by Tom Lloyd
‘General Gort is over there, Lord Isak.’ The lieutenant pointed towards the Temple of Nartis, where the Devoted’s slender banner hung from a long lance. At its base was a group of men all looking towards them. ‘He’s with his command staff, my Lord.’
Isak started off towards the general as Suzerain Saroc forced his way to Isak’s side.
‘My Lord, is this quite safe?’ Saroc asked quietly.
‘I’ve met Gort before; we can trust him,’ Isak said, not looking at the suzerain but past him to where Count Vesna was. ‘Vesna, get the men ready to fight.’
‘Your Grace,’ Saroc insisted, ‘we might still be able to punch through to the north and work our way round.’
‘Would you bet your life on it?’ Isak shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. Given the choice between an uncertain run through city streets and a defended position, I’ve got to take this one. Look at them—’ He waved his arm towards the squads of infantry standing ready at the outer ring of shrines and the lancers waiting patiently in the centre of the Temple Plaza. ‘There’s the best part of a legion here, plus us. And when the mobs went after us, they probably gave Torl his best chance of breaking out with whatever troops he has left.’
‘My Lord, we cannot make a stand here out of guilt—’
‘That’s not what I’m doing,’ Isak said sharply. His eyes flashed a warning. ‘Take care how far you question my decisions. Young I might be, but Lord of the Farlan I certainly am. I’ve had enough of running away for one night; here we make our stand.’
He dug his spurs into Toramin’s flanks and the huge beast jumped forward ahead of the suzerain. Saroc didn’t bother to try and make up the ground. The conversation had been ended. Behind them Count Vesna was already shouting out orders, to the Farlan and Devoted alike. The Temple Plaza was some three hundred yards across. Many of the shrines that ringed the six massive temples in the centre were large enough to provide a physical obstacle; others weren’t, standing like the broken crenellations of a buried castle wall.
General Gort had put his men to good use. They had salvaged anything they could carry or drag from the surrounding ruins. Shattered carts and wagons, scorched roof timbers and even rubble from every non-consecrated structure on the plaza had been used to plug the gaps in the wall. It was certainly too long to defend entirely, but this meant they could pick which fronts to fight on. The heavy infantry would act as mobile barricades where required. With a few ranks behind and shields locked together, they would be able to resist a poorly armed attacker, despite being vastly outnumbered. The smaller shrines were clustered together, and much of the work had been to patch the holes to create long walls that the crazed mobs would just go around, meeting armed soldiers at either end.
‘Lord Isak,’ called General Gort as soon at the distance permitted, ‘I’m glad to see you again so soon.’
He hurried over to meet the Farlan lord, his command staff close on his heels. Isak recognised only one of them from his encounter in Llehden, the Chetse general rather predictably carrying an enormous curved axe, but they all followed General Gort’s lead and bowed low to the white-eye.
‘Let’s forget the pleasantries, shall we?’ Isak said curtly, even as he slid from his saddle and went to greet the general with palms upturned all the same. ‘You’re about to be attacked on two sides -more than a legion of the screaming bastards were chasing us this way and, according to my scouts, there are more round the other side of the plaza.’
Isak turned to the soldiers behind him as he spoke and saw the two rangers had caught him up. Tiniq offered Isak a quick bow. Both wore only hauberks and skullcaps, but their bows were held ready as usual. Compared to the heavy scales, reinforced oval shields and long spears of the Devoted infantry, they looked under-prepared for the battle ahead.
‘My Lord, we couldn’t see any safe way through the streets beyond,’ Tiniq said. ‘A few hundred followed us back here.’ He pointed to the eastern edge of the plaza; there were only two real points of access along that stretch and in the faint torch light they could see the lines of infantry strung across the gaps. A company of lancers was already heading over to support them.
Isak nodded. ‘Tiniq, can any of you make it alone back to our army lines?’ He was thinking of the unnatural members of his personal guard.
The ranger shrugged. ‘Perhaps; Shinir’s got the best chance, I’d guess.’
‘Ask her if she’s confident of getting there. I don’t want to throw your lives away if there’s no chance, not if I might manage to contact them myself.’ His hand went instinctively to the Crystal Skull on his chest. He’d never yet been able to speak into anyone’s mind using it, but Carel always said desperation was the best tutor.
The rangers sped off to consult with their comrades.
‘Well, General Gort—’ Isak started, then stopped suddenly as his brain managed to catch up and take in the magnificent sight of the six temples that gave the area its name. The nearest was Vasle’s, all smooth lines and curves, with five interwoven raised stone channels encircling the main structure like miniature aqueducts. He could just see a trickle of movement in the channels; the holy waters hadn’t quite dried up. Perhaps the Gods hadn’t been entirely driven from the city.
Beyond Vasle’s temple were even more impressive structures, vast buildings designed to house many hundreds of worshippers. Looking around at the other temples he could see clearly -the forest of pillars around Nartis’ high altar covered by a jagged series of sloping roofs, and the enormous domed Temple of Death -Isak realised that none of them had been damaged at all. He’d seen quite a few fresh scars on the surrounding shrines and minor temples that formed the outer ring, but the painted frescos and walls of the five temples ringing the Temple of Death all looked pristine.
Oh Gods, he thought wryly, unable to stop himself from smiling. The Devoted are here to protect the temples; any fool could have predicted that, and perhaps Azaer did. The temples haven’t been touched, but now we’re here, who knows?
‘He’s got a sense of humour at least,’ Isak muttered, prompting a curious look from the general, which he waved away. ‘No, it’s not important right now. Staying alive is all I care about at the moment.’
Gort nodded quickly and something resembling relief crossed the man’s face. Isak only vaguely remembered how they had parted the first time they had met, at the old temple of standing stones in Llehden. He’d been exhausted by his struggle with Aryn Bwr and driven to distraction by the bright moonlight of Silvernight, in no condition to hold a conversation, let alone consider the role of the Devoted in what had happened. He had been barely able to stay on his feet, and had to be escorted from the shelter of the trees by Count Vesna. There had been a sudden rush of movement and the sudden wash of moonlight illuminating his silver armour had brought him to his senses barely in time to prevent the milling Devoted soldiers being massacred by the gentry. There’d been no time for farewells, only a hurried escape for both parties and a distant look of what Isak suspected was satisfaction from Ehla, the witch of Llehden, as they clattered past her mouldering home.
Isak shook the images from his mind for now and added, ‘So let’s not waste time. Most of them will be coming from the east, following us. I’ll take charge there, and you keep those lancers watching the rest of the perimeter so we’re not taken unawares.’
To his surprise, no one objected to Isak commandeering what was roughly half of their troops, but there wasn’t time to wonder whether Gort’s past assertion of allegiance held true for them all, or if they just recognised that here and now, Isak was the best man to lead the defence.
Isak remounted and headed back towards the soldiers on the perimeter. A slow, distant murmur from the dark streets beyond their positions swelled into the growl of a thousand twisted, enraged creatures, no longer human.
Poor bastards; driven mad and driven to their deaths, Isak thought, picking up his pace a little. But for what? Just so Azaer can demonstrate his power?
Wh
en he reached the tight knots of soldiers he saw relief on the faces of Devoted and Farlan alike. By now they would have all heard stories about him, some true, others not, no doubt. Isak could smell their fear rolling off them in great stinking waves, as obvious as the sweat and leather stench of soldiers campaigning in summer heat. But they saw salvation in his unnatural shining image.
Count Vesna, seasoned campaigner that he was, felt the change too and raised his voice to exploit it. ‘Now listen, you bastards!’ Vesna roared. ‘What’s coming isn’t going to be pretty. It’ll scare you shitless when you see them, but you’re not going to move an inch, do you hear me?’
Isak could see that a good proportion of the Devoted understood Farlan from those who nodded agreement. More joined in as whispering voices translated Vesna’s words, many looking at Isak, as if for reassurance. He’d known Lord Bahl for long enough to know his place in this performance. Sitting tall and unknowable atop his enormous warhorse, presenting the impassive front of a divinely blessed warrior, Isak slowly and deliberately hefted Eolis and flicked the glittering sword through a few practice sweeps while his friend spoke. Rogue fingers of lightning danced over his unearthly silver armour.
‘Remember,’ Vesna continued, dragging their attention back to him, ‘all the enemy has is weight of numbers -you’ve all been in battle before; you know how bloody useless a crowd of untrained troops is. Few of them have weapons, and there’s no one leading them, so they’ll come straight at us and break themselves on the shield wall.’
He levelled his sword at the main line of defenders, where three ranks were already formed up and set at an angle to deflect the onrush of the enemy into a bottleneck studded with spears. ‘Keep the line and trust the men beside you and behind you. The only thing that’ll keep us alive tonight is discipline.’
The count forced a small laugh and gestured towards Isak. ‘And if you don’t believe in discipline, believe in the fact that Isak Stormcaller is standing here with you, and there’s no daemon of the Dark Place that would dare cross him!’
There was no time for anything more. With a great roar, the mob broke from the darkness, spilling left and right around black empty buildings into the faint light cast by the torches of the barricades, a thousand screaming figures rushing towards them. Isak felt the soldiers near him waver, then, grimly determined, face forward. He filled himself with raw energy from the Skulls, then jumped down from Toramin to stand with the infantry, his teardrop shield snug on his arm and sparks crackling furiously over his silver-clad body. It reassured him as much as those around him.
The rush of power flowing through his body drove away the city’s oppressive atmosphere. He stepped forward with a feeling of elation, his sword raised and ready, eager to disperse the ragged masses.
Archers went into action, picking off the quickest. Sir Kelet, taking his job as one of Isak’s personal guard deeply seriously, claimed his first three kills before anyone else had fired their first shaft. But the maddened hordes appeared oblivious to the flailing bodies and crushed them underfoot.
There were not enough archers among Isak’s troops to have any real effect, but the ranks were heartened to see the enemy take the first losses. The Devoted soldiers cheered and began to shout and bellow, working themselves up into a killing frenzy. Isak smiled inside his blank helm. That was what they would need, for this would be grim butchery soon enough. The screaming hordes were close now, barely thirty yards way, arms waving wildly, most clad in rags that could no longer be called clothes, charging on regardless of those who tripped and fell, to be stomped to death under their own comrades’ feet.
The skirmishers were next to join the fray, sending a skyful of javelins from the ranks. The onrushing crowd was too tightly bunched for any of them to miss.
The front ranks tensed and drew themselves up, bracing themselves for the impact. Buoyed by the wild, surging magic quivering inside his bones, Isak moved to the head of the bottleneck. Turn weakness to strength, he chanted to himself, the mantra of every successful general. His weakness was that he was a white-eye, vicious, and capable of brutality that would shock most normal men. Here it became a strength, a boost to the troops’ morale. The enemy were unarmed and pitiful, but the beast inside him didn’t care, it wanted only to kill. The chains of reason were gone.
With a crash, the mob drove into the phalanx. The front-runners found themselves impaled on lowered spear points, while others rebounded and collided with their fellow citizens. More fell, tripping on corpses or unable to keep upright as the angled shields shifted their direction right, towards Isak.
The ranks of Devoted were backed onto a fat pillar three times as high as a man. It had a ledge running around it at shoulder height. As the mob hit the shields, Mariq, Isak’s battle-mage, hopped up onto that ledge, a white ball of flame wrapped around his fist, screaming with furious delight.
Isak took his cue and slashed forward with Eolis, letting the energy contained in the Skull fused onto the guard burst out and lash forwards into the onrushing figure. The burst of white flames tore the first man in half and continued on into the woman behind. Flickering tongues flashed out to those around her, blackening their skin and throwing them underneath those pushing up behind. The woman managed to keep upright somehow, but she was shrieking with pain as she was pushed forwards into the bottleneck by the reaching hands behind her. A spear jabbed out and tore through her neck. As she fell, a fine mist of blood hung in the air above her for a fraction of a second then dissipated, spattering those around her.
With Vesna’s words still ringing in his head, Isak kept himself in check, cutting down any within reach with brutal ease, but keeping his place in the line. Some wielded long knives or hatchets, but they couldn’t get close enough to the line of soldiers to use them; swords or spears cut them down like wheat before a sickle.
The fighting raged on relentlessly. As Isak took down yet another -he’d lost count within minutes -he looked around to see the whole phalanx had each impaled an enemy citizen; there was a moment of strange impasse as neither side could get past the standing wall of dead between them.
Then that moment of hiatus fell apart as one soldier remembered his training and used his shield to bludgeon the dying man off his un-barbed spear. He ran through the next and battle was resumed.
Aside from Mariq, who screamed curses and spells as he threw down ruinous fire to slow the press of bodies, the defenders were near-silent. After the initial attack, the men worked almost as one, like a methodical killing unit, beating forward with their shields, lunging at the next target, disengaging, beating forward again . . . countless hours of training drills paid off as they stood elbow to elbow in tight formation, ranks closed. Very few were yet injured; those few caught with lucky blows were quickly passed to the back and men from the second rank moved forward into any breach, leaving no gaps for the gibbering wretches to exploit.
Again and again Isak felt sprays of blood patter over his armour, and the air was ripe with the stink of loosened bowels and exposed guts, but they couldn’t stop to take stock for even a moment. It was just mindless, mechanical slaughter, but their lives depended on their ability to keep stabbing and slashing and smiting their attackers.
‘Press forward on my command,’ Vesna bellowed suddenly from somewhere nearby.
Isak felt the infantry tense once more. He felt a surge of pride in these men, strangers drawn from all over the Land to a place none of them cared about, yet they remained disciplined and focused, and when Vesna called ‘Forward!’ they stepped out as one man.
The mob reeled a little, surprised at the sudden movement, but there were still too many of them pushing onto the troops and the only real effect it had was to crowd those at the front even further. Vesna called again, and once more the infantry shoved forward, using their tall iron-bound shields to bludgeon their way through, while the second and third ranks of the line dipped their shoulders and added their weight to the movement.
In the next few mo
ments the front line of the mob, now too restricted by their fellows to do much beyond wail, shuddered as spears stabbed forward into their bellies, but as they crumpled, they were replaced by yet more keen fighters who were crushed against the shieldwall. Isak heard one soldier cry out as the pressure on him from front and back grew too much to bear, but as the man’s voice broke the night air he seemed to find extra strength from somewhere and it became a roar of frustration, anger and pain. His comrades took up the call and a great howl ran down the line. In response Vesna demanded another foot of ground, then another, to drive the enemy to the ground where they could be slaughtered like the beasts they were.
‘Lord Isak!’ cried a voice from somewhere behind him. Isak let the man behind him take his place, yelling wordless sounds of bloodlust and eagerly closing the gap. It gave Isak a moment of space in which to turn and look at the large shrine forty yards from Mariq’s perch that marked the other end of their defensive line. The shrine had dozens of narrow archways, piled one on top of another in what had probably been a carefully devised pattern until the people of Scree had defaced it sometime recently.
Perched on top of the shrine, oblivious (or uncaring) of the impiety to whichever God was worshipped there, was Shinir. She pointed to the ground behind the mob with the handle of her lash, then lowered it and with a savage flick wrapped the chain around the neck of a woman who’d been trying to scramble up the side of the shrine towards her. With a practised movement, Shinir tugged the lash away and the woman’s entire body spasmed before falling limp. That done, Shinir returned her attention to Isak, trying to direct his attention to something behind the mob.
She shouted, ‘Cavalry, sir, a good regiment of Farlan!’
Isak grinned and raised his sword high. ‘I knew Torl wouldn’t die so easily!’ he shouted back. The soldiers nearby gave a cheer and pushed forward with renewed vigour as the drum of hooves rose from behind the flailing scrum of crazed citizens.
Isak forced his way to the front of the rank and waded out into the bewildered throng, which had at last recognised the danger. Using both shield and sword to kill anyone near him, Isak began to force his way through the hundreds still left alive. In his wake were the heavily armoured Ghosts of his personal guard, closely followed by the whole line of heavy infantry, driving a bloody path through the mob to the horsemen beyond.