Wundak did nothing but count as the knot of soldiers swarmed Ragash, stabbing and slicing into him as he swung his axe. One dead human. Two. Three. The axe slipped from clumsy blood-soaked fingers. A fourth human fell to a tusk through the eyeball. The elder orc faltered as an arrow thudded into his chest, and then finally died beneath their swords.
Only then did Wundak charge, bellowing red rage as her axe laid open an armoured chest and tore the head from another human.
The holy knight advanced to meet her, his burning sword flicking out like a deadly viper: darting at her eyes, her knee, at her throat – a feint – stabbing at her belly instead. She blocked with her glowing axe in a fountain of sparks. A human spearman took advantage to stab her in the thigh. Hot blood poured down her leg as she was forced backwards by the inquisitor’s burning blade, hissing as it cut through the rain.
The Tarnbrooke militia streamed towards her, Tiarnach in the lead and intent on closing the breach in the defences. Wundak roared and swung her axe, but Sir Orwin ducked and loosed a blast of fire that washed over her and drove her to her knees, growling as she fought to resist their human god’s might.
Sir Orwin grinned at her. “Burn, beast.”
Golden fire blossomed all around, burning and eating away at her skin despite her god Gardram’s protection. It only lasted a few agonizing seconds before Tiarnach’s muddy boot burst through the fire to plant itself square in the inquisitor’s face.
“Take that, ya fucking freak!” Tiarnach shouted as he kicked the shocked knight right off the wall to fall flailing and still burning back into the press of his own men scaling the defences. They screamed as their goddess’s golden fire ate into them – that same fire that had left their mocking enemy untouched.
Tiarnach turned to glare at the Lucent soldiers atop the wall. They all stared back at him slack-jawed. “This is my wall, ya shitebags.”
Amogg stirred, thrust the charred human shield aside and ran to rejoin the fight. The militia joined her, streaming past Tiarnach, spears levelled in a charge. The Lucent soldiers glanced down at the smoking, screaming mess of their reinforcements below, then back to the militia, Tiarnach and the hulking form of Amogg bearing down on them. They panicked and leapt from the wall.
Their attack had failed with the defeat of their holy knight. The Lucent leader withdrew his men, and the inquisitor and his burned soldiers limped back to join them. Tarnbrooke had survived again, but there was just enough time for one more attack before nightfall.
CHAPTER 27
The militia and armed townsfolk caught their breath, sipping water and shaking. They were a fit and hardy practical people but unused to extreme fear and battle stress, which drained them more than any physical exertion. The old and young of Tarnbrooke began dragging the dead and dying from the blood-drenched wall to clear a space for the next fight, and for the next to fall. With the fire and fury of combat over with for now, the cold of the wind and rain caused them to huddle close to their braziers and pray to their gods.
“How did Tiarnach survive their golden fire?” Penny asked, blood dripping down her face. Some of it was hers, most of it some other poor bastard’s. “We all saw it turn people to bone and ash.”
Amogg scowled at the Lucent corpses and swung her axe in annoyance. She hated missing a good fight. “Tiarnach is war god. Gods resist power of gods. Make sense to Amogg.” She might not have been entirely familiar with humans, but she knew enough to recognise their shock and confusion.
Penny stared. “We thought calling him a god of war was just a grand nickname.”
Tiarnach wasn’t paying them any notice. He leaned out over the wall and shouted at the retreating inquisitor. “Hoi! Orwin, was it? That all you got, ya wee prick? That tickled!” He chuckled and noisily hawked a blob of phlegm over the wall. Then turned to see the militia staring at him with undisguised awe. “Aw fuck. What now?”
Penny swallowed and wiped her bloody face with a sleeve, succeeding only in staining the fabric red. “Are… are you really a god?”
Tiarnach ran a hand through his long hair – the grey strands had now entirely disappeared from his head and chin. “Oh, that? Aye. Once, anyway.” He squinted at the enemy as they began to reform. It would take a little time to reorganise and ready their units for a new assault. “Looks like we have time for a drink, eh, young Red Penny? How’s about me and you head back for a bit and…”
Amogg loomed over him, a flat stare on a viciously unimpressed face.
“Er, maybe not,” Tiarnach said. He winked at her and mimicked drinking a horn of ale as he beat a hasty retreat. “Laters, aye?”
“Red Penny,” Amogg rumbled, eyeing the blood-soaked human. “Good name. Tiarnach is bad choice of mate. Your grubbs would be strong but very stupid and smelly.”
“Grubbs?” Penny said, frowning.
“Do humans not teach their young?” Amogg said. “I explain mating later.” She left the militia to get themselves ready and moved to Wundak, who stood over Ragash’s corpse, favouring her wounded leg.
“It was a good fight,” Wundak said, flakes of her crisped skin cracking and falling away. “Had a hole in his chest and still killed four. Would have killed many more if that human had not used a god’s strength to defeat him. There was no shame in falling to that enemy.”
Amogg lifted her head and howled, a long and mournful cry fit to draw Gardram’s eye to one of his mightiest fallen. “He fought with honour. Died a glorious death. Orcs ask for nothing more.”
“This place will be the death of us all,” Wundak said. Then she grinned. “But what a death! We will not fade away to tuskless husks unable to even lift an axe. Our deaths will be remembered.”
Amogg stiffened. Come to me, a voice whispered in her ear. Black Herran calls you. She spun and lashed out behind her, but caught only shadows. “I must go and talk war. Take Ragash’s body into town and prepare his meat for the honour feast later.”
Amogg joined Tiarnach and Black Herran at the charred gatehouse. Tiarnach kicked a wooden post and cursed. “It sticks in my craw to run away.”
Black Herran nodded to Amogg. “When the next attack reaches the wall, you both must lose, and make it appear convincing. They have to believe that our retreat back into the town is genuine.”
Tiarnach spat over the wall. “An’ what’s to stop them rolling right over our militia and smashing through that wee palisade around town? That pile of twigs is not going to hold them long.”
“The sun is going down,” the aged demonologist replied. “They will not have time. Lorimer Felle will stop them. He has been busy sharing his vampiric blood with some unfortunate soldiers he acquired earlier. Let us see how eager the enemy are for a night assault when their own blood-starved friends crawl from their graves looking to open human throats.”
Amogg grunted in agreement, picked her nose and examined the results before flicking it away. “Apart from god-men, human warriors are not worth the effort of fighting. I will kill the Falcon Prince instead.”
“Oh, he is coming,” Black Herran said. “Have no doubt of that. And when he does, we will need every advantage we can get.”
Wundak winced as she kicked open the door to a hovel and set Ragash’s body down on a table, ready for the ritual butchering and feast to partake of his strength. His soul was with Gardram now, and only his flesh remained to give strength to the Hadakk. It was tradition for the elders to take the choice cuts and leave the rest for the grubbs, but Amogg and herself would feast well tonight instead. Her mind and body were exhausted from resisting the human god’s power and Ragash would grant her his might to fight on.
She groaned and sat at the table, the fragile human-sized chair under her creaking alarmingly. Fresh blood seeped through the rags she had tied around her leg.
The tattooed necromancer sauntered through the doorway and nodded at her leg. “I think you need stitches for that.”
Wundak grunted, pulled a knife from her belt and began cutting the clothing from th
e corpse.
“Unless you would like me to quickly seal the wound for you and be on my way?”
The orc was too tired to argue. “Be quick and be away, human. This is no place for you tonight.”
The necromancer nodded and moved to examine the spear wound, tutting at the filthy rags. She removed her backpack and pulled out a roll of tools and fresh linen strips. She selected an obsidian knife and slit through gory cloth, pale fingers peeling it back to reveal the gaping flesh and muscle beneath.
The necromancer paused. “I don’t suppose you would happen to know where Black Herran’s daughter and grandchildren are? What do you orcs call them? Her grubbs?”
Wundak snorted. “I care nothing for human grubbs.”
“A shame.” The necromancer thrust her knife into Wundak’s wound.
Cold… so cold… a whirlpool of death sucking in Wundak’s soul.
The orc’s head thudded into the table top, stone-cold dead. Maeven smiled and wiped down her obsidian knife with clean linen. The knife felt warm in her hand, pulsing with life granted by the strong old soul it had just devoured. The orc’s essence felt like an ancient mossy stone, hard and immovable. That additional power would allow her to raise a small army of the living dead to obey her every whim. It was a shame the other big brute died before she’d had the chance to kill him directly and steal his soul too. She had leeched the impressive power loosed by his death, but regrettably the soul itself had escaped her clutches.
The expended lives of peasants and soldiers she had already gathered were as nothing to the power of this single soul taken directly from the source, and this was only the beginning. Black Herran, Tiarnach, Amogg Hadakk, the deluded Lucent inquisitors… their souls would all serve to further her necromantic goals. The question was in what order she could kill them all and get away with it. If she could find a way to break the blood oath she had sworn, she would also be more than happy to kill Lorimer Felle.
The dry voice of her grandfather whispered in the back of her mind, urging her to hurry, eager for her to complete the weapon. His ghost was desperate to finally be allowed to rest. She gathered her gear and slipped out the door, closing it behind her.
A young girl carrying a big basket of fresh-baked bread from the bakery to the storehouse spotted her as she left the hovel, and had a heart attack and died before the necromancer turned the corner. The girl’s soul was a feeble, flitting thing barely worth collecting, but when Jerak Hyden’s little surprise went off there would be soul essence and power a-plenty. It would prove most useful to quicken her knife.
War horns sounded to the north and she hurried back to the wall to witness the rest of the evening’s festivities.
Laurant Daryn’s linen gambeson was soaked through and heavy, and a stream of icy rainwater ran down his back and buttocks. The mud sucked hungrily at his steel sabatons and oozed between the foot plates with every step, as if the whole accursed valley had turned against him. An arrow tinged off his helmet, another off his chest. Encased in ruinously expensive steel, he had little to fear from arrows save for a very lucky shot. His men were not so perfectly armoured and had to rely on their shields.
Two fell screaming with arrows in their legs, but Daryn lowered his head and charged on, weathering the storm of arrows that thudded against him like hail on a tiled roof. Glimpsed through the rain clouds, the sun was now a burning crescent sinking below the hills, and they had no more time to spare. He would do the Bright One’s bidding. He was wrath.
The wall was right ahead, well-lit by braziers and torches. It was a sorry heap of stone around wooden posts that was already crumbling, rocks falling away beneath the boots of the righteous and hastily piled back up by the heathens. These demon worshippers could not hold it for long against him, even with their dark magic.
Sir Orwin was taking care of the wrinkled old witch atop the gatehouse – it was laughable that she boasted to be the legendary Black Herran, not seen these past forty years. As if those chosen by the Goddess would be afraid of a decrepit old woman with a dark name. The holy knight’s golden fire was slowly burning away their gatehouse, inadequately protected by earth and sorcery. He left the witch no opportunity to deal with the holy army scaling their pathetic wall.
The huge orc took a spear from a brave soldier thrusting from below and reeled away, bellowing and clutching her belly. The mad, red-haired warrior who had defied Sir Orwin fell back with an arrow in the chest – whatever dark magic had protected him against holy fire had no power over a shaft of honest wood and steel.
Daryn reached the foot of the wall. His men were ascending through a forest of stabbing spears. He did not climb, he leapt, his blessed strength propelling him to land amidst the enemy, an armoured bringer of justice ripping through the poorly trained heretics. His sword sang as it severed limbs and laid open chests and throats.
All around him in the fading light, Lucent soldiers were engaging in brutal melee. The defenders were few, most already having fled. He savoured the enemy’s despair. The wall was quickly breached in four places, his men swarming over it.
A bell tolled from the town’s temple, summoning the wicked creatures back to their nest. The entire defence broke apart and fled towards the open gates in the palisade hastily erected around their town. They abandoned weapons to the mud in absolute panic.
Daryn gave chase, intent on ensuring those gates did not close. Many of those fleeing were women, young and old wielding butcher’s cleavers and hunting spears. This was barely a militia, and certainly not an army. This could well have been the peasantry of his home of Allstane.
Fight for me!
The impulse was irresistible, his Goddess’s fury searing through his veins. Arrows tinged off him still as he charged, cutting down a portly limping woman with a pot on her head. He ran an old man through the back and trampled him into the dirt.
His men weathered defensive arrow fire and raced ahead, every sword burning gold by the light of the setting sun. The edge of the disc sank behind the hill.
The earth erupted ahead of Daryn’s charge. Men that had gone missing over the previous days crawled from muddy graves, eyes burning an unholy red. One leapt through the air to land on Daryn, his jaw yawning unnaturally wide and full of jagged fangs. He rammed his steel-clad knee into the belly of the beast but it barely noticed, teeth screeching along the steel gorget protecting his neck.
He grabbed the monster by the neck and heaved it off of him. Vampire. No doubt about it. The creature struggled in his grip, unable to break the strength granted to him by his Goddess. He rammed the point of his blade through its eye, then dropped the still-squirming thing and severed its head from its shoulders with a single blow.
His men were falling back under an onslaught of similar creatures, their cuts and stabs having little effect on unnatural flesh. Over to his right, golden fire bloomed, incinerating two of the creatures. Up ahead the enemy stragglers had reached the town gates. He could still get there in time, as could Sir Orwin. But his men…
Fight for me!
His feet took two steps forward.
A grizzled gamekeeper he had known all his life screamed as a vampire tore off half his face.
Kill for me!
He screamed, fighting against the fire in his veins. His men… his Goddess… his duty as liege lord… He turned and flung himself at the nearest vampire, saving the life of a boy he’d watched grow to manhood.
The sun set. The gates of Tarnbrooke slammed shut. He had lost an easy victory over the townsfolk this night, but there was always a new dawn.
From atop the temple spire, Black Herran and her six captains listened to the screams and clash of steel as the Lucent Empire army retreated back to the wall, using the light of its plentiful braziers and torches to see and dismember the remaining vampire spawn.
Jerak Hyden giggled and wrung trembling hands. “Is it time? Is it? Is it?”
“As soon as they are settled into their camp,” Black Herran replied.
&nb
sp; Jerak Hyden reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a little box of brass and glass, small sparks of lightning crackling around his fingers. “It has many siblings built into the wall.”
“We do not care how it works,” Lorimer snapped. “Only that it does.”
The bulk of the Lucent force withdrew behind the wall, using it as a makeshift fortification of their own. Men swarmed over it setting up guard posts, watching for more unnatural creatures.
Jerak giggled and shook his head at the futility of it all.
The army pitched their tents on the flat space directly behind the wall, laid out their wounded and began treating them.
The mad alchemist ran his fingers lovingly over the box in his hand. He licked his lips and waited, enjoying the anticipation.
As camp fires sprang up and exhausted men finally settled down to eat their rations, thinking themselves safe behind their new defences, Black Herran gave him the nod. Jerak twisted a brass knob and pulled a tiny lever.
The world lurched beneath them.
The temple spire shivered and leaned dangerously as the alchemist’s shrill laughter filled the air. To the north, the defensive wall ceased to exist. Violent blue flame exploded all along its length, shattering wood and stone and sending body parts flying.
“You fucking wee monster,” Tiarnach said, part disgust, part awe.
“There no glory in this,” Amogg growled.
Jerak Hyden didn’t care or show any evidence he heard at all; he was absorbed by the results of his careful crafting and application of knowledge.
Maeven and Black Herran gasped and clutched onto the stonework. They glanced at each other’s ecstasy-filled eyes. The obscene power released by mass bloodshed and death flooded into them through the ritual bone talismans they had placed around the area.
To the necromancer, the human soul was a powerful thing, a magical focus point created by the universe that overflowed with life and suffused every part of the human body. Even if a limb should be removed, the soul-limb remembered and remained, resulting in ghostly pains and impossible itches. By the same token, recently cut hair or nails could be used to inflict all manner of sorcerous plagues upon the owner, however far away they were from the practitioner. The remaining soul essence linked back to the rest of the soul.
The Maleficent Seven Page 24