Only the monsignor did not move. He merely watched the scene unfold. His demeanor was unnaturally calm, as though this were not unexpected. Indeed, he seemed almost to enjoy what he was seeing. The only hint that he was not merely reading some dusty old tome was a flash in the brightness of his eyes.
Alaric and Jehan began their retreat back toward the holes they had cut in the tent. They knew their best hope was to get out and get away. They gave ground willingly but tactically. They never let down their guard as they steadily moved toward freedom.
With four opponents, they were hard pressed. The Fueren lacked any but the most basic skill, but they made up for that with speed and strength. No longer taken off guard, none of the three remaining Fueren were so easily defeated. Even the one which had been disarmed could not be overlooked; from its hands it produced two-foot long spikes. Sir Gyire lacked the shear strength and speed of the Fueren, but he was an incredibly skilled swordsman.
Foot by foot Alaric and Jehan ceded ground. Their weapons worked in a flurry to keep their opponents’ strikes from finding their flesh. When they thought they had an opportunity, they would strike back. Though they were never struck, they similarly failed to draw blood from their opponents.
After what could only have been a few seconds, but felt like hours, they reached the back wall. Cool night air wafted in, teasing them with their proximity. The Fueren redoubled their attacks, preventing Alaric and Jehan from being able to break free and exit the tent.
“Alaric, go!” Jehan barked again. He lunged forward, suddenly pressing the attack and taking the attention of all four of their opponents for a split second.
As much as he hated it, Alaric knew his duty. He had to escape if either of them were going to have a chance. He ducked his head, turned, and threw himself from the tent. Almost distantly he heard the sergeant yell in rage and pain. Without looking back, he regained his legs and began to run to back to where they had left Sir Rodick.
He did not make it ten steps. Seemingly from out of nowhere, he was surrounded by scores of the Fueren. Not all of them were armed, but from experience he knew that did not matter. Seeing no other alternative, he began to return to the tent. Those odds were low enough that he might be able to join up with Jehan, if he still lived, and press an attack on the monsignor. With luck that could win them their freedom.
It was not to be. Before he could fully turn, he sensed a large presence behind him. An animal growl was the only warning he received before a massive blow landed just behind his ear. Pain and nausea exploded in Alaric. The world tilted and the ground rose to meet him. He slammed into the ground, unconscious before he registered the impact.
CHAPTER 29
A sound like a million angry bees filled Alaric’s head. His eyes refused to open, and his body felt like he’d taken forty lashes in the public square. But that was all he could feel. He could not feel a floor, or chains, or a breeze on his face.
It took all the willpower he could muster to open his eyes. When he did, he could not quite process what he was seeing. The air around him shimmered and changed color randomly. Every so often forks like lightning, though in chromatic diversity he’d never seen with lightning, seemed to shoot through that shimmering wall. Beyond, he could see the camp around him. Fueren were still excavating the pit; the tent still stood where it had. But they were all below him.
Looking down on the camp, his mind slowly swam to coherence. He was in some sort of magical bubble. Looking to the side, he saw Sergeant Jehan, pale and obviously wounded, lying nearby. So it wasn’t a bubble; it was some kind of cage or cell.
He saw that he was still clothed, and he still had his boot dagger. With nothing better to do, he decided to probe the cell itself. First he forced himself to stand. His head swam as blood rushed from it. For a moment it was all he could do not to fall over. After the faintness had passed, he began to pace off the cell. Though translucent, the walls felt completely solid. Walking the cell, he determined it to be a rough square of approximately fifteen feet on a side.
Seeing that no one was taking particular notice of him, he pushed firmly against the wall. It was firm, but yielded slightly to the pressure. He decided to redouble his efforts and pushed harder. With a sizzling snap he was thrown to the far side of the cell. Multicolored lightning danced around him and his muscles contracted and relaxed of their own accord.
“That was a lousy idea,” he muttered to himself.
As soon as he was able, he stood and resumed his investigation of the magical cell. Shocks would shoot through his body, causing him to twitch. Feeling the walls, he determined they were at least as high as he could reach. He even tried jumping; he found they were at least that tall as well.
His investigation as complete as it could be, he bent to the sergeant to examine his wounds. Lifting and turning him carefully to carry out a full inspection, he determined the wounds were fairly minor. The sergeant had received two stab wounds in back of the shoulders; these seemed almost purely superficial. More concerning was a nasty lump on the back of the man’s head; though Alaric was certain he had one as well. The wounds on the back had already stopped bleeding, and even if he had the means, it was already too late to do anything about any infection. Alaric settled his companion to be as comfortable as possible. There was little more he could do.
Alaric slumped down to the floor of the mysterious prison and began observing the activity around him. If he and Jehan managed to escape, or if rescue came, any information he could glean now would be useful. Also, it gave him something to do.
He first turned his attention to the large pit being dug by the monstrous Fueren. What he had taken originally for a simple pit turned out to be a very precise excavation. Three walls of the pit were stepped into increasingly smaller tiers. The fourth wall appeared to be straight and fairly smooth. After staring at it for a while, he decided it was not a natural formation. That made it a wall of some kind. If that had been the level of the ground when these ruins had originally been built, that made the walls standing now some sixty feet or taller down to their foundations.
As he watched, the Fueren worked with deceptive dexterity at clearing sand and debris away from that wall. They would fill buckets with the sand and detritus of the excavation. Those buckets would then be removed and replaced with empty buckets. The filled buckets would then be dumped and returned to the dig and the cycle would repeat. It was clear they were looking for something either in or on the wall. Alaric guessed that whatever entrance the monsignor was talking about was the object of their search.
He watched for some time and came to realize the truth of Gyire’s complaint. Though the Fueren worked hard and were quite careful, their pace was slow. He saw one whose hands had been replaced with claws like a great scorpion scoop up sand. It would shovel a huge mound of the sand which would then slide off those smooth claws and back to the ground. For every scoop he lifted, he was able to deposit little more than a large handful into the bucket beside him.
After several minutes, he turned his eyes to the rest of the camp. It still appeared there were no guards on duty. Bitterly, Alaric decided it was because they decided they did not need any. No one was supposed to know where they were, and the Fueren were formidable enough that any accidental discovery by scouts could probably be put down with relative ease.
Despite the fact there were no sentries, there were obvious overseers. Some of them appeared mostly human, though even they had been transformed by whatever demons possessed them. One overseer had horns like a ram sprouting from an otherwise human head. Its knees were reversed like the back legs of a goat or a bull, but it wore boots; Alaric assumed it had human feet. After brief consideration he decided that those were the most disturbing.
As the sun grew overhead, the heat in the translucent cell rose as well. With no shade to get under, Alaric felt as though he were roasting. He loosened his clothing as much as he could, but kept it around and over him. Preserving what moisture he could would likely be very i
mportant. He only hoped they were watered before Jehan died from the heat.
Suddenly, the temperature dropped. Between one moment and the next the sweat on Alaric’s body froze. His skin puckered with chill-bumps, and his breath began to hang in the air.
“Frost Fiends,” he breathed.
He turned to find them and saw three advancing from the Border. All three had the tell-tale streak of silver indicating they were the Frost Fiends’ equivalent of chiefs or war leaders. Two of them seemed of a size with the one he and Kahji had battled several weeks prior. As he looked closer, he decided that one of them was that Silverback. The third towered over the first two as Kahji towered even over his own race. Standing easily ten feet tall, this Silverback was decorated with colored beads and what appeared to be woven hair.
Alaric’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. As he looked at the great fiend, he saw a spot of blue, darker than the rest, on the beast’s leg. Images forced their way into his consciousness, nearly overwhelming him. This was the beast responsible for his friends’ death. This was the great Silverback he had wounded all those months ago. His eyes narrowed in rage.
“One way or another,” he whispered the promise to himself, “you are dead. So help me, God.”
Flanked by four of the overseers, Gyire rushed forward to meet the Silverbacks, “My master and yours bids you welcome. He will join us momentarily. Until then, I am at your service.”
The largest of them spoke the first words Alaric had heard from a Frost Fiend. “Whether your master is ours remains to be seen, servant. And your service will not be required. Bring the one who claims to be my master to me.” His guttural voice carried with it the cold of mountains in high winter. Where Alaric’s breath hung as mist in the air, every word spoken seemed to make the air yet colder.
Gyire visibly had to restrain himself. He obviously bristled at the dismissal but knew that arguing would get him nowhere. He turned sharply on his heel and began to lead the three Silverbacks to the large pavilion.
Before they reached the large tent, the monsignor came striding out. No longer dressed in robes, he wore loose pants and no shirt. His pale flesh positively glowed in the late morning sunlight. His ribs stood out against the skin of his chest. Strange patterns covered his body in blue, black, red, and brown. Alaric first thought they were tattoos, but they began shifting as he walked, forming and reforming patterns and changing color seemingly at random.
He drew himself to his full height. It should have looked pathetic against the massive forms of the Frost Fiends. Somehow, it didn’t. Though he had stopped several feet short of them and still had to cock his head back, he stared them in the eyes. His eyes blazed with the same purple fire Alaric had seen previously.
He addressed them in his echoing, hollow voice, “My faithful servants.”
“That remains to be seen,” the leader snarled.
“Do not test me, Rajack. You will not like the result.”
“Why have you called us here, One Who Would Be Our Master?”
“You are here as witnesses to my return to glory. As my power grows, I will send you to my other servants, and we will once again walk in the world.”
“You speak of a return to glory, but all I see are a coward, an old man, and twisted souls. What power have you over us?”
“I have the power of Corruption, and of Chaos. You know my name, Rajack, speak it and know I am your master.”
“Still you speak. I have seen no demonstration of power. I was called to witness a return to glory, but all I see is someone playing in the sand. My master had power. My master would not have relied on these twisted, cursed creatures.”
With every word the monsignor grew more outraged. The patterns on his skin moved with his agitation. The purple fire in his eyes flared and snapped. His hands clenched along with his teeth.
Finally, in a rage, he reached out one had toward the one he had called Rajack. Though many feet still separated the two, he clenched his hand as though grasping something and lifted. As his hand jerked up, the colossal Frost Fiend was yanked from his feet. The monsignor spun and swung his arm. As he did, Rajack followed the trajectory of the arm, and flew into a wall nearly one hundred feet away. Sand and rubble cascaded down to land on him.
With a roar the Frost Fiend surged to his feet. Murder was in his eyes. Before he could make any further movements, the Monsignor reached out again. When he closed his hand this time, the Silverback’s eyes bulged and its massive taloned hands reached for its throat. It hung in the air with its feet unable to reach the ground. Quickly its enraged snarls turned into frightened mewling.
The monsignor released the Frost Fiend and spoke again, “Say my name and know your master, Servant of Chaos.”
The massive Frost Fiend gaped. As it opened its maw to speak trumpets sounded, and all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER 30
Alaric turned his head toward the sound of the trumpet. For a moment, he could not comprehend what he was seeing. Then the separate images snapped into focus. A force of about twenty knights and what must have been nearly one hundred Igni came charging toward the camp. At the fore rode Martin, dressed for battle, and Kahji easily keeping up with Martin’s charging steed.
“You fools!” the monsignor boomed and turned to face the onrushing horde. Before the rescue force could reach him, the Fueren fell upon them from all sides. In a flash, battle was fully joined. Fully armed and armored knights fought in groups of three; they were still hard pressed against the vicious demons. Igni battled them one-on-one with only slightly more success.
From his floating prison, Alaric could tell these monsters would not fall as easily as those he had fought before. Obviously when they first changed something was different. Perhaps it was that they were not used to their forms, or perhaps some change in their perceptions, but whatever the reason, the beasts he had fought seemed positively slow and clumsy in comparison to the Fueren fighting now.
The trumpet blast, Alaric decided, had been unwise. Yes, it startled the camp, but it served more to warn them of the approaching danger than any positive purpose. Already he could see the knights having to fight almost purely defensively. Even the Igni found themselves forced to team up against the formidable beasts. Only Kahji was able to fight one-on-one, and that was taking too long. Even he could only keep up his furious tempo for just so long.
“Kahji! Martin! Find some way to get us down; then we can retreat!”
The massive War Leader and his brother both looked up just long enough to confirm they had heard him, and then they returned to their fights. Alaric knew they could not do much; their hands were already full. He had to find something useful to do; there had to be some way he could help.
Almost automatically, he found himself analyzing the battle. The knights had fallen into groups of three. This gave them support in case they missed a block or parry, but still left each with enough room to maneuver for better position. Most of the Igni were now fighting in pairs. The Fueren seemed to have no cohesion at all. They might group up with as many as four or five on one group of knights or Igni, or one might try to take on a whole group by itself. At the back of the fight, the three Silverbacks, Gyire, and Manitoc all stood; they seemed almost disinterested in the fight.
With no one coordinating their actions, the knights and Igni kept being driven back. Each group or pair cooperated well enough, but they were so involved with the opponent right in front of them that they often missed an exposed enemy within their reach. Alaric decided to fix that.
First, he needed the men to form into squads. With twenty knights, he figured two groups of ten would be the best option; each of those could then subdivide as the situation demanded.
“Heavy horse, form by squadrons, collect and defend!” he shouted. The last portion of his command would have them all move toward each other and focus fully on defense until the squads were formed. The order to “collapse” would have had those in the van move back to the rear, and the o
rder to “advance” would have had those in the rear fight their way forward.
As they formed their squads, Alaric turned his eyes to the Igni. His job here was complicated both by the number of Igni and the fact he did not know what commands they used in combat. He decided to yell suggestions to Kahji and let him handle turning them into orders.
“Kahji, your Igni need to form a line of battle! They’re surrounded on three sides, have them form, and then have half turn perpendicular! You hold the right and center, and the knights will hold the left! Once we’ve stabilized the lines, we can fight our way out!”
Kahji roared something in his own language. Alaric could not really understand it; he could read Igni script well enough, but he’d never mastered the spoken form of the language. He had to assume Kahji had heard and was listening, however, because the Igni fell back to the Knights and formed a double line.
“Heavy horse, hold the line left!” It would do no good to have the Igni form their line and for the knights not to be in position.
Alaric watched for torturously long moments as the lines formed. By the time they succeeded, several knights and Igni lay on the ground. Whether they were merely incapacitated or dead Alaric could not tell. He simply had to hope they were alive, or at least that they had not died in vain.
With some semblance of order now given to his own lines, the tide of battle quickly shifted. Even though no tactics beyond the lines had been used, the Fueren were so disorganized that the knights and Igni were quickly able to begin regaining ground. When three of the beast-men would gang up on one knight or warrior, the companions at his sides would quickly take advantage of their enemies’ exposure and attack; this never failed to at least drive them back. The Fueren started falling fairly quickly.
Alaric knew this was a dangerous time. He knew how potent the Silverbacks could be, and he’d seen what he was sure was only a small taste of the monsignor’s power. The fight would have to be taken to them before they could decide where to intervene. With every passing moment and every fallen demon the enemy commanders became much more agitated. If pressed, Alaric would have guessed the Frost Fiends were becoming less sure of the monsignor’s power, and the monsignor was getting more agitated because his troops were not the insurmountable foe he had thought.
Fire and Frost (Seven Realms Book 1) Page 19
