Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

She could not think, could not control herself over the last few feet. She staggered forward, screaming and sobbing, bearing the torch aloft and certain that death was there for her, breathing softly, black wings rustling like those of the crows that waited, waited somewhere in the predawn darkness to sweep down on the eyes of the dead.

Somehow, she gained the battlements over the gate and stood above them, a sure and simple target for Marat archers, the torch held aloft.

It went up in a sudden furnace of sound and heat, an abrupt river of roaring light that shot into the sky and lit the ground for a mile in every direction. All of that terror, all of that fear in her blossomed out with the torch, poured out with the sudden, raging flames, swept out of her, magnified a thousandfold, onto the ground beneath.

There was an instant, horrible stillness, as the power of the firecrafting swept over the Marat below. And then a scream, born in one moment from thousands of throats, rose up into the air. The pressure of the Marat assault vanished, more quickly than it had arrived. The pale tide of Marat warriors abruptly flooded back from the walls of Garrison, howling in terror, joined by the whistling, panicked shrieks of the fleeing warbirds. The battered legionares defending the walls began to cheer, as the Marat were swept under by the firecrafting and broke and ran.

Amara saw them go, even as the terror flowed out of her, poured out together with whatever strength she had left. She staggered and nearly fell from the battlements, only to be supported by Bernard, who had appeared behind her. She leaned back against him, exhausted and barely able to keep her eyes open, while all around her Aleran warriors threw defiant cheers after the fleeing enemy.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the sky was

lighter. She sat on the battlements, wrapped in Bernard's cloak. Numb, aching, she swayed to her feet and looked up and down the wall and down into the courtyard below.

The wounded, the dying, and the dead lay everywhere. Healers and surgeons alike labored with the fallen, with men burned so badly that they could hardly be recognized as human. Amara watched as one man let out a choking shriek and then stiffened, a blackened hand curled into a claw. The legionare with him, himself sporting a scarlet-stained bandage, drew a cloak over the man's head. Then, with the help of another legionare, he carried the body to a growing number of rows of corpses on the other side of the courtyard.

She turned and looked down the walls. Perhaps a dozen legionares stood along them, young, strained, unwounded, holding their spears at attention.

On the battlefield below the walls, the crows had come for the dead.

They swarmed over them in a croaking black carpet, wings flapping, eyes glittering with glassy hunger, uncaring of the loyalties of the fallen. They hopped from body to body, tearing at tongues, eyes, and when Amara saw one of the bodies stir, only to be buried in the winged beasts, she felt her numb belly twist and turned away.

Bernard appeared a moment later, his face strained, and handed her a ladle of cold water. She drank.

"It's bad," she said, quietly.

"Bad," he agreed. "Even once we get the lightly wounded back on their feet, the garrison lost two-thirds. There are only three Knights still alive, counting Pirellus. The gates are broken, and there's no way to replace them-and the enemy can jump the walls in any case."

"How's Gram?"

"Harger says he isn't likely to wake up again before he dies. That last crafting took too much out of him."

"Crows," Amara swore softly. "He's a brave man."

"Yes."

"The Marat are coming back then," Amara said.

"Soon."

She closed her eyes, wearily. "What else can we do?"

Bernard said, "I don't know."

"We should get the women and children out. The men's families. Put them in wagons and send them toward Riva as fast as they can go."

"We can't. Those Knights didn't just take out the gates. Some others got into the stables and panicked the horses. It drew the attention of maybe half a dozen herdbane. There aren't any horses left."

Amara looked up at him. "Can they flee on foot?"

"I've talked to Pirellus about it, and Giraldi. Even on the causeway, the women and children can't run faster than the Marat. Even if we hold on to Garrison for as long as possible. There just aren't enough men-and most of the families won't leave. They've decided that they'll stay and fight, rather than be killed running. Pirellus is keeping their spirits up. Telling them that reinforcements are bound to come from Riva."

"No," Amara said, numb. "I never thought they'd have so many Knights Aeris to use to cut off the Valley. I don't think anyone could have gotten through that many."

Bernard nodded, once. "We've sent out runners, on foot, to warn the steadholts. We're hoping to buy them some time. If they head for Riva right away, they might make it out of the Valley…" He let his voice trail off, tiredly.

Amara stood up beside him and leaned against him. He leaned back, and the two shared a long moment of silence in the predawn stillness.

"You should go," Bernard said. "You can fly out of here. You should take word to the First Lord."

"Even if I could still fly," Amara said, "my duty is to do what I can to stop what's happening here. To find out who began it. Bring those responsible to justice. I couldn't just leave."

"There's no reason for you to die here, Countess."

"There's no point in this argument, Steadholder. I can't fly. Not now. I'm too tired." She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. He felt strong and warm, and she took whatever comfort she could in that.

After a moment, she felt him move an arm around her, and she pressed closer to him. "I'm sorry, Bernard," she said. "I'm sorry I wasn't faster. I didn't do something differently. I'm sorry about your sister, your nephew."

He swallowed. When he spoke, his voice came out rough, quiet. "Nothing to be sorry for. I just hope to the furies that they're all right."

She touched his arm, and they stood together, quiet, with the caws of the crows before them and the moans of the dying behind.

The sky lightened further, and Amara felt Bernard draw in a sudden breath. "Merciful furies."

She opened her eyes and looked out onto the plains beyond Garrison, now being lit as the sun rose over them, and shone down upon a sea of pale bodies.

The Marat.

Thousands upon thousands of Marat. They stretched from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. Twenty thousand. Thirty. Fifty. She had no way to accurately estimate numbers that vast. She looked out at them as the horde poured slowly closer to Garrison over the plains. Enough to drown the defenders of the little fortress. Enough to swarm over the Calderon Valley. Enough to rampage over the unprepared lands beyond and to destroy thousands of defenseless Aleran communities.

She glanced up at Bernard and then stepped forward, away from him, to lean one hand on the battlements, watching the enemy come on.

"You'd better get Pirellus," she said, quietly. "Tell him to get ready."

Though they were not cold, Isana's feet were battered and bruised by the time she dragged the shambling Odiana out of the rough undergrowth of the woodland and out onto the causeway that ran the length of the Calderon Valley. She had barely caught her breath in the predawn darkness when she heard the drumming beats of running horses coming along the road, swift and steady.

She seized Odiana's wrist and dragged her back toward the edge of the causeway, but it was too late. Riders, blazing along the furycrafted stones of the causeway, were already upon them and all but ran them down before bringing their horses, huge, plunging shapes in the darkness, rearing and fighting to a halt.