The shouts grew louder, were lost once more in the monstrous call of the drum, DOOM onto the Temple recincts and the city. There in the streets people fell eneath the stroke of that drum. The sound of the Choirs began waveringly once more, so weakly that those on the heights could see the mists still moving, unslowed.
On the ramparts, Leona could hear the shouting voices clearly now. They were separated from her by only one last spine of standing stones. ‘Widon, Widon, Widon.’ She glimpsed a knot of warriors, green-clad as in spring leaf, burnished and mailed, glittering behind blades which made a terrible tally of the hosts of Gahl. The warriors were pressing toward the great drum, leaving behind them piled heaps of the dead. Around the drum, the struggle increased, and Leona darted into the tower to hang over the screen once more, hearing the sounds of battle swell through the open door behind her. From the clustered warriors a mighty form leapt up to “catch the edge of the drum with hooked fingers, huge legs kicking at the black robes dancing in fury below. He rolled onto the drum head, thrust down with a spear blade, then ran across the drum, slitting it from edge to edge with a sound like cracking earth. He stood triumphant at the edge of the drum as the great hammer fell again–to crash wood upon metal as the mallet broke and made no sound, no sound as the hosts of Gahl fell in their thousands, no sound as the Tharnel worms were cut to pieces by ten thousand blades, each the very likeness and image of the blade carried by the warrior on the drum, no sound but the shout of ten thousand voices, Thew-son, Thew-son, Thew-son!’
Leona vaulted from the wall, ran through clots of struggling bodies toward that triumphant figure dancing victory upon the drum rim. Thewson! You come timely! We had no hope, but you have come….’ Then, when he had dropped to her side, she added, ‘Though I fear you have slain one army only to build another.’
‘We have slain more than one,’ he grumbled, wiping the blade of his spear. ‘Stony heads. Worms from the stone city. Black things with no shape. Those fuxlus of Gahl. No, Leona, these do not make more ghosts. See. The are dead. It is my spear. It is the Sword of Sud-Akwith, they said that. All this time I had it. In the northlands we melted it in the great crucible with the metal for ten thousand others, so now Sud-Akwith’s sword is in every sword, and we kill these things dead.’ He glowed at her with enormous complacency. ‘AH the time hurry to get here in time, with the boats against the wind on the river and battle march the whole way. Well. We are here.’
‘Is Jasmine with you?’
He gestured over his shoulder toward the north. ‘In the boat. On the river with no name. I say, “Stay in Tanner, where no black robe is.” But no. They would not. They would come here. Jasmine. Her girl child. The people from Gerenhodh. The small people.’
‘I would they were not so near, Thewson, for I do not believe even the Sword of Sud-Akwith will prevail against ghosts already made. Song was to have saved us, but it comes haltingly.’
‘There will be victory,’ he announced. ‘Why did the bird bid me bring warriors else? My gods would not do such foolishness. Ranamu-ah alumya! Listen, you high god!’ Then for the first time, he saw the tottering towers of mist in the valley below them. ‘Aaah. Who will kill that if the swords cannot? The singers?’
‘They will not, Thewson. After everything that has happened, still they will not. Walls will not stop the mists. Weapons will not wound it. Come to the city. You will see for yourself.’
They came up out of the tunnel into the armouries below the Temple, up into chaos. Sisters lay as though slain, blood trickling from their ears, some moaning, some silent, healers scurrying among them with drugs to aid the pain. Bombaroba threw himself into Leona’s arms. ‘It was the drum. It got louder and louder in the echoes, louder and louder. Some of the singers fell down. Some stopped their ears, but then it was hard for them to sing. Oh, Lady, have they made the drum stop?’
She knelt beside him. ‘This is Thewson, Bomba. A very mighty warrior. He has come from the northlands with thousands, and they have killed the drum. Go, tell the Sisters. Tell everyone. Ask one of the Choir leaders to come talk to me.’ He went away, wiping tears, too busy for the moment to remember his fear.
The Choir leader came, hair dishevelled, face spotted with blood – her own or someone else’s – lines graven between her eyes. ‘Only one in ten is able to sing now,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that many more after a few hours’ rest. Those singing now will soon need rest. We cannot hold the ghosts.’
Leona took the Vessel of Healing from her belt, handed it to Hazliah who stood nearby watching Thewson with a curious intensity. ‘Hazliah, fill this with wine and give it to the
