Furies of Calderon (65 page)

Amara gasped with the pain and saw the Healer wince and draw in a quick breath of his own. He steadied her, and then she lead him forward, around the slow pressure of bodies and the desperate thrust and hack of weapons at the gate, to where she’d seen Bernard and Pirellus moments before.

She found them, Bernard just now starting to stagger to his feet, Pirellus still on his hands and knees. Harger went to the Knight at once, touching fingers lightly to his temples, then grunting and shaking the man roughly. Harger hauled back a hand to deliver a slap to the Knight Commander’s face, but Pirellus caught the Healer’s wrist as it swept toward him. He shook his head once, blinked his eyes, looked up at the gates, and then staggered to his feet to stare up at the walls.

Then he spun, looking around the courtyard, and nodded to Amara. “Countess,” he said, voice haggard. “That blast will have heated the stones, but they’ll cool quickly, and Marat will be coming over them even if we hold the gate.”

Amara swallowed. “What do we do?”

“Move these
legionares
up to the walls,” Pirellus said.

“They won’t need much commanding in this,” Pirellus said. “They’ll hold the walls, and I’ll hold the gate, or we’ll all be dead in the next few moments.”

“How can they hold the walls?”

“They can’t for long,” he said. “You’ll have to figure out something.”

Amara snapped, “
What
? That’s not a plan!”

“It’s all I have,” Pirellus said. “Countess, I hope to the furies you’re clever as well as brave. If you don’t find some way to get them off of us, we’re dead, right here, right now.” And with that, he nodded to Amara and stepped toward the melee at the gate. He paused, halfway there, to pick up a long, heavy length of wood that had been one of the drawing traces of a cart crushed by falling debris. He turned crisply and handed it to Bernard as the dazed Stead-holder stood up.

“What do you want me to do?” Bernard said.

“Follow me,” Pirellus said. “Keep any strays off my back. Stay out of my way.” Then he turned and walked into the struggle at the gate. With a few harsh, barked phrases, he stepped up between the young
legionares
and drew his sword. Within seconds, three Marat warriors lay bleeding on the ground, and their advance halted.

Pirellus snarled orders at the young
legionares
, and after a frantic half-moment they moved, breaking into a pair of elements and heading up the stone stairs to the battlements, slopping buckets of water ahead of them to cool the heated stones as they went.

Pirellus stood in the gates alone. Amara saw him set a grim, polite little smile onto his lips. He bowed to the Marat standing just beyond the gate and then with the fingers of one hand beckoned them forward.

Bernard gripped the heavy wooden pole and swallowed, looking back at Amara. His eyes were a little wide, and he drew in an unsteady breath, but he turned back to the gate and stood perhaps ten feet behind Pirellus, standing steady.

Amara felt a scream of frustration well up in her, even as the Marat again began to come through the gate, by ones and twos. The Parcian swordsman met them, more than a match, and first one, then another, then another of the barbarians fell to the dark sword. But even Pirellus was not untouchable. A pair of warriors came through together, facing him. Pirellus neatly parried a thrusting spear and spun to thrust toward the other warrior—and suddenly hesitated, faced with a half-naked young Marat woman.

He did not pause for so long as the space of a breath before he lunged forward, driving the dark sword between her breasts, but that hesitation cost him. The Marat beside him swept the butt end of the spear at his leg, striking the side of his knee with a crunch of impact, and if Bernard had not stepped forward to drive the young warrior to the earth with an overhand sweep of the thick wooden pole, Pirellus might have been killed.

Instead, the warrior grimaced, moving with no more than a slight limp, and continued what Amara knew would ultimately be a hopeless, if heroic defense of the gates.

Harger came to her side, his eyes sunken, worried, as they traveled up to the walls, and Amara looked to see the
legionares
there engaging the enemy, heard the screams of the warbirds and of their Marat masters.

“Lady,” Harger growled. “What do we do?”

Amara wanted to scream at the man out of sheer frustration and fear. Even as she watched, a young
legionare
fell from the wall, screaming and clutching at his face, blood pouring from his fingers. He fell no more than a few feet away. Bernard barely dodged a suddenly thrust spear as he swept another Marat from Pirellus’s flank.

How was she to know what to do? She wasn’t a military commander. The abrupt destruction of Garrison’s Knights had crippled their defenses, she knew. How was she to know how to overcome that loss?

Amara drew in a sudden breath. She wasn’t.

She sheathed her sword and seized Harger’s sleeve. “Healer. Take me to Count Gram.”

He did so at once, leading her to the center of the fortress, where a pair of senior
legionares
stood guard before the door of a heavy, practical structure of brick. Amara swept past them and into a building, up a flight of stairs, and into the Count’s bed chamber.

Gram lay in his bed, his head to one side, his face grey, eyes sunken. There were flecks of some kind of white film on his lips, and his broad, capable hands lay limply on the sheets, looking frail, the skin as thin as parchment.

Amara looked at the man and swallowed. She knew that what she was about to do might kill him. She did it anyway. “Wake him up, Harger.”

Harger let out a shaking breath. “Lady. I can, but it could—”

“I know it could kill him, Healer,” Amara said. “But if the walls or the gate falls, he’ll be dead either way. We need him. The garrison needs him. I do not think that he would wish us to let them fall when he might be able to help.”

Harger looked at her for a moment and then shook his head. The old healer sagged for a moment, his face drawn. “No. I don’t suppose he would.”

“Get him moving,” Amara said, quietly. “I’ll get the guards to help carry him.”

She went downstairs to the two
legionares
there, returning with them to Gram’s bedchamber. She found Harger standing over the old Count, whose face was flushed with unnatural color. Gram dragged in a panting breath and opened his eyes, squinting at her. He grunted and said, “Harger says my Knights are gone. Just the green troops left.”

“Yes,” Amara said, her voice tight. “They’re on the walls. Pirellus is alive, but wounded, holding the gates alone. We need to get you out there—”

“Can’t be done,” Gram said, sighing. “Even if I wasn’t hurt. Even if we had more firepots. Can’t call up that much fire, that wide.”

Gram waved a hand impatiently, cutting her off and fixing her with glittering eyes. “Can’t walk. Someone else has to carry. Are you afraid, girl?”

She nodded, tightly, once.

He cackled. “Honest. Good. Get a torch. And get ready to be brave. Braver than you’ve ever been. Maybe we can do something.” Gram broke off, coughing, the sound weak, his face twisting into a grimace of pain.

Amara traded a look with Harger, then nodded to one of the
legionares
. The man stepped out, returning with a torch a moment later.

“Here, girl,” Gram whispered, beckoning with one hand. “Bring it close.”

Amara did, kneeling down by the bed and holding the torch out to the wounded Count.

Gram closed his eyes and reached his bare palm into the flame. Amara winced, almost drawing the torch away, but Gram did not stir or flinch, and his flesh remained, it would seem, untouched by the fire.

Amara felt it inside of her first, a panicky little thrill that raced through her belly and thighs, turned her legs watery and uncertain. Her hand started to shake, and she lifted her other to hold the torch steady. Gram let out a slow, quiet sound of pain, and the sensation in her redoubled, mindless and sudden fear, so that she had to fight to keep from bolting from the room. Her heart abruptly raced, pounding frantically, the pain of her wounds seemed to increase, and she suddenly could not get a breath.

“Girl,” Gram rasped, opening his eyes again. “Listen to me. Get this out to the front. Out in front of all of the Marat. Get it to where they can see it.” He let out a wheezing breath, his eyes closing. “Don’t drop it. And don’t let the panic take you. Hurry.”

Amara nodded, rising to feel her body trembling, weak with fright.

“Steady,” Harger said. “Get out there. Hurry. I’m not sure how long he can hold the crafting.”

Amara had to stammer twice before she managed to say, “All right.” She turned and walked from the chamber, fighting to control her breathing, to keep her paces steady, even. The fear flowed through her like winter ice, cold little chips of it flowing in her blood, making her heart skip painful beats. She could barely keep her thoughts focused on the gates, on carrying the torch without dropping it—though she struggled to remember that if she dropped it, or if she surrendered to the fear and fled, that Gram’s efforts would be for nothing.

She felt herself begin to sob as she walked into the courtyard, felt her body begin to weaken with the mind-numbing terror. More than anything, she wanted to turn away from the gate, to flee, to take to the air and leave their savage enemies far behind.

Instead, she kept on, toward the gates, growing weaker, less steady, by the step. Part of the way there, she swayed and fell, and her tears blinded her. But she kept moving forward, crawling on her knees and her wounded arm, clutching at the torch and keeping it from falling to the ground.

Suddenly, from right in front of her someone screamed, and she felt herself hauled to her feet with terrifying strength, facing a towering giant with blazing eyes bearing a cudgel the size of a tree in one fist.

She fought against the terror, against the sobs that choked in her throat. “Bernard,” she said. “Bernard. The torch. Get me to the walls. Get me to the walls!”

The giant scowled and roared something at her that had her choking down a hysterical scream. Then he simply picked her up under one arm and carried her to the stairs and up them, to the frantic, screaming panic of the battlements. She felt herself come down on her feet again, and she staggered forward, toward the walls above the gates.

She could not think, could not control herself over the last few feet. She staggered forward, screaming and sobbing, bearing the torch aloft and certain that death was there for her, breathing softly, black wings rustling like those of the crows that waited, waited somewhere in the predawn darkness to sweep down on the eyes of the dead.

Somehow, she gained the battlements over the gate and stood above them, a sure and simple target for Marat archers, the torch held aloft.

It went up in a sudden furnace of sound and heat, an abrupt river of roaring light that shot into the sky and lit the ground for a mile in every direction. All of that terror, all of that fear in her blossomed out with the torch, poured out with the sudden, raging flames, swept out of her, magnified a thousand fold, onto the ground beneath.

There was an instant, horrible stillness, as the power of the fire-crafting swept over the Marat below. And then a scream, born in one moment from thousands of throats, rose up into the air. The pressure of the Marat assault vanished, more quickly than it had arrived. The pale tide of Marat warriors abruptly flooded back from the walls of Garrison, howling in terror, joined by the whistling, panicked shrieks of the fleeing warbirds. The battered
legionares
defending the walls began to cheer, as the Marat were swept under by the fire-crafting and broke and ran.

Amara saw them go, even as the terror flowed out of her, poured out together with whatever strength she had left. She staggered and nearly fell from the battlements, only to be supported by Bernard, who had appeared behind her. She leaned back against him, exhausted and barely able to keep her eyes open, while all around her Aleran warriors threw defiant cheers after the fleeing enemy.