Chapter 42 #4
In front of them, the people of Luss, or what remains of them.
Their flesh is dried and paper thin, torn by sea winds and the teeth of dogs, their cheeks hollow and burrowed through.
The elegant robes of their merchants fallen to shreds, hung around their emaciated bones.
The dancing legs of their criers still stumbling on broken feet, ceremonial stones gleaming on darkly bloodstained lips.
Beyond them gather other dead, many only given away by the fraying silver threads that run from their trapped souls, fracturing at the touch of their cold skin.
Shroudweaver hands the spinner back, relaxes as his muscles untense and his vision clears. ‘That’s a lot of soldiers. How much do you pay your scouts, Arissa?’
She digs the point of a dagger into the soil, twists it. ‘Not enough. But my guess is, they’ve reinforced since we last sent riders out.’ She frowns. ‘No matter. We’re committed now. Shipwright, form the lines.’
Shipwright turns, gesturing to the troops drawing up behind the rise. Positions are prepared. Wicked crossbows are cradled and strung. Bundles of gull-feather quarrels staked out neatly. Fifteen of those airborne in a minute would buy them some breathing space.
Arissa straightens her back surveying the lines, and grunts. ‘I might have known they’d be expecting us.’
Shipwright looks at Arissa. ‘I don’t know, my Lady.
Thell’s not so far. This might just be what they do.
’ She tightens the strapping on her hands, flexes it experimentally.
There’s an ache in her wrists. The spinners are taking their toll.
‘We just don’t know enough.’ Arissa flashes her a smile, and she feels it run electric down to her stomach. This is really not the time.
‘Declan thinks we should try and parley. Suss them out. Thoughts?’
Shipwright makes a face. ‘If you wanted our thoughts, you would have asked a little earlier.’
Arissa sheathes the dagger, grinning. ‘True.’ She motions, and horses are brought up the embankment. Strong grey beasts, like cut marble come to life. ‘Still I’d appreciate the validation.’
Distantly, the criers of Luss yowl like dying cats, wet, feral and looping over the intervening plain and its scattered ruins. Echoing over the dregs of what Luss once called its Summer Town, now reduced to broken bricks and splintered tile.
Shipwright frowns. ‘We’re low on cover out there. As good as dead if they decide to take us out now.’ She pauses, ‘And I hate horses.’
Arissa swings a leg up over the charger, smiles down. ‘Why? Not enough sails?’
Shipwright mounts, unsteadily. ‘Not enough space.’
Shroudweaver saddles up, nudges his horse closer to them. ‘Do they have horses where you’re from?’
Shipwright glares at him. ‘Shut up. I don’t need to be humiliated before I die.’
He shakes his head. ‘That won’t be today.’ His eyes study her hands, ‘How far can those spinners reach?’
She shrugs. ‘Me. My horse, probably. Not big enough for much else.’
‘Can I try something?’
She nods. ‘Sure.’
He reaches out. ‘Give me your hand. With the spinner.’
His fingers are light on her knuckles. Rougher than she would have imagined. Inexplicably, she relaxes. Almost drops the damn thing. His dark eyes are confident as he loops a thin red thread around her palm.
He squeezes her fingers tight. ‘When I say, turn it on, let it sing. And push outward.’
She holds his gaze for a second. ‘Fine. Don’t take my hand off.’
He smiles, sweetly sly. ‘I would never.’
Arissa tuts disapprovingly. ‘I notice you’ve both ducked out of reassuring me, but that’s fine. Shall we announce ourselves?’
Shipwright glances over her shoulder. Near enough three hundred men and women are tucked against the ridge, with more in reserve. A signal runs down the line and they stand with a shout that sends the sky reeling. She’d never got used to the sound of Hesper at war.
As the drums start, they roll down across the plain. A marching rhythm. A sailor’s stroke. Brutal, fast, unrelenting.
Steps match the drumbeat. That mass of men striding forwards, held within a hairsbreadth of a run.
Every thirty paces or so, the bright feathers of the first mates and captains, the flash of their pearly teeth, the gleam of gold necklaces and rings.
Beards and hair oiled and dyed, shaved and spiked.
Monkeys that rode shoulders, screamed in time to the drums, gnashing their filed little fangs.
The three of them a little further ahead on the horses. Not a gallop, not yet, but the long legs of the coursers eating up the salt plain outside of Luss.
From behind them, trumpets rise out of the ranks like breaching fish, silver and slim. The sound is like an unsheathed sword, ringing in the air as it rises and falls with the drums.
The throng ahead of them does not stir. Across the salt plain, only the criers seem to tire, slinking back behind tall shields and long spears.
The walls draw closer. Shroudweaver can count heads now. A thousand at least. Some eyes milky as the grave, some sharp, calculating. Some nervous.
There’s a method to it, now he looks. Never more than twenty or so of the living soldiers together. The dead stud the ranks of the army like rivets in a board.
Something in the back of his brain wakes at the thought, but they’re moving too fast for him to investigate. Instead, he tries to feel for the threads he’s tied to Shipwright’s spinners. Keeping them close so he can weave into them, if he has to.
He’s never tried it, but it should work in theory.
They ride on.
Shipwright’s shoulders tense for a rain of quarrels, of those slim spears.
Nothing comes. Yet. These western wars are a mystery.
A clash of thousands, with no more planning than an island raid.
A confidence she doesn’t feel. Her insides are water, and Shroudweaver’s esoteric assurances are doing nothing to level them out.
Arissa certainly looks the part, but she’s not sure how she ended up a bodyguard for this strange, steely woman. Or how she ended up in her mad city. She can hear her father’s voice reproachfully. Too fond of the tides, little sailor. Wasn’t that the truth?
Here she was, mid-tide. Scared shitless.
She’s never seen anything like the army in front of her. Never even knew you could raise the dead. Sure, she’d heard stories from Shroudweaver, but everything he’d told her had sounded gentler, more spiritual. She’d never seen a body get up and walk.
She kept a grip on the reins. Barely.
They stop around a hundred feet from the front line, close enough to see the sporadic rise and fall of breath among the front ranks.
Arissa leans into Shipwright. ‘Let me handle this. Pull me out if it goes bad.’
Shipwright winces. ‘You’re putting a lot of faith in us, Arissa.’
The Lady of the Grey Towers smiles, plants a kiss on her cheek. Violet and steel.
‘I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Shipwright. You won’t let me down.’
Arissa adjusts her helmet, kicks her horse forwards a few steps.
Waits.
This close, the smoke above Luss still sings of burning, of hot stone and ash. She can remember when the city rocked with laughter, when she got teenage-drunk in its pleasure gardens. She wonders how quickly the flowers burnt.
Eventually, the crowd parts and a horse edges forwards, black and beautiful. The figure atop it is faceless, shrouded by a mask of milky, shifting stone, its hair bound in thick, dark braids. Shroudweaver shifts to stand beside Arissa as she moves to meet it.
Arissa draws herself straight, feeling her pulse race in her throat. She imagines Declan’s big, brash face and tries to keep her voice steady. She takes a breath.
‘I am Arissa Fallon. Of Hesper. Of the Grey Towers. We come to the aid of our sister city, at her request.’
The figure watches blankly. Its long fingers fidget with the horse’s bridle. She clears her throat and continues. ‘We have come to order the immediate withdrawal of the Empire from the city, the surroundings, and all unlawfully ceded territory.’
The figure regards her for a moment. Its featureless head tilts slowly, gloved hands moving softly. When it speaks, its voice is soft.
‘The Emperor is here, but will not speak. I am the Gem. I speak for him.’
Arissa composes herself. ‘Then we present these terms.’
Its hand raises, palm out. ‘There will be no terms. The statement is this. Luss belongs to us now, as she always should have. In time, you will belong to us too.’
Arissa feels her heart lurch. ‘So, you will not negotiate?’
Its head moves back and forth slowly. ‘We do not negotiate. We claim. We restore all to peace.’
It pauses, gestures to the approaching army. ‘You bring us war.’
Arissa takes its measure, but gets nothing from the featureless mask. ‘It doesn’t have to come to this.’
The thing is briefly silent, then begins to shake. It takes a moment for her to realise that it is laughing.
It points at Shroudweaver. ‘Ask your pet, Grey Lady. Ask it how little we care to stand one side or the other of life and death.’ Its hand closes into a fist. ‘We will kill you in a moment. You may run, if you wish.’
The Gem turns its horse away. Opens its fist, fingers spread wide.
Shroudweaver recognises the gesture. Not quite shroudweaving, but close enough.
He feels the power pulse from its outstretched fingers into the ranks of the dead and senses something in their tattered souls awaken, something else inside that, dark and hungry.
Fills his lungs. ‘Run!’
To her credit, Arissa is as fast as a strung bow, heels into the flanks of her horse, turning towards the shelter of their army.
Distantly, he hears the first creaking hum of Hesper’s ballistae as they wind back. The chunk of release, and the sky begins to darken with quarrels. Covering fire. They ride back under falling shadows as the air vibrates like a harp.
The horses’ necks stretch out, juking and turning to avoid the jut of shattered buildings.