by Greg Curtis
She only just made it, barely taking half a dozen strides before she heard the sound that she knew was the building collapsing in on itself behind her. Elan couldn’t pay it much attention just then though as she immediately came face to face with a huge dire wolf. More by instinct and practice than anything else, Elan loosed an arrow straight at it, catching it in the very centre of its chest. Unfortunately it didn't even seem to slow it down as it rushed her. But luck was one her side as she threw herself to one side and stumbled, and in doing so narrowly escaped its teeth. And then even as she fell she managed to let fly another arrow at the next wolf she saw coming toward her. Elan whispered a word of thanks to all the trainers who had worked with her over the years, teaching her the fundamentals of archery. To all those painful hours they had made her spend mastering the weapon. They had taught her well.
By the time she finished tumbling however, explosions all around her had taken care of both wolves as well as deafening her and half blinding everyone with dust. Not that it mattered. Not when more wolves were heading her way. She could not stay here out in the open while dire wolves were running amok. She had to get to safety. And the only safety there was were the walls.
Elan ran as fast as she could, heart pounding, terrified with every step that a wolf would appear out of the dust storm around her to rip her throat out. Seconds later she made it across the compound to reach the walls and to the ladders that let her climb to the safety of the ramparts behind them.
Once there she collapsed. Exhausted, unable to catch her breath, heart pounding faster than was surely possible, she fell onto the hard wooden ramparts and gasped. All around her the battle raged. Surely there had to be hundreds of wolves inside the stockade? More. It was hard to be sure of anything as she lay there. The air was so filled with dust and smoke that most of those below were little more than shadowy outlines that moved and bled. And as for the rampart she was on, it was now only part of one. Fifty feet of rampart, now sat in isolation as huge holes in the wall on both sides had cut it off from the rest of the structure.
But that didn't matter she realised as she got to her feet after lying there like a helpless victim for entirely too long. She was up high, twelve feet or so off the ground and she had a bow. That was what mattered. That and killing the wolves. Elan took careful aim and started to pick off the wolves. Though there was a serious amount of dust and haze she could identify them as they appeared as larger smudges than the soldiers. The only problem was that one arrow was not enough to take them down. Her aim was good and her arrows buried themselves deeply in the flesh of the wolves. They howled their displeasure each time she hit them. But it took at least three or four hits to bring each one down and often enough they simply ran off with her arrows in their hide.
In time she was joined by others on her section of the rampart. A couple of rangers and a barbarian had the same idea she did and had climbed up the ladder. And together they started to take a greater toll on the wolves. Still, it wasn't enough. They had only so many arrows, and could only pull a string back so many times before their shoulder muscles turned to lumps of burning coal. But they did what they could, and as the dust finally began to settle she could see others on other sections of the wall doing the same. Many soldiers were down but the same could be said of the wolves. After a time she could see a distinct drop in the number of wolves charging through the gate. She had to hope that that was a sign that things were ending.
Abruptly her hopes turned to confusion as she saw Endorian Long being led away in chains. Full body chains that bound his wrists and feet. The chains cut so deep into his flesh that blood flowed. And the unexpected thing was that Elan could see he was being led away by Marclan.
Suddenly, with her eyes still blurry from the dust, she realised the truth! It wasn't Marclan. This man had less hair than Marclan and he was moving awkwardly. And though it was impossible, she finally recognised her enemy. It was Master Barachalla! There had never been a Marclan. Only an old man made young again for a time. All this time she'd thought that Marclan had been sickening with something. But he hadn't been. He'd been returning to his rightful age!
Instantly she saw him she knew the truth. He was the one who had destroyed her family. Endorian might have been lying about many things but he had spoken the truth about that. Barachalla was the mastermind behind her family's downfall. Realising that, hatred exploded within her heart, threatening to burst out of her chest. Elan screamed and loosed her arrow straight at his head, knowing it was a perfect shot despite the range.
Despite that it didn’t hit him. The man had some sort of invisible barrier around him and when the arrow hit it, it smashed into pieces and fell to the ground. A wall of nothing that was stronger than steel!
Marclan turned to face her, drew some sort of hand gun, and pointed it at her. A heartbeat later her world exploded as the rampart disintegrated underneath her while a force greater than any wind she had ever known picked her up and threw her to the ground below.
Elan hit the ground hard. Very hard. The air was driven from her lungs and she could taste blood in her mouth. The pain told her that some teeth had at least been loosened, and there was some sort of injury to her face. It also told her that she couldn't stand up. Something was wrong with her leg. With her hip as well, and maybe also her back. Elan felt the pain everywhere. And even though she desperately wanted to get up and kill the technologist, all she could do was lie there.
“Princess!”
She looked up from where she lay to see Barachalla standing over her, smiling and laughing. Behind him stood Long, obviously in pain and unable to do anything except be led around like a dog on a chain. The weapon Barachalla was holding in his hand was like no pistol she'd ever seen. It was huge, and had a hexagonal barrel – somewhat like the dwarves' weapons. But the bore was far too large, surely two inches across. Large enough to fire a cannon ball. Or a bomb!
“I wanted to thank you.” Barachalla’s grin grew broader. “You brought all the ingredients I needed together in one place. It was wonderful! I already had your mother of course. She works for me. Always has.” He stepped to one side then so that she could see her mother. She was still wild, baring her teeth, snarling and looking like she wanted to do nothing more than tear everyone's throats out. But the chain around her neck somehow prevented that. It controlled her in some way. So no matter how much she hated and wanted to kill, she had to obey.
Elan wanted to scream at him. To curse him. But she could barely manage a squeak as she saw her mother standing there. She had never felt so helpless in her entire life.
“But you brought me both your brothers and Long. I mean, I knew I could get your brothers when the time came, but I really had no idea where Long was. And without him, without his blood, I could never complete the experiment. And yet here he is!”
“Globe!” Elan tried to tell him that without the globe he still had nothing. That he was a dotard. And that she was going to kill him shortly. But all she could managed was that single gasped word.
“What about the globe, Princess?” Barachalla laughed some more at her, gloating. “I always had access to that.” He patted the satchel hanging from his shoulder.
“I mean, it took me years to work out what went wrong with the experiment. Why it didn't work. But I made certain that when the time was right and I had an answer, I would have the globe close at hand, ready for me to use. And when the time came I had your mother steal it for me. She really is quite obedient you know. Provided you know how to control her.” He patted some sort of bronze box on his belt.
“The experiment didn't take all of her mind you know. Just enough. She can still be trained. Just like a dog!”
Elan managed to suck a little air into her broken body, then reached for the dagger on her belt. But she was nowhere near well enough to pose any danger to Barachalla and the technologist knew it. A terrible truth that he brought home to her when he saw what she was doing, laughed and drew his hand weapon once more to poin
t it at her.
“But enough chit chat Princess. I suppose you'll never stop trying to hunt me down and kill me. It's time you join your father in the afterlife. But I promise you, you won’t be lonely. The rest of your family will be along soon enough!”
Time seemed to slow as Barachalla made to squeeze the trigger on the device. Simultaneously she heard an unexpected snarling come from somewhere behind the technologist The sound sent Barachalla spinning awkwardly around, just as a dark shape launch itself at him through the air. A wildcat. Then all the underworlds rose up from beneath them to swallow the world.
The weapon went off as the cat used its weight to separate the weapon from the technologist. It succeeded, and in doing so, the technologist was sent flying off to the side. Her mother and Long followed him. It seemed that he had somehow bound them to him by more than just the physical strength of the chains. But even though the shot missed her there was still thunder and fire everywhere. The ground shook and her ears exploded under the violent assault. Her skin burnt even under her clothes. And she felt as though she'd been punched. A single blow that had smashed into every part of her body all at once.
It left her shocked and dazed. Knowing she had to act, and yet unable to control whatever parts of her body still functioned at all. It took time to get anything working again. Too much time when she knew she could be killed at any moment. But it was all she could do.
By the time Elan started the painful attempt to reach her hands and knees, knife in hand, she saw that the technologist had returned, weapon missing, and deep trails of blood running across his arm and shoulder. He had been hurt. Maybe badly hurt. Good! She needed to finish the job.
She lunged for him as best she could from the ground, arm outstretched, dagger in hand, hoping at least to be able to stab him through the foot and skewer him to the ground. But he was simply too far away for her to reach and her blade smashed down harmlessly into the ground six inches from his toes. Elan pulled herself along the ground to grab at the dagger with the intent of throwing it at him, even as the wildcat snarled and leapt past her, straight at the ancient technologist's head.
Neither of them made it though. Suddenly a force came at them from out of nowhere, smashing into them, and sending them both flying. This time when she hit the ground, it hurt even more as she went tumbling crazily before finally coming to rest. But how had Barachalla been able to do that she wondered when she finally came to a stop? After all, Briagh had knocked the weapon out of his hands, hadn’t he?
The question was answered when she spotted the man standing beside Barachalla, helping him up, and understood. A man with stick like hands poking out of his robe. Fingers of unnatural length. At least on the hand she could see. The other was wood. And beneath his hood she could see what looked like bark. Bark covered with nodules and fungus. There were so many nodules, and they poked out at odd angles. The technologist had a wildred for an ally. A wildred! One who had taken over the battle for him.
The technologist and the wildred! Dark magic and mad science, working together. It was a dangerous combination. Especially when mixed with the relics of the ancients.
Elan turned to look over at Briagh. He had obviously been badly hurt. He'd been hurled into a broken piece of wall or part of a building, and a large piece of it was sticking into the gut of his panther’s form. It would be a lethal wound for most people. In fact, he should already be dead. But he was tough, and was slowly pulling himself off it even as he roared, leaving behind a barrel of blood. He was also a morph. He might survive even that.
He'd better, she thought as the world started going dark. Someone had to kill the bastard! And he seemed to have the best chance of slitting him open from gizzard to gut. After all, he'd defeated her twice, no matter how well she'd prepared. And even as she hated him for that, she welcomed his strength.
Smoke crossed her vision even as the morph finally freed himself, and there was another massive explosion. She guessed that Barachalla had got his weapon back. But if Briagh had been his target, he'd also missed. She knew that when she watched the streak of dappled panther sail over her, moving like the wind. And when she heard Barachalla scream in fear.
After that there was more screaming, more howling wind, more snarling and a lot more smoke and fire. But she had no idea who was winning. All she knew was that it was a battle. And that, she thought, as the last of the light finally left her eyes, was a good thing.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Pain. Life was really about pain and endurance. Why didn't more people understand that? It was the question that sat in the back of Briagh’s mind as he sat in the healers' tent beside Careyn, who was sleeping in her sick bed. It was so obvious to him. It should be to everyone.
But others didn’t see it. Hundreds were dead; hundreds more badly injured. But despite that the healers kept telling their patients that everything was going to be alright. It wasn't going to be alright! Not for those who had lost families. Not for those who had died. Not for those who would never fully recover.
It was especially not going to be alright for the hundreds of town’s folk who had been bitten, and who were even now locked away in every prison cell they could find. Because though they had only been wounded lightly, the expectation was that they would in time transform. And while that was bad enough for them, how much worse would it be for their loved ones? How could the healers even utter the false platitudes when they knew what was coming?
Father Argen was even worse in his unfailing optimism. He himself lay resting in his sick bed, barely half a dozen feet away, spouting out all his knowledge about what had happened, and how it all made sense. Now he kept telling them they had the knowledge to set things right. But nothing would ever be all right again! If you were lucky you would be killed outright rather than bitten and have to transform into a fanged monster. It would end a man's suffering, but more important it would save his family and friends from future suffering. Briagh ached to yell that at the priest. But he couldn't do that in a tent full of injured people.
Besides, he wasn't sure if he had the strength. He'd pulled himself off that splintered stake and shifted immediately. And then he'd kept shifting forms, using the magic of the shift to heal himself as best he could as he fought. It had helped. It had stopped most of the bleeding, reset his ribs and restored a little strength to him. Enough that he had frightened off Barachalla as he kept fighting. Him and the rangers who by then had started rushing back into the compound. Together they had been able to continue attacking the old man. They had forced him to flee.
But the shifting hadn’t healed him completely, as there was still some of the stake left inside him. Splinters of timber were still inside, sending occasional stabbing sensations through the gut. While shifting would heal the damage, until the splinters were removed, they would keep re-injuring him. He wouldn’t heal fully until his body finally expelled the last of them. In the meantime he would have to keep shifting forms. Which was why he was currently sitting there, stark naked with only a blanket to cover him. Careyn was not going to be impressed!
But for the moment she didn't know. She'd taken a hit to the head when a wall had fallen on her. The injury was a nasty one and kept bleeding, and ever since then she'd been slipping in and out of consciousness. It was so very wrong. She was the one fae he liked. Maybe more than liked. He did not want her to die! And despite the healers saying she had a very good chance of pulling through, she looked pale to him. Too pale.
“Stop brooding.” Captain Hillaren, another of his less than favourite people, spoke up from his own sick bed across the way. “It does not look good on a soldier.”
“I'm not a soldier. I'm a thief!”
Briagh didn't turn around to face him. Nor did he point out that with his right arm and left leg both in splints and plaster, the Captain didn't look much like a soldier just then either. That would have been cruel. Especially when so many others hadn't been as lucky as either of them.
The technologist's weapon
s had proven themselves to be supremely powerful. The hand weapon had shot out bombs that could knock down small buildings. He had also had a silver circlet on his wrist that had blasted lightning bolts. Those hit were killed instantly. Meanwhile the wildred, the most dangerous of all the casters of magic, had settled for sending blasts of force at people that had shattered bones and sent their bodies flying.
And then there were the wolves.
Perna Sil had been badly damaged. Hundreds of villagers had been injured. Many had been killed. But in truth the village had got off lightly. The stockade by contrast had been levelled. Hundreds of soldiers – barbarians and rangers both – had been killed. Burnt, blown up, electrocuted, torn apart by teeth and claws or simply crushed. Those like the Captain who lay in their sick beds were the lucky ones. The survivors.
“I wasn't meaning you! Careyn is a soldier. You should remember that. Underneath her long hair beats the heart of a woman who will always choose to stand between death and those she must protect. And she will not thank you for brooding over her. You should always remember that.”
“Besides, you fight like a soldier.”
