by Rob Bayliss
The dogel shouted through his sobs. “But the Arachane are slaughtering the people of the city!”
The Corpse Lord grinned. “Is it not fine? See how the mortals strive, but their time is ended. Those they described as dead gods have reclaimed this city as their own. They and their spawn are both very much alive.”
As the dogel watched the Arachane advance, he heard the loud retort of a cannon. His eyes followed the sound, squinting through the grey sheets of rain that fell. It came from the main boulevard that dropped down from the temple plaza to the main gate.
Across the street, a hasty barricade had been thrown up and some citizens and magistrar guards were putting up a spirited defence. The cannon fire had cut a swathe through the oncoming swarm. They swiftly withdrew the gun to be reloaded. Warriors with muskets attempted to hold the attackers at bay whilst the artillerymen attended to recharging the main gun. The musket fire was no rolling salvo however; there was no stopping the enemy with a storm of lead. Many of the muskets failed to discharge. They were soaked with the rain that fell heavily from the unnatural clouds swirling above the city. Some of the musketeers desperately tried to reload. Others threw down their useless weapons and ran.
Still the swarm came, sensing the difficulties and fear of the militia as they rushed their defences. The barricade held but for a handful of seconds under the weight of the eight-legged horrors and then collapsed inwards, crushing the cannon and its crew.
People ran this way and that, the instinct for self-survival their only concern. The defence of the city was forgotten in their terror.
“You granted me the city, Great Lord, but it will be but a butcher’s shop hung with the meat of my subjects,” Serresel pleaded.
“Do you not yet understand, Serresel?” the Corpse Lord said, looking down upon him. His cloak of shadows whipped and writhed around him in the howling vortex he had caused. “The Arachane are your kin now. You are mortal no longer; your soul need not concern you. If you would save trinkets of flesh for your own amusement then you should choose them soon, for my children now gorge themselves. I will take most of them with me through the Well of Souls for the war to crush the Fire God of Taleel. You are now an Arachane, Lord Serresel.”
The Corpse Lord turned his dark eyes from the dogel to look upon his children, indulging in their slaughter of the city’s innocent inhabitants. “And to think …” he said wistfully, “… that you called them ‘the foulness!’ Are my children not beautiful?”
As the dogel watched, he saw the Arachane rush up the boulevard towards the Temple Plaza, driving what once had been the dogel’s fellow beings of flesh and blood before them. He saw one warrior dodge this way and that as around him monsters grabbed others in the human stampede, felling them under bloody fangs and claws. The man saw the dogel and headed for him. Serresel saw that he wore the badge of his gladiatorial lyceum. The man’s face was a mask of terror. He dived the last few arms’ lengths to skid to a halt at his master’s feet.
“Save me, my Lord!” the man screamed, shaking in fear, his hands reaching the dogel’s feet.
Serresel looked down at the man and then looked up. Around the temple the Arachane had gathered. Some carried limbs and torsos in their jaws, sucking on the juices within. They had come to worship and honour the Corpse Lord, the father of their shadowed race. Through the ranks of the monstrous spawn a higher Arachane walked purposely forward, to halt in front of the helpless man. More man-like, it strode on two legs, its back as twisted and swollen as an autumn spider’s abdomen. A circle of inhuman eyes on its head peered over terrible fangs that drooled and bubbled in hungry anticipation.
The Corpse Lord looked at the dogel. Serresel reached down and took the man’s hands in his. “Stand up,” Serresel commanded.
The Arachane’s head went to the side, questioning, its voice clicking. It recognised a brother, a fellow child of the Messiah of Shadows.
“Serve me, one more time,” Serresel said. With that he pushed the man backwards, to fall into the Arachane’s arms. The man shook his head in disbelief as the fangs sank into his neck. His eyes blazed accusingly at the dogel for a moment, before glazing over, his body sagging and hollowed. He collapsed as the life force was sucked from his frame.
The Corpse Lord laughed as his children swarmed and bowed before him. In their pens the cattle cowered and hid, their meat sweetened with their fear. Tonight the dead gods would feast to their black hearts’ content in their city of Dofr’Arachane.
***
The rain was easing. Kaziviere looked at the motley collection of individuals he had gathered before the open compound gates, contemplating their immediate future. Nurarna had taken five others and gone north to the next slave compound. Most of the foulness had made for the city, but a sizeable swarm was abroad securing the slave compounds … as food stores most probably. Both he and Nurarna had seen them overrun one compound. He shuddered at the memory of it. Hopefully as many slaves as possible could be freed. Better to die in the open then confined in the slave pens with no chance of escape. And with all the slaves freed, what then? Would the others be willing to fight like these were? He dismissed such thoughts. One moment at a time. Getting himself and those here through the coming storm was his concern.
He had next to no time for drill. No time to teach basic moves with the various tools and agricultural implements that would have to pass for weapons. At least the enemy were only instinct-driven beasts. What his ragtag band did possess however, was a will to fight. Surrender was not an option and victory would yield them more than they had ever had. Using his commander’s eye, he had taken note of the weapons available and arranged them in order of battle as best as he could. Discipline would be a problem. He would need to be in the front line to lead by example. As with any battle, it would all come down to timing. They would be terrified by the Arachane’s appearance and would want to flee, but they had to overcome their terror.
He smiled fiercely as he addressed them. “Those with pitchforks: it is your duty to hold the vermin at bay. You will not yield ground. You will not turn and run, however foul the sight that gallops towards you.”
He stood next to a woman who leant against a pitchfork. “Stab them in the eyes, their guts, but hold them back. Understood?”
The woman nodded in agreement. “Good. Those with scythes and sickles, it is your job to get stuck in to the enemy. While your comrades hold the tide of filth back, it is up to you to cut through legs, heads and bodies. I want to see their green blood on your blades. I will be inspecting them after we have crushed them. Believe me, you will have more to fear from me than some overgrown cockroach. They just want to eat you alive!”
Some of those gathered laughed at this, but Kaziviere’s smile fell suddenly from his face, his heart sinking. “I cannot emphasise enough; you can only survive this if you stand together. If one of you turns coward and runs, then a hole will appear in your lines. The vermin will rush in and attack the brave that remain; those who stood shoulder to shoulder with the coward. Once the line breaks, we are all dead. The coward may survive an extra half-day before being hunted down by these monsters. But die they will, alone, without honour, their hearts ruled by fear. Brothers, sisters, I know you are not cowards!”
From the roof of one of the outbuildings Tunaka dropped down and ran towards Kaziviere, his feet splashing in the mud. In his hand the youth grasped a billhook tightly. It shook, betraying his fear.
“Gutspiller, they are coming.”
Kaziviere drew his scimitar from its scabbard. He smiled at Tunaka. “It is normal to feel fear before battle, lad. You gathered all the lamps and oil from the barracks rooms?”
Tunaka nodded his head. “Yes, Gutspiller. They are gathered behind us and we have piled wood and kindling around the gates.”
“Excellent, lad.” Kaziviere looked up at the unnatural clouds; swirling around, they had gathered thickly around the city. Immediately above them the clouds had thinned, the rainfall petering out. It was a
s if the Arachane used it as a cloak to hide their movements. Such rain would play havoc with black powder weapons, he thought to himself. “Now the rain has eased, use most of the oil and drench these gates and the wood stacked around them. Keep two lamps burning at all times. On my signal, throw them at the gates to ignite them. It is important that you do this on my command. Can I trust you?”
The lad smiled and demonstrated an untrained version of standing to attention. “Yes, Gutspiller. My father and I will make sure it happens on your signal.”
“Good. I’m going to teach these shadows the ways of my Fire God. Get to work.”
Tunaka pushed through the ranks, and he and his father threw lamp oil over the gates that were wedged open at ninety degrees to the compound walls. His battle line would guard the entrance to the compound, the gates protecting their flanks. If the swarm outflanked them it would be the end.
“They’re here!” a voice in the formation said fearfully.
Kaziviere swallowed hard and backed into the middle of the formation between two men holding pitchforks in trembling hands. The smell of lamp oil permeated the damp air as Tunaka and his father did their work. He hoped the wood was not too wet and that the fire would take. “Tamzine!” He shouted his word of power as a battle cry and word of defiance, both at the enemy and his own fear. Those around him took it up. They roared Kaziviere’s word of power as the Arachane gathered between the outbuildings.
The monsters halted at the sound, their impassive eyes looking at the cattle gathered before them. They waited but a moment. Why did these ones not run? A higher Arachane came striding through the spawn, upright on two legs. It pointed at those gathered between the gates and clicked and bubbled in its foul speech. The swarm rushed forward.
“Stand firm! Stand Firm! Brace yourselves,” Kaziviere bellowed, as the line of pitchforks and improvised spears stood to take the weight of the onslaught.
The swarm threw themselves against the hedge of points, some squealing in inhuman pain as the spears found eyes and the joints of their armoured bodies. Fangs snapped at the irritating thorns that stopped them tearing at the flesh behind and foul green blood splashed into the mud. The line sagged under the weight of the attack, but those behind the spearman pushed against the backs of their comrades, keeping them upright. Voices were raised in encouragement. The line began to straighten; the impact was absorbed and repelled.
“Now! At the vermin. Kill them. No mercy!” Kaziviere screamed, swinging his cutlass, splitting inhuman heads and lopping off limbs.
Moving between the spearmen, those wielding scythes, sickles and billhooks launched themselves at the pinned monsters. It gave the spearmen a chance to withdraw their weapons from the dead and dying before them, but here and there, amid the roars and war cries, Kaziviere heard the screams of those caught by claw or fang. The monsters threw those they grabbed behind them where their comrades ripped the unfortunates to pieces. The air steamed with the stench of sweat, blood, foul innards and churned mud. Kaziviere saw the danger as the defensive line was in danger of becoming frayed.
“Back behind the spears!” he bellowed, as his scimitar split a monster in two.
Those that could extricate themselves from the melee did so, their bodies shaking with adrenaline and their chests heaving with the effort of combat as they caught their breath. There were more screams however; one or two were caught as they attempted to retreat.
The dead Arachane were piled before their lines now, but onward came the swarm again. They were forced to climb over the dead, their momentum slowed. Some were speared before they crested the dead. Kaziviere roared his encouragement. The Arachane had inadvertently made a defensive wall. He urged his spearmen forward to take advantage of it. The monsters could not attack en masse anymore; they were reduced to attacking as individuals, slowed by the tangle of bodies. They were easily dispatched. With a cry of “Tamzine!” the line advanced.
Kaziviere’s scimitar reaped a gory harvest of the foul creatures. But as he crested the pile of dead, he saw that the beasts were indeed attempting to outflank them, as he had feared they would.
They were holding their own against the frontal assault, yet the higher Arachane was at the rear of the spawn, looking left and right, calling aid in from those scouring the fields. Already mobs of them were gathering to the east and west; some galloped to join the fray attacking the lines between the gates. It was the ones that held back that concerned Kaziviere chiefly; they were stealthily approaching from either side, hidden by the high gates. Some were already at the gateway, spinning silk. Kaziviere saw the telltale signs as wisps appeared on the tops of the wooden gates. He turned to see Tunaka, who was watching for the signal.
“Now Tunaka! Fire the gates!” he shouted.
Guarded by his father, who was wielding a pitchfork, Tunaka hurled a lit lamp at one of the gates. The glass smashed and the flame came in contact with the oil. The flames grew and spread rapidly. One of the monsters had already alighted on top of the gate. Its fangs bubbled and slavered as it prepared to spring into the midst of the defenders. Tunaka’s father waved the pitchfork in its face causing it to shy away, protecting its eyes, its front legs waving in the air in an attempt to grab the rudimentary spear. Too late, it saw its true danger as the flames spread up the oil soaked wood. It screamed and hissed as it was enveloped in flames, its hideous form boiling in the scorching heat. The smoke billowed as the flames spread, rushing to consume the palisade and silk walkways. Fearful of the flames, the spawn behind the gate faltered and scattered in all directions, some aflame and spreading the fire to others.
Tunaka and his father threw the other lamp at the remaining gate as claws scratched on the other side, a monster hauling its bulk up the ironwork of the hinges. The glass of the lamp shattered, but the flames blew out. Tunaka ran and knelt down beside the tinder and kindling. His shaking hands clumsily reached for the flint and steel held in a pouch at his side. The foul visage of the Arachane spawn appeared over the top, the flames of the other burning gate reflected in the soulless discs of its eyes. It saw Tunaka and prepared to attack, raising a taloned leg in the air to strike.
Tunaka’s father screamed in fury. He hurled his pitchfork at the beast. The foul creature saw the attack and ducked, the rudimentary spear passing harmlessly over its head. It bubbled and hissed as if laughing and returned its attention to Tunaka. The youth saw his peril. He struck the flint and steel together desperately but his hands were wet with sweat and mud. He frantically rubbed his hands on his tunic in an attempt to dry them.
Tunaka’s father grabbed his son’s billhook and climbed up the piled firewood, putting himself between the beast and his son. He swung his billhook, and with a metallic ring, caught and parried the claws that sought to reach Tunaka. The clawed foot sailed into the air, separated from the beast. It had eight legs, however; its other front claw struck the man in the back of his neck, sinking deeply around his vertebrae, rendering him senseless. In the blink of an eye the man was hauled upward by the monster. The creature fell back behind the gate with its prize. Others rushed to take its place.
Through tears, Tunaka saw his father go to his doom. His hands were almost dry. He prayed to all the good gods he knew, although none had answered his prayers before. The beasts drew near; death came now with fangs and claws. “Fuck you!” he sobbed, striking the flint. There was a spark.
The gate burst into flames almost instantly. The fire seared and scorched three of the spawn, who fell back to spread death and destruction to their fellow beasts crowded behind the gate. Fire spread from beast to beast and they ran in panic. They were gods no longer, but terrified animals. Those attacking the lines quailed as the fire and heat rose into the air and the black smoke billowed. The flames blinded their eyes and struck fear into dark soulless recesses of their hearts.
Suddenly, there were human shouts all around. Out of the billowing smoke came men and women with scythes that severed limbs and pitchforks that pinned the monsters to the e
arth, as if they were insect specimens in an alchemist’s display case. Kaziviere saw Nurarna leading scores, if not hundreds of freed slaves and bonded farmhands, who reaped a harvest of panicked Arachane spawn.
“Forward! Kill them! Kill them all!” Kaziviere bellowed, as he led the defenders in a brutal counterattack. It was slaughter now the tide was turned; the spawn were concerned only with escape, but that would not be allowed. All the years of fear, the kiss of cruelly wielded whips, of forced servitude, all was repaid to the spawn most brutally. The men and women were no longer slaves but warriors, vengeful and savage.
Kaziviere espied the higher Arachane. As an immortal, it was not fuelled by panic like the beastly spawn. One of the freed slaves attacked it clumsily with a billhook, but the shadow beast caught the wrist that held the weapon. Its other clawed fist slashed across the man’s belly, causing his entrails to spill out. It grabbed the billhook and attempted to cut its way towards the city and the protection of its god. Kaziviere slashed this way and that as he led his followers in the destruction of the spawn, but he feared that if he could not get close to it, the Arachane would escape to warn the others. He need not have worried; Nurarna saw it and closed in for the kill. She had more reasons for revenge than many.
The immortal had become perturbed. This should have been an easy task; mopping up resistance in the fields around the city whilst the clan and spawn answered the god’s summons. A bull came at it, the dumb beast swinging its weapon predictably and without skill. He dodged the weapon and struck in return, feeling the tool it carried bury itself in the bull’s skull . The beast fell at his feet. Such a waste of food, it thought regretfully, as the blood pumped out onto the floor. But it had no time to feed; it must get to the city. All around, the spawn were being butchered by these presumptuous cattle. It felt naked and exposed in these fields. Were it in the forests, all these beasts would have been slain or paralysed to feed upon later, the strongest bulls and cows kept for mating to purify the sacred bloodline.
