He knew he could not wait out the night like this. He needed to take action. He needed to do it now, or else their enemy would continue pressing their strategy. He turned around, inspecting the men trembling under their shields when he caught another glimpse of Catherine. She still stood alone, smiling, in the village square. No shield or protection covered her, yet the mass of arrows appeared to fall around her unbothered.
Unthinking, he jumped from the wall and rushed to her side, holding his shield above him as he went. As he approached her, he found the arrows that had been falling as hard as the snow seemed to fall away in her presence.
“What is this!?” he demanded.
“The Father is here tonight,” she said blissfully. “And he is not done with me yet.”
He stood and looked around as all of the assembled continued to weather the constant barrage of the enemy volley. Yet here, in her presence, he no longer required his makeshift shield. “What am I to do?” he asked after a moment. “Please, help me!”
She looked up and smiled at him as she was oft to do. “You have all you need to win this day, Son of Luke. They have shown their hand, now show yours. Call for another volley.”
“Another volley!? But I can’t!” he protested. “It is folly to waste our arrows against them with their power revealed!”
“Call another volley,” she repeated.
No trace of fear did he see in her eyes, even as the sky rained with arrows and furious snow. A calm confidence and a strange knowing twinkled out at him from her deep ancient stone eyes. He could not imagine what good another volley from his amateur archers would do. Yet, after a few tense moments, he nodded his head and set off to ready the archers.
***
After the raining arrows finally ceased, Michael opened his heavy eyes and stared around, bewildered. He eased himself out from under the cart and continued to slog his way through the heavy snow towards the wall where he knew his friends would be. He did not know how much longer he had until the next wave was to fall on him, and the fear of the unknowing spurred him on through the packed snow.
A solemn quiet hung on the defenders at the wall as all eyes turned to their commander. Tiberius offered one fleeting glance to Catherine, who continued to smile broad and knowing. A word in the ancient dwarven tongue escaped her rough lips, and at once, her dwarven brethren had removed the heavy wooden beam from the gate. They lined up behind one another, the Shaman Bruce at the head, and marched out into the open.
Their heavy armor stamped along in the frozen lands, and great flecks of snow were nestled in their long bushy beards. But behind their steel and iron helms, their ancient eyes were focused and determined. Bruce alone wore no armor, just his simple leather clothes and large tunic that scraped the floor as he went.
A burst of hearty, booming laughter echoed around them. “Dwarves, Tiberius?” the dead man’s voice rumbled. “You hinge your survival on the broken and useless power of dwarves? Most unexpected that you found them at all, but futile none the less. They too will be slaughtered and studied for their heathen abnormalities!”
“Thrakeluhm!” the Shaman roared in defiance as his band of warriors came to a halt outside the village wall. “Your insults and your evil will be silenced this night, you cursed devil! You have shown your power, and we laugh at it! We laugh at him that raised your filth from the dead! We laugh at your army of misguided wretches! We laugh at you! Thrakeluhm! Aznog no diohm!”
At his words, a mighty roar of laughter like a great avalanche from a frozen mountainside rang out from the twelve armor-clad dwarves. So great and terrible was their laughter that even the raging storm above them was drowned out! “You are the heathen in this world!” Bruce said aloud as his men continued their raucous laughter. “And tonight, the Father is with us!”
In an instant, Tiberius had his archers recovered and preparing to deliver another volley against their enemies. Fear and doubt clouded his mind, yet the confidence of Catherine bade him continue. “Loose!” he boomed out as hundreds of arrows flew to the sky.
They rose into the sky, and at their apex, turned down to fall amongst the soldiers from White. Tiberius bolted for the ramparts, eager to see if this time they would find their mark. But even if they do, it will be a drop in the bucket against such a magnificent assembly.
In the middle of the field, the dead sorcerer again rose his staff, intent to change the arrows into snow as the last ones. But before he could utter a word, Bruce raised his arms and shouted a word in his ancient tongue. A throaty, violent sound boomed out from the small dwarf. Tiberius was rendered speechless as the arrows continued to fall unimpeded. In an instant, each of the hundreds of arrows burst into flame!
Cycret lowered his staff and stepped back in amazement of such brilliant and powerful magic. The arrows had now all been transformed into hundreds of great burning balls of fire that burst brilliantly amongst the invaders. Screams of terror and pain broke out from White’s men as hundreds of their cavalry and archers were incinerated by the magic that fell on them.
Tiberius let out a great laugh of excitement that was repeated from the men on the wall. He called for another volley, determined to press the attack. Again, his archers released hundreds of arrows into the sky, and just as they turned downwards upon their targets, they too all burst into giant balls of flame. More screams erupted from the army, who still lay within the forest. Tiberius could see that several men were now running away, abandoning their fight against the village and the magic that now guarded it. Cycret rose his staff high and thrust it hard against the ground. The inhuman sound of moaning and rage crept out of the forest. All at once, droves and droves of undead came storming out from the enemy's ranks heading straight for the camp.
The twelve dwarves in the field fanned out wide to the trench openings they had dug, hunkered low, and brought their axes to the ready. The Shaman alone stood in place as his brethren ran to their positions. He let out a hearty laugh and began to walk towards the undead sorcerer in the field. Across the snow-covered field, the undead Cycret smiled a twisted, gnarled smile in his broken skull face and began to glide to meet Bruce.
Tiberius ordered his people to prepare themselves against the undead’s coming onslaught. He called to Shayla to attack when she saw an opening and ordered his archers to continue firing at will against the army. Like a bolt of lightning, the Ranger hurdled the village’s walls, followed by the men. With a quick look to make sure all of the defenders were with him, he ordered out to the captains amongst them to secure the trench openings as he ran off to do the same.
Just as he had hoped, the approaching enemy had been funneled into the deep trenches. He stood motionless with one of the dwarves and a few villagers near the largest trench opening, determined to throw himself against them with all his might.
Back in the village, Michael finally reached the square after trying and failing to run through the large mounds of snow that had fallen. Fire illuminated the night sky. Unnatural screams and snarls echoed out from beyond the wall. He spun in place, desperately searching for his friends. He caught a glance of Tiberius just as he hurdled the wall with the rest of his men. Again, he spun in place before he saw a most welcomed sight in the burgeoning bedlam, the only other person alone in the square, the dwarf leader Catherine.
He sprinted towards the dwarf as hard as he could. “Lady Stonefoot,” he gasped, “What is happening? What have I missed?”
She remained unmoved at his words. Simply resting a calming hand on his billowing robes before pointing him to the rampart where Tiberius had stood just a few moments before. “Go see, young one.”
Michael flew to the wall and was struck still at the sight in front of him. Thousands of undead were swarming through the trenches from across the field. Fire lit up the area and the woods beyond. However, terror and confusion, and anger took root in him at the sight of the white-clad figure gliding towards Bruce. The wand in his hand was burning hotter and hotter. The urge to reveal himself and us
e his magic to cut down this foe was more overwhelming now than before. He bit his lip and fought to control his shaking hands as he stared on.
“You’re a disgusting blight upon my waking eye, you ugly bastard,” Bruce shouted to the sorcerer. “Blasphemous and evil!”
The undead Cycret pointed his staff at the Shaman as a great burst of light shot towards him. Bruce remained unfazed as he simply lifted his palm in response. The light burst against his hand as if he wielded an unseen shield and dissipated. Again, and again bolt after bolt were hurled towards the approaching Shaman. And each and every one broke apart and dissolved into faint whips of ethereal smoke. The wraith let out a bloodcurdling scream and began to float faster towards the lone dwarf in the open field.
At the trench, Tiberius stood crouched when one of the undead minions came rushing around the corner. Several of the villagers who stood near recoiled in shock and disgust as the ghoul flew towards the Ranger. In one swift motion, Tiberius raised his father’s sword and cleaved the undead man in half. The villagers stared on bewildered.
“See boys, they die just like any other man,” Tiberius hollered to the defenders near him.
In turn, they quickly relayed this news to all their fellow villagers at their trenches, eager to pass on this great news. Before long, scores and scores came flowing to them. Tiberius readied himself again, and with a great war cry, hurled himself headlong into the trench, followed by the nearby dwarven warrior and the other villagers.
In the trees, Shayla eyed the approaching enemy, carefully picking the right time to pounce. She was overjoyed to see the volley of arrows turned to fire that rained down on the men from White, for that single change of fortune now drew out the enemy into their trap. She focused her attention now on the dwarf in the field as he marched to meet the undead sorcerer that glided forward. Something inside of her, a voice she had not heard whisper to her in some time, told her that he was the source of tonight’s folly. That with him gone from the field, the approaching enemy would be cut down. She prayed to Kazduhl that the honor of vanquishing such a powerful foe would be hers. That she could finally begin to repay the oaths she swore. But she quieted her yearning and continued to focus. No amount of wanting and praying would change anything about this night if she failed to act when the opportunity came.
In the field, the two continued to move unceasingly to one another. “Your power is weak, your evil,” the Shaman called as he continued to deflect bolt after bolt from the Sorcerer. “Come, show me what you can really do. I bore of these childish games.”
The undead Sorcerer stopped his advancement, and with a great cry of anger, hoisted his staff into the sky. The snow ceased at once, the clouds began to swirl in place as if a great vortex was forming overhead. Lightning was cracking inside the clouds, slow at first, and then more and more with greater frequency until a great stream of lightning broke free and hurtled down on them.
Michael stood frozen as a stream of lightning, more than half a mile wide, fell from the dark heavens above for the Shaman below. The wand was now fiery hot in his hand. His eyes focused hard on the column of light that rocketed towards the ground. He raised the ebony wand to the lightning, closed his eyes, and spun the wand in place.
With a tremendous boom, the lightning came to a complete stop in the sky. Michael twirled the wand again, and the lightning began to turn brighter and brighter and started to coil in on itself as if a great snake poised to strike. The onlookers not engaged in fighting the scores of the undead enemy were frozen in place at the sight above them. In the trees, Shayla let out a great laugh knowing full well her friend and companion had now joined their fight. Even the wraith stopped to ponder this new development above them.
After a few moments, the ball of lightning had finished coiling itself. With a mighty thrust of the wand, Michael sent the ball hurtling towards the undead Sorcerer who stared unmoving in the field below. Those around not engaged in mortal struggle against the undead soldiers looked upon it with amazement, shielding their eyes against the sudden invasion of blinding light. The Sorcerer stood motionless, almost unbothered by the great ball of light that came crashing to him. From across the field, Bruce could see a sly smile cross his mangled face as the undead man opened his arms in almost a childlike embrace to the approaching light.
The sound like a thousand explosions cut through the thick night. The power of the great sphere burst upon Cycret with the power of a million lightning strikes, melting the snow around them and destroying several large trees behind the field. The falling snow was melted into great droplets of rain that evaporated at once, raising up an overwhelming humid air. The blast's force sent several of the advancing army locked in the trenches to their knees, allowing the heroic defenders to cut through them with ease and press their unexpected advantage.
After several blinding moments, the lightning ball was gone, and darkness returned to the earth. The Sorcerer's white robes were all that was left where he stood flapping on the ground in the swift evening wind. His great staff was cloven in two, smoke rising from its insides. A cheer went up over the villagers around despite their continued struggle with the undead.
On the ramparts, Michael fell to one knee breathing hard but feeling relieved. I did it, he thought. Whoever that man was, he’s gone now. Surely my friends will be able to…
A great shrill cry rose up out of the sky, adding to the chorus of screams and steel on flesh that emanated from the battle. The three companions alone felt their blood chill, knowing what the piercing cry meant. Tiberius retreated to the rear of the fight and stretched his Sight high into the night. Michael clambered to his feet on the wooden deck of the wall, his blood running colder than the frigid air he sucked in. Even Shayla, the brave and fearless dragoon that she was, threw off her helm where she crouched in the trees.
The sky above them started to move as if the night sky itself had come alive and transformed into a massive swirling vortex. Great black tentacles reached out from the swirling nothingness as if a great beast groping for food. The center ring around them turned darker and darker, becoming blacker than the night sky. The shrill crying turned to laughter, harsh and deafening. Above them, in the night sky, floated the dreadful creature that had attacked the three companions in the woods so many nights ago. The beast that forced brave Tiberius, commander of the rangers, and future emperor, to relive the worst moments in his life. Floating above their furious battle against the undead and traitorous men from White was a great and terrible shadowy Revenant.
Chapter 22
Battle For The Village
Michael was on his feet in an instant. Fear began to take hold inside him. Memories began flooding back to him, sending great shocks of anger throughout his young body. He tried to speak, to rage and scream against the evil beast that now invaded their midst. Just as the words tried to escape his throat, another horrible evil scream belted out from the Revenant driving everyone below it to their knees in pain. Everyone, that is, save for the sturdy dwarves and the three companions who starred at the magnificent and terrible beast swirling above them.
Its massive black body covered the entirety of the field with enumerable searching tentacles that stretched out even further. So great and hideous was the beast, it made the one they encountered so many weeks ago as if a child barely fresh from the womb.
Tiberius withdrew himself to the mouth of the trench and took stock of his surroundings. Swarms and swarms of the undead continued to press in from the tree line beyond where the remaining men from White now stood cheering. Bruce, the dwarven Shaman, alone stood in the field examining the destroyed fabric and staff from the wraith in the shape of the dead High Sorcerer Cycret. He knew Michael had come to their aid, for he alone could have had the power to destroy such an overwhelming force. Yet for his good intentions, he had unwittingly called forth this latest and perhaps greatest obstacle. Tiberius seethed with rage at their latest predicament and flew to the courtyard within the village walls.
�
�Shayla! Michael!” he boomed, cutting through the piercing screams, “to me!”
In an instant, the Dragon Knight was at his side, followed quickly by the young Mage. Tiberius was taken aback by the look Michael bore, for though it had been nearly two hours since they last saw one another, he now wore the face of a man touched by the heat of battle. Shayla though, was angry, and her emotions seemed to vibrate off her being. She had been withheld from the action too long while the untested villagers had died by the score. Yet whatever ill will she felt in that moment, she held her tongue out of pure respect for Tiberius' command.
“We need to press the fight, and now!” Tiberius bellowed. “This Revenant seems to be spurring the enemy on faster and fiercer than we can hope to match! And the men from White who haven’t fled are still in reserve!”
“What will you have us do, sir?” Michael called out, the burning wand in his hand beckoning to be unleashed again.
Tiberius turned in all directions, taking stock of who was left and what they could hope to accomplish. His eyes fell on what looked to be a small hill in the middle of the yard, causing him to do a double-take. Once he realized what he was looking at, he took off in a sprint till he arrived upon Catherine. She was stooped low, whispering the dwarven tongue to the sleeping berserker. A quick look at the man revealed no wound save for a few scratches, which alone was enough to indicate how powerful a blow the undead sorcerer wielded against him. At least he is still breathing, Tiberius thought to himself, squatting next to the dwarven woman.
“Will he wake?” he asked in a hurry.
“Soon, King’s Son,” she replied sweetly. “Soon.”
“Ma’am, we could really use this man sooner than later,” Michael spoke, somewhat harsher than he had intended.
The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1 Page 27