by Damien Black
Adelko felt beads of sweat collect on his forehead as he and his mentor repeated the litany…
Sir Balthor stepped back from his freshest corpse, sucking in lungfuls of air as he thanked Ezekiel for the briefest of respites. All around him was mayhem. Corpses of beastmen and woodlanders quilted the uneven ground, though it was obvious that the latter outnumbered the former. All the woodfolk were dead save for Madogan and a couple of the strongest of them. The Wadwos crowded around them, gore-drenched weapons raised high. The foreign fighters were still alive, though probably not for much longer. Sir Balthor had just enough time to shed the shattered remnants of his shield and grip his sword in both hands as two beastmen lunged at him…
The foremost arched its back, crying out as it fell to the ground convulsing. An arrow sprouted from its back. The second glanced towards the ridge as another shaft buried itself in its shoulder.
More arrows fell around them, coming like a long-wished for deluge in time of drought. Beastmen fell to the ground as the poisoned tips worked their natural magic. It was only then that Balthor realised the wind had dropped. Just above the ridge the tornadoes had coagulated into a whorling miasma of silvery air, the once-humanoid shapes within them congealing into one another and losing all semblance of form.
‘Ezekiel be praised!’ he muttered, though he wasn’t sure the avatar of just war was an appropriate archangel to invoke.
The others were exchanging glances, leaning exhaustedly against each other as they paused to catch their breath back. The Woses were breaking ranks, some of them lumbering back towards the fort while others crashed down towards the cover of the trees. Anything to escape the deadly shafts that now assailed them.
The archers on the ridge had rallied quickly and were grouping themselves into three lines of fire. The group on the far side fired into the fortress itself while the middle swathe cut down another sally of Woses descending towards them. The third focused its fire on the ones that had been on the point of slaughtering them.
‘They’ve only enough for three shots each!’ yelled Madogan, a bloodied arm hanging limply from his side. ‘We’d best be abowt it if we want to rescue our wummenfowk!’
That was enough for a second wind (one they’d hopefully be masters of, Reus willing). Balthor joined his war-cry to the others as they surged up towards the fortress.
Kyra pushed the stinking Wadwo corpse off her and peered after the band of warriors as they pushed up towards the fort. She half expected to be shot by a stray arrow but the Woses were fleeing towards the forest and her kinsmen and women were focusing their precious poisoned arrows on targets further up the slopes and inside the fortress.
The time for playing dead was over, and she had no wish to share the Argael with the fleeing brutes. Hauling herself up, she began scrabbling after the knights.
She stopped short and fell as someone grabbed her heel. She rolled over, expecting a dying Wadwo to come at her. She barely had time to register surprise as Baldo launched himself on top of her. In his hand was a sharp knife, stained with ichor.
‘Had the same idea as me, hey?’ he snarled, leaning down heavily on her and driving the knife-point towards her. She grabbed his wrist, squirming frantically and trying to get him off her.
‘Thowt ye’d play dead, well now ye’ll be dead fer real,’ he said, grinning as spittle dropped from crooked yellow teeth into her face. ‘It’s time fer real justice too!’
She struggled some more, crying out, but no help came. In a straight fight she would have been confident of beating Baldo, but he was stronger than her and it was only a matter of time before his blade found her throat.
‘Quit yer crowing,’ she managed to gasp. ‘I’ll not beg fer mercy from the likes o’ you.’
‘And ye’ll be gettin’ none neither,’ he grinned, pushing the knife closer to her throat. She felt its soiled blade touch her skin, a drab of ichor from it running down her neck. It felt strangely cold. With her last strength she let out another scream for help. No archers came to her aid. They were concentrating on the Wadwos and probably too far away to discern what was going on in any case. She closed her eyes and tried to be brave…
Suddenly the pressure lifted off her. She opened her eyes and saw Baldo’s head and the upper half of his torso jerk upwards. A flash of silver, and a red smile opened across his distended throat. He fell to one side, gurgling horribly as a torrent of blood poured down his chest.
Standing over her was the strange warrior woman who had joined their party with the knight from Vorstlund. In one hand was a dirk stained tip to hilt with red. The other was extended towards her.
‘Get up,’ she said in her accented Vorstlending. ‘Let’s join the others before your folk shoot us too.’
Taking her hand she let the mercenary pull her up. It felt tough and warm in hers. Kyra flushed with pleasure at its touch, though she didn’t have time to entertain that notion.
‘I thought you were with the others?’ she said as they began ascending the slope together.
‘I was,’ said the freesword over her shoulder. ‘But I heard you screaming so I came back to help you. I’ve been keeping an eye on you.’
Kyra barely had time to register the twinkle in that eye before the outlander turned back to face the burning fortress.
Adhelina shut her eyes tightly, wishing she could do the same with her ears. The wailing of the women had reached a crescendo, a hideous cacophony that sounded like a chorus of banshees. Some part of the fort was on fire: she could smell the smoke permeating through the logs of the long low room they were chained up in, hear the crackling of flames outside. Mingled with that she could make out the beastmen shouting at each other in their guttural tongue. Next to her Hettie slumped against the wall, too terrified to do more than shiver and cry. Further up the room a girl of fourteen summers smashed her head rhythmically against the hard oak, moaning incoherently. Her filthy matted hair was red and hid the blood well.
She heard prayers among the wailing. Not prayers for deliverance, but prayers for deliverance from life itself. And who could blame them? About half the hundred women crammed together like carcasses of rotting meat were with child.
With child. The heiress of Dulsinor felt like cursing language itself for its sheer inadequacy at evoking such an awful state. For the umpteenth time she tried not to look at their horribly distended bellies, their limbs painfully emaciated as the unclean lives they incubated sapped the strength from their bodies. Worst of all were their dead eyes. She had seen that look before, having treated women dishonoured during her father’s last war.
Was it worse, she wondered, to be ravished by actual monsters than men made monstrous by war?
The end result certainly appeared to be. She had seen two of the victims give birth in the past couple of days; the bloodstains were still on the space of floor where they had been. Seeing that had left a chill of horror on her heart that Adhelina knew she would carry forever; likewise she would never forget the demented screams as the doomed mothers had thrashed around, dying as they brought abominations into the world.
The women had been taken from the Argael and nearby mountain villages, or that was as much as she had been able to glean from Gerta, one of the few captives besides herself to have retained her sanity.
‘Something’s definitely happening,’ she called over to Gerta, trying desperately to kindle some hope. ‘It sounds like they’re under attack.’
‘Aye, but it’ll tek a small army to get us out o’ here,’ replied Gerta. She was about five and twenty summers and had been taken with Adhelina and Hettie. She had not yet been ravished. ‘Best pray it’s fightin’ men sent by yer father.’ Adhelina had dropped all pretence of secrecy: it hardly seemed to matter any more.
She mouthed a prayer, imploring Stygnos to gift her with fortitude. She bore herself with all the pride and courage of a high-born Vorstlending, yet the heiress of Dulsinor had felt herself stretched almost to breaking point since their capture.
; Feverishly she clutched at straws. The moon would not be full for another week or so. That gave them time… Judging by the sounds of it, a rescue attempt was indeed under way.
But would it be enough?
‘Hettie, try to be strong,’ she whispered, leaning in as close to her friend as her chains would permit. ‘Someone’s coming – we’re going to be rescued!’
Rescued. The absurdity of it crushed her. All her life she had read of romantic escapades, knights in gleaming armour saving damsels in distress, and now she was living the dream. What a dream to live out! Somehow it had never occurred to her, in the fancies of her callow youth, that this would be her part in any such tale – to wait passively while strong men came to pluck her from a hideous fate.
But in the past few weeks she had tasted something far more precious. Freedom. The freedom of an open road, the chance to choose her own fate. That had been torn from her as abruptly as she had found it.
‘And so the dreams of old become reality, and put the new ones to flight,’ she murmured to herself, perversely savouring the bitterness. No, it wasn’t the bitterness she savoured: it was the fact that she still had the presence of mind to be bitter, and not simply terrified.
The cries outside were increasing. The smoke was thickening. Perhaps it would be better if they burned: even that seemed preferable to the fate that awaited them if the gallant rescue attempt should fail.
Pulling at her manacles with all her waning strength, Adhelina added her voice to the terrible chorus, giving vent to a long, agonised scream of frustration.
Sir Balthor pounded up towards the gate. Blood was streaming from a cut in his forearm where a beastman had cloven his shield, but he did not care. The archers on the ridge had managed to pick off most of the Wadwos charging down towards them, and the rest were falling back towards the fort.
Darting past a writhing beastman he closed the distance, his legs burning as they drove him up the last few yards. A Wadwo was dragging the gate to, trying to shut them out. He spared a glance for the others, who had stopped to cut down the last of the sally.
Diving through the narrowing gap he stopped and spun on his heel, slicing at the back of the Wose’s knee. It fell with a cry and the gate stopped moving.
Gazing around the compound he took it in. To his left, the wall overlooking the pass was ablaze; an attempt by the Woses to extinguish the flames had been abandoned as the archers peppered them. Over to his right an enclosure piled high with vegetation was also on fire, presumably their food supply. The corpses of dead and dying beastmen littered the floor. There were two long low buildings flush to either wall, both of them burning. Another located against the far wall caught his eye: the surviving beastmen, about a dozen strong, were retreating inside it.
He prayed the captives were in that one. Turning to the gate he heaved it open to let the others through. The archers had ceased firing, whether to avoid shooting them or simply because their poisoned arrows were spent he could not say.
Dashing over towards the first roaring building he checked it, then the other. No screams of women burning alive came from either, thank Reus.
Sir Torgun and the rest burst into the compound and drew level with him. Balthor pointed at the last building with his sword.
‘The last of them are taking refuge in there,’ he said. ‘We must rescue the women before this place burns to the ground!’
Sir Torgun nodded. Blood was pouring from a wound in his shoulder, but he had about as much mind for injuries as Balthor did. The battle joy was on them: that special feeling where a man could revel in his anger like an intoxicant.
As one they dashed towards the building. Their enemies stood waiting for them, clutching their cruel weapons as they prepared to make a last stand. You could say one thing for the beastmen, they were brave after their own fashion.
Torgun and Balthor took the wide doorway together, tearing through it swords awhirl. He saw only a flurry of black and white as a beastman launched itself at him. The others pushed in behind them and soon the building was flooded with cries and screams that mingled horribly with the desperate wailing of the women chained against the walls.
Andragorix watched as his first line of defence crumbled. The burning fort flickered across the silver mirror as the fires spread across the walls, its doomed precinct a pyre for its garrison. Ignoring the disappointing spectacle he pushed further, keeping the symbol of a stylised ogre with an iron collar about its neck firmly in mind as he struggled to order the Wadwo serjeant to do his bidding.
Break cover/fight now.
He could feel its natural stubbornness resisting him, the atavistic urge to protect its young stirring it up to mutiny.
Leave the young/attack the invaders.
The warlock bent his will, focusing his elan on taming the rebellious creature. He could feel its resistance as a point of tension in the middle of his head.
Leave the young/fight now.
Keeping the symbol firmly in mind, he simplified the command.
Fight now/fight.
The point in his head intensified, then suddenly gave way as the creature succumbed to his will. Andragorix smiled evilly as a trapdoor concealed by earth slid open in the middle of the compound.
Kyra moved to a corner of the room, trying to find a mark. She was useless in a straight fight against such fiends, but she had enough Wose’s Bane left for one arrow. They were evenly matched in numbers, but the poison they had applied to their blades had mostly worn off; the surviving beastmen would need to be hacked to death. One of the devils lunged at Anupe, its hammer raised high.
Time to repay a favour, thought Kyra coolly as she drew the arrow to her lips. The shaft went through the beastman’s mouth and into the back of its throat. It lurched backwards and fell to the floor thrashing. The outlander spared her a fleeting nod of thanks before turning to help Madogan, who was on the verge of being sliced in two by a huge meat cleaver. Her falchion found the back of its leg; Madogan stepped in and buried his hatchet in its kneecap. The thing slumped to its knees and the two of them closed on it, cutting it to grey-white ribbons.
A glance about the room told her a similar story. All the other woodfolk lay dead, but the knights had triumphed. Sir Aronn buried his blade in the last one’s chest as it struggled to stand up on its one good leg. Vaskrian and Braxus had just brought down another, their bodies drenched in sweat and ichor. Sir Torgun stood over the corpses of two he had made, breathing heavily.
A flurry of movement caught her eye. Turning she saw another six of the creatures, loping towards them from a dark pit previously hidden by a concealed trapdoor.
‘There’s more o’ them!’ she yelled, ducking back behind the doorway. She’d put the last of her Wose’s Bane on her hunting knife; she slashed the first one’s calf as it tore into the room. It fell convulsing and the others poured in after it. It seemed a strange rage was on these ones, something she hadn’t seen in the others. Backing off into the corner again she scrabbled for her bow and hoped she’d find an eye.
Sir Balthor turned as Kyra yelled a warning. He had been about to look for the heiress of Dulsinor but the fighting wasn’t over yet. His arms throbbed. He’d just hacked his beastman to pieces, a frenzy coming over him that he’d never known was in him. He prayed he’d find that frenzy again as he closed with yet another.
It took a swipe at him with a hammer. He was well accustomed to fighting Wadwos by now, and ducked it smartly, stepping in for a lunge. It took the blade straight in its gut. He was about to pull it free when the creature did something unexpected. Abandoning its weapon it reached down and caught his arm. A cruel twist sent an explosion of pain through Balthor as he heard his elbow snap.
This one was larger than most. Without letting go of his arm it reached down and put a clammy two-fingered paw on top of his head. His temples exploded as it tightened its vice-like grip on him, stark bright lights bursting across his vision. From somewhere very far away he heard a female voice scream his name.
He struggled with his one good arm to find his dagger, but it was on the other side of his belt and his fingers felt distant and clumsy. He felt the sinews in his neck tear as his head turned impossibly. His eyes went black as they swivelled around forcibly to face the other wall. A bolt of lightning tore up from his spine and through his skull, a searing pain that abruptly terminated in nothingness.
Adhelina screamed as she watched the Wadwo tear Balthor’s head off his shoulders. It barely seemed to notice his sword stuck hilt-deep in its stomach. Flinging body and head aside, it lurched towards a ruddy-faced knight who had just brought down one of its comrades. A bandage on his head had come apart, and fresh blood stained his curly blond hair. The Wadwo launched itself at him with bare fists. Another blond knight, dressed in the same surcoat and even taller than his comrade, attacked it from the side. She watched with her heart in her mouth as the two knights hacked and gouged the beastman into dying submission. Just behind them an auburn-haired knight and a chestnut-haired youth were doing much the same. Anupe and a woodlander with a broken arm were faring less well, until their beastman fell back, an arrow buried in its eye up to the feathers. It fell with a crash and suddenly it was over. No more beastmen remained.
The woodlander with the broken arm slumped to the ground with a groan and passed out. Six exhausted men and women stood panting in the middle of the hut. The fires crackled and smoke wafted in. The women around them screamed with panic.
If she was doomed to play the part of a rescued damsel, she would play it her way.
‘Well don’t just stand there!’ she yelled. ‘Get us out of here, before this place burns down!’
Adelko stared at the smoky ruins of the fortress. A pile of cinders was all that remained of it, that and a hecatomb of monstrous corpses. The woodlanders from the ridge had arrived and begun to take care of the bodies of the slain. Others had joined them on the shelf of rock that the battle had won them.