A muddy boot to the groin sent the other knight reeling backwards, sword flailing and accidently cutting an arm off one of his own soldiers. The blood-drenched warrior came after him, roaring in savage joy: “Tiarnach of the Cahal’gilroy!”
He tossed aside the damaged blade and picked up the dead knight’s finely balanced war sword, then flung himself at the enemy, the Tarnbrooke militia at his back. He hacked off a soldier’s hand and stabbed somebody else in the throat. Power roared through his muscles: the power of belief. This was the power of a god of war. The thrill of battle sang through him and he knew the battlefield was where he truly belonged, not drowning regret and sorrow in scummy alehouses.
An inquisitor at the back of the battle raised his sword and disappeared in a flash of lightning. It flashed again, stabbing down from a still sky to fry three nervous women with kitchen knives held in reserve closer to the centre of town. The holy knight reappeared and beheaded a young man in wooden armour, but not before the man loosed a blood-curdling scream that alerted Black Herran. The inquisitor staggered and leaned against the wall for a moment, apparently wearied by his magical exertion.
Another lightning strike followed, blasting two more reserve militia from their feet, then another. Three inquisitors had bypassed the town’s defences, but appeared temporarily weakened.
Black Herran cursed. “Maeven! Lorimer! Kill them before they do too much damage.”
The vampire charged the closest, fangs and fury, diverting the inquisitor’s attention away from the dazed and blinded townsfolk. He dodged a masterful series of cuts from the man’s burning sword and, quicksilver-swift, darted past with claws extended, his bestial strength rending steel and flesh like it was cloth. He took the knight’s left arm off at the elbow.
The inquisitor screamed and lashed out with his blade, scoring a shallow hit on Lorimer’s bone-plated shoulder. As the man reeled back, blood rhythmically spurting from a ragged stump, the vampire paused to examine his own wound.
The sword had sliced through flesh into the bone, and again the wound refused to heal. Blood gushed down his chest and arm against his will. Armour was useless against their goddess-given magic. Bone and sharp spines submerged below his human skin, the wound remaining a vivid red slash. He reached up and tore off that chunk of his shoulder to expose bare bone, and tossed the charred meat away. New flesh and muscle flowed back in to fill the gap, leaving him with pristine skin once again.
Lorimer grinned at the white-faced inquisitor, fangs extending. “You had the misfortune to face Lorimer Felle, Lord of Fade’s Reach.”
The knight hissed in pain and attacked, ignoring his increasing weakness.
Lorimer admired the man’s courage as he sidestepped the knight’s next blow and punched a hole through his breastplate. But he admired the taste of a human heart even more, he thought as he ripped it free and sank his fangs into the steaming organ.
Maeven’s dark power gathered around the next closest inquisitor, who laughed at her, even as serpents of black mist wrapped around him. “The Bright One protects!” he screamed, cutting down two townsfolk as he raced towards her.
“Not anymore,” Maeven said as her mist seeped through the breathing holes in his helm and into his lungs. “Thanks to previous encounters with your fellows, and my exploration of Tiarnach’s divine nature.”
The inquisitor slowed, staggered and began coughing up blood as his face burst out in yellow pustules. He raised his sword sunward and disappeared in a flash of lightning.
Maeven blinked. “Well, well. That one had enough sense to flee.”
Black Herran noted an accompanying flash behind enemy lines, and a silver figure falling to his knees, vomiting blood. “I suppose they had to have some still able to think for themselves. Will he die?”
Maeven considered that, then shrugged. “Expect the worst and you shall not be disappointed.”
The third inquisitor nearest the town gutted two townsfolk and then fled down an alleyway leading to the centre, murdering all he came across, armed or not.
Black Herran had no time to dwell on it as a tremor knocked her from her feet. The fiery giant figure of the Falcon Prince had been knocked onto his back and Malifer’s huge maul fell like a mountain to pound his chest. The earth shuddered as the Falcon Prince screamed, golden fire and blood seeping from cracks in his armour. For a moment, Black Herran dared to hope it would be that easy.
The next blow hit only earth as the Falcon Prince rolled aside, his own incandescent blade sizzling through a chunk of the demon’s leg. He staggered upright and then forced Malifer back with a flurry of cuts, drawing blood from a dozen shallow wounds.
Smoke belched from the demon’s maw, a roar of fury followed by a clumsy swing. The Falcon Prince ducked and ran the demon through, burning blade piercing pit-forged chest plate and out the back.
Malifer hissed in agony and shoved him away, sliding off the blade and taking several cautious steps back, maul held up defensively. A burning river of demon blood flowed downhill, and Black Herran knew then that the demon general was overmatched by the power of the Lucent Goddess that wrapped around her champion. It was only a matter of time before it was slain. The only question was how much more damage the demon could inflict before it died. Would it weaken the Falcon Prince enough?
Tiarnach and Amogg fought on, wreaking bloody ruin as the militia fell like flies around them. The enemy’s superior equipment and training took a dreadful toll, and they ruthlessly exploited every mistake: every overextended thrust and clumsy attack led to gaping wounds and blood spilled. The defensive lines wavered and the townsfolk were pushed back. One step. A second, carrying them back into the breach in the wall. A third, the Lucent forces battering and breaking spear shafts as steel-shod boots trampled dying men and women into the mud.
Some of the Tarnbrooke militia began foaming at the mouth, their eyes red and bulging, veins prominent and pulsing on necks and faces. The effect of Jerak Hyden’s potions welled up inside the twelve volunteers, turning fear to fury. Hellish screams ripped from their throats as they flung themselves at the enemy like mad beasts, hacking and slashing, biting and clawing, immune to fear and pain. The retreat flipped to a feral assault.
An old shepherd, white-bearded and weathered, tossed his broken spear shaft at a soldier’s face and then darted past Amogg like he was a callow youth. He dodged two sword swings, then leaped over the shield of a scarred northerner and tackled him to the ground. He punched the soldier in the face, denting nose guard and breaking the man’s jaw along with his own wrist. He didn’t show any sign of pain as he shrieked in rage, pounding down again and again. A sword plunged through his chest. He ignored it, hammering down until his prey was dead and his own arm ended in a splintered mess of bone. Then he slid up the blade through his chest and sank his teeth into the throat of the horrified man holding it. Even as another sword split his skull, his teeth ripped out that soldier’s throat.
A lumberjack’s infected chest wound from the first battle lost its heat and the pain faded from his mind. Despite the healer’s words of hope, he knew he was already dead, and the potion gave him one last chance to fell more Lucent bastards. His dead brother’s axe was in his hand as he launched himself forward, hewing at a shield. Inhuman strength shattered the shield and the arm behind it, then caved in the man’s head. A sword took his eye and half his face, another severed his left hand, but it didn’t concern him. He split another skull before falling.
The remaining Tarnbrooke volunteers under the influence of Jerak Hyden’s potions attacked the Lucent army in a frenzy. The militia took heart and steadied their lines, fighting with renewed vigour.
Then Black Herran watched the thirteenth fly into a blind frenzy. Fourteen… fifteen… twenty… screams from the town as frothing red-faced figures of children, the aged and infirm, raced from safety and towards the enemy with knives and clubs in hand.
“What is happening?” Maeven demanded.
“That bastard Jerak Hyden
,” Black Herran spat. “A dozen volunteers was not enough for him. He must have dosed whatever water, wine and food he could find with more accursed potion than he admitted to making. He does not care who he kills.”
The necromancer snorted, “I would not expect anything less of that creature. Verena went to find the little wretch, but she is wounded and unreliable.” She rested a hand on the hilt of her necromantic blade and began walking towards the town. “I will kill that last inquisitor loose behind our defences and then I will deal with the madman myself.”
CHAPTER 38
Verena hated to turn her back on a battle. The clash of steel and the screams and shouts called to her. There was organising to be done, idiots to be led, and cowards to be threatened into compliance. But Jerak Hyden could not be allowed to run free, and her missing hand and burning wound urged her to take that pain out on his disgusting hide. At the moment it was about all she was good for.
Besides, she wanted to get as far away as she could from those two monsters duelling on the hillside above Tarnbrooke. The demon general was being driven back, blackened and bleeding from a dozen wounds. Every blow caused the ground to shake, and the clashing of magical weaponry rolled down the valley like peals of thunder. They might as well be warring gods, and for Verena, being up close and personal to the Kraken had been more than enough of that sort of thing to last her a lifetime. Around her shoulders, Irusen trembled and hid its pretty little head in Verena’s hair. The little slynx hated magic more than the hail, and Verena wholeheartedly agreed.
With Aleeva and three of her crew surrounding her, she marched towards the building where Jerak had set up his workshop. Townsfolk raced up and down the streets, carrying arrows and spare weapons to the defenders, or helping the wounded to safety. A growing number of people were cursing and growing red in the face, punching walls and gnashing teeth. Verena could only think that fear and anger had driven them all mad.
She spotted the little rat of a man poking his head out the doorway of his workshop and shiftily looking left and right, ready to escape. He squinted through dusty spectacles at her and then fled back inside. The sound of a heavy wooden bar being dropped into place followed as he barricaded himself in his hole.
She smiled grimly and kept her good hand on her belt knife. She was going to enjoy slitting the madman’s throat once they winkled him from his shell.
As they approached the doorway Verena began to realise that something was very wrong with some of the townsfolk. People were wailing and tearing out their hair, clutching weapons and howling like enraged animals.
An old man with bloodshot eyes and a matted beard clapped eyes on Verena and her crew. He grabbed a nearby stool and limped towards them, raising it like a weapon. Aleeva raised an eyebrow and waved a pirate forward to take it off him before he did himself an injury.
The salt-scoured crewman grabbed hold of the stool and ripped it from the old man’s grip – or he tried to. He might as well have been trying to take Amogg’s axe right out of her fist. The old man snarled, revealing snaggly brown teeth, and then slammed the stool into the pirate’s face. Shattered splinters of wood and teeth flew as her man was launched backwards to sprawl motionless in the dirt.
“Cut him down,” Verena ordered. Aleeva and the other two pirates drew blades and hacked the old man to pieces. He took a surprisingly long time to die.
Verena studied other townsfolk similarly afflicted, most of them loping towards the south, drawn by the sounds of bloodshed and seemingly unconcerned by the two massive figures pounding away at each other. Sounds of fighting and dying echoed down a nearby alley, the din attracting more deranged and feral townsfolk. “Accursed Jerak Hyden,” she growled. “I warned them this would happen. Get that door open, you salty dogs.”
Aleeva propped her unconscious crewman against the wall and began kicking in the door to the workshop. The old door splintered after the third strike, ready to give way.
“Leave me be!” Jerak squeaked from inside. “Go rob some peasants. I have too much important work to be bothered by ignoramuses.”
“You’ve poisoned the townsfolk,” Verena yelled.
“So?” he shouted, confusion evident in his tone. “They will be far more useful this way. Would you object to a few trees cut from a forest in order to craft a ship? There are always more peasants should you need them.”
“You are a mad dog that needs to be disposed of,” Verena snarled.
Aleeva gave the door one last mighty kick and it slammed fully open, the wooden bar behind it broken in two. Fragments of wood exploded across the room, cracking bottles, shattering vials, knocking over metal bowls and scattering powders all over the floor.
On a bench in the middle of the room, something moaned and twitched beneath a stained sheet. Verena assumed it was yet another of the mad alchemist’s victims.
Jerak hissed in rage and slapped his palm to the back of a bizarre statue of a man worked in crude brass and iron, with blades instead of hands. The eye sockets of the brass skull flared blood-red.
Aleeva rubbed a dark hand over a stubbly, sweating scalp. “What you want done with this one, My Crown?”
“Put him on his knees before me,” Verena said.
Jerak Hyden rolled his eyes. “You are little better than grunting cattle, dull of mind and entirely lacking in imagination.”
Verena smiled thinly. “Oh, my imagination is far from lacking. As you are about to find out.”
He muttered and slipped the iron control circlet onto his head. “Kill them, my golem.”
The metal man shuddered and came to life, its insides whirring and clicking, cogs turning, sparks crackling like a miniature thunderstorm. It raised its arms, blades poised for combat.
The mad alchemist giggled, licked his lips and then grinned. “You are all dirty vermin. To the worms with you.”
The pirate queen drew her belt knife. “Destroy that thing.”
Her two crewmen leapt to obey, swords clanging ineffectively off metal ribs. The golem lashed out, blade-arms whirling, opening a crewman’s arm from wrist to elbow. Aleeva picked up a wooden crate and flung it. The golem staggered under the impact, then righted itself.
“What is this thing?” Aleeva demanded, picking up another crate.
“The future of humanity,” Jerak Hyden said, breathless with excitement. “An end to disease and death. Immortality is now within my grasp!”
One of the pirates backed away from the golem and bumped into the bench in the middle of the room, a steadying hand pressing down on the sheet covering it. He howled as fangs pierced the sheet and bit into his wrist. He staggered away and took the sheet with him, revealing the dissected but still-living torso of one of Lorimer Felle’s vampire spawn.
Aleeva gagged at the sight of the pulsing, exposed pink and grey organs. She opened her mouth to utter a curse but didn’t have the opportunity.
The side of the room exploded inwards, hurling Verena’s first mate into the opposite wall as an armoured knight ploughed through, desperately trying to dislodge a portly middle-aged woman who was headbutting him, her face already a bloody ruin as it repeatedly rammed into his helmet. He wrenched her off and shoved her away. She staggered back and bumped into the gleaming man of brass and iron.
The golem beheaded her.
Verena, Jerak, and the Lucent inquisitor all paused for a moment, staring at each other in shock. Then the room burst into action.
The holy knight’s sword came up and golden flames burst forth to envelop the golem.
Aleeva flung herself to one side as holy magic incinerated the vampire spawn and the two other pirates next to it, torching most of Jerak Hyden’s tools and supplies. The alchemist himself sprinted for the doorway, a single step ahead of fiery death.
Verena remained untouched by the holy fire, the slynx curled around her neck hissing and warding off the magic. She blocked the doorway and the alchemist slammed into her, propelling both outside in a tangle of limbs. The slynx yowled as it was ripped
from her mistress’s shoulders to tumble down the street.
The inquisitor gasped as the golem advanced through his flames, metal bones glowing red and running, its insides steaming. A brass blade lashed out, and he blocked it with ease. The golem’s hand snapped, burning metal spattering the knight’s cuirass. It lifted the broken arm and then cricked its metal head, rods in its neck softening and wilting. Then it enveloped the knight in a bear hug.
The knight struggled but couldn’t escape its metal embrace. The steaming body of the golem sagged over his armour, heating it. The knight screamed as his gambeson charred and his mail began to burn through to the skin beneath. He staggered back and forth, howling as he cooked inside his own armour.
Lightning flashed down through the roof and he vanished in a swirl of steam and smoke, the half-molten golem taken with him.
Jerak Hyden scrabbled to escape the pirate queen’s clutches. He had two good hands but she was tough as old leather. A knee slammed into his belly and her teeth ripped a chunk of meat from his arm. He fell on top of her, screaming and slapping at her face.
His fist cracked into the old woman’s jaw, splitting her lip open. He rose over her, triumphant. Which is when he noticed the hilt of a knife jutting from his chest, and with that came a wave of agony.
He staggered backwards, hands hovering over the knife, unsure if he should leave it in or not – the blood loss would be considerable. “What have you done, you imbecile?” he gasped. “You dare destroy so much wealth of knowledge and progress?”
Verena blinked away the tears and got up onto her knees. “Stuck like a pig,” she cackled. “Finally, the fate you deserve. Whatever you think you know, the world wants it not.” Jerak Hyden fell to his knees staring at the mortal wound. She rose to place her mewling pet back around her shoulders and then walked over to finish the bastard off…
The Maleficent Seven Page 33