The Wall of Darkest Shadow (Nysta Book 5)

by Lucas Thorn

  “We have number one job,” Deadeye said.

  “You should have told me,” Asa said, steel in her voice. “I don't appreciate being kept in the dark on this, Vuk. Not at all. And we'll discuss this further when we get to Doom's Reach.”

  “I am not going to Doom's Reach, Your Highness.”

  “Yes,” she said, her tone revealing more steel. “You are. We will deal with the rabble. We will do what must be done. Then you will come with me. My fool of a father needs to see what his weakness has led to. And your order needs to stop hiding.”

  Hemlock lifted his head at last. He looked exhausted as Melganaderna approached, her expression concerned. With a wan smile, he allowed her to take his arm. “I missed you,” he said. Voice tight as he held onto more power than he'd ever known before. “I worried.

  “I was fine,” she said. Held up her axe. “I had this bastard here to protect me. And I'll always come back.”

  “I never doubted that. But I worried.” Then he coughed, wiping at his mouth as his body was wracked with shudders. Slumping against the table and in her arms, he looked up to where Asa stood before him with the sack held out.

  “We have his head,” she said. “Are you able to do this?”

  The necromancer closed his eyes. Kept them closed while he breathed in and out a few times. Sucking air deep into his lungs. Then he forced himself upright, untangled his arm from the young axewoman and reached to take the blood-drenched sack. “I'll be fine.”

  “Hem?” Melganaderna's voice was brittle. “Are you sure? You don't look fine to me. Maybe you should rest.”

  “I can't,” he said. He motioned for her to take a step back. To give him space. Didn't even wince as he took the blood-drenched head and placed it on the table. Thick blood oozed off the edge of the table, mingling with wax. “The process has already begun. Even now, the magic is a vortex around me. I've been holding it. Waiting for you. I am ready, Asa. Ready to do this. You should all move away now. The cleric will come. And when he does, you'll need to hold him back. This may take time.”

  Asa nodded, the feral look on her face softening as she watched the necromancer slowly retrieve his grimoire and head toward the throne. Her tone, while smooth, carried truth in every syllable. “I'll never forget this, Hemlock. I know very well the risk you take. No matter what happens, I will never forget.”

  He nodded, unable to speak, and slid into the throne's massive seat.

  The elf took a step back as a sudden wave of energy pulsed from the chair. It moved outward like a shockwave in slow motion. A bubble of invisible force which buffeted her soul more than her body. Gasping, she lifted an arm to her face to protect herself.

  Hemlock slumped, almost gratefully, though his body tensed as he began wrestling with his spell.

  Unaware of the shockwave, Asa shooed the goblins further back, ignoring Kickleg's protest that she wanted to stay to see what happened. Melganaderna followed with obvious reluctance and only after Hemlock aimed a silent plea at her.

  Jagtooth grunted and loped down the stairs, flexing his hulking arms as he prepared himself for a new fight. The elf made to follow, a little unsteady on her feet. The force of the shockwave echoed through her bones and the shadows raced through her veins in nervous schools, questing the quiet corners of her body. Searching for damage.

  Vuk cocked his head at her, even as he allowed the young woman to help him to his feet. Curiosity and awe in his voice. “You felt it, Child of Veil? You felt the Connection?”

  “Connection?” Chukshene looked puzzled. “Felt what? What connection?”

  The elf wrinkled her nose as the stink of magic became almost unbearable. “Common mistake some fellers make, 'lock,” she growled with a shake of her head. “Mistook disgust for engagement.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There was fighting in the trenches. Fighting and dying.

  Asa pounced from stripe to stripe, screaming orders. Rallying everyone with her demands for blood. Promising Hemlock's army would soon arrive. An army of dead to destroy the traitors once and for all.

  But it was up to them to give a good account now. To hold Bucky's men back from Hemlock. To keep the cleric from interfering. To keep him busy.

  Because the Wall was glowing now. The Doomgate's song, once a buzzing in the background of their minds, was a chorus lashing at the wind. A fuzzy beat which thrummed in the wasteful dark as dawn lifted fire across the horizon and aimed it at the towers of the Wall.

  On the other side of the Doomgate, the Black Blades began to jostle into formation, sensing change.

  Sensing opportunity.

  Having found herself a position above the trenches, just out of sight behind torn masonry and a twisted knot of small wagons, the elf monitored the chaos.

  Watching.

  Waiting for her own opportunity.

  Chukshene squatted beside her, the warlock's hooded gaze nervously flicking from trenches to elf. He licked his lips. “They're dying quickly,” he said.

  The elf grunted in response.

  Jagtooth reared up, lifting himself into the open. Dodged an arrow and aimed a hammer forward. Led a charge across the mud which ended with all but three of his dozen or so men diving into the next trench. The elf noticed Kickleg among them, the small goblin swinging her heavy goblinknife with both hands.

  The goblins had split up, moving through the trenches like cackling children. Hacking and chopping their way. They were more suited to it than she'd thought. Their size made it easy for them to move through the stumbling bodies. The heavy saw-toothed blades tearing through legs as they went.

  Shouts of war and screams of agony roped against each other to form the brutal lyrics of the Doomgate's song. Lyrics which promised there would be few survivors today.

  A beam of light speared across the battlefield. It came from within the town and sliced through mist and meat. Tore an ork in half and kept going until it smashed into the Doomgate with a bright explosion. Sparks writhed on the ground in its wake.

  And the elf kept watching.

  She saw Meatslice creeping across the mud on the far side of the barbican. Was surprised to see he was still alive. But not as surprised as the traitor who took a dagger in the back as the mud-streaked ork leapt on him and stabbed repeatedly until satisfied.

  Which took a while.

  The Doomgate trembled. The ground shook. Water, dislodged from the ceiling above, whistled down and splashed into the mud. Chukshene muttered as a couple sank into his new shirt and chilled his skin.

  Tophead sat sprawled against a chunk of scorched wood nearby. He rubbed his shoulder and didn't look away from her. His goblinknife lay across his lap, a small pouch open on top of it. Now and then he reached in to pull out some dried skin and chewed with relish.

  No one wanted to ask him whose bits they were.

  “Nysta?” Chukshene shifted his weight. “I think it's nearly done. It'll trigger any minute now. Shouldn't we start moving?”

  The elf shook her head. “Said I'd tell you when.”

  Another beam of light shot from within Lovespurn lit the barbican like a bolt of lightning. It sheared across the battlefield, missing everyone. She saw Hicks jump out of its way, spilling curses as he landed face-first in the mud. Hudson threw himself down next to him and then they helped each other to their feet as the arrows came.

  The second beam of light hit the Doomgate. Hit with an impact which echoed. Light spiderwebbed outward in a rush of power which was quickly absorbed by the massive structure. High above, where it reached the clouds, thunder rolled. It wasn't natural thunder.

  And then the ground roared beneath their feet.

  She hadn't been there when Grim fell. Knew of no one who had. But she figured this was the sound he would have made. A sound of tearing souls and titanic exertion. It was wrenched from the depths of the earth and channelled into the skies where it was too much for the racing clouds which burst with explosive forks of jagged plasma.

  The battle fr
oze.

  For a second.

  Then blood was spilled and a shriek ignited the desperate frenzy for survival once again.

  She could see Jagtooth, twin hammers pounding in clockwork rhythm through the chest armour of a man she might have thought was a big man. But against the ork, he looked small. His torso was flattened against his spine with three brutal swings of the ork's arms. A sizzle from the mists and the ork staggered back, an arrow firm in his left bicep.

  The hammer fell from his grip, but his face pulled back into a snarl of rage instead of pain. He roared to those who were still with him and they barrelled onward, the massive ork tearing the relatively small barb free with a contemptuous scowl.

  Asa's voice carried everywhere. Hardly catlike any longer, it was raw and harsh. Only seconds from releasing a witch's cackle.

  “The Oathsworn come!” Her shriek was taken up as the Doomgate continued to thunder. “The Oathsworn!”

  “The Freemen,” Chukshene explained, catching the elf's slight frown. “They swear oaths, not to the Emperor, but to the Fnordic Lands. And to the Wall. They vow to stand against Rule. To defend the Wall from any who would be stupid enough to try tearing it down. The General is their Oathbearer. Their banner, so to speak. I don't think they have ever understood what their oath meant. Or the value of it to a necromancer. Hemlock told me that raising the dead is a chaotic thing. In large numbers, they're hard to control. Raised like this, you can't really communicate with them very well. If let loose, they'd eat anything. Even us. But their oath serves as a leash. It will give them direction. Bucky's head is the collar to that leash. We have the advantage now. Provided Asa is strong enough to reinforce it when they arrive.”

  “You reckon she is?”

  The warlock nodded without hesitation. “Look at her. Right now, if you opened the Doomgate and threw her outside on her own, she'd hack the south to pieces to kill every last Caspiellan out there. You think you know hate, Nysta. You think you know rage. But Asa knows it so intimately she can direct it with a coldness you can only dream of right now. You could learn from her, I think.”

  “I'm through taking lessons,” Nysta said. “Prefer to give them.”

  “I'm serious. When this is over, you can guarantee she'll offer you work. You could do worse. I know I said you shouldn't trust her, but now I've spent more time here, I think she'd do you some good. I get a feeling you're going to have a lot of people interested in you soon. She could protect you.” He winced as he said it, knowing it would ignite a retort. “Yeah, that didn't come out right.”

  She turned her head from the battle. Ignored the shaking ground. Pierced his gaze with her own and held it for a few seconds before speaking. “For as long as I can remember, Chukshene, I've had no home. No family. No friends. Talek was as close as I ever got to that, and I fucked that up. Also, I've got no Jadean. No king. All I have is my self and my knives. Reckon those are all I need to rely on.”

  “That's bleak. There's more to life than that.”

  “So everyone keeps saying.” She fingered one of the many scraps of cloth in her hair and turned her attention back to the landscape of murder. Still thought of Jagtooth's words even as the hulking ork smashed into a group of traitors and flailed with his remaining hammer. She had a feeling they'd work on her thoughts for some time to come. But she was fine with that now. In a way, both Jagtooth and Chukshene were right. She needed direction. But she would find that direction herself. On her own terms. “Could be you're right, Chukshene. And I'm working on promises and personal space. Figure that's about all I can handle today.”

  “Eventide say life is good thing, Bloodhand,” Tophead said suddenly. He began wrapping the pouch of meat and stuffed it into his jacket. “He say every day is good day.”

  She nodded at the broken ground cracked open by trenches. Yawning wounds which vomited bodyparts and mayhem. A mercenary and a traitor wrestled in the open, stabbing each other. Blood spurted from the damage each inflicted, but both refused to fall to the ground until the other was dead. “Even today, feller?”

  The old goblin smiled, revealing sharklike teeth yellowed but sharp. “Bloodhand, today we kill many. Today we find bits of man everywhere. Today, we see dead ones rise from ground and fight with Wallrats. He say if fight is good, then we see Big Gate open today. Eventide say today not good day. He say today day is best day there is.”

  The rumbling stopped.

  The thunder ceased.

  Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Light poured through the opening of the barbican's roof. Warm light yellowed by distant fire. Its radiance made her blink, and where the Doomgate's song in her ears had been an undulating thrum calling for destruction, there was now a peaceful melody which cushioned her thoughts.

  Made her feel the lassitude which comes with restful sleep.

  Shimmering within the light, a figure formed. At first ethereal. Shadowy.

  Then a little more solid, plated in armour which looked too bulky to be practical. Which gleamed in the light, casting beams of quiet adulation in all directions.

  Descending with regal silence, it turned gracefully. She couldn't see its face, but knew its gaze passed over her. Felt a thrill of recognition as the shadows deep inside her flesh began to move with lightning pace. They zipped through muscle, pushing and probing. Pulling at her arms.

  Trying to force her to move.

  But she didn't want to.

  Not yet.

  “Back!” Melganaderna screamed suddenly. She was at the front, Nysta saw. With Jagtooth. Asa beside her. She had one gloved hand around Torment, the other fisted around the imperial princess' wrist. “Come on, you bastards. Get back! It's him!”

  The light pulsed. Terribly bright.

  Chukshene's eyes were wide with awe. “What the fu-”

  And it was Tophead who answered. The old goblin spat hard on the ground, lifting his head with disgust toward the descending figure. “It Lord of Light,” he said. “It Rule.”

  “We are so fucked,” the warlock managed to breathe.

  Then the cleric was there. He ran out from behind the gates, arms wide as he looked to receive the blessing of his god. His wordless cries of ecstasy cut through the song.

  And, finally, the elf moved.

  “Nysta!” Chukshene hissed. “You can't go out there. Not now!”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Saw Tophead was right behind her, goblinknife in gnarled hands and a look of wicked anticipation on his withered face. She lifted her gaze to the frightened warlock. “You can stay if you like, Chukshene,” she said. “But the lights are on now. And despite the surprise performance, the show must go on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Two things happened as the elf took her chance.

  The first thing was the god blasted the man with a river of light which lit his veins with incandescence. The might of the blast caused the barbican to reverberate with Rule's song. The soft melody rose to a crescendo, the choral tune promising life. Love. Forgiveness. And laughter.

  The cleric knelt in front of his god, shoulders shaking. She knew he was weeping, his emotions seared by the attentions of his god.

  She'd been waiting for the cleric to grow bold or for Asa's orks to reach the gates and pull them apart. Either of those situations would have gotten her close to him.

  Now he'd emerged from the town and was bathing in the light of Rule. A target for the taking, if only she was fast enough.

  She didn't think about the Lord of Light. Couldn't think about him. If she did, she'd dive into the nearest trench and bury herself in the mud. He was a god. She was just an elf. She had no chance against him, no matter her brave words in the past.

  But she could still deal with the cleric. And he'd never be more distracted than he was now.

  She leapt a trench, passing over open-mouthed orks crippled by the sight. She elbowed past Hicks and Hudson. They didn't notice.

  Her gaze was on the cleric. Pinned to him. She was an a
rrow flying toward her target, boots kicking up mud as she sprinted forward. Heard Rule's voice for the first time as he spoke to his kneeling cleric.

  A smooth voice like liquid fire. It burned into her mind as though spoken directly into her skull.

  “My child, you have done well. And now I offer you my blessing. I offer you the Flame.” He lifted his hand, veins shot through with white fire. “Rise from here, Saint Eliphsen. Rise and lead my children to the Cursed Gate. Open it for me. Open it so Blessed King Scarrow may fulfil the prophecy. These lands of ancient evil must be cleansed.”

  “I will open it, my God. I will bring it down. It cannot stand before your holy light.”

  The god held out his arm to take in the survivors of Bucky's men. “Heaven awaits the faithful,” he said, not needing to raise his voice to be heard. It echoed through the hearts of everyone within the barbican. “My light will cleanse your souls. It will renew you. And with my words in your hearts, you will march to victory. These Tainted few cannot harm you. The Cursed Gate lies in front of you. Take it. Open it for me.”

  Someone cried: “For the Lord of Light!”

  A cry quickly taken up by the rest of Bucky's survivors. They were maybe just more than half of what had been left. But where they'd been losing hope, now their eyes burned with fervour and their fists tightened around their weapons as they bathed in their new god's presence. The skirmish they'd been fighting was now a war in their hearts.

  “Behold,” the Lord of Light said, waving toward Asa's broken numbers, some of whom were already on their knees in dismay. “The Tainted. The lost. And the cursed. They cannot be redeemed. They have allowed their souls to be corrupted beyond reach of my light. We cannot let them infect the world with their evil. Cleanse them. Destroy them. Send them to Hell, my children. Let not a single Tainted live.”