by Damien Lake
Sloan shouted orders. The meaning was lost under the chaotic exodus. It drew their attention to him and they saw what he must be yelling. Riley had moved further up the slope with Atcheron, making for Lysendra’s group. The Fourth Unit followed the others.
“What in the name of the gods are we supposed to do about this?” Marik shouted into Dietrik’s ear.
Dietrik’s shoulders bunched in bewilderment. What could they possibly do? They could never hold back a stampede unless they started killing unarmed noncombatants, and that would not do the trick either. If they stood before the charge, they would be run over and trampled as well, despite their armor.
Marik hoped the barons or the Ninth’s officers knew what to do. He could conceive of no possible action they could take that would affect the situation.
They stopped when they drew close to Lysendra’s group. Marik strained his ears, hoping to catch any shouted orders from the captain.
Instead, a wholly different sound arose.
“Bloody Twelve!” The curse erupted from several mouths at once, not merely Edwin’s alone. “What in the hells was that?”
Marik glanced around sharply, looking mostly to the slope’s crest. While doing so he noticed Colbey. The scout wore a ghoulish smile, lips and teeth parted. He breathed harshly through his mouth, his jaws never quite closing as his teeth rose up and down. It gave Marik the unnerving impression the man was about to bite through someone’s throat.
Most unsettling, the scout’s gaze never came close to the officers, the furious refugee torrent or searching for the source of the blood chilling sound. He peered up at the skies, his head darting around like a humming bird feeding from multiple blossoms. Colbey held his gaze in one spot for two or three seconds, then whipped around to study another.
Marik cast his gaze skyward to see nothing, and he puzzled over what Colbey sought. He nearly asked when the horrible sounds came again.
It was a chorus of the damned. Ten-thousand tormented souls boiling in a molten rock ocean. Had Vernilock opened his hells’ gates onto the mortal world?
A third time it echoed, and it sounded closer. Close enough that Marik could hear it for what it was. Not the tortured screams of sinners, yet a chorus nonetheless.
Roars, as of a thousand massive predators bellowing their triumph while they made ready to feed on their kill.
* * * * *
Within the ring unfolded a scene painters might craft to describe a vile heretic’s fated afterlife. Harbon smiled. Taur shock-forces swarmed through the mountain pass to strike a hammer blow against the pitifully unprepared border force entrusted with safeguarding this foreign kingdom. At first contact, the defending soldiers wasted far too much time in coming to terms with the horrors their eyes beheld. By the time they sluggishly started to form a resistance, the Taurs had descended and smashed through them as a stone through a stained-glass window.
As it should be. The Taurs were brutally strong and predatorily ruthless. Their sheer presence overwhelmed the soft chattel who lived in this land where wolf packs or bears or wolverines were the only dangerous beasts. Long generations of fighting the Tillsars had inured those ragged peasants to the Taurs, cutting their effectiveness drastically. Using them against these ignorant hayseeds restored the Taurs’ original power.
Harbon held the thin silver ring closer, a nearly wire hoop ten inches across. Within the ring’s empty space, the pictures showed him Mendell waiting in the higher passes until the Taurs cleared the lower slopes. His human soldiers surrounded him, waiting for the shock-forces to do the dirty work.
The Taurs swung clubs or their empty fists, either method doing tremendous damage. Peasants collapsed, clawing at their backs if flesh had been shredded, falling limply if spines were shattered. At times a body would be flung upward to land in the midst of the fleeing crowd. Bloody corpses with intestines trailing behind in gory streamers raining from above always spurred those ahead to still greater madness, resulting in nothing except broken bodies under ankles twisting on trampled limbs.
Colonel Harbon nodded in satisfaction. He playfully turned the ring so the small tent’s other inhabitant could observe as well. “You see here? Brother Mendell is doing the good work, opening our path to this troublesome forest quickly and efficiently. Soon we will accomplish our primary goal for this campaign. Not merely a step closer, but a full leap toward the Day of Glory!”
Adrian stared at nothing. A blankness filled his eyes. “I like the color blue,” he said in a flat voice without inflection.
“Blue, is it?” asked Harbon with interest. His jubilation granted him a tolerant breed of patience. “Green and brown are colors worthy of respect. What attracts you to blue in particular?”
“It tastes good.”
“I understand. Truly, you make a valid point.” Harbon smiled, amused, before returning his attention to the scrying ring. He shifted the view from Mendell’s scrying anchor and roamed the lands immediately beyond that flyspeck of a village. The nearest reinforcement division hardly merited the description. Odd though, that this isolated kingdom, cut off from the larger world for so many centuries, chose for its livery the green and brown hues that were sacrosanct among the enlightened.
No, not odd at all. A divine omen, if ever there was one.
Adrian started blowing through his pursed lips, a broad rush of air far short of a whistle. The general’s head tilted from side to side in time to whatever tune floated through his empty mind.
“We will move soon,” Harbon told the vacant husk. “When Brother Mendell secures the forest, I have need to enter.” Which meant Adrian must go as well. The general could not act as a normal man outside his sight, nor without his directed influence. “Order your officers to continue securing the Tullainian lands we have conquered recently, then to stay in place until further orders arrive.”
“Stay,” Adrian repeated in a whispery breath.
The scene within the ring shifted to a point inside the forest. Enormous trees larger than the royal palace towers rose from a broad, shallow pool. Those trees…yes. Magnificent proof of the power shielded within those mossy depths. Shielded well, but shields his expertise would tear down.
So close now. He wanted to ride out this very moment, ride out and plunge straight into that forest until he reached their coveted goal.
Patience, patience.
Yes, patience. The Day of Glory approached, heralded by his efforts and Cardinal Xenos’ immaculate plans. It would not do to allow his fervor to spoil all by leaping in haste.
Yet neither would it do to tarry.
* * * * *
“Back! Fall back, curse it to the lowest hell!”
Marik heard Sergeant Giles shouting over the godsforsaken bellowing of these…these creatures. All those tales he and Dietrik had heard, every rumor and unbelievable description; none had prepared him to come face-to-face with monsters who inhabited shadowy dreams his mind quickly purged from memory upon awakening.
Tall tales or not, their blades found them real enough.
Holding position would end with them being slaughtered. The few remaining guards who had survived the evisceration of Lysendra’s party fled without pretense. Their baron’s demise and the brutal rendering undergone by their shieldmates reduced them to terrified rabbits.
Atcheron still lived, though he held nothing but his own skin. The Kings had tried to fight their way forward when Riley’s guardsmen were destroyed with a casual ease that made Marik’s legs quiver in horror.
They had no chance of prevailing. Sloan fought relentlessly, giving his all to the battle. The only orders the Fourth Unit heard came from Giles, and they needed no encouragement. Ahead, the first two units were already in retreat.
Riley forced a hole through the rear assault where the monsters were thinnest. His remaining guardsmen held it open, many falling, long enough for the baron and his surviving forces to stream through. The border baron’s group ran, quickly catching Fraser’s units, whereupon all the Gale
maran fighters released their full speed.
It was a rout, an uncontrolled flight from certain death. They ran to escape. Their speed proved insufficient. The longer-legged monsters outpaced the fleeing fighters.
They could not run. They could not win.
Marik had believed he understood what fear felt like. In a battle against hell-born demons with no prayer for victory, he learned otherwise.
The only difference between a cringing coward and brave warrior is that a warrior rules his fear, and a coward is ruled by his fear.
Strange to hear his father’s voice now. That day, sitting on the woodpile out back while a young Marik scrubbed hard at a rusty buckle…it came clearly to memory. Most of the fragments he retained of his father were indistinct, the time between then and the present robbing the images of their clarity. This moment came sharp as a winter wind, clear as a storm-rinsed sky.
Nothing for it but to face this as best I can.
Marik pushed to the front as the monsters swelled, surrounding their isle of resistance. He would need to concentrate his all. Fancy tricks and difficult dual channeling would have to be eschewed. His reserves filled when he quickly gathered in the nearby mass diffusion.
Strength blossomed through his arms. His legs felt able to shatter stone. A steel rod replaced his spine while his whole being transcended the normal bounds of human frailty.
His strength working brought not only physical power with it this time, but also leeched away the incapacitating fear as well. He had long since mastered the dangerous sense of godhood this working bestowed. This was different. With the power coursing through him, he no longer despaired that fighting these creatures would be futile.
He passed Dietrik, who wisely stayed back, if wild-eyed. His rapier was of no use at all against foes such as these. Arvallar proved that as he gazed upon his own rapier in stunned disbelief, the blade bent at a thirty degree angle.
Near the frontline fought Wyman beside Chiksan. The loner’s sword work proved distinguished enough to wound the beasts, though he had failed to land a lethal strike yet. This was due both to the creatures’ arm length and their seeming resistance to any but what, in a man, would be a mortal blow.
Chiksan used his spear to greater effectiveness than the swordsmen were managing. His axe-like pole arm reached to harass their faces and throats. Their impossibly muscular arms seriously threatened his weapon’s shaft if he grew careless for a single instant. The Tullainian mercenary alone appeared to hold the beasts back, yet he, too, also had not brought one down.
Every kill the Galemaran forces claimed resulted from the missile fighters. Churt and Edwin stood behind, shooting whenever openings between Chiksan and Wyman formed. Edwin’s bow had drawn blood from several beasts. He had only killed one through the eye. The crossbow in Churt’s small fast hands had claimed the most so far. Each quarrel loosed by the young archer tore deep into demon flesh, penetrating the leathery hides to cause real damage.
Floroes fought to Wyman’s left, the size advantage usually commanded by the larger man having vanished completely. The smallest of the beasts still towered over the amateur chirurgeon by no less than a foot. He wielded his battle axe in one hand, his war hammer in the other. Raw gashes in the beast he fought showed that the spike on his war hammer also proved effective. Blood covered his head from a wound under his scalp, and Marik prayed they would be able to escape in time for Glynn to work his Healing on Floroes.
The frontline moved like no other Marik had ever been in. Warriors used their weapons to sting the beasts, causing pain to any that closed in, but the few monsters armed with massive clubs were by far the deadliest. There could be no blocking such an enormous weight swung with crushing force. Avoidance was the only possible way to survive.
Men in the frontline had spread from each other, unlike the usual battle formation which called for the closing of ranks lest the enemy break through. These enemies were too large to squeeze through a minor opening and the fighters needed the space for dodging incoming blows as best they could. The line undulated while Marik stepped forward, men leaping or throwing themselves down to avoid death by severe impact. Others quickly leapt into the gap if the first man failed to dodge completely, or if he would not regain his feet in time to lash back.
He noticed one last man when he pushed through to the front. Colbey stood behind Floroes, neither waiting to take advantage of an opportunity nor looking to aid in the fight. The man stood with his sword still sheathed gazing at the monstrous creatures, eyes flitting from one to the next as a man searching a crowd for an acquaintance he expects to meet.
Marik could not believe it. What in all the hells was Colbey doing? They needed a fighter of his ability if they were to have any hope of surviving! He nearly stepped aside to grab Colbey and shake him until he explained his inaction.
But…forget it. The scout could go to whichever hell he fancied however he liked. If they survived, he would see to it Colbey came forth with answers.
Floroes dodged to his left, slipping on the compacted snow in an unplanned dive. Marik stepped to the front to take up the fight.
This beast fought bare-handed. It stared at the mercenary in stupid interest when Marik raised his sword. The dangling loincloth fluttered between its furry legs as rolling eyes fixed on him.
Marik waited for it to advance, minimizing the openings he would present during the first strike. He watched the creature staring at him until suddenly its eyes narrowed and it leaned forward. Its neck extended, its lips pealed back when it opened wide the jaws, freeing a throaty roar Marik could feel beating against his heart. The teeth were sharpened fangs lining the elongated horse-like muzzle. Saliva dripped in long strings from several.
The roar nearly forced Marik back through sheer terror. Only the heightened power racing through his being lent him the fortitude to stand fast. When the beast lunged with clawed fingers swiping in a scythe’s arc, he swung his broadsword.
A man would have been cut in two by his assault. His steel met the monster’s forearm and bit. Elation raced through him, an understanding that these demonic nightmares could be killed, could be defeated…but the euphoria poisoned into fresh horror when the creature repelled the blade with a fresh snarl. A bleeding gash rent its flesh, a wound too shallow to be bone deep.
He had kept from swinging with every scrap of his phenomenal might. Marik braced his fluttering hope with that knowledge despite feeling stunned. What were these monsters that they could withstand such a blow?
The creature had retreated several steps and stood licking the wound across its arm. Marik increased the energy flooding through him and noticed it abruptly narrow its eyes again before charging. It closed fast, amazingly fast, and he could not bring his sword up in time.
Marik saw the large claws streak for his throat. He reacted before he wholly knew what he did. His knees buckled, dropping him down to the cold dirt.
Not fast enough.
Hard claws ricocheted off the side of his helm. Marik’s head rocked to the right. Pain lanced through his neck and for a moment he feared it had broken.
Surely his neck would have had the bone and sinew not been strengthened. His helm skewed around. Marik ignored the intense pain to find the monster.
It stood only a step to his right, having lost interest as soon as Marik fell. Again it licked at the wound he had inflicted, the abnormally long tongue flicking out over the sharp teeth.
Marik lunged. He meant to cut through its neck before it could react. His movement startled it and made its terrible stare fix on him.
It lashed out with its claws while Marik swung from the side, both weapons clashing. Marik almost expected the sound of steel on steel. He felt the strength in the creature’s claws through his blade. Perhaps not the same as quality steel, but terrifyingly similar. No beast in Marik’s knowledge possessed such natural weaponry.
He pushed hard on his sword, hoping to cut into its fingertips. The monster used the curve in its claws to hold
his blade fast. It roared in challenge. Marik was close enough to feel the heat from its body and smell the fetid breath blowing back his hair.
Frantically he struggled to unlock his sword. The creature snapped at his face, massive jaws darting from above. He cried out, his trapped sword and body weakened from the earlier blow making him fall a second time.
This twisted his blade around until it finally freed. He tightened his grip as he turned the fall into a dropping crouch, barely keeping from slipping on the frozen ground. The beast did not forget him this time. It loomed overhead, obviously meaning to lift the mercenary and…his mind refused to imagine his fate.
Marik drove upward. He let out a cry of terrified resistance and thrust with all his might, catching the monster off guard. His sword point drove into its chin. The resistance was like thrusting through a tree trunk. He bore on, forcing his sword deeper.
At last it would delve no deeper. Marik expected to see the sword protruding from the thing’s head. It did not. From the amount of blade remaining, his sword must have barely gone through half the skull.
For the first time ever on a battlefield, Marik’s legs gave way. Their watery shaking unhinged his knees and he collapsed. His entire body shook in the cold while sweat poured from his brow.
He might have sat there, staring at the demon-thing he’d killed until the next day if his preservation instinct had not started kicking at his overwhelmed mind. Sluggishly, he cast his gaze about, hoping his victory over a seemingly unbeatable foe had inspired his shieldmates to greater effectiveness.
Beasts everywhere swiped with claws that returned coated in blood. Men died horribly, twitching on the ground. Unholy roars rent the air as the demons’ excitement mounted with every new human slaughtered. The visions he beheld were ghastly, the smells of eviscerated bodies horrible. Their entire force would have been vanquished already had the monsters not been equally as busy slaughtering unarmed refugees.
