Arrows clanged off his armour. A spear penetrated his bent and buckled plate and gouged his thigh. He ignored it and lifted his sword high to finish the filth off.
Malleus pawed at his gaping belly and looked up into the eyes of the corpse-knight. “You!”
“I piss on the Bright One,” Daryn said as he split that shaved pate into two. “May demons forever gnaw on that withered husk you call a soul.”
Five soldiers slammed into him, blades bouncing off his armour before finding holes in harness and mail. More arrived to drag him down and they wrenched off his helmet. A few gasped, recognising his ravaged features.
He felt the necromancer’s power welling up inside him, a boiling mass of distilled death. “I pity you all,” he said. It was the last words he would ever utter. As the first beautiful burning rays of dawn appeared behind the cliff face of the valley, an axe crushed Daryn’s skull and extinguished his sight. The last thing he felt was her dark power exploding from within, emptying him like a burst bladder.
A gangrenous mist billowed from his flesh to fill the valley two hundred paces all around, bringing all manner of death and disease.
The golden fire that consumed the corpse-knight’s body came far too late to save the Lucent leaders. They died choking, faces purpling and blood gushing from their decaying lungs.
CHAPTER 35
Black Herran sweated and shivered, her wrinkled old hide sallow and waxy as she stood on the rise just south of Tarnbrooke. Her breath misted the morning air as she triple-checked her work for flaws. By the light of the twin moons, she had carved a complex demonic sigil into the earth with the point of her walking stick, the lines dark and glistening with her blood. The fluid shivered and crawled with its own will, the demonic magic within her fighting for release.
She nodded at a job well done, then leaned heavily on her stick and watched the line of armoured men in the distance snaking their way from the coast towards her home: a white and gold viper that spat deadly fire. She wondered if the Lucent army wore those colours in an attempt to depict a goodness that none of the Lucent leaders actually possessed. Two thousand elite soldiers, and an unknown number of inquisitors, here to raze Tarnbrooke and slaughter all inside its walls. Unless she was able to stop them.
She was on the flip side of the coin from her days besieging the fortress of Rakatoll, and she decided she much preferred attacking over defending. Defending meant you had something to protect, something you cared about at risk. It irked her.
“You look ready to bite the dirt,” Maeven said. “Holding that demon in will be the end of you. My power has already sent their northern army into disarray. Grand Inquisitor Malleus is dead, and by now thousands of soldiers will be burning up with infection and disease. I have bought you time and my work here is done. Be reasonable, it is time for you to tell me where my brother and sister are.”
Black Herran snorted and glanced up. “When have I ever been reasonable? I give you my word that your brother marches with the approaching Lucent army; seek him out and kill him if you wish. Save my town, only then will I tell you of your sister.”
The necromancer hissed and fought down the deadly magic building between her clawed fingers. “I will find your family and rip their souls out if you don’t tell me here and now.”
“I’m tired and sore and not in the mood for posturing,” the demonologist said. “You won’t find my family. I know you have already made many enquiries. They have been sent somewhere beyond even your reach.”
Maeven shook her head in disbelief. “If your family aren’t even here, why are we? What is this game of yours truly all about?”
“Saving souls,” Black Herran replied. “Nowhere will be safe if the Falcon Prince is allowed to run rampant like a stupid farm boy given a magic sword and a prophecy. As for your brother and sister, I was always fond of Grace and would see her free at the end of this, and that can never happen while Amadden lives.”
Maeven was silent for a long moment. “Many were fond of her and many took advantage of her goodness.”
Wizened lips curved upwards. “Until you found out.”
“Until I killed them.” Many corpses and not a shred of regret. “I should kill you now, too.”
Black Herran nodded, no trace of judgement in her eyes. “Grace has not ventured out into the light of day in twenty years. She is in a place guarded day and night by elite inquisitors and fanatical priests, kept safe from all harm and from any kind of independent life.” She studied Maeven. “Killing me before I reveal her location would avail you nothing. In any case, if you killed me now the demon general Malifer would break free right beneath your feet. You would not enjoy that, I think.”
Maeven searched Black Herran’s eyes for any hint of a lie and found none. “By all the gods, I loathe you.”
Black Herran patted her hand. “I know, dear. Now please cover up my workings with grass and leaves and then help an old woman hobble back to town.”
When the demonic sigil was disguised Maeven took her arm and led her downhill. As they passed over the stake-lined muddy trench around the town, the militia dragged the crude plank bridge back behind them and destroyed it with an axe. Lorimer Felle was at the gate waiting for them, dressed in a fine white linen shirt, opened just enough to tease impressive muscles straining beneath.
“We are as ready as we can be,” he said. “I have just returned from the north and a third of that army is now on the move, albeit slowly and without their cavalry and siege engines. Were I a betting man, I would wager good money they will reach our walls around noon tomorrow. What decrepit state they will be in by then I cannot say, but those numbers alone will be enough to end this town.”
Black Herran coughed, and wiped specks of blood away with a handkerchief. “Maeven, we need to end this thing today before his northern army arrives on the morrow. The Falcon Prince and your brother will be here in an hour and they cannot be allowed to wait us out.”
“Good,” Maeven answered, taking the old woman’s arm, nails digging in hard. “I imagine that, much like my brother, the Falcon Prince is self-righteous and swollen with pride. The correct words should set him off like an enraged bull. We will force their hand and destroy them.”
Black Herran’s eyes narrowed, but Maeven showed no outwards sign she knew both men were one and the same. She would have expected anger and accusations if so, but there was nothing.
“Good,” Lorimer said. “As soon as their leader is dead, the Lucent grip on Fade’s Reach will crumble. I will have my home back.”
Red specks appeared on Black Herran’s sleeve as another coughing fit racked her. “Locate Jerak Hyden and tell him to liaise with Tiarnach and the militia volunteers. It is time to distribute his potions.”
Tiarnach and Red Penny waited with the dozen crazed fools of the militia who had volunteered to take part in the mad alchemist’s schemes. Most had already lost loved ones in the battle for the wall or had nobody in the first place. Tiarnach was applying his war paint and daydreaming of better times when a small child grabbed hold of the end of his scabbard.
Tug tug.
He didn’t bother looking down and instead swatted a lazy hand at her. She backed away for a moment before creeping back.
Tug tug.
He pulled the scabbard from her grip and snarled down at her, the war paint gifting him a savage visage. “What is it, brat?”
Red Penny turned and glared at him, a warning on her lips.
It was a plump dark-haired girl of six or seven heavily layered against the cold, and she had tied sticks and part of a broken chair to her dress aping the cobbled-together armour of the militia. She swallowed and held up an eating knife in one hand and a fork with the other. “I fight too, Mr God.”
His snarl faltered. “Whit?”
A little boy shuffled up behind her, similarly armed with a wooden spoon and a bowl precariously balanced atop his head. The girl prodded him and both lifted their weapons, a gesture he assumed was meant to appe
ar fierce. “Rarr!” she said. “We brave warriors. Da says the gods protect Tarnbrooke and not to worry, but we come help you, Mr God.”
His snarl died. He was of the opinion that most people were selfish shits, but these children didn’t deserve to suffer what was happening to their home, and he didn’t want the likes of Jerak Hyden anywhere near them either. “Here now, are you two not a mite small to be on the walls?”
They pouted and their eyes turned watery. Red Penny poked him in the ribs, frowning.
“Ahaha, right,” he said. “Nah, I see now you’re brave wee bastards.”
Red Penny crouched down. “Can we trust you two to guard the town elders? That’s a very important job.”
The boy silently nodded, bowl wobbling. The girl frowned, far from convinced.
“See this lot,” Tiarnach said, nodding at the militia members. “Bunch of stinking lackwits. Can’t even pee without my help. You two though, you are this here god’s own guards, and I can’t trust any o’ these cunts to guard a cup of ale.”
Red Penny winced at his language and ushered the children away towards the town’s temple, the strongest building in Tarnbrooke where many of the non-combatants would lock themselves away until the battle was over.
“The war god entrusts you with guarding the old folks and the babies inside here,” Red Penny explained. “Don’t let Tiarnach down now.”
“We promise,” the children said in unison, pudgy hands grimly clutching their weapons as the town’s older inhabitants dragged them inside to safety. If any place in the town could be called that.
Penny returned and scowled at Tiarnach. “You have a real way with children. A god should know better.”
He shrugged. “What am I supposed to say? Wee ones are barely smarter than dogs, ’cept far stickier. They don’t even do good tricks.”
She rolled her eyes and was about to scold him further when she spotted Jerak Hyden approaching the militia volunteers. His eyes were tired and red and he had taken to wearing a thick travelling cloak sewn with many pockets, leather gloves and a wide-brimmed hat that cast his face into shade. He carried a heavy basket filled with small jars.
“Ah shit,” Tiarnach muttered.
“Hello everyone,” the alchemist said. “Are you ready to partake of my genius?”
Eight men and four women milled around uncertainly.
“Be certain,” Penny said. “There will be side effects.”
“What of it?” Jerak Hyden said. “Power always comes with a price.” He held up a jar. “Drink this and it will make you swift and strong and you will feel no pain.”
“It might kill you,” Penny added.
The alchemist’s eye twitched. “You are all likely to die anyway. You may as well take more of the enemy with you.”
“Man makes a good point,” Tiarnach added. “For once.”
“I’ll take it,” a farmer said, reaching for a jar.
Penny grabbed his arm. “Are you sure, Daved?”
He shook her off. “I just want to kill the bastards. My town, my decision.”
“That’s the spirit, my good man!” Jerak Hyden said. “Drink it down five minutes before battle is joined.” With that, the others took their own jars and the deed was done.
“What of your other weapons?” Tiarnach asked.
The alchemist carelessly tossed his empty basket aside. “Already on the wall and ready for deployment. Lorimer Felle’s manservant and some young fellow with a fine moustache collected those earlier.”
“Right then,” Tiarnach said, herding the special militia towards the southern wall. “Are we all ready to kick the Lucent Empire in the stones and hack off some heads?”
Jerak Hyden watched the mindless brutes scurry off on their menial tasks. He calculated there was little chance he would see any of them ever again. Black Herran had requested his skills for the coming battle, but he had taken the liberty of doubling the dosage. It would result in almost certain death for those who imbibed it, but the ferocious effects would suit his own purposes far better. In times long past, she would not have cared what he did as long as it proved effective, but this tame demonologist was most unpalatable. Her newfound qualms were beyond his ken or his caring.
He scurried back to his workshop, now emptied of all useful supplies, powders and assistants, with only his newest creation sitting under a canvas in the corner. On a worktable, his captive vampire mewled and bubbled beneath its bloodstained sheet. The noise irritated him. Nobody in this accursed place understood the joy of quiet study and contemplation, or his pressing need for it. His belly rumbled at the smell of blood, and it occurred to him that he had forgotten to eat again. His tastes had changed somewhat over the last few days: he craved meat, the fresher the better.
He lit candles and lanterns, wincing at the increase in light, then took a knife and bowl and whipped back the sheet. The vampire’s arms and legs were regrowing, nubs of new limbs sprouting like plant shoots. It piqued Jerak’s interest, but with armies to the north and south he was forced to prioritise survival. If only he had more supplies to craft a truly magnificent alchemical weapon… but even the resourceful Black Herran could not be expected to provide all he needed on such short notice. He sighed and slit open the test subject’s torso, collecting the thick blood that dribbled out. He set it down and then removed the canvas from his new war machine in the corner of the workshop.
Brass and steel rods had been arranged like a crude human skeleton, all gleaming blades and spikes. Gently glowing smoky quartz eyes followed his every movement. He flipped open a metal flask inside steel ribs and poured in the vampire blood, topping up its power supply. Red veins flushed through the quartz as its eyes brightened. He cackled and stepped back, taking in the exquisite sight of the very first artificial human.
All these years of thought experiments while locked away in Hive, trying to solve the power problem of converting intangible magic to physical mobility, and Lorimer Felle had unwittingly provided the answer – the body of the vampire served as a crucible, and its magic-rich blood became a potent source of power. If he could replicate that process in a more methodical manner then a new age of progress would dawn. Mankind would be as the gods: immortal, no longer a slave to the needs and fleeting desires of the flesh.
He had no time to attempt to graft a human consciousness into this initial body, or to create an exquisitely crafted artificial mind patterned on his own, but it was far more durable than flesh and bone. He hoped it would be strong enough to aid his escape from this doomed town.
His hands were shaking. His jaw ached and his eyes burned. The alchemist made a tiny cut in his forearm and poured the dregs of vampire blood remaining in the bowl over the wound. He shivered in pleasure as hot magic surged through his veins. He had been taking tiny doses ever since he had acquired the test subject, and was confident that his powerful mind would hold strong and stable if the change was less sudden. He needed to survive and escape Tarnbrooke intact, for the mind of Jerak Hyden, genius and master alchemist, was far too important to the world.
CHAPTER 36
It was eerily quiet on the walls, despite so many townsfolk packed onto them. Deathly silent and despairing, they watched the Lucent army formations advance on them from the south, a dread beast of white tabards and shining steel. They looked glorious and terrible in the sunlight, a far cry from the mud and blood splattered defenders of Tarnbrooke. They made the Lucent soldiers they had already defeated seem like amateurs. The heavy infantry was organised into ten precise squares marching in step, each led by an inquisitor in full plate harness with a half dozen robed acolytes bringing up the rear, providing magical protection and healing. At the head of this army, escorted by more holy knights, marched the Falcon Prince himself, radiating wrath. His sheer presence demanded the townsfolk fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness.
One of the townsfolk did just that. Amogg seized him by the throat and tossed him back into town, uncaring if the fall broke his neck. Nobody else da
red repeat his mistake.
The Falcon Prince had arrived at Tarnbrooke with two thousand elite killers at his back, veterans of his many conquests and purges. All mercy had been scoured from them long ago.
Verena Awildan turned away from the sight and her loyal pirates helped her down from the wall, her little slynx curled tight around her shoulders. She cradled her bandaged stump as she approached Lorimer Felle and his manservant. The vampire lord was washed and neatly dressed and standing in quiet contemplation. Estevan was uncharacteristically unkempt, his hat battered and stained, tired eyes peering from beneath the rim. Messengers rushed to and from him as he organised the logistics of the defence.
She ignored the vampire and instead caught Estevan’s attention. “You must remove the defenders from the palisade,” she said. “I have told you of my battle on the sea. The men and women lining these walls only invite their own death: golden flame will sweep across the top and scour all life from it.”
Estevan considered the rough defensive wall they had thrown up around the town in only a few weeks. “I am aware that a simple ditch and log palisade will not hold for long against such an army, but one might pray green wood will prove more durable than the seasoned planks of Awildan ships. I have discussed this with Tiarnach and Amogg and we are agreed that their likely course of action will be to breach it with fire and storm the gaps instead of making any attempt to scale it all. I assure you, those stationed on the top will mostly be for show.”
Verena nodded and adjusted her bandages. “Your mind has always been wasted serving that big lump of a vampire.”
Lorimer Felle didn’t object, and instead a small smile played across his lips. “Amogg, Tiarnach and myself shall hold them at the breaches,” he said, “if, of course, Black Herran and Maeven can ward off the worst of that golden flame. If they cannot, then it will likely prove a disappointingly short battle.”
“What of Jerak Hyden and his creations?” Verena asked, mouth twisting with distaste as if she’d bitten into a sour lemon. “I don’t see the little rat scurrying about.”
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