Arron returned with the map board. Wyat dragged over a table and began studying the map with his lieutenants.
“Del, get ready to start bringing the men through,” Wyat said. “Move them to the Magelight Market here to form up. We’ll be marching for the gates within the hour.”
“You sure about this?” Arron asked Nera, drawing Zita’s attention back to the siblings, who stood near her. “You said yourself—there’s no going back once it is done.”
“Aye. Malek won’t be coming back, and I’ve a city to save.” She turned toward Zita, who was taken aback at how careworn her friend looked. Nera’s face looked tired and haggard, eyes red as if she’d been weeping recently. She evidently was bearing some heavy burden yet seemed to carry a newfound strength, too—a confidence of command, and the men seemed to defer to her.
I’ve missed quite a lot, I see.
“What are you planning to do?” Zita asked. “Surely you two should leave the fighting to the warriors.” She nodded at Wyat and his men.
“We’re all warriors now, like it or not—either that or dead,” Arron remarked drolly.
“Aye, Arron’s right. I mean to fight alongside my companions.” Nera placed her fingers to her temples as if massaging a headache. “And somehow, I must commune with my mother. Nexus rests on a knife’s edge. I’ve put it off long enough—the time to regain my spark is now.”
Zita had no idea what she meant but didn’t question it. The day was getting more ominous and bizarre by the minute.
***
Wyat was consulting with Delmer in the Magelight Market when a young sergeant of the Watch approached them.
“The Steel Rage! I won’t ask how you got here, but we’re damned happy to see you!” The sergeant couldn’t have been much older than twenty but looked weary and careworn. His surcoat was torn and his shield and armor battered from recent action.
Wyat stepped forward. “I’m Wyat, Commander of the Steel Rage. Who are you?”
“Traven, sir. Sergeant Traven.” He clasped hands with Wyat.
“What’s the situation, Sergeant?”
“For the most part, they are still mustering out on the Ashen Planes. They’ve sent a few sorties in to attack the gate, but so far we’ve fought them off. If they make a serious advance, we won’t be able to hold.”
“Who’s got command? Fergeas in charge? Or someone with the Magehunters?”
Traven shook his head. “Nay, Fergeas was slain in his home two nights past when the demons got inside the wall, as were two other captains. Assassinations, we think to keep us disorganized. Lassiter hasn’t been seen for weeks. As it stands, Barristal is in command.”
“Barristal! I shoulda known that tough old bastard was still kicking.” He turned to Del. “Hold the company here. I’ll be back shortly after I figure out what’s going on. All right, take me to Barristal, lad.”
Wyat followed Traven down the street towards the city gates. He was shocked at the condition of the city. They passed whole blocks burned to the ground—only scorched beams and ashes remained of numerous homes and shops. Many of the stores not burned had been broken into and looted.
The streets were nearly deserted. None of the usual trade or commerce was present. The few people he saw on the streets were beggars and looked too sickly and starved to last much longer. The air was stale and reeking of smoke and refuse. A corpse lay in an alleyway right off the street, its throat slit.
“Gods, man! The city truly is falling on its own. They just need to wait it out.” He coughed and spat some phlegm caught in his throat.
“Aye, it’s been a damned nightmare trying to keep order—we need about twice the men just to keep order, not to mention who’s going to man the walls? Fortunately, after the violence got so bad, most everyone wised up and hunkered down, afraid to leave their homes and hidey-holes. Made our jobs a bit easier, but then all of this happened.” He waved as they entered the square right off the city gates.
The area was bustling with activity. A group of soldiers were drilling some green citizen conscripts. Fletchers were busy making arrows from the limited supply of wood. A blacksmith was set up, mending armor and sharpening swords. The Watch were thick atop the city walls.
Barristal’s bellow was distinctive from a distance, even above the clamor. “More freelance mercenaries? Aye, we’ll take them. Have them fall in with Reece’s lot—he’ll find a place for them. Anybody seen Kaloris? No? Well, damn it, where’s that wench run off to now?”
The captain sat at a table under a canopy at the edge of the square, a stack of missives before him. Traven stepped forward and caught Barristal’s attention.
“What is it, Traven? Aren’t you supposed to be drilling these volunteers?”
“Captain, I’ve brought some aid.” Traven gestured over his shoulder at Wyat.
“Well, I’ll be buggered with a rusty pike! The Steel Rage is back in Nexus? Wyat, you old dog! Tell me you’re fully manned!”
“Aye, that we are, Captain.” Wyat strode forward and clasped hands with the grizzled old captain. “The Rage are at the disposal of the Nexus defense. Where would you like us?”
“Ah, that brings me some comfort, knowing we got some men that won’t piss themselves at the first sight of a fiend. I’ll have you anchor the left flank. Mostly rabble on that side—volunteers, adventurers, and some freelance mercenaries. I need a stout wall on that side. Reece’s lot is taking the right flank, the Watch in the center.”
“The flank?” Wyat asked in surprise. “You mean to march out to face them?”
“Aye, at least that way, we take advantage of the Funnel so they can approach in limited numbers. I’ve got archers and pikemen lined up all along the wall. There’s no doubt they will crush us if they get to the gates. At least this way, we can buy some time and hope the Pale Lord gets off his arse and sends us some help. From the looks of things, they aren’t about to wait too much longer,” he said grimly.
Traven blanched at the blatant disrespect shown by the captain, but Wyat wasn’t surprised in the least. Barristal was the toughest old bastard in the Nexus Watch, and if the Pale Lord took issue with it, he’d face him as stony faced as he did any other threat.
I doubt any help will come from that quarter. Nera will figure out a way to come through for us.
Wyat didn’t argue with Barristal’s logic. He would’ve preferred to man the walls, but he trusted the captain’s military instinct. Holding them on the Ashen Planes would give Nera time to do what she had to do.
“I’d like to get a look at what we’re dealing with,” he said.
A messenger ran up, drawing Barristal’s attention, and the captain said, “Aye, of course, Wyat. Traven, show him to the wall.”
Wyat climbed the broad stairs, noting the blood and darker ichor staining the steps, as well as scorch marks on the inside of the wall itself, where spells had been cast.
“Good thing they were able to hold the gates—if they’d lost that, the battle would’ve been over already.”
“Aye, Commander. It was a narrow victory, but with the help of those monks, we held.”
“Monks?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“Aye, about a dozen of them. They rushed in here like a gust of wind and swept aside those fiends—enough for us to regroup. After the battle, they disappeared again.”
Before Wyat could reply, he got a glimpse at the legions lined up on the Ashen Planes. “Gods,” he whispered.
Thousands upon thousands were lined up in formations, which was curious, given the chaotic nature of the fiends. Clearly, a great willpower was mustering them into disciplined positions. Units of armored uvkra, drolnac, laksaar, krabuk, and others were just visible in the distance. Towering vezarun and other lords commanded them, wading through their ranks with cracking whips. Dark avian forms circled overhead. And behind them, four portals were open that he could see, and still the Abyss was emptying as demons came through in handfuls at a time, where they were pressed into units.
The defenders were counting on the Pale Lord to save them, even largely absent from the current crisis as he’d been. Wyat, being a betting man, put his money on Nera instead.
Chapter 28
The Steel Rage had been in position for barely half an hour when the order came for the legions of the Abyss to march. Nera imagined it took a lot of effort on the overlords’ part to keep the fiends in a disciplined formation. The commander of the horde was evidently satisfied with outnumbering the defenders by ten to one, a margin that kept growing as long as the portals remained open.
The city walls loomed at the defenders’ backs, forming a V that gave the area the nickname of the Funnel. At the point of the V stood the steel gates of the city. Nera felt the walls’ comforting presence, twenty paces high and solid, enchanted with powerful magics. Archers and pikemen roamed the tops to support the troops on the ground and prevent the enemy from scaling them. Mages readied spells to hurl down onto the horde. Comforting as the walls were at their backs, the defenders themselves could be smashed against those same walls just as easily if they didn’t hold.
Nera wondered if somewhere within the city, the clashes between her father and the Pale Lord continued—brothers continuing the epic struggle they had commenced millennia ago. The Engineer had gone mad during his time in the Abyss, and she knew now her father cared naught for the city—he’d rather it be burned to ash and smashed to rubble, the streets running red with blood. He would not repair the Machine until his brother was cast down and he could seize power for himself. The power of the two brothers, had they been sane enough to set aside their quarrel, could’ve delivered Nexus from its peril, she suspected, yet that was not to be.
She didn’t know if her father would be an even more terrible ruler than his brother had been. The Pale Lord was a feared and ruthless ruler yet largely absent from daily activities. His chancellor carried out the city’s day-to-day business through his agents. Perhaps that was the city’s need. With either too much good or evil influence, the balance would be upset. Nexus’s purpose was to be a neutral crossroads, where those of good or evil persuasions could pass through and conduct their business without judgement or retribution.
Could I be a fair and just ruler? Surely, others have the wisdom necessary for such a heavy burden. Perhaps with the support of Arron and my friends, I won’t stray into too much trouble.
Nera’s introspection was interrupted by the booming of war drums. Their deep reverberation echoed across the plains, filling the hearts of the defenders with dread.
Then, the horde began to march.
A full-on charge was a more accurate description, as the discipline wavered and broke with the demons’ bloodlust.
Nera stood beside Wyat, eyes wide at the thousands of fiends racing across the Ashen Plain. The thick ash formed a cloud in the air around them, churned up by thousands of clawed feet.
As the demons entered the Funnel, arrows and spells rained down on them from atop the walls. The initial scores were decimated and quickly trampled into the ash by the thousands behind them.
“Loose arrows,” Wyat bellowed beside her, breaking her reverie.
The Steel Rage’s archers sent a hail of arrows into the first ranks of the charging demons. A few dozen stumbled and fell, but that barely made a dent in their numbers. The archers scrambled to reload for a few more volleys before the horde would be on them.
The stakes were lost on nobody. Fail, and Nexus would fall. The defenders would be slaughtered, the citizens butchered and devoured. Failure was not an option.
“Shields up, swords ready!” Wyat shouted to his line of infantry. He glanced at Nera, and his face softened. “Ready yourself, Nera. Stay close to me, and you’ll be all right.” Wyat’s voice almost held conviction, for which she silently thanked him.
She patted his mailed forearm. “If only that was the truth, old friend. We’ve had many adventures together, yet this may be the last.”
“Then may it be the greatest stand ever, one to inspire the bards for hundreds of years. Where’s that brother of yours? A pity I won’t have the honor of dying beside him as well.”
The horde was thirty paces and closing fast. The second volley of arrows struck, dropping another few dozen fiends.
“Arron’s got something grand in mind. In fact… there!” She pointed excitedly as a huge, powerful form flew over the city walls, streaking low.
“Balor’s balls! Burn those bloody bastards, Arron!”
The dragon dove toward the mercenary company, causing them to shift nervously. Arron soared smoothly overhead, great wings buffeting them with wind as he pulled up, rearing back and unleashing his deadly breath on the horde.
A searing blast of flames consumed the first few ranks of the horde. Arron swept his head from side to side, bathing the charging demons with a steady blast of fire. Whatever fire resistance the fiends might’ve had was of no protection against magical dragonfire.
When the fire subsided, Arron pumped his wings and gained altitude. Hundreds of demons had been reduced to blackened shells upon the ground.
Spears flew from the horde, most glancing off Arron’s scaled hide, yet a couple pierced the leathery skin of his wings. One wicked black spear, hurled by a vezarun and undoubtedly cursed with some fell enchantment, pierced his side. The dragon roared in pain and anger, twisting and snapping at the offending weapon and nearly losing altitude in the process. The fiends shouted in glee, resuming their charge.
But Arron was not yet done. He dove into the horde, crushing demons beneath his bulk, claws tearing them apart. His tail lashed wildly, hurling a couple dozen out of the way. He reared back and breathed again, blasting a gap in the lines as wide as half a dozen oxcarts.
“For Nexus!” roared the men of the Watch, emboldened by the mighty dragon’s aid. They advanced, pressing the assault.
Wyat ordered his men forward, and they held up the Watch’s flank, advancing slowly.
Putrid vapors rose from the blackened corpses as they trod over them, the scorched remains crumbling to black ash beneath their boots.
Then, they met the horde head on. The fiends were disorganized, giving the raging dragon a wide berth, and weren’t forming back up in spite of the efforts of the overlords’ lashes. The brave defenders of Nexus—the Watchmen, mercenary companies, citizen conscripts, and hastily formed bands of adventurers—all charged into the chaotic horde.
The disciplined Steel Rage slammed into the fiends, swords slicing and cleaving through the ragged groups of lesser fiends, primarily laksaar and krabuk. Men and beasts fought, snarls and shouts and curses mixed with the clash of steel and claw. A man fell in front of Nera, and a lean laksaar leaped over the soldier’s corpse. Wyat stepped forward to meet it, slamming the fiend back with his shield. His longsword swept its head free of its body.
Three more took its place, pressing Wyat back. Nera darted in and drove Lightslicer and her second dagger, lightly enchanted and replenished from Zita’s armory, to their hilts in a laksaar’s back. It squealed and fell. She dodged another’s slashing claws and opened its throat with Lightslicer. Wyat cut down the third.
The men efficiently closed the gap in the line and pushed forward. Arron was fighting to get into the air, some drolnac and armored demons clinging to him, fell weapons striving to pierce his hide. Mighty as her brother was in his true form, not even he could survive such odds for long. None of them could.
Scores of demons kept pouring from the portals like a foul, poisonous floodwater, reinforcing the units still held back. The defenders’ charge was eventually pushed back by their foes’ sheer numbers.
Somewhere out there amongst the defenders, her friends fought, having bolstered some of the conscripts and volunteer units. Endira, Idrimel, Yosrick, even Waresh. Perhaps they had already fallen. She had no w
ay of knowing.
“Sabyl, what must I do? How can I save Nexus?” she called softly into the chaos of battle.
Pain suddenly tore through her leg. Looking down, she saw a serrated spike sticking out of her thigh. A spiny demon, half again her height, snarled and threw another spine at her, but she ducked it. With a curse, she limped forward, daggers raised.
The creature roared a challenge. As she watched, spines grew from its hands, which it loosed at her. She dodged the first, but the second pierced her right shoulder. Spasms of pain knifed down her arm, and she nearly dropped Lightslicer.
Wyat was suddenly there. The big man charged into the beast, his sword hacking off its arm at the elbow. It roared and spun, driving a spine into Wyat’s side with its remaining hand. The big man grunted and staggered away. The two sized each other up a moment, the man leaking blood and the fiend’s stump spewing black ichor.
Simultaneously, they came at each other again. Wyat brought his shield between them. The steel screeched as the beast’s spikes tore at him. Neither could land a blow, and they grunted and heaved. Wyat’s boots slid as he was forced backward in the loose ashen ground.
“Shield high!” Nera shouted. Not waiting for him to comply, she darted past him.
Wyat grunted and raised his shield at the last moment. Nera stabbed with Lightslicer, feeling it punch into the demon’s scaly chest. It squealed in pain and fell back, clutching its wound. Wyat slashed and opened its belly. Entrails spilled onto the ground. The creature’s wounds were too great—it convulsed and fell. Wyat brought his sword down and stabbed it through the skull, silencing the beast.
“Wyat, your side…”
His cuirass and mail were stained with blood. “Eh, I’ll survive. You got it worse than I.” He pointed at the spines piercing Nera’s leg and shoulder.
Although her wounds were painful, nothing vital was injured. Nera didn’t know if she could say the same for Wyat. Her right hand was going numb from the spasms of pain, so she switched Lightslicer to her Abyssal iron hand, sheathing the second dagger to avoid losing it.
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