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

by Colin Taber

  I could do it!

  And then a great gobful of drool slid from my quaking lips.

  I had to do it!

  The fighting about the valley gates started as a simple tit for tat, with both sides losing people to archers as they came into range.

  The first wave of attackers used what cover they had to erect a series of boards and shields. Soon, a simple arrangement of dumped equipment, banners and bundles of tied and rolled oleander canes were turned into a series of barriers. Some of it was too flimsy to stop an arrow, but all of it helped conceal movement.

  Behind them, the much larger Inquisition force continued to organise and move forward.

  Amidst the main force were specialists like battering ram crews. Each of those gate-taking teams were equipped with light armour, helms and shields – and heavily backed by squads of archers. Now, hefting their rams, they readied themselves to test the city’s defences.

  In another location, coverings of oleander branches were stripped off equipment to reveal two ballistas the Inquisition had put in place.

  As the Inquisition’s force advanced, squads of archers gathered about what cover they could find from where they peppered the city’s defenders with fire. Settling into a rehearsed rhythm, they continued their attack as advancing soldiers and volunteers left the roads and fields to use the vale’s open drains to move more safely forward.

  Before long the Loyalist archers established themselves in great enough numbers to force those on the wall to seek cover more often than not. Adding to the attack, the ballistas kicked into action, launching heavy bolts to land with shocking force amongst the gate’s defenders.

  Once the archers and ballistas got into a good pace, the battering ram crews advanced. Soon the boom of ramming impacts reached up to us on the ridge, as the first crew reached Market Gate, only just beating the River Gate crew.

  I watched as arrows flew back and forth and people fell on both sides. Lives were being risked, ruined and ended with every passing heartbeat. And so much of it was just a feint: The real hope lay in Pedro’s volunteers capturing their gate or Silva doing likewise.

  What a terrible price to pay!

  I was on the ridge watching when I suddenly felt at the centre of the storm, as two more souls came to join mine. They landed like blows. My hunger bucked, but I wrestled with it as it surged to break free, my stomach twisting, seeing me double over and gag.

  I hadn’t expected the turbulence the returning souls delivered. Even if I let them settle, as I had to do so that they might be reborn, their arrival brought great shots of chaos when I could least afford it.

  I thought I was alone in my struggle, but found Angela by my side.

  She asked, “What can I do?”

  I couldn’t answer. My breathing came hard and fast, while great strings of saliva leaked from my mouth. Finally, the worst of it passed.

  For now...

  In the vale, the Inquisition’s forces continued their slow advance on the city’s gates. They were taking cover behind the barriers of carts, shields and staked fences of oleander canes. Watching their movements, most of it looked to be just part of another feint, for the majority of footsoldiers gathered in the protected depths of the field and roadside drains.

  I realised; they were waiting for Pedro.

  The chaos of another soul arrived, again sending my perception reeling, but I managed to retain control. I rode through a storm of feelings; revulsion, agony and ecstacy. Somehow, I forced myself to stay standing as I wiped at my quivering lips.

  Angela asked, “Are you alright?”

  I gave a nod. “The battle’s our concern, nothing else.”

  And then, above the city, that lone violet spark flared again.

  Despite the battering rams being used as feints as we waited for Pedro to clear the way, the team at Market Gate found success. The old timber gave in with the sharp crack of tired wood, followed by a stunned silence as it fell back and partially collapsed.

  With the realisation that the gate had been breached the valley came alive. Right across the vale, the Inquisition’s forces cheered and rose from cover to advance and take advantage of such good luck.

  As I stood there, I looked down upon the battlefield, hopeful.

  Perhaps my blessings had never been needed...

  Yet, as I looked up, that pulsing spark flared again. At the same moment, rising to meet it, a chorus from the city sang out, growing into a stirring chant. The deep wail of horns joined it, followed by the pounding of drums.

  With a sinking heart, I hissed, “They do know we’re coming!”

  Along the ridge, Baltimora frowned, but turned away.

  -

  The battle at Market Gate grew with heat. The Inquisition’s force feigned several charges at Ossard’s broken defences, only to fall back before they got caught in bottlenecks or the killing grounds of defending archers. All the while, as that dark dance of steel, shield and fletched wood went back and forth, backed by blood, curses and sweat, Pedro’s force cut into the defenders’ flank, coming at it as they flooded out of the city’s wall-side back streets.

  We just needed to hold the initiative!

  Fresh fires in the streets behind Pedro’s volunteers threw smoke up into the air. Watching from above, I could see a gradual drift into chaos. I supposed it was inevitable, and only more likely the bigger the battle and the further it spread.

  The bloody fury of the confrontation was hard to watch, yet I found myself praying for it to grow. We had the upper hand, for now, but I feared what the flaring spark meant, particularly now that it came paired with cultist chants. I still feared their rituals.

  We needed to finish this – and quickly!

  The chaos was fast and violent, but most of all unpredictable, leaving me convinced we’d reached a pivotal time: This was when victory had to be grabbed lest defeat be delivered.

  Further along the ridge, seeing that same moment for himself, Baltimora mounted his horse and spoke a prayer. Afer a quick word to his troop, he raised that damned sword, Des Furio, and then led his Sankto Glavos in a headlong cavalry charge down the slope.

  With banners raised, they descended the steep valleyside in a crazy and careering way that kicked up turf and rock. The charge should’ve been suicidal, but Baltimora had called upon Krienta for a blessing of safe passage, as his force filled the vale with thunder.

  Down on the valley floor, the inquisitors and Sankto Glavos stationed there formed up and prepared to join Baltimora in his attack.

  Clearly, Baltimora planned to lead the fight into the city, keeping the initiative and driving the momentum as deep as he could take it.

  Baltimora’s mad charge reached the valley floor intact, just as the other mounted groups of Sankto Glavos and inquisitors from the vale joined them on the road.

  At the same moment, the River Gate fell to a battering ram, seeing another rousing cheer roll across the vale.

  Newbank Gate followed, seemingly without being contested.

  What was happening down there?

  Amidst the noise of Baltimora’s cavalry, came a stark change in the cultists’ drums: The deep tempo doubled.

  Caught up in battle, Pedro’s men continued to fight, cutting into the backs of the last defenders at Market Gate.

  But why had the defences at River Gate so suddenly collapsed, and what of the invitation at Newbank? Were the cultists meeting our feint with one of their own?

  Loyalist forces surged through the captured gates, being reinforced by those still out in the valley who’d joined a general charge.

  At Market Gate we finally saw the Loyalists meet with Pedro’s volunteers. Together they merged in the small square behind the gate, where despite their victory, they looked to be contained.

  As if steered...

  I looked closer to discover that the sidestreets about Market Gate – aside from where Pedro’s volunteers had emerged – were finally filling with cultists who didn’t work to join the fight, b
ut instead just block the way. They seemed to be behind their own sets of barricades.

  Examining the scene, it looked as though there was only one road open to the attackers, beside the gate’s exit or a return to the hidden gate. So, our combined force began to head down the main avenue, the widest way, pushed on by the weight of their reinforcements.

  Pedro was down there, and surrounding him would be scores of people I knew and many hundred more who held faith in me. Part of that faith was founded on my power, power I’d so recently refused to use to bless them with.

  Leaving them naked...

  The sounds of surprise and panic that had at first arisen from the city’s defenders as freely as fire’s smoke, now stopped. The drums came loud and demanding, and with it the deep chant of the cultists’ song.

  It had to be ritual magic...

  Amongst the chaos of the city, countless dark banners arose from previously empty streets. Those ways quickly filled with people rushing with bloody purpose.

  Baltimora’s joint troop charged down the road to Market Gate as orders were yelled to clear the way. The mixed force of Pedro’s volunteers and Loyalists rushed to make a path, but Baltimora didn’t slow as he went in, riding some of them down and to their deaths.

  Those about me cried out in horror at the sight, but I was trying to follow the drums as the beat gathered in speed. The percussion rolled on, partnered to chanting and renewed horns, amidst a rising haze laced with oleander’s reek.

  Few of the city’s defenders now looked to be in harm’s way. Instead, in the confusion of smoke and battle, they’d fallen back, closing off side streets and alleys with barriers and burning barricades.

  Ominously, only the main avenue lay open.

  Baltimora charged on with that damnable sword raised high above his head. He flared brightly, loaded with the blessings of Krienta. His mounted troop thundered down the avenue after him, leaving their foot soldiers and our volunteers to follow.

  With banners streaming, they charged and called for righteous vengeance. Many of them rode empowered with swords and silks raised.

  They looked unstoppable!

  Yet, despite their power and what Saint Baimio and Krienta had gifted them, they were doomed...

  The drums beat faster as the chanting rose in pace.

  Faster and harder the rhythm came.

  Horns wailed long and deep.

  Then the violet spark above the city flared – one last time.

  The wind rose to bluster, and then, for a moment, all of it died.

  The air abruptly chilled.

  The coming of magic!

  Sparks flared and spat to crack and bloom about all the gates, including at the Fishing Wharves.

  The chanting, horns and drums stopped, replaced by a roaring cheer.

  Our foot soldiers and volunteers looked about in confusion, as the windows and roofs above them were suddenly filled with archers and Ossard’s soured citizenry, ready to rain a death of arrows and stones down upon them.

  Ready to defend their city!

  Ready to protect their homes!

  What should have been the Inquisition’s finest moment fell into disarray. A rout began as foot soldiers turned to look for cover or to run; some simply dropped their weapons.

  As rocks and arrows began to fly, I gasped, almost overwhelmed by the sudden surge of souls coming to seek me out as their mortal forms failed. I’d handled some before, managing to control myself – or my hunger. Now, it was not just a few, but dozens, with more joining the rush every moment.

  I fell to my knees and retched, my heart racing. The sensation was both jarring and euphoric, but also filled with shots of pain.

  My façade of control began to crumble.

  I managed to restrain myself from consuming the coming souls, instead letting them become part of my divine weave from where they could one day be reborn. But the shock of so many coming for me at once jolted me, knocking my perception into the celestial for the first time in a season – the move endangering the Prince’s protection.

  I dared not use it!

  Lost in the tumult, I could only drag my perception part of the way back, leaving me looking upon both worlds in double vision.

  And what I could see!

  Above, that great eye still hung over the city, as it had when I’d first seen it over a season ago. From there it looked down with its reptilian pupil at the strongest threat it faced; the advancing Sankto Glavos led by Inquisitor Baltimora.

  And then it blinked.

  Power flared, not in Market Square or at the site of the previous ritual’s warehouse, but strangely down by Fishmonger’s Gate.

  The surge in power wasn’t just a flash or pulse, but started as a ring of celestial sparks that rolled out across the city to doubly flare into life in a handful of locations: Wherever it found the Sankto Glavos and the cream of the Inquisition.

  Those flares pulsed as spheres of light, seeing me dazed. As quickly as they’d come, they were gone. Not just the sparks, but their targets. Gone forever.

  Yet, I knew to what fate – for I’d seen it in a vision!

  In an instant, Baltimora and his brethren were returned to the Holy City of Baimiopia in the distant south. Their arrival delivered fallen Ossard’s blunt rebuke. It was a bloody message to the mortal powers who thought themselves entitled to rule over all the Heletians.

  And I was doomed to witness the rebuke later by way of my dreams...

  Screams dragged my attention back to the battle, my eyes drawn to the carnage below: With the entire command of our ally’s attack doomed, any pretence at order fell apart. Soon, the inward traffic at the city’s gates changed direction, beginning to fill the vale with routed Loyalists as they sought to escape.

  Out in the sound, great jets of blue fire spewed out from the Fishing Wharves to engulf several of the Black Fleet’s closest ships. The unlucky craft burst into flames with a whump that made the people about me cry out. Angela, fearing for Silva, fell to her knees beside me and began to weep.

  The conflict had previously brought souls to me every moment, but now the toll roared into the scores per breath.

  Amidst that chaos I tried to follow the battle, but found it impossible. It was too big, too chaotic, too filled with death!

  With the city now a tapestry of blood, foiled plans and darkly successful feints, I tried to just focus on something small: The fate of Pedro and our volunteers.

  With the springing of the cultist trap it seemed that our volunteers were doomed. I could feel them; their panic and fear, their pain and wounds, and their very lives ending.

  So many lives!

  They’d thought they were blessed and safe, not believing that I’d leave them to their fate. I could feel their horrid surprise at the wounds they were taking, as their thoughts fell into shock and pain. But not before sampling their disappointment.

  Disappointment in me...

  My hunger snarled, hard and vicious, nearly getting away. The shock of its fury saw my legs give out, sending me dropping to my hands and knees.

  My followers’ souls were winking out and racing back to my own to hit like euphoric blows that saw my fingers dig deep into the turf while my heart thumped in my chest. Sweat rolled off me, while I shivered and cramped, drool streaming from my mouth.

  How my hunger fought and surged!

  All those sensations raced through me, growing wild and crazed. I was close to being overwhelmed, yet the slaughter below hadn’t peaked.

  My people were dying knowing I hadn’t protected them, that I’d chosen to let them ride to their doom – and yet, so many of their souls still came to me to await rebirth.

  If now hopeless.

  Oh, sweet Schoperde, I was supposed to be birthing hope, not killing it!

  And that stirred my fury.

  Pedro was down there; I could feel him, watching out for those around him and trying to lead amidst the turmoil of the street. He called out orders and stood against a rising tid
e of panic, trying to rally his people.

  I was so proud of him!

  And then an arrow took him in the side.

  I could sense him call out, begging for me to intervene and save his volunteers. “Juvela!”

  His wasn’t the only voice to call my name as arrows and stones rained down on our people, too many of them finding flesh and bone.

  “Oh, Juvela,” he begged, slumping against a wall. “Please!”

  A stone then hit him in the temple, coming hard and fast, launched from a cultist’s sling on an adjacent rooftop. His eyes rolled up to show their whites as his legs went out from under him, setting his body to slide down the wall and onto the blood-slick cobbles.

  I couldn’t deal with anymore of it.

  I took a deep breath, braced myself, and then went for all the power I could grab.

  I’d try to bless them!

  As soon as I touched the celestial the Prince’s protection fell apart.

  My dark hunger, so long restrained, now erupted like a volcano.

  The souls of the nearest volunteers down in the street, the ones I most wanted to bless, disappeared in a flash of celestial sparks as I ate of them. Others nearby – their enemies – also suffered.

  Once it began, I couldn’t stop.

  A moment later, I was gorging myself not on a few, but scores.

  And how my soul sang!

  I lost any sense of what I was doing as I gave into the ecstatic thrill. In that surging chaos, I ate of hundreds and tasted thousands.

  Including Pedro.

  Recognising him made me pause.

  From behind me, a big spectral hand closed over my mouth, the ghostly blue palm smothered with a bitter powder.

  Moonroot!

  It was such a big dose that I fell into unconsciousness, seeing my madness, at least for now, stopped.

  But it was too late.

  Chapter 36

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  A Woodland Trail