Defend Karuk

Chapter Nine: Day Four

 

  The wildmen howled like a legion of hyenas. Their footfalls, the creak of their chariot wheels, the rumble of their horses’ hooves, thundered like a herd of stampeding buffalo. They cursed the Reclaimers in their savage tongue, brandished their brutal weapons. They kicked up a mighty cloud of dust as they marched upon Karuk, making the vast, blue sky hazy above them.

  The Reclaimers manned the wall, spears in hand, shields ready, a mound of rotting Arcite dead piled up in front of it. Their cold eyes regarded the unwashed masses with restrained hatred. Their armour glittered with the light of the sun, which roared down as furious as ever.

  “The wildmen come to test Hatra’s strength. Show them no mercy.” spoke Optimus.

  “No mercy!” howled Meridon.

  “No mercy!” the Reclaimers responded, raising their spears to the heavens.

  Drumnos watched on from the wall, savouring the thundering in his heart. Osuna joined the Reclaimers on the front line for the first time. He was no lover of battle, but nonetheless he was eager to prove himself. Mamatu set his eyes upon the massive Cromund, who advanced in his giant chariot, and wondered if this brute might be the one to finally best him in battle.

  Watching on from the Arcite camp, sat upon his golden throne, Khalim quivered with anticipation as he watched the savage horde march to war against his enemies.

  “Behold them, my lieutenants! Such ferocity, such fervour! Are they not noble in their savagery? Admirable in their pursuit of base and worldly pleasures? Praise be to Venhotek for bringing these manful warriors into my loving embrace!” he gushed.

  Nephys, Zamon and Byzar, flanking him, stared out towards the war-horde as it advanced upon Karuk. Though their expressions were by turns grim and stern, none could completely mask their trepidation.

  The civilians huddled into the Mausoleum around the burning brazier. Meset and Batu sat together, trying to calm their nerves by making casual conversation, reminiscing about old times. Jamila and Aysha said nothing to each other, and each avoided the other’s gaze. The chapel was filled out by wounded Reclaimers, those who were maimed but could still fight. An eye missing here. A hand hewed off there, covered in bloody bandages. A broken leg, tied to a splint.

  Imperios came to join them, using a spear as a crutch as he hobbled over, straining to carry his shield as he had to hop on one leg and drag the wounded one behind him. As he reached the Mausoleum he leaned against the entrance.

  “Morning all. I’m Imperios. Imperios VI at the last count.” he said to those in attendance.

  “Minos X.” “Ajax XI.” “Drumnos V.” and so on went the Reclaimers. The civilians introduced themselves, too. “Batu. It’s nice to have you chaps with us.” “Let’s just hope you’re not needed though, eh? Meset.” “Jamila.” “Aysha.” As she said her name her eyes met Imperios’ briefly, and he looked away at once. They had to pretend they didn’t know each other, though mere hours ago they were holding each other in a lover’s embrace.

  Cromund’s chariot rumbled to a halt an arrow’s flight from Karuk’s wall. He turned to his men and raised his falx, and they roared in anticipation for the slaughter to follow, smashing their weapons against their shields and throwing up their horned heads to the heavens and bellowing like nightmare beasts.

  “Spoils await us!” the giant barbarian roared to his men, who howled throughout. “The mad King invites us to ravage his lands. To raid and raze, to slaughter, pillage, rape, plunder, enslave…All this awaits us, my furious berserkers. But first we must wipe out the Southlanders, who stand there, thinking themselves safe behind their meagre wall. Rend their flesh with your falxes! Drag their bodies behind our chariots! Come, my lions, let us show them what the pride of Cimra can do!”

  A final, bellowing howl erupted from the horde all at once, and the battle began in earnest. Surging forth came mobs of men, not the whole horde at once, but twenty or so at a time charging in clusters.

  As these mobs came within a spear’s throw of the wall the Reclaimers held their spears overhead, ready to launch, and the lancers behind the wall thrust their spears into the ground ready to be hurled.

  “Hold, men! Let us see what they are up to…” called Optimus, and his men held their fire.

  When the mobs reached the piled, rotting corpses, they hauled the festering dead aside. These berserkers did not fear the corpses of civilised men. As they cleared the bodies some of them covered their comrades with tall wooden shields, anticipating the Reclaimer spears. From behind them, archers fired pot-shots with their fanged arrows. Others hurled barbed harpoon, and when they slammed into the shields of the Reclaimers they hauled on the rope, trying to wrest the shields from their grasp. The Reclaimers heaved against them, trying to keep a grip on their shields and keep their footing. Their comrades came quickly to their aid, cutting the harpoon ropes with their falchions.

  Optimus soon realised the barbarians’ plan as chariots emerged from the savage horde and began to trot towards where the bodies were being cleared. They were bulky things, drawn by horses blinded by war-masks, lashed by howling fanatics who filled out the carts. The horses, axles and spokes and the chariot cart itself were laden with scythes, spikes and blunt rams.

  “They surely cannot hope to smash through the walls? It is suicide.” wondered Optimus, to Meridon beside him.

  “They are berserkers, sire. They have no fear.” counselled Meridon.

  Optimus made his plans, and gave his order. “Open fire! Do not let them clear the dead!”

  “Fire!” howled Meridon.

  The Reclaimer spears rained down onto the barbarian mobs, and the savages wore little armour and many were felled by the missiles, or otherwise their shields were splintered by the powerful projectiles. Drumnos got his first kill of the day, ducking below a flying harpoon before returning fire, sending the savage sprawling with a spear in his chest.

  Even as the savages fell more came to join them, and they hauled the bodies aside to make pathways for the chariots, which gradually built up pace, and the racket of their wheels and the howling of their riders drew nearer. As they came, a surging horde of barbarian infantry began to follow up behind them, and Cromund’s chariot rumbled closer.

  As the pathways were cleared at last, the barbarian mobs took cover behind the piled dead as the chariots raced past, building up speed.

  “They’re really going to do it…” marvelled Optimus. “Back! Back from the wall!” he cried, and the Reclaimers scrambled back off the wall as the chariots rumbled closer.

  They began to hit. They careered into the wall one after another, smashing with terrifying force into the piled rocks. The chariots collapsed as they hit the rocks, disintegrating in a storm of wood, flying spikes, sheared axles, smashed wheels, mangled horses and howling riders. A storm of all this debris tumbled over the wall. A sheared scythe whizzed past Drumnos and impaled the man beside him, pinning him to his shield, and he fell dead. Near Osuna, a rider was hurled through the air as his chariot smashed into the wall, and his face was pulverised as he smashed into the ground. Osuna took no chances, and he spitted his mangled body with his spear.

  “The wall held!” spoke Meridon over the wailing of dying horses.

  “They didn’t mean to demolish the wall…” realised Optimus, too late. “Merely to force us off it! Back to the wall, men! Man the wall!” he howled, and the Reclaimers raced back towards the wall.

  The barbarian mobs had emerged from their hiding place behind the corpses, and they were the first to scale the wall in the wake of the chariots. They engaged with the Reclaimers, who raced to retake the high ground, and they swung their cruel falxes and axes down at them, and the Reclaimers cut them down with swiping falchions and hurled spears.

  Optimus cut down a man and kicked his flailing body back, blood spewing from his maimed face, as he trudged back up towards the wall. But then came the hordes which had followed in the chariots’ wake, and they began to tumble down over the top of the wall
in great numbers.

  The berserkers did not fear death. They swung their falxes, which maimed arms and buckled shields. They thrashed with their flails and barbed scourges, carved through bronze and flesh alike with their mighty axes. They kicked and thrashed in their death throes, wailing and howling even as they were impaled on half a dozen falchions and spears.

  But the Reclaimers held firm. They were used to fighting barbarians, and they locked their shields together and pushed them back towards the crest of the wall, ramming their swords into those who fell. The shield-breakers cut down berserkers with swoops of their mighty weapons. The savages wore little armour, if they wore anything at all, and they fell before spear thrusts and falchion swipes.

  Optimus howled as he charged up the wall, his shield slamming into the barbarian masses and sending two men sprawling back down. His falchion rammed into the chest of a beast-skulled berserker, then he kicked the body down the wall and smashed the rim of his shield into another, smashing his skull-mask. A cruel scythe swung towards him, but Meridon raised his shield to block it and protect him. Meridon grimaced as he rammed his falchion into the wielder’s belly, who whined like a spitted beast and fell back down the wall. More Reclaimers followed up, pressing the savages back.

  Though Optimus and his men had retaken a section of the wall, elsewhere the barbarians had a strong hold, and as they battled against the counterattacking Reclaimers they began to clear the rocks to make pathways through for the chariots. It was in one such place that Mamatu made his first mark on the battle.

  As he strode towards the rock-clearing barbarians one of them saw him and howled at him in his cursed tongue. He hurled a javelin, by Mamatu ducked below it. One came at him swinging an axe, but Mamatu hewed his arm with one sword before ramming the other through his ribcage and into his lung. Even before the body hit the ground he moved on to the next one, deftly skipping aside of a flail which thudded into the ground and thrusting a sword into the wielder’s neck. The next man fared no better, and Mamatu ducked below his swiping club and rammed both his swords up and into his gut, then he smashed his bronze-plated forehead into the man’s face and he fell back spitting blood.

  Others came to support him, and he and his comrades began to fight the savages back to the wall. Mamatu moved from one foe to the next with brutal, bloody fluidity. His swords and face were soon covered in their foul, savage blood, and the bloody grin never left his face.

  Drumnos grunted as he swung his falchion, cutting down a howling wildman, but even in death he fought on, his spiked club clattering into Drumnos’ shield. It would take three more hacks to finally fell the beast.

  As Drumnos lifted his head he found himself transfixed. A warrior woman charged down from the wall, white-painted, skull-faced, howling a foul curse. She was completely naked, her breasts shuddering with each footfall, her groin as furious and brazen as her serrated axes.

  One of these axes swung at Drumnos’ head, and as he lifted his shield and it clattered into it. With the force of the blow Drumnos lost his footing and he fell to the ground with a faceful of sand and dust.

  Down came the axes as the bloody banshee shrieked, and they thudded into Drumnos’ shield, ringing with impact each time.

  A spear thrust out, impaling the creature, making her lurch and split blood. As it was wrenched out again she slumped to the ground.

  “Do not be distracted by their womanly form, Reclaimer.” cautioned Osuna, the spearman, as he helped Drumnos to his feet. “They are as savage and dangerous as any man.”

  “Thank you, Osuna.” said Drumnos, as he blocked a swinging flail and rammed his sword into the wielder’s gut.

  “I recognise your face, Reclaimer, but I must admit I’ve forgotten your name.” said Osuna, fighting back to back with him, his spear ramming into an enemy’s jaw, his shield catching an arrow fired by a skirmisher on the wall.

  “I was Drumnos XVII when the sun rose, and as far as I know I still am.” he said, fighting off an axe-wielding berserker. “You are close to Jamila aren’t you? I have seen you two talking a lot.”

  “Yes, Drumnos, I suppose I am. But why…” said Osuna, weaving aside of a swinging mace and plunging his spear into the wielder’s gut.

  “I should tell you, Osuna, that I am in love with her. But my love is futile and will never be fulfilled.” said Drumnos, dropping his foe with a sword-swipe across the face.

  Osuna was taken aback by the lad’s sudden confession. “I suppose that makes two of us.” he admitted.

  “I had hated you once, Osuna, because I see that she has affection for you.” said Drumnos, catching a javelin on his shield that was headed for Osuna. “But my hatred was misplaced and so I apologise. I am sure if Jamila has love for you then you must be a good man. But both I and her must reserve all our love for Hatra, so…”

  “Say no more, Drumnos. There is nothing to apologise for. Come, let us press on toward the wall.”

  “Yes, battle-brother.” concurred Drumnos as he and Osuna paced their way towards the ruck on the wall, stepping over the dead and dying and heading into the breach once more.

  Imperios watched on helplessly from the Mausoleum. He cursed his bad luck and the pain in his leg, which protested every time he tried to put weight on it. He longed to be fighting side by side with his battle-brothers, and yet…As he cast he gaze across the chapel, past the eternal flame, his eyes met Aysha’s, and at once he was glad to be with her even in this moment of chaos.

  Aysha moved closer to the entrance and peered out towards the melee on the wall.

  “We should help them. Bring water, spears…” she said.

  “I will help you.” said Jamila.

  “No.” spoke one of the Reclaimers, taking Aysha by the arm. “Our orders are to remain here and defend the Mausoleum. The fighting is too chaotic. You would be at too great a risk.”

  The girls knew better than to challenge the Reclaimer’s instructions, and they sat back down and stared towards the fighting once more. They felt no less frustrated and helpless than those wounded soldiers.

  Cromund’s horses whinnied as his charioteer pulled at the reins, and the hulking chariot came to a hall before the piled dead and the scrum at the wall. Cromund stepped off and paced slowly towards the melee, a contented smile upon his face as the familiar tumult of war filled his ears. His long, hulking legs hauled him up the wall in a few strides, and he set his eyes upon his first target.

  The falx swung, the hook slamming into a Reclaimer’s breastplate, punching through. The Reclaimer howled. With a heave of his mighty arm Cromund hurled the Reclaimer off the wall, and the man flew off the falx and into a baying mob of wildmen at the bottom of it, who piled in and cut him apart.

  A shield-breaker roared as he hefted his kopesh overhead, but the barbarian was faster. He grinned as his falx ploughed through the man from shoulder to hip, turning him into two halves of butchered meat and crumpled bronze. Cromund swung his falx in a wide arc, sending three Reclaimers sprawling from the wall, one with a buckled shield, another with a hewn leg, the third sliced in half at the waist.

  As he lumbered to the top of the wall he lifted his shield, and two hurled spears thudded into it. A Reclaimer mouthed a prayer as he charged up the wall to meet him, but Cromund booted him in the face and he tumbled back down again in a limp heap.

  Cromund paced down from the wall and into Karuk. His slaughter would not end there. He paced towards his next foe and brought his falx down upon him. But where usually he would expect to see a quivering body falling away in two bloodied parts, this time the Reclaimer dropped to one knee and raised his shield overhead, and it clanged as the falx slammed into it.

  Meridon scowled as he struggled beneath the force of the weapon, heaving against the barbarian’s strength. “Is that all you’ve got, barbarian? You’re big, but Cimrans were bigger back in my day!”

  The falx swung again, and Meridon moved his shield to meet it with another great clang, but the force of the blow threw him fr
om his feet. Meridon rolled as he landed on his shoulder and he was back on his feet in a flash. He skipped aside of the swinging falx once more, which whooshed past.

  “If I was ten years younger, boy, you’d be dead already.” panted Meridon as he tried to steer clear of the deadly weapon.

  Cromund grinned as he relished the challenge, this time swinging his falx hook-first, and it slammed into Meridon’s shield, piercing it. Cromund wrenched his arm back, and the shield was ripped from Meridon’s grasp. A look of panic flashed, briefly, across Meridon’s grizzled face as the lumbering barbarian squared up to him. Meridon went on the offensive, howling a battle-prayer as he thrust his falchion up towards the brute’s gut.

  Meridon’s blade plunged deep into Cromund’s shield, splintering the wood, but it did not reach Cromund. With a cruel grin Cromund brought his falx around, hewing Meridon’s leg at the knee and sending him tumbling head over heels.

  Meridon slammed down in a heap of clattering armour, howling as his leg spurted blood, the severed half landing several feet away and with the falchion thrown from his grasp. He gritted his teeth and reached for the dagger at his belt even so. Cromund’s falx slammed into his breastplate, and the hook planted itself in his shoulder, and he howled in pain once more.

  Cromund decided to give his men something to play with. He lumbered towards a part of the wall that was held by the barbarians, dragging the Lieutenant along the ground behind him with the weapon embedded in his shoulder. The barbarians whooped and cheered as they saw their warlord bringing them his prize. Even as he was dragged along, maimed, Meridon cursed the savage and spat at him, and he wrestled against the rusty iron hook in his shoulder, and dug his fingertips into the sand, trying to fight back against the barbarian’s incredible strength.

  Cromund dragged Meridon up onto the wall and wrenched his falx free. His barbarians hauled Meridon up, gnashing their teeth, spitting and cursing, and they grabbed him by all his remaining limbs. Thus restrained, one of them set to sawing off his head with a serrated bone knife as he cursed them throughout.

  “No! Meridon! To the wall, men, to the wall!” marshalled Optimus, scowling as he and a dozen more charged at the barbarians on the wall, Meridon’s curses ringing in their ears. They smashed into the savages there, throwing them from the wall, striking at them with great fury. They cleared them away from Meridon, who lay there with Optimus at his side. His leg was hewed off. The wound in his shoulder gaped. His neck was sawed half-open.

  He was already dead by the time Optimus reached him. Even stoic Optimus couldn’t help but feel a pang of pain as he closed his old friend’s eyes, and he remembered the wise counsel he had given him on the day of Hatra’s Judgement.

  “Optimus!” came a cry.

  Optimus was on his feet, shield raised, in a flash. Cromund’s flax slammed into it, and Optimus was hurled from the wall, tumbling head over heels.

  Optimus staggered to his feet and shuffled back, and his furious eyes met Cromund as he came down the wall after him, one slow pace at a time, chuckling. His shield now carried three spears and Meridon’s falchion in it. His falx dripped gore. Optimus readied himself, thinking back to the day of Hatra’s Judgement. He had an inkling that, this time, he would need to keep hold of his shield and armour.

  But as Cromund paced towards him, stepping over the bodies of the dead, a third man barred his path. He turned to Optimus.

  “Go.” said Mamatu.

  Cromund stopped and grinned, then let out a deep belly laugh as he rested his weapon on his shoulder. “You want to save your leader, whelp? Admirable. I will reward your honour with a fair fight.” he rumbled to Mamatu in his savage tongue.

  “You cannot defeat him alone, Mamatu IV.” panted Optimus.

  “Don’t be so sure.” said Mamatu before turning his black eyes back towards the barbarian. Blood ran down his swords in wet streaks and dripped onto the parched earth. “In any case, my death would be no disaster. The Reclaimers need you more than they need me.”

  Optimus looked upon Cromund, the headsman of the foul Cimrans, the very people who had butchered his family and razed his home. The pain and hatred he had harboured throughout his childhood surged through his heart once more. He thought of Meridon, first as a younger man offering wisdom and warmth to a young boy facing death, and then older, fighting at his side, and now splayed out on the walls of Karuk. But before his hatred could overwhelm him, Optimus calmed himself with a prayer to Hatra, and asked himself – what would a wise man do?

  Optimus swallowed his pride. “Very well, Mamatu. Do what you do best.” he said, and left with Cromund’s mocking laughter ringing in his ear, thoughts of Meridon still running through his mind.

  There was little time to wallow in grief, for where the rocks had been cleared chariots began to career through and into Karuk. They galloped about causing mayhem. Some carried troops who jumped off the back and charged into the fray, attacking the beleaguered Reclaimers from behind. Some bore spikes and scythes which maimed men, armour and shields all. Some carried wild riders who balanced on the yoke and swung their long-hafted glaives, cutting men down as they passed. Still more carried archers and spear-throwers, who hurled spears and launched arrows into the exposed backs of the Reclaimers who struggled against the barbarians at the walls.

  “Lancers! Take down the chariots! Take them down!” ordered Optimus, pointing his bloodied falchion towards them. The lancers hurled spears at the chariots as they ran riot. The spears threw men from the carts and felled horses. Where the driver had been killed or the horses had been spooked the chariots dashed about madly killing at random, sending barbarians and Reclaimers alike sprawling, maimed by spikes and scythes.

  Drumnos watched in horror as a scythe-wheeled chariot careered towards him. A man ahead of him was caught, and he was cut in half at the waist, and both halves were tossed into the air and fell back down in a shower of blood. The charioteers whooped, savouring the kill, but Drumnos was quick, dropping his shield and jumping to ground. He heard the scythe whistle overhead as the chariot raged past, and he felt a rush of wind above him as it went.

  Osuna raised his shield as a wildman leapt from a chariot as it rushed past, and he fell under the weight of the man, only just having the wherewithal to spit him on his spear before he could bring down his barbed axe.

  Imperios had seen enough. Wincing, he stood up, and using his spear as a crutch he hobbled out of the Mausoleum.

  “Where are you going, Reclaimer?” snapped one of his comrades.

  “I’m the best lancer in the Order. Those chariots are running riot.”

  “But Imperios, your leg!” called Aysha, shooting to her feet.

  Imperios turned and looked into her distraught eyes. His heart twisted in his chest, protesting every step he took away from her. But he had his duty. “I am a Reclaimer. It is my duty to fight. I will do what I can.” he said, and he staggered off, fighting back the pain in his heart as well as his leg.

  Aysha slumped back down, her eyes distant. She gasped in sudden realisation and covered her mouth with her hand. Jamila recognised it immediately. She went to sit down beside her, but this time she did not chide.

  “Aysha…”she said, putting a hand on her arm. She knew it was him.

  “I can’t…I can’t just wait here…I can’t…”

  “Aysha, you must, it’s too dangerous…” pleaded Jamila.

  Imperios, meanwhile, staggered his way towards a clearing. He marked one of the chariots, and the chariot market him, the barbarians aboard it whooping as they whirled their flails overhead, and the driver snapped at the reins and brought the engine around towards him.

  As the chariot careered towards him he squinted, the sun bearing down and piercing his eyes. He dropped his shield, which was weighing him down, and he winced as he put weight on his injured leg. He gnashed his teeth, fighting back against the pain as he hefted his spear over his shoulder.

  The chariot was only a few paces away when he hurled the spear
, screaming in pain as the impact of the throw throbbed through his body and into his leg. He fell in a heap clutching his leg, and the spear whistled through the air and found its mark in the driver’s neck.

  He fell from the engine, and the reins lashed around his wrists tugged as he was crushed beneath the wheels. The horses, blinded by their masks, jerked their heads and turned. The whole thing smashed into a half-ruined stone chapel, and collapsed in a heap of flesh and bodies. The riders were pulverised as they smashed into the stone, or were mangled by the sheared axle.

  Imperios allowed himself a little grin of satisfaction as he saw the havoc his spear had wrought, but as he struggled to his feet, picked up his shield and began to limp back to the Mausoleum his satisfaction was cut short.

  He heard screams. A woman’s screams.

  “No…” he gasped, and he headed towards the screams, dropping his shield, head suddenly flushed with terrible worries. “It can’t be her, it can’t be!”

  He heard anguished cries coming from a ruined chapel nearby, and he staggered over there hoping to find his lover distraught but unhurt. But no…It was Jamila, clutching at the smashed rock with tears streaking down her face.

  “Where…” gasped Imperios, unable to say more.

  “She’s gone! She’s gone!” panted Jamila, hysterically.

  “What? No, it can’t be…Where is she?”

  “They’ve taken her!” Jamila screamed, then clutching her head in her hands and curling up in despair, thrashing her fists against the rock.

  Imperios felt the blood draining from his face. He could see, in the distance, a chariot racing out through one of the gaps in the wall. He could see her there on the back of it, held hostage by the foul barbarians. He could hear her ever more distant screams.

  “No…” mouthed Imperios, barely making any noise at all.

  “She went after you! She was taken because of you! I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen! You have poisoned her mind, ruined her senses!” shrieked Jamila.

  “Silence yourself.” muttered Imperios, distantly. He began to stagger after her in a daze, dementedly thinking he could get her back.

  “Where are you going?” howled Jamila, staggering after him.

  “I will get her back.”

  “She’s gone! She’s gone because of you! My friend is gone!” shrieked Jamila, throwing herself at him and feebly thrashing her hands against his breastplate.

  Imperios fell to his knees, eyes as distant as a crow-pecked corpse. Jamila dropped down with him, panting with exhausted tears as she leaned against his back. “She’s gone.” she cried, through phlegm and mucus.

  Imperios, now realising the futility of it all, threw back his head and screamed, his hands digging into the sand in fury.

  “Yes! Yeeees!” regaled Khalim, skipping about giddily as he watched the carnage unfold. “See how the Calclaskan brutes falter before their own barbaric kind! See the carnage they have wrought! And what is this I hear? Is it the shrill cry of a woman in distress?”

  Sure enough, as the chariot thundered closer they could hear Aysha’s anguished wails. They could see the savages clutching at her arms and legs, whooping, whirling their flails overhead. They could see the tears in her eyes, the fear and despair upon her face.

  “A hostage…Venhotek will take her gladly!” marvelled Khalim. Byzar and Zamon shared a cruel grin.

  Mamatu skipped aside of Cromund’s swinging falx. He ducked as it swept over him, and felt a rush of air as it went. Cromund grinned and laughed as he swung his weapon again and again, but each time Mamatu leapt aside.

  “You’re a slippery one, Southlander.” beamed Cromund as he spoke in his dark tongue, discarding his shield so he could grasp his weapon in both hands and swinging it once more. “And far braver than your war-leader, who slunk off from me in shame with shrivelled genitals.”

  Mamatu darted back and the blade rushed past. Then he moved to attack.

  He charged at Cromund, then slid along the ground and between his legs as the falx came down and planted itself in the dry earth. As he rose again he swung his sword backwards, and it scored across the back of Cromund’s calf, and he fell to one knee and grunted in pain.

  The beast had been cut, but not lamed. Cromund rose to full height and turned to face Mamatu once more, who waited for him calmly, swords held deftly in his hands. The smile had been wiped from Cromund’s face and replaced with a furious scowl. Mamatu enjoyed that greatly. He even allowed himself a little smirk.

  Cromund roared as he charged at Mamatu, and he swung his falx wildly, but each time Mamatu dived aside, ducking and rolling. Other Reclaimers tried to wade in, but one was hurled aside with his shield buckled by the mighty weapon, and another had his skull blasted in two at the temple and fell in a cloud of blood. But still, Cromund was no closer to catching the elusive Mamatu with any of his blows.

  Now, Mamatu sensed, was the time to strike. Cromund roared as he charged at him. The falx fell. Mamatu rolled aside, and as he rose he rammed his sword through Cromund’s thigh. The big man howled in pain as Mamatu pulled the blade out and rolled back again as Cromund swung his weapon. This time Mamatu swiped his blade across Cromund’s back as he rose, and the barbarians howled as he staggered onto one knee.

  The falx came again as Cromund surged forth, fighting back the pain in his leg, but he was becoming clumsier, more wild. Mamatu jumped aside of the blow and rammed a sword down into Cromund’s shoulder. He left the sword there as he skipped back from another wild lunge.

  Cromund grimaced as he wrenched the sword out and tossed it aside. The wounds were beginning to take their toll. He was looking weary. He was sweating profusely and seemed unsteady on his feet. He staggered towards Mamatu once more, raising his weapon overhead, his wild, furious eyes fixed upon his target.

  It would be the last time. As Cromund came forth Mamatu jumped at him, like a coiled snake, and rammed his sword up through the underside of his jaw. The hulk staggered as the blade bit, and he dropped his weapon. He lumbered a few more steps, feebly grasping as the bronze blade impaled in his brain before at last falling down with a thud.

  Mamatu allowed himself a little satisfied grin, but he would not savour it for long. He paced towards the barbarian’s lifeless body to retrieve his swords.

  “Fight! Fight them back!” cried Optimus, kicking a savage in the stomach to send him reeling, then when he was floored he smashed the rim of his shield into his head, breaking in his skull.

  Drumnos caught his eye as he rushed past, then set himself and hurled a spear. At first Optimus through it was a waste of a throw as he couldn’t see who the target might be. But then a chariot careered into the spear’s path, and it slammed into the driver, who was thrown from the vehicle. The reins tugged, the thing overturned, and a second chariot, following up behind, smashed into it, and all was lost in a cloud of dust, splintered wood and bodies.

  “Yes!” grinned Drumnos, clenching his fists.

  “Good throw, lad. Two chariots with one spear. That truly is impressive.” grinned Optimus.

  “Optimus! I…I err…” stuttered Drumnos, suddenly standing to attention and saluting.

  “You have a good arm, boy. I have a job for you.” he said, pointing his gory falchion towards the Mausoleum. “Collect the fire-spears from Meset and hurl them into the Arcite dead beyond the wall. It is imperative that you do not miss!”

  “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” said Drumnos, at once flushed with pride and also giddy with nerves. He dashed towards the Mausoleum with a quick look back to see if Optimus was still watching. He wasn’t, he was wading into the fray once more, marshalling the Reclaimers against the savages as they were being pushed further back from the wall.

  Drumnos had no notion of what good a fire-spears would do, but he was unquestioning in his devotion to Optimus, and as keen to impress as any young Reclaimer. He sprinted through the chaos, ducking his head as a charioteer’s arrow whistled past. He took cover behind the remnants of a ch
apel to let a chariot career past him, and then he pressed on towards the Mausoleum.

  There he found the wounded Reclaimers standing over the bodies of a score of savages. The fire still burned bright, the banner still stood.

  “Meset! Meset! The fire-spears!” called Drumnos, desperately.

  Meset was on his feet as quickly as his ageing legs would allow him. “Yes, lad, right away!”

  “Here, let me help you.” said Batu, coming to his friend’s aid.

  The priests took the spears, which had tips bound in cloth and covered in black tar, and put their heads into the fire of the brazier. Once lit, they handed the burning spears to Drumnos, who dropped his shield to take them both.

  “They will burn away soon enough, young man. Be swift!” counselled Meset, but Drumnos was already on the move.

  “I will – thank you!” he called back, charging through the fray. His eyes desperately scanned the walls for an opening, but the entire wall was seething was savages now, pushing the Reclaimers back closer and closer to the central Mausoleum. He wouldn’t be able to fight his way up to the wall in time. He’d have to hurl the spears over the heads of the barbarians on the wall. He saw Optimus in the thick of the fray, and decided that was the place to do it.

  When he was near enough, a spear’s-throw from the mound of corpses on the other side of the wall as best he could judge, he set himself.

  “Here, hold this!” he asked a man beside him, who took one spear while he readied the other.

  Drumnos tried to ignore the chaos around him. He took no heed of the flying missiles, or the wild chariots which careered this way and that, or the screaming wildmen as they lay into the Reclaimers fighting around him, and the battle-prayers of the Reclaimers as they fought back just as viciously.

  The spear flew. Drumnos prayed as he watched it fly through the air, the fire leaving a trail of black smoke as it flew. Optimus caught sight of it as it flew overhead.

  Alas, the throw was short. The spear simply planted itself in the shield of a wildman fighting on the wall.

  Optimus turned back to Drumnos. “Easy, lad. Easy now. Put your faith in Hatra.”

  Drumnos nodded, hurriedly. He could almost have cried for wanted to do well. He took the second spear, set himself, and tried to blot out the noise. He closed his eyes and prayed for Hatra to guide him. Then, at last, he launched the spear.

  He watched its flight despairingly. Optimus, and many others besides, watched its fiery arc.

  The throw was good. It swooped over the barbarians fighting on the wall and landed amongst the Arcite dead, thudding into rotting flesh.

  The fire spread, slowly at first, from one body to the next, as the fighting raged on uninterrupted.

  Then, at last, the fire reached one of the urns of oil which were nestled in and amongst the dead.

  The ground shook as a fiery blast ripped through the air. A dozen barbarians were thrown from their feet, ablaze. All those fighting in and around Karuk turned to see what had made the noise, and they saw the black pillar of smoke rising from the corpses. Drumnos grinned with glee, flushed with relief. Optimus’ grin was more savage, more cruel, savouring the death that was to come, the snuffing out of so many heathens.

  The fire spread from one cluster of corpses to the next. A second explosion ripped through the air, then a third. As flaming bodies were hurled in all directions, the fire spread to other clusters.

  Before long a wall of flame and black smoke rose from the earth, blotting out Karuk from the view of the Arcite camp.

  “So this is what the sex feels like!” marvelled Drumnos as he watched the fantastic conflagration.

  “What is this? What is this witchcraft?” snapped Khalim, shooting to his feet. “It is the fire of Hatra! She has come to the heathens’ aid!” he railed. “We are doomed, doomed I say! Mighty Hatra has come for our souls! Flee, men, flee for your lives!”

  “This is a ploy, my King, nothing more…” counselled Nephys, though she too was taken aback by the sheer force of the blaze which rose up in front of Karuk like a mighty aegis, a divine, fiery shield.

  One half of the Cimran horde was held at bay by the flames. The berserkers lost their nerve and backed off as they saw their comrades running about aflame, screaming. Horses lost their nerve and bolted, the wild chariots wreaking havoc amongst their own men.

  Within Karuk, the savages were trapped between the fire behind them and the emboldened Reclaimers ahead of them.

  “Push them into Hatra’s fire! Let them feel the warmth of Hatra’s light!” beamed Optimus, as he and his men heaved against their shields, pushing the barbarians back into the flames, savouring their pitiful screams as they burned.

  “Cromund! Cromund has fallen!” cried the savages, seeing Mamatu holding their warlord’s head aloft impaled on a spear.

  Many preferred to take their chances running through the fire rather than being penned in there with the ferocious Reclaimers. Osuna rammed his spear into the back of a fleeing barbarian as he and his comrades trooped up the wall, driving the barbarians away as they went.

  Imperios and Jamila held each other within the ruined chapel, despairing tears falling from their eyes even as they watched the great victory unfolding before them.

  Panic spread through the horde. It broke. The tribesmen began to flee, not towards the Arcite camp, but westward, back toward their homeland. It was a disorganised rout. Utter chaos.

  “What? They flee? How dare they! How dare they disobey me, and betray their King!” railed Khalim, raising his claw-like hands to the heavens. “If they are not my minions, then they are my enemies! Hunt them down, my Lioness! Bring me their bleeding corpses on which to feast!” he howled, pointing a shuddering finger towards the fleeing masses.

  “Yes, my King.” said Nephys, and in a flash her horse was brought for her and she mounted up.

  She rode out to the westernmost flank of the Arcite camp where her cataphracts were mounting their steeds, man and horse both laden with armour.

  “We ride! We cut them down!” Nephys cried, poleaxe aloft.

  The cataphracts rode out, descending upon the barbarians in a mighty armoured cavalcade. They came like a great thundering storm that roiled across the desert sand, led by their red-armoured Commander. The ground rumbled beneath the feet of the savages as the hooves of a thousand horses fell upon them.

  Nephys’ poleaxe fell, taking a heathen to hell. The cataphracts hit, their xystons slamming into the fleeing wildmen, sending men sprawling from their feet or from the backs of their chariots. Nephys’ poleaxe rose and fell countless times, each blow sending another savage to their doom.

  By the time the massacre was done, the dry earth was littered with barbarian dead and was supping on their blood. The fires around Karuk had died down by now. The barbarians within had been slaughtered. Through the haze of rising smoke Nephys could make out the glittering Reclaimers still manning the wall, stood ready as ever for another offensive. She caught a glimpse of Optimus’ white crest.

  “Enjoy your victory, Reclaimers.” she scowled. “The day I come for you is the day you are defeated.”

  With that the cataphracts wheeled back around, back towards the Arcite camp. Optimus watched them leave, and looked upon the field of death they left in their wake.

  What little satisfaction he felt in victory was soon snuffed out as he turned back to Karuk, to his own men, all looking to him expectantly for their next orders.

  The village was littered with the dead, no small number of them Reclaimers. His men were exhausted. Many were wounded. Their shields were buckled, studded with enemy spears and arrows.

  But the Mausoleum stood, still. The fire burned, still. The banner was unmoved. The martyrs could rest easy in their tombs. For now.

  As Nephys rode back to Khalim and leapt from her horse, she saw that he was kneeling down with his golden hands pawing, feebly, at the ground. He was quiet. Shattered. Even Byzar and Zamon looked shell-shocked.

  Nephys knelt
down beside her King, offered him her bloodied poleaxe.

  “Your enemies are dead, my King.”

  Khalim said nothing for a while. He craned his neck, minimally, so that the black pools that were his eyes were set upon her. “You have always been loyal to me, my brave Commander.”

  “Always, my King.”

  “Will you rid me of these Hatran devils? Will you ease the suffering upon my weary brow? Will you soothe the torment the she-god has thrust upon me, and which weighs heavy upon my divine shoulders?”

  “Yes, my King. I will defeat them.” she said in a reassuring low whisper. Then she turned towards Karuk once more, her eyes thinning into a bloody glare. “This time tomorrow, Karuk will be yours.”

  The Cimrans were defeated. The Reclaimers had held Karuk once more. But there was no jubilation. No songs or battle-chants. Only heads sullenly bowed and prayers made for the fallen.

  The Reclaimers had suffered a heavy toll that day. Optimus ordered that the faithful fallen be assembled within the walls of Karuk where they would be buried. The count of the dead mounted up as bodies were dragged clear of the slain savages. Sometimes they had to be pieced together from severed parts, mangled by chariot scythes and barbarian falxes.

  “One hundred and sixty, all told.” said Batu, with a bowed head.

  Optimus said nothing, except to nod as he cast his stern eyes over the ranks of the dead. Meridon lay there amongst them, his loyal Lieutenant. Optimus considered kneeling down beside him and saying a prayer. But it seemed wrong somehow to single out one man when so many had given their lives that day. He and Batu went on their way, pacing around Karuk, overseeing operations.

  When Mamatu came to look upon the dead he scanned the faces of the fallen to find one in particular. He walked up to Meridon and looked upon his fallen body.

  “I got him, sir. I got the bastard.” he spoke beneath his breath. There would be no further prayers or paying of respects, no words of thanks for the Lieutenant who had trained him and led him into battle. That was not Mamatu’s way. He simply went on his way to join his battle-brothers in their duties.

  “There can be no more than a hundred and fifty fit and healthy Reclaimers left in Karuk.” continued Batu, trying not to sound nagging but not entirely succeeding. “I’d guess there are a hundred wounded, but some are in a very bad way. Not all will survive the night.”

  Optimus turned his gaze to one of the chapels, almost intact, where Jamila worked feverishly trying to patch up the injured Reclaimers. They waited to be seen without complaint, clutching bloodied rags to their wounds, in some cases carrying their severed limbs. Some lay there on blankets laid out on the sand, slipping in and out of consciousness. Meset tottered around trying to be helpful, and Jamila was as patient with him as she could be, but she was inundated.

  Jamila’s eyes met Optimus’ briefly. He saw a flash of anger in them. Hatred, perhaps, or resentment. Then she turned back to the severed limb she was torquineting. Optimus wondered if she had become jaded by the endless death, the futility of it all. Did she blame him for all this?

  Sweat dripped from her brow. Her eyes were red and sore, but her tears had long since dried up. There was no more time to mourn her friend Aysha. Others needed her.

  Optimus turned, then, to his warriors. They hauled the barbarian dead out of the village and beyond its walls. They patched up the parts of the wall that had been smashed apart in the melee. The reek of death filled the air as fresh dead mingled with the rotting Arcites. Flies buzzed amongst the piled corpses. Carrion birds flew in dark formation, set against a gory red sky as the sun began to set. The oil-fire had burned many of the corpses, and spewed them out charred and contorted.

  His soldiers looked weary. Their heads were low. They tried to soldier on, despite whatever injury or ill-fortune they had suffered, and in spite of the loss of their friends and comrades. But even the staunchest soldier is affected by such things. Not to mention the girl…Poor Aysha, snatched away by the savages, now at the mercy of the tyrant King. She was surely doomed. All of the Reclaimers in Karuk would have heard her screams as she was dragged off by the heathens.

  Optimus took in a deep breath. “In times of darkness, we need light.” he resolved.

  “Optimus?” said Batu, unsure what he was getting at.

  “Meridon was always better at it than me, but…Let’s gather the men at the Mausoleum.”

  “Very well, Optimus.”

  So the Reclaimers gathered, those who were strong enough to stand. Some limped, using their spears as crutches. Some had their temples and eyes bandaged. All looked weary, but none complained as they stood before Optimus, surrounding the proud winged banner. None would have disobeyed him if he’d ordered them to sally out of Karuk there and then and charge headlong into the Arcite camp. Optimus allowed himself a little smile as he looked over his men, pride welling within him as they looked back at him with admiration and expectancy.

  “We lost many good men today.” he addressed them. “But we will remain undeterred. We defend Karuk until the last man, to keep the light of Hatra burning, shining against the darkness of the Old Gods. Even so, given our casualties, it is necessary to make some battlefield promotions. Lahora IV was one of our most accomplished shield-breakers, but alas he has fallen, and he shall have to be replaced. Step forward, Illaris III!”

  Where his words had at first been observed with quiet reverence, when he mentioned Illaris III there was first a murmur of confusion, and then rising laughter. Illaris emerged from the Reclaimer ranks grinning from ear to ear, and the laughter became raucous as he went to stand beside Optimus. Illaris was a stocky, muscular man, but he was comfortably the shortest of all the Reclaimers. He was known as a bit of a joker, as close as Reclaimers come to being a ‘cheeky chappie’.

  “Bring me Lahora IV’s kopesh!” demanded Optimus, with deadpan seriousness, to more laughter. It was brought to him by an aggressively reverent Reclaimer, and then presented to Illaris with great pomp. “May Hatra guide your blade in battle, Illaris III.”

  “Thank you, sire. I won’t let you down.” grinned Illaris. “I shall hew many ankles.”

  The Reclaimers enjoyed his punchline, and as he and Optimus bowed all in attendance waited with bated breath for the next announcement.

  “Step forward Drumnos XVII.” spoke Optimus, and Drumnos’ heart thumped. He stepped forward with a mixture of bewilderment and trepidation. His nerves were calmed by Optimus’ warm, fatherly smile as he shook his hand. “Your name is now Drumnos XI. Alas, we lost many Drumnoses this day.”

  “Alas indeed, sire.” said Drumnos, bowing his head.

  “But you survived, Drumnos XI, and you excelled yourself. You have a good throw.” Optimus turned to the crowd. “Drumnos XI felled two chariots with a single spear, and it was his throw of the fire-spear which won us our respite from the savages.” He turned back to Drumnos with a smile, and Drumnos felt himself blush, flushed with boyish pride. “Bring this man a spear. He is a lancer now.”

  Drumnos beamed, giddily, as he was handed a spear by one of his comrades. Optimus raised a fist and howled “Arooo!”. The men responded as one, “Arooo!”. Drumnos bowed his head to Optimus, and he returned to join his comrades, who reached over one other to pat him on the back.

  “Finally, our Lieutenant, Meridon I, died bravely today.” said Optimus, his voice becoming sombre once again. “Anyone who’s eaten beside him at the campfire will be familiar with his tendency to bite off more than he could chew, and so he did again today, and he fell at the hands of the enemy warlord. I will therefore need to select a new Lieutenant. Someone whose leadership and battle-nous we can rely on. Step forward Mamatu IV!”

  There were murmurs of confusion once again, and one or two chuckles, as the grimly bemused Mamatu stepped forward and stood to attention.

  Optimus let the awkward moment linger, before at last breaking out with a smile. “You can relax Mamatu IV, the promotion is not for you! You could well be Lieutenant by now
if you weren’t such a scowling prick.”

  The Reclaimers roared with laughter, and even grim Mamatu allowed himself a little shrug and a grin.

  “No, Mamatu IV, I know you love only two things: Hatra and warfare.” grinned Optimus, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ve certainly spared little love for your fellow man, and indeed seem intent on ridding the continent of its surplus population. But in this regard you excel – and it was you who slew the savages’ mighty warlord in single combat. Therefore I propose we establish a new rank for you, one which compliments your unique talents.”

  “Badass-in-chief!” suggested one of the rank and file.

  Optimus laughed along with the men. “I like that!” he grinned. “Very well. Mamatu IV, I declare you the Badassoroi of the Reclaimers!” The two shook hands, bowed, and Mamatu returned to the ranks with a wry smile.

  “Jokes aside, men,” Optimus went on, “the rank of Lieutenant is an important role. one which requires stoicism and leadership, bravery and conviction. I have no doubt that this man has all the necessary qualities and will be an exemplary Lieutenant – Barrios I!”

  Barrios I emerged from the ranks, a grizzled and usually stern-faced veteran with his helmet under his arm, but he allowed himself a smile this time. He and Optimus clasped hands.

  Barrios turned to the amassed ranks. “I accept this mantle as Lieutenant – though I suspect my tenure shall be the shortest in Reclaimer history.” he said, to laughter. He and Optimus grinned and exchanged warm words as they clasped hands once more, and the men pumped their fists in the air and howled “Arooo!”.

  Optimus’ ploy had been worthwhile. Spirits seemed to be lifted in the hours which followed. But as darkness came, so too did peril, as Nephys was finally handed the reins of the Arcon warmachine.

  First came a volley of arrows out of the blackness. The archers, invisible in the darkness, took the Reclaimer garrison by surprise, and they rushed for their shields.

  Then came a troupe of Arcite spearmen, lit up by the flaming torches they carried. They stationed themselves outside Karuk just beyond the range of a lancer’s throw. The Reclaimers amassed at the wall, shields and spears in hand, expecting an assault. But none came. The spearmen simply stood there.

  Then, from a different direction, came another volley of arrows, and more mobs of spearmen came and stationed themselves around Karuk until it was surrounded completely.

  This went on all night. With the spearmen ready to pounce, the Reclaimers had to man the entire wall for the whole night. If they slackened their defences the Arcites could swarm in, and all of the Reclaimers, those fit and well as well as the walking wounded, would need to man the wall to cover the entirety of it from attack. The mobs would come and go from the Arcite camp, allowing the men to come in shifts, meaning they would be well rested for the battle that was to come tomorrow. With such a large army, no man would have to endure more than a couple of hours away from their campfires. But the Reclaimers would have to man the walls all night, in the bitter cold, without respite.

  Bands of archers would roam around, invisible, firing volleys out of the gloom. Though the Reclaimer shields largely kept them from harm, the volleys meant no man could drop his guard, nor drop his heavy shield, and he would have to keep it raised overhead as he stood guard.

  The rhythm of it – the advance and retreat of the Arcite mobs, the sudden volleys of arrows – was maddening, intended to sap them of strength and will. Though they were mighty warriors and fiercely disciplined, they were human all the same.

  Optimus didn’t stride about making speeches even as the night took its toll. All of the men would do what they had to – endure Nephys’ test.

  And Nephys herself rode from one mob of spearmen to the next, sizing up Karuk’s fortifications, counting its defenders. She howled orders to the men, sending mobs this way and that, then turning her stern gaze upon the depleted defenders.

  Drumnos stood at the wall all night with his comrades. The buzz of his battlefield promotion soon wore off as exhaustion wracked his body. He was pent-up, always on the lookout for a storm of black arrows, never able to drop his guard for a moment. The men beside him grimaced as they lifted their heavy shields overhead. They made casual conversation even as the arrows came down. Some swayed on their feet, and fell over as they succumbed to sleep, before dusting themselves down and manning the walls once more.

  Optimus allowed small groups of men to retire to rest for a couple of hours at a time, but one man refused to go, and manned the wall in silence without rest. Imperios’ reddened eyes were fixed on the Arcite camp the whole time. He listened, trying to blot out the chatter of the men around him, listening for anything that might tell him Aysha was alright. He didn’t know what that would sound like exactly – the absence of screams? But in his desperation, cold logic abandoned him.

  He tried to imagine circumstances in which his love was alive and unharmed, but all were wishful thinking. His thoughts we barraged by terrible visions of what might happen to her, of what might have happened already. His heart wrenched with worry and loss, and his fist grasped the haft of his spear with furious anger. All the while he had to hobble on one leg, impotent and helpless. But still he would take no rest.

  Eventually Drumnos approached him, holding his shield overhead as he went, wary of a sudden volley.

  “Imperios…I’m sorry about what happened.” he said, unsure quite how to broach the subject.

  Imperios simply grunted, not averting his gaze from the Arcite camp and its countless campfires.

  Drumnos didn’t know what to say. He thought of saying ‘She will be fine’, or ‘We’ll get her back’. But he knew it would be a lie. “I don’t know what to say.” he admitted at last.

  “Then say nothing.” snapped Imperios, turning his gaze to Drumnos only briefly before turning back to the camp.

  Drumnos let him be. As he went back to man his section of wall he saw Osuna swaying unsteadily on his feet.

  “Watch out, Osuna.” said Drumnos, putting a hand on his shoulder just as a volley of arrows whistled out of the gloom. Osuna snapped out of his daze and raised his shield. The Reclaimers around them raised their shields with weary sighs, and the arrows thudded down into bronze and sand.

  “Thanks, Drumnos. Damn this waiting! Can’t they just attack and be done with it?” he said, trying to sound casual, but instead betraying his frustration.

  “Tomorrow will be the end, I think.” said Drumnos, in a half-whisper.

  “I think so too.” admitted Osuna. “There aren’t enough of us left to defend Karuk all day.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yes.”

  Osuna looked Drumnos in the eye. “I know it has to be done. It’s our duty. Mine is to defend Calclaska. Yours is to fight for Hatra. But still…I fear it.”

  “Do you fear what is on the other side?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think Hatra will embrace you, lead you into the valley of the afterlife?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she will. But it will be unfamiliar, won’t it? That makes it seem scary to me. And the moment of death itself…”

  “Is just a moment.” said Drumnos, trying to console him. “One moment in a man’s life, as compared to the years that came before it, and the eternity which awaits him in the afterlife.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” said Osuna, with a weak chuckle. “I just wish there had been a few more years before it.”

  “Me too, Osuna.” sighed Drumnos, turning towards the mob of spearmen stood sentinel-still in no-man’s-land opposite their section of the wall. His eye wandered over to Nephys, lit by the flaming torches of her spearmen, sat upon her white steed and observing the Reclaimers from afar.

  Drumnos didn’t know how to be tactful about it, so he just came out and said it. “If we can save her, we should.”

  Osuna turned to him, then back out into no-man’s-land. “She seems set on dying here with us.”


  “Ought we to let her?”

  Osuna sighed. “Not if we can help it.”

  Drumnos nodded. “I agree. Until then, Osuna, I will return to my post.”

  “Until them.” said Osuna, and they clasped hands briefly, united in their dread and the futility of their love.

  Meanwhile, in the crypts beneath them, their love Jamila tended tirelessly to a dozen dying men. They lay on stone slabs or on the cold hard floor, lit dimly by torchlight. She went from one to another, mopping their fevered brows, praying for them, trying to comfort them as they thrashed about with near-death hallucinations. Their injuries were severe. She doubted if any of them would see out the night. But nonetheless she tried to make the night pass more comfortably for them, tried to give them water and feed those of them who would take food.

  She was so engrossed in her duty that she didn’t hear Optimus approaching. She first noted his presence when she saw his tall shadow sweep across the crypt’s torch-lit floor. She turned away from the man she was feeding, his slit gut feebly bandaged up with scraggly rags, and looked up at Optimus with dead eyes.

  “How are they faring?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  “Badly.” she said, standing before him and bowing her head. “None will survive much longer. Although the same can perhaps be set of all of us.”

  Optimus nodded with sorrow in his eyes. “A sad thing. But necessary.”

  “Indeed, Optimus.”

  “You have been brave, Jamila, and your treatment of these men is testament to your mercy and care. I don’t want you to think I have not noticed it.”

  “I have not done it for your approval, Optimus. I have done it for Hatra. I have only done what she would expect of me.” Optimus could not help but sense the anger which lay beneath her words.

  “I will have to ask you to be brave again tomorrow, Jamila.” said Optimus, looking her dead in the eye. “Many will die. All of us, perhaps. And your friend, Aysha…I fear nothing can save her now. But in spite of all of this, I will need you to remain strong, as strong as you have been up to this day. When the men look at you, they see the divinity of Hatra shine through you. I need you to stay strong for them, to give them hope in their final moments.”

  Jamila didn’t visibly react to his words except to nod. “That is my role, Optimus. I will play it as best I can.”

  “And I will have to ask one more thing from you, Jamila, though it pains me to add to your burden.”

  “Yes, Optimus?”

  Optimus put his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “I need you to forgive me for everything that’s happened. I need you to trust me.”

  Jamila said nothing for a while, then when Optimus’ stare became too intense for her she looked away. “I will try.”

  “That is all I ask.” said Optimus, with a sorrowful smile, before he bowed and left.

  Jamila was left alone once more, with only those dying men for company as she contemplated the coming end. She alone of all of them would emerge from the crypts come morning.