“Get ready, heroes!” he cried, raising his bow and appearing magnificent in the fire’s light. ‘Derian the Legend of Treystone,’ they would say. There were worse things to be known for, he supposed. It was better than ‘The man who shot a god in the forehead.’
However, as the canis demons came around again, the leading pack suddenly spun away from their charge. They veered far out into the battlefield, appearing as a strange gigantic snake leading its lazy body away from killing things, and Derian was hopeful that they were retreating.
No.
As one they fled, and as one they turned in a swift curve as if coming upon a depthless crevice. They turned back towards the fire and sped up towards the wall Derian stood upon.
Oh, no!
“Fire!” he shouted.
“And keep firing!” The first four beasts leading hundreds behind them charged directly into the fire. They did not leap nor avoid the burning collection of beds, barrels and bales. They charged directly into the fire and died for their actions. As did the demons behind them, and perhaps the ones after that, but their sacrifice was impressive and unnervingly shrewd.
They tore the circle of fire, their line of defence crushed, and Derian knew that one concerted effort upon one small defence could break it. If they’d had more time to prepare, they could have stretched the fire’s width and depth. They could have dug a trench at the front so the beasts would struggle to get a foothold in the unforgiving fire, but this was a hastily created plan with inadequate hands to call upon.
This battle is already lost, he thought, as the first creature reached the wall a few feet below him.
8
Slaughtered
The wall began to bulge inwards and Derian stood atop firing arrow after arrow down upon the beasts as they swarmed and formed themselves into an unnatural mound of horror. He knew it would take a thousand arrows and a thousand hours to cut through their terrible writhing mass, and still they would never strike those nearest the bottom, but still, he fired. Fed by the line of monsters flowing through the break in fire, their looming mass grew in height and width. Closer and closer it came, every moment another foot nearer.
Archers on either side delivered death, but it was like swatting at a nest of hissects with nothing more than a needle. There were too many. Suddenly, the ground shuddered as though struck by a giant’s fist, and Keri fell down to the brutes below.
He screamed as he dropped—the shrill wail of a man realising his doom. He bounced off the mass, spinning like a helpless child’s toy before rolling towards the flames. He never reached them, because a dozen snapping teeth fell upon him. He lived longer than expected. Derian knew this because of the screams. Perhaps, in that last moment, Keri might have struck one or more beasts with a flailing fist, but without his sword, it was a tragic last stand. Derian could have avoided watching the monsters tear and drag away what meat they’d earned from him, but his eyes just couldn’t leave the horror. Keri had seemed a nice man. No man deserved that end. Derian drew raw hatred from the sight and fought a suicidal urge.
Leap down and take them all on. They’ll never see it coming.
The wall shifted again, and Keri was lost from Derian’s thoughts as he notched and released his next arrow. He hit a demon through the eyes, and it howled before falling back down and dying in the fire. A small victory after such a loss.
“This side, this side, they’re only taking this side!” Derian screamed, praying his Crimson comrades understood the sudden turn. Praying the Crimson were swifter on their feet than usual.
Old wood began to creak and break beneath his feet—its splintering snapping filled the night as the monsters tested and found a breach in the defences—and he spotted Natteo rouse his warriors and charge down towards the failing wall with confused archers in tow.
Too far.
The world was coming undone, and all of it was doing so under Derian’s watch. The wall rocked again, and he thought of Seren. She would come, he told himself. He couldn’t see her with so many buildings obstructing his view, and he despaired.
Will she come?
Surely she would realise a thousand demons spilling over the wall wasn’t part of the plan. He wondered whether she would race into death trying to save him. Or would she cry out as he died gallantly defending the town or defending her? Would she miss him? Would his bravery be enough to earn her love?
He saw Lorgan and Kesta charging down along the wall. Behind them followed several warriors, but they were still too far, and his anger raged inside. This isn’t fair.
Killing them all is fair.
“Kill them all!” Derian roared in a strange voice. “We hold or we die.” Fate would decide the battle in the next dozen breaths. “Make them pay!” he cried again, hoping to rouse his fighters to an unlikely counter-attack. They fired down, but as one snapping horror fell, three returned in their place. The beasts used their own brethren as a foothold, and like ants frenzied by a mid-summer season, they swarmed upwards towards the top of the wall while those at the bottom dug fiercely at the creaking foundations hoping to make a breach of their own.
“Use your blades!” he cried and pulled his sword free, plunging at the first monster who reached the edge. With a sickening squeal, the beast fell away, but another snapped towards Derian who met the attack with equal violence.
Beside him, a young girl with sturdy forearms, long blonde hair and rosy cheeks, took Keri’s place. He’d spoken a few words with her before the fighting began and wondered about sharing a drink with her come dawn. She had seemed unimpressive at the time with a heavy Luistrian accent, but she smiled warmly enough to pique his interest. In this moment, he thought her heroic. She wore the same armour as Derian, and she fought as fiercely as he. They matched each other’s attacks—she would swing on his right, he would swing on her left. A wonderful dance of violence and energy. Bed mates bonded over lesser things.
She swung killing blows every time and held the wall magnificently, until a claw reached over and caught her unawares. With a lazy swipe, it tore her throat from her neck. She kept stabbing for a gushing few breaths before her body realised the devastation. The girl fell heavily against Derian, spilling her warm blood all over his hands, and the shock almost knocked him into the ocean of death below.
She held on, screaming silently as her body failed her. She held him fast in a vice-like grip, and her eyes pleaded that he would fix her. Her armour was so heavy. She spat blood from her mouth and tears streamed from her eyes and the world stopped, and they wobbled precariously along the edge like a balance upon a scale. He wanted to save her. He wanted to take her pain and soothe her into the night. He wanted to ask her for that drink.
Instead, he shoved her desperate clutching arms from his shoulders and tragically sent her over the top. He told himself that she was already dead as she fell, but he knew better. She watched with terrified eyes as she went. Better she than me, he told himself. What good would come from accompanying her into death when he still had fight?
I’m sorry. So very sorry.
The beast which attacked her pulled itself over the wall and leapt upon Derian, knocking him back from the surging walkway. Somehow, amidst dodging plunging claws and snapping bites (which would have torn tin armour apart like paper) he plunged Rusty deep into the monster’s head and ruptured its brain. It died instantly, even if its teeth snapped three more times a finger’s length from his throat before wheezing gently and stopping.
He rolled away from the dead weight just as the monsters fully breached their defences. He should have ordered the defenders to fall back—to drop away and find sturdier ground below—but he didn’t, for Lorgan ordered him to hold the left side, no matter what.
“Defend your ground!” he screamed, and they obeyed. Each doomed soldier atop the wall stood bravely as a rising tide of monster flowed over them like a failing dam. In a pulse of blood, the wall was awash with fur, horns, teeth, and claw.
His comrades performed admira
bly; they were fierce; they were brave; they were heroes, and they were inexperienced. Perhaps an outfit of seasoned mercenaries might well have survived this wave; they might have pushed them back. Instead, they died in a breath of time.
From the side of the invading tide, Derian could only stab and plunge at the canis demons too distracted to attack him. They set their sight upon dropping into the town below and tearing at the meat. “Keep fighting!” he demanded of the other defenders fortunate to be standing on the other side of the breach.
I can’t do this.
“Defend the town.” Derian’s limbs became laboured as though swimming in a sea of honey, yet still, he swung both sword and dagger as though controlled by another entity. He felt like a drunkard, blindly returning home regardless of proficiency in the saddle. His body fought while his mind considered fleeing. He imagined slipping away from the wall, back into the town, and then disappearing into the darkness to take refuge in any house in retreating distance.
“Keep killing,” Derian demanded, all the while eyeing an escape until he caught sight of one lone defender in the middle of the wall. He was at least fifty with a bushy beard. He wore old unpolished armour that fitted, his sword was long and heavy, and he stood proudly despite monsters surging over on either side of him. He only struck what was in front of him and not a single beast had breached his foot of wall.
Kill with him.
Derian couldn’t understand the will of any man who continued the fight, long after receiving a blow as debilitating as this, but he thought him incredible. Perhaps it was stubbornness, perhaps he had seeva blood coursing through him, or perhaps he had a family he would do anything to protect.
Perhaps he doesn’t know the demons have severed his arm.
Perhaps he needs a hand, so to speak.
Derian waded into the struggling, slithering monsters as they climbed over, hacking with both weapons, and slowly moving towards the injured man. He did not know why he charged forward, only that he desired nothing more than standing with this falling man and dying with him.
“Help us!” he cried, and he pushed on as though navigating a rushing waterfall over a depthless drop.
“Help us!” he cried to any remaining warriors, but really he knew that all who’d stood with him were dead.
“Help us!” he cried to the gods of the darkness deaf to prayer.
“Help us!” he cried to anyone.
Soundlessly, beneath the shrieking, hissing, growling, and snapping of the beasts, dozens of arrows landed in front of him, behind him, and at the ground below him. Most of them finding success in monster flesh. Some embedded themselves in the wall he defended, and it slowed the swell for a moment.
Naked girl.
Seren stood below him with her group of archers and he never thought her more incredible. She notched another arrow, and they followed her lead—albeit slower—letting loose and sending them sailing silently into the night all around him. Her arm became a blur of movement as she released an impossible number of arrows. In a couple breaths, she’d fired a dozen arrows and felled as many beasts. Naked girl has skills.
Maybe Kesta should have driven the cart, he thought, and the strange sight of a dozen archers firing in his general direction distracted him from epiphanies. The arrows landed all around him, yet somehow none hit him.
“Get away from the wall!” screamed Seren, and he did the opposite. While the rush held for a pulse, he raced along the top, kicking injured and dying monsters from his path as though it was no matter at all. However, seeing the next wave of monsters on the outside scrambling over their dead brethren crushed his spirit.
He reached the one-armed man just in time to face the invaders’ retaliation. The dying man effortlessly decapitated the first over the edge, and Derian matched the broken man’s power as he killed the next monster that was foolish enough to peek over. More followed, and more died as they took the fight to the creatures. With Seren and her archers clearing the way from below, and the fierce duo of Derian and his companion holding their section, the defenders held long enough for Natteo to reinforce them.
“For Treystone!” he roared, and his archers fired, delivering death to any beasts that Seren had missed, and for a glorious moment, the wall looked likely to hold. The defenders spread out while others climbed atop the wall on either side of the breach to bring the fight to the monsters still racing through the break in the flames.
Though a great storyteller might suggest this battle took hours, it took only moments and Derian enjoyed every slaughter-filled moment of it. Ravenous hate devoured any fear he had. As he put a sword or dagger through flesh, he cursed the beast’s soul, and soon the curses became nothing more than guttural snarls. Even his wounded companion became wary of his roaring and eyed him curiously when he wasn’t busy defying death.
The man said nothing, never gave up, and neither did Derian. They met the curs along the top and sent the nightmarish beasts right back over. Derian called upon strength he never thought himself capable of. He’d heard stories of warriors summoning terrific power when losing, and so he roared and embraced his fearlessness. He delivered great ruination upon every monster he faced until a beast knocked his sword from his grip. As the canis attempted to tear through Derian’s broken defence, he swung a punch so fierce it snapped one of its long incisors in half and sent the unconscious beast flying back over the wall.
“Who needs a weapon?!” he roared with a voice less his own and more a monster’s. He punched another canis back over the wall, sending it flying into the crowd below, and though it was equally impressive, he realised he’d probably kill more with a weapon. Another demon came over and leapt towards him only to fall beneath a hail of arrows. He spun around in disgust and howled “MINE!” The archers who took the shot seemed rather perplexed, but they aimed their next shot elsewhere.
Mine. Kill. Mine.
His head spun and a rush of blood took his senses, and he embraced the fresh anger coursing through him. He snarled and a new fear took hold. What was happening to him? Was he enchanted? Was he infused with demonic blood? Had the savageness of war taken his insanity?
It doesn’t matter, Derian. Trust me.
It didn’t matter, he told himself and charged back across the edge ignoring a hail of arrows landing around him, for he was cutting, slicing, and killing, and it was glorious. He felt all-powerful, dominating, until with no warning, the monsters stopped charging. The demons slowed their invasion through the fire’s breach. They stopped climbing up the writhing demonic mound. The edge became still, they howled from down below, and farther out beyond the flames, those still in the darkness howled in reply. They vented their primal frustrations, they shrieked in delirium, they gorged upon human flesh they’d reached out and taken, and they fell away, as though in retreat.
“We did it, my brave friends,” he cheered, raising his hand in the air, and Natteo raised his own in silent solidarity. He formed a fist and punched his chest three times, and Derian returned the gesture.
Seren, ever stunning in the flickering light of the wall’s torches, offered a smug smile. She raised a perfectly attractive eyebrow and bowed her head a full three inches, and he never felt more alive.
Some of Seren’s new archer companions climbed the ruined barricade. They reinforced the breach. Firing down at the large mound without fear of the demons crawling back over. The defenders of Treystone had held secure the line, and Derian had led them. A smile crept across his blood-covered face. He held it for an entire pulse before his one-armed comrade dropped to a knee beside him.
Done.
A great exhaustion came upon Derian, and even though the act of raising his arm took more energy than he thought himself capable of, he reached for the broken man who felt impossibly heavy.
“You did well, brother,” Derian whispered. His face was as pale as the day, and he knew the wound almost bled him dry. “Without you, we would have been lost.” The man nodded slowly and appeared to appreciate the wo
rds.
“We held the wall, you and I,” the broken man whispered, and a few more archers crossed over their bodies to kill the swarm of beasts below. Derian wanted to cheer them on, to rile them up, to have them deliver such bloody vengeance that losing his comrades didn’t hurt as it did. He wanted his dying companion to know the canis were being slain brutally, so his final sleep would be sweeter, but he kept silent. He didn’t even know his name. He almost asked but lost the will.
“We held the wall,” Derian reassured him, and the dying man’s sword clattered from his grip. It fell to the ground below where many of his victims and friends lay dead or dying. Around them, the loud creaking of pulsing wood filled the battlements, and he only cared for the last of his warriors.
“I hear them coming through. Help me back up and let me fight.”
“There’s no need, it is almost dawn,” Derian lied, and he thought it fitting.
“Then I might rest.” His voice was weaker now.
“Close your eyes, my friend.” Derian waited for the man’s breath to catch and drop. Just a shudder after and his fight would be done.
“I’m not scared, for there is someone here with me now, in this darkness. He is fierce, he is powerful…. and he watches you.” He shuddered, and his breath caught, and then there was nothing but an empty soulless husk dripping the last few drops of blood onto Derian’s armour.
“Sleep, brother,” Derian said and released himself from the dead man’s burdening weight.
Do not crumble under this, he told himself and realised his ill choice of words, for, within a breath of time, the world beneath his feet began to crumble. Only a pulse of time after that, a piercing roar of breaking timber filled the air, and the ground beneath him shattered to a thousand pieces.
9
Remember Breach
The Crimson Hunted: A Dellerin Tale (The Crimson Collection Book 2) Page 7