Nature's Master (The Nature Mage Series Book 4)

by Duncan Pile

  Its head swivelled towards Helioport and it started forward, covering dozens of yards with each leggy stride. It would reach them in moments.

  “What is that thing?” Trask said as it crunched noisily across the plain.

  Gaspi shared an anxious glance with Hephistole. It wasn’t something they’d seen through the scryer.

  “I don’t know yet,” the chancellor said. “A demon perhaps, though not one I am familiar with.” He turned to Gaspi and Taurnil. “Be ready.”

  “We are,” Gaspi said. Beside him, Taurnil nodded brusquely, hefting his staff into position.

  The beast approached, its clawed feet leaving great gouges in the soil with every stride. Gaspi glanced at Taurnil, seeing in his eyes the same mingled trepidation and determination he felt at the thought of tackling such a creature. He tensed, ready to draw power, but it came to a stop on the plain, beyond the range of arrow, spear or spell.

  Its baleful gaze scoured the line of defenders atop the wall until it came to rest on the group above the gate. “I see you, Hephistole.” The voice issuing from its mouth whistled and roared, like a gale rushing through a canyon.

  “Sestin!” Hephistole gasped, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the wall in front of him.

  The creature raised enormous, bony arms. “This golem will be my hands and feet today. I will shred with its claws, tear with its tusks, and by nightfall I will have riven the flesh of all you love.”

  Furious, Gaspi drew power. Sestin might think himself safe at such a distance, but he had underestimated the strength at Gaspi’s command. The golem’s enormous head swivelled towards him. “At long last I lay eyes upon the Nature Mage. You escaped the Darkman but you will not escape me.”

  “Do your worst,” Gaspi spat, thrusting out his hand. An immense spear of lightning lanced through the air, streaking towards the golem’s head. The beast lifting a taloned hand in defence, and Gaspi’s spell struck it on the wrist with an almighty detonation. For a moment Gaspi thought he’d damaged it, but the golem shook it off, unhurt but for a scorch mark.

  “You will pay for that,” Sestin hissed, turning to face the copse it had emerged from and raising a giant, skeletal arm. When it spoke again, its words were amplified to near-deafening volume, caroming off Helioport’s walls and carrying across the plain. “Come forth!”

  “Gasp!” Taurnil hissed, as a tide of creatures scampered, flapped and oozed from the woods. The first to emerge looked like ordinary creatures, but Gaspi knew better. They were Snatchers – demons that could kill with a single touch and possess the bodies of their victims. No matter what followed them, the Snatchers would be among their deadliest enemies. Orders had already been given to that effect – they must not be allowed to reach the wall or death would walk among them, wearing the face of a friend. Anything that flew was to be the archers’ primary target.

  Behind the Snatchers came an eyeless, leggy demon that was almost as tall as the golem, all pincers and claws with a razor-sharp beak. Gaspi had seen it through the scryer, and knew it would make a formidable foe.

  “That one’s ours,” he murmured to Taurnil.

  Next came a horde of Imps, emerging from the copse in a seething rush. All too clearly, Gaspi remembered the way they’d shredded a tree to pulp in a matter of moments. He hated to think what would happen if they reached the defenders. Bale-beasts followed, seven of them in all, their leaden bulk gliding over the ground. They posed a grave threat to Helioport’s magic-users, but also had a crippling vulnerability to fire.

  “Leave the Bale-beasts to me,” Lydia said. Gaspi nodded. With the fire spirit at her side, there was no-one better-equipped to deal with them.

  Next came a pair of huge, slug-like demons, long pallid bodies bunching and stretching as they oozed across the ground, leaving bubbling trails of destruction in their wake.

  Gaspi moved to Hephistole’s side. “Look at the damage they do. We have to stop them before they reach the wall.”

  “Right,” Hephistole said, and within moments orders had been dispatched to several of the battle-mages. The slugs were to be dealt with at a distance.

  Still the demons came, spilling from the copse and swarming towards the city. Some were new to Gaspi, summoned no doubt since the destruction of the scryer. Two in particular drew his attention – a floating cloud of noxious-looking mist that dispersed and drew itself back together at will, and a many-legged beast of great length, vicious spines standing from each section of its segmented carapace. He pointed this second demon out to Taurnil. “I think that one’s ours, too.”

  “Nasty-looking thing,” Taurn said as it sped across the ground, side-winding like a snake. Its head was flat and wide, its mouth a horizontal gash.

  Along with the demons came a flood of vaergs, baying with excitement as they teemed from the woods. They reached the golem and came to a stop, snarling at the defenders with barely restrained bloodlust. Among them were five larger vaergs, each of which was at least twice the size of an ordinary beast. Gaspi shared a glance with Hephistole. They’d faced one of these monsters before during the first siege of Helioport. It had been intelligent, taking direct orders from Sestin. Its mission had been to capture Hephistole and transport him to Sestin’s lair, which it would have achieved if not for Gaspi. The five brutes before them were clearly some kind of captains, keeping the rest of the bloodthirsty vaergs in line.

  Taurnil growled at the sight of them. “The last time I faced one of those beasts, it escaped me.”

  “Not this time,” Gaspi said.

  “No. Not this time.”

  The demons gathered around the golem but didn’t advance – a frothing, bristling mass that was seething with aggression. Some of the Imps broke free of the rest and surged in the direction of Ferast’s mercenary force, but a sharp command from the golem brought them quickly back in line. Demons and vaergs alike shot hungry glances at the troops but none of them attacked, such was the power of Sestin’s command. Ferast’s mercenaries on the other hand were clearly perturbed, eyeing the demonic horde with their hands on their weapons. Some began to shift uneasily and others to back away.

  “Look!” Gaspi said, grabbing Taurnil’s arm.

  “I bet they didn’t know who their allies were until just now,” Taurnil said.

  “You think they might abandon the field?” Gaspi said, leaning out over the wall.

  For the briefest moment he felt a glimmer of hope, but then a robed figure stepped out from the army and turned to address the gathered troops. He raised his hands and spoke words Gaspi couldn’t make out. Deep in his belly, he sensed the working of powerful magic – a whisper only, subtle and complex, but utterly compelling. Within moments, the mercenaries had settled down.

  “Ferast!” Gaspi hissed, seeing his enemy at last. With Ferast controlling the troops and Sestin compelling the demons to obedience, there was no hope the mercenaries would flee before battle was joined.

  Thirty-one

  Antoine watched in horror as a horde of foul, twisted creatures emerged from the copse. They could only be demons, which meant that Sestin had summoned them – the darkest of arcane rites, condemned across the entire continent. Antoine had worked for some dangerous individuals in his time, but never for someone so reckless or bent on destruction.

  What would this evil brood do to the people of Helioport? Antoine had to assume there were civilians sheltering behind those walls. He’d accepted the harsh realities of war long ago, but handing women and children over to a host of demons was another matter entirely.

  For the first time in his long years as a mercenary, he was frozen by indecision. What was he meant to do here? Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn his back and leave, but how could he do that? He commanded the army. If he were to flee, he’d be in chains before he’d moved a hundred yards, but neither could he take part in what was to come. If he saw a demon attack a child he would defend the child, come what may. Around him, others were murmuring, and Antoine began to under
stand that he wasn’t alone in his misgivings. What if the whole army were to desert the field?

  He turned to Simeon, a man he trusted more than most, but before he could speak Ferast had stepped out in front of the gathered force. He raised his hands and began to speak. His voice washed over Antoine, soothing his discomfort. Afterwards he couldn’t remember a single word the magician had spoken, but somehow his unease had dissipated, leaving him with a steely resolve to lead his men to victory.

  …

  The golem gestured towards the mass of demons. “As you can see, Hephistole, death comes in many guises, but not for you old friend. By the time I’ve finished with you, you will wish you’d been skewered on a demon’s filthy claws.”

  The golem swung around to address the army of mercenaries. “Men of Namert, I offer no mercy to my enemies. Have your fill of blood and death.”

  One of Ferast’s men – a warrior dressed in unrelieved black – raised a huge, wicked-looking scimitar and barked an order. An almighty cacophony broke out as thousands of men voiced a fierce battle cry, banging their swords against their shields. The sound built; a uniform rhythm that Gaspi could feel reverberating through the stone beneath his feet. The man in black spun around and thrust his sword towards the city. “Attack!” he roared, and the army rushed to obey. There was no sense of order, no disciplined march to battle. These were mercenaries, a rag-tag company of killers, out for what they could get.

  All along the wall archers raised their bows. “Not yet!” Trask barked. Gaspi drew power and held it ready. Only when Ferast’s men had tumbled into the spiked pits would they attack. The tension was palpable. All stood ready, some with trembling knees, watching as their enemy surged forward. Gaspi’s heart was pounding. His eyes were on the man in black, who led the charge. Muscular but lean, he moved like a seasoned warrior. He was armed to the teeth, wielding that enormous scimitar and wearing a heavy dagger on his hip. Throwing blades were strapped across his chest. As he neared, the heavy scarring on his face became apparent.

  The golem raised its arm, pointing towards the city with a long, bony finger. “Demons, attack!” it roared. Pandemonium broke out as the demons roared and screamed, taking to the air and rushing across the ground. First among them was the hawk, arrowing towards the battlements.

  “Talmo!” Trask cried, but the tribesman was ahead of him, nocking and releasing an arrow before the beast had covered half the distance. The enchanted arrow shot through the air and obliterated one of the beast’s wings before it even knew it was coming. The golem bellowed in anger as the Snatcher dropped, spiralling madly to the ground.

  “The slugs!” Hephistole warned. Spells shot out from a dozen places at once – brilliant globes of varicoloured light sailing through the air and hitting their target, but the demons didn’t so much as shudder. “Again,” Hephistole cried, and a volley of alternative strikes were cast, but once again they made no impact on the slimy, hunching beasts.

  “Let me try,” Talmo said, drawing back his bow and releasing another enchanted arrow, which soared through the air and plunged deep into the beast’s fleshy hide. It reared up, issuing a high-pitched whistling noise that might have been a scream.

  “Good shot,” Trask said. A sudden sizzling noise broke out, and Talmo threw his quiver to the ground with a cry of pain. It took Gaspi a moment to realise what had happened. The arrow had returned to the quiver, as it was enchanted to do, covered in the beast’s caustic secretions, and the quiver was dissolving before his eyes. Talmo had taken a small burn on the hip but was otherwise okay. “Damn,” he said, nudging the quiver with the toe of his boot to see if any of the arrows were salvageable. Ever so carefully, he bent down and retrieved a single shaft from the bottom of the pile. The rest were damaged beyond repair.

  “I’ll get another quiver,” he said, and rushed down a nearby stairwell.

  Gaspi shook his head in dismay. Losing one of their most powerful weapons before battle had truly been joined was not a good omen.

  A chorus of agonised screams sounded from among Ferast’s troops.

  “The trenches!” Taurnil cried, rushing to the wall. Gaspi joined him, shaping a shield to protect them from stray arrows. All along the wall, Ferast’s troops had fallen into the concealed dugouts and impaled themselves on the sharpened stakes below. Mercenaries milled around in confusion while the man in black barked commands, trying to restore order.

  Gaspi grabbed Trask by the arm. “The spell traps!”

  Trask nodded and signalled to a guard, stationed out of harm’s way for this very purpose. His weapons were still in their scabbards and he held only a sling. Reaching into a sack at his feet, the guard withdrew the first of the spheres. Swamp trap, Gaspi thought to himself, seeing the mark he’d scratched onto its hardened clay surface. Cradling it in the sling, the guard spun it around his head, once, twice and then stepped forward and released it. The spell trap flew long and high, arcing lazily through the air before dropping in the midst of a large knot of mercenaries. All around, men cried out as the ground beneath their feet turned into a sucking swamp, miring them in impassable, slimy mud. Gaspi permitted himself a grim smile. The trap had worked as well as he had hoped, immobilising at least twenty men, some of whom were already up to their waist in muck and sinking deeper by the moment.

  Triggered by the release of the first trap, others were cast into the enemy ranks from carefully selected positions along the wall. Gaspi and Trask had discussed several strategies in the run up to the battle, but Trask’s experience had won out and they’d opted for a simple, fool-proof plan. Trask would order the first release, which would serve as a signal to the other sling-bearers, each of whom would deploy the rest of the traps at will. Even as he watched, more of Ferast’s men became bogged down in freshly formed swamps, forcing the rest of the mercenaries to back away and seek another route to the wall.

  Other traps followed, flung into the densest clusters of the enemy. Thick fibrous roots erupted from the soil and ensnared men by their calves and ankles. Dragged to the ground, the captured mercenaries were ensnared by further wriggling tubers, encircling their arms and torsos. Others tried to rush through the area, but they too were caught and held fast. A man was strangled before Gaspi’s eyes, his face turning black and his eyes bulging from their sockets.

  The lightning traps were cast next, drawing great, blinding bolts from the boiling clouds above and scorching the earth. Charred corpses were thrown into the air and dropped like broken toys, arms and legs protruding at unnatural angles. Gaspi looked on, wracked by internal conflict. The traps were doing exactly what they were designed to do, but it had all been theory up until now. Those were real people dying out there, and the ugliness of their deaths was hard to stomach. He reminded himself it was either them or the people he loved, which strengthened his resolve but brought no comfort. Even now, the last of the spell-traps were being cast. Men cried out in pain as they landed, dropping their super-heated weapons in alarm. When forging the heat-traps, Gaspi had intended to disarm the enemy, burning the flesh from their hands so they couldn’t continue to fight. What he hadn’t anticipated was the effect they’d have on their armour. Chest-plates, chainmail, greaves and plated boots glowed furnace-bright. All across the field, men screamed and shrieked as they were cooked in their armour, their voices giving out at last as their smoking, steaming corpses fell to the ground.

  The smell of charred meat reached the top of the wall and Gaspi turned away, unable to keep the contents of his stomach down any longer. Never had he considered the true horror of the spell-traps’ impact as he’d worked on the enchantments, sealing within them the power to deal death. Dozens, no hundreds of men had lost their lives – strangled by roots, trampled by their fellows, drowned in mud, fried by lightning and boiled alive in their armour as a result of his spell-work.

  Trask placed an understanding hand on his shoulder and helped him straighten up. “It’s done,” he said. “Do not regret it lad. You have given us a chance.” />
  “Trask!” someone bellowed.

  “Come,” Trask said, rushing back to the battle. Gaspi followed, and saw at a glance that the Imps had reached the wall. Nimble on their feet, they’d bypassed Gaspi’s traps and beaten the mercenary force to the city. Already they were scaling the wall, hard little hands digging into the soft stone and tearing a trail of destruction as they climbed.

  “Arrows!” Trask cried. Dozens of archers leaned out and shot at the fast-approaching creatures. Some were dislodged and tumbled away, but others kept on climbing with arrows protruding from their flesh, red eyes glowering with a hungry light.

  "Again," Trask roared, and another flight of arrows peppered the Imps. More of them fell this time, but not enough.

  "Fire at will," Trask cried. The archers abandoned restraint, shooting off arrow after arrow, but the demons were too numerous to stop. The first to rear its head above the parapet was decapitated by one of Sabu’s gleaming scimitars and the second was blasted from the wall by a concussive blow from Taurnil’s staff, glowing fiercely with the light of enchantment.

  The third, however, shrugged off Jaim’s force strike as it were nothing. They’re resistant to magic! A feral grin split its face, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth and a long black tongue. Eyes alight with murderous intent, it flung itself on Jaim, tearing at him with jagged claws.