Alexey Pehov - Chasers of the Wind

The strange wagon still had about two hundred yards left until it reached the Gates when he called out to a friend of his who was chatting with two other guards.

“Hey, Rek!”

“What?” he responded petulantly.

“Take a look.”

Rek grumbled discontentedly, but all the same he turned in the direction indicated. For several seconds he watched the road apathetically and then he turned his gaze on Luk.

“What of it?”

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. You think she came from the pass?”

Overhearing something about the pass, the seated soldiers leaned toward the arrow loop.

“The captain should be informed,” Rek said uncertainly.

“You go inform him yourself,” muttered Luk. But then he replied, “Shout down below, get them to check who it is and what she’s doing here.”

Rek turned away from the arrow loop, brought his hands to his mouth, and bellowed to the guards standing in the exterior courtyard of the fortress. At that very instant, a captain emerged from the barracks with the twenty unfortunate wretches who were doomed to work on the holiday.

Meanwhile, two guards stepped away from the wall and slowly made their way toward the caravan. Another dozen, mostly just curious, stood by the Wing. The woman tugged at the reins and said something in reply to the soldier’s question. Luk would have paid a lot of money to hear exactly what was said. But a moment later he saw eight men emerge from the caravan. Six of them were dressed in chain mail and armed to the teeth. But it was the sight of the other two that froze the blood in Luk’s veins and sent shooting pains throughout his stomach. They were wearing white robes!

Necromancers from Sdis!

The guard wanted to call out, to catch the attention of the Walkers, but fear made his voice seize in his throat. Unable to rip his gaze away, he watched as the warriors, dressed in the colors of the kingdom of Nabator, killed the surprised soldiers and started running toward the fortress.

A battle broke out below.

Something snapped, howled, hissed, and the captain and his men were swept through the courtyard of the citadel in bloody scraps. The staff of one of the Sdisian sorcerers was emitting a gray light.

Once again there was a rumbling, though not as loud as before, and all that remained of the necromancer and the Nabatorian standing closest to him was a wet spot. The Walker was invoking her Gift, and the Ember was standing next to her, pressing her palm into the Lady’s back.

“The Gates! Close the Gates, screw a damn toad!” cried out Luk, who had finally come to his senses.

From the direction of the village he could see a few hundred cavalry galloping at full tilt toward the Gates. Alongside the Nabatorians, keeping pace with the horses, ran bony creatures that resembled skeletons.

Morts!

Rek ran to an enormous horn, breathed deeply, gathering the air in his lungs, and then blew it. A low booming sound spread over the Towers, sounding the alarm and raising the entire garrison to its feet. Men ran in from every quarter with no idea of what was happening. Many of them were without weapons.

The Wings of the Gates finally shivered and slowly began to close.

Too slowly.

Beneath the walls the battle raged on. The six Nabatorian warriors, under the auspices of the remaining necromancer, were holding out until the arrival of the main force. A lowering portcullis rumbled, and then another. Then there was a roar, and a warning cry rang through the fortress courtyard: “The sorcerer blew up the portcullis!”

Things were looking bleak if the Walker didn’t do something soon.

As if in response to Luk’s entreaty, the air shimmered and thickened over the Lady and the Ember, transforming into a massive many-faceted spear of ice. It deployed, aimed for the Sdisian…. Then the woman who was sitting on the caravan seat thrust up one of her hands as if annoyed at the distraction from her contemplation of the combat.

Crash!

For a moment it seemed to Luk that he had died and found himself in the drum of the northerners’ god, Ug. There was a ringing in his ears, and all around him hung a thick cloud of dust. Bewildered at first, the guard realized that he had fallen.

He shook his head dazedly and then got up onto his hands and knees. There was a roaring in his ears, and blood was pouring down his face. Spitting out grit, he staggered to his feet and rushed toward where the Walker had been standing.

Enormous stones, which had been set into the walls by the Sculptor, had been plucked out and scattered for hundreds of yards. One of the boulders had fallen on the barracks of the second company, reducing it to rubble. Another, launched as if from a catapult, had crashed through the facade of the Tower of Rain. A third had smashed down onto the road, crushing three heedless Morts and five Nabatorians along with their horses.

The section of the wall on which the magic blow had fallen was severely damaged. It was as if a giant hammer had struck it. But the Walker was alive. Forgetting about his usual shyness around those who possessed the Gift, Luk rushed over to the woman. And then he shuddered. He had never seen such wounds during his time as a guard, and he strived to look only at the woman’s face. Only now did he appreciate the fact that she was no more than nineteen years old, and that she had sky blue eyes.

She smiled and, very quietly but astonishingly clearly, said, “Tell my sisters that Rubeola has returned.”

A Damned!

“Are you sure, my lady?” babbled Luk, who was suffocating from terror.

The Walker did not answer. Her eyes faded, and for some reason the guard had the strongest urge to cry.

A succession of magical blows battered against the Gates. They remained intact but stopped closing. The forward detachment of Nabatorians had held out long enough to ensure that the cavalry and Morts swept into the courtyard.

A massacre ensued. Over and over the Sdisian’s staff flared dully.

The Damned just sat on the caravan seat and watched in a bored manner as an endless blue-black ribbon of soldiers flowed into the fallen citadel.

The day had started out warm, and now the cows, lazily chewing their cud, were sheltering from the midday heat in the shadow of a large oak. A yearling calf, tormented by gadflies, dragged himself to the river and slipped in, thereby ridding himself of the feisty insects. His dappled mother was trying to warn her son away from the water with a plaintive moo, but he was far too occupied with the water and ignored her summons.

Pork sighed disappointedly and set aside his homemade reed pipe. What kind of music could he make when there was such a racket? The damned cow just wouldn’t quiet down. He should drag the calf out of the river, but he was feeling lazy. There was no point. He’d just wander back in again.

The day seemed infinitely long. His jug of milk was half empty, but his bread remained untouched. He had no desire to eat. Or work, for that matter. While the village boys fished for trout and played at being knights, why did he have to keep an eye on the cattle? But the children had no desire to include the overgrown village idiot in their games. Pork didn’t know why, and as a result he was horribly offended, not understanding the reason everyone always laughed at him and twirled their fingers around their foreheads.

Yawning, he was about to nap for another hour, since the shade of the bushes he was stretched out under wouldn’t go away for a while yet, when he noticed four riders appear on the road in the distance. They crossed the river unhurriedly, making their way along the sturdy wooden bridge constructed by the villagers, and, passing by the standing stone (standing stones are set at all crossroads. According to legend, they keep evil from finding its way into people’s homes), headed off toward the village.