The Maleficent Seven

by Cameron Johnston

  “Leave us,” she said to nearby townsfolk working on the wall.

  They were more than happy to put down their picks and shovels; clearly more afraid of her than any of the legendary monsters standing in their path. These men and women had lived beside her all their lives without suspecting a thing, but now that they knew who and what she was, everything had changed. Old friends cringed under her gaze and fled her presence, and even youths she had once bounced on her knee wailed and hid. The dream of a peaceful life was now dust, and the stern but goodhearted figure of Elder Dalia had perished right along with it. Black Herran was back for one last atrocity, and being on the right side of the conflict was of little comfort.

  “Welcome to my humble home,” she said. “Shall we get this nonsense out of the way? Come and kill me if any of you black-hearted bastards think you are hard enough.” She lifted a bejewelled hand and beckoned.

  Forty years of festering betrayal bubbled over into rage. Amogg roared and charged, filled with the lust to prove her strength against the most powerful human she had ever known. Lorimer was not far behind, serrated bone jutting from his fingertips as the depths of her betrayal bit hard. Tiarnach followed, red hair streaming, steel glinting in his hand. His many misfortunes were all her fault.

  Verena, though, stood still, hands clutching her hissing slynx. And Jerak, too, looked on with mild interest, hoping to see somebody’s internal organs exposed. He didn’t much care whose.

  Black Herran made no move to stop them. She summoned no demons. She used no magic. Instead, she looked to the necromancer at the back and smiled knowingly.

  “Sour-faced old hag,” Maeven hissed. She was nobody’s pawn, not anymore, but the information Black Herran held was what she desired above all else. And that cunning old creature knew it. Black Herran’s smile was forcing Maeven to side with her and intervene.

  So be it, Maeven thought. She had no qualms ripping the life from any of the others.

  She let distilled death boil up from the depths of her soul, summoned through her connection to the void that waits beyond all life. A wall of life-devouring darkness erupted in front of the demonologist, hiding her from view.

  Amogg and Lorimer skidded to a stop moments before plunging through. Tiarnach did not hesitate. That madman went straight ahead.

  Maeven gasped in shock – not because of his stupidity, but because she felt only a bare scraping of lifeforce ripped from him. The once-god did not boast life, at least not as she knew it.

  As their rage drained, Maeven let her magic go. That prig of a vampire glowered at her as if she were filth to scrape off his boot, but that was nothing new.

  The sorcery dissipated to reveal Tiarnach flat on his face and crawling with shadowy tentacles that seeped from the crevices in the makeshift wall Black Herran stood on. The shadow demons held him tight despite his struggles. They whispered their hunger into his ears and caressed his exposed flesh like long-lost lovers, each touch causing pinpricks of blood to well up.

  Maeven glared at her old general. The hag always had a backup plan or two. Always. And now the others would think twice before trying to attack her again, curious if the necromancer would stab them in the back the moment it was turned. In one move Black Herran had crushed their united anger and replaced it with the old fear and divisive suspicion that had once kept them in line.

  “You think we will fight for you?” Lorimer said. “You lost my allegiance when you left us without a word.”

  Black Herran shrugged. “I don’t care what your reasons are, so long as you are here to slaughter the Lucent Empire.”

  “I fight,” the big orc rumbled. “I kill Falcon Prince. Then kill Tiarnach and Black Herran. I strongest warrior.”

  Tiarnach winced as the shadows seeped back into the spaces between rocks, pinpricks of his blood taken as payment for daring to attack their master. He climbed to his feet, careful to keep his sword between himself and the defensive wall. “Oh aye, looking forward to it,” he said to Amogg. “Just be sure you kill that strutting silver prick first.”

  Black Herran clapped her hands together in glee. “Excellent! I can work with lust for battle and revenge.” Then she looked to Jerak Hyden. “And our ingenious alchemist – I have such plans for you. So much to build and so little time. I hope your skills have not diminished?”

  His eyes lit up like a stoked furnace. “The talents of Jerak Hyden have increased beyond the dreams of your lesser minds. I have already thought up so many plans to–”

  “Later, you pompous blowhard,” Verena interrupted, eyes narrowing at Maeven, who stood silent and impassive. “We are all here for our own reasons and self-interest, but know this, Black Herran, we are no longer your captains and you are no longer our general. You trampled that right into the mud the night you abandoned us.”

  Black Herran shook her head with exaggerated sadness. “Oh, get over it. You fucked it all up after I left you everything you needed to win. You were all weak and I was your crutch.”

  Instant outrage.

  Amogg growled, baring tusks.

  Black Herran’s gaze stabbed into her orcish eyes. “Are you not strong now? Independent? A renowned war-leader in your own right? When I was your general you obeyed my orders without a thought beyond swinging that axe. Would you be the great chieftain you are today if I still led you around by the nose?”

  The big orc chewed on a tusk ring, thinking about the way she had just left her own clan to stand on their own. “Truth in what you say.”

  “She throws our oaths away like gnawed chicken legs and you agree with her?” Lorimer objected. “Tiarnach, your people would still be alive if we had prevailed – what of that?”

  “The Cahal’gilroy,” he answered, staring at the steel in his hand, “lived and died by the sword. Such was our way of life. But they shall be avenged.”

  The vampire threw his hands up in disgust. “So be it! I am here to save your miserable little town for a single reason: the necromancer has sworn to assist me in regaining my own lands once this is over. Do not get in my way.”

  Black Herran smiled. “So long as you fight. But if I catch you feeding off the townsfolk I will have demons drag you down to the deepest pits of Hellrath.”

  “I dare you to try,” he sneered.

  “Enough,” Maeven said coldly. “I hate you all, and the feeling is mutual. I suggest we all accept it and work together one last time.”

  Lorimer said. “Not until she explains why she left us without a single word.”

  All eyes focused on Black Herran. She took a deep, slow breath and then looked each of them in the eye. There were levels of truth she did not wish them to know, and others they would not believe, so she decided a half-truth would best serve her cause.

  “I left because there was no future to my old plan of conquest. I had already tortured and killed all who wronged me, and consigned their souls to the pits of Hellrath, where demons still gnaw on them to this day. I ripped their petty kingdoms apart and burned their ancestral homes. As my army swelled, I conquered their corrupt allies and brought low almost all the so-called noble houses of Essoran.”

  She looked at the bustling town she now called home. “The night before we were to crush the last remaining force of the old regimes, I found myself pondering what came next once I ruled unopposed. What was left for me to achieve?”

  She shook her head at Maeven as the crawling tendrils of darkness writhed across the necromancer’s face. “We have both made dark bargains that have scarred our souls. Using that power brings only death.”

  To Tiarnach and Amogg she said: “My temper is a fearsome thing. I was too vengeful to rule with mercy then. Time has now tempered my rage.”

  Next, she turned to Verena. “I was too dark-hearted to rule through love and admiration, and too dreadful to kindle true loyalty. I believe you know of what I speak.”

  Jerak Hyden met her gaze with a look of bored irritation, and Lorimer with suspicion. “I did not much care for the live
s and problems of others,” she continued. “And I would stop at nothing to achieve my goals. In short, I would have made for a terrible ruler. I would have been a bloody-handed tyrant chained to a throne, and that frustration could only ever go one way. I left before everything drowned in a tidal wave of blood.”

  Verena gaped. “You just upped and left, without even a thought of putting a chain of command in place. That is…”

  “Callous?” Black Herran supplied. “Cruel? What part of not caring for the lives and problems of others did you fail to understand? I slaughtered a quarter of the rulers of Essoran for revenge, and another half on a whim. I didn’t care then, and I certainly don’t care now. What concerns me now is crushing the Lucent Empire before they destroy this pleasant little town I call home. The only question that remains is, will you help defend Tarnbrooke?”

  For their own reasons, one by one, the six remaining captains of Black Herran’s army gave their grudging assent.

  “Excellent. Follow me and I shall introduce you to the townsfolk. It’s best they realise the full extent of the might that is now on their side. And learn to avoid aggravating you.” She led them back through the town and into the market square in front of the temple, yelling for her people to gather. Jerak Hyden seemed interested in the food stalls and had to be dragged away.

  To Maeven’s eyes the uneasy crowd were more afraid of Black Herran than they were obvious dangers like the orcs. Her general’s lips were pressed tight and her eyes were cold and dead inside. The necromancer knew how much it hurt when those you loved turned on you and looked at you like you were a demon in human form. However, she couldn’t find it in her heart to pity the old woman.

  Black Herran had to stand on a box so all could see her. “You all know who I am and what I can do. Now I introduce my allies who will help you defeat the army sent by the Lucent Empire. You will have heard of them: Lorimer Felle, the vampire lord of Fade’s Reach. Queen Verena Awildan of the Awildan Isles, grand admiral of its corsair fleets. The mighty war chief of the Hadakk orcs, Amogg. Tiarnach, war god of those legendary warriors, the Cahal’gilroy. Maeven, master of the deadly art of necromancy…” Each name was a wave of shock rippling through the crowd. Fear mixed with desperate hope. “And then there is Jerak Hyden, master of alchemy.”

  At this, the crowd flinched and began babbling, forcing her to shout to be heard: “The alchemist fights with us! Would you care to be on the other side of our walls facing his creations? Do you want to run away and end your days begging for mouldy scraps on strange southern streets, or as whipped slaves rowing oars on some gods-forsaken foreign sea?” She offered an evil grin. “Assuming you somehow survive the razor teeth of my ravenous demons that prowl the outskirts.” Her expression changed into an angry glare. “Stand and fight with me to keep what is yours. Or else.”

  The sliver of hope she offered them dampened their fears, and the crowd eventually calmed and quietened. Though Black Herran did think a close eye would need to be kept on all food and drink until Jerak Hyden’s presence here was a distant memory – he couldn’t be trusted not to slip something hideous in as an experiment. His alchemy was every bit as magical to the townsfolk as demonology or necromancy, and the stories told about him were as dark as those of Black Herran herself.

  “We will win,” Black Herran said. “And then everything will be as it was. Tarnbrooke will again be a quiet and safe little town. In the meantime, you would all do well to obey our commands if you want to survive to see that day come to pass. Now be off with you! You all have your tasks.”

  The crowd slunk off, subdued and shrouded in whispers, leaving the seven of them in a rough circle, Amogg’s orcs hanging back.

  “And how can we face down such a huge army?” Black Herran said. “I, of course, have a plan or two if you will hear me out?”

  “Your pathetic wall will not hold them,” Lorimer replied. “You cannot expect farmers and shepherds to hold such crude fortifications against a trained army. The magic wielded by those inquisitors we encountered in Hive will destroy them with ease. They have no counter to such might.”

  Black Herran held up a finger and smirked. “That is where we come in. You must ensure they are able to hold the wall for a single day until the sun sets. No more and no less.” And then she looked to Jerak Hyden. “I will harvest the mass suffering and acute terror of the Lucent army, and use it to fuel my magic. Once that is done, he will see to the final disposal of the Lucent army with weapons he once crafted for me.”

  Even Lorimer was taken aback at the thought of so much indiscriminate carnage. He turned to the wiry alchemist and stared in disgust as the little man’s smile grew wide.

  Jerak clapped his hands together. “How very wonderful! I shall get to work immediately.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Wheels turned, crucibles smoked and alembics bubbled over charcoal, distilling death. An orderly disorder that baffled the dim-witted, skittish minions assigned to fetch and carry whatever Jerak Hyden needed.

  His general had anticipated his requirements and already gathered a goodly portion of the materials he required to produce certain minor works of art. She was now busy acquiring other items on his list of ingredients. He always found that working with Black Herran was a pleasure; she organised all the menial issues of supply, which left him able to focus on the delicate artistry of alchemy. Not that he was unable to do the task himself, but it was all so terribly tedious and took valuable time away from his studies.

  While his brutish companions busied themselves with inspecting the town’s defences and other low-brow labour, he got straight to work improving the crude workshop set up for him in the building adjoining the town’s largest smithy.

  The thick stone walls and packed clay floor were proof against fire. The workshop also contained wooden benches, braziers and two fireplaces; a collection of glassware and tools; sacks and crates of supplies, powders and bottles all meticulously labelled in Black Herran’s scrawl.

  “Adequate,” he said, rubbing his shaking, eager hands together. Two assistants exchanged glances – no doubt feeling some emotion or other.

  Ideas flooded his mind, a veritable waterfall of inspiration that threatened to overwhelm him with the pleasure of choice. He took a deep shuddering breath to calm and reorder his mind to a state befitting a man of his supreme quality.

  He had been captured, sold, and confined in Hive, forced to produce the same simple products for years. The boredom would have killed him had he not amused himself by undertaking a long-term experiment: adding certain chemical additives to the foodstuffs preferred by the hiver queens. The degenerative effects had made for a fascinating study, and now that he was free, he was resolved to document its effect on a human population once he had the time to assemble a workroom worthy of his skill.

  Jerak hummed and hawed over the selection of crude tools he had to work with, and with the instructions he had been given. He quickly concluded that Black Herran’s plans were but crude butchery and unworthy of his time. He would give her exactly what she asked for, but he would also concoct something far more imaginative. Something much more fun. If only he had been given the time to set up a proper workshop and gather more materials than he currently had access to…

  “So, Black Herran requires the wall to hold against a trained army from dawn until dusk while she works her mumbo jumbo, does she? Using only this equipment and such limited supplies?” He had been meaning to try out a few promising ideas and this provided the perfect opportunity to experiment on a captive audience. It was an interesting conundrum, and not one he had faced before: if he was too efficient, he would kill every one of the enemy before they were ripe for use in her rituals. But, too little and the wall would be overrun and the enemy assault would envelop the town itself, which would not be ideal. The utmost precision was required.

  The town militia marched as faceless numbers through his head; he needed to factor how many of the enemy he had to kill or disable and how the peasants might c
ompare to the numerical worth of a real soldier of the Lucent Empire. He needed more information gathered by the brutes bumbling around the town. The vampire, perhaps. Images of dissecting that creature’s inhuman flesh flashed through his mind, ponderings of what fascinating new information he might find there. Perhaps this conflict could offer him such an opportunity.

  He uncorked a few bottles and sniffed the contents, scowling at the sharp sinus-burn of distilled alcohol. “Mm, moderate purity.” It was suitable for testing a weapon he had dearly wished to make and turn on those dreary hivers. All he needed now was a metal pipe, pigskin, bladders, a small tar-sealed cask and somebody to hold it and hope for the best.

  His two assistants pressed themselves against the wall as he wandered past deep in thought. “Oh! Oh!” His head clamoured with a hundred ideas vying to push to the fore. “No – wait. Pigs! Yes, even better, I could use the pigs. What a fine jape that would be. Burn, burn little piggies. Furious food!” He laughed at his own joke, then turned to one of his assistants.

  The young woman in a leather apron, a glassblower by trade, cringed away from his gaze, her feeble mind overawed by the glory of his unveiled genius. He had already forgotten her name, not that it mattered. He hazarded a guess that others might consider her attributes sexually attractive, but Jerak only had eyes for her hands: long-fingered, fine and nimble and clearly used to careful work judging from the lack of burn scars from molten glass or spitting wood. A fine pair of useful hands he would be loath to lose. He made a mental note to request leather gloves and a gag lest her screaming slow him down.

  He snapped his fingers at the other female, a plodding creature. “You, peasant, fetch a pig and be quick about it.” He did not see her leave, thoughts already consumed with schematics and equations. How much could a pig’s stomach contain, and for how long before it was expelled? What if its anus was sewn or glued shut? What was the running speed of a panicked pig? Such things had to be carefully measured.