by Mike Truk
I’d leave him to it.
A huge shadow beast slipped out of a sudden tear in the fabric of reality, climbing down the outside of the wall, ignoring gravity, and tearing the enemy apart wherever it went.
Aurora might have ten thousand men, but Port Gloom had the world’s greatest concentration of misfits, exemplars, mages, and assassins.
I took a deep breath and began running back, calling out my murderous orders once more. Again the enemy turned and began to assail their fellows.
I didn’t run through unscathed; three arrows punched into my side, and a downed man nearly took off my foot with a sweep of his blade.
But that was fine.
I reached the ramp, out of breath all over again. I was about to climb up and repeat my previous maneuver when Baleric’s pale-faced sister stepped up to my side and touched my shoulder.
“Wait,” she said.
“What?” her conversational tone was so out of place amidst the battle that I wanted to laugh. “Wait? For what?”
She raised a white brow, then pointed down at the battlefield. I looked in the indicated direction, and saw the white-robed magician pushing his way frantically through the ranks of soldiers.
Behind him came Baleric, cutting a path through the enemy as if they were wheat.
He gained on the magician, and then, with a simple thrust, impaled his blade through the man’s back.
The ramp disappeared, and several hundred men screamed as they plummeted down to the distant ground.
“But Baleric!” I turned in shock to his sister. “He’s out there alone with all of them!”
“No,” she said, voice certain. “They’re out there alone with him.”
The collapse of the ramp had a ripple effect across the battlefront; men stared in dismay at where it had stood, and fell back from the rising undead who snatched at them, who bore them down to the ground and bit at their necks.
Blightwort was working wonders down there.
The screams of devotion had become cries of horror.
And Baleric was slowly working his way back to the wall, looking unhurried, parrying every blow, killing every man.
“He doesn’t even look like he’s trying,” I said in wonder.
“He doesn’t have to,” said his sister. “He is an Actualized Exemplar of the Hanged God. He is death on earth.”
And by the Hanged God’s puckered asshole, she was right.
He fought his way to the base of the wall, where he was ignored by the rampaging undead. Sheathing his blade and tossing back his cloak, he leaped and began to climb the wall, movements sure and strong.
“Fuck, I’m glad he’s on our side,” I said.
The enemy was falling back, the spirit gone out of them. Too many had died too quickly, and the visible destruction of the magical ramp along with the rising of their undead fellows had proved too much. Ladders were abandoned or discarded, and the horde melted back, uncertain, furious, screaming out their curses.
A ragged cheer went up along the wall, the survivors raising their weapons or hurling the last spears at the retreating enemy.
Cerys stepped out of the shifting press of soldiers to move up alongside me. Her quiver was empty, her Gloom Knight bow spattered with blood. Though she’d suffered a slice just under her ear which had come perilously close to opening up her neck, she was otherwise unharmed
I grabbed her by the nape of the neck, pulled her in for a hard kiss, then turned to watch our foe reel back.
“Round one goes to us,” I said.
“Wait.” Cerys leaned forward, frowning. “Look. The White Lioness.”
I stared, made out the mounted leader, who was urging her steed forward through the retreating ranks which parted for her.
“What is she doing?” I asked.
“Maybe she’s going to make a threat?”
She broke free of the press of retreating soldiers and urged her steed into a canter. And by Blind Fortuna’s bounteous thighs, she was a sight; riding masterfully, guiding her horse with her legs, rising to stand in her stirrups, cloak streaming out before her.
Every inch a commander out of legend.
Our cheers died down as every soldier focused on her approach.
When she stopped her mount, the relief was a palpable wave that washed across the battlements. So she wasn’t going to assault the city by herself.
Instead, she lifted her hand and pointed at the sun. Its flaming glory had just risen over the horizon, and was fading from buttery yellow to searing white.
Her hand caught fire, just like Pony’s. She leveled her arm at the wall and the light that enveloped her hand elongated, becoming a spear that stretched out several yards before her.
“What’s she doing?” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. “Someone? Anyone? What the fuck is she doing?”
“No,” whispered his sister.
Baleric’s hand appeared atop the wall, fingers splayed; then, with a heave, he hauled himself up, appearing in a crouch before us. His expression was set, lips pursed, his pale, ghostly hair thick with blood, his whole being radiating with the Hanged God’s power.
The white spear of burning light leaped from the Lioness’ hand and fled across the sky, quick as lightning, to engulf Baleric where he crouched.
The thunderclap of released power knocked everyone back. But it wasn’t simply an excess of might. Something tore in the fabric of reality before us; seals were shattered, and the force that burst out wasn’t that of the White Sun, but the Hanged God.
I felt a chill pass through me that made my bones ache, felt my lifeforce siphon away so the raging inferno that was my spirit became little more than embers.
Opening my eyes, I blinked away the blindness, and saw Baleric was gone. Extending out from where he’d crouched was a radius of the dead, soldiers and militiamen who lay, bodies drained of color, lips blue, eyes staring up in fixed horror.
The wash of power had slain over a hundred of those who’d stood close by.
At that moment my thoughts were only for Cerys. I spun, dropping down beside her. She was pale, drained like the others, but when I pressed my fingertips to the side of her neck I felt the faintest of fluttering pulses.
Baleric’s sister also stirred, rising to her knees to stare with blank incomprehension at where the Exemplar of the Hanged God had crouched.
I scooped Cerys into my arms, then rose to stare over the battlements to Aurora sat astride her steed.
It felt like our eyes met across that impossible distance. For a moment she remained thus, and then, casually, she turned her horse about to ride it back into her ranks.
“Baleric,” whispered his sister, eyes still wide, expression frozen.
Here and there, the more hardy members of the fallen groaned and began to stir.
Holding Cerys to my chest, I watched the White Lioness depart, her soldiers marching back alongside her, her forces bloodied but clearly undefeated.
We’d weathered the first assault.
Looking at my battered forces, I sincerely doubted we’d weather a second.
Chapter 15
We convened in the church of the Hanged God, half a mile from the Field Gate and impractical in every way but for the fact we all wished to speak with Mavernus.
He awaited us on the steps of the church in the light of day, looking as improbable and gaunt as if someone had dragged a night specter out of its tomb into a soiree.
Haggard, leaning heavily on a staff of office, he awaited our arrival without a word. A lone sentinel in the abandoned square at the heart of the semi-demolished Tangles.
Looking about the old neighborhood, I felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps Aurora is here to simply finish what I began.
“Sepulchros!” Seraphina broke away from our group to run to the base of the steps and there cast herself down at his feet. “I - Baleric- he -”
Mavernus lowered his claw of a hand upon her brow, a tender gesture, and bowed his head. “I felt it, young one.”
>
We’d all come here together. Tamara, faint from healing so many; Cerys, her wounds and stolen vitality restored by a Sworn; Netherys, trying for a rakish nonchalance and not managing to fool anyone; Pony, bringing up the rear, despondent, as far as I could tell, for having lost his hammer; Baleric’s crew, led now by his pale sister.
I’d appointed Yashara to watch over the defenses in my absence, ensuring the remaining Exemplars, magi, and necromancers would obey her command. Not that I thought they’d have much say in the matter.
“Mavernus,” I said, moving up to stand behind Seraphina’s fallen form. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Hmm,” muttered the old man. “We do indeed. Come in, come in. Let us get out of this blasted sun.”
I squinted upward at the overcast skies, then shrugged and followed him inside.
He didn’t make for his study, however, but instead simply turned within the nave to consider us, hands disappearing into opposite ragged sleeves.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
Baleric’s sister stepped forward. “The White Lioness. She opened a rift of some kind, threw it at Baleric, and shattered his grasp of the Hanged God’s power.”
“This is where I say that’s impossible,” mused the sepulchros.
“I felt his spirit tear apart,” said the sister, voice little more than a whisper. “The resultant shockwave of entropic energy killed hundreds.”
“And I sensed Mother Magrathaar in that attack,” said Netherys quietly. “But her power was warped, twisted. I can’t explain it.”
Mavernus’ frown deepened. “For her to sever Baleric’s connection to the Hanged God is… or should be… impossible. No wonder this hereshen caused the Paruko such consternation. She is indeed as dire a threat as we thought. Her assault has been repulsed?” “For now,” I said. “But she outnumbers us by the thousands, and her forces are fanatical. They’ll come again.”
“We should demand to parlay,” said Cerys. Despite the Sworn’s healing, she looked gaunt and pale. “Try to speak with her. See if your powers can control her.”
“They won’t,” said Mavernus with something akin to amusement. “Not one as she. Any being capable of creating such a rift will not be so easily led by a king troll.”
“Then what?” I demanded. “What else can we do?”
“Summon your Iris,” said Mavernus. “Bid her manifest. She is the mother of this creature, is she not? Then it is fit that she should take responsibility for her progeny.”
“I don’t know how. She said she’s all around me, but… dispersed amongst hundreds, if not thousands. I don’t know how to speak to her.”
“If you don’t find out, we could all die,” said Mavernus. “I suggest you bend effort toward this matter.”
“She must be immune to the forces of the White Sun,” said Tamara. “I’ve wondered about how she could march amid so many faithful. So many Exemplars and more.”
“She may be immune to all that we know,” said Mavernus. “There is a reason the Paruko Dream Eaters came for Iris. They only come for those who endanger the whole world. This White Lioness will be a formidable opponent, and perhaps beyond our reach if we do not contact your necromancer.”
“What… all right, this is probably a bad idea, but hear me out.” Netherys licked her purple lips. “What if we free Aschengraur so that he can fight her, and then bet on the Paruko arriving to take him away after he’s done? No? No. You’re right. A bad idea.”
We stood in silence for a spell, each sunken in their own thoughts. At last, I slapped my hands together, startling the others.
“You’d all best get back to the walls. The Lioness cares nothing for the lives of her followers. She’s as liable to throw them back into the fray as not.”
“And you?” asked Cerys, reaching out to take my hand.
“I’ve got to find a way to conjure myself a spiritually dispersed necromancer,” I said, forcing a wry smile. “Should be easy, right?”
We heard the sound of hoofbeats on the cobblestones outside, a horse galloping up the wrecked street, and I moved quickly to the doorway. A messenger would only come for two reasons.
Either Aurora had started a second attack, or -
“My lord,” cried out the guardsman atop the steed, pulling it around as it danced beneath him. “You are needed at the wall!”
“For what reason, you fool?” cried out Netherys.
“Parlay! The White Lioness! She’s sent forth the request. She would speak with you!”
I nodded grimly, then turned to survey my companions. “Looks like Iris is going to have to wait.”
* * *
I’d stood before massive crowds before, the center of attention, every person hanging on my words. I’d raised my arms as the Count of Manticora to thousands and heard their adulation.
But this was different. Though thousands watched me from the walls, all of them rooting for my success, far many more stared at me from the enemy’s lines, wishing me death.
It was like walking into a headwind. Each step took me farther from the city, across the corpse-strewn battlefield, and toward the white canopy of the pagoda the Lioness had commanded be erected for our meeting.
But it was even more than that. More than the weight of responsibility, the direness of our situation, the pressure of over ten thousand gazes falling upon me.
It was the knowledge that if I failed to take control of events during this meeting, I could be dooming hundreds of thousands to die or be oppressed by Aurora. The fate of Port Gloom rested on my shoulders, and for the first time, I truly understood what it meant to have positioned myself as the leader of the entire metropolis.
That, and I couldn’t deny a sense of guilt and foreboding. We were finally going to meet Aurora face to face. To confront our sins made manifest. What could we say in our defense? That she was a casualty in our war against my father? Hardly comforting.
There she was. Standing alone under the awning, clad in her peerless steel armor, every plate molded to her feminine form; her luxurious cloak of white fur falling like a waterfall of snow from her shoulders; her face hidden behind her gleaming helm. Across her breastplate was emblazoned the white sun, and from her hip hung a glorious longsword, its pommel adorned with a massive sapphire.
She awaited us, alone.
My group was small. Pony lumbered behind us, a new hammer resting athwart his shoulders. Cerys to my right, Tamara to my left, and Netherys just a little behind, cowl pulled down.
I ached for Iris. But in her absence, there was no-one else I trusted more than this crew, or Yashara back on the wall.
The hush that filled the fields was so ponderous as to feel palpable. I felt as if I walked through gelid air, pushing my way forward until at last, I realized we had reached our destination.
Pony stopped at the pagoda’s edge. The four of us entered to stand before her.
And even outnumbered she was formidable in a manner I couldn’t quite pin down. She stood with utter confidence, resplendent, her aura such that she fairly radiated power and assurance.
“White Lioness,” I said, not knowing how else to address her. “You wished to parlay?”
“To accept your surrender and dictate your terms.” Her voice was husky and grave, and oh, it was terribly familiar. Just the sound of Aurora’s voice made my skin prickle with horror. “You did admirably resisting my first assault, but cannot survive a second. One which I need not launch, for soon your own people shall betray you.”
“I mean, presumptuous,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “And a little arrogant. You don’t know what surprises we might still have in store for you.”
“You have no further surprises,” she said, voice betraying amusement. “Your demons are destroyed. As I have demonstrated, I can slay any Exemplar from a distance with ease.” And with that she turned her helm to regard Tamara, who stood a little straighter, hands clenching into fists. “Your numbers are insignificant, and your defenses
so poorly maintained that but a push would open your gates. Cease this posturing. Admit defeat, and accept your terms.”
“Which are?” asked Cerys, eyes feverish with emotion. Almost she’d chosen not to come. To face Aurora. But at the last she’d pitched in, and now looked ready to lash out at her with a blade.
“You will deliver to me Iris Kargashina by dusk today. Failure to do so will result in our assaulting the city and killing every man, woman, and child we find within until she is produced.”
“Charming,” said Netherys. “And if we produce her?”
“Then you shall be spared,” said the White Lioness. “I’ve no interest in Port Gloom or its people.”
“All this,” I said, gesturing at her army. “This war, Olandipolis, all of it - just for Iris? Is that what this is all about, Aurora?”
“So you do remember.” The White Lioness sounded bitterly pleased. And so saying, she reached up and removed her helm.
It revealed the face of a stunningly beautiful young woman, her golden hair braided and pinned to the crown of her head. The irises of her eyes were a pale white-gold in which I saw depths of wisdom, sober maturity that elevated her striking looks to something more akin to handsome. But her skin was changed. Gone was the tawny gold, the health, strength, and vitality.
Now her face was gaunt, her cheeks sunken, her eyes ringed by darkness. Her skin was waxen, and webs of purple capillaries traced their passage along the line of her jaw, across her temples, and reached crimson tendrils across the sclera of her eyes.
I had no words. No mockery, no sarcasm. Could only stare at our handiwork.
“Master Kellik,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You see that I am much changed. Whatever it was your necromancer did to me, it has made existence a living hell.”.”
We’re sorry,” whispered Cerys, the fire going out of her eyes. “So sorry. We never wished for this.”
“Do you think I care?” Aurora’s words were a whiplash. “You broke into my sanctum and murdered me. But Iris did not see fit to leave me be. She changed my spirit. I don’t know why or how, but because of her I can no longer enter the Ashen Garden. Injury cannot stop me. I cannot leave this world, and am doomed to suffer from the whisperings of a dark goddess I know not, to live in constant torment.”