Ecko Endgame (32 page)

Cut like that, she’d taken a blade hard and edge-on. It had probably scraped the bone.

“Give me your belt tie.” Amethea pointed with her chin. “Then if the water’s boiling, bring it here.” Even as she turned, there were more wounded incoming, some of them on their own feet, some of them being carried, on shoulders or on shields…

The horror of it blackened her heart, but she faced it, and she held strong.

Around her, the tent now seethed with shit and fear. All of her rough sacking pallets – fifty of them, the best beds she could offer – were full. Other figures lay or sat round the tent’s outsides, some of them tended by friends, some of those friends getting angry. The doorway was constantly bulging with more people, with hands reaching for succour. She was trying to help the worst ones first – but she didn’t have enough
time.

And it was too warm in here; sweaty and choking, all tangled up with the stink of infection and despair.

The woman’s blood was slicking Amethea’s fingers, making her grip slide. It had soaked the split-open sacking, and was sinking into the dirt.

“You!” Amethea caught the attention of another helper. “The man with the ankle. Go to the chest, take a cloth and the blue resin bottle at the front. Pour a little liquid into the cloth; hold it to his nose for a count of five. Then secure his leg so it can’t move. When you’ve done that, I need the orisi herb – the one in the packet with the red tie. And where’s my water?”

“Here.” The lad laid a steaming clay jug by her feet and then handed her his belt.

“Good. Hold here.” She directed him to replace her grip with his own. “Hard as you can.” Then she took the belt cord and tied the arm off, gripping with her teeth for a tighter knot.

The flow slowed to an ooze. The woman groaned, shifted. Amethea wondered if she ought to dose her with the soporific, but she was only half-conscious and supplies were shrinking fast.

Voices cried out. For mercy. For help. For a bucket. The place was a shack of dirt and misery and she could barely see, the damned rocklights were so dim. Where was the runner she’d sent for more?

“Get more water going. I don’t want to see you with idle hands.” She was snapping at the helpers she had, but they jumped without question. “The greatest danger is infection. This isn’t the treatment I’d recommend, but we don’t have a choice.”

A burst of shouting came from outside. The bottom of the tent fabric stirred in a freezing draught.

“You! ’Pothecary!” A solidly built man bellowed at her from the doorway. “Get over here.” He bore a belly, and the brassard of a tan commander. One of his hands was clamped to the side of his face.

“Speak to me like that again, you’ll lose something personal.” Amethea’s mutter was under her breath. She made sure the tourniquet on the woman’s arm was tight, put a fold of fabric between her patient’s teeth, then very, very carefully poured a trickle of boiling water over the cut.

The woman sprang taut, neck cording. Her skin steamed, reddened like meat. She’d blister, but they could deal with that later.

“Now, you, cold water and thread me up a needle,” she said. “Enough fibre for six – seven – stitches.”

“Thea? Thea?” Another of her helpers was panicking. “You need to come, quick…”

Cursing, she spun round, but it was too late. The man on the pallet two down had soaked though the grubby bandage that covered the stump of his lower leg. There was a pool coagulating under him. Over him, another man crouched and panicked, shaking his shoulder, screaming up at the hovering help. The helper was trying to staunch the rush, but it was too late. Even as they grappled together to stop the flow, the injured man’s head lolled sideways and his face went slack.

His eyes stared, empty.

The figure over him cried aloud, rocking, his bloody hands dug in his hair.

Goddess. Not another one.

Amethea felt sick, a rising wave of hopelessness. She swallowed it back.

“Has he gone?” Her voice sounded oddly void, like there was not even grief remaining.

The helper said, “I think so.”

“You ‘think’,” she said bitterly. The flame in her faltered and she sagged.

Like it matters if he dies.

Maybe those who die in here are the lucky ones…

Futility loomed at her, leering and grey. Faith may have been in action, but if those actions were failing…

Briefly, she wondered where Rhan was. Presumably, he couldn’t be spared from the fighting.

Shoulder.

Wheel.

“Take him out the back,” she said, fighting to find the words. “As soon as you can, free up the pallet. We still have clean sacking – they’re bringing it in as they empty the stores.” She turned. “Young woman – you – with the kicked ribs.” Amethea took long breath, flexed her cold and aching hands, and fought on. “Do you feel dizzy? Are you coughing or passing blood?”

* * *

Rhan anchored the left flank of the front line, facing the incoming horsemen, the Kas that burned in their blood. He bore no shield, but the point of his sword was fast as a whip, taking human throats and horse bellies. He could wield the blade one-handed, catching at spears with the other. Where he stood, the attackers flinched and fell back; the defenders formed with him and they held. But the melee in front of him was swimming into a haze, coaxed by the voices that teased him, by the temptations that sounded in his head.
E Rhan…
They knew how to play him – visions of the halls they’d once lived in, the lives they’d all led under the wise eyes of Samiel himself. Visions of Vahl, cast down for pride and rebellion; visions of himself, of Calarinde, of flesh and love and lust and betrayal; visions of his shrieking plummet through Kazyen…

The memories were clearer than they’d ever been; he couldn’t think. But he couldn’t falter – he had to
fight.

The foot soldiers were being cut to pieces – the cavalry was over them, trampling them into the ground. It was flanking and round them and Ythalla was laughing, in her own voice and in that of the Kas. She was playing a longer game, pushing at the wall in multiple places – she wanted the whole damned thing to come down.

And it was only a matter of time before it did, and she would be free to bring death to the ruin’s last defenders.

Their backs were to the wall, literally. They had nowhere to go.

About Rhan, the death was horrifying. His blade was fast, brutal, taking the throat of one, the belly of another, a lunge into the face of a third. But he was only one, and his exhaustion clawed at him from the inside.

His brothers had played him well.

At the far side, the horsemen had rounded the wall’s end and were starting to hack their way through the warriors, hitting them in the flanks as they struggled to face the cavalry line in front. They were being torn down where they stood, trampled into the flesh of those that had fallen before them.

And behind them, Amethea’s hospice was vanishing under a tide of injured – a tide he had no way to help.

A tide that would be cut down in its own turn.

The realisation was dire:
We will lose this.

There will be no future.

* * *

Still astride his mustang, Roderick had stayed with Mostak at the command point, watching the battle and awaiting the Commander’s orders. With them was Nivrotar, her white face calm and expressionless.

This was the last stand. If they were overpowered here, they had no way to flee, no escape and no fallback position. The walls of Tusien behind them were as unforgiving as the sage in his silent long barrow, now with all of these good men and women to keep him company.

Yet the Bard’s absolute faith was unshaken – he trusted in their victory. Everything he’d ever believed was crystallising, becoming true. He could feel the waters of the Ryll on his skin, almost touch the images that the world had once shown him. He was there with Rhan and Ecko, Amethea and Nivrotar. And Vahl Zaxaar stood with them, his many faces shifting like firelight.

He could hear words in the throbbing of the command drums, a cadence like a song.

Time the Flux begins to crack
…

The words were spreading like wet ink on fabric, like ink into skin, a blur of colour.

No time, no time, no time, no
time…

The images were strong, exultant. The tumble should have overwhelmed him, but Mom’s darkness had taught him a pure, almost elemental focus. He could feel a rising, savage shout of exhilaration that would split the very sky—

Mostak bellowed, sudden and sharp. The smaller drum rattled staccato, a call to fall back.

With a shock, Roderick realised that their position was being overrun.

No. Oh, no you don’t, you bastards.

Focusing hard now, he concentrated on the crazed and driven force before him, on the arch of the winter sky, on the air that seethed between Tusien’s walls. He could feel it – like Rhan felt the Powerflux, felt the light.

And he began to speak.

Once, the walls of The Wanderer had reflected his warmth and humour to the drinkers gathered within. Now he understood how that had worked, and he could take control of the ability – the walls of Tusien heard his voice, heard the power that Mom had given, and they reflected it back at the force below. His words didn’t matter, his intent was all – he was their strength, their litany. As he had called the people from the streets of Fhaveon, so he called them now. His voice touched the warriors faltering under the hooves and blades of the incoming cavalry, the archers whose shoulders ached and whose fingers stung, the tan and flag commanders who were overpowered, not knowing even how to follow their own orders…

Mostak himself, the Commander tight as a knotted cord.

Like some war chant from an old saga, so he let the words rise, let them call to the ears and minds and hearts of the warriors that defended the hilltop.

This was Khamsin, the instrument that Mom had given him.

And he could win the battle by the force of his voice alone.

Thunder.

Not the grim, grey sky, spitting its scatter of hail, but the dead ground beneath a rumble of hooves, a noise to shake the walls of the ruin itself.

Triqueta was at the front of the charge, the mustang surging under her, its hooves reaching and slashing at the soil. She was upright in her stirrups, screaming into the wind, fired with elation and fury. The red-maned chearl centaur was still beside her, pacing her like some damned guardian, but she wasn’t thinking about it now – she was watching the enemy lines, their flanks to her as she raced to cut them down.

Bastards!

Her own force was outnumbered, but the opposition were only foot-soldiers, lamellar and shield and spear. They could hear – feel! – the incoming force and they were turning, shouting, but not fast enough. She heard the commanders start to bark the order for spears, but they were too slow, way too slow. She was going to crush them, screaming, into the mud.

To Triq’s other side ran the centaurs, all rage and rumble. If they had any human conscience at charging their own lines, she didn’t see it – they laughed like Baythunder had, savage and gleeful, voices thrown wide by the winter.

Hail and dirt stung her face, chapped her cold hands. She slammed the mustang like a battering ram, chest-first, straight into the side of the turning tan of infantry.

The horse was strong; it crashed her clean through the bewildered footmen and into the commander, his face etched in an instant of pure surprise. Spears clattered, screams sounded. Curses.

She was on her feet on her saddle, now, knees bent, balancing as she’d done all her life. Blades in both hands, shrieking, she cut the man across the face and throat and he fell, his expression sliced and shattering.

Chaos seethed and shouted.

Ythalla’s forces had seen the centaurs incoming and they’d started to cheer, anticipating reinforcements – it was only as the lines closed that they’d realised the creatures were a cover, and that they’d hidden the lines of Banned behind. Farther up the slope, other fighters had seen the ruse clearly and there was a writhe of confusion as some of them tried to react. Some were barking orders, others were turning, there was shouting and a frenzied flapping of flags – but all of it registered only at the periphery of Triq’s awareness. She was sweating, despite the cold; around her was a blur of colour and motion. Her throat was sore but she was still screaming, raw defiance and battle-lust. Under her, the mustang leapt and kicked as something slashed at his rump. She laughed, her footing easy, and turned to slash backwards with her right-hand blade.

It bit, cut, and something swore in pain.

Redlock was still with her, his red hair and tan hide constantly in the corner of her vision. The centaur the other side had been cut off. The opposing tan had found its formation and now bristled with spears, stomping in time and driving the creature back. It reared at them, claws flashing. Orders carried clearly now, and she saw…

Shit.

Below them, almost at the bottom of the hill, the enemy force had a reserve. A flag of lighter cavalry were armed with long spears, and about to hit her straight up the arse.

Somewhere off to her left, one of the Banned toppled sideways from his saddle, keening, both hands raised to the spear in his throat.

Her belly lurched, but she didn’t slow down. Didn’t think, didn’t care.

Surging forwards, she left her own lines behind her.

From somewhere, a voice called her name, “Triq! Triqueta! Tan Commander!” but the words made no impression. She was savage with fury, release and revenge, her body singing, her reflexes faster than conscious thought—

Then, suddenly, she was alone.

The chaos was gone, the noise of the battle retreating. Her ears rang. The mustang stumbled, almost dropped to his knees in the muck, but he righted himself, snorting.

The hail had turned to slush, cold and wet across her shoulders.

When she looked round, she saw open ground, a gap in the fighting. She slipped back to her seat, the elation draining out of her like piss down her leg. Redlock was still there, his huge form fighting to break through a tight, heavily armoured tan that now held him at spear-point, but there was no one else, no one close.