Dawn (49 page)

IN THE DISTANCE,
Kosar heard the sounds of war. Fires lit the horizon, explosion of blue light boosting the glare, and a steady rumble of destruction rolled across the landscape. It reached the foothills where he waited with the Shantasi army and echoed into Kang Kang.

“They can’t last for very long,” Lucien Malini said.

“They’ll fight hard.” Kosar did not like the Red Monk at his side; did not like him speaking words so plain; did not feel comfortable knowing that their causes had converged. But the Monk seemed to have become attached, staying at Kosar’s side to protect or be protected. Kosar was hardly surprised; he had seen the way the Shantasi looked at Lucien.
They’re right to hate him,
he thought.
And I have a right to hate him also.
He glanced sideways at the Monk, surprised that he felt nothing.

The two thousand Shantasi had reached the foothills of Kang Kang just as the first sounds of battle came in from the north. Their desert creatures were all but exhausted by then, many of them dying from the huge doses of Pace beetles they had been given. The Shantasi continued on foot. Kosar and Lucien’s creature had survived, coaxed on by whispers from the Monk and Kosar’s force of will.
I can’t run,
he had thought,
I can’t walk. I can barely crawl.

They had spread themselves out across the foothills, moving east and west to take up positions. There was no telling exactly where the Krotes would attack. But their advancing army would be seen by the Shantasi scouts hiding on the plains, and they would be warned, and by the time the Krotes reached Kang Kang, the Shantasi would be regrouped and waiting for them.

“What do we have that can fight that?” Kosar asked. A mushroom of flame and smoke rose above the horizon, spreading slowly and pushing the darkness back toward the moons. It glimmered with blue light at its furthest extreme, like controlled lightning. At this distance it was smaller than the fingernail on his thumb, but it must have been huge to be visible from so far away.

“Very little,” Lucien said. “Nothing. But the aim never was to win.”

“No,” Kosar said. “No victory today.” He thought of O’Gan Pentle and the two thousand other Shantasi they had left behind, fighting and dying in those flames. Every flash of light he saw brought death, and he wondered which rumbling explosion heralded O’Gan’s passing. He liked the Shantasi Mystic, and mourned the fact that it was war that had brought them together. “War,” he said, as though amazed that the word could be spoken. The Red Monk did not answer.

And yet Kosar also remembered what O’Gan had said to him, and the harvesting of weapons from the desert.
If you live through this, thief, you’ll be able to tell your children you saw the Shantasi at war. It’s not something you or they will forget.
Perhaps the Shantasi had more at their disposal than anyone had yet seen. If so, they would have a chance to reveal it soon.

The explosions on the horizon made the darkness here even more extreme. It had begun to snow, adding to their misery, and Kosar’s wounds were aching from the cold. Whatever drugs O’Gan had administered were wearing off. Perhaps when their effect had vanished altogether O’Gan would be dead, and Kosar would be receiving more wounds. His hand was stiff where a Monk had slashed it back in the machines’ graveyard, his cheek and ribs were sore and the stab wounds in his back felt as though the blades were present there again, parting mending flesh and skin. There was a warmth at the heart of him—the dregs of O’Gan’s drugs—but his extremities were cold, and soon they would be colder still.

Snow landed on his hand where it was clasped around the sword’s hilt. It did not melt. He brought it to his mouth and breathed out, licking up the resulting water and tasting the filth of his skin. “I don’t want to die,” he said, and the feeling behind the words surprised him. It was as if someone else had spoken.

Lucien looked at him, scarred face shaded by his raised hood. “Death is not the end,” he said.

Kosar snorted. “You can’t know that!”

“I’ve killed enough to know.”

“The Black? I’m sure you’ve never chanted anyone down. You kill and leave wraiths to haunt their place of death. Torture them. That’s not the end I want.”

“If the Mages win, Noreela will be no place to live for anyone or anything.”

Kosar shook his head, not wishing to talk with the Monk about such things. He and A’Meer could have conversed at length, and he would have enjoyed it. It would have made him feel
better.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’ll protect you as well as I can,” Lucien said.

“You? Why?”

“Because I don’t believe your part in this is fully played out.”

Kosar flipped Lucien’s hood back from his face so that he could see his eyes. They were dark and watery, reflecting flames. “Don’t you pretend with me,” Kosar said. “Not with me. Not after what you’ve done and who you’ve killed.” He lifted his sword and pressed its tip against the Monk’s throat, leaning forward so that his weight rested against the handle. One shove would break skin and send metal into flesh. He closed his eyes and imagined doing just that, but he knew it would not be the end. The Monk was strong.

“You can kill me later,” Lucien said.

Kosar opened his eyes. The Monk had not pulled away from the sword, and a drop of blood ran down his throat from where the tip had punctured his skin.

“After this is over, if we’re both still alive, you can kill me then. But now I’m needed here as much as you. One sword could be the difference between winning and losing.”

“There’s no winning!” Kosar hissed.

“I don’t mean here,” Lucien said. “I mean there.” He nodded at the mountains behind them, peaks hidden by the haze of falling snow.

Kosar lowered his sword and sat back, following Lucien’s gaze. “They must be in there by now,” he said.
I hope Trey is all right, and that Hope hasn’t gone mad. I hope Alishia is still alive, and that there’s still time.

“Every second we gain them here could be the instant they change the world,” Lucien said.

Kosar climbed the shelf of rock they had been sheltering behind and looked northward. To the east and west he could see Shantasi doing the same thing. Snow muffled the air and aided the semidarkness, but he could still make out their shapes, slung with weapons and glinting here and there when another explosion rose above the horizon, rumbling in many seconds later and making snowflakes dance off the ground.

Everything felt so hopeless.

O’GAN PENTLE,
along with hundreds of Shantasi, charged the Krote machines attacking by land. Even before the two sides met, the air was filled with flying metals and streaking arcs of fireballs, and here and there jets of some mysterious liquid that melted whatever it touched: metal, rock, flesh and bone. The Shantasi returned fire, using Pace to dart left and right, confusing the Krotes and scoring many hits. Once a Krote was killed, his or her mount became confused, but still remained dangerous. Many Shantasi were run down by rogue machines.

The first line of charging Shantasi met the first wave of Krotes, and the fight turned to chaos.

Shantasi used Pace to dart behind the machines. Some bore bows and slideshocks, others leapt at machines and tried to scramble up their sides, knives clasped between their teeth or swords brandished in one hand. Most of them were shrugged off and trampled beneath metal or stone feet. Others gained the machines’ backs, only to be shot down by the Krote riders.

One group of warriors unleashed a storm of flies from fat pouches on their belts. The flies remained close together, buzzing low to the ground until they encountered the staggered stone legs of one fighting machine. They rose, shifting in fluid sheets as the Krote waved his arms about his head. The cloud expanded and the individual creatures seemed to blur, and O’Gan fell flat to the ground and covered his head with his arms as the Shantasi fired several burning arrows into the swarm. There was a soft hiss and then a deafening explosion, and when O’Gan looked up the Krote had been blown to shreds. His machine slumped to the ground, limbs waving, broken legs clawing uselessly at the cauterized ground. Black specks drifted down beside it, dead flies or flesh turned to ash.

O’Gan stood and surveyed the battle.
It’s all about time,
he thought. He glanced up and saw another flying machine spinning out of control as spartlets harried at its rider.
We can never defeat them, but we can
hold
them.

Something burst from the ground to his left, a sound louder than anything else on the battlefield, its impact harsher. O’Gan flinched away. A machine bore down on him, a white spidery thing with a dozen whips lashing at the air and fire belching from vents along its sides. He raised his sword, ready to parry the first of those deadly whips, screaming in defiance and certain that every second he lived on could give magic that extra chance it needed.

The machine was a dozen steps away when it was struck in the side. It slipped, scoring furrows in the soil with its braced legs, and the thing that had come up from the ground launched into a frenzied attack.

Serpenthal!
It was the largest sand demon O’Gan had ever seen, easily the height and width of six men, and its many separate parts worked as one as it attacked the machine. Whips were torn away, the construct’s body was ruptured and it gushed a foul black fluid as its rider was plucked from its back. The serpenthal crushed the Krote like an insect and dropped his remains into the mess of his dying machine.

The Krotes’ advance had been slowed. Machines still streaked for the huge blaze beyond which a thousand Shantasi waited, but many others were involved in vicious fighting. They cut down warriors with fire and fluid and arrows and discs, and the cries of the dying came from all around.

Another serpenthal appeared from the east and joined in the fray, setting upon a bulky machine and ignoring the hail of molten rock pumped at it from the machine’s nostrils. Another, and another, and O’Gan had never heard of so many sand demons being seen at the same time. It made the battlefield a stranger place than ever.

Several Shantasi ran past him, one of them grimacing as he tried to pull an arrow from his chest, and set upon a machine. It was small and rounded, running on stone wheels that flickered with blue fire. The Krote sitting astride its thin neck turned toward the charging Shantasi, firing a slew of arrows and bolts that took down three before the others reached the machine. They attacked, and O’Gan went to their aid.

He darted left and right as he went, using his Pace in the hope that the Krote would almost lose sight of him. O’Gan felt the drain on his strength every time he used Pace, and he knew that this would be a shorter fight than he had wished for.
But it’s a braver suicide than many Mystics chose.

By the time he reached the machine, the other Shantasi were dead at its feet. He glanced briefly at the battle raging all around: a serpenthal in a frenzy a hundred steps away; a Shantasi warrior releasing a toxic pallid wolf against one machine; Krotes slaughtering anything that crossed their path. A group of Shantasi dead lay to the north, and in the heat of a blazing machine O’Gan was sure he saw movement in their limbs, a flicker in their eyes.

And then he faced the machine and its grinning Krote rider, and he smiled back as he raised his sword.

LENORA RODE THROUGH
the battle, buffeted by the screams of the dying and the sound of arrows whipping through the air. The darkness was lit by burning machines and bodies. The air stank of fear and blood. An arrow glanced from a knot of scar tissue on her neck and she laughed, realizing that she felt more at home here than she had for a very long time.

A Shantasi tried to climb onto her machine, and Lenora let him think he had succeeded before turning around and burying her sword in his shoulder. “Meet my machine,” she said, and a dozen mouths opened in the side of her construct, biting into the dying Shantasi as he slid from its back.