Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 (29 page)

26

Assault

A LADDER SMACKED up against the wall a few yards down from Argoth. Big wooden arms in the shape of hooks had been lashed to the top of both rails to prevent the ladder from being simply pushed away. The Mokaddians below lifted the ladder up, then hooked the arms over the crenellation. Another ladder appeared farther down where the top of the wall had been smashed by one of the volleys sent over by the stone giants.

The ladder by the gap was the bigger threat, so Argoth dashed to it. Other soldiers covered in dirt rushed up the stairs from the courtyard, but Argoth could not wait for them. Two men were already climbing up the ladder. They both held shields above them with one arm. The first held a battleaxe by its head. The second held a spear.

The trick to climbing ladders in an escalade was to climb with speed. It was the job of the archers, slingers, and javelin throwers below to keep the walls cleared. However, the men on the ladder still needed to work as a team. One way to do that was to give the second man a short spear. Should someone try to attack the front man, the spearman could reach out and stab at the defender’s face, giving the lead soldier time to get up and over the wall.

But Argoth wasn’t going to wait for them to approach the top. He had been building his Fire for quite some time now, and his full might was upon him. He squatted down and grabbed a rung of the ladder with both hands, then lunged up and backward, pulling the ladder up and the two men with it.

He continued to pull the ladder back, then felt the weight and tug of other Mokaddians jumping on or pulling back. He shouted for help, and three Shoka rushed to him.

A storm of arrows shot up through the gap.

Argoth pulled to one side, but a number of the arrows still struck him, clattering off the ladder and his armor. A couple pierced through his breast plate. A few pierced through the mail underneath as well and partway through the padded tunic and pricked his skin.

He yanked with all his might and succeeded in moving the ladder up another rung, but could not budge it farther. Then the Shoka were there. Three of them formed a wall with their shields, blocking the storm of arrows. Two others grabbed the ladder and pulled with all their might. The ladder moved, but it was heavy, and the Mokaddians were still on it and climbing.

Another Shoka grabbed the top rung, and then four more were there, and they too grabbed the rails, and it was enough to break the hold of the men below, and the ladder top swung down. The bottom pivoted up, revealing three attackers clinging to it. One Mokaddian dropped back down. The other two saw their predicament, but instead of letting go, they scrambled forward with a yell.

Argoth and the others heaved and pulled the ladder, bringing the men closer.

A javelin with a barbed head struck one of the Shoka shields and pierced through it. A cord had been attached to the end of the javelin. And the men below yanked back on the cord, dragging the Shimsman and shield off the wall.

The archers below released more arrows into the opening. But another Shimsman stepped up, and the arrows thudded into his shield, turning it into a pincushion.

“Tip it!” Argoth shouted, and then he and the others heaved on one rail, tipping the ladder upside down. One of the attackers fell off the ladder. The second clung to one of the rungs. Then Shoka archers hit him with arrows, and the man fell into the mass of men below.

“Get rid of this ladder,” Argoth commanded the Shoka with them, then dashed back down the wall to the another ladder where a Shoka lay on the wall walk pierced with arrows. Another was wounded, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his arm. Two other men were trying to hack through the wooden ladder hooks. One soldier held a shield while the other struck at the hooks, but the attackers would be up before they would finish that.

Argoth drew his axe and yelled for them to stand back, then jumped to the top of the embrasure and brought his axe around one-handed and swung at the lashings holding the hook of the nearest rail. The axe bit in and severed the lashings holding the hook.

Below him the Mokaddians shouted and a number of archers released their shafts. But Argoth sprang back down to the wall walk, then up to the embrasure on the other side.

The Mokaddian archers were waiting for him and released their arrows.

But Argoth jumped onto the ladder itself.

Arrow shafts flew past him. One glanced off his leg.

Below Argoth, a number of men, shields raised, had already started to scramble up the ladder. Argoth called for the defenders to push the hooks back up. Then he held the crenellation and with all his multiplied might pushed sideways on the ladder. The top of the ladder began to scrape across the front of the wall. He pushed harder. The ladder scraped farther, and then it passed the balance point and began to fall on its own accord. Argoth hung onto the wall while the ladder crashed down, taking the men with it.

Arrows smacked into the wall about him. One glanced off his shoulder. Another pierced the metal armor at his back, pierced the mail underneath, and the padded tunic, and was stopped by a rib. He grunted at the pain, then swung his leg up and hauled himself back over the wall.

Out in the courtyard, most of the men were either rushing toward their positions or climbing out of their trenches, but there were still spots here and there toward the back of the fort where the men hadn’t yet gotten the signal and the earth lay undisturbed.

Argoth looked for the firelance teams. Then he saw them waiting to get up on the walls. He yelled at the men below to make way for them.

A horn sounded. Men yelled. Then a storm of stones flew over the wall. One glanced off his mail hood, leaving a smart pain just above his ear, and he remembered he had no helmet. Below in the courtyard, men shouted. Many raised their shields against the rocks, but some were too slow and took blows. One man was hit in the face and fell back.

Argoth rushed to a fallen Shimsman, removed the man’s helmet, and put it on his own head, then grabbed his shield. All along the wall, men yelled out a warning. Argoth looked up and saw a cloud of arrows speeding down through the dust at the defenders. Argoth kneeled and raised the shield over his head. Moments later, arrows thumped into it and clattered all about him.

He didn’t know how many archers Mokad had. But if their army was fifty thousand, then they might have twenty thousand with bows. If they shot nine arrows per minute, that would be almost 200,000 arrows raining down on the fort.

The storm of arrows continued to rain, smacking and clattering on the wood and stone, sinking into exposed thighs, covering the ground with a field of white and gray feathers. Out in the courtyard men cried out in pain. And still the arrows came, pin-cushioning the ground and upraised shields.

“Firelancers!” Argoth roared and saw one of the teams moving down the wall, men carrying the equipment, others holding shields aloft to protect them from the rain of death falling from the sky.

Other groups of men moved in the same manner toward the arrow loops and began to shoot their own arrows back out at Mokad and the men climbing the ladders. Still other groups of soldiers rushed up to try to overturn the ladders and fight the men trying to climb into the fort.

There was a small lull in the arrow storm, and a number of terrormen called out for their archers to shoot. Hundreds of archers responded, sending a cloud of arrows up into the sky to fall on the men outside the wall. Then they quickly raised their shields again as another wave of Mokaddian arrows began to appear, rushing at the defenders through the dust.

Mokaddian soldiers began to reach the tops of ladders. Others were fighting over the portion of the wall that had been crushed by the hoodoo. Down by the gates, men roared. A formation of Shim’s dreadmen spanned the width of the ditch behind the gate there. They were about ten men across and six ranks deep. Shim was there, standing behind the ditch in the center of the line. His men were in good order, shield next to shield. Those behind the front line held their shields, pierced with white- and gray-fletched arrows, over the heads of the formation.

Mokad’s dreadmen charged through the gates at Shim’s line. As they did, soldiers farther back hurled javelins at Shim’s men. Many stuck into the shields, weighting them, making the formation waver. But Shim’s men held. Furthermore, the ditch put Mokad’s soldiers at a disadvantage, breaking their line, allowing Shim’s dreadmen to stab and thrust through the breaks in the line to cut them down as they came. The first bodies fell, creating yet another obstacle for the men behind them, trying to press forward.

But Mokad’s men were dreadmen. And they were smelling blood. The rear ranks took the place of those who had fallen. They stabbed at the feet and lower legs of Shim’s men, stabbed at eyes. They bashed their shields into Shim’s line. A few of Shim’s men fell. Others took their place. Shim’s dreadmen were holding Mokad’s dreadmen for the moment, but they needed help!

Then the firelancers that were assigned to the far side of the gate placed their firelance in one of the embrasures. A moment later a stream of dark seafire spewed out of the mouth of the firelance. It ignited with a roar and billow of smoke. The firelancers moved the stream in wide arcs, spraying the liquid fire upon the Mokaddians trying to fight their way into the fort below.

Men screamed. Shim shouted an order, and his whole formation moved back two steps. The Mokaddian dreadmen at the front surged forward to escape the fire, but there was no order to their line. They crashed into Shim’s men, and the steel blades of Shim’s dreadmen in the front line, and the spears of those in the rank behind thrust and cut them down.

Another firelance team down the wall ignited their lance and pumped a stream of fire onto the men climbing ladders and those waiting below. Then they turned the lance outward and began to spray the archers. The breeze was strong enough to fan the stream, and it fell like burning rain. On Vance’s wall, men with staff slings lobbed the large clay balls of fireshot out into the ranks of Mokad’s army. Others hurled them at the men on the ladders.

Then the wind began to blow. A hissing rose from the field. And a moment later a skir wind plowed into the firelancers at the gate. Their stream of fire was blown to bits and thrown back at them and onto men in the courtyard. Another wind howled down the wall walk. It slammed into a group of firelancers, splashing their fire upon the Shimsmen next to them. A man stumbled, fell against their barrel of seafire, knocking it over. The black liquid splashed over the wall walk and down into the courtyard. A moment later it ignited in a huge flash, turning the firelancers into infernos.

And all down the wall, more Mokaddian ladders—too many ladders—thumped into place.

27

Soul Warrior

AFTER MOKAD’S ARMY surged forward, Soddam suggested they move up to another thicket. They were now at the edge of the field, and what Sugar saw with the eyes of her soul horrified her.

A dozen Walkers in their crab-spiked armor were herding the souls of the dead, using their spears to keep the orange skir at bay. Other Walkers were ranging out, calling out to the dead.

A death ship anchored at the mouth of the river. She knew what was coming: sooner or later those horrid skir they’d used to collect the souls of the dead at Blue Towers would arrive and take the souls to that ship.

The whole army would be butchered and their souls harvested. The skir had to be stopped. And the only way to do that was to take away the Skir Master’s control. But there was no way Urban’s men would be able to fight through the ranks of Mokad’s army to reach the Skir Masters.

Withers had told her the lore the Skir Masters wielded gave them power, but it also gave them a vulnerability, changed the nature of the flesh while the lore operated, exposing the soul.

She peered across the field at the fat Skir Master who’d sat on the rise so he could better survey the battlefield. A body of flesh was dark when compared to soul, but the Skir Master’s glistened. Even from this distance she could see that. This meant his soul was partway revealed. There were two others with him that glistened in the same manner. They wore no skennings, no spiked shell armor. They were exposed.

Sugar said, “Pray to the Creators for me.”

“What are you doing?” Soddam asked.

“Ferrets have teeth, do they not?”

“Sugar,” Urban said in warning.

“I cannot stand by and watch,” she said. “If I fail, I fail. But I will at least have tried. There was one time I might have tipped a battle that played out in front of my home. I will not run away from spears again.”

“You don’t have a weapon,” Urban said.

“Pray the ancestors come,” she said, “and that I can strike a useful blow.” Then she struck out from the trees, traveling with the speed only a soul could muster.

* * *

Talen and the others stood at the edge of the woods just a hundred yards behind the rear of the southeastern part of Mokad’s army. Beyond the army rose the fort where Shim’s men were pinned. Beyond that lay the river with a number of Mokaddian ships on it.

Harnock crouched over the last of the rear guard patrol he’d just killed.

Chot looked at the battle at the fort and hissed. “Skinmen are full of shallog.”

He didn’t know the half of it. The monstrous blue skir dove at the fort, calling to each other in loud whuffs and whistles. Orange skir darted between the behemoths. On the battlefield, the souls of dead horses fled before the greedy orange skir while those of the men rushed to odd spiked creatures with odd spears, which must be guardians sent by the ancestors.

Then he saw two of those guardians by the Skir Masters and revised his opinion. Maybe they weren’t from the ancestors.

Harnock returned. “I don’t think you’re going to get any closer. And I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to stay. You should see the size of their dogs.”

“Then this will have to do,” said Talen.

After facing Nashrud and his spirit blade, Talen didn’t dare attack the Skir Masters directly. And especially not with those spiked things close to them. But there were only three skir here in operation. He looked up at the creatures and their mountainous bulk. Until now, the weaves he’d raveled had been grown into relatively small things—insects and humans. He wondered if the thralls were any different in such giants.

The shouts and cries of men in battle carried over the field. Fire and smoke rose into the sky. The souls of the dead continued to gather in front of the fort. Movement on the edge of the field caught his eye: a figure in white ran toward the battle. It was human, but it wasn’t naked like the other souls. This one wore a skein of some sort.

An ancestor? Or was she some Mokaddian servant? He was out of his depth here; he was going to have to be very careful.

“Save them,” River said.

Talen mustered his courage, hoping the orange skir would not notice him. Then he shot his roamlings forth, up past the trees, over the battlefield and toward the closest skir, a monstrous and beautiful blue creature that seemed to fill the sky.

* * *

Sugar raced behind a line of trees toward the river. She figured it would be best to come up on the Skir Masters from behind, and from the cover of trees. She entered the strip of woods running along the river and began to make her way toward the Skir Masters.

Over the battlefield, the orange skir clicked and the big blue urgom trumpeted. In the woods ahead, she saw a column of the white gossamers and moved to avoid them. The piercing sound of a howler rose in the distance and sent a shiver through her, but she continued forward.

Then she saw a cage on a wagon out on the field and stopped in shock and alarm.

“Urban,” she said with the mouth of her flesh.

“Quietly,” Urban said. “You’re going to give our position away.”

“Legs,” she whispered. “He’s in a cage. Here on the field. About fifty yards down from the Skir Masters. Urban—”

“We’ll get him,” Soddam whispered in the ear of her flesh. “We will get the boy, I promise you.”

Ancestors
, she prayed.
Please come from your hiding place and help us.

Then she described to Urban and Soddam exactly where he was, the numbers of troops she’d run past on her way here, including the dogmen, and how many were in the hammer that was guarding him.

“You’ve got to help him,” she said.

“Soddam’s already moving,” Urban said.

Sugar turned back to her task and then began to wonder if she’d been rash. What could she do without a weapon?

She didn’t know, but she knew the result of doing nothing. Da had always said that many ideas only come when you’re on the move, when you’re working. She prayed he was right and picked her way closer to the Skir Masters, following the trees until she stood in soul behind a group of seamen who had come up from the river to watch the battle. And that’s when she saw the Walkers. There were half a dozen of them with howlers on the leash guarding the Skir Masters. Even if she’d had a weapon, there was no way she could fight so many. It would be suicide.

One of the howlers turned its head toward her. Sugar pulled back behind a tree trunk and froze. She reached out with her hair. She couldn’t feel as clearly with it while wearing the skenning, but she could still feel the presence of the howlers.

She looked around and finally decided that the best escape would be to take to the trees. As a soul she could run along the limbs all the way to the sea if she had to. She prepared to climb, but the howlers did not approach.

What was she going to do?

On the battlefield, Mokad’s troops pressed forward while the souls of the dead leapt from the walls to the protection of the Walkers. There were hundreds of souls there. If she didn’t do something, the whole army would soon be under the control of the Walkers.

She paused.

The whole army . . .

Maybe she couldn’t overcome a few Walkers, but an army could!

She knew what she needed to do, but it wouldn’t happen here, so she drew away from the Walkers and Skir Master and made her way to the bottom of the field and back to the fort.

A number of the Walkers guarded the souls of the men, circling them like shepherds circled sheep. There was maybe a fist of them. And there were more Walkers in the fort and on the walls calling to the other dead, directing them to the fold. One of these was maybe fifty paces away with his back toward her, gathering a group to him and the safety of his pike.

She looked up at the sky. Three orange skir darted down, trying to snatch a soul from a group being led by a Walker to the main group, but the Walker stabbed up at them and sent them wheeling away. As the orange skir flew up, one of the big blue urgom dove down and caught two of them in its hairs. The rest of the orange skir scattered, flying far out over the plain.

Sugar figured now was her opportunity, and she ran out of the trees across the field toward the main group of souls.

One of the Walkers spotted her.

“Shimsmen!” Sugar shouted.

A number of the souls turned.

“These are not ancestors come to protect you!” she yelled. “They’re servants of Mokad’s Skir Master!”

More souls turned. Other Walkers noticed her.

“Famished!” one of the Walkers shouted and lowered his soul spear.

She ripped the skenning cap off her head. “Shimsmen!” she said. “It’s me. Take their weapons!”

A Walker rushed toward her. Another joined him.

“It’s Sugar!” One of the Shimsmen shouted.

A ripple ran through the crowd.

“It’s a phantom!” a Walker shouted. “Ignore its illusions.”

“They’re here to harvest you, not protect you!” Sugar roared. “Take their weapons!”

“Filth!” the closest Walker shouted. He charged, his soul spear lowered. The spear’s blade was smoky red, just like the red blade of the Walker she’d killed.

She ran from him, skirting the crowd of souls. “The battle is not yet over!” She shouted. “You can fight Mokad still. Take their weapons and attack the Skir Masters!”

Three Walkers were running at her from different directions. A fourth Walker charged her. She dodged aside, but two others cut off her escape. She tried to charge past one of them, but he scrambled and blocked her. She turned, looking for an escape, but was surrounded.

And then there was shouting behind her. Five souls were wrestling with a Walker. The Walker struck one with a spiny arm, and the dark essence of the soul began to flow. But the others wrested his spear away. Another soul took his sword.

“Look out!” one of the souls shouted at her.

Sugar sensed the Walker coming and sprang to the side. His blade swung down and cut through the skenning on her leg, making a shallow slice across her leg. A glittering essence leaked from her that turned inky black in the air, but it wasn’t a deep wound. She rolled and scrabbled back.

The Walker advanced on her, but then more souls rushed from the crowd and attacked two of the other Walkers, disarming them and stabbing them with their own blades.

The Walker coming after her saw the crowds moving forward. He stopped, backed away a few paces, then fled.

“Take him!” she shouted. “You need his weapons!”

A number of unarmed souls chased after him, but he turned and menaced them with his spear. He stabbed one soul. Slashed another.

She had at least some kind of protection with her skenning. They did not. “A spear!” Sugar called.

One of the souls tossed one to her. It was about as long as her blackspine had been. It felt good in her hands. Furthermore, she felt a power in it and realized this weapon was not an inanimate object—it was alive.

She charged the Walker. He turned to meet her attack. Sugar feinted a thrust. He parried. Then she charged him, turned the butt of the staff and struck him in the head. He fell back, and one of the naked souls caught the shaft of his weapon.

The Walker fought for control.

The weakest point of segmented armor was at the joints. This crab-like armor wasn’t segmented exactly like normal armor, but there did appear to be a thinning where the arms and legs connected. Sugar lunged for the Walker’s armpit.

He turned, but not quickly enough, and the point of her spear penetrated. She lunged with all her might, and the shaft sank deeper. The Walker yelled in pain, tried to retain his weapon, but the soul of the Shimsman wrenched it free and stabbed the point into the Walker’s face.

And with that, the souls of the Shimsmen were free.

“Are you all right?” one of them asked. “Your leg.”

She looked down, but her skenning was already moving to cover the wound.

“I’ll be all right,” she said and recognized him. He was the son of a fisherman and the leader of a hammer of men. “Swan,” she said, “We don’t have much time. We need to attack the Skir Masters.”

“Where are the ancestors?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But we can’t wait for someone else to save us. We need to attack now and give those that live a chance.”

Across the field, a few of the other Walkers ran from the souls that pursued them, but the souls soon caught up and dragged them down. An orange skir took advantage of the chaos and dove, snatching up one of the Shimsmen.

Other glistening souls turned to her, waiting for her orders.

Then a horn sounded across the field. Sugar did not hear it with the ears of her flesh, but with the ears of her soul. The sound reverberated inside her. It was the same call she’d heard at Blue Towers.

The horn sounded again. The compelling note held, stretching long. Something stirred in Sugar’s wrists, then fell silent again. But around her, the men were exclaiming in wonder. They were holding their hands up, looking at their wrists, at the tattoos that were moving there. Small wisps began to rise like steam from the tattoos. The wisps hovered above the men for a moment, then the horn sounded again, long and loud, and the wisps shot out toward the source of the sound.

“What’s happening?” one of the men said. “What are those things?”

“It’s some kind of dark thrall, and the horn commands it,” she said. “You must fight its compulsion!”

“It’s going to be okay,” the man next to Sugar shouted to the others. He gazed at his upheld wrists in wonder. “The ancestors are coming. That was their call.”

“That was not their call!” Sugar shouted.

Down by the death ship, one of the collector skir rose. It looked like a humped ray with a long body. Its back was gold. Its belly was brown. The image of the souls at Blue Towers rose in her mind: all here would soon be wrapped in the hairs of these creatures like flies wrapped in spider silk.

“No!” Sugar screamed. “No! Fight them. They’re coming to harvest you!”

Some of the souls did indeed seem to be fighting the compulsion, but others were walking out to meet the collectors.

“The ancestors are coming to take us to the everlasting burnings,” another soul said and walked past her toward the collectors.