The Wall of Darkest Shadow (Nysta Book 5)

by Lucas Thorn

  Still dry and brittle despite the fluid which seeped from beneath, his skin crackled like old paper. “Yes.” He chuckled deeply. “The Shadowed Halls might indeed burst soon.”

  Outside, Chukshene finished what he was doing.

  And, for once, the elf was genuinely impressed.

  A column of purple light shot up from the hill, so bright it bathed the land in its glow. The battle might have paused but for the dead warriors who fought relentlessly. The dead refused to look back. They were too focussed on their gruesome purpose.

  The purple column pulsed.

  Each pulse made the ground thrum so powerfully that even the Wall trembled with each beat. The two spellslingers were thrown to the ground by the blast of light and Hicks led his guards back as the column grew in size and strength.

  Violet lightning danced jagged down the column.

  Then thunder roared overhead and the column gave another pulse before sputtering and dying. The air fizzed in its aftermath and she watched as Hemlock helped Chukshene to his feet. The warlock rubbed his head. Looked up at the sky.

  Looked confused.

  “Well,” she said. Wondered if a cleric had interfered. She hadn't seen any on the field, but the should've been there somewhere. “Shit.”

  The deathpriest lifted his hand. “Give him a minute.”

  “Yeah. That's usually how he works.”

  It was only then that she noticed the clouds were still glowing with purple light. Their underbellies radiated the glow as though infected by it. And flashes of light still stuttered above them. As though lightning, masked by the heavy cloud, was tearing the sky apart.

  And then they broke.

  Broke with explosions which rocked the Wall right to its foundations. Caspiellan and Fnordic alike were thrown to the ground. All struggled to keep fighting as holes were wrenched open in the sky above them. Holes which led to a blackness the likes of which they couldn't imagine. It was night without stars. Void without shadow.

  And from the holes, meteors shot down.

  They shot with purpose. Hard and ignorant of the damage they caused when they landed.

  Soon the battlefield was pockmarked with craters. Craters which smoked and burned. Fire bubbled from their centres, sending molten earth and plasmic slag spitting into the air.

  And from the scorched earth they came.

  Unnoticed at first.

  Then they lifted their heads and screamed as one. A scream of battle. A scream of joy.

  Tall, heavy and muscular. Purple skin covered in armour of bone and alien metal of many colours. Carrying a variety of weapons both cruel and bizarre. Swords similar to The Queen of Hearts with black tentacles whipping and tearing at flesh as they sawed through limb and torso alike. Axes, adorned with glowing runes and vomiting fiery balls of energy in blasts which sent the Black Blades to the Shadowed Halls on rivers of blood. Spears of solid light which impaled without prejudice.

  Huge in size, there were twenty of them. Feminine in form. Each with massive horns curling out from their foreheads. Long heads with impossible jaws lined with fangs.

  “Remarkable,” Vuk said. “I underestimated the boy, I think. They are wychdemons. It takes a lot of power to raise those.”

  “Or a lot of stupid,” the elf muttered, watching as the massive forms towered over everything. They swept through Black Blade ranks like farmers with scythes through corn. Soon, their purple skin was slick with blood which ran from their bodies in rivers.

  And they revelled in it. One lifted the upper body of a Caspiellan and squeezed it as though it were an orange, slurping at the pulpy mess which spurted loose into her mouth.

  “Or that,” the deathpriest allowed.

  Inkiri made urgent motions with her hands, pointing at one of the Black Blade banners which seemed to suddenly twitch free of the fight and was moving with obvious retreat back. Back toward the Bloods far on the horizon.

  “That's the king's banner,” he said. “Go tell Meatslice. See if he can reach them. I don't think he will, but perhaps he can also send a runner out to make sure she's noticed. Her Highness won't want him to escape.”

  The young scout nodded and dashed away, urgency giving her a grimace.

  Only a minute later, Meatslice was sending bolts further out, splashing into the heels of King Scarrow's retreat. Although, as Vuk had predicted, not far enough to catch him.

  A few other banners joined the fleeing king, including the Grey Jackets.

  One of the wychdemons headed toward them, carving herself a dreadful path.

  A flash of green below, and the elf saw Hemlock sending blasts of necromantic energy into a small group of Black Blades who were killing the mercenaries around the hill. She knew what they were trying to do.

  Break the circle.

  Break Chukshene's circle and the magic which held the wychdemons would be broken.

  She tensed and a spasm of pain shot up from her shoulder. Her teeth ground hard against each other and she tasted iron as the need to kill bubbled in her belly.

  The deathpriest watched her with curiosity. “You wish to be out there? You would die fast with that arm as it is, you know. Your skills, formidable though they are, were not made for these kinds of battles, I think.”

  “I know.”

  “Also, you're not needed. Look.”

  The warlock was casting. His arms burned with light. Then a circle of white etched into the ground around the hill. Hemlock shouted to the mercenaries, who disengaged from the Black Blades and ran back toward the hill, diving to get inside the white ring.

  Which burst, sending sheets of purple flame about ten-feet high. Flame which melted anything trying to get through.

  She watched the warlock collapse, obviously drained.

  Hemlock waved at Hudson, who moved to Chukshene and helped the warlock.

  The necromancer was casting, too, though he looked almost out on his feet.

  Then Inkiri came rushing back. Her fingers spoke fast and the elf picked up on the worry in her tone. Knew something was happening. The deathpriest cocked his head. “Oh?” He turned to the elf. “You have seen many things in the Deadlands, Nysta. Have you by chance seen a creature of terrific size?”

  The elf shrugged. “It's the Deadlands, feller. All sorts of shit in it. Except for goblins, ain't much of it is small.”

  “Meatslice tells me there's something big on the horizon. He can't tell if it's something the Black Blades have brought. But it's big.” Then, after Inkiri spoke a little more; “And Nasty. Whatever it is, it's about to join up with King Scarrow. If it's something sent by Rule, this could be uncomfortable...”

  She peered into the distance. Couldn't see anything.

  Darkness blotted the horizon beyond the king's banner which was raised desperately. She couldn't make out the insignia on it, though she knew it by heart. A score of black blades lifted across a blue field.

  Then it hit them.

  Hit them hard by the look of it. So hard the nearest wychdemon shuddered to a stop and seemed to take a half-step away from whatever it was. Then she shrieked and rushed forward to join the fight alongside it.

  Something dark whipped across the battlefield.

  And her heart tripped a beat as she heard the chains and a voice raised in abominable fury to deliver a word. A word she'd once whispered to a creature of the Vampire Lords. A creature tormented by its guilt. By its despair.

  A word which resonated deep within her soul and made her burn. She wanted to join him. Wanted to charge out into the chaos. Wanted to fight. Wanted to destroy.

  And, no matter what pretty words Vuk used to describe what she was seeing, this was the one which defined this moment for her. The one which brought tears to her eyes. Tears of overwhelming pride as she saw her reflection wading in blood.

  “Vengeance,” the creature roared, lashing out with massive chains embedded in its flesh. Chains which wrapped around fleeing Caspiellans and pulped the life from them before flinging their shattered
bodies aside. “Vengeance!”

  The rear lines thinned. The front lines were a miasma of hate made real through steel.

  Melganaderna's axe flashed.

  Hemlock reached an arm to the sky. Fist clenched. Green necromantic energy burst from his hand and shot to the clouds still brimming with purple energy. The collision made thunder roll so loud she thought the ground might open up and swallow them all.

  And green lightning stabbed down, bringing death to a land already sickened by it.

  Each rapid strike blasted with fury and the necromancer shuddered with it.

  Then he finally fell to his knees, depleted and done.

  Another Caspiellan banner fell, to be snatched up by a wychdemon, who tore it to shreds and laughed with glee. The dead warriors were like ants, swarming down the right side of the battle. Green eyes burning. Their howls lessening as they ran out of men to kill. Already, some were standing lost at the rear, looking around.

  Searching.

  Lost.

  And the bodies formed a carpet without design. A pattern which told a story of agonies beyond word.

  The elf finally turned away, wincing as her shoulder twitched.

  “Where are you going?”

  She paused in the doorway, but didn't look back. There was nothing more she wanted to see.

  Slowly, fighting the pain, she reached with her good arm and pulled Asa's ring from her pocket. Looked at it for a moment. Then dropped it on the floor so it rolled toward his feet. “Tell her I had a husband, too. I know what it meant to her. Tell her I ain't interested in what she's selling, but she right. She owes me now. And one day, I might collect. Tell her that.”

  “What about your friends? Nysta? What about your friends?”

  She said nothing. Just kept moving. One aching step after the other. Moved past the two guards who sat on the stairs. The two orks looked up at her.

  “Hey, Nysta? You look like shit. What's the matter? You see the sharks in the walls?”

  “Sharks in the walls,” Forkleg chuckled. “Good one, Snotshank.”

  When the elf didn't answer, Snotshank elbowed his friend in the ribs to curtail his giggles. His face become serious. “Hey, you want to know why they call this the Wall of Darkest Shadow, Nysta?”

  That made her pause, though she couldn't say why. Just something in his voice, she guessed. “Why's that?”

  “Because, no matter how bright Rule shines, we stand. It's why the shadows are dark on this side.” The big ork looked down at his bloodstained hands. “Because we'll always stand in front of him.”

  Forkleg looked confused. “Then why're we sitting on the stairs? Should we be on our feet?”

  “Oh, for fuck sakes, stupid.” Snotshank shook his head wearily. “I'm getting a fucking transfer. Today. Or I'm fucking quitting.”

  “Oh? Where you transferring to?”

  “Away from you, mate.” The ork's red eyes followed the elf as she moved away, though he aimed his words at his friend. “As far away from you as I fucking can.”

  As she stepped into the barbican's long mouth and began picking her way through the abandoned trenches, she could hear the cheers. The chanting of Asa's name. The thunder of battle nearing its peak. Glory was in the air, carried on the stink of blood and torn flesh.

  Crows already hopped among the dead here.

  They cawed at her, not minding as she passed. Beaks wet, they figured there was enough meat for everyone.

  And through the streets of Lovespurn she walked, hunched over her pain. Working to tie her damaged arm in place with another strip of cloth torn from a dead mercenary. One of many who lay broken and discarded.

  The quiet within the town was a stagnant nightmare and every door she passed was a door which she knew led to more death as the bodies of the townspeople waited to be discovered. And again, she was reminded of Jagtooth's words.

  He would be here.

  He would find them.

  He'd cradle their dead bodies as he brought them out from the darkness. Out from the shadows.

  And he'd be there to see the families. The friends.

  Dealing with the damage left by men who were, ultimately, her kind. The killing kind. Something she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to deny.

  As she passed an alley, she heard a sound and twisted her head, hand on A Flaw in the Glass at her hip. Saw a young soldier, head buried in his hands. Weeping openly. Dressed in black, but she couldn't tell if he was one of Bucky's, or one of Asa's.

  And didn't much care.

  Her fingers twitched, considering the throw which could take out his throat.

  Decided she already hurt enough.

  Grunted.

  Kept walking, boots heavy in the mud.

  “Excuse me?” A nervous-looking man surrounded by a few pack-laden mules and a couple of guards stood at the end of the street. Positioned close to the gates which had been battered open when the orks had arrived from Ghostfear. He waved to the elf as she drew close. “Excuse me. What happened here?”

  She jerked a thumb toward the Doomgate, still defiantly open. “War, feller.”

  “Oh, shit!” One of the guards half-drew his sword as if Caspiellans might suddenly pour into the streets and he'd defend them alone.

  “Don't sweat it,” she said. “Figure there ain't much left to deal with now but the fallout.”

  “Fallout?”

  “Sure,” the elf said, moving past with a smile curling on her lips. “Ain't anyone ever told you war never changes?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Imperial Princess Asa sprawled across the dark throne of the Wall. Legs dangling out over one arm rest, head propped against the other. She breathed deeply. The ragged armour she'd been wearing in battle was set aside, caked in dried blood. She would take this armour home to Doom's Reach, and it would serve to show how she'd fought in the armour of a simple soldier.

  The blood would serve to show she'd been in the heat of battle.

  That she'd fought.

  Even bled.

  She was now dressed in a pale blue dress of soft material. More suited to her role as visiting royalty. Not too elegant, because she didn't want them to think too much of her status.

  Soon, she would go out and meet the men and orks who'd fought for her, and she wanted them to remember how she'd fought beside them as an equal. In their hearts, she was now one of them.

  They'd leave the Wall with her name still on their lips.

  But for a short time, she lay exhausted in a chair the Dark Lord had made from material which had never belonged to this world. She toyed with a gold ring encrusted with gems. Her fingers explored the words engraved inside its band and her eyes, though they were closed, read each letter and her heart burned with them as a face she'd known for many lifetimes stared back at her from the shadows of memory.

  The throne was warm beneath her, the stone reacting like living clay to her presence by adjusting to suit her shape. And perhaps reacting to the sense of loss the young-looking woman was feeling as she slid the ring onto her finger and turned her head to her side.

  Her mind floated, already planning her return to Doom's Reach. She would travel first. Spread the word of what happened here. North, to Ravensholme. Then return south-east to Dragonclaw. She had business there. And, finally, a nice circuitous route along the coast and up through Hatejaw. Where maybe she'd have an overdue talk with the mages. Let them know where they really stood.

  Finally, to Doom's Reach where her father was no doubt locked in his rooms with his books and his empty entertainments. Busily ignoring the fact he was losing power to those who were learning to take it.

  Power she would have to take back.

  Probably by force.

  Which reminded her of something she'd almost forgotten during the thin delirium of near-sleep. She turned her head, slightly. “Jagtooth?”

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Find Meatslice for me. He's too good to waste his life as a scout here. I want
him as a runner.”

  “I'm not sure he'd like a life of fetch and carry...”

  “I'm sure we'll challenge his sense of adventure. Also, we're bringing Inkiri with us. The deathpriest has requested it. So, I believe he'd follow regardless.” She turned the ring on her finger, calmed by the familiar sensation brought by its unexpected return. “I also want a message sent to Seren in Dragonclaw.”

  “Seren?” The big ork grimaced. “Are you sure?”

  “I want him to be ready for what's coming.”

  “For what's coming?”

  “Yes.” The imperial princess purred, arching her back playfully as her mind clicked more jigsaw puzzle pieces into place. Life was a game, she thought. A game she refused to lose. “Tell him he is to give her every assistance, but she is not to know this assistance comes from me. He is to ensure she is comfortable. But not too comfortable.”

  “Ah.” Jagtooth nodded, used to the way she worked. “The elf. You think she's going to Dragonclaw?”

  “She left through Lovespurn's eastern gate. She'll follow that road and find herself in Southlight, where she'll want to cut her wrists with boredom by the end of the following week. The only way out is by ship. If she survives the Crossbones, she'll end up in Dragonclaw.” She pressed fingers to her cheeks, massaging the tightness. “I thinks she'll like it there. It's a lot like Lostlight used to be. Vibrant and cunning. Its streets deadly when darkness falls. Yes. It will keep her amused for some time. And, when we're finished in Ravensholme, she'll be there. I want her within my reach when we arrive. So, you must make sure Seren understands the importance of this.”

  He hesitated on the steps. “You really think she's worth this much effort? I'll admit she's good, but you'll find killers by the dozen on any street in Doom's Reach.”

  “Not like her,” Asa said. Her voice rolling with delight as she picked up another piece in her mind. A piece she'd set aside for centuries. A piece she'd longed to place. She held it tight and resisted the urge to laugh. “She is more important than you'll ever know.”

  As the hulking ork lumbered from the hall, she couldn't hold it in any longer and the laughter tumbled from her mouth. It echoed within the cold walls and the throne beneath her skin trembled in response as though stifling giggles of its own.