It looks like the Eleven Hells have completely emptied themselves.
Out in the distant fields, great machines work ceaselessly on various forms of construction, their engines spewing black smoke and horrid green flames into the air.
They’re building something out there, I think to myself, narrowing my eyes thoughtfully. Siege towers, perhaps? Whatever it is, it cannot be good.
Below, the line of mind slaves has reached the base of the city wall, their ladders coming up with hooks to lock against the stone crenellations.
“Mages!” I shout, rushing to the side and pointing to the ladders. “Burn those ladders down!”
Those battlemages who had been assigned to our section of the wall immediately comply, flinging magefyre at the wooden ladders and burning them to cinders.
To the side, a man in lion-carved armor comes trudging up the steps with a small retinue of knights in tow, their visors pulled down over their faces. When they arrive beside me, the man in the lion armor pushes up his visor, revealing a ruddy face drenched in sweat.
“These bastards are relentless,” General Mohr remarks, his voice hoarse from screaming. “But so far the defenses are holding.”
The battle has only just begun, I think to myself gravely, though I do not voice my concerns. “General. Is there something you need?”
“I came to check on you, see how you lot are doing,” he replies, shrugging his plated shoulders and causing the metal to clink. “Though, I suppose I should be asking you if there is something you need. Do you find yourself in need of support?”
“Not at the moment,” I reply, looking past him and noting with satisfaction that the last of the ladders have been burned down.
“Good,” he says with a curt nod. “That’s what I like about you, Protector. You’re self-sufficient. Not like the bloody militia on the southern bulwark.”
A man nearby gets struck by a black-fletched arrow in his chest, and he falls back screaming as his fellows rush to his side to help him.
General Mohr does not even seem to notice.
“Well,” he continues brusquely, “if you find yourself in need of anything, send a runner to come find me. You’re taking the brunt of the assault. We’ll get you the support you need.”
“Thank you, General.”
He moves off with his knights, descending the steps of the tower and disappearing from sight.
Turning my attention back to the battle, I begin barking orders, commanding men to shore up points on the battlements and calling for more arrows to be brought to the front. The siege continues raging violently for a time, the R’Laar – thank the Light – not gaining any ground.
A flash of green light nearly blinds me as something strikes the wall just beneath the tower. Screams fill the air, and when my sight clears, I can see sickly-colored flames spreading across an entire section of the battlements, devouring groups of Nightingale defenders like kindling.
Cursing, I race to the side and shout for buckets of water to put out the blaze. Men begin rushing about to obey my orders.
Hells, I think, pulling out and arrow and nocking it to my bowstring. They must have magic users down there. That demon fire will be the death of us.
Pulling the fletching to my cheek, I lean out through the crenellations and begin searching for any sign of the warlocks, the seething mass of mind slaves and corpses churning far below. Within seconds I pick out a pair of gorgons huddling behind a wall of shields, their hands burning with green fire.
I let out a breath and release, shooting the arrow down with deadly accuracy. It pierces one of the gorgons through the right eye, sending it tumbling to the ground and immediately extinguishing the fire.
Pulling out another arrow, I swiftly repeat the process, taking the second one through the throat. It takes him much longer to die.
Ducking back behind cover, I watch with satisfaction as men douse the roiling flames with buckets of water, clearing a path on the battlements. However, all along the wall I can see similar sights, sections of the wall saturated with burning patches of demon fire. Worse than that, though, is the fact that another wave of the ladders has rushed the wall in the chaos, and that gorgon fighters have joined the mind slaves and have already begun to climb.
“Nightingales,” I call, standing up and drawing my sword. “To me! The invaders are attacking the walls!”
All of the men on the tower, more than a dozen cloaked warriors, draw their swords in unison and follow me down the stairs, grim expressions on their faces. By the time we reach the bottom, the first of the gorgons are making their way over the crenellations.
With blood-chilling roars they leap onto the wall, drawing blades as black as midnight and swinging at anything that gets too close. Their eyes glow red with hatred as one by one they climb the ladders and begin to kill.
I throw my weight against the first one I see, driving my shoulder into its flank and knocking it over the wall. Then, I swipe out with my sword, taking the head off another climbing up from the battleground below. Its body drops like a weight, knocking down the gorgon beneath it with a furious howl.
“Take down the ladders!” I command, ripping the hooks free and pushing the ladder away from the wall. “Send these creatures back to the Eleven Hells!”
As we lead the charge, the Nightingales around us begin to take heart, rallying around me and fighting the demons before they can overwhelm us. Every so often we encounter a blue-robed mage, their radiant magic putting out fires and their shields protecting the fighters from harm. Fortunately, very few of them seem to have fallen in the siege so far, their presence bolstering the defense wherever they are found.
For the next hour I defend the wall with my men, slaughtering gorgons and mind slaves as they wreak havoc among the archers. They never seem to stop coming, and when we knock down their ladders, more seem to come up.
It isn’t until the reserves come in that we are finally able to turn back the tide.
Men in chainmail and black cloaks come up from the city behind us, their axes and their swords clean. They have avoided soiling them thus far and are eager to put them to use in defending their brothers in arms.
We push and we fight, eventually managing to drive the last of the demon invaders from the walls. Archers and mages alike rain death upon the heads of the attackers, and soon, they begin to make a hasty retreat, pulling back to the main host of the army.
The silence that follows is almost unnerving.
“Clear the dead from the walls,” I command, gesturing at the many corpses littering the ground in front of me. “Resupply with arrows and pitch. When they come again, I want us to be ready.”
“Yes, Lord Protector!” Comes the disciplined response.
I tiredly make my way back to the tower, cleaning my blade on the edge of my cloak and sheathing it on my hip. The cries of the wounded carry over the stone of the city walls, wails ranging from agonized screams to small, frail whimpers.
Blackwings circle in the air high above our heads while the rest of the R’Laar regroup. Every so often one will swoop down attempting to scoop up a few defenders, but the rangers manage to drive it away or kill it with their arrows.
For the time being, it seems that we can finally take a second to breathe.
When I reach the top of the tower, I sit down heavily on a stack of crates and pick up a waterskin, pulling the cork out with my teeth and pouring some of the liquid down my throat.
Fighting didn’t used to make me this tired, I think to myself, noting my aching joints with dissatisfaction. My stamina seems to be getting worse with age.
Soldiers, used to taking breaks when they can, use the brief moment of quiet as an opportunity to refresh themselves. Once the bodies are cleared away and the arrows are resupplied, they drink and they eat, all while keeping a wary eye on the enemy horde churning just beyond the reach of their bows.
I find my eyes drifting to the distant tower where I know Tamara is stationed. A part of me wonders i
f she is okay, my heart aching at the thought of her coming to harm.
None of that, I think, shaking my head in disgust. Keep your wits about you, old man.
Getting up from my seat, I walk over to the edge of the battlements and rest my elbows on the stone, studying the enemy army with a practiced eye. The R’Laar seem to be waiting for something, biding their time before the next assault.
Then, I notice a movement coming from the back of the horde.
Ground troops begin making way for metal contraptions as they begin to roll forth, large tubes set on wheels like a carriage and pulled by strange demonic oxen with large horns sprouting from their snouts. I recognize the devices immediately, and their presence fills me with a profound sense of dread.
“Men, to your stations!” I shout, rousing the defenders from their rest. “And have the mages prepare their shields... things are about to get very dangerous.”
Boots thud on stone as the messengers begin to run.
Those hollow tubes were present at Forest Hill, to the detriment of our defenses. A single blast from one of those devices was enough to reduce our barricade to rubble, and right now, I count more than twenty of them on the battlefield.
“Eleven Hells,” I curse, watching as the contraptions rumble to a halt. I pick up my bow, even though they are well out of arrow range, and grit my teeth as warlocks approach them from behind, hands alight with demon fire.
“Take cover!” I cry, just as the gorgons begin igniting the tubes.
Then, less than a second later, they erupt in unison, spewing blasts of green energy at the walls.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Owyn
I launch an arrow from horseback, watching with satisfaction as it takes one of the darkhounds in the neck. We are almost upon them now, our horses galloping straight toward the roaring rabble of demons.
Reaching back to my quiver, I quickly pull another arrow and shoot just as one of the beasts leaps to attack. My shot takes the darkhound right in the mouth, driving deep into the creature’s throat and knocking it back in midair.
Then, seconds later, the battled is joined by the mages.
Magefyre flares all around as the mages channel source energy, igniting many of the demons in brilliant flashes of light and utterly scorching the ground. Blackwings circle above our heads, swooping down every so often to try and claw at us with their talons, and no matter where I turn the sounds of whinnying horses and screeching darkhounds greets my ears.
Finding myself out near the front of the charge, I sling my longbow on the horn of my saddle and pull out my hatchet, leaping off of the horse and landing lightly on the grassy earth. Fighting on horseback is for knights, and I’ve always preferred my own two feet in the heat of battle.
A darkhound immediately lunges for me, snapping wildly with its jaws, red eyes glowing.
I sidestep to avoid the thing’s teeth and strike out with my hatchet, gouging it in the back with a spray of dark blood. The attack seems only to serve in making the darkhound angry, and it turns on me with a vengeance, ferociously snapping and swiping with its foreclaws.
Taking a few steps back, I nearly bump into another darkhound, and I am forced to dodge to avoid being gored by this one as well.
Hells, I think to myself, dancing away and trying to keep an eye on both of them at once. Maybe it was a mistake to jump off of my horse so quickly...
The burning husk of a blackwing’s corpse comes crashing to the ground nearby, giving me an opportunity to break away from my attackers for a moment to regroup. However, as soon as I reorient myself, one of the mages comes rushing by on his horse, nearly trampling me and forcing me to dive to the ground.
Smoke and blue fire billows all around, and in the chaos of the moment, I begin to feel fear.
I didn’t come all this way just to die in some minor skirmish!
One of the darkhounds jumps over the burning body of the blackwing and lands a few paces away from me, its jaws dripping with thick saliva. It sees me immediately and begins creeping toward where I lay, a deep growl emanating from its throat.
Suddenly, a spear flies through the air and impales the demon through the middle, causing it to let out a bestial roar of pain.
I push myself to my feet and turn just in time to see Yari racing up with his two wastelander companions to finish the darkhound off. Yari pulls his spear out as the others stab the thing again and again, spilling its black blood upon he ground.
Grinning, I go up to stand beside them. “Rahmat!” I say, using their word for thanks. “You three came just in the nick of time!”
They immediately fall into formation around me, spears coated in blood and stances firm. When the other darkhound comes to attack us, the four of us are able to make short work of it, felling it in less than a minute.
Nearby, Zara rears her horse around and flings magefyre at a low-flying blackwing, lighting the demon up like a torch and sending it shrieking to the earth. She moves with confidence and practically shimmers with power, wielding her magic better than any of the other mages on the field – better than any mage I have ever seen, in fact. When she notices the four of us fighting on the ground, she points and intones some spell, coating our bodies in the shimmering light of a radiant shield. Then, nodding and winking at me, she races off to take care of the nearest demon.
The sudden but violent fight lasts only a short while, and by the time it is over, every single one of the demonic beasts lies dead. Fortunately for us, there are no casualties among our group – except for a few of the horses that were maimed in the conflict. Several of the mages bear superficial wounds, but none are severely hurt.
As the smoke clears and the flames die down, we gather ourselves together to take stock of the situation.
“That was excellent work,” Zara says, congratulating the mages, many of whom are more than double her age. “I can see why the Circle nominated you to accompany us on this mission. Well done.”
Everyone begins dismounting and several of the mages begin examining the corpses of the R’Laar with an almost comical level of interest. Many of them have probably never seen a demon before, I realize with amazement. All things considered, it's a miracle that none of us were killed.
A small group of people begin making their way toward us from the village, their eyes wide in amazement. They clutch at their improvised weapons and farming implements, homespun clothing slick with sweat from the battle they narrowly avoided fighting.
“Praise the good Light above!” One of the men declares as the group approaches us, his eyes wet with emotion and his smile one of gratitude. “Thank you all for intervening on our behalf! We owe you our lives.”
Zara steps out in front to greet the man, her head held high in the very image of the late High Magus.
“No thanks is necessary, good folk,” she replies graciously, speaking for all the mages gathering behind her. “We are merely doing the work of the Conclave.”
The man, a tall, balding fellow in the ceremonial vestments of a Priest of the Light, takes a knee in front of Zara, prompting the handful of farmers behind him to do the same. “If there is anything we can do to repay the favor, dear Magus, please say so.”
Zara glances over her shoulder at me and raises a questioning eyebrow.
I shrug in response, thinking she will decline and we will be on our way.
“The day grows late, Priest,” she replies cordially, turning back to him. I shoot her a questioning glance, noting that the sun is still high in the sky, giving us plenty of light to travel by. Despite my look, Zara continues, “We are weary from fighting and could use a place to stay the night.”
His face immediately brightens, and he shoots up quickly to his feet. “Yes, of course! We will provide lodging and food for you! It is the least we can do for the great service you have done us.”
The other farmers nod their heads eagerly as he speaks.
“Excellent,” Zara responds coolly, smoothing out the front of her robes. �
��That will do nicely, thank you, priest.”
Getting to his feet, the man turns to his people and begins issuing directions, sending them running off one by one back to the village. Then, when he is alone, he faces Zara and myself and smiles broadly. “Welcome to Elder Hollow, my esteemed friends. Please, follow me into the village. Our doors are open to you.”
“MANY FROM OUR VILLAGE fled when the Arc was destroyed,” the priest explains, leading us through the simple dirt roads of Elder Hollow. “The rest stayed behind to look after their farms, hoping that all this nonsense with the demons would blow over.”
The priest, who said his name with Daine, speaks with an air of sadness as he walks straight-backed through the village. His eyes linger fondly over the thatch-roofed buildings and the farmhouses, his hands crossed behind his back and buried in the folds of his robes. Around us, the townsfolk begin making their way back to their homes, expressions drawn and fearful. These people narrowly avoided death – next time, will they be so lucky?
“Elder Hollow seems like a lovely town,” Zara says in a kind voice, smiling at a mother clutching at small children. “We are very grateful that you have agreed to take us in.”
“It is nothing,” Daine says with a slight shrug. “There’s plenty of room at the inn, and more than enough food to go around.”
He goes on to explain the village’s history, explaining how it was founded by his grandfather many years ago. He talks about the people living here, and about the crops they grow in the surrounding fields. Eventually, he leads us to a large two-storied building of plain timbers and chipped paint, a sign near the door reading ‘Elder Hollow Inn’.
“I’ll introduce you to Ven and his wife, Peony,” the priest says, leading Zara and me inside. “Then, we’ll see about finding a place to stable your horses.”
The innkeeper is a stout man with short-cropped hair and his wife is equally plump, with a warm smile and honey-colored hair. She reminds me of Mrs. Ellis from Forest Hill, the woman who essentially took care of Elias and me when we were stationed in the Emberwood.
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