Brexan waved to Marrin, Sera and those members of the Morning Star’s crew she could see from the porch at the Topgallant. Captain Ford was missing; Brexan assumed he had gone into the city to make arrangements for whatever cargo he and his crew would ship back to Praga. In just a few days he had gone from being almost destitute, struggling with the uncertainty of securing any business at all, to being one of the few men left in Orindale with a seaworthy vessel. More than once in the past three days Brexan had heard Ford complain that the Morning Star, his chubby little twin-masted brig-sloop, was too small; right now he was wishing he had invested in a larger vessel: a bark, maybe, or a fat galleon. But even so, he could ship almost anything anywhere, and he had been getting offers every day to carry sundry cargoes all over Eldarn. Captain Ford could name his price; Orindale’s merchants would pay.
Anchoring on the flats near the marsh might have been humiliating, but it had been the wisest move the captain had made since sailing north. When the mysterious power had broken, sunk or burned the rest of the merchant fleet to the waterline, the Morning Star had been safely out of sight around the northern point. With her leaks patched and tarred and her stores replenished, the Morning Star waited only for her captain to make a deal, then he and the crew would bring her south to the quay, take on whatever they were hauling and sail on the next falling tide.
But Captain Ford wasn’t fooling himself into thinking he had a monopoly on Eldarn’s largest economic centre. Ships were coming from Pellia, Strandson, Southport, Averil and Landry; there were plenty of vessels plying the Ravenian Sea and as word spread of the recent devastation, all of them would see Orindale as a goldmine, a chance for lucrative long-term contracts for five, ten, maybe even twenty times what they would have been worth in the past.
Captain Ford seemed to be a wise and experienced seaman; he wouldn’t drag his feet now. Brexan had enjoyed having him, Sera, even Marrin, staying at the Topgallant for the past few days, and she wondered if he and the Morning Star would be back at the boarding house in the coming Twinmoons.
Brexan had yet to see the devastation, she’d heard plenty about it, and she got the feeling that her life was about to go back into motion; the pendulum marking the passage of her time here in Orindale had begun swinging the other way. She pulled her cloak closed as she crossed the jetty and entered the northern wharf. She felt the wind bite at her face and hands. It was always windier down here than up near the marsh. Sheltered by the city and the stubby peninsula jutting into the harbour, Nedra’s cove was rarely windy, and almost never as cold as the Falkan capital. Though winter at the Topgallant had been marked by chilly rain, periodic snow showers and plenty of fog, the frigid winds here reminded Brexan that spring was still a Twinmoon away. She sucked in a breath, felt it chill her lungs and hurried towards the city centre. Right now, shopping was the most important item on her agenda.
Brexan had invited the entire neighbourhood, including Nella Barkson’s extended family and the crew of the Morning Star, to Nedra’s four-hundred-Twinmoon party, at least twelve people more than she had originally figured, and the way the Barksons and the sailors ate and drank, she was going to need more supplies – another barrel of beer, at least, another gansel, more bread, and more fish stew. She wouldn’t be able to carry everything on her shopping list, but she might get lucky and run into Captain Ford along the wharf and maybe she could persuade him to lug a box or two of provisions back, perhaps in exchange for free beer that night.
She watched as three massive frigates, rigged with an impossible tangle of ropes and sheets, made their way north from the harbour. Loaded to bursting, they plunged north through the whitecaps under full sail. They all flew Malakasian colours. Heading home to Pellia, I’d wager. I wonder how they survived. Maybe the mess down here isn’t as bad as everyone claims. Things do tend to get inflated a bit by the time they reach Nedra’s cove, she thought.
Another hundred paces south, with the frigates nearly out of sight on the northern horizon, Brexan realised that no one had exaggerated the details of the mysterious attack on Orindale’s merchant fleet. Like so many others in the past few days, Brexan stared in disbelief.
The ships that were moored along the quay and off the offshore buoys were gone. There was nothing left. A few naval vessels plied the waves, but there was nothing to patrol. A handful of small civilian boats scurried between the derelict ships and bits of wreckage that remained tied to offshore moorings, while scavengers and legal salvage companies picked over what remained of the massive merchant vessels, collecting bits of metal, a few salvageable lengths of rope, even some miraculously unburned planks and beams, but otherwise, the harbour was empty, devoid of its usual bustle.
Something fluttered through Brexan’s memory; she whirled around, peering into the distance where grey water met grey sky in a perfect demarcation of the end of the world. She could just make out the last of the frigates, making way towards Pellia, as Carpello Jax’s final confession came back to her: It’s wood, processed wood, but not lumber. Bark and shavings, leaves and roots. I don’t know what he wants with it, but he wants as much as I can ship. He pays anything I ask.
‘Is that what they’re hauling?’ she whispered to herself.
She watched until the topmasts disappeared over the horizon. Carpello was dead; she had stood with Sallax and Nedra as his body was washed away on the outgoing tide. Could the evil merchant have something to do with those frigates? Were they carrying the last of Carpello ‘s shipments of bark and roots? It seemed unlikely, but Brexan couldn’t discount the possibility that Carpello’s fading stench was somehow all over the devastation of Orindale Harbour.
She pressed on, taking in the rest of the city’s scars. Not all the destruction had been directed at the shipping industry; the wharf had fallen victim as well, and the bridge, Orindale’s signature edifice, had collapsed, blocking the river and leaving barges stacked up behind like logs in a jam. Even the abandoned barrels Sallax had hidden in, stacked behind the down-at-heel waterfront alehouse, had been washed away.
‘Great rutting lords,’ Brexan murmured. ‘What could have done this?’
She asked the question of no one, but she feared that she had a good idea what might have wreaked such havoc: Nerak.
‘They’re here,’ she said, and felt something inside her shift and click back into place. She ignored the guilt, forcing thoughts of Nedra from her mind. She had been fooling herself, thinking she might live out her days as a scullery-maid; this was what she needed to do. If Steven and Garec were nearby, then that horsecock Jacrys wouldn’t be far away. They were here; Brexan could feel them on the breeze, that same breeze that somehow never reached the Topgallant Boarding House. ‘It’s just a matter of time now,’ she said, lowering her shoulder into the wind and heading for the fish market.
Two avens later, Orindale slipped from day into night. For a few moments, the entire city was caught on that narrow horizon between shadow and light. Everything was the same colour, a monochromatic grey, the colour of winter. Brexan had bought some things for Nedra’s celebration, but she’d deliberately left a few items off her list: she needed an excuse to come back the following day. Sitting in a tavern, she sipped at her wine and nibbled a pastry. She watched the traffic move along the quay, searching for anyone with a longbow – so few people did; it was begging for trouble in the capital to tote weapons around – or carrying a wooden staff. As darkness enveloped the seaport, Brexan gave in, shouldered her canvas satchels and made her way back to the Topgallant to help Nedra with the evening meals.
She would be back.
Brexan found them the following day; she knew she would. She almost stumbled over Garec Haile before recognising him. He was standing amongst a crowd waiting to cross the makeshift bridge across the Medera, a pontoon of wooden barges lashed together. While the remains of the great stone span dammed the river, the barge captains were unloading their cargoes beside the barracks at the old imperial palace. The floating bridge was open to foot and wagon traffic, but the river was essentially closed, empty downstream barges were tied up to anything left standing on the north and south banks, and commerce in the capital city was at a virtual standstill.
Today, with northerly winds raking the coastline again, pedestrian traffic was slow. The crowds of cloaked and hooded travellers waited impatiently for their turn to cross, and in the press of people moving back and forth, several had already fallen in and had to be fished out by unemployed stevedores on temporary assignment as lifeguards.
Brexan looked at the man for a long time, making sure she was right before finally approaching. Excited, she ignored the woman on his arm, and said ‘Are you Garec Haile?’
‘No,’ the man replied in a whisper, clearly ill, ‘you’re mistaking me for someone else.’
Brexan’s sudden enthusiasm vanished; she had been so sure she was about to fulfil a promise to Versen, and to be within shouting distance of another to Sallax. She sighed deeply and, crestfallen, was about to turn away when she looked at him again. That’s Garec; it has to be. As he started over the first barge, she caught up with him and said, ‘Please – Versen wanted me to find you. I promised I would.’
The man turned quickly; his hood fell back. He had been gravely injured and looked mere moments from collapsing. His head was wrapped in cloth bandages, the remnants of a querlis poultice poking out from beneath. His skin was sickly-white and his face was deeply lined: too little food; too many Twinmoons running, hiding and fighting.
‘Who are you?’ He stared into her face. It was unsettling: unarmed, obviously injured and weak, yet he left her feeling as though he could kill her with a glance. The Bringer of Death, that’s what Versen and Sallax had called him; from the look in his eyes, Brexan could see they hadn’t been exaggerating.
‘My name is Brexan Carderic,’ she said, ‘and I’m a friend-’
‘Brexan,’ Garec interrupted, his features softening. ‘Gabriel O’Reilly mentioned you. You know of Versen?’
‘I do,’ she said, ‘and Sallax Farro of Estrad.’
‘Sallax?’ Garec shook his head. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Take me to them, then. Where are they?’
‘I can’t. I wish-’ Brexan stepped out of the line of people crossing the pontoon barges. ‘I can’t take you to them, but I can tell you what happened.’
Garec noticed the sudden strain on her face. ‘Both dead?’ he said softly. When she nodded, he asked, ‘Were you with them?’
‘Yes, I was.’ Brexan’s eyes fill with tears; she hardly noticed when Garec took her arm.
He looked around the wharf, then gestured at a makeshift tavern, its windows shattered and door hanging by a leather hinge, near the pontoon. ‘Let’s go. I want to know everything.’
The first of the wagons rumbled south, an unexpected Seron escort in tow. There were three others following, each filled to the slats with canvas bags, sewn shut and stamped with a Ronan customs seal. A schooner had arrived from Orindale two days prior, and for a flagon of wine and a few slivers of fennaroot, two of her crew – merchant seamen, not navy sailors – were willing to describe her cargo in detail: winter wheat, four hundred crates of it, already ground to flour and en route to Welstar Palace.
Hoyt closed his eyes and thought of Churn; he’d have enjoyed this. Face-down in a frozen ditch by the side of a Malakasian highway in the middle of the night, Churn would have found it impossible to keep still. Hoyt imagined him signing, Is it cold over there? It’s cold over here! or perhaps, Tell me again why we didn’t become farmers, and giggling under his breath. Hannah had told him that Churn spoke in his final moments astride the flying buttress, but Hoyt would always remember his friend signing with nimble fingers.
His own fingers were stiff with cold and his face was numb. He’d left his cloak at the Wayfarer, foregoing the bulky wrap for a second wool tunic and a neck muffler that made him look like an elderly woman with a chest cold. He hadn’t anticipated Seron; neither had Alen, wherever he was now. It’s just wheat, Hoyt thought, so why the escort? It doesn’t make sense, unless they’re starving and they need the wheat as much as they need armour, enchanted tree bark and weapons. With the second wagon passing, Hoyt stopped thinking about why there was a Seron platoon less than ten paces away and instead tried to focus on becoming as invisible as possible. We’ll hit the next shipment, he thought. There’ll be another, something less protected. The traffic in the harbour never stops; another schooner will dock soon enough. Huddling in the frozen mud in the ditch, Hoyt willed Alen to read his thoughts and stand down.
Then the fire arrows struck.
Hoyt didn’t see the first barrage of flaming shafts as they arched through the night; he was hiding his face and hoping his body would be mistaken for a particularly dark shadow, or maybe a piece of rotting wood. But he did risk a glance at the second salvo, and in the moment before panic took hold, Hoyt was proud of Alen. The old Larion magician did not disappoint. Seemingly scores of flaming arrows streamed through the darkness. Some embedded themselves in the wagons or the stacks of canvas satchels; others struck Seron soldiers, wagon drivers and Malakasian guards, igniting their cloaks and sending them screaming into the surrounding fields. From where Hoyt crouched, it looked like a whole company of bowmen had attacked the wagon train, and those Seron warriors not running burning into the night drew their blades and charged what they imagined to be the firing line. The wagon train was, at least for the moment, unprotected.
Alen, you crazy bastard! Hoyt thought, drawing his scalpel and snaking up the ditch. All right, let’s go!
He hurried behind a burning wagon to reach one whose cargo had not yet caught fire. The driver was fighting to keep his team of horses calm, trying to lead them around the blaze blocking the roadway. As Hoyt slipped past, the driver reached for him, grabbing a handful of his scarf, and Hoyt rounded on him, slashing tendons in the man’s wrist to render his hand useless. The fight was one-sided and quick, but as Hoyt ran, he heard the driver shouting, ‘They’re here! Come back! They’re already here, you fools!’
‘Not long now,’ Hoyt muttered, quickening his pace. At the rear of the wagon, he tore off a piece of burning wood and tossed it into the bed, scorching the bags of wheat. Two down, Hoyt thought, and dived into the ditch to avoid being trampled by the horses pulling the third cart. The driver was dead, slumped sideways and crackling like a campfire. The horses, spooked by the conflagration, galloped wildly across the ditch and into an adjacent field. The cart, smouldering here and there with outbreaks of yellow flame, failed to negotiate the ditch, crashed over and spilled its load. The reins snapped and the team took off eastwards. Hoyt watched as what was left of the wagon caught fire, brightening the Pellia night. ‘Three down,’ he said, checking for Seron as he made his way towards the last cart in the convoy. He had still not spotted Alen but knew his friend was all right, because salvos of fireballs continued to rain down intermittently, occasionally coming close enough to Hoyt to leave him swearing. The fireballs looked and sounded like arrows as they flew overhead, a simple ruse, but convincing enough to buy Hoyt another moment or two to ensure the final wagon was well on its way to ash. Then I’m getting out of here, he told himself.
The Seron were coming back. Any normal guard, having found no one in the fields, might return warily until they knew what strange enchantments were upon them… but these weren’t normal soldiers. The Seron charged the wagon convoy as wildly and with the same recklessness that they had attacked the invisible enemy line. Demonpiss, out of time! Hoyt thought, and risked calling, ‘Alen!’ No one answered, and the din from the injured and the dying went on unabated.
Hoyt dived for the last cart. One of the slat sides had caught alight, and he planned to do as before, break off a bit and chuck it into the wagon bed, then to flee as fast as he could. He pounded on the end of a burning slat, trying to keep from watching the Seron soldiers as they ran, barking and grunting, across the frozen field. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he pulled, ‘I’ve no time for this. I need to get going-’
Then he saw Alen, lying in a heap, hidden by dancing, fire-lit shadows. It looked to Hoyt like he had fallen into the cart and struck his head, or maybe broken his rutting neck. There was no time to think. Hoyt climbed over the burning side, scorching himself as he dropped onto the soft canvas bags.
‘Alen,’ he whispered, ‘come on, Alen, wake up.’ He shook the old magician, praying his friend would open his eyes. Outside, the Seron had returned and were now searching the area for terrorists. Some shouted orders; others ran here and there, chasing down every flicker and moving shadow. One soldier climbed the cart where Hoyt and Alen were hiding and used a muscular paw to wrench the burning slats free without so much as a grimace.
Hoyt had already moved, dragging the canvas satchels over him until he and Alen were buried. ‘We’ll sneak out when you come around,’ he whispered, ‘until then, stay low… and… and I’ll have the venison
…’
‘I’ll have the venison,’ Hoyt said, ‘and a flagon of wine, something decent, not the cat’s piss you were pushing in here last night.’
‘Right away, sir,’ the waiter said as he disappeared behind the bar.
‘Thirty volumes!’ Hoyt said to himself, ‘and state-of-the-art works, too. I can’t imagine where Alen managed to get them all.’ He considered how he might transport the outlawed books back to South-port. Smuggling a bit of fennaroot or a few weapons was a challenge; this, however, would be a significant undertaking. He’d stolen a wheelbarrow, but that wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to ‘Good evening.’ A woman, attractive but dangerous-looking, took the seat beside him.
‘Not tonight,’ Hoyt said. ‘Go and find someone else.’ He had more important things to attend to than hungry prostitutes on the prowl.
The woman motioned to the barman. ‘I’ll have the same, and another flagon of that too, please.’
Hoyt took a drink. ‘I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t hear me. I’m not interested. And I am not buying you dinner.’
She tossed a worn leather pouch onto the table. It chimed with the telltale clink of silver Mareks. ‘I’m not a prostitute; so relax. I can pay my own way. I was just looking for someone interesting with whom to have dinner.’
‘Hoyt,’ Milla tugged his sleeve. ‘Hoyt, you need to come with me.’ She was dressed in her overnight tunic and held her straw dog by one dislocated leg.
‘What? Milla?’ Hoyt was confused. This wasn’t right, this was not how things had happened… had to happen. ‘Milla, what are you doing here?’
The woman, Ramella – how do I know her name? – went on, seemingly oblivious to the little girl beside the table, ‘That looks delicious. How is it?’
‘The best venison I’ve eaten in Middle Fork,’ Hoyt lied.
‘Hoyt,’ Milla insisted, ‘the Seron are coming; they’ll find you. You can’t stay here.’
Hoyt tore his gaze away from Ramella, the seductive thief from Landry. He whispered to Milla, ‘Why don’t you go up to bed? I’ll be up in a while, and I’ll come and say good night to you then.’
‘Sorry, Hoyt,’ Milla said, ‘but you need to come with me now.’ Something bit him hard on the ankle.
‘Holy rutting horsecocks!’ Hoyt shouted, standing suddenly, spilling the wine and upending his food. He gripped his leg, stemming the flow of blood, then remembered himself. ‘Sorry, sweetie, Hoyt said a few bad words there, huh? You won’t tell Hannah, will you?’ Who’s Hannah? he thought. I don’t know anyone named Hannah… not yet.
‘Of course not, silly,’ Milla laughed, ‘and sorry about the puppy, but I need you to pay attention, or you’ll die in here. You’ll get stuck for ever like the ones at the palace.’
He nodded dumbly. He had no idea what the girl meant, but somehow he was aware that her words had significant meaning for him. Tentatively, he checked beneath the table, understanding before he did that he would find Branag’s wolfhound, the same dog that tracked them – will track us – from Southport to the Welstar docks. The wolfhound was there, his tongue lolling, in good spirits, healthy, young, well-fed, and with a shiny coat, not the tattered, trail-worn hunter that had been dying when it finally caught up with them. ‘Ramella,’ Hoyt said, ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’
The sultry woman ignored him, carrying on with their conversation as if Hoyt’s input meant nothing. ‘Do you want to know what my vices are?’ she asked.
Hoyt shook his head. ‘This is impossible. This happened already, so long ago.’ He turned to Milla. ‘Long before you were even born, Pepperweed.’
‘I know,’ she said, stealing a chunk of bread from Ramella’s platter, then dipping it into the stranger’s gravy. ‘Can we go now?’ Ramella didn’t notice.
‘Yes.’ Hoyt took her hand. ‘How? Do you know how to get us back?’ He’d begun to put the pieces together.
‘Of course.’ Milla spoke through a mouthful of food. ‘That tastes good.’
‘Yes, it did,’ Hoyt agreed. ‘All right, Pepperweed, take me back – but not back to the inn, I have to get Alen.’
‘He’s coming back, too. I already talked to him. He’s waiting for you. He was in someplace else, Durram or somewhere. I don’t know where that is, but the lady with him was very sad. They had to leave the baby behind. Alen was sad, too.’
‘But the Seron, and the Malakasian guards – how can we-?’
‘I’ll scare them off for you,’ Milla said, stealing another piece of gravy-dipped bread. ‘But they won’t stay away for long so you two have to hurry.’
‘What a negative outlook on human emotion,’ Ramella went on, now staring into the space left empty when Hoyt rose to follow the little girl back to reality.
‘How are you doing this?’ Hoyt asked. ‘How is this possible?’
‘Some things I can just do,’ Milla said. With that, Hoyt felt a band wrap around his chest. It tightened, hardening to iron and threatening to suffocate him.
‘Not too tight, Pepperweed,’ he warned.
‘Sorry,’ Milla grinned, her hair an endearing scribble.
‘Is this how you kept Gilmour from falling?’
‘Uh huh,’ the little magician said smugly, proud of her work.
‘Good job.’ Hoyt stroked her curls, and said, ‘Let’s go.’
‘One moment, I have to chase the Seron away first.’
On the highway south of Pellia, with three wagons in flames, most of their cargo lost and more than a few of their number dead or dying in the fire, Prince Malagon’s Seron warriors were undeterred; no one fled, no one wept and no one dallied over the bodies of fallen comrades. They formed ranks around the final wagon, salvaged what they could from the burning carts and resumed their journey towards Welstar Palace. When the aerial firestorm slowed, they conducted a search of the fields, but they found no sign of terrorist archers, no Resistance army, and no reason to dig in or to return to Pellia.
Their lieutenant, a big female with a grisly burn on her forearm, climbed to the driver’s bench and barked orders at what remained of her platoon. The others fell in step and the wagon rolled on, quickly leaving the fiery devastation behind. Soon the burning wagons – and bodies – were little more than flickering lights in the distance.
The woman checked the perimeter, checked the sentry lines, checked the squad assigned to the wagon itself, and then settled on the bench beside the driver. ‘Welstar,’ she growled.
The driver, shook out the reins and the team started off while the last of the Seron took up their positions. He shouted at those Malakasians in his way; they had emerged from their homes, still in their nightclothes, to view the carnage. This bunch ought to get back inside, he thought, they don’t know what these Seron might do. ‘Go on now!’ he cried, ‘back to bed with you all!’
A few complied, but others, possibly unaware they were risking death, continued to watch the Seron monsters, some snarling with smouldering rage, as they marched towards Malagon’s legendary keep.
When the first of the dogs howled, he squinted into the darkness. ‘Now that’s a big dog,’ he said. ‘A herder, that one, and with a bull’s set of pipes on him, too.’
The Seron lieutenant ignored him as she bound the wound on her arm with a strip of cloth torn from a blanket beneath the bench.
‘You know, you ought to-’ the driver began.
‘Welstar!’ the Seron repeated, cutting him off.
‘All right, all right. I’ll shut up, but you’re going to get some kind of nasty infec-’
Another dog howled, this one from across the highway, a lingering wail, an unnatural sound sustained too long in a shrill, threatening cry. It was answered almost immediately by a macabre echo, this from the south, somewhere ahead of the wagon team.
‘Now that’s not something you hear every day,’ he said shakily, but a withering glance from the lieutenant silenced him again.
She stood and shouted a quick string of orders to her platoon: Stand fast! Don’t be drawn into the fields.
The howls and barks came from all around them now. Some were low and resonant, rumbling deep in broad, powerful chests; others were like screams, pitched high and wailing, dangerous even from far away. ‘I don’t like this,’ the driver said, trying unsuccessfully to quieten the horses. He peered left and right, trying to move only his eyes, as if sitting still might keep danger from spotting him.
Something moved, low and fast, just out of sight, crunching through frost and brittle cornstalks.
‘Oi! What’s that then?’ He jumped, and cried out, ‘Rutting whores, there must be fifty of them – gods, but I wish they’d stop yelping so. What could have them so fired-?’
‘Shutap!’ The lieutenant cuffed him on the temple, nearly knocking him from the bench. She grunted more orders to her platoon: Look sharp! Be ready!
A dog appeared in the highway, its eyes glowing red, even in the dim light of the torches carried by the Malakasian guards. It was a wolfhound, the biggest the driver had ever seen. Its mane bristled as it growled through clenched teeth, its jowls dripping froth.
‘Great whoring-’ The driver drew his sword and twisted the reins around his free wrist as the wolfhound charged the horses, snarling and biting at their forelegs. The lieutenant gestured to a Seron guard, urging him forward to kill the animal, but before he could comply, the roiling din of barking, growling, yelping and shrieking choked to a sudden, unnerving silence. Only the dog attacking the horse team continued to bark.
The lieutenant shouted down at the soldier, ‘Ahat dog! Ahat!’ Her voice carried over the snowy field like a thunderclap.
The Seron came abreast of the rearing horses. The driver tried to calm the animals, keeping a steady grip on the reins, as the Seron moved in for the kill, raising his knife and then leaping for the dog.
As if the Seron’s action was a cue, wolfhounds similar to their leader attacked from all sides, materialising out of the darkness. One sprang onto the attacking Seron’s back, biting first at his neck and then at the hand holding the knife. Another, an ebony copy of the first two, used the struggling Seron as a springboard, leaping from his back onto the first horse in the wagon team. It snarled at the driver, then sank its fangs into the horse’s neck. The animal screamed, reared in terror, kicked the Seron warrior in the head and then bolted, dragging its teammates and the cart through the ditch into the cornfield.
‘Whoring mothers!’ the driver shouted, slashing at a dog trying to climb the side of the wagon. The animal fell away, its jaws snapping audibly, and the frightened driver hauled back on the reins until the wagon crashed through a plough rut and he was jounced from the bench, landing with a bone-jarring thud in the frozen soil. He dropped his sword but kept a grip on the reins, which was a mistake, for no amount of tugging slowed the horses and he was dragged halfway across the field until he finally let go and fell face-down in the snow.
Back on the road, what remained of the Seron platoon was engaged in an epic battle with a seemingly endless number of inky-black wolfhounds. For every dog they slashed, stabbed or clubbed to death, another appeared, hurtling out of the darkness like a phantom. They stood their ground, hacking and stabbing to all points of the compass; any that fell were soon covered with snarling beasts; three and four at a time climbed onto the fallen warriors, snapping at arms, necks, ankles and faces, until the Seron, exhausted or dead, finally lay still.
As the wagon thundered across the cornfield Hoyt pushed his way through the canvas bags, then cleared several more for Alen.
‘What just happened?’ he shouted. ‘What was that?’
‘Milla,’ Alen said, checking his forearm.
‘You hurt?’
‘Her dog, that cursed hound bit me.’
‘Me too.’ Hoyt pulled his boot halfway off, exposing his lower leg. ‘It hurt like a motherhumper, but look: no blood. None on you either.’
‘We’ll worry about it later. For now, let’s get the blazes out of here.’
‘Fine by me,’ Hoyt said and started up the side of the cart, climbing the slats. ‘We’re going to have to jump. It’ll hurt.’
‘No worse than staying around to see what the Seron plan to do with us.’
‘Good point,’ Hoyt said. ‘I think most of them are back there. Milla’s sent some kind of- Ah!’ he screamed as the Seron lieutenant stabbed him in the shoulder. She had been aiming for his neck, but a lucky jolt as the cart bounced over uneven ground sent her blow wide of the mark. Alen shouted as Hoyt tumbled backwards and fell beside him, neither in any position to defend themselves. Alen fired a spell, a wild blast, hoping to get lucky and kill the angry warrior, but he missed, and blew out the upper slats instead.
‘Rutters, that hurts!’ Hoyt tried to roll away from the knife-wielding soldier. ‘Look out, Alen! Get back!’
‘Over here!‘ Alen tugged Hoyt’s good arm, looking for a safe corner, but there wasn’t space enough in the wagon bed. The Seron woman adjusted her grip and sprang towards them.
The wolfhound hit her in mid-air, driving into her from the abandoned driver’s bench. It clamped its jaws around her forearm, the bones snapping with a sickening crack, and the two creatures slammed into the side of the cart, each more furious than the other.
It was a fight to the death, but neither Alen nor Hoyt planned on staying around to see the end. ‘This way,’ Alen said, raising his hands at the wooden tailgate. An explosion rocked the night and the end of the cart was blown away, scattered across the cornfield in splinters. ‘Now, jump!’ he cried, grabbed Hoyt by the elbow and shoved.
When he landed, Hoyt tore the wound in his shoulder more deeply. Whose idea was this? he thought, lying on the freezing ground, resilient stalks poking him in the back. Nearby, he heard Alen groan. ‘You all right?’ he wheezed.
‘Fine,’ Alen chuckled. ‘Never better, really. I’m actually thinking I would like a bit of corn about now.’
‘Stop it.’ Hoyt hugged his sides. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
Alen knelt beside him. ‘Whoring virgins, you’re a mess. That shoulder’s going to need some stitching.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ Hoyt sat up. ‘Let’s get out of here. Those dogs were a nice trick, but they won’t keep the Seron away all night.’
‘You think they were real?’
‘They seemed real enough to me,’ Hoyt said. ‘Remind me to take Milla shopping tomorrow for whatever her little heart desires.’
‘I hope they were apparitions, you know, fighting the Seron from within, figments of our collective imagination,’ Alen said, helping Hoyt to his feet. ‘If they weren’t, the city is going to be a tough place to live.’
‘A highway full of dead soldiers?’
‘Not exactly how we had things planned.’
‘It was bark.’
‘I know.’
‘But it was different this time.’
‘I know.’