Dawn (52 page)

THEY’RE COMING.
The words were whispered along the line from the east, and Kosar heard them and passed them west.
They’re coming.

The sounds of the battle in the north had ended an hour before, replaced by the dull, solitary whistle of wind finding channels between rocks. Snow danced across the foothills of Kang Kang, whipping into spirals here and there when the breeze became trapped. Some of these flitting figures seemed possessed of a strange purpose, and Kosar wondered exactly what he was seeing. Snow wraiths? Or wraiths in the air revealed by the snow? None of them came close to him, and they all faded away after a few heartbeats.

“I can’t see anything in this snow,” Lucien said.

“We’ll see them, I’m sure. They won’t be sneaking this way. They’ll be
charging.
” Kosar placed his hand flat against the ground. “Can you feel that?”

“What?”

“The ground is shaking.”

“Noreela is afraid,” Lucien said, and for some reason the comment gave Kosar a boost of confidence.
If the land itself is afraid, perhaps it will do something to help.

A few moments passed and Kosar stared north, down the hillside and across the plains that ended at the fiery horizon. There was still no movement, and he began to wonder what the Mages’ dark magic could do. Would it make the advancing Krote army invisible? Were they even now crawling carefully up the slopes before them, reaching out, probing with swords until they held every Shantasi warrior a slice from death?

The ground shook some more, and now there was a rumble to accompany it.

“That came from behind!” Lucien said.

“No!” Kosar turned, hefting his sword as though expecting to find a Krote standing behind him. Shantasi all across the hillsides were doing the same, breaking cover and finding new shelter that protected them against an attack from uphill instead of downhill. “This can’t be them!” Kosar said.

“Then what—” Lucien’s words were swallowed by the thunder of what came over the hilltop above them.

Tumblers. Dozens of them, maybe a hundred, pouring over the crest of the hill and bouncing down toward the remnants of the Shantasi army. Some of them were larger than any Kosar had ever seen, the height of three men, and they trailed spiked whips and barbed limbs behind them, slapping at the ground to adjust their downward path.

Scores of Shantasi shouted and turned to run down the hillside. Many more stood their ground and prepared to fight. Kosar knew that both courses of action would be hopeless.

“They’ve got the tumblers fighting for them,” he said. This was the end. These things would snap up hundreds of Shantasi, then they would turn and come back up, then down again, crushing the warriors onto the hides and piercing their bodies with hooks and spikes. They would join the dozens of other corpses already carried by these ancient things, and their steady decay would match that of Noreela.

The lead tumbler reached the first of the Shantasi…and passed them by. Others followed, some of them bouncing over the shapes crouched on the hillsides, others swerving to avoid warriors standing ready to fight.

“Maybe they’re running from something,” Lucien said. “Something happening in Kang Kang.”

Hope, Alishia and Trey,
Kosar thought, but then another idea hit him. “More Shantasi weapons!” he said.

Lucien shook his head. “No one controls the tumblers. Not even the Shantasi, with their weird ways. Even in a time of magic the tumblers were always their own.”

“You’re an expert?” Kosar said. “Don’t tell me…you read about them at the Monastery.” He crouched down as a tumbler came close, thundering past faster than any horse could run. He caught a whiff of old rot and aged bones, and then it was away, leaving a pitted trail in the sprinkling of snow where its hooks and spikes had dug in. His heart thumped in his chest. He actually felt thrilled. “What are they doing?” he shouted at Lucien, raising his voice above the cacophony of the tumblers’ charge.

Lucien raised his head above the rock. “We’ll see,” he shouted back. “They’re heading north!”

The last of the tumblers passed by and continued down the slope, dodging Shantasi and plowing furrows in the damp ground. The bones crushed into their strange hides flashed yellow and white in the moonlight. They rumbled north across the plain, and minutes later Kosar saw the first blossoming explosion of a Krote machine meeting its end.

“In the name of the Black, they’re helping us!” Kosar said. Shouts rose up from the Shantasi scattered across the hillsides, cheers and calls, and metal gleamed as swords and slideshocks were waved in celebration.

“They’ll still get through,” Lucien said. “The Krotes will sweep the tumblers aside, and they’ll get through.”

“But every second counts,” Kosar said, and he laughed. Actually laughed. And it felt so good, he did it some more.

LENORA LED THE
charge, riding her machine hard toward the first low hills of Kang Kang. She expected the second Shantasi attack to come at any moment. If they had any sense of war at all—and she knew that the Shantasi had found cause to fight many times through their history—they would have a second line of defense between here and Kang Kang, probably upon those first low slopes. They would have had longer to dig in and prepare defenses, and they would have seen the signs of their First Army’s destruction. Anger and fear gave a soldier more power. Hate drove him or her harder. This coming fight would be more vicious, but Lenora was not afraid of that.

She
was
afraid of failing to fulfill the task given her by the Mages.

And the more it spoke, the more she was afraid of that voice. It was telling her truths she did not wish to hear. The more it spoke, the more she felt her determination bleeding away.
Is this the life I’ve missed?
it said.
Is this all you have become?

But I’ve become powerful,
Lenora thought.

You’ll become nothing.

And Lenora remembered Angel’s vision of the lake of blood, with nothing left of Noreela.

She was suffering. To drown the discomfort, she sought the pain of others.

Her machine ran, untiring and eager to do her bidding. She thought,
Left,
and the thing veered to the left, dodging a small hillock with an ancient ruin scarring its summit.
Right,
she thought, and the machine curved right, leaping a dry streambed and landing so gently that Lenora barely felt it touch the ground.
It’s like a part of me,
she thought. But the shade of her daughter, that was the part of her missing, the part she should be pursuing.
I don’t want you,
she thought. And
I’ll come to find you soon…Leave me alone…Stay with me.
Her thoughts were as chaotic as war, as random as an arrow striking her or missing altogether. Peace was something she feared she would never find, even when all the fighting was done.

And then she saw movement to the south.

Ducianne rode alongside her across a wide, flat expanse of dried marsh. “What in the Black is that?” she shouted.

Lenora knew. She had seen some once before in Robenna, years before she became pregnant. One of them had taken a child from the village. Even then, she knew that they were too different to ever understand.

“Tumblers,” she said.

“So let’s take them!”

“Ducianne!” Lenora shouted, but Ducianne goaded her machine on, riding directly at the advancing wall of tumblers that streaked toward them. They jumped here, rolled there, twisting and turning their routes to confuse the Krotes. But the Krotes’ blood was up. All of them were tainted by battle, some of them bearing wounds, a few carrying the stumps of arrows buried in arms or shoulders. It would take a lot to panic them now.

“Ducianne!” Lenora shouted. “Attack together. Not on your own!”

Ducianne turned on her machine and grinned, pulling back slightly so that she fell back in line with Lenora. Other machines rode up beside them, forming a long, snaking line that advanced quickly southward.

“Don’t be so keen,” Lenora called.

“Well, I—” Ducianne shouted, and the first of the tumblers struck the front of her machine.

The joint impact was tremendous. The tumbler was crushed flat and shattered, lifting high over the front of Ducianne’s mount and sweeping her from its back. Lenora glanced around in time to see her friend ripped apart, torso and head spilling in different directions amidst a rain of old bones, torn vegetation and new blood. The machine was split as well, its ruptured parts rolling onward in pursuit of Lenora, finally exploding in a geyser of blue flame as the magic that held it together failed and faded. Lances of cobalt light probed out, sparking here and there where they impacted the ground, and a ball of fire burst from the machine’s dying heart.

Lenora faced forward again, and sadness at the loss of her friend was cut short by what she saw: a field of tumblers coming at her, stretching left and right as far as she could see.

The two main forces of machines and tumblers met. The sound was tremendous, a mixture of machines roaring, tumblers thumping at the ground, Krotes screeching and fireballs and other ventings finding homes. The ground shook and the air sang with the tunes of war. Very soon the two opposing lines had disintegrated, turning into a pitched battle that spread quickly across the dried marsh.

Lenora swerved left to avoid a tumbler and drove straight into another. She tried to pull her machine up short but its momentum carried it on, front legs extended to ward off the huge rolling thing. When they struck, Lenora was thrown forward. She grasped one of her machine’s forelimbs, swinging around and kicking out at the tumbler. It started squirming and flexing, whipping at her with hooked limbs, but her machine unleashed a dozen spurts of flame from slits above its eyes. The tumbler’s limbs were severed and fell burning between the battling giants.

Lenora took the opportunity to scramble onto her machine’s back, ordering it to reverse as she did so. It tried, shaking with the effort, but was held tight. She leaned forward and hacked with her sword. The tumbler squirmed some more, trying to drive its barbs and hooks into the machine but failing to penetrate deep enough to take hold. Lenora sliced through its remaining limb, reaching farther and stabbing at its hide. She saw the bones of dead people in there, one recent skeleton smiling at her with leathery lips and waving a loose forearm.

Fire,
she thought, leaning back and closing her eyes. The machine breathed fire and the tumbler lit up, rolling back and trying to extinguish its burning side by crushing it into the ground.
And more.
The machine coughed again, and the tumbler was aflame, crackling and spitting as its ancient insides ignited.

Lenora did not wait to witness the tumbler’s demise. She rode to the giant machines bearing the cages of the dead, instructing their riders to release the cargo. Wooden limbs were lowered, ropes cut, metal chains severed, and a thousand dead Noreelans tumbled from their incarceration. They rolled from the body pile, rising dozens at a time and moving forward into battle. They passed by any Krote or machine they met, bearing down on tumblers already in their sights. Some carried swords and knives, others had fashioned clubs from thigh bones or spears from sharpened sticks. None of them possessed weapons that would hurt a tumbler.

But Lenora had not released these dead to attack the tumblers. She wanted to
smother
them.

She rode back into battle, dodging past the stumbling dead. Several tumblers ahead of her lit up from the inside as blue fireballs penetrated and exploded, their bone cargoes silhouetted against the flames. Inside, the bones were shattered and scattered, but those on the outside were more complete. Some of the tumblers seemed to scream, but the sound felt the same as the voice of Lenora’s shade: in her mind, deep down. Wondering whether she was the only one to hear, she screamed back.

Lenora saw the first of the dead crushed into the ground by a huge tumbler. Several of them remained squirming in the dirt, but a couple were pressed onto the thing’s hide, its barbs and spikes jutting from their already rotting bodies. There was little blood. The thing rolled on…and then stopped. It started to shake. Its limbs whipped back across its own body, hooking into the moving corpses and tugging away, as if to remove them. But they were stuck fast.

Through the shouts and shrieks of the battlefield, over and above the unremitting whisper of her daughter’s shade, Lenora heard the tumbler scream.

It seemed to go mad, darting this way and that, skidding across the ground when the dead Noreelans were beneath it, but it could not scrape them from its outer skin. They were tattered now, barely recognizable as human, but the damage was done. As the tumbler came toward Lenora, stopped and turned away again, she saw a dozen nebulous shadows flung from it, thrashing through the air, landing, little more than a heat haze on the twilit battlefield. But the air was thick here—misted blood, smoke, the stench of the dying—and these shapes soon took form. Diaphanous, ambiguous, the mad wraiths darted away from the tumbler. One of them struck a machine and seemed to disappear. The machine paused. Its Krote rider stood, looked down and shouted, as if angry. And then the machine flipped onto its back and crushed the Krote, its flaming legs thrashing at the air like those of an overturned beetle.