Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  “What you think the witches are gonna do?” another guard asked, bravado not entirely hiding the fear in his voice.

  “Don’t know for sure,” Jorgeson replied. “Something big.”

  “But we’re going home when it’s over, ain’t we?” a third man asked.

  Jorgeson had noted the lack of a quantity of foodstuffs in the wagons heading to Thornwood. Whatever the witches planned, it did not include feeding a large number of people or provisioning anyone for very long.

  “I think we’ll be away from here quickly,” he replied, and if the man misread his meaning, perhaps it offered comfort.

  Jorgeson looked out over the manor’s meager defenses. The obstacles would never hold against any real assault. Properly armored soldiers on horseback could ride down most of the barricades without breaking stride, and any decent war wagon would break through with little difficulty. If he had fifty trained archers with longbows, he might be able to use the cover provided by the barricade to harry an approaching force, but the ruffians he had dragooned would be no use for much aside from hurling rocks. Even then, he doubted their aim.

  “I don’t know what kind of resistance they expect, but anything headed this way is going to be coming from the road we used,” Jorgeson said. “We’ll hold the line there.”

  “M’lord—look!” One of the men pointed beyond the second row of barricades. He had gone pale, and his eyes widened with terror.

  The other guards gasped and cried out at the sight of a dozen ghouls scrabbling up the overgrown lawn. Jorgeson drew his sword, expecting for the creatures to easily scale the obstacles, but Spider stood on the other side of the makeshift fence and extended his hand, chanting under his breath. The ghouls turned around, facing down the slope, and stood pliant and quiet.

  “Over there!” another guard called, and Jorgeson turned to see what new terror descended on them. Half a dozen higani, their white shells glistening in the sunlight, skittered through the tall grass. Behind them came a cavalcade of horrors, the red-eyed huge black sows of the vestir, the undulating arm-sized maggot-like lida, razor-teethed hancha and monstrous, massive snake-creatures some called azrikk. By rights, they should have turned on each other, fighting in a spray of blood and ichor, picking dead and tainted flesh from bones. Instead, they ignored the other monsters, oblivious to everything except for the call of the two skinny blood witches who mastered them as Spider and Roach prepared for their moment of triumph.

  Are they protectors, or an offering to a bigger, more terrifying monster? Jorgeson wondered. Or perhaps fodder to stall any opponents foolish enough to try to stop the madmen in the manor?

  A cold wind rose from nowhere, bending the tall, dead grass and whipping through the bare branches of the trees in the godsforsaken forest behind them. The bitter chill cut through him, forcing a shiver that was not entirely from the temperature. From deep within the shadows of the Old Woods, he swore he heard moans and cries, unlike anything to come from a human throat.

  The wind held a charge like the air in the midst of a lightning storm. The hair on Jorgeson’s arms rose and prickled against his skin. He turned to look back at the old manor and glimpsed ripples of blue energy coursing along its walls, drawn to the single glowing window in the tallest point in its tower where Nightshade, Shadowsworn, and Wraithwind worked their infernal magic.

  The sun hung low in the sky, and as he watched the glow fade, Jorgeson wondered whether he would live to see the dawn. Probably not, he thought, surprised to find he regarded the idea with detachment. Death in battle held purpose, even if only to ruin his faithless prince. It would be a good death, fitting for a lifelong soldier, far better than dangling at the end of a noose or dying on his knees bent over the executioner’s block. He bared his teeth in a rictus grin and lifted his sword high with a battle roar.

  “Let’s give anyone who comes up that hill the fight of our lives,” he shouted above the wind. “Make this a battle they’ll tell stories about for years to come.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Shit, that’s a lot of monsters.” Corran peered into Mina’s scrying bowl and felt his stomach tighten. Thornwood’s paltry physical defenses were bolstered by dozens of creatures who by all rights should have been tearing each other to shreds. Instead, they paced restlessly.

  “Two witches,” Mina said, staring intently at the image. “Not terribly strong magic—someone else no doubt fashioned the spells for them to control the monsters. They aren’t powerful enough to have laid the original geas on the beasts, but their magic is sufficient to maintain it.”

  “Kill the witches, and the magic fails,” Brock said.

  Corran’s head snapped up. “And then what? That will turn them all loose against us.”

  “If the witches live, they’ll still send the beasts against us, but they’ll control them, make sure they do more damage than they would on their own.”

  “Can you strike the witches from a distance?” Corran asked, looking from Mina to Rigan.

  Mina shook her head. “No—at least, not from far enough away to avoid being in the thick of the fight. They’ve set protections—and once again, the wards are stronger than they have the power themselves to raise. They’re drawing from the more powerful witches.”

  Corran muttered curses under his breath. “How close do we have to get?”

  “Closer than you’re going to like,” Mina replied.

  “Can we use the link the lesser witches have to the stronger ones?” Rigan mused. “After all, channels flow in both directions. And if the other witches are trying to summon and leash a First Being, they aren’t going to be able to afford distraction or a drain on their power.”

  A crafty smile touched Mina’s lips. “I like that. We can use it. A two-pronged attack. We’re going to need every advantage we can find.”

  Nervous energy buzzed through the camp. Calfon, Trent, and Ross had gone to gather as many of the villagers they had trained as would come with them. Corran pushed down a surge of guilt at putting inexperienced volunteers into the front lines. Yet if they failed, if He Who Watches came through the Rift, then it wouldn’t be a question of whether the men and their villages would die, only an issue of when. Perhaps together, they had a slim chance. Without reinforcements, Corran knew that he and the hunters and Wanderers could only hope to mount a doomed, valiantly suicidal attack that he doubted even the favor of an Elder God could salvage.

  Only a few candlemarks remained before the blood witches would summon the creature, and the defenders were still desperately gathering their forces. Leland had returned to the Old Woods to make the case to the nests and packs that sheltered there. If they chose to intervene, it would not be for love of the human lives that would be spared; rather, their help would spring from pure self-preservation, since loosing a First Being on the world would imperil even the guin and the thropes.

  We discovered that the monsters had masters. And now we ally with other monsters against those masters. How in the name of the gods did we get mixed up in this? Corran wondered.

  He glanced at Rigan. His brother’s features were tight with concentration, as he and Mina worked out the last details of the assault. He and Rigan had talked late into the night, both aware of the very real risk that the next day would see one or both of them dead. Corran had told Rigan how proud he was of his brother’s magic, and he hoped it helped to dispel any remainder of Rigan’s ambivalence about his power. He knew Rigan had at one time feared Corran’s reaction to his growing magic, and Corran had wanted to make sure that his brother knew the truth, that Corran accepted it, without fear or judgment. Saying things plainly didn’t come easily to Corran, but the thought of dying with them unsaid was unbearable.

  Rigan noticed Corran watching him, and spared a faint smile and a nod. “Are you sensing anything? From… Him?” Corran asked, knowing Rigan took his meaning.

  “The nightmares are getting worse,” Rigan confessed. “He seems closer, like in the Rift. And I think he’s… an
ticipating what’s going to happen.” He frowned. “What I do pick up, it’s so alien it hurts to try to make sense of it.”

  “I’m sorry to ask, but keep trying,” Corran said. “There’s a chance something you hear through the link will make a difference.”

  Rigan nodded. “I will. It’s just that when I’m listening for him, he starts to realize I exist, and that presence I felt turns its eye on me.” He tried to repress a shiver. “It’s not something you want looking at you.”

  Within a candlemark, the hodgepodge army moved out. Corran and his hunters led the hastily assembled ranks of volunteer villagers who had rallied to their call. Some wielded long knives and sharp scythes, but many had only farm tools, sharpened wooden pikes, or iron bars taken from the blacksmith’s stock. Calfon, Trent, and Ross had longbows as well as their swords and knives, while Corran had a variety of blades and a crossbow from the stash of weapons they brought with them. Leland had promised reinforcements from the forest, but right now their help felt more theoretical than real.

  “You’re not coming with us?” Corran asked Brock, surprised and disappointed.

  Brock shook his head. “Storr will lead my hunters, and they will ride with you,” he said. “I trust Storr with my life. He’s a good man, and a good friend,” he said with a nod toward a blond man Corran had often seen among Brock’s group. “I’m going with the Wanderers.”

  Corran raised an eyebrow. Brock gave a self-conscious chuckle. “Yeah. I won’t say it’s comfortable, for me or them. But… we are blood, and it’s the blood that carries the old magic. We’ve got at least thirty Wanderers already, and more are straggling in. Some of the matriarchs remembered old stories when something like this happened long ago. They think there’s a way we can work some tribal magic to counter what the blood witches are doing.” He gave a wan smile. “I don’t really understand. I don’t have to. I just know it’s where I have to be.”

  “We’ll clear the way for you to get into Thornwood,” Corran promised. “We’ll handle the monsters so you can get to the blood witches and kick their asses.”

  Brock clapped a hand on his shoulder. Corran returned the gesture. “Then may Eshtamon’s favor be upon you. I’ll see you on the other side,” Brock said, leaving unsaid whether that reunion would take place in this realm or the next.

  Brock walked back toward the camp, while Corran swung up into his saddle, and Storr did the same. Those with horses packed as much of the salt-amanita-aconite mixture as they could carry, along with their precious, dwindling supply of green vitriol. Their restless fighters assembled behind them, some on horseback but most on foot. Corran glanced toward Calfon, Trent, and Ross, who nodded in readiness.

  “We’ve got monsters to fight,” Corran shouted. “Let’s get started.”

  They smelled the monsters long before they reached the manor grounds. The reek of rotting flesh and old blood spooked the horses so badly that they had to set their mounts loose earlier than they planned, going the rest of the way on foot. Corran heard murmurs and whispers behind him as the villagers realized the source of the stench. Calfon and the other hunters moved among the skittish volunteers offering encouragement, reminding them of what was at stake, doing their best to keep the newcomers in ranks and to strengthen their resolve. Privately, Corran was amazed that the whole lot of them didn’t flee in pants-pissing terror.

  Cold purpose settled in Corran’s chest. It didn’t completely push out the fear; Corran still felt the thrum of adrenaline in every vein and the readiness for the fight in the pounding of his heart. Along with the fear, Corran could not shake the sense of being watched. It unsettled him enough for him to feel certain it was more than nervous tension. Ghosts, perhaps, drawn by his grave magic. Or maybe the guin and thropes, scrying to determine when to join the fight. A darker possibility presented itself. Perhaps, because he had attempted blood magic, He Who Watches turned his attention from beyond the Rift onto any who dared try to stop his ascendency. He resolutely turned his thoughts to the battle, vowing to ignore the rest.

  Rigan rode out with Mina, the Wanderers, and the handful of hedge witches from the village who had answered their call to arms. Aiden and Elinor rode with Corran. Both of the witches stayed up late the night before making poppets and readying the materials Elinor would need for sympathetic magic. She had badly weakened Blackholt with poisons to thin the blood and damage the heart, working her magic at a distance through the rag dolls, and planned to do the same to Jorgeson’s two witches.

  Aiden mixed potions to coat their blades, making their weapons more effective against monsters. He would look for ways to turn his healer’s magic against the dark witches and their creations. If any of them survived the battle, having a healer nearby would be a bonus. Corran couldn’t let himself think that far ahead. Too much killing lay between now and then.

  “Stay back,” Corran cautioned Aiden and Elinor as they let their horses go.

  “We need to have a specific target in mind to work Elinor’s magic,” Aiden said, “and I can’t do much either if I can’t see what’s going on.”

  “This will work.” Elinor’s voice came from above, and Corran looked up to find her high in the branches of a tree. “I can see the approach to the manor from here. They can’t go far to the right without falling off the cliff, and there’s not much room to the left before the Old Woods.” She wriggled into a more secure position. “Hand up my materials.”

  Aiden passed up a small wooden lap desk that gave Elinor a flat surface on which to work, and a knapsack that clinked with bottles and jars filled with the elixirs and extracts she needed to work her sympathetic magic.

  Elinor took out small bundles of dried plants, several crude cloth poppets, shallow bowls, and a stout candle. She sat with her back to the trunk and her legs supported on a sturdy branch. She had a good view of the main battlefield, while the smaller limbs hid her from prying eyes unless someone knew exactly where to look.

  “I’m going for heart and lungs again since that worked well before,” Elinor said, selecting two of the poppets to represent Jorgeson’s two blood witches. “I’ll thin the blood, so any injuries will bleed more. Slow the heart, freeze the lungs, and cause some internal bleeding. It won’t be immediate, so give me about half a candlemark before you expect to see effects,” she warned.

  “I’ll strike right away,” Aiden added. “Boils, itching, and hives, to distract from what Elinor’s doing, and then I can target the major organs as well.” He sounded confident, although Corran knew the healer hated what he considered to be “misusing” his gifts.

  “We’re going to need every advantage you can give us,” Corran replied.

  “I never tried using magic while I was up a tree,” Aiden muttered. “But whatever it takes…” He jumped for a low-hanging branch in a tree several feet away from Elinor and hauled himself up, then climbed until he found a secure perch with a view. “It’ll do,” he called down.

  “Let’s hope none of the monsters climb,” Corran muttered.

  “I heard you,” Aiden said. “Don’t go saying things like that.” He paused. “We’ll do our best to cover you. Good luck.”

  Corran gave a curt nod and turned to the frightened men who waited for orders. “Move out!”

  The monsters rallied to meet them as the fighters ran toward where the creatures massed all along the ramshackle barricades. Calfon led a contingent of farmers against three huge, red-eyed vestir. He kept his bow slung over his shoulder and fought with his sword until he could clear space around him and get close enough to manage a shot at the blood witches inside the first perimeter. Ross split away from another group, drawing off a cluster of white-shelled higani. Some of the villagers carried torches, lighting the battlefield and fending off the creatures with flames.

  Corran and his men headed for the ghouls and hancha. They were the most numerous of the monsters that had gathered, and while they were less challenging to kill individually than the vestir or the higani, Corran could not ri
sk the damage the ghouls and hancha could do if they swarmed.

  “Strike for the head and the heart,” Corran yelled as he slashed one of the creatures, barely slowing its advance. “They’re not really dead until you’ve cut off the head.”

  Corran swung again, sending the ghoul’s head flying as two more of the monsters closed in. Sharp claws tore at his clothing, leaving gashes in his arm and shoulder. He wheeled, stabbing one of the ghouls through the chest and sending the second sprawling with a kick to the groin that would have put a mortal man down for good. The first ghoul ripped free from his blade, wounded but not stopped, while the second rose to its feet with a growl and came running back for more.

  “Shit,” Corran muttered, striking again with his sword and cleaving one of the ghouls shoulder to hip while his knife dug into the skinny neck of the second ghoul and tore loose, leaving the head flopping on its nearly-severed spine.

  Behind them, men screamed as they stumbled into a roiling tangle of lida, bloated slug-like creatures as wide as a man’s arm and several feet long. The monsters’ skin secreted acid, and their suction mouths could drain a man dry in minutes. Torches converged, and the lida shrieked as the fire burned them, sending up an oily, stinking smoke.

  Corran resisted the urge to look back toward where he had left Aiden and Elinor. The ghouls fought with more cunning than usual, and even the beast-like vestir seemed to act less on impulse, as if directed from afar. He looked toward the hulking shadow that was Thornwood, high on the cliff, blotting out the stars. Threads of lightning fire darted up and down its dark stone walls, crackling along its length and breadth, and above it all, in the tall tower, a window glowed with a sickly green light.

  “Cover me!” Calfon shouted to his men, close enough now to draw his bow in the midst of the fray. He loosed an arrow and let out a whoop of victory as it found its mark in one of the blood witches on the other side of the barricade.