From the Ashes

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Before them, the last of the Savaran, charred, smoking, in pieces.

  A cry of triumph from the Tulador Guard, yet Hofsted didn’t smile beneath his moustache, for he followed the gaze of Arbistrath who stood next to him, staring through the dissipating smoke. For the cavalry may be dead, but the Legions of Clansmen were still very much alive.

  And they were marching, inexorably towards them, by the thousand…

  Hofsted called out to his troops, his voice loud, clear and strong, taking his example from the leadership of Master Wrynn.

  “Remember your orders; we hold, as long as we can. The Shamans will aid us, have no fear.”

  He looked up, behind him, to the hill, where stood, silhouetted in the sky, the distant figures of the mages.

  “Have no fear…” he repeated, with a whisper.

  ***

  Wrynn soared high, the wind beneath his wings keeping him aloft with no effort, his keen avian eyes scanning the battle below. The first wave of the attack had been repulsed; with Stone’s aid, the invention of Marlyn had proven its worth. But the real tests were yet to come. The Clansmen stretched out across the steps in a vast and dark tide. The Tulador Guard would hold out as best they could, which, given the aid of the Shamans, should be a while. But before long the numbers of the enemy would tell and the Guard would be forced to withdraw.

  Then it would be the turn of the Plainsmen to shine.

  Hopefully the enemy would be weakened enough for the Plainsmen to fight them to an impasse, allowing the elite of the army to move around the flanks, make their way, unnoticed, towards the Beacon while the battle played out behind them. Hopefully.

  Flanks on his mind, Wrynn’s beady black eyes scanned to the left, now, zooming in with incredible acuity, picking out, even half a mile below, the distinctive shapes that raced out from the Pen, hoping to catch the outlying Shaman forces by surprised.

  Kurnos, the Huntmaster, riding the rumbling wheels of his chariot. His Hounds. Riding in an attempt to outflank them, to spread carnage and confusion. Just as he had suspected they would.

  He turned his attention back to the centre of the battle, noting the erupting bursts of orange and grey as the hand-cannons wrought havoc amidst the ranks of enemy infantry, clods of earth, limbs and sprays of red filling the sky as the shrapnel flew out in unstoppable hails of piercing death. Yet something was wrong. Something wasn’t going according to plan.

  With a caw of confusion, he registered; the Shamans weren’t aiding the Guards – no lightning lashed out, no bolts of fire or gale-force winds. What was wrong? Why were they not unleashing their powers? The Guardsman, despite their firepower, would be overwhelmed…

  Wrynn clasped his wings to his sides, plummeting, beak-first, towards the ground, picking up speed like a lightning bolt from the blue as he dropped towards the hill whereupon stood the Shamans. At the moment of impact, he opened his wings, the spread feathers filling with air to slow him down, before calling upon the twisting, changing power of the elements to bring forth his true form.

  He blinked quickly, for a second, as he adjusted to the poor vision of his human form, stamping, wringing his hands, as he sought to regain the use of his new limbs, before turning to the red-haired girl to his side who gazed at him, wracked with concern.

  “Gwenna – what happens? Why do your shamans not aid the Guard?”

  She pointed outward, towards the encroaching Legions of the Damned, eyes flashing green as she unleashed a bolt of lightning to smite them; but the crackling, searing finger of energy dissipated as it lashed out, licking across the ranks of soldiers but failing to harm them.

  “Something is protecting them, Master Wrynn. A dark power covers them, rendering them immune to the power of the elements.”

  The fearful eyes of all the impotent shamans were on him as Gwenna continued.

  “Unless the source of that dampening effect is killed, we cannot aid our army…”

  Wrynn looked out upon the Guards, hundreds of yards away, the vast tide of Barbarians threatening to enclose them now, on all sides.

  “We cannot lose the Tulador Guard – their firepower will be crucial in the battles to come.” He wringed his hands, aged joints cracking in protest, before calling out. “Enree?”

  The leader of the Plainsmen of Pen-Argyle came to his side.

  “Yes, Master Wrynn?”

  “Tell your warriors that the time is nigh. The honour of the Plains People is theirs for the taking.”

  “Yes, honourable shaman. But what of the Guards? The Barbarians approach too quickly. Without the powers of the shamans to hold them off, we will not get there in time to save them…”

  Wrynn nodded, eyes narrow and jaw set grim.

  “Leave that to me.”

  ***

  Arbistrath roared his indignation as he ducked yet another scimitar. The shamans had failed them; he always knew they would. All he had lost; his rank, his comfortable life, his people – all because he’d listened to them. And now, at the crux, they had betrayed him.

  The Barbarians were all about now, hacking and slashing. Every now and then, the cracking report of cannon-fire, a cone of empty air suddenly clearing as a crowd of Damned were laid low, but the battle was too close, too packed. No meaningful, disciplined fire now. Every man for himself as he fought, tooth and nail, in the close press of bodies.

  Arbistrath’s family sabre lashed out, here and there; he had quickly learned that the superficial wounds such as he’d learned in drills, were to no avail here – the creatures that posed as Clansmen seeming to feel no pain. Only killing blows counted; necks opened, hearts skewered. His sword arm was tiring, but he’d killed those closest to him. He took a moment to look about at the desperate troops.

  Hofsted was there, still alive, bellowing encouragement to the troops even as he smashed the barrel of his cannon down on a Barbarian’s head, sending it twitching, brain-dead, to the ground. The young lad, Marlyn, he was still going too; his youth and reactions keeping him safe in the swirling melee, at least for now. Others, however, were not so lucky. Arbistrath watched, cringing, as a Guardsman was brought down by a horde of Clansmen; pinned helpless and screaming by weight of bodies and impaled, a dozen times over, by the sharp points of swords. Another span, goggle-eyed, reaching out in desperation to his Lord with one hand, the other clutching futilely at the blood pouring from his neck, before his knees gave way and he collapsed, face first, into the churning mud of the Steppes.

  The fallen Lord was struck by the horror. In the dark of the hall, back at Tulador, he had only heard the sounds of slaughter. But here, on the bright plains before the Pen of Merethia, it was there to be beheld in every terrible detail. These men, his subjects, dying about him as they fought against an insurmountable evil.

  And what was worse, he didn’t even know their names…

  Even Invictus – sorry, he corrected himself, Stone – made a point of learning everyone’s names. If a tyrant could know his people by name, each and every one, then what excuse someone who thought himself a kinder, more benevolent lord?

  A shadow loomed over him, his brief moment of melancholy forgotten, sent fleeing before a surge of fresh terror. For, before him, towering high and blotting out the light, a huge and ungainly parody of a Clansman; muscles, infused with dark power and swollen to gargantuan proportions; scimitar eschewed, in its stead huge claws that erupted through the broken flesh of fingers; at the top, a moustachioed head, small in comparison to the body, with tiny shrunken eyes, dark and cold, yet filled with a remorseless animal rage, the topknot flailing eight feet above the ground, almost as an afterthought.

  The beast opened its mouth, the gaping maw stretching wide, a bestial roar erupting from the cavernous chest and Arbistrath fell to his knees, sabre limp at his side in the face of the monstrosity.

  Was this it? Was this how the glorious dynasty of Arbistrath came to an end?

  A massive, clawed hand swung down towards him, to end him. A hand lashed out, catching
the creature’s wrist and hurling it back. In between the two, the monster and its victim, a figure strode, tall, greying, yet exuding ageless power.

  Another clawed swing and Wrynn ducked, the lethal talons skimming the feathers of his headband. He replied with a blow of his own, his strength incredible, staggering the monster for a moment, but only a moment. Another swing from the creature, this one turned aside just in time by a thick forearm, the shaman avoiding the worst of the blow but being smashed aside to land on the ground. Leaping to his feet with an agility that belied his years, the tall man growled, crouching in readiness even as the beast bore down on him with staggering footsteps, as though in the control of someone who had only a vague idea of how legs were supposed to work. Then all of a sudden, the Shaman relaxed, standing up straight in the face of the charging monster, a slight smile of triumph already playing across his features.

  The beast loomed high, claws poised to kill, and Arbistrath wondered at the shaman’s motionless, but just as the arm swept down, a booming crack, like that of thunder, and the offending limb went flying off with a spray of blood and the audible snap of tearing ligament. The once-Clansman stood still, staring in confusion at the missing arm, before turning to gaze in the direction of the sound.

  This time, its head exploded and the beast fell with a crash, to land in the dirt.

  Mind numbed, heart still a-flutter in his chest, Arbistrath turned from the standing shaman and the fallen monster, looking right, to the braced forms of Hofsted and Marlyn who stood, grim and battered, slowly lowering the barrels of their still-smoking cannons. All about them, the forms of the surviving Tulador Guards gathered, all wounded in one way or another, all weary, grateful of the respite.

  Respite?

  He gazed about them; a sizzling, cracking circle surrounded the men, sealing them in, the smell of ozone assaulting the nostrils. Outside the circle, a press of Clansmen, innumerable, restless and ready, but not advancing, for the sparking dome of coruscating energy was keeping them at bay.

  For now.

  “Quickly,” bade the Shaman, “to me; the barrier won’t hold for long.”

  The guardsmen gathered round and Wrynn turned, holding out a mighty hand to help Arbistrath to his feet.

  “I thought you’d abandoned us,” the Lord let out, in a quiet whimper.

  “Never.” The booming voice carried with it confidence, the promise of redemption. “Now rise; let us fly from here.”

  The Lord took the Shaman’s hand, rising from his knees, and Wrynn closed his eyes, summoning forth all his reserves of willpower, for the task he was about to tackle was great indeed. The clustered warriors let out a gasp of fear as the circle of power faded from around them, the ghoulish Barbarians charging forwards, en masse, to take them.

  But too late.

  A crack, like the world being split asunder. A flash of light and the nausea of vertigo. The taste of coins in the mouth.

  And the Tulador Guards were gone.

  ***

  A flash of light on the hillside by the shamans and Gwenna started, before blinking away the dazzling colours from her eyes, the shapes of Wrynn and the Tulador Guard coalescing into existence as though they’d always been there.

  The Shamans rushed over to the wounded men, summoning forth healing powers from the earth as they aided them. Arbistrath, Hofsted both there. Marlyn, too, bent over double, throwing up his lunch; a common side-effect of the spell.

  ` Wrynn stood, looking about, nodding to himself in satisfaction, before falling sideways. With a gasp, Gwenna ran over, crouching down to her mentor with concern in her eyes.

  “Master Wrynn…”

  “I’m fine, child, I’m fine.” He pushed himself upright, so that he was sitting, taking deep breaths as he drew upon the earth to give him strength. His head was pounding, his nerves feeling like they were on fire.

  Not surprising, thought Gwenna; translocation usually required hours of preparation, meditation, communing with the spirits. To do it on the fly… Not for the first time, she wondered at his might.

  “The men are safe,” she reassured him. “You did amazingly, but you need to rest now, gather your strength.”

  He cut her off with a curt shake of the head, struggling once again to his feet.

  “There is no time; even now, the battle on the left flank will be joined; Iain needs my help if he is to defeat the Huntsman.”

  “Then let me come with you…”

  “No girl.” He looked her in her green eyes, smiling, his breast filled with the love of a father for a daughter. “Your strength will be better deployed here, healing the Guards, scrying for the source of the dampening. If, in twenty minutes, you still have no luck, then we go to plan B.”

  She nodded solemnly, red curls falling in front of her face, hiding her expression.

  “We abandon the Plains People to their fate and make full march for the Beacon…”

  The Shaman stood tall, a head over her, his hands resting gently on her shoulders.

  “Take heart, my girl. We fight for the survival of mankind. If there’s any luck in this world then the tide will turn in our favour.”

  With that, the Shaman disappeared in a cloud of dark smoke, receding into the sky with a caw as he flew over to the left flank of the plain. Gwenna turned, brushing her hair out of her face as she looked over the battle now joined before her, her hands tingling with pent up spiritual power that she itched to release.

  “If we have any friends in there,” she told the city that loomed high in the background, “then find the source of this dampening. Find it. And kill it.”

  ***

  Alann paused at the end of the corridor, craning his neck around the corner to check the Market for Clansmen; they didn’t want to make the same rookie mistake they did on the way in. The coast was clear and he gestured for the men to follow.

  How can we get away from the city? he’d asked Naresh. The ex-servant had immediately thought of the tunnels that led to the docks. Get to the Keep, into the kitchens – there’s a direct tunnel straight down to the docks, much less convoluted and winding than those beneath the Arena. So that is where they were headed now, swift and silent, darting from shadow to shadow.

  The silence as they moved gave Naresh a moment to reflect on the events in the prison below. The carnage of the forest of cages; none had survived. He suppressed a shudder at the memory of Jafari’s cry of grief. His sisters, both of them, arms wrapped about each other in fear and pain, arrows sticking out from them as they lay in a dried pool of their own blood. The Nomad had said nothing since then, his face impassive, his eyes vacant, simply following the others. More even than the Clansmen that roamed the city, the Desert Dweller was now a hollow man.

  His mind drifted back to the small torture chamber he’d found himself in, to the strange, arcane symbols that he’d seen on the wall. The shapes had seemed to almost twist and writhe before him; even now, when he tried to remember them, his mind refused to bring them to the fore, as though rebelling at the very idea of their existence. Dark magic. He’d heard tales, of course, as everyone who worked in the Pen had, of the Seeress and her coven. Perhaps the dark powers with which they treated had turned upon them? That would explain the Clansmen.

  Abruptly, he noticed the troupe had stopped, hunched in the shadow of a building just outside the Market. Frowning, he looked towards the front of the line, to where Alann stood, mouth open, head cocked to one side. He looked like he was listening to something…

  The Woodsman turned to them, whispering quietly.

  “Can you hear that?”

  Narlen frowned, cocking his head as he strained.

  “No, what?”

  Alann didn’t answer, instead, turning his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked past the low buildings and walls to the tall, pagoda-like structure that rose high above them. He gestured to it, questioningly.

  “What’s that place?”

  The troupe turned as one to Naresh, for he was the Steppes-ma
n.

  “It’s the Temple of the Ancestors,” he explained as though stating the obvious. “It’s where the Barbarian Kings of old were laid to rest.”

  Alann nodded, digesting the information, yet still had a puzzled frown on his face.

  “I… I think we need to go there.”

  He looked as confused at the statement as they did.

  “Erm, why?” Elerik ventured, ever the pragmatist. “What use we with bones and dust? We need to fly, get to the docks, maybe steal a boat.”

  Murmurs of agreement, but then Narlen spoke.

  “I vote we follow the Woodsman. His instincts have led us right thus far; it cannot hurt to take a detour of a few minutes. If it turns out to be nothing, then we simply continue on our way.”

  Elerik paused for a moment, thinking, before nodding in acceptance.

  “Fine, let’s do it. But we hurry. The streets are quiet, but I don’t know how long they’ll stay that way.”

  ***

  The rumbling thunder beneath him. The wind whipping through his hair and beard. The thrilling power of his dark masters flowing through his veins. This. This is what it felt like to be a god. This is what that fool, Invictus, had been hogging all these years.

  Kurnos roared in glee as his Infernal Hunt raced across the Steppes to smash the pathetic shaman army in the flank. The sweet plains air laced now with the smell of smoke. The steeds that drew his chariot, swollen, eyes red with flames, hooves leaving a trail of sparking steps in their wake. His whip, that he cracked about him in the air, a long tendril of orange fire.

  His minions were on either side of him, racing in war machines of their own, froth foaming their mouths as they darkened the air with insane battle-cries and gibbered oaths. Yes, those behind the Veil had seen fit to bless his men in different ways, ways that suited the fast and frantic nature of their sport. The Infernal Hunt was a sight to behold, but few who beheld it would live for long.