37 The Battle for Byrsa

GIANT FEET THUNDERED over the open ground before Byrsa’s walls, wings arcing like scythes. They came from the east, from beneath the dark eaves of the forest covering the foothills. They came with the dawn.

The Nephilim wore steel plate on their upper bodies, spiked pauldrons, vambraces and spiked helms with faceguards. Most wore knee-length leather tunics, split between groin and knee. Some wore the skulls of the vanquished as loincloths or belts. Those were the Rephaim, also known as the Dead Ones. The largest clan, these had broad featherless wings and were a mixture of pale and dark skin.

Threadfin stood with Captain Wyn Rollic on a tall desiccated ruin, once a public bathhouse for patricians. Now, half of it was dust and shattered white rock. Its location on a hill approaching Hlon Square was high enough to see across the river and over the walls. Only the hill that bore the Blue Palace was higher.

Soldiers who’d noticed him were either accepting or indifferent. When faced with a horde of armoured monsters wanting murder, what did it matter if there was a viral among them? Rollic squinted towards the east, but it was far for a breather’s eyes. If the captain had noticed Threadfin’s desiccated skin, he’d given no sign.

Behind the Dead Ones came the solid Emim, the warg handlers. These had the most limb protection, such as greaves and arm guards. They didn’t release their charges, but restrained them with metal leashes. The handlers would wait for the vanguard to create a breach.

Like the Emim, the Avim were wingless but had the palest skin, almost translucent, and red or yellow hair. Their limbs were longer and distorted. Bodies lowered in a crouch, they ran on all fours, dual scarap blades strapped to their backs. They leapt ahead of their kin like a twisted mix of gigantic frog and lizard.

Jagged metal, broken spears, anything that might stop or slow the charge, the defenders had sown on the approach. Dug at random were pit traps. These held vertical and horizontal stakes, concealed beneath branches and long grass. Rows of stakes and spears protruded from a steep dike below the outer wall.

Inside the double walls, within a small open parkland dotted with stone fountains, statues, and the odd oak, stood rectangular phalanx formations, nine rows deep, bristling with spears some three thousand strong. Together with Rollic, Threadfin had laid out their best strategy. Defeating the giants was possible, but Gog was the unknown.

Green and bluecloaks of the Actaeon Guard stood along the battlements, and thought Threadfin, not one blood-cloaked bastard among them. Through Rollic, he’d given orders to have the exemplars watched. Dawn lit the eastern sky above the mountains, but Icarthya remained in a half light. There were sword and axe men, spearmen, javelin men, archers, and slingers. Nervous eyes watched the moving wall of muscle and steel, until the newborn sunlight breached the mountainous skyline and blinded the defenders. The enemy had chosen their moment precisely.

The brutish faces of the Nephilim roared.

The first response was from the Paldanars. Some of them sheltered within the wooden hoarding on the outer wall. Others stood on the fifty-foot inner wall, which had less damage.

‘Nock arrows,’ roared their leader, his voice just about reaching Threadfin’s ears. ‘Draw ... Loose.’

They unleashed a hissing iron-tipped hail. Other Paldanar ranks stood within the walls, looking out of place in their muslin smocks, leather armour and turbans. Their arrows hissed high over the walls.

The Nephilim bent into the metallic rain. Iron and bronze arrowheads binged and scratched against impenetrable armour. Several found a mark where flesh was exposed.

On they came.

‘Loose!’ A second volley followed by a third. The fourth did better, the range shortened, but it wasn’t enough. Catapults and ballistae launched their shot and bolts, but these they aimed over the inner wall and into the breaches of the outer, to strike the giants trying to fill them. The round stones bounced off the metal shrouded beasts. It was like children showering adults with pebbles. However, the ballistae bolts did have greater impact, punching through steel.

The pit traps and defensive ditches inflicted casualties. The Avim handled those the best as they leapt over them. Archers, javelin men and slingers fired at will at the hulking shapes below. Others threw rocks and boiling oil.

Numerous Emim and Rephaim hurled long twisted ropes with grappling hooks at the outer wall. Soldiers fought to dislodge them. Hooks lodged onto the hoarding and numerous giants heaved on the ropes. The wooden structure disintegrated, bodies tumbling.

Following behind, were the bulk of the Emim, the warg handlers biding their time. Rephaim leapt from the outer onto the inner walls using wings for lift. The Avim jumped, powerful legs hurtling them into defenders. The first giants gained the top amid intense arrow fire, and leapt on the humans. The outer defences had failed, but then Threadfin hadn’t expected anything else.

Catapult shot cannoned into the battlements, indiscriminate of species. Bolt throwers proved accurate and several giants fell to those. The lead giants leapt from the inner wall and towers to smash barricades and catapults. They swung their infamous harogs with patient ease. The heavy mace-like grond found no obstacle in bronze coated shields, nor did the long metallic flails. This last weapon was unknown to Threadfin. Defenders died in a spray of red mist. He felt Rollic tremble beside him. He wished he could’ve offered comfort, which surprised him. Once, he wouldn’t have cared. He placed a withered hand on the captain’s shoulder, but the breather didn’t notice.

‘Forward march,’ an officer yelled. Tight rectangular phalanx formations marched as one. ‘Halt,’ and then, ‘Brace!’

The phalanxes held against the giants. Some spears found their mark and the enemy took casualties. The phalanxes heaved, using their shields like battering rams. As one, they shoved, raised their shields, and stabbed. Their movements were quick, practiced, and precise. Between the formations, archers gathered, firing in unison. Javelin men and slingers also weaved between the phalanxes. More giants fell.

The Nephilim charged, with armoured heads and shoulders bent.

Formations shattered, exposing the flanks of others. Officers bellowed and the remaining phalanxes attempted to manoeuvre to meet the threat. They were too slow. Ash wood spears shattered against superior steel. Several giants fell back with wounds, but it wasn’t enough. The formations broke, survivors retreating.

Nephilim warriors gained the walls, dislodging remaining defenders. A handful of rogue and doomed swordsmen slashed at the enemy. They tried to find gaps in armour, or to hamstring those without extensive leg armour.

Two legion remnants had stood on that side of the river, over four thousand soldiers. Each minute reduced that number.

‘I don’t think that, ah, that he’s coming,’ said Rollic, his voice somewhat steady despite his trembling. He didn’t take his eyes off the battle, which was more visible to him now. ‘We’re probably not worth the trouble.’

‘He’ll come.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’m here, captain, as is my sister.’ He didn’t care if the breather understood. It was the truth. No doubt, Avitus had planned to trap them between herself and the horde, but he was going to spring the trap early, and smash it to pieces. Whether he survived or not, Gog would not reach his sister. He prayed to the Spectrum above Aiyana and her Darken could handle Avitus alone.

The remaining cohorts on the western side rushed onto the bridge. Rollic bellowed commands from his vantage point to messengers below. Somewhere out there, Sarscha was doing the same. She’d want an organised retreat, not a rout. The fresh cohorts held, their spears prodding the giants, whose momentum slowed. The growing pile of corpses hindered those behind. Still, the giants gained ground, hacking and slicing. The defenders ducked and weaved.

On they came.

Throughout, hail thrummed the earth in tune to rattling armour and shield. The sky turned red as the day was born in blood. The icy wind relented and hail turned to rain. Threadfin could now barely see the battle, Rollic relying on the information scouts brought him. Vast numbers of dead, combined with thickening mud of a ploughed parkland, slowed the enemy.

Those retreating had a chance, though individual giants rampaged onwards. The handlers had released their charges. Wargs bounded through the gaps in the walls, snarling. The floundering giants and thick mud proved no obstacle to them. The ring of hair encircling their necks bristled like spikes. They chased the retreating humans who whirled about, hacking, and stabbing at furless bodies. The predators shook victims between jagged teeth, like dolls, or savaged their throats.

The enemy, however, didn’t flounder for long. Threadfin saw a lost cause in the breathers waiting on the roofs and below within abandoned buildings. He wanted to save them for Aiyana, almost as much as he wanted to save her, but now, he also wanted to save them because they didn’t deserve this.

All thought evaporated when he saw the largest Nephilim to soil the earth, the spawn of Og of Bashan. Gog of Magog, approached the damaged city walls.

‡

ONCE ACROSS THE BRIDGE, Aiyana and the others had spent the remaining hours of the night making their way through the streets of the Mammon. Her Darken was close behind with the fat conclavist and Desool bringing up the rear. Exemplar patrols appeared at times, forcing them to hide or find another route. It seemed the redcloaks did not intend to protect the city and were likely sabotaging its defence.

Dawn had broken as they had climbed the hills to the edge of the Hallow, the palace curtain wall and towers looming overhead. Clutching the dagger belted to her waist, Aiyana felt a force throbbing through the hilt. The splice was a living weapon she could hardly believe existed. Would it be enough? Liviana was a harpy, and far deadlier than any Angelborn. According to her Darken, killing her with an ordinary blade wouldn’t do. Aiyana needed to separate the mortal woman from the angelic spirit controlling her, and from the Stone.

It was difficult for Aiyana to accept her Darken was Angelborn, especially with that mouth of hers. And here I thought I had secrets. At times, when they’d paused for a rest, she’d found herself looking askance at the woman.

The sun retreated within the clouds as a steady hail stung her face. A concussion reached her feet. Paving stones lifted and cracked. She tottered. It was like a quake, but she knew it was no natural phenomenon. Gog had arrived with the battle below less than an hour old. She knew her little brother was down there. No, he wasn’t little anymore, and he was far more powerful than she. Everything was changing, and she didn’t know if she could keep up. You’ll just have to, you fool, she thought.

The odd soldier appeared, bloodied, and badly injured, or civilians fleeing for the safety of the palace. The exemplar patrols had ceased, and their absence was ominous. Liviana had gathered in her forces. At one point, Aiyana halted in a doorway. The others hid among a jumble of stones and wood. A warg pounced on another group, savaging a soldier, and then bounded after the survivors.

Hearing footfalls, she turned and gave Cathya a grin. ‘Having trouble keeping up, my love?’

‘You go rushing in and you’ll die. We go when I say. No running off on your own. I mean it, Yana.’

‘Oh, the Grim piss on it, if you must have it your way.’ What mattered was stopping Liviana. Sometimes it seemed her Darken thought her charge couldn’t brush her hair without help. The fact she had helped with that was beside the point.

‘Even I would struggle in a contest with her,’ admitted Cathya. ‘Since you’re committed, we must take her together. The entire palatium will be a trap.’

‘Well ... of course ... it’s a trap.’ Davard’s chest heaved as he gasped for air, his fat cheeks bright red. His lumbering bodyguard had kept pace with him and seemed rested. It was clear who the imp planned on protecting. ‘What matters is ... how ... you spring it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Aiyana, not believing his winded act for a second. The man was much more than he seemed.

Cathya answered. ‘He means someone must act as bait, go in alone.’

‘Spring the trap,’ said the spymaster, ‘and then ...’

Aiyana drew the soul splice from where she’d tucked it into a belt, which she’d taken from a body. It proved uncomfortable, but she couldn’t run about holding it all the time. She fingered it, thinking.

‘It must be you to face Liviana,’ said Cathya, and Aiyana gave her a grateful look. She had thought her Darken would argue it further. No doubt, the woman wanted to.

Shaking her head in sorrow, Aiyana tucked the blade back beneath the tight belt. ‘Then you must be the one to spring it.’

‘The fate of all depends on you,’ said Cathya, ‘and what you do today. Know that I love you and I am proud of you.’

Aiyana and her companions moved on, urgent now. Just as it seemed they might make it, a street leading to the palace walls ahead, a pair of sydarags rushed from an alley. Their riders didn’t notice the four, preoccupied with escape. The animals were agitated, snorting and rearing, the soldiers whipping them. Then one soldier spotted Desool, recognising what he was, and gave a shout. It was all he had time for.

A warg bounded from an adjoining street. It trailed a metal chain about its spiked neck, which scraped the paving stones. The beast increased speed.

It had the riders in the open.

With a crack of bone, its teeth sank into the nearest mount. It gouged a piece of flesh from the flank, and part of the rider’s left leg. Both victims toppled to the left. The other rider swung and stabbed with her spear. The warg twisted about. It flanked the second rider, tearing the woman’s arm off. She screamed, falling from the saddle. Though badly injured, she struggled for a dagger at her waist. Her mount snapped at the warg’s neck, but the crushing force of a grond ended the sydarag’s counter. An iron shod boot ended the woman.

The Emim raised its weapon and gaze, spotting Aiyana. The warg handler bellowed and stomped towards her. It also held a short spear in its other fist.

Davard vanished with a crack of displaced air. He reappeared ahead of her to block the giant’s path. The Emim paused, but recovered quickly. It aimed its weapon, but again, Davard vanished. This time he reappeared behind the giant, slashing at its legs with his sword. Shouting at Aiyana to flee, he kept this up for several seconds, before a hurled spear erupted through his flesh. The impact spun him to face her. The Emim had somehow anticipated his movements. Davard remained standing, the spear halfway through his left shoulder, though his face had gone pale.

The imp joined his master, a jagged scarap in his grip. The warg handler held the beast’s chain again. The Emim hesitated for a moment, confused by Desool’s presence, but then advanced.

‘Go on,’ shouted Davard over his shoulder, having sunk to his knees. The air around him pulsed as though he was trying to escape, but was too weak. ‘Go while we got their attention.’ Then in a softer voice, which she still heard, he added, ‘Goodbye, my lady.’

A teeth-splitting growl erupted from the warg. Desool stood between Davard and the Emim. With a bellow, the imp rushed to meet handler and beast.

Aiyana’s Darken pulled her back, and she turned and ran. She felt affection for that cantankerous sweaty old fool, and not a little gratitude. She’d also grown fond of Desool in their short time together. Every fibre of her being wanted to help them, but she knew it futile. If either she or Cathya were injured or killed, who would stop Liviana? If Threadfin failed his task, retrieving the Shathra Stone might be the world’s last hope.​​