Then over the tumult, came a voice — a voice I knew and hated.
“Maybe you can’t,” cried Castilio Mounteban. “But I’m damned if I won’t.”
Had I not been so absorbed with Saltlick, I’d have seen him coming; for Mounteban was close enough by then to have heard Alvantes, close enough that I’d have made out his horse’s thundering approach upon the east-west road if I’d only thought to listen. And confident as he sounded, it wasn’t his words that gave me hope; it was the crowd of armed men he was leading.
It took a single moment for that hope to sour. I couldn’t count their numbers, but they were a ragged enough bunch. Though a few were mounted, most were on foot, and it was obvious they’d been running hard. They all wore the Altapasaedan uniform Mounteban had thrown together, leather armour under cloaks the colour of old blood — but the gore that marred their clothing was fresh enough. Wherever they’d come from, they’d already seen more than their share of fighting.
At their head, Mounteban rode upon a hulking black charger that looked every bit as foul-natured as its rider. His face was slick with sweat; the tunic he wore beneath a shirt of chain mail was stained dark at the underarms. Still, there was ferocity in his expression, a rawness of passion I’d never have expected, as though the presence of enemies within the city walls were an indignity aimed just at him. As he drew his scimitar, as he pointed it in wordless order at the Pasaedan troops, he almost looked heroic.
The impression lasted only as long as it took him to crash into the hurriedly reforming cluster of men in the gateway — for there was nothing noble in the fury with which he flung his sword about. I couldn’t say what he meant to achieve, if he was trying to rescue Saltlick or to single-handedly push the Pasaedans back, or whether he had any plan at all. As he flailed at any head within reach, it was easy to believe that he just wanted to inflict as much injury as possible.
Then again, maybe Mounteban’s charge stemmed from more than mere bloodlust. His frantic assault had made time enough for his motley pack to catch up, for them to join with the existing defenders and hurl themselves into the fray. For all their matching uniforms and surface unity, they attacked with no hint of order or battle plan; no two men standing shoulder to shoulder fought the same way. Suddenly, the combat looked less like two armies clashing, more like a street fight grown wildly out of control.
Just then, however, perhaps chaos was what was needed. The Pasaedans had come expecting a war, had faced monsters instead, and now these men who looked like soldiers but battled like the dirtiest bar brawlers. And it did nothing for our enemies’ discipline when, with a ferocious roar, Alvantes chose to lead his small posse of guardsmen into their exposed flank.
That was the tipping point. Perhaps they had the weight of numbers, but with attacks from two sides and no room to manoeuvre, the Pasaedans had no option left except retreat. Even that they couldn’t do in any orderly fashion, for every slight gap in their ranks was an opening for one of our side to jab his blade through. By the time they were halfway through the gatehouse, the Pasaedans were practically in disarray.
But I couldn’t have cared less about that, or even the battle for the city. All that mattered was that the retreat had freed Saltlick from the Pasaedan lines, like a boulder revealed by a receding tide. I couldn’t tell if he was moving, if he was alive. All I could see was that the cobbles were drenched with blood enough to drown a man in, and his pale hide was a web of dripping crimson gashes. I wanted to run and help him, but what could I do? Even if I’d known the first thing about doctoring, I doubted there were bandages enough in the entire city to cover those wounds.
Fortunately for Saltlick, Estrada was less quick to admit defeat. She was already dashing across the intervening space and, even as I wondered what she meant to do, began to beat upon the leg of the nearest giant. She didn’t lay off until he tilted his head to look down at her; then she pointed.
What Estrada had indicated was a horseless cart, drawn up in the lee of the walls. Perhaps it had been intended to shore up the gates, or left by some panicking merchant. Either way, the giant gave no indication that he’d understood. When Estrada took a step towards the stranded vehicle, however, he followed. Finally, when they were halfway to it, he blurted a couple of blunt syllables in giantish, and a second moved to join them.
Though Estrada had given up trying to communicate in gestures, it seemed the giants had grasped the fundamentals of her plan by then. Rather than try to drag the cart, they decided the easiest course was simply to hoist it upon their shoulders; they were moving with urgency now, as if they’d woken to the horrors of recent minutes at last. The two bore the cart as though it weighed nothing at all, dropped it with a crash that nearly shattered its every wheel upon the red-slicked cobbles.
“Careful!” Estrada hurried to bar their way, and when they looked confused, tried to indicate through gentle sweeping motions that Saltlick couldn’t just be hoisted like a sack of potatoes.
Alvantes and Mounteban, meanwhile, had managed to not only drive out the Pasaedans but to slam the damaged gates upon their backs. While Mounteban coordinated the effort there, Alvantes turned to haranguing the remaining giants: “Damn you,” he bellowed, “do something useful! Barricade those gates!”
They surely didn’t understand his words, but the accompanying gesticulations were easy enough to follow. There were supplies close at hand, heaps of sturdy wood piled not far from the gatehouse, no doubt intended for just such a purpose. The giants began to prop beams in place, to pile timber haphazardly against the weakened sections. If it was clear that they didn’t quite grasp the sense of what they did, still they managed in mere minutes what would have taken men the rest of the day.
By the time they’d finished a rudimentary barricade, the other two giants had Saltlick into the back of the cart. A slug trail of crimson led from where he’d fallen, and the cart’s inside was slicked with blood. I still couldn’t tell if he was moving.
Finally, I managed to shift my legs. Maybe there was nothing I could do, but I could only bear being useless for so long. Close up, Saltlick looked even worse, like a slab of well-worked meat on a butcher’s stall. As I watched, though, one eyelid — the one not caked shut with gore — fluttered ever so slightly.
“He’s alive,” confirmed Estrada. “But barely. Easie, I don’t know if even Saltlick can-”
I didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. “He has to,” I said.
“If we can stop the bleeding-”
“We’ve a hospital set up in the Market District,” put in Alvantes, marching towards us. “You two,” he summoned the giants waiting patiently nearby, and pointed back the way we’d come. “Carry him that way.” Then, waving over a guardsman I recognised as Gueverro, he added, “Sub-Captain, accompany them. Find a good surgeon and make certain they do whatever’s needed.”
But all of that I saw and heard as though through a haze. For the instant Alvantes had begun to speak, memories cold and clear as ice water had spilled into my mind — recollections of a conversation we’d had not so very long ago. With hardly a thought and for the second time that day, I grabbed Alvantes by the throat. “This was your doing, wasn’t it?” I screamed. “You vicious bastard! You’ve been planning for weeks to drag the giants into your stupid wars. Are you happy now?”
I realised what would feel even better than shaking Alvantes — and almost before I knew it, my fist was crunching into his nose. It mightn’t have been much of a punch, but it was more satisfying than anything I’d ever done — and the second was better. There was a roaring in my ears and my sight was a tunnel edged with red; but I could hear the smack of my knuckles against Alvantes’s face well enough, I could see each blow landing, and it was easy as anything to just keep going.