Deadhouse Gates

The twin vipers struck again and again, contesting every league, the attacks increasing in ferocity and frequency, until it was clear that a major clash approached, only days away.



In the column's wake followed Korbolo Dom's army, a force that had grown with the addition of forces from Tarxian and other coastal settlements, and was now at least five times the size of Coltaine's Seventh and his Wickan clans. The renegade commander's measured pursuit – leaving engagement to the wild plains tribes – was ominous in itself.



He would be there for the imminent battle, without doubt, and was content to wait until then.



The Chain of Dogs – its numbers swollen by new refugees fleeing Bylan – crawled on, coming within sight of what the maps indicated was the Nenoth Odhan's end, where hills rose in a wall aross the southern horizon. The trader track cut through the only substantial passage, a wide river valley between the Bylan'sh Hills to the east and the Saniphir Hills to the west, the track running for seven leagues, opening out on a plain that faced the ancient tel of Sanimon, then wrapped around it to encompass the Sanith Odhan and, beyond that, the Geleen Plain, the Dojal Odhan – and the city of Aren itself.



No relief army emerged from Sanimon Valley. A profound sense of isolation descended like a shroud on the train, even as the valley's flanking hills began to reveal, in the day's dying light, twin encampments, both vast, of tribesmen – the main forces of the Tregyn and the Bhilard.



Here, then, at the mouth of the ancient valley ... here it would be.



'We're dying,' Lull muttered as he came up alongside the historian on his way to the briefing. 'And I don't mean just figuratively, old man. I lost eleven soldiers today. Throats swollen so bad with thirst they couldn't draw breath.' He waved at a fly buzzing his face. 'Hood's breath, I'm swimming in this armour – by the time we're done, we'll all look like T'lan Imass.'



'I can't say I appreciate the analogy, Captain.'



'Wasn't expecting you to.'



'Horse piss. That's what the Wickans are drinking these days.'



'Aye, same for my crew. They're neighing in their sleep, and more than one's died from it.'



Three dogs loped past them, the huge one named Bent, a female, and the lapdog scrambling in their wake.



'They'll outlive us all,' Lull grumbled. 'Those damned beasts!'



The sky deepened overhead, the first stars pushing through the cerulean gauze.



'Gods, I'm tired.'



Duiker nodded. Oh, indeed, we've travelled far, friend, and now stand face to face with Hood. He takes the weary as readily as the defiant. Offers the same welcoming grin.



'Something in the air tonight, Historian. Can you feel it?'



'Yes.'



'Maybe Hood's Warren has drawn closer.'



'It has that feel, doesn't it?'



They arrived at the Fist's command tent, entered.



The usual faces were arrayed before them. Nil and Nether, the last remaining warlocks; Sulmar and Chenned, Bult and Coltaine himself. Each had become a desiccated mockery of the will and strength once present in their varied miens.



'Where's Bungle?' Lull asked, finding his usual camp-chair.



'Listening to her sergeant, I'd guess,' Bult said, with a ghost of a grin.



Coltaine had no time for idle talk. 'Something approaches, this night. The warlocks have sensed it, though that is all they can say. We are faced with preparing for it.'



Duiker looked to Nether. 'What kind of sense?'



She shrugged, then sighed. 'Vague. Troubled, even outrage – I don't know, Historian.'



'Sensed anything like it before? Even remotely?'



'No.'



Outrage.



'Draw the refugees close,' Coltaine commanded the captains. 'Double the pickets—'



'Fist,' Sulmar said, 'we face a battle tomorrow—'



'Aye, and rest is needed. I know.' The Wickan began pacing, but it was a slower pace than usual. It had lost its smoothness as well, its ease and elegance. 'And more, we are greatly weakened – the water casks are bone dry.'



Duiker winced. Battle? No, tomorrow will see a slaughter. Soldiers unable to fight, unable to defend themselves. The historian cleared his throat, made to speak, then stopped. One word, yet even to voice it would be to offer the cruellest illusion. One word.



Coltaine was staring at him. 'We cannot,' he said softly.



I know. For the rebellion's warriors as much as for us, the end to this must be with blood.



'The soldiers are beyond digging trenches,' Lull said into the heavy, all-too-aware silence.