Best Laid Plans (22 page)

Gaston sprinted to catch up with the priests, the militia taking the rear in case Maldark couldn’t hold off the horde. Rhiannon was urging Cadris forward, and Zara Gen struggled on with Agna over his shoulder. Ioana led the way like a frantic mother hen. When Gaston reached her, she touched his arm with shaking fingers.

‘There are too many of them,’ she said. ‘I could try to stop them,’ she fingered her Monas, ‘but my faith…I don’t know if…’

‘Keep moving, Mater,’ Gaston said. ‘Otherwise Maldark’s efforts will be for nothing.’

A cry from behind made him turn. Zara Gen lowered Agna to the ground, clutching his chest and breathing heavily.

‘Can’t go on,’ he panted. ‘Leave us here. I’ll stay with her.’

Gaston jogged towards them. ‘No way, Governor. You go. I’ll stay—’

Something dark hurtled into him amidst the sound of breaking glass. Shards tore into his skin and hands gripped him around the throat, squeezing the breath from him. Zara Gen grabbed hold of the creature, but was struck across the face and sent flying into the wall. Gaston tried to pry the fingers from his neck, but they may as well have been made of steel. A rotting face pressed close, jagged teeth straining for his flesh. Gaston recoiled from the stench and kicked out with all his strength. His vision was starting to blur, his struggles growing weaker.

He saw a flash of movement behind the creature. Something white wrenched its head away. Gaston fell to his knees, panting for breath as Rhiannon slammed the ghoul into the ground and kicked it in the ribs, over and over. The creature shrieked and sprang up, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into the side alley. Gaston forced himself to stand and staggered in pursuit. By the time he reached the alley, the ghoul’s dismembered body was strewn all over the ground, but there was no sign of Rhiannon. He flopped against the wall, too exhausted to take another step.

***

Skeletal steeds pulverized the shield wall, their riders hacking left and right.

Inevitable,
thought Starn, but ten brave men had bought them precious seconds.

Up ahead, Dalglish drove a corridor through the ghouls, his men bunching into a wedge, cutting and thrusting with desperate fury.

The Emperor roared and spun to face the death-knights rolling over his men. A horse disintegrated from a double-fisted strike with his broadsword, the rider hurtling from the saddle, but immediately crawling back towards the fray. A score of riders wheeled to confront Hagalle, but he stood his ground, just as Starn knew he would. Hagalle bellowed his defiance and swung his sword in a wide arc, keeping them at bay.

Starn glanced back and saw that the last of Dalglish’s men were through and running like the clappers as the undead closed ranks behind. With no time for thought, Starn grabbed Hagalle by the collar and dragged him towards the gap. The Emperor swore, but then saw what was happening and charged into the opening, kicking a corpse out of his way and trampling it underfoot.

Two ghouls moved behind the Emperor, but Starn was upon them, stabbing and slashing. He whirled as a death-knight reared up on its fleshless horse, grabbed a ghoul by the hair and threw it in the rider’s path. Hagalle smashed his way through to the far side and Starn dashed after. More ghouls lunged at him, claws gouging his breastplate. Starn dived, rolling and clattering his way beyond the undead. Hagalle stepped over him and swept his blade into the horde, spilling putrid entrails to the ground. He backed away, hacking wildly, giving Starn time to find his feet and run.

‘I say, Starn,’ Hagalle yelled, pulling his sword from the belly of a cadaver and frowning at its blood-drenched yellow robes. ‘Wasn’t that Duke Farian’s man, Torpin? Bigger pain in the arse in death than he was in life.’

The ghoul stumbled towards the Emperor and spewed black vomit over his breastplate. Hagalle backslashed almost nonchalantly and the creature’s head flew into the air. The body teetered, the hands still feeling about for someone to throttle. Hagalle lopped an arm off at the shoulder and booted what was left of Torpin into the mass of undead. The ghouls leapt upon the former herald, ripping away grey flesh with gore-spattered jaws.

Starn’s breaths were sticking in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Hagalle took the lead with long loping strides, but Starn only had short legs and he was hardly in the best shape of his life. Mrs Starn’s apple pie was likely to be the death of him, he thought as he took a quick breather, leaning against a wall.

Dalglish stood at the mouth of the narrow alley, urging him on. Starn held up a hand and sucked in some deep rasping breaths. A sound like a hundred melons being pulped came from behind and he looked back to see the death-knights riding over the ghouls and hacking them out of the way with rusted blades. The front two were almost through. Now or never, Starn told himself, and sprinted for the alley.

Dalglish and two others flowed back past him and locked shields. Hagalle grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged him after the retreating troops.

‘Keep going, General. Don’t want to lose you now.’

The clash of blades on shields rang out behind as Starn struggled away from the melee. Two more soldiers ran to aid Dalglish and slow the advance of the death-knights. Good strategy, Starn thought. Dalglish had the knights bottle-necked. They could only come on two abreast, the shield wall giving ground one step at a time.

‘More of them up ahead!’ someone shouted down the line.

Hagalle was straining to see over their heads and cursed. ‘Where the Abyss are they coming from?’

Starn lacked the height to see. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Too damned many,’ Hagalle said.

‘Over there,’ Starn said, spotting a passage between two houses and leading the way. The troop pounded after him until they reached an open square with an ornamental fountain at its centre. A broad avenue led away to the east, and cobbled alleyways ran to the north and west.

‘We can’t keep running,’ Hagalle said. ‘The men are exhausted and our passage north is blocked.’

Starn grimaced and then pointed to the broad base of the fountain that stood a couple of feet above the ground. ‘Form up there,’ he said. ‘Shield wall facing the avenue.’

He was certain the death-knights would come that way, otherwise they’d lose the advantage of numbers.

Dalglish backed into the square with two bloodied men.

‘Good show, Captain,’ Hagalle said. ‘Get those men behind the shield wall.’

Dalglish took his place in the wall beside Starn. ‘Last stand time, eh?’ He forced a grin that didn’t extend to his eyes.

‘We’ll get out of this,’ Starn said, not knowing who he was trying to kid. ‘We have to. Told Mrs Starn I’d be back for our anniversary.’

Starn eyed the opening of the passageway they’d come through. As he’d expected, there was no sign of pursuit from the undead knights. Some of the men started to relax and lower their shields.

‘Stay alert, lads,’ Starn said, pointing to the avenue with his sword. ‘They’ll not give up so easily.’

The rumble of hooves rolled towards them, funnelling down the avenue and rising to a thunderous roar.

‘Steady,’ Starn mumbled to himself. ‘Lock those shields!’ His throat was raw from shouting. ‘Stand your ground, and let’s see if we can break this wave.’

He did a quick headcount as the knights came into view amidst a swirl of dust. Sixteen men standing, two of them badly wounded. One fragile line against a cavalry charge at least a hundred strong.

‘General,’ Dalglish spoke in his ear. ‘Don’t want to add to the gloom, but back there, in the alleyway, the ones we cut down just got up again. They can’t be killed.’

Starn chewed on the edge of his moustache. So this was it, then. No more of Mrs Starn’s apple pie. No more lazy nights on the porch sipping wine. Still, best be grateful for the times he’d had. He almost wished he was like the Nousians; right now he’d have loved a god to thank for Mrs Starn. Wonderful woman. The best.

And then the knights hit.

The force was colossal, driving the shield wall back against the fountain. Men screamed, bones snapped, blades clashed. Starn felt like his face had been slammed into a wall. He was surrounded by a blurry confusion, his ears assaulted by the din. Someone fell, clutching his arm. He tried to grab the fellow and then saw the fingers were mere bones. He struck at the severed hand with the pommel of his sword as it started to crawl towards his shoulder. He managed to slip the blade underneath and flick the thing off. Someone pulled him back and two soldiers stepped in front with shields raised. Starn shook his head, trying to restore his vision. The plinth had saved them, he was sure of it. The front horses must have tripped and those behind ploughed into them.

There was furious fighting all around him. The man in front screamed as a sword punched through his back. Starn stabbed past his thrashing body, his blade grating against metal. To his left, Hagalle stood out above the others, his broadsword rising and falling with savage fury. But Dalglish had been right. No sooner had the death-knights been struck down than their bones crawled back together and they returned to the fight.

Another soldier fell, blood spurting from his throat. Dalglish stood alone against two mounted foes. Starn forced himself forwards and parried a blow from one as Dalglish hammered his sword into the other’s horse, dislodging the rider. Starn jumped out of the way of a hoof and sliced the leg off at the knee. The horse tottered and the rider fell forward straight into the path of Starn’s backslash. The helmeted head clattered to the floor, righted itself, and glared at him with flaming eyes.

Dalglish staggered, blood spilling from a gash to his arm. Starn caught him and lashed out, denting a rusty shield. Four more riders pressed towards him and he had to lower Dalglish to the ground to face them. Hagalle’s sword still clove into the death-knights, but Starn could see no one else standing.

He turned the blade of one skeleton rider and grabbed the rim of its shield with his free hand, wrenching the arm out of its socket. The horse fell to its side, hampering the approach of the other three and affording Starn time to snatch up the shield. Another horse reared up, flailing about with its hooves. Starn stepped under them and slammed the shield into the beast. He met a vicious swing from a death-knight with his sword and punched the shield into its face. Another parry, a backward step, and he tripped on something, toppling onto Dalglish. A death-knight swung down, but Starn got behind his shield, his arm numbed by the force of the blow. He tried to stand, but his feet got caught up. The death-knight raised its sword again, then suddenly veered away to the left as if carried away by a tidal wave. White shapes flashed by amidst the undead, bright steel scintillating in the sun. Starn fell on his side and could see nothing but Dalglish’s bloodless face staring wide-eyed up at the sky.

***

Maldark heaved against the living corpses piling on top of him, but knew it was hopeless. He felt the closeness of death and was relieved. If it was just about him, he’d have stopped struggling right then.

Throwing aside caution, he clung onto his hammer with a death-grip and narrowed his eyes. Heat coursed through the haft, singeing his fingers. Maldark gritted his teeth and hung on, the weight of the dead pressing him flat. He twisted his head to breathe, but his lungs refused to expand. A colossal roar burst forth from the hammer, accompanied by an explosion of golden light. The mountain of undead shuddered and then disintegrated, the ashes of the ghouls blasted into the air.

A new vigour flooded Maldark’s body and he surged to his feet brandishing the hammer that now shone with the intensity of the sun. More and more undead lurched from the buildings, jaws gaping and dripping gore. Maldark spun, searching for any sign of his companions. The dead had closed the path behind. He could see nothing but a great ring of putrid flesh tightening around him. Raising the hammer aloft, he bit down thoughts of unworthiness and let the words of the psalm pour from his lips.

‘ “Why, O Lord, are they multiplied that afflict me? Many are they who rise up against me.” ’

He swung the hammer in a wide circle, following its arc and spinning with increasing speed. As he whirled, thoughts of betrayal rose to torment him; the faces of dead friends, the broken bodies of the grandchildren of Eingana.

Beams of amber streamed from the hammer-head, driving back the hordes of undead.

‘ “I will not fear thousands of the people surrounding me: arise, O Lord; save me, O my God.” ’

Unfaithfulness stabbed him like a rusted blade. He had no right to call upon the Lord. The only faith remaining to him was clutched firmly in his hands.