The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (128 page)

Vesna raised a hand to cut Isak off and slammed down the visor on his helm. ‘Not yet, they’re coming again.’

Isak turned, sword already rising as the soldiers began to shout to each other and the clatter of steel rang out. Those men still shifting bodies dropped them and scrambled back. Isak’s eyes ran along the main rank; a slanted line of thirty men pressed tight against each other with spears held above their shoulders, with two more ranks behind them, ready to brace and drive. Tight knots of soldiers with spears and axes flanked them, ready to chop at the edges of the charging mob. They didn’t have the numbers to hold line all the way across the gap, but this was the widest break in the ring of shrines.

This time the onrushing mob was tighter, and came on at a slower pace, not getting in each other’s way so much. Vesna saw the change and barked an order, relayed by sergeants at the tops of their voices. Immediately the rear ranks of the phalanx stepped forward and turned their shoulders into the back of the man in front, ready to take the impact. From his higher elevation Isak saw the leading attacker brandishing a cleaver above his head. He opened his mouth, ready to shout, when an arrow caught him in the throat and spun him around into the man beside him. They both crashed down and were trampled by their fellows, but it didn’t slow the rest. Isak guessed they still numbered well over a thousand, even with the many hundreds his men had cut down, and now he saw determination in their eyes instead of the previous wild and all-consuming fury. There was a new focus that chilled him.

A bright light flared in the middle of the crowd. Isak looked over towards Mariq, still perched up on his pillar, and saw the mage with one arm outstretched, his face a picture of concentration. On the ground someone burst into flames, and all those nearby fell away, their hands held up to protect their eyes from the sudden heat.

Isak listened to the mage’s laughter echoing over the plaza as he dropped to one knee and placed his hand flat on the stony ground. He knew fire wasn’t what they needed here; there were too many attackers to kill each one individually, but he was wearing himself out.

Closing his eyes, Isak took a long slow breath to clear his mind of the sounds of battle. He felt as much as heard the impact of the mob crashing into the phalanx, followed by a collective groan, drowned out by the sounds of sergeants roaring at their men. The ground seemed to react to his touch, a faint tremble rising up from deep below him. A familiar thrill raced through Isak as his senses were absorbed by the immensity of the Land, dulling the aches and cares of his mortal body. For a brief instant he felt his limbs made of rock and earth until his senses reasserted themselves.

He withdrew with a smile on his lips, a faint memory of that greater mass lurking at the back of his mind, reminding him of the battle in Narkang. He’d killed a mage there by doing just that, tearing open a grave under the woman’s feet. It took little skill, nothing that needed formal schooling, only an instinctive understanding of the flows of energy running through the Land. What they needed was an obstacle to protect themselves against pursuit - and where a wall would serve, so would a ditch.

Isak reminded himself to breathe again, the needs of the body temporarily forgotten. As his lungs filled, so there was a surge of magic from his Crystal Skulls. Mariq gave a cry of alarm as raw power flooded the area, but Isak ignored him and pushed the surging energy down into the earth. It bucked and kicked like a stubborn colt against his palm as he drove it underneath the straining soldiers. Once he was sure it was under his control, Isak opened his eyes to check on their desperate defence. The mob had spilled over on the right of the line and met Isak’s guards, who opened to allow some past before a squad of spearmen plugged the gap. Cut off, the intruders lost their advantage of numbers and were swiftly cut to pieces. The Devoted troops were professional soldiers, but every one of Isak’s men had been picked for individual skill as well. A poorly armed and untrained mob was nothing without numbers, and even Major Jachen, no more than a fair swordsman, tore his way through the three men who went for him.

A ripple of movement caught Isak’s eye. The line was weakening; they just didn’t have the troops to resist that weight bearing down on their shield-wall and the fighting was so close that many of the front rank couldn’t clear the bodies off their spears and had abandoned the weapons completely, keeping their heads low while the second rank backed and stabbed furiously over them. Some of the attackers were quite obviously dead, but there was no place for them to fall. One survivor shrieked up at the grim clouds above, his face obscured by blood after a sword cut had sliced open his brow and a discarded spear in his shoulder. The soldiers ignored him, preferring the noise if it meant he impeded his fellows.

Isak didn’t have much time. One by one his exhausted men were falling, and though the damage they were doing would have broken any normal enemy, something unnatural was spurring the mob on. He reached out for the coiled streams of power under their feet and pushed them on towards the heart of the mob. His hand balled into a fist, as though reeling the power out, and he needed his whole enormous bodyweight to anchor it.

The magic fought him every inch of the way, as though desperate to flee from this hallowed ground, but he was too powerful. Once he was sure of the distance, Isak readied himself, visualising what he was about to do. The oversized muscles in his shoulder bunched, driving his fist down harder, before he managed to wrench it sideways. Stones rasped against the silver plates of his gauntlet, then there was an infernal creak that reverberated around the plaza, followed by a sound of rock splitting.

Isak felt the shock run up his arm an instant before the plaza under his knees shook and the ground tore itself apart.

The cries were distant, dim sounds; all he could focus on were the groaning earth and the rampant energies. Though his eyes were closed, yet Isak had a clear picture of what he’d done in his head. His fist had mapped out the long tear in the ground with the skill of a blind man reading a face. He could sense falling bodies and screaming voices, and the roar of soldiers as they staggered forward to the edge of the trench, driven by their own momentum now the weight of the mob had been jerked away.

Isak forced himself to let go of the magic and stood as it fled away from him and up into the night sky. The rush of departing power made him light-headed and he staggered a few steps before the strength in his legs returned.

‘My Lord,’ yelled Vesna, ‘can you run?’ The roaring lion visor gave his friend a chilling look; the gold leaf detail on his black armour melted into the evening dark and only the golden helm stood out. He looked insubstantial, almost ghostly. Not quite a man, that was how Vesna had described how he felt nowadays? Isak’s aches and fatigue rushed back all in one go as a pang of guilt brought him back to earth.

Before he could impose order on his thoughts a fresh wave of screams cut through the air as the front rank of soldiers almost collapsed to the ground on the edge of the trench he’d created. The men behind them were quick to drag their comrades back while the third rank set about dispatching the attackers who remained. Isak couldn’t see into the trench, but he guessed from the cries that not all of the infantry had made it.

‘More blood on my hands,’ he muttered dismally to himself before he remembered that they were all waiting for his orders. ‘Enough of that, you bastard,’ he growled at himself. He couldn’t afford guilt now. ‘They’re all dead if you don’t keep going.’

He raised his sword up above his head.

Vesna took that as enough of a reply to his question and roared an order that was echoed by the sergeants nearest him. He ran to Isak’s side. ‘Isak, what about the others?’ he panted, his chest heaving with effort. As he spoke, another order was bellowed and the remains of two regiments of infantry broke, running as fast as they could for the temples.

Isak shook his head. ‘They’ll have to take their chances; I can’t reach that far with any hope of control. I’d only kill the lot of them if I tried.’

More troops broke as the sergeant shouted again and they set off after their comrades towards the heart of the plaza. Only about a company’s worth remained besides Isak’s guards; the rest were dead on the ground. He could see the writhing mess of bodies inside the trench now. One or two had already begun to clamber up the side of the trench, but Tiniq and Leshi were running along the edge, slashing at the exposed heads as they popped up.

Isak looked at his trench and felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn’t deep enough to stop them completely, but it ran the length of the ground they had been defending, and the sudden fall would have broken more than a few ankles. It would serve their purpose well. He just hoped the other pockets of defenders had heard the sound and understood what they had to do.

‘Mariq,’ Vesna called out to the mage still perched on the shrine. He was still staring down at the chaos on the ground as the deranged citizens stamped down on each other to get towards their prey. ‘Mariq, get down here,’ he called again.

He turned to Isak. ‘If you give him one of the Skulls, perhaps he can do something. His skill is much greater than yours. It might mean sacrificing himself to save the rest of us.’

Isak opened his mouth to reply, then saw Mariq turn. ‘Shit,’ he growled, ‘he’s not going to make it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Vesna said, looking back. Mariq had stopped, precariously balanced on a statue. The black fletching of an arrow protruded from just above Mariq’s hip and his lips were drawn back in a grimace of pain. The mage looked straight at them, about to call out, when a second arrow flashed out of the darkness and struck him between the shoulders, driving into his flesh with so much force that the head reappeared on his back. The mage gave a tortured gasp and flopped forward, a sudden wild burst of crackling energy appearing all around him before it winked out again and he collapsed on the ground.

‘Bloody hands of Death,’ Isak cried, raising his shield instinctively to cover his face, ‘where the hell’s that archer? I thought they didn’t have any!’

‘I don’t think they do,’ said Vesna, also raising his shield as he went around to Isak’s exposed side and shoved the white-eye as hard as he could towards the Temple of Death. ‘That’s someone else getting involved. Shift yourself.’

Vesna raised his voice, trying to be heard above the clamouring howls of Scree’s citizens. ‘All of you, go! Form up at the temple entrance and hold the line until you’re dead!’

Vesna didn’t wait for the men to react; Major Jachen had appeared at his side and together they drove Isak on. He stumbled for a few steps but they were relentless and kept pushing him until he managed to break into a run and they found themselves struggling to keep up.

‘Can you make another trench at the temple?’ Vesna shouted between great gulps of air.

‘I think so,’ Isak replied, slowing his pace so he didn’t outstrip them both, ‘if you don’t care about it being pretty.’

‘If there’s a priest around, he’d have to have real balls to complain,’ Vesna laughed.

That sounded strange to Isak, as if the count’s laughter had no place here. That was a sound from times past, from quiet, dull days, when he would growl at his companions out of boredom. Only now did Isak realise how much he’d missed it, and how much he’d come to rely on Vesna and Tila to keep him sane in this strange life of privilege. Their laughter provoked his, and that kept the anger at bay. In Scree there had been no place for laughter.

‘A trench you’ll have, then,’ Isak called with a grin neither could see. His pace quickened as though a weight had been lifted, but that didn’t stop half of his guards overtaking them a dozen yards later. He glanced back. Still only a handful of people had managed to get out of his trench and were limping after them. The rest of the infantry were close behind him, none as hampered by full armour as Count Vesna. He began to be confident that they’d make it to the temple in time to turn and prepare for the next attack. In the darkness it was hard to see across the plaza but a bobbing torch indicated that at least one of the other defending units had got the message.

Time for a little faith, he thought. Here’s as good a place as any, I suppose.

The Temple of Death dominated the plaza, and this whole district of the city. Unlike the one in Tirah, which was larger and more impressive, thanks to all those wealthy citizens trying to buy a favourable final judgment, this was not arranged in a cross-shape around the central dome. Here they had foregone the wings tipped with prayer-towers completely, instead building a vast square edifice, with twenty or so slender stained-glass windows occupying the top two-thirds of each side. The temple had to be fifty yards in any direction.

Could they run in and defend it? Isak assumed so, but the temple wasn’t entirely made of stone and the walls were still decorated with the summer festival’s long yellow drapes. He couldn’t remember whether it was in Scree or Helrect that a group of knights had famously been martyred after they sought refuge in a temple, only to perish when their enemies burned the whole place down around their ears. The image haunted him, but they had no choice: they had to fight. The rogue archer who’d killed Mariq had made that decision easier: there was at least one person out there with his wits about him, and plenty of torches had been abandoned at the pickets.

He reached the temple and turned the corner to the western side and the wide entrance - another reason not to hide inside: Death’s house had no door, for no one was to be kept out.

They would have to fight, no matter what.

‘Where in the Dark Place are the rest?’ Isak yelled as he reached the temple entrance. He saw far too few troops for his liking. His heart sank as he saw only the wide frame of General Chotech among the Devoted, still with his massive axe resting on his shoulder, but now as tattered and blood-stained as a Chetse warrior was supposed to look. There was no sign of General Gort or the three hundred soldiers he’d had with him. Suzerain Fordan took care to salute his lord with the warhammer he carried, the same weapon his father had been renowned for using. Isak returned the gesture and muttered a quick prayer that he wouldn’t watch this Suzerain Fordan die as he had the last.