Five hundred lancers were held to the rear. The silver cyclones that were the Rakasha hung in the middle air. Across the half-lit world the occasional growl of a jungle beast could be heard. Fire elementals glowed upon tree limb, lance and pennon pole.
There were no clouds in the heavens. The grasses of the plain were still moist and sparkling. The air was cool, the ground still soft enough to gather footprints readily. Gray and green and yellow were the colors that smote the eye beneath the heavens; and the Vedra swirled within its banks, gathering leaves from its escort of trees. It is said that each day recapitulates the history of the world, coming up out of darkness and cold into confused light and beginning warmth, consciousness blinking its eyes somewhere in midmorning, awakening thoughts a jumble of illogic and unattached emotion, and all speeding together toward the order of noontide, the slow, poignant decline of dusk, the mystical vision of twilight, the end of entropy that is night once more.
The day began.
A dark line was visible at the far end of the field. A trumpet note cut the air and that line advanced.
Sam stood in his battle chariot at the head of the formation, wearing burnished armor and holding a long, gray lance of death. He heard the words of Death, who wore red and was his charioteer:
“Their first wave is of slizzard cavalry.”
Sam squinted at the distant line.
“It is,” said his charioteer.
“Very well.”
He gestured with his lance, and the Rakasha moved forward like a tidal wave of white light. The zombies began their advance.
When the white wave and the dark line came together there was a confusion of voices, hisses and the rattle of arms.
The dark line halted, great gouts of dust fuming above it.
Then came the sounds of the aroused jungle as the gathered beasts of prey were driven upon the flank of the enemy.
The zombies marched to a slow, steady drumbeat, and the fire elementals flowed on before them and the grasses withered where they passed.
Sam nodded to Death, and his chariot moved slowly forward, riding upon its cushion of air. At his back, the army of Keenset stirred. Lord Kubera slept, drugged to the sleep that is like unto death, in a hidden vault beneath the city. The Lady Ratri mounted a black mare at the rear of the lancers’ formation.
“Their charge has been broken,” said Death.
“Yes.”
“All their cavalry was cast down and the beasts still rage among them. They have not yet reformed their ranks. The Rakasha hurl avalanches like rain from the heavens down upon their heads. Now there comes the flow of fire.”
“Yes.”
“We will destroy them. Even now they see the mindless minions of Nirriti coming upon them as a single man, all in step and without fear, their drums keeping time, perfect and agonizing, and nothing behind their eyes, nothing at all. Looking above their heads then, they see us here as within a thundercloud, and they see that Death drives your chariot. Within their hearts there comes a quickening and there is a coldness upon their biceps and their thighs. See how the beasts pass among them?”
“Yes.”
“Let there be no bugles within our ranks, Siddhartha. For this is not battle, but slaughter.”
“Yes.”
The zombies slew everything they passed, and when they fell they went down without a word, for it was all the same with them, and words mean nothing to the unliving.
They swept the field, and fresh waves of warriors came at them. But the cavalry had been broken. The foot soldiers could not stand before the lancers and the Rakasha, the zombies and the infantry of Keenset.
The razor-edged battle chariot driven by Death cut through the enemy like a flame through a field. Missiles and hurled spears turned in mid-flight to speed off at right angles before they could touch upon the chariot or its occupants. Dark fires danced within the eyes of Death as he gripped the twin rings with which he directed the course of the vehicle. Again and again, he drove down without mercy upon the enemy, and Sam’s lance darted like the tongue of a serpent as they passed through the ranks.