Part 48 (1/2)
A roar jerked his attention to the wall a quarter-mile eastward. ”What the ... ?”
A huge cloud of dust reached for the sun.
Another roar rose behind him. He spun, saw a section of wall collapsing, flinging into shallow snow.
”Miners!” he gasped. ”Trumpets! Alert! VisiG.o.dred....”The thin old wizard was in full career already. Bragi's shouts were drowned by a change in the song of the drums. More sections collapsed. Friendly horns screamed, ”To arms!”
There were no civilians in Southtown. Its quickly busy streets contained only soldiers.
The maneuvering legions rushed toward the fortress.
Ragnarson's face turned grim. Badalamen had surprised him again. But what sane man would have sapped tunnels that long? How could he believe it would go undetected?
How had he managed it?
Sections of wall kept crumbling.
”Too many breeches,” Bragi muttered. More legions double-timed toward Southtown.
A glow grew over s.h.i.+nsan's camp. Bragi smiled. Sorcery. He had a surprise for Badalamen too.
The first legionnaires. .h.i.t the rubbled gaps. Arrows flew. The world's best soldiers were in for a fight this time. They were about to meet the soul of Itaskia's army, bowmen who bragged that they could nail gnats on the wing at two hundred yards. In the streets they would face the Iwa Skolovdan pikes who had dismayed El Murid's riders during those wars, and a host of crazy killers from Ragnarson's Trolledyngjan homeland, overpowering in their fearlessness and barbarian strength. They were Tennys's praetorians, selected for size, skill, and berserker battle style.
Bragi smiled tightly. His defense was reacting calmly and well. Rooftop bowmen made deathtraps of the gaps in the wall.
Yet he was about to be cut off.
A sound like the moan of a world dying rose from the enemy camp. The glow became blinding. Bragi ran.
Something whined overhead. He glimpsed the Unborn whipping southward.
He saw little after that. The invaders forced a band of defenders back upon him.
He escaped that pocket only to become trapped in a bigger one.
Badalamen's sappers hadn't ended their tunnels at the wall. They had driven on into deep bas.e.m.e.nts.
”Treason,” Ragnarson muttered. ”Can't ever root it out.” Somebody had done the surveying....
Southtown decayed into chaos. Ragnarson just couldn't reach his headquarters. His rage grew. He knew his absence meant defeat.
The southern skyline flared, darkened. Thunders rolled. Things rocketed into view and away again. The Tervola were putting on one h.e.l.l of a show. Varthlokkur's surprise must have fizzled.
He encountered Ragnar near the Barbican, the final fortification defending the Great Bridge.
”Father! You all right?”
”I'll make it.” He was an ambulatory blood clot. A lot was his. ”What's happening?”
”Covering the evacuation.””What? Bring in....”
”Too late. Southtown's lost. You're about the last we'll save. They ran two tunnels under the river. They've closed the bridge twice. We reopened it, and closed one tunnel.”
”Drown the sons of b.i.t.c.hes.” He turned. Southtown was burning. Fighting was waning. A ragged band of Trolledyngjans hurried their way, grim of visage. They had been stunned by their enemies. No soldiers should be that good.
”Save what you can. Don't let them take the Barbican.” He started for the city.
Two soldiers helped. He had lost a lot of blood.
He paused at the bridge's center. The Silverbind was alive with wars.h.i.+ps, each loaded with Marines. ”What now?”
It was the first thing Haaken explained. ”They've launched a fleet from Portsmouth, across the Estuary.”
”d.a.m.n. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d don't miss a shot.”
Ragnarson quickly counterattacked through the underriver tunnels. Zindahjira and VisiG.o.dred spearheaded. Badalamen's a.s.sault on the Barbican petered out.
”Your spook-pushers are whipping theirs,” observed Lord Hartteoben, recently appointed Itaskian Chief of Staff. ”That Unborn.... It won't let the Tervola direct their legions.”
”We've got to hurt them while we can,” Ragnarson averred. His wounds were worse than he would admit. Willpower couldn't keep him going. He collapsed.
Blackfang took charge, stubbornly pursued prepared plans.
The woman wore black. He couldn't see her clearly. She seemed ill-defined, haloed.
”Death,” he sighed as she bent. The Dark Lady bringing her fatal kiss.
Her lips moved. ”Marshall?” It tumbled down a long, cold tunnel littered with the bones of heroes.
The equalizer, the great leveler, had turned her gaze his way at last. The last narrow escape lay behind him, not ahead....
She wiped his face with a cold, wet cloth.
He saw more clearly.
This was no Angel of Death. She wore the habit of a lay helper of the Sisters of Mercy. The halo came of window light teasing through wild golden hair.
She had to be the daughter of an Itaskian n.o.bleman. No common woman had the resources to so faithfully maintain her youth, to dress richly even in nursing habit.
He guessed her to be thirty.... Then realized he was nude, and tendering a half- hearted male salute.
”The battle....” he babbled. ”How long have I?”
”Four days.” Her glance flicked downward, amused. ”The fighting continues. Your Blackfang is too stubborn to lose.” She bathed him, enjoying his embarra.s.sment.
”The situation, woman, the situation,” he demanded weakly.She bubbled. ”Admiral Stonecipher caught their fleet two days ago. They were seasick. He forced them onto the rocks at Cape Blood. The Coast Watch finished them. A historic victory, Father says. Greater than the Battle of the Isles.”
”Ah.” He smiled. ”That'll warm Badalamen's heart.” The fleet from Portsmouth had counted every seaworthy vessel captured along the western littoral. Tens of thousands of easterners must have drowned. ”What about Southtown?”
She pushed him down. He was too weak to resist.