by T J Marquis
"Not to mention that all of Gorgonbane vouches for his authenticity," said Agrathor.
The Commander came to a decision. "Okay then, what do you think I should do?"
"Give command of the garrison to me," Axebourne said, without hesitation.
Commander Thorne balked. "That's... That's unheard of. How can you even ask..."
"There will be something different about this attack," said Scythia. "The painreapers' words suggest as much, as does the unheard-of nature of the plan."
"We have seen, and won, battles that you and your men can only imagine, and have only heard about in tales," said Ess.
"And we do not mean to offend," said Axebourne, "nor to claim any glory for ourselves. But I assure you, this will be best for your men, and for your city. I know that it isn't easy, but think on our reputation. Rarely would I deign to invoke it, but I invoke it now. Would we do anything to harm or hinder your survival?"
Thorne searched each of their eyes in turn. Pierce didn't envy the man this decision. It was a highly irregular, perhaps even impudent request. No one, however mighty, strode into a fortified city full of thousands of people and simply requested to be given full control of its defensive forces. By all rights, the man should refuse. Thorne's eyes rested on Pierce last. He smiled as winsomely as he could, making an effort to look trustworthy. Did it work? Or did it make him look fake?
"Alright," Commander Thorne said.
It worked!
"You'll begin by advising me. We'll draw up a mock battle in the war room. Let me get the men in place, set the divisions as I see fit, then I hand over chief command to you. The men will refer to you as General. Deal?"
"Deal," Axebourne said. He looked relieved.
"How long do we have?" Thorne asked.
Pierce unfolded his fingers, one at a time.
"Ten days," said Scythia.
CHAPTER NINE
Axebourne the Cleaver
Gorgonbane waited as their places were prepared in the machine that was the garrison. Commander Thorne asked them to enjoy his courtyard garden and had food brought in.
Pierce wondered if he was the only one that was fidgety. The threat was just too close now, and he found himself anxious to just get to the fighting.
This didn't dampen his appetite in the least, and as he waited he thought back to Sugar's spicy meat pies. Alongside that thought came a parallel craving for something to do.
Axebourne and Scythia were sitting together on a stone bench, just holding each other's hands and watching time pass by. Pierce came near and squatted down, giving them a chance to acknowledge him. When they didn't, he spoke up.
"So Axebourne, sir," he said.
Axebourne turned his head, eyes cool and calm. How could he be this calm? Wasn't he itching to fight too?
"So I've always heard you called the Cleaver. Of course, everyone knows about the thousand gen you beheaded, but I don't think I've ever heard the story told right."
"I'll take this one," said Scythia with a sly grin.
"Of course, my darling," Axebourne said. "I'll keep my mouth shut. Though I'm sure you'll share my turn with me."
Scythia shrugged. "Everything one's husband shares tastes sweeter."
Axebourne scowled playfully at her. "This is why you're always eating my meals?"
"And drinking your drinks, and borrowing your thick, fluffy socks."
Axebourne made a disgusted face. "Borrowing my socks! Woman, you live on the very Chasm's edge."
"At least, I used to," she said. They laughed. "Now hush."
Axebourne clamped his mouth shut, but Pierce saw him watching for a chance to butt in.
"It was during a lull in the Alban War," Scythia said. "We'd just been hired to protect the mountain city of Ijin. Just Axie and me. The others went out on their own jobs. Scouts brought word that gen had been spotted hiding in the foothills below. Belatedly we realized they'd been massing for quite some time."
Scythia scanned Axebourne, and he lifted his chin. So proud of his self-control.
"It's a great wonder, Pierce," Scythia said. "The man lets me speak."
Axebourne dropped his jaw slightly, then clamped it shut again.
"They must have known they'd been found out," Scythia said. "Or perhaps they had finally acquired their full number. On Half-Year's Eve, in the dead of night, they marched.
"Our defensive wall was little more than a scrappy redoubt made of whatever the locals had lying around. They'd never much needed protection, trusting to the narrow mountain passes to keep them safe. But they also hadn't known about the old temple and convergence buried in a sealed-off network of caves. None of us did, until after the battle.
"The gen marched on us with flaming brands held aloft, bold against our meager defenses. Archers fired upon them, but their hard skin and tight chain mail conspired to keep them safe. They set the wall ablaze. It ignited like the tinder that it was, and people went to work trying to smother sections that were aflame. The rest of us prepared to fend off the inevitable breach.
"Ijin's mountain people are hardy and stout, but they don't take direction well, even from each other. This made them the worst possible fighting force to be in charge of. Unfortunately, we didn't know that before going in, or I would have told Axie not to take the job."
Axebourne shrugged and twisted up his lips.
"There were five hundred defenders, and no sooner had the redoubt caught fire than the lot of them surged out onto the battlefield. Ijin was hemmed in by stone on three sides, and the forest had been cleared on the fourth, to deprive the enemy of easy cover. The mountain folk filled that space with their bodies, getting mixed up with the gen in the worst display of tactics I've ever seen. I still don't know what they were thinking."
Axebourne looked like he had a comment for that, but his wife just smirked at him preemptively and he stayed quiet.
"Hot blood, I suppose," Scythia said. Axebourne nodded. "And no training. Bad combination. But Axie had a brilliant plan."
The big man grinned proudly. Scythia imitated his deep voice.
"'Listen,' he said, tightening the straps of his armor. 'We could just jump in there and start slashing, but those mountain folk are getting slaughtered - I'm afraid we'd be overwhelmed. If the others were here... But they're not. I need one of your shield gems.'
"I gave it to him, and he slapped it on his chest. 'I'm gonna activate the shield, and you're gonna punch me.'
"'What?' I asked. 'Punch me,' he said, 'as hard as you can. If I Reverse Force at the right moment, the shield will throw me back instead of you, and send me flying. I can land in the middle of the gen.'
"'But you said you didn't want to be surrounded,' I said.
"'I don't want both of us to be surrounded,' he said. 'Besides, I need your strength for this idiotic plan, so I can attack from the center instead of the sides.' His plan began to take shape in my mind, for I knew almost all of his tricks, and I realized he was right."
Axebourne beamed.
"It was idiotic."
He frowned and finally almost spoke, but just barely held himself.
"But it would work. We activated the shield and its gem began to deplete, forming a hard mass of air in front of his chest. I counted down from three, and gave him all the force of every punch he ever deserved."
Axebourne allowed himself a laugh.
"His timing with Reverse Force was perfect. I watched him grin as he hurtled away from me and drew his halberd," Scythia said. She looked at her husband. "It's okay, you can say it."
"I'd always wanted to fly," Axebourne said.
"He landed right in the midst of the gen and mountain folk and sent all the force of his impact out under the feet of the latter. I'll never know how he did it that precisely."
Axebourne grinned.
"All the mountain fighters went flying up in the air, and the gen fell to their knees as if pulled down by the earth itself. Axebourne went to work, laying about with the huge head of his halberd.
Gen heads flew, at least a dozen slain before the mountain folk hit the ground. I had come down from the burning ramparts to help clear a path for retreat, and the mountain fighters reluctantly began to withdraw.
"The gen soldiers looked like they were glued to the earth - no matter how much they struggled, they couldn't get free. I don't think either of us was sure how long the force enchantment would last, but Axebourne seemed to be giving it no thought. He was merely a reaper, cutting down gen in a dance of death. Some of them gained their feet and attacked, but they could not overcome Axebourne's rampage. Others tried to flee. Axebourne stomped and stuck them to the ground again. All were slain.
"By the time I'd gathered up all the defenders and gotten them into something resembling a formation, Axebourne had finished the job. Not one gen was left standing. We saw him striding back across the battlefield toward the city, smoke from the redoubt wafting out down the gentle slope. His face was grim, and every inch of him dripped with gen blood.
"He stopped before us and let his eyes pass across the faces of Ijin's fighters. He didn't even have to say a word. One by one, they began to look down in shame, knowing that though the battle had been won, they themselves had failed. When all of their eyes had been hooded, Axebourne turned and walked to the stump of a large tree. He dropped his halberd down beside him and took a seat. I dismissed the Ijinites, and went to kneel at Axebourne's side.
"We didn't speak. Even now, every battle is hard. Taking life is hard. Neither of us had ever killed so much all at once, and I could only imagine how he was feeling."
Axebourne wasn't grinning anymore.
"But it had to be done," Pierce said quietly.
"And that's why we do it, Pierce, so others don't have to," Scythia said, putting a hand on her husband's arm. He put one of his over hers and squeezed.
CHAPTER TEN
The Everlasting Temple
Axebourne insisted that Gorgonbane follow the city garrison's routine, including training drills, sleeping in the barracks, eating in the mess, and maintaining their uniforms. It was the most organized Pierce had been in a long time. Axebourne himself met, slept, and ate as the garrison's officers did.
He said this would help the soldiers of the city to see Gorgonbane as comrades, rather than interlopers.
It was after being dismissed for his unit's R&R that Pierce found the time to visit the center of town, and the Everlasting Temple itself.
The Temple complex was like a city within the city and seemed to have its own peculiar traffic flow, schedule, and rules of decorum. In general, it was a quiet place, for most people there were either worshiping or studying.
Pierce wandered through the halls of the place, got lost in it, passed by holy mages, reverent pilgrims, groundskeepers, and curious tourists like himself. He paused in each lengthy gallery, their glass ceilings refracting the red sun's light, to study the paintings displayed on the walls. Most were of great battles and mighty feats, their subjects so ancient that hardly a reliable source was left to separate fact from myth.
Old kings were depicted in some of these - chiseled, regal men with ornate weapons who led their men into battle without fear. More than a few were of warrior queens, some of them armored and armed like Scythia, but most were clothed in rich red robes, dealing out death with gem-encrusted spellstaves.
It had never really bothered him, and it still didn't now, but Pierce did briefly reflect on the constant state of war these old images implied. How long had the rulers of the nations of Overland been fighting amongst themselves for the continent's dwindling resources and real estate? How many times had the minions and abominable creatures of the Underlands tried to conquer the surface realm?
Had there ever been a lull in the fighting as long as this past decade?
Was all of this conflict here just so men and women could learn to walk the Glorious Path? That's what the sages said.
Pierce had heard of a sculpture he wished to see, placed deep in the labyrinth of the Temple, in its own tall gallery. He asked a holy mage about it and was politely given directions. When he finally came to the gallery holding the sculpture, Pierce couldn't have said where exactly he was in the Temple complex, but he guessed it was somewhere near the center. He knew that the Great Sanctuary wasn't more than a few twists and turns away.
The sculpture was a statue of a human form, perhaps sixty feet tall, and the red sun looked down on it through the glass ceiling above. The form was a bearded man, with corded thews beneath taut, fatless skin. His teeth were gritted in exertion as he raised a mighty hammer above his head, in preparation for a strike. One side of the hammer's head was shaped like the front of a human skull, and the other dripped with blood. The giant man was down on one knee, his right thigh resting against the side of a weathered anvil. The sculpture defied perspective, bending this portion of the image downward to show viewers below what lay on the anvil.
It was a smaller human, half male, half female, with a distinct split down the middle, and different clothing on each half. The woman's hair had spilled onto the man's breast, and the man's only hand reached across their shared body to hold the woman's belly. They both had gritted teeth. Their legs were elongated into a tapered shape like the blade of a longsword, and the woman's arm was stretched out to one side in a partial crossguard.
Pierce could almost hear the blows of the hammer, swinging down to shape the blade into its forger's vision. The sword-people screamed or grunted with each impact, and their maker's sweat dripped from his brow and onto the steaming hot anvil.
This was the Blacksmith. He who forged from naught. Master of the weapons that would one day slay Oblivion itself.
How far along that path am I? Pierce wondered to himself. Was his own blade fully shaped? Fully sharpened? Had he been tempered? Would he be deemed fit to serve in the transcendent wars to follow this time of shaping and testing?
He wondered, too, if the process was really as taxing for the Blacksmith as it was depicted here. If he was almighty, it shouldn't be, should it?
Pierce let his eyes feast on the masterful artistry of the work - its lines, whether deep or subtle, and the little creases in the skin, hinted at by careful scrapes and gouges. That look in the Blacksmith's eyes, like what he did was right and necessary.
When his soul had its fill, Pierce left the gallery.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Attack at Grondell
Nothing went according to plan.
Thinking back on it later, Pierce was continually tempted to blame himself. Really he knew it couldn't be his fault, that he wasn't cursed with bad luck, that it couldn't spill over onto the people around him. Yet it didn't feel that way. It felt like he'd crashed into this city with the seeds of his own brand of chaos, and sown them all around.
At least the attack had been punctual. Ten days and no more.
The sun was bright and hot that morning, crawling across the black sky with its slowly writhing tendrils. The night mist had been heavy, leaving the city's structures covered with a sheen like sweat.
Grondell's defenders were stationed on and behind its walls, with higher concentrations of troops at the gates. The ramparts were packed with the bodies of men and women. Most of the soldiers on the wall were armed with longbows, and not a few were mages of various kinds.
With arrows and literal fire raining down upon them from up above, Kash's forces would not have an easy approach.
Gorgonbane positioned themselves at the east gate, the largest of the four. Ess had deposited Agrathor high upon a minaret, where he would have good vantage on the battle, and be able to call his lightning down on distant foes. Scythia had joined the honor guard that would protect the officers specifically, and she and Axebourne were already mounted and ready for action. Pierce had insisted on being atop the ramparts with the common soldiers, and he waited impatiently there with the rest of the troops.
The attack began with a rumbling in the ground, and Pierce's heart sunk as his intuition proved right once a
gain. Muffled cracks sounded from unknown points of origin, and the buildings of the city groaned in protest. The cracking sounds grew in volume and frequency, soon punctuated by pops and the snapping of wooden beams. The people of Grondell looked all around, realizing that the sounds of structural failure were coming from everywhere at once.
"Get down off the wall!" Pierce heard himself yelling even as he ran. The men and women nearby did not hesitate to obey, and began evacuating the ramparts, quickly joined by others. A signal sounded from down below - Axebourne had just ordered the retreat Pierce had already started. Likely Scythia had sensed it coming.
The city wall's golden enchantment flared in activation as the stresses from the ground beneath it began to push at wood frames and stone blocks. The portion of the ramparts Pierce had been stationed on bent and swelled upward, blocks losing contact with each other, sliding up or out. Those left on the ramparts lost their footing. Some slipped and fell. The base of the wall was lifted off the ground, sand and rocks falling away from the partially buried stone. Bodies fell in the midst of the wreckage, screams cut short as they impacted the ground. A pillar of blackness appeared among the dust and rock, its tip pushed up at the wall. A second pillar, and another appeared. Five of them, then ten. Pierce dared to come closer and take a look.
The pillars were not of stone, but of flesh, scarred black masses that brought to mind... No... In his shock he couldn't accept it, and he began to back away. It was the same rough, oily skin as a Monstrosity. These were fingers, but each was the size of a temple's column. Something gigantic was burrowing up from below. It was far more dramatic, and oddly more simple, than what Pierce had initially imagined.
"Monstrosity!" someone cried, and the defenders were thrown into a panic, rushing away and into the streets between buildings that were still shuddering and cracking.
Pierce forced himself into focus and took stock of the situation, scanning the city wall as it curved toward the east gate and beyond. There were more black hands, impossibly huge, pushing up at the wall, tossing whole sections of it aside and sweeping away any remaining rubble. There was a wrist, a forearm, an elbow. The arm bent, muscles straining as the subterranean creature began to pull itself out of the hole it must have dug. Or maybe they were one with the earth in some strange way.