by Ron Root
Quinn’s face stretched into a feral grin. “Back to back like at practice?”
“Back to back it is.”
Circling, they descended the steps, rotating in circles, leaving no angle unguarded. Who would ever have guessed their survival would someday depend on the other. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
Quinn drove his weapon through a prey’s eye. “You’ve the right of that.”
Backs together, they descended the stairwell, always circling, swords never resting.
Goodricke had been put in charge of one of the groups of townspeople atop the garrison’s inner curtain. While trained soldiers manned the outer wall, his group was comprised of farmers and tradesmen, most armed with little more than axes and pitchforks. Their mission, if the outer curtain were to fall, was to stave off the enemy long enough for the outside defenders to slip inside the garrison walls.
Caitlyn was at his side, as was Rayna, who’d volunteered as a healer. Sully was there too, cutlass in hand. Rayna had refused to let the lad out of her sight.
Goodricke’s gut knotted as more and more prey appeared on the walls, especially those nearest the gatehouse. He feared the townsfolk’s mettle was about to be tested.
Rayna cried out. “Gresham abandoned his wall.”
His wasn’t the only parapet being abandoned. Beasts were jumping into the fort all along the ramparts. A horn blasted. “They’ve ordered the garrison gate open,” Goodricke hollered. “We’ve a job to do.”
Caitlyn’s leather thong spun in circles, her flying disks seeking and finding targets.
“Gods no!” Rayna wailed. “Sully, get back here!”
In all the excitement, they’d taken their eyes off the boy. He’d climbed off the wall unseen, and was rushing toward the main gate, waving his cutlass high over his head. The little self-imagined hero was racing to help his friend Gresham.
Gresham had the right man protecting his back. That same prowess that had tested him so during the cadet championships was now keeping him alive. They reached the bottom of the stairway only to be attacked by a half dozen more of the beasts. How long could they survive this frenetic pace? How many more brutes must they contend with? He scanned the area, arms quivering, gasping for breath.
His heart skipped. Sully was running toward him, brandishing his cutlass. “No! You little fool!”
He wasn’t the only one to spot the oncoming boy. Three prey broke away to fend off this new adversary.
“Sully, go back!” he yelled, but there was no way he could be heard over this din of battle. The prey jumped Sully. Cutlass lost, the boy disappeared beneath their pile.
Rage consumed him. Time slowed. He was suddenly outside his body, observing the battle from above. He heard a savage howl, more forceful than those around him; more terrifying, too. It took a moment to realize it was he who had uttered it. His berserker had taken control.
His weapon became an extension of his fury. He cut, slashed and maimed, killing his way toward Sully, dimly aware of Quinn at his side. Onward he charged, cutting down beast after beast. What had once seemed too many enemies now seemed too few. Such paltry numbers couldn’t deter him.
Gresham’s fury multiplied. Within moments he reached Sully, slashing, cutting and tearing. Something within him remembered his Gift. An instant later spectral hands were ripping into the beasts, grasping foes, crushing them. Bodies flew. Gore spattered. They would feel the wrath of a Battle Mage gone berserker. He might die this day, but the price he’d exact would be huge. Hands grabbed and tossed until the only body remaining was a very small one, soaked in blood.
“Smithy! Smithy!”
The voice was distant. He searched for more foes but found none. Did those cowards fear the righteousness of his rage?
“Smithy! Gresham!” The voice persisted. “There are no more. You killed them all!”
It was Quinn.
His battle rage faded, a plea from Quinn once again restoring his senses. He looked around, dazed.
The defenders were rallying. Although many beasts were still inside the walls, they were quickly being dispatched. Cavalrymen and foot soldiers mingled in their midst, driving the surviving prey toward the wall. Flying weapons honed on targets, arrow and spear alike. No longer attacking, the prey scrambled for the outer wall, desperate to escape.
Gresham sheathed his bloodied sword. Gathering Sully in his arms, he headed for the hospital area, examining the torn little body he carried it.
Quinn walked beside him. “Is he alive?”
“I don’t know.”
Quinn darted ahead. “Follow me. I’ve seen what these Clerics can do. They brought back more than one man I thought would never live another day.” Quinn forced his way through the garrison crowd, Gresham chasing after. He slipped through a doorway. Gresham followed, twisting to and fro, careful not to bump the boy.
They were inside the field hospital. Clerics were tending wounded everywhere, the room seemingly too full to hold another. Quinn motioned toward him. “Over here.”
Groans and cries filled the room. The stench of blood and fetid flesh hung in the air. Quinn seemed to be looking for someone specific. “There.” He headed for an elderly Cleric attending a badly wounded soldier. “Evander, I need you!”
The exhausted man’s hollowed eyes looked up at Quinn, and then drifted to Sully. “Let me see him,” he rasped.
Gresham laid the boy down. Evander examined him, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, he’s too far gone. I must save what little Effulgence I have left in me for those who have a chance to survive,” he said, returning to the wounded man.
Quinn grasped his shoulder. “Evander, he’s a boy! Surely a single spell given to one so young can’t cost you that dearly.”
Evander looked at Quinn briefly before scanning room, looking at the wounded. Closing his eyes, he nodded. “One only.”
He removed Sully’s tattered clothing, exposing raw, torn flesh. Blood gurgled from open wounds. The Cleric was right; Sully stood no chance. Gresham closed his eyes. How would he ever convey such dire news to Hagley and Rayna?
With one hand hovering over Sully’s chest, Evander fondled a golden rod that hung from his neck, the image of the God Star carved in its front. The cruciate hummed as Evander prayed. He released his talisman long enough to gently turn Sully over, then repeated the process. The wounds, although still not healed, no longer spurted blood. “There, that’s all I can do. Do not raise your hopes; he’s very near to visiting The Light.” Evander stood. “Leave him. He’ll be taken to the tunnel with the other wounded. I must tend to others now.” He moved on to his next patient.
Gresham followed Quinn outside. The battle had ebbed, most efforts now focused on tending the wounded. Gresham paused just outside the door. “Thank you.”
Quinn leaned against the building, watching the chaos around them before finally speaking. “It was you who ruined that devil’s magic in the field yesterday, wasn’t it?”
Gresham nodded. “The magi tell me I’m gifted. They’re trying to teach me how to control it.” How much should he divulge? “That fit you just saw is called a berserker’s rage. Clearly, I’ve yet to master their lessons.”
“The gods be praised for that—your failure to do so likely saved our lives.”
Neither spoke for a bit. “You never told the Chevaliers I went into a similar rage during our duel, did you?”
Instead of answering, Quinn pushed away from the wall. “I should go. Marshal Booker will expect a report.”
Gresham watched him leave. Quinn was harder to fathom than any man he knew.
Jarek leaned against the wall, waiting. He’d been called to Marshal Booker’s headquarters to discuss how to deal with the devil beasts, as had several others. University Masters, soldiers, the Inquisitor and his chief Clerics among them. Now that they’d seen the enemy in action, they were discussing next steps. “Who all are in the tunnel, Sergeant?”
“The wounded, all
the women, and any man too young or old to fight. Their gate can be sealed from beneath.”
“Excellent.” The Marshal paced the area behind his desk. “We’ll man the outer curtain for show only, to delay another attack, but as soon as an assault comes, we’ll retreat to the inner curtain. The smaller garrison walls will be far easier to defend.”
Inquisitor Kolton cleared his throat. “Marshal, might I offer an alternative approach? Abandon the outer walls immediately. Entice the devils inside and let my Clerics bestow God’s wrath upon them. I’m sure their results will please you.”
“Explain.”
“None but a Cleric would understand. It would be simplest to describe our actions as creating artwork that dare not be disturbed.” Runes, Jarek thought, he wants to draw runes. “Allow no others outside the garrison, however.”
Marshal Booker turned to Master Vardon. “Are the magi amenable?”
Vardon inclined his head. “If His Grace’s Clerics can do harm to these devils, by all means, let them do so.”
“It’s decided then.” The Marshal circled the room, meeting each man’s eyes. “This next stand will be critical, gentlemen.” He pointed skyward. “If we fail, I fear we’ll be explaining ourselves to the Inquisitor’s overseer.” The remark evoked chuckles. Even Kolton smiled. “I for one, prefer to forestall that inevitable meeting.” He stopped pacing. “Regardless of the course of upcoming events, in the king’s name, I thank each of you for the bravery you’ve already shown. But our work’s not yet done; go out and win the day and may whatever gods you worship watch over you.”
Jarek returned to the wall. Everyone had been assigned a new post on the inner curtain. He stared at the horde beyond. Unlike the humans, their wounded remained untended and rotting. The main horde had reassembled just outside of the archer’s range, their once-orderly squadrons wandering in discord.
The surviving magicians were guarding the walls to the right side of the garrison gate. Closest to him were those he held dearest: his nephew, brave and as self-assured as the most seasoned magus; Goodricke, wielding Turpin’s sword. Hagley, with a skill-level no one had yet to fathom.
The hospital had been moved inside the tunnel. Rayna had gone there to help tend the wounded, but Caitlyn remained, the only woman left among the defenders. She’d come to the Outland to learn its ways, only to be besieged by monsters worse than those of her Haunt. Having spent the bulk of her life dealing with horrors, the fate she faced must seem unjust. Why couldn’t Zakarah content himself with his relic plunder and leave? Or was he still here because he’d yet to find them?
Leaning against the battlement wall, he slid to his butt and pulled out Lavan’s amulet, wishing he could somehow confide with his friend one last time. As much as he hated to admit it, the demon’s powers exceeded his. In fact, they surpassed everyone’s—save for Hunter’s. But then, whose didn’t pale when compared to the dragon.
Jarek toyed with that thought. Just because he couldn’t outfight the miscreant, didn’t mean he couldn’t outsmart him. He took off his Masters’ ring and removed the orb, then did the same with Lavan’s amulet. He pressed the two together, wishing they could still be used get his friend’s advice. After all, it was Lavan who’d warned that Zakarah was here for the university’s relics—and he who had told of the demon’s plan to return to his hell via portal.
He sat up. What if he couldn’t? What if he could foil the demon’s plans with a counter spell that prevented him from leaving? Zakarah might still defeat him, but at least his prisoners wouldn’t dwell in his hell. It would be a way reap a bit of revenge.
As he sat pondering what Lavan might do, an epiphany struck him. Of course, how obvious! “Hagley!” he hollered, wanting to discuss his idea with the talented lad. Looking down at the orbs, he laughed. “Even in death you still look after me, old friend.”
From the corner of his eye he saw someone approach. There, within ear shot of him, stood one of Kolton’s high Clerics, watching him talk into the orbs. Scowling, the man turned and left—in a hurry. Jarek shook his head. Nothing good would come of this.
Coming up the stairs, nearly colliding with the fast-fleeing Cleric, was Hagley. “You called for me, Magus?”
“Yes. Do you still sense your link with Hunter?”
“I do. I can’t seem to rid myself of him.”
“Do you think you can contact him?”
Hagley seemed surprised by his comment. “I could try.”
“Here, maybe these will help,” he said, handing him the orbs. “Tell him you’ve found his prey, and that many have already died. If He-Who-Steals isn’t stopped, perhaps all of them will die.”
Hagley tried to mind connect with Hunter, sending him Jarek’s message. “I’m sorry, but he didn’t respond.” Trumpets blared, announcing another attack. “I have to return to my post. Here are your orbs,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Keep them. Hide them. Tell no one you have them.”
Hagley left. He peered down the wall. Per Kolton’s instructions the area had been emptied save for a group of Clerics still praying before their newly created runes. Had they not heard the horns? By now the prey had cleared the unattended outer wall and were in the fort—in the killing grounds between the two curtains. Still, the churchmen didn’t move.
The first of the prey fell to archers’ missiles, but others arrived to replace them, pouring over the walls in ever increasing numbers. Only when the horns sounded the signal to close the garrison gate did the Clerics finally abandon their runes and dash for cover.
Oblivious of the runes, the oncoming beasts charged forward. When they reached the drawings, a group of Clerics on the wall opposite Jarek’s, raised their hands and chanted. The runes exploded, ripping apart anything in their proximity. More distant runes exploded too. Apparently other Clerics had made similar drawings. Beasts were down everywhere, either writhing in pain or wandering about with no sense of where they were. Shafts quickly took care of any still moving.
A cry of, “Archers, the gate!” was heard. Prey were raising the portcullis. Arrows rained down on them, but not in time. The gate lifted, and in marched Zakarah.
Every spellcaster and archer instantly targeted him, but strange winds whirling around him sent their attacks awry; the nearby beasts taking their brunt. Zakarah seemed not to care. Ignoring the chaos surrounding him, his eyes skimmed the bulwarks; until he spotted Jarek.
He walked to the foot of Jarek’s wall. “So good to see you again, Royal Magus. But alas, despite my ever-growing fondness for you, I fear circumstance dictates that this must be our last such meeting.” His jagged-toothed smile faded. “Things might have been different had you joined me and your companion.”
It was Jarek’s first up-close view of the demon. His sleeves did little to hide his thorny arms. With clawed hands and feet, he looked more prey than human. His cowl was back, his hideous face exposed. Pocked and pinched, save for its greenish hue, he could have passed for kin of the Crone. “You’re more hideous than I’d imagined, Zakarah. Be gone! This is not your world.”
Zakarah pressed clawed hands together. “Ah, such ungraciousness. And here I thought we’d bonded. But what can one expect from someone so feeble? Even your memory goes wanting. You forget that I take what I want, when I want.” Zakarah’s lip curled into a snarl. “Where are the relics?”
Jarek smiled; that fact he’d asked meant the relic vault remained undiscovered. Still, with refugees in the tunnel and defenders on the walls, many lives depended on the outcome of this encounter. If he surrendered the relics would Zakarah return to his hell and spare them? When he thought of what had happened to Lavan and the beast by the pond, he knew better. It was either defeat the monster, die, or be whisked away to his hell for a fate worse than death. “You receive no welcome, nor do you gain the relics. Leave now, and I spare your life.”
The demon laughed. “We shall see the truth of that.”
He started a chant. Wa
s he powerful enough to hold his shield and cast another spell? Remembering how disruptive Gresham’s phantom hand had been in the field the day before, he invoked his Wizard’s Hand spell. In and of itself, this spell didn’t do damage, it simply allowed him to move things from afar.
A stack of rubble lay near the gatehouse door. Jarek’s phantasmal hand grabbed a piece of broken masonry and flung it at Zakarah’s shield. The demon easily side-stepped it, but dodging it prevented him from casting.
Zakarah tried again. Again, Jarek pummeled him with debris. Zakarah glared at him, hatred burning from those awful red eyes. Jarek smiled. He may not be able to enter the fray himself, but neither could Zakarah. Hopefully the others would prevail against this horde.
As their stalemate continued, Jarek’s ability to maintain his attacks waned. He was depleting his aethers. His spells weren’t the only ones faltering. All along the wall magi spells were suffering a similar fate as their store of aethers were spent. The same was true of the Clerics. He doubted anyone here had ever used his Gift this long or this fiercely. It wearied mind, body and spirit.
Soldiers jostled spell casters aside, replacing waning magics with sword and mace. Bodies were falling, beasts and humans alike. Before long, there were frighteningly few men guarding the walls. Despite the defenders’ gallant efforts, the prey were simply too numerous.
More and more garrison walls were being breached. Jarek’s heart sank. Beasts were gaining the garrison grounds unabated. With the Gifted’s spells spent, it was man against beast, a numbers game the defenders couldn’t win. Watching the scene unfold, Jarek resigned himself to the town’s inevitable fate. As with all Zakarah’s previous endeavors, the demon was winning the day, a bitter thought indeed.
Suddenly the cries around him took on a new tone—sounding more animal than human. Jarek scanned the area. The prey had halted their attacks, both in and outside of the garrison. They dashed about, paying little heed to their human adversaries with their eyes trained skyward. Jarek looked to see a giant raptor swooping toward the fortress, talons extended.