by J. K. Barber
“Go,” Mistress Mala commanded him, as she ushered him to the stairs, “Make sure all are ready and the pitch is hot. Tell Branden at the gates that they have a ram.”
“Yes Ma’am,” he saluted and rushed down the stairs.
“A blacksmith defending our main gate... what have we come to?” Master Pieter mocked.
“Branden was not always a blacksmith, my friend,” Mala replied in low tones. The sorcerer raised an eyebrow, but, when no more information was given, he refocused on the issue at hand.
“Great Mother save us all,” Master Pieter said hoarsely. “Ready?”
“Always,” stated Mistress Mala.
Mala and Pieter held each other’s faces, forehead to forehead, and repeated the charge they had spoken together so many times that it had become second nature to them, “By sword and spell we are joined. Until death shall part our bond, brother and sister are we.”
They stepped apart, and she nodded at him.
Clearing his throat, he began to hum, calling upon the energy around him and wrapping his body in it, as if it were a cloak.
Mistress Mala called down to the wall, “They come! Ready yourselves!”
Master Pieter clapped his hands around his channeling staff, the air about him charging with static electricity. White sparks popped around his hands, and the runes carved into his staff glowed white. Raw power radiated about his person, his murmured incantations not just coming from his mouth now but creating an audible hum all about him. The sorcerers below and on the other towers followed his example, energy roaring like a wave down the wall as it was called upon. Mistress Mala tightened her grip on her bow and pulled her standing quiver closer within her reach; the approaching army was within range, their leader ever vigilant from the back line. She nodded to Master Pieter, and he nodded in return.
“Loose!” she bellowed. The field filled with a white hot thunderclap that was a pulse of energy as it left the walls, washing over the attackers. Following that was a rain of arrows. The first row of ice orcs never got a chance to scream, as white fire lanced through their bodies. The few, who shrugged it off, were pin-cushioned with arrows instead. After a few more volleys from Snowhaven, enemy archers made it within range of the walls and let free their own arrows. The Snowhaven guards that did not duck for cover fell dead or injured into the arms of their comrades, or simply slumped in their arrow slits. The badly wounded and dead were gently laid aside and replaced.
Mistress Mala nocked another arrow as she yelled, “Loose!” Again, another thunderclap, a volley of Snowhaven arrows, and another wave, deeper in the enemy ranks this time, fell to its knees. The ice orcs had reached the wall, and their ladders were quickly brought up against it. The ram was mid-field. “Lower wall, focus fire on those manning the ram. Upper wall, target those on the ladders. Towers, pick off the ones on the roof! Ready the oil! Fire at will!” Sergeants quickly spread her words through the defenders, and Mistress Mala’s orders were followed without question.
The order of the battle crumbled. The veteran Snowhaven archers picked individual targets with keen accuracy. Sadly, the other side was just as deadly. The sorcerers continued with their waves of lightning, their respective warriors on the walls holding up shields to guard them from enemy fire when they approached the windows for another burst of energy. With each pulse, these women and men grew visibly paler. Branden could be heard shouting orders at the gate, and thick squared off pieces of timber were soon pulled from the town mill to be used to brace the gate. Only three pieces were in place before the first ram strike shook the doors, the echo of the blow resounding throughout the mostly empty town.
“Release the pitch!” Mistress Mala called down to the wall. The dual, massive iron cauldrons were tipped over the wall and then pulled back with the system of ropes and pulleys, which suspended it on top of the roof above the gate. Guttural screams came from below. The enemy troops trampled those who had fallen; their flesh burnt beyond recognition and replaced their numbers on the ram. Those who were not operating the ram held shields in a tight pattern to protect their comrades.
Snowhaven archers in the windows near the gate lit arrows, wrapped lightly in oil soaked gauze, and aimed for the ram itself. A couple arrows hit their mark and the pitch-soaked ram ignited. Mistress Mala cheered, and then frowned when she saw that pitch was the only thing burning. The fire quickly exhausted itself on the limited fuel. The ram was scorched but remained unharmed. Another enormous blow hit the door, this time reverberating through the walls themselves. Branden called for more timber, he and his men dashing about to hold the logs in place or replacing cracked pieces.
“Damn it! They treated the ram,” Mala cursed, “...or soaked it. See Pieter it is steaming.” She turned to see Pieter visibly swaying, his robes clinging to his sides with sweat, as he prepared to signal for another blast from himself and his sorcerers. “Pieter, you don’t look so good.” He released the power and then collapsed. The Master Swordswoman caught him before he hit the ground, dropping her bow as she dove under him. Mala sat up, holding him in her arms. She lifted her head and noticed that the magical discharge on the field was weak. Leaning forward so that she could see over the rail, she saw other warriors also fanning their sorcerers or gently laying them aside.
The magical defense was spent. Normally, the sorcerers would have taken turns between attacks, but with their decreased numbers there was no time for that. She returned her focus to her own sorcerer. He was awake, but his eyes would not focus. Pulling her water skin from her belt, she put a few drops on his lips. He licked them. She repeated the process a few more times until he roused himself and drank directly from the skin. Master Pieter focused for a moment, but it wasn’t long before his eyes rolled back in his head, finally losing consciousness. “Rest my friend.” Slinging her bow and quiver over her chest, the deceivingly strong woman scooped up Master Pieter and carried him down the tower’s stairs. Then, setting him aside propped up against the wall, she took up an empty arrow slit, gently rolling aside its last defender.
The three veterans looked gravely from one to another. Branden’s armored torso was covered in a mixture of sweat and wood chips. He wiped his dripping brow. Master Pieter, having only regained consciousness a moment before, was sickly pale. Mistress Mala, tired as she was, and having taken an arrow to her left arm, still stood firm and resolute. She was down to one sword, having lost one over the wall, as a man she had stabbed fell away with the weapon embedded in his chest.
Pieter put his hand over his mouth, almost vomiting at the sight of Mala pulling out the arrow out by herself. The Master Swordswoman had bitten down on her belt, drew the projectile out, and then wrapped her injured shoulder tightly in the strips of cloth that she had torn from her shirtsleeve. She refastened her damaged pauldron back over the makeshift bandage; even with the arrow puncture in the piece, it was still armor that could protect her from less piercing weapons.
Snowhaven’s North Gate, its once gleaming smooth surface was now dented, burned, and split. It was about to break. Branden’s men still attempted to patch it where they could. Only a half dozen of their best archers remained on the wall to pick off orcs as they came over the roof. The rest were now at the main gate preparing for its breach. Branden gave Master Pieter a few sips of brandy from his personal flask and then tucked it back into his jerkin. The sorcerer’s color improved, as the potent liquor awakened his blood, but he barely managed to stand.
“I don’t mean to sound like a pessimist, but we aren’t going to last long when that gate breaks and that bastard knight and his men come marching in,” Pieter said in low tones, so that the other Snowhaven defenders could not hear.
“Then we will die well in battle, as we have always known we would, Pieter.” The hardened warrior woman managed a smile at her fighting companion. Pieter and Mala stared into each other’s eyes for a moment; they were both tired from a lifetime of struggle and war, and their eyes showed it. Mala turned to Branden. “You, however, need
to go get your wife and get out, right now. I know you haven’t wanted to move her, because it might be too much strain on her body as sick as she is. But, an army is about to come through that gate. No one expects you to give your life this day. You have done enough already. Please go and with our thanks.”
Branden looked torn, “You know I am not a coward...”
Mala cupped his jaw in her good hand and looked directly into his eyes. “I know. Now go. Dara needs you. Your daughters need you.” Branden took her hand away from his jaw, but squeezed it before releasing it.
“Thank you. Thank both of you,” the smith said, turning to Pieter as well.
Pieter frowned, looking at Branden and then to Mala. The thin man’s knit brow hinted at some internal struggle. The sorcerer nodded, a decision having been reached. His brow relaxed and determination settled into his jaw; he clenched his teeth, biting back his emotions.
“Mala, my dear, it has been nice knowing you. Go help Branden get Dara. Get them out of here.”
Mistress Mala’s face creased and her lips pursed in anger as she turned on Pieter. “What?” She asked perplexedly. Branden’s expression was just as confused and shocked.
Master Pieter laughed and said, “Mala that face is priceless, but I am serious. If Branden is attacked, he will have a hard time fighting with his wife in his arms. Go with him. I will hold them off long enough for you two to get a head start. I have pushed my body too far today as it is. I will never fully recover. Better to die today then live a life a shadow of what I once was. That is a miserable road I don’t care to travel down.” He grasped forearms with Mistress Mala.
She was about to protest, but the door behind them groaned and a large crack, bigger than all the rest, split dead center down the length of the door. One of the massive hinges flew over their heads, as they quickly ducked. “Go,” Master Pieter yelled and released his battle companion’s arm, pushing her toward the street that led to Branden’s house. Mistress Mala drew her sword and slid it into the sorcerer’s belt.
“Kill a good dozen with that for me will you? You do remember how I taught you to use that, right?” Mala joked, but tears welled in her blue eyes. She wrapped him in a tight hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye, brother. Fight well.”
He nodded, as he returned the embrace. “Fight well, sister. Now go!” He then turned to the troops who were eyeing the three in desperate need of any kind of leader’s guidance.
In a deep, commanding voice amplified by magic, Pieter shouted and pointed at the soldiers at the gate, “You men there, when the door breaks brace your spears for the charge! You three there, raise your shields in front of me, while I create a wall of energy to cut off their forces! The rest of you, aid each other! Only together will we hold strong for Snowhaven. Do not fear death. It is only the beginning!”
The men and women, defending the gate, all cheered, “For Snowhaven!” And they hastily followed Master Pieter’s orders.
Branden and Mistress Mala slipped away unnoticed, as the soldiers only had eyes for their new commander and the tasks he had set them to do. When the gate was out of sight, they broke into a full run toward Branden’s home. As they neared the house, they heard a huge crash from the North Gate. Faintly, they heard Master Pieter himself yell, “For Snowhaven!” The pair spared a quick glance back to the gate and saw Pieter’s wall of energy rise up above the rooftops.
“We need to hurry. He doesn’t have the strength to hold...” Mala trailed off as a group of five orcs rounded the alleyway, spotting them immediately. Branden eased his two-handed warhammer out of its back sling and gripped it firmly in front of him, eyeing the horn around a smaller orc’s neck. The alley filled with the stench of unwashed beasts. The enemy’s blue-skinned faces wrinkled into savage smiles. Their bodies lumbered slowly forward on legs that were too short for their bodies and arms that reached their knees.
Mistress Mala grasped at air as she reached for her sword. “Son of a...” Mala’s cursed, remembering she had given Pieter her sword, and then a low growl passed through her bared teeth. “Branden go inside and get Dara,” she said in a rough inhuman voice and crouched down.
Branden looked at her in fear, stunned by Mala’s strange speech. The swordmistress’ attention was too focused on the malformed humanoids approaching her though to notice. She stared them down like a predator would prey. The orcs held their ground, unsure as to what was happening. Their leader, his large tusks capped in silver, remained cautious but still patted his barbed club confidently in his palm. She spared Branden the briefest of glances and screamed, “Move!”
Branden caught a glimpse of her eyes as he bolted into the house. Her irises had turned green and her pupils sharpened into the thin vertical ovals. He didn’t stay long enough to see that her face was rapidly growing white fur.
Her body arched as she crouched, her spine elongating and continuing past her haunches into a long tail. On all fours, the bones in her hands and feet popped and curved into paws, sharp black claws growing where her nails once were. Her face stretched and her nose flattened, as it turned black. Pure white canines, as long as a man’s hand grew from her mouth, and she let forth a roar to reveal the rest of her sharp teeth. Ribs expanded as well as her girth, while black spots formed in her white fur. Corded muscle flexed under her coat, and she dug her claws into the dirt and uttered a long low growl. Her tail flicked anxiously back and forth behind her. The orcs nervously formed a semi-circle around her. She eyed them all, keeping each one in sight as she backed up, and her hindquarters soon touched the door of the house.
The smaller orc looked at his captain, then back at this huge beast in front of him. He raised the horn to his lips. The sound that emitted was weak as the orc stared blankly at the sky. Her teeth had sunk deep into his throat and chest, piercing his windpipe and lungs. She shook him violently and with a sharp crack his neck snapped. Suddenly, Mala’s vision clouded with pain. She roared and rounded on the largest orc, who had just slammed his mace into her back. With lightning speed she had the orc’s shoulder that was holding the weapon in her mouth. She grinned as she tore the limb from his body. He screamed in pain, falling to the ground and feebly trying to contain the blood that was spurting from his now empty socket. The remaining three did not run, as Mala would have thought. They dropped their weapons and unslung long spears from their backs.
Branden had a hard time concentrating on the task at hand with all the commotion, roars, and screams from outside, but he quickly wrapped Dara in a thick fur-lined blanket. She was awake and more alert than she had been in weeks, but simply watched his every move.
“Just relax, my love. I’ll have you out of here in no time,” Branden said, fussing with some leather strapping around her blanket, in hopes that it would keep the cover in place while they were on the run. He then pulled a water skin off the wall, took a swig and offered Dara some. She shook her head, so he slung its strap over his shoulder. In preparation for such an evacuation, the smith had previously wrapped some dried meat and a loaf of bread into a cloth and placed them in a backpack. He slipped it onto his shoulder as well.
“They have come, haven’t they?” Dara asked in a haunting voice, still weak with sickness.
“Yes, the orcs have broken through the gate.” Branden sighed heavily, as he pulled two swords from a bundle beneath the floor under the bed and then slid a board back into place. He’d never let the enemy have his weapons. They would destroy the forge looking, but they wouldn’t find them while they were hidden beneath the house’s flooring. He pulled nails from the bedside table drawer and yanked his blacksmith hammer from his belt to pound them into the floorboard, tacking the loose board down. Once done, he tucked the hammer back in its place.
“That is not what I meant...” Dara started to say, when the window shattered as a huge snow leopard crashed into the room. Branden threw himself in front of Dara, grabbing the swords, one in each hand, as he stared wildly at this huge cat in his bedroom. It was covered in blood, so
me its own and some that reeked of orc. Despite its wounds, it stood defiant before him, a defiance that was oddly familiar.
“Brandon! No!” Dara grasped weakly at her husband’s hand. “That is Mala.”
“Wha…” He began to say but simply stared, as the cat began to shrink in size. The paws melted away into hands and feet again. The tail shrunk as well as the spine, until Mala, clothed in her usual plain steel armor stood before him. Blood seeped from her shoulder wound under her armor, covering the side of her left cuisse and the mail on the back of her leg in crimson. A couple of thin cuts crossed her face from the glass, when she had broken through it. Looking down at the blood Mala pulled a small vial from one of her pouches, pulled the stopper out with her teeth, and spit it aside, before quaffing the purple liquid inside in one large swig. The small cuts on her face sealed at once, leaving only tiny lines of blood to mark that they had ever existed.
“Dara, you knew about this?” Branden asked, as he stared in shock at Mala in her human form.
“Yes, my love. I am sorry to have hidden this from you. It was Mala’s secret though. We thought it best not to tell anyone.”
Mala took one of the swords Branden held and belted it. “I’d love to tell you everything, Branden, but that blasted orc got off a horn blow,” the swordmistress said. “It was weak, but I am sure it was heard. We need to get out of here right now. Dara are you ready?” Dara nodded. “Branden?” He nodded. “There was another patrol entering the street in front of the house. We should go out the way I came in.”
Mala climbed out the shattered window, as Branden sheathed his sword and lifted his wife into his strong arms. Mala reached through the window for Dara and, despite her injured shoulder, still managed to lift her friend’s weight through the opening. Branden climbed out after her into the alley filled with empty crates that had once held raw ore. Mala’s eyes suddenly went wide in warning, as she looked past him. In one fluid motion he drew his blacksmith hammer, pivoted, and struck an orc square in the jaw. The orc’s raised sword fell from his hand, as he toppled over, but his small dagger was already halfway into Branden’s side, underneath the bottom lip of his breastplate. Branden momentarily ignored the weapon embedded in the edge of his gut and scanned the street. For the moment, it was clear.