The fort was in a state of readiness that gave him some hope. Out here, eight onagers stood. Ballistae sat between them, sighted through the battlements. Below, other artillery positions held more bolt and stone firers. Pitch barrels burned. Crews waited. Flagmen passed signals to and from the north fort across the other side of the harbour.
Vasselis could see Stertius and Kastenas in discussion at the wall overlooking the harbour mouth. He joined them.
it's madness down there. God-embrace-me but the Order did a great job persuading people there was no dead menace.'
'They're going to find out the hard way that they're wrong,' said Kastenas. 'We don't have enough infantry, artillery or archers in any position apart from right here.'
'Well, that's something, Elise,' said Vasselis.
'Not really, Marshal,' said Stertius, handing him a magnifier. 'The dead have already landed to the south and the north. They'll be at the walls in less than an hour.'
Vasselis looked through the magnifier. Across the city and through a gap between rises in the land, he could see sails and the odd keel high up on the beach.
'But the gates are closed, yes?'
'Of course,' said Elise. 'But the dead are carrying ladders and we have no strength there. The Armour of God have not responded to your orders. Vennegoor is nowhere to be seen and if you can show me an Order minister, any Order minister, I'll swim to the north fort and back in my armour and cloak.'
‘I
heard as much,' said Vasselis. He handed Stertius back the magnifier. 'Where are they?'
Elise made a gesture that encompassed the whole city. 'At every House of Masks. They aren't running, they're protecting their Readers, Speakers, whoever. I have a report here that says they are going to use their faith to turn back the dead.'
Vasselis took his green-plumed helmet from his head and thought about dashing his forehead against the stone of the crenellations.
'A collective leaving of the senses,' he said. 'Stupid bastards. We
need
their muscle. Doesn't Vennegoor see it? He might be a zealot but he's still a soldier.'
Elise shrugged. 'They're scared. They don't want to face it, is all I can think of to explain it. Those from the Armour who are with us are the few with any guts in either legion. Others have already run from the west gates under the pretext of evacuating the faithful who want to go.'
Vasselis held up his hands.
'All right, let's forget them. For now. What's coming through the harbour mouth?'
Vasselis looked for himself while Stertius replied. He didn't need a magnifier. Fifty, sixty or more Tsardon vessels. They were well ahead of the Ocetanas of whom Vasselis could count only eight with three corsairs in the water. The first enemies were within half a mile of the onagers ranged behind him. Not long now.
'What happened to them all?' he asked.
'Remember what Arducius said ?' said Elise. 'The dead only need to get one or two sailors on a Conquord ship and if Gorian is reanimating, it could cost dearly.'
'Iliev?'
'He's still out there,' said Stertius. 'The
Ocetarus
is sailing and squad seven is on the water. Kashilli is an unmissable figure.' 'Who?'
'Trierarch of Iliev's corsair,' said Stertius. 'We could use him on shore. Fearless and brutal.'
'Could do with ten thousand of him,' said Vasselis.
From the north fort, a signal was being flagged. And way beyond the din in the yards below, the unmistakable sound of a catapult firing. Its dull thud carried across rooftop and water. The effect was instantaneous. A quiet began to descend on the city. The thud was repeated again and again.
Reality at last, coupled with the first shouts of panic and alarm.
'Let's hope your explosive powder works like you say it does,' said Elise.
The report of a detonation sounded across the city. An alien crack that turned every head, quietening the crowd. Vasselis smiled ruefully. 'A successful test, I'd say. Time to act. Time to pray.'
Davarov had had to shout at artillery crews to keep firing, keep looking ahead into Atreska though it was hard enough to keep himself focused. Roberto and the Karku man, Harban standing with him on the gate fort had long since abandoned looking at the enemy attacking the walls and were gazing back behind them into Neratharn.
The sky had darkened and there had been extraordinary noise like the falling of a mountain. Light had seared across the field behind him and he, like every man and woman on the walls, had turned to look, shudder and give thanks they were not beneath the onslaught out beyond the refugee camp.
East across the walls, the dead were still coming. For every fifty obliterated by stone or the powder that Davarov was still using, if sparingly, another hundred made it that much closer. Bowmen were in range and firing, so far without success. But it was the ladders that concerned him. Just a few dead on the walls and the ripple could spread like disease.
Still the Tsardon had not moved into the attack. Their artillery was stationary and out of range.
'Wait on, you bastards,' said Davarov. 'You, I can take at my leisure.'
Confidence was growing in the defence. The sky behind him cleared abruptly and the sun poured on to the camps and open grounds behind the barrier. Davarov turned at the sound of cheering, swelling in volume and carrying all the way to the walls from the western lines some three miles away. Tens of thousands of voices, most of whom could not have seen what happened on the ground but knew victory when they heard it.
‘I
don't believe it,' he said.
'Believe it,' said Roberto. 'You know what they're capable of.'
Davarov smiled and enveloped Roberto in a huge bear hug. 'Don't you know what this means? We're going to win. This lot will never get over our walls now. The momentum is with us. It's all but over.'
But Roberto didn't smile or return his embrace. Davarov let him go and stood back.
'What is it, Roberto?'
'Until every dead is returned to the earth. Until Gorian's head is on a platter in front of me, it is not over.'
Cheering had begun to spread along the walls too. Davarov turned to deliver a rebuke that would drown out all their voices but instead he felt more like joining in. The dead weren't advancing any more. And while artillery rounds still fell amongst them they merely stood as if waiting for the inevitable.
'We've done it,' said Davarov, feeling relief flood him. 'We've surely done it, Roberto, look.'
And Roberto did. Only he shook his head.
'Keep firing. Something's not right. I can feel it.'
Davarov's mood deserted him. If there was one thing he'd learned in all his years' service to Roberto Del Aglios, it was that when he had one of those feelings, it was time to worry.
Gorian felt them go, all of them. One by one and then in torrents. Each one left a gossamer thread to trail like a loose nerve ending. They flailed and shrivelled and the pain worsened until it was like ten thousand needle points deep in his heart and mind.
He screamed long and loud. The dead surrounding him and the Gor-Karkulas shuddered where they stood or sat. His agony fed through every energy line he controlled. He felt as if he was on fire. His eyes ached so hard he wanted to expel them from his body. His heart pounded, rattling his ribs. His legs lost all of their strength and he staggered against the side of the wagon. He put his hands to his head and screamed again.
Ahead of Gorian, it was over. His people. Those who loved and trusted him, whom he had brought to him. All were gone. Snatched from him by Them. He had tried to thwart them but he could not combat all three at once. Another swathe of pain washed over him and he gasped and clutched at his stomach. He dropped to his knees, exhaustion sweeping over him.
'Kessian!' he called, his mouth full of blood. He spat it out. His insides were wrecked. He had invested too much. 'Kessian.'
Across the wall, his people awaited his next command. South on the beaches and docks of Estorr, they moved without him for now but the Karkulas would not be able to hold the Work indefinitely without his input. He had to find strength and stamina from somewhere.
'Kessian.'
Nothing more than a half-growl this time. Gorian coughed up and spat another clot of blood from his throat. He picked up his head. He could hear the shouts and cheers on the wind. It enraged him, brought sharpness to his mind. He gripped the side of the wagon and hauled himself to his feet.
'Father? Father!' Kessian ran to him, wrapped arms around him and tried to hold him up. 'What happened? Where did all the soldiers go? It hurt, Father. You're hurt.'
'But it fades. We must avenge our people.'
'But we have no one,' said Kessian. 'Only these few. The Dead Lords are gone too.'
'We have me and you,' said Gorian. 'And that will be enough.' 'What will we do?'
'We will make the land fit for my people and they shall see it and they shall love it as they love me. Stand in front of me.'
Gorian looked at the Gor-Karkulas, both of whom were eyeing him with that mixture of hatred and disdain that he had come to loathe.
'I don't need you any more,' he said. 'You may go.'
The few remaining dead parted from the wagon. Gorian didn't wait to see if the Karkulas went or not. It hardly mattered. He placed both his hands on Kessian's head. He focused all of his hate, his malice and his jealousy on the land that surrounded him. He poured in all of the wrongs that had been committed against him. And with it the will to rule, to succeed where the others would always fail. Everything that had been denied him reared up in his mind and he fed it down.
Grass grew into twisted dark stalks, spiralling up their bodies. He felt the shoots pierce his body but the blood would not flow. Not this time. The energy he drew from himself, Kessian and the land he fed down the shoots. More and more thickened and joined themselves to him. And with this purity of circuit, with no waste of energy whatever, he drove the Work that would make them all realise who he was.
'I am become the earth,' he said and his voice was like the rumble of lava beneath a sleeping volcano. 'I am become the earth and the earth shall be mine.'
'Keep back, give them room,' shouted Jhered.
Refugees and soldiers were pouring towards the Ascendants all lying prone on the ground, tired but not spent, wrinkled but not aged. Yet saddened, all three of them. Jhered knew how they felt, Mirron was sure. He stood protectively over them. Mirron was watching him alternately looking down and then away to wave his arms.
'Give them space. God-surround-me, they need to rest and breathe,' he said, his voice almost drowned by the roar of noise and the drumming of thousands of feet on the packed earth.
Mirron clutched at Arducius and the two of them moved to Ossacer, feeding warmth into him.
'I felt him,' stammered Ossacer. 'He was all over me, inside me. It was like darkness and plague. So much bile and hatred. We must get him. Before he regains his strength.'
'We have taken his strength from him,' said Mirron. 'Feel the earth. Feel it relax.'
Ossacer was shaking his head where he lay. He was still shivering, Jhered's cloak about him. Out on the field, charred skeletons collapsed into ember and dust, the heat still belching up into the air.
'Where is he?' asked Jhered. He had persuaded the crowds to back off and in truth, it appeared their desire to hug their saviours began to dissipate the nearer they came. 'We cannot let him get away or this will happen again.'
'He's out there,' said Arducius, moving to a sitting position and brushing wet hair from his face. 'Not far. A mile, maybe two.'
'I'll have riders and scouts sent out,' said Jhered. 'We'll find him and then you can deal with him.'
‘I
t won't be that easy,' said Ossacer. it's never that easy with Gorian.'
Mirron turned her head to the west. Gorian was there somewhere. And her son. He had to be. Lost and alone, thoughts filled with the words of his father no doubt. Evil words designed to turn his head.
'Where are you, Kessian,' she whispered. 'Please be safe.'
Arms were about her shoulders. Arducius and Ossacer were with her.
'He'll be all right,' said Arducius. 'He - unh!'
Arducius leapt up as if he'd been burned, shaking the hand that had been resting on the ground. 'Ardu?' said Mirron.
But the answer was there in every fibre of her being. A rolling, vast sickness in the ground far beneath her. It flipped her stomach, bringing vomit into her throat. Beside her, Ossacer turned his head and threw up. Arducius was clutching his temples, his face drawn in pain. Fog threatened to obscure Mirron's every cogent thought.