Except that they did not.
Those who had spied Sibaw?l Vaka watched as the inhuman masses first dimpled, then opened about him, dozens, if not hundreds of the creatures clawing in frenzied terror from his aspect, leaping, climbing, crawling over their putrid fellows in the delirium to escape. The same happened for his horse-thanes, lancer after lancer, riding unscathed, untouched, striking down stragglers, but otherwise encircled by scrambling terror, each pitting the mob with panic-rimmed cavities.
And for several remarkable instants, the Horde—or its southern portions at least—fell silent.
The Cepalorae plowed forward, a long necklace of gaps in the roiling mass, each clearing possessing a spearing, hacking rider in its pith, killing many forsooth, but not so many that the mobs did not reform behind them, and make it seem they waded into a screaming, threshing sea. The Ordealmen raced after them, continued closing the interval, their breath ragged as much for wonder as for taxed limbs. Grutha Pirag, an Ingraul swordsman from the High Wernma, crested a broken ridge, and saw the swirl and simmer of discord that had engulfed the forward ranks of their foe. Mimicking his beloved mother’s call, he bellowed, in a high and plaintive voice, “Dinnertime!” to his kin. Scarcely a dozen souls understood, let alone heard, his call, and yet gales of laughter romped through the ranks, a mirth that trampled all scruple, all restraint—that left nations roaring with crazed fury.
It began the way it always begins, with an unruly few breaking ranks, running wild and raging ahead of the others. One Galeoth even cut loose his armour and clothing as he ran, until he leapt, phallus curved against his belly, across the desolation wearing naught but his boots.
Others joined them, like moths drawn to the light of glory. More followed, and more after them, some running to rescue their reckless brothers, others answering to the sudden hunger that gaped within them, an ancient hole uncovered …
Kill. Few souls thought the word, but every soul pursued its dread and simple course. Kill. Kill! The forward ranks thinned, then dissolved altogether. Bawling officers scrambled to retrieve their companies.
Shrugging aside any vestigial discipline, the Men of the Great Ordeal surged as one glittering sheet toward their foe, their mouths watering.
Saubon followed his Holy Aspect-Emperor into the mammoth shadow of Ciworal, his ears ringing.
“Long have they prepared for my coming,” Kellhus explained, his voice slipping between the din. The sorcerous paean of the Nuns echoed from over the horizon. Otherwise only His voice could be heard, tunnelling through a sound so great as to become ground, an impact without conclusion, bludgeoning, rattling tooth and bone, always.
“Absent the No-God,” Kellhus continued, “they have no hope of overcoming me directly …”
The entrance leered vacant, smashed into a breach long, long ago. Lichens scabbed the northward faces, while grasses ringed and limned the whole, clinging to every joist. No mortar had been used, simply great, fitted blocks. Walls rose concentrically, three shells, each hunching higher on thinner foundations, each battered into a more profound anonymity, bastions enclosing a husk enclosing a heap.
Kellhus placed a hand on his shoulder. It was strange, as always, to be reminded of his greater height. Strange and gratifying.
“Fear not for my safety, old friend.”
Saubon craned his neck to spy the citadel’s rugged peak, black against the bright plate of the sky. The brunt of morning was already upon them.
“Here …” Kellhus said, casting his look about the structure. “The greater Mansion riddles the whole of the mountain, but its axle, the Great Well of Viri, lies here, beneath this pla—”
The Aspect-Emperor snapped his gaze toward Ciworal’s smashed gate. Sranc erupted from the maw, bolted toward them, blades convulsing, silken faces crushed by frenzy.
Saubon’s bones fairly jumped from his limbs, such was his shock. But Kellhus strode without the least hesitation to meet the inhuman rush, muttering in voices that chewed nerves and illumined the ground at his feet. The creatures leapt toward him, their skin fish-white and their rag-armour curiously dark in the gloom. Even as their cleavers swung high, geysers exploded from their chests, puffs of violet mist. Dozens toppled in near unison, hearts spit gasping across the ground.
Saubon stood dumbstruck, as did Gwanw? at his side.
“Gird yourself!” Kellhus called to the entire company. “I have yet to kick the hornet’s nest …”