Though he had long been an immortal, Kurnos felt at last, truly, like a god.
A creak of wood, almost imperceptible amidst the noise of the charge, and a bed of grass ahead in the plains rose up, as if pulled by hidden ropes; wooden spikes, long and thick, sprouting forth to form a barrier. A chariot to his side flew straight into the wall of stakes, the war machine smashing to kindling, the riders torn to shreds by the impact.
Another creak, a ramp rising up this time, hurling a chariot upside down as it passed over it, the weight of the contraption crushing the charioteers as they were dragged, screaming, upside down along the ground.
A flurry of arrows, as if from nowhere, taking men in the neck, the arm, the shoulder, the heart, chariots out of control everywhere, dogs howling with rage and pain. Chaos.
Yet who could be hiding, here, in open sight atop the plains of the Steppes…?
Kurnos growled in rage and anticipation, for he knew these tricks and the minds behind them.
“Left, you fool!” he bellowed at his driver, as a ramp erupted from the earth before them.
The massive chariot veered, just missing the trap, and Kurnos’ dark eyes scanned the plains before them, his senses, now enhanced, spying the hidden ropes that snaked through the grass, and he grinned. His whip lashed out, a strand of fire, like orange lightning, to a patch of grass almost indiscernible from that about it, but the point of the whip punched through the disguise and Kurnos heaved, a screaming, smouldering Forester being wrenched from his hiding place to land, fifty yards off, broken and ablaze.
“Such sport!” the giant roared, with a barrel-chested guffaw, casting about with his gaze as his chariot circled, hunting for yet more victims.
The Foresters sought to distract them, stop them even; but all they did was provide an entertaining diversion, at least for a while.
A glimmer, faint, almost invisible, as the sun reflected off a tiny shard of metal in the grass. The arrow was loosed, but Kurnos was quicker by far. The whip of flames lashed out, hauling the concealed Forester out with the speed of a striking snake, dragging him along the earth, then up to the Huntmaster atop his chariot in an instant. The man goggled for a moment, in the grip of Kurnos’ meaty fist, but a split second later a wet thud, and the man’s eyes glazed over, his head sagging. With a great, guttural snort of laughter, the Huntmaster hurled the smoking corpse to the ground, the Forester’s own arrow protruding from his back.
All about, now, the battle was joined. The men of the Hunt, if men they still were, gibbered and howled as they lashed out. The Foresters as they attacked, clean and clinical, striking with quiet precision before retreating, only to strike again, moments later from a different angle.
A challenge, that is what Kurnos craved. A real fight. There must be a leader here, a whelp risen up to take over the mantle of the Woodsman. The Huntmaster focused his senses, straining with the powers bestowed upon him, in an effort to locate the man they called leader. His head snapped round, teeth bared in a feral grin, as he saw a slight youth issuing orders from behind a cleverly constructed hide of woven grass.
The Huntsman called his chariot to a halt, dismounting, the ground thudding beneath his darkly swollen mass as he paced his way, whip leaving a trail of scorched grass, towards the hide. The concealed archers saw his approach, unleashing a hail of arrows, the missiles thudding into the leather of his jacket, piercing his skin and lodging in the flesh, but he merely smiled, lashing out with his whip and tearing the hide in two like a knife through parchment, the smouldering halves of the construction falling to either side.
Like some foul titan of myth, the warrior towered over the three Foresters. One of the three charged him, a woman, a sword brandished as she cried out in revenge for a slaughtered family Kurnos had long since forgotten, but the Huntmaster’s hand shot out, grasping her by the neck and lifting her from the ground, feet dangling as she choked. One of the other two gasped in horror, on the verge of soiling himself, turning and fleeing as fast as his legs would carry him, but the whip of flames lashed out, taking the man’s head clean off in one cracking blow.
The last, remaining Forester of the three stood his ground as Kurnos approached, looming large.
“You are the leader?” he asked, hopefully, snapping the neck of the still struggling woman with one squeeze, before casting her aside like a discarded toy. “You have taken the place of the Woodsman, yes?”
The youth gulped, yet didn’t flee, nodding in affirmation.
“I am. I am Iain. I take the place of Alann, the Woodsman, until he returns to us to take his place once more.”
The giant threw his head back, his mocking laughter echoing in the skies above.
“Returns? You think he yet lives? I pity your naivety, mortal.”
“I know he lives, wretch,” the Forester narrowed his eyes, fear lost in the face of his anger, anger at Kurnos’ snatching of their beloved leader from them. “He will return to us. And he will have his vengeance on you.”
Kurnos smiled, sinister and dark.
“Well he’s not here right now, is he?” he told the boy, chuckling quietly. “So I’ll have to settle for you.” He paused, finger on bearded chin in mock pondering. “I don’t think I’ll kill you, not straight away. For we have new Games now. Oh, you should see the Arenas of our Masters. The Games go on for years, young one. Years. And the agony never ends, for each time you die they bring you back for more. Oh, you shall enjoy the games, of that I’m sure…”
His whip lashed out, but a cloud of smoke, a swirl of feathers and the cord of flames was grasped in a mighty hand that arrested its momentum, before casting it to the floor.
“Go, Iain. Lead your men. I’ll deal with this buffoon.”
The youth ran as Wrynn had instructed, knowing that he’d be no use in this particular clash. Behind him, the Shaman massaged his scorched hand, the palm still gently smoking from the fierce embrace of the whip.
Kurnos grinned.
“You must be the stick-shaker that Ceceline told me about. I was hoping to bump into you.”
The Shaman spat on the ground.
“I could smell your stink from the Plains, barbarian. I was always going to find you.”
Without warning, Wrynn cupped his hands together, the air between his palms erupting with flame and launching out with a shriek in a hail of piercing bolts. The streaking missiles pattered harmlessly off the laughing Huntsman’s chest, sparking and falling to the ground where they sizzled and died in the grass. The Council Member was protected by the same dark force as the Clansmen. Wrynn snarled slightly, cracking his knuckles as he drew on the power of the earth to fuel his limbs.
Time to do things the old-fashioned way…
With a roar, he charged the chuckling giant.
***
These are not men, thought Enree for the tenth time as he span in a graceful arc, the tip of his Hruti smashing another Clansman on the bridge of the nose and sending him to the floor. They have no fear, no sense of self-preservation, he seethed, as the creature rose slowly back to its feet. Unless you killed them, they just kept coming.
It had only been minutes, yet it felt like hours that they’d been fighting. The Clansmen fought with mechanical precision, but they were cold, lacking in passion or flair; Enree rang rings about them. Yet the sheer weight of numbers was beginning to take its toll and men and women of the Plains were dying all about him. Without the support of the shamans’ powers, the sacrifice of his people would be for nothing.
Yes, the sacrifice. Wrynn had told them that this would be the end of their people. That even those that survived this final, cataclysmic battle would surely fall in the aftermath. But the Plains People were fine with that. For so long they had been subdued, slaves, broken and chained. But now they were free. And a week’s freedom was worth a century of servitude. Enree, tall, proud, strong, remembered his three decades of slavery in the halls of Pen Argyle, serving wine to stinking barbarians and haughty nobles.
He
would rather die a free man than live a slave.
But such noble sacrifice would be for nought if they were all wiped out to a man too soon. The numbers of the enemy should have been less by now, the strange fire-weapons of the Tuladors and the Spirit-Craft of the Shamans having taken their toll. The Plainsmen should have been able to hold the Legions to a stalemate, long enough for the Tuladors and Shamans to make their way past. But no, the plan was coming apart at the seams. If the balance didn’t shift soon, then the numbers would be too great, the legions of Clansmen barring their way, for the Plains People couldn’t occupy them all when there were still so many.
Another of the hulking, great Swollen ahead; body bulging with unnatural muscles as it swatted away the Plainsmen that swarmed it like flies. It picked up a Youngblood, cracking the youth’s spine with one flex of its mighty hand, before casting the corpse towards Enree. The leader ducked, just avoiding getting laid out by the blow, before brandishing his Hruti in a great spinning arc and charging into the fray, a shrill war-cry on his lips.
***
The smell of incense was strong, almost intoxicating after the decay and must of underground. Statues stood, silent, in alcoves along the walls as the Ten made their way from the top of the steps, pacing quietly along the corridor to the door that lay slightly ajar at the end. The sound of chanting voices from within, quiet, droning, as though in a trance.
Alann gripped his axe with white-knuckles, knowing now that he’d been right to trust the half-heard whisper on the breeze. The air tingled with static. Sorcery was afoot.
Slowly, the Ten made their way into the room, the darkness lit by the glow of a burning pyre. A pentagram, in the centre of the room, wherein sat several robed females, the source of the chanting. Right in the middle, a pile of still-steaming human hearts; a sacrifice, no doubt, to a dark patron.
Alann caught the eye of Narlen, the Plainsman’s eyebrows telling him all he needed to know. Let’s get out of here, they said. We don’t need to mess with this. We can be on a boat within hours and away. The Woodsman shook his head, to the other’s chagrin, making his way closer to the circle, hiding behind a stone column. He ran his fingers over the cold stone, perplexed; it had once been smooth, hewn blocks, but now was bent, twisted; warped, as though by great heat.
Closer now, the men could feel the malice, the evil radiating from the group of chanting Seeresses. Thick, foul, tangible, like cold, stagnant water. This was no accident of fate that brought them here. No coincidence.
Whatever these women were doing needed to be put to a stop.
A quick flurry of hand signals. Charge as one, taking them out. Alann will go for the leader, set slightly apart from the others, sat on the step leading up to the burning pyre. A chorus of silent nods; each man knew his part, readying weapons with trembling hands in anticipation of the violence to come.
Three…
Two…
One…
In silence the men charged, hands about mouths as daggers slid across throats, spilling blood on the floor to join that of the hearts. Hammers and axes fell, caving in skulls. The slaughter was swift and the men took no pleasure in their task, for they were not killers, for the most part. They were common men.
Alann charged as the slaughter began, flying across the circle and leaping the hearts, axe raised high to strike down the head witch. The head swept down, but, without even opening her eyes, the robed figure raised her hand and the axe-head froze in place, jarring Alann’s arm.
“Fools.” The witch hissed as she rose. “You think you can stop the will of our Mistress?”
A spark of dark lightning struck the frozen Alann in the chest, hurling him backwards to impact with a crump against one of the stone columns, driving the wind from his lungs. He fell, axe clattering to his side and his men spread out, wary, surrounding the lone surviving Seeress. She laughed, the sound harsh, cackling, despite the youthful brown eyes and long brown hair that trailed out from beneath the hood of her robe.
“Come at me then, oh mighty warriors. Even if you can take me, my work is done; even now, the army of the Shamans dies at the front gates. My mistress will prevail. This world – and others in time – shall burn…”
Most of the words made no sense to Alann’s groggy mind, but the Shaman Army? Here? Could that mean also that…? He grunted, rising unsteady to his feet.
“Kill the bitch…”
The men charged, but a spider’s web of black lightning struck out from the girl’s hands, knocking them all backwards to land, trembling and contorting with unnatural pain. Alann picked up his axe, threw it, aimed unerringly at her head, but a dark force turned it aside at the last second, hurling it to embed in the stone wall. He took a step forwards, willing to finish the job even with his bare hands, but the lightning crackled out again, sending him to his knees in teeth-gritted agony. He made to rise once more, despite the pain, but a hand on his shoulder kept him down, a figure striding past him to stand in the centre of the circle.
Jafari stood, unarmed, cheeks stained with dried tears as he faced the witch. She smiled at him, unleashing a storm of lightning that wreathed him in its agonising embrace. Yet he didn’t cry out, didn’t fall, didn’t even flinch. Her smile faded.
“What sorcery is this…?”
The Nomad snarled.
“The pain of your lightning is nothing compared to the suffering I already endure, witch.” He smiled, grim, menacing, the face of a man who had decided to take back the reins of his own destiny. “But no more.”
He charged, the warbling cry of the Desert on his lips as the witch stood, eyes wide, tongues of forked lightning licking out to smite him but to no avail. With a leaping tackle, he took the slight form of the woman about the waist, carrying her with him as he sailed through the air to land amidst the flames of the pyre.
A great whoosh, the heat causing each and every man to flinch, and the pair were gone, consumed by the ever-hungry blaze.
Silence now, the tomb once more the home of the dead. The air became lighter, the weight of the evil magicks dispersing now that the ceremony had been stopped.
A voice, Naresh, broke the stillness as the men stood, staring into the fire.
“Whatever we’ve accomplished,” he spoke quietly, firelight reflected in the glistening tears of his eyes, “I hope it was worth it.”
Once more, the Ten had become Nine.
***
The earth gladly took the burden from her and she relaxed with an audible sigh, opening her eyes to see the Tulador Guard who sat, staring in disbelief at his freshly healed arm where only a few moments ago a gash had hung open, vivid and sore.
“Th… thank you!” he stammered, his mind still echoing to the brush of her strong and wilful soul. She smiled, nodding, going to reply, when a voice called out behind.
“Gwenna! Gwenna, come quick!”
She turned, green eyes full of concern, fully expecting the tides of Clansmen to have broken through and be upon them, but no; it was Pol, the Shaman, the very same youth who had duelled the newly freed Stone only days before.
“What is it?” she enquired as she neared him, noting his broad smile and the joy in his eyes.
“Cast out,” he bade her, “cast out over the battle. What do you feel?”
She did as he asked, her own eyes widening in joyous disbelief as she felt what he did.
“Could it be?” Pol asked her. “Did someone hear the whispers of the spirits of air?”
The red-haired girl narrowed her eyes, flexing her fingers in anticipation, as the other shamans gathered about the pair.
“Only one way to find out…”
There, a couple of hundred yards distant; Enree, leader of the free Plains People, engaged in vicious combat against a great, hulking abomination of a Clansman. Gwenna reached out her hand towards the scene, summoning with a thought the spirits of air to lend her the power of lightning. She could feel, with a thrill, the energies building up about her, the prickly static, the greasiness of t
he air. She held it. Held it. Held it till she could barely contain herself.
And released.
A searing flash at the moment of release, the world bleaching out for an instant as a ravenous finger of electricity arced out from her outstretched hand, directed where to go by her very thoughts. Enree and his closest men were blown backwards by the impact, but otherwise unharmed, for it was the Swollen that took the full brunt of the blast.
The great beast stood still, for a moment, confused, as the gathered Plainsmen that lay shocked on the floor watched on with bated breath. Slowly, the pallid skin of the monster began to take on a darker hue, as its molecules changed, breaking down, before the entire creature blasted apart in a cloud of dry, lifeless dust that was whipped away on the breeze.
The Plainsmen leapt up with a roar of triumph, even as the Shamans on the hilltop did the same.
“My friends,” spoke Gwenna to the jubilant troupe, a slight smile of satisfaction on her face. “Time to turn the tide…”
As one, the shamans turned to the battle, the entire world drawing breath as the power of the spirits gathered about them, before reaching out and unleashing nature’s wrath upon their foes.
***
Wrynn picked himself up from the dirt once more, spitting out a mouthful of grit and blood as he rose, achingly to his full height. His muscles burned with fatigue, his skin with the grazes, bruises and burns from that god-forsaken whip. He reached down, with a throbbing mind, drawing even further on the resources of the earth in a desperate attempt to heal, to keep pace with the punishment.
It wouldn’t be enough, he knew that.
But at the same time, he didn’t care; all about him, on the plain to the flank of the shaman army, the Infernal Hunt was in disarray. Their leader thus tied up, the ravenous, frothing berserkers had been taken apart piecemeal by the skilled, cunning Foresters. He grinned, wincing slightly as his split lips parted and bled. The pain was worth it; for though he would inevitably lose this fight, the Foresters would win this battle.
From the Ashes Page 9
