Emeth, elsewhere on the wall, sent forth flame. Bones smoldered. Hair caught in places, flickering, and the fire spread feebly to flesh, but the amalgamation of corpses didn’t pause or flinch. A few pieces fell away, none significant.
Cold may work better once the fire’s died,said Gerant, without much hope.
“Worth a try,” she said. All the delight she felt in a normal battle was missing. There was no dance, no pattern, just sick and slow progress.
Olvir didn’t ask what she’d meant. He stood immobile, staring at the giant creature. Darya couldn’t blame him. Amris might have found something helpful to say. He wasn’t there, and Darya kept quiet.
Now, she could make out the riders themselves. One was a crawling-face, though it was larger than the others, and two extra arms sprouted from its sides. From the side, the other seemed human enough—ordinary, in fact. He was a man of middling height, round-chinned, with dirty blond hair receding back from his forehead. If not for the way he was dressed, Darya would have passed him on the street and not looked at him twice.
He wore jewels set in bone on all his fingers, and a crown of bone rested on his head, a great diamond at its center. His robes were gray silk, embroidered with gold.
“Thyran,” she said, and it came out in a child’s whisper.
His creation raised a colossal arm.
Darya lifted her sword and let the cold flow through her. It swirled around the construct. Maybe a bit of the flesh looked grayer. She couldn’t really tell.
The fist hit the gates with a crack that Darya could hear from her place on the wall. They didn’t break then, but they shuddered, and splinters flew.
And Thyran turned his head toward her.
The priestess of Sitha was rushing toward the gates, calling on the goddess. The corpse-thing was raising its fist for another blow. Thyran stared in Darya’s direction with rotten orange fire dancing across his eyes.
She didn’t know if he saw her or was just looking at the section of wall that the latest attack had come from. She was too far away to be sure that he was sneering, triumphant, but she was sure of it anyway. Darya held tight to Gerant, missing the spirit now that he was resting, and waited for the next blow.
Thyran’s gaze passed over her, moved on to Olvir at her side—and stopped.
Orange light flashed off the sorcerer’s bone-set rings as he raised one hand to his brow. He froze in place, then actually staggered back a step. His companion on the corpse vehicle turned toward him in surprise and alarm.
Darya grabbed her bow again. If there was a time to shoot, it was now.
She fitted an arrow to the string, began to draw, and saw sunset-red light gathering on top of the gates.
Katrine, she thought. Of course. Letar and Tinival, the blessing that scourged all things turned against their own nature, whether they were undead or Twisted. The lady chose her time.
Thyran still had his hand pressed to his forehead. The crawling-face reached for him. He shook it off with an impatient gesture.
Katrine’s light washed down from the gates, a wave larger than Darya had ever seen from her. It struck the corpse-monster just below the knees.
Vibrant red drowned out the orange-gray hellfire. Within its radiance, bunches of limbs and skulls began to fall away from either side of the construct, dropping like leaves in an autumn wind. It swayed drunkenly. Thyran dropped his hand—dropped both of them—and clung to the top. His companion, not so lucky or so quick to react, stumbled, then fell. Darya heard it screaming until it hit the ground.
She fired only to see the arrow crumple before it could hit Thyran, like a dozen others sent by people with the same idea. It was no surprise. It didn’t make a dent in her mood, either: that was soaring as she watched the construct fall to one knee, then saw its other leg crumble. Within minutes, it was down to a torso and arms, with fists pounding ineffectually at the ground.
Thyran stalked off it then, his back stiff with rage. His army parted before him with the speed fear inspired. After a few steps, he turned and made a violent gesture to the union of corpses, which stopped hitting the ground and followed, dragging itself after its master on crumbling arms.
“Praise the gods and give me a damn drink!” Darya cheered, paying no attention to her raw throat. “What the hell did you do there, knight—ah,shit.”
Olvir was slumped over the edge of the wall, only his breathing showing that he still lived.
Chapter 38
The courtyard was full of the soldiers Hallis had called forth, knowing the twistedmen would be right behind any breach of the gates. He and Amris walked among them, sending the most exhausted to get some rest and the walking wounded back to what recovery they could manage, calming where they could and giving what answers they knew. Hallis put together a squad to help reinforce the gates because wood and stone would give Sitha’s magic more to work with.
In the infirmary itself, Dale the Mourner still slept like the dead, and nobody had felt the need to rouse him. The recent attack had wounded nothing but the gates themselves—and Katrine, the Sentinel who sat in a dark corner with her eyes closed and her hands wrapped around a mug of strong-smelling tea. Emeth knelt behind her, rubbing her temples.
“Will you be well?” Amris asked quietly, stopping in front of them.
“With herbs and time,” said Katrine. “I’m seeing two of everything just now.”
