'So we must ask one more thing of you. And that is to turn and fight. Not to win, because we cannot. And not to sacrifice yourselves for nothing, which would be unforgivable. But to disable and to weaken. To give those that must fight after us a better chance to win.
'Some will go on. Twenty riders taking a string of spare horses to give them the chance they need. Ten Conquord, ten Tsardon. I will stand and fight with you. Prosentor Ruthrar must, as you all now know, deliver our message and stop the pointless shedding of more blood that will only give strength to our foe.'
Not a sound. Not a voice raised in objection. Only a weary acceptance of fate mingled with relief that the running had ended; and that the chance to deal out some small revenge was upon them.
'You know what comes at us. And it will roll over us if we stand in a line before it. So we shall not. Let us challenge the dead. We know they will fight as they did when they lived. In line, disciplined. So we will skirmish. Get amongst them. Target their artillety pieces and their wagons. Do what damage we can, while we still stand. Stop them in their tracks. Even for a short time. Make those who impel them think again. Make the dead themselves confused. For such we have also seen. Shout the names of those you recognise. And do not seek to kill. Disable.
'If each one of you fells two of the enemy before falling yourself, then we will have reduced them.'
She paused. Ruthrar still spoke and his men were wearing the same
expressions as Kell’
s.
'We are all afraid. We dread ending up as one of them. But all we can hope for now is that those who come after us will send us back to the embrace of God one day. And we can pray that somewhere within us, if we are to be the walking dead of tomorrow, we can fight back. Make our wills stronger than those who make us walk and fight.
'I go to my death with you. I go to my death believing that one day I will face my friends and be able to lower my blade, not raise it. Make that your oath and no longer fear your fate.
'Are you with me?'
The dead would surely have heard the roar rolling down the hill.
Chapter Fifty-Four
859th cycle of God, 1st day of
Genasfall
‘I
f you see Pavel Nunan
...'
said Kell.
‘I
will tell him that I have ridden with his wife and she is the bravest, most honourable soldier it is been my fortune to meet. That he must be proud and that if our peoples are ever to forge peace, then she, Dina Kell, must go down in history as the one who took the first step.'
Kell blushed,
‘I
was going to say, make sure he looks after the children and don't stop them joining the legions but you can add what you like, of course.'
Ruthrar bellowed a laugh and hugged her suddenly. She could do nothing but hug him back. When he released her, he had to wipe his eyes and she wasn't sure if the laughter had turned to tears or if they were as a result of his mirth.
'And I will never forget your modesty or the calm voice of your command. My next born daughter will carry your name.'
'That is greater honour than I deserve,' she said. 'Now go. The dead
are at the base of the hill and we're trying to give you some breathing
space.'
‘I
He bowed and turned, shouting his riders to him.
'Dolius?' Kell called. 'A word.'
'General Kell.'
'Keep him safe. If we get through this, by which I mean, the Conquord, we need him to be alive. I'm sick of fighting the Tsardon, Captain. If I am to give anything to you after I am gone, let it be that thought. We need another path. The Conquord has to seek peace with these people. Think what we can achieve together.'
‘I
t has been an honour to serve.'
'Likewise, Captain. Get going.'
Kell knew she was being profound, pompous even. But when could you say these things if not in the hours before your death? The standing army, four hundred and thirty-seven Tsardon warriors, Conquord legionaries and Conquord cavalry, watched the lines of horses go, led by the twenty who would carry the story to Neratharn and beyond.
The dead had indeed reached the base of the hill. More accurately, it was the rise between two hills. The only place to march an army. The hundred horses and skilled riders even now cantering away could go where artillery could not. Kell was confident they would not be caught.
The first time they had faced the dead, in darkness and with the shock of the knowledge consuming them all, there had been such fear. This time, it was not so. She felt determination around her. A willingness to embrace their fate. How long that would continue when contact was made was anybody's guess. Kell would use it for as long as it lasted.
She signalled them to move to their starting positions and they began to spread around the rise up which the dead were coming. They had shown no recognition that the Conquord was waiting for them. Tsardon and Conquord dead marched in close column seven wide. The artillery and few wagons were surrounded by dead and more dead came after. Thousands more.
Kell wished they had naphtha. Anything to make decent fire. Artillery was so vulnerable on the move. It was a strange reality they faced. She had supported Roberto's decision to use fire to disrupt the dead advancing on them outside the castle. But now, knowing she would see those she knew, knowing she was almost certain to join their ranks, she could think of no bigger crime. Yet one she would willingly commit, or suffer as victim.
Below them, the dead were finally beginning to react. There was some ponderous movement, a spreading of the ranks. Some looked to climb the steeper sides of the upslope against those spreading above them. Others hemmed in around wagons and artillery.
It was time. Kell drew her sword. She'd dropped her buckler, meaning to use her blade two-handed. She nodded left and right. Horns were sounded and answered.
'Good luck everyone,' she said. 'Keep your friends close. And remember. Those you face are not the living as you knew them. They are the dead and we must return them to God's embrace. Let's go.'
As a plan it was little more than hopes and dreams stitched together.
Untried, unlikely to succeed. But then they were facing a force that outnumbered them by as much as fifteen to one and who didn't feel pain or fear. The joint Conquord and Tsardon forces advanced as quickly as they could. No one ran. Mainly they trotted as best they could, ignoring the pain and knowing it would all be over soon enough.
Kell walked with those heading for the front line. Hers was a vital task and that which was taking the greatest initial risk.
'Keep with me. Break only on my order.'
A hundred Conquord were with her. Ten abreast. A single maniple attacking the front of a full legion and more. Ahead, the dead were moving with greater purpose but still with the air of direction by an incompetent. Kell held her sword in front of her, making and remaking her grip.
The breeze washed over her, travelling uphill. With it came the sick stench of death and disease. It was rot and it was the odour of a fetid swamp and an animal, torn asunder and laid out in the heat for ten days. It was shocking and it caught in the nostrils and stuck in the throat. It clung in the lungs and stung the eyes. Kell blinked away the tears fogging her vision.
The dead closed with her, broadening their attack front. Tsardon and Conquord like those around her but in their lines, the dead were barely distinguishable. Twenty days of decay. And despite what Gorian could do to slow it, the decay was having its effect. Limbs hung useless. Skin sloughed from faces. Muscle withered taking strength from legs and forcing eyes to close. Control of movement slackened. But it would not be enough to save the living this time.
Kell spat, trying to rid herself of the taste that threatened to make her vomit. She focused on the first rank of the dead. She assessed the gaps between them and the open spaces around their left and right flanks. There were so many coming against them. Relentless and implacable.
She could see armour now. Conquord insignia. The plumed helmets of centurions. The green shields of her legionaries, now smothered in mud and filth. She could see their breath clouding in the air above them. Spores on the wind. Death and disease sweeping towards them.
'Strength!' she called. 'Strength. Stay with me.'
Her soldiers did not falter. Not yet at least. They came closer to the dead. Grey- and green- tinged skin was visible. The flesh of every nose seemed gone. Lips were slack and black with rot. Hair hung limp.
Sores and splits were on every face and on exposed hands and legs. Oozing with sickness, mould and maggots.
Despite her words, seasoned legionaries from the triarii and principes were gasping as they recognised some in the ranks through the disguise of decay. People were starting to shout out names. Yelling for their former friends to drop their weapons, to stop and lie down. Kell looked for a face she knew. Someone whom she could turn. And she found him. And the strength disappeared from her legs and she collapsed to her knees, pointing.
'Pavel!' she screamed. 'Pavel! Why did nobody tell me?'
She heaved in breath. The dead came on and her people were faltering, hearing her lose her mind. A hand grasped her shoulder, tried to drag her to her feet.
'General, we can't stop now, please.'
She couldn't see who it was through the tears and the fog that had descended in front of her reason. She opened her mouth and screamed again.
'Why didn't someone tell me he was gone!'
'Come on, General. It isn't him. Send him back to God. Give him rest.'
'No
!' Kell threw off the hand. 'Don't you touch him, you bastards. Don't you make him stop.'
Kell drove herself back to her feet and started to run. Straight at him. Straight at Pavel Nunan whose face was perfect. Who walked towards her to tell her it was all right. That she was safe and they would return to Estorr and their lives together with their children. All she had to do was throw her arms around him and bring him back to her. She did hear other voices but she ignored them. There was only one thing that needed doing. One thing that stood between them and victory.
'He's alive,' she said. 'Alive.'
Pavel could see her. Of course he could. They were barely twenty paces apart. He was marching towards her, head held high, helmet proud, plume ruffling in the wind. It was the portrait that would be hung on the walls of their villa. The one generations would see and know the glory of their family. Kell dropped her sword and pumped her arms harder. A smile broke on her face. Sobs of joy from her throat.
An impact threw her sideways down and to the right. She cried out, struck the ground and rolled once. Hands grabbed her and dragged her backwards. She knew she was thrashing and screaming but she couldn't break free. They let her go and someone was kneeling in front of her. Kell recognised him. He couldn't be here. 'Let me go to him.'
" 'No. You will remember what you said. These are not our friends. They are not our soldiers and they are not our loved ones.'
Kell's sword was thrust back into her hands. She looked down on it. She screwed her eyes shut and reality cascaded through her mind. She heard fighting.
'Ruthrar, what are you doing here?' she asked, opening her eyes and grabbing his hand to be pulled upright.
He was standing between her and the dead who were so close she could almost touch them. But they were dead. All of them.
'Dolius thought you might see him. I had to come back in case you did.'
'I've let them down,' she said, unable to believe what had possessed her. 'I've let them all down.'
'Join them now,' said Ruthrar. 'There is still time.'
'Ruthrar, if I see you again, I will cut you down.'
The Tsardon prosentor smiled and stepped aside.
'Bless you,' she said. 'Bless you,
my
friend. Now run and ride. Don't fail.'
Ruthrar ran and Kell screamed once more. But this time not in despair. She could see her people deep in combat. The plan had worked better than she could have hoped. Rather than tackle them head on, the living had changed direction at the last minute, running along the face of the dead line, ducking through gaps and down the flanks.
Tsardon and Conquord soldiers were pouring down towards the artillery from the left and right. And the dead had not the speed to react. They had moved on, slashing at empty air, marching up the deserted slope. Only Kell stood right in front of them.
'I'm so sorry, Pavel,' she said. 'I cannot send you back to God. But I can hurt the man who did this to you.'