“Don’t,” A voice whispered to her, but it was too late. She was already through and headed toward the figure in the center of the room. It was a man; she could see that clearly now. He was suspended in mid-air by very thin wires that bound his naked body from head to toe. Blood ran freely from his body as his bindings cut into him. He had been flayed and she could see the wet slick of exposed muscle, the yellow of bone. Ceyrabeth wasn’t sure he was still alive.
There was something disturbingly familiar about his form.
“Hold on,” She whispered, “I’m going to get you out of there,” She slashed her sword down against the wires, but the moment her blade made contact with the wires, the metal was shattered and the wires began to vibrate with a high-pitched whine. With horror, she saw the wires constrict tighter on the man. Blood continued to pour out of his body. She examined the wires at the ground but as far as she could tell they were fused into the floor with absolutely no release points. She gingerly gripped the wires, then jerked her hands back with a gasp; they were razor sharp and barbed with tiny hooks.
Don’t give up! The plea touched Ceyrabeth’s mind like a caress. The cat yowled from the doorway. The man lifted his head.
It was Sul.
A younger version of the man she had come to know, his features twisted in agony and his eyes… His eyes were just gone; gaping sockets that wept blood continuously. The wires that were sawing slowly into his flesh inexplicably emerged from within their cavernous depths.
“Please…help me……”
More wires burst from his skull to press into his mouth, working their way down his throat and he began to choke and gurgle.
“No…!” Ceyrabeth screamed reaching for him.
“Mira, wake up!”
Ceyrabeth jolted awake, her heart pounding, a thin sheen of sweat soaking her shirt. She frantically tried to catch her breath; eyes wide but not completely seeing the waking world yet. “Mira. It’s alright. Just a bad dream.”
Mira. The low elvish word for sister, also used between two fellow soldiers, but never amongst Royal Elves. Pellinore’s thin hand rested on her heaving back, and in direct contrast to his upbringing, he was calling her sister. She must have startled him...well, as much as the unflappable Commander Pellinore could be startled. “Athelen, mireth.” She smoothed shaking hands over her face. Thank you, brother.
“Is it the Brood?” He asked sympathetically, his eyes falling on the still open book by her elbow.
“No,” was all Ceyrabeth offered. Her back straightened, her breathing slowed. “I’ll be alright, honestly. Have we been given the order to march?”
“Not yet,” Pellinore clasped his hands behind his back. “You are requested at command. The time is coming to make our stand.”
Wires bound, digging into flesh. Eyes weeping blood. The soft rumble of a small life purring in her hands. Just a dream, she told herself sternly.
Pellinore offered his hand to help her up. She took it without hesitation, but immediately pulled back with a hiss of pain. Ceyrabeth turned both hands up...and froze at the sight of the angry welts bisecting both palms. “What on earth did you do?”
“I’m...not sure.”
“You’d best check your new gauntlets.” Ceyrabeth smiled faintly as Pellinore spoke; his voice was dangerously close to full-on fussing. “I’ve never known Yevvon to do shoddy work but if this is the first time...”
But it wasn’t her gauntlets. She nodded in reply, outwardly agreeing as they made their way to the command tent. But she knew that as sure as she knew her lungs drew breath. As she looked across the command table at Sul, listening to him give his orders, something had changed. Ceyrabeth felt it in her bones. Well, she would know what she wanted to know whether the good Captain wanted to tell her or not, she promised that to herself...but first, they had a battle to win. Banishing all doubt and fear from her mind, she made her way to the field.
.::.
“Lieutenant Vallorin?” A voice called up from ground level, “The last of the scouts have reported in!”
Ceyrabeth repressed a sigh. The younger officer was typical of The Phoenix Legion: green, eager, long on enthusiasm but short on a working knowledge of proper military protocol. Amongst the Witchhammers with whom she had previously served, it would have been inconceivable for a man as young as—what was his name, Laro? Marthan? – to hold an officer’s rank. But Ceyrabeth was forced to admit, the Legion was about as far from the Witchhammers as one could get and still remain on Aegreas.
That said, “Sergeant,” Ceyrabeth growled, her freshly minted dragonscale armor creaking as she leaned forward from her saddle, bringing all the authority that serving in the Tower of Imperius Militant had afforded her to bear. “You are an officer serving on the front lines of a major engagement. Information is not to be simply bellowed in the general direction of the recipient. Do I make myself clear?”
The young man paled. During her time in the Legion, Ceyrabeth’s reputation for ruthlessness against those that displeased her had become nearly as dire as the Captain’s, “Yes ma’am,” He drew himself to proper attention: straight backed, head held high, and snapped off an abrupt but acceptable salute. “Apologies, ma’am.”
Ceyrabeth held the moment a while longer, then leaned back in her saddle, “Now, report.”
“Yes ma’am,” The sergeant cleared his throat, “Our scouts report scores of Taintbrood entering the field.”
“Their point of origin?”
“Our rangers predict an access point to the Underwilds somewhere in the wilderness.”
She nodded and unconsciously tucked a lock of coppery hair behind her pointed ear, “That would fit with our earlier assessments,” She surveyed the sunlight draped landscape. Flat terrain for the most part, sparsely wooded with elevated ground on the Western borders that eventually became the foothills of the Bannoth Thor Mountains.
The realm was called Targeste and as far as geographical features went, it was thoroughly unremarkable. Which made the Captain’s insistence on it being the staging ground for their attack upon the Taintbrood that much more of a mystery. The last few weeks had been spent herding them, strike by carefully coordinated strike, to this very location. She shook herself from her reverie. All would be revealed when the Captain was good and ready. It always was. “What are the Taintbrood numbers?”
The sergeant swallowed: “A quarter-score at least, lieutenant.”
“That’s five to one,” Ceyrabeth repressed a shudder as fear began to settle into her bones, “Their composition?”
“Infantry, Brutes, and skirmishers. The same creatures that were seen at Velasgate.”
And there it was, the name no one had wanted to speak: Velasgate, where her order of Witchhammers had fought their first and last engagement in open warfare. Her comrades had fought bravely there. They had fought honorably there. They had fought valiantly there.
And they had died there.
Now, here she stood with only a fraction of the men that her former colleagues had fielded. Here on open ground in broad daylight outnumbered many times over in an army comprised of rebels, mercenaries and other malcontents.
Here under the command of the greatest military mind the world had ever seen.
The thought instantly replaced the chill of fear in her bones with a burning anticipation. No, they were not the same doomed men and women that had stood at Velasgate. They followed a different kind of a leader now—a better kind—and led by him they would give the Taintbrood something new to fear.
“Very well sergeant. Report back to your unit and prepare your forces.”
“Yes ma’am!” Offering another salute, the sergeant took the reins of his horse from a waiting attendant, mounted and galloped away, kicking up dust and dirt as she did.
Out of reflex, Ceyrabeth placed a steadying hand on her own mount to calm him but the motion was halted before it barely begun. Eregost was one of the undead. He did not require food nor water or rest and certainly did not requir
e calming from a bit of dust and dirt being kicked up.
She pulled his reins and steered him past the honor guard that was maintaining a vigil on a higher western outcropping that offered a good view of the field of battle. The Honor Guard were the elite of the Phoenix Legion, easily identifiable by their plate mail consisting of mystical alloy and dwarven steel. The armor gleamed copper and bronze and was etched with various motifs depicting falcons, hawks and other birds of prey. Ceyrabeth’s own armor was a match for theirs but significantly lighter, a peregrine falcon chased into the reinforced pauldrons.
The choice of bird had been the captain’s and for some reason it seemed to amuse him. Ceyrabeth added it to the list of things she wanted explained. None offered challenge as she rode into their midst to confront their ward and their lord as well as her own: Captain Drachaen Sul
He sat upon his own mount; the albino wyvern Banshee, its bone white scales reflecting the glaring sun. She didn’t look any happier about the oppressive heat than Ceyrabeth was. The beast offered her a nod of recognition as she approached.
“I still don’t understand why we’re launching an attack during the hottest part of the day,” Ceyrabeth commented sourly, “Our men must be baking in their armor.”
The tall figure astride Banshee turned to regard her. His own armor was a blend of metal, silk, and leathers done in multiple layers. It all looked extraordinarily complex which made a certain amount of sense as the Captain himself had designed it. The Legion’s master smith, the golem Yevvon, had complained about incessantly for weeks.
“Consider the Taintbrood, born in darkness. To fight in the full glare of day offers them a greater disadvantage,” Sul commented in that tone that was equal parts calm and culture that would have been suited for a man sitting upon a throne and not a war mount. If he was experiencing any tension at all about the upcoming battle, it did not show in the slightest. Of course, when he was wearing his helm –featuring a large faceplate that left only his mouth exposed- it was impossible to get any kind of accurate read on the man. The only indication of any kind of feeling at all was the rhythmic tapping the tips of his fingers upon the pommel of his saddle, each finger alternating but maintaining a steady beat. Not quite fidgeting but there it was.
“The scouts have reported in: standard horde makeup as far as troop composition and numbers well into the several thousands,” Ceyrabeth reported.
“As was expected,” Sul replied, “This is a different arm of the Horde then and not the main bulk which I imagine remains in the Underwilds amassing under the command of the Taintbrood leader, if the Nevaraakese documents we recovered are accurate.”
Ceyrabeth’s nose crinkled in distaste: all things Nevaraakese, especially matters pertaining to their foul demonic masters, were not things Ceyrabeth in her devotion to the Green Lords that sought to heal and rebuild the ruined world understood.
“Those things that hold power over us only do so at our allowance through our investment,” Sul commented softly turning his blank faced helm towards her.
“Yes Sir,” Ceyrabeth just barely managed to not roll her eyes.
He beckoned and a small map adorned with several different figurines floated towards him. The map depicted the region and Ceyrabeth could safely assume that the figurines represented the various forces, both under their command and arrayed against them.
“All the Taintbrood need to do is push forward with their forward vanguard, outflank us with their reserves and they’ll surround and consume us,” She reported darkly gesturing at the multiple enemy figurines on the map, “At least at Velasgate, we had the ability to funnel the Taintbrood forces into a bottleneck. We could direct the enemy.”
“At Velasgate, the Witchhammers had dominance over the terrain,” Sul acceded, “An advantage that they failed to capitalize upon or retain,” He turned his attention back to the map before him, “They had spent the entirely of their lives at the feet of the Imperium training how to win the last war and at their back stood a leader too blinded by holy doctrine to adapt to fighting something other than mages and other ‘heretics’.”
It was then that the shriek of a horn cut through the air off in the distance and a massing shadow began to form and spread, surging like a swarm of something alive. Vile and hungry.
“Those are not heretics,” Sul finished and Ceyrabeth could not refute his argument, “Steps have been taken to ensure not just dominance of the terrain, lieutenant, but mastery of it. There are many ways to direct the enemy’s movements,” His voice took on a sly tone, “Or have you forgotten how you first came to be in service to the Legion?”
Ceyrabeth’s already heat-flushed cheeks burnt a little hotter: She and her fellow surviving Witchhammers had been led neatly into a trap, involving nothing more complicated than some fleeing scouts as bait and several pools full of deep bog water. The trap had ensnared an entire company of trained Witchhammers without a single weapon drawn or arrow loosed. It was doubly painful to remember that she had seen the trap, and had to walk into it regardless to save her brothers.
“No Sir. I have not forgotten.”
Pellinore removed a strange device from his belt-a ‘spyglass’, he called it- and handed it to Ceyrabeth.
“What do you see?” Sul inquired.
She brought the device to her eye and sighed, “I see the horde. They are coming for us,” She fussed with the device for a moment. It too had been designed by Sul and allowed one to see far further and more clearly than the average sailor’s glass.
“Do they march with any recognizable formation?” Sul asked, his tone intensifying, “Grouping based on arms, breed or ranking?”
“Not that I can see,” She shook her head, “They approach as a swarm, much as they did at Velasgate. Does it matter?”
Sul permitted himself a thin smile, “Understand the Taintbrood, Lieutenant, and you will understand how to destroy them.” Sul’s fingers were still tapping out their strange patterns against the horn of his saddle, “Five hundred and closing. It’s time,” One of his fingers immediately ceased tapping and he turned aside, “Commander Pellinore.”
“Sir!” The elf snapped a crisp salute.
“The count has been reached. Sound the first wave.”
“Sir!” Pellinore reached for a horn on his belt. It was oddly constructed and adorned in runes that glowed and hummed. He blew hard and a booming note rolled forth from the instrument to reverberate across the entire landscape.
“And this is how it shall begin,” Ceyrabeth mused grimly watching the vast hordes of Taintbrood arrayed against them. Answering calls from various horns echoed up and down the ranks of armored men and women on either side of them.
“Begin?” Sul shook his head and smiled a smile that would have frightened the blind, “No, Ceyrabeth. This is how it shall end.”
An arcing ball of fire from her left caught Ceyrabeth’s eye. She turned just in time to see it climb high over the ranks of her men, hurtling towards the masses of Taintbrood. It was soon joined by a second and a third in rapid succession, each from a different position just behind their forward ranks.
“I wasn’t aware we had brought siege engines,” Ceyrabeth commented cautiously.
“We didn’t,” Pellinore replied, “We brought Yevvon.”
Ceyrabeth’s confusion still showed on her face before her brain caught up with her.
Pellinore allowed a tight smile, “Do you know how far and how rapidly a golem can throw a large flaming stone, especially when augmented with a spell of haste?”
“Five hundred…” Her voice trailed off as the first of the flaming rock impacted upon the Taintbrood. And with a whoosh that was audible even clear on the other side of the battlefield, the entire stretch of land that the Taintbrood trod upon exploded into fire.
“Gods!” Ceryrabeth cried out as the following rocks landed and detonated amongst the Taintbrood. Walls of flame sprouted up surrounding the Taintbrood, dividing their ranks, cutting off both advance and retreat in seem
ingly random patterns. Soon an entire third of the eastern field was a roaring conflagration, a labyrinth of fire from which there seemed to be no escape for the Taintbrood whose death cries were audible to the entire army as they burned.
“Burn you motherless bastards!” Someone cried out and there was a roar of approval from the assembled army.
“How?” She asked.
“Spellcasters have often combined spells that saturate oil into the earth and spells that can ignite them. Our rangers just substituted pitch and oil for magic and…” Pellinore gestured at the results.
“There is dominance of the terrain,” Sul said softly, “And there is mastery.” Another finger on his right hand stopped tapping, “The count has been reached, Commander. Artillery may fire at will and sound for archers.”
“Sir!” Pellinore reached for the strange looking horn and removed a disk of metal contained within the body of it, sliding in a thinner disk with a series of holes in it. He blew the horn three times, the tone higher pitched. Down the line, similar horns sounded and flags were raised.
“Orders received, Sir!” Pellinore responded.
“You can’t hope for accuracy at this range,” Ceyrabeth protested “It’s far too great a distance.”
“The objective is not to slay, Lieutenant” Sul responded, “But to spur,” He turned to Pellinore, “Ready a volley.”
Pellinore blew the horn emitting the same high-pitched rapid sound. Flags were lowered and raised again and men took up their weapons, nocked and drew even as great flaming stones continued to pelt the Taintbrood.
“Loose.”
Pellinore blew a single sustained note and a cloud of arrows darkened the sky and soared towards the Taintbrood.
Phoenix Rising Page 25
