“You whit?” Tiarnach said, catching his breath. He glanced at the oncoming wall of steel and death filling the street ahead and his bloodlust abated, sword drooping as his mortal fear returned with a vengeance. He swallowed and backed towards Amogg. “Ach, there’s no glory in dying here swarmed by bugs. Come on, you big green bitch, let’s retreat and kill more of these cocks another time.”
Amogg scowled but started to run. “What word is bitch?”
“A female dog,” Jerak said. “The word originated from the old Furmanicus word ‘bicce’, meaning–” Maeven shoved him hard and forced him to run.
Behind them the human army roared and charged. A few arrows feathered the street around them, too close for comfort.
The big orc swatted an arrow from the air with her axe and took off after the others. “Tiarnach has been hit in head? Amogg is orc not dog.”
“It’s an insult to women,” Lorimer said, loping along beside her.
She chewed her lip in puzzlement. “Humans have separate insults for male and female?”
“You’ll find they are mostly for women,” Maeven said, wheezing for breath.
Amogg snorted. “Humans are strange.”
“Aye,” Tiarnach said. “Never underestimate the stupidity of folk and you’ll never be disappointed.”
A conical hiver home collapsed behind them, and the air filled with the maddened chittering of angry ant-people.
Maeven glanced back and then ran faster, panting with unaccustomed effort. “We can… talk about this… later. Run like your life… depends on it! It damn well does.”
With the blessed strength and youth that his Goddess had bestowed upon him, Landgrave Daryn found running in full plate posed no more than a minor inconvenience. Heavy as it was in the hand, when worn his old battle armour fit like a glove. Yet only a few weeks previous he would not have been able to squeeze his flabby gut into it.
His scouts ranged ahead, pausing only to loose arrows at the backs of the fleeing enemy.
The dull-witted and savage orc was massive and imposing, but still swift as a charging bull, and the unnatural bestial creature beside it seemed swifter still. The grizzled madman beside the monsters undoubtedly had a similarly sordid provenance but he would die before Daryn needed to concern himself with his tale.
The enemy were being slowed by the scarred sorceress hauling a wiry little scholar of a man – surely that was the mass-murdering alchemist that the Falcon Prince’s informant had written of? The orc reached over and picked the little man up by the scruff of the neck and tucked him under one arm. They began pulling away from his armoured host, and after seeing the orc in action he knew the sentinels he had left on that side of town to block off any escape would prove insufficient.
“The heretics cannot be allowed to leave,” he shouted, his own voice muffled by arming cap and helm. “Drop shields and charge!” His footmen tossed their heavy shields aside and surged forward, eager for the kill.
Buildings to their left crumbled and collapsed, and through clouds of dust came a host of horrific monsters boiling up from below, their ant-like bodies twisted by some form of dark magic. The maddened beasts overwhelmed three surprised scouts before they knew what danger they were in. They went down flailing.
Daryn slowed, torn. The enemies of his Goddess were getting away – that could not be allowed! And yet the men of Allstane were now fighting for their lives against a horde of twisted hivers crawling through the streets. That moment of indecision cost one of his men an arm, torn free in a monster’s mouth. The scream took away any other thought. Daryn leapt among them, forcing the beasts back. His sword split a hiver head, then took off another’s antennae on the backswing. He booted a third in the face, pulping an eye. His most heavily armoured footmen followed his lead and formed a defensive line across the street while his scouts pulled the wounded back to safety.
He glanced left and right, finding no sign of the holy knights or their robed acolytes – their sole intent was slaying the enemy of the Goddess. The urge to obey her command slammed back into place, but as more and more hivers swarmed towards them his own survival was all he could manage. Those two inquisitors would have to look after themselves. He prayed they would succeed, but a traitorous part of him prayed harder for the lives of his men.
As the screams erupted behind them, Maeven smiled. This little rescue mission of hers had provided unexpected benefits. Not only did she have Jerak Hyden in her clutches, but they had also dragged the Lucent Empire into the middle of a hiver civil war. Every dead soldier was one less they had to face at Tarnbrooke.
“Where are you taking me?” Jerak wheezed from the crushing grip of Amogg’s green arm as she casually butchered two Lucent soldiers that tried to block her path.
“To the river barge,” Maeven replied, rotting another soldier’s heart. “It’s the quickest way out of here.” Two other men left their friend to die and made a run for it down a side street; she let them go rather than slow down.
The party turned the corner and passed the outskirts of Hive, leaving them a straight run for the river. Two ragged slavers were leaning against the mooring platform smoking pipes and passing a green bottle back and forth. The men looked up. Pipes dropped from wine-dark lips. They scrambled to untie the barge and push off, which would eliminate the easiest escape from Hive.
Maeven summoned her power and struck, fingers of darkness stabbing into their hearts. The men pawed at their chests and fell, blood and wine gushing from their mouths.
Lorimer leapt aboard the barge, body shifting into a more human configuration. He dug his claws into the deck to anchor himself and waited for the others, a sick look stealing across his face. Tiarnach followed, helpfully catching a flailing Jerak as Amogg tossed him aboard. Then the big orc stiffened and spun to scan the town they had just come from, her axe raised.
Maeven, too, felt the oncoming storm. Her hair began to rise. Lightning flashed, once, twice. The first bolt struck Amogg’s axe, flinging the big orc backwards into the river, arm and chest aflame. The second bolt struck within arm’s reach of the necromancer’s feet. The earth exploded, and from the smoke, two inquisitors charged, swords crackling and spitting shards of light. Three bald robed men arrived with them, hanging back and murmuring prayers of protection that sapped the necromancer’s strength and made her feel queasy.
Maeven yelled and backpedalled, tripped and fell backwards. She flung a hand up and black talons struck at the nearest knight. Her magic shattered on his cuirass. The inquisitor’s sword flashed towards her hand, intent on hacking it off.
A snarling mass of tooth and claw slammed into the knight, knocking him back, saving her hand and likely her life. Lorimer’s flesh tore, spines and tentacles forming to pull the enemy into a deadly embrace.
Spikes and teeth squealed on steel as the vampire sought to penetrate the inquisitor’s armour, claws digging at groin and armpit. The knight struggled to free himself, head-butting Lorimer’s face repeatedly until his helm was stained red – not that it made much difference to the vampire.
Tiarnach leapt ashore, sword in hand, and helped Maeven to her feet. She winced and favoured her right ankle. He eyed the inquisitor’s heavy harness. “A sword’s not the weapon for this mess. Need a war-pick to pry open these steel crabs.”
The second knight’s burning sword cut deep into Lorimer’s side, slicing through spines, tentacles and bone like a butcher’s cleaver. Lorimer hissed and kicked out, sending the inquisitor lurching towards the river. The man teetered back and forth on the stony riverbank, arms windmilling, then caught his balance just before tumbling in.
The knight who had been struggling to free himself from Lorimer’s grip stilled and began to glow. Golden flames burst from his armour. Vampiric flesh ignited and blackened, forcing Lorimer to let go, roll to put it out and then limp back to Maeven’s side, hissing, “These wounds do not heal.”
“Damned inquisitors,” Maeven spat.
“All of you are the damn
ed,” the burning knight said. “You are vile heretics and creatures of dark magic. The Goddess demands your heads.”
“Nah,” Tiarnach said. “Unlike you lot, we are still using our brains.” He clutched his crotch. “Your goddess can suck my big hairy cock tho’. Aye, an’ I’ve seen her look at it and lick her lips too. Can’t get enough cock, that one.”
Next to the river, a strangled, furious choking emerged from the second inquisitor’s helm. He was so enraged he didn’t notice the scorched green hand burst from the water to wrap around his ankle and rip him from his feet, sending him spinning head over heels to smash visor-first into the stony riverbank. His sword slipped from his grip and was lost to the river with an angry bubbling hiss.
Amogg rose, a torrent of black water pouring off her broad back. “Magic is for weaklings. I would have enjoyed good fight.” She wrapped a massive hand around his helm and began hammering it into a rock as he failed to free himself from her iron grip.
The burning knight went for Amogg.
“Oh no you don’t, you big tin bucket,” Tiarnach said, intercepting him. He took a risk and thrust at the man’s visor slit.
His aim was true, and the holy knight was forced to parry or risk losing an eye, but he was in full harness and didn’t much care if he was hit anywhere else by a mere sword. As their swords clashed again Tiarnach’s blade was sheared in two, the edge of steel glowing white-hot and running. “Ah,” he said, sensing the man’s glee. But then, Tiarnach had only ever intended on delaying him for a few moments until help arrived.
Lorimer flashed forward, his foot ramming into an armoured knee with inhuman strength. Covered in steel the knight may have been, but the human knee wasn’t meant to bend that way. He howled and fell, unable to come to his companion’s aid in time.
The flames had left Lorimer’s leg a lump of charred bone, but instead of attempting to heal the limb, he ripped it off and simply formed a new one.
Amogg smashed the second inquisitor face-first into the rock, again and again until his helm was flat and oozing pink mush. “Weak as grubb,” she said, letting go of his armoured corpse. The icy river swallowed it without trace.
The burning knight rose on his one good leg, helm turning to take in each of them and his three unarmed acolytes, calculating the odds of victory and coming up on the wrong side of the equation. “We will purge you all,” he said. “I swear it upon the Bright One’s breast.”
Tiarnach laughed. “Aye, and I’m betting that’s not all you do with her big bright tits, eh lad?”
It did not get the result he was hoping for this time. The man did not attack; instead, he lifted his sword and sent a ball of light up into the air. Lucent soldiers began pouring from the streets of Hive to answer his call.
“That is our cue to depart this place,” Maeven said, limping aboard the barge. She struck at the inquisitor with her dark magic as the rest boarded, cursing as her magic had no effect.
“You will not leave here alive,” the knight said, levelling his sword at the barge. Flames lashed out towards them.
Maeven waved a hand and the fire was deflected to strike the water. Steam and dead fish rose as she smirked back at him. “Perhaps we cannot kill you here and now, but you cannot kill us either.”
Tiarnach tossed the mooring rope aside and the swift current carried them downstream, picking up speed. The inquisitor launched gouts of golden fire at their backs. While Maeven fended off the enemy’s magic, Tiarnach pulled up his ragged tunic and bared his arse at the gathered forces of the Lucent Empire. He gave it a hearty slap for good measure.
After a moment’s puzzlement, Amogg joined him, waving her big green arse in their direction. “This is insult, yes?”
“Oh aye,” Tiarnach said.
“Worse than calling Amogg bitch?”
“Er… yes?” he replied, straightening up.
She kneed him in the groin.
He lifted right off the ground and then went down with a whimper.
“I be gentle,” she said. “Don’t want you a ball-less bitch before I fight you proper.”
“Fair,” he wheezed.
The big orc clenched her blackened fist and licked the wounds. “What now?”
“We take Verena Awildan’s ships to Tarnbrooke,” Maeven said. “Then we prepare for a siege.”
Landgrave Laurant Daryn was the last to retreat from the war-torn streets of Hive, his sword bent and bloodied from hard hiver heads. Despite the fierce combat his blessed sword-arm was still strong and swift, hacking limbs off the last of the ant-men to menace them. A second force of hivers wearing steel plate and carrying wicked barbed spears had marched from the central fortress and began a methodical slaughter of their diseased kin. This allowed the human force to disengage and drag their wounded towards the safety of the signal light cast by the holy knights.
When Daryn arrived at the riverside with the last of his men he immediately noticed that only Sir Orwin awaited him, the hands of his acolytes clamped to his knee and a soft golden light leaking from between their fingers. The barge was gone and their targets with it. He had saved his men instead of pursuing the creatures of dark magic he had sworn to stop. The holy knight’s armour was muddied and dented from combat and his eyes were murderous.
The landgrave cursed and forced himself to meet the knight’s gaze. “Tell me what you learned of their abilities. We will use it to crush these unholy beasts, I swear it.”
“You have failed the Goddess and the Falcon Prince this day, Landgrave,” Sir Orwin said. “I will not see you do so again. When we march on Tarnbrooke I will see to it that the people of Allstane form the vanguard of our army. You will attack first and redeem yourselves, or die like dogs to allow better men to finish the job.”
BOOK TWO
The Calm Before The Storm
CHAPTER 15
From Hive, the party rode the sturdy slaver barge downriver to the coast. None of them had any experience in navigating anything larger than a puddle, never mind a river swollen with winter melt water, so it swiftly became a nerve-racking trip for all involved. Lorimer’s claws nailed him to the deck as the barge heaved and dipped and battered into rocks and fallen branches.
Amogg and Tiarnach seized the long poles lashed to the side of the barge and attempted to push the boat away from the most dangerous of the rocks, while Maeven leaned on the tiller and tried her best to steer them in any direction at all as white water crashed across the dipping bow. Wood cracked and splintered, and water began gushing through the holes, with only Jerak Hyden and a small bucket to bail it back out.
Somehow, they managed to stay afloat until the river calmed and widened as it approached the coast.
From the deck of the Scourge of Malice, Verena Awildan and her sailors watched in horrified fascination as the party stumbled wet-footed from the wreckage. Her sailors gaped at the sheer incompetence of the barge’s crew. Their queen ordered a rowboat to fetch them to her.
As Amogg lumbered onto dry land, the barge lurched and groaned, then settled down into a grave of silt. She dropped a bedraggled Jerak Hyden face-first onto the beach. The little man sat up, spat sand and adjusted his spectacles. Then he spotted Verena and gave her a joyous wave before running over and clambering into the rowboat, the others following at a more leisurely pace.
The sailors of the rowboat winced as the rest of the party climbed aboard, Amogg’s weight causing the wood to groan and the boat to sink lower into the water. A short while later the soggy, bloodstained party clambered aboard the ship.
Jerak Hyden made a beeline for Verena Awildan. “Goodness! How marvellous to see you again. I require access to your stores, there is a certain experiment that I simply must–”
“Denied,” Verena said. “Touch anything, you grotesque little monster, and I will run you through. You will remain in your room under guard at all times until I can get you off my ship. Then you are Black Herran’s problem.”
Her words did not upset him. People were no better
than his mechanical automatons of brass cogs and copper wire – indeed, they were just a messier construction. The mention of Black Herran piqued his interest, however. “I do hope she wishes me to resume my old works. It has been so very long, and I do hate to leave a project unfinished. Would any of you happen to know the size of the army she wishes disposed of?”
Amogg laughed. “Scrawny human thinks too much of himself.” Her eyes sought out Wundak and Ragash, perched beside netted barrels and sharpening their axes with whetstones. They lifted the weapons in brief salute. “Orc axes much stronger than little man.”
Maeven exchanged an unsettled glance with Verena. “When we followed Black Herran you and Tiarnach were always on the front lines of battle. You never did see his creations at work.”
“I did,” Lorimer growled. “At Kal Thraka. He constructed a bronze-plated wagon that rolled towards the enemy and belched poison gas. They coughed up their own lungs and died without a single sword drawn on our side. There was no honour or glory to be found in battle that day.”
Amogg and Tiarnach’s faces twisted with disgust.
Jerak tutted. “What honour is there in death, or in sticking a pointy bit of metal through some fellow’s skull before he can do the same to you? It is all very crude and pointless when you can win without a single loss on your own side, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Enough,” Verena shouted, as she studied her bloody allies. “You can discuss the finer points of martial honour later. Apart from that poor barge, what else did you kill in Hive?”
“Stinking Lucents were there waiting for us,” Tiarnach said. “The bastards knew who we were and where we’d be.”
“What? Gormley!” Verena shouted. The slynx around her neck lifted its little head and glared. Her first mate ran over and she grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He loomed over her but still cringed back in fear.
“You are my master of pigeons,” she hissed. “Pray tell, did somebody send one of your little birds off carrying a message it shouldn’t have?”
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