Horyse followed him out of the dugout, fastening his leather jerkin, pulling on his steel helmet and checking that cutlass and dagger were loose in their scabbards. This was something entirely new to him. On the Frontier, stand-to was at dawn, when the glare of the rising sun was in the eyes of the defending troop. Tindall had told him that midnight was the most common time for an attack on the Perimeter, but had been unable to explain exactly why. He had also said that cloudless nights increased the risk of an attack, which made sense; and that attacks were also more common when a north wind was blowing; which did not. Most baffling of all, Tindall had said that the worst time for an attack was at full moon. This was incomprehensible to Horyse. What kind of numbskull attacked when there was most risk of being seen? And why had Tindall seemed to imply that such attacks were the hardest to fight off?
All along the trench, men stood on the firestep, bayonets fixed. Horyse noticed that many had drawn their cutlasses and leaned them against the trench wall, ready to hand. All was silent, and Horyse was impressed by the discipline of the men. He looked at his watch. One minute to midnight. He watched the second hand tick round, with agonising slowness it seemed, and fought a growing and inexplicable sense of dread.
It was almost a relief when the howl of the alarm klaxon burst the silence, and a flare fired from a Very pistol split the darkness to the west of his position – Ensign Haynes' sector. A moment later, Anshye gave a shout.
"Movement 10 O'clock, sir!"
"Steady, lads," Tindall called. "Wait until they get a bit closer." Horyse could see shadowy figures emerging in the dead ground, and checked his revolver. Then Tindall shouted again, this time the order to open fire. Instead of the volley of rifle fire that Horyse expected, there was a scattering of shots and a volley of curses. Some men were going through misfire drills; but the majority were readying bayonets and cutlasses. Horyse's own revover failed to fire, and he holstered it and drew his cutlass.
"On my whistle, lads," Tindall called. "Stand by, go!" He blew a long blast on his officer's whistle and the men scrambled out of the trenches, swords or bayonets at the ready. "Charge!" called Tindall. "Take it to them, lads!"
The cries were echoed by officers and NCOs all along the line. Horyse thought for a moment that he heard CSM Butler shouting something about showing those 'dead buggers' what cold steel could do. He dismissed this clearly ridiculous statement as either something he had misheard, or a figment of his imagination.
Horyse ran forward, caught up in the momentum of the charge, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline as he took the fight to the enemy. When he got close enough for a proper look at the enemy, though, he almost faltered in shock. They seemed to be diseased in some way, the worst afflicted with their flesh literally rotting off and bone showing through. The stench was abominable, and reminded him of corpses rotting in the sun of the Frontier, picked at by carrion birds and alive with flies.
"Look out, sir!" A shout from Anshye brought him back to his senses. Whatever this foul disease was, it did not seem to have sapped their ability to fight. Indeed, some seemed to be getting up and returning to the battle even after limbs had been hacked off. A ragged man came at Horyse and he raised his cutlass and struck, felling him to the ground. As he freed the blade he heard Anshye at his shoulder. "Cut his head off, sir!" Horyse hesitated; it went against all rules of decency to strike a fallen enemy. Anshy pushed past, raised his own cutlass and struck downwards. "Trust me, sir, it's the only way to make sure of them."
The rest of the fight was a blur. Horyse had never been involved in anything like it. On the Frontier, a seriously wounded enemy would stay down. Here, unless their skulls were smashed or their heads removed, they kept coming. Horyse even saw one horrific figure with both legs hacked off, clawing his way forward on putrid fingers until Tindall struck his head off.
The fight was exhausting. In battles on the Frontier they could always fall back and regroup, covered by volleys of bullets from the reserves and the Lewins. Here, there was no respite from the waves of enemy until, at last, the sun rose clear of the horizon. This caused the remaining enemy to retreat or fall where they stood. Some sort of photophobia, Horyse thought. He had heard of certain diseases causing such things.
"Fall back!" Tindall called, and the order was taken up and repeated. Many of the men were carrying dead or wounded comrades; all were caked in mud and blood, wild eyed with a combination of battle madness and exhaustion.
Much, much later, Horyse, Tindall and the other officers sat around the table in the command dugout. Butler, Curran and the other senior NCOs stood behind them, most leaning against the walls in their fatigue.
"That's probably the worst incursion yet," Tindall said, grimly. "First time we've had to fight all the way to sunrise. Casualties, sar' major?"
Butler stepped forward, consulting a list in his hand. "Twenty two wounded. Nine serious, the rest should be back once they're patched up. We've had to send half a dozen back as NYDN, including Lieutenant Maxwell."
"And the dead?"
"Seven confirmed, sir. We've brought five bodies back. Another eight missing."
Tindall looked grimmer than ever. "Who are the two confirmed?"
"McNade, and Smith '29, sir. Their mates tried to bring them in, but got pushed back."
"Alright," said Tindall. "Two platoons of D company are coming up as reinforcements. And a double-section of Scouts to go into no-man's land and mop up. I hope by the Charter that they can find those poor bastards and bring them back."
"Orders, sir?" said Horyse. As nominal second-in-command, he knew it was his job to ask.
"As soon as D are in the line, the men can stand down and get some food and sleep." He looked around at the platoon commanders. "Carry out a thorough inspection. Any wounds, however superficial, get them treated. Minor scratches to the aid post; anything else back to HQ. You know the drill." He turned to Horyse. "Mr Horyse, you and the CSM issue the rum ration. Report back to me when you are done."
By the time the rum was issued, D company were in the line, taking over the firing positions. Stretcher parties were in no-man's land searching for the wounded. Horyse noticed that every so often, one would draw his cutlass and strike visciously downwards, hacking at something on the ground. Wearily, Horyse pushed aside the curtain and stepped down into the command post. He was almost too tired to come to attention and make the formal report, and was relieved when Tindall motioned him to sit, and pushed a mug of steaming tea towards him.
"Get that down you. There's a tot in it." Horyse took a gulp and could barely taste the tea, so heavily was it laced with sugar and rum. He felt the warmth of it spread through his body, and began to revive. Tindall took a swig from his own mug, then sat up straight and looked at Horyse, lacing and unlacing his fingers.
"Mr Horyse," he said, and then after a moment's pause, "Sam. You did well today. Now, there are some things you need to know. Ideally, I would have briefed you before we came into the line, but there wasn't time. I'll be as brief as I can, I know that you need some shut-eye."
Horyse listened in growing astonishment as Tindall told him all he knew of the Old Kingdom. Horyse's head swam with the talk of the Charter, of Free Magic, and the Wall which kept such things from Ancelstierre. His greatest astonishment came when Tindall spoke of the Necromancers who could raise and command the dead, using seven free-magic spelled bells.
"The dead?" Horyse said, incredulously. "I thought they had some sort of disease. Lepers, something like that."
"No," answered Tindall. "Those were dead hands, the most common, and the weakest of the dead. But for them to come in such numbers and with such persistence, they must have been commanded by someone or something. A Necromancer of some power, or even one of the Greater Dead."
"But how can they cross the Wall?" Horyse asked.
"I am not sure," admitted Tindall. "But the Wall is part of the Charter, that much I know. Captain Karim spoke once of a corrupting or weakening of something called the Great Charters, but would not or could not say more. I can only guess that something is wrong in the Old Kingdom, and that this has weakened the protection afforded by the Wall."
Tindall was silent for a moment, and Horyse asked a question that had been nagging at him for some time.
"Sir, why were you so anxious to bring in the dead? On the Frontier we always tried to recover our dead for and honourable burial, but is there more to it than that?"
"Quite right," answered Tindall. "Any of our dead who fall into the enemy's clutches will almost certainly be brought back as hands. Only by recovering their bodies and burying them back at HQ can we prevent that happening. And with this weakening of the Wall, even that may not be enough any more."