by Duncan Pile
Antoine followed the last of the vaergs through the gap and found what was left of the defenders. Swallowing hard, he took in the grisly sight of torn and dismembered bodies as his men fanned out behind him. Most of the vaergs had already sped off to find fresh prey, but one or two had stayed behind to tear the throats from their last, living victims.
Seeing Antoine, they growled deep in their throats, eyeing him menacingly before turning tail and bounding after their den-mates. A man lay near Antoine’s feet, his guts spilling from a ragged wound in his belly. His breath was gurgling in his throat, and his eyes widened when he saw Antoine. Bending down, Antoine withdrew his dagger and opened the man’s throat. Within moments he was dead.
“Look what we have here!” Smithson said, pulling a broken old table from the barricade to reveal a woman, cowering against the wall. She held a dagger, but her hand was shaking so badly she almost dropped it. Smithson took it from her and grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet.
“Don’t hurt me,” she cried, but Smithson pushed her against the wall, slicing the ties of her leather jerkin with a jerk of her own blade.
Antoine had seen enough. “Stop that, Smithson,” he growled.
“Leave off Antoine,” Smithson spat, ripping her jerkin and blouse open and exposing the freckled skin of her breasts. “I only need a minute or two.”
“I said stop it!” Antoine barked. “That’s an order.”
Smithson turned to face him, his face flushed and angry. “What’s your problem? This is war, and in war a man gets his spoils.”
The captured girl chose that moment to lash out at Smithson, kicking him hard in the back of the knee and sprinting off even as his leg collapsed beneath him.
“Stop her!” he cried, but Antoine was having none of it.
“The first man to move dies,” he growled, drawing his sword and levelling it at Smithson. Antoine saw the flash of intention in Smithson’s eyes before he attacked, launching himself from the ground and reaching for Antoine’s throat. Antoine had all the time in the world. Taking a quick step backwards, he chopped Smithson’s head off with a single swipe of his sword. It fell to the ground with a wet thud and rolled to one side. Smithson’s eyes were frozen in a permanent expression of surprise.
“Anyone else?” Antoine hissed, looking around at his men. They glanced at each other and shook their heads. “Good. Now listen to me and listen well. There will be no rape. Kill the enemy – that is what you’re being paid for – but if anyone so much as touches a woman, I will feed him his own cock. Understood?”
The men grunted their assent.
“Then let’s catch up with the vaergs. We have a job to do. At the very least, these people deserve to be killed by a human being.”
Thirty-four
Emmy was beside herself with worry when the first casualties arrived – two guardsmen, one with terrible wounds to the chest and the other missing an arm. She rushed to the second man’s side and started working immediately. The arm was beyond healing but if she acted quickly she could still save his life. She summoned power and blocked his pain. Moaning with relief, the guard stopped writhing and let her get to work. She placed her hands on the blood-slicked stump, ignoring the sudden wave of nausea as she touched jagged bone and ruined flesh. Healing power arose in her and flowed into the wound, sealing off the severed blood vessels and nerve endings. She rounded the exposed bone and called forth a layer of flesh and skin, which closed over the wound. Moments later, she lifted her hands to reveal a smooth, pink stump.
“Attendant,” she called, summoning a grey-robed volunteer to her side. “The restorative please, and then move him to the recovery ward.” She turned around without waiting for a response, just as another casualty was stretchered into the infirmary. It was Jaim.
“Lilly,” she cried, and rushed to Jaim’s side, the elemental scampering along at her feet. “I’ll take this one,” she said, levitating him from the stretcher and drawing him across the room to the nearest empty bed.
“Emmy,” he moaned as she lowered him to the mattress. “It was a demon.”
“Don’t worry Jaim, I’ve got you,” she said, reaching out with her power and soothing his pain. He gasped in relief. “Don’t move,” she said, peeling back bloody strips of clothing and examining the wound in his gut.
“How bad is it?” he asked, unable to hide the fear in his voice.
Emmy was busy exploring the wound with her senses and didn’t answer. It looked bad – his flesh was a mess of long, bloody ribbons – but as she probed deeper it became clear that none of his major organs had been damaged. The demon had lacerated flesh and muscle, but hadn’t caused mortal damage. “Lilly,” she urged, and the spirit began to glow with a soft blue light. Emmy yielded to elemental power, giving it voice as it flowed from her mouth. She began to chant, syllables of power that were beyond her understanding and yet came to her without effort or conscious thought. Jaim’s wounds started to heal. Torn muscles knitted together before her eyes until the flesh was restored and a layer of skin had re-formed. Elemental power began to ebb and Emmy spoke the last few syllables before the chant concluded with a soft, upward cadence. The healing was complete.
“You’re all done,” she said. Tentatively, Jaim sat up, running his hand over his belly.
“Thanks Emmy,” he said, pushing himself off the bed and rising to his feet.
“Where do you think you’re going? You need to take a restorative and recover your strength.”
Jaim shook his head. “Jonn needs me. I can’t lie abed while the battle rages.”
Emmy nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Then go, and try not to get injured again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jaim said before rushing out through the infirmary doors.
…
Jonn ducked into an alley to catch his breath, dropping to his heels behind a stack of barrels. The battle had run to chaos. Enemy and friend alike rushed through the streets, brandishing their weapons and leaping into the fray. Jonn had killed a dozen men already. His hands were slick with blood, his arms numb with weariness. He wiped his hands on his undershirt and set about cleaning the grips of his swords – he’d almost died in that last fight, when a blade had slipped in his hand. He waited a moment longer, listening to the nearby cries of pain and anger. He had to get back out there.
Releasing a controlled breath, he stepped cautiously into the alley, looking both ways. Combatants ran past its entrance, silhouetted by the glow of burning buildings, but the alley itself was empty except for Jonn and one other person, limping in his direction. Jonn tensed, raising his blades, but the faint glow of a nearby lamp revealed the trappings of a guardsman’s uniform. One of ours!
“Hey! Over here!” he whispered, beckoning to the man, who was clearly injured.
The guard saw him and lifted a hand, stumbling fully into the light. “Erik!” Jonn cried, recognising his friend. It was Erik who’d helped him reach the college when he’d first travelled to Helioport, thereby saving Gaspi’s life. Erik stretched out his hand and Jonn almost took it, but something in his friend’s eyes gave his pause. He stepped away, eyeing Erik warily. “Erik, are you okay?” The black malevolence looking back at him was not his friend.
“Snatcher,” Jonn moaned. The thing that had once been Erik leapt at him. Jonn only just brought his swords up in time, casting the demon away with a hot, angry sizzle as the enchanted blades bit deep. It’s not Erik, he reminded himself, sliding into a defensive stance. He mustn’t let it touch him or he would share his friend’s fate. The demon lunged at him, arms reaching, but Jonn took a side-step and lopped them off with a single downswing of his swords. The beast turned towards him, apparently unaware of its injury, blackened stumps lifted. Determined to end this quickly, Jonn raised his right-hand blade and brought it down on Erik’s neck with all of his strength.
He choked back a sob as his friend’s head hit the ground, followed closely by his body, freed from the monster that had animated it moments
before. A black mist began to rise from the corpse, coalescing into a dark, humanoid shape. Red eyes glared at him balefully, but without a body to possess it had no power to harm him. Fell light glowered from a lattice of deep cracks, covering its face and torso, but even as he watched it dimmed in his sight. The demon was fading, losing its grip on this plane of existence. Moments later there was just a dark outline, suspended above the ground, and then it was gone.
Tears in his eyes, Jonn dragged Erik’s body behind the barrels and placed the severed head in the corpse’s lap. If he survived the battle, he would come back for the body and give Erik a proper burial. Rising wearily to his feet, Jonn dipped his head in sorrow before turning his back and heading towards the battle.
…
Lydia ran through the streets with the fire spirit flying overhead, chasing a pair of Bale-beasts. She’d seen them glide into the alleyway, and was determined to stop them before they found their prey. Bale-beasts were invulnerable to even the most potent strikes and couldn’t be hurt by ordinary weapons, but they were vulnerable to fire, which made Lydia their worst enemy.
There they were, rounding another corner up ahead. Lydia sprinted after them, the fire spirit’s energies flooding her. She began to chant, yielding to the flow of elemental magic, and great balls of flame gathered at her hands.
A loud scream sounded from nearby. Her heart in her throat, Lydia rushed round the corner and saw the Bale-beasts hunching over a cowering magician. “Hey!” she yelled, hoping to draw the creatures away from their victim. Both demons swivelled and, seeing Lydia’s hands wreathed in flame, turned to flee. Lydia followed, waiting till they were well clear of the magician before thrusting out her hands. She cried out, yielding to a mighty yawp of elemental magic, and struck the demons with a stream of flame. They never had a chance, withering before the fiery onslaught, writhing and bellowing until they folded in on themselves and disappeared.
Lydia rushed back to the fallen magician and found to her enormous relief that she was okay. She didn’t know her by name but had seen her training with Gaspi and Taurnil. Lydia helped her to her feet.
“Thank you,” the woman said in a trembling voice. Her hands were shaking and her face was pale.
“Where’s your warrior?” Lydia asked.
“Dead,” the magician said. “I should get back to the battle.”
“Then go,” Lydia said, “and if you see any more of those things, run. They prey on magicians.”
The woman nodded. “What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“I owe you my life, Lydia,” she said, holding her gaze for a moment before turning her back and heading the way Lydia had come.
Lydia jogged in the opposite direction, determined to find and kill the rest of the Bale-beasts.
Thirty-five
What would you have me do? Ferast asked, speaking mind to mind with his Master. He had brought Sestin an army, but he was no war-leader. He knew nothing of such things and had handed the reins to Antoine, whose battle experience was sufficient to command a large force. Ferast had been more than happy to pass on that duty – leadership was a burden he could do without, but Sestin was yet to assign him a duty, which concerned him greatly. Had his Master lost confidence in him? If so, his life was as good as over.
Ferast waited in tense silence until Sestin responded. We have spoken of the dJin, held captive in the college cellars.
Yes, Master.
It’s time to set them free. Release them and let them loose among the enemy.
As you wish, Master, Ferast said, flooded with relief.
You are not to interfere with the Nature Mage, even if he crosses your path. He is mine to deal with.
Of course, Master.
Another pause. Then go.
Cloaking himself in invisibility, Ferast left the tent. The quickest way to reach the tower would be to slip through the battle unseen. Thousands of men were gathered on the plain in a giant, quarter-moon formation. Half the army had entered the city with orders to flush the defenders out of their hidey-holes, and the other half waited, ready to encircle the army of Helioport when they were driven through the gates. Ferast moved silently across the plain, choosing to remain invisible as he skirted the amassed force. He stuck close to the wall, following its curve until he reached the ruined gateway and entered the city. The streets were eerily quiet, strewn with motionless bodies. He had to move carefully to avoid slipping on the blood-slicked cobblestones. The harsh clang of metal on metal sounded from somewhere ahead, deep within the city. It sounded like the defenders had dug in, but Sestin wanted them out in the open. Ferast knew that if he turned the tide of battle he’d earn his Master’s favour.
He took the quickest route through the city, following the broad, curving boulevard that led directly from the gate to the college. It was easy enough to move without attracting attention at first, but it wasn’t long before he had to navigate through pockets of fighting at the rear of the battle. The streets were thick with bodies. Guards battled mercenaries, demons fought magicians; everywhere he looked blood was being spilt. He was seized by a sudden thirst for violence, but he resisted the impulse and stuck to his task, making his way up to the college gate, where the fighting was thickest.
Men, vaergs and demons surged against each other, swords and claws flying. Even as he watched, the enormous, leggy demon Sestin had called a Thrace stepped right over the wall and thrust its long, cruel beak into a defender’s spine. The man spasmed, his arms and legs splayed as the demon reared up. It grabbed the man’s legs in one of its claws and his neck in the other, ripping him apart with a sharp jerk of its shoulders, raining blood and viscera down on the surging melee below. It tilted its head back and let out a grating screech, blood running down its beak and pooling in the empty hollows where its eyes should have been.
Gathering itself, it lunged at a second guard, piercing his chest with another sharp stab of its beak. The defenders broke ranks and ran and the mercenaries streamed through the gate, spilling out into the college. Ferast smiled tightly to himself. He would enjoy watching the desecration of the College of Collective Magicks.
He let the tide of men carry him through the broken gateway, ducked into a side street and headed straight for the tower. Ignoring the sights and sounds of battle around him, he made quick progress along the narrow streets until a mercenary backed around a corner and knocked the wind out of him. The man spun around in confusion, but Ferast was invisible to his eye. Feeling a surge of anger, Ferast drew power and cast a pain strike at his unwitting target. The mercenary didn’t see it coming but cried out hoarsely as the magic took hold of him. His sword flew from twitching fingers as he fell to the ground, writhing in white-hot agony. Smirking to himself, Ferast moved on, leaving the man in the lingering throes of his spell. For a fleeting moment he feared the use of dark magic might give him away to nearby magicians, but the air was sizzling with arcane energy, and even Sestin would be hard put to pinpoint a specific spell. A trio of defenders entered the alley ahead of him and rushed past, heading towards the fallen mercenary. Ferast let them go, hurrying instead towards his destination.
At long last he reached the foot of the tower. Its gate was bolted shut, and if the intense tingling in his gut was anything to go by, it was protected by a number of potent enchantments. Ferast reached out with his senses, testing the strength of its magical defences. After a moment his lips twisted into a smirk. There were five spells in all, creating a barrier that Hephistole might consider impregnable, but the chancellor hadn’t taken into account the focii Ferast carried with him at all times, which greatly amplified the power of his spells. Ferast explored the gateway’s protective enchantments more carefully, and discovered that each spell was tightly interwoven with the other four, emanating from a single point where all five spells were anchored – a magical knot, of sorts. No doubt each spell was carefully chosen, requiring great subtlety if you countered them on their own terms, but he had no intention of trying to p
ick this lock. He would simply overload it.
Ferast drew deeply on one of his focii and formed a force strike, which swelled to enormity in his palm. He focussed on the magical knot that held all five spells together and lashed out with the strike, which struck the gate with a loud, magical detonation. The defensive spells shattered, flinging out arcane energies that battered Ferast like a gale and sent him tumbling to the ground. Grimacing, he climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. He should have anticipated some kind of backlash. Still, his strike had been effective, smashing through the tower’s defences and reducing the door itself to a thousand scattered shards.
He moved cautiously inside the Atrium, maintaining his spell of invisibility; if anyone had remained to guard the tower, smashing the gate down was bound to bring them running. It was empty. Ferast hurried towards a door on the far side, his footsteps sounding loudly on the polished, marble floor and echoing around the cavernous entrance hall. He made it to the doorway, grabbed its rough, oaken handle and swung it open. A stairway led down into total darkness. Summoning a globe light, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He descended the stairs and reached the dusty floor of the long, low-ceilinged cellar. He paused to get his bearings. To his left was an enormous, empty weapons rack, stretching the width of the entire room. There were stands for armour too, and a stack of shelves that emanated a faint magical residue – all of them empty now. He turned away from the rack and started down the room, peering around for any sign of the dJin. What if they’d been moved…or destroyed? Ferast shivered, dreading to think how Sestin would react if that was the news he had to deliver.
There! Another door, at the far end of the cellar, illuminated now by the glow of his summoned light. He hurried forward and discovered it was secured by a second magical lock; the equal of that which had guarded the Atrium. Ferast felt a thrill of excitement. Whatever this room contained was either precious or dangerous. He stood well back this time, summoning a protective shield before drawing up a force strike and casting it at the lock. It exploded with great force but Ferast’s shield held firm, protecting him from the fierce arcane blast.