World of Darkness - [Time of Judgment 02] - The Last Battle

by Bill Bridges (epub)

  Following the Margrave’s request, Mephi acted as a messenger up and down the line, delivering the marshals’ orders to certain units as needed. It gave him something to do during the march and kept him moving. He didn’t like to get too cozy with any one pack or unit in particular. That always made it harder to leave when the time came for him to roam again. He, like many in his tribe, was a loner, something the other tribes thought of as indescribably sad. Nonetheless, they respected his tribe’s skills as unequaled heralds.

  At the end of the fifth day, they called a halt and camped in a glade realm that was almost too small to accommodate them. This would be the last chance for rest before reaching the Scar tomorrow. They were lucky to have the glade, uncorrupted despite its proximity to the Wyrm realm. Mephi wondered if its appearance was the doing of Tvarivich and the Margrave’s shamans. There were some powerful shamans in the army, and he wouldn’t put it past them to find the one pure place in a landscape otherwise abandoned by Gaian spirits.

  He had no trouble sleeping; he rarely did. One thing that his tribe learned well was to take rest where and when they could, for they never knew when the next chance would come. He didn’t envy the restless warriors, too eager for the fight to sleep deeply.

  Upon waking, Mephi felt a pang of wistful regret. The glade could well be the last respite he saw, should he be slain in the fight. His place wasn’t to go charging in, but it would be dangerous enough for all of them; nobody’s claws would remain unstained.

  The army moved out, leaving the glade behind, watching as the landscape became more and more twisted, rotting and reeking with raw corruption. The moon was gibbous, waxing toward full. A full moon would have been a great boon to the Ahroun warriors, but it couldn’t be helped. At least the Galliard tale-spinners like Mephi had their moon; the stories told would be good ones.

  The Margrave called a halt when the moon reached its highest peak in the Umbral sky. The moon path curved ahead, entering a bank of roiling fog. The boundary of the Scar. Past this point, the enemy would surely sight them. They rearranged their ranks, sending the scouts to the rear and the Silver Fangs to the fore, and waited for the Margrave’s signal. Every single Garou wore the battle form.

  He silently raised his arm and then brought it down. The army charged forward without a single howl, intent on the silent hunt, meaning to take down as many of their enemy as they could before the alarm was raised.

  Mephi was with the scouts in the rear and could not see the charge hit the enemy, but he heard the howls of victory as it did. Terrible wails and screeches reverberated back to his ears, the screams of the enemy. In the far distance, a series of warbling howls announced the presence of Black Spiral Dancers.

  The battle was on.

  In a surprisingly short amount of time, Mephi and the rear column advanced into the boundaries of the Scar. Dead fomori, scrags, psychomachiae and Black Spiral Dancers lay in all directions. Strange hoots and calls rang out from all sides as more of the Scar’s army responded to the attack. Unsettling shapes moved in the mists close to Mephi and the rear guard, coming closer.

  A snorting roar broke out behind him. Mephi spun in time to see a herd of corrupted boar-like creatures charging at him, their skulls stripped of skin, revealing bone, tendons and huge, lidless eyes.

  Mephi called upon a secret a jackrabbit spirit had taught him and leaped into the air, vaulting over the herd and landing well behind it. The herd scattered, seeking new targets. Mephi ran at them from behind and slashed at their hindquarters before they realized he was there. Two pigs went down squealing but three spun around and rushed at Mephi, too quick for him to leap again.

  Tusks tore into his right leg and nearly knocked him over, but he slashed down at them, severing one pig’s head from its body and cracking the ribs of another. Before the final one could charge again, Mephi clubbed it with his staff, breaking its neck.

  He limped forward, leaning on his staff, surveying the field. Fellow Garou were mopping up what remained of the herd. The landscape was a blasted, blighted ground, dotted with sharp ridges, bubbling geysers and stinking pools of stagnant liquid.

  As Mephi cautiously put weight on his wounded leg, he noticed the landscape changing. Nearby Garou stopped moving and stared, turning around in all directions, growling uneasily. The stagnant pools dried up, replaced by cracked and desiccated fens of dead, brown grass. The ridges flattened, creating a broad plain that stretched as far as the eye could see, sprouting with scraggly weeds.

  The sky went from purplish twilight to dark, slate gray, a bank of black storm clouds growing on the horizon. There was no longer any sign of the moon path.

  A Theurge shaman ran over to Mephi, looking around with an apprehensive face. “Do you realize where we are? ” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Mephi looked around again. He saw no identifying marks. “No. ”

  “We’re no longer in the Scar. This is the Battleground realm. We’re on the Plain of the Apocalypse. ”

  Mephi’s mouth fell open, speechless. He tried to put words together to express what he felt, hut none came. The revelation was too chilling—and perfectly in line with the vision Phoenix had shown him. He looked around. Others had also realized what he had and were reacting with worry or exultation. “I’ve got to see the Margrave, ” Mephi said.

  He concentrated, trying to remember what the cheetah had taught him. He strapped his staff to his back and dropped to all fours, running with a great burst of speed, even with one leg injured. He shot past Garou warriors who stood in the blood of their slain enemies, staring about in curiosity, and aimed for the Margrave’s command unit, which was wreathed with the toughest Ahroun guards. They recognized him and let him pass. He slowed as he approached the Margrave, who listened to the hurried reports of his marshals. He turned to look at Mephi, holding up a hand to silence the talking marshal.

  “The Plain of the Apocalypse! ” Mephi said. Margrave’s eyes became slits. “So I was right, ” he said, looking at his marshal.

  The marshal looked at Mephi. “How can this be? We were at the Scar for sure. There’s no mistake! "

  “It’s in the prophecy! ” Mephi said. "The last battle will be fought on the Plain of the Apocalypse, in the Battleground. This is it. The last battle. "

  “No, ” the Margrave said, “It is our final victory, where we defeat our enemy for good. ”

  The line of Ahroun guards broke to admit Queen Tvarivich and a number of her Silver Fangs. She had a nasty scar running down her shoulder to her stomach; if it pained her, she showed no sign of it. “Is it true? ” she said. “Is this the field of Apocalypse? ”

  The Margrave nodded. “Where are they? ”

  Tvarivich pointed across the plain to a line of moving figures on the far horizon. “There. They’re on the march. We had them in our claws, damn it! They just disappeared, and then here we were. And now they’re back, fully prepared for us. ’’

  Mephi looked at the approaching army, stretched in a line across the horizon. They far outnumbered the Garou. He couldn’t clearly see their composition but he made out an unreal mixture of different shapes and forms: fomori and bancs of many types, led by hooting Black Spiral Dancers.

  “Form up! Position Stormcrow! ” the Margrave Konietzko yelled, leaping onto a rock where the Garou army could see him. He gestured with his klaive toward the approaching Wyrm forces. "They march! We will meet them with all lines in place! Form up! ”

  The marshals ran throughout the ranks barking orders to pack leaders, who commanded their packmates to take their places according to battle plans laid out days before. Position Stormcrow meant that two wings would spread in lines to either side of the central command group, with the fiercest warriors along its front edge and shamans behind them ready to unleash a storm of fetish-bound spirits. The wings would then spread, “flapping" outward as the warriors advanced on their spirit-beset foes.

  The Garou hurried to take their places, jostling one another to get through. The Mar
grave’s Shadow Lords waded into the fray, pushing Garou here and there, ensuring that each got to his assigned position.

  Mephi limped toward the leftmost wing. Konietzko looked down at him from the rock. “No, herald. I need you here, ” the Margrave said. “You must bear my commands to Tvarivich once we have been separated. ”

  Mephi nodded, glad to be given an important role. Dangerous, certainly, but also weighty, a worthy honor. He headed to join the Margrave’s personal pack, the beak of the Stormcrow. Tvarivich’s Silver Fangs formed the Stormcrow’s talons, ready to lash forward and advance deep before pulling back again to strengthen the line against reprisals.

  He could see details among the approaching army now. It was like a casting call from the Garou’s worst enemies list: fomori of innumerable breeds, including ferectoi; bitter rages, banes that fed on Garou anger; hideous crab-like dratossi; carapaced ooralath hounds; Wyrm elementals, most of them balefire furmlings that were essentially floating pieces of napalm; psychomachiae, with their diverse collection of blades, scalpels and fangs; and scrags, spirits of murder, resembling a host of psycho killers and more bestial creatures. Mephi couldn’t make out other shapes and figured they were among the many unique creatures the Wyrm birthed in realms beyond human and Garou ken.

  Behind them, leading them with howls of anger and threats, marched the Black Spiral Dancers. They wore their battle forms, marked by hideous deformities—bat wings, ears and snouts, or mismatched limbs from different animals. Their ululating cries sent a shiver through Mephi. They seemed supremely confident, more so than usual even for these insane werewolves.

  Mephi looked at Konietzko. The Margrave stood tall and severe, unmoved by the warbles and gesticulations of the oncoming army. Mephi felt a wave of pride melt away his trembling and knew that, whatever the outcome, it would be noble. The Margrave had that effect on others. Mephi knew that some of his aura of confidence was due to his Shadow Lord spirit gifts, but most of it came from the Margrave himself. He was a supreme elder of the Garou; it was impossible not to be impressed just by looking at him.

  Tvarivich stepped beside the Margrave and pointed out a figure in the rear ranks of the Wyrm army. “Do you see him? That is Charvas Yurkin. He was once a Get of Fenris from Moscow. He served the Hag. We thought him killed. ”

  “He commands the army, ” the Margrave said, nodding as he assessed the distant figure. “He is perhaps more powerful than when you last knew him. ”

  Tvarivich spat. “He will still fall beneath by mace. " “Do not get so eager yet. He is deep in their ranks. We can’t risk a sortie that far. Not yet. "

  “I will hold my rage for him, ” Tvarivich said, spinning around to meet up with her Silver Fangs. “But he will succumb sooner than you think. ”

  The Margrave did not reply. Mephi watched his eyes dart across the enemy line, sizing them up, hatching adjustments to his own battle plan. The Margrave leaned over and spoke to a marshal, who immediately ran into the right wing and exchanged the positioning of ten Garou, re-dispersing them throughout the line. The Margrave nodded, pleased. Mephi tried to scan the enemy line to figure out which foes the Margrave had adjusted their forces to meet, but it was all a jumbled confusion of screaming monstrosities to him.

  The Wyrm forces were less than a hundred yards away. The Garou stood still, waiting, ready to move or receive the charge based on the Margrave’s orders. Konietzko nodded to a group of Shadow Lords near him and they spread their arms, howling. Their cry echoed across the sky. Storm clouds instantly gathered overhead, opening to disgorge a torrent of rain upon the Wyrm army. Lightning forked down to pierce seven fomori, electrocuting them on the spot. Their bodies dropped, trampled by the onrushing forces.

  Five furmling banes, the floating masses of glowing balefire, writhed and tried to hide beneath the nearby soldiers, burning them as they did so. The rain battered at their shapeless forms, eroding them, washing pieces away into the mud. A panicked mass of fomori broke from the line, burned by the furmlings’ attempt to seek shelter, running hack towards the rear. The Black Spiral Dancers howled and leaped forward, their jaws snapping at the deserters, forcing them back into the line. Two of them refused and were cut down by claws.

  The corrupt army slowed, unsure now. The Black Spiral Dancers waded into the lines, barking and slashing at the hesitant Wyrm creatures, forcing them to move again.

  Konietzko looked off to his left, catching the eye of a commander there, and nodded. The commander howled to his pack and the air shimmered before them. A shape took form, large and horned and astride a great horse, followed by smaller shapes, white with red-glowing eyes. The horseman vaulted across the field toward the Wyrm forces, a huge pack of slavering hounds following in his wake.

  Mephi stared with wide eyes. He had never seen the Wild Hunt before. The most accomplished among the Fianna could summon that chaotic force and unleash it on their foes. The hunt tore into the line of Wyrm creatures, the huntsman slashing with his huge spear and the dogs tearing at flesh with their sharp teeth.

  A large swatch of creatures went down, startled by the spiritual force’s sudden charge. A horde of other beasts moved in to fill the line, falling with fury upon the hunters, tearing the dogs limb from limb and unhorsing the huntsman, who was soon lost beneath a mountain of creatures clamoring to destroy him.

  While the enemy was distracted with that ploy, the Margrave unleashed another. From the Stormcrow’s right wing a grand howl went forth, answered by loud growls coming from the sky. Mephi saw ghostly wolves forming there, running down to join a charge led by the Get of Fenris. The fabled Hordes of Valhalla, answering the call of their totem kin.

  The horde of Garou and spirit wolves hit the line of Wyrm creatures like a tank driving through a crumbling wall. Many creatures fell before the onslaught but others recovered quickly and moved in.

  The Black Spiral Dancers rushed forth, three packs responding to the Garou’s rash attack. They slashed and gnashed at the Fenrir, grappling and slipping in the sloshing mud beneath the torrential downpour. The Valhallan spirit horde spread deep into the enemy lines, breaking their formation and causing chaos, but the wolves were soon cut down. The Get could advance no further, but the Black Spirals could not push them back.

  The Margrave nodded once more, unleashing the Stormcrow’s talons. Tvarivich’s Silver Fangs leaped forward, smashing into what remained of the enemy’s center, tearing down banes and fomori like grass before a lawn mower. Blood and ichor sprayed across the field, mixing with the falling rain to stain the pure white fur of the Fangs. The ground became a muddy mound of mangled bodies.

  The Black Spirals whistled and hooted, giving a preset command, and the Wyrm army drew hack, its broken left line falling back to form a box with its still intact right line. The Fangs and the Fenrir tore into the stragglers, decimating them.

  Konietzko howled, his roar echoing across the field, causing even those creatures who had not yet fought to shiver. Tvarivich cursed but heeded the command, calling her warriors back. They retreated, slipping back into the Garou line, resheathing the Stormcrow’s talons. The Fenrir likewise retreated, although with greater reluctance, forming again within the right wing.

  Mephi tried to count the losses. Seven Fenrir dead with eleven badly wounded. Three Silver Fang dead with nine wounded, none severely. An incredible accomplishment, given that the Wyrm fallen had to number nearly a hundred. The Wild Hunt and the Valhallan horde were gone, but they were merely spirit manifestations; they could not be destroyed permanently.

  Mephi almost held out hope for a quick battle, but he sobered as he watched the Wyrm forces reestablish themselves. The Garou were still outnumbered three-to-one at least, assuming the Wyrm-spawn had no tricks up their sleeves, such as spirits of their own to summon. Mephi hoped that their summoning had already taken place, that this army was the extent of their forces.

  Mephi’s balance wavered for a moment, and he leaned on his staff to center himself. He looked around and saw other G
arou suffering similar problems. Some had fallen. Their comrades helped them to rise only to risk toppling themselves as a second massive tremor shook the ground. Mephi felt his stomach lurch, not just from the tremor but the awareness of what was coming.

  The ground to his left burst open. Garou fell into the gaping hole. Some scrambled to maintain purchase on the fast eroding edge while others leaped free of the collapsed earth. Screams came from the pit and a gray, warty tentacle whipped up and out, thrashing the Garou as they tried to climb up from the crumbling lip.

  Mephi cursed and looked to Konietzko. The Margrave’s anger clearly simmered in his eyes but he was otherwise expressionless. He growled and swept his hand at a group of Garou in the right wing, and they charged toward the hole. The Margrave howled again and Tvarivich’s forces once more vaulted forward, crashing against the Wyrm force’s sudden advance. The Black Spiral Dancers had timed their charge to take advantage of the ground’s collapse.

  Mephi crept as near 31s he dared to the hole and peeked in. As he feared, the massive open maw of a thunderwyrm clamped shut, trapping fallen Garou in its throat. They must have lost nearly twenty Garou. He leaped forward and grabbed onto those still struggling, helping them escape the pit.

  The dispatched contingent surrounded the circle and began to growl, each tearing a fetish from a vine around their necks. Their lack of other accoutrement told Mephi their identity: Red Talons, the feral tribe, all of them wolf-born. They released their fetishes simultaneously, accompanied by a buckling of the earth.

  The ground swelled up, sealing the pit. Before it closed completely, Mephi could see a horde of rocky earth elementals battering at the thunderwyrm’s snout, beating it back down the hole and cracking open its hide.