreat from them, all save the one I have ensnared.

  Just as the tendrils reach the spirit, I repeat my command. It screams as they enter it, the sound like a file rasping across steel. I see the emerald gleam in its eyes fade to black as it jerks like a landed fish, skewered by the glassy tendrils.

  It turns, awkwardly, a poorly-controlled marionette dangling from the strings of the blood magic, and stumbles back towards one of the fallen bodies. I see the shade lie down, fusing itself with the dead flesh.