by B R Crichton
“Bless you, Caspar Gillen!” he shouted, assuming that the Eritanian had sent the archers to his aid. The Jendayans looked up in panic as the arrows rained down, picking them off as they stood, exposed in open ground. No more were coming over the barricade now, with archers firing into the area beyond and sending the attackers running.
The market was cleared in minutes, and the last of the ‘Remnants’ began returning to the barricade. Alano looked up to greet his saviours.
“The dock is lost,” a man called from the rooftops. “All units are to head north to support the Heavy Infantry there.” There were some two and a half thousand Heavy Infantry to the north of the docks defending the main force from an outflanking manoeuvre.
“Are all the ships in?” he asked.
“They are that,” he said grimly, “and those last few arrived unhindered by us. Fate knows how many came off them.”
“Thank you,” he called out, belatedly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” the reply came with a humourless laugh, “you have not seen what awaits you.”
Alano clambered to the top of the barricade. The whole dock was ablaze now, with the ships burning like funeral pyres. The air was thick with smoke and falling ash, glowing embers like fireflies in the gloom.
He saw, then, the body of Dimas Malmotti. The man was lying on his back with his sword still in his hand. He could have been sleeping for the look of peace on his face, but the blood that had pooled from a wound in his side told Alano all he needed to know. There were bodies all about the master swordsman. He had not died cheaply, but Alano could not help feeling that if the archers had arrived minutes earlier, he may still be alive. And so might most of his men.
He chastised himself for even having the thought. That way lay only bitterness. He should be thankful that he was alive. But as he led his men past the resting place of the one-time drunkard, he could not help feeling a deep sadness for the anguish that had driven the man to such an end. Perhaps he had banished his demons with that last stand against those that had murdered his family. Alano would never know. He could only hope that the man had found peace in his final moments.
That was all anyone could hope for.
Truman watched as the Heavy Infantry were pushed back from the canal. They were exhausted from the constant flow of Jendayan footsoldiers willing to throw themselves against the armoured wall. Like cliffs besieged by the sea, the Korathean men were crumbling.
Truman was himself exhausted, watching the scene with Valia from the gentle rise that led onto the plain. The constant chasing of enemy units that had broken through was beginning to take its toll, and now they were coming from the docks too. It appeared that the ships had broken that defensive line as well, and now their cargo was marching towards the temple to join the main battle. He had a moment to wonder about the fate of the ‘Remnants’ before Marlon arrived at their side.
“Perhaps a thousand horse, and three times as many footsoldiers,” he said, “approaching from the dock. They are following the waterline but there is also an unknown number moving through the city itself.”
“What remains of the defences there?” she asked.
“Very little. What there is left is moving up behind the Jendayans.”
“There is a sizeable force of Heavy Infantry blocking that route. Can they hold?”
“Against the footsoldiers? Almost certainly,” he replied. “But with the mounted men able to outflank them.” He shrugged uncertainly.
“So many,” Truman sighed.
“Do not give up yet, Poet,” she said. “You promised me a ballad. Remember?”
Truman smiled. He had considered asking Valia to leave the battlefield. It was surely lost, and her life added to those already fallen would make no real difference in the end. He had known that it would have been a futile gesture, and one that she would have refused outright, yet it lingered in his mind like a predator circling its prey, waiting for a moment of weakness to make its play. She would never leave, of course, and neither would he if she stayed. There were too many innocents camped on the plain to simply abandon to their fates. Yet now he felt an urge to ensure her safety above all else. The battle was lost. The outcome decided, at least let Valia go free. Why shackle her to this fate with all the others when she could leave now and find safety far away from here? It would not change the outcome, yet, she would be safe.
He knew, of course, what she would have said to him had he suggested it. He even agreed with her, but the thought of her coming to harm was more than he could bear.
“What is our next move?” he asked instead.
“Find Olimar. Gather as many horsemen as we can, and meet their mounted units head on. With a little luck we can hit them before they reach the Heavy Infantry, and what is left of the dock defences will get them from the rear.”
Marlon nodded, and made to leave.
“What is that?” she said, her voice a whisper.
Truman followed her line of sight to the western side of the canal and saw what had caught her eye. “A dust storm?” he said, knowing that it was no such thing.
Granger saw it too. He had been writing in his journal when he glanced at the horizon to the west, and his belly turned to ice. He stood slowly, carefully closing the book, and placing the pen flat on the stool that he had been using. Elan lay in the tent behind him, awake, but unresponsive.
He had been beginning to think that he had been wrong. He had harboured a hope that this invasion was no more than a neighbouring empire expanding its sphere of influence. That deceitful notion had taken root, and given him the foolish belief that they may all merely die at the hands of men this day. What a foolish fancy that was.
Abaddon had merely been toying with them.
Chapter Thirty
Kiritowa Tui watched the battle from his position on a small rise to the north-east of the encampment. He was only two hundred yards from the ruined building, with the enormous archway still straddling the waterway. It put him in mind of many of the similar ruins once found in Jendaya. Only rubble remained now of course. The Emperor, in Kiritowa’s great grandfather’s time had ordered them destroyed as an affront to his rule.
The battle was going well. He had lost many men, but this was to be expected when assaulting an army entrenched as they were.
Emperor Hapatu, Most Blessed Ray of the Sun, would be pleased with the rapid progress he had made. The Korathean Empire had crumbled before his army, with little or no resistance, and once this battle was won, Kor’Habat itself would surely fall.
With the thrill of watching his army force its way across the canal, he had forgotten about the misgivings he had carried with him from Jendaya. The doubts he had felt earlier under Abaddon’s authority were briefly gone from his mind while he filled it instead with strategic matters.
He heard the strange buzzing sound before the first of the terrified screams.
He turned to see the black swarm that Abaddon had brought down, rising into the air like countless black bees. The swarm boiled in the air, rolling incessantly, squirming like so many black maggots on a rotting corpse. It swelled and rolled, moving over the terrified people in the camp. Cooks and washerwomen ran for the cover of their tents with screams that alerted the ranks of soldiers within earshot.
It came down low once it had cleared the tents, and moved towards the canal, at no more than a man’s walking pace, holding itself just above the ground. Then, slowly the black swarm began to turn. It started to spin round on itself, growing taller and taller as it whirled ever faster. It swelled as it grew in speed and height until it measured ten yards across and easily ten times that in height, then it sped into the ranks of Jendayan soldiers.
It hit the first soldiers like a tornado, with a ferocious droning noise. Its black elements cut through armour and flesh as though they were wet tissue, shredding the defenceless soldiers in seconds. It began to weave, this way and that, punching thousands of finger sized holes through whatever stood in its way, spraying
blood and gore in a red mist at its base.
The panic stricken Jendayans began to scatter as they saw their comrades reduced to tatters. The commotion reached the front of the Jendayan ranks in a slow ripple of alarm that built to a wave of hysteria.
Suddenly, the spinning black tower collapsed on itself, falling into a single tight ball of writhing darkness. The buzzing stopped, and there was a moment of silence that rang like a bell, as the ball tightened in on itself. Then, after a pair of heartbeats, the ball burst opened like a black lily, spewing heat from its core that hazed the air and boiled everything in a narrow arc across the terrified ranks. The heat came with a deep bellow that was felt through the ground like a tremor. The black flower turned its fury, this way and that, hosing the terrified soldiers with shimmering death. Those caught in the stream of scorching air burst into flames, dying quickly as their blood boiled in their veins. Men fell to their knees, begging as the black flower breathed death across them in their thousands. They died where they knelt, charred before they could scream, while those caught on the edge of the stream of heat, felt their skin crisp and blacken.
On the pontoons, the soldiers turned to see what was approaching. Some jumped into the water, or were pushed by their surging fellows. Most sank under the weight of their weaponry while others clung to the edge of the pontoon. Others still, huddled together in small groups for shelter.
Powerless to do anything – since, who would follow his orders now anyway – Kiritowa watched Abaddon walk calmly from his tent. The tall, skeletal figure walked slowly along the line cut by the black swarm, heedless of the gore that carpeted the ground from the initial attack. Abaddon walked forward assuredly, the hem of his black robes heavy with blood by the time the carnage turned to ash. The Black flower closed, and settled on the field, a hundred yards from the canal, in the middle of what had been the Jendayan army. Men still fled, running for their lives from the destruction wrought in so short a time. The swarm rotated slowly in a lazy whirlwind, just above the ground, where it waited for Abaddon.
Betrayed!
Abaddon had betrayed them! Brought them here, and then turned his creature upon them.
His anger boiled in his belly. He drew his sword, and urged his mount to charge. Terrified soldiers ran past him, away from the horror on the battlefield. He charged towards it. He cried out with animal rage as he closed on Abaddon, who was fifty yards from the monster that had destroyed his army. He raised his sword, ready to cut the charlatan down, as his horse surged forward.
A single element shot from the gently turning mass, and struck Kirtowa in the forehead. It did not even slow as it passed through the man’s skull, and arced back to re-join the greater mass before he had hit the ground. The horse slowed, feeling its burden lightened, and the heels gone from its ribs. It snorted nervously, trotting past Abaddon, then turned away to put some space between it and the unnatural shadow on the field.
Valia watched with horror, as the black cloud brought chaos to the enemy ranks. The strange sense of relief that she had felt at first when seeing the Jendayans flee, turned to a stomach clenching fear with the realisation that it would not stop with them.
The Jendayans had been devastated. Thousands had died in a few minutes, whole swathes scorched by invisible fire from whatever that thing was that sat waiting across the canal.
Could Granger have been right?
Was it the Daemon?
A figure approached the dark shape. Whoever it was had a calm and assured manner. He – and Valia assumed it was a man – was in no hurry as he walked towards the shape now. Tall. A tall, thin man in black.
“What is it?” Marlon said softly.
“I do not know,” she replied. A strange hush had fallen over the battlefield. The initial screams had died down, as those fleeing saved their breath for running. The rest stood watching; an uneasy truce between warring parties as both waited with rapt fascination and horror for what would happen next.
“That story that Granger told us,” she said. “Could it be true?”
Truman shook his head. “If it is true, then we are all doomed. Is that not what he said?”
“‘Destroyer of Worlds’,” Marlon whispered.
Valia and Truman exchanged a long look.
“No,” she said, “I will not have it.”
“It moves,” Marlon said.
They turned to look at it. The black cloud enveloped the figure that had been walking towards it. It lifted from the ground taking the figure with it, and moved with purpose towards the temple ruin. This caused a nervous ripple to run through the soldiers on the east side of the canal as they backed away from the thing. The buzzing was getting louder as it neared, until it was as though a swarm of bees had engulfed the whole plain. The sound was everywhere, yet the cloud remained distant. It moved towards the temple, coming to a stop midway across the canal with its sluggish waters. It stayed there for a moment, slowly roiling in the air like starlings at dusk.
Then the ground jolted. Men everywhere fell over from the sudden shift beneath their feet. The horses reared in panic, threatening to throw their riders. A deep rumble followed that was felt more than heard. A groan of pain from the core of the world that shook the resolve of those still standing. Many more fell, and horses stamped nervously as their riders tried to settle them with reassurances they scarcely believed themselves.
The water that flowed through the narrow waist of the canal, suddenly heaved upwards. Water over-spilled the canal banks in a tidal wave, washing men and horses away in an irresistible surge. The ground beneath the water that had flowed through the temple for millennia, forced its way to the surface, bridging the gap with solid rock.
Water still spilled from the new land, as the dark cloud began to stir once more. It began to spin on its horizontal axis, slowly at first, but with growing speed. The mass expanded as it sped up, forming a long barrel that revealed the tall figure in its centre. The man stood on air in the eye of the growing tornado, arms held aloft in victory.
More men were overcome by fear, and turned and ran from the sight.
Truman remembered Granger’s words on the day he had told them the story of the Daemon. He did not want to believe it.
“‘All hope is lost’,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper.
Granger watched from the door of the open tent. Abaddon had begun to open a gateway to his own realm. He would release his army of Shar into the world, and then torment every living thing with his cruelty and burn the world to a cinder.
Of course, what Abaddon desired above all else was to instil terror in those he destroyed. That was why he had chosen this place. He had manipulated the Jendayan army into this confrontation, pulling together such large numbers simply to have an audience for his great victory. The Jendayans, Koratheans, refugees and all the assorted defenders would bear witness to his terrifying moment of triumph.
He looked up to try and guess where the Emissary would be watching from.
“Remember these lives well,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Some of them were my friends.”
Alano sprinted for all he was worth. He had left his sword, and abandoned his armour. The historian had been right. This was the end of the world. No other explanation could be found, as hard as he tried. After all the fighting, all the loss and pain and anguish, this was to be their end. He was not alone as he ran, though not all ran in the direction he did in the confusion and fear of the moment.
He raced into the vast camp. Darting through the tents, weaving and jumping guy ropes. He dodged past terrified refugees as he navigated his way to his destination. He was barely aware of the pain in his chest or his aching legs as he pushed on through thousands of shelters on the plain. He was drawn by the sound of singing.
When he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks. His heart almost burst with adoration at the sight.
Casilda had gathered the orphans together in a large group. There must have been a hundred and fifty of them. She h
ad arranged them with their backs towards the canal so that they would not see what was coming, in ranks according to their height. From the front, she led the singing. It was a song he remembered from his childhood, about a young fox that had wondered from its home, and the adventures it had on its journey back. He joined in at the bit where the fox had tricked the beaver into felling a tree across the river so that he could cross it safely, and went to join her at the front of the choir.
She smiled wider when she saw him, but did not stop singing.
He put his arm around her shoulder, and sang louder as she returned the gesture with an arm around his waist. He did not look at the thing above the temple. He could not let any fear show on his face, so he smiled, and squeezed his beloved wife to his side.
They would not die alone.
The tumbling vortex of the Daemon blurred with speed above the ruined temple. Abaddon laughed cruelly as he felt his power again. It felt so sweet to have control of it once more. Far better than the impotence of mortals.
He could feel the power surge as he reached for his realm, and drove a spike into the fabric of reality to link him to another plane. The spinning Daemon bored a hole through to the waiting army of Shar, a sudden flash of light announcing the rent in space that engulfed the whirling mass of darkness that had invoked it. The Daemon spun in the centre of a rift between worlds with Abaddon at its core.
Abaddon laughed louder still, as the Shar began to pour through the gap. They landed on the new ground that had been a waterway only minutes before, pausing as if to sniff the air and get a sense of the new world they would help to consume. Then they launched their sinuous bodies from the temple floor in search of life to crush.
The few men that still stood their ground on the eastern bank steeled themselves against the attacking creatures. The blades of the Heavy Infantry bit deeply into the syrupy ooze of the Shar’s flesh. Limbs were severed by the mighty blows, yet the beasts recovered. Their black, bead-like eyes regarded their horrified prey before resuming the attack.