The Silver Lake (53 page)

The tingling became an overpowering itch and he clutched at his sword, feeling the far-off ranks prepare to move forward toward the Yuruk.

Eyes half closed, he felt the God’s power compel him forward and he gave himself up to it, leaving the safety of the tower’s bulk to stand facing the enemy, sword raised defiantly toward them, the God-Wall’s power crackling all around him like lightning.

As the need to do battle in Her name swept through his body, he felt Estavia burst into being above Her warriors at Yildiz-Koy just as he realized that he’d forgotten his shield.

AS THE SUN ROSE above the eastern peaks of the Degisken-Dag Mountains, the battle for Yildiz-Koy raged across the pasture fields. Filled with the power of Her followers, the God of Battles towered a hundred meters above the village, her twin swords spinning above Her head like wreaths of crackling fire. At Her feet, Kaptin Liel screamed out Her invocation in a voice gone harsh and ragged while the rest of Sable Company directed the power of their kaptin’s words up into the waiting arms of their God. As swarms of spirits hurled themselves upon Her like so many tiny leaches, Estavia sucked up a huge mouthful, then spat the transformed energy at the rest in a great gout of flame. It tore through their midst like a brand, scattering as many as it destroyed and opening a path for Bronze Company who thundered forward to drive the attacking Yuruk toward the first line of waiting infantry. Spears planted in the ground, the rear ranks began to chant Estavia’s name as the enemy met Azure Company with a crash of steel on steel. A hail of arrow fire streaked toward the militia entrenched behind the God-Wall, but with a howl of laughter that bounced off the distant hills, the Battle God reached out to scoop them out of the air in one sweeping motion, crushing them into powder, before hurling them back at the line of Yuruk leaders standing on the crest of the hills.

On the rise, Danjel sent her own defiant scream back at the Battle God as she called up a new swarm of spirits to throw themselves at Her while beside her, Ayami’s high-pitched whistle sent a new wave of Yuruk streaking down the hillsides. They surged forward then split into a dozen lines which streamed around the Battle God like water. Another whistle and those lines split again, some making for walled paddocks, others for the storage sheds, and still more to lure the more heavily armored cavalry away from the supporting infantry. Behind her, Danjel called up another swarm of spirits to obscure their movements and, as Estavia left the village proper to give chase in greedy anticipation, she sent a triumphant thread of power flying toward her fellow wyrdin-kazak on the hills above Serin-Koy

From his vantage point above the village, Graize accepted Danjel’s message with a laugh and, lips drawn back from his teeth in a savage grin, threw a great swarm of his own spirits forward. With no God to stop them, the very first wave had already reached the Wall, hitting it like a storm, but slamming back again just as quickly. They’d begun to batter at it with frantic intensity as more and more of their numbers streamed forward on a tide of rage and need, but as always the Wall held firm. Above him, Graize could feel the Godling growing impatient.

“Soon, very soon,” he promised. “Let the spirits weaken it a little first, then it’ll be your time. And mine.”

Turning, he watched as Kursk brought a fresh wave of Rus and Wes-Yuruk together for another assault against the militia guarding the storage sheds. He could almost feel the defenders bracing to take the hit and he sneered down at them contemptuously. They were so thinly strung out along the God-Wall that they would be vulnerable to any concentrated attack, but with so few fighters remaining in Serin-Koy, they could do little else; pool their defenses in one spot and the Yuruk would simply attack elsewhere; all they could do was dig in and hope that their numbers would hold out longer than their enemies’ numbers. It was the traditional defense against the Yuruk’s traditional wide-sweeping hit-and-run attack, and it usually worked. But not today.

With a snicker, Graize sent another swarm of spirits streaking out before Kursk’s lead banner. Today the Yuruk had numbers to spare and, as soon as the village militia was weakened enough, they would form up into one highly
untraditional
wedge and smash their way through the defenders at the walled paddocks like a rock slide over a flower garden and one single defender would get the final shock of his very short life. Then he would no longer hover above Graize’s dreams and plans like some dark-eyed storm cloud. Stroking his fingers along his bowstring, the Yuruk’s new wyrdin-kazak gave a mocking salute in Brax’s direction, before gathering up yet another swarm of spirits to throw at Serin-Koy.

Unaware of his old enemy’s presence, Brax set an arrow to his bow and drew it back, trying to remember not to let the string hit his forearm when he released it. With only a few weeks of training he doubted he’d hit anything else that morning, but it hadn’t mattered; the God’s lien sang in his veins so loudly that he could hardly focus enough to aim the weapon anyway. As a new wave of Yuruk charged forward, he fired up and over the paddock wall, then caught up another arrow as they passed. The deadly whistle of returning fire dropped him almost instinctively, but not before a feathered shaft hit the wall above his head with a shower of dust and stone. Eyes narrowed, he snatched it off the ground and, fitting it to his bowstring, rose and fired it back. The sound of a muffled scream made him bare his teeth in derision, and drawn by his aggression, the God’s lien began to rise even higher as, beside him all along the wall, Serin-Koy’s battle-seers began a fresh Invocation to Estavia; calling on the God of Battles to bring them strength as they had since the attack had begun. Brax had no idea how She could manage to support both Yildiz and Serin-Koy, but he was grateful for the responding spike of energy that shot through his body every time they started singing. Early on, the force of Her lien had driven him into the line of entrenched militia, and he could feel a growing fatigue begin to eat away at his reserves; the only thing holding it at bay was Her will. As yet another wave of Yuruk thundered forward, he fitted a new arrow to his bowstring and, as the battle-seers began to scream Estavia’s name once more, he allowed the now familiar surge of energy to lift him to his feet again.