This Forsaken Earth (17 page)

They saw no human being that morning, though there were crows aplenty perched black in the trees by the side of the road. The ground continued to rise ahead of them in a low, blunt-shouldered ridge, and from the other side the sounds of battle came and went. For long periods there would be only a few isolated shots, and then a fusillade would rattle out, like a tremendous cart-wheel rolling across gravel.

When they finally crested the ridge around noon, they found themselves looking down into an immense, shallow valley. A sword-gray river curled out of the west and then ran north for many miles, before disappearing westward again. East of the river a city stood, neatly confined by walls. It covered perhaps eight or ten square miles, a darker blot on a searingly white world. Such was the flatness of the country below them that even from their relatively low eminence they could see for twenty leagues in the glass-clear air.

West of the city a smaller settlement, a large village or small town, stood astride the river, the two halves of it connected by a pair of bridges. Thick ribands of smoke rose from this place, straight as spears in the still air, and both Rol and Gallico could make out formations of men in the streets and marching across the snow-bound fields around it. More columns were forging along the road from the city itself, and farther off on the western bank of the river there was what seemed to be a vast, tented camp overhung by a haze of woodsmoke. Everywhere across the snow-covered countryside, knots of men were running to and fro, those west of the river carrying the saffron and black fighting flag of Bionar, those in the east carrying banners of deep scarlet.

“Gallitras,” Canker said again. He pointed. “There at the river is the town of Ruthe, and the Ruthe bridges.”

“We seem to have stumbled upon a battle,” Gallico said.

“Bar Asfal’s man in this region is Marshal Surion, a capable and intrepid commander. He’s trying to take the crossing.”

Now, faint over the still air, there came the hoarse, faraway roar of men in the extremity of close combat, a vast crowd of them. They teemed on both banks of the river and seemed irresistibly drawn by the lure of the two stone bridges. These were crammed with struggling mobs of tiny figures, overhung by smoke and battle-flags. Volley-fire ripped out in a crackling line from the riverbanks, and powder-smoke rose up like a fog to drift in limp skeins across the water.

“It must be very like hell down there,” Giffon said, awestruck.

“There is no hell,” Canker said briskly. “There is only the here and now. Gentlemen, let us go down. Time to join the war.”

Nine

THE EMBRUN RIVER

THE SENSATIONS OF BATTLE OPENED UP AROUND THEM.
First came the smell: the drifting fetor of gun-smoke. It seemed to have soaked into the very snow, catching at the back of the throat and making the eyes smart and water as it congealed closer to the river. Then the noise. Isolated shots seemed sharper to the ear, and then they grew more frequent, overlapping, rolling through the air until they were a continuous tumult which hammered at the senses. And below that, the terrible, full-throated roar of the men fighting on the bridges, spiked now and again with high shrieks that carried over all.

The horses bucked and fought their bits. Creed was thrown just as the party entered the northernmost streets of Ruthe, while Rol’s and Canker’s mounts danced under them, white-eyed and blowing foam. They dismounted and hobbled the terrified creatures in the ruins of a house, then continued on foot. Squads of men in crudely made scarlet livery ran past them toward the river and a steady stream of broken bodies was dragged or stretchered in the opposite direction. The streets were littered with shattered roof-tiles, clumps of burning thatch, and shoals of broken brick. Smoke hung low in motionless clouds, and soldiers ran in and out of it like actors on the stage.

Rol bent close to Canker’s ear and shouted over the mad cacophony that now beat upon them, “What are you doing?”

“I must see the bridges, talk to these men’s commander. This is no raid—it’s a major assault.”

Rol felt like bidding him good luck and turning around, but something kept him at Canker’s side. Curiosity, perhaps, and the determination to appear as unmoved by this mayhem as Canker seemed to be. He had known warfare of a sort before, on the decks of ships, but the epic confusion, the scale of this thing confronting him, was something else entirely. How could any commander impose order on such chaos?

The town of Ruthe was a town no more; it was a mere husk of smashed stone and burning timber within which thousands of men were struggling to kill their fellows while remaining alive themselves. In the choked, smoke-filled streets it seemed impossible that Canker should be able to find his way, but the Thief-King led his doubtful companions unerringly toward the river, the epicenter of the storm that shook the air about them.

Here and there they passed decimated companies re-forming in the shelter of the ruins, their officers haranguing them in barely heard shrieks. In less choked stretches of roadway gunners were manhandling artillery pieces yard by fearsome yard toward the river. Ambulance-wagons heaped high with the maimed and the dying were drawn eastward by groups of exhausted men. Horses lay dead in harness, or kicked and whinnied in the slick ropes of their own entrails. Parts of bodies were plastered across walls or ground under the boots of advancing battalions. Blood, smoke, and stone stirred in a vast cauldron and put to the boil.

“The Embrun is up ahead,” Canker shouted, clapping Rol on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; this is not the first time this has happened. They’ll never make it across the river.”

A series of shells landed on the battered houses of the street, spraying masonry and clay tiles and knocking men down right and left. Those who could picked themselves up. Others lay motionless, faces set in dulled surprise, and yet more grasped at broken places in their bodies and screamed and screamed. Giffon knelt beside one of these unfortunates and began ripping up his own cloak to bind the man’s wounds. Gallico lifted him by the scruff of the neck, as though he were a recalcitrant pup, and dragged him away. He and Giffon shouted at each other; though they were but ten feet away, Rol could not make out what they were saying.

They were only a cable or two from the bridges now. There was a broad street that still had the stumps of shell-blasted trees lining it. Once, it would have been a pleasant place to pass a shaded afternoon, but now it was narrowed by the collapsed frontages of the houses that lined it.

A tide of men came running down the choked roadway with wild eyes and blackened faces. “They’ve taken the south bridge!” one yelled. “They’re across the river!” His words spurred on those around him. Hundreds of men were now streaming eastward in complete disorder, some throwing down their weapons as they ran.

“Help me!” Canker bellowed to his companions. He was halting individual men, punching them in the chest, shoving them backwards, haranguing them with a scarlet face. He whipped out his sword and beat them with the flat of it, set its keen point at their breasts when they tried to push him aside.

“What’s this—are we provost marshals now?” Elias Creed demanded, but he drew his cutlass all the same and set about blocking the path of the fleeing soldiers at Canker’s side. One swung his gun-butt at him, but the ex-convict snapped his head back and struck the man a wicked blow on the temple with the guard of his sword.

Gallico stood like a rock in the middle of the street and roared, the olive-green skin of his face deepening to the hue of seaweed. The mob quailed from that sight. “Stand fast or I’ll break your fucking necks, you worms. Stand fast, I say!”

The rout’s momentum was broken. Dozens of men stood appalled as the halftroll raged at them. A few arquebuses were raised; Rol slapped one down. Canker was moving through the men now, speaking swiftly, clapping them on the bicep or on the back, shaking them. Elias Creed held at least a dozen at bay with the mere glint of his gray eyes and the bright point of his cutlass. The men in the mob became soldiers again, and stood there panting, willing to be told what to do.

They were very near the eastern bank. Up ahead, slender twin spires marked the eastern foot of the bridge, and there was movement there in the smoke, a banner sailing above it like the head of a snake.

“Quickly now,” Canker shouted. “Three ranks. All weapons loaded. Those without firearms to the front rank. You there—Sergeant—get those men in line.”

The companies filed obediently across the street and presented a barrier of flesh and bone and iron. Rol found himself in the front rank with his friends about him, the soldiers seeming to draw strength from Gallico’s fearsome bulk.

“Front rank, kneel,” Canker called, waving his sword in the rear. “Second rank, level your weapons.”

A ragged line of red flashes in the smoke ahead, and split seconds later the cracks of gunfire. Men toppled out of the line, crumpling at the feet of their comrades.

“Steady!” Canker bawled.

Two bullets thudded into Gallico with the wet slap of metal meeting raw meat. The halftroll grunted and fell to one knee.

A harsh baying from the bridge, and then trooping out of the smoke came a company of soldiers in a livery of saffron stripes upon black-dyed linen. They checked for one second at the grim sight of Gallico trying to struggle to his feet, and then marched on, yelling, their leader a short, dark-haired man in half armor who waved a rapier.

“Second rank, fire!” Canker screamed.

Rol’s right ear was scorched as the man behind him fired close to his head. A high hissing sound filled his skull. The street disappeared in the volley of fire and fume.

“Giffon, run,” Rol said to the terrified boy at his side.

“No, I’ll—”

“Get the fuck out of here, now!” He drew Fleam as Giffon took off and shared a look with Elias Creed. The dark man nodded and grasped Gallico’s arm, helping him stand.

“I’m all right,” the halftroll said, but he swayed, and out of his chest the blood bubbled in a pink foam.

More bullets cracking past their ears. The men about them were edging backwards, some firing, some reloading. They looked over their shoulders. Canker’s three ordered lines were disintegrating again. The enemy appeared out of the reek, still in disciplined ranks. Canker tugged at Rol’s sleeve.

“Come on. Time to go.”

The enemy officer raised his sword and bellowed wordlessly; about him his men raised a dry cheer, and charged.

“Help Gallico, you bastard!” And without a coherent thought in his mind, Rol raised the scimitar two-handed and stormed full-tilt into the approaching horde.

Those before him gave way as will sheep before a wolf, flinching from the light in his eyes. But to right and left their comrades were thundering down the street to encircle him. Somewhere in the rear, Gallico’s deep voice was raised in a bellow of garbled fury.

Rol’s world closed down to the few feet of space before him, the hedge of contorted faces, the sharp-edged weapons that were seeking out his flesh. Fleam was no longer made of metal; she was a feather of fine wire in his grasp. This kind of fighting she understood. The sword arced left, then came up in a sharp curve to carve a figure eight in the air, a blur of brightness no more. But men were cut cleanly in two by that swift hissing steel. They collapsed about Rol in steaming pieces, their warm blood spraying his face. He stepped forward until he was right in the middle of the enemy, and out of some forgotten recess in his brain Psellos’s and Rowen’s training emerged and took hold of his limbs. He moved as lightly as a dancer, aware of every face about him, each indrawn breath, sudden wideness of eye, tilting of balance. He ducked under a blade, jabbed out with Fleam’s point to pierce a skull, caught a wrist and snapped it cleanly, swung his free elbow into a man’s face to crush the nose, swept the scimitar at an exposed neck, taking off the head with its stunned eyes.

He was not as quick as he once might have been. Swords nicked him here and there, slashing his clothing, slicing the skin beneath. Blood was running down inside his shirt, but he knew that nothing consequential had yet bitten his flesh. There was no pain or fear, just the deadly joy of the blade in his hand, the all-consuming delineation of his foes’ movements. It was at once a supreme discipline and an animal delight in his own strength, the frailty of his assailants, the slaughter he was inflicting.

He pushed forward, and the knots of men about him opened out, recoiling from this murderous engine in their midst. Confusion gave way to fear, and the killing became easier. Rol had shattered their lines, smashed the momentum of their advance. It was enough to bring their entire company to a halt. In the smoke and chaos, they no doubt thought that Canker’s men had counterattacked.

The short, dark-haired officer met Rol blade to blade, eyes flashing above his sword. Fleam cut through the inferior steel, lopped the man’s arm off at the shoulder. He went down with a shocked wail, and Rol’s boot sent him flying backwards into his compatriots.

They broke. Tripping over one another, lashing out blindly, shouting, screaming; their circle opened, and all at once Rol was staring at their backs. Three- or fourscore men were running away from him in brazen panic. A thing not unlike laughter rose in his throat. He leaped forward in pursuit, cutting them down with slashes at the backs of their knees, their necks. He felled half a dozen more before the first bullet snapped past his ear. Fetching up short, he found himself almost at the lip of the bridge itself. Fifty feet wide, it was a massive construction of hewn and mortared stone, and there were hundreds of men upon it still, and more boiling on the western side of the river. Running soldiers were being halted and cajoled into some form of order, and a line of soldiers were leveling their firearms. Rol threw himself to the ground just as the volley cracked out. One ball struck Fleam square on the blade and almost spun her out of his grasp. Another splintered a stone cobble and sent fragments of stone tearing across his face. A third nicked his thigh, blasting away a divot of muscle.