by Danie Ware
Shit!
Something in him, a node of stillness in the screaming night, said, It’s started.
Then there came the sounds of horses screaming.
From somewhere there was a thunderous flash of magnesium-brilliant light. It seared across his vision, snapped his time-sense back to the norm. Monsters screamed in human voices; struggling soldiers reeled and swore.
Closest to Ecko, the chaos was extreme. Bivouacs were in pieces, catching on ankles and trampled into the cold mud. One of the creatures was kicking its way free of entangling fabric, cursing. The dull glow of the rocklight showed figures were struggling to rise, helping their fellows.
Another creature had leapt straight through the tan’s site and was moving to the next one; still another had its legs caught in guy-lines and was fighting to free itself. A fourth had come to face Ecko, its almost-human face expanding into an unholy grin, lit hellish by the last of the fire.
Come on then, little man. Ecko didn’t need to hear it speak. Come on then…
One of the tan came up underneath it, ramming his short spear into its belly and hanging on it for dear life. The beast went backwards, its animal legs kicking – but not before its long knife had slashed the man down the face. The soldier screamed, his legs went from under him and he crumpled in the dirt, his hands pressed to his cheek and flooding with dark fluid.
The creature caught in the guy-lines had been surrounded by upright warriors; noises of fighting crashed across the entire site.
Ecko didn’t waste time posturing – the thing in front of him was trying to get up, its insides spilling round the spear shaft. Targetters flashed and his foot came round, took the spear sideways and out of its gut. The wound filled and flooded.
Then another member of the tan hit the thing in the flank. It tried to sidestep, missed its footing and went down in the gore and mud.
The mounted skirmishers were up, voices calling to say they’d track where the creatures had come from – but Ecko wasn’t watching, wasn’t listening. The downed beast was thrashing now – it was surrounded and it knew it was over. The surviving members of the tan had closed on it, the spears moved with a need for revenge.
These poor, homeless, defeated fuckers had found exactly the outlet they needed.
These beasties weren’t even steak, for chrissakes, they were kibble.
* * *
Close up, Tan Commander Mostak was a permanent knot of anger, tightly controlled and releasing the pressure one disciplined moment at a time. Ecko’s scans showed nothing out of the ordinary – hell, maybe this one really was just a bloke doing a job.
Unlike the blaze of Rhan’s UV skin through his armour, unlike Roderick’s steel-throated severity.
“Twelve attacks,” Mostak said crisply. “Thirty men and women dead, and nearly that number injured. We’re hurt and we’re slow.” He turned to Rhan, his fury looking as if it were about to ignite. “Why did we not see them coming?”
“They’re vialer,” Rhan said. “They’re fast as horses, but cloaked, they look human. Probably came from one of the manors. The question is – are they scouts, or is this Vahl’s vanguard?”
Three pairs of eyes turned to Ecko.
Frankly, Ecko would rather face fifty of the things all armed to the horns than answer the questions of this lot. He was weary, not only from the march but from a lack of food and sleep, from the aftermath of the fighting. He felt thin, wavering and achy and kinda stretched. He was still coughing, and this was a whole new kinda adrenaline that he really didn’t need.
It made him wanna puke.
He remembered the stealth run they’d done on Ythalla’s army, though, and thought about what he’d seen.
“My guess?” His rasp made Mostak blink, but the Tan Commander listened intently. “My guess is you got hounds. Packs of critters – fast on their hooves, in an’ out, do one fuck of a lotta damage. An’ cover a lotta ground.” He glanced at Rhan, who said nothing. “They’ll come again, tomorrow, the night after. Your force gets paranoid, gets no sleep, their energy and morale get fucked.” He shrugged. “More fucked. One eye over their shoulder, like all the time, y’know? They’ll be tired, an’ slow. My guess is the main force ain’t movin’ – not yet – but when they do, they’re gonna wanna catch us with our pants down, an’ they’ll want us tired and broken.” He grinned, mirthless. “Hell, they’ll want it all over by teatime.”
Rhan was nodding, a faint smile at one side of his mouth that had nothing to do with humour.
“I concur,” he said. “Vahl’s waiting for his brothers – but he wants us within reach.”
Mostak nodded, his face still clouded. He was chewing the inside of his lip.
“Then I want these ‘hounds’ delayed. Find out where they’ve gone, hunt them down, take them out. Rhan, take two flags of skirmishers. How many of these things can you deal with before dusk tomorrow?”
Rhan snorted.
Ecko expected Mostak’s next request to be similar, and aimed at him, but the commander’s gaze went straight over him and stopped at the Bard.
“And I want you in the vanguard. Do you drum?”
“And bass,” Roderick answered him, without a trace of humour. “I can sustain the focus of the soldiers. And you, Commander, what will you—?”
“Hang the fuck on a minute.” Ecko wasn’t standing for this. “Don’t I get to play? Go beat up Pan? Get a horse an’ go scout? It’s kinda what I do, y’know. Like – better than every fucker else.”
The commander opened his mouth to respond, but the Bard was faster.
“Ecko, you’re not a warrior – you don’t have the skill, the fitness or the discipline. And, with respect, you can’t ride well enough to keep the pace. Scout on foot if you wish, equip yourself with a bow from stores, chase the vialer if you think you can. But if you wish for a real task – something suited to your peculiar abilities – you do one thing better than all of the rest of us combined.”
Don’t make me answer that…
The Tan Commander’s raised eyebrow did the job for him.
If the Bard was smiling, the mask covered all trace. “You can watch. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, pay attention, make sure these bastards don’t get close.”
Rhan said, “How long?”
The question was ambiguous, but the commander understood him. “We need to pick up the pace, send bretir to Jade, and to Amos. If Nivrotar’s plan is going to work, timing’s imperative.”
“Understood.” Rhan tapped a finger against his chin for a moment, contemplating Ecko’s silent fume. Then he said, “Ecko—”
Whatever he’d been going to say was interrupted by a commotion outside the tent, by a soldier’s flat challenge and a female voice, tired and curt. Whoever she was, she sounded like she’d had enough.
Mostak turned, his thundercloud frown still in place, but Roderick had moved to pull back the tent flap.
The voice had caught Ecko’s attention like a hook. He was staring at the doorway, hoping against all fucking common sense…
The woman was Amethea.
Shit.
Rhan was on his feet, his face ashen. His voice soft, he said, “Dear Gods. What…?”
Amethea looked at him, her eyes dark with death.
“You were wrong,” she said. Her voice was rock-steady, the tone of someone who’d been there, done that, lived through fucking all of it and just wasn’t impressed any more. “They came in after us. The people were dying when I left them.” She held up Gorinel’s hand-of-Samiel neck chain. “I was supposed to bring you this. Tell you to have faith.”
Rhan said nothing; his hands and breath were shaking.
Amethea said, “They’re coming.”
14: HUNTERS
FHAVEON
The outskirts of the city were desolate in the rain.
Amethea huddled in a doorway, water streaming down her face, the cold soaking through the shoulders of the heavy cloak Gorinel had thrown at her, soaking through the bag no
w huddled to her belly. By the light, it was late afternoon, but the death of the sun would come quickly, and the clouds were layered with threat.
She was shaking – and not just with the cold.
Behind her crouched an old storehouse, long empty, this one bereft of purpose long before the blight had come to Fhaveon. Its cavernous cellars led back into the myriad writhing tunnels of the cliffside, back to the Cathedral now high above – but there lay only horrors.
Their gamble had failed. It was over.
The rain streamed down her skin; if she wept, she was past even noticing. She had a single purpose and it was like a light in the grey, a thing to drive her onwards and to keep despair at bay.
She must find Rhan. She must tell him what had happened, that there would be no future, that the darkness had come for them.
Unprotected, abandoned to Vahl’s mercy, the last of the city’s people would die screaming.
And then night would fall.
* * *
The first one had come through the wall.
With a rumble like the groaning of the world herself, it had hammered through the decorated stone near where Amethea had been standing, shovel hands shattering the rock. Panelling split, fell to the floor with a rattle that echoed from the vaulted and painted roof.
The hand withdrew.
For a breathless moment, the dust stood shimmering still, caught fast in the rocklights.
Then the shock had hit her like a fist and she’d sucked in a breath like pure terror. The air was colder, shivering cold; dust glittered, dancing. She thought about screaming, had no voice, stared as the hand slammed again through the hole, shoving pebbles and rubble and debris, widening the gap so the body could follow. She didn’t need to see what the thing was, she knew.
No…
And then it came through completely, fast, scattering wreckage, tearing the wall to pieces. It had no eyes, no ears. Its blunt head swung back and forth as if it scented the air. Behind it, there was a ruin of collapsed rock, but she could still feel the night, the moisture.
No – crazed denial, pointless and hopeless – Gods, no, we can’t have been this stupid…
As if it heard her thoughts, the thing’s featureless face turned towards her. It looked like some ancient and nameless guardian, some remnant of a city lost…
But this was not some renegade Swathian warden, some animated myth, some saga romance fallen from stone. This thing was angry – and it had come straight from Vahl’s command.
It took a step towards her. Another. She felt it grinning, though its face remained blank.
For a moment longer, she stared at it, willing it to somehow be mist, some forgotten figment leftover from an old nightmare – but it was as solid as she was, and an awful lot bigger.
Stuff this.
She ran.
Skidding through the doorway, she didn’t look back. She told herself it wouldn’t pounce, that it was stone and slow and stupid, that she could easily outdistance it. But her heart was choking her and the tally markers were tumbling from her hand, falling forgotten to the floor of the old crypt, lost among the barrels and crates that’d been brought to feed the people. Still not finding her voice, but with her mind repeating Dear Gods, Dear Gods! she ran for the main crypt where Gorinel was working.
She skittered, tripped, almost fell.
Outside the chamber, people were scattered though the corridors, huddled in groups, or aimless and wandering, shocked and lost and angry. She gasped at them, gulping at their dejection, then she forced her throat to move and shrieked to them to run, run! But they only gaped at her, blinking. One of them grappled for her wrists, trying to make her stop. She shoved, panicked.
Then the stone thing came into the corridor behind her. It thumped onto all fours like a predator, its blunt face crumpled as if it scented the air.
Run! She’d no idea if she’d even said it aloud.
This time, they listened.
Some just scattered, pell-mell, others gathered armfuls of family and whatever belongings they had. They herded each other away from where the thing had paused, head swinging back and forth like a hunting bweao. One man loitered as if to loot discarded baggage – but as the thing crouched, its eagerness palpable, he thought better of it and fled.
Amethea had no idea where they’d go – and right now she didn’t care. They were out of its path and that was all that mattered. Her mind was racing, trying to encompass what all of this meant, trying to see too much. Was the thing a lone marauder, a scout? Or had it really come from Vahl himself?
Was the whole damned army on the move?
They had no way to fight – they were soft targets, bereft of any warrior force. Vahl could play any games he wanted – send creatures crafted by Maugrim, by Amal, raise monsters of stone left from old Swathe, come himself if he felt like it – what mattered was that they were defenceless.
They had nothing.
And it was only a matter of time.
As she exploded through the doorway, Gorinel turned from the crate he’d been searching, his round face pale. She opened her mouth to call to him, but the priest was already moving, wiping grimy hands on the front of his overshirt.
He said, quite calmly, “They’ve come for us, haven’t they?”
“Yes.” Her response was a whisper. Maybe something in her had known, dear Goddess, had known this would happen, that Vahl wouldn’t let the chance pass, but she’d hoped…
Hoped what?
That the Cathedral would grant them sanctuary? That Vahl would respect it? That the Gods would step down and deign to save them?
Put your shoulder to the wheel…
There was another feeling as well, something in her skin that was faintly familiar – but she couldn’t think about it now. Now there was too much fear and her breath was balled in her throat and she needed to know what the rhez they were going to do.
Gorinel hadn’t shaved and his jowls were rough with greying stubble. He rasped a dirty hand over them, thinking.
“Is the main force moving? Or is this just a scout?”
“I don’t know. The lookout—”
“Two priorities.” Unruffled, the old priest was in control. “Find out if it is. If it’s mobile we need to get word to Mostak, to Rhan. And… Samiel’s beard.”
Somewhere outside, in the tangled corridors of the crypts, there was screaming. Then came another rumble of stone, more distant – whatever they were, more of them were coming.
“I don’t think that one was a scout,” Amethea said softly.
“We’ll have to go deeper,” Gorinel said quickly. “Carry whatever we can. The tunnels in the cliff go on for days. Every able man and woman, every child strong enough to carry kit, we’ll get them moving. We may not be warriors, Amethea, but we don’t have to be esphen.” Gorinel watched her expression, then said, “And I’ll need you to do something for me.”
* * *
She ran.
She’d never been more scared in her life – and that was saying something – and yet her sense of purpose was absolutely clear, allowed for no mistakes or wasted time. She gripped the paper that Gorinel had given her and ran through the mad tangle of corridors, crypts and storerooms, tripping and missing turnings. She had no real idea where she was going and was trusting in… what? Luck? The Gods? Her own instincts? Whatever it was, she was running essentially downhill and hoping to every God she could remember that the stone beastie wasn’t there behind her – rasping and running – that the things couldn’t or wouldn’t tunnel this far down.
She ran.
The catacombs grew darker as the rocklights began to fade – down here, they couldn’t have seen daylight in generations and their elemental energy was spent. She scooped one up, holding it aloft, but quickly her arm grew weary and she passed it from hand to hand, making the shadows dance about her. The walls were decorous; images of lost mythology, sagas forgotten to the Count of Time. Here was a man with three torsos, one flesh, one red and o
ne white; here were hands crafting a gift of flesh, holding it out to twins.
But the images were chipped and broken, and she had no time to stop.
She ran.
Gods alone knew what returns of Protectors had actually kept down here; what they’d needed all this for. There was probably treasure for days, forgotten artefacts, weapons of magick that would glow with forbidden power and spank Vahl Zaxaar’s daemon backside… There was probably something that would shatter that stone monster into riverside pebbles… But, turning to glance over her shoulder, she didn’t dare stop.
She ran – panting now, her heart and chest straining and her little rocklight sending figments scudding along the walls.
She passed the end of the catacombs and came out into the tunnels proper. Cold and damp, knotted and terrifying, she kept to her downhill heading and ran on, the echoes of her own boots scaring her, as if Vahl’s entire army were chasing her down.
Something in the back of her head remembered her saying to Triqueta, “As if I haven’t had enough of stone rooms!” and she wondered where her friend was, if she had reached Roviarath safely.
Whether she would see them, any of them – by the Gods, even Ecko – again.
She found that she’d stopped, was leaning on her knees and heaving to pull air into her body. She made herself walk, catching her breath.
Told herself she had time, she did, she really did. That there was no need to panic.
Somewhere now far above and behind her, Gorinel was mustering the people – not to fight, but to mislead, to delay and harass. They had water – she’d already passed several places where it oozed from the wall – but everything else they had to carry with them…
They were caught, trapped by blight and winter and fear. And now in a game of bweao-and-esphen that would stretch onwards through the Count of Time.
The Gods help those…
She had no idea if they could last the winter – what would happen with the spring. It seemed so far away, impossible.