He looked at it again now.
Two hundred feet tall at least, assuming there wasn’t more below the earth. Maybe a hundred and fifty wide or more. And those battlements looking out at angles, about halfway up, some kind of natural ledge or cut, he’d guess. It was hard to imagine anything on that scale could be man-made.
Either way, it was more than enough to give anyone on the battlements a clear line down to the Barrowlands below. He’d seen how cleanly Thell’s spears flew in their practice drills, and he had a hunch there would be a damn sight more than spears raining from the sky, given Skinpainter still called the mountain home.
If they didn’t want to die on their tenth step, they needed a plan.
Now, after three nights of arguing, they have one, but whether Crowkisser likes it or not, a lot of people are still going to die. Slickwalker tries to picture it in his mind’s eye as he watches the patrols go through the motions. First, the long men will shin up the mountain on the east and westmost sides, those strong fisherman’s arms put to work. They’ll be silencing sentries if they can, but more importantly working their way in. Slickwalker doubts whether any of them will survive the night.
The key to getting out of this alive will be countering Thell’sheavy hitters. For all Crowkisser thought she was invincible, Slickwalker knew better. All it took was a shot at the right moment. A dagger under the ribs or a falling rock. Sorcerers died the same as everyone else.
He expected four magic-wielders on the field tomorrow, and only one of them was on his side. His skin prickled with cold sweat just thinking about it. Skinpainter skulked inside the mountain and no one knew what they could do when pushed, but they had led a rebellion that tore down an Empire, marking them as one to watch. At their back, Belltoller. Slickwalker hadn’t been able to get close to her, though he’d heard stories enough that he didn’t care to. The tollers working together had drowned cities. Alone, by herself, who knew what she could muster? Slickwalker had seen enough cornered dogs in his time to tread carefully.
Worse still, Shroudweaver had run to Thell. Crowkisser seemed to think she finally had all the pieces in place to shut him down, but all Slickwalker could see was a powerful, ruthless man with his back to the wall. He knew she wasn’t willing to kill her father, but he doubted that mercy cut both ways.
Which left him, and the gun. At the thought, he feels it stir on his back, flexing lazily against his spine. He was willing to do what needed to be done. Killing Skinpainter or Shroudweaver only needed one finger on the trigger to save thousands; to save her.
His fingertips itch at the thought, and his palm absently reaches back to trace the stock of the gun, which pulses impatiently.
Crowkisser was convinced she could handle them both. After her near-death experience she seemed more certain than ever, a light in her eyes he’d only seen once before, when the south burnt.
Someone needed to plan for the worst though. And so, here he was, watching the mountain and thinking about the best division of death.
The patrols shift again, and he counts the seconds in between, the brief span where their backs are all turned to the plain. His eye flits to the gates, and he scratches nervously under his gloves.
Once the gates are blown, the fighting will be close, and brutal, but they have the numbers, close to four thousand now, Astic’s own bolstered by the Rim villages. He’s not surprised to see so many. Dryke, Vantage and Fallow had been spare, lean towns before the south burnt. Now they sat on the edge of desolation. Leaving to fight for something better was a simple choice.
Slickwalker had been surprised that they hadn’t gathered more coming north. The way Crowkisser had talked, the world had been waiting for her. In the end, the world had locked its doors and muttered curses as they’d marched by.
Still, four thousand was enough. From what they’d heard, or bought from the tongues of traders fleeing south, Thell could muster only a couple of thousand at best, and of those, only around half were fit to fight. And of that half, most hadn’t seen war in twenty years.
A few dangerous old bears, and an army of unblooded children. No wonder Crowkisser expected Thell to crack without too much strife.
Slickwalker, as always, was a little more pessimistic. Even so, if they could get into the mountain, they’d have the edge, almost four to one. The only trick was surviving long enough.
He starts at the sound of horns, from the eastern battlement first, then rippling along the length of the Stump, until the Barrowlands are awash with noise. He watches as the limper hurries back to her post, as the sniffling boy straightens his helmet on his head. The smoking woman stubs her roll-up ruefully and shrugs her armour tighter across her shoulders.
Slickwalker doesn’t need to look to see the source of their panic. He doesn’t need to, but he turns to the south anyway, for the sheer pleasure of it.
The army of the Crowkisser has come to Thell. Four thousand men and women, robed in the grey of Astic, the dun green of Fallow, the worked leather of Vantage and Dryke. Appearing in knots and clumps, they form a ragged line that stretches the length of the Stump, then off east and west, half a mile at least.
Knots and clumps, like they’d planned. He smiles quietly tohimself. Groups of two hundred or so, spread out over the field. Only half those groups need to make it to the gate for them to have a fighting chance inside. Split small, they can weave through the barrows and buildings, perhaps get some shelter from the inevitable steel rain.
They’ll need it, lightly armoured as they are. Clubs and shields, boat-knives and boathooks, the flat-blades they made in Sedge, and the hooked daggers that stripped the trees in Fallow. They need to move fast. Once they’re chest to chest with someone, all blades are the same.
Slickwalker unshoulders the gun, shudders as it unfurls with a rapid hiss. Braces its smooth length against his arm and sights down at the lines.
Crowkisser’s there of course, a few feet ahead of the vanguard, far out of spear range and not alone. Four long men flanked her at all times, knives loose in their hands. Good. Another argument he’d won.
There’s no theatre to this, no ritual. As the sound of horns fades from the hills, there’s silence for a moment, broken only by the piping of mountain birds and the muffled shift and clank of Thell’s battlements slowly filling with soldiers.
Then Crowkisser’s army gives voice to a shout. High and ragged, washing over the cairns and barrows.
And below him, they begin to charge.
Slickwalker remembers an old salt telling him about battle, once. He’d said that an army charges like a sickness. Bodies clotting into valleys, thickening in choke points. As he watches Crowkisser’s people rush forwards, he sees the lie in that. Sure, if you perched yourself high on a mountain ledge, you could almost kid yourself that it played out bloodlessly. Vast human waves, brutal, implacable, crashing against the stone shore of the mountain.
Get a little closer though, and that’s when the dying starts.
