Deadhouse Gates

The standard bearer left his position – the standard itself propped up between corpses – and leapt forward in a desperate effort to reach his commander. A blade neatly decapitated him, sending his head toppling back to join the bloody jumble at the standard's base, and thus did Corporal List die, having experienced countless mock deaths all those months ago at Hissar.



The Foolish Dog's position vanished beneath a press of bodies, the standard toppling moments later. Bloody scalps were lifted and waved about, the trophies spraying red rain.



Surrounded by the last of the engineers and marines, Coltaine fought on. His defiance lasted but a moment longer before Korbolo Dom's warriors killed the last defender, then swallowed up Coltaine himself, burying him in their mindless frenzy.



A huge arrow-studded cattle-dog darted to where Coltaine had gone down, but then a lance speared the beast, raising it high. It writhed as it slid down the shaft, and even then the creature delivered one final death to the enemy gripping the weapon, by tearing out the soldier's throat.



Then it too was gone.



The Crow standard wavered, leaned to one side, then pitched down, vanishing in the press.



Duiker stood unmoving, disbelieving.



Coltaine.



A high-pitched wail rose behind the historian. He slowly turned. Nether still held Nil as if he were a babe, but her head was tilted back, raised heavenward, her eyes wide.



A shadow swept over them.



Crows.



And to Sormo the Elder warlock, there on the wall of Unta, there came eleven crows – eleven – to take the great man's soul, for no single creature could hold it all. Eleven.



The sky above Aren was filled with crows, a black sea of wings, closing from all sides.



Nether's wail grew louder and louder still, as if her own soul was being ripped out through her throat.



Shock jolted through Duiker. It's not done – it's not over— He spun round, saw the cross being raised, saw the still living man nailed to it.



'They'll not free him!' Nether screamed. She was suddenly at his side and staring out at the barrow. She tore at her hair, clawed at her own scalp, until blood streamed down her face. Duiker grasped her wrists – so thin, so childlike in his hands – and pulled them away before she could reach her own eyes.



Kamist Reloe stood on the platform, Korbolo Dom at his side. Sorcery blossomed – a virulent, wild wave that surged up and crashed against the approaching crows. Black shapes spun and tumbled from the sky—



'No!' Nether shrieked, writhing in Duiker's arms, seeking to fling herself over the wall.



The cloud of crows scattered, reformed, sought to approach once again.



Kamist Reloe obliterated hundreds more.



'Release his soul! From the flesh! Release it!'



Beside them, the garrison commander turned and called to one of his aides in a voice of ice, 'Get me Squint, Corporal. Now!'



The aide did not bother darting down the stairs – he simply went to the far wall, leaned out and screamed, 'Squint! Up here, damn you!'



Another wave of sorcery swept more crows from the sky. In silence, they regrouped once again.



The roar from Aren's walls had stilled. Now only silence held the air.



Nether had collapsed against the historian, a child in his arms. Duiker could see Nil curled and motionless on the platform near the hatch – either unconscious or dead. He had wet himself, the puddle spreading out around him.



Boots thumped on the stairs.



The aide said to the commander, 'He's been helping the refugees, sir. I don't think he has any idea what's going on...'



Duiker turned again to look out at the lone figure nailed to the cross. He still lived – they would not let him die, would not free his soul, and Kamist Reloe knew precisely what he was doing, knew the full horror of his crime, as he methodically destroyed the vessels for that soul. On all sides, screaming warriors pressed close, seething on the barrow like insects.



Objects started striking the figure on the cross, leaving red stains. Pieces of flesh, gods – pieces of flesh, – what's left of the army – this was a level of cruelty that left Duiker cowering inside.



'Over here, Squint!' he heard the commander growl. A figure pushed to Duiker's side, short, squat, grey-haired. His eyes, buried in a nest of wrinkles, were fixed on that distant figure. 'Mercy,' he whispered.



'Well?' the commander demanded.



'That's half a thousand paces, Blistig—'



'I know.'



'Might take more than one shot, sir.'



'Then get started, damn you.'



The old soldier, wearing a uniform that looked as if it had not been washed or repaired in decades, unslung the longbow from one shoulder. He gathered the string, stepped into the bow's plane, bent it hard over one thigh. His limbs shook as he edged the string's loop into its niche. Then he straightened up and studied the arrows in the quiver strapped to his hip.