The Ossard Series (Books 1-3): The Fall of Ossard, Ossard's Hope, and Ossard's Shadow.

by Colin Taber

  Standing amongst them, I could only wonder what such a large gathering of cultists could do when so blessed. Surely they’d take the city – after all they had the numbers, skill, and the backing of the god of battle.

  How could they fail!

  I fell back from them to find some space amidst the gear of a nearby cart. Sef and Cherub didn’t even notice; they were lost in their exuberance as they waited to work Kave’s commands.

  Sadly, I realised that this was where Sef and I parted ways. Today, his loyalty to Kave overcame any coin my family could offer, and even our deep bonds of friendship. If Kave was to stand amongst the new saints, then Sef as his priest would stand with him, but I could not.

  Such thoughts only fed a growing sense of loneliness.

  About me, the voices of the Kavists rang out heavy as they began to punch at the sky. They sang out simply, using a small cycle of words, with most of it lost in the roll of their verse, except for the last; die!

  The Flet Kavists had now all reached St Marco’s, seeing the force complete. At the same time the chorus climaxed with a thunderous cheer.

  They formed up on the riverside road and began to cross the square. I walked behind them while scrying the nearby buildings, seeking for any sign of my family. After me came a much larger crowd, the faithful of the new saints. While none of them cursed me, I could read their many thoughts, “The Forsaken Lady!” And for most of them I remained a symbol of ill-favour.

  It was a contradiction for me to be there, perhaps even dangerous, but the Kavists seemed to have accepted me, so, grudgingly, the greater crowd let me be.

  Again I trod the streets of Ossard surrounded by space.

  Again I was alone and outcast.

  Then something brushed my arm.

  It was maddeningly soft, like a down feather, but also chill. I turned and saw nothing, yet knew that was wrong. A moment later, the celestial gave me the answer.

  My grandmother haunted beside me, unseen by the surrounding crowd. She smiled, a genuine thing this time, it taking away the unease of our earlier conversation. Now her eyes weren’t dark pits, but there to sparkle as if full of life. “You won't walk alone, my dear, not if I can help it.”

  The Kavists began their march to cross St Marco’s Square.

  At their front surged those blessed to be berserk; one hundred of Kave’s chosen. They moved about, restless, and on the verge of charging to Ossard’s distant heart. Behind them came the rest of their brethren; the new Heletian converts, and the more seasoned Flets. A command of Kave's senior priests led those ranks, it almost exclusively Flet.

  The command stood tall and determined, with battle banners rising from where they were strapped to their backs. All of them wore well-crafted armour, and brandished fine blades, a few of them even wielded blessed weapons licked by running flames.

  St Marco’s church loomed on the far side of the square in challenge, despite its ruined belltower.

  Kave’s command stopped in front of it, and began to climb its rubble-strewn steps. Its great double doors slammed shut at their approach, the churchmen inside sending one of their number sprinting away from the building’s rear.

  None of the Kavists cared.

  Seig Manheim reached the top of the steps to the cheers of his warriors and the broader crowd. He raised his hands for quiet, the motion flexing his thick arms; more than any he spoiled for battle. “We march on the Cathedral, and to take back the Malnobla for the people. From there we expel the Inquisitor and his dogma of hate!” His banner rose on a fresh breeze, its navy field opening to reveal a golden fist.

  The Kavists raised their weapons and cheered, something made louder by the roar of the crowd. The berserkers, trembling and drooling under the pain of divine restraint, added a series of battle cries before loping towards the avenue that would take them to the Malnobla.

  Seig cried, “For Kave!” And bounded down the stairs.

  I followed the Kavists, while the crowd also began to rouse. Behind me, many of them paused to pelt St Marco's with loose cobbles and rubble from the belltower. The mob outnumbered the Kavists, perhaps by as many as five to one.

  If the Kavists were an army, then what was it that followed them?

  The tall windows of St Marco's became obvious targets. The tinkle of rocks punching through the rare coloured glass peppered the square, all of it followed by the ugly chime of the precious shards falling to shatter. Before long, someone hurled a ball of burning rags through one of the broken windows. By the time my own boots found the avenue, the windows loomed as gaping holes that spewed thick smoke.

  The Kavists marched unchallenged. In the distance, through the haze, we could see the lone figure of the churchman who’d fled to carry a warning. He was halfway there.

  The Kavists kept a good pace, set by the rhythm of their chant. The crowd behind me also pushed on. I strode on between them, alone, aside from my haunting grandmother, while scrying for Pedro and Maria.

  Perhaps, when we reached the Square, I’d again search the opera house...

  But each step I took only fed rising doubts. My spirit, which had been so buoyed at being able to restart my search, now began to fail.

  Grandmother whispered, “Don't worry, I’ll help you in your search.”

  But I wondered; could we be too late?

  “They're hidden, and that means they live.”

  And in front of us, Kave’s march continued, all of it accompanied by prayers, horns, and cheers.

  The Cathedral’s bells started to toll, not long after the entrance to Market Square came into view.

  And it was then that the empty avenue leading to it suddenly began to fill. A couple of hundred Heletians spilled from the streets towards its end, all of them armed with swords and makeshift shields. The Loyalists were moving to meet the Kavists.

  The warriors of the cult of battle lifted their swords, checked armour, and readied themselves. The Kavists didn't mock or jeer the defenders, they simply doubled their march. They had to; the berserkers having spotted a foe finally lost the last of their control.

  A great cheer rose from the mob behind us, hungry for revenge.

  And the ranks of the Kavists moved faster, trying to keep up with their berserk brethren.

  The berserkers gave a guttural roar, as their lope became a run.

  I whispered, “Sweet Schoperde, please protect Sef, even though he follows another.” And a bright golden spark sped out from me to charge into the rear of the advancing Kavists. It was magic, and woven from the stuff of love and life.

  I marvelled. Somehow I’d called something, something to protect him; a blessing. I was learning.

  Perhaps there was hope...

  Up ahead, the Loyalists tried to link their shields.

  The berserkers, frenzied and wild, now charged at full sprint.

  And the main body of Kavists burst into song and took up their horns.

  While the Loyalists braced themselves.

  Then the berserkers were upon them.

  The touched warriors crashed through the defensive line, swinging swords and roaring like animals. Blood sprayed up, along with cleaved flesh and broken shields. The berserkers didn’t slow, miss a step, or even choke on their battle cries. They met the faithful of Krienta, and in a moment, cut through them.

  But Kave grew bored of chants, song, and play...

  The crazed Kavists emerged from the defenders’ ruin. They didn’t pause or even glance at their grim harvest, they just headed on.

  The Kavist ranks in front of me cheered, while the mob behind roared.

  I winced at their madness. How could they all give themselves so easily to hate? They disgusted me, leaving me glad to be outcast and alone...

  ...until I found that I wasn’t.

  She stood behind me wearing a worn grey dress. Surprised, I just started and stared. She was Heletian, perhaps somewhere in her late twenties, with a trace of silver prematurely teasing the temples of her hair. The colours worked we
ll with her olive skin and hazel eyes, and when she smiled, it all joined to come alive.

  “Alone no more!” my grandmother whispered.

  The woman stood only a pace away, she didn't flinch or fall back, or even look frightened. With a firm voice she said, “My name is Baruna, and I’d like to walk with you?”

  I gestured towards Market Square. “I was going this way.”

  She nodded. “Then let’s go together.”

  And we turned to walk side by side, while the mob behind us fell silent.

  Baruna said, “I’ve come to end your loneliness and mine. You’ve hope and compassion, I saw it in the square when you saved that poor woman’s child. What you have is what we’re poor in, and what Ossard needs in these dark days.”

  Her words warmed me. Already I could feel my burden lighten, as if it was now shared.

  I was no longer alone!

  And ahead, the berserkers leading the Kavist charge had almost reached Market Square – yet we barely noticed. While Death loomed up to cast his shadow over the city, we stood as a spark of life, and perhaps, as Baruna had put it, hope.

  But that spark was threatened by the surrounding madness.

  The Kavists followed the berserkers in their charge, their swords raised and banners flying.

  Before them opened the wide space of Market Square. It stood naked of its stalls and merchants, instead its middle spread blocked by a wall of robed churchmen. Behind that priestly line of a hundred stood thousands of Loyalists fingering grim blades, many of them makeshift weapons taken from kitchens, fishmongers, and butchers.

  Inquisitor Anton stood above it all in one of the Cathedral's belltowers, from where he bellowed, “Oh sweet faithful, Krienta watches and will appraise you. Be ready to work his will!”

  His pious followers cried out for the chance.

  From across the square, the Kavists called out in answer.

  The priests waited, but did not fear.

  And all the while, with each moment, Kave’s berserkers drew nearer.

  Krienta’s holy men readied the seeds of their blessed defence. They knew that their lord wouldn't abandon them, not here and now. United, they cried, “For Saint Baimio and his father, our righteous lord, Krienta!”

  And the celestial heaved as hundreds drew upon it for power.

  That strange other world, normally a pool of dark calm, churned into boiling life. The air about us tingled as it tensed, filling with flaring sparks.

  Behind us, the followers of the new saints surged forward. They wanted to be a part of this, the smashing of the unreformed Church.

  The berserkers raced across the square with blood-flushed eyes, crying from drooling mouths. For these touched warriors, only kills would do, but they’d have to work for them; Krienta’s priests were already casting.

  The Inquisitor led that casting as he called from up on high, “Oh Krienta, heretics have dared enter the heart of your proclaimed city! We beg you to bless us so that we may show them your mercy, or if you wish it, judge them, and leave them blinded by their soul’s blight!”

  His priests raised their arms, “May the carriers of heresy be struck blind!”

  The square filled with piercing cries.

  A flock of black ravens appeared, launching themselves into the smoke-heavy air from the weatherworn ledges of the Cathedral’s towers. Countless, they circled and cawed with grating voices, only to suddenly turn and dive.

  Warnings were yelled.

  And like a furious black hail, the ravens struck, raining down to seek the eye-flesh of the lead Kavists.

  People cried out in horror.

  Of all the Kavists, only a handful had helms or time to raise shields.

  I looked for Sef in the chaos, finally spotting him with Cherub at the centre of the carnage. A Heletian between them had taken one of the birds in the face, the blow bringing the man to his knees, while the frenzied beast worked to puncture his eyes. Sef grabbed at the frantic bird, tearing it from the man before snapping its spine. In sober disgust, he threw the feathered lump to the cobbles and used a boot to crush the life out of it.

  The stunned Heletian sported a red face with torn and bloody cheeks. He'd been lucky, he still had his sight – many others around him didn’t.

  The birds continued to attack, gouging and slashing, and bursting the eyes of any Kavist they could. Agonised howls filled the square as blinded warriors fell to their knees while dropping their swords.

  Despite the gore of it, the Kavist charge went on – if slowed. And amidst the advance, Kave’s priests desperately worked to finish their own castings to end the threat from above. Two of them in the command worked especially hard to provide such relief, chanting and praying while rubbing flints together from where they kneeled.

  When the ravens ended one attack, those that escaped the swinging swords, fists, and grabbing hands of the Kavists launched themselves back into the air. They rushed to gain height, before turning about to dive back down and seek fresh eye-flesh.

  After the savage fury, marked by their harsh screech and deep caw, some began to squawk in surprise. No longer did their call hold anger, now it began to ring out with fright.

  Above the square, as they sought fresh victims, some of the birds began to smoulder and leave singed and flaming feathers to fall free. Before long, it wasn’t just a few birds so afflicted, but most of the flock. Their pained sounds became more panicked until they started to burst aflame. The squealing birds then fell as balls of fire to land with sickening thuds amidst a haze of stinking smoke and singed feathers.

  Warriors swatted other birds off their comrades before stomping them dead. In moments, Kave’s priests had seen the ravens finished.

  With their warriors now free, their mighty charge could resume.

  Krienta’s priests braced themselves. They knew that this would be a test, their biggest test, of their character and faith’s truth.

  The Kavists closed the gap.

  And from that other realm, Kave also watched. He paid heed to his followers here, as he did to them everywhere, but only the most deserving would receive any more gifts. Ultimately, the skills of his followers would decide who won their battles, not endless favours.

  In contrast, Krienta was a god worshipped by only one people, of one region, of one world. The Heletians revered him, but no one else. He didn’t just watch, he worked to see his followers win, lest this be the beginning of his undoing.

  The Krientan priests stood in front of the Loyalists, the ordinary townsfolk poor in weapons and skills, but rich in faith. The Loyalist force seemed outdone, until, led by Anton, their priests uttered a second curse.

  The Inquisitor called out from above, “Krienta, you have seen their souls and sampled their truths, now lend us your power to cripple the heretics amongst these fools!”

  His priests spread their arms, as they cried out, “May the carriers of heresy be struck lame!”

  And again Krienta listened.

  The lead Kavists froze with their swords in mid-swing, while their roaring voices failed. Some stood posed like statues, others just slowed as if burdened by cold-bitten joints strung with weak muscles on age-weary frames.

  Many Kavists escaped this latest curse to continue the advance, but soon discovered that their way lay blocked by their crippled brethren. The Kavists' battle cry, its roar halved by sickened throats, fell into confusion.

  Some of Kave’s priests sought a divine solution to this latest trial, others raised their swords and called out fresh rally cries.

  Emboldened by Krienta’s support, his priests moved on with their plan. Half of them drew knives and stepped forward to begin their bloody tasks, seeing them slash at exposed throats and stab at undefended hearts and bellies. In moments, the white robes of the Church of Baimiopia turned red.

  The square spread half full of Krienta’s cursed, the Kavists too sickly to do anything but wait for the advance of his blood-drenched priests. There was hope for them though; their fellow
s were passing through the maze that their blighted bodies had created, and they came unaffected and free.

  Krienta’s priests held knives and daggers, but were poor in the skills of wielding them. Having to face the swords of enraged Kavists was an unbalanced contest, yet they didn’t shy away from it.

  Anton’s voice rolled out again, “And with their wilting bodies and sour souls, let their minds be fouled!”

  And Krienta’s priests, those who’d stayed in place during the slaughter of the lame, cried, “May the heretics taste of lunacy’s flower!”

  Again, desperate to win the day, lest this be the first defeat in a long line that would leave his people, church, and ultimately himself vanquished, Krienta granted the request.

  Kave laughed at his divine rival's desperation. He'd never so lower himself, besides the world held more than one battle this day; wars raged in far off places where the stakes were greater. He wished his followers well, but left them to prove themselves.

  The advancing Kavists spilled through the tangle of their blind and lame brethren to cut into the Krientan priests, but again their charge was to be stilled. Some of their number slowed, seeming to be struck down like their fellows, but they hadn't – they suffered a different fate.

  Instead of taking ill and coming to a stop, the newly cursed kept moving, but stumbled and blundered. Some left trails of drool as they wandered, others groaned and mewled, while some simply sat down and trembled. A few dropped their weapons, while others cut at themselves. One poor wretch stabbed at a lame fellow’s back, as if trying to cut a way through.

  Baruna and I came into the square near the opera house. We climbed the grand old building’s front steps and surveyed the terrible scene. This was the bleak world promised by Death, a world of blood and war detailed with carnage and decay.

  The Kavists continued their advance, passing their cursed and wounded. Some of their fellows managed to shake off their blights, only to reach for their dropped weapons and croak out renewed battle cries.

  Left as it was, the Kavists would win through skill and numbers.

  But it wasn’t to be left.