The aide did not bother darting down the stairs — he simply went to the far wall, leaned out and screamed, 'Squint! Up here, damn you!'
Another wave of sorcery swept more crows from the sky. In silence, they regrouped once again.
The roar from Aren's walls had stilled. Now only silence held the air.
Nether had collapsed against the historian, a child in his arms. Duiker could see Nil curled and motionless on the platform near the hatch — either unconscious or dead. He had wet himself, the puddle spreading out around him.
Boots thumped on the stairs.
The aide said to the commander, 'He's been helping the refugees, sir. I don't think he has any idea what's going on…'
Duiker turned again to look out at the lone figure nailed to the cross. He still lived — they would not let him die, would not free his soul, and Kamist Reloe knew precisely what he was doing, knew the full horror of his crime, as he methodically destroyed the vessels for that soul. On all sides, screaming warriors pressed close, seething on the barrow like insects.
Objects started striking the figure on the cross, leaving red stains. Pieces of flesh, gods — pieces of flesh, — what's left of the army — this was a level of cruelty that left Duiker cowering inside.
'Over here, Squint!' he heard the commander growl. A figure pushed to Duiker's side, short, squat, grey-haired. His eyes, buried in a nest of wrinkles, were fixed on that distant figure. 'Mercy,' he whispered.
'Well?' the commander demanded.
'That's half a thousand paces, Blistig-'
'I know.'
'Might take more than one shot, sir.'
'Then get started, damn you.'
The old soldier, wearing a uniform that looked as if it had not been washed or repaired in decades, unslung the longbow from one shoulder. He gathered the string, stepped into the bow's plane, bent it hard over one thigh. His limbs shook as he edged the string's loop into its niche. Then he straightened up and studied the arrows in the quiver strapped to his hip.
Another wave of sorcery struck the crows.
After a long moment, Squint selected an arrow. 'I'll try for the chest. Biggest target, sir, and enough good hits and that'll do the poor soul.'
'Another word, Squint,' Blistig whispered, 'and I'll have your tongue.'
The soldier nocked the arrow. 'Clear me some space, then.'
Nether was limp in Duiker's arms as he dragged her back a step.
The man's bow, even strung, was as tall as he was. His forearms as he drew the string back were like hemp ropes, bundled and twisted and taut. The string brushed his stubbled jawline as he completed the draw, then locked it in place with a slow, even exhalation.
Duiker saw the man tremble suddenly, and his eyes widened, revealing themselves for the first time — black, small marbles in red-streaked nests.
Raw fear edged Blistig's voice. 'Squint-'
'That's got to be Coltaine, sir!' the old man gasped. 'You want me to kill Coltaine-'
'Squint!'
Nether raised her head and reached out one bloody hand in supplication. 'Release him. Please.'
The old man studied her a moment. Tears streamed down his face. The trembling stilled — the bow itself had not moved an inch.
'Hood's breath!' Duiker hissed. He's weeping. He can't aim — the bastard can't aim-
The bowstring thrummed. The long shaft cut through the sky.
'Oh, gods!' Squint moaned. 'Too high — too high!'
It rose, swept through the massed crows untouched and unwavering, began arcing down.
Duiker could have sworn that Coltaine looked up then, lifted his gaze to greet that gift, as the iron head impacted his forehead, shattered the bone, sank deep into his brain and killed him instantly. His head snapped back between the spars of wood, then the arrow was through.
The warriors on the barrow's slopes flinched back.
The crows shook the air with their eerie cries and plunged down towards the sagging figure on the cross, sweeping over the warriors crowding the slopes. The sorcery that battered at them was shunted aside, scattered by whatever force — Coltaine's soul? — now rose to join the birds.
The cloud descended on Coltaine, swallowing him entire and covering the cross itself — at that distance they were to Duiker like flies swarming a piece of flesh.
And when they rose, exploding skyward, the warleader of the Crow Clan was gone.
Duiker staggered, leaned hard against the stone wall. Nether slipped down through his motionless arms, her blood-matted hair hiding her face as she curled around his feet.
'I killed him,' Squint moaned. 'I killed Coltaine. Who took that man's life? A broken old soldier of the High Fist's army — he killed Coltaine … Oh, Beru, have mercy on my soul…'
Duiker wrapped the old man in his arms and held him fiercely. The bow clattered on the platform's wooden slats. The historian felt the man crumpling against him as if his bones had turned to dust, as if centuries stole into him with each ragged breath.
Commander Blistig gripped the bowman by the back of the collar and yanked him upright. 'Before the day's through, you bastard,' he hissed, 'ten thousand soldiers will be voicing your name.' The words shook. 'Like a prayer, Squint, like a Hood-damned prayer.'
The historian squeezed his eyes shut. It had become a day to hold in his arms broken figures.
But who will hold me?
Duiker opened his eyes, raised his head. High Fist Pormqual's mouth was moving, as if in a silent plea for forgiveness. Shock was written on the man's thin, oiled face and, as he met the historian's gaze, a flash of raw fear.
Out on the barrow Korbolo Dom's army was stirring, like reeds in eddies, a restless, meaningless motion. The aftermath was now upon them. Voices rose, wordless cries, but they were too few to break the dreadful silence and its growing power.
The crows were gone, the crossed spars of wood stood empty, rising above the masses with their blood-streaked shafts.
Overhead, the sky had begun to die.
Duiker's gaze returned to Pormqual. The High Fist seemed to shrink into Mallick Rel's shadow. He shook his head as if to deny the day.
Thrice denied, High Fist.
Coltaine is dead. They are all dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I saw the sun's bolt
arc an unerring path
to the man's forehead.
As it struck, the crows
converged like night
drawing breath.
Dog Chain
Seglora
Faint ripples licked the garbage-studded mud beneath the docks. Night insects danced just beyond the water's reach, and the bank itself seethed in the egg-laying frenzy of some kind of eels. In their thousands, black and gleaming, the small creatures writhed beneath the dancing insects. This silent breaching of the harbour's shore had for generations passed almost unnoticed by human eyes — a mercy granted only because the eels were wholly unpalatable.
From the darkness beyond came the sound of cascading water. The ripples that reached shore from that commotion were larger, more agitated, the only indication that a stranger had arrived to disturb the scene.
Kalam stumbled ashore, collapsing onto mud that swarmed beneath him. Warm blood still leaked between the fingers of his right hand where it pressed against the knife wound. The assassin wore no shirt, and his chain armour was even now settling somewhere in the mud bottom of Malaz Bay behind him, leaving him with only buckskin leggings and moccasins.
In clambering out of the armour during his sudden plunge into the deep, he had been forced to pull off his belt and knife harness. In his desperate need to return to the surface, to draw air into his lungs, he'd let everything slip from his grasp.