by Greg James
There had been times when she feared they would rout and flee for their lives, but those times were past. The Fellspawn approaching would show no mercy, which stiffened the resolve of those within the castle walls. They would fight on even when all hope was lost to them. With that knowledge, Jedda felt a great weight once again upon her shoulders.
I have talked them into dying for me. What if they do die, and all is lost? What then? Do I have the right to keep using people like this? How does it make me better than Him? I may not be inside their minds as He is with his creatures, but still I am controlling them, manipulating them, and telling them what to do.
A large hand fell on her shoulder.
“Majesty.”
It was General Kella.
“Yes, General? What news?”
“The walls are beginning to give. There is no threat from the Norn Valley now, so we can make a strategic retreat. It will give us time to rally those who are left for a last defence.”
“Do it, General, and send for the Herb-Sisters.”
“They are overrun by the wounded, Majesty.”
“I know, but I need them now. They will know why.”
General Kella did not move.
“I know you think it’s too dangerous, Kella. But I have no choice. Without Sarah and the Kay’lo, this has to be done.”
He nodded and left the ramparts.
Soon enough, men and women were hurrying about Jedda, preparing the beleaguered defences for retreat and the final assault. Mortars came hissing overhead in steady volleys – throwing up columns of blinding fire when they struck the ground and burst. Dying screams echoed in Jedda’s ears, making her stomach turn.
The walls and gates could only stand a few more decisive blows.
Jedda did her best to keep her doubts from showing on her face. She might well be something strange and different after what had happened to her at His hands, but that did not make her invincible or immortal—that was true only of characters in stories. This was no story, though it might be told as such in years to come, if there were survivors. This was her life, and today, it might lead her to her death. From below, the horns of the Fellspawn began to sound. The ground began to tremble as the many feet beating against it marched on the city. Jedda prepared to give the signal to fall back.
“To your positions! Make ready!”
The final blow crashed against the walls of Highmount.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sarah’s eyes were no longer human as she lashed tendrils of fire at the Mind-Reavers, binding them where they had fallen. She stood over E’blis, who clambered to his knees.
“A’aron ... so you have finally shown yourself and taken over the mortal’s form.”
“Be silent.”
“I think not.” Thunder rumbled from his prostrate form, hammering Sarah into the far wall of the chamber. E’blis regained his feet.
“Do you know what it has been like, A’aron? Being a fallen god for all these years. Once, I could command the earth to move, the sun and moon to rise and fall. Rivers leapt into being where I trod, and the ocean receded at my slightest gesture. But you, you took it all away from me. I have power at his behest, but it is a paltry thing compared to the might I once possessed. Do you understand?”
Sarah, dazed from the blow he had dealt her, shook her head.
“Of course not. You are no longer who you truly were, much like I am. We have both fallen and become lesser beings. We are mere shadows, worthless.”
Through the fog of semi-consciousness, Sarah finally understood E’blis, His desire to serve a being that would destroy everything.
E’blis wanted to die.
He wanted the nothingness of extinction. It was the only way to heal the pain of being a shadow of what he had once been. She paused, staring up at him. How could a being so terrifying and powerful do all that he had done just for the sake of suicide?
But she had no more time to think on it.
Another wave of force crashed over her, and she called upon the Flame to shield her as it was followed by another and another. The chamber was quaking and raining down debris as the power E’blis was unleashing against her tore at the matter around them. The Mind-Reavers were crushed by the falling rocks.
This is but a shadow of his former strength. Thank goodness for that.
Sarah struggled through the chaos to the altar. Kiley was alive, though dishevelled and covered with dust. She was unconscious as well, thankfully. Sarah reached out and felt the fragments of stray thoughts wandering through Kiley’s mind.
... nightmare ... dreaming ... wanna go home ...
A glow spread across the altar as Sarah granted her wish. She sent Kiley home. This would be no more than a nightmare for her. She would wake up in bed and think nothing of it. Sarah did not want Seythe, and its war against the darkness, to weigh upon Kiley’s heart. It was her responsibility.
I am the Living Flame.
She had to finish this.
A moment later, Kiley was gone and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.
E’blis came up on her from behind knocking her to the ground.
“Now I have you, O Flame.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
General Kella grimaced as the first wave of the assault flowed through the broken walls of Highmount. The fetid air that hung over the Fallen One’s troops seemed to spatter against his skin. This was the last place any man would want to be. He was facing an army that ran like a black, bristling river through the shattered gates and over the ruins of Plainstown.
How many thousands were out there? How many had once been people of the Three Kingdoms? How many more had been perverted by vile magic into Fellfolk, Phages, Drujja, and Dionin?
But he was not going to let them take Highmount so easily. With his square jaw set, Kella called out to the men and women sheltering in the makeshift dugouts and culverts behind him. They were bearing cauldrons that had been specially prepared by the Herb-Sisters. Each of the steaming vessels was hoisted up and propped against trembling stone.
“Make ready,” Kella shouted to them as the wave of foul-smelling bodies came surging across the ground towards him. The sight made him feel sick.
He raised his arm and brought it down with a hard swipe.
The cauldrons were braced and tipped forwards. Their contents pouring across the earth towards the scrambling horrors. There was no boiling pitch or oil in the cauldrons, only a liquid that gave off a rich scent of forests and summer evenings. The dead-men and demons stopped in their tracks, wondering at what was flowing towards them.
But when the moment passed, the cries from the Fellspawn began as spores erupted from their bodies. Moss spread from open mouths, quickly coating staring, disbelieving eyes. Dark armour crumbled into leaves, and flesh and bones went the same way. The vanguard of the army became a flaking morass of undergrowth that reached out to attack the flanks behind with creepers, vines, and thick, strangling roots. Howls of fear rippled through the monsters as Mistress Ruth’s concoction worked as well as her spell on the Norn Valley legions.
Kella allowed a smile to play across his lips, “We have taught them fear today.”
But it was not over; he knew that. The fate that Mistress Ruth had visited upon an entire army had only destroyed a battalion or so this time. It was a little loss but not enough to make a big difference. Already, he could see other monstrosities striding through the mulch of those who had been transformed. Vicious shadows struck at moaning Phages, reminding them to fear the Black Lord Under the Mountain more than a few humans hiding behind stone walls. The shadows came closer and Kella felt a thrill of fear pass through him as he recognised their smouldering forms.
Fallen-born.
“The Mother preserve us.”
Kella watched the Fallen-born as they rose from the ground with a chorus of unearthly shrieks, blended together and became one. As a noxious, flowing cloud of darkness, they came for him. Five figures striding out of it—reeking and steaming
from the fumes exuded by their cursed armour. He glimpsed the weeping, blackened bone that the armour itself was fused to. He drew his sword from its scabbard as the eyes of the Fallen-born fell on him. Those about him retreated in fear, but Kella stood face to face with the Devil-eyes. He could hear the cries of men and women who had never dreamed of facing such incarnate evil.
One of them came for him, bringing its sword down to clash against his. Kella feinted and riposted, setting the Fallen-born back a pace.
This is it then, thought Kella.
It lurched towards him again, joined by its dismal kin. Kella found himself fending off five swords in no time, all of which rose and descended with disturbing fluidity. The air became heavy with their bitterness; it lined Kella’s throat and skull, filling his arteries and veins with sluggishness. It was like a web they were threading through him, making him become sick with spite as the fight went on. It broke his concentration into pieces, catching and pulling at the fibres of his brain, making dreams bleed into his sight. His vision became hot, black, and distorted as his sword danced from blade to blade. The General ground his teeth, and braced his feet against stone that trembled like it was about to throw him to the ground below. He was trapped. There was no way out. But still he fought on.
~ ~ ~
A clinging mist settled over the buildings of Highmount. It clung like fungus, spreading root-like fronds that curled down walls, over roofs, and into doorways. It made outlines blur, doorways and windows became rotten holes. Everything became ghostly, awash in sight and sound. Through the obscurity, Jedda could see a great swaying weight, gross and unusual, rising overhead.
Some grand conjuration by the Fallen One’s Mind-Reavers, no doubt, she thought.
It seemed to glisten and shine.
She could see it leaning down, tottering under the pull of gravity.
It began to rain.
Jedda’s eyes fixed upon what was falling to the ground: fat maggots, pasty worms, and glimmering insects. The enemy had unleashed a charnel storm that was met with screams from Highmount’s defenders. Swords and crossbows fell from shaking hands as the nightmare rain continued. Jedda’s mouth drew in the contaminated air. Her knuckles turned white as she pressed on through the deluge, trying to avoid its squirming cargo. She saw Kella slowly being battered to his knees by assaulting shadows that seemed to constantly fade in and out of being.
Fallen-born!
Jedda dashed through the rain. Kella could not hope to prevail against all of them. But what was it that Mistress Ruth had said to her?
You were reborn as something else, something different. You were changed.
Jedda faced the Fallen-born, and they recognised her; she could tell by the way their forms fluxed and shifted. Her ears rang with the noise of a great bell tolling, over and over again. Jedda was not sure if this was real or another illusion, but she did not care.
This bell tolls for me, she thought, and I will finish what I began.
The Fallen-born screamed as one. Jedda met them, eye to eye, and prepared to have her vengeance. One struck Kella, and the General crumpled to the ground with a groan. Jedda caught him. He was wheezing as he bled out. His eyes fixed on a middle distance somewhere. His lips moved dryly as he tried to cling to what was left of his life. A moment was all he had left.
“Win this war, my Princess. For me. For our people. Save Highmount,” he gasped.
Then, he was gone.
Jedda set down Kella’s corpse and got back to her feet.
She turned on the Fallen-born. They bore down on her soundlessly, eager to run her through, or was their swift approach an act of fear? Was she so different now that she was a threat to the Darkness That Was Not Darkness?
Am I not the slave I feared myself to be?
She saw them begin to shimmer and shift into their fog-like forms. Then something happened that Jedda did not expect. The fog disappeared and she saw them moving at incredible speed and realised that what she had taken to be a fog was the magnified blur of their own movement.
But now she could see through it!
As she feinted, riposted, and struck back at them, Jedda realised she was moving at the same speed they were. She felt a tremor pass through the air as she forced the Fallen-born back. Not only was she fighting as fast as they were, she was also stronger. The tremor had come from them.
The Fallen-born were afraid of her.
Jedda couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as she continued to harry them, forcing these fragments of the Fallen One to retreat. Cries rang out and the flickering forms of soldiers fled from their path. She wanted to shout to them that there was nothing to fear. The Fallen-born were cowed, they were running, and she was going to defeat them. But there was no time. Though she had the Fallen-born fighting defensively, they were still dangerous. As the saying goes, there is nothing so dangerous as a cornered rat.
Their barbed blades tried to break through her defences and cut through exposed clothing. Such a wound would be fatal, Jedda knew. As much as she could match the Fallen-born, in some ways that made her like them. She should have died atop the Fellhorn, so their night-forged swords, if they pierced her flesh, could well return her to that state. Jedda gritted her teeth and began to fight all the harder.
I will not die and leave Venna all alone, not now that I have finally got her back.
Those who watched saw the fight between Jedda and the Fallen-born as a spectral ballet, its participants seeming to flicker in and out of being, like dying flames. The air around them became a trembling bank of fog that resounded with the sounds of fierce battle. None ventured near. They could not hope to match the ferocity of the Fallen-born. But, after a time, the clashing of swords diminished and the curious fog thinned until only one figure remained standing.
Jedda struck down the last of the Fallen-born, and as it faded from existence, its burning eyes stared at her and its mouth formed the words, “What are you?”
“I don’t know,” said Jedda. “But I am strong enough to slay you and save my people. That is all that matters to me.”
She was battle-wearied, sweating, and her armour was scored in countless places, but Jedda was alive, and the collapsed remains of the Fallen-born were laid out at her feet.
A mighty cheer went up from the defenders of Highmount.
Jedda looked at the smoking, empty armour where the Fallen-born had been. This attack had been repulsed. Fellfolk and Phages were being routed through the holes made in the walls of Highmount.
But still, it was not enough.
And they had lost Kella.
She knew the Nightlands’ cocoons would soon be hatching more horrors to join those already arraigned against them.
I can fight. I am strong. But strength will only save us for so long.
It was time to summon the White Rider.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mistress Ruth and one of her fellow Herb-Sisters stood before the surviving defenders of Highmount. They could see the shifting forms of the Fallen One’s army through the wounds in the walls, but none were coming through. There were not many left in the city, but Jedda had slain the Fallen-born. The Fellspawn had not expected that.
Jedda marvelled at Mistress Ruth’s strength. The healer’s hair had turned to a striking white and her face was lined and mottled with advancing age – it had not been so before she called on Gorra. Jedda stood by her decision to summon the White Rider – but she feared what the consequences might be for Mistress Ruth. She did not look as if she could take much more strain.
“You said that your powers were gone, Mistress.” Jedda said.
“Aye, and they are, my dear. But I know the words and Rhea here can work the conjuration in my place.”
“Will he come?”
“The White Rider goes where he wills and to where the Flame calls him. This may be for naught but it will be done, as you commanded.”
Mistress Ruth put emphasis on the last three words, making Jedda nod cur
tly and turn away. This was even more dangerous than summoning Gorra, it seemed.
Time passed as the Herb-Sisters scratched peculiar runes into the ground, muttered, chanted and cast handfuls of seed, pollen and grain across the complex pattern of markings they had made. Jedda tried to follow what they were doing and to interpret the meaning of the runes but her eyes and head began to hurt when she looked for too long. Overhead, the winter skies were growing dark and Jedda wondered if the insect rain was going to fall once more.
Then, lightning struck the ground before her.
Jedda staggered away from the blinding blast. As she blinked and cleared her eyes, she heard cries from behind. She turned and saw that lightning was falling among her people, roasting them alive. The wind was picking up, growing fiercer and fiercer. She looked up and saw that clouds from the sky above were descending in a raging funnel.
Drujja!
But this was not one of the Storms That Walk – this was the work of many. The deadly funnel of whirling air came across the ground towards her. It was spitting black lightning, stones and sand. It was ripping and tearing at everything and everyone it could touch.
Jedda screamed over the roaring it made, “Mistress Ruth! The White Rider! Now!”
The Drujja was upon her.
As she backed away, Jedda could see Fellfolk streaming through the Highmount walls. Phages raised their battlehorns and blew hard on them. Beasts and nightmares made flesh shambled towards the last of Highmount’s people.
Another blast of lightning seared down from the heavens.
But this one came silently and without fury.
It struck at the Drujja, enveloping the living storm with bright lines of light and fire. They grew around it, crushing it, shrinking it, sucking the fierce wind away. The light resolved into the shape of an armoured knight mounted on a steed, both of whom were composed of white flame.
The Drujja was gone.
The White Rider faced the Fallen One’s creatures.