Demonbane (Book 4) (30 page)

So why was her stomach so sick? Why were her hands shaking uncontrollably? Why was the sound of the screaming women behind her echoing over and over in her brain and piercing to her very soul?

The chanting. The sound of it should be filling her with joy and expectation. Instead she wanted to clap both hands over her ears and scream to drown out the words.

What was wrong with her?

Bronwyn stepped up into an alleyway at the edge of the Plaza, then ducked into the narrow side-street.

She hadn’t expected
this
. She had known the Seteru were a capricious lot, easily angered, petty, vindictive…but
this
?

Indigoru was killing the women of Vorten.
All
of them. When would it stop?

Bronwyn had expected something different. A new age of worship, a reward for faithful service, the women of Vorten coming to worship the goddess of fertility and desire once again with open arms and singing lips.

“I serve the goddess,” Bronwyn whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself. Her body trembled violently. “I serve the goddess, and bear the secrets of—”

She stopped mid-sentence as the nausea caught up with her. She bent double and was sick in the darkness of the alley entrance.

Bronwyn stood back up. Her legs felt weak and shaky. She wiped her mouth.

The screaming and chanting continued.

The square was a broiling mass of people.

Townsfolk, many carrying bags and satchels jammed full of goods, kept up a steady stream towards the western gate. Many were injured, some bleeding visibly. Children wailed and cried, horses neighed loudly with the smell of blood and smoke in their nostrils.

Then there were the soldiers, the militiamen who had answered the scattered summons to assemble. There were fewer than a hundred in the square right now. Most of the small units from the trained bands had already been dispatched to the north and south, where the fighting was heaviest.

Kendril could hear the sounds of fighting from both directions. It was intensifying, raised to a fever pitch of gunshots and cannon fire. His fingers itched to hold a sword, to smell gunpowder and to lead men into fire and blood. He hated standing around like this, doing nothing.

The door of the fish store had been jammed open. Messengers scurried in and out. Two soldiers lounged just outside the entrance, halberds in hand. Their faces looked both tired and frightened.

Kendril glanced sharply at both of them as he entered the store.

Great Eru, they were
boys
, not men. Probably never seen a real day of battle in their lives.

He stepped into the bustle of the store.

“Where is Tuttleman’s Company?” Dutraad roared. He scribbled furiously on a sheet of parchment. “We need his men at the Wobble
now
or we’re going to lose the whole bridge.”

“I don’t know, sir,” panted a heavy-set man wearing no uniform. “We’ve had no word from him yet. There are reports that the Seteru’s in the north, sir, in the Docks. And there are at least two more fires down by the south gate—”

“Does it look like I have time for
fires
right now?” Dutraad snarled. He whipped out the parchment and handed it to a nearby adjutant who wore a purple scarf tied around his upper arm. “Get that down to Colonel Jommaney in the Vines. Then get back here and give me a full report on his situation.”

The adjutant saluted sharply. He dashed past Kendril and out the open door of the store.

Dutraad lifted his eyes. “I don’t have time for you right now, Ghostwalker.”

Kendril looked down at the map, a frown on his face. “They haven’t attacked across the Central Bridge yet?”

“It’s the one Void-cursed place they
haven’t
hit,” Dutraad said brusquely. “Give me some good news. Have your Ghostwalker friends killed that demon yet?”

Kendril leaned over the table. “That
demon
used to be your wife, Baron.”

Dutraad gave Kendril a cutting glance. “She’s not my wife anymore, Ghostwalker. I have bigger problems to worry about at the moment. Vorten is falling to pieces. No one’s seen the Lord Mayor. We’re barely holding the western side of the river, there are refugees continually streaming out of every gate possible, and the north and south bridges are being continually assaulted by the enemy, who we didn’t even know
existed
until a few hours ago.” Dutraad shook his head, his mouth curling into a self-deprecatory sneer. “Three years. That’s how long I’ve known Kane. Three bloody years. I’ve had him over to more feasts and dances at my estate than I can count, for Eru’s sake.” The Baron stood, his face white and haggard in the golden candle light. “And now he’s mobilized my own regiment against me. Against Vorten.” He banged his hand hard down on the table. “It’s madness.”

Kendril rubbed his eyes, realizing just how tired he was. “They’re hitting the north and south bridges?”

“And raising bloody chaos everywhere else.” Dutraad slapped a finger down on the map. “The residential section is burning to the ground. We can see that much just from here. To the north in the Docks there are sounds of fighting and multiple fires as well. Cultists have crossed the Wobble several times already. There are pockets of them still fighting and looting in the Shackles.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Kendril murmured. “They’re attacking north and south. Why not hit the Central Bridge? It’s an obvious target.”

Dutraad turned from the map with a shrug. “Eru only knows. They’ve made no move to cross, and I’m certainly not going to tempt them. I have enough on my hands already.”

As if to punctuate his words, a bloody and dirty gendarme appeared at the door. “Sir! Remnants of Colonel Gleetulmann’s company straggling in from the south. They’ve been pushed off the Hound.”

Dutraad pinned the gendarme in his implacable gaze. “They can’t abandon that bridge! Where’s Gleetulman?”

“Dead, sir.”

“Then get me his second, or whomever the Void else is in command. I don’t care if it’s a
sergeant
. Just get me someone.”

The gendarme saluted and disappeared.

Outside in the square came the sound of increased shouting and clopping of hooves on the frozen cobblestones.

Kendril’s eyes stayed fixed on the map. “Something’s wrong,” he said in a low voice. “None of this makes sense.”

“I’ll say something’s wrong.” Dutraad turned back towards the Ghostwalker. “This city used to be my home. Now people I’ve known for years are pillaging and plundering it in the name of a demon who has possessed the body of my wife. Tell me how any of
that
makes sense?”

Kendril opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by someone else at the door.

“Sir!” the militiaman blurted. He saluted quickly and sloppily.

Dutraad growled impatiently. “Out with it, soldier.”

“Report from Captain Potemkin. He says the demon has appeared.”

Kendril and Dutraad both straightned.

“The Wobble, sir,” the man continued to stammer. “She’s…she’s killing our men.”

“I am amazed,” Maklavir moaned as he walked, “just how much time I seem to be spending of late
underground
. It’s really not a pattern I relish, I can tell you that.”

“I used to
live
underground, you know.” Kara walked beside him. She pulled up the oversize coat she wore. Large trousers were cinched at her waist with a belt hooked into the last notch, and brown workboots were on her feet. “Back in New Marlin. Those sewers were even worse than these.”

“Can’t you at least let me complain?” Maklavir adjusted the lantern he held in his hand, one “borrowed” from the carpet store. He glanced back over his shoulder.

Greslin and Ilsa followed a few steps behind them. They glanced fearfully at every shadow in the sewer tunnels around them.

“So,” Maklavir continued conversationally, “how are those clothes you found working out for you?”

Kara itched at her shoulder. “Terrible. They smell like sour wine, and they’re barely hanging off me. I’m not quite sure the blanket was that much worse.”

Maklavir gave the pretty redhead a lascivious side-glance. “
I
certainly liked the blanket more.”

Kara rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet you did. Do you even now where you’re going?”

The diplomat gave a broad shrug. “More or less. At least I have some decent light this time around. Makes things a little easier.”

“Just don’t get us lost.”

Maklavir gave her a charming smile. “Anything for three hapless ladies.”

Kara paused for a moment, then lowered her voice. “Maklavir?”

“Yes?”

Kara looked quickly behind her, making sure Greslin and Ilsa weren’t overhearing their conversation. “About earlier…I just wanted to say that what you did was very—”

Maklavir sighed, prepared for inevitable insult. “Very
what
?”

Kara put a hand on Maklavir’s arm. “Brave.”

“Oh.” Maklavir rolled back his shoulders and cleared his throat nervously. “I see. Well, I guess it
was
rather…” He made a face. “To be perfectly honest, Kara, I didn’t really think things through very well. I just…
acted
. Rather stupidly, too, I might add.”

Kara smiled sweetly. “I imagine that’s how most people end up doing courageous things.”

Maklavir shook his head disdainfully. “Well don’t worry. I promise I won’t make it a habit or anything.”

The redhead kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Maklavir turned to her in surprise. “What was that for?”

“For being brave.” She smirked. “Or stupid. Take your pick.”

Cannon shots rumbled through the night air like distant thunder. Long, forlorn lines of militiamen, lacking any kind of uniform other than a basic colored scarf tied around their arms, shambled through the dark streets and into the square past the burnt wreck of the opera house. Their faces were smeared with dirt and ash, and many were limping or hobbling on makeshift crutches for support. Bloody rags wrapped around wounds showed the injuries they had suffered.

But it was their eyes that distrurbed Kendril the most. They were the eyes of dead men. There was no life in them, no hope.

The battle was being lost up north by the bridge known as the Wobble. And he was stuck in this tiny little city square baby-sitting Baron Dutraad when he should have been up there with Olan and the others, battling against the demon Indigoru.

Kendril watched the lines of infantry filing by. No, he corrected himself,
infantry
was too strong a word to describe them. They were butchers, bakers, apprentices, tradesmen of all kinds for whom soldiering had only been a fun game to play on weekends. Now they were experiencing war at its most hellish. War in their own city, against their own neighbors. War against a demon incarnated.

A war of Despair.

Kendril squeezed the grip of his sword handle until he thought he would break it. He wanted more than anything to be up there, in the thick of it, then down here.

“Looks like things aren’t going well.” Joseph came up beside Kendril, and sank down beside him. “Any news from—?”

“I would have told you, Joseph.” Kendril’s voice was curt, perhaps too much. He tried to switch the topic. “How’s it going with all the wounded?”

Joseph sighed heavily. “There’s a never-ending stream. A lot of them are dying before we can get to them.” He glanced at the lines of dispirited troops. “They’re just
boys
, Kendril.”

“We were once, too,” the Ghostwalker responded pitilessly.

There was a drumbeat of gunshots off to the northeast.

Joseph lifted his head, staring at the red glow of the fires. “Vorten is lost, isn’t it?”

Kendril shook his head fiercely. “Not yet. Not by a long shot.”

The grizzled scout nodded. He looked down at the trampled snow, mixed now with mud and blood into a churned, slushy mess.

“I have to go after her, Kendril.”

“Who?” Kendril asked dully, even though he already knew.

Joseph didn’t bother to answer. “Maybe she’s already dead, killed in that fire, I don’t know. I suppose she probably is. I’ve been throwing myself into helping the wounded here, trying to forget about her, trying to tell myself that I need to focus on helping the people I can, but I—”

“You love her,” Kendril said flatly.

Joseph watched the orange horizon glumly. “I suppose I do.”

“Then go.”

“I don’t even know where to start looking.”

Kendril gave his friend a probing glance. “That’s not what’s stopping you.”

“No,” Joseph agreed. “I suppose it’s not. I guess I’m afraid that she’s already dead, buried in the ruins of that opera house, and that I couldn’t help her when she needed me the most.” He looked over at the darkened street heading east. “As long as I stay here, I guess I keep hoping that she’s just going to walk back into the square, perfectly fine.”

“I’m not walking, I’m
limping
,” came Kara’s sudden voice from behind them.

Kendril and Joseph both leapt to their feet.

Kara and Maklavir came towards them across the square. The red-headed thief was limping slightly.

“You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had,” she grumbled. “These boots are absolutely terrible. I have about three blisters just—”

Joseph rushed forward and caught her in a giant bear hug. “You’re
alive
.”

Kara closed her eyes for a moment, her head resting on Joseph’s shoulder. “I am.”

Maklavir coughed into his fist. “What about me?”

Kendril crossed his arms. “I’m not hugging you, Maklavir.”

The diplomat gave a broad smile. “It’s alright, dear boy. I know you’re still glad to see me.”

Joseph pushed back, his hands on Kara’s shoulders. “I thought…” he started to say. He shook his head. “Nevermind. You’re alive, and you’re safe.”

“Yes,” said Kara, growing quickly serious, “but there are a lot of others on the other side of the river who aren’t.”

Kendril glanced off to the east, where the continued sound of gunfire and battle drifted through the night sky. “We know,” he said grimly. “We’ve been able to hear the sounds of battle even—”