“All that time spent seeing to our walls and the suburbs beyond might better have been spent here,” Darin said. “The river’s our weakest border.”
“Marshal.” Captain Renprow pointed upstream to the west bank, saving me from having to reply. A knot of figures, tiny in the distance, struggling on a boat dock, city guard units advancing down the river path.
Glancing to the opposite shore I saw more figures, some running away, some giving chase. Where the sun still lingered on the gabled rooftop of St. Mary-on-Seleen I saw shapes moving, just three hundred yards away: the black and spidery forms of mire-ghouls clambering over the tiled roof ridge.
“They’re everywhere.” Corpses must have lain hidden under the water where the current lagged, or been drowned in the river mud, waiting for the sign to attack. I couldn’t tell their numbers—it didn’t look like a vast army of them, but they were dispersing into the heart of my city, hunting for prey, and if the Dead King had his full attention on us then each kill might add to their numbers. “Send word to the watch garrisons at Taggio, Saint Annes, Doux, and LeCrosse. All city guard to advance toward the Seleen in groups of not less than twenty clearing the streets as they go. All crossbow men to be deployed, with an eye to the rooftops for ghouls.”
“Sire!” An Iron Hoof rider beside me, Lord Borron’s younger son. He nodded to the far end of the bridge. A dozen or so figures had started to approach.
“The hell?” At first I couldn’t make sense of it. Bloated river-men, black with slime, staggering our way with awkward steps; but city guard too, the dark red of their tabards clear, sun glinting on their helmets . . . those that had them.
“They’re all dead.” Darin, at my side. He was right: they weren’t fighting each other, they were advancing on us.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I asked. “Ride them down. Are you lancers or milk nurses?” To be fair none of the Iron Hoof riders actually had lances with them, but they still had the advantage of being mounted on horses bred for war.
“I was just waiting to be led, Marshal Jalan.” Darin managed a grin and gestured “after you.”
“Ah.” The odds were with us, but there were quite a lot of the bastards, and in war I like the odds stacked so heavily in my favour that the only danger to me is being crushed by them should they fall. “You see . . .”
Captain Renprow came to my aid. “The marshal is responsible for the defence of the entire city, Prince Darin. He cannot allow himself the luxury of actual combat. It would be a disaster were he to be incapacitated.”
“That’s right. Exactly right.” I restrained myself from leaning across and hugging Renprow. “It kills me not to be allowed to get in there amongst them and swing my sword and whatnot, but duty is a stern mistress.”
Darin rolled his eyes. “Get Martus down here with his men. It’s madness to leave them by the palace.” With that he raised his sword overhead and bellowed, “For the Red Queen!” Then, kicking in his heels, “Vermillion!” And he was off, the others streaming behind him. A deafening clatter of hooves and close on ten tons of angry beast hurtled toward the Dead King’s creatures.
I managed to stop one of the palace guards from joining the charge by dint of grabbing his shoulder and demanding that he stay. In that moment of distraction Murder very nearly escaped me to set off after Darin, but if there’s one thing I do well it’s horses and I managed to turn him.
“Right,” I said. “We need some sort of plan.”
The man I’d held back slapped his neck, “Jesus!”
“Not a plan,” I said. “What we . . .” I trailed off as he drew back his hand to reveal a small black dart sticking into the flesh just below his Adam’s apple. “Jesus.” I looked around wildly and spotted the mire-ghoul responsible, now clambering over the balustrade, blowpipe in one hand.
“I kept you back for exactly this kind of thing,” I told the guard. “Kill it quick! Don’t worry about the dart, it’s just poison.”
The man shot a very dark look at me from under the brim of his helm.
“I mean it just makes you weak—if you hurry you can kill the ghoul before—”
“Marshal . . . I can’t see.” He held one hand out before his face as if needing the confirmation. His eyes really had gone dark, the whites shading grey.
“Stay calm, it only lasts a few hours.” I took his reins. Snorri had recovered from the weakness. “Renprow.” I nodded to the ghoul that now had both feet on the bridge paving and was busy pushing another dart into its pipe.
“Marshal.” Renprow drew his sword and cantered toward the ghoul ten yards closer to the riverbank.
“I’m fucking blind.” The guard touched his eyes, forgetting all about princes and marshals now. His words came out slurred.
“You need to stay calm,” I said. “It will get better.”
At that the guard slid from his saddle with all the grace of a sack of oats. He landed on his head and shoulder with a rather nauseating crack and lay sprawled, his neck at an unnatural angle, one foot still in the stirrups.
“That might not get better,” I acknowledged. I glanced up the bridge toward the melee where Darin and his fellows were now laying about themselves having trampled half the foe with their charge. Another glance at my fallen comrade and I put the boot into his horse, hard as I could. The dead man’s eyes snapped open just before his horse lurched into motion and dragged him away toward my brother, head bouncing off every bump in the road.
A thud and the sound of a struggle returned my attention to Renprow and the ghoul. Somehow the thing had pulled him from his saddle, earning a slash in its side but now wrestling with the captain on the floor. Both had knives out, the captain’s a long clean piece of steel, the ghoul’s a curved and wicked-looking blade as darkly stained as its hide.
“Come on, Captain!” I offered moral support from Murder’s back. Despite its wiry nature the ghoul seemed possessed of remarkable strength, its knife moving inexorably toward Renprow’s neck against all the man’s best efforts to stop it. “Ah hell.” I slipped from the saddle and drew Edris Dean’s sword. A moment presented itself so I hurried forward, and swung at the back of the ghoul’s neck—not much more than dropping my arm really—with a blade that sharp and heavy I assumed anything more would risk decapitating the thing and carrying on through to the man beneath.
Actually it turns out that necks are tough as hell. My blade thudded in half an inch or so, becoming lodged in the ghoul’s bony spine. Even so, between my wrenching it free and Renprow taking advantage to stab the creature repeatedly in the liver, we managed to triumph. The captain rolled to all fours then staggered to his feet, covered in filthy blood, while I looked over the balustrade and rapidly pulled my head back.
“Go get stones from the riverbank. Big ones!”
“What?” Renprow looked up from an inspection of his gore-spattered tunic.
“Big ones! Run!”
I risked a foolish glance back over the side and a ghoul dart nearly parted my hair for me. The bridge support was black with the things. Four, five, half a dozen? It was hard to tell as they clambered over each other, dripping, near naked, yet having no problem finding their grip.
I stood mid-span, aware that ghouls could climb up either side equally well. The sounds of combat still came from the far end. I couldn’t risk a glance to see how Darin and the others were faring.
The first glimpse of the ghoul’s blowpipe looked like a black stick poking up between the stone pillars of the balustrade. I ran, dived, slid and ended up with my sword driven into the ghoul’s eye socket as he raised his head to blow his dart. The creature fell away without a sound, nearly taking my blade with it.
By the time I made it across to the other side Renprow was closing on me, showing a decent turn of pace for a man burdened with four or five goodsizedriver stones.