Packs of dead wolves dogged their every step, darting in from the flanks to savage a straggling family or to pick off a child that wandered too far from the column. The dwarfs had saved as many as they could, but Maedbh sensed their frustration at the slow speed the Asoborns were making. The dead were right behind them, and every time her people rested, they got a little closer.
Ulrike, Sigulf and Fridleifr lay asleep on the grass beside her, and Maedbh stroked her daughter’s hair. She was loath to wake the children, but dwarf scouts had reported seeing sunlight on spear points no more than a few miles behind them. They would need to be on the move soon.
She wished Wolfgart were here, imagining him riding over the hills on his finest stallion to her rescue with his mighty sword hewing the dead like corn at harvest time.
“What I wouldn’t give to see that,” she whispered. “I miss you, my gorgeous man.”
Maedbh looked up from the river as she saw a stout warrior in heavy plates of gleaming metal and fine mail reflected in the water. She hadn’t heard him approach.
“Master Alaric,” she said.
“The man you are bonded to is called Wolfgart?” asked Alaric.
Maedbh nodded, more surprised at the question than by the fact that the dwarf knew to whom she was bonded. “That’s right. Do you know him?”
“I do,” said the dwarf. “I fought beside him at Black Fire, and we saved each other’s life many times in the tunnels beneath Ulric’s city.”
“Middenheim? Wolfgart would never speak of that battle.”
“That does not surprise me, for it was bloody and desperate,” said Alaric. “I do not like to remember it, but if you are his bonded woman, then I must.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A dwarf never forgives an insult, and never forgets a debt.”
Maedbh laughed mirthlessly. “Wolfgart owes you money? He always was lousy at dice.”
“No,” said Alaric. “Not money. Wolfgart and I fought the vermin beasts in the tunnels beneath Middenheim. The rats were all over us, and we fought in the cramped darkness by the light of dying torches. We fought with axes, picks and daggers or whatever came to hand. I hauled his arse from the jaws of a giant ogre beast with metal for arms and he slew an armoured rat-champion with a short-handled pick to its brain. We fought in those tunnels for days, but at the end of it all we were victorious. I remember every moment of that fight, and Wolfgart saved my life on seven separate occasions. I saved him six times.”
“I’m sure Wolfgart isn’t counting,” said Maedbh.
“That matters not,” said Alaric. “I am counting, and I owe him a blood debt.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I am indebted to him and his kin.”
“Is that why you came to Three Hills, to pay your debt to Wolfgart?”
“Not entirely,” said Alaric. “We were coming to the Empire to take back a war machine your Emperor’s warriors retrieved from a representative of the Deeplock Clan. That, and we heard that the great necromancer had returned. But mainly to retrieve the war machine. Your settlement was on the way and was the quickest way for us to get ahead of the blood drinker’s army.”
“Then I’m indebted to you for warning us,” said Maedbh.
Alaric shook his head. “There is no debt between you and I, Maedbh of Three Hills, but when I see you to Reikdorf, the debt I have with Wolfgart is settled.”
“That seems fair enough,” agreed Maedbh.
“To allow me to honour that debt, I need you to do something.”
“Yes, I know,” said Maedbh, pushing herself wearily to her feet. “I will get my people moving, but they needed to rest.”
Alaric looked back to the east, as though he could see through the earth to spy upon the army of the dead. For all Maedbh knew of the mountain folk’s skill, perhaps he could. Alaric sniffed the air and stamped a foot on the hard packed earth of the riverbank, as though listening to its echo through the ground.
“That is not what I mean,” said Alaric.
“Then what do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. My debt is to you, not these other manlings. You have to leave those who cannot keep up. Your kind lives and dies so quickly it will make no difference to your race. The old will be dead soon anyway, and you can breed more young in your belly. These ones aren’t old enough to work or fight yet. What use are they to you?”
Maedbh struggled to hold her temper in the face of Alaric’s request.
“You want us to leave our people behind?” she said, as evenly as she could.
“It is the only way some of you will live,” said the dwarf. “Save those who can outpace the dead, leave the rest behind. Better to save some than none.”
“No, Master Alaric,” said Maedbh. “That won’t be happening. No one gets left behind.”
“Then you will all die.”
“Then we will all die,” hissed Maedbh. “I’d sooner we all died right here than live with knowing I left my own people here to be killed.”
Alaric’s face was unreadable in the dim light, but Maedbh thought he was more surprised at her decision than angry or disappointed. At length, he sighed.
“Very well, if you will not leave them behind, then my warriors and I cannot leave.”
“What? No! I don’t want your deaths on my head.”
“That is not our custom, Maedbh of Three Hills,” said Alaric. “The debt demands it.”
Further words were forestalled as Garr came running over, his sword drawn and the visor of his eagle-winged helmet pulled down over his handsome face.
“My lady,” he said, “the mountain folk say the vanguard of the dead are upon us. You need to go right now. We will hold them off as long as we can, but you must get the queen’s boys out of here.”
Maedbh took a deep breath, weighing the impossible choices before her.
“No,” she said. “We’re not leaving.”
“My lady?” said Garr. “You have to move. Queen Freya—”
“Queen Freya is not here,” snapped Maedbh. “And you will obey me, Garr. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady,” said the warrior. “What is it you require of us?”
Maedbh looked around her for somewhere they could make their stand, finally settling upon a wooded hill to the north. The river curled lazily around its eastern flank, and the thick trees would make any advance from the west next to impossible. The dead would have to come straight at them up the steep southern slope.
“Form up with Alaric’s dwarfs on yonder hill,” she said, pointing to the ridge of trees above them. “We can’t outrun the dead, so we’ll fight them. We’ll fight them and make them wish they’d never invaded Asoborn lands.”
Garr quickly studied the lie of the land, and she saw his understanding that this could be nothing more than a last stand. Maedbh gripped his shoulder and jabbed a fist at the column of Asoborns.
“Get everyone who can hold a weapon in the battle line, no matter how old or young or wounded,” ordered Maedbh. “Everyone fights, no one runs.”
He nodded and said, “It will be done, my lady.”
The Queen’s Eagle ran off to get the Asoborns moving and Maedbh turned to Master Alaric. She drew her sword and said, “After today your debt is settled, whether we live or die. Will that satisfy your customs?”
“It will indeed, my lady,” nodded Master Alaric with a deep bow. “It will be my honour to die alongside you, Maedbh of Three Hills.”
“Don’t put me in the ground just yet,” said Maedbh as the sun rose over the eastern mountains, spreading its promise across the land. She smiled as fresh hope filled her heart and closed her eyes, tilting her face towards the sun. “This is the Empire, and stranger things have happened than us living to see another dawn.”
Alaric heard the change in her voice and shook his head.
“Give me a hundred lifetimes and I’ll never understand you manlings,” he grumbled.
* * *
r /> The third night of attacks on Marburg’s citadel walls ended with the dawn, the dead melting away to the shadowed eaves of the lower town and docks. The base of the walls were thick with bones and decaying corpses, the detritus of the night’s battle which would, come sundown, rise once more to claw their way up the pitted stone.
Though the loss of the lower town was a blow, Marius’ rescue of Aldred had given the defenders fresh hope, and the tale of his magnificent ride circulated throughout the city, becoming ever grander and more adventurous as it went. Each day saw the warriors defending Marburg working in shifts to rebuild broken defences, shore up gates that withered and rotted under the effects of wasting sorcery, stitch wounds and pray to the gods for salvation.
Marius shook his sword free of ash from the grinning, skull-faced dead man he’d just killed, and sheathed his blade. The warriors around him cheered, and he smiled modestly as he accepted a towel from a nearby lancer to mop his brow.
“We may fight at night, but it’s still damned hot work,” he said, loud enough for the warriors along this stretch of wall to hear. A few dutiful chuckles greeted his remark, but most of the men were too exhausted and drained by fear to acknowledge his words. Few had slept since the battle had begun. Terrible visions plagued every man’s dreams and phantoms haunted the streets in ghostly processions of long dead comrades.
Looping the towel around his neck, Marius rested his elbows on a projecting merlon of the walls, scanning the lower town for any sign of a fresh attack. A dank fug of lingering smoke and mist hung over the abandoned district, rendering its buildings blurred and its inhabitants ghostly. At a distance, the docks of Marburg could almost be normal; hundreds of indistinct figures filled its streets, shuffling from one shadow to the next, milling with apparent purpose, but really just meandering like ants from an overturned nest. Most of the corsair ships that had brought the dead to Marburg were wrecked now, their hulls holed by long shafts of iron hurled from the citadel’s war machines or burned with flaming arrows.
Marius glanced skyward, looking for the dragon that had attacked the walls on the first night. It swooped over the fighting, filling the air with a drifting miasma that reeked of putrefaction and caused many of the wounded to sicken.
He turned as he smelled a scent of wildflowers, recognising the fragrant oil Marika liked to rub on her skin. She hadn’t spoken to him after his rescue of Aldred, and Marius was intrigued to hear what she would make of that act. Marika wore leather buckskin, elegantly cut yet practical, and a quilted leather jerkin. Her bow was slung over one shoulder and a slender rapier was sheathed at her side. Marika’s blonde hair was tied back in a severe ponytail, yet she was still devastatingly feminine.
Which was a welcome sight in a citadel defended by burly, seafaring men.
“Princess,” he said with a languid bow. “It gladdens my heart to see you well.”
“Count Marius,” she said. “Would you walk with me awhile?”
“It would be my honour,” replied Marius, hiding his amusement at the simmering anger he saw lurking behind her facade of courtesy. He proffered his arm and she hooked her own around it as they walked the length of the ramparts, looking like a courting couple out for a promenade along the seafront. A pair of Jutone lancers and four Raven Helms followed them, chaperones and bodyguards all in one.
When they had put enough distance between themselves and their warriors, Marika tilted her face towards him and said, “What in Manann’s name did you think you were doing?”
“I assume you’re referring to my rescue of Aldred?”
“What else would I be referring to?” she snapped. “It was perfect. He’d got himself cut off and all you had to do was watch him die. Why did you ride out?”
Marius smiled as they passed a band of Endal warriors gathered around a glowing brazier. He nodded to them as they tapped their fists against their mail shirts. Marika was cunning in a vicious, feral way, but he had been manipulating others for years and knew the way people’s minds worked.
“What’s so damn funny?” she said, seeing his smile.
“You, my dear,” he said. “You think you’re a wily schemer, but you’re not looking at the big picture.”
He saw her anger threaten to spill out and raised a placatory hand. “Let us assume for the moment that Aldred had died on the first night. You think that would be the outcome you desire, but you would be mistaken.”
“How so?” said Marika.
“If Aldred had died then, nothing would have changed in your tribe’s perception of me. They would still hate me, and would never consent to our marriage. But look at how they see me now. Jutones are fighting and dying alongside Endals, and I have saved the life of their beloved count. Now I am not hated, now I am seen as a sword brother to Aldred. This battle isn’t over, and a lot can happen between now and its end, including your brother’s untimely end. If we play this game well, you and I will be heroes by its conclusion. Then we can marry and make this city the greatest seaport in the Empire. Now doesn’t that sound like it’s a plan that’ll catch a fair wind?”
Marika listened to his words with a growing admiration, and Marius wanted to laugh at how simply she was impressed. He patted her hand and she turned to face him, giving her most winning smile. He saw through it, but it was a pleasant view nonetheless.
“I’m beginning to think I underestimated you, Marius,” she said.
“Most people do,” he replied with a self-satisfied smirk. “It must be the cultured, debonair appearance of wealth I project. Though anyone with half a grain of sense would realise that you don’t get to be this rich and powerful without having a head for intrigue and a heart for murder.”
“So what happens next?” asked Marika, pulling him on towards one of the towers flanking the citadel gates. Endal archers were stationed here and two of the bolt throwing war machines stood on elevated wooden platforms that could be turned in any direction.
Marius shrugged and leaned on the timber steps that led up to the war machine. “We fight the dead and, like I said, this battle is far from over. Anything can happen, or anything can be allowed to happen.”
“Enemy!” shouted a voice from further along the ramparts, and Marius looked over the lower town, searching for what had triggered the warning. Archers loosed shafts into the grey skies as a vast shape moved through the mist, like a great undersea creature viewed from the deck of a ship. Marius prided himself on being afraid of nothing, but as the great dragon flew from the haze, he found himself rooted to the spot in terror.
A juggernaut of decaying meat and loose flaps of draconic hide, the colossal monster flew over the ramparts of the city with crackling sweeps of its ragged wings. Chains rattled and gears rasped as the war machines were hauled around and eight-foot barbs were loaded into bronze-sheathed firing grooves.
The dragon circled the Raven Hall, its wings beating the air in a parody of flight, for its mass was surely kept aloft by foul sorcery. Astride its neck, the black-robed sorcerer hurled a stream of baleful energies at the Raven Hall, wreathing it in crackling arcs of scarlet light from top to bottom.
Marius grabbed Marika and dragged her behind the war machine as the Raven Hall cracked and groaned, its structure aged a thousand years in the space of a breath. Crumbling stone poured like sand from its joints and a rain of powdered obsidian wept from the raven’s eyes as the mighty structure sagged to the side. Booming cracks echoed over the city as the tower’s stone split as cleanly as though struck with a giant mason’s hammer.
The circling dragon roared with the rasp of a million plague victims’ death cries, and beat its wings as it hurled itself at the tower. Its hind claws slammed into the Raven Hall and its enormous weight completed what the sorcerer’s spell had begun. The top of the great tower of Marburg exploded in a rain of blackened stone, and its lower reaches keeled over like a felled oak. Vast blocks, each the size of a hay wagon, rained down upon Marburg, smashing buildings flat and wreaking untold damage throughout the
city.
Thunderous booms shook the citadel as the rain of blocks hit in a series of percussive hammer blows, and billowing dust storms surged from the impacts. Marius pulled his cloak up over his face as the debris cloud rolled over him. He edged his way along the platform and threw off his cloak. Choking dust made him cough, and gritty fragments scratched his eyes. Marika huddled behind the war machine, her knees drawn up to her chest and her hands covering her face and mouth.
“Marika!” he yelled. “Are you hurt?”
She looked up, numbed by the sight of the ancestral seat of the Endal kings so comprehensively destroyed. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes free of dust. Marius pulled her to her feet. She was in shock, but he didn’t have time to play nice.
He slapped her across the face, and said, “Snap out of it, princess! The dead will be attacking any moment. If you want to rule this city, then you have to get your people ready to fight! Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” she said, her eyes filled with anger. “And if you hit me again I’ll kill you.”
Marius smiled and said, “That’s my girl. Aren’t we a pair of lovebirds?”
The sound of clashing swords and clattering bone sounded from the lower town as the army of the dead marched towards the citadel once more. Endal sergeants and battle captains shouted at their warriors to stand to as the flapping of leathery wings filled the air. The howls of cursed wolves echoed over the black sea, and over everything came the bellowing, deathly roar of the skeletal dragon.
“Shall we?” said Marika, notching an arrow to her bowstring.
“We shall,” agreed Marius, drawing his blade.
BOOK THREE
Dust to Dust
Hollow footsteps, cloaked by night
of sadness known through tortured sight;
The willow weeps its tears of woe as
Owl moans the twin moons’ glow.
Wind whispers through the willow’s leaves, and
Owl, perched high, eternal grieves.