Vordon’s forces were not idle. Arrows flew up from fiery ruins. Most clattered against the walls. Every now and then an archer got lucky and a body tumbled from a window, vanishing into black smoke below. Vordon had magic of his own. Chunks of rock lifted from the ground as if hefted by some invisible giant and were thrown against the tower, smashing on its walls. Cracks spiderwebbed the tower.
More from curiosity than a sense he could do anything to help, Korvak moved into the chaos. There were three ways into the Golden City serving as Tyr’s palatial district. The Grand Gate led out into the surrounding countryside, but a heavy stone plug sealed it off. It would take forty men an hour to move the door aside. Two interior gates connected the Golden City to the rest of Tyr, one to either side of the stadium, both opening onto the tradesmen’s districts spreading out from the city’s center. Through those portals, one entered either the north or south quarters holding the bureaus and templar barracks. Even if Vordon could breach the walls, he would face a brutal gauntlet to access the inner gates leading to the tower itself. The cost in life would be staggering. In any other situation, a siege against the Golden City would be tantamount to suicide. With the Crimson Legion away fighting against Urik and with surprise on his side, Vordon might very well manage the impossible.
Korvak traveled down the side streets. He saw people fleeing the destruction, families running with what few belongings they could carry, dragging screaming children after them. He kept moving.
The smoke cleared enough for him to make out the gate to the templar district. Soldiers in red and black uniforms rushed through a gaping hole in the wall. Dead half-giants lay all around, some burning and twitching. Korvak knew he could end it with one spell, if he could find Thaxos.
A fiery orb dropped through the smoke and splattered against the ground. Korvak could see a dozen blackened silhouettes, men and women one moment, burning bones the next. Undeterred, he kept moving. He ducked as lightning streaked overhead to turn a two-story building into rubble.
The farther he went, the more destruction he encountered. The defenders would reduce the city to ruin before they surrendered. Unrecognizable lumps and the occasional limb littered the ground along with too many corpses to count.
Korvak reached the gap in the high inner wall. The portal he had walked through more times than he could remember stood shattered. Rubble and bodies were strewn everywhere. Soldiers rushed through the breach. They left the dead and dying behind. Through the smoke and flames, Korvak could see the king’s guard, half-giants and humans, forming into battle lines to block the attackers from pushing in farther. Their clashing arms and shouts rose up from the conflict, a dismal chorus to all the destruction raging around them.
Korvak hid behind a tall rubble pile and watched. Tithian’s templars had at least shown the wisdom to hold back on their more destructive spells so as not to destroy their own soldiers. Korvak searched the crowds. He saw no sign of Thaxos Vordon.
“You, there!” shouted a voice behind him.
He turned and saw a half dozen Vordon soldiers covered in soot.
Korvak knew they would just kill him. They weren’t interested in taking prisoners. He answered with raw, unformed magic fueled by the dying people all around. Black lightning sheeted into the soldiers, vaporizing a couple in an instant.
The survivors rushed forward.
Korvak dived to one side. He grunted when a spear pierced his side. The warrior jerked the weapon free, spun it, and brought it down to impale Korvak’s face.
Korvak was faster. A gesture caused flames to engulf his opponent until the flesh ran like melting wax.
The other soldiers withdrew, but they weren’t done yet.
Korvak struggled to stand.
The warriors rallied. They circled him.
Korvak knew he couldn’t take them all. So he surrendered. He raised his hands and hoped they would find him more valuable alive than dead.
A seething ocean of putrid flesh and twisted bone crashed against Tyr’s outer walls. The mad host, driven by the defiler’s magic, fought and clawed forward. They scrambled over the top of each other to climb the walls, to flow over Tyr’s defenses and bring the city to its knees.
Loren, Kutok, and a few survivors stood in the center of the horde. They formed a living wall around Temmnya, who herself rode a great skeletal beast. The cannibal slave warriors followed in tight ranks, held in reserve until they breached the walls. She cackled and screeched nonsense noises somehow rising above the din. Aeris sat behind her on the steed.
The city’s defenders were few, a ragtag crowd manning the walls above the huge Caravan Gate. Strong wooden doors reinforced with iron bands stood shut. It would be no obstacle to the undead. They climbed atop each other, scrambling up the walls and crushing the first ranks to stinking pulp. Like ants, they scurried up the walls, some falling away as arrows punched through their rotten faces or buried deep in their chests. Higher and higher they climbed, until Loren couldn’t see the wall beneath the animated soldiers.
Loren led his team toward the gate. The undead flowed around his island. He kicked the doors. They didn’t even rattle.
Temmnya shrieked out painful syllables. He felt her draw life and strength from him and his fellows. All sank to the ground, crippled by the pain washing through them. The agony ended as fast as it had begun. The iron bands turned from gray to red then to white. The wood caught fire. The doors burned.
The guards beat Korvak a bit before they led him, bloodied and bruised, to Thaxos Vordon.
The man had claimed a templars’ barracks as his command center. The common room Korvak remembered well from when he was first raised to templar was abuzz with activity. Runners ran forward to make reports to underlings, who in turn passed information to Thaxos. He stood at the center of the activity. He studied a map of the Golden City. A pale-faced youth ran past Korvak and the guards, rushing outside. He stopped, looking both ways. It was a mistake he would not have time to regret. A shimmering dart fell from above and killed the boy where he stood.
Korvak turned away from the corpse.
A man whispered in Thaxos’s ear, but the merchant noticed Korvak and the guards. He raised a hand to silence his adviser, who then bowed and retreated.
“Who is this and why have you brought him here?” asked Thaxos.
One guard cleared his throat. “He’s a templar, sir. We found him sneaking around at the wall. We thought he might be a spy or something.”
“Or something,” Thaxos sneered. “Get him out of here and kill him. We’re here to kill templars, not make prisoners of them.”
The guards saluted and pulled Korvak back.
“Wait!” said Korvak.
Thaxos had already turned away.
“Talara Vordon still lives.”
Thaxos looked at Korvak again, pursing his lips. “Doubtful. I dealt with her hours ago.”
“You sent Galadan to kill her; he made a deal with her instead.”
Thaxos smiled. “As I expected. My henchman was ready.”
“The halfling? Alaeda Stel killed him herself,” he lied. Melech would have been proud at how convincing he made it sound. Korvak fought back a grin when he saw he had touched a nerve.
“Is that so?” he said. He was paler than before, his face serious.
“It is,” he said. Before he could add anything else, something struck the building overhead. Bricks and timbers crashed around them. Wood caught fire. Smoke joined the dust to make staying inside impossible.
Korvak stumbled. The guard holding his arm let go. When the smoke cleared, he saw the man’s remains sticking out from under a pile of rubble.
All round, cries for help or mercy filled the air, silenced by falling debris and other explosions booming all around.
Sensing an opportunity to escape, Korvak staggered toward a hole in the wall.
“Not so fast, templar,” said Thaxos.
“Unfortunate,” Korvak said. Thaxos was still alive and right behind him.
“My friends in the tower will be disappointed they missed.”
Thaxos had drawn a sword and held it parallel to the ground. It was a nasty thing, steel and well crafted. The blade shone with unwholesome light. Korvak had no weapon, no implement, nothing except for a few basic spells. Nothing sufficient to kill the merchant.
“I’m sure. They will be kneeling to me all the same by dawn,” he shot back.
“Master Vordon!” cried a voice. It came from outside.
“Here!”
A rail-thin young woman with shadowed eyes and a bloody sleeve peered into the gap in the wall. When she spotted them, she hesitated but clambered inside, waving her hand in front of her face.
“What is it?” Thaxos took an unsteady step toward Korvak. His sword wavered for an instant, but he steadied it.
“The army of the dead! They broke through Caravan Gate. The dead, sir. The dead are attacking the city.”
“You’ve led me on a merry chase, Melech, but my patience is running out,” said Torston. He held a loaded crossbow pointed at Melech’s back. Kep trailed them. He hadn’t said or signaled anything since they set out.
“Relax; we’re here,” said Melech. Just days earlier, he and Kep and two louts had been standing in that very spot, looking at the shadowed alley marking the way to the apothecary’s shop.
“Where is it?” said Torston.
“There,” he said, pointing to the dark opening.
“Stinks of a trap, Melech.”
“Oh, it is. I planned it while you were breaking my ribs. Didn’t you notice?”
“Shut your mouth.” He gave him a shove.
Melech stumbled toward the gap and drifted to the apothecary’s door. Shadows filled the open door.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home, does it, Melech? Let’s go. Get inside.” He shoved Melech again.
Melech was getting tired of being pushed around. He entered. “Hello? Finster?”
No answer.
Then he heard something. A wet, tearing noise, a squelching similar to chewing.
Torston shoved him again. There was a smell worse than any dead kank he had ever smelled. He remembered it.
Torston cried out, “Korvak! We’ve business.”
Melech couldn’t see a thing, but he was sure he heard movement. He backed up to the shelves, misjudged, and knocked over a table covered in small glass phials.
“Kep, light a torch,” said Torston.
A scraping and thumping noise sounded in the dark.
Melech guessed Torston was starting to think twice about being there. Melech heard him retreat toward the door. A scream and a heavy thumping sound told the tale. He had fallen. A twang hinted his master had fired his weapon.
Torston shouted, “You bastard! I’ll kill you, Melech.” He started screaming.
Nails clicked and scratched the floor.
Melech ran. Torston grabbed his foot. Melech fell, clawing on the floor to get out, but Torston was stronger and dragged him back.
Something growled. Wet, tearing noises. Torston screamed again.
Melech wriggled free. Torston grasped for him again, but something was pulling him into the dark. His angry shouts became piteous wailing.
Melech scrambled through the door. Kep was outside, his eyes wide. Melech had no idea what they just encountered. How did Kep know what was in there?
Torston’s screams had reached a pitch Melech didn’t think was possible; then they stopped.
Kep started running. Melech followed.
A roar blew out from the front door, and the cobbled bricks making up the front wall fell forward with a tremendous crash. Kep had rounded the corner into the brighter street beyond. Melech was right behind him. As he turned, he looked behind him and saw something that would haunt his dreams for years to come. Corpses spilled free and raced among them, with Torston’s limbs, head, and organs divided among them. The undead host rolled out from the building and gave chase.
“Run! Run! Run!” screamed Melech.
The halfling didn’t need the warning. He was already yards ahead. Melech followed.
The corpses trampled their own in their haste, crushed heads and broken bodies vanishing under the press. The naked ghouls hooted and gibbered as they sprang forward on all fours. The corpses were slow. The ghouls were not. Melech had no doubt death would catch him.
Galadan still lived. What remained of him lay quivering on the table. He couldn’t scream anymore. He couldn’t weep. He only shook and made strange chuffing and gurgling noises.
Watari had laughed and sighed through it all. What he cut away, he ate or dropped on the floor with distaste. Alaeda could not bring herself to watch. She still caught glimpses. A horrible smile. Bloody drool. Blood-painted skin and clothing.
Talara wept. Alaeda squeezed her arm for reassurance, though it was a hollow, empty gesture. There was no way out. They would join Galadan soon enough. They could hope only for was a quick end.
“I’m tired of elf,” announced the halfling. “I believe it’s time for the second course.” He went to the cage to inspect them. Drying blood and bits of flesh gave his childlike face a terrifying mask. “Which one? You know, fear gives the meat an interesting flavor, a special bite. I should save you for last,” he said to Talara. “Your fear should be exquisite. Pull the other one out and put her here,” he waved his butcher’s knife toward an empty table.
The two men moved at once. A third approached from the side, placing his blade against Talara’s neck. They appeared sickened by what they had seen and heard.
“Don’t fight, miss. We’ll hurt her if you do,” said the first. His breath stank of vomit. He had not enjoyed the spectacle any more than she had.
“You don’t have to do this. Please,” said Alaeda as the second opened the door.
“I do, miss, though I’d be lying if I said I wanted to. I’ve got orders.” He reached inside. She considered fighting. She considered clawing his eyes out.
Talara’s plight changed her mind. The guard’s blade had nicked her chin. She bled. Alaeda shoved away the guard’s hand and pulled herself out of the cage. She closed her eyes. She walked as slowly as she could manage toward the table Watari had indicated. She waited for the door to close on the cage, waited for the guards to relax and step away from Talara. She waited for the halfling, eager and excited to step close. The door closed. The guards moved. The halfling took a step. Alaeda struck out at the halfling.
He anticipated her and ducked under her swing. He moved with surprising quickness. He rolled forward and ran his knife across the top of her knee. The blade cut deep. The muscle jerked and rolled up her thigh, causing her to scream. Alaeda collapsed.
“Good try,” said the halfling after he hopped to his feet. “Table?” he said to the guards. They rushed to obey.
They put her on the table. Alaeda had been in control, had held it together through the whole hellish experience, but the agony in her leg broke her. She knew true fear.
The guards cuffed her arms and legs to hold her place. They weren’t gentle. When the guard pinned her leg, she screamed again.
The halfling rounded the table, watching her face. He pricked her skin with his knife to make her bleed. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. He moved out from her view. He rattled the instruments on his worktable.
When he returned, he showed her a corkscrew made from bone. He lowered the tool to her eye and smiled like some horrid child.
“No.”
He looked up. The fury on his face twisted into a demonic mask.
Alaeda felt a cold presence wash over her, a chill unlike any she had ever known.
“Kill it!” the halfling shrieked.
The guard rushed by her. Alaeda twisted against her restraints to see what was happening. She struggled against the straps holding her down.
A scream.
“Free her.”
Shuffling steps.
“No,” screamed the halfling. He ducked under the table. The soldier w
ho had spoken to her moments before came into view. Blood ran from his nostrils. His eyes were black and glassy. He fumbled with the straps.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Alaeda cried out.
The guard said nothing. He freed one of her hands. He grunted and dropped to the floor. Alaeda leaned over and undid the binding on her other arm.
The cold rushed up again, and twin moans sounded behind her.
She freed her leg.
“Come out, halfling. It is time to die.”
Alaeda freed her injured leg. Darkness clouded her vision.
The halfling had stabbed the guard who had started to free her and had been hacking at his neck and face to stop him. Watari glared at her then looked toward the door.
She saw what had happened.
Another man lay dead on the floor. Smoke rose from the crater in his head. Two more had turned on each other, fighting for their lives, eyes blackened much like the dead soldier’s. What happened to the others she couldn’t see, for the heat shimmer around the intruder who walked with purpose into the abattoir blocked her view.
She looked like a dwarf but was pale. A terrible injury ran from her neck down across her body. Her left arm hung limp. Alaeda knew her face. Even though pale as sand and eyes holding the same darkness as the creatures she had beguiled, there was something familiar.
“Pakka?”
Talara screamed from the cage.
The creature radiated hatred. Alaeda gasped.
The halfling had pulled up the cage door and was yanking at Talara, trying to drag her free.
“Come no closer!” he shouted.
“You will let her go,” said the thing. She did not, however, advance.
Alaeda slid from the table and leaned against it when the pain in her leg made her want to collapse. She rallied. “Let her go, Watari,” said Alaeda. “Now.”
Death Mark Page 29
