A knot of climbing soldiers took advantage of the losses to force a breach. They cut through the remaining townsfolk and began helping up their comrades. The enemy began to pour through and assault the reeling militia on either side of them, forcing Ragash back with their superior numbers.
Lorimer was there in an instant, a storm of fang and claw that shredded everything around him. More armoured men climbed through the breach until he was surrounded. They stabbed him, slashed with swords and brutally battered with shields, but it was nothing to the vampire lord’s flesh. His gaping wounds healed as if they were trying to cut the sea and he simply reattached the parts they cut off, then killed them for their affront. Horror stole over the Lucent soldiers as they realised that they could not bring him down with steel and guts alone.
“Where are your vaunted holy knights now?” Lorimer yelled as he ripped out a man’s throat and tossed the gurgling wreck back over the wall. He held the breach alone with fang and ferocity until Estevan’s archers were able to clear the wall allowing Ragash and the townsfolk to retake it.
Maeven stiffened as she spotted two men in heavy battle plate, one of whom was wreathed in golden fire. They both charged directly at the gatehouse.
“How much power can you spare?” Black Herran asked.
Maeven grimaced. “Not enough. The protection of their goddess will be difficult to breach without great effort.”
“Then I shall deal with these pests. You concentrate on driving back the foot soldiers – do try not to kill too many before nightfall.” She lifted a finger to her teeth and tore at the flesh by her nail, drawing blood.
From Maeven’s vantage atop the gatehouse, she sought out wherever the Lucent soldiers fought the hardest and laid a touch of death on their bodies, not enough to kill, but enough to drop them screaming as nerves and muscles died and their flesh erupted in red and rotting sores. It was a weapon of terror rather than destruction, one that would leave their lives intact and ready to be harvested when darkness fell. Her magical plague began to spread from man to man.
The holy knight levelled his sword and golden fire lanced out towards the gate.
Black Herran casually lifted a bejewelled hand, the black onyx ring ripped from the eye of an earth elemental smeared with blood. She willed a wall of earth to burst from the ground in front of the gate.
Golden fire boomed into it, the blowback knocking soldiers from their feet and showering the inquisitor with mud. The battle paused for a moment. The wall of earth was damaged but still standing, and as they watched, the earth flowed up to fill in the smoking crater made by the impact. Swords and spears were all well and good, but magic turned the tide of battles.
She stood atop the gatehouse in full view of the enemy and their archers. “I am Black Herran!” she shouted across the battlefield, and as she spoke the sun darkened in a cloudless sky. A handful of opportunistic enemy archers loosed arrows at her, but she ignored them and none seemed able to hit their mark. “I am the slayer of kings and queens, the doom of armies and the master of demons. To fight me is to die. I will eat your souls.”
The harrowing screams of souls damned to Hellrath wailed from the cracks in the earth, and with them came a sulphurous yellow fog that coalesced at the foot of the wall and crept up the legs of the Lucent soldiers. Men gagged and reeled back to safety. The assault floundered and failed beneath her imperious glare.
The inquisitor levelled his sword again, but the other knight laid a hand on his arm and pulled him back. They retreated in good order and waited out of bowshot for her fog and magic to dissipate. With the dark rituals she had to perform at nightfall she could not spare the power to keep it up for long, but it gave the defenders a chance to catch their breath.
The people of Tarnbrooke sat in the mud, breathing hard and bandaging wounds. Their hands shook and some sat staring at nothing, clutching weapons and trembling. Others dragged the corpses of their loved ones and friends into neat rows and said prayers to their gods.
Black Herran’s captains gathered at the gatehouse and looked out over the field of dead and dying Lucent soldiers, the crows already descending to eat their fill. It was a horrendous slaughter to the townsfolk, but to old monsters like Black Herran it was barely worth calling a skirmish. They had all seen carpets of the dead stretching as far as the eye could see.
“That one with the inquisitor is the leader,” Black Herran said, polishing her onyx ring and holding it up to a critical eye. They both stood out, dressed head to toe in fancy steel.
“I recognised those shiny pricks,” Tiarnach said, using a scrap of a Lucent soldier’s white tabard to wipe blood off his sword. “Here, Amogg, that’s those bastards from Hive ain’t they?”
The huge orc scratched her chin. “I not remember too good. Ale bad.”
“It is them,” Maeven replied. “That is one of the two inquisitors that sought to bar our escape. Lorimer broke his knee.”
“Amogg remember that bit,” the orc said, cheering. “Boring fight. Got hit by lightning. Had bath in river. Bashed little human’s brains out on rock.”
“How can that be boring to you?” Lorimer asked, wiping blood and gore from his body.
“Too quick,” she said. “No fun without challenge.”
The vampire looked up at her for a moment. “Ah. That I can understand. Not to worry, it looks like they are about ready for another assault.”
Black Herran cast an eye over the defenders. “Our militia have not regained their senses as of yet. They may break, so I must buy you more time to reinvigorate them.” She stretched out a hand towards the Lucent Empire army and called forth her pit-born magic.
She cackled as the runes etched into Lucent blades came to twisted life. Blades turned in their owner’s hands and plunged into the throats of their friends and allies. The army turned on itself and men died in the confusion. With disappointing swiftness, the inquisitor was among them, blocking blows and ordering soldiers to disarm. Swords and shields dropped to the mud.
Had Black Herran possessed a competent army of her own, the battle would have been over then and there. As it was, she had to be content with the time it bought Tarnbrooke: every one of those weapons would need to be replaced or inspected and cleansed of Hellrath runes.
The holy knight knelt in the dirt and prodded a sword, tainted steel sparking as he touched it. His eyes turned towards the town. Black Herran offered a jaunty wave in return. Time was on her side, and the enemy had already enjoyed a taste of what nightfall would bring them.
CHAPTER 26
Three hours passed while the poisoned and sleep-deprived Lucent soldiers marshalled their strength. The inquisitor and his acolytes worked tirelessly to cleanse their weapons of demonic taint; his golden flames and their holy prayers burnt away the jagged sigils that carried Black Herran’s malicious will.
Daryn paced back and forth, plagued by divine will to destroy but also not daring to risk an attack until he was sure his men would not unwittingly murder one another. “I know inquisitors can disappear and reappear in a flash of lightning,” he asked Sir Orwin. “Could you bypass that wall of theirs?”
Sir Orwin nodded. “I could, but I will not. The distance I can safely travel is short, and it would leave me perilously weakened should those creatures of darkness join forces to assail me. This cleansing has already fatigued me.”
Daryn resumed his pacing. Eventually he turned and studied the holy knight’s fine and very distinctive heavy armour, finger tapping his chin. “How would you feel about attempting a little subterfuge?”
Finally, as the light began to fade and the weather worsened, the soldiers took up their righteous weapons again. They knelt to receive blessing of protection from their acolytes and then began another assault on the wall.
The sun had failed to struggle through the brooding clouds over the valley, and the rain and cold winds had returned – a beneficial situation for the defenders, who at least had warm fires and some cover from wind and rain. Black Herra
n sat on a comfy chair atop the gatehouse, shielded from drizzling rain by a canvas canopy. Her eyes never left the enemy. Her will was as indomitable as ever, but age was a relentless foe that had taken a heavy toll on her legs and back.
Somebody began climbing up to her. “Hello, Maeven,” she said without looking back.
“You have eyes everywhere,” the necromancer said as she pulled herself onto the creaky wooden platform. “One day they will fail you.”
“My own aged eyes may,” the demonologist admitted, “but those of my demons never will.”
“You put too much trust in evil, inhuman creatures,” Maeven replied.
Then Black Herran did turn to look at her. She smiled knowingly. “What do you know of inquisitors?”
“As much as any,” the necromancer replied. “Which is precious little. Judging from the golden fire that has burned constantly these last few hours, it would seem that their supply of power is inexhaustible.”
“That’s gods for you,” Black Herran said. “These mortal men wield borrowed power and I suspect it must hollow them out after a while. An unprepared soul must be weathered away by that torrent of magic, leaving only a slavish shell behind.”
“More than likely,” Maeven agreed. “Perhaps Tiarnach would prove more enlightening than I.”
The demonologist shook her head. “Even at the height of his divine power he never boasted anywhere near as many worshippers and power as this Bright One. Nor, I think, would he ever want to. Not a bad idea though. By all means, ask him questions if you are quick about it. If you are lucky you might even get a straight answer out of the man.”
Maeven took her leave, pulled her cloak hood up against the rain and went in search of the once-god. She was surprised not to find him at the wall with the Tarnbrooke militia, but one of the boys bringing supplies up from the town pointed to a hastily abandoned farmstead just south of the wall. She found him hidden in the barn, doubled over and retching, muttering, “Fuck fuck fuck,” over and over.
“Drinking yourself senseless at a time like this?” she sneered. “They are beginning the next assault.”
He jerked upright and wiped his red whiskers on his sleeve. “Fuck off, Maeven.” His face was wet and sickly pale.
The necromancer stepped aside as he stormed off towards the wall. She kept pace with him. “What do you know of holy knights and their god-given power?”
He slowed, stopped and turned, wiping rainwater from his brow. “God-given? Those fuckers ain’t holy and that power is taken.”
Maeven blinked; she wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Normally, getting a straight answer out of Tiarnach was like trying to get blood from a stone.
“See, the thing is,” he continued, “that magic fire they spray about like a drunk taking a piss, it has a wee bit of their god’s life in it. Like, if I cut a finger off and sprayed the blood in your face, ’cept that golden flame is not full of pain and anger. It’s…” He thought about it for a long moment. “Suppose you might call it blank. Not a drop of ill-will in it. Almost innocent.”
Blank? the necromancer thought. How could a god’s power used to kill possibly be innocent? Dark thoughts about what the Falcon Prince was up to caused her blood to run cold.
Their discussion was cut short by the drone of war horns. Tiarnach cursed and jogged to the wall. Maeven followed, slow and full of worrisome thoughts. The look of relief on the sodden militiamen’s faces as Tiarnach rejoined them piqued her interest and she pondered the lack of grey in the man’s red hair. The deep lines around his eyes had softened too. She wondered if perhaps formal worship was not needed for a god to gain power. Was belief in them enough?
The top of the wall was crowded with trained militia and armed butchers, carpenters, hunters, shepherds and other townsfolk, all gritting their teeth and holding their weapons tight as the line of Lucent Empire soldiers advanced again at a steady walk. The enemy would not recklessly charge in again.
“You only need to hold this wall for an hour,” Tiarnach shouted. “Just one more poxy hour! Then we can all bugger off back to Tarnbrooke, dry out and tap us some barrels o’ ale.”
The townsfolk shifted uneasily. They all knew some dark plan was afoot, but none knew the details, and none truly wanted to. They only knew that they did not want to be anywhere near the wall once the sun went down.
The Lucent army approached, and as the first rain of arrows fell, they broke into a jog. Arrows thudded into their upraised shields, pitifully few piercing mail and flesh. Two skewered boots and feet, pinning the men in place and leaving them howling.
Black Herran’s brow furrowed as she studied the oncoming battle line, noting their leader in his heavy armour, shrugging off arrows like they were bugs. “Odd, I see only one knight. Where is that damned inquisitor?”
Maeven leaned forward and lifted her hand to shelter her eyes against the reddening sun sinking behind the hills. “I cannot see him on the field.”
“Curse them,” Black Herran snapped. “He must have taken off his armour – we cannot counter what we cannot see. Resume your necrotic plague to disable them. We have to lose, but not quite yet.”
Maeven didn’t deign to reply as she got to work, a black and flesh-devouring mist rising from the ground in the far left of the enemy line, climbing up their boots to… dissipate.
The necromancer blinked and tried again, this time on the centre. The men there began screaming as patches of exposed skin died and sloughed off to reveal the red and glistening layers of fat and muscle beneath. She opened her mouth to warn Black Herran but it was much too late.
Golden fire scythed across the top of the wall, reducing a dozen townsfolk and militia on the left flank to ash and smoking bones that clattered down across the rock. Lucent soldiers clambered up the charred fortification and attacked the other embattled defenders from the rear.
Amogg stood with Ragash and Wundak atop the wall shattering shields and skulls with their mighty axes. Amogg was covered in shallow wounds but they only seemed to enrage her. She spotted the breach, roared and charged along the wall to butcher the invaders, bellowing: “Fight well, little humans!”
What appeared to be a common footman in patched mail vaulted to the top and turned to face her. His sword burst into golden flames as he pointed it towards her. “I think not, brute. My name is Sir Orwin, and I will be your end.”
Holy fire lanced towards her. Amogg grabbed hold of the nearest Lucent soldier and used him as a shield. She was blasted backwards and burned through the air to crash into the foot of the gate house on the Tarnbrooke side. She lay motionless, still clutching the charred corpse of the Lucent soldier, the front of his mail glowing cherry red.
Ragash and Wundak’s skin turned the deeper red of orcish fury. The huge orcs loosed a roar that deafened the humans around them, spittle flying as they charged the inquisitor.
Lucent soldiers moved to stop them only to be brutally battered aside. It was as futile as trying to stop enraged bulls.
“God Gardram made us strong!” Wundak snarled. Her axe glimmered as their great god’s power flowed through her. As the next blast of golden fire hit them she chopped down, splitting the stream of fire in two.
Sir Orwin was taken aback for only an instant, an instant too long to prevent Ragash from closing in on him.
The axe came down with the full fury of an elder orc behind it. The inquisitor wisely chose to leap from the wall, landing awkwardly on the Tarnbrooke side. He ignored a small boy with an armload of arrows, who fled screaming, and loosed his magic, not at the orcs, but at the gatehouse.
A pillar of golden flame engulfed the gatehouse and roared up into the darkening sky. The defenders gasped and faltered as Black Herran was attacked. When the flame abated, the structure was only missing a small chunk of wood and stone, the rest protected by a sphere of churning darkness. It swirled and retracted into a small ball in Maeven’s hand. Her grey cloak was smoking and blackened and she was leaning on a post for support.
&nb
sp; She scowled at the holy knight, then she lobbed the ball of darkness at him.
Sir Orwin chose to run rather than take the attack, sprinting straight back towards the segment of wall with the orcs atop it. There was no explosion of flashy magic on the ground behind him. The ball of darkness hit the earth and expanded to the size of a house. A moment later it was gone and where there had been stalks of grass and moss there was now only dust being washed away in the rain. He leapt unnaturally high and landed atop the wall in front of the orcs.
Ragash swung a huge fist at the knight’s face, and to his astonishment, the human caught it with his free hand. He stopped it dead with only a grunt of effort. The human grinned and ran the big orc through with his fiery blade. It burned a hole right through Ragash’s broad chest and burst out the back.
Wundak’s foot slammed into the inquisitor’s chest. Strong as the human was, he didn’t have the weight to stop himself from bouncing along the wall to crash into a knot of his own men. Sir Orwin scrambled to his feet, dazed, as Ragash fell to all fours, gasping for air, bloody froth drooling from his tusks.
Wundak could see through the charred hole in his chest but she did not move to assist him. They both knew this was a fatal wound, and she refused to take this glorious death from him.
“Rise, warrior of Gardram,” she said solemnly. “Rise and fight. Kill the enemy. Die well.”
Ragash grimaced and levered himself upright. He limped towards the Lucent soldiers, his axe dragging along behind him, chest heaving in a futile attempt to catch breath.
“The brute is done for,” a soldier cried, and seeing a chance for glory of his own, he hefted his sword overhead and charged.
Ragash lifted his free hand to block the downward cut. The sword sliced down through his fingers and palm before jarring to a stop against bone. The big orc grinned and swept his axe up, taking the human’s arm off in a bloody spray.
The Maleficent Seven Page 23