The Scarab Path

Thirty-Three

Her name was Teuthete. The word she used to define herself was 'Chosen'. The title was woven through with history: the long and complex interactions and accords between her people and the Masters of Khanaphes.

She was slender, five feet and a half tall at most, far shorter than any of her distant western kin. Her skin was silvery grey, like light shining on silty water. She wore the armour of her people: a breastplate, shoulder and leg-guards of wicker and wood woven together tightly, interlaced with sinews and tightly plaited cords of hair: enough to turn a sword-stroke or snarl an arrow. Her own hair would have been white, except that she had ceremonially re-shaved her scalp before this mission. That was the mark of her servitude, her calling.

Being Chosen was not just about being in service to the city, for she was something more than the levies of their army or the followers of their hunts. She was hostage for the freedom of her people, for the continuance of their ancient ways. Her personal loyalty bound her people to the city, and protected them from the wrath of the Masters. Such wrath had not been felt since time out of mind, but it was remembered nevertheless. They had warred with the Khanaphir, in that very distant past. The Marsh people had fought with all their skill and stealth, and their diminishing numbers, until the Masters had offered them a truce. A truce of servitude but not slavery, for Mantis-kinden could never abide slavery. With their backs to the wall they found other names for it and called it loyalty.

And now Khanaphes itself looked to be facing its last days. Teuthete was no fool: she had read Amnon's face even as he delivered to her the word of the Masters, or what was left of that word once it had passed through him. Amnon did not seem frightened. She reckoned the man did not quite know what fear was. He had been severed from hope, though. This was not a man who looked forward to the next dawn.

It would be easy enough for the Marsh people to withdraw now, to step into the mists and shadows of their murky realm and wait until it was over. The Many of Nem were not equipped to hunt Mantids through the waterways, and if they tried it, they would regret it and then die of it, in short order. Teuthete's people were not directly threatened, and the descending rod would strike only the backs of their age-old taskmasters. The mission they had given her, given her people, was a death waiting to happen. It seemed to her that they would none of them see their villages again.

She had thought — and the thought shocked her — of turning away from the Khanaphir in their time of need. It was only a thought, though. To act upon it would be to break an oath her people had sworn generation after generation, and that she herself had sworn as their proxy, as their Chosen. The sense of honour that bound her would have been entirely understood by her kin in the distant Lowlands, whose existence she did not even guess at.

She had a score of her people with her, as many as she dared take. They were all Marsh hunters, skilled in the ways of silence, blessed by their Art to strike fast, to step unseen. They padded wordless out of the Marsh on the west side of the river, with the walls of the city standing bravely to their right, the festering camp of the enemy directly ahead of them. It was three hours before dawn, those longest hours when sentries slumbered and it seemed the night would never end.

They carried their bows made from layers of different woods and sinews bound together with fish glue, curved and recurved so that, when unstrung, they coiled forward like worms. The Mantids would hold one end down with a foot, bracing their entire bodies, wrestling the rebellious strength of those composite materials until they had turned them inside-out, then secured them with ten-times interwoven hair and imprisoned all that straining power within a bow that looked small enough to be a child's toy. Their arrows normally had heads of stone or bone; the best of them were tipped with the hard, sharp chelicera of a certain water spider, and were lethal with venom. They had spears, too: long, flexible weapons headed like their arrows. They had the flexing spines that sprang from their forearms. There was not a piece of metal on any of them, and they were barefoot. The Scorpion thousands, equipped with their halberds and armour, their greatswords and axes and usurped Imperial weapons, awaited them.

The sentries were sporadic, loose, inattentive. There were even gaps where several had deserted their posts. Teuthete found one, though, staring directly out towards the Marsh. She crept close enough to see clearly the man's narrow eyes, trusting to her Art to hide her. She nocked an arrow tipped with a spider's fang. The first blood must always be shed properly. To stint on that now would be to curse their mission.

She drew the bow back slowly, with incremental motions of her arm, her shoulder, her entire frame taking the strain of it. Another Scorpion was passing by, weaving slightly, already drunk on looted beer. She waited, untiring, until he was gone.

Then she loosed. The arrow was gone from her bow, had lanced through the man's eye, without seeming to cover the brief distance between. Instantly she and her fellows were on the body, and had hauled his heavy corpse off into the night.

She took out her best knife, its blade a serrated razor of stone. The others of her party gathered around reverently. Before a hunt of this importance, these things must be done. There were rites that must be observed.

She cut the dead man's armour free and opened him up, spilling as much of his blood as she could on to the earth. Dabbling her hands in the gore, she anointed her fellows one by one, placing a handprint in steaming red on each forehead, the fingers of it curling over each shaved skull.

'Now let us hunt,' she said, and they surged into the Scorpion camp, at a fast rush that was not running, but a silent, ghostly charge.

Amnon had explained to her what they must do, and she had not completely understood, other than that at the camp's heart there were some great iron weapons that the Khanaphir feared. Amnon's foreign creature had tried to tell her how best to disable them, but his words had shattered on the shield of Teuthete's Inaptitude, and she had not grasped them. In his frustration the foreigner had offered to come with them, but Amnon had dissuaded him in time. No outsider could hunt alongside her people and live to tell of it.

The Scorpions remained oblivious as Teuthete's hunters passed between their tents. Most of them slept but there were plenty still wandering about in the dark, laughing, fighting, drinking. However stealthy they were, the Mantids were not invisible, not quite, so it was inevitable that they would be spotted eventually. Meanwhile, they continued soundlessly, deeper into the camp, relying on their speed to take them close to where they needed to be.

She could see ahead of her the tarpaulined shapes that matched Amnon's words. There were many Scorpions nearby, some sleeping, some not. One of the weapons had its cover stripped back, and a foreigner was doing something to it, prodding and poking.

We have come far enough.

Teuthete drew back her bowstring once more, and around her the others followed suit, save for the few that trusted their spears more and were getting ready to leap.

The arrow sped from the string, plunging through the foreigner so far that its stone head shattered on the iron of the weapon he was busy working on. Simultaneously, a dozen other arrows rammed home into the Scorpions standing around him, killing them instantly. Teuthete was already moving forward, bow now slung over her shoulder. There was no time to admire her handiwork.

The Mantids screamed as they came in, each one of them giving a high, whooping yell that froze the Scorpions briefly in their tracks. The spears then lunged in, flickering fast. Many of the enemy wore armour that could have broken the bone spearheads or snapped the stone points, but the Mantis were precise. They lanced eyes, throats, skewering under arms or into groins. When they had left no target standing, they began killing those on the ground, those just now waking up, with brutal efficiency. Half of them continued loosing arrows into the bulk of the camp at every new figure that presented itself.

Teuthete vaulted on to the uncovered weapon with a brief shimmer of her wings. It was mostly composed of a solid iron body. There were various holes and pieces to it, but it seemed invulnerable to her. The foreigner's instructions had been just words and they had made no sense to her.

One of her hunters fell, a stubby arrow protruding from the man's lean body, having punched through his woven armour as though it were not there. Her own archers kept loosing over and over. She noticed a bright flash from somewhere, a bolt of golden flame that she danced aside from.

There was a bowl of blue-burning oil nearby, by which light the foreigner had been working. She snatched it up and poured the contents into the orifices of the weapon. She could not tell if it did any harm, but the burning oil was flooding across the surface of the machine now, and perhaps its innards would be more vulnerable to flame.

The Scorpions were now rallying, alerted to the killers in the heart of their camp. Teuthete saw a shambles of a charge, a score of half-dressed men and women with axes and swords, but it was cut down by her archers before they got within a spear's reach. Another three of her people were now dead to the Scorpions' own bowmen.

She found more burning oil to splash over the covers of the remaining weapons. The heavy canvas smouldered fitfully.

Her people called a warning to her. There was a much greater Scorpion force forming: at least half a hundred of them dressed in piecemeal armour, with a scattering of their guard-beasts as well. Arrows lanced into them, each shot exacting a death, but they gained in numbers all the time, and then rushed forward in a single body.

Now we come to it. Teuthete and her spears confronted the onslaught. They did not even wait to receive the charge but launched themselves into the Scorpions' midst, half-leaping and half-flying. The spears were lost instantly, each through the body of a foe, and they resorted to their spines, dancing and cutting. driving the bony spikes of their forearms into faces and throats. The Mantis archers were still loosing into the throng, impossible to miss at this range.

Teuthete killed: it was what her kinden did. It was the red heart of all their rituals and mysteries, their oaths and honour. It was what they put up all their masquerade of customs to hide. She killed because that was what she was made for. It was not glorious or noble, merely efficient.

Scorpions were not slack in that regard, either. They, too, had mostly cast aside their axes and blades. They had an understanding, their two kinden: unarmed is best. There was a pleasing simplicity in it, unmatched by the later layers of civilized war. Claws against spines, they slashed each other, Teuthete's handful a blur of blood and motion within the Scorpion host. The archers were not shooting now, but engaged in their own close combat.

It was over, and she knew it. She could feel it in the surge and swell of the melee, as each of her followers died. Not one of them departed before their path had been smoothed by the death of many enemies. Her own time was coming, and she accepted that without question. If she was Chosen, this was what she had been chosen for.

There was sudden thunder out of a clear sky, and she felt a mighty hand take hold of her, take those around her. Most were thrown flat, but she, with her wings momentarily outstretched, was hurled into the sky.

One of the weapons had died. Its death-agonies, instantaneous but colossal, had wrecked a space of the Scorpion camp and broken open the weapon next to it. It had been the same one she had poured burning oil into, she realized.

So that is how you kill them. It was too late now to exploit this knowledge.

The air was abruptly busy with stubby machine-shot arrows sleeting up at her. The moment had gone. She saw three others of her kinden also airborne, although one was picked off as soon as she noted him.

She darted higher, labouring her way into the air. Her kinden were not strong fliers but the darkness cloaked them. The three survivors swooped over the camp, heading towards the city walls. Something tried to follow them, some flying foreigner in banded armour, but she turned in the air with her bow ready in her hands and spiked an arrow through him.

I live.

It was unexpected and she was not sure how she felt about it. The shackles of Khanaphes were still fastened upon her, but that would not last long. Amnon would find other ways for her to die. It was what being Chosen meant.

In the dawn's first light, Hrathen surveyed the damage. Angved and his engineers were picking over the damaged artillery. The bodies were being looted and then hauled off into the ravaged farmlands to rot. Scorpion-kinden were not sentimental.

'Give me a report,' the halfbreed growled. Angved clapped one of his men on the shoulder, telling him to carry on, and stood up.

'I counted around a hundred Scorpion dead,' he said. 'Half of those fell in the initial ambush.'

'Ambush?' Hrathen spat. 'How can we have an ambush occur in our own camp?'

'Well, whatever the word is.'

'What loss to your artillerists?' Hrathen pressed.

'Of the Scorpions? Three or four. They'd expected our crews to stay with their machines, I suppose. In that case, they don't know how much of a shambles this camp is. No great loss there. However, one of my better engineers got himself killed. One of the shotters had a jammed cartridge and he was working double-time trying to sort it out. Shows what you get for being too keen. Oh, and one of your Slave Corps lads got killed because he was stupid enough to chase their survivors into the dark.'

'Enemy dead?'

'Seventeen bodies recovered. Some kind of local Mantis-kinden, like we saw in the battle. I fought Mantis-kinden in the Twelve-year War: this could be a nightly occurrence.'

'Camp security is very much on my mind,' Hrathen assured him. 'What about the engines?'

'We've lost two, neither repairable. Our guests cleared the jammed cartridge by setting fire to it, and of course it was chock full of the good stuff,' Angved confirmed. 'Thankfully we'd managed to drill it into the Scorpions not to leave the shotters loaded overnight. Otherwise we might just have lost the lot.'

'Well done,' Hrathen told him. 'I want those walls down by evening.'

Angved looked away from him over to the city, that yesterday's festivities had confirmed to be within easy bombardment range. 'Quite possible,' he said. 'Normally you don't have the luxury of setting up this close, what with enemy engines on the walls and the like. Because we can, we have all the benefit of our ranging practice of yesterday, without having to spend two hours finding our mark again. I reckon we can organize a concerted barrage on the walls and gate, and punch through in good time. Or I can give you three breaches by the end of tomorrow. Just one breach might become a big choke-point.'

Hrathen nodded, conceding the thought. A moment later a man dropped to earth next to him, making his claws twitch with the suddenness of it.

'Captain.'

'Report.'

'The streets are full of people, sir. Absolutely packed full,' the scout told him. 'They're all on the move.'

'They're going to fight? What are they doing?'

'On the move away, sir. Looks like everyone who can is shifting across the river. I saw what must be a hundred boats, of all sizes, ferrying people over.'

Hrathen stared at the scout for a moment, with Angved waiting at his elbow, and then he laughed. 'I see it,' he said. 'I see it plain. Jakal'll love it. We've scared them to death already. They're giving over half the city before the walls are even down.' His face darkened. 'And it isn't necessarily a bad move for them. They'd never keep us out, and they know what will happen to every man, woman and child once we get inside. We've been guilty of thinking like an Imperial army.'

'The river,' Angved agreed.

'Quite. It wouldn't stop an Imperial advance for a moment. We'd just send the airborne over to take the far bank, worry about the rest of it later. But of course, we have no airborne, and I don't think our friends here are good swimmers.' Hrathen chuckled, the sound of a man whose day has become more interesting. 'Get me a single breach as quick as you can,' he ordered Angved. 'Clearing half a city of people takes time. Even if they started yesterday, there'll still be some sport left for us if you can have the walls down by dusk.'

'And what about tomorrow night?' Angved asked him. 'More attacks?'

'There was a tribe responsible for keeping watch, last night,' Hrathen told him. 'By midday they will be extinct. The Warlord has taken their failure as a personal insult. That will give the army something to enjoy while they wait for you to do your job. Tonight our watch will take their jobs more seriously.'

At dawn, Amnon sought out the Iron Glove factora, eluding his officers and advisers. The Ministers had been making demands to see him, and he had a pressing invitation to the Scriptora to explain his decisions. In the meantime the evacuation of western Khanaphes had been going on all night, the discipline of his troops managing to control the panic and fear of the people. Every boat that could take to the water had been transporting the people of Khanaphes to the east bank of the Jamail, the sailors and fishermen and traders shuttling back and forth across the river. They stopped only if their boats were in danger of sinking or falling apart.

The Ministers had not countermanded his orders, and in its own small way that brought home to Amnon just how bad things had become. Their fearful forbearance would not last, he knew, so he was determined to achieve as much as possible before they confronted him.

And he had promised this one indulgence to himself. It meant a lot to him.

Totho met him within minutes of his arrival, already wearing half of his mail. All around them was the sound of a company of mercenaries preparing for war. Corcoran was already on the river with the Fourth Iteration, helping with the general evacuation.

'How's it going?' Totho asked him.

'Well enough, but there is a great deal left to do. When they start attacking the walls, we will have to make a choice.'

'Priorities, you mean,' Totho appreciated. 'People or foodstuffs.'

'If we strip the western city of food, we could starve the enemy, as you say …'

'But you won't do that,' Totho finished for him.

'I have a duty to the people, first of all. I am their First Soldier,' Amnon said. 'I cannot leave them to the Many of Nem.'

'I understand,' said Totho, and Amnon could tell that it was that particular civilized brand of understanding that these foreigners seemed so adept at. Totho could understand Amnon's logic with his mind, but not feel it with his heart. If it had been Totho in command, then the choice would have been different.

And I am lucky to have a man on my side who can think like that, Amnon decided. Or we might have simply sat here behind our walls until they fell on us.

There was a distant concussion and he thought he felt the ground tremble slightly. Totho had lifted his head, like a hunter listening for his quarry, and said, 'That was all of them at once. It's started.'

'Then make me ready,' Amnon urged him.

'Come with me.' Totho led him into the factora, seeking out that same room he remembered. 'How is the work at the bridge?'

'Going well. We will be ready,' Amnon replied. It had been a nightmare, in truth. A true nightmare for masons and labourers to carry out such precarious work in the dark. They had set up a pair of hoists on the bridge, and thus lifted stone blocks up on to its arching span, and then wooden boards and planks had turned the stonework into battlements, narrowing the path across the bridge to only a few feet across. Now the leadshotters had begun, that narrow gap could be closed entirely, and the makeshift wall of stone and wood would block off the bridge. A handful of good men and a scatter of archers could hold it. They would have to, since it was the only chance of stalling the Scorpion advance.

How long? Amnon tried to picture himself standing atop that barricade, that had been put up so hastily. They will come in all the numbers the bridge will allow them. They will sink their claws into the wood and tear it away. They will swarm up the stone. In the back of his mind was the thought that, even if they stood off the Many for a tenday, it would not be enough. Two tendays or three, it was all delaying the inevitable.

Then we will delay them until we have no blood left to spill.

'Of course you can destroy the bridge,' Totho said, 'or try to. I'm not sure if we have enough explosives on the Iteration to manage it.'

Amnon did not need to think of the outrage such a suggestion would cause amongst the Ministers. He felt an echo of it himself, rising unbidden. 'The stones of that bridge are amongst the oldest of the city, Totho. The Masters themselves decreed its construction. It is like the Scriptora, the Place of Foreigners. It is the genuine old city that the new city has grown within. It would be … unthinkable to turn against it.'

'The Scorpions are going to tear down as much of your old city as they can get their hands on,' Totho pointed out harshly.

'That is why they are our enemies,' Amnon said flatly.

They had arrived at the arming room, where the black plates of aviation steel were laid out ready for him. He remembered how they had felt: smooth, weightless, a second skin of impenetrable steel.

'Put it on me,' Amnon directed.

Totho, with no further comment, set about the task like an artificer, taking up the pieces in their precise order, and remaking Amnon piece by piece. He buckled together the breastplate and backplate, drawing the straps tight, and feeling a strange sense of triumph. Logic and reason can grow even in this soil.

He heard lightly running feet and did not need to glance up. The messenger was expected, and the Fly-kinden, Tirado, burst in.

'How are they looking?' Totho asked him.

'They're all over the place,' the Fly reported. 'It's going to take them three volleys at least to all focus on the same mark. And they're two engines down by my count.'

'That tallies with what your Mantis said,' Totho noted.

'I am glad her people died for something,'Amnon remarked. 'She will join us on the bridge.'

'Will she indeed?' An odd shiver passed through Totho. 'It's been a while since I fought alongside Mantis-kinden.'

'Oh, and I spotted the grand old man on his way here,' Tirado added. 'Meaning the top Domino.' It was a word the Solarnese had coined for the male Khanaphir leaders. In Solarno the heads of the leading houses were Spider-kinden, therefore women, and referred to as Domina. The new-minted slang had obviously failed to reach Amnon, however. Totho tugged the pauldrons tight and explained, 'He means First Minister Ethmet.'

He felt the stance of the man stiffen, a warrior readying for an attack.

'I can keep him out,' Totho suggested. 'Right now I don't think they have the spare men to make an issue of it.'

'I will see him,' Amnon declared.

'Your choice.' Totho nodded briefly to the Fly-kinden. 'See he's well received, then bring him through.' Once Tirado had gone, he put in, 'We could keep him waiting. Drinks, food. It doesn't have to be now.'

'I want him to see this,' the big Beetle said forcefully. Just then there was the sound of hasty footsteps, the voices of Totho's staff being cut off in mid-civility. Ethmet burst into the room, mouth open to rebuke.

He stopped dead, the abruptness and his expression both suggesting he had been stabbed. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he watched Totho industriously lacing Amnon into the black plate.

'How dare you?' he managed at last, and it was almost a whisper. 'This has been forbidden. How do you dare this? Do you think the title of First Soldier puts you above reproach? Do you put my authority aside so lightly?'

'The role of First Soldier,' said Amnon, not even looking at the old man, 'is heavy enough on my shoulders that I require support.'

'Amnon …' The First Minister was scandalized, barely able to get the words out. 'You know the Masters have spoken on this matter!'

'Have they?' Amnon had abruptly moved a step away from Totho, and was now looming over the old man. 'They spoke to you, did they? And perhaps they also spoke to you about the battle we fought, how it would go, and what I could have done to save half our army from the sword? Because they didn't say a thing to me.' He was shaking with rage, all that anger, so carefully husbanded, now out in the world. 'I have listened to you all my life. I have been your dutiful servant and done whatever you said, whether it made sense to me or not. I have always done the Masters' bidding, imparted through you, and taken it for granted that you heard that voice that I never could. But if the Masters are so wise, how could they leave so many of my soldiers dead on the field? If the Masters are so great, why are they intent on keeping from me every advantage that might save our city?'

'What you would do — what this foreigner would do — would destroy us as surely as the Scorpions would,' Ethmet snapped back. 'When he had finished, with his ideas and his machines, what would be left here would not be Khanaphes. He would take the city away from those who have cared for and ruled it all these years!'

'From you!' Amnon shouted down at him. 'From you, you mean! You and the other Ministers, who tell us every word you spout is repeating the voice of the Masters!' His hands were clenched, as if itching to pick the Minister up and rattle him. 'I will fight to save this city. I will die fighting to save this city. But not for you. Not for the Masters. For my people. For the memory of those I have already led to their deaths, on your command. I will do this, and I will do it with Totho's advice, because I can hear his voice and it speaks sense to me.'

'The Masters will not brook such disobedience!' Ethmet almost wailed.

'There are no Masters!' Amnon bellowed at him, a full furious roar of rage. 'There are no Masters! It's you! It's you who would sacrifice this city rather than loosen your cursed grip on it an inch!'

After he had said it, he looked shocked, horrified by his own daring. Totho lifted the helm, the last piece of his mail, and held it out. Mutely, Amnon accepted it.

'You will be exiled,' Ethmet said, aghast. 'You will be stripped of your rank.'

'If the Scorpions leave enough of me to suffer your punishments, then exile me to the ends of the world. I care not,' Amnon growled. 'Now leave. Leave and do not show yourself to me again, you or any of your siblings, or I swear by all that I have sworn to protect that I shall march into the Scriptora and kill every last one of you.'

Whether by a renewed concentration of effort amongst the Scorpion artillery crews or some weakness within the Khanaphir stonework, the walls of Khanaphes were breached at three hours past noon that day, and the Scorpion war-horde rushed for the yawning gap. Beetle-kinden archers hurried to either side of the tumbled stones to rain arrows on them, even as the leadshotters picked a new space of wall near the breach, and began to pound it.

Atop the tumbled rubble and stones, two companies of the Khanaphir neighbourhood militia took station, directing their spears down at the onrushing Scorpions. They had been picked by Amnon and tasked specially for this last service to their city. They were men and women whose homes stood at their backs, who knew that their families were even now being rushed towards the river.

Roaring, raging, surging up the rubble, the first Scorpion charge broke against their shields, axemen and halberdiers of the Nem impaled on the spears, run through and wrenching the weapons from their wielders' hands even as they died. The leaf-bladed Khanaphir swords came out. The militia held fast, and the Scorpions fell back amid a hail of arrow-shot. The archers leant out further to loose at them, feeling the walls rock and totter with each leadshot that struck home. The impacts were coming fast now: the crews had got into their stride.

The Scorpion host struck out again, their long legs taking them up the rubble swiftly and sure-footedly. Axe heads split shields, javelins sank into them and dragged them from their owner's grip. The brutal halberds descended over them, hacking down men in the first and second rank.

More defenders pushed in from behind to stand over the fallen, using the slope to deny the Scorpions any progress. The bitter struggle swayed back and forth, but the Beetle-kinden dug in for all they were worth, with the legendary endurance of their kind, and they held firm. Amnon had chosen them well. They held.

After they had repulsed four charges, with grievous losses on both sides, Hrathen sent the crossbows in. They loosed volley after volley, the bolts powerful enough to punch through shields.

The Beetles held their ground. The archers above killed enough of the Scorpion crossbowmen that they fell back, aware of their value, their place as a military aristocracy that did not have to suffer casualties. The Beetles held, standing bloodied and ragged behind a barricade of the dead.

Hrathen found Angved and gave his orders. They had no time to play this out for honour's sake, and the Scorpions cared nothing for it in any case.

The first three thunderous shots were delivered to establish the range, impacting on either side of the breach and showering the militia with shards of stone and dust. The fourth shot was on the mark, right in the centre of their close-packed bravado.

Even then they tried to hold. Even then they brought up what few reserves they had left to fill the gap. They had a courage drawn from ignorance. The enemy have done their worst, they assumed, and we stand. They stood between the lips of broken stone and braced their shields, spears held high in challenge.

The next two leadshotters spoke in unison and wiped them out. Angved had made calculations for the lighter load and used scrap-shot, a bag of nails and stones and jagged metal that burst halfway from the engines' mouths. No shield could protect them, nor their desperate bravery. The leadshotters' load scythed them like corn, tearing men and women in half, ripping off limbs, breaking their bones like dry twigs.

Some few had survived, those standing closest to the shattered stone walls. A handful, only, they could not so much as slow the Scorpion advance as it howled its way into the breach, but they fought anyway. They had been stripped of choices.

Scorpions ravened up the walls and killed the defending archers. The bowmen fought to the last man, using fists and daggers against all the weapons of the enemy.

The war-host of the Many of Nem entered Khanaphes in a bloody-handed rush. Their army had instructions to run straight for the river, but the open city was too tempting. The Scorpions diluted themselves in looting and burning, even as the evacuation was drawing to a desperate close. Amnon's words to the boatmen had been clear: on no account, at any cost, must the Scorpions be allowed to take any vessel. Even as the Scorpions sacked the westerly neighbourhoods the boats were still taking on fraught and weeping passengers, just one more load, just one more handful of the dispossessed and homeless, even as the smoke began to rise and the victory cries of the Many drifted through the air.

When the vanguard of the Scorpions came to the river at last, it was near dusk, and still the boatmen's work was not done. At the sight of that rapacious horde, though, they cast off with their last cargoes. They wept, many of those oarsmen and sailors, on hearing the cries of those they had left behind. Hundreds, hundreds were still left on the west bank for the Scorpions to find. Hundreds, but not thousands. Not the tens of thousands who had made western Khanaphes their home.

At dusk, the Scorpion host was a dark mass along the riverbank staring across the water at their enemies. They bunched at the bridge's mighty foot, seeing the barricades above, guessing at the archers and soldiers beyond the peak of the arch, and they made their camp, and planned for the morrow.