And they did, stamping the shields down, ripping them loose and tearing into the soft flesh beneath.
Rika had dropped her useless spear, hung her big, kite-shaped shield on her arm. One savage slam from the shield rim and the stone creature before her was down.
She had no idea where Jade had gone. Grabbing the attention of the wild-eyed drummer, she roared at him to sound the regroup.
Roviarath wasn’t going down without a fight.
* * *
Tumbling, splashes. Two, three, four of them.
A hiss of angry steam.
He turned his mare in time to see the fifth creature hesitate – and the last one run slam into it, sending them both over the edge.
The waters parted, swallowed them whole. Steam billowed, a glow in the sunset.
And there was quiet.
Jade sat stunned, he thought he could hear cheering. Birds rose, crying, into the darkening sky.
For a moment that seemed endless, he wanted to cheer back. He waved the banner at them, could hear them, faintly, “Lar-red Jade! Lar-red Jade!” He found a lump in his throat – clenched his jaw, blinked.
But they were only six – the walls of his city were still beset, flame poured from the empty marketplace, smoke swirled thick through the air. He could still hear the screams and shouts of combat.
He touched his heels to the mare’s flanks, and, banner streaming, raced back into the mêlée.
* * *
Rika was screaming through the stamping of hooves, the drum-pounding, the mayhem.
“To me! To me!”
The creatures were loosed, determined and silent, faceless and pitted and grey. She could see them through the smoke, red lines of heat, watch them as they slashed one way and then the other.
Their lack of expression was the most frightening thing of all.
The shield wall had disintegrated under their onslaught, the archers had stopped shooting. Scattered battles ranged round her – one on one, the fighters were no match for the stone claws of the monsters and they were being shredded, left to die in the mud. Jade had gone, they needed to rally.
“To me!”
Then she heard the drum cease as the lad was pulled, yowling, from his saddle. His horse fled in a clatter of stirrups.
Without a thought, she rode the creature down.
But the gelding under her baulked. He backed up, throwing his head and snorting, trying to drag the rein from her hand. As she fought to keep the bit out of his teeth, she felt a savage rip in her calf muscle.
The drummer was screaming like a young girl, high and terrified – then, abruptly, silent.
Biting back tears of frustration, sorrow, fury, she yanked her leg out of reach, tried to kick.
But it had her by the ankle, talons sinking into her flesh. Its other hand grabbed her thigh, crushing, claws penetrating the muscle and making her bite back a scream of her own.
She drew her belt-blade, slashed at its stone wrist, watched the blade crack and dangle uselessly from its central fibres. Spitting “No, no, no”, she jammed the remnants into the thing’s red eye socket.
Its claws dug harder. It was trying to drag her out of her seat, rending huge wounds, deep in the front of her thigh. The pain was savage, blood stained her breeches, blackness laughed at the edges of her vision.
The last thing she saw, as the smoke swirled and parted, was the glow of the sun, dying slowly upon the jagged peaks of the Kartiah Mountains.
* * *
Hooves thundering, Jade charged back into the smoke.
To ruin.
His defence was shattered, his Fayre in bright flame. Riderless horses cantered through the smoke and were gone. Spearmen, those that remained, huddled in groups, eyes streaming and terrified. Many had fled.
My Gods, Jade thought, what have I done?
His banner was dull in the smoky air, the grass around him was burning, the mud underfoot a churn of death and gore. He heard groans, whimpers of wordless pain that tore at his heart.
How had this happened? How had this...?
The dusk breeze plucked at the banner, tumbled the smoke about him. Through a momentary eddy, he saw a cluster of the creatures converge on the gatehouse – on the massive, wooden double gates, closed and bolted for the first time in his memory. Archers ran to the muster-call.
He had no doubt the gates would burn.
And after them, the city.
“Samiel!” The cry was crazed, but he had nothing else left. “You can’t do this!”
And the Varchinde answered him.
He heard hooves: a thundering that shook the ground, flashed sparks from the grass-devouring flames. Through the wall of smoke and mist and horror, he could see shapes – hazy, mounted. And the air...
With a high, ululating war cry that echoed back from the city walls, they were there – exploding through the smoke, bridleless, savage, utterly disordered.
His black mare on her hind legs, bellowing defiance, Syke of the Banned wheeled his arm above his head and sent them as a flat-out run, slamming into the rear of the creatures assaulting the gates. They didn’t bother with weapons – the mounts fought for themselves, forehooves slashing, back hooves shattering stone with hammer blows that exploded dust into the air.
He heard a ragged cheer from the archers on the wall.
Reining his mare to a halt, the Lord of Roviarath stared at the war-Banned, heard their yowls and catcalls, wondered at the sheer viciousness of the attack.
He had the oddest feeling they were enjoying themselves.
One hand on his monster recurved bow, Syke brought his snorting, prancing mare close by.
Jade looked at him, stunned. Said only, “Why?”
“Triq,” the Banned commander replied. He gave the Lord a shrewd, narrow-eyed look, then turned to watch the ramshackle mess about him. “Her mare came back. I saw these bastards running, I figured she’d failed. She died – Ress and Jayr – because I didn’t rally when I should’ve done.” He let off an idle snap-shot at a lumbering stone creature, hitting it neatly in the eye socket. Its stone head turned to look at him. “Well, we’re rallied now.”
“You couldn’t have come just a fragment earlier?” Jade was starting to laugh – at his reprieve, at the end of the grief and the horror. He laughed as though he were crying. “They’re not dead, you fool – though your guilt’s appreciated...” He stopped, choked by smoke and relief.
“Guilt, my arse.” Syke’s denial may as well have been a confession. Around them, the Banned were scattering the stone assailants into tumbling rubble. Spearmen were laughing, coughing, picking themselves up. He heard the cry to rally from close to the wall.
Jade managed a grin, though it struggled to reach his eyes – they’d seen too much.
“The scouts said the Monument’s collapsing – the light’s going out.” He clapped the grey-eyed man on the shoulder – old friend, old adversary, familiar thorn in the CityWarden’s side. “Be proud of Triqueta – she won.”
“So did you, you daft old sod,” Syke told him. “So did you.”
29: LOREMASTER
FHAVEON, THE MONUMENT
Roderick was woken by a stealthy rap-rap-rap on his door.
He lay still, taut in the darkness, listening.
He’d been dreaming – again. Dreaming of the Ryll, glory and tumble and sparkle and spray. Dreaming of the very mind of the Goddess – too much for mortal man to bear. The aged Guardians stood watch, but had they never touched the water.
Somehow, he had seen the waterfall with more clarity than he ever had. Yet the image had been split, broken – had he seen it through some cracked casement, some twisted reflection?