by R J Hanson
“Paladin Illiech,” Sergeant Lisban said with a tip of his helmet in the motion of the common greeting. “Templar Captain Fladeen. Paladin Mylo.”
Sergeant Lisban motioned to his watchmen and jogged after Inquisitor Ranoct, making sure to call out the names of paladins and templars present, in greeting of course, as he passed them. He made sure they understood he knew their names. As the watchmen assembled and began down the street in their traditional grouping of three men to a squad, a few templars and paladins started down the street at a walk. As the sound of boots pounding on stone rose, so did the blood of warriors. By the time Ranoct had gone a full city block, the whole of the contingent followed, pacing him.
Ranoct signaled for his runners, men designated to scout ahead of any troop movement. He sent three to fan out in front of them since they’d lost sight of Dunewell and Maloch. Each scout carried a torch in one hand and signal horn in the other. In minutes a signal horn to the west and south of their position could be clearly heard. Ranoct stepped up the pace of the men who were now all running in step behind him.
“Instruct your men,” Paladin Illiech said between breaths to Templar Fladeen, who ran at his side. “Their first volley is to be aimed at Dunewell. The second volley is for the demon.”
Templar Captain Fladeen nodded and signaled for his crossbowmen to break away from the group as he led them down a parallel street. He could hear the sounds of combat carried to them by the echoes off the stone buildings of the streets. The echoes seemed to come from the graveyard, Nobles’ Rest, and must be magnifying the actual combat, he thought. For it sounded as though dozens, if not hundreds, were fighting instead of the three that he knew to be their quarry.
Fladeen led his men along the wall of a stable that concealed their approach to the graveyard.
“From here, we’ll crawl along the half-wall of the fence until each man has room to loose,” Fladeen whispered to his troops. “Stay low and out of sight until I give the command. Upon my command, you will rise and loose. Your first target is to be the pretender, Dunewell. Your second volley is to be aimed at the Stewardess, for she does show all signs of being possessed.”
Fladeen belly crawled across the street and along the outside of the marble half-wall. The sounds of battle seemed more intense than they should have; however, he was hard-pressed to hear anything over the sound of the armor and weapons of his men scraping the stone upon which they crawled. He reached a point nearly seventy yards from where they had first crossed the street and looked back to his men. The last of them were securing their places, crouched behind the short wall of stone. Fladeen took a moment to enjoy this time. He was about to order the death of that prideful inquisitor and garner himself the Shyeld’s Crown, a prestigious medal awarded for meritorious service, in the process.
Fladeen rose, his mind already creating the scene he would find before him. He fixed his expression to one of triumph mixed with elation. He looked down the line and saw that his men were on task, just as ordered. Each man among them rose, shouldered his crossbow… but then none of them looked to their leader, not one. Fladeen turned and was stricken virtually immobile by the horror of the bloody display. Several long seconds passed while his mind, trying to refuse the sight he beheld, struggled to move beyond this shock.
“Sir?”
The word seemed to come from far away, although it was spoken by the templar at his side.
“Sir, what…”
Fladeen just continued to stare forward. He was locked in just that position for several more heartbeats until one of the undead, catching the smell of living flesh just outside the fence, turned its maw toward him. When the creature snarled and opened its maggot-ridden mouth, Fladeen whimpered and gave the signal to loose.
None of the templars, including their valiant captain, had ever encountered an undead creature before. All had been taught about the many varieties; all had been trained in how to slay the different types. However, none of their preparations steeled their nerves enough for the scene before them.
Crossbow bolts flew into the horde of undead, less than a dozen fell, and cries of alarm rose from the mouth of each templar there. Some ran for the church to argue later that they had gone for re-enforcements. Some fumbled at reloading their crossbows while spiting curses mixed with hurried prayers. However, some were warriors. These last climbed the fence and hit the ground on the other side with a weapon in hand and the name of their goddess on their lips. These last made Fate proud in Her high temple. These last would be welcomed into Her garden.
Illiech, from his vantage a few blocks to the east, was only able to see less than a third of the army of undead that clamored about in the graveyard. He also saw what he perceived to be the leading edge of Fladeen’s charge. Not to be outdone, for he had begun his mission this night with thoughts of claiming Shyeld’s Crown for himself, ordered his own charge. Other Paladins and Templars of Merc shouted to their deity and burst through the gates of Nobles’ Rest in what they hoped would appear to be a valiant effort.
Ranoct, understanding that his men would need their wind when they arrived, kept his troops to a light pace and was only just arriving as the last of Illiech’s men topped the fence and charged the wall of undead. Ranoct’s heart quailed at the sight, but his actions reflected his years in Tarborat and service to the King. The command of “charge” burst from Ranoct’s throat without any sign of hesitation. His watchmen, handpicked for this night’s work if not this exact mission, obeyed that order without question.
Ranoct, sometimes called Ranoct Arrow-Eater, cut his way toward one of the Captains of the Abyss.
Dunewell was pleasantly surprised when the first volley from the templars on the fence dropped several of the undead on the outer edge of the throng. He was shocked when he saw them climbing the fence in full charge, the name of Fate on their lips as they came on. He also heard the charge from the Paladins of Merc, although they were behind him and beyond one of the Captains of the Abyss.
Dunewell and Maloch felt more than saw the change in the battle when the forces of Fate and Merc collided with the army of the undead. In the space of a few sword strokes, the enemies surrounding them thinned, and the claws, teeth, and horns gouging for their flesh were lessened by half. Still breathing in violent rasps, Dunewell and Maloch were able to strike almost as often as they parried now.
The tide of the battle turned, and Dunewell and Maloch were once again on the offensive. Both heard the command of Vesliosh shouted from different points on the battlefield. Both could see the Captains of the Abyss and Erin above the undead. Dunewell and Maloch both noticed they were no longer the focus of those wretched creatures.
The ground quaked again, and Dunewell saw Slythorne, perched on his heels high up in a dead tree, smiling down at them. The battle raged on for several more minutes before Dunewell understood what Slythorne had done.
As he cut down another of the undead raised from the graveyard, Dunewell caught a glimpse of the iron gates leading into Nobles’ Rest. He also caught a glimpse of the dead that had been called from the watery graves of the river and channels of Moras. Hundreds of them.
Illiech, surrounded and losing men every few seconds, called to Fladeen and Ranoct only to discover Fladeen was nowhere to be found on the battlefield. Ranoct, however, answered the call and, after several vicious moments of hacking and slashing, joined his troop with the soldiers of Merc. Seeing this, the remaining contingent of the church of Fate also pushed to join with Ranoct and Illiech’s forces.
Sergeant Lisban assumed command of the young soldiers from the church of Fate. Ranoct began to bark orders for overlapping support and preparations for maneuvers. All pride suspended, Illiech accepted Ranoct’s position of command and signaled as much to his troops. In the span of a few heartbeats, the combined force had hemmed the undead throng into a semi-circle and was pushing the army toward one corner of the graveyard. Ranoct could see Dunewell and Maloch at the center of the undead horde, but had no means of rea
ching them, not yet. He reasoned that, if his friend and the dark paladin could hold the undead off for just a bit longer, his force could draw the full attention of the abominations.
Just as lines were being established and soldiers with shields were linking up and forming a solid defense, a cry went up from the northern edge of their line. Ranoct leapt atop a nearby headstone, and his heart sank at what he saw. Hundreds more of the undead creatures were marching on the gates of Nobles’ Rest.
The seasoned warrior scanned the graveyard and selected the area where they would make their stand. He had hoped to cut through and cut down the undead army and recapture Dunewell and Maloch. Now he hoped they could hold out long enough for Lady Evalynne’s troops and the soldiers at Blackstone Hall and the Silver Helm academy to head the call of their signal horns.
Ranoct commanded his troops to fall back in a series of bounding or leap-frog maneuvers that allowed one group to provide cover for another as they retreated to defensible positions. Then, the roles would reverse, and the second group would provide protection while the first would fall back. Ranoct had spotted a set of mausoleums that provided solid walls on three sides and a narrow alley of access between them. That is where they would make their stand.
The combined force worked their way backward, struggling to hold the ends of their line. Ranoct set four men to stand and boost their few remaining crossbowmen up onto the rooves of the mausoleums. Once in place, they began raining bolts and quarrels onto the undead army while the troops still on the ground formed a tight shield wall across the short expanse between the stone buildings.
Ranoct climbed to the roof of the tallest building to survey the field before him. His heart sank again when the nearest channel transformed into a swirling hellscape of acid spouts and flaming waters. They were now completely cut off from the rest of Moras. Furthermore, and the true reason for his new concern, with the water perverted by such a spell, the undead could cross into the city unhindered.
Chapter XII
Brothers Stand
“Nobles’ Rest, of course,” Lady Dru said as she opened her eyes and let her concentration on her most recent spell dissipate. “We should…”
“Not we, my Lady,” Silas said, in a rare moment of defiance as he cut her statement short. “Only I.”
Dru only raised a single eyebrow, but the wrath dancing behind her eyes was a clear warning to Silas.
“My Lady, if you go, then Slythorne might take you,” Silas continued quickly, hoping to make his point before he had to discover precisely how Dru might express that wrath. “A’Ilys reports that Slythorne’s man scouted the cavern already. If they could move against you here, they would have. He hopes to draw you out by drawing me out. He knows, or at least suspects, that I must go because of Dunewell. He likely also hopes that we will attempt to strike him down while he faces Dunewell and whatever other allies the Warlock has mustered. Don’t you see? All he has to do is escape with you, and he’s won; gone and leaving us no way of pursuing him. Please, if I have garnered any value in your eyes, allow me to do this alone.”
“No,” Dru said simply as she rose from her chair and walked to the door. “Not alone.”
Silas stepped through the cluster of swirling smoke and, as one boot was lifting from the cavern floor of the drow complex, the other struck the stone of a walkway in Nobles’ Rest. He took a moment to reflect on how much had transpired in his life since his boots trod the stone of these pathways last.
In that same moment of reflection, he drew his family’s shrou-sheld with his right hand and called forth Dreg Zelche, the icy scimitar of drake claw. Silas sprinted for the horde of undead and selected one of the Captains of the Abyss as his first target. Silas leapt.
The creature's surprise was complete when the Chaos Lord landed next to him, driving a wicked-cold blade through the gap between the monster’s breastplate and girth. Silas continued the thrust, angling the blade upward and slicing through what had once been the risen creature’s kidney, spleen, lower lung, and intestines. With a single vicious stroke, Silas cut the unsuspecting abomination nearly in two. Silas examined the dropped shield, smiled, and sheathed his shrou-sheld.
As one the other two huge skeletal creatures and the fallen champion looked toward Silas. Then, they looked beyond him.
The three remaining commanders of Slythorne’s army hesitated when they saw a small force of ogres and giants pour out of a dark cloud of teleportation alongside two dozen armed and armored drow soldiers. The soldiers sent by Rogash and Jandanero waded into the undead with abandon cutting down the first three rows of raised creatures before there was any response from those mastering them.
Silas watched as the three commanding the undead throng exchanged a look and then began to move. The two Captains from the Abyss marched toward the center of the horde, toward Dunewell. The fallen champion took flight and hovered above the mass of undead, where she focused all her might on controlling and directing the mindless force.
In a single bound, Silas leapt again to land within the tight circle Dunewell and Maloch had carved out around themselves. Silas, looted shield on one arm and Dreg Zelche paired with it, moved in alongside his brother, striking down two undead with one great slash from his evil blade.
Maloch wheeled, bringing his swords to bear instinctively.
“Hold,” Dunewell called as he drove his glowing rider’s pike into the empty eye socket of another undead, dropping it. “It’s Silas.”
“Aye,” Maloch said, unease clear in his tone.
“It’s good to see you, Dune,” Silas struggled to maintain a light tone while shoving back a snapping maw with the shield and slashing across to take the hands from another raised corpse. “You’re looking well.”
“When this is over…”
“Yes, yes,” Silas said, finding it easy to interrupt Dunewell, given his heavy breathing. “Although there are some facts I would like to point out.”
Several heartbeats passed while the undead around them seemed to surge with power. A quick glance up revealed the source of that power. Erin was hovering directly above them, lines of concentration carved deeply across her forehead. Each of the three parried and struck, Dunewell and Silas making four or five strikes for every one of Maloch’s.
“I have killed,” Silas continued after a few moments of desperate fighting. “However, those you call brothers-in-arms have also killed. I would like to point out that I have saved lives as well. How many of your so-called noble friends can say that? In fact, by my calculations, I have saved seven lives for every life I’ve taken. Not even you, gallant brother, can say that.”
“If you… can’t comprehend… the difference… the murder of children… the murder of our mother… then I cannot… explain it,” Dunewell finally managed as he struck and parried with both ends of his enchanted war hammer, destroying six of the undead creatures in the time it took him to speak the sentence.
“What about your dark-skinned friend?” Silas asked, his breath beginning to sound labored. “How many thousands of deaths is he responsible for, and yet you fight at his side.”
“He’s repented,” Dunewell said as he jerked his head back to dodge a diseased claw. “He’s trying to make reparation.”
“Are you saying I should repent? Repent to who, and why? Repent to the silly gods that so betrayed these lands? Repent to a church that tortures children for their own sick amusement? Perhaps repent to the law that raises up the likes of Reeve Sevynn and Lord High Inquisitor Gyllorn? I think not, brother.”
“Repent to me,” Dunewell pleaded. “Repent to me, brother. Let me show you a better way, a way to heal your wounded soul.”
Silas’s responding laughter broke Dunewell’s heart.
Under Ranoct’s command, the forces of the churches, coupled with the watchmen, had managed to hedge in the southern side of the undead horde. He could see from his vantage point atop the mausoleum that the newly arrived ogres, giants, and drow were doing an excellent job of co
rralling the new wave of undead that had come from the river and the channels. The newly arrived monsters were successfully dividing those throngs and cutting them down. The impromptu commander saw the two remaining Captains of the Abyss marching in toward the three gathered in the middle of the horde. Ranoct turned to the west, raising his signal horn to redirect his crossbowmen. As his lips touched the horn a Muerso blade, this one fashioned into longsword, glided under his shoulder blade, between his ribs, and severed his heart. Ranoct Dragon Slayer, Ranoct Siege Breaker and Arrow Eater, fell dead.
Ashdow squatted low behind him and pulled the fallen warrior out of sight from the others under his command. Once in seclusion, the assassin took a moment to study the visage of the famous warrior. As Ashdow looked upon the brave man, the face of the Shadow Blade began to shift. In another moment, Ashdow, sometimes called Jasper and once known as Kelmut the Fierce, had assumed the exact appearance of Inquisitor Ranoct.
Ashdow was tempted to do more, but there was no time. The master assassin’s life had been structured around self-control; he had forged his body in the fires of his will. Now that control served him well.
“Form up!” Ashdow, now as Ranoct, commanded.
The Shadow Blade hopped from the roof of the stone building to stand amongst the remaining templars and watchmen on the ground.
“Form up! We are going to push through to Dunewell! You, you, and you three, form the tip of the spear! Paladin Illiech, you’ll lead them!”
The soldiers followed without hesitation, except for Illiech, who did hesitate a bit. This group of loyal men unwittingly obeyed the commands of a murderer.
The two Captains of the Abyss waded into the three defenders with a level of skill none had encountered before. Both skeletal creatures took up their Shrou-Hayns in a stance Maloch knew from ancient days. It was the stance of the Raven Wing.
