Breath of Heaven, page 62
* * *
Kobel swore as he fended off the Horde at Tarken Sohn’s side.
They’d retreated through the streets, herding as many of the citizens before them as they could. The streets were in chaos, the citizens shrieking and fleeing in all directions, most heading toward the main gates of the second wall. Fires were breaking out all over as lanterns and candles and fires were left unattended or overturned in the panic. Black smoke billowed into the sky, choking some of the side streets and alleys, creating a claustrophobic feel as the Legion from the broken main gates ran for their lives. The Shadows had fallen on them almost instantly, cutting off the main street, and Kobel had been forced into the northern district. Collapsed houses had funneled them farther north, slowed only by the panicked people emerging from the wooden and stone buildings on all sides. He’d seen the snake people entering the courtyard in the moments before they left and swore again as he shouted commands to his men, all of them pushing hard and attempting to bring some order to the madness. He couldn’t see the main wall or the secondary wall from their position, the buildings and the hillside blocking his view. He didn’t even know if the secondary wall still held.
Within ten blocks, it didn’t matter, as the impish, twisted creatures of the Horde suddenly leaped and bounded from every cross-street, doorway, and window on their block. The citizens panicked even more, Tarken bellowing for the mixed Province Legion that remained to fall into lines, hacking and slashing as they slowly worked their way backwards up the street, stumbling over discarded buckets, clothes, even a few pieces of scattered furniture and overturned wagons. Kobel jabbed his blade through one of the larger blackened bodies, lurching back from the snapping teeth as the creature died, then severed another creature’s spindly arm from its side. It shrieked, high and piercing, but fell back. One of the men near him screamed as one of the creatures latched onto his face, but Kobel had no time to spare to save him. He roared another command and they fell back again. With a sharp glance over his shoulder, he realized the street behind them was mostly free of those they were protecting, so he ordered them to fall back past the next intersection into the next block. The men reacted instantly, turning and running, Kobel’s blood pounding in his ears. A flicker of movement down a side street and he realized if they didn’t hurry they’d be outflanked as he saw more of the creatures closing from the south. Tarken shouted more orders and the entire Legion turned and attacked, now blocking access to the next street.
“We have to move faster,” Kobel said as both of the GreatLords cut into the monsters at their heels. “They’re already on the streets to the south of us. They’re going to surround us.”
“And there’s fire to the north. Our only open path is to the east.”
“Then east it is, but we’ll have to cut south again eventually or we’ll be trapped against the second wall with no gate for access.”
“We’ll have to run for it.”
Kobel agreed by slicing one of the lantern-eyed cats in half, then turning. “Fall back, as fast as you can. Follow my lead. Now!”
And they spun on their heels and ran. Exhaustion pulled at Kobel’s muscles, ached in his chest, dragged at his feet and arms, but he pushed harder. Tarken huffed and puffed on his left, one of his commanders on the right, the rest of the Legion clomping along in their armor behind them. Someone tripped and screamed as the Horde caught him, but Kobel shoved the horrible sounds from his mind, focused on the streets ahead. They passed two alleys, a cross street, pushed hard across an open plaza at a diagonal, heading southeast to gain another block closer to the gates. At a circular intersection of at least six streets, he angled southeast again, but the Horde burst from one of the streets to their right before they were halfway across, forcing them back east. Kobel caught a glimpse of the secondary wall between two of the buildings, another of the palace farther up the hill, which was steeper in this section of the city. Bells were clanging somewhere to the east and he prayed to Diermani that Echeri was inside the tunnels already, leading as many of the people to safety as she could.
But then, halfway down another block, the street curving even farther north, he heard the thunderous claps that had preceded the fall of the outer walls.
He paused, the Legion falling into position around him, gasping. But the Horde had fallen slightly behind.
“That didn’t come from the city,” Tarken said.
Kobel realized he was right. He listened intently. “The battlefield? But why?”
Tarken shrugged. “Unless they’re laying waste to the outer ward, clearing a path to the secondary wall.”
“We don’t have time to speculate,” the commander said, adding a hasty, “my lords.”
Kobel motioned them onward with his sword, but within a hundred feet they heard screeching and running feet from around the corner of the street ahead. Tarken called for a halt and they waited.
They didn’t wait long. A force of mixed citizens and Legionnaires and general soldiers—obviously remnants from the outer wall—poured around the corner, shouts bringing them up short as they saw Kobel and his Legion. There were maybe a hundred more men and women in their group, which brought their total to just over two hundred.
One of the men dressed in a Legionnaire’s uniform stepped forward. Gray riddled his stubble-beard and his face was lined with age and scars. “Swordmaster Braxton, GreatLord, from the northern ranks. The Horde is on my men’s heels.”
Braxton’s “men” were mostly boys, and people they’d picked up on their way to the secondary walls.
“They’re right behind us as well.”
Braxton winced. Kobel noticed a cut along his side, bleeding profusely, another across his thigh. And blood dripped from the fingers of his free hand. “Then we’ll have to defend ourselves here.”
Tarken was already ordering the men into position. Kobel scanned both sides of the street, the Horde already appearing in both directions. A bitter taste filled his mouth and he spat it aside. He refused to accept defeat. Not like this.
His glance fell on the eastern houses, on their doors and windows.
“The houses. Someone check the houses behind us. Look for a way through to the southern street.”
Braxton didn’t hesitate. “Corim, Wade, Rory, Harden, check the buildings!”
Four boys broke away and vanished into the doors of three of the houses at their backs.
Kobel didn’t have time to watch for their return for the Horde fell on them, coming from both directions. They were trapped in the corner of the curve. The sound of clashing metal and pain and death filled the hollow, echoing strangely off of the buildings as the clanging of the bells continued. Distantly, Kobel realized that the thunderous claps had ended, replaced by a cataclysmic sizzling sound and the flash of lightning, even though the sky above was clear. He didn’t have time to be distracted. Men were falling left and right, their group being whittled down even as they took out creature after creature. There seemed to be no end to them, streaming from the southern street, dropping out of windows. They’d originally blocked the entire street with their forces, but the Horde had forced them into a group against one side. He shot a quick glance backwards, wondering what had happened to the boys checking the houses, saw one of them emerge from a building and shake his head.
He swore and swung, the black ichor that was the creature’s blood flying up and splattering his face. It burned, but he couldn’t wipe it away. A drop fell into the corner of his eye and stung, tears beginning to stream down his cheek, his eye blurring. His ears echoed with the screams coming from all sides. They’d been driven back against the houses now, their two hundred cut down by half.
And then someone bellowed in panic, “GreatLord!”
Kobel spun, realized at the last instant that the call had been meant for Tarken Sohn. Even as his gaze latched onto the GreatLord of Yhnar, even as he saw Tarken’s left protective flank fall beneath the teeth of a dozen of the cat-like creatures—the animals shrieking in triumph as they leapt onto Tarken’s back—claws sank into Kobel’s flesh in the chink in his armor above his thigh, piercing through the mail beneath. As Tarken roared, one of the cat creatures tearing into the back of his neck beneath his helm, Kobel wrenched his gaze down to the monstrous creature before him, its snout opening wide and snapping forward toward Kobel’s throat. He reared back, head turned to the side, felt the creature’s teeth graze the skin beneath his ear, felt spittle slick his cheek, the creature’s breath hot against his neck. At the same time, the creature jerked down with the claws caught in his armor, trying to gain more height.
Straps and buckles broke, the armor over his thigh ripping free, the talons shredding down Kobel’s leg. He bellowed at the pain, his vision going white-hot as he stumbled and fell backwards, dragging the creature with him. It snapped at his head again, ripped the bottom of his ear off, that pain nothing compared to the seething hotbed of his thigh. His back slammed into the ground, his breath gushing from his lungs, the creature’s weight crunching down on top of him. The claws buried in his thigh flexed as it scrambled for purchase, but Kobel clenched his teeth together and brought his sword around, stabbing blindly into the wriggling, leathery body on top of him. The creature howled, but he stabbed again and again, its other claws scrabbling across the armor on his chest and raking down his side. Blood splattered across his front as he finally hit something vital. The creature gave one last weak howl and then collapsed forward, its snout thudding over his shoulder.
Kobel gasped and blinked away the cloudiness in his eyes brought on by pain, tears, sweat, and splattered blood. He jerked his blade free of the creature’s body and heaved it to one side, muscles standing out in his neck as he moved his leg. Pushing into a seated position, he stared down at the ruin of his left thigh, a wave of nausea sweeping through him.
The guard had been ripped free, hung by one remaining leather strap from his knee. The muscle beneath was shredded meat. Blood gushed from the four ragged claw lines. If he didn’t get it tied off and treated, he’d bleed out.
The fighting still raged on either side, his own Legion crammed in so close they were practically trampling him. They must have closed in when they saw him fall. Shoving backwards, he dragged himself from beneath their feet onto the steps of one of the houses. One of Braxton’s boys emerged from the darkness, scanning the battle, before his gaze fell on Kobel. He slid down the stairs to Kobel’s side.
“GreatLord! There’s no passage through—”
“Forget that,” Kobel spat, waving one hand weakly. He was already beginning to feel lightheaded. “Get a belt or strap, anything. You need to tie off my leg.”
The boy searched frantically, dodged away and returned a second later with a leather belt. “Like this?”
“Yes, yes.” Kobel’s head wanted to roll forward and he didn’t think he’d have the strength to raise it again, so he tilted it back instead. “Cinch it tight at the top of my thigh. As tight as you can make it.”
He nearly screamed when the boy lifted his leg to get the belt underneath. He did when the boy drew it tight, not releasing the pressure even when Kobel involuntarily slapped at him.
The pain in his leg immediately dampened. He pushed himself back up onto the stairs, noted the bloodflow had lessened dramatically, and then grasped the boy’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Corim, sir. I mean GreatLord. Sir.”
“Where is Tarken Sohn?”
“I think he’s dead, sir.”
Kobel’s gut clenched. “What about the rest of the Phalanx? Can we retreat through the houses?”
“There are only about fifty of us left, sir. And the houses are a bust. There’s no way through to the street beyond.”
Kobel stilled, despair bullying through his defenses. He knew it showed on his face, because Corim’s eyes widened and he pulled slightly back in denial, but Kobel didn’t let go of his shoulder. He knew if he let go, he’d succumb to the despair himself.
He was considering the advantages of retreating into the houses regardless, trying to defend them—a last desperate gambit, an impossibility—
Then a White Fire suddenly poured up over the hill above them, spilling over the unseen palace and walls and down into the streets. He had time to stare up into its flames, time to suck in a shocked breath, and then it washed over him. No, washed into him, burning deep. He tensed, ready to release a last agonizing howl of pain, wondering how the Wraiths had summoned such a devastating wall of fire, when it passed beyond him.
He lurched forward, off balance, the sudden onset and departure of the Fire disconcerting, but caught himself. He saw others around him doing the same. Some dropped their swords, their faces shocked, terrified, or filled with awe. Others fell to their knees. A few whimpered or whispered a prayer. His grip on Corim tightened as he spun to follow the path of the Fire as it blazed down through Temeritt, leaving the buildings untouched, but lost sight of its base almost immediately. Yet from its height, he could tell it had reached the plains and was still moving, that it stretched far wider than Temeritt both to the southeast and northwest.
Corim shifted beneath his grip and Kobel brought his blade up, realizing at the same instant that his hold had been so tight it would leave bruises. “I apologize.” He released the boy’s shoulder. The youth rolled it uncomfortably. “I didn’t realize—”
But Corim wasn’t paying attention. “The Horde is gone.” His voice cracked, the only sign he was rattled by the White Fire.
Kobel scanned what he could see of the remaining forces from his seat. The street was littered with bodies, both from the Horde and soldiers. The remaining Legion stood among them. But the Horde they had been fighting had vanished.
“Did the Fire kill them all?” Corim asked.
“I don’t think so. There aren’t enough bodies on the street for that.” Kobel lowered his sword.
“Did it…incinerate them?”
Kobel shrugged. He didn’t understand it. Where had the Fire come from? What had it done? What about the rest of the Horde?
What about Echeri?
He searched the men still standing in shock all around him. “Commander Pearson.”
Pearson started. “GreatLord! Artines, Benjamin, the GreatLord has been hurt!”
Two Legionnaires rushed forward, Corim stepping aside as they began checking Kobel’s wound. Kobel swore as one of them tugged at the belt keeping him alive. As they continued to prod, already barking orders to bring needle, gut, and whatever the rest of the Legion could find as bandages, Kobel said to Pearson, “Get the Legion together. We’ll head toward the main gates. Carry me if you have to, or find a cart. Keep your guard up though, until we know what’s going on. The Horde may still be around somewhere.”
“What about GreatLord Tarken Sohn?”
Both men looked to where Tarken had fallen. The GreatLord’s head had nearly been ripped from his shoulders, his armor splashed by so much blood it was completely red. He’d lost his helm. He appeared to be staring at Kobel, eyes wide in death, one side of his face oddly unmarked, although the other half had claw marks down its length.
“Bring his body with us.”
Pearson clapped his hands together and began rousing the soldiers around them, pulling some up out of their stupors with a slap or shake. Artines and Benjamin sewed Kobel’s mangled flesh up as best they could and wrapped his thigh tight, then removed the belt. Kobel writhed as his leg tingled back to life, the pain worse than the needle. Blood stained the bandages almost immediately, but the two Legionnaires were satisfied it would hold until a real healer could deal with it. Someone found a wagon among the detritus in the streets. Within short order, Tarken Sohn’s body was loaded up, Kobel ensconced in the wagon’s seat, and the entire group headed toward the gates of the secondary wall.
Halfway there, they’d nearly quadrupled their numbers with shaken citizenry emerging from the rubble and other scattered groups of soldiers.
By the time they came to the open gates, Kobel had nearly two thousand survivors—men, women, and children, all bruised, bloody, or soot-smeared—trailing behind him.
* * *
After the passage of the White Fire—which came out of nowhere and burned the attacking creatures of the Horde they were fleeing to a crisp, not even leaving behind ash—Jayson held Ara in one arm, trailing behind Owen as they made their way up through the streets of Temeritt toward the secondary gates. Partway there, they joined a stream of other refugees, a shudder coursing through Jayson’s spine at the resemblance of the group to the flight from Cobble Kill. Except now, for some inexplicable reason, the Horde was gone, no longer hounding them, the siege miraculously broken.
As they trailed behind the group—growing in size with every street they passed—he realized Ara was sobbing and he pulled her close, hushing her and murmuring inanities. He wasn’t even aware of what he was saying. He wanted to believe it was over, but couldn’t accept it. It had gone on for too long. It had altered his life completely, taking him from the mill in Gray’s Kill to the walls of Temeritt, battling among its streets. He expected the Horde to reappear at every corner. This was merely a reprieve. The Horde had simply…retreated. They were gathering their forces for a new assault. They had to be.
Except he knew that wasn’t true. He and Owen had been fighting two of the creatures when the White Fire came. He’d thrust his own sword through one of the creatures’ chests a moment for the flames took him.
And when the flames had passed, after that timeless moment that had driven him to the edge of madness, the creature on his blade was gone. Not the ones they’d killed just moments before. Their bodies remained untouched, littering the alley before them. But all of those who’d been alive—and he had to assume the one he’d skewered hadn’t had a chance to die yet—were simply gone.
Ara shuddered and pulled away from him, looking up into his face. Tears wet her cheeks, but she appeared to have gathered her strength again. The stubborn, willful woman he’d first met in Cobble Kill had returned.
