Kell turned and ran right. Slowly but surely, the dead were made to stop and turn. She heard screams from within the mass as her people were overwhelmed. And she heard orders and warnings barked in Tsardon and Estorean. The smell was almost overpowering but she put it from her mind.
A sword sliced the air in front of her. She put hers in its path reflexively, feeling the enemy blade sheet away. Sparks flew from the contact. Dead, grey faces were turning towards her while she ran beside them. Some were slow, their legs dragging on the heavy ground. Under their feet, all was mire and sludge.
Kell ran away a few paces up the slope right. The centre of the dead column was in chaos. The march had broken form and it appeared some dead were acting under different orders to others. They collided, bumped each other, staggered and even fell, unable to adapt to what was happening amongst them.
Meanwhile, her people were taking full advantage. Kell joined in, angling towards dead legionaries still with their backs to her. Sword in both hands she hacked deep into a pair of exposed thighs. The dead fell. She darted away again, another sword threatening her. A dead moved out, bringing others with it. Kell dodged around them, beating their ponderous movements easily. She chopped down hard on a sword arm, almost taking it off. The blade fell from fingers deprived of any strength but the man still advanced.
Kell retreated a pace. Abruptly, the chaos resolved. Like someone had cast a heavy blanket over grass blowing in the wind. The dead came about in multiple directions, facing their foe on all fronts.
'Dammit.'
Kell darted down the right-hand side. Men who had been making hay in the centre were engulfed by the new order. The dead were moving more quickly, more surely.
'Get the artillery,' yelled Kell. 'Bring it down.'
The two dozen and more pieces were a hundred yards from her. She found herself
running at a steeper and steeper
angle on the slopes above the path as dead spilled outwards, looking to cut off the living. A Tsardon ahead of her was felled by a spear jabbing out, taking him by surprise and skewering his ribcage.
Kell stamped on the spear, breaking its shaft. The dead dragged back the bladeless haft. Kell took one pace towards him and slashed her blade across his exposed neck. His head rolled backwards and hung down his back. He walked on two paces, and stumbled backwards, balance gone, but still he prodded out with the haft as he went.
Kell shuddered. The grey of their faces and the quiet of their assault blended in front of her. Impossible to think of them as people now. The stench of their decay reminded her what they really were. She ran harder. Blisters in her boots were split and bleeding. She risked a glance behind. The numbers of living were decreasing rapidly. Ahead, some had reached an onager. She saw the arm shoot into its stay and then topple sideways as ropes were cut, bolts beaten aside. Dead swarmed up the frame, taking those so briefly on board. Two men fell in beside her.
'We're losing it, General,' said one. 'Some are running.' 'Join them if you will. I'm taking at least one of those catapults with me.'
'It's why we're here.'
'Good. The Omniscient will remember you.'
They guarded her left. Thumping in boot and blade, battering shields in, forcing a path. Kell watched three more groups attacking artillery, onagers and ballistae at the head of the column where the defence had been thinned. Mainly Tsardon with a sprinkling of Conquord legionaries.
'Move in!' she said. 'Let's get ourselves with our friends.'
In between them and the first wooden frame was a four-deep line of dead, some of whom were already looking to clear the artillery. It gave her the chance she wanted. Moving in between the two legionaries, she battered her blade into the face of a Tsardon dead and shouldered him aside. She ducked a flailing sword and cut deep into the body of a second man. Rotting entrails boiled out of the cut. Kell gagged and jumped the uncoiling mess as it struck the ground. Her move forward took her directly into the body of a third dead whose blade was raised above his head, poised to strike. He was pushed backwards and the hand carrying the sword was cut from his arm from above.
Hands reached down and she was dragged onto the onager frame. Kell turned immediately and lashed out a kick into the head of a dead threatening one of the two legionaries still on the ground.
'Take those in the yoke. Let's stop this thing moving.'
She ran forwards. Dragging the onager were vulnerable dead. She dropped to the ground between the two ranks. Like flaying at corn she struck again and again. The edge of her sword ran through leather boot, bare skin and greaves. Dead collapsed forwards and backwards. She divided foot from ankle, slashed hamstring and ruined the backs of knees. The onager lost forward momentum. The dead who fell began to turn, looking to bring her to the earth with them.
'Down!' yelled someone.
Kell ducked her head. The onager arm sprang upwards, sending a shuddering vibration into the frame. She jumped up, grabbed the rope binding the arm to the frame and hauled herself back on to the body of the piece. No pause. Kell joined two others slicing at the ropes and brackets. Along the line of the frame, ten men stood, keeping back the press of dead. Behind them, the next onager in line collided with them, giving them a path backwards.
With a final cut, the onager arm was released and fell to the left, crushing dead beneath its weight, its cup caving in the skull of an ex-Tsardon warrior.
'Back, back.'
Kell led her three along the frame of the first ruined catapult and across to the yoke spar of the second. She ignored the dead dragging it, focusing on those beginning to crowd in greater numbers around its rear. Other dead were climbing on to the third, forming a solid defence. She put one foot on the frame and kicked out with her other, boot connecting with a chest. With a sick crunch, her toecap went straight through the ribcage. The dead man began to fall backwards.
'Shit,' she rasped.
Kell's foot was stuck. She windmilled her arms, sword more of a risk to her own than her enemies, and leaned backwards. A hand grabbed her and her foot came clear. She sat down hard. No time to rest. The dead were clawing at her. She hacked at fingers and heads even as she scrabbled to her feet. Behind her a sword took one of her people in the calf. He screamed and dropped. Four other blades came down on him and he slumped from the frame.
'Come on, let's break this one. Just keep them off. Forget taking them down.'
Kell ran down the length of the frame. A dead climbed on, others behind him. He stared at her, eyes dim, jaw slack, face grey and with the skin peeling away from the features. Kell swallowed her revulsion. He took a pace forwards and struck out with his gladius. Kell ducked. The blade swished above her head, taking the dead off balance. Kell came up and shoved him hard in the back, sending him sprawling on to others below.
Two Tsardon ran past her and launched a frenzied attack on the dead beginning to swarm the back of the onager. Blow after blow anywhere. Head, shoulders, arms, legs. Blood spattered. Kell seized her chance. She turned and struck down on the rope holding the onager arm flat. It divided beneath her blade. The arm pivoted upwards.
'Brace!' she yelled.
The windlass unwound. The arm whipped past her face and thwacked into the stay. The onager bounced in its sled. The living had gripped on, the dead were unseated. The two Tsardon ahead of her drove their attack in again. Kell looked backwards. Conquord and Tsardon chopped at the bindings, bringing the arm crashing down right.
More dead were crushed. But the press was becoming difficult to defend. Hands grasped at feet, looking to bring the living over the side of the artillery pieces and into the mass.
'Get away from the edges!' yelled Kell. 'Move back. Next piece.'
Ahead, one of the Tsardon fell. Hands clutched at his ankles. His countryman turned from his newest attacker to chop repeatedly at the grasping dead. A blade came in from the side. Kell lunged out, deflected it. Conquord and Tsardon eyes met. He nodded. Waved her on.
Kell backed up three paces, ran and jumped the short gap to the next onager yoke. Three pieces down, her people were all over a pair of ballistae but the dead had filled in around them. They didn't have long. She moved along the yoke spar. The onager was covered with enemies. Kell paused and licked her lips.
She stood in a sea of dead. On an island about to be washed clean by the tide. It was extraordinary. They seethed around the artillery. Every one of them able to walk had turned. Their march was halted while they dealt with the enemy in their midst. The living were like a-cancer in them. One that had to be excised.
Hands were grabbing at her legs. She barely looked, sweeping her blade down beside her leg, feeling it slice through palm and finger. Kell stepped on to the frame of the sled. Others were with her. A Tsardon man pushed past her and into the attack, using his considerable weight to knock dead off the onager. Two Conquord legionaries followed him. Shields ahead of them, bludgeoning, shovelling and heaving to make space.
The ballistae shafts ahead splintered under the battering of her people. They got no further. Shrieking, they were taken. Dragged from the broken wood and put to death. Kell sent a silent prayer but knew God was not listening. Not out here. She moved onto the frame.
The soldiers were coming up against a dense mass of the enemy.
They crowded the onager sled and pressed in on all sides. The Tsardon man took a blade under his ribcage. He was spun around. Blood jetted from his mouth. Even in death, he retained the courage and the presence of mind to nod at her. Kell returned the gesture. An image of Pavel appeared in front of her. Not whole and smiling, but rotting with dull eyes and face covered in boils and sores. Maggots hanging from him.
Kell's calm broke. She strode into the space vacated by the Tsardon. Her sword came down again and again on the head of a dead man wearing the insignia of the Hasfort militia. The man was knocked back. She balanced and thudded a kick into his midriff. He flew back, taking two others off the back of the onager with him.
'Get the cup stays,' said Kell. 'I'm going back for the bindings.'
'Yes, General.'
Their voices carried easily and clear over the silence of the dead. Kell shuddered. She turned. Dead were gathering on the onager again. She ran at them, shouldering one aside, sweeping her blade through the legs of another. Sick smells of decay covered her. Clouds of spores erupted from the mouth of a man whose throat she slashed open. A kick out shattered the kneecap of a man who had once been an engineer. His dull eyes met hers while he toppled sideways and off the machine.
'General!'
Kell stepped smartly a pace left. The onager arm swept up. It caught two of the dead, hurling them dozens of yards into the heaving mass surrounding the artillery. She turned to congratulate her men but they were gone, submerged beneath the tide. Kell whipped in three quick cuts while hands tried to dislodge her and more dead climbed aboard. Her sharp blade parted the rope. Another piece down, another onager arm trapping dead beneath it, crushing bodies, taking them from the fight.
Kell raised her head and looked about her. She was alone. Her people either dead or fled. She squared her shoulders. Along the slope a man and a boy were walking. No more then fifty yards away but so far out of her reach as to be like distant memories. Their faces were pink with health. Or at least the boy's was. The man walked a little unsteadily, his hand on the boy's shoulder. Other men walked behind. Three of them. Tsardon by their clothes but not warriors.
Kell felt a sword bite into her calf. She stumbled forward but did not fall. Too late to fight back. Too late to do anything more than she had done. The living enemy were looking at her. She raised her sword and pointed its tip to the man resting on the boy.
'You are marked,' she said, knowing he would hear her. No other noise obstructed her. 'And you will be brought down.'
Another blade jabbed in under her breastplate. Searing heat and pain flooded her body. Kell shuddered, feeling the blood rushing from her. She weakened, struggling to maintain her balance.
'Join me,' said the man. 'Walk with us. Rejoice.'
'I will never walk with you,' said Kell.
Enough strength was left. She hefted her blade in one hand, stretched out her right leg, and swept her sword through her ankle. With the darkness closing, she prayed it would be enough.
'I hear you, Pavel,' she said. 'I'm here.'
Chapter Fifty-Five
859th cycle of God, 1st day of
Genasfall
Three hundred and fifty-eight had died. Twice that number had been injured and that was the number the palace doctors knew about. How many had taken their wounds to be tended in the city was anybody's guess. It had been a devastating Work. All Vasselis had left was to regret it hadn't been seen on the battlefield.