by Ben Cassidy
“We’re all dead already,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “You just don’t realize it yet.”
Joseph soaked one of the bandages in the herbal mixture. “You still think the Seteru are coming to Redemption?”
“No,” said Yvonne, her eyes still closed. “Can’t you feel it? They’re already here.”
Chapter 21
Captain Markus drew his wheelock pistol and fired it at the closest Jombard.
The point blank shot knocked the barbarian flat on his back. He skidded in the mud and didn’t get back up.
The air was thick with gun smoke and the sounds of fighting and dying men. The roar of the attacking Jombards on the other side of the wall was almost deafening. What was worse, it was drawing away the attention of far too many of the dragoons and militiamen from the crucial action going on before the gate.
If the Jombards got the gate open, it was all over.
Markus wheeled and chopped savagely with his sword. He deflected a blow from an iron sword, then jabbed through the smoke at the fleeing form of a Jombard. He was out of breath, his body aching from the strain of combat and action.
Bodies already littered the muddy street in front of the eastern gate. The action was intense, claiming the lives of both sides.
But the gate was still closed.
Markus turned. He wiped sweat away from his forehead, only to realize that it was blood. Somehow, his forehead was had been cut. He couldn’t even recall how. He looked back behind him.
The numbers of dragoons and militiamen behind him were quickly diminishing. The Jombards seemed to sense their advantage, and pressed harder towards the gate.
“Hold!” Markus yelled. His throat itched and burned from the hanging gunpowder. “Hold the gate!”
The Jombard chieftain emerged from the drifting pall of smoke. He smiled at Markus and lifted his battleaxe.
Markus steadied his feet in the mud, and lifted his sword. Regnuthu could take his soul if he let that Jombard anywhere near the gate.
More Jombards emerged from behind nearby buildings, whooping and howling as they ran.
Markus’ heart sank. These Jombards had to be coming from somewhere. A side entrance or postern door in another section of the wall had been breached. It was the only possible explanation.
That meant that the town was already compromised. The Jombards were trickling in through whatever entrance they had gained. If they got the gate open, they would pour in like a flood.
Markus hadn’t asked to be posted to this forsaken bit of land on the edge of the known world. But by Eru, if he was going to die here he was going to make the most of it.
“Come on,” Markus yelled at the Jombard chieftain. “You want that gate? You’ll have to go through me first.”
The Jombard chieftain merely smiled. He reached for a vial that hung around his neck by a leather cord.
“General?” The militiaman banged up the steps of the town hall, breathless from running. He peered inside the open front door. “Lord Ravenbrook, the Colonel—” He stopped cold as soon as he saw Kendril lying motionless and bandaged on the ground.
Joseph shook water off his hands and dried them on a towel. “Out with it, man. What’s the situation out there?”
The militiaman, a young man barely out of his teens, still stared wide-eyed at Kendril. “It’s—it’s bad, sir. The Jombards have gotten into the town somehow. They’re scattering about and causing havoc—” The militiaman glanced up at Joseph, then over at Tomas. “Who—who are you gentlemen?”
Joseph threw the towel onto the nearby desk. “Friends of Lord Ravenbrook. How many ships are left in the harbor?”
The militiaman gave a helpless shrug. “I’m—I’m not sure, sir. Most left with the morning tide. There’s a few left, one big grain ship from Arbela and a few smaller fishing boats.”
“All right, listen to me.” Joseph moved out from around Kendril’s motionless form. “Ken—I mean Lord Ravenbrook has been badly injured. Shot. We need to get him down to the harbor and get him on a ship. Can you get someone to help us?”
The militiaman stared at Kendril again, as if mesmerized. “I—I can try to round up someone.”
“Good.” Joseph grabbed his greatcoat and pulled it on. “Do it fast. We’ll need a cart or wagon or something.”
The militiaman nodded eagerly. “They’re using stretchers to take the wounded down to the harbor from the brewery.”
“That will do. Get a stretcher.” Joseph glared at the young man. “And hurry.”
The militiaman saluted and scurried off into the street.
Tomas glanced over at Joseph. “Do you think it’s wise to move him in his condition?”
Joseph picked up his rapier and buckled it on. “We don’t have a choice.” He looked up at Tomas. “One way or another, the Jombards are coming.”
Odgar lifted the vial of the Great Fang’s blood and smiled.
Markus braced his feet, his sword clutched in both hands. He had a sinking feeling he knew what was going to happen next.
Odgar threw back the vial to drink down its contents.
His head exploded.
Markus stared in surprise as the barbarian chieftain topped over to the side, a messy stump where his head had once been.
“Guard the gate!” came a booming voice to the right. “Secure it, you dogs! Don’t let the howlers get near.”
Surprised, Captain Markus looked to the side.
Colonel Root dashed over, a smoking pistol in one hand and a bared blade in the other. He hacked and cursed at a Jombard warrior in his path.
Behind Root were about a dozen militiamen, some armed only with halberds, half-pikes, even axes and rakes. They gave a cheering yell and crashed into the reeling Jombards by the eastern gate.
Markus turned his face back to the enemy, his confidence surging once again. “Push them back, lads!” He rushed toward the nearest Jombard and cut him down.
Colonel Root stepped over Odgar’s dead body with a grin, and glanced over at Markus. “Best not to let them drink anything,” he yelled over the clamor of the battle. “We’ve got enough trouble without werewolves.”
Markus grinned in return, then threw himself at the faltering Jombards.
They could do this. They could push back the Jombards in the town, hold back the army assaulting the wall, and then—
A cry of despair rose up from the ramparts. A couple of the dragoons screamed in terror.
Confused, Markus looked behind him.
The dragoons and the militiamen on the ramparts near the gate were in a panic. Some were throwing their arms over their head and ducking back below the level of the wall. Others threw down their weapons and were running down the stairs or back along the ramparts.
Markus felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. What could the Jombards have that was so terrible, so awful that—
A roar sounded.
Not just a roar. It was a massive, rage-filled bellow unlike anything that Markus had ever heard before in his life. The ground actually vibrated from the sound. Puddles in the street rippled wildly. The windows in several of the nearby stores that had not already broken hummed and shook.
For a moment after the roar ended, Captain Markus heard only a ringing in his ears. He stared at the gate and the wall, forgetting the Jombards behind him.
What on Zanthora could possibly—?
The eastern gate buckled with a blow like a cannon shot.
“Tuldor’s beard,” Beckett swore. He hesitated in the side street for a moment, looking frantically around. “What was that?”
The echoes of the roar still seemed to throb in the air.
Olan turned around, his face half-hidden by the hood of his cloak. “That was no werewolf,” he said darkly.
Renaald stepped up beside his leader, his rapier out and at the ready. He glanced up the street. “It could have been...perhaps just a-a—”
Kara came around the corner, panting from the run.
Beckett glanced
back at her, a stern look on his craggy face. “Now see here, miss, there’s no call for you to be up here with—”
Kara gave out a cry and almost fell to the ground. She bent double, gasping in pain.
“Ashes,” Beckett exclaimed. He rushed forward and grabbed Kara with both of his huge hands. “Are you all right?”
Callen started forward as well, reaching for his satchel.
“I can feel him,” Kara moaned. She took a breath between her teeth, forcing herself back up to a wobbly stand. “He’s here. He’s here.”
Renaald and Olan exchanged a nervous look.
“Who’s here?” Olan ventured.
Kara looked up at them, her eyes wide with terror. “Harnathu.”
“Here, sir.” The young militiaman bundled in through the door, carrying a simple wood and fabric stretcher.
Another militiaman, an older man who looked like he had farmed crops most of his life, came in behind the first man. He gaped at Kendril’s fallen form. “Is that the-the—?”
“The General. Yes.” Joseph pointed at the stretcher. “All right, set that up there. We’re going to get him on the stretcher on the count of three. Got him? Good. Ready? One. Two—”
The men hovered near Kendril, hesitant to touch him as if he were a saint.
“Three,” Joseph said.
With a couple grunts they lifted Kendril as one and put him squarely on the stretcher.
Kendril moaned. His eyes flickered, but didn’t open.
Joseph slapped the young militiaman on the shoulder. “You take that end.” He turned to the older militiaman. “And you grab the other. We’re taking him down to the harbor.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Yvonne said. “He’s already dead. We’re all dead. It’s just a matter of time. None of us are going to leave her alive.”
“With respect, ma’am,” said Tomas in a low voice, “I think you had best conserve your strength.” He turned to Joseph, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “You heard that sound? The roar?”
Joseph steadied the stretcher as the two militiamen lifted it. He almost didn’t want to acknowledge Tomas’ comment. “I heard. It doesn’t change anything.” He turned to the militiamen. “Let’s go. Straight to the harbor, understand? Don’t stop for any—”
“Joseph....” Kendril weakly held up a hand and clutched the sleeve of Joseph’s greatcoat.
Startled, Joseph looked down at the semi-conscious man.
“Get...Simon....” Kendril murmured. His eyes fluttered and closed again.
Tomas gave Joseph a half-smile. “Simon? His mule Simon?”
Joseph rubbed a hand across his face to hide his angry scowl. “Sounds about right. I come halfway across Zanthora to look for the man who almost killed the woman I love, save his life after he gets shot, and then he sends me out to get his blasted mule.”
Tomas’ smile vanished. “I suppose. Then again, it looked to me like this time around he saved Kara’s life by taking the bullet himself.”
Joseph frowned. “Maybe. Now if you’ll excuse me, apparently there’s a mule I need to collect.”
A second blow slammed into the gate.
Pieces of splintered wood exploded from the frame. The huge crossbars that locked the gate into place bent and cracked, almost shattering in two.
Markus gawked at the gate. He was shocked into inaction. That was no battering ram. It was too big, too powerful—
The men on the wall screamed and wailed. Several were cowering in fear or abandoning their positions.
What on Zanthora—?
“Fall back,” Colonel Root yelled. He swept his arm towards the nearby buildings. “Move back to—”
Another deafening roar sounded.
Markus actually fell to his knees, dropping his sword. He covered his ears against the sound, his eyes watering from the pain.
The gate kicked backwards, almost flying open. The bars cracked and shed splinters. Smoke began to curl up from underneath the gate itself. The wood began to blacken, as if it were being burned by some intense heat from the other side.
Markus felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to his feet.
Ashamed, he grabbed his sword off the ground. He looked behind him.
Colonel Root was shouting something at him, but Markus couldn’t hear over the ringing sound in his ears.
Markus shook his head, trying to clear his hearing.
The chant from the Jombards had risen and become louder, drowning out even the occasional gunshots from the men on the ramparts.
Harnathu...Harnathu...Harnathu...
“We have to pull them back,” Root yelled, practically in Markus’ ear. “That gate’s going to go any second.” He raised his voice again, slashing backwards with his sword. “Everyone, fall back to the second line, now! Move!”
The dragoons and militiamen that were still able to move begin to fly off the wall, shoving each other to get down the stairs.
Colonel Root moved back, pulling Markus with him.
The gate shattered open. Pieces of wood and metal scythed out in all directions, hitting some of the fleeing dragoons like shrapnel.
Markus stared into the smoke that curled out of the opening, trying to tell himself that he wasn’t seeing the impossibly huge shape that was emerging from the pall.
Then he screamed.
Kara ran, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in her chest. She was out of breath, and her lungs seemed to burn. The bow in her hand felt unnaturally heavy. Her head was swimming.
And then the second roar came.
Her chest exploded in pain, fiery lances that seemed to cut through bone and flesh. She collapsed to her knees in mid-run, trying to breathe. She couldn’t cry out. The pain was too bad.
Beckett reversed, running back to her. He put a massive hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, lass?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” Kara gasped. The pain was subsiding. She staggered to her feet, half-helped by Beckett’s steady grip.
“You should turn around, lass,” Beckett said in a low but firm voice. “This is no place for you.”
Kara shrugged off the man’s hand with more pique than she actually felt. “I told you I’m fine. We need to—”
A booming crash echoed through the streets of the town.
Beckett lifted his head, his face haggard. “That was the gate,” he spat. “The Jombards are in the town.”
It was a wolf.
No, not a wolf. Not even a werewolf. The creature, if it even was a creature, was huge. Bigger than a draft horse, as big as one of the fabled tusked creatures far to the south.
It stepped forward into the space in front of the gate. Steam and smoke rose from its bodies. Its eyes glowed with an incessant fire. Sparks drift and float down from its body.
It was like a werewolf, only five times as big. And in place of fur, its body was metal. Glowing, red-hot metal. It radiated heat that caused the air around it to shimmer and dance. The puddles at its feet steamed and evaporated.
And around its neck, seemingly unaffected by the furnace-like heat that the creature exuded, hung a pendant with a single, blood-red jewel.
Markus stared, his body rooted to the spot. Nothing like that could possibly exist. It was impossible, a very twisting of every conceivable natural law.
He knew what he was looking at, and the thought of it was almost enough to drive every ounce of sanity out of him.
It was a creature of the Void. One of the Seteru. Just like the one that had destroyed Vorten at the beginning of the Despair.
Only this one was right here, in Redemption.
“Eru help us,” Colonel Root whispered. Like Markus, he seemed frozen in place.
The Seteru incarnated raised its mockery of a wolf’s head. It looked over the terrified dragoons and militiamen, and then almost seemed to smile.
“Where is the Demonbane?” Its voice rumbled and reverberated through the air, like thunder in dry heat. “Let him come and face Harnathu, the god of s
laughter and blood.”
Colonel Root finally found his wits and his feet. He stepped back, dragging Markus with him. They tripped up onto one of the boardwalks of the nearest street. “Shoot it!” he ordered. “Shoot it now!”
No one moved.
The Seteru stepped forward. Its huge metallic foot sank down into the mud and mire of the street, sending an eruption of steam up into the air. The muck actually began to boil where it touched Harnathu’s body.
Olan came running out into the street, followed quickly by Renaald and Callen. They all stopped short at the sight of the monstrosity in front of the gate.
“Eru in Pelos,” Olan swore. He looked over at Root and Markus. “A cannon. We need a cannon. The biggest you can—”
Harnathu jutted his head forward and growled. The sound caused the wood in the boardwalk to vibrate.
“Bring me the Demonbane, mortals,” Harnathu said. It took another step forward. “I would teach him pain, and defeat.”
“I said shoot it!” Colonel Root repeated. He reached for his own pistol and started to reload it with shaking hands.
A few of the dragoons managed to shake themselves from their terrified state. They raised their carbines at the abomination in front of them.
Harnathu stepped forward again. He spread his paws out to either side. The dark metal fingers ended in razor-sharp steel claws.
Beckett and Kara came running around the corner. Both stopped cold, their faces aghast.
Harnathu began to stride forward, smoke curling from his red-hot form.
“Fire!” Colonel Root cried.
A smattering of gunshots flashed out from the dragoons, along with a couple crossbows and even the twang of a hunting bow.
The shots pattered and pinged off Harnathu’s metal skin as if they were pebbles.
The creature gave a bellowing growl that sounded strangely like a laugh. “You seek to kill a god, with those?”
“Back!” Olan shouted. “Everyone back now!”
The dragoons and militiamen didn’t need a second urging. They started to run for the buildings and streets of the town.