But Hagen’s men rallied and drove them back again—almost to the stairway.
“The next drive will get us,” Ato groaned. “Brace yourselves, men.”
But the next drive did not come. Suddenly a dozen screaming wretches—they could no longer be called soldiers—came running up the street. They joined Grim Hagen’s men and gibbered in fear as they pointed back.
From down there came a sudden burst of music. Odin’s heart leaped when he heard it. It was the old song of the Brons. But the lights were burning low back there and as yet he could see nothing.
Then they came. Nea and Maya, walking side by side. Behind them were half a dozen women, playing fifes and horns. One was carrying a tattered flag. Behind the musicians came a motley crowd. Old women, young women, half-grown children, and dozens of old men. All were armed. And they came forward like the wrack of a surviving army at judgement day.
Oh, there was something noble about them, and pitiful too. And something terrible. For before them, floating upon the air like bobbing heads were Nea’s four fantoms, the Kalis, whining hungrily as they came, their copper hair trailing about them.
One caught a fugitive as he lagged behind—and he died screaming.
The Kalis darted this way and that and Grim Hagen’s men writhed. Their muscles clenched. Their jaws set as though tetanus had struck them. They slid to the marble street and died.