by Duncan Pile
Stepping over the splintered remains of the door, Ferast entered the room. It took a moment for the dust to settle, but when it did he cried out in satisfaction. Row upon row of cages were stacked against the wall, each of which was covered with a red, velvet drape. Well he remembered seeing such a cage in one of Professor Worrick’s classes! He rushed to the nearest cage and tore away the cloth, revealing the twisted little creature within – a dJin! Its skin was tight and grey, stretched over hard muscle. Its head was overlarge and grotesquely misshapen. A dry, rasping snore emitting from narrow, slit-like nostrils. DJin were the lowliest of all demons – smaller in stature than the imps that fought alongside Sestin in the battle – but they were ferocious, capable of disembowelling a man with a single swipe of their claws. Ferast waved his hand. Red velvet cloths flew from every cage and drifted to the floor. He paced up and down, glancing at the many stacks of cages and finding to his satisfaction that most of them contained a sleeping dJin. There were at least a hundred demons in the cellar, all of which would soon be his to command.
It was he who had spoken to Sestin of the demons in the first place, telling him what everyone in the college knew to be true – a horde of dJin were held captive beneath the tower, where Hephistole and others experimented on them, but no-one knew how they’d come to be there in the first place. On hearing this, the renegade had thrown back his head and laughed – a rare expression of mirth. It was he who had summoned the demons long ago when he had been Chancellor of the college, years before he’d been branded an outcast. Stunned that Hephistole hadn’t destroyed them, Sestin had gleefully set about making plans to use his old pupil’s mistake against him, aiding in the destruction of Helioport.
Ferast reached out with his senses and tested the enchantment. It was straightforward enough – a basic compulsion, sustaining an enforced and prolonged sleep. These demons had been unconscious for decades, held captive by a single spell.
Ever so carefully, Ferast constructed a spell of his own – a weaving that was more than powerful enough to control these simple creatures, but Sestin had taught him to be cautious in his preparations when dealing with demon-kind. Power curled around his hands, ready to be cast out like a net. Readying himself, he splayed his fingers and broke the enchantment on every creature in the room. A hundred dJin sprang to their feet and threw themselves against the confining bars of the cages, some of which toppled to the ground, but none of them broke, strengthened by another enchantment his Master had cast long ago. With a sibilant whisper, Ferast threw out his net and the dJin began to fall quiet as it settled and then tightened over their receptive minds. Some resisted but not for long, subdued by magic more sophisticated than they could comprehend, and it wasn’t long before every demon had been stilled. Ferast walked among them, alive with anticipation. These creatures would rip through Helioport like a whirlwind, destroying all in their way. He flicked a finger and the cages sprung open. The demons hopped to the floor, watching him with eager eyes.
“Follow!” he said, leading them back through the cellar and up into the Atrium, which was still deserted. He led them towards the exit, their claws skittering across the floor, leaving hundreds of gouges in its polished surface. He was heading back towards the sounds of battle when he spied an ageing magician – too old to fight, perhaps – peering nervously out of his door. He caught sight of the dJin and disappeared within, closing the door ever so softly. Ferast smirked to himself – the old fool was hoping he hadn’t been seen. Ferast slowed his stride and moved softly towards the door, the dJin following at his heels. He kept a tight rein on them, keeping them quiet until he was ready to let them loose. Let him get his hopes up! He stood in silence, savouring the old man’s fear, which radiated powerfully from within the house. Moments later, the door cracked open and the magician peered out. His eyes widened in horror when he saw Ferast standing before him, and he tried to slam the door in his face.
‘Not so fast,” Ferast said, blocking the door with his foot and smashing it open with a summoned ball of force. The old man cried out and stumbled away. His eyes fell on the horde of dJin, slavering at Ferast’s heels. He made a faint, high-pitched noise before turning to flee, his sandals slapping noisily against the floor.
Ferast’s breath grew ragged, his bloodlust rising. “Kill him,” he said, and the dJin burst into motion, snarling hungrily as they raced into the house. The old man’s death scream fell to a sudden gurgle. Wet smacking and tearing noises sounded from within the house as the dJin tore the man apart.
“Out!” Ferast barked, and the demons emerged, the old man’s viscera smearing their faces and claws. “Come.”
A torrent of death at his heels, Ferast strode across the square and headed towards the college gate.
Thirty-six
Gaspi fought his way through the chaos, Taurnil at his side. The leggy demon with the long, cruel beak had eviscerated another guard, spreading panic among the defenders. Gaspi couldn’t blame them for being afraid. How could they hope to fight this colossus, with claws and beak that shredded flesh and crushed bone? The demon had taken a great many wounds, but it hadn’t been slowed in the slightest. Even as Gaspi approached, another man lost his head to a single snip of its beak.
“Taurn, take its legs. I’ll shield you,” Gaspi said, strengthening his friend's shield and enhancing the power of his staff.
Taurnil grunted in acknowledgement and advanced, limbed with the glow of magic. The beast sensed them coming, its giant, eyeless head swinging towards them. With one long stride it swooped down on Taurnil, trying to spear the top of his head with its beak, but Gaspi’s shield was a match for it and turned the blow away. Gaspi grimaced, reinforcing the shield before it could strike again. It was powerful; a severe test of his strength. Taurnil rolled under it and sprang up again, lashing out at one of its bony knees, but the creature was quick, lurching out of harm’s way and swiping at him with fearsome claws. The shield held once more, but Taurnil was bowled aside by the force of the blow and was set upon by a giant vaerg – not one of the lesser creatures, but one of the enormous brutes that led the packs. Resistant to magic, the beast was unhindered by the shield. It clamped its jaws on his arm and began to savage it, snarling viciously as it tried to wrench it from Taurnil’s body.
A guard leapt in, driving his sword into the vulnerable point at the base of the vaerg’s skull and the giant beast collapsed, trapping Taurnil beneath its monstrous body. The leggy demon swivelled to face Gaspi, dipping its giant head until it was level with his own. Gaspi blanched at the sight of its empty eye sockets, closed over with skin. Its long, tapered skull was marred by small holes where its ears ought to be, and its razor-sharp, serrated beak was dripping with gore. It looked incomplete, a sketch of a creature never finished.
“Taurn,” Gaspi bellowed, trying to form a demon-bane strike as he had with the segmented demon, but he was exhausted, his power drained beyond the point where such a spell was possible. He drew what he could and formed a shield instead. The demon cocked its head, considering him for a long, terrifying moment before thrusting out with its beak – a lightning-fast strike Gaspi couldn’t hope to avoid. He closed his eyes and clung to his shield, which held true, but he was thrown from his feet by the force of the blow and hit his head on the ground. His vision swam and power slipped from his grasp. The beast advanced, its three-toed feet digging into the ground, cleaving rock as if it were ordinary dirt.
Gaspi shook his head, desperately trying to draw fresh power, but the demon was too close. It pinned him to the ground with a heavy foot and let out a grating screech. It lowered its head until its eyeless face was inches from his own. The beak rose, ready to skewer him, but then the demon reared, shrieking in pain. It lurched aside, hobbling on a shattered knee. Taurnil stood there, staff raised for another strike. He smashed its other knee with a crushing blow and stepped aside as the beast fell to its back, massive head flailing from side to side. Even then it was lethal, its beak scything through the air. It made a g
rab for Taurnil, grasping at him with long talons, but Taurnil blocked the blow, his blazing staff demolishing its wrist. Taurnil leapt forward and brought his staff down on its other arm. Blue light flared on impact and with a sharp retort, the limb shattered. The demon shrieked, writhing and thrashing in an attempt to dislodge its attacker, but Taurnil leapt up to its neck, raising his staff above his head in both hands. Shoulders bulging, he brought it down with a mighty battle-cry. The beast threw its head to one side in a desperate attempt to avoid the blow, but Taurnil’s aim was true. The butt of his staff smashed through the demon’s temple and shattered its skull, sending blue fire coursing through its body, scouring it inside and out. The demon convulsed, broken limbs out-flung by a mighty surge of power, and then it was still.
Taurnil removed the butt of his staff from its skull, drawing back long, sticky strands of black ichor. The nearby guards broke into a ragged cheer, seeing that one of their most formidable foes had been vanquished. Taurnil helped Gaspi to his feet. There was no need to say anything. Gaspi had lost count of how many times they’d saved each other’s lives. The good news was that the two most powerful demons had been defeated, but there was no time to celebrate, under pressure as they were from the mercenary force. Somehow, the enemy army had circled the bulk of the defenders and turned them around. Even now, they were being forced to retreat step by step towards the college gate. Every other route seemed to be blocked off by a thick knot of mercenaries, which left the defenders with little choice. Gaspi didn’t like it – it felt like they were being herded.
A horrified cry sounded from the rear of the defending force. He spun around, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. From within the college, a wave of small creatures rushed towards them – dJin! There were dozens of them, hard little bodies tight with fury, their eyes alive with bloodlust.
“Form a rear guard! Enchanted weapons only!” Trask’s voice boomed out – he and Hephistole were nearby, commanding the defence. Men rushed to obey, forming a line of seasoned warriors.
“Hang back,” Gaspi said to Taurn, grabbing his arm. “The guards can handle these. I’ve got to save my strength for the golem.”
Step by step the defenders were pushed back, harried by mercenary and demon alike. It wasn’t long before they’d been forced through the gate and down into the city proper, where once again they found every exit from the main street blocked. There was no question of it anymore. They were being driven back towards the city gate, and there was nothing they could do about it.
“Rimulth,” Gaspi called. The tribesman had proven a powerful ally in the battle, using the power of the winds to sweep enemies aside. Gaspi had last seen him running through the melee, the air spirit crackling at his side like a miniature storm, to save a fallen guard from a huge, axe-wielding mercenary. The brute had been poised to strike when Rimulth drew near, crying out harshly in the mysterious language of elemental magic. A great slap of wind had swept the man from his feet and thrown him into a wall. He’d fallen to the ground, blood pouring from his crushed skull, and didn’t rise again.
“Over there,” Taurnil said, pointing him out.
“Come on,” Gaspi said to Taurnil, and forced his way through the surging mass of guards. “Rimulth,” he cried, and the tribesman spun his way.
“Gaspi, what is it?”
“Something’s wrong. I think we’re being forced into a trap. I need you to take to the skies and find out.”
Rimulth looked all about him. “I’ll be defenceless.”
“No you won’t,” Taurn said. “Stand between us and we’ll hold you up. We’ll keep you away from the front line, and if there’s any danger, we’ll call you back.”
Rimulth’s frown faded. “That’ll work,” he said, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. “Got me?”
“Yep.” Gaspi said.
Rimulth closed his eyes and the air spirit took off, shooting upwards. Moments later Gaspi felt his friend sag against him, his mind engaged with the elemental. He tightened his grip and set off, keeping pace with Taurnil at the heart of the defending army, well away from the melee. He could only hope that Rimulth would return to them quickly, and with better tidings than he feared.
Thirty-seven
Sestin strode through the city in the body of the golem, following Antoine’s men as they drove the defenders from the city. The rest of his army had formed an enormous circle on the plain, ready to catch the enemy in atrap when they emerged from the gates. Sestin’s actual body was far from danger, safely hidden within the copse of trees he had used to gather his force of vaergs and demons. He sat cross-legged on the ground, protected by a lattice of his most powerful defensive spells – spells of obscuring, magical deflection, physical shielding and of warning, should anyone come within a hundred yards of the spot.
The golem moved among Antoine’s troops, giving orders from the rear and coercing any demons that showed signs of rebellion. He picked up a stray defender as she made a dash for safety, grasping her in giant, bony fingers and dashing her brains against the walls. Roaring in satisfaction, he strode on through the town, driving the battle towards the gate. It wasn’t enough to kill the Nature Mage, or even to capture Hephistole, which was the true purpose of the battle. He wanted to destroy the city that had once named him renegade and slaughter every one of its citizens.
Judging by the guardsmen’s corpses littering the ground, the battle was going in their favour. The death toll was considerable and growing by the moment. The mercenary army fought well, and his demons were wreaking havoc, sowing fear into the hearts of the defenders – they were in full retreat, heading straight into the jaws of his trap. He was closing in on it now; the moment of victory when he finally took Hephistole captive. After all his years of planning, his ultimate goal was within his grasp – to drain the archmage’s considerable powers using the last of the Bloodstones, and set the Dark God free from his prison. There was a time when he’d planned on using the Nature Mage, but the boy was too dangerous and had to be killed. He’d considered others, including Ferast, but the boy was nothing without his focii. Bloodstones drained a person’s true magical essence, and were unaffected by such devices. No, it had to be Hephistole – a truly powerful magician in his own right – which was exactly as Sestin wanted it. He had a score to settle with the chancellor.
Roaring in anticipation of triumph, the golem strode down the long, curving road that led towards the city gate, readying himself to seize his prize.
…
The air spirit flew ahead of the battle, rising higher to give Rimulth a view of the gate and what lay beyond. His heart lurched in his chest at the sight before him. Row upon row of mercenaries – thousands in all – had remained on the plain, and were ranged around the gateway ready to encircle and attack the defenders as they emerged. At his command, the air spirit banked and flew back towards the defenders. The mercenary force had them hemmed in, chasing them down the long street that led from the college to the city gate. Every alternative route was blocked off, and behind the surging enemy force came the golem, stalking about and bellowing orders at the stragglers.
It was just as Gaspi had thought. They were running headlong into a trap! They needed help and they needed it now! Baard! He commanded the air spirit to bank around once more and head back towards the plain. He flew out over the army without even glancing down, desperately scouring the horizon for sign of the ogre army. Nothing but empty grassland stretched before him, all the way to the Argent Hills. Hope came crashing down around his ears as realisation set in. They were on their own.
…
Baard climbed a small rise and gathered his lieutenants to him – a dozen enormous Kaas, towering over even their Urzaak brethren. Baard felt like a single giant bruise after hours of clinging to Khul’s back, his legs locked in place by the Kaas’s trunk-like arms, but there was no time to waste. At the pace they were going, they’d be at Helioport in no time.
“Alrigh’ listen up,” he bellowed and t
he Kaas fell silent. They watched him eagerly, hands curled around their weapons. Baard felt a moment’s trepidation at the thought of letting ten thousand bloodthirsty ogres loose on the same field of battle as his friends, but it was too late to second guess himself now. He had to make sure they understood their orders. “Remember, the city of Helioport is under attack and we’re here to defend it. You will not attack a single defender, got it?”
The Kaas grunted in acknowledgement.
“How do we tell ’em apart?” Khul asked.
“The guards’ll be wearin’ city armour. Their chest-plates an’ helmets all bear the crest of a heron fishin’ in the river.”
“What’s a heron?” another Kaas asked, his confusion mirrored in the others’ faces.
“A river bird. Tall with long legs. If you see a fightin’ man wearin’ the crest, help ’im out. Best ter leave the magicians alone though. Most o’ them will be fighting for Helioport, but there’s one or two who ain’t so it could get confusin’. Your job is ter crush the mercenary army. Got it?
Rumblings of assent rose from the group. He made them repeat the orders back to him until he was confident they had it. “Go, make sure your men understand too,” Baard said, and the Kaas turned away, returning to their tribes. From his position atop the rise, Baard could see his commands ripple out through the amassed ogre army, heads turning as instructions were passed from one group to another. He waited, giving the orders time to reach the farthest edges of the gathered force.