by Greg Curtis
They were winning – for the moment. But only because the spiders were too stupid so far to go around the portal. But surely in time they would learn?
They didn't learn. Not quickly anyway. They just kept coming in their thousands, their tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands, and stepping across the portal to their death. And while they did that, she could rest. Recover a little of her strength. And wonder just what they were supposed to do.
Three hours later, when the spiders still hadn't learned, four more gliders arrived, loaded down with more of their most powerful spell-casters. And among then were half a dozen walkers. People who were stronger and fresher than her and Lacie. Who could add to their portal, make it even larger than it already was, and eventually even start pushing it back so that it began consuming the advancing horde.
That was when Sorsha finally began to feel a little more like her old self. Strong enough even, to start walking slowly after the portal as it advanced on the enemy. And confident enough not to worry that some of the enemy might get through. But then the portal wall was eating its way through the ground, leaving behind it only bare soil.
Still they took it slowly. Very slowly. Walk a few feet, stop and then wait to see if any of the enemy made it through the portal wall. They did that sometimes, mostly because they burrowed under it. Burrowing, giant green spiders! It was a nightmare. But they had to do it. They couldn't allow these monsters to go free. To start advancing across Redmond. They could destroy cities. Kill millions. And worst of all, they wouldn't stop coming.
By the time night had fallen they'd barely made it as far as the base of the foot hills, and she was dead on her feet. But yet more walkers had arrived and the portal they'd created was now over a league wide. Meanwhile the trail they'd left behind them as they'd advanced on the horde of spiders was a bare stretch of earth half a league long. Everything down to a foot below the surface of the ground, was going through, spiders and all. But there were enough walkers now, that she and Lacie could rest for a few hours as the others began advancing up the hills.
Before midnight however they were back in the fray, pushing the massive portal forwards a few feet at the time and letting the others take care of any of the enemy that got through – or under. But the spiders kept coming. She couldn't even begin to guess how many must have gone through and perished on the other side. But it had to be more than just millions. Surely it was tens of millions.
The morning sun was rising by the time they reached the crest of the hills and could finally look out over the enemy's land. And it was then that Sorsha finally understood what they were facing. Because yes, there was a city on the other side of the hills. A great mass of dirt mounds just as Lance had described. But those mounds were forty or fifty feet high. And they stretched half a league from side to side and half a league back.
But that wasn't the true nightmare. It was that as she stared into the distance she could see two more of the cities nestled into the distant mountains. And the gods only knew how many more there were behind them.
“Atan spare us!” She murmured a prayer to the Father of the Gods as she stared, knowing that only he of them all could protect them from this. This wasn't just an enemy. It wasn't people with weapons who would defeat their armies and capture the cities. This was the end of the world as they knew it. These spiders would overrun the cities and leave nothing behind. No people. No animals. Nothing except empty buildings.
And it occurred to her then that the accursed Lady Marshendale had been telling the truth. Somewhere in this nightmare realm in front of them there had to be a queen. The gods only knew what such a creature must be like. Half spider, half woman. She shuddered at the very thought.
But then she put aside her horror and returned to the fight, pushing the portal forwards with the others, and telling the shamans to call for yet more reinforcements. They were weak and broken, tired beyond belief, and now they were in a battle for their lives. They couldn't afford to lose it. So they had to advance. And city by city they had to destroy the enemy. Or die.
Chapter Thirty
Another day another city. Every day.
Manx was exhausted. Maybe that was just because he was still recovering from being stabbed. Or maybe he was just unfit. But regardless, every evening after they'd finished, he collapsed into his bed, wherever it was, and didn't move until they called him in the morning.
Still he could walk at least. Better than before. His scars were getting better. And strangely he could move more easily. Whatever the healers had done to him, it seemed to be helping with even his movement. And his breathing. He was especially grateful for that. He'd grown used to taking only shallow breaths for so long that it was almost a miracle to be able to take in a full breath. And when he did, he became a little giddy. There was almost too much air in his lungs – as if such a thing was possible.
But now they were in Fellstone and he was giddy for another reason. This was the largest city he'd ever seen. Five million called Fellstone home. The buildings all around the centre of the city were six and seven stories high. And there were people everywhere. Quite a lot of them were watching him and the others as they worked.
They had reason to be curious he supposed. And maybe angry as well. The fortress had been located in a tiny little garden in the heart of the city. And it had been massive. Five or six acres at least. So when the walkers had released the spells of dimension making it small and it had expanded, the heart of the city had been torn apart. Buildings had collapsed and most of those still standing were damaged. Streets were gone. Not just pushed aside but practically turned to rubble. And now there was a massive construction of walls and fortifications sitting in the very centre of the city. Something that just hadn't been there before as far as anyone had known.
Then the battle had begun. They hadn't expected that. Normally by the time they arrived, the battle was long over. The Silver Order and whatever remained of their mercenary armies were dead or in the local gaol. But this time a dozen members of the Silver Order and several hundred mercenaries had burst from the fortress where they'd apparently been hiding and attacked them.
Fortunately they were stronger now. The battle had been short. And he had gained an entirely new appreciation for the power of the taurans. Three of them had moved in, spears flashing and running like the wind, and soldiers had flown in all directions. Literally taken to the skies as they'd been bashed aside. They'd scarcely even needed Adern's hell-hounds.
There had been injuries, but mostly only minor ones. It turned out that taurans weren't just incredible fighters, they were bullet resistant if there was such a term. Bullets did little more than scratch and bruise them. And that was if you could even hit them. They moved so fast, dodged and weaved like nothing he'd ever seen, and any weapon they held became either impossibly sharp or else hit with the power of the gods. There was a reason that the soldiers had started flying. And that few of them got up again after they'd rediscovered the ground.
The Silver Order had been more dangerous. They had their enchanted weapons and spelled armour. But mostly they'd been too slow when the horned warriors had arrived in their midst. And when they had hit someone, it had usually been their own soldiers.
They were dead now. Or eleven of them were. One still survived having been almost crushed by a blow from a hammer. His armour had simply buckled under the impact. But somehow he was still breathing, and the healers were tending to him. The rest looked as though a herd of elephants had trampled them.
Manx felt guilty for not helping in the battle, even though he hadn't been needed. He had just stood there and watched as if it didn't concern him. But, he told himself, he was wounded and not much of a fighter anyway. There wouldn't have been much that he could have done. And no one had expected him to help. Still it was shameful. He didn't like being a cripple. But for the moment he was just going to throw himself into his work and try to forget it had happened.
“That one there.” He pointed at a dimensio
nal strand. “Pull it a little towards us, then spin it clockwise and push it back.”
Adern did as he said and a few seconds later another strand popped out of the knot, while all around the spectators looked on and no doubt wondered what they were doing. They couldn't see anything except a fortress in front of them, and some broken buildings surrounding it. Larissa could probably show them the dimensional knot. That seemed to be a part of her gift. But why would she?
“Then that one,” he pointed a little above where the last one had been. “Lift it up a little, then push it back over the knot.”
“By the Mother, this is boring!” Whitey commented. She'd come out to join them for some reason. Mostly Manx suspected, to laze out in the warm sun. “Why do you waste my time with this?”
“You don't have to be here,” he reminded her.
“And leave you out here all alone? The spiders would eat you!”
He groaned, quietly. Ever since Walken had attacked him she'd become convinced she was his defender. And more than that, that she'd torn the man apart. Scratched out his eyes. Ripped his throat apart. Probably torn his heart out of his chest. Every time he heard her talk about the attack, her tale became wilder. By now she was certain she'd single handedly killed the man – and of course that Manx owed her his life which was rather the point.
“Actually, these spiders would eat you,” he told her. “They're like a plague. They come in their millions.”
“Millions?” She stared at him with those big green eyes of hers. “I can kill millions.” Then she paused for a moment. “Is millions a lot?”
“More than a cat could kill.” And in truth he was beginning to think it was more than all of the spell-casters together could kill. They'd destroyed one city of the spiders, and the battle had ended in their favour. But there were many more cities of them and now they needed walkers fit and strong and in numbers. Which made his and Adern's work vital. That was another reason he dragged his weary bones out of bed every morning. He didn't want to be eaten by spiders.
“Huh! You don't know cats!”
“And you don't know spiders!” he retorted. “Not these ones anyway. They're as big as a dog. Now hush. I need to work.” And with that he returned to his duty, unravelling the dimensional knot in front of them. Meanwhile Whitey grumbled a little and then settled down to have a nap on the remains of the footpath beside them.
At least the concrete was warm as the morning sun shone down on it. But Manx missed those cities where they'd had park benches to sit on as they worked. He was growing tired of sitting on the ground for hours at a time every day. Especially when it was covered in wet grass. But he kept his complaints to himself. The others had to put up with the same problems. Maybe the next city would be better.
An hour passed and then a second, and slowly the knot in front of them diminished in size, just as they all did. And he wondered just how many of these prisons they'd undone. He'd lost count. But he thought this might be the fifteenth. And the gods alone knew how many prisoners they'd freed. It had to be in the tens of thousands.
But what mattered was that he no longer had any doubts about what he was doing. Partly because the trouble had died away as the newly released prisoners had joined the rest of the people. But mostly because of the reports of the war they were fighting with the spiders on the southern border of the realm. They needed all the spell-casters they could get. He didn't want to be eaten by spiders. And Winstone was south of them. Closer to Hammersmith.
Manx was still thinking that as he was distracted by a commotion behind him. And then foolishly he looked around instead of continuing work on the unravelling. That earned him a reprimand from Larissa as he should have been concentrating. But he was curious. Then someone swore and everyone else looked around.
There was a nobleman standing there. But not just a normal noble. One from the Court. At least that was what Manx assumed judging from his ermine robes, the puffed up velvet sleeves of his vest, the chains around his neck, and the hat with the ostrich feathers sticking out of it. No one outside of the nobles of the Court would wear such an outlandish garb. Of course the Royal guards attending him were also a clue. It seemed that the King had taken an interest in them.
“Who's in charge here?” The man asked in an arrogant tone of voice. One that matched his outfit remarkably well.
His question caused an unexpected problem among the group as everyone started looking at everyone else. No one actually knew who was in charge. It had never been discussed. But eventually Larissa stood up and approached the man.
“You can speak with me.”
“Then I can tell you to cease what you're doing.”
“By whose authority?”
“By King Willhelm's authority of course.” The man stood a little taller as he said it. “And the Court's.”
So the Court had finally shown up – or a representative of them. Manx wasn't sure whether to be surprised by their speed or appalled by their sloth. But at least this time it wasn't an assassin they'd sent. Not that that meant things would go any better. He looked around quickly just to check that there wasn't an army of assassins creeping up on them.
“And if we say no?” Larissa didn't sound impressed.
“I can assure you, you don't want to do that.” The noble puffed out his chest a little more.
He was bluffing, Manx realised. He hadn't come with an “or”. Just a simple command which he had expected them to follow without question. But then no one said no to the King. No one even suggested it – until now.
“And I can assure you that we don't want to stop,” the shaman told him bluntly. “Nor should you want us to.”
“And why would we not want that?” The noble stared haughtily at her, with practised disdain. But behind that stare was a hint of alarm, carefully hidden. His authority had been defied, and that just should not happen. He didn't quite know what to do about it.
“Because we are at war.”
“War?” His voice rose a little in alarm. “Clearly we are not at war. There is strife. Your people's arrival has caused trouble. But you are all still citizens of Redmond, subjects of King Willhelm. You are not claiming otherwise are you?”
“No. Not us. We are citizens of this land. But this land is at war with a powerful enemy to the south. We spell-casters have taken up our ancient role as defenders of Redmond given that the nature of this enemy is magical.” She paused for a moment.
“How do you not know this? Messages were sent.” She threw the matter back at him.
Had messages been sent? Manx didn't know. He didn't concern himself with the larger matters of the conflict. Especially not since he'd been attacked. He just concentrated on his own little part in it. But he'd imagined that they wouldn't be talking to the Court for the simple reason that the longer they avoided speaking with them, the longer it would be before the Court actually did something.
“That seems unlikely,” their visitor replied.
“But it is in fact true, Sir.” Manx decided that he should step in. Not because he had the right to speak for anyone. Simply because he might be listened to. So he stood up and brushed himself down, glad that he'd decided to wear decent clothing for the trip, then faced the man who stared at him in surprise.
“Your pardon for the interruption Sir. I am Maxwell Smythe, fifth son of Duke Wainthorpe of Clairmont, and regrettably I did not catch your name.”
The man hadn't given it of course. He had probably assumed that his clothes and his chains and of course the Royal guards in their blue and white, would tell everyone who he was – or at least that he was important and needed to be listened to. But then he hadn't expected to face one of the nobility. Not that he realised that Manx wasn't and his father's title was bought.
“Of course, my apologies. I am Sir Dante Forewill of Ashton, second son of Lord Richard Ashton.”
“It is an honour to meet you Sir Dante,” Manx managed a small bow. “But I fear we have little time to speak about the formalities.
Currently the recently freed spell-casters are battling an enemy of terrible power in the Hammersmith Mountains. A queen of spiders who has been massing an army and is now preparing to overrun all of Redmond.”
“A queen of spiders?” Disbelief was written all over the man's face.
“I know,” Manx agreed. “It sounds like the stories of the drunken and debauched. And I wish it were just that. But four days ago the first battle was won, barely, and greater battles lie ahead. This queen, Ramora, has been in league with the Silver Order for centuries, and between them they are in fact the ones who were responsible for the imprisonment of the spell-casters. It allowed them to grow in strength for four hundred years. Now we face the consequences of that betrayal.”
Sir Dante stood there and stared silently at him, still not believing a word and trying to find the right way to say that. But that was alright. Manx knew how to handle him.
“Clearly Sir, the messages have not reached you. I know not why. But since I know these people to be truthful, I must suggest that you speak with the Court as quickly as possible. Hopefully plans are in place and the Royal army is already being prepared for war as we speak. But unfortunately we are far from both Windhaven and Winstone and have not heard anything for some time as we have continued with our duty.”