Dagnarus understood them. Tasgall did not, which was just as well, or his faith in his king might have been shaken. Dagnarus said nothing, merely gestured, indicating that the taan were to proceed as planned.
The rest of the taan warriors came rushing in after their leaders. They surged forward eagerly, pushing and shoving, each taan fearing that another would beat him to the prize.
The city was silent, seemingly deserted. But the taan could smell the xkes, smell succulent flesh and the warm blood. The humans were nearby, hiding behind their walls like the sweet meat of the zarg nut hides behind its shell.
The city of New Vinnengael was a planned city, not one that had grown up from a village. As such, Vinnengael’s streets were straight and wide, not twisting and narrow. Prominent buildings such as the palace and the Temple were located in the center, with residential areas in certain locations, shops and businesses in others, and it was even predetermined which businesses should go where.
The buildings nearest the gate contained shops that catered to those first entering the city, selling everything a visitor might need from mapsto cunningly designed purses guaranteed to thwart pickpockets to can died ginger for a sweet tooth. The shops were empty, for the plan was that the taan were to be lured farther into the city. The first taan to reach these buildings kicked down the doors and ran inside. Finding nothing of value, they left in disgust.
The taan continued to pour through the gates, a floodtide of bodies that soon spread down every street. Tasgall waited tensely for the first sounds of fighting. This was the critical part. As many taan as possible must be lured into the heart of the city.
“I fear, Your Majesty, that the moment fighting breaks out, the taan will realize that they have fallen into a trap, and they will flee,” said Tasgall.
Dagnarus laughed. “That will never happen. A taan warrior who flees battle would be disgraced. The tribe would strip him of his possessions, torture and kill him. He would not permitted to enter the afterlife. His soul would be consumed by the Void. No, I guarantee to you that will not happen.”
“Even if they know it is a trap?” Tasgall asked.
“Especially then,” Dagnarus said carelessly. “The more hopeless the battle, the greater the glory.”
Voices began to speak in Tasgall’s ears; the battle magi communicating to him magically what they were seeing. The taan warriors had been given leave to rush ahead of the nizam and they were now running down the major streets, searching for a fight, and becoming increasingly frustrated. Several began kicking in doors and ripping the shutters off the windows. Inside some of those buildings were Vinnengaelean archers with arrows nocked, ready to fire, backed up by soldiers prepared for hand-to-hand combat.
The nizam spread out, joining in the rampage, not taking any sort of leadership role that the magi could see. The shamans of the Black Veil remained together, and it seemed to those watching them that they were starting to grow concerned. They huddled together in deep discussion, ignoring the taan who flowed around them.
Tasgall reported all this to Dagnarus, who nodded and said, “Be patient. Now is not yet the time.”
Last to enter the gate were the taskers, holding small children by the hands, carrying the youngest on their backs. Tasgall looked down at the taan children, skipping and dancing and laughing like any child on a holiday. The thought had not occurred to him that he would be slaying children. He told himself that they were children who would grow into savage beings, but he still felt an aversion to slaying those weaker than himself, those who couldn’t fight back, those who had no understanding why they were dying.
“Do not fool yourself, Tasgall,” said Dagnarus. “Those children have already developed a liking for human flesh.”
The question “And who gave them their first taste of it, Your Majesty?” was on Tasgall’s lips, but he swallowed it. Now was not the time to go mucking about in politics. He had a job to do. He cleared his mind of all emotion, all doubt, so that it held nothing but the clean-burning fire of the magic.
The last group of taan taskers was crowding inside the gates when shrieks and fierce howls arose from within the city proper.
“The taan have broken into one of the buildings, Your Majesty,” Tasgall reported. “The archers are firing into their midst. And, Your Majesty, it appears that the shamans of the Black Veil have turned around. They are heading back this way.”
“Give the signal,” Dagnarus ordered.
Tasgall motioned to one of the novice battle magi who had been crouched in the shadow of the wall. Rising to her feet, she spoke words of magic and passed her hand through the flame of the fire burning in a nearby brazier. Her hand seemed to scoop up the flame into a ball and, in one sweeping motion, she hurled the fiery orb into the sky, where it blazed a brilliant orange. The bright ball of flame would be visible to all those on the rooftops, who were waiting and watching for it. Selecting their targets, the battle magi began to chant their spells.
The men manning the wheels that lowered the gates jumped up from their hiding places. Guarded by men-at-arms, the men turned the wheels, and the gates began to lower.
The taan taskers heard the rattle and the creaking and turned to see what was going on. Those near the gates, who could see what was happening, looked alarmed and cried out. Unlike the warriors, taskers do not fight unless hard-pressed. Their role was to ensure the survival of the tribe, and many of them had just come to the realization that such survival was imperiled. Grabbing the children, several taan began running toward the gate, shouting out warnings as they ran.
“The gates fall too slowly!” Dagnarus cried, watching the ponderous descent of the heavy gates. Leaning over the wall, he bellowed, “Cut the ropes!”
The men working at the wheels stared stupidly, not understanding. One astute young soldier heard the command, saw the danger. Leaping forward, he sliced through one of the ropes with a single stroke of his battle-ax, all the while calling for his comrades to assist him. Knights and men-at-arms fell on the ropes with a will. The gates came thundering down, but not before several taan taskers and their charges had managed to escape. The archers rose from their hiding places, fired a volley of arrows after them. Every shot told. The taan stumbled and fell to the ground. Some stayed where they had fallen, but others leapt up and kept going.
The archers stared. They could see the feathered shafts protruding from the backs of the fleeing taan, but nothing seemed to stop them. Their officers shouted orders. The archers fired again and again. At last, all the taan were stopped. Almost every corpse had at least three arrows sticking out of it. The archers were round-eyed and amazed.
They had no time for rejoicing. The taan taskers realized that they had been betrayed, that this was a trap. They raised their voices in unearthly howls that were not wails of despair, but were warnings, meant to alert the other taan to their danger. Grabbing up anything that came to hand for a weapon, the taskers and even the children launched a furious assault on the battlements.
Preparing to face them, Tasgall saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced back out to see a taan, with arrows sticking out of her back, stagger to her feet and run off. Tasgall started to shout a command to bring her down, then kept silent. He did not have the stomach to shoot a fleeing enemy in the back. Let her go. What harm could one do, after all? He turned back to the battle.
Young, unblooded warriors, who had been relegated to the rear while their elders and betters invaded the city first, heard the cries and came rushing back. The young warriors, accompanied by taskers, attacked the barricades that had been piled up around the stairs. In minutes, the taan tore apart what it had taken the Vinnengaeleans hours to erect. The barricades fell. The taan stormed up the stairs, shrieking and wielding strange and fearsome-looking weapons: spears with three sharp heads; enormous curved-bladed swords; a V-shaped weapon formed of two blades, each sharp enough to cut off a man’s arm. The archers had no need to aim. They were sure to hit something by simply firing in
to the mob.
Unlike the elder warriors, the young taan fighters wore almost no armor. Arrows thudded into their bare hides, but had little effect. Sometimes the young warriors would halt and yank them out and toss them away in irritation, but more often, they would simply leave them and carry on, too caught up in their battle lust even to notice.
Tasgall’s magic and that of his fellow battle magi proved more effective. Balls of flame exploded among the taan on the stairs. The fiery blast killed several immediately, and many more were set ablaze when the flaming corpses fell among the crowd of taan below.
The fiery deaths of their comrades did not stop the taan. They surged up the stairs again, kicking aside the still-blazing bodies of their comrades, climbing over them, or stepping on them in order to reach the enemy above. Those who reached the top crashed into the knights and soldiers waiting to halt the advance. Knights and soldiers who had never seen anything like this.
Overwhelmed by the strength and savage ferocity of the taan, the defenders began to fall back. Tasgall dared not use his magic, for fear of hitting his own men. He and Dagnarus exchanged glances and simultaneously drew their swords and ran forward to halt the retreat.
Tasgall was an adequate swordsman, not a great one. He wielded a two-handed broadsword and depended on the sheer force of his blows to kill. Dagnarus was a superb swordsman. He set upon the taan with such skill that few came close to touching him. He had obviously fought them before. He was familiar with their methods and their strange-looking weapons.
Tasgall was curious to see how the taan would react to their “god” attacking them, and was surprised to see that none apparently recognized Dagnarus. Tasgall would have liked to watch Dagnarus’s sword work, but he was battling for his life.
Having discounted the taan as unskilled savages, he was now being forced to reconsider that idea. Their weapons looked strange and outlandish, but they were incredibly lethal, and the taan wielded them with skill. One taan came at him, twirling a multibladed sword in both hands, the blades moving so fast that they blurred in Tasgall’s vision. The taan defended with one weapon, attacked with the other. The sharp steel sliced through the metal-studded glove Tasgall wore, cutting open the back of his hand. The other blade trapped his sword, halting its deadly downward stroke.
The taan’s snarling face thrust close to Tasgall’s. He could smell the foul stench of the creature, look straight into the small eyes glaring with rage. The taan was tall and barrel-chested and seemed made of nothing but muscle and sinew and bone covered by a hairy hide tougher than leather armor. The taan was not above using his feet as weapons. He kicked at Tasgall, trying to knock him off-balance, all the while slashing at him with his deadly blades.
The two shoved and heaved and grappled, neither making any headway, then suddenly the taan gave a grunt and arched backward, falling away so suddenly that Tasgall was overset and almost tumbled off the battlements. The taan slumped at his feet, dead, the blade of a sword protruding from his belly. Dagnarus caught hold of Tasgall, steadied him, and pointed below.
The taan had gained the stairs leading to the battlements and more were coming up every moment. Another fiery blast from one of his battle magi cleared the bottom of the stairs, but only momentarily. More taan ran to take the place of those who were being roasted alive.
“Look out for the shamans!” Dagnarus shouted to Tasgall. “Void magic-users!”
Tasgall looked down among the taan to see several taan shamans, some almost naked, others wrapped in robes that looked like winding sheets, pointing up at him. He was forced to shift from the use of steel to the use of magic, which meant that he had to clear his brain of the blood-dimmed rage that comes with hand-to-hand combat and find within himself the clear, cold logic required for the casting of magic. He was trained to refocus his thoughts, but even so, he needed a few moments to concentrate and bring the words of the spell to mind.
Four black darts erupted from the chest of one of the shamans. The darts soared upward, trailing hideous black ooze behind them. The darts moved with incredible speed. Tasgall only had time to realize that one was aimed at him before it struck his cuirass.
Tasgall’s armor was enchanted to repel magical attacks and it dissipated the Void magic. The dart burst harmlessly on his cuirass. The man beside Tasgall was not so fortunate.
The dart struck the knight in the center of the forehead, slammed through his metal helm. His skull exploded, splattering those around him with blood and gore.
Tasgall was too far from the brazier to be able to use Fire magic. He had with him several vials of blessed earth. Drawing out one of these, he hurled it to the stone floor, stamped his foot upon the stone, and spoke the words of the spell.
The ground beneath the taan shamans began to quake and buckle. The jolt threw them off their feet. Tasgall took a spear from the hand of the dead knight and hurled it with all his force at one of the shaman, who was struggling to regain his feet. The spear impaled the taan. The body twitched for a few moments, then went limp. Tasgall shouted commands, ordered archers and spearmen to turn their fire on the shamans. Within moments, all of them were dead.
Wiping blood and brains off his face, Tasgall looked about hastily. Dagnarus was leading a charge that was sweeping the taan off the stairs. Most of the taan warriors were dead or dying. The taskers milled about, uncertain and disorganized. The archers fired at them, like shooting ducks in a barrel. The battle magi flung spells at them. Now it was just a matter of slaughter.
When Dagnarus returned, grinning and unscathed, he asked gaily, “How goes the rest of the battle? What are you hearing from your magi in the field?”
“Very little now, my lord,” Tasgall replied. His magi had fallen silent, and he was worried. “Of course, they should conserve their strength for fighting, not waste it talking to me. But the reports indicated that the fighting in the city was fierce.”
“The taan have a saying,” said Dagnarus, sobering. “‘Derrhuth are in love with life. The taan are in love with death.’”
“Which means?” Tasgall asked.
“That those who fear death will always be at a disadvantage,” Dagnarus replied.
“Maybe, my lord,” said Tasgall. “Or maybe not. For those of us who fear death will fight to survive.”
That day, the Vinnengaeleans fought to survive.
The taan knew now that they had run headlong into an ambush. Enraged, the taan meant to kill as many humans as they could before they died.
The Vinnengaelean soldiers were completely taken aback by the ferocity of the taan warriors, who fought with a raging joy that came near to demoralizing their opponents.
Dagnarus had tried to warn the Vinnengaeleans, tried to prepare them for what they would face. It is doubtful if they could have ever been prepared for the sight of taan warriors, their bodies smeared with blood, slavering and raving, smashing bodily through lead-paned glass windows and charging headlong into a barrage of arrows.
Elite taan warriors wore armor, much of it taken from derrhuth they had slain. They disdained wounds; most would fight on even after losing a limb. They used magic to shield themselves from weapons of steel or sorcery, emerging unscathed from the firestorms of the battle magi. Outnumbered, trapped, the taan hit their enemy with such shocking force that for a moment it seemed the taan might yet win the day.
Although trained as a battle magus, Rigiswald was too old and out of practice to participate in the fighting. He had instead volunteered to use his magic skills in healing the wounded. At dawn, he walked over to the hospital along with a cadre of other magi who had forgone their own various areas of specialization to take up healing magic.
Rigiswald walked side by side with magi skilled in engineering or architecture, stonemasons (who used their magic to shape, lift, and lay building blocks), Portal-seekers, librarians, members of the Order of Inquisitors, alchemists, cooks, and tutors. Most carried spellbooks, some magi actually reading as they walked, trying hastily to bone up on magic
they had not used since they were novitiates. Even young magi had been pressed into service, for they could at least cast simple cantrips designed to treat minor wounds and ease pain.
Rigiswald had just entered the Houses of Healing—a sprawling building reminiscent of elven design, surrounded by green lawns and trees and blooming shrubs, with many areas that could be opened to fresh air and sunlight—when he heard and felt the boom of the falling gate. He and everyone else turned to look out the windows in the direction of the north part of the city, where the battle would take place. The Houses of Healing were located on a natural rise, and although their view was blocked by tall buildings, the magi could catch glimpses now and then of small figures (battle magi, perhaps, or men-at-arms) prowling about atop the buildings.
The howls of the taan—inhuman and ghastly—pierced the still morning air. Rigiswald’s stomach clenched, and he was not a man easily disturbed. Faces around him went pale. People exchanged grim glances. The Hospitalers put their volunteers immediately to work, had them moving beds, rolling bandages, helping prepare and bottle poultices and salves, ointments and potions, or comforting frightened patients.
The howls and shrieks grew louder. Rigiswald, who was scooping ointment into stone jars, had managed to position himself near a floor-to-ceiling glass pane that faced in the direction of the battle. He saw a sheet of blue-white flame rise into the air, a wall of fire that would incinerate anything in its path. The screams of taan being burned alive were horrible to hear. At the dreadful sound, a young novice sitting next to Rigiswald gave such a violent start that she dropped the vial she was filling, sent it crashing to the floor.
Rigiswald said what comforting words he could, which weren’t many, advised her to drink some water, take deep breaths, and move away from the windows. A second glance outside showed a huge column of black smoke spiraling into the air. Those in the hospital continued their duties in silence. Then the wounded began to come.
Journey into the Void Page 23
