by D. M. Murray
The ragged man gesticulated with wild movements and danced around the altar. His flesh was covered in black boils and hung off the bone in places. By his image, this man seemed undead.
Sarbien scratched notes into a small book.
“Something’s happening,” Lughna said, causing Sarbien to look up from his notes.
Forming a large circle around the altar, the ragged man grabbed one of the crowd and shoved him into the side of the altar. The holy man turned around and wailed as the ragged man walked towards him and slashed out his throat with a flick of his wrist. Gurgling, the holy man bled out at the foot of the altar. The ragged man turned around to face the others and spoke in a foreign tongue, one all too familiar to Sarbien.
“Those are the words of the Ravenmayne,” he muttered to the Tuannan by his side. The voices from the cavern began to chant over and over and colour drained from Sarbien’s face.
“Are you alright?” Lughna asked. “You look unwell.”
“I’m fine, child. A little frightened, that’s all.”
“I’m frightened too,” she said.
“There’s no shame in fear, child.” Sarbien smiled to reassure the young holy woman.
“What are they saying?” she asked.
“What they are practicing down below is the magic of the dead. Necromancy.”
The runes around the altar took on a faint glow as the chanting grew louder and more resonant in the great cavern.
“You see that light,” Sarbien whispered. “It’s the same as that which radiated from the urns when they were brought back to Carte. This is the source.”
“But what of the necromancy?” Lughna asked. “What place has the magic of the dead with the urns?”
Sarbien ignored the question and scribbled some more notes as he listened to the words of the ceremony. He stopped for a moment and looked down at the action on the cavern floor. The runes grew brighter and brighter before Sarbien returned to his report. The scratching of his pen soon halted and he looked back towards the ceremony.
“What is it?” Lughna asked.
“That name,” Sarbien shuddered. “We’ve been looking towards Bhalur the whole time.” He looked around at his party. “These prayers are not being offered to Bhalur. They are being offered to Balzath. An underling. A demigod of Bhalur’s.” The Usurper. Sarbien’s hand shook, scratching marks into the parchment. “All this time, we thought we had Bhalur under control. We thought there was little energy in him or his kind. Only what we granted through the balancing ceremonies. If Balzath has been receiving worship of the Ravenmayne in Bhalur’s absence all of this time, then we may very well be faced with a more powerful foe than we expected.” His eyes turned from the Tuannan back to the cavern.
The holy man whose throat had been ripped out began to twitch, his feet first and then his fingers. The ragged man hunkered down in front of the corpse, lifting up a twitching arm and letting it flop to the ground. The ragged man stood and turned to face the others, laughing while raising his face towards the cavern ceiling with his eyes shut tight. The body shuddered and writhed on the bloody sand before flashing open a pair of milky white eyes.
Sarbien stared long at the cavern. “They mean to raise the dead with their necromancy. Those who have been touched by the plague will have spirits channelled into them. They will take the souls of the living, and Balzath will grow in power.”
“What must we do?” Lughna asked.
Sarbien was silent, his mouth agape.
“What is it?” Lughna asked. “Sarbien?”
She shook his shoulder, but he stood transfixed. Tears broke from his eyes and rolled down his face.
Standing on the cavern floor was the ragged holy man, arms stretched wide and head tilted back. His eyes were wide open and amongst the rank and rotten flesh of his face shone two bright, ice-blue eyes.
Sarbien shook himself from his inner anguish and scratched down the rest of his report. He closed the book and handed it to Lughna. “I have to try and stop this. You take this and go with the captain. Deliver it to Carte with much haste. They must be warned.”
“But I want to stay here with you. It’s my service to Dajda,” the young woman insisted.
“Go now. There is only going to be death here. You serve Dajda all the more with this task.”
Lughna nodded and wiped a tear with the back of her hand.
Sarbien grabbed the arm of Captain Tyrnan and gripped it hard. “Take this silk and follow it to the surface. If it kills every single horse you have, get that message back to Carte.
The captain nodded and turned before leading Lughna up the stony path and into the black cave.
Sarbien turned and faced the abomination in the cavern below. The being who was once his son.
*
The air around Thaskil hummed and muffled voices sounded with a tinny resonance. Blurred sparks drifted in his vision. He stumbled and fell as a stabbing pain in his side betrayed some injury.
Hands gripped underneath his arms and hauled him to his feet before slamming him against a wall. With weak arms, he fumbled for his sword, half-expecting a rush of steel into his guts whilst his head cleared, but nothing came. Unable to hold, Thaskil’s knees buckled and he slid against the wall until he was sitting on the cold ground.
Shadows silhouetted against a blazing background moved all around him while voices called out in panic and alarm. A dark form dropped down in front of him, reaching out and shaking his shoulder.
“Lieutenant,” the metallic voice rang out. “Lieutenant, can you hear me?”
“Aye,” Thaskil croaked, his throat dry and ragged. His foggy vision cleared and he saw the armoury had been completely consumed by flame and collapsed in on itself, taking with it a section of the city wall of nearly forty feet wide. The flames had begun to spread to neighbouring buildings. City guards and townspeople threw water as quickly as they could come by it.
“What happened here?” the guardsman asked.
Thaskil looked for the big militiaman he had clonked over the head and bound. He wasn’t there.
“The prisoner,” Thaskil blurted.
He scanned up and down the street. Between the throngs of people rushing back and forth with water buckets, he saw the militiaman hopping up the street and into the darkness.
“There!” Thaskil shouted, his sore throat ripping out the word. With some discomfort, he hauled himself to his feet and chased after the guardsman who had already taken off in pursuit of the prisoner.
Thaskil’s side burned as he ran up the street; a broken rib, no doubt. The guardsman had caught up with the militiaman and had him kneeling on the ground, still bound and his head sticky with dark blood. Nevertheless, he appeared a foul and fearsome sort.
“Well, well, well.” Thaskil tutted while grasping his side, “looks like we’ve caught ourselves a big fish tonight. So what shall we call you, big fish? You got a name?”
The militiaman snorted a great lump of bloody mucus and made to gob it at Thaskil. The guardsman’s fist slammed into the prisoner’s face as he curled his lips to spit, sending the stringy gobbet to the ground.
“Have some respect for the lieutenant,” the guardsman growled.
“I know your officers,” the man grunted. “Not much there to respect, if you ask me.”
“Believe me, big fish, we’ll get around to asking you plenty about how you feel of alliance officers.” Thaskil stared hard at the militiaman as he spoke, “I overheard a little conversation you and your friends had before I interrupted.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, you did well, lad. Sneaky like. But I tell you, all that guile and all that luck won’t hold back what’s coming for you. Nothing will. You’re all dead.” The man nodded to the stump at the end of his arm. The belt tied about it had staunched the bleeding. “This’ll go black and fester. Blood’s going to go bad. May as well run an edge to my throat, eh?”
“Not likely. You’ll tell all before the pain that’s coming to you stops,
believe me.”
“Oh I don’t doubt there’s pain coming: Grunnxe and all his hordes and monsters. You’ve gone and blown the wall, lad. That’s the signal. Pain’s already on its way.”
Thaskil’s focussed on the hole in the wall. His finger drummed a rapid beat on the cross-guard of his sword. His throat tightened with fear.
The man chuckled a dirty laugh. “Your finger’s tapping time to the twitches of your arse, lad. Frightened?”
“Take him and lock him away. No one gets in to see him but me. Put a team of four on his cell. Understood?”
“Aye, Lieutenant. It’s done,” the guardsman replied. “Come on, you pig. On your feet.”
*
Thaskil rushed atop the battlement and stared into the night. The full moon’s cold light stretched over the Field of Storms where the winter poppies had been replaced by wheat, still clear to see as it swayed in the breeze. All around him, he saw nothing; no sign of an approaching army.
He glanced back at the fires as city guards and townsfolk battled them. He looked back out towards the Field of Storms. Rubble was strewn in front of the breach. There were large enough chunks to be hauled back into some form of defensive bulwark. Still, what hope have we of holding onto the city when the wall is breached?
He made his way down from the wall and approached a sergeant of the city guard. “It’s Sergeant Omree, isn’t it?”
The sergeant nodded, saluting Thaskil.
“I want you to get a platoon of troops out in front of that blasted section and dig a trench half a man deep. Dig it wider than the section of wall that’s down and then get whatever wood that can be gathered and line the pit with it. Pour in as much naphtha as it takes to cover the wood. Make sure there’s enough to burn for a good while. Get some heavy horse and teamsters, and get those larger pieces of masonry hauled back towards the line of the wall.” Thaskil looked over the shoulder of the sergeant and beyond the gap in the wall. “Scatter a good few bits of rock between the wall and the trench. I don’t want any advance to be easy.”
“We have caltrops, sir,” the sergeant said. “We can scatter them across the distance too?”
Thaskil grinned. “That’s perfect. Put as many down as you can find. Now, once the boulders are hauled back, build them as high as you can, and create a pinch point. If anything’s going to come at us tonight, they’ll come at us here. Let’s not make it easy for them. I want a kill-zone right where that wall used to stand,” he said, pointing to the gap. “When they come at us, those that make it past the trench and the rough ground can’t come more than a few at a time. We’ll use their numbers against them.”
“Aye, sir.”
“One more thing. I want word sent to the battalion camped down by the old trenches. Have them told that they are to relocate to within the city, along with all horses and supplies. It must be done tonight. You can use as many as you need to finalise the defences here.”
“I’ll see it done, sir.” The sergeant saluted and turned on his heel.
As Thaskil walked off, he heard the Sergeant Omree issuing commands with determined authority. “Now,” Thaskil muttered under his breath, “let’s see what this big fish has to say for himself.” He stalked off holding his side and hauled himself into his saddle. The trap is closing on you, Major.
*
Grunnxe scratched at his beard and leered toward the faint light in the distance. He leaned back in his saddle and smiled as Apula’s flames flickered.
“Looks a nice big hole, eh!” he roared, slapping the Priestess across the back. Her hooded head turned towards him, and Grunnxe shrunk back.
The Priestess’s voice had a metallic coldness and a lethal emphasis on each word. “Old man, you do not get to touch me.”
Grunnxe winced as each word struck with increasing tightness about his chest.
“You don’t talk to the king like that!” one of the commanders shouted from the side.
“Shut your mouth,” Grunnxe roared, all his fear finding a vent, “or I’ll drive my sword through it!”
The commander shrunk away at the rebuke.
“All of you dogs listen!” Grunnxe’s voice took on the usual steel, now that his fear had been bled away. He pointed toward the Priestess. “This is the voice of our god! Respect the voice! Respect it not and you will pay!” Grunnxe looked back at the Priestess and accepted a subtle nod. “Come aside with me a moment, if you will,” Grunnxe whispered to the Priestess.
They rode a small way off into the darkness, stopping by heavy bushes of gorse, lit cold blue in the night.
“You’re content that it’s not too early?” Grunnxe asked the Priestess.
The faceless hood nodded. “I am content, King. The city will fall and fall fast. With your soldiers, and my servants, you will have superior numbers. Strike now.”
“Your servants? You mean the Ravemayne?” Grunnxe asked, puzzled by the words of the Priestess.
“The Ravenmayne are my children, as are the servants—” The Priestess’s head recoiled hard as a wave of light smashed against it. She swayed in the saddle for a moment before straightening, rubbing the smoking side of her hood. “My words are a lie. The Master’s rebuke is quite correct. The Ravenmayne and the servants are the children of the Master God, Balzath. I, too, serve at his will.”
Grunnxe’s eyes flashed around, wild with fear. “What was that?” he half-mumbled.
The Priestess continued rubbing the side of her hood. “That was the Master God. I displeased him; forgetting my station.”
Grunnxe swallowed hard and tried to stop fidgeting, keeping his attention focused on the Priestess.
“The Master God sends us his servant now. I hear them.”
“I hear nothing,” Grunnxe said, bemused.
“You sense little. The spirits of man are too weak. They come now,” the Priestess hissed, her statement trailing off into nothingness.
Her words were followed by a wail that grew louder and screamed across the night wind like the hot breath of a desert fire. The noise rose to a deafening whine, a tearing screech. It caused man and Ravenmayne alike to place hands over ears to protect against the blood-chilling noise.
“Children of Balzath, I grant you form and flesh. I grant you claw and tooth.” The Priestess stood up in her saddle, arms spread wide. “Come into this realm and feast on man. Bring their sweet souls back to our Master God and bring us dominion!” She muttered words, causing the Ravenmayne amongst the horde to make symbols over their faces.
The Priestess released a flash of light from her mouth and breathed life into the spirits wheeling and wailing all around. In an instant, clawing at the ground before the horde of Solansian warriors and Ravenmayne, stood a battalion of creatures, shimmering skinned, and bowlegged.
They stood taller than a man by two feet and had long arms knotted with muscle. Their shining black claws dug at the earth as they leered at the terrified army with ragged teeth. Saliva of sorts exuded from their mouths and fizzed as it touched the waxy blades of grass.
The soldiers gasped in horror, unsure whether to stay or to run. Grunnxe was transfixed. His focus only shifted when the Priestess spoke.
“The Master God, Balzath, means to take victory quickly and so he grants you his servants. Now, on to Apula and bring him souls!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Give him another one,” Thaskil ordered. The militiaman’s head snapped back and then rolled forward. He drooled a string of bloody spit from with burst lips. “Now then, you going to speak?” Thaskil asked.
“Fuck you.”
No, fuck you, actually. “I can see this isn’t going anywhere fast.”
Thaskil shook his head and left the cell, closing the barred door with a metallic whine and crunch. He stood outside the cell collecting his thoughts when the sound of a struggle came from the entrance to the dungeon of the High Command.
Thaskil walked along the stone hallway, lit by lamps and the cold light that spilled in from the small barred window
s of the cells. He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth hanging open. Standing in front of him, bloodied and in chains, was Bergnon and another man.
Bergnon struggled and thrashed before being slammed against the wall by the escorting guardsmen. He looked at the guardsmen with rage in his eyes before straightening up, aggressive and ready. His bloodshot eyes flashed towards Thaskil. A look of sorrow fell over him and Bergnon sagged against the wall.
One of the guardsmen spoke, “We found the major dropping the body of one of our guards into the central well with this mercenary scum.”
“Well, well, well.” Thaskil walked towards his commanding officer, whom he thought both mentor and friend. His guts churned as he walked, the urge for vengeance flared through his body like a fire. Not this time. No, this time you speak and you tell me everything.
“Thaskil, I’m—”
Thaskil drove his fist into Bergnon’s stomach, causing his breath to explode from his lungs and driving him to his knees.
“No, you don’t speak. Let me tell you how this works. I take you and your friend here and I throw you in the cell with that other big bastard friend of yours. Then all three of you sing like a chorus.”
Bergnon gasped for breath, his mouth gaping like a landed fish.
Thaskil hunkered next to Bergnon’s ear. “But before anything, you tell me here and now what you did to Arrlun.”
Bergnon’s trembling head turned to Thaskil, but he was unable to hold his stare. “He’s dead.”
No! Thaskil’s heart thundered and his fingertips tingled as the shock hit. He felt tears welling in his eyes, but he clenched his jaw tight and stood. Thaskil grabbed a fistful of Bergnon’s hair as he went and dragged him scrambling to his feet.
“How did you do it?” Thaskil growled.
Bergnon’s head leaned against the stone wall. He rolled it sideways and looked at Thaskil. “He wasn’t meant to follow me. Wasn’t meant to happen. I swear it.”
“Your word isn’t worth a shit to me. Did you do it?”