Furies of Calderon (62 page)

She glanced at him, arching an eyebrow Bernard shrugged, tugging another buckle closed. “Almost nothing. Here, move your arms a bit, so that this will settle.”

By the time she’d finished, Bernard had dumped his cloak in exchange for a mail shirt of his own and a steel cap whose flanges spread down over the back of his neck, while the metal guard pressed down over his nose. He strapped on the sword belt, while his eyes swept the ground outside the walls, then took up his bow

“Quiet,” said the big-eared
legionare
again, from down the wall. He tilted his head for a moment, then swallowed. The man looked down the wall at Pirellus and nodded. “Sir? Here they come.”

Pirellus gave the man a nod, then said to Bernard and Amara, “Help if you wish, then. It’s your blood. But stay out of my way.” He looked up and down the wall and said, “Archers.”

Amara watched as centurions repeated the command down the length of the wall on either side of her and men stepped up to the battlements, bows in hand, arrows resting on quivers beside them. They set arrows to the strings, eyes focused intently at the edge of the area lit by Garrison’s fury-lights, and held their bows half-raised. Tension made their forms gaunt, the harsh lights behind them casting their eyes into shadow, making them faceless. Amara heard a soldier not far away take in a deep breath and blow it out, as though impatient for it all to be finished.

Her heart pounded faster, and she had to work to keep her breath from racing out of control. The mail on her shoulders had a solid, comforting weight to it, but something about the smell of the metal set her on edge and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She put a hand on the hilt of the sword at her belt and felt her fingers shake. She wrapped them hard around the weapon’s hilt to stop anyone from noticing.

Bernard stared thoughtfully out at the darkness, having not yet drawn an arrow to his bow. He shrugged one shoulder, as though trying to settle the mail on it more comfortably. He took a step closer to her and said, quietly, “Afraid?”

“Don’t focus on the numbers,” he said, in that same low tone. “This is a simple, solid defense. We have the wall, the light, the ground in front of us. They built Garrison here because it’s the best point of defense anywhere in the Valley. It gives us an enormous advantage.”

Amara looked up at him again, then up and down the length of the wall. She couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “But there are so few
legionares
.”

“Easy,” Bernard rumbled. “That’s all right. Pirellus has his most experienced troops on the walls. Career fighting men, most of them with families behind them. The compulsory terms are down in the courtyard as reserves. These troops can fight ten times their number from this position with a good chance of victory, even without the Knights here. Pirellus and his men are the ones who are really going to win this battle. The
legionares
just have to hold the horde off of them until the Knights can bring their furies to bear on the Marat. We’ll bloody their noses, and as soon as we can determine who is leading them, the Knights will take him down.”

“They’ll kill their horde-master,” Amara said.

“It discourages new horde-masters,” Bernard said. “Or that’s the idea. Once enough Marat are dead and their leader is gone, and they’ve not managed to break our defense, they won’t have the stomach for any more fighting.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together. “All right. What can I do to help?”

“Look for their leader. They don’t wear anything much beyond what a normal warrior does, so you just have to look for someone shouting orders near the center.”

“And when I’ve found him?”

Bernard drew an arrow and set it to the string of his bow, finally. “Point me at him. They should come in any moment now. Good fortune, Cursor.”

“And you, Stead-holder.”

On her other side, Pirellus leaned a hand against a merlon and leaned a bit forward. “Ready,” he whispered. “Come on. We’re ready.”

They came without warning. The Marat surged forward, thousands of screaming throats with one voice, plunging into the cold furylight like a sudden, living tide of muscle and bone. Their battle roar washed over Amara, deafening, terrifying, more sound than she would have believed
could
happen. Before she realized what she was doing, she was screaming, too, shouting out her fear and defiance, her sword in her hand, though she didn’t remember drawing it—and beside her, Pirellus, sword held high, did the same.

“Archers!” he thundered, voice stentorian on the wall. “Loose!”

And with the thrum of a hundred heavy bows, death went flying into the ranks of the charging Marat.

Amara watched as the first rank of the enemy bucked and went down, only to be crushed by those coming behind them. Twice more, Pirellus cried to the archers, and twice more arrows flickered into their ranks, sending Marat sprawling and screaming, but doing nothing to stop the tide of bodies flooding toward Garrison’s walls.

“Spears!” Pirellus barked, and along the walls the archers stepped back, while
legionares
bearing heavy shields and long, wickedly pointed spears stepped forward.

Arrows driven by short, heavy Marat bows began to flicker over the tops of the walls, and Amara had to jerk her head to one side while a stone-tipped shaft flew past her face. Her heart surged with terror, and she crouched down enough to take her head from view as a prime target, while Pirellus, in his helmet, stood staring down at the oncoming Marat, ignoring the arrows that buzzed past him.

The ground shook as the Marat reached the wall, a physical trembling that traveled up through the stones to Amara’s feet. She could see them, a sea of wild, inhuman eyes, teeth that stretched into animal’s fangs, and wolves ran beside them, among them, like great, gaunt shadows. The Marat reached the wall, where the gate suddenly shook with the blow of a tree trunk being held by a dozen hands, used as a ram. Several long, slender poles arched up into the air, studded along their lengths with short spikes, and once they came to rest against the walls, Marat began to climb the poles, nimble and swift, their weapons held in their hands, while companions beneath them fired arrows up at the defenders on the walls.

It was too loud to be believed, screams splitting the air, making any kind of communication nearly impossible. Arrows flew thicker than raindrops in a storm, their dark heads gleaming in the furylight, shattering where they struck stone or good Aleran steel—but Amara watched as one grizzled old veteran pitched back from the wall, the dark shaft of an arrow piercing his throat, and another man dropped motionless in his tracks, six inches of haft and fletching showing from the burst socket of his eye.

“Hold!” Pirellus bellowed. “Hold!”

The
legionares
fought with ruthless efficiency. Regardless of the incredible grace of the Marat rushing up the scaling poles, they thrust home spears with deadly accuracy into Marat flesh. Pale barbarians fell from the walls, back into the savage throng beneath, drawing further cries from those below. Again and again, Legion spearmen repelled the Marat assaults, shoving the scaling poles back down, driving the warriors clambering up them back with cold steel. The
legionares
fought together, each man with his shield partner, so that while one would engage the enemy’s weapon, the other would drive a spear home with a short, hard thrust at the vitals or a leg, toppling the attacker from their precarious position atop the walls. Blood stained the Aleran spears, the
legionares‘
shields and armor, and spattered thick on the battlements, mute testimony to the courage of the Marat attackers.

Below Amara’s feet, she could hear the steady thud and thump of the ram being driven at the gates—but suddenly found herself whirling to the walls as a savage-eyed Marat swung himself up between two merlons from a scaling pole and swept a heavy wooden club at her head.

Amara ducked the blow, dodged a second swipe that came straight down at her shoulder and whirled to whip her blade across the Marat’s heavy thighs, opening the pale flesh in a sudden river of blood. The Marat screamed and toppled toward her, club flailing. Amara moved lightly to one side, thrusting her short blade at the Marat’s ribs as he fell past, feeling the weapon sink home, the quivering, twisting jerk of the Marat’s scream something that coursed through the metal and into her hands. Half-revolted, exultant at having survived the exchange, she let out a scream and jerked the sword back, leaping back from the Marat warrior as he tumbled limply down to the courtyard beneath the wall.

She looked up, panting, to find Pirellus staring at her. He nodded, once, and then called, “Try to throw them back down the wall on the outside. We don’t want clutter where our own troops are moving around.” Then he turned back to his study of the ground below, almost absently frowning when a stone arrow-tip shattered against the crest of his helmet.

Amara chanced a look over the wall, out at the chaos below, and arrows whistled through the air toward her as soon as she did. She jerked her head back and down, to find Bernard crouched next to her. The Stead-holder, too, took a glance over the wall, before half-rising to a crouch, to lift his bow, drawing the arrow back to his cheek. He aimed for a breath, then loosed the arrow, which threaded its way between a pair of
legionares
to sink into the ribs of a Marat with a steel axe who had gained the wall over a stunned
legionare
with a dent in his helmet. The force of the arrow’s impact drove the Marat back over the wall, and he vanished as he fell.

“That’s a comfort, thanks,” Amara said, wry, and the Stead-holder grinned at her, before standing up to loose another arrow into the crowd below and drop back down behind the wall again.

Amara stood up to take another look—but Bernard caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said. “They’re getting packed in down there. Keep your head down.”

“What?”

In answer, he nodded toward Pirellus. Amara turned her head to look at the man and saw him point a finger off to one side at a pair of men, standing behind heavy ceramic pots, and three armored Knights who stood behind them, with no weapons in their hands.

“Firepots?” Amara asked, and Bernard nodded. She watched, as Pirellus lifted his sword and then dropped it, a swift signal.

The two men with the firepots—earth-crafters, surely, for only they could lift the man-sized pots of coals so easily—heaved them up and over the wall, to crash down into the Marat on either side of the gate.

Pirellus signaled the three men behind them, and the Knights, as one, lifted their arms and faces to the sky, crying out over the screams and din of battle.

The fire answered them in a roar that deafened Amara and rattled her teeth against one another. Heat swept up, and sudden, brilliant light, scarlet and murderous in contrast to the cool blue fury-lights, a wind that roared upward, lifting Amara’s hair up off her neck. A column of fire shaped like some huge winged serpent rose above the battlements, curled back down, and crashed to the earth below.

The battlements mercifully shielded her from seeing what happened to the Marat caught in the sudden storm of living flame, but in the wake of that fire, as its roar died away to echoes, she heard them screaming, men and wolves alike, screaming in terror and in pain, high and breathless. There was madness in those screams, frustration, futility, terror beyond anything that she had heard before—and there was something else: the sure and certain knowledge of death, death as a release from an agony as pure and hot as the flames that had caused it.

A smell rose from the ground before the battlements in those silent moments after, the scent of charred meat. Amara shuddered, sickened.

A silence fell, broken only by screams and moans, coming from the ground below. She rose and looked down, over the ground before the walls. The fire serpent had broken the Marat, sent them and their wolves howling away from the walls of Garrison. At a command from Pirellus, the archers stepped forward and sent arrows arching into the retreating barbarians with deadly accuracy, dropping more to the earth, clutching at the barbs piercing their flesh.

She couldn’t see much of the ground immediately beneath the walls, for which she felt silently grateful. The smell of burned hair and worse nearly overwhelmed her, until she bade Cirrus to keep it from her nostrils and mouth. She leaned a hand against the battlements and stared out at the blood-soaked, scorched earth, littered with a carpet of pale-haired bodies.

“Furies,” she breathed. “They’re not much more than children.”

Bernard stepped up beside her, his face pale, grim, eyes hidden in shadows beneath his helmet. “Young warriors,” Bernard said. “Their first chance to prove themselves in battle. That was Wolf Clan. One more to go.”

“Not without getting the leader,” Bernard said. “Get some water in you. You don’t know how much you need it. Next one won’t be so easy.”