by Matthew Cook
I see hardened warriors clutching their heads, tears streaming down their faces as they try to shut out the weird and terrible cry. Others crumple to the stones, shocked into unconsciousness by the unexpected force of the Mor's combined terror. We are still reeling as the remnants of the attacking army turn for the open gates and the safety of the plains beyond.
By now the number of sweetlings cannot be measured. They carpet the vast expanse of the square, a seething mass of rope-muscled shoulders and waving, blood-smeared limbs, which moves and shifts, with one mind, like a flock of wheeling birds. The Mor, even as puissant as they are, are no match for their unliving determination.
The last of the Mor cry lances through my mind, impaling me on a spike of crystalline thought, jagged and painful as a spear. I drop to my knee, trying to shut out the agony. My sister keens along, her own cries of pain mingling with the fading mental shriek. Distantly, I hear someone—Lia—calling my name.
"I'm all right,” I gasp, clutching the flagstones with clawed fingers, trying to balance myself against the heaving earth. “I'm all right. Keep going. Stay with your father."
"They will wait,” she says, helping me back to my feet. Her hand is shaking, but it seems as if the scream has not affected her as badly as it did me. I stagger beside her and we lean against each other. Together, we push towards the small knot of color that marks the mages’ position.
There are so few. Less than a hundred, surrounded by the remaining defenders from the Armitage. I do a quick calculation, splitting the line before me into halves, then halving the remainder twice more, before counting individual figures and multiplying that number by eight. It is a useful trick, taught to me by the Lord Commander Mermont, on the day we faced the Mor at Gamth's Pass.
The result is not encouraging. All told, the human defenders number less than three thousand. All are armed with spears and swords, armored in the best mail Imperial smiths can forge, but I know firsthand the sweetlings’ uncanny strength and determination. A sweetling raised from a human shell is faster and stronger than any human warrior, bristling with blades and spikes of rock-hard bone, able to ignore even crippling wounds. One raised from a Mor body is stronger still.
I look out across the courtyard and attempt to count them, but it is impossible. Their skinless, rope-muscled bodies, slicked with red or bluish-black blood, merge visually as they shift and move. I try again, splitting the group into a smaller unit and multiplying by a higher number. The result shocks me.
Five thousand. If I am right, if I have not miscounted, or done the figures wrong in my head, we face five thousand undead warriors, outnumbering us almost two to one.
You did not miscount, my sister whispers. She sounds as appalled by the figure as I am. Oh, Kirin, what will we do?
"Stand as long as we can and try our best to kill Rath and his vod'hule. What else can we do?"
I think of the child who began all this, Napaula's son, ripped from its warm, sheltering womb after so many decades. The thought evokes stinging tears, and I feel my face screw with sympathetic anguish. “He must be so scared. So confused by everything that has happened. Despite its terrible power, it is an innocent in all of this."
It may be, but Sete, and Rath, are not. Your feelings are noble, but do not let them get in the way of doing what you must.
I bend and snatch up a bow, prying it from the fingers of a fallen soldier. He will not need it. Orange sky light gleams off its polished belly. I shake my head and look out, across the fleeing backs of the Mor, to where the vod'hule stands at Rath's side, swaying with concentration—or rapture—as the army of sweetlings gives chase.
"What does she say?” Lia asks, helping me the last of the way towards the mages. She knows what it means when I whisper to myself.
"She reminds me of my duty,” I reply.
She nods. “Good. It's about time someone did."
The barb strikes home, digging deep. I grit my teeth and force myself to remain silent. I know she punishes herself as much as she does me; it is her way.
"I won't let you down again,” I tell her, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
She looks at me, the lightning clearing in her eyes for a moment, the veil of flickering light parting just long enough for me to see the girl—no, the woman—behind it. She is scared. So scared. I can almost hear her thoughts. Almost taste the fear that she will be found wanting in the final hour. That she will disappoint her father, or me, at some crucial time.
"You will not fail to do what needs to be done, I know it,” I say, leaning forward to kiss her cold cheek.
She hugs me to her for a moment, her face pressed to mine. I feel her nodding, feel the chill wetness of a tear on my own cheek. Mine or hers, I know not.
We break apart, and I see the lightning return to Lia's eyes, cocooning her in the armor of her elemental power. Lia the woman, the person I love, retreats, submerged in the depths of Lia the elementalist. I do not know which one scares me more.
Together but apart, we push through the last distance separating us from the mages, and Argus Cho.
* * * *
"Rath's army has been called up and is being controlled by the vod'hule,” I say, turning my head so I can look into the many pairs of eyes arrayed around me. “If we can kill it, the army will lose its anchor, and will be driven away. The sweetlings are animated by the souls of the dead, but are kept here by the will of the summoner, and cannot remain if that force is removed."
"What about killing Rath?” a pyromancer at Argus's side asks. She is older, a whip-thin fifty or so, with flaming red hair and deep-set emerald eyes. Flames lick in her gaze, making it glow.
I shake my head. “I'm not sure. The vod'hule is not a minion like the sweetlings. It is...” I grope for the word, then shrug my shoulders, unsure how to describe it.
"I have never heard of anyone trying to do what he has done. A vod'hule is an artifact, a tool or object, suffused with the soul of a powerful necromancer. I have never heard of it being created from the body of one of the undead. It is ... unprecedented, as far as I know. Killing Rath very well might release Sete's soul, destroying it, or it might simply free it from whatever control he holds over it."
Argus scowls and shakes his head, his displeasure obvious for all to see. “If you have the chance, take him down by whatever means are necessary,” he says to the assembled mages. Behind them, I see the commanders of the army nod as well. The warriors will take their orders from the mages in this fight; they know all too well that they are grossly overmatched, and that without the slim hope offered by Argus's one hundred elementalists they would have no hope at all.
I look out, across the courtyard, to where the last of the Mor are making their final retreat out the shattered gates. Sweetlings stream after them, worrying at their rear lines. The Mor do their best to withdraw elegantly, forming wedges with shamans at their tips and wheeling in formation. It does not help them; Rath's army is so vast it simply flows around and past them, entombing the formations.
The wedges bring awesome fury to bear, empowering the shamans at their tips with the combined might of two dozen Mor. Iron staves shine with heat, brighter than magma, scattering sparks as they scythe through the seething undead.
Everywhere the Mor fire strikes, it leaves behind shattered, burning husks, which instantly crumble to dust. But the shamans can only reach so far, can only strike at so many enemies. In response, the sweetlings shift, attacking the wedge at its flanks or rear, shredding the tightly-packed formation and breaking its power.
Eventually, the wedge collapses, its power evaporating like morning fog as the Mor break ranks, reforming into small knots of desperate resistance. Their unity gone, they are swiftly drawn down, disappearing beneath the tide of gray lifeless flesh.
"Should we wait?” Lia asks.
"No,” Argus Cho commands, speaking loudly so the other commanders can hear him. “Attack them now, while they are distracted. Captain, you have your orders."
"Aye sir
. If we can get close enough, my archers will find the target,” the commander of the wall's defenses says, swallowing. I can read the bone-deep weariness in his eyes. The brown orbs are ringed with soot and ash, their whites bloodshot from the smoke in the air. As I watch, I see him push aside the fatigue, straightening his spine and staring across at Rath's host with a raptor's gaze.
His eyes slide to mine, and he nods at the bow in my hand. “Can you use that?” he asks.
"Few are better,” Lia replies for me. I feel a smile warming my face.
"Then you're with me. We'll line up between the infantry and the mages.” The sergeant hands me a battered, half-full quiver. “This is all the ammunition we have, so make your shots count."
I nod and take the missiles. There are plenty of arrows lying scattered in the courtyard, but many are doubtless broken and bent, and sorting through them in the heat of combat is simply a faster way to get killed.
I turn to Lia, and open my mouth to speak. There is so much I want to say to her. So many things that require my most earnest apologies. I do not know where to start.
She holds up her hand. “Whatever it is, you can tell me later,” she says.
"But ... yes. Later,” I agree.
I give her a brief, bone-crushing hug. Then, she is gone, hurrying back towards the other mages in Argus's coterie. She does not look back, thank the gods.
I hear the infantry captains shout for the men to form their lines. The order is picked up and carried through the ranks by the sergeants. Men and women step-to smartly, a manic, desperate energy shining in their pale faces.
The command is given to move forward. No sooner do the warriors find their stride than I hear the trumpet call to attack. Sergeants bellow to charge, and a mighty roar goes up from the ranked warriors. Their marching cadence breaks as they rush forward, swords and spears upraised, a forest of polished steel glittering red and orange in the fiery light of the sky. In the second rank, I increase my pace, trotting behind them, an arrow fitted to the string, eyes riveted to Rath's dark shape.
I feel a cold shroud fall over me, deadening my nerves. My nervous energy fades, drawn into a tight ball. It feels like a sphere of ice, lodged beneath my breast bone. My senses sharpen, and it seems as if I can see everything around me, all at once, as if my vision has widened.
At the sound of the trumpet call, I see Rath turn, his eyes wide with surprise. He gestures, pointing at the wall of men rushing towards him. He has only a light bodyguard of sweetlings arrayed around him, no more than two hundred. The bulk of his force is still on the other side of the square, finishing off the last of the retreating Mor.
If the sweetlings were mortal, it would be a massacre. We outnumber his bodyguard force twenty to one. If they felt anything resembling human emotion, I might hope that their will would break, and that they would turn tail and flee. But I have seen Rath's children, and my own, in battle too many times to foster such illusions.
The vod'hule turns its misshapen head towards us. As soon as it does, the sweetlings between us pull together as one, their movements uncanny, like a shoal of fish drawing together against a predator. The front ranks crash into them, blades ringing on bone, men screaming in fury, or terror.
For one shining, glorious moment, it looks as if it will work. The sweetlings, despite the unity of their movements, are still spread thin, still reacting to the unexpected charge. They fall like scythed wheat as the front line of spearmen run them through, pinning them long enough for the swordsmen at their sides to stab at their vulnerable heads or faces. I see dozens explode into ash as their souls are finally granted the gift of final rest.
Then the enemy ranks pull tighter, thickening like clotting blood. The charge falters, the warriors’ screams of victory changing to wails of agony. Hooked bone blades rend and tear, cutting into warm meat, then shearing through bone and sinew. Leather shreds like cloth and steel crumples like papier-mache under the cold weight of the undead. The front line spreads as its forward momentum is absorbed by the weight of the unliving foe, blunting its thrust.
I am close. Almost in range. Rath is there, his eyes wide with pleasure, drinking in the sight of the carnage. The soldiers ahead are slowing, as the rear ranks pile into the men even now dying at the front. The sweet smell of dead things is thick in the air, mingling with the copper reek of blood.
Seeing Rath so close overwhelms my better judgment, and I draw back the arrow, pulling back the string until the gray goose feathers kiss my cheek. Perhaps it will reach. Perhaps.
The instant the arrow leaves the bow I feel the wrongness of the shot. The shaft, subtly warped, curves away to the left, writhing in the air. I draw a second with a curse, not even waiting to see where it lands.
Other archers around me react to the sound of my string, and loose their own shafts in a ragged, ill-timed volley. The captain turns at the sound, his eyes widening with fury.
"Hold your fire until we're sure of a target, damn you!” he screams, his words barely loud enough to penetrate the din of weapons and the screams of the dying.
But it is too late. The loose volley falls yards short of Rath and the vod'hule, raining down on the massed sweetlings. Many are struck but only a handful go down, struck in an eye or at the base of the skull, by lucky shots. The rest do not even slow their grisly work, unencumbered by their mantles of feathered shafts.
I take a deep breath and hold my second shot. I must not waste the opportunity to put an arrow through Rath's black heart if it presents itself. I will not.
The blood magic tastes the red life all around, and uncoils inside of me, sending jolts of hunger and lust through my belly and thighs. I will myself to ignore its call. The power is useless against that which does not live. I must focus on what my own two hands can do. All my magic is useless here.
We stop, still short of the range we need to reach Rath. The captain bellows at the warriors in front of us. “Fight, you men! Put your hearts into your sword arms and fight! Push forward! Push! Push damn you!"
But the men cannot move forward. The sweetlings lash out, fast as striking snakes, cleaving arms and legs, spilling intestines over the blood-slick cobbles. Men and women fall, wailing like damned things, begging for their companions to save them; to end their lives quickly before they can be cut to pieces by the foe.
I look aside and see the main force of Rath's army has turned, is pelting back towards us as fast as their gnarled legs can propel them. They will be on us in moments, a vast tide of dead flesh.
"Archers! Ready! Shoot for your longest range, lads!” I scream, drawing my string and tilting the bow high into the air. All around me, I hear the creak of three hundred bows as the men, desperate to do something, follow my lead.
"No! Belay that! Wait until we're closer!” the captain bellows.
"There is no time!” I shout back. I force myself to not look at him. If he strikes my mutinous soul dead, as is his right, at least I will die knowing I tried. “Archers, take aim!"
"Ho!” the men reply in chorus.
"Let fly!” I scream.
Three hundred bows thrum as one, unleashing a black wave of feathered death. The whistle, for a moment, overcomes the cacophony of fighting men, filling the air with the high, thin sound of flying death.
I do not wait to see if the shots reach the target. “Fire at will!” I scream, plucking another arrow from the quiver and nocking it in one smooth motion. Again the square rings with the bass tone of our thrumming strings. It is only when my second shot is in the air that I pause to see the results of our opening volley.
Rath scurries back, behind the vod'hule and out of sight. The hulking creature spreads its arms, staring unflinchingly up into the deadly steel rain. The black cloud descends, and I see dozens of shafts riddle its twisted frame. It staggers backwards, driven to one knee by the fury of our arrows.
Then the second wave falls. Many fall short, pelting the rear ranks of sweetlings with more useless shafts. Others, through inept aim or warped
shafts, fly wide, and clatter harmlessly from the cobbles. But many more strike true, into the creature's broad shoulders or back.
I whisper a prayer to the fickle gods, hoping against hope that some lucky shot has managed to hit a vulnerable spot. Praying that Rath lies, even now, wide-eyed with death, with an arrow sticking out of his traitor's eye.
The creature stands once more, its lumpen silhouette bristling with arrows. It ignores them, reaching out with its claw and beckoning. All around us, I hear the sound of bodies jerking, of cloth ripping, as a fresh crop of sweetlings claws their way out of their cocoons.
I concentrate on the vod'hule, my eyes never leaving it. Where is he? Did we get him?
"Steady, archers!” I call out.
"Spearmen, ward the archers and mages!” a sergeant orders, somewhere to my left. Out of the corner of my eye, between us and the wall of rushing undead reinforcements, I see the human warriors draw close, forming a thick block, spear tips raised and ready. Behind us, I hear the chanting of the elementalists rising to a crescendo.
Then I see him, still half-sheltered by the golem's bulk. Rath. Even from a distance, I can see the maniacal grin stretching his mouth. He shouts encouragement to his grotesque children, his eyes shining with reflected firelight and the glow of madness.
Instinctively, I draw an arrow all the way back to my cheek, my arm quivering with the strain of holding tight the powerful bow. I gather all my strength, all my rage and fear and pain, and scream with my thoughts.
RATH!
I see him flinch, as if slapped. He reels back, staggered, then looks towards me, his eyes wide now with a new emotion—fear. At his side, the vod'hule turns as well, its ravaged head swinging my way, fixing me with its bloodied gaze.
Rath's eyes meet mine, his look of recognition unmistakable even at a distance. They know I am here, I am sure of it. He gestures towards me, desperately pointing in my direction.