Days Of Light And Shadow

by Greg Curtis

  And the cheering grew louder.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen.

  Y’aris stood on the roof of his quarters and stared out across the battlefield, feeling quite pleased with himself. Everything was going according to plan.

  Stretched out for a full league in front of him the makeshift fortifications, trenches and rows of spears defended the temple perfectly, while behind them nearly eighty thousand abominations held their ground, waiting for the enemy to charge. And when they did, the abominations would pour forth from behind the defences and fall upon the utra like an angry tide. It was a perfect plan.

  Behind them his own small army of fifteen hundred watchmen were already preparing, lining up in ranks in front of his complex, awaiting his command. They would wait while the abominations and the dark priests fought the utra, and then, depending on the outcome, they would either rush into the battle to destroy the enemy, or they would flee taking him, his consorts and the stash of gold from the temple to safety through the rear gate and the pass beyond.

  Win or lose, he would escape this battle unscathed. The only thing he didn’t know, was which outcome he preferred.

  Was it living as the Reaver’s favourite servant, amassing his personal wealth and armies and beginning his new race? Or was it life among the gnomes without the Reaver and his power but also without having to serve him, and still raising his new empire. Either option was good.

  Then he heard the strange words drifting across the valley and a chill ran through him. He knew what it was of course. The prayers of the elders. But these weren’t normal prayers.

  He’d expected that the utra would bring a few elders with them. What else would you do when you were at war with a temple? But what he didn’t understand was what the prayers were intended to do. These weren’t the simple prayers spoken to fill soldiers with courage. They were more than that. They were powerful and ancient. Spoken in a tongue that even he didn’t understand. He spoke the true tongue of the elves, but not one this old. A word here and there. That was as much as he recognised.

  So what were they doing? And why weren’t the demon’s priests speaking against them? Granted, many of them like Crassis himself were locked away somewhere inside the temple preparing the final defence for the Reaver. But still he thought he should hear some of them fighting their enemy. He couldn’t.

  A man screamed from somewhere just nearby and Y’aris knew a moment of dread as he suddenly realised what the elders were doing. It was one of his watchmen, falling down to the ground, holding his head and screaming out in agony. The elders were killing his soldiers. His soldiers, not the abominations. Why?

  “Hold firm!” His voice came out as little more than a frightened shriek as he called to his watchmen, hoping against hope that they would listen to him and ignore the elders. But even as he cried out, several more screamed and fell to the ground in agony. Soon it was a dozen, and then several dozen, and high up on the roof above his quarters Y’aris knew terror. These were his protection.

  Y’aris continued to yell orders at them but none of them listened. Even those who hadn’t fallen weren’t listening to him. He could see it in the rigid postures of their backs. They were listening to the elders. Soon he would have no army. He would be defenceless.

  Y’aris broke then, knowing that no matter how the battle went, he was doomed. Either the filthy utra would win through and kill him, or the priests would win the day and Crassis would once more be in control, and he would kill Y’aris for the failure of his watchmen to stand with them. Y’aris had to flee.

  Shaking, he rushed down the staircase leading from the roof to his first floor balcony quarters, and inside to his private bedchambers and the small treasury behind it. There, with his fingers shaking, he gathered up all of the gold and moon silver he could find on the floor, and frantically shoved it into a carry sack. He hated having to do it as the small sack would only be able to hold a fraction of the gold and moon silver rightfully his. The vast bulk of it would have to be left behind. But without an army to help carry it he didn’t have a choice.

  Suddenly a woman’s scream came from out of nowhere, and his heart stopped beating in fright. The sound she made; it wasn’t mortal. It wasn’t of anything remotely elven. It was something else. Something of pain and rage, of grief and suffering. Something far worse than any mortal throat could make. It was the sound his soldiers had made as the elders’ prayers had broken them. And it was so very near. In the room with him. He turned to face the woman, white faced and trembling, fearing the worst.

  “Kalisan?” It was her, but it wasn’t. He recognised her from their time in his bedchamber that very morning, but not as she was. Her eyes had turned completely green with not a trace of the white remaining. Her muscles, and since she was still naked he could see every part of her, were bulging and knotted like ships’ ropes. The blood had drained from her face and fists so that her normal healthy tan was replaced by white marble. But worst of all was the wrath he could see in her face as she stared at him. Whatever demon possessed her, it hated him.

  She was going to kill him.

  “Kalisan please!” Frightened Y’aris held up his hand as he tried to placate her, but there was never a chance of that happening. All he was really doing as he spoke to her and tried to calm her down, was giving himself enough time to drop the sack and draw his sword with his free hand. But there wasn’t enough time.

  Before he had even had time to pull his sword free she had covered the dozen or so paces between them, and grabbed his sword hand in hers. She squeezed, and he screamed as the bones of his hand were crushed. He could hear them snapping into fragments like gravel under a man’s boots. He screamed some more when he saw the blood pouring from the pulp that had been his hand. The pain was as nothing he had ever felt before.

  “Please!” Y’aris begged then, falling to his knees in front of her, knowing that he didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t get more than a single word out. Not when she grabbed him by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground in a single hand. How could she do that? She was so tiny. Little more than a child. But the how suddenly wasn’t all that important when her fingers started squeezing and he found himself struggling for breath.

  She didn’t kill him though. She could have easily, but instead she let her free hand strip him of his armour and his clothes, ripping them apart as if they were made of paper, before carrying him out of his treasury and back into his bedchamber. Y’aris struggled, or he tried to struggle, but he had only one working hand and he had to use it to try and hold himself up rather than choke to death in her grip, and his feet were dangling freely. He kicked at her with everything he had, but she didn’t even seem to notice.

  Then in the bedchamber she stopped and he knew his end was near. He would have screamed but he simply didn’t have the breath. All he had was fear. And it grew the instant he felt her free hand on his manhood.

  “No! Please!” Somehow he managed a shriek, but it wasn’t enough. Her hand had found exactly what she wanted and she squeezed. Her fingers dug deep, tearing into him like claws, and the pain was as nothing he’d ever imagined possible. Despite his lack of air he kept screaming, wanting nothing more than for it to end. But not as it did.

  Something tore. He felt it ripping loose and begged for it not to. But it did and a heartbeat or two later he could see it in her hand. His manhood, all of it, a bloody trophy dripping in her hand, not a foot in front of his face.

  Time hung suspended then. He stared at everything that had made him a man, hanging in her hand, and knew it could never be healed. He was worse than gelded. She had taken everything from him. And he hated her for that. He hated her as no one had ever been hated before.

  Kalisan dropped his body parts to the floor, done with them, and then she dropped him as well. But she wasn’t done with him. Instead, with two impossibly fast stomps of her feet she broke his knees, shattering them, and he knew as he lay broken on the floor and crying with pain, that he would nev
er walk again.

  “Stay!” It was the first word she’d spoken. The only word. And he couldn’t understand why she’d even bothered. She’d crippled him completely. But he couldn’t ask. Not when every part of him hurt. Not when he wanted to cry. Not when darkness was claiming him. Between the pain and the blood loss, had could barely think.

  Y’aris watched her go. He heard her slam the door behind her, breaking the wrought iron handle and causing clouds of dust to be shaken loose from the stone frame. Lost in a world of suffering he wondered why? Why she had done this to him?

  After all, he had given her everything. He had made her one of the mothers of the reborn elven race. He had given her a place of honour at his side. And this was how she repaid him? It was bitterly unfair. Evil.

  He was still wondering why as he lay there sobbing, when he heard the sound of the cannon starting up and abruptly realised the terrible truth. It was the utra. This was all part of a plan. An evil plan. He was still alive because they weren’t finished with him. Soon the filthy utra would be with him. They would break down the door and then they would have him. Worst of all that monster Iros would have him. The filthy utra simply refused to die. And Y’aris couldn’t flee. That was the point of breaking his legs.

  Iros! Soon he would be there with him, that filthy utra, and would no doubt laugh at him. He would finish what the ungrateful wretch had started and torture him to death. Iros would finally win.

  That could not happen.

  Desperately he started praying. To the Reaver, to the Mother, to the demons and the gods. To anyone who would listen. He needed a way out. He needed to escape before that monster hung him. And he didn’t care who he had to serve anymore. He never had.

  The only thing that mattered was that he survived. So that he could kill them all.

  Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen.

  “Sweet Silene! What’s happening down there?” Iros asked the question to no one as he looked over at the enemy camp, waiting nervously for the battle to begin. He was far from alone.

  Y’aris’ watchmen, a fearsome sight in their blackened armour, were firing arrows into the backs of the abominations. He could see it as clearly as anything. But he didn’t understand. No more did any of the others. Captain Maydan sitting on his horse beside him looked just as confused as he did. And Tinderfell, Commander of the one hundred and fifty dragoons of wind riders, sitting on his other side, looked about ready to fall off his black horse in shock.

  It made no sense. The watchmen and the abominations were fighting each other? Though in sooth they weren’t. The watchmen were firing arrows into their midst, but the abominations didn’t seem to be doing anything about it. They scarcely even seemed to react. Maybe they couldn’t feel the arrows.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Iros knew that when he suddenly realised that he couldn’t hear the elders chanting any longer. Their prayers had ceased. And that he knew was the signal for the next phase of the attack.

  “The horn!” He yelled it as loudly as he could, hoping that his voice would carry far enough in the still air even without the gnomish device, and others picked up the cry. Soon they were all calling for the horn to blow, so loudly that when it finally did they almost didn’t hear the two mournful cries.

  But the cannoneers heard the horn’s call and replied.

  The opening volley wasn’t as precise as it should have been as some of the cannon fired ahead of the others, but they did all fire and the noise was deafening. Thunder in the air and in the ground. The smoke was blinding. And the cheers as they watched the barricades being torn apart by the cannon could surely be heard for a league or more. Perhaps it could even be heard by the Divines themselves. The cannons were hastily reloaded and then as the second volley tore through the enemy lines the cheers grew even louder.

  Soon the cannon fire was continuous. There were so many cannon in action, and they were all firing out of sequence that the air wouldn’t stop thundering and the ground wouldn’t stop shaking. As for the flimsy fortifications, they were quickly being torn apart, shredded by the withering cannon fire, and many of those seeking shelter in the trenches behind them were suffering the same fate.

  It was mist laden madness for the abominations to stay there. And finally someone must have realised it. Someone must have seen their soldiers being torn apart in their thousands as they hid behind their makeshift fortifications and given the order. For it was only then that the abominations finally began their charge. Even then though they were without direction. Some ran forward into the waiting arms of Herrick’s army. Others charged backwards, attacking the black clad watchmen. And all the while they were being cut down from both sides.

  Beside him Saris circled Iros’ horse nervously, constantly scenting the air and yipping worriedly. The hound had never been in a war before and she didn’t really understand all the noise and smoke. But at least she didn’t run away in terror. She was a brave and loyal hound. The wolves were doing the same.

  “Archers!”

  Iros gave the command, wondering how anyone could actually hear him over the roaring of the cannon, and drew his crossbows. Beside him thousands of elves and sprites did the same, as they waited for the fastest of the abominations to reach them. It was a nervous time that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The things had always seemed surprisingly fast despite their ungainly shambling. But eventually the quickest of them came within range of the longbows and the arrows flew.

  Hundreds of them fell as, despite the huge range, the elves proved themselves to be every bit the archers he had believed them. But for all the hundreds that fell, thousands more kept advancing, rushing for them as fast as wolves. Hungry wolves.

  At two hundred and fifty paces the magic shortbows could find them and Iros watched as the sprites’ white arrows buried themselves in the abominations’ heads. And all the while the cannon kept firing, tearing great holes in the sea of their enemies, breaking the abominations into bloody pieces. He only wished that the cannon could fire faster.

  Then they crossed within two hundred paces and Iros knew it was his turn. He raised the first of his double stringed crossbows, took aim at the nearest of the enemy, and let loose his first bolt. It sank into the neck of an abomination, but didn’t seem to bother it too much. A man would have dropped dead on the spot, but not this murderous nightmare.

  Iros lined it up again and let loose his arrow. This time his aim was slightly more fortunate as his bolt found the abomination’s knee. It wasn’t a lethal injury, but Iros didn’t care when it fell down and he knew it was crippled. It would be a good long time before it reached them.

  Iros dropped the first crossbow and picked up his second, sending two more bolts straight into the body of another abomination. Again neither killed the thing, but one managed to turn it aside a little, just before a white arrow slipped cleanly through into its head and carried it to the ground.

  After that it was a frantic battle for Iros to reload both his crossbows, pulling the strings back and notching the bolts in place, all the time worrying that one of the things would reach him and rip out his throat. Longbows didn’t have the same problem as they were loaded faster and all while the archer was staring at his foe. But when he was done and both crossbows were reloaded, they didn’t seem that much closer. Immediately he found his next target, lined it up and put two more bolts into it. This time one actually found its head and the thing fell down. The bolts from his other crossbow weren’t so fortunate, and only one even found its target’s body.

  He reloaded frantically.

  And so it went on. The things kept rushing at them in numbers and they kept cutting them down, but all they while more and more of them edged closer. Soon, he knew, it would be time for the next phase of the battle. For when the cannon fell silent as the infantry charged, forming a solid steel wall from behind which they could attack.

  Lightning struck the battlefield as the nearest of the abominations crossed to within seventy or so paces of them. H
uge swathes of it crashing down all around, and Iros realised that their few warspells had finally unleashed their magic. Fire and lightning unleashed. Iros could see huge fire balls tracking across the sky, arcing like arrows as they crashed down among the ruined fortifications, and hopefully killing whatever still called them home. More fireballs struck further afield still, setting the temple ablaze.

  The elders and the priests were busy as well. Here and there he could see flashes of white light as abominations suddenly burst into explosions of dust, while others simply stopped moving, making themselves easy targets for the archers.

  But the enemy kept coming no matter how many fell. There were just so many of them.

  At fifty paces another horn sounded and the infantry charged. Forty thousand or more soldiers armed with swords and heavy steel shields ran from between their lines to smash into the advancing horde as the cannon finally fell silent. They had to. After the infantry advance they’d be firing into the backs of their own men. But their thunder was quickly replaced by the screams of the men as they cut loose. And of course the archers kept taking the enemy down. That was the purpose of the infantry charge. To hold them back.