BULAN ROARED WITH FURY, hacking down deadwalkers by the dozens. All the Vanjhani had waded out into the thick of the enemy, outside the circle, and were making a stand. Bulan’s four arms whirled constantly, keeping at bay the ones who tried to bite or grab at their feet. Not that any deadwalker would ever be able to pull Bulan off their feet; not even if a half dozen grabbed hold of one leg and pulled with all their might. Bulan was heavy even for Vanjhani, weighing in at almost seven hundred fifty pounds, most of it muscle and bone, and once they settled into a battle stance, it would take a gaja or a siege ram to knock them off their feet.
Their arms whirled constantly in curving arcs, each circumscribing a half circle, protecting their torso on all sides. They swung like threshers, lopping off skulls and liberating deadwalkers’ brains as if they were ripe corn. Bulan knew that despite their valor and prowess, the odds were hardly being evened. The deadwalkers continued to appear from the desert in an endless river, seemingly as infinite as the great Jeel, Mother River of the world.
Few things could stand against a Vanjhani in full sword flow, and Bulan had battled against the best—and worst.
This present conflict definitely counted as one of the latter.
Still Bulan refused to accept or acknowledge the possibility of defeat.
That simply was not the Vanjhani way. Vanjhani fought to wipe out their enemy. Their goal was not to win, or conquer, or triumph, or any of those sentimental reasons that Krushan fought. The Burnt Empire? Paagh! Vanjhani spat on the Burnt Empire and their so-called undefeatable armies and champions. Vanjhani fought. Vanjhani did not cease fighting until the enemy was destroyed or had fled the field. And if the enemy was stronger, more wily, or more numerous—as was the case in this present instance—too numerous to finish off completely, and too stupid to flee? Well, rare as such a circumstance was, if such an event came to pass, then Vanjhani would fight. There was no other way. No retreat, no surrender, no parlay.
But Bulan had to acknowledge the fact that their own side was dying in exceptionally large numbers now. The militia were being wiped out. And if the militia were faring this poorly, then the other travelers in the camp were certainly worse off. True, every single traveler on the train knew how to fight and had done so since they could stand upright and hold a weapon, but this was no mortal enemy. This was urrkh. Only the stone gods could war against urrkh and hope to survive. For that matter, the stone gods had defeated the urrkh only through subterfuge and deception. And that was in the Age of Myth. If the oldest myths had no mention of urrkh ever being defeated in a standing battle, then how could any mortal, even Vanjhani, hope to accomplish such a task?
“Vanjhani!” Bulan roared the battle cry of their race, but heard the frustration in their voices now, felt their muscles creaking from overuse, their iron legs starting to melt with just a hint of fatigue. They had a great capacity and endurance, but even that had its limits. And these stonecursed deadwalkers seemed to have none.
“Vanjhani!” they bellowed again, chopping down a dozen deadwalkers with each swing. They had long since stopped giving orders or instructions. It was fight to the death, pure survival for everyone now. Bulan doubted there was any command structure left to pass orders on. Even the lookouts were probably all dead. They had seen the deadwalkers swarming up the lookout poles, snatching at the poor chaps, and pulling off their arms and legs. The lookouts had fought back as long as they could, but stood no real chance.
There was a worse problem brewing, if such a thing was possible. Something far worse than even these impossible odds.
Their own dead were starting to turn.
Out the corner of one eye, Bulan could see one of the captains pause in the midst of fighting and bend over, clutching her head in both hands, like someone in unbearable grief. Her fists opened, letting both her swords drop. She swayed briefly. No deadwalkers attacked her in this moment of weakness, Bulan noted, even though they could easily have taken her down. Instead, they raised their rotting faces, sniffing through the stumps of noses and even, in one ugly face, just a single big hole where the nose once had been, then ignored the stricken captain and went on to seek other prey.
The bastards know when one of us is infected. They can smell it on us.
Suddenly, the captain dropped her hands. She opened her eyes, raising her head slowly, as if waking from a dream. They were red—not bloodshot, but filled with blood. Her lips parted, spittle dribbling from the corners, and she bared her teeth in an animal snarl. Any sound she made was lost in the deafening racket of the battle. Then she launched herself at Bulan, leaping through the air in an impossible arc. It was like watching a stone flung by a siege engine.
All of ten yards she leaped, coming down over Bulan.
One of Bulan’s arms rose to meet her.
She was a deadwalker now, no longer human.
The captain’s face landed on the point of Bulan’s sword blade, a splash of gore bursting out the back of her head, and the maddened hunger in her blood-filled eyes was snuffed out like a blown candle.
Bulan shrugged and flicked the corpse off their sword like they were flicking a gibbet of flesh. The body flew into a mass of seething deadwalkers, taking several of them down. They were up again almost at once, surging toward Bulan with the same maddened hunger in their eyes.
Then the first Vanjhani fell.
Bulan did not see it but they heard the sound.
The unmistakable call of Vanjhani when downed in battle.
Not a cry of pain or plea for mercy.
Vanjhani did not acknowledge pain or beg for anything, whatever the circumstances.
This was a simple acknowledgment that they were going to meet their stone gods. That they were done with the business of living.
“Vanjhani arukku!”
It was a call to other Vanjhani.
A call to the stone gods they went to meet.
It was a promise and an elegy.
A goodbye and a challenge.
Vanjhani arukku.
This Vanjhani is coming to their last fight. Be ready, whoever the fuck you are. Because this Vanjhani sure as fuck is ready.
And then came the answering call, from a hundred Vanjhani throats as they responded to their downed fellow.
“Vanjhani arukku!”
The same words but with a different emphasis and tone.
Go then, Vanjhani. Go to the last battle.
Bulan felt something unexpected on their faces.
Not blood, or deadwalker brains, or gristle, or gore, or other bodily fluids, all of which they were liberally bathed with from heads to toes, as was every other person on this battlefield.
Tears.
Vanjhani tears.
As rare as a monsoon in the desert.
As unexpected as failure.
As shocking as loss.
“VANJHANI!” Bulan roared, leaping up into the air, swinging all four arms, then coming down on the heads and spines of a half dozen deadwalkers, crushing them with their feet to shards and pulp, hacking through the mass of writhing creatures like a sickle through wheat.
They would die, yes.
That was inevitable now.
But they would die Vanjhani.
They would fight until they were finally at the end of their tether. It would not be long. One misstep, one faltering arm, and the deadwalkers would move in to savage them. All it would take was one bite, even the smallest nibble.
That was when Bulan felt it.