The Falcon Prince’s inquisitors would purge those heathen towns, and only a handful of adults were ever judged pure enough to live. Him and Tynolt had been just young enough to escape the purge of their own village in the early days of the empire’s expansion, before the inquisitors of the Goddess became quite so… thorough. Landgrave Daryn had claimed the boys, allowing them to dodge the indoctrination camps. He set them to work on his own lands with warm beds and honest work, and they would be forever grateful for that.
The fanatics of the Bright One terrified him, though. Which was why, being a loyal soldier and worshipper to anybody’s eyes, he was now freezing his arse off in the soaking rain for the glory of the Goddess. And why he was happy enough to kill without complaint anybody the inquisitors deemed heretic. As nauseated as he was hearing the horror stories coming back from the few scouts who returned alive from the hills, he was far more scared of the Lucent force coming up from behind. If he fled back through the valley then he would meet the Falcon Prince himself, and he was not known for bestowing the Goddess’s mercy. Supposedly, their lord had a special torture for deserters and traitors, one that lasted for weeks.
The Bright One was fine as gods went, but She did no more for Robart than the previous gods of earth, water, fire and air that his tribe had worshipped. He supposed he had got a fancy new cloak out of it at least.
He pulled the sodden, grubby white cloth tight around him – it had looked so very fine on the parade grounds of Brightwater before the Allstane levy marched out – and huddled lower in a vain attempt to stop the drip down the back of his neck. It worked: the drip became a torrent as sheets of rain hammered down. He lost sight of Tynolt, the other picket huddled in a similarly sorry heap beneath another tree only thirty paces away. They’d grown up together, survived together and enlisted together, and last night had seized the opportunity to get blind drunk together before the slaughter began. And now they were on half-rations and enjoying night watch together as punishment.
He waited in sodden, frozen misery for an age until his relief came to replace him, a tall shadow bent against driving rain. “You poor bastard,” he shouted into the hiss. “What did you do to offend the Landgrave and get stuck out here?” The night had passed far swifter than he had expected if it was close to dawn already. This one was a big lad, and the bone-headed idiot had forgotten his spear. Instead, he was dragging a corpse.
Robart shot to his feet and fumbled for his own spear. He swung it round and thrust it deep into the man’s chest.
The huge man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. He cuffed Robart to the ground, the force of the blow tearing the spear from his hands.
Robart scrambled to his feet, back pressed against the tree trunk. The man carelessly yanked the spear free of his own flesh and hefted the body he had been dragging – sweet Goddess, Tynolt! – with inhuman strength, swinging it like a club. The blow knocked Robart back into the mud and his friend’s body thumped down atop, pinning him. The man swung a leg over and straddled them both, grinning down into Robart’s face.
Rain dripped from needle sharp fangs. Lots and lots of them so close to Robart’s exposed throat. The stories that the heretic townsfolk were in league with creatures of dark magic were true! No wonder the streets of Hive had been overrun with monsters.
Tynolt groaned. Still alive, but dazed and bleeding. That gave Robart’s panicked mind something to latch onto. He was alive. This man, this thing, wanted something from them. He might yet survive.
“What do you want from us?” he wheezed, blinking against the rain beating down onto his exposed face.
“One of you will live,” the creature said in a deep and rumbling voice. “The other I will eat. Which of you wishes to live to carry my message to the leaders of the Lucent Empire?”
“Me!” Robart said. “I’ll do it.”
Tynolt gasped, finally having come to his senses. “No, we are friends. I–” His words choked off into a gurgle as the creature buried a taloned hand into his throat and ripped it out of his neck.
Robart vomited all over himself as his friend’s blood gushed over him, hot on his rain-chilled skin.
The man popped Tynolt’s flesh into his mouth and chewed as his prey writhed and bubbled wordless screams. “Delicious.” Hard spines slid from his flesh and his fanged jaw distended in a grotesque melding of man and beast.
Robart soiled himself, shaking and sobbing as his childhood friend’s struggles weakened and stilled.
I am alive. Alive! That’s all that matters, he thought.
The feral creature, now more beast than man, grinned down at him, drooling Tynolt’s blood across his face as the rain intensified. “You are willing to carry my message?”
“Yes,” he screeched. “Anything! Just tell me what to say.”
The monster grinned. “You should have bargained harder, betrayer of friends.” Then it laughed. “Death would have been preferable to disloyalty.”
Robart’s screams of terror and agony were masked by the hissing rain.
While the vampire played with his food, shadows slipped from the cracks in the earth that the Lucent vanguard camped upon. Slicks of liquid night flowed unseen into the tents of sleeping soldiers. Another snuck into the supply wagons where the humans stored the bulk of their food and drink and began pouring small vials of cloudy green liquid into their ale barrels and food stores.
The human camp reeked of fear, and it caused Black Herran’s shadow demons to hunger. They itched to bury their teeth into soft sleeping throats and lap it up, but they were not here to kill now; they were to carry out acts of sabotage. The humans were not yet as ripe as they could be, and their dark master had promised them a greater and more filling feast. If they indulged here and now, then all restraint would flee. The Lucent holy knights would become aware of their presence, and the demons feared their fire.
The demons suppressed their desires and instead stealthily laid their hands on human steel. Their black claws ate into the metal like acid, hissing as they etched tiny demonic runes into the swords and spearheads. They winced as they briefly became conduits for Black Herran’s power burning through them and into the runes.
With their work done, they escaped back into the shadowy cracks they had emerged from. All apart from two, one of whom paused to turn hungry eyes upon a pair of soldiers sleeping far from the protection of holy acolytes and powerful knights. It licked its needle-sharp teeth and sent a pulse of thought back along the link of power that tethered it to its master. It understood its human master’s need for stealth, but hunger gnawed her and her sister’s bellies.
Black Herran offered a suggestion that would please both: take only those two as a prize. Just make sure none of the other humans notice. No evidence of a struggle and no blood. Just two men gone missing from an armed camp in the middle of the night…
The demon burned with frustration and joy as it waited for its last sister to finish dripping the contents of its little vial into the stockpile of food and drink. It only had a vague understanding of what the purpose of that task was: their kind could gain power from the extremes of human emotion but they could and would devour anything that had ever lived, though the soul-rich flesh of intelligent creatures was always their food of choice. But as Black Herran commanded, so was it done.
Once the sister finished her task they crept over to the two sleeping human soldiers. Darkness flowed from the ground and filled the tent, clawed hands seized and stilled throats, jaws and tongues. No noise as their magic opened cracks in the earth wider and pulled the unfortunate humans down and down through mud and stone into their lair in the heart of Hellrath’s Shadowlands, a warren of dark caves, vast caverns and magma flows where the shadow demons had made their home and raised their broods with help from Black Herran herself.
Under storm-lashed black clouds on a rocky outcrop above a burning lake, the demons prepared their excruciating feast by flaying meat and bone from screaming human souls. The old and tasteless souls that Black H
erran had consigned here long ago during her previous war could finally be replaced with fresh food. Human souls were able to regrow some of what was lost, and the demons could make them last for decades if they were careful, but now was no time to be frugal – with what Black Herran had planned for them they needed all the strength they could muster. They consumed the captive soul’s flesh as an appetiser, human terror adding a mouth-watering seasoning, and then the real feast began.
The dawn relief staggered back into the Lucent camp, pale-faced and pausing to vomit here and there as the soldier splashed through the mud leading to the command tent. The holy knight Sir Orwin took one look and summoned the Landgrave.
“What is it, man?” Daryn said. “What have you seen?”
The soldier gagged, shook his head and beckoned them onwards, retching all the way. The Landgrave buckled on a sword and followed with the inquisitor at his side, hands shielding their eyes from the wind-driven rain. They gathered men as they went until a fully armed host descended on the tree line where the pickets had been stationed.
Crows cawed and took flight at their approach, revealing the horror they had been feeding on. The remnants of a man hung impaled on tree branches, beast-gnawed bones and crow-pecked organs dangling, intestines twisting in the wind. The soldier’s helmeted head had been stuck atop his own spear driven deep into the ground, and none could fail to recognise the look of utter terror frozen on the man’s face.
“Tynolt,” Daryn said.
“Sire!” one of his scouts said. “A survivor.” He pointed to a cloaked form on the ground, still moving beneath blood-stained white. He ripped the cloak away.
Men hissed and stepped back behind the holy knight. Others gagged and turned away.
Robart writhed in the mud, arms and legs torn away, yet the stumps somehow already healed over. His eyes were gaping red pits. He opened his mouth to scream but only a wheezing moan and the blackened stump of a tongue emerged.
“How is he still alive?” the landgrave hissed.
A beam of ruddy dawn light washed the field, causing Robart to hiss and writhe. His skin swiftly reddened until it took on the hue of vibrant sunburn. His jaw yawned wide to scream and none could mistake the sharp fangs where human teeth had been only moments before. The soldiers gasped and the robed acolytes began praying for the Goddess’s protection against evil.
“Step back, my lord,” Sir Orwin said, hefting his burning blade. “This is a creature of darkest magic.”
“Vampire,” Daryn said. Then he realised his error in naming it. Such creatures were legendarily hard to kill: swift, vicious, and without mercy or human morals. They could also make their victims soulless abominations just like them. The whispers erupted through his men even as Sir Orwin beheaded the unfortunate picket’s writhing remains and burned it to ash with purifying golden fire. The men were now wondering how many more of the monsters lurked behind the wall they were due to assault the next dawn.
“Fear not, men,” Daryn said. “We attack in daylight and as you are witness to, the touch of the Bright One burns these vile things. Sir Orwin will take care of any of these creatures that dares to raise its filthy hand against us. Only one more night of vigilance before we set fire to their nest.”
It did little to reassure the men, and even less so when they returned to the camp and discovered that two more men had gone missing in the night. Their bedrolls had been used, their clothes and equipment still present, and a wedge of cheese and bread left uneaten. There was no sign of any struggle – it appeared as if they had been plucked straight out of their tents right in the middle of an armed camp.
The worried whispers escalated to panicked talk. How many men had been taken now? And how many had been turned into unholy creatures like Robart, ready to attack them in the night? The only thing Daryn could do tonight was to have the acolytes cast their prayers of protection over the camp before turning in – it might not stop the most powerful creatures of the night, but it would at least weaken them.
After a hurried breakfast of porridge and morning ale, the vanguard formed ranks. Landgrave Laurant Daryn drew his sword. “Those damned monsters will pay for this. I vow that come the dawn we shall slaughter every heretic cowering behind that wall. Let none survive.” He held his sword aloft. “March!”
Hours later, they stopped for food and ale rations, and it was only then that Daryn realised something was badly wrong with his men. The mountain streams became sewers as hundreds of his men’s bowels erupted wherever they squatted or stood. They spewed from both ends, gasping for air as their bodies expelled all manner of eye-watering foulness.
Sir Orwin sniffed the ale and winced. “Thistleberry.” His sword split the barrels in two. “The adverse effects will be temporary but severe. The enemy attempt to delay our arrival.”
Daryn cursed. He had intended to camp near the wall and attack at first light, but with so many of his men weakened it seemed inadvisable to attempt that punishing pace. He would need to let his men rest and recover for a good few hours, then resume at a slower march, which meant the attack would have to take place in the late afternoon.
Pain stabbed into his skull. The urge to slay his Goddess’s foes overflowed within him. Dawn. He had vowed to attack at dawn. The plan was in place and he could not deviate from it. He shook his head: there was good tactical sense in delaying the assault even further, until the next day when his men would be properly rested and recovered. The pain swelled inside him, the torment at even thinking of breaking his promise to carry out the will of the Goddess was overwhelming. The dark forces ahead of him needed to be exterminated. They could not be allowed to stain even one more day on Her world with their presence.
He decided to push his men harder than he knew he should. If they were as devout as they claimed, they would relish the opportunity to overcome their weakness to please Her. “We attack at noon tomorrow. Those who cannot walk will need to explain themselves to the Falcon Prince.” The pain receded but did not depart entirely; it was a compromise that left him feeling like he had disappointed both his Goddess and himself. The guilt was almost overwhelming, but he endured it to protect his people.
His men pulled up their breeches and began to trudge down the valley: better to have shit running down their legs than to face the Prince’s inquisitors.
CHAPTER 24
Night had fallen over the Mhorran Valley, and Penny and Nicholas the tile maker had drawn the short straw of the midnight watch along with ten other unfortunate bastards. Their watch on the wall began too early for more than a few hours’ disturbed sleep and would end too late to catch any more. They were not overly upset – the assault by the Lucent Empire was imminent and a decent sleep would have escaped them anyway, and the rain was holding off for now.
Split into pairs, the watch guarded over two hundred paces of stone and timber fortifications, uneven and not entirely solid underfoot. It was all that protected them from the army of blood-crazed madmen coming from the north and they were glad to have it.
Nicholas unfastened his crude and chafing iron pot helmet and set it down next to a brazier, warming his hands over the glowing embers – actual flames would ruin their night vision and Tiarnach would have beaten them bloody for it. Underneath he wore a red cloth tied around his temples, and his short beard and moustache were dyed red in an attempt to ape Tiarnach.
“Very fierce, sir,” Penny said, leaning on her spear. She wore mismatched scraps of chain and leather over a padded gambeson, and her curly hair was crammed into a proper steel helmet that Amogg had found somewhere.
“Thanking you,” Nicholas said with a grin. Then his moustache quivered and his nose wrinkled in disgust. “What is that foul stench?”
Penny looked out across the wall towards the distant campfires twinkling in the night all up the valley floor, only a few hours’ walk away. “They took one look at you and all shit themselves in terror?”
He smoothed out his moustache. “There’s a darned good reason you are no
t married yet, wench.”
“That’s very true,” Penny agreed. “All the men here are shit. Apart from Tom the smith. That one’s a sexy beast.”
Nicholas chuckled, but his mirth died as the distant screams of pain and terror began. Somewhere to the north, men were dying. He grabbed his crude helmet and stuffed it back onto his head and clutched his spear for dear life.
The two members of the Tarnbrooke militia kept watch as screams spread and campfires winked out one by one, and with it the clang of steel and shouts of anger.
“It seems nobody is getting much sleep tonight,” Penny said. Earlier on that creep Jerak Hyden had been roaming the area in front of the wall digging random holes – they didn’t dare get close enough to find out what he was up to – and now this.
Glowing red eyes flashed in the night, too close for comfort. Both stiffened and readied their spears in shaking hands.
“What do you reckon it is?” Nicholas whispered.
A soft whisper in his ear: “Vampires.”
Nicholas and Penny yelped and stumbled back as Black Herran appeared at their side, her old bones wrapped in a thick woollen blanket.
“The vampire Lorimer Felle and some newborn spawn terrorise their prey,” Black Herran said, squinting into the darkness. “I’m sure he is having fun out there tonight, but that is no reason to relax your guard. Keep an eye out for anything human getting too close to the wall.”
The Maleficent Seven Page 21