He follows their gaze as Hesper’s diminished line reforms and contracts around the lip of the pit. Another squadron of the dead are marshalling to move down the street. Perhaps a hundred. And behind them, the living warriors of Thell, at least a hundred again, their bright armour and tall spears ready, their blonde hair incongruously beautiful in the mid-afternoon sun. He imagines there must be around the same number on the other side of the square and curses under his breath.
The red-haired soldier nods. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
The Empire’s army advances. At the head of the living soldiers stands a brute of man, heavy-shouldered as if carved from stone, half as wide again as the others, a hammer on his hip like it belongs there.
More worryingly, by his side, a tall woman, iron hair bound back behind her brow, arms festooned with carved wooden charms. Something in the shake of her soul reminds Shroudweaver of the singer who had collapsed the square. A vibration, deep and strong. A bell in her left hand.
He points. ‘We take her out first.’
His short-haired companion nods. ‘I’m Dropdancer, by the way. Thanks for asking.’
He opens his mouth to apologise and they nudge him playfully.
‘It’s OK, you idiot. Just want someone to know my name before I die.’
He grimaces. ‘You’re not going to die, Drop.’
They put a hand on his wrist, hold his gaze for a second. ‘Optimism. I like that. Cute.’
Shroudweaver scans the enemy lines. Something’s held them up. The dead are shuffling incrementally forwards, the living soldiers casting around nervously.
Then it arrives. That lean black horse shouldering its way through the ranks of the dead. Atop its back, the Gem, its faceless white stone mask scanning their lines, the quartz gleaming in the sun that filters through the drifting ash.
He feels its gaze alight on him and watches as it slowly unsheathes a black sword.
A shout from behind them. ‘Ladders down!’
Shroudweaver risks a glance over his shoulder. Those long ladders and poles they brought to breach the walls have found a better use now, threading down into the pit, forming a web of wood for the injured to scramble up.
Arissa and Shipwright are at the edge, co-ordinating the effort. Slowly, too slowly, the wounded start to wend their way to safety, like dragonflies on a river stem.
Dropdancer follows his gaze. ‘We just need to hold long enough to get them out, Weaver. Long enough to get them out.’
They eye the slowly advancing line. ‘Can you buy us time?’
Shroudweaver counts the dead, ten upon ten again. More than anyone has ever tried to unbind. In a rush, in the midst of battle. He can hear the dry soft laughter of his teachers. An arrogant boy. A stupid, overconfident, arrogant boy.
He flashes Dropdancer what he hopes is a winning smile. ‘Of course. Just keep me alive a bit longer.’
They run a whetstone along the curve of their sword, glancing up from beneath their brows. ‘You got it, Weaver.’
As if it’s heard his lie, the Gem drops its sword and howls, a thin screech like a vulture pulled from a kill.
As the black sword falls, the dead begin to run.
Hesper’s shield-wall locks with a shout once more. Tired. Quieter. Barely echoed on the other side of the pit.
Shroudweaver tries to calm his churning stomach. He’d thought the second charge might be easier, somehow. It’s not.
If anything, they’re faster than last time. Fifty yards away, then forty, then twenty. He tries to clear his breathing, flush out his body and mind. Find the threads to pull the souls from as many as he can. He can hear shouts from behind him; hear Dropdancer’sharsh breath to his right, the muttered curses of the man who has moved forwards to fill the gap on his left. They’re depending on him.
He clears his mind, breathes deep and reaches out.
Something hits him like a fist in the gut.
Cold, flinty. He looks down. There’s nothing there, but he canfeelit driving into his stomach, like a stone slowly forced into his intestines, ragged edges tearing.
He falls backwards, vision blurring and catches sight of the Gem as he does, its implacable mask focused directly on him even as that black horse thunders forwards.
