Doomwalker

by Kathryn Zurmehly

  She could see the damaged part of the wall from here. It hadn’t come down, but a vast chunk of its top had been pulverized, rubble scattering everywhere. Cracks ran across the stone. If it was hit again, it might not stay standing.

  They were loading another of those huge catapults, too. The wall was not a place to be.

  A prime target flickered into her vision and she fired, unable to resist. She felt the eyes on her from the troops gathered on the wall, though the other archers had already taken their position. She heard their bowstrings twang, but she doubted they hit much of the enemy. They were not strong enough. This bow barely was.

  She dropped back down to the wall and met their stares. In spite of herself, she froze for a heartbeat.

  They were afraid and unsure, strong and steady as they were. And she had just managed to look as unshakeable as the roots of a mountain.

  Wonderful.

  “Get off the wall!” she snarled, those brave yet fearful eyes cracking her.

  The woman she’d taken the bow from, armed with another, stared up at her. She was not very old. “But our position!”

  Maryx gestured out towards the catapults. A stubby sort of arrow clattered against the stone at her feet and she remembered to drop behind the rampart. “You can hold here and die from a weapon you can’t counter or you can get off the wall and fight an enemy you can touch when it comes down.” She glanced around at the now-furious faces. “Don’t lie to yourselves. The wall is coming down.” She nodded in the direction of the damaged section, making her way through the crowd to bound down the stairs.

  She could see, on her way down, that chunks of the broken wall had come off and tumbled into the city. At some point, someone had lowered the portcullis across the gate, but it meant nothing now. Something, somehow had caught on fire. People were hurrying hither and yon, fear in their steps and their voices.

  An Orishalite stood on a wagon, calling out over and over, “Make your way to the Temple! It has been prepared for you!” She heard the same call echoed in the distance. She couldn’t tell if anyone was listening.

  She sidled over to the cleric. He glared down at her from beneath his white hood, much older than his voice led her to believe. She ignored it. “Which way did the clerics’ procession go?”

  His brow furrowed as he sorted out what she meant, but he nodded after a moment. “To the Councilhouse.”

  Why hole up there? They’d be dragged out, like some snuffling animal yanked from its burrow. If the walls could be brought down, Crownshold was very vulnerable. The only other way to defend it would be to fight in the streets, fight over every building and alleyway and windowsill.

  There was another giant crash as the next stone hit the wall. Maryx and the Orishalite turned to see another part of the wall shudder and shed boulders of its own into the city.

  The elf gave him a quick salute in thanks and headed towards the Councilhouse, fighting the milling panicked crowd every step of the way. The press was so great that she was forced off course several times. She resisted the urge to draw her sword and let the sight of it clear her way. It wouldn’t help, only cause more panic.

  Another crash rang out, and then a scream rose, many voices sounding as one in a great note of terror. Maryx turned to the sound, heart sinking.

  She saw the wall, right where it had first been hit, come tumbling down in a shower of rubble and dust. It should have been impossible to break like that.

  She managed to wedge herself into a doorway out of the tug and press of the now frantic crowd. She was likely to be trampled on the way to the Councilhouse unless she started cutting her way through.

  She swore she could hear the army of Beriskar advancing, though perhaps it was just a phantom sound. Perhaps her keen senses were betraying her now. Her heart was hammering so hard.

  The tide of the crowd began to ebb away, towards the Temple. She wondered if there was some plan in place, some heeding of Valen’s warning, or if it was all just a desperate attempt to give the fear an outlet.

  Well. She rested a hand on her sword hilt. Scouts didn’t have a very long life expectancy anyway. Not proper elves, really.

  With a lot more effort than it should take, she drew the blade. Maryx and turned towards the rubble of the wall. Might as well die fighting for a human city, in a human war, because of a human man.

  She prayed to the seven dead gods that fool of a Paladin, cursed as he may be, was able to get out of this.

  15

  The collapse of the wall rattled the Councilhouse, silencing the frenzied debate of the clerics.

  “Nothing for it now,” the death priest said drily from where he sprawled on a chair. He’d been silent until now. “Crownshold is fallen. It’s only a matter of time until it’s formalized.”

  “No,” High Priestess Sola said. She was clutching Valen’s arm as Galian had been set to guard the outside of the door. The battle before the gate had taken most of what remained of her strength. “Crownshold will not fall.”

  “That was the wall,” said the High Priest of Orishal. He had drawn up his white hood and stood with his arms folded into his robes, some statue made of white marble, faceless and sorrowful.

  “The stones of this city are blessed. They cannot be brought low.”

  “Stop deluding yourself, Sola.”

  She fell silent.

  “We prepared wagons and supplies for the refuge detailed by the Paladin,” High Priestess Meera said, gesturing at Valen, “They should be leaving the postern gate now. I know that was in the orders we gave them. We should join them now.”

  Valen felt a very bitter sort of gratification that his warning should have been heeded.

  The death priest stood. Valen hadn’t realized until now how tall the Alberanite was. “Seconded,” he said, moving to Meera’s side, “It is our only hope.”

  “It is cowardice,” rattled a wheezing old wildman of a cleric, priest of some little-known god whose name Valen could not remember. A high priestess in a green wrap and a priest in a silver-trimmed red tunic nodded in grim agreement, and the silent assent of most of the rest was a weight in the air.

  “Seconded,” High Priestess Sola managed. Her voice found its strength as she spoke. “Seconded! What kind of hope is it to let Beriskar run roughshod over us without a fight?”

  “A fight is no doubt occurring as we speak. Do you think the man intends on letting us continue in peace? Only a fool would level the great walls of Crownshold—if he meant to keep it, of course. I do not think he means to keep it.” The man’s shrouded head moved as if he were looking pointedly around the room. “Or us.”

  The Lyrican High Priestess drew herself up to her full height. “Let any who see it thus flee, then, with the wagons.”

  Meera turned to leave without a word. Many followed her, the only sound their feet upon the stone floor. Valen stared as their feet crossed the vast seven-pointed star.

  The fear of something worse than death coiled sharply inside him.

  The Alberanite remained still. “Sola, we hold this world to our gods, govern it in their name, bring their will to life. You cannot remain here.”

  “I’ve been training my priestesses to take my place. You may have noticed my health is not what it was.”

  “Experience and wisdom are worth far more than youthful strength.”

  She cackled. “A death priest would say that.”

  “As you will, Sola. Alberan sends a warning echoing through my soul, and you should know the death god does not simply do that.”

  “I remain solid in my faith in Lyrica.”

  “Yes, well, the warning she sent you has produced results, so your faith is well founded.” He bowed, spreading his arms. His pitch black robes draped dramatically like wings, causing him to resemble a huge raven.

  Then he swept away, as if taking flight, and followed the other clerics. A handful remained behind, none of them men and women Valen knew. No followers of the gods of any craft or virtue or vice, just thos
e dedicated to obscure or wild things.

  “They’ll take the tunnel. Hopefully they remember to shut the door properly,” the High Priestess of Lyrica announced scornfully to the silence.

  ✽✽✽

  Maryx slammed into a shattered piece of the wall, struggling to breathe as the wind was knocked out of her.

  As she rolled away from the axe blow meant for her belly, she told herself that this really needed to stop happening.

  At least her shoulder felt better.

  She sliced upward under the soldier’s arm, cutting him down and moving on. The rubble had broken up the enemy’s close formation, a sick sort of mercy, and dust swirled heavily in the air, limiting visibility.

  She scampered up on top of a large chunk of debris, tucking herself close to the stone and trying to think.

  Valen was undeniably on his own right now, back there. If the army pressed through and began its sacking of Crownshold— the only thing it could do, with the wall shattered like this—he would have no hope at all.

  That, of course, meant she had to figure how to stop an army on her own. A victorious army, at that.

  A spear came jabbing through the dust, nearly catching her in the face. She rose up with a snarl, ready to pounce—

  And stopped to meet Ryl’s bright blue glare through the eyeholes of an ornate helm.

  His murderous glare subsided and he drew his weapon back to assume an outward guard. Maryx dropped down to his side, noting what she’d thought was a spear was just the pointed metal tip of a battle axe’s long haft. It was an elven weapon, silver and elegant but heavy, yet without the extra shine that her sword held even in the dust-choked air. His armor was heavy, covered in swirling patterns, changing him from an elven noble to a primordial image of war.

  A pack of human soldiers came looming out of the dust, halting at the sight of the two elves for a moment. Ryl, in his heavy swirl-marked armor, was unmistakably elven, and Maryx bared her teeth at them for good measure.

  Legend and strangeness weren’t enough to halt the men. They approached wearily, weapons ready.

  With a silent strength hidden by his slender build, Ryl slammed the battle axe’s sweeping head through one’s neck with practiced precision, sending his head flying with blood streaming after like a crimson ribbon.

  That was too much for one man and he turned tail. The rest pressed forward with fury.

  Maryx lashed out, opening one up from groin to throat. She twitched away from a sword thrust and swung backhanded to slit another man’s throat. The spearpoint of the battle axe broke through another attacker’s eye, and, by the gods, they were in the thick of it now. She settled her footing and her mind, trusting in her training and her senses. No other option.

  She had only glimpses of Ryl’s practiced and precise grace. The elf didn’t bother to block blows, sweeping them away with titanic swings of his weapon that usually left his attacker a ruined mass of flesh. No human could have wielded his weapon the way he did. Maryx ducked and whirled, all speed and grace and not a little luck. She’d trained, and well, and had the finest blade forged in the last three thousand years, but Ryl…well Ryl showed all the power and determination of the male elven ideal. It was disconcerting, after all this time.

  They had pushed through to a hollow, carving through clusters of troops and coughing loners alike. Maryx stumbled as the dusty world became suddenly still.

  Not for long; she could hear the enemy all around. But this felt like the eye of a terrible storm. Every breath reeked of dust and blood. The dust was settling now, but smoke had crept into the air, growing thicker.

  “You didn’t run,” she told Ryl.

  He rested the battle axe on the ground, leaning against it. It was nice to know he could be winded. “Well, when I sobered up, the wall had fallen,” he said nonchalantly, “There weren’t a lot of options.”

  A human head peeked around a rock. Maryx narrowed her eyes and prepared to attack.

  “It’s you!” a young female voice said, seeming very loud.

  Maryx scowled and held up a hand to tell Ryl to hold off. It was the little archer from the wall and about a dozen other Crownsguard, all much the worse for wear. They all came creeping from behind cover as the redhead approached the elves.

  “So you did leave the wall,” Maryx said. The girl had a short sword, now, with no bow in evidence. There was blood dripping from the blade.

  “You’re an elf,” she said.

  “So is he,” said another soldier.

  “Is it important now?” Maryx asked him, affecting nonchalance. She could hear another group closing on them. Smoke tainted the air more than dust, now. “We don’t have time to argue over two thousand years past.”

  “We don’t,” the archer said, looking at what Maryx supposed were her men.

  The enemy soldiers were shadows in the murk now. Ryl and Maryx both turned to meet them.

  The Crownsguard hopped to their side.

  “I’m Sergeant Riglain,” the woman said. Maryx eyed her harshly. She ignored it. “There’s a supply train headed out of the city from the Temple. Help us get to it.”

  Well, they’d die here otherwise. There was no way the elves’ killing spree had stemmed the tide, and the enemy had doubtlessly made it into the city by now. And if Valen was anywhere, he’d be trying to get his High Priestess out of this deathtrap. “You know the way?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s cut our way there.”

  ✽✽✽

  The booming knock on the great Councilhouse doors made Valen jump, but it was still somehow better than the waiting.

  Or so it seemed for all of a heartbeat.

  Heavily armored knights rushed in, blades bloodied and cloaks tattered, followed by a pair of crossbowmen. Valen was first in their sights. He’d drawn his sword without thinking about it.

  Next came the heavyset man Valen recognized as Lord Beriskar, flanked by more guards. He held a dented helm under his arm and grinned as he gazed about the room.

  The High Priestess stood from her chair, leaning heavily on her cane. The Lord focused his grin on her. “High Priestess Sola,” he said with a mocking bow, “It’s been such a terribly long time. Why, the walls of Crownshold still stood, the last time we spoke.”

  “You do not know what you’ve done here, you fool.”

  “I have just made myself king of the Holdings, that’s what I’ve done.”

  More Soldiers rushed in, snatching at the holy men and women scattered about the room and pulling them out. Some resisted, some crumpled, but it didn’t matter. In only moments, only Beriskar, his men, Valen, and the High Priestess remained.

  A cold feeling began crawling across Valen’s body.

  “Yes, yes,” the High Priestess said, “You’ve conquered Crownshold and now you will crown yourself king. And from there, ceaseless war with the other lords, and whatever other leaders crop up in the chaos you’ve wrought. All it took was the destruction of a city founded by the Tribunal itself.”

  Lord Beriskar laughed from his belly. “All it took, indeed. All it took.”

  “The Tribunal will turn their backs on us all for this transgression.”

  The Lord was still laughing. “That’s the hope.” He tossed a hand flippantly in the air. Knights seized the High Priestess forcibly.

  With a heavy heart, Valen lunged forward, only to find himself knocked sprawling to the ground by one of the knights’ shields. His sword clattered from his left hand and his right arm howled in pain.

  No one snatched his sword, but the knight loomed over him as he dragged himself to his feet, reaching for the blade. The shield slammed forward again, and down he went.

  They didn’t plan on letting Valen stand. The Paladin glared at the knight and waited, tense, ready.

  “As I said,” Lord Beriskar said, turning as a pair of soldiers came into the room, hailing a large stone vase between them. There had been something carved into it, but it was too worn to make out. Fire flickered wit
hin it. “I know what I’ve done. I made a deal to do it.”

  One of his knights handed him a length of metal. He jammed it into the burning vase. “This was the tool used to kill one of the elven gods, you know. Well, a part of the ritual. The fire within is never quenched. It was the first gift. There have been many others, all for this moment.”

  The High Priestess stared at the vase and did not look away. “You’re mad.”

  “I second that, Beriskar!” another man shouted. A troop of knights came clamoring into the hall, carrying the speaker, a lean beanpole of a man in a leather tabard marked with the knotted serpent of Mulvane. “You’re a raving lunatic!”

  “Edwin,” Lord Beriskar said, stirring the metal rod thoughtfully, “That’s often been said of you.”

  Lord Mulvane was the opposite of victorious Beriskar, lean and bookish, no longer young but far from old. He jerked against this captors to no effect. “The people will rise and make you pay for this.”

  “Your little flanking maneuver didn’t work out so well, hmm?”

  Valen touched his sword hilt tentatively. The knight above him grunted, but did nothing.

  They just wanted to keep him from standing. They didn’t care about the sword. He seized it more firmly but remained on the ground.

  “You will suffer for your injustices.”

  “Who’s winning here, Voice of the People?” He pulled the rod out of the burning vase. The end of it was flat and glowing red. Valen realized it was a fireplace poker, such a normal thing made so strange. “I’m glad you’ll be here to see this. A chance to put your skeptical blathering to rest before you die.”

  He turned to face the High Priestess, holding up the red-hot poker.

  16

  Lord Beriskar gently pressed the poker against the High Priestess’ throat.

  She screamed, a ragged piercing sound, and the air reeked of burning flesh.

  Valen’s fist clenched around his sword hilt and he lunged at the Lord.