Furies of Calderon (78 page)

Isana watched the battle on the shattered battlements with her heart in her teeth, trapped on the second floor of a barracks building in the east courtyard, and helpless to do anything to influence its outcome.

She saw her brother fall from the walls and, through a haze of tears, saw the Cursor dropped to the battlements as well. She screamed when Tavi took up the fallen sword and faced the enormous swordsman, and again when Fade took up the old weapon and fought the man up and down the battlements. She watched, careless of the occasional buzz of a flying arrow, as Fade was hanged and thrown off the walls, as Tavi fought for the dagger, and as the traitor Cursor fell from sight.

She watched as Tavi collapsed and as the wounded Amara dragged her shield over both of them—then went still.

“Tavi,” she heard herself say. “Tavi, no. Oh, furies.” She turned and ran out of the room, down the stairs to the first level of the barracks, a common room for the soldiers living there. Heavy iron shutters had been closed over the window, but the iron bars that could be fastened shut over the door had been torn away from their hinges only moments before, along with the heavy wooden door, and now the doorway had been blocked with a pair of heavy tables, leaving the upper half of the doorway open.

Frederic stood in the doorway, a Legion shield strapped onto his left arm, his dented spade clutched in his right hand. One of the women of Garrison stood with him, a stout, stern-looking matron with bare feet and a bloodied spear gripped in her hands. The young gargant herder’s hair hung around his face, damp with sweat, and he bore a cut that would leave a long white scar leading from his jawline to his ear, but his eyes were determined, hard.

As Isana came down the stairs, another Marat threw himself at the barricade, stone-headed hatchets in either hand. The Marat swung the first at Frederic, but the herder lifted his shield and the head of the hatchet shattered upon it. The woman standing with him drove her spear viciously into the Marat’s thigh, and the warrior dropped his second hatchet in a blow aimed at the spear’s haft.

Frederic shouted and thrust his spade at the Marat, the steel blade of the tool gouging roughly into the Marat’s chest. Frederic jerked the spade back to him and with a roar leaned back and kicked the stunned Marat in the belly. The warrior went flying away from the fury-assisted blow, landing in a heap upon the stones of the embattled courtyard.

Isana rushed to the doorway. “Frederic. I’ve seen Tavi and Bernard. They’re hurt, and I’ve got to help them.”

Frederic turned to her, panting, his handsome face speckled with droplets of blood. “But Mistress Isana! There’s Marat running around everywhere out there.”

“Thank you,” Isana said, and clasped the woman’s arm. Then she grabbed Frederic’s. “They’re near the gate, on the broken section of wall.”

Isana clutched tightly to Frederic’s shoulder, as he leaned forward, took a quick look around the courtyard, and padded swiftly toward the other side of Garrison, keeping near to the wall. The carnage in the courtyard was like some kind of nightmarish slaughterhouse. The Marat roamed everywhere, attacking buildings, fighting with one another and with the Aleran defenders.

A shrill scream cut across the courtyard, terror filled. In the doorway of the barracks building across the courtyard from them, a pair of herd-banes appeared. They dragged a wounded
legionare
out into the courtyard, one on either arm, and tossed him to the ground between them.

Even as Isana watched, the
legionare’s
helmet tumbled off, revealing Warner’s bald head and exhausted face beneath.

“Warner!” Isana cried.

Warner looked up, his face ashen, and tried to sweep his sword at the nearest bird, but the movement was listless, as though he barely had the strength to move. The terrible birds began to wrench the Stead-holder apart, shrieking. Two Marat, their hair bedecked with dark herd-bane feathers, watched until Warner had been savaged and lay still upon the earth. Then one of them stepped forward with a knife in hand and, after a moment’s consideration, removed the Stead-holder’s ears. He said something to his companion that drew a rough laugh, and then as the birds continued worrying the corpse, the pair of them rose and walked into the barracks Warner had been defending.

The cries within Garrison were joined by others—the screams of terrified children.

“Someone’s going to help them,” Frederic breathed. “Right, Mistress Isana? Someone’s going to go help, aren’t they?”

Isana looked between the far courtyard and the barracks, while children screamed. She came to her decision in the space of a breath. For while Tavi might be hurt, he at least had a chance of survival. If she did nothing, those children would have none.

“We are,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Frederic swallowed and nodded. He shook her hand off of his shoulder and stalked forward, sweeping his spade nervously in his hand. Isana followed him.

Neither of the herd-banes took note of them until Frederic swept his spade in a broad arc that ended at the neck of the larger one, which broke with a brittle snap. The bird went down immediately, while the second turned toward Frederic and lunged, snapping at the gargant herder’s face. Frederic shuffled back, and the bird followed him.

Inside the barracks, the children continued screaming. Isana waited until the remaining herd-bane had stalked another few paces away from the door and then she darted inside.

“Mistress Isana!” Frederic called. “Wait!”

Isana slipped inside the barracks to find the two Marat facing a dozen children who hid behind several trunks and bunks knocked over and formed into a crude barricade. Some of the older children carried Legion spears and thrust them viciously at the Marat whenever they came close. The Marat spoke to one another in low voices, evidently deciding how best to dig the children out from behind their barricade.

Isana moved silently to the nearest Marat, reached out, and touched his neck, calling to Rill as she did.

The Marat jerked and let out a hoarse scream that wound down into a gurgle, as water frothed from his nose, his mouth. The second Marat spun, one hard-knuckled fist lashing out as he did. Isana felt it hit her high on the cheekbone and throw her to the ground.

She tried to scramble away, but the Marat caught her by the ankle and dragged her back. She kicked at him, but the warrior slashed at her leg with his knife, a sudden line of screaming fire across her calf. She felt him move, felt his weight come down atop her, and a rough hand tangled in her hair, jerking her head back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the glitter of a glossy stone dagger, diving toward her throat.

She lifted an arm, gasping, and blocked the Marat’s forearm with her own, halting the blade a scant inch from her throat. The Marat grunted and bore down, and she felt her arm forced to give way under the warrior’s greater strength.

Isana twisted, gasping, calling for Rill once again, hoping that the first Marat would remain incapacitated when she called Rill from him. Her fury came flowing into her, and Isana drew Rill in, even as she sank the nails of her free hand into the Marat’s forearm. Blood welled from the tears in the pale skin, and Isana sent Rill flowing through those rents.

The Marat gasped, shuddering, and the power of his arms began to wane. He jerked and twisted and abruptly released both Isana and the knife. His body bucked, and he fell back from Isana, back arched into a bow, clutching at his chest.

Isana shuddered and tried to shield herself from the sudden terror and panic in the Marat, but she did not release him from Rill’s grip. The Marat heaved in breaths like a fish out of water, but Isana knew it would do him no good. The fury had stopped the blood in his veins, stopped the beating of his heart.

It was over in a minute. Isana found herself staring at a dozen frightened, wide-eyed children over the corpses of the Marat warriors she had killed.

Frederic appeared in the doorway, panting, a moment later. The young holder had discarded his shield, and instead carried a slender and half-dressed girl wearing a slave’s collar and a dancer’s silks. The girl’s leg had been bloodied, and she leaned on Frederic, her face buried against his shoulder, weeping.

“Mistress Isana,” Frederic gasped. “You’re all right?”

“For now,” Isana said. She moved to Frederic’s side and helped him draw the girl over to the little barricade. “Frederic, you must stay here and protect the children. Hold this building. All right?”

He looked up at her, his face concerned. “But what about you?”

“I’ll manage,” Isana said. For a moment, the terror and pain and panic of those around her seemed to rise up in a wave that threatened to drown her. The corpses of the Marat lay on the floor, twisted and stiffening, their expressions agonized. She heard herself letting out a low, unsteady laugh. “I’ll manage. I have to get to him.”

Frederic swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

She fought to take a deep breath, to control the emotions coursing through her. “Hold the door, Frederic. Keep them safe.” Then she walked out the door of the barracks as quickly as she could and started toward the far courtyard again.

The battle, it seemed, was winding down. Corpses and the wounded lay everywhere. She watched as a herd-bane Marat came pelting around a corner, only to be ridden down by a pair of Marat on horses, spears run through his back as he fled. A blood-maddened direwolf threw itself at one of the horses, fangs ripping at one of its hind legs, bringing the beast to ground, while its rider leapt from its back and spun, spear in hand, to face the wolf.

Isana pressed on, past the command building, where a grim, grizzled
legionare
shouted to her to get inside. She ignored him and pressed on into the easternmost courtyard.

Here, the fighting had been worst, and the carnage was greatest. Not only had the dead been laid out here earlier in the day, but now hundreds more bodies lay on the ground, mostly Marat, though here and there the red and gold of a Rivan
legionare’s
tunic stood out from among the pale barbarian bodies. She could have walked to the far side of the courtyard without setting a foot on its stones.

She began to pick her way across the courtyard, twice dodging aside as Marat fled past her, heading for the broken gates, eyes wild and panicked. She stayed out of their way and let them pass. Once, several Marat riding horses thundered through the corpses, hooves crushing indiscriminately, riding out the gate. Here and there, the wounded stirred, dragged themselves along, or waited quietly to die. The place was thick with the smell of blood, with the septic stink of ruptured bellies, and Isana’s head was swimming by the time she reached the broken section of wall, where she had last seen Tavi.

She had to crawl over a mound of rubble to reach the far side, steeling herself for what she was afraid she would see: her brother, dead on the stones. Fade, hanging at the end of a rope, strangled, or his neck broken. Tavi above, bled to death.

Instead, she found Bernard laying quietly against the base of the wall. His mail shirt had been unbelted and rolled away from where the mercenary’s sword had pierced him, and the skin there was pink and smooth— newly crafted whole. She stumbled across the stones to her brother’s side, reaching for his throat. She found his pulse, slow and steady and strong.

Tears blurred her eyes, even as she heard movement and looked up, to see Fade rising from his seat not far away. His throat was raw and abraded, his sleeve stained with blood, but the cut upon it had been crafted closed, pink skin clean and almost glowing.

Odiana stood upon the wall, staring down, her expression detached, dark eyes somehow empty, hollow. She moved one bare foot, kicking at a coil of knotted rope beside her, and it unwound, falling down to bump against the wall beside Isana’s head.

Isana looked at Fade and reached for the rope. The slave stepped closer, his expression serious, and put his hands on her waist, lifting her as she began to climb.

Isana reached the top of the wall to find Odiana standing over the unmoving forms of Tavi and Amara. Both were pale, still, but breathing steadily. Isana went to Tavi’s side at once, reaching down to touch his face, to brush an errant curl back from his eyes. She felt herself sob in relief, felt some easing in the terror and the fear of the past several days that demanded tears to fill the void. She didn’t bother to craft them away.

“Happily reunited,” Odiana murmured. “There.” The woman turned to walk toward the rope, evidently in preparation to climb back down it.

“Why?” Isana asked, her voice choked. She looked up at the water witch. “You saved them. Why?”

Odiana tilted her head to one side, eyes focused on Isana’s mouth. “Why? Why, indeed.” She shook her head. “You could have killed me at Kord-holt. Or simply left me behind. You did neither. You could have given me to the Cursor girl. You did not. It deserved a reply. This is mine.”