Lorimer and Amogg shoved open the crude town gates and a cackling Jerak Hyden squeezed past, his hands and eyes twitching in undisguised glee as he raced out to examine his handiwork. Black Herran, Maeven and Tiarnach followed through and the rising sun revealed the bloody ruin they had wrought upon the Mhorran Valley.
The townsfolk clustered around the gate to stare in silent horror. A few doubled over and emptied their guts. More followed suit as one of their hunting dogs darted out, returning with a severed arm in its mouth which it deposited at its owner’s feet, tail wagging proudly.
A new chasm split the valley in two along the line of the wall, and on either side great gouges had been taken out of the cliff walls.
Limbs jutted from the mud like a macabre forest of bone and muscle. Blackened corpses lay all around, blue flames still licking them here and there. Many more had been torn apart by stones flung by the detonation. Scraps of armour, broken swords and helmets – with and without heads – littered the area.
Jerak Hyden scampered over to a smoking corpse and bent over to examine its brittle, deformed armour and blackened bones. “Goodness. Experiments are all well and good, but nothing surpasses a large-scale practical application. The heat damage to the steel is beyond what I had expected.” He flitted from corpses to half-melted stones and broken weapons, muttering, swatting at flies and laughing shrilly as he examined each with the same intense but fleeting interest.
Tiarnach and Amogg regarded the wiry little man’s antics with disgust. They turned their backs on him and returned to the village with the goal of finding a decent breakfast to fill their bellies.
The mad alchemist gave a cry of joy as he lifted a shield to find somebody still living beneath it: a man lay moaning, his body broken and bent, half his skull missing to expose glistening pink brain beneath. He hissed as sunlight played over his flesh – which turned red and began to sizzle.
“A newborn vampire!” Jerak screeched. He dropped the heavy shield back in place and spun to face Lorimer. “I want it.”
“Be my guest,” Lorimer said. “I have no more use for the thing.” He picked up a stray human leg, wrenched it off at the knee and wandered back into town, gnawing on it.
The alchemist crouched, deep in thought as he examined the sunburned skin of the creature.
The ground trembled. Maeven cast a worried look at Black Herran as the old woman winced and stumbled. “I assume that is your work?”
The demonologist groaned and lifted a hand to her forehead. “Malifer comes. There is no stopping Hellrath’s greatest general now; he’s a huge demon, always angry, and really cannot take a joke. It will be a struggle to delay his arrival until the time is right, so best leave me to it and get on with your own work.”
Maeven grunted and wandered towards where the wall had stood. Blood and mud and unidentifiable other things squelched with every step. It reeked like a cut-price butcher shop on a hot day, but she didn’t mind; she was long since used to the stench of death and decay, and she always appreciated the silence.
She had told Black Herran her intention was to raise corpses to fight the enemy, but that was not Maeven’s main goal here. That was petty magic, mostly practiced by corpse-botherers and sexual deviants. No, she was in this place of death to siphon off the remnants of life force to finish forging her necromantic weapon. She prowled the brutalised valley, and while her blade devoured any remaining shreds of soul essence, she catalogued the new materials she had to work with.
Precious few corpses were in one piece, but many remained usable. The risen dead would damage the enemy’s morale more than their bodies, at least at first. Any wound from the teeth and nails of a rotting corpse would turn into rampaging infection in a matter of hours.
Not all of the bodies lying in the mud were dead: she could sense a few resilient souls still stuck in dying flesh. They were good material. She killed them and fed their stubborn souls to her knife. Two more were god-touched; one was far greater than the other and she sought it out like a cat on a mouse.
She paused and held her breath, listening. A groan of pain from underneath a pile of corpses. She stalked closer, eyeing the reeking heap of flesh. A man with a gaping hole right through his armoured chest. Another with head and helmet badly dented along one side. One had been shredded, reduced to gory tatters of flesh and mail links. There – a twitching hand encased in gauntlets of fine steel.
She knelt in the mud, heedless of the filth coating her legs, and yanked stiff dead arms out of the way to reveal the face of the inquisitor that called himself Sir Orwin. His visor was a mangled ruin crusted with blood. Breath still wheezed in and out of the air holes. His soul burned with hidden power, and he was healing.
She looked left and right, and with nobody watching she set the obsidian blade to a rent in the visor, then knifed him right through the eye. The obsidian blade burned hot in her hand as it plunged into his skull and ate his soul – too hot. She gritted her teeth as her palm and fingers reddened and blistered, but she refused to let go until it had drunk up all that was left of him.
She rolled back and sat in the mud staring at her blackened and blistered skin. The knife throbbed in her hand, almost alive and eager to be used – or was it just echoing her own desires? The weapon was already powerful, and yet something had left the holy knight’s body along with the soul, but whatever it was had escaped being absorbed. The presence and power of his goddess? Poking and prodding Tiarnach had provided some interesting paths of research, but the exact nature of gods and their peculiar powers was still beyond her knowledge, for the moment. One soul down, one to go…
Laurant Daryn yearned to die, but his Goddess refused to let him go. He lay face down in filth, and the corpses of his friends and servants, those he had been supposed to protect, piled on top of his broken body and pressed him down like the vindictive boot of his elder brother. Each gasping bubbling breath was an excruciating ordeal, but the Goddess’s relentless will pushed him ever onward and burned away any hope of succumbing to a painless final slumber.
Fight! Fight!
His men were all dead. All dead because of her and her fucking Falcon Prince.
Fight!
What was the point now?
From his corpse-prison he heard the splash of feet approaching.
“Hello there,” a woman said. “And what do we have here?”
Arms and legs, stones and broken shields were slid free from over his head and he lifted his mouth from the muck to take a blessed breath without drinking the blood and bile of his own dead men. A pale grey-clad woman with dark hair looked down on him, head cocked curiously. A black tattoo writhed angrily across her scarred face – the sorceress that had fought them on the wall. Her lips were pursed, and she absently tapped a black stone blade onto her palm.
“Kill me,” he rasped, closing his eyes.
“Why should I do that?” she said, sitting down on an upturned shield beside him, her face inhuman and expressionless amid so much slaughter. “Not when I’m having such a productive day already.”
Kill her! Kill her! his Goddess urged.
He snarled back at the voice inside his head: Fuck off, bitch!
A moment of appalled silence left him free to be himself for the first time since meeting the Falcon Prince. “What more do you want?” he rasped. “You have done your worst already.”
“Not even remotely true,” the woman replied. “I feel your goddess within you, but you do not seem as fanatical as those holy knights. Yet you were the one leading them; so tell me, why is that?”
He laughed, hysterical and hoarse. “Fuck them. Fuck their Goddess. Fuck their Falco–” His throat seized up.
KILL HER!
He snarled and tried to rise, to rip her apart with his bare hands. The stiff limbs of corpses grabbed him and pushed him back down into the muck, eyes stinging, mouth filling.
“I am a necromancer,” the woman said. “You won’t have any luck at all trying to lay a hand on me in the middle
of a battlefield. Tell me, who are you and what do you really know of your goddess?”
He spat at her. He tried to rise and failed yet again. His Goddess demanded her death, but his broken body was inadequate to the task. Her disappointment was his keenest pain.
The woman sighed, looked at the knife and then slid it into her belt. Then she picked up a broken sword and examined the jagged point. “I suppose this will serve.” She crouched down and pressed the blade to his neck.
He felt a small nick, and then his blood spurted out across her boots. She had opened an artery and he would be dead in moments. A surge of relief overwhelmed his Goddess’s fading fury. His men were all dead and he was glad to be joining them.
He felt the Goddess withdraw as death took him…
When he woke up, his heart was still and cold in his breast.
“Hello, lover,” the necromancer said, a cold smile playing across scarred lips. “Now we can talk without any meddling god getting in our way.”
The hovel had been destroyed in a rage, every chair and shelf broken and a sturdy wooden table torn apart. The entire building listed badly due to broken support beams and a fist-shaped hole through one wall. Amogg’s chest heaved as she caught her breath, staring down at the corpses of her old friends.
Wundak had disappeared after going off to prepare Ragash’s corpse for the honour-feast. Only with the coming of daylight had their bodies been found.
Amogg’s skin burned red and her fists shook. Ragash’s body lay unprepared, spoiling and covered in flies. Wundak was face-down on the table, a small pool of dried blood staining the floor beneath her wounded leg. While Amogg fought and killed, Wundak had died alone devoid of all glory.
How could their god Gardram have ever allowed this travesty? Especially to one who acted as his ears and tongue in this world. It was not right. As she calmed, Amogg grew suspicious. A little spear wound to the leg wound not have killed an elder orc, but the inquisitor’s holy power had also touched her, and that Amogg had no knowledge of. But she knew someone who did.
It did not take long to find Tiarnach, his face buried in yet another cup of ale. The creases clustered around his eyes had smoothed out and his limp greyeing hair had become red and thick as a callow youth’s. He looked far younger than he had before the battle, but his hands also trembled and vomit stained his beard. It was a conundrum Amogg noted but did not care enough to query, she simply grabbed him and dragged him to the hovel.
Amogg scowled, tusks exposed. “Wundak is dead,” she snarled. “Little spear wound not kill elder orc. Tell how this happen. Tell about powers of human gods.”
Tiarnach did not mock and jeer, as was his wont. Instead he looked up into the orc’s eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “I know how this feels only too bloody well.”
He examined Wundak’s corpse, prodding the areas of crisped flesh on the arms and face, the gift of the Lucent goddess and her flaming knights. He shook his head. “All o’ this is pish, just wee burns.” Then he turned his attention to the spear wound and stuck a finger in, then withdrew it, the digit covered in yellow-green pus that he sniffed and then wiped on her clothing. “This fucker is different though. See here, it’s already run to rot. That ain’t right, it’s far too fucking quick.”
“I fetch Maeven,” Amogg said, turning to leave. “She knows death better.”
Tiarnach grabbed her thick wrist, more of a suggestion than to physically stop her. “That there might be the problem. Sure you can trust her? Those magic types are only out for themselves. Maeven, Black Herran, and Jerak Hyden, they’re all as mad and bad as each other. At least the alchemist doesn’t try to hide it.”
Amogg stared down at him. “You say one of them kill Wundak? Why?”
He shrugged. “We both know that pissy little spear didn’t kill her. I reckon their holy knights and acolytes didn’t either. Who else is there? I didn’t see any other magic users on their side. I say speak to the vampire and ask him your questions. He’s a right weird cunt but he knows his flesh, and he’d be as likely to know the real cause as the necromancer. At least he has some honour left.”
“And you?” Amogg said. “You have honour?”
He snorted and shook his head. “Nah, I left all that shit behind when my people died because I was blind drunk. I’m only here for revenge, and don’t forget I used your honour against you to get you here. I don’t give a fuck if you all die so long as I can take that Falcon Prince’s head. Me, I’m dead simple to understand.”
She grunted and looked to Wundak’s corpse. “Yes, vengeance easy to understand. We will both have it even if means we gut the others.”
CHAPTER 30
Twelve crudely-made warships of the Lucent Empire lumbered forward in a broad battle line to engage the Awildan fleet, outpacing their more vulnerable cargo hulks packed with men and war materiel – many more ships than she had been expecting. Verena watched through her spyglass as her vanguard moved forward to meet theirs. Her blood was up and she was eager for the battle to begin – her sleek warships and seasoned crews would make them pay for daring to sail a fleet across her seas.
A glint of silver caught her eye as she swept the scene. She moved back and focused on an armoured form stepping up to the prow of the lead Lucent warship. Maeven’s brother. He lifted his sword and the hair on the back of her neck rose as the blade caught fire. He slashed the air and golden fire scythed across the front of her fleet, a torrent of power eating through wood and men, leaving behind burning debris and human ash to darken the churning waves. None of her crews even had time to scream. The magic-nullifying slynx curled around her neck, hissed and dug needle claws through leather and cloth into her collar bones. She had never felt Irusen’s little heart race so much.
Verena’s own nails dug furrows into the carefully polished rail of her quarterdeck. The Awildan fleet was burning. Five ships lost in a single heartbeat and more aflame, listing and holed, their surviving crews leaping into shark-infested waves. Amadden had grown powerful indeed. Fortune favoured the bold – and a stiff wind at their backs blowing from land to sea allowed the Awildan fleet to close the distance quickly. Her ships continued to brave the attack as they readied catapults and ballistae. Silver-armoured inquisitors stepped up to the prows of other Lucent warships, and they struck as the Awildan fleet entered catapult range – luckily the range of their damned fire was far less than their lord’s. Golden fire washed over another two ships, incinerating anybody above deck and setting ship and sails ablaze. In return, burning shots from catapults set a Lucent warship on fire, roasting an inquisitor in his heavy armour. Black smoke billowed into the air from drifting wrecks, creating a haze that stung the eyes.
Verena blinked as a thought struck her. If those holy knights were far less powerful than Maeven’s brother, then he truly was a man to be feared, and his reputation well deserved. It also meant that if they could outmanoeuvre Amadden’s ship and keep it at a distance, then her fleet stood a slim chance of survival.
Verena cursed Black Herran, fumbling in her belt pouch for the small lacquered wooden box her old general had given her for communication. She wrenched the lid off and a tiny demon as small as a bat uncurled, yawned and stretched papery wings, tiny eyes like chips of ice blinking up into sudden daylight.
“You will listen to my message and carry it to Black Herran,” Verena said.
The creature’s head whipped round to face the direction of the Falcon Prince as he burned another ship from stem to stern, its crew becoming ash drifting on the wind. “Hell no,” it squeaked, taking frantic flight in the other direction.
From around Verena’s neck, Irusen’s paw swiped out, claws only just missing the tiny demon.
“Tell Black Herran the Falcon Prince is coming by sea,” Verena shouted after it.
Black Herran must have known Maeven’s brother was the Falcon Prince – he was only the most powerful mortal in the entire bloody world. Interesting she didn’t think to tell the rest of them that l
ittle fact. Perhaps their old general still had a soft spot for her previous bed warmer.
The bulk of her fleet had been committed before she knew the full extent of his power. She ordered retreat flags run up the lines but only the gods knew how many of her ships would see it through the smoke, never mind survive this debacle.
None of her captains were fools; the ships at the rear began to turn into the wind and fill their sails, intent on putting distance between them and the Falcon Prince’s golden fire. Those at the front had no such luxury; if they turned now, their ships would lose speed and present the enemy with a tempting broadside to burn to ash. Instead, their only chance was to point their bows at the line of enemy warships and put on even more speed, hoping to punch through and get out the other side in one piece. Then, on to sea and safety, perhaps to get a lucky catapult shot off as they passed, or failing any other options, to ram the enemy into oblivion. Behind her lead ships, others filtered into single file to use those in the van as sacrificial shields.
The Lucent warships were lumbering things, and the wind was against them. Their manoeuvrability was low and their turning circles hopelessly wide, allowing several Awildan ships to evade them and slip past, speeding on a heading leading away from the coast.
Some few Awildan survivors splashed in the sea, but there was no time to pick them all up. Only a very lucky few were able to grab hold of thrown ropes and get hauled on board. Some of the men and women waving and screaming for help abruptly disappeared, dragged under by things unseen. They did not resurface.
Black smoke was starting to obscure the entire area, sowing confusion but offering the Awildans some small respite from the unerring aim of the inquisitors’ deadly fire. The catapult operators on the ships ahead of the Scourge of Malice saw the futility of attacking the knights and switched to targeting the warships themselves. There were more Awildan ships than Lucent warships, and the knights couldn’t defend against them all. One of the crude Lucent vessels was struck twice, the second shot crashing right through the deck, flames leaping up as it consumed the ship from within.
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