by Vox Day
“My colleague tells me that he has seen what he thinks may be their leader, a large orc accompanied by a pair of shamans. We know from their general disarray that its hold on them must be tenuous. Perhaps their numbers are too great for us to withstand for long, but if we kill the leader, there is every chance their resolve will fail and they will cease to present a danger to us. We must break them apart and prevent them from coming at us in strength. The only way I can think to do that is to remove their warleader.”
De Cervole nodded. The viscomte scowled, as if to even agree with the man was distasteful to him, but a moment later, he, too, nodded.
“The first attack was hasty and disorganized,” the mercenary said. “We would have driven it off easily had we not been taken by surprise. The second two involved multiple groups, attacking in concert, in two different places. I think the mage is right, although who can say if simply murdering the brute will be enough to dismay his fellows. They may be blood-maddened, or by now, they may simply be hungry enough to persist.”
“I daresay we’ve left them sufficient carrion to chew on and assuage their hunger,” Lord Roche said dismissively. “They may not find the flesh so sweet, but they’ll find it bloody well easier to come by. You’ve the right idea, de Merovech. Cut the head off the snake and it dies. A mob is always more easily turned than a directed force.”
“How do you propose to do it, monseigneur le mage? Can you magic the creature to death?”
“I’ll try,” he answered de Cervole. “But it would be best not to trust to spells. It’s got a pair of shamans, and it may have more at its disposal that Sebastien didn’t see. My plan is for Sebastien to keep the shamans occupied and I’ll try to kill the warleader. But we will be more likely to succeed if we allocate part of the cavalry reserve to wait until it shows itself, then strike out after it once its orcs have been committed to the attack.”
“Damned risky,” Lord Roche observed, staring off into the trees. “I doubt they’ll be expecting anything like that, not when we didn’t try anything similar the first three times, but even so, the chances are that it’ll have a second wave of attackers waiting and if it sees us coming, it’ll just put them in the way of our riders. If it’s smart enough to divide his attackers, it’s probably keeping a reserve on hand.”
“Perhaps not. From what Sebastien told me, it sounds like it’s been rounding up whatever it can find and throwing them at us. It knows the Amorrans will be advancing behind them and it needs the captives if it’s going to feed what’s left of its army long enough to break free of the trap and retreat back to the east.”
“When do you think they will get here?” de Cervole asked him. “The Amorrans. I think we can hold until nightfall. But if we haven’t driven them off by then….”
“The Amorrans won’t be coming today. They attacked last night. I know their customs. They’ll have built their defenses and be resting behind them now. The soonest we can expect them is probably around noon tomorrow.”
The viscomte glowered. “We’d better kill that bloody warleader, then. I’ll have the horn sounded. If we can bring in the other two squadrons, we might have enough men to hold them off. De Merovech, I’ll give you ten knights to attack with you. De Cervole, assuming it hasn’t occurred to you yet, order your men not to give any of their food or water to the captives. The men need to keep their strength up if they’re going to be fighting all night.”
Theuderic nodded grimly. The old warrior knew whereof he spoke. Each man carried three days’ supply of food, and several skins of water, and it was cruel to deny sustenance to the hapless villagers, many of whom probably had not eaten in days. But it would be wiser to lose a handful of them to starvation than get them all killed because their defenders were weak with hunger. Fighting was thirsty work, and if anyone was going to get out of this cursed forest alive, they were going to have to give themselves every opportunity of success.
He mentally reviewed his available spells. In the confusion of battle, L’êtrangleuse Subreptice would be the most likely to pass unnoticed, but it took a little more time than some of his other options. Le Cœur Dilater de Vermouton was the most certain to cause speedy death, as it would cause the subject’s heart to rapidly expand until it burst, but it was a wordy spell and would require that he lay hands upon the orc, which struck him as an unlikely and highly risky feat. Micheloud’s Marteau du Ciel was devastating, but difficult to aim precisely and was best used against large troop units, not individuals. He sighed. As usual, his best option would be the old standby, Falardeau’s Récurer de la Flamme Funeste, for which the sigils had long ago been carved into his staff.
It would certainly suffice to flambé the orc. The problem was that he would need to be close enough to his target for the magical flames to engulf it. That meant he would need to ride with those seeking to kill the warleader in less esoteric ways, which would make it impossible to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Being light infantry, the orcs would likely have archers and other missileers, although the trees would make it difficult to find a clear shot even if the orcs saw them coming.
He saw the defrocked priest ride off, presumably to gather his men, and Lord Roche approached him. The old viscomte had a rueful expression on his face, and Theuderic surmised that he was beginning to regret his hasty decision to stay and fight in what might well turn out to be his last battle. So he was surprised when the nobleman asked him a question.
“Do you wish for me to give the order to leave, sieur mage?”
“With all due respect, monseigneur, I don’t take orders from mere viscomtes.”
The older man laughed. “Well I know it! But there is many a man who in your position would find it hard to face himself were he to turn his back on these people, and I am aware that your duty to the king indicates that you and your fellow should save yourselves. So go, if you must.”
“I would. My fellow is a romantic young fool and will not leave.”
“And so he shames you into following suit?”
Theuderic smiled thinly. “Not in the slightest. I don’t care about those wretched folk. It makes no difference whatsoever if we are able to save illiterates and farmhands or not. I’ve seen a thousand such innocents dead before, no few by my own hand. And for all we knew an hour past, they were already dead.”
“What about the children?”
“What of them? A third of them will be dead in ten years even if we rescue them all.” He shook his head. “I’m here to keep Sebastien alive, monseigneur viscomte. If I can. He may be a fool, but he is a kingsmage, and so here I will remain.”
“Cold-hearted bastard, are you?” The viscomte grinned, unconcerned. “Best get back to your fellow, then. They’ll be coming before long, and I’m going to send out a pair of knights to escort the wounded.”
“You might have them each carry a child,” Theuderic suggested. “The older ones might even help with those too badly hurt to hold the reins.”
“Just a bastard, then.” Lord Roche nodded and urged his horse in the direction of where his men had gathered. “You kill that bloody warleader, de Merovech, and I’ll see to it that the jongleurs sing of your noble heart from here to the White Sea. Or drown you in whores, as you prefer.”
I’ll take the latter, Theuderic thought, wondering if he would ever have the pleasure of pillaging a woman’s body again. Not that the bodies here were in any shape to stir a man’s desires, for all that half of them were naked. He was foolish to remain, and yet, for all his lies to the viscomte, he knew he could not ride away. As he rode back to where he expected to meet Sebastien, the sight of the people behind the barricade reminded him of the stripped corpses that had been piled up outside the broken walls of Montrove. It was piteous, but it was also revolting.
Still, they were going to fight. Every male villager and most of the women were now armed with clubs and crudely sharpened stakes; one man was even carrying a longsword that looked suspiciously familiar. Others were carrying knives, maces, or other
weapons some knight or man-at-arms had given them. Inept and untrained as they might be, they were not short on courage. He nodded, more in reflection than approval, thinking that a man need not be ashamed to die fighting at their side.
“There you are!” Sebastien was already there waiting for him. As his horse stopped and emitted a steaming stream of urine, he noticed that the younger mage wasn’t wearing his sword.
“Did you give your sword to them?” he asked suspiciously.
“They need it more than I do,” Sebastien answered. He twirled his staff in his left hand. “Besides, I thought the idea was for me to occupy their shamans. Unless you’ve made considerable progress on that flying spell, I don’t see what good a sword is likely to do me.”
A large group of horses trotted past them; Theuderic saw it was Lord Roche’s men. About twenty of them dismounted to take up positions behind the barricade, other knights took the reins of the riderless horses and rode off with them. Then a smaller group arrived, led by Jean de Cervole.
“Come, monseigneur mages. Your escort has arrived! Follow me to where we shall wait for our oversized green-skinned friend to show itself.”
“I thought one of the knights would be leading the charge,” Theuderic said, eyeing the former priest with skepticism.
The stringy-haired man smiled wearily, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth. “As did they. But your men are more fresh than mine; we have withstood two serious assaults while you have twice routed foes you caught by surprise. I’m getting old, my knees and back are aching, and I need more of a rest than these damned orcs are going to give us. If they break through quickly, there is no point to any of this.”
Theuderic glanced skeptically at de Cervole’s men. They were hard-bitten men, mercenaries with years more experience than most of the young knights, but their armor was boiled leather and poor-quality chain mail. Their captain was the only man among them wearing a proper steel cuirass, and half of them didn’t even have proper helms.
Some of his skepticism must have shown on his face, because de Cervole snorted dismissively and shook his head. “Never you mind, monseigneur mage. The boys will get to that bastard and cut it down to size for you. We may not be pretty, but by God, our swords are as sharp as any man’s.”
A drum began beating, followed by an ominous, guttural roaring that sounded as if it was coming from the trees nearby. Theuderic sat bolt upright in his saddle. A horn blew, and he knew that the battle was about to begin again.
De Cervole reached out and patted his arm. “Relax. We have to wait, let them launch their attack. If we move too soon, we won’t catch them off their guard.”
Theuderic nodded. It made sense. “Why are you doing this? It seems… uncharacteristic.”
The defrocked priest nodded and rubbed the top of his balding head where once there had been a tonsure. A man might leave the Church, but he would never fully escape its mark. “Have you ever done something that you knew was wrong? Something for which there can be no forgiveness, no return? Yes? Then you know that feeling, the impression that you are on the edge of a ravine, and the moment you decide to act, a part of you will plunge into those wicked depths, never to be the same again. You are no more virgin, no more innocent, or your hands will never again be unstained. I have known many such moments myself, and speaking only for myself, I will confess that it was at those very moments that I have always felt most alive.”
Much to his regret, Theuderic almost found he understood. Sometimes he wondered which of his three deeds had been the greatest betrayal of Lithriel, the hunt, the affair, or the silence. Each could, taken by itself, be explained, perhaps even justified. But all three, in sum, rendered him a monster, little better than this ghastly ex-clerical with the teeth and hair of an animated corpse. No, there would be no forgiveness. Not for him, not if she learned the truth. Elves lived a long, long time, and they did not forget.
There were shouts, screams, and the clash of metal on metal not far away. De Cervole didn’t even seem to hear the sounds of the erupting battle, his deeply tanned, deeply lined face was rapt with distant memories. “It is the moment of no return, when doubts become regrets and regrets become pointless. All that is left is to take whatever pleasure is to be had from the deed and then wait to discover what the consequences will be. Perhaps there will be a child. Perhaps there will be a trial. Or, perhaps, nothing will come of it except one more black mark against your soul when it comes time for you to burn in Hell.”
“Do you think to expiate your sins by saving these people?”
“He who loses his life shall gain it?” De Cervole laughed, exposing his rotted teeth. “If I saved all these people and a hundred times more, it would not be enough to balance my accounts, monseigneur le mage. No, you mistake me very much indeed if you think I am under any illusions concerning my damnation. My one hope is that the God at whom I have thumbed my nose for so long does not, in the end, exist. I hope, indeed, I pray, if that makes any sense at all, that He does not.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Theuderic gestured towards the sounds of the battle. It was impossible to know whether Lord Roche and his men were throwing back the orcs or not. Surely the orc leader must have shown himself by now! “I don’t understand.”
“I crave that sensation of falling, it seems. Much to my surprise, when one is as thoroughly steeped in degradation as I am, the feeling of taking a step out of the mire is disturbingly similar to the way one feels after taking that first step into it. It is madness, it is lunacy, it is exhilarating! Perhaps it is only the thoroughly degraded who can truly find pleasure in doing good.” He reached out and caressed Theuderic’s face. “How I once hungered for such beauty. Such a silly, short-lived thing for which to sell one’s soul. You would not credit it now, I am sure, but once I was handsome too. I remember the brothers clutching at their rosaries, and mumbling their Notre Dames as I walked by, virgin, but no innocent.”
Theuderic’s lip curled. “Touch me again, and you’ll feel the flames of my bale-fire right before you feel the flames of Hell, priest.”
De Cervole laughed. “Peace, monseigneur le mage. You know I am no priest these days. You asked a question. I answered. Ah, the waiting, it is always difficult, is it not? It preys upon the mind, makes one irritable. Never you mind. It is time, I think. Stay close, and if you see the big one, sear its ugly arse with your hellish flames.”
Theuderic frowned. He had heard neither the two short horn blasts that were to summon them, nor the high-pitched screams of women that would indicate the barricade had fallen. But de Cervole must have had a better sense of the shape of battle, for no sooner had Theuderic opened his mouth to point out that the other man was wrong than he heard a horn sound. Twice.
The mercenary captain smiled as if he knew what Theuderic had been thinking. Then he rose in his stirrups to see that his men had heard the horn, drew his sword, and waved it in a circle around his head. He did not shout, nor order a horn sounded; it had been agreed that they should fall upon the orc in silence, insofar as twenty-two horses could move in silence.
They trotted through the trees as fast as they dared, with one of the de Cervole’s ragged mercenaries leading them in a direction that should bring them behind the orcs. They emerged into a scene even more loud and violent and confusing than the two previous skirmishes in which Theuderic had engaged previously today. There seemed to be at least four times more orcs attacking than when they had been driven off before; their ranks ran four- and even five-deep as they swarmed the men-at-arms defending the barricades on foot.
Theuderic didn’t have time to see how well the men were holding their ground. A few images impressed themselves on his mind as he glanced to his right. A large green arm, pierced through the muscle by the tip of a sword. A grimace on the face of a helmed man, although whether it was borne of pain or effort, Theuderic could not tell. The downward swing of a studded club. Bared tusks and a gaping maw.
And then he was looking for the shamans. There we
re two of them, both standing near the big orc who was roaring out encouragement to his warriors. Even in the mass of movement amidst the trees, they were not hard to identify, as they had bones tied into their thick manes of dark green hair and tattoos covering their faces. Both were narrow-eyed and tense, as if exerting themselves; Theuderic guessed that they were maintaining a spell of some sort.
“Sebastien!” he shouted.
“I see them!”
The two orcs reacted as if they’d been burned when Sebastien unleashed his counterspell. They leaped backwards in unison, crying out and looking wildly about. Were the circumstances not so grim, Theuderic might have laughed, for he knew the feeling well. Having a spell forcibly broken, especially without warning, was rather like having a tightly stretched rope snap free to rebound in your face.
Instead, he decided to take advantage of their discomfiture. He justified the change in plans by observing that the warleader was not yet in range anyhow. L’êtrangleuse could not be triggered by a single word, but he chanted the three stanzas as rapidly as he dared, then extended his hand at the shaman whose upper body was not obscured by the trees. To his relief, the shaman immediately jerked back and raised his hands to his throat, trying to remove the iron grip of the invisible strangler.
Their charge had been noticed now, and he saw the warleader turn and point at them, his eyes wide with enraged surprise. Theuderic raised his staff, but they were still too far away. And then he saw a third shaman step forward from where he’d been obscured by the warleader, his eyes white and rolled back in his head, and green blood leaking from his glowing tattoos. His hands were raised in either exultation or invocation, and blood dripped from his elbows. Red blood.
That wasn’t mere blood magic, it was diablerie. Dammit, that wasn’t good. “Sebastien!” he shouted. “There’s another one!”
But whether Sebastien was too exhausted to counter the spell or simply didn’t see the third shaman, Theuderic would never know. Without warning, the ground shuddered as a huge black disembodied fist as wide as three horses appeared in mid-air out of nowhere and crushed both Sebastien and his mount under it. Six of the mercenaries on either side of the luckless mage were thrown from their horses, as either the force of the blow or the sheer terror it inspired caused their horses to stumble or go down. For the briefest of moments, Theuderic had the impression of a giant figure crouching over them, drawing back a horny fist. It was translucent, more sensation than sight. But it was terrifyingly real all the same.
