The Traitor God

Chapter 28

Dozens of armoured wardens knelt before a gaggle of priests murmuring useless prayers to absent gods, while others were more interested in hurriedly scrawling notes to their loved ones before handing them over to a solemn-looking young lad with a sack. Eva formed her knights into a wedge of jagged steel in front of the gate and coteries formed into ranks behind them. Setharis had never done battle as lesser peoples did, with rank upon rank of spearmen, horse, and heavy infantry. Instead the core of our armies split into independent coteries existing solely to protect individual magi. With so few magi experienced in battle perhaps that had to change. A dozen wardens encircled the sanctors keeping me under guard. The girl sanctor took the front while Martain and the boy stood behind me.

The Archmagus and the other members of the Inner Circle, save the injured Cillian, moved towards the gate, giving the sanctors a wide berth. Shadea carried something bulky and metallic in her arms. I was disappointed to discover that a titan activation key was a plain metal box with little gold studs all along the sides. She was guarded by a wall of steel-clad wardens carrying tower-shields as tall as they were.

Krandus turned on his heel to face us. The wardens all shifted nervously, leather and metal creaking and clinking. They were terrified – and so were the magi, most of whom had never seen a street fight, never mind a battle. I didn’t think it would take much to break them, and it didn’t escape Krandus’ notice either. His eyes found mine with an unspoken warning to behave.

“No time for a pretty speech,” he said, voice ringing loud and clear over the background mayhem. “This is Setharis. We have always stood against blood sorcerers who cut out the beating hearts of children as sacrifice for their inhuman and daemonic masters. Kill them all.”

The gate doors yawned wide and Setharis marched to war. A mob of sooty Docklanders spilled in pleading for safety. They pushed through the widening gap, then stopped and panicked, scrambling backwards as the steel wall of the siege-breakers advanced at a steady and unstoppable march. Beggars and dockhands, seamstresses, merchants and children shouted, screamed and begged even as they streamed back down the slope, pushing and shoving in a disorganized mess.

A few scattered cheers erupted from below as the bulk of our small army marched out after the siege-breakers and began descending the ramp to the lower city. It was as if they thought we might destroy the monster and the Skallgrim invaders at the wave of a hand. The might of Setharis was legend, and at its height none could stand against the ever-expanding empire: not kings, philosopher-priests, daemons or strange gods. Only the empire’s overwhelming arrogance and lust for Escharric artefacts had proven a match for its power. All we had left to rely on now was stubborn pride and a tattered legend.

A female warden in old scale mail and pot helm who’d been keeping pace at my side stumbled over somebody’s lost shoe and lurched sideways to jostle Martain. As the sanctor cursed them for a clumsy fool, through the eye slit I caught her aiming a wink at me. I frowned. Other than me, what kind of fool would wink at a time like this? A closer look offered dark eyes with scabbed lines across the skin. I cursed. What did Charra think she was doing being up and about, never mind armed and armoured? But damn she was a sight for desperate eyes! She mumbled an apology to Martain and slid back into position, blending in with the others and paying me no more regard.

I would never object to having a hidden knife up my sleeve, but I was more afraid of Charra’s death than in confronting any number of ancient monsters.

As we advanced down towards the Crescent, people busy looting the fine houses looked up in terror, most fleeing with whatever they could carry. Some, crazed by fear or anger – or aligned with the Skallgrim – lashed out at us with nailed clubs, rocks, chair legs and rusty knives. A handful of arrows skittered down across the wardens’ hastily raised shields. One lurched back screaming, with a shaft through his cheek.

That did it. The siege-breakers broke into a clanking run and the mob of innocent Docklanders that had been backing down the ramp splintered and fled, leaping off onto roofs, trees and gardens below. The siege-breakers didn’t slow, smashed straight through their attackers in a welter of blood and shattered bone – and through anybody else unlucky enough to be caught in the middle. Any that survived that moving wall of death lifted their heads from the ground just in time to get their skulls crushed by the boots of wardens running in their wake. By the time we passed, the ground was slick with blood, and anything recognisably human reduced to mush.

The wounded warden got back to his feet. He bit down on the shaft of the barbed arrow pinning his cheeks and gingerly took hold of the feathered end. With a quick jerk, he snapped the end off. He slid the arrow from his cheeks, spat splinters and broken teeth, and then jogged off to rejoin his fellows.

The siege-breakers relieved the battered remnants of the bridge guard Shadea had left behind and cleared a sizable area of Sethgate, dripping blood and flesh while the rest of us caught up. Any peasants with a lick of sense had fled the area as fast as their feet could carry them.

In the lower city the ominous beat of the Skallgrim battle drums echoed weirdly through twisting streets and alleys. Drifting smoke stung my eyes and the air stank of charred flesh. I envied the black flights of corvun and flocks of lesser birds that wheeled overhead well out of danger’s way. A corvun screeched and dropped like a stone towards us, with a last-second flap of wings settling on Krandus’ robed arm. He whispered soothing words, not seeming to notice the vicious claws digging into his robed arm, and removed the message case tied to its foot. He unravelled and read a tiny scroll, then passed it on to three councillors of the Inner Circle that were nearby: Shadea, Merwyn, and a stern-faced man who was all bushy eyebrows and beard named Wyman. The others were busy marshalling troops elsewhere. I did my best to eavesdrop.

“The Skallgrim and their daemon hordes have overwhelmed the remaining gate guard. The bulk of their forces remain outside the city but an unknown number of units have entered and are herding the populace towards the Magash Mora. Prepare for battle.” The magi began roaring orders to the coteries under their command.

Shadea and her guard broke away from the Inner Circle and came towards us, gathering three other magi and their coteries as she went.

“Your group are to come with me,” she said to Martain. With the activation key held tight in her arms it looked like we were heading straight for one of the titans. A half-dozen siege-breakers led by Eva joined us. We had been given the easy job of sticking a metal box into a dormant titan. How could that possibly go wrong? Those other poor fools were going to hit the Skallgrim hard and try to draw the Magash Mora away from the fleeing populace. If the creature got much larger then even the cliff face of the Old Town would afford no protection.

“When the bulk of our forces engage the enemy we will make haste for the titan named Lust located at the far side of Westford Bridge,” Shadea said. “We are short on time. When the signal is given do not fall behind, for we will not stop.”

All I could do was wait and watch, trapped like a rat in a cage by ever-vigilant sanctors while the swarming streets of the Crescent slowly drained of activity as the Arcanum marched to war. Soon I too would be dodging axes and arrows amidst streets filled with daemons and death. I wanted to run and hide, but feared Lynas’ pain coming through the Gift-bond would drive me insane before long – and where would I run to anyway?

The bulk of our army filtered through the choke of the bridge and began reforming orderly ranks on the other side. Small detachments of bowmen flung ropes with steel hooks onto the highest rooftops and ascended, pulling the ropes up after them as they took up positions overseeing the route of retreat.

The narrow lanes and streets of Docklands had to be a nightmare to try to implement any sort of coherent strategy, but fortunately that sort of thing was left to people far more competent than the likes of me. A handful of aeromancers were already drifting upwards amidst swirls of dust to act as the Arcanum’s eyes. Those poor exposed bastards would probably be the first to die – even if they could whip up wind walls to keep out arrows, they still had the Skallgrim’s winged daemons to contend with. Good luck lads.

I paced, worrying at a hangnail, glancing at the Magash Mora every few minutes in fear that it might have changed direction and be heading towards us. Martain’s sanctors stayed close, and he looked ill at ease, avoiding eye contact with me.

Charra leaned nonchalantly against a nearby wall, watching over me.

I envied her. I was a bag of nervous energy. It felt unnatural to loiter, doing nothing but wait for a signal while others fought and died. Bandits on the road or cutthroats in dark alleys I could cope with, but this was war. It was all new and it scared the shite out of me for two reasons: the obvious danger of an arrow or axe to the face, and the more insidious fear caused by its strangely impersonal nature – a communal us versus them instinct that tried to subsume individuality and merge me into the group. Even without my Gift I was infected by the army’s emotions. With my Gift opened wide it might prove all too easy to get sucked deep into their flow, and only the gods might know what would happen then.

I sidled over to my foolish friend, trying to look bored and aimless as the sanctors shadowed at a modest distance. “How are you faring, warden? Did you manage to get down here without any trouble? How about your, ah, friend, is she well?”

I couldn’t see much beneath the helm, only bloodshot eyes circled by darker shadows. She was exhausted.

She shrugged. “That wasn’t any trouble, a few arrows is all.” Then she lowered her voice to barely a whisper and answered what I was really asking: “I went for a nap, knotted the blankets and slipped out the window while Layla was reading a book outside my door. She’s safer up there.”

I groaned. “You don’t look well, maybe you should rest here.”

Martain narrowed his eyes as we spoke, but Charra tilted her helm just enough to spit by my feet and then stalk off.

The sanctor snorted. “We are going into battle and you are chasing women? Why am I not surprised? At least that warden has more sense than to have any truck with the likes of you.”

“Maybe I should look elsewhere then,” I said, blowing him a kiss. That shut the prick up. Damn you, Charra, what do you think you are doing here? Trying to save my sorry arse, no doubt.

It was then I noticed another warden had been watching us intently. They flipped a knife up into the air and caught it expertly, and I noted the twisted steel guard was a match to the assassin’s blade Dissever had sheared through atop the Harbourmaster’s roof. I groaned. These two women would be the death of me

Layla sketched me a brief bow.

I guess I couldn’t blame her, I’d not have let my mother do this alone either. The best thing I could do was ignore them both. With any luck she would drag Charra out of harm’s way at the first opportunity.

I approached Eva, my guards sticking to me like flies around horse dung. It seemed as good a chance as any to apologize for almost landing her in a cesspit of trouble. There might not be another opportunity.

“Stop,” she demanded. “Come no closer.”

I did as she asked. “I just wanted to say that I was sorry for the other day. Don’t worry; I’ll stay away from you now.” She was like all the rest – afraid of the corrupt tyrant in their midst.

She sighed, a hiss of air escaping the helmet. “Don’t be a dolt.” Her helm jerked towards Martain. “Do you think I wish to wear siege-breaker armour without the strength granted by my Gift?”

I groaned. A dolt indeed. She was the sort to take people at face value rather than listening to hearsay; of course she had also believed that Harailt was a reformed character so her opinion was suspect. “How do you stay so calm?” I asked, nodding to the wardens and Shadea. “You are about to go into battle.”

Metal plates scraped as she shrugged. “I spent a year with the legions guarding our colonies in the Thousand Kingdoms. War mostly involves a lot of waiting punctuated by periods of brutal violence. You get used to it. After a while you learn to focus on other things. Some wardens busy themselves checking and re-checking straps and buckles, or sharpening their blades. Others clutch charms and pray or share bawdy jokes and boasts about the coming battle.”

“What’s your method?”

Her helm turned to look up at the sky. “I like to watch the birds,” she said, wistful. “They look so free. Sometimes I wonder if they feel pity for earth-bound creatures such as ourselves.”

My thoughts leapt to the corvun with their wicked beaks and cruel black eyes. I didn’t think they had any concept of pity or remorse. “I’ll leave you be then,” I said. “Take care out there.” She didn’t reply, already tracking a flight of swallows darting between buildings, entirely unconcerned with ancient evils, daemons and death.

My hands kept moving to Dissever’s hilt, but each time they did the sanctors tensed and I returned to pacing and worrying at my hangnail until it was bloody. I tried not to look at Charra too much.

“Catch,” Shadea said, tossing me a wineskin.

I frowned, uncorked it and sniffed suspiciously. It smelled like wine.

“Drink, boy,” she said, “or I will take it back.”

I took a swig. A silky texture and the taste of ripe berries bursting in my mouth. I wiped my lips on my sleeve. “It’s good.”

Her eyelids lowered. “That is Bourgasi red, the magus of wine, brewed by an order of silent monks for over five hundred years. It is imported from a delightfully quaint city-state bordering Esban, and each bottle costs twelve gold coins. And you call it ‘good’?”

I took another swig. “Yes, good. I’ve had better. There’s a small vineyard a few leagues south of Port Hellisen that produces the best wine I’ve ever tasted. On my oath as a magus and reputation as an itinerant drunk.”

Her forehead creased. “I suspect the subtleties of quality wine are lost on you.”

“Not at all. Drink is the one thing I’m truly educated in.” I tossed the wineskin back to her. Despite her disdain I would bet good coin she had filed the information away for future investigation.

“Now that you have calmed down, stop that pacing. I find it irritating.” She turned back to surveying the city.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to watch the bulk of the Magash Mora as it slowly gouged a trail of devastation through the Warrens. I ground my teeth, hands shaking. I wanted to tear it apart and lay Lynas’ flesh on the pyre, but what could an ant like me possibly do to that monstrosity?

The wait to do something, anything, was excruciating.