by Steve Vera
Lighting flashed, another glimpse, this time closer. Louder.
Well, brother. You’d think I’d get used to this by now. His stomach was squirming like he’d taken a couple of meds on an empty stomach. At least he didn’t have to go to the bathroom.
“Do you hear that?” Cirena asked, cocking her head.
It sounded like...marching boots. Many marching boots. And horses.
A nightmare, the Northern Portcullis below them grated and clanked as it began to open.
“What the hell?” Noah demanded, her customary serenity shattered by her expletive “They can’t be that stupid. They can’t be that stupid!” The last word came out as a shout. “I thought we had agreed with the Legatus?”
“We did. Something’s wrong.” Gavin didn’t waste a second. He simply stepped off the three-hundred-foot high by one-hundred-foot thick rampart that comprised the Northern Wall and dropped three quarters of the way down full velocity before slowing himself to the speed of a feather a moment before impact. Right in front of the general. And he was not the Legatus. Cirena, Noah and Tarsidion landed right beside them in a swirl of cloaks.
“What are you doing, General?” Gavin asked as respectfully as he could muster without screaming imprecations. The new general was mounted on a magnificent, ceremonious horse. The type that would run screaming at the first Drynnian snarl.
They were ignored.
“General!” Gavin barked.
Finally, the paunchy, soft, bureaucratic-looking replacement looked down from his horse. “I do not answer to you, Shardyn. You would be wise to watch your tone. Our advantage lies in the open field, not hiding in our walls like acolytes in a convent.” His horse continued to clop down the road without breaking stride. He didn’t look back.
“What do they possibly think they’re going to accomplish?” Tarsidion asked, both mystified and furious.
Gavin sprinted after the new general. “Listen to reason, General, please!” he pleaded, matching pace by walking briskly by the General’s spurred boot. “The lives of Nu’rome depend on you. You march toward an enemy you’ve never even seen. The Warlocks will massacre your tight formations in seconds, will rain down fire and acid and lightning. You must wait until the skies are cleared.”
Now the horses were coming out, the vaunted and heavy lancemen known as the Cataphractii. Their armor was a blend of both knight and centurion, reflecting the deep violet and crimson bolts of lightning crackling through the sky. Above them, like a slow-moving cyclone, were the silhouettes of layers and layers of winged devils.
“Cavalry penned within paved streets are wasted men. Whatever threat reveals itself will be met on the open field.” The general clopped right on past; even the intricacy and craftsmanship of his armor could not make his soft, receding chin look brave.
In disbelief, the four of them watched row after row of Legions and Cataphractii file out the massive gates, their pennants and banners rippling in the strong wind that had become permanent. The kind of wind that carried arrows away.
“This can’t be happening,” Noah said.
“It’s not too late to leave,” Cirena said.
“Stay close to the walls!” Gavin called. “If you insist on riding out, for the love of all things sacred, stay within the range of your archers and Sorcerers, General!”
No answer.
Gavin looked around at the deserted streets and shops of Nu’rome. There was the Caesar, ceremoniously armored in the middle of a retinue of scarlet caped imperial guard.
With a thought, he and his three brethren blurred in concert, leaving sapphire trails of themselves to arrive within the circle of his Caesarian Guard protecting him.
“What is this madness?” Gavin demanded in a low, cold and controlled voice, appearing before any of his guard could react. The Caesar nearly screamed in fright. “You’re sending your best troops right into the jaws of death. Call them back, wait until the skies have been emptied. You don’t even know what you face yet, where it will appear.”
“The strength of our army lies in the open field. It always has, and if you ever breach my Imperial Guard again I will have you executed. Nu’rome will handle our affairs the way we see fit.”
“Just like yesterday?”
The Caesar bristled before frosting to ice. “This city has stood for seventeen thousand years, longer even than your famed Valis. We know how to defend this city.”
He bore into Gavin with his watery brown eyes, the plume of his ceremonial helm blowing n the humid night air. “This city is eternal.”
* * *
“Here it comes,” Skip whispered. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did. Skip had been mixed up in enough combat to feel it.
Amanda, Dwensolt and Pyrk huddled next to one of the great windows of the Hall of Olympians. From up here, they could see everything—the Northern Wall, the Western Wall and even some of the Southern Wall, including the pool of crimson light growing in the center of blackness approaching the city from the north. The voices and laughs that emitted from within were warped and guttural, as if being played at different speeds on an old-fashioned tape recorder.
Good ole psychological warfare. And quite effective.
A flotilla of pale white and purple globes of light floated up from the ramparts and from the ground in defiance to the darkness. Like the high pitch of an incoming mortar round, the light in the center of the darkness grew and grew until it was as bright as lighting. A heartbeat later, an otherworldly, brilliant, deafening explosion shredded the sky with streaking meteors, balls of crimson flames and spears of lighting. Those Sorcerers quick enough and sharp enough erected their magical shields, saving themselves and the troops they were attached to. Not all of them were fast enough, and the ramparts were decimated by the shrapnel of the Underworld, smashing bodies from the wall like heavy waves against a crippled ship.
The soldiers on the ground fared much worse.
Out of the darkness flew tens of thousands of children’s nightmares, bat-like wings attached to creatures and beings not of the natural world, but of the world below.
How could there be so many?
In one soul-withering wail a hundred thousand Drynn unleashed their fury in a scream and descended on the Eternal City.
At the same time, the maw of black fog on the ground blew open and from its depths hurtled the spawn of the Underworld.
The Battle for Nu’rome erupted.
* * *
Decurion Rashauk led the North Wall Squadron right into hell. The onrush of thousands of leathery wings, feral eyes and ghastly shrieks whipped past the riders as each Gryphon engaged at full speed, leaping from one victim to the other, tearing wings from bodies while snapping spines with devastating beaks. Strapped in double-tight, his fifteen riders lay to waste to any Drynn who tried to strike from the side.
“Ickshian!” Rashauk yelled and flung a pair of Sorcerer-spheres from one of his six satchels. Four feet away from his hand they burst into vaporous light and streaked out like comets, whirling and arcing in the air as they pursued their targets with relentless and unerring trajectory. At the last moment the spheres forked and two Flyborne burst into purple flames, tumbling out of the sky like broken dolls. A hundred more took their place.
Deeper and deeper the fifteen riders of the 7th, 4th and the 5th Flights of the North Wall Squadron plunged into madness.
Moras, one of the Squadron’s two Sorcerers, pulled up next to him, staff ablaze, robe whipping behind him. Both Gryphons flapped in unison as the Sorcerer pointed to a flying creature larger and far more terrifying than its smaller Flyborne cousins.
A Warlock.
It saw them. With an amber gleam in its eyes visible even through the chaos of battle and unnatural darkness, it hurtled toward them, roaring at the top of its lungs. It flung its taloned arm at the
m in midflight while at the same instant Moras released a bolt of violet lightning from his staff. The air around them erupted into explosions of crimson orbs and sizzling light. Moras shielded himself with a field of violet curtain. Rashauk chose gravity. With gut-squeezing agility, his Gryphon banked sharply to the left and dive-bombed hundreds of feet from the sky before pulling up so violently that even his battle-toughened stomach shot to the back of his throat.
A moment later, Moras fell screaming past him, on fire as a dozen Flyborne whipped after him in pursuit. His Gryphon’s head had been blown off and leaked a trail of thick, greasy smoke. Down he and his headless mount plummeted into the sea of writhing Horde and Soldiers below. Rashauk tried his best to ignore the scream but it was too late. It would haunt him forever. His Gryphon banked hard right and his eyes landed on the guilty. The Warlock.
To the death.
“Autien!” he screamed and soared toward his victim.
* * *
Chaos.
Everywhere around Gavin, globes of light struggled against the oppression of the oncoming darkness, flickering and battling to stay alight and to offer their scant illumination. The effect was a strobe-light horror show that reduced seasoned veterans to whimpers and sent warhorses squealing. Not only were the Drynn hitting them with blunt force trauma, they were also showcasing their cunning.
One wing of Flyborne and Warlocks attacked the Northern and Western Walls while another wing detached and ravaged the hundreds of ships moored in the harbor. The marines and skeleton crews aboard fought back as best they could, but soon the sea was on fire.
There would be no escape.
Despite the catastrophic losses the Legions were taking, the North Wall was holding. With a burning Quaranai in one hand and crackling lightning in the other, Sur Stavengre Kul Annototh fought for his life and for all those around them. Back to back along with his newfound Southern Cavaliers, they beat back wave after wave, slashing, burning and piercing. The ramparts were littered with both Drynnian bodies that had refused to die easily, as well as Legionnaires, Archers and Sorcerers.
“Fire!” Tarsidion bellowed, and the small troop of archers he’d managed to muster and protect with his cocoon let loose yet another volley into the shrieking madness around them.
The arrows burst to light at a word from Noah, and those that didn’t get taken from the relentless wind found their marks. A couple more Drynn dropped from the sky with trailing shrieks. One of them pulled up and tried to dive-bombed a quartet of Legionnaires on the ground.
Two balls of fire and a violet bolt of lightning blew him out of the sky. The Nu’romians had come to fight. They were holding. There was hope.
Chapter 53
Through a quick sequence of hand movements, Decurion Rashauk signaled for the 7th and 4th Flights of the North Wall Squadron to provide air support for the cavalry charge. In unison, six of the original ten Gryphriders tucked wings and dropped out of the sky, hurtling toward the ground. The 5th would remain above, along with flights from the Eastern and Southern Squadrons. To provide air cover for them.
From below Rashauk could hear the captains’ bellows for attack, and then the two wings of sixty Cataphractii each charged straight through the middle of the Horde. They thundered in from the left and crashed in from the right, crisscrossing in the center as they shattered lances on black leathery chest plates and grotesque Drynnian faces.
The Gryphriders added to the carnage as their vaporous Sorcerer-spheres crashed down among the Horde in small explosions of light, clinging like acid to their skin and faces. Others were plucked right off the ground, torn to pieces by the Gryphons themselves or impaled by riders’ lances.
As impressive a charge as it was, it faltered as the Horde crushed in on them from all sides, leaping up with inhuman agility and ripping horsemen from their mounts. Soon the columns fragmented and became pockets of desperately fighting Cataphractii in a sea of a mauling Horde.
Where the hell were the archers? A quick glance up and over his shoulder told him the answer. They were fighting for their lives. Even from down here he could see the distinct pale-blue light billowing from the swords of the legendary Shardyn. Rashauk took heart. The gods had sent heroes in the darkest hour.
* * *
The Olympian Hall was dead-silent. Nobody said a word. Lights were out.
Outside they could hear the distant cacophony of battle, see it happening in real time over the Northern and Western Walls—streaking fireballs, buckshot lightblades and javelins of lightning alongside the Nu’romian Legions. It was a damn sight to see.
Just like Fallujah, right, Skipster?
Yeah, right.
He glanced at Donovan. At least they had their own darkness. As much as Skip used to hate him, especially for leaving him to die back at Blackburn Cemetery a hundred light years ago, Skip was kind of used to Donovan now. So, he was an asshole. Big time. At least he did as he said and said as he did. And that was something. And...Skip was sure glad to have Donovan on this one. He remembered the first time they’d met, the way Donovan had sniffed the air like some damn animal, had known the guardian had been lurking in those trees before Skip had even fathomed the possibility.
All things being equal, he couldn’t have picked a finer fighting force, barring a platoon of Shardyn to fight alongside. An undefeated Dark Elf for two centuries here, a trio of ax-wielding Minotaurs there, black Wizards and stone-faced Vikings—we come packing, homey.
“How you hanging in there, Amanda?” he asked.
She sat calmly against the wall, as far away from any window as she could, and cradled her magical crossbow. When in Nu’rome, right? “This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever faced the certainty that someone, or rather some thing, is going to try and kill me.”
“Yep,” Skip said and patted her leg. “First action is always a doozie, no matter who you are or what kind of training you have. The important thing to remember is to keep calm. I know, damn near impossible, but nothing good ever comes from a panic, and that’s a fucking fact. Roger that, Amanda?”
She nodded and gripped her crossbow more tightly.
“Nope. That ain’t gonna do. Tell it to me.”
Amanda took a deep breath, and he could tell she wanted to roll her eyes but she didn’t. Instead she listened. “Nothing good ever came from a panic.”
“Yeah, that’s a little better. Hit me again.” Skip rolled his shoulders like a boxer warming up. “Show me some moxy.”
A tiny smile pulled at her lips. “Nothing good ever came from a panic,” she louder.
“Amen, sister, hit me one more time, thank you ma’am, may I have another?”
“Nothing good ever came from a panic!” she yelled.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He gave her another clap on the leg. “Keep that in mind and you’ll do just fine.”
Their conversation attracted the attention of some of the chambers other inhabitants.
There were two gray-robed magic-users of which discipline Skip could only guess at staring out of an adjacent window. Wizards, by the look of their hats, though clearly not from Vambrace. Cousins, maybe? Buds? Who knew? There was a black-robed man with an affable, round-cheeked face and a witch in a body-complimenting low-cut robe with a slit up her left thigh, which revealed a flash of leg every time she took a step. Veddy nice. Skip had seen her compete a couple of days ago and if memory served correctly...she’d kicked the crap out of one of those gray-robes right there. Yup, definitely rivals. Well, former rivals, since everybody was friends now. Approaching doom had a way of doing that.
“Something on your mind, Mr. Dwensolt?” he asked the Druid sitting right next to Amanda.
“Only now am I able to decipher your unorthodox manner of speech and strange cadences.” He tapped his staff. “I used to find it irritating but now...t
here is a certain directness and eccentric charm that I no longer find offensive.”
“Well, right on. Thank you very much,” Skip said in his best Elvis. He always got chatty when he was nervous.
A pair of Flyborne shot past the tower and in reflex Skip ducked. The battle was getting closer. He looked at Donovan, who of all things was reading.
So, how you gonna play this, Donnie-boy? You flying solo or are you finally gonna get off your ass and do some leading?
Halfway through Skip’s mental question, Donovan looked up. All Skip got in response was his own reflection in Donovan’s red Aviators.
A minute later, Donovan snapped his book shut, picked up his rifle and stood. He didn’t make a sound, but everyone took note. He was the Offlander. Both of his Mitsutadas were sheathed in Samurai-Daisho fashion, blade up, while his Necromancer’s blade was sheathed diagonally across his back. His primary weapon was his sniper system, MSG-90, and it was locked, cocked and ready to rock.
“It’s time,” he rasped. He emphasized his point by ratcheting his rifle, the loud metallic ringing of the foreign contraption capturing all attention. “You four, with me,” he said to the magic-users—Dwensolt, grayrobes, roundcheek and legs. “Archers, with me. Two rows of ten.”
Twenty archers of four different Olympic teams nodded, bows in hands.
“Minotaurs,” Donovan said, regarding the three bull-headed, muscular giants. Each was carrying a gigantic angular-leaf-shaped spear with a quiver strapped to their backs diagonally one way, and the haft of a double-bladed battle-ax strapped the diagonally the other way. Donovan seemed to search for the right words, and it was then that Skip realized Donovan was speaking frickin’ High Common. How the hell had he learned it that quickly?
“Guard the doors. No Drynn in.”
Their massive taurine heads nodded and they tightened their grips around the hafts of their spears.
“Ladom’er, with me.”
The Dark Elf smiled at some private joke. “Aye, dark warrior.”