At Ho's side Fingers lay prostrate, his face contorted in a grimace of effort. ‘Can't keep this up for ever, people,’ he ground through bared and clenched teeth.
‘Get us out of here!’ Ho bellowed to everyone.
‘Where?’ Devaleth snarled.
‘Anywhere!’
‘You wish to go?’ Yath called, his voice hollow-sounding through the coruscating banner of power. ‘I will take us somewhere — though I do not think you will much care for it, my friends!’ and he laughed anew, gesturing. The distances became opaque, darkening, taking on a grey-green tinge like an eerie nightfall. The vessel eased gently down on to something, canting to one side. Fingers let out a grateful gasp, his arms and clawed hands unclenching, and he sagged. A roaring, grinding noise like a waterfall swelled to smother all other sounds. A stink assaulted Ho, making his gorge rise. Treat, near the side, flinched away, pointing: ‘What in Hood's own dread is that?’
Ho stood. They were sliding down a tilted flow of some fluid. It reminded him of a lava flow only clotted, streaked in pus-like yellow and sickly green. Figures writhed within, melting and re-forming, gesturing and beckoning only to fall back into the churning stuff from which they arose. ‘The edge of Chaos,’ Ho said.
‘Yes!’ Yath answered. ‘You invade my lands spreading death and destruction! It is only fitting that I bring a taste of such chaos in return!‘ He opened his arms. ‘My lands have been cursed with it… Now it is your turn! From here I shall bring such a plague upon your continent that you will never rise again!’ He turned his back, raised his arms high, staff clenched over his head.
Forming another portal — this time leading directly to Quon. Ho found himself staring at the Wickan witch. ‘What can we do?’
‘Nothing. We haven't the power. He commands the might of some twenty mages. We are only a few.’
‘Nothing? Nothing!’
Su eyed him sidelong. Her wrinkled mouth pulled up in a mocking smile. ‘Who am I to say, Ho? Are you not the expert here? Did you not walk these very shores?’
Damn her! How can she know these things? ‘Very well.’ He raised his voice. ‘Blues, Fingers, Devaleth! Join us.’
It was not a ritual; Ho would hardly propose such an effort given its latest employment. Rather, it was a parallel focusing. Each readied themselves to contribute their strength to forestalling the creation of a solid enduring bridge from this place to Yarn's intended destination — wherever exactly that may be.
As they worked, the vessel tilted ever more severely to the bow until they resorted to gripping the stern. Treat and Sept roped them to the sides, the tiller and the gunwale. The Forlorn picked up speed, sliding, grating, down the flow of unformed chaotic matter. Ho wondered whether the shapes they'd witnessed were its inhabitants, or prisoners. Mage, perhaps, caught attempting to manipulate the potential of the inchoate materia — as he himself had dared so long ago.
Ahead an opening on to darkness tore through the flow, bisecting it. Ho glimpsed stars — a night sky? The vessel canted even more precipitously, almost vertical, then pitched within. Ho had the brief impression of falling into nothingness. He reached out then for what Su, Blues and Devaleth were prepared to offer and almost recoiled. Such capacity! It approached even his own. Beru, do not let him be seduced! No wonder none were willing to offer themselves to Yath!
‘Hang on!’
Plummeting through a whistling, howling wind. An instant explosion of crashing, splintering timbers. An agonizing blow. Tumbling. Nothing.
Nait was sitting with Urfa and Bowl and a few other saboteur sergeants watching their boys and girls trying to get fires going to cook a hot meal. Heuk's darkness still coursed above their position but it was fraying gently, dissipating. Nait figured it'd be gone by dawn. Heuk himself slept still, curled up nearby, a dopey drooling smile on his face, jug clenched tighter than a pricey hired girl, or boy. Nait was all ready to fall asleep too when Urfa sent a bulging, cross-eyed look his way and motioned aside.
There came the Sword of the Empire himself, bandaged and bloodied, armour clattering all bashed and battered, marching up to the officer's fire followed by his guard of lieutenants and captains. Nait hung his head. Gods no — please don't fuck us up!
‘Why are we not moving?’ the man demanded so loud everyone on the slope could hear. ‘I gave the order that we march! The Guard remain on the field. We must attack!’
Faces turned among the assembled saboteurs from where they argued over the best way to start the fires. They'd been comparing tinder boxes and flints, slow-burning coal sticks wrapped in leather, goose-down and lint ember beds, and all the while the fires remained unstruck. Oh, oh. Nait pushed himself up and motioned Urfa and Bowl to come. The three ambled over to where captains Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom all struggled to their feet. Kepp and Blossom helped Tinsmith up with a padded stick that had been fashioned as a crutch.
‘Yes, Sword?’ Tinsmith offered.
‘Why have the orders for the troops to assemble not been conveyed?’ Korbolo demanded, enunciating his words with great care.
‘Move out — where? Sir?’ Tinsmith inquired.
The Napan commander jabbed an arm to the west. ‘West! A Guard strongpoint remains! They could attack us at any moment. They must be eradicated. Slain to a man!’
Tinsmith thoughtfully ran a thumb and forefinger along his silver moustache. ‘Messages indicate they have effectively withdrawn, Sword,’ he said with all reasonableness.
Korbolo stepped right up to the captain. His mouth twisted in a frown of exaggerated disappointment. ‘You are not refusing a direct order, are you, Captain?’ he asked, his voice now very soft. ‘Because I will have you arrested. And then, tomorrow, after we have killed them all, I, Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire, will be proclaimed victor over the Crimson Guard. Defeater of Skinner. And I will have you and your entire command crucified. Believe me — I've done it before. Now… move out.’
A salute from Tinsmith. ‘Hail the Sword.’
Korbolo answered the salute. ‘Very good, Captain. Carry on.’ He marched off followed by his troop leaving Tinsmith hopping in place and studying his crutch. Nait and Urfa and Bowl ran up together with other sergeants. Everyone spoke at once, complaining, threatening, refusing to move. Many pointed in the direction of the sleeping Heuk. Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom raised their hands for calm.
‘We've no choice,’ Tinsmith said, curtly. ‘Make a stretcher for the mage. We'll take him with us. I want a column of infantry with skirmishers surrounding. At the first sign of trouble we scoot back here. OK?’
Nait could only shake his head at the awesome, monumental stupidity of it all. He'd managed it: he'd fucked them up.
Nait opted to range with the skirmishers, leaving Heuk to be carried within the ranks. This squad didn't march so much as skulk, spread out, crossbows readied, hunched. A faint lightening brushed the eastern horizon; the stars were dimmer there. Nait cast quick glances over his people. They'd been lucky, lost only two: Kal and the lad, Poot. The lad hurt the worst. Not because he was young ‘n’ all that, but because it had been friendly fire. In all the ruckus of people jumping the trench, climbing in and out, someone's crossbow had been jiggled and it fired right next to his head. No warning at all. That had been a hard one for everyone to take.
Thankfully, this portion of the field was relatively empty. The worst was just south where fires still burned and kites and other bold night-feeders wheeled. They'd crossed most of the field when a contingent of horsemen came pounding out of the dark. ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ Nait heard sergeants bellow among the skirmishers. It was a troop of Wickan lancers. They pulled up, halting.