“This is bullshit,” another man replied. “Gonna get me a warm and juicy cunny after this shit is done with.” That got a few chuckles from the mercenary’s neighbors.
“Doesn’t seem to be that many. The Great Tree looks to be doing an excellent job defending itself. Not sure they even need our help. Maybe we should go on back a mile or so, set up camp, wait them out?” Scab said, brushing a bit of crust from his collar.
“No. Are you insane? No, no, don’t answer that. I already know,” Walter said, raising his palm and swallowed. “What’s your plan, Scab?”
Scab snorted. “We are really doing this, aren’t we?”
“This is what we’re paying you for.”
“I don’t like getting wet. Tired of being wet. When do we get paid again?” Scab asked.
“When we return to Helm’s Reach, damn it.” Walter thought he should feel a greater sense of urgency, but the Death Spawn around the tree didn’t seem to be getting very far. Walter saw why now. Archers stood on the huts and the bridges, shooting down at them. There were about two hundred Cerumal by Walter’s guess, and behind them were Black Wynches, likely giving them telepathic commands.
“Why is this place so important?” Scab sighed, half-smiled and looked back at his men.
The truth was, Walter didn’t know why. But what he did know was that anything the Death Spawn wanted to destroy, he wanted to protect. Baylan and Nyset had said it was one of the main footholds of the realm. The others were the Silver Tower and Midgaard. The Silver Tower had already been taken and another couldn’t fall. “Because I said so.”
“Touchy, touchy.” Scab snickered.
“Knowledge,” Grimbald grunted. “The Shamans who live here know the old ways, know the Old Magic. I heard it was similar to the Tower, but instead of writing things down, they practice and pass things on through stories. People that avoid reading books sound like a people worth saving to me,” he muttered.
“Huh.” Walter crossed his arms. “Interesting.” Walter did indeed find the subject fascinating but was growing weary of all this useless prattle. “Scab? Let’s go. What’s the plan?” Walter watched a few of the Black Wynches waving their spindly arms, talons reflecting the light of sobering fires. A wave of lion’s roars carried over the bog. The Cerumal were screaming and scrambling up the Great Tree like rats fleeing at the sight of fire.
“Looks like they finally found their courage,” Grimbald said, exhaling with what must have been all the air in his lungs.
“Alright, listen closely. I’ll send half of my men around the other side with Wart, my dutiful second, he’ll take the other bridges. It looks like there’s a set like these two on the other side.” He peered into the fog.
“What?” Wart asked from behind a few men, pushing his way through and shouldering past them. “What am I doing?”
“Take your men, bring ‘em round the other side. We’ll attack here. When the Death Spawn flee, you rout them from that side.”
“Yes, sir,” Wart snapped. “I’ll get those dogs moving.”
“Head off down the path a bit and wait for my signal before the…” Scab coughed, “the mobilization.”
“Right you are, Scab.” Wart trudged off.
“Death Spawn don’t run,” Walter said.
“Doesn’t matter.” Scab waved him off, his gloves reeking like they’d recently been used to wipe his ass. “If they don’t run or try to out maneuver us, come in at them and we’ll squeeze them in a brutal pincer formation!” He used his thumb and index finger to form a claw. “Then we’ll crush them!” He dramatically snapped his pincer closed.
“Sounds reasonable.” Walter nodded. “Grim?”
“Hopefully, they don’t mistake us for the enemy. Don’t want to get burned by whatever they were—” An explosion roared over the bog and flames leapt from the tree’s roots. Walter caught the glint of glass tumbling in the air. He tracked the glimmer, watched it collide on a root and burst alight in a torrent of fire. A few Cerumal were caught in the conflagration, screeching and diving into the bog, likely forgetting how shallow it was. Their bodies crumpled when they struck the water, their shattered limbs settling into unnatural formations. Soft ripples reached the mud where he stood, lapping against a tree. Walter reckoned you’d forget a lot of things when your skin was cooking.
“Suppose there’s that answer,” Grimbald said. “Least the fire is from something you can see.” He had Corpsemaker in one hand, his father’s axe, Lovebleeder, in its holster on his back.
Walter felt his forearm sore with tension, muscles in his stump firing in a fury of confused contractions, knuckles bone white. He couldn’t stand here idle any longer. It had taken all his willpower to remain as long as they already had. “We’ve wasted enough time already. Let’s get moving while their backs are turned.”
“Wait—” Scab gripped Walter’s shoulder, his eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. “Grimbald had a fair observation. What if they think we’re the enemy? I never planned to die by fire.”
“Should’ve picked another profession, c’mon!” Walter pushed his hand off and started down the bridge, wisps of fog curling around his legs.
“All things are eventual, I suppose,” Scab muttered, then issued a series of sharp whistles, snapping his men into motion.
“What’s that fucking whistle mean?” someone asked. “I forget. Whistles to us like we’re a bunch of bloody dogs.”
Walter’s boots thudded against the mossy wood, muffling someone’s reply to the man asking about the whistle. Grimbald followed behind, narrow bridge screeching at his bulk. The cool and humid air spiraled through Walter’s sinuses, soothing against his throat tight with tension.
Walter spared a glance back and saw that Wart was starting to lead a large group off to the other side. Scab hadn’t yet got his men moving on down the bridge, but they were shuffling into some type of formation. It didn’t matter now. What mattered now was scrubbing this filth from the world.
Walter sucked the Dragon in, reveling in its hate and ageless rage. His legs filled with strength, the pain of the blisters in his feet faded like a scorched cloud. The nervy tension he had felt writhing in his guts was dashed away upon the spire of revenge. His boots hammered on the wood now, boards bouncing under his feet and pressing him onward. The bridges leading to the Great Tree seemed to endlessly stretch over the water, growing longer and longer with every step he took.
“Stay nearby, Grim, but not too close. I’ll keep you up,” Walter threw over his shoulder. “Let me know if you’re wounded. Damned bridge is longer than it looks.”
“Right,” Grimbald huffed, pounding along behind. “We’re no good at judging distances.”
“Yeah,” his voice trailed off. Walter’s fiery eye found the first to die. The gigantic helmet of a Black Wynch danced back and forth behind the scrambling mass of Death Spawn. It threw its talons up and kicked a reluctant Cerumal towards the mounting ascent up the Great Tree. It let out a few high pitched barks, its talons raking the air.
Walter squinted his eye, conjuring fire in the space the beast occupied. The Black Wynch froze and its body exploded. Chunks of burning flesh soared through the air in all directions, blooming out like a flower of rotting flesh. Howling filled the air. His own, Death Spawn, or the defenders of the tree, he wasn’t sure. Stormcaller cut swirling lines over his head and a sword of fire burst alight from his stump. Water splashed onto the backs of his legs as Grimbald plopped into the bog.
At least twenty Cerumal waded around to face him, eyes like coals going wide and razor bladed mouths dropping open. He raised his blade up over his shoulder. “Run, leave now and I’ll let you live!” he screamed, his voice weak and cracking. He would do no such thing but merely wanted to see how they would react to such an option. Could Death Spawn be reasoned with if they knew their foe? Could they handle this many? Would he fail Grimbald like he had failed Juzo? Grimbald was a few feet away from him in the bog, axes in both hands, their lethal heads di
pped into the top of the water. “Got a whole fucking army behind me to slaughter the lot of you!”
“Walter,” Grimbald choked out. “Walter!”
“What?” Walter barked.
“Scab. Something’s wrong.” Grim’s voice sounded distant.
Walter groaned and peered back at Scab to watch him beaming with malevolent pleasure, arms folded over his narrow chest. Scab’s legs weren’t moving, nor were the legs of the men standing behind him. “No,” Walter whispered, his flesh crawling with icy cold. The way the corners of Scab’s lips raised into wicked points said all that needed saying. It was a betrayer’s grin. The mouth of a man whose words were empty.
Scab flamboyantly waved as if parting ways with a dearest friend. His back faded into the woods, his men following behind with eyes hard as stone. “Fucking elixir,” he moaned. How could he have been such a fool?
“What’s wrong, Walt? Why isn’t he coming?” Grimbald said with a frantic note in his voice.
“Stand or run?” Walter asked. He thrust his flaming sword forward and three balls of fire coursed through the air, tearing through armored bodies in front and a few of the bastards behind them. It was a mere warning to them, as he knew what would come.
“Fuck. He left us,” Grimbald stammered. “He left us. Why’d he leave us? Why—”
“He’s a traitor! Stand or run, Grim? Which is it?” Walter yelled.
“He was our friend,” Grimbald said heavily. Walter watched the muscles in his face twitch, working through the pain of betrayal. “Stand!” Grimbald growled, powerful legs thundering through silty water, splashing for his enemies.
“He was never our friend. His only friend is money. We stand,” Walter crouched. “Or we die!” Arrows hissed into the water from above, clanging off armor, some piercing flesh and causing Death Spawn to stumble and fall. Glass shattered behind the mess of Death Spawn, throwing up gouts of fire onto the climbers. A half second later, the peristaltic vibration of a shock wave hit him. The fires flashed up like spikes, throwing a burst of amber light over the murky waters.
He did not fear death, for he knew what lay beyond this life’s illusory veil. Death was another opportunity to pour hate upon his enemies. A spear whooshed over his shoulder, twanging into the bridge’s boards. Walter ran, swallowed down the spittle filling his mouth. Spears collided from the Phoenix shield springing to life at his side, throwing him off balance and landing in the water. Icy cold spilled over his boots, working its tendrils between his toes and under his arches. If he survived this, Scab would pay. Scab would come to know pain. The pains he would endure today would be inflicted upon Scab in triplicate.
A Cerumal dashed at him, its nose like a hog and mouth a twisted canyon of teeth. Its heavy iron boots jangled and threw up sprigs of water with every step. He slashed with Stormcaller and its amber tendrils curled through the beast’s knees, dropping it face first into the muck with a screech. Jets of blood spurted out of its severed legs, mixing with the abyssal water. Walter took a few lunging steps forward, his heel coming up and stomping on the back of its neck with a resounding crack. Hissing escaped from piggy’s lungs, another image added to the gallery of Walter’s nightmares.
“Bastards!” Grimbald screamed, axes throwing up sheets of water as they crashed into the mud below, tearing through both shoulders of a Cerumal whose body had the round shape of a turtle’s. The beast staggered into its brethren, ragged shoulders pumping out with its life essence.
Dark shapes advanced upon him and Walter spared another glance over his shoulder. The only soldiers who remained where he had stood with Scab just moments ago were the trees, always vigilant and unable to flee from the oncoming horde. “You’ll pay for this Scab, damn you!” he screamed towards the bog’s edge, even though Scab couldn’t hear him. Maybe it was for himself. Maybe for Grimbald. He would find a way to hurt him, make him pay for his betrayal. How could he have been such a damned fool?
“Should’ve listened to Nyset, idiot!” he barked. An arrow plunged into his shoulder, hammering into bone and vibrating down to his fingertips. Its fletchings were a strange leathery leaf, wood roughly carved. He looked up to see a man staring down at him, sitting on a long tree limb at least fifty feet in the air. He regarded Walter with curiosity, then gave him a nod. The Phoenix flared around his shoulder, ejecting the arrow from his body with a few drops of blood. It had to have been an accident, he thought. One more accident and he might accidentally throw a fireball into the archer’s guts.
A brick wall collided with his chest, throwing him into the arctic water. Goosebumps tightened up and down his flesh, puckering around his neck. He sucked in a breath, choking on muddy water. A twig found its way inside his cheek. An iron tip glinted from torchlight behind his blurred vision. He rolled, heard the spear hiss into the water at his side. He slashed up with his fire sword, carving a glowing line through a Cerumal’s plated body. Hot and bloody organs fell onto his side, squishing down his back and neck.
“Ugh!” Walter coughed with disgust, flinging the twig from his mouth and throwing a ropy organ from his neck.
Grimbald let out an agonized scream. Walter pushed himself up onto his knees, saw his friend on his back, clutching a spear haft between his palms, the axes discarded at his sides. The Cerumal’s ashen hands tore the spear free and blood jumped from Grimbald’s gut. The bony-faced creature brought the spear up for another savage strike, its teeth gleaming like silver. Walter punched with Stormcaller. Its tendrils stabbed the air like a nightmarish claw. One wrapped around the spear tip, cutting it off. Another pierced through its gut, another encircled its head and hewed it off while another snared its thigh and split a leg into bloody halves, bone splinters flying.
The Cerumal around Grimbald backed off, sending spear thrusts at the slapping tendrils of fire. They were part of him, a natural extension of his own body. He didn’t have to exert his willpower over its tendrils, they merely responded as if wiggling a finger. Sweat mixed with water and trickled along the back of his neck. Walter gritted his teeth, tugged on the Phoenix and sent it into Grimbald, rising up. Walter could feel Grim’s wound stitching up and sealing over as if he were there threading the needle himself. That was a new, strange sensation. He’d never felt that close to the Phoenix. The essences of the gods swelling in his chest was enough to split his mind into shards. It was as if there were two other beings within, each vying for control over his body. The Dragon’s energy wanted blood, fire, burning, and death. The Phoenix wanted life, peace, love and comfort.
“Thanks, Walt,” Grimbald said, grabbing his axes and beating them together with a vicious clang.
Walter’s breath caught a nearby movement, instinctually ducking. Air scraped over his head, talons like daggers brushing together. A Black Wynch’s narrow, toothless mouth snarled open at him. Its breath was warm as a furnace and had the tang of old urine. Its talons whipped open, slashed again at him. He laughed and raised his stump, blocking its arm with his fire sword, hacking it off at the bicep. Its grin fell from its mouth when its severed arm struck the water, dark blood streaking over a jagged stone. Walter’s hand snatched it around its bony neck, hand a crushing vice. His fingers ground into its flesh, snapping through tendons and wrapping around its vile throat. It’s daggers for fingers stabbed at his forearm, clanging from Stormcaller’s Milvorian alloy. Laughter pounded in his head and roared in his chest. He watched its futile attempts at freedom, talons raking across his bracer and throwing up sparks.
“There is no escape!” his voice boomed. He was the torrent of a waterfall, crashing through a cup held right under it. He raised it off its squirming feet, fruitlessly kicking at the water. “You shouldn’t have come here, you shouldn’t be in this realm.” A Cerumal with what looked to be machetes in either hand charged at him and he met it with a bolt of fire between its beady eyes. It fell on broken knees and slapped into the water at his feet, blood welling out around Walter’s ankles like an oil slick.
“Let’s see what’s
inside that big fucking head of yours.” Walter slashed up, cutting a line through the Black Wynch’s great pyramid-like helmet. Blood swelled from the iron like a cut wineskin. Walter cut another line beside it, then sent a telekinetic jolt of the Phoenix to tear it free. A strip of metal peeled up, revealing a mass of flesh like roots from a diseased tree, bloody and severed like some bizarre organ. “Ugly—”
Spears stabbed and Walter twisted, using the dead body of the Black Wynch to block. Now probably wasn’t the right time for experiments, he thought. He reveled in the blissful calm of the Phoenix, bringing a grin to his lips. The spears plunged in and out of its ancient flesh, squelching and thudding on bone. The Cerumal that had been climbing up the Great Tree around them started falling and splashing into the water like hurled boulders.
He would not die again. He would not be sent back to the Shadow Realm. “Kill the Black Wynches!” he screamed to Grimbald and saw him extracting the great sickled edge of his axe from between white bones, cracked and deep within a beast’s chest.
“Why?” Grimbald yelled and grunted, working his implements of destruction through another armored body. Grimbald’s axe aimed for a head, but the Cerumal ducked, but not fast enough. A broad strip of flesh was flayed from its face, showing the white of bone underneath, falling with an agonized shriek.
“Because…” Walter spitted a wiry Cerumal on an arrow of fire, shield and notched blade slipping free from its gnarled fingers. “They’ve given them commands. If you kill ‘em, they don’t know what to do.”
“Right.” Grimbald’s axe gleamed from the bog, water trailing behind like a string of diamonds, hanging in the air. The Cerumal on the receiving end raised a crude wooden shield, sword drawn back for a thrust. A crack split the air, wood bits skipped across the bog as the shield broke like glass. Grimbald’s axe was the wind, penetrating through the next layer of its ineffectual armor, driving heavy iron into its stomach in a crippling dent. He rammed the spiked pommel of Corpsemaker in his other hand into its furious eye, raining out with bright scarlet.
A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5) Page 27
