The White-Luck Warrior (34 page)

Battle became a kind of dread harvest. Sranc died burning. Sranc died punctured and trampled. Sranc died scratching at shields. Yet they came and they came, surging beneath the witches and their comb of brilliant destruction, a shrieking chorus that wetted ears with blood. Men who faltered for exhaustion rotated with men from the rearward ranks. Soon gored figures could be seen stumbling behind the common lines, crying out for water, for bandages, or simply crashing to the dust. The Judges paced the line, their gilded Circumfixes held high, their mouths working about exhortations no one could hear. Hell itself seemed to churn but a keel away. And they wondered that mere Men could hold such wickedness at bay.

And then, slowly, inexorably, a different sound climbed into the deafening clamour, a more human intonation, tentative at first, but constant in its slow swelling...
Singing.

The Shining Men crying out, rank upon rank, nation upon nation, until every soul bellowed in miraculous unison, a shout that climbed high upon the back of the Horde's bedlam roar...

The "Beggar's Lament."

I have boils like little titties,
I have feet like stumps of beef,

And the Men of the Middle-North began laughing as they hacked and hewed, weeping for the joy of destruction.

Every coin that falls for me,
gets snatched by another thief!

The same lyric, hollered out over and over, like a sacred intonation. It became a banner, a scrap of purity hoisted high above a polluted world, and none would relinquish it. A call and a promise. A curse and a prayer. And the Shining Men matched the Sranc and their preternatural fury, roared singing as they stove skulls and spilled entrails. In one mad voice they fumbled for their faith, raised high the shield of their belief...

And became unconquerable.

—|—

The Scions fled across the black, the earth little more than liquid shadows sweeping beneath. Sorweel continually found himself sagging to his right, such was his exhaustion. His eyes would roll between pasty blinks, and his head would loll like a tipping weight. The dark world would tilt, and for a heartbeat he would float on the border of unconsciousness... before catching himself with a panicked jerk. At least his pony, Stubborn, remained true to his moniker and showed no sign of faltering.

Periodically he would shout mock encouragement to Zsoronga, who would always reply by wishing him ill. Neither paid attention to what was said: the saying was all that mattered, the reminder that other souls endured the same congealed misery and somehow persevered.

Finally, after days of tacking across the wastes, they had flanked and outdistanced the Ten-Yoke Legion—though they had been reduced to fifteen mounted souls doing so. Now with their last sip of strength, they raced toward the smear of flickering lights on the horizon, what they would have thought a thunderstorm were it not for the tin-distant clamour...

They could hear it over the broken percussion of hooves tumbling across the dust, over the pinched complaints of their ponies. A sound, high and hollow, ringing as if the world were a cistern. It was a sound that grew and grew—impossibly, they realized, guessing the distance of its origin. Crooning like a thousand wolves, hacking like warring geese. An immeasurable sound, or at least one beyond Men and their mortal rule.

The Horde.

A sound so titanic that Harnilas, for all his ruthless determination to reach General Kayûtas, called the ragged company to a halt. The Scions sat rigid in their saddles, squinting at their shadowy companions, waiting for their dust to outrun them. Sorweel peered ahead, struggling to make sense of the flash and flicker that now extended across a good swathe of the horizon.

He looked to Zsoronga, but the man hung his head, grimacing and thumbing his eyes.

At the Captain's bidding, Eskeles cast another of his sorcerous lenses. The light of his incantation seemed a jewel, so dark the world had become. Sorweel glimpsed the others, their faces drawn and gaunt, eyes bruised with the sorrow and fury that is manhood. Then soundless images crowded the air before the Schoolman...

The Scions gasped and cried out, even those too exhausted to speak.

A screeching world. Heaving, howling masses, pale and silvery like fish schooling through dark waters. Sranc, raving and thronging, so many as to seem singular, their rushing like the slow curl of scarves warring across the horizon. The Men of the Middle-North could be barely glimpsed, arrayed in bristling, segmented bars, defending barricades of stacked carcasses. Only the Swayali Witches could be clearly seen, hanging like slips of gold foil, drawing skirts of flashing Gnostic destruction... never enough.

With twists of his fingers, Eskeles turned the lens on a shallow arc, revealing more and more of the madness that awaited them. For all its power and the glory, the Army of the Middle-North was but a shallow island in dark-heaving seas. No one need speak the obvious.

The Northmen were doomed.

Real,
Sorweel once again found himself thinking in dumb wonder.
His war is real...

He turned from the spectacle to the Schoolman, saw the ribs of his ailing pony carved in light and shadow.

"A sight from my Dreams..." Eskeles murmured. And Sorweel worried for the brittle cast of his eyes, the promise of panic.

Without thinking, he reached out to squeeze the man's round shoulder in reassurance—the way King Harweel might. "Remember," he said, speaking words he suddenly
wanted
to believe. "This time the God marches with us."

"Yes..." the square-bearded sorcerer replied with a throat-clearing
harrumph
. "Of-of course..."

And then they heard it, like an echo floating through howling winds,
human
voices, shouting out human sounds: hope, fury, and
defiance
, defiance most of all.

"The 'Beggar's Lament'!" someone called from behind them. "The crazy bastards!"

And with that, they all could hear it, word for hoarse word, a
drinking
song bellowed out to the heavens. Suddenly the throat-pricking frailty fell away from the distant Men, and what had seemed a vision of doom became legendary—
glorious
—more indomitable than overmatched. The gored Northmen, their lines unbroken, reaving...

A massacre of the mad many by the holy few.

That was when they heard another sound, another ear-scratching roar... one that came shivering through the dark and dust and grasses.

More Sranc.

Behind them.

—|—

A miraculous slaughter, on a scale too demented to be celebrated.

Kayûtas and his Believer-Kings knew their flanks would be quickly enveloped, but they also knew, thanks to the ancients, that their encircling would be the product of happenstance, a consequence of the Sranc and their mobbing desperation. Whipped by their lunatic hunger, each simply ran toward Men and their porcine smell, a course continually deflected by the mobbing of their brothers before them. In this way, the Horde spilled ever outward like water chasing gutters. But the process was such that those who reached the ends of the Galeoth flanks would be but trickles compared with the torrents above.

"The Horde will strike the way Ainoni courtesans pile their hair," Kayûtas had explained to his laughing commanders. "Locks will spill down our cheeks, make no mistake. But only a few curls will tickle our chin."

And so was the ignominious task of defending the camp and rear delegated to the Lords of the Great Ordeal. So-called "Cornice Phalanxes" occupied the ends of the common-line, formations of courageous souls trained to battle in all directions. Triunes of Swayali hung above, scourging the endless flurries of Sranc that sluiced around them. And with the Kidruhil, the assembled thanes and knights policed the darkling plains between.

If the Prince-Imperial's descriptions had led them to expectations of easy slaughter, they were quickly disabused. Many were lost to the mundane treachery of burrows and ant mounds. Earl Arcastor of Gesindal, a man renowned for his ferocity in battle, broke his neck before he and his Galeoth knights encountered a single Sranc. Otherwise all was darkness and racing madness, conditions that favoured the lust-maddened Sranc clans. Companies would ride down one cohort in effortless slaughter, only to be surprised by the shrieking assault of another. Company after company limped back to the precincts of the camp, their numbers decimated, their eyes vacant with vicious horrors. Lord Siklar of Agansanor, cousin of King Hogrim, would be felled by a stray arrow out of nowhere. Lord Hingeath of Gaenri would fall in pitched battle with his entire household, as would Lord Ganrikka, Veteran of the First Holy War—a name that would be mourned by many.

And so death came swirling ever down.

Despite the toll, not one of the obscenities lived to trod the alleys of the darkened camp.

—|—

Fleeing into a world illumined by faraway sorcery.

Riding as if chased by the world's own crumbling edge.

Gouged hollow, a stack of tin about a papyrus fire. Light enough to be blown by terror. Dull and heavy enough to die, to tumble dirt against dirt.

The intellect overthrown. The eyes rolling, seeking nonexistent lines, as if trying to peer around the doom encircling them.

Stubborn coursed beneath him, galloping like a dog across invisible earth, scoring the thirsty turf. Zsoronga glanced at him, sobs kicking through the monkey-terror of his grin. The others were less than shadows...

The world flew in shreds beneath them. And the whole was delivered to Sranc.

The Ten-Yoke Legion.

A shriek, a sound heard only for its humanity, and the Scions were fourteen.

"They would drive them the way we drive slaves in the Three Seas,"
the Schoolman had said,
"starve them until their hungers reached a fever pitch. Then, when they reached a position where the Sranc could smell Mannish blood on the wind, they would strike the chains, and let them run..."

Sorweel tossed a panicked glance over his shoulder, toward the inscrutable black that gnashed and grunted behind them...

Saw Eskeles yanked to earth on the back of his tumbling pony, slapped like a fish onto the gutting-table.

And he was reining, crying out to Zsoronga, leaping to the turf, sprinting to the motionless Schoolman. The Scions were nothing but streamers of fading dust. He gasped shrieking air, skidded to a halt. He heaved the sorcerer onto his back, cried out something he could not hear. He looked up, felt more than saw the rush, raving and inhuman...

And for a heartbeat he smiled. A King of the Horselords, dying for a leuneraal...

One last humiliation.

The beasts
surfaced
, as if looking back had become looking down. Faces of pale silk, crushed into expressions both crazed and licentious. Slicked weapons. Glimpses piled upon glimpses, terror upon terror.

Sorweel looked to them, smiling even as his body tensed against hacking iron. He watched the nearest leap...

Only to crash into a film of incandescent blue—
sorcery
—wrapped into a hemisphere about them.

The booming roar swept into them, over them, and Sorweel found himself in a mad bubble, a miraculous grotto where sweat could be wiped from sodden brows.

Sand and dust shivered and danced between leather threads of grass. Beyond, howling faces, horned weapons, and knobbed fists crowded his every glimpse. He watched with a kind of disembowelled wonder: the white-rope limbs, the teeth like broken cochri shells, the covetous glitter of innumerable black eyes...

Breathing required will.

Eskeles thrashed his way back to blubbering consciousness. Moaning, he threw his gaze this way and that, flailed with his fists. Sorweel hugged his shoulders, tried to wrestle the panic from him. He thrust the portly man back, pinned him, crying, "Look at me!
Look
at me!"

"Noooo!"
the man howled from his dust-white beard. Urine blackened the man's trousers.

"Something!" Sorweel cried through the scratching, pounding racket. The heave of crazed wretches encompassed everything. The first luminous cracks scrawled across the Ward, wandering like the flight of flies. "You
have
to do something!"

"It's happening! Sweet Seju! Sweet-swe—!"

Sorweel cuffed him full on the mouth.

"
Eskeles!
You have to do something! Something
with light
!"

The Mandate Schoolmen squinted in confusion.

"The
Ordeal
, you fat fool! The Great Ordeal
needs to be warned
!"

Somehow, somewhere in Sorweel's cry, the sorcerer seemed to encounter himself, the stranger who had sacrificed all in the name of his Aspect-Emperor. The Zaudunyani. The
Believer
. His eyes found their focus. He reached out to squeeze the young King's shoulder in assurance.

"L-light," he gasped. "Light—
yes!
"

He pressed Sorweel to the side, tottered to his feet even as his incipient Ward began to crumble. The glow of his chanting gleamed across swatches of madness. Screeching faces, jerking, trembling like strings in the wind. Bleeding gums. Diseased skin, weeping slime and algae. Notched edges flying on arcs both cramped and vicious. Eyes of glittering black, hundreds of them
fixing
him, weeping and raging for hunger. Lips shining for slaver...

Like a nightmare. Like a mad fresco depicting the living gut of Hell, bleached ever whiter for the brilliance of the Schoolman's unholy song. Words too greased to be caught and subdued by the Legion's vicious roar, echoing through invisible canyons.

And there it was... striking as straight as a geometer's line from the ground at the fat sorcerer's feet, dazzling the eyes, stilling the inhuman onlookers with salt-white astonishment...

Reaching high to illuminate the belly of the overcast night.