Chapter 29

The Lost Road, the Imperial League

Grath stared down the ravine, through the trees and over the drifts of goblin corpses, to the sea floor below. The Uigan were coming, a wall of death moving up toward him, toward the Sixth. There was no surviving it, not for long. The men knew, which was why some had fled and more were getting ready to follow. He could smell their fear. Let them go, he thought, bracing himself as the ground beneath him shook with the rumble of hooves. The cowards wouldn't be any use in the line anyway. They'd only get in the way, and he didn't want any complications.

It wasn't every minotaur, after all, who got to choose the day and manner of his dying.

"Spears!" he bellowed, and a signal-standard arose to echo the command, fluttering in the breeze. It wasn't needed: Grath's voice boomed from one end of the ravine to the other. "Shields!"

The soldiers who weren't already armed bent now to pick up their long-hafted pikes, each twice as tall as the largest man in the cohort. Great oblong shields locked together, rim over rim, to form a wall in the front rank, and they and two more ranks behind lowered their spears to present a thicket of steel. Centuries of military strategy had led to this: the perfect formation against a cavalry charge, short of a phalanx of wizards hurling fireballs. Grath didn't care for sorcery: it took all the fun out of fighting.

He glanced up at the tower. Forlo was still there, watching. Grinning, the minotaur raised his axe toward the figure atop the ruin. He was sure they would be seeing each other again soon, in the gods' feasting halls. Then he turned back and watched the riders come.

The pickets slowed them down, though not as much as he'd hoped: their scouts had spied them during the first sortie, and had warned their chief. There were some goblin corpses impaled on the sharpened stakes, which made their purpose quite clear. Some horses still got skewered, and some riders died screaming, run through on the fire-hardened stakes… but only a scattering. The same went for the pits and snares. As the bulk of the horde picked its way past his men's hard-made traps, Grath muttered curses against the damned goblins and whatever gods made them.

Now came the archers, their arrows hailing down on the Uigan like swarms of deadly wasps. They had more effect, for the barbarians carried no shields, and had nothing to protect themselves but their armor—which was made of leather and stopped only one shaft in three. The front ranks of the horde collapsed, falling by the score, and their fellows began to pile up behind them, howling curses and battlecries as they tried to leap over the bodies of the dead and dying. The bowmen kept bombarding them, twice as many of them as they'd shown to the goblins, and a cheer went up from the spearmen, for it looked for a time as if the horde had stopped.

Grath did not cheer. He knew better. The enemy was still advancing, though more slowly, and the archers couldn't keep it up forever. There simply weren't enough arrows. Already the volleys were beginning to thin—and the horsemen were returning fire, letting loose with small bows of wood and horn at the cliffs above. They were good marksmen, and even in concealment some of the archers fell, the songs of their bowstrings stilled. Bit by bit, the horde gained back their momentum. The soldiers' cheers died.

Amid it all, Grath picked out the bronze-mailed figure with the horsetail helm, the one who had led the charge. The man was shouting in the Uigan tongue, furious and wild-eyed, exhorting his men to move on. He seemed impervious. Arrows glanced off the plates of his armor. There were a couple stuck in his horse, but even the animal seemed battle-mad, and didn't appear to notice. It had to be their prince, their Boyla. Grath's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. He pointed with his axe, raising his voice for all to hear.

"That one is mine!" he barked. "Let him come to me! Let him feel the kiss of my steel!"

All that remained was glory, and he would have his share. His men shouted back, acknowledging the order, and Grath smiled, his eyes never leaving the armored chief.

"Come on, whore's son," he growled. "Bring yourself to me."

Chovuk pointed up toward the mass of spears at the ravine's mouth. Hult followed his gaze, twisting sideways as an arrow hissed past. Beside him, a man caught a second shaft in the side of his neck and pitched over his saddle horn with a gurgle, bright blood fanning the air. A third struck the Boyla's shoulder and shattered against the bronze plate protecting it, the pieces spinning away.

There stood a bull-man, right in the center of the front line, taller than the rest and more finely clad. His shield bore an emblem, crossed golden axes over the red and blue all the soldiers bore. He appeared to be the only minotaur among the enemy.

"That captain!" Chovuk roared. "He is mine! The man who touches him will die by my blade!"

The Uigan didn't all hear, but the ones close by did, anyway. That was enough: the word would spread from man to man, on down the gully to the sea, where the bulk of the horde still waited. The riders would obey.

Hult raised his bow, pulled an arrow back to his cheek, aimed high, and loosed—all in one motion without pause. He lost track of his arrow's flight, but saw it strike. A crouched figure on the ridge above jerked, his head snapping back as the shaft struck him in the roof of his mouth. Then he slumped over, one arm hanging over the cliffs edge, his bow dropping to shatter on the rocks below. Many of the League's archers were dying that way, the riders claiming one for every two the hidden bowmen brought down. A bad trade, but there were many more riders than bowmen. The horde inched on up the ravine, threading among rocks and trees, trampling the remains of goblins and crawling up toward the line.

"On! On!" cried the Uigan, needing no urging from Boyla or Tegin. The scent of battle was upon them. "Forward the riders! Blood for the Tiger's blades!"

They plunged on toward the shield wall, abristle with spears, knowing they would have to hew their way through, with sword and sweat and blood. Chovuk led the advance, untouched yet—not even scratched. That was rare among the front ranks: even Hult had cuts on his arm and cheek, where arrows had grazed him. But he was the Boyla, and a sorcerer besides. Hult guessed he'd cast a spell on himself the previous night, to protect him from harm: there seemed to be the faintest shimmer around him, as if it weren't Chovuk, but his image in a still pool. They closed the last stretch of open ground.

Then they were to the spears, the waves of horsemen slamming hard into the bristling weapons. Scores of riders died, gored by the long weapons. Horses screamed, thrashing as they crumpled to the ground. Chovuk didn't fall, though: he laid about with his shuk, lopping the heads off pikes, armor and spell alike turning them aside when they sought to pierce him. Hult followed his lead, chopping the pikes into pieces. His horse died under him, and he leaped clear, still hewing and cleaving. Chovuk's steed collapsed too, blood flowing from its torn throat. Boyla and tenach kept fighting, side by side, their sabers blurring as they chewed through the wall of spears. Up and down the line, the Uigan followed their lead, and though the riders continued to fall like scythed millet, the League's formation was beginning to weaken.

Chovuk drove straight for the soldiers' commander, roaring like an animal. The minotaur saw him and grinned nastily. Hult spun to his left, avoiding a stabbing spear, and cleaved it in half with his shuk. All of a sudden, Hult thought he felt something strange: a trembling of the earth beneath his feet, almost imperceptible amid the clash of battle. Then it was gone again, and he put it from his mind. All he could focus on were the spears, the men who wielded them, and his master, slashing and bellowing as he drove closer and closer to the bull-man in the midst of their foes.

Forlo watched his men beat back the press of the horde. It wouldn't last, couldn't last: for every rider they brought down, thirty more waited to fill the ravine from end to end. More than half the barbarians still remained down on the floor of the Run, waiting for the horde to advance so they could return to dry land. There was no hurry. Midday hadn't yet come and it would be many hours before the tides would return.

He cursed Rekhaz for giving him so few reinforcements, himself for being so stubborn, and the moons for stealing away the sea. He wished he were down there with Grath, who was casting aside his spear—the weapon cut apart by the Uigan's whirling sabers—and drawing his greataxe. Other soldiers did the same, for the riders had weakened the pike wall too much for it to hold.

The battle's end was beginning.

Ride, Iver, he thought. Ride as fast as you can, and don't look back.

"Swords! Swords!" Grath boomed below. "Hold the line! Don't let the horse-lovers through!"

So it began, the fight in earnest: up till now, the goblins, the archers, and the spears, had been only the opening moves of the endgame. Now true warriors fought, blade to blade. The barbarians' numbers against the cohort's discipline, and no trickery between. The riders, many unhorsed by the pikes, climbed over the bodies of their fellows, curved sabers slashing, and slammed into the wall of shields. The soldiers' ranks buckled, and for a moment it seemed from Forlo's vantage that it would end there, that the line could not hold and the Uigan would breach it immediately and sweep it away like driftwood in a storm. But then, with a shout the men of the Sixth shoved back, slashing and battering with their straight swords, their axes, their iron-headed maces. The riders had no armor and no shields: nearly every blow the soldiers struck was lethal, four barbarians falling for every one of Forlo's men.

There were thousands more coming, and only a couple hundred soldiers in reserve. Watching the battle play out, Forlo knew he'd been right: with twice as many men—or the help of the Silvanaes—the line might have held, might have driven back the enemy. But the defenses were dwindling. The men in the rear of the cohort tried to spread out, to make sure there was someone at every point to replace those who fell in the front, but it was getting harder. The wall was crumbling, soon to be washed away.

The din from below was horrible: sword against sword, sword against shield, sword piercing flesh, men hurt, men dying, battlecries, cursing, horses shrieking, and Grath and the Uigan prince bellowing for their men to fight on. It all melded into a din that echoed off the cliffs and earned across the Run.

Then, all at once, there was a new sound: a rumbling deep below the rest, so low it made the stones of the tower tremble beneath his feet. It came from the east, far away. Forlo half-expected to see an army of stone giants charging along the sea floor. But there was nothing there.

And then there was.

Forlo's eyes widened, his mouth went dry, and his breath stole away. It wasn't possible, was it? It made no sense. But he ran to the other side of the ruined tower anyway, leaning out over the merlons, and could only stare in amazement at what he saw in the distance, still far away but coming fast.

Eldako climbed, moving unseen up the cliff face across from the ruined tower, making no sound as he went. This would have been hard going for most—all sea-worn stones, crusted white with bird droppings, and nests and tufts of weeds that grew out of clefts. The elves of the Tamire learned to climb at a young age, though, and Eldako had been scaling cliffs sheerer than that since he was a child. He wasn't even breathing hard when he reached the purchase he'd chosen: a narrow ledge fifty feet above the ravine floor, with fifty more to the top. Below him, the horsemen choked the valley. If he fell, they would trample his body to mush. He would not fall, though.

His sharp ears heard Chovuk yelling, heard him singling out the minotaur, the lone one of his kind among the paltry few human soldiers who'd shown up for the fight. Eldako frowned, wondering where the other bull-men were. He cared nothing about the humans who dwelt in the League, but the minotaurs were another matter. His people hated them more than anything. He'd hoped he could pick them off from this perch, one by one. He would settle for the one captain, but later… after the battle he and the Boyla would have words.

Though the outcrop where he stood was only half an arm's length from cliff to edge, he strung his longbow easily, bending it around his leg, then drawing a long, green-fletched shaft from his quiver. Just then an arrow struck the stone near his head, making him wince and turn away. Looking across the ravine, he immediately spied the one who'd shot: one of the archers their enemies had placed along the clifftops had spied him and was already drawing a second shaft. He never got the chance: Eldako pulled and loosed, almost without looking. The man was pulling his own string back when the elf's shot took him cleanly in the left eye, sending him sprawling over backward.

Eldako paused for a moment, pulling out another arrow as he did so to make sure no one else was aiming at him. There wasn't, and he nodded to himself. Later, he would curse himself for not seeing that one bowman, but now was not the time.

His bow creaked, old familiar music as he drew the arrow back. He turned, sighting down the shaft, and saw the bull-man, the captain bellowing to his men to let Chovuk come to him. That was foolhardy and brash—Eldako felt a flash of admiration for the minotaur. That was all he allowed himself, though. He grew very still, holding his breath and preparing for the shot. He prayed to Astar, his people's god, to guide his aim. He envisioned, as he always did, the arrow flashing through the air, striking home, killing in an instant.

That was when the tremor struck. The whole cliff began to shake beneath him. His shot flew, but went wild, well over the bull-man's head and off into the trees. Eldako had a moment to be surprised—he couldn't remember the last time he'd missed a shot like that—then the stone began to tremble so violently that he nearly dropped his bow and had to cling to the cliff to keep from getting shaken loose. What in the Abyss was going on?

Then he knew. He had lived his whole life in the Dreaming Green, save for occasional ventures into the Ring Mountains, the snow-fields of Panak, and the steppes of the Uigan. Like many of the riders, the Run had been his first glimpse of the sea. But Eldako was an elf. He understood all the movements of the earth. He'd stood on the edges of raging rivers, foaming white as they poured down from the highlands above his home. He knew how the stones around those torrents thrummed. This was like that… and not. It was greater.

Much greater.

Fear took hold of Eldako, son of Tho-ket. He forgot his quarry, forgot the battle beneath him—forgot everything but the shuddering of the cliff. His heart in his throat, he began to climb.

Grath heard the noise and wondered what it was, that rumbling in the distance. He might not have believed it was real, but he could feel it, too: the ground trembling, like a prelude to the kind of quake that had swallowed Kristophan. He hacked with his axe, splitting the skull of a rider, showering gore all around, then glanced up at the tower, at Forlo. His friend was looking the other way, back east. Something was happening.

Too late, Grath thought. They were doomed: the line could not hold much longer. Any moment now, it would break.

A shout drew his attention. The bronze-armored warrior, the barbarian prince, was very close. He'd been waiting for this, fighting harder than ever in his life just to make sure he didn't fall before he faced the Boyla. Looking closer, he was surprised to see the man's face: he was old, wrinkled and snow-bearded, although he fought like a man still in the summer of his life. His eyes were young, too, and full of fury and shadowy madness. Only a few Uigan remained between the two of them now, and Grath laid about with his axe, working to clear them away, thinking of a glorious death all the while.

"Come on, worm!" he shouted, brandishing his bloodstreaked blade. "Come find your fate!"

The Boyla saw him. He had been watching him all along. The ground between them lay open, and a smile spread across the chieftain's face. A smile beneath eyes as red as heart's blood. And his teeth were pointed!

What in Sargas's name? Grath thought.

Then the man began to change, the armor falling away as its straps strained and burst, revealing a shape beneath that grew less mannish with every heartbeat—the body elongated, the arms and legs became paws, the face twisted, and the sharp teeth turned into fangs like daggers. Fur grew out of the man's hide, white striped with black. Only the eyes remained as they were, as insane as ever. The rest had become a huge, feline form, a steppe-tiger.

Grath's mouth dropped open. He had a moment to blink, then the great beast crouched and sprang.

There was no time to swing his axe. The great beast hit him like a charging war-chariot, hammering him back and pinning him to the ground. He felt claws pierce his shoulders and rip open his flesh. His weapon fell from a hand gone nerveless, from fingers he couldn't feel any more. The tiger's weight on top of him was incredible, crushing the wind from his lungs. Its rear legs came up, dug into his stomach, and raked. Pain exploded within him as his innards shredded, and began to spill out. He screamed into the great cat's face, at the jaws opening above him. Then he butted his head against that horrible maw and felt a moment's satisfaction as one of his horns pierced the animal's cheek. He'd blooded the bastard, at least.

The tiger screeched and pulled back—only for a moment. Then the mouth opened again, fangs bared. The hot stink of its breath beat down as they clamped around Grath's head, driving through flesh and bone. A good death, Grath thought, as his world burst into roaring flames of agony.

The tiger shook him hard, and something snapped.

Hult stared at the hulking form of his master, the wild animal Chovuk had become, as the bull-man's shredded remains dropped to the ground. The minotaur was dead, of that there was no doubt. There wasn't enough left of him to be alive. The tiger turned, blood dripping from its maw as it glared back at him. All around, the fighting seemed to slow, as rider and soldier alike paused to stare at what had become of Grath Horuth-Bok, and at the monstrous man-beast in their midst. They hesitated and shied back. Hult didn't blame them: seeing the wild gleam in the animal's eyes, he too felt like dropping his shuk and fleeing.

A moment later, though, something drew their attention away: the rumbling, which had been building as they fought, grew very loud. Screams rose from the horde's rear, and when Hult looked he saw bedlam down on the floor of the Run. The riders who still hadn't come up into the ravine were scattering, seeking desperately to escape something.

His skin felt cold. He had never seen warriors of the Tamire flee like that.

"Master…" he said.

But Chovuk wasn't listening, was barely even Chovuk any more. The tiger had moved on, raging deeper into the ranks of the League's soldiers, swatting them with its massive paws, seizing them, and crushing the life out of them with its powerful jaws. Some swung their swords at it, but its flesh was as hard as stone, turning their blades aside or shattering them to the hilt. The rest just scrambled away, letting the cat push deeper and deeper into their midst.

Hult had to follow. He was bound to by his oath to the Boyla. But before he did, he risked another glance over his shoulder at the insanity that had consumed the riders behind. What was making them run? What could possibly—

The roaring got so loud then that all the fighting seemed to stop and everyone turned to stare back down the ravine. A dark, looming shadow fell over the Run and the men there. Then, with a ferocity and suddenness that drove every thought from Hult's mind, a wall of water swept down the strait.