Walter clenched his fists, clawing at the Phoenix and the Dragon, seizing their strength. Their powers swirled like a hurricane in his mind, waiting to be unleashed. A luminescent portal opened in front of him showing Juzo beyond it. His sword hummed, chopping into the first skeleton to attack, splitting it down to the abdomen. Walter leapt through, rolling onto the bridge, the portal buzzing as it shut.
“Walter!” Juzo yelled. “My rear!” Walter pressed his back to Juzo’s, the demons crowding in on either side. Walter faced the great mass ahead, and Juzo the horde working the gates.
“I’m here, but I’ll need room,” Walter said, Stormcaller hissing to life at his side, its amber tendrils waving.
Juzo pushed off of him, grunting, thudding of sword and bone at his back. Hopefully, Juzo was at the delivering end. Walter tilted his chin up, sucking in the fetid air. In his left hand appeared a Dragon fire longsword, flames flickering at the edges. The storm raged in his heart, filling his legs and arms with energy. He dropped low, Stormcaller crackling at his side, the sword held across his face in a reverse grip.
The Death Spawn flinched for a moment, then started beating swords, clubs, daggers, and claws against shields. They advanced and Walter whirled into them, a hail of fire and electricity, scourging through bone and flesh.
His strikes were precise, chopping through arms, hewing out legs, stabbing under helmets, beasts roaring and flailing as they tried to overwhelm them. They stumbled over the dead, one tripping and running himself through with a spear. They roared and shrieked. One without eyes tried to tackle him and he opened it from head to toe with a vertical slash of his sword, split halves rolling to the side and exploding with dark blood. He saw things clearer in the midst of blood, all doubts, fears, questions, choices washed away as he was forced into the present.
Walter held the ground before the bridge. The rest behind Juzo were being picked off by the defenders of the wall and the wide circles of Juzo’s sword. Something jabbed into his shoulder, crying out, dropping the fiery sword, poofing into smoke. He reached back, the stray arrow shaft sticking out his back, lanced between his armor. Phoenix light pushed the arrow out of his back, the skin knitting together, leaving only pain.
He always found things more complicated than they needed to be, but now he was seeing how simple they really were. The healing light of the Phoenix and fury of the Dragon were all that he really needed.
Juzo was at his side now, sword chopping sideways and cutting a walking bag of bones into two pieces. They exchanged a nod and went back to work, Walter tightly controlling the path of Stormcaller. Juzo’s speed was astonishing, inhuman, heavy sword moving fast as a dagger. His blade caught the sun, white arc searing through the air, chopping through a Black Wynch’s arm. The dark streaks were shooting, the armor clanging.
Walter ducked, cracking Stormcaller through the ankle of a Cerumal, dropping him to the ground, and came up blocking the swing of an axe with a Phoenix shield. He dropped the shield and punched with his hand, releasing a cone of fire upon the Death Spawn. Flesh, fat and even bone spattered in the conflagration. A burning skeleton dashed towards him and he kicked it in the ribs causing it to stagger back over the edge. Roars bellowed from behind like a distant echo, the human kind. Cheering maybe.
Juzo screamed, striking into a group of skeletons. He stomped over their bodies, bones cracking underfoot, sweeping wide arcs with his blade. He lunged forward, spitting a Skin Flayer through the chest, the glowing blades dropping with clangs.
They couldn’t stay much longer, there were too many and Walter felt the weakness of the powers starting to creep in. They might have made a small dent in the horde, but it would be meaningless for them to die here. It would make for a good death, Walter thought. One for the stories no doubt, but not today.
The thought of death touching his mind made his energy soar, rage boiling up inside of him like a volcano. The world became sheets of red, bone, sinews, and torn flesh. He got stronger, feeding off the shrieks of the dying Death Spawn.
Destroy! The Dragon roared in his mind. His skin felt like it was on fire, wisps of smoke leaking through his pores. With every swipe of Stormcaller he felt more enraged, muscles burning like acid, screaming, laughing, crying, tears sliding through the blood under his eyes.
He cut through a sword, sent a blast of air ripping a spiked shield out from a Cerumal’s hand, charging at him. He grunted as it came, his legs swelled with blood, ramming the beast over his shoulder and off the bridge, shrieking to its death. He cut with Stormcaller, blowing a skull apart with a fireball, making everything right in the world.
A Skin Flayer fell at his feet, a yawning gash through its chest. It tried to roll over at the sight of Walter, but Walter’s boot came down onto its head, and its nose smashed the wrong way, its skull thudding into stone.
“Die! Die!” He smashed his foot into its head over and over, nose flattened, eye hanging out of the socket, black teeth tumbling from its mouth, its lip split.
“Walt!” Juzo yelled and gripped Walter’s shoulder like a vice, blood spattered in his white hair.
Something thrashed behind the column of Death Spawn, knocking skeletons and Cerumal off the bridge as it roared down the lane. It had the face of a bull, a blackened ring between its nostrils and stubby horns jutting out of its head. It wore thick plates, secured with hammered rivets, its beady eyes staring down the lane from under its helm.
Juzo and Walter shared a horrified glance as the other Death Spawn pressed into the side of the bridge, trying to get out of its warpath. The bull swung its club in a mighty arc, plastering the low walls with corpses and hauling them over the chasm. It finally reached them, lifting the club high over its head, bellowing out a cry of hate. A formidable move, but not a smart one. Walter slashed with Stormcaller, hissing through iron, cutting three lines into its gut. The spiked club fell from its hand and boomed onto the ground, rolling into the wall. The creature stumbled forward, a torrent of blood flowing through the gashes in its armor. The monster snarled at Walter in desperation, its bloody teeth bared, raising its iron fist overhead. Juzo jammed his sword into the giant’s neck, driving it up to the hilt, blood rolling down and onto his coat. The bull turned to Juzo, seeming surprised before collapsing onto its knees. Juzo extracted his blade with a vicious pull and the bull tried to stand again, found his legs unusable and spun around, toppling over the edge and falling, a splash roaring up seconds later.
The Death Spawn looked confused, milling about as if their reality had just broken, maybe forgetting why they were here. They stared at one another for a moment, then back at Walter and Juzo. One of them gibbered and another squawked something in their tongue.
“Time to go,” Walter breathed, rage melting out of him, a portal glimmering in front of them. “Juzo, jump through.”
“Through? Have you lost—?”
Walter grabbed him before he could resist, yanking them both through the portal. They came out at the back of the market square, hopefully far from hurting anyone on their side.
“Fuck, Walter!” Juzo breathed, whirling around, sword at his side. He let out a sharp exhale. “The last time I went through one of those it was into Terar’s claws.”
“I know—sorry, didn’t have much time to convince you.”
“Yeah, right. Well, that was some good killing!” Juzo laid the flat of his bleeding sword over his shoulder, careless of the blood streaming down it. He started licking his fingers like he had discovered a savory sauce not to be left uneaten.
The square was empty, other than a few vagrants picking through unattended carts. Walter found it surprising the Tower let them stay, but he supposed there was room for all types in the world, even in the Tower. There were a few who he couldn’t tell from researchers or urchins, stains streaked down the fronts of their robes.
“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Walter said, laughing and grinning at him.
“We are, what are you? You want to talk about sick fucks,�
�� Juzo slurped the blood from his ruby covered thumb. “Might want to have a look at yourself fighting one day. Wouldn’t want to be on the other side, I’ll say that.”
“Could say the same for you pal, nice to be at your side again.”
Juzo’s sinewy flesh grew brighter before Walter’s eyes, his muscles seeming to fill out. “How long do you think we’ll have to hold here?”
“Days, months. Haven’t the faintest idea. As long as those gates hold, I think we’ll be alright. Bezda was right, the Tower can’t fall,” he said, wiping drying blood and smearing it across his mouth.
“No? Symbologic reasons?”
“Symbolic,” Walter corrected.
“Ah, right.” Juzo said against a slurping finger.
“And more, countless more.”
They looked over at the pearl colored Milvorian gates, bulging and flexing, a legion of death on the other side, waiting. The Falcon encircled the street behind the gates, Grimbald at the front. His towering form stood above them all, almost as big as the giant they had just killed. Corpsemaker was draped across his back, glinting death.
The dead and badly wounded were being carried off towards the practice yard, heavy on the backs of those lucky enough to make it this far unscathed. There were a lot of dead, a lot more than Walter thought were on the walls. Every person had their own form of agony. Some endlessly wailed, fumbling at wounds, asking for forgiveness, mercy, water and mostly drink. One man coughed as he stumbled by, choking up a bolus of thickened blood, spitting it out and slapping onto the cobbles. A hawk-faced woman wheezed, hanging across an armsman’s shoulders, her breath becoming a lover’s whisper. The dead were easy to identify by their lack of whimpering and pleading. Walter reckoned there were going to be a lot of graves to be dug.
The thundering gates and snapping of bows slowed, muffled shouts and screams remaining. The catapult had relented, perhaps they were looking for more stones, or maybe there weren’t any more at all, a pleasant thought that brought a welcome smile to his lips.
Walter dragged himself up to the parapet, seeing Nyset peering over the wall. Her hair was matted against her cheeks, the normally white looking brownish in the sweat. Baylan was at the other end of the wall, tending to a man with an arrow sticking out of his gut.
“They’re retreating, I think,” she said breathlessly, shoulders heaving, fingers spread over stone fragments. The black column was dispersing to the cliffs before the bridge, tongues of fire lapping at the remains of the village. “Nice work guys, impressive.”
“Thanks Ny, you too. Doesn’t seem right,” Juzo said beside him.
Some men whooped and cheered, others grinning like the battle was done. Walter didn’t feel like any celebrations were in order. He scowled at the horde stretching to the cliffs, their strange squawks echoing up the wall. It had been short and bloody, the next wave was likely not going to be over so quickly and likely there would be a lot more blood. He allowed his hands to relax, fingernails white from the pressure, tried to take a breath to keep his arms from shaking.
“They’re not retreating,” Walter muttered. His throat felt dry as sand, itching, and cracking open with each word. “They’re preparing for the next attack, this one didn’t work.”
Chapter Nineteen
Egalitarians
“The gentlest of thoughts are those one should pay heed.” -The Diaries of Baylan Spear
They at least had the decency to wait until after sunrise before resuming the assault. Most were able to at least get a few winks of sleep. Sleep was like a lot of things in life, taken for granted until they were gone. He managed a few hours under Nyset’s protective watch, her presence a comfort. He had slept crouched in a ball against the back of the parapet, half an ear listening for the snap of a catapult or the screech of a Shattered Wing.
Walter trudged down from the wall, across the market square, if you could still call it that. Armsmen and wizards sat in groups around burning remnants of merchant’s carts, eating and murmuring, sharpening weapons. Those who had been on guard the night before were wrapped in blankets, having a try at sleep.
He walked by goats in a pen, a great deal less than there had been yesterday. He passed the blackened faces of men working the forge, repairing weapons and armor. A woman pouring molten iron into a mold for arrow heads gave him a grim nod. He nodded back, carrying on, sucking in the cold morning air, shivers trailing down his neck.
He circled around, made his way back up the parapet and up to Grimbald peering out into the distance. “This would’ve been a beautiful morning if they weren’t here to ruin it. What are they waiting for?” Grimbald asked.
“I don’t think you’ll have to wait much longer.” The horde was slithering their way back along the bridge, enveloping the light in darkness, skittering like beetles. Walter popped the cork out of his water skin with his teeth and sloshed it around in his mouth before swallowing.
“How do you think the wall is holding?”
“Think it’ll be alright, just as long as they don’t bring… ladders.” Grimbald frowned.
When the horns bellowed from the tops of spires, men and woman clambered up, their blankets tossed aside and swords unsheathed.
“Shit,” Walter breathed.
They moved fast, rolling up towards the gates before Walter’s eyes, a few bends in the bridge away. Grimbald stomped down the steps two at a time. “Circle up!” He ordered. The Falcon were mostly already there. An armsman heaved a barrel full of newly crafted arrows onto the wall. The sun was rising high, a few clouds still strewn in shadow. Steel sparkled under the morning light, glittering like the jewels of King Ezra’s hall.
Walter could hear them now, wild screams, whooping, bizarre animalistic gibbering. There were so many, it was as if all the fighting from yesterday had made no difference. He swore he could feel the fear pressing down on the defenders again, doubt spreading its insidious fingers. Men hefted blades, rapt on shields, bit lips and cleared throats. Wizards sparked shields and popped fire, reminding themselves that their powers were still there.
Walter came up beside Nyset, Juzo, and Baylan, huddled together and looking out. “How many do you guys think?”
Baylan shrugged, fingering the silver dagger on his hip.
“Eight thousand?” Juzo wagered.
“Looks about right,” Nyset said, pushing a white coil behind her ear. “But I have no idea, really.”
“A lot more than we have,” Baylan said, smiling with genuine humor. “Battles are not always won by who has the more formidable numbers.”
“Right. We have a good position here, long as the gates hold,” Walter said, licking his lips. “The gates will hold,” he reassured himself.
A heavy quiet fell across the defenders. The kind that seemed to only happen before a battle. The smith’s hammers clanged behind them, a hollow ringing. A wizard whispered something somewhere. Walter took a deep pull on the air, calming his heart, finding peace in the comfort of his mind. Seeing his smiling parents at dinner, gathering elixir cherries, practicing Sid-Ho. It felt like a life he’d once imagined.
An image of a jagged Cerumal arrow passing through his father’s neck. Red spurts of blood jetting around his useless fingers trying to keep his dad’s blood in…
The Phoenix enveloped him in its protective embrace, washing away the images of the past. The Dragon pulsed in his veins. He opened his eyes, exhaling, filled with a dire eagerness to kill.
The crunching of boots on broken stone and rattling gear drew closer. They swarmed up to the gate, like angry bees spilling from a kicked nest, a mass of blades, claws, shrieking and squawking, hauling up ladders.
“Fucking bastards!” someone screamed.
“Fire!” screamed Bezda from the middle of the wall. Walter hadn’t noticed her, unsure of how he could have missed her, glimmering in ornate armor. Bows creaked and snapped, raining down upon the Death Spawn. They pushed through the hail of shafts, stomping over their fallen and wounded. Tongues hung o
ut of their dirty mouths, their black teeth dull in the sun.
Walter gritted his teeth, his jaw tinged with pain. He stared down, eyes wide with hate. He spread his fingers, willing the force of the Dragon into the air surrounding the lot of them.
At the bottom of the wall, a cloud of fire scorched the air in a cluster of Cerumal, just as they were raising a siege ladder. Heat shimmered from below, burning monsters like a nightmarish painting. There were other ladders, endless rows of hewed trees, trailing to the cliffs beyond the bridge. The stench of burning meat intermingled with the rotting corpses and igniting wood. The beasts screeched, cooking in their own armor or plunging over the bridge, drowning in the roaring waters. Not the best of options, Walter thought. That armor would sink you like a rock, he should know after spending weeks in it.
His hands were warm now as wave after wave of flames jetted out from them. He picked the most fearsome of targets, conserving energy. His legs, arms, and torso ached with exhaustion, straining for more rest. True rest only came for the dead. The remaining wizards had to work twice as hard, at least a third of their number in a heap in the middle of the practice yard.
The skeletons stood before the ladder carrying Cerumal, massive tower shields raised up to protect them. It should have been a fruitless effort with burning stone underfoot, but their bony feet didn’t seem to mind. Nyset blasted a shield with a gout of fire, igniting it with flames dripping like honey, air filling with fuming smoke. Two Black Wynches darted out from behind it, milling around a ladder and trying to help it find footing. Defenders that had run out of arrows were throwing hunks of stone upon them. The catapult roared, stone soaring and blasting a gaping hole through the Falcon’s barracks, a once immaculate construction.
Juzo ran over beside a young girl dressed in red, trying to push a ladder from the top. He gave it a mighty kick, grunting, the ladder flopping over into the pit beyond. Cerumal and Black Wynches had made it half-way up, leaping back onto the bridge. Ladders sprung up all around, oaken and dense, men groaning and trying to push them over.
The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) Page 24
