“Here they come!” I shouted, raising my hands.
Before us, all along the slope, was a horde of low folk – goblins and boggarts and savage hobgoblins. Their teeth were blackened; they carried clubs and spears and cimeters and axes. The open ground was bristling with folk – there must have been dozens. Only their eyes shone in the light of the white flare; their skin glistened.
Then, screaming and gibbering, they charged.
I sent out arcs of splitting blue lightning, aiming at anything that moved. The energy crackled, snapping like wild serpents into the night. I watched as two bolts connected with half-lit figures; they died without so much as a squeal.
Herace shouted for Dawn to wake up; but she remained completely still, almost a statue.
The low folk were closing in, leaping from cover to cover, weapons held high. They gibbered and loosed their ululating war cries. Their animalistic shrieks echoed through the mountains.
The ground flickered as I lit the night with bolt after bolt of fulgimantic energy. But there were too many; soon the white light of the flare flickered and faded. We were plunged back into darkness – back into their domain.
“Ortham! Do something!” Herace yelled, standing between the now two unconscious bodies.
“What do you think I’m doing?” I shouted back.
We were trapped; outnumbered. Even Herace was useless, already injured and using his weak hand. He was a duellist; a knight. He didn’t even have his armour on.
I grit my teeth. It was up to me.
Damnit.
It was going to take more than lightning to save us.
I raised my hands again and conjured a stream of blistering feumantic flames, sweeping it across the slope; it lit up the terrain with awful red light. The whole mountainside seemed to catch fire; I felt my soul rapidly drain my reserves as the flames poured forth. Trees and brush burst, adding to the hellish sight; I heard the war cries turn to agonized screams. I saw dark figures crumpling to the ground, some trying to flee with their bodies still alight.
“That’s more like it!” Herace shouted, raising his sabre triumphantly in the air.
The wave of low folk faltered, but did not stop. A half dozen were cut off from retreat; they rushed toward us, weapons held high, madness in their eyes.
I sent forth a spray of sickening acid, letting it pour out toward the onrushing goblins. Four were practically melted right before my eyes; they stumbled forward, falling dead only a few strides away. One tried to rise to his feet; his flesh was sloughing off his bones, his face a dripping horror of dissolving skin and teeth. Gurgling shrieks pierced the air.
“By the Maker! Ortham, stop!” Herace blurted as we watched them writhe.
“You wanted battle-magick? This is battle-magick!” I snarled back, almost overcome by the horror around me.
All I could remember was Tiv’ithm… all I could remember was the Black Cohort. It was as if they were reaching out from the past, manifesting here right before my eyes… and I had to fight. I had to keep going.
Above the sound of crackling flames, as sparks leapt from the still-burning brush, I could hear the savages remustering. They were babbling, giggling from the half-lit darkness below.
“Why aren’t they retreating?” I asked aloud, wiping sweat from my brow.
“I don’t know! I’ve never seen them act like this. Never!” Herace replied in shock. “It’s like they’ve gone mad!”
We barely had a moment more to catch our breath when they launched another assault.
“Here they come again!” I cried.
Another wave of goblins scurried up the slopes, some tripping on the rocks as they dashed addle-brained toward us, yapping and frothing.
They were far enough away that I could send single, precise bolts of lightning to send them flying backward. I watched as the surrounding slopes were lit by flashes of lightning, illuminating the faces, each twisted grotesquely. It was brutal, but it was efficient. Fulgimancy was my specialty; I could spend the least energy for the greatest result with this form of battle-magick.
It was also, I found, the least gruesome.
No matter how many I sent sprawling, they just kept coming. There was an unnatural quality to their motions, something indescribable. Like they were wild animals caught in a snare, lashing out and squirming and raging against the darkness.
They leapt over the burnt-out perimeter. They were within range for another shot of feumancy.
I swept the area once again with a fountain of thick flames, carving out another path of scorching destruction; another crescendo of wails pierced the night. My sweep produced another curtain of fire, flickering infernally upon the broken slope.
My reserves were getting dangerously low; soon it would be down to just our blades.
Then we’d be in real trouble.
The screams died down. The gibbering was gone. Breathing hard and sweating from every pore from the effort of casting, I scanned the carnage. Not a living thing stirred; bodies smouldered and liquified flesh dripped from the rocks. A sour taste came into my mouth; a wave of dizziness overcame me. I leaned over and threw up.
“Ortham!” Herace shouted.
I looked up; there was one last figure, dragging its sizzling body across the stones. It had a cimeter in one hand – the other was gone. It opened its mouth wide, wide like it was trying to swallow the whole world. Its eyes were crazed.
It staggered forward, weapon up – I raised my hand. I placed a thin blue bolt of lightning right between its eyes. It dropped heavily to the ground, forehead smoking.
I was shaking. I stumbled over to Dawn, who hadn’t moved an inch. I sat down shivering. My shirt was soaked with sweat.
Herace kind of staggered to and fro, sabre held loosely in his left hand. His face was illuminated by the flickering flames of the scraggly, burning trees.
He walked over to one of the mutilated corpses. I wiped vomit from my lips with the back of my quivering hand. I hadn’t sowed this much death in a long time. Long enough that I’d like to forget.
Herace called me over. With immense effort I got to my feet and walked to him. He was standing over one of the corpses.
“Look,” he said, using the tip of his sabre to curl back the boggart’s lips.
Between the teeth was a thick, black tar. Then he gestured to the eyes; a thin slime was oozing out like viscous tears.
“Shade. All infected. Badly infected,” he said in a low voice.
I looked back at Dawn. She was still sitting perfectly still.
“You don’t think…?” I began.
Herace nodded.
“I do. I think it was the Witches.”
57
Bram Tan Heth
Somewhere, somewhere in the dark…
Dank, low hills surrounded me. Stunted, knotted trees pushed through the muck of sunless ravines – the soil was tainted, turning to rot and shadow. I wandered through that awful dreamscape, wishing it was a nightmare – yet I knew it was not.
This baleful land was very real – and I saw only its reflection. I was searching, searching… I knew she was close.
But so were many things… nefarious things, things that slither and slink through tarry mud, crawling through blighted gullies and long-forgotten vales…
This place was once free of Shade. But now it was infected, and every day, like poisoned blood, the Shade spread, unstoppable – impeded only by the hard, high mountain slopes to the east and the Sacred woods of Céin Urthia to the west.
Sythir Eaoghn, the Weeping Hills – no matter the name, no matter the tongue, the place through which I dream delved was no longer safe. It was no longer free.
Day by day the Shade grew. Day by day the hand of the Witches loomed closer, ever closer; its grip tightened as a vice to choke the life from this place. They were seeking a foothold here, so very far from their eastern fortresses – and they would not be turned away.
How many sorties had scoured these woods in ages past? Never, ever enough. There would have to be a cleansing, a great cleansing, to deprive the Witches of their wicked desires – to frustrate their malign designs that bubbled and seethed at the very doorstep of the Untouched Wood.
But this was not why I had come. I had not come simply to witness the deplorable state of this once clean hill country – I had come to find Princess Dawn by charge of Queen Boralia.
I knew she was close… she was close. It took all day to narrow the search but now I knew that she was close. Somewhere here, somewhere in the dark… but where?
I sped through the Weeping Hills, searching everywhere I could – she had made it so far. She was turning back. But why?
Then, late in the night, as I scoured the bramble-choked ravines, I caught a glimpse of something through the veil of undreamt space – a flash, a bright spark of soulbloom.
Someone was using magick – lots of magick.
I travelled toward the flashes of soulbloom; to my relief, I was soon out of the Weeping Hills. I was travelling up, up the side of a mountain – up the slopes of the Amaru Tioruga -
And then I stopped. Someone came into view – a mage in a wide-brim hat. He was surrounded by twisted, infected souls – a horde of dozens. They swarmed toward him and he unleashed blast after blast of blistering battle-magick.
I looked past the bright explosions of soulbloom – the light released in the dreamscape when magickal energy was being used in the waking world – and saw something else.
A spectral figure, seated on the ground; a dull shine glowed all around her.
It was Princess Dawn!
I ran toward her and called her name – but she did not answer.
Upon closer inspection I noticed it was only her body – of course. Of course it was only her body – the spectral image was but a physical form seen separate in the dreamscape. She must have been dream delving.
I cursed under my breath. The one person I needed to contact, and her soul wasn’t even present.
She was in dire circumstances. Waves of infected goblinoids, driven mad by Shade, charged against the encampment – it was nigh indefensible. And the only two awake were a cripple and the battle-mage!
And I was powerless to help. Powerless! I was but a wisp of dream watching the drama unfold.
The princess’ dream delving was attracting the Shade – no doubt manipulated by the Witches. And if these infected folk were being goaded into attacking… then surely there was a Witch watching somewhere, directing the macabre dance.
I was hidden from dream-sight, as I had been for years. It was the only way for me to survive – and whatever Witch was looking on was likely just as hidden. Especially after having one of their number slain by the princess. I would have hidden too.
But they were far too proud to hide – surely they wouldn’t hide. Or were they so shocked by their own mortality that they would stoop to such levels of caution?
I watched as the battle-mage repulsed the onslaught. It was completely silent here; there were no sounds, no smells from the waking world. I could only imagine the chittering, gibbering, screaming horde of low folk; the sizzling flesh, the crack of lightning and the roar of flames.
Battle-magick was a brutish, uncivilized art. But it certainly made short work of these Shade-mad assailants.
As I watched the last goblin drop to the earth, forehead smoking from a well-placed arc of lightning, a column of oily smoke burst further up the slope. It was a dream-form revealing itself; I could hear the hissing of the veil as it melted away.
A gaunt Witch stepped out from the mephitic vapors, back hunched and neck craned forward. It was a bird-folk – or, it had been, before its dedication to immortality at any cost.
And any cost had been paid. It was sickly-thin, merely a dried corpse covered in tattered cloth. A long robe trailed behind it, out of which poked ragged wings. Its face was skeletal, the black beak chipped with age; both eyes were hollow. A dull gleam glowed deep within its eye sockets and an extra set of wet, muscular arms was tucked into its ribs. Horrid, horrid augmentations – this one was likely a Molangogg. Perhaps an Ombrogogg – even a Vyranogg. The fleshy augmentations made me think Molangogg, its tyrannical command over these Shade-corrupted folk insinuated Vyranogg… but its clearly ancient origin, its mastery of the Shade itself… that could mean Ombragogg.
Not that it mattered to which arch-coven it belonged – it only mattered that it was here, now, revealing itself. It raged upon the slope, contorting and twisting; I could hear it screeching, babbling in long-forgotten tongues. My, how it cursed against the mortals who had defeated its paltry attempt to capture the princess!
I was still hidden from its sight – and glad of it. I did not want to end up as Majira.
Soon after its fit of rage, the towering nightmare of feather and stolen flesh sunk into a pillar of oily smoke, disappearing once more – returning to the waking world. The night was once again still.
I turned back to the princess and her loyal retainers. The sparse trees and mountain grasses of the rocky slope still flickered, the flames just dying out. Charred remains of the corrupted horde smoked upon the stony flanks of the Amaru Tioruga.
And Princess Dawn had yet to return – where could she gave gone?
I did not wait long. I couldn’t; time was of the essence. I had to wake the queen. I had to alert her to the danger her daughter faced – there was not a moment to lose.
I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let my dream form fall backward, down, down, down…
And then I woke up.
***
It took an hour to get audience with the queen. A full hour! Who knows what could have been stirring in the Weeping Hills during that time? What malefic, pernicious beasts could the Witch be summoning forth, goading toward the princess?
It was past midnight when I finally made it through the battery of advisors and attendants. Queen Boralia was awoken, and I was at last summoned in to speak with her directly.
Curiously, however, I was summoned not to the Etala Chamber, nor the throne’s antechamber, but to Majira’s quarters.
I hurried in, shutting the door behind me; Queen Boralia sat on a stool at Majira’s bedside. She wore no crown, and was dressed in a simple nightgown. She looked tired; Majira, as before, was ghostly pale against the cushion in her recumbent pose. The only way I could tell she was awake was by her half-shut eyes.
Queen Boralia looked up.
“Magus Bram. I’ve been told you have an important message?” she said, not a trace of worry in her voice. “One that couldn’t wait till morning?”
I couldn’t believe it. Those empty-headed attendants hadn’t relayed the urgency of my news!
“Your highness, it isn’t just important! It is urgent!” I exclaimed. “Your daughter is in dire peril!”
Queen Boralia straightened up – the serenity left her face.
“How? Where?” she demanded.
“I was dream delving, searching for her. And I found her, as you asked – she is not far. On the slopes of the Amaru Tioruga,” I explained.
“… the Bitter Frosts…” Majira whispered to the queen.
“Yes, whatever it is you call those mountains… she is in danger! Surrounded by low folk, all corrupted by the Witches’ Shade!”
The queen stood, alarm in her eyes.
“And I saw one, your highness. A Witch, who watches on from the unwakeful realms – a Witch that is conducting the assault. The first wave was repelled by a battle-mage, but I fear that noxious creatures are remustering their strength in the hills below…”
Queen Boralia pushed past me to the door. She swung it open.
“Summon the Royal Guard!” she shouted into the hall. “Awake! The princess is in peril!”
I breathed out deeply. Finally someone with reason – someone who understood the emergency! It only took an hour – a waste of precious time. But n
ow there was action.
Queen Boralia’s orders were echoed by an attendant, who went sprinting down the hall. The clatter of hooves thundered as two Royal Guard appeared almost immediately.
We would certainly need more than that…
Queen Boralia turned back to me.
“How many will we need?” she demanded, eyes aflame.
“As many as you can muster,” Majira replied weakly. “Witches are no simple quarry…”
“As many as you can muster within the hour, your highness,” I clarified. “Time is of the essence. Every moment wasted is a moment lost.”
Captain Perethon appeared at the door only moments later. The queen asked how many troops he could rally within the hour, how many could be made ready to depart.
“Two score are already outfitted, patrolling the town – we’ll take them. We can depart immediately – but we’ll have to leave the baggage train,” he replied.
He turned and barked an order to a nearby centaur, who galloped away.
“What’s our destination, my queen?” he asked.
Queen Boralia deferred to me.
“Magus Bram will be leading the relief force – he should know. He saw the place,” she said.
I was surprised – so much trust placed in one so new to court. One with such a poor courtly reputation… Majira must have spoken to her before my audience was granted. There was simply no other way.
“Through the Weeping Hills to the feet of the Bitter Frosts,” I said to Captain Perethon. “How long will it take us to ride there?”
He jutted his chin proudly into the air.
“We do not ride. We run,” he replied. “And for us, pushing hard… two days. Perhaps less.”
I couldn’t help but frown. Two days might be too long – the danger menacing Princess Dawn was imminent.
But there was no other option. We had to leave now or else her chances were none.
I just hoped that battle-mage had more magick in reserve…
“Then let us depart,” I said with finality. “We must go at once!”
Captain Perethon bowed his head and sped off down the corridor; he put his lips to a clarion as he galloped, blaring out a clear note.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 47