Warlock: Reign of Blood

by Edwin McRae

  “That’s why we have rangers watching from those walls of yours,” interrupted Denniston.

  “Are they still alive?”

  “The rangers?”

  A quick scan of the other walls showed grimly similar situations.

  “No,” answered Denniston. “Would you be so kind as to awaken the four we have left?”

  He tried not to think of what he would say to the families of Gail, Kareth, Taris and Nyle, how he might soften the brutal realities of their deaths. After all, it wasn’t even likely that he’d be the one sharing the bad news.

  “Done,” whispered Citadel. “What would you like me to tell them?”

  “To defend the wagon in the courtyard. We need time to get the rest of the food inside. Without it, this will be a short siege indeed. The villagers are bedded down for the night, yes?”

  “They’re on their way, and I’m gathering the other villagers in the barracks.”

  “Good work.”

  “Unfortunately, Calder and a few of his miners are in the south-eastern tower, finishing some repairs to one of the walls. I shall warn them.”

  “Do that, but don’t wait for them. Seal the passages.”

  “But Denniston-”

  The druid found himself staring into three sets of pitch-black eyes. He had scant moments left.

  “We can’t let these things reach our people. Calder and his men will have to fend for themselves.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Denniston drained his mug and set it down on a rampart. Then he took up his oaken staff and murmured “Barkhide”, bracing himself against the burning sensation as his skin hardened into thick, woody segments.

  Another pair of black-eyed invaders joined the first three, clambering up over the battlements with the ease of children climbing a tree. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw more pouring over the other walls.

  There was a shout from below followed by the twang of a bowstring. The rangers had reached the wagon. One of the creatures fell into the shadowed courtyard, its limp body landing with a gravelly thud on the ground. Three more bowstrings sang. Three more of the invaders fell, but there were many more to replace them.

  Over in the south-eastern tower, shouts accompanied the ring of hammer blows. The commotion latest mere moments as the creatures made short work of poor Calder and his workmen.

  Denniston turned back to the five creatures now slinking along the stones towards him, crude handaxes raised, needle teeth bared. He cleared his throat and shouted “Entwining Embrace!”. Vines sprouted up from the stones, ensnaring the first two creatures, immobilizing them in an expanding mass of foliage. As the remaining three climbed overtop, he shouted “Savaging Thorns!” and tried not to enjoy the sight of five fiends being skewered by the sharp spikes that erupted from his vines. As the thrashing and howling stilled and quieted, he dashed down the steps nearby as fast as his creaking knees would allow.

  As he reached the courtyard, he turned to face his pursuers, and was perturbed to find the staircase empty. Looking up, he saw creature after creature mounting the battlements, until they were crowded along the walltops like ants on a discarded piece of honey bread.

  A few more fell as the surviving rangers did their work, and Denniston wondered why they were just waiting to be picked off. Why not swarm down into the courtyard where they could overwhelm the archers in moments?

  His question was answered seconds later as Citadel’s gates were hauled open by a multitude of wiry, jaundiced arms. In strode a woman and a man. Reivers. Her hair was the color of dirty snow. His head encased in a helmet that gleamed blood-red in the torchlight.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Denniston saw one of the rangers nock an arrow and take aim at the helmeted man. Yet before she could fire her arrow, the reiver raised his hand, and Denniston watched with growing horror as the ranger lowered her bow and tucked her arrow back into her quiver. The other three rangers followed suit. The villagers too laid down their burdens and stood, eyes blank, staring at the newcomer.

  Denniston gritted his teeth against his growing fear, and judged the distance between himself and the passageway.

  “Citadel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Seal the passageway.”

  “But you’re still-”

  “Now!” growled Denniston as the rangers turned as one and leapt towards the entranceway.

  Thankfully Citadel was faster, sealing the wall with a roar and crunch of tortured stone. The rangers stopped in their tracks, nocking and raising their arrows in unison as they turned to face Denniston.

  Denniston looked to the reiver man as he took a pouch of seeds from his belt and cast its contents in a half-circle around him. He paid no mind to the incoming arrows as they shattered against his Barkhide. He didn’t hesitate or flinch as the reiver man raised his hand and then thrust it down towards the ground, a sharp command that was crisply obeyed by the creatures atop the walls. With a chorus of savage whoops and howls, they descended into the courtyard, an avalanche of unbridled brutality.

  Denniston murmured “Sprout and Thrive” as the many-limbed, many-headed beast surged towards him. The seeds answered his call, their thick stems bursting up from the ground, snaking towards the night sky. Jagged leaves unfurled, mustard-yellow buds ruptured into blooms, and just as the first axe-wielding maniac plunged into Denniston’s instant thicket, the flowers erupted. Great gouts of pollen enshrouded the invaders, clogging their nostrils and slathering their open mouths. Coughing and choking, the creatures collapsed within the smothering cloud.

  Through the mustard haze, Denniston saw the reiver man raise his hand, watched with satisfaction as the onslaught ground to a halt. A few of the creatures launched spears and darts at him but none were strong enough to pierce his Tier 5 Barkhide. For a moment, Denniston even allowed himself a flicker of hope.

  “Citadel?”

  “You’re alive?”

  “Yes, sorry to disappoint.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean-”

  “I’m pulling your leg.”

  “Right. Glad you can still find some humor in your situation.”

  “It’s a bad habit of mine. Now, are you able to open the entranceway just enough for an old man and his beer belly to fit through?”

  “I noticed that nothing was moving up there. Have you-”

  “No, holding them at bay, and rather hoping I can make a run-”

  “Denniston?”

  “Yes?”

  “Someone else is running.”

  Adrenaline drove a spike through Denniston’s gut. He gripped his staff tightly, peered into the mustard mist, and barely saw the flicker of her movement before she was upon him. Though a dirty scarf covered her nose and mouth, her slush-toned hair was unmistakable. And so was the blurred arc of her serrated sword.

  The blade struck, cracking open his Barkhide like it was age-brittled paper, biting deep into the tender flesh beneath. Denniston heard the wet crunch as the woman’s blade carved through his innards, yet whether due to beer or shock, he felt no pain.

  The Reiver Sergeant has damaged you for 52 HP!

  HP: 68

  “Entwining-” he began but didn’t get to finish. The woman had already withdrawn her blade from his side. And this time, instead of a slashing blow, she crouched and drove the point of her sword up into the wound, plunging up through his belly and into his chest.

  The Reiver Sergeant has damaged you for 71 HP!

  HP: -3

  His staff clattered to the stones, dropped from deadened fingers. He closed his eyes, not wishing to have this brutal scene as his last living memory, and allowed himself to sink into oblivion.

  30

  Serik smiled and folded his arms, a general taking in the view of his newly conquered fortress.

  You have slain three Level 2 Rangers and one Level 4 Ranger.

  -50% penalty for utilising minions rather than applying the “personal touch”.

  XP reward per party member = 25 XP<
br />
  You have slain one Level 10 Druid, Denniston of the Elder Council.

  XP reward per party member = 50 XP

  “Just some rangers and that druid,” remarked the sergeant as she prodded one of the butchered corpses with the toe of her boot. “Our ‘friends’ aren’t here.”

  Re-conquered, he reminded himself. Partly re-conquered, as there was yet to be any sign of the murderer, the traitor reiver, or that particularly annoying ranger. When he tried to get to sleep at night, he could swear that bitch’s arrow was still sticking in his back. Though the wound in his flesh was long-since healed, he suspected there was a wound in his mind that would close only once that ranger was dead, preferably by his own hand.

  Serik acknowledged the sergeant’s report with a nod, and then presented the four captives with a benevolent smile. They’d been stripped of the tools they’d tried in vain to defend themselves with, and were unhurt apart from a few cuts and bruises.

  When Serik had heard the first shouts from the tower, he’d dropped into the consciousness of the closest headhunter to ascertain what he was dealing with. Three Level 2 Miners and a Level 3 Foreman. He’d instructed his headhunters to capture rather than kill. A good move considering how many minions he’d lost to the druid. Although he’d still be well short of his supremacy limit even when he included the four rangers and three peasants from the wagon.

  The foreman scowled at him, his defiance comical to Serik’s eyes. “We’re not telling you nothing.”

  “Good. I can’t imagine you’d provide particularly interesting conversation anyway.”

  He gave his mental command to the Helm of Supremacy and watched with satisfaction as the fight went out of the foreman’s eyes. The other three miners followed suit, their faces growing serene, expressionless. He took a moment to search their quiet minds for the information he needed, striking a single diamond amongst all that coal.

  He winked at the sergeant, then pointed to the stables. “Back wall, lefthand corner. The entrance is sealed but I’m sure our new friends here will crack it open for us. And with a little luck, our warlock is down there, cowering like a pig amongst his sheep.”

  The sergeant raised a freshly plucked eyebrow. It was part of her everyday routine, he’d noticed. Scars, dirt, blood and gore were her life and love, but she clearly drew the line at bushy eyebrows.

  “Yes?”

  “Never met a pig that owned any sheep.”

  “How about a ram amongst his ewes then?”

  “Yeah, that’s better.”

  “Thanks for the poetic tip.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Serik smiled as he closed his eyes and sent his eager puppets off to work, his headhunters to guard the walls and patrol the forested perimeter, his miners and peasants to excavate the stables. He would find the murdering bastard, and when he did, he would show him what proper murder looked like.

  31

  Vari and Braemar breathed gently in their sleep as Mark took his turn at watching over them. Memories of the day returned, and Mark likened what they’d found in that basement to the pictures he’d seen of mass graves in Bosnia and the massacres in Rwanda.

  He reminded himself that the corpses they’d entombed were just compositions of pixels and code, not flesh and blood. But rationality couldn’t still the churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was dawning on him, slowly but surely, that it didn’t matter whether the people around him were real or not. It didn’t matter if they were digital or organic. What mattered was that Vari, Dayna and Braemar believed themselves to be real, cartilage and calcium people. And if his friends believed that of themselves then those slaughtered people in the basement believed it to.

  As he’d learned from his counsellor, he focused on his body instead of his mind. The night air bit at his bare skin while the rest of him was toasty warm within his thick cloak. The top of his head felt a little cold and Mark wondered if he should find himself a woolen hat for occasions like this. Perhaps one of the villagers could knit him-

  “Mark.”

  Every muscle in his body contracted and his hand leapt to the grip of his sword. Dayna’s calloused palm stayed his arm as she moved to sit beside him. Mark took a deep, chilling breath as he tried to ease the flush of alarmed heat from his skin.

  “Shit, Dayna! You really are sneaky.”

  Dayna shrugged. “A noisy ranger’s about as useful as tits on a bull.”

  “True enough. So, what did you find?”

  “Nothing good. We need to leave. Now.”

  “But it’s still night.”

  She pointed at her eyes. “Gloomsight, remember? I’ll lead the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  There was a slight catch in her voice as she said “Citadel”, a tremble of fear that chilled Mark far more than the mountain air.

  “The tunnel they’re following, I reckon it was made by the bastards who built all this.”

  Her hand swept over the surrounding ruins. For the first time, Mark noticed how short and thick Dayna’s fingers were. Stout, strong digits, perfect for archery.

  “A little way in it meets an underground river. The source is on the other side of the mountains, in Garland.”

  “How do you know?”

  Dayna’s tight-lipped expression dissolved into a faint smile of pride. “There’s a type of watercress that grows only in Lake Fairchild, high in the mountains. Gives the water a slightly peppery flavor.”

  “Okay, that’s impressive. What tier is your Wilderness Affinity at now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Three.”

  “Shit a brick! Wait til you reach Tier Four. You’ll be able to smell a reiver fart at a hundred paces.”

  Dayna let out a sharp snort of a laugh. “A dozen paces, at a stretch. And since we’re on the topic, you need to take a bath.”

  “Had one up on the mountain, a few days ago.”

  “Guess you’re just a naturally stinky bastard then.”

  Mark shook his head in disgust. A small horde of carnivorous freaks were headed for the Citadel and yet Dayna still had the head-space to question his personal hygiene.

  “Does ragging on me work as some kind of stress relief for you, Dayna?”

  “Yup, got it in one, Stinky. Beats meditation any day of the week.”

  It was Mark’s turn to snort-laugh. Either Dayna was warming up or he was growing a thicker skin. Her barbs just weren’t smarting like they used to.

  They roused Vari and Braemar and were on their way soon after. Little was spoken as they rode, not that day or the next. They kept their rest breaks short, eating only the preserved food they’d brought with them, catching a few hours sleep here and there when exhaustion threatened to overwhelm them. Braemar’s horse, tired to the point of distraction, made a misstep as it descended a particularly tricky piece of mountain path. Druid and horse went down together. One of Vari’s Bone Sculpt spells reversed the damage to the horse in moments, and her Mend Flesh spell had Braemar as good as new moments later. Thankfully that was the only mishap, and by dawn of the third day, Mark found himself looking down upon Citadel with bleary eyes that felt like they’d been attacked with sandpaper.

  The fortress was dotted with small figures, neatly arranged like candles on a birthday cake.

  “Look at the way they’re positioned along the walls and towers, over the gates too,” said Vari, her soft, black eyebrows scrunched downward in concern. “Standard reiver defense placements. Simple enough with soldiers drilled in their duties, but with a tribe of headhunters from the Barrens?”

  “Yup, there’s something seriously weird going on here,” agreed Mark. “Vari, does reiver magic include anything like mind control spells?”

  Vari thought for a moment then shook her head. “The inquisitors would be all over that kind of enchantment if they knew about it. As you’ve probably gathered, they like to keep their people on a short leash.”

  Mark felt the heat of anger rise up the back
of his neck as he remembered the story Vari had told him. “Like forcing young figurists to burn their own hands?”

  “Just like that, yes.”

  He looked down at Citadel, taking in the neat formation of dots lined across his walls. “Well, my guess is that the captain’s found something in the Barrens. Mind manipulation magic obviously exists.”

  “Like that fucking hallucination you made me have when we first met?” asked Dayna.

  Mark could see that “I want to shoot you” look in her eyes as she said it. “Yes, if I can trick someone else’s brain into having a daymare, then surely it’s possible for the captain too. Maybe he’s using some sort of magic artifact to control the minds of those headhunters.”

  “And force them to slaughter their own people,” added Braemar, his hair-framed lips curled in disgust.

  “Afraid so. I mean, it’s only a theory, but if it pans out then killing the captain is our number one priority.”

  Vari nodded, catching on. “No mind control, no army of Barren-dwellers. They would probably head straight for home.”

  “Not that there’s much at home to go back to, poor bastards,” muttered Dayna.

  “True,” agreed Mark. “But they’ve no reason to stay either. They’re like fish out of water in Garland. If I was them, I’d want to go home, bury my loved ones, and try to rebuild what was lost.”

  Mark tried not to think of what might have happened to Denniston, Calder and everyone else inside Citadel. By the look of it, the party was well over. Now it was just a matter of cleaning up the mess as best they could.

  You have received the “Home Bittersweet Home” quest.

  Free Citadel from the Reiver Captain and his Headhunter army.

  Your XP reward per party member = 200 XP

  “Did you all see that?” asked Vari.

  “Sure did,” answered Mark. “Can’t say I like the name very much.”

  “Neither,” added Dayna. “Reminds me of my mother’s cooking.”