38 Holding the Bridge

THE DEFENDERS HELD the crossing. Surviving Paldanars and Valtari loosed volley after volley until they had nothing but daggers. The phalanxes held to the bridge’s centre, shields and spears a bristling barrier. A handful of Nephilim had made it across before the defence could be organised, though most of those lay dead. The remaining catapults on the western bank opened fire.

The Nephilim battered at the phalanxes, which closed ranks, growing tighter, smaller. Four enemies fell, two to catapult shot at close range. The ones behind dragged the killed or wounded from their path. Others forced their way onto the bridge. None yet braved the depths of the icy river.

Eight handlers released their wargs. This time the humans were ready. Four of the animals fell to spears, but the others got beneath the wall of shields. They savaged unprotected thighs and groins, as soldiers tried to skewer or hack at them.

The phalanxes broke. Three animals remained on the bridge, savaging retreating spearmen. Three cohorts, each consisting of eighty men and women, held the end of the Malk Bridge. They raised their spears to allow survivors through, and then finished the wargs.

The Nephilim withdrew, dragging their dead with them.

A ragged cheer arose from the survivors. They didn’t see what Threadfin did, at least, not at first. He stared at the approaching menace. The wait was over.

The earth ahead of the monster split. A shock ran beneath the city, and buildings that had escaped unscathed, swayed. Others collapsed.

Threadfin watched as soldiers who defended the bridge lost heart. They fled, crawling through rubble, most falling between widening fractures. The bridge itself began to crumble, but that wouldn’t stop him. What came now wasn’t anything a breather could fight.

‘Hold,’ Rollic roared at them, despite the fact his messengers had fled, and no one could hear him. ‘Hold the bridge. The Grim damn you all to Hell’s Teeth. Hold!’

‡

THE MONSTROUS BEAST, skin smouldering with a blue fire, crouched beneath a tree. The oak was gnarled but strong, immovable. It grew less than thirty feet from the wall, and a round guard tower. The beast smelled men inside the stone, rank with sweat and wine, saw their faces as they peered out through the crenulations at the driving rain. Thraels, brought from the capital. It knew the faces of these men and women, at least, a part of it did.

The primal part of its soul didn’t care. Meat was meat, but this beast had neither taste nor interest in men.

It slunk from the protection of the oak, keeping low and using bushes and small trees for cover. The redcloaks raised no cry. The silence was interrupted by the battle in the distance, the patter of raindrops, and the worried whispers of men.

As it approached the barred gates and portcullis between the towers, the beast spotted movement. It wanted to flee, but the insufferable intelligence binding it refused. Something about that slow movement was odd.

Human ghosts, pale and ethereal, passed out of the city through the gate. They were running, mouths open in silent screams. A growl rose in the throat of the creature.

Then Canaan saw it. His consciousness forced aside the primal soul he’d subsumed. Leading the ghosts was a man, who appeared strong and fearless. With his right hand raised, the dead man urged others onward. They fled in fear, but this one did not. He stood his ground, the translucent image of a sword in his left hand. Beyond the ghosts was the hint of dark wings, a terror Canaan Pen Luthus knew well.

Markus Olen was a fool, even in death. Nothing could escape that which consumed existence. It was what had convinced Canaan to abandon his own, to become a Fallen One. He despised the name, but he had earned it.

None of the guards saw the beast leap up the walls with unnatural ease. They didn’t notice it slip between two wide merlons onto the rampart. It slunk down the narrow stone stairs to the street below. Perhaps they did hear the agonizing screech of a beast, but none dared investigate.

They never saw a naked man murder in the shadows. They never saw him clothe himself in red one final time, and walk away to blend in with the tremulous refugees and defenders of the Blue Palace.​​​​