Seconds later, his triumph turned to a cry of pain as the monsters converged, sent in vengeance against the witches’ attacker. One of the soldiers went down as the creatures swarmed them, as fighters hacked and swung desperately against the hard-shelled higani and their sharp, segmented legs.
Corran tried to fight his way closer to help, but the ghouls and higani redoubled their attack, changing tactics to overwhelm with speed and sheer numbers. Two of the men to Corran’s right fell screaming as hancha drove their sharp talons into soft bellies or unprotected chests, tearing free with bloody hunks of flesh or organs ripped from bodies. The battlefield stank of blood and piss, rotting flesh and the foul black sludge that flowed when monsters bled. Torchlight cast the killing grounds in flame and shadow, and smoke hung heavy in the cold night air.
Corran struggled to see the two blood witches that controlled the monsters. He could make out a tall, gangly young man and another shorter, dark-haired man. Neither looked older than Rigan. Both affected the trappings of witches, standing on a battlefield in billowing cloaks and ostentatious outfits that looked as if they had been pieced together from scavenged finery.
Still, their power sufficed to call and control the monsters, making the two witches deadly enemies. Corran’s fighters attempted to strike them with arrows and stones hurled from slings, but the projectiles bounced away from the wardings erected after Calfon’s lucky shot.
He wrenched his attention away as Ross gave a victorious shout when he and his group of fighters hacked through the wave of higani. Swords cut through the hard shells in their most vulnerable places, severing jointed, insectoid legs, and heavy iron rods crushed immobilized bodies.
Corran and Calfon fought back-to-back, as a torrent of ghouls surged, unnaturally strong and completely tireless. Corran lost track of time, blocking and slashing, barely looking up as one ghoul fell before the next took its place. His head pounded, and he felt an aching pressure behind his eyes. The sense of being watched was stronger now, and he had the feeling whatever creature regarded him was taking his measure.
The bodies of the ghouls lay where they fell, and their monstrous companions scrabbled over the corpses to get to the fresh meat. They had only begun the fight, but Corran’s arms were soaked red to the elbow, and gore spattered his tunic and trews.
He dared a glance toward the young blood witches and grinned as he saw evidence of Aiden’s and Elinor’s magic. The blond man’s face oozed with fresh boils, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The dark-haired witch’s arms bore bright red hives, and he looked unsteady on his feet.
“Too many ghouls,” Calfon grunted. Sweat and blood soaked his shirt and plastered his hair to his head.
“Fall back then, and let’s burn them down,” Corran said. He reached into his pack and pulled out several small oil pots, while Calfon covered him. He lit the wicks from a torch that burned nearby.
“Clear!” he shouted, hurling the pots in quick succession, making sure they hit where the container would shatter to spread and ignite the oil.
Flames engulfed the ghouls, and their shrieks echoed as they burned. One of the blood witches turned, hands raised to regain control of the monsters. Pustules ravaged the blond witch’s face, and blood ran from his ears and nose. Corran felt the crackle of magic in the air, a potent tension as the blood witch tried to keep his hold over the ghouls. The creatures staggered forward, monstrous animated torches, as flames charred skin and burned limbs down to bone.
The tainted magic strained and twisted, as the failing blood witch struggled to keep control. Recoil sent Corran reeling a step back, and it felt as if an invisible tether snapped as the hold of the blond blood witch faltered. The burning ghouls collapsed, too damaged to continue without the witch’s compulsion. Corran had only seconds to rejoice, as other monsters, freed from their master’s reins, reverted to their nature and set about themselves with murderous fury, attacking both hunters and each other with equal, bloody abandon.
One of Jorgeson’s pet witches still stood, his dark hair wild around his poxy face, blood marking trails from the corners of both eyes. Crimson tinted his lips, and he appeared to barely be able to keep his feet, but he struggled to retain his hold on the monsters, fists raised and clenched in the air as he urged his creatures on for vengeance.
Witch lightning from Thornwood’s walls and flames from pyres of the ghoul’s bodies lit the battlefield, as the fight turned into carnage. Corran lost sight of Calfon, Ross, and Trent in the mayhem, and spotted far fewer of the farmers than had begun the fight. Blood, viscera, and ichor slicked the ground beneath his boots as he moved on instinct: thrust, slash, parry, swing. The world narrowed to the immediate threat, and time slowed second by bloody second. Gobbets of flesh and congealing blood covered Corran. Lida squirmed and writhed in the dry grass, and Corran kicked one of the maggot-like creatures into a pile of burning ghouls. It swelled and exploded, rewarding him with a rain of gore.
Toward the forest, two of the snake-like azrikk were winning their fight against a handful of grimly determined fighters. The creatures were each as thick as a man’s body, with an inner and outer wide-hinged maw ringed with viscously sharp fangs. Their scaled hide made them hard to kill since little destroyed them aside from sawing off their heads. The bodies of men crushed by the snake-monsters or ripped apart by their teeth made it clear that the hunters could not hold out much longer.
The dark-haired witch staggered. Pain and fury drew his face into a grimace, baring blood-slicked teeth. Crimson tears oozed from eyes. He raised his face to the sky, let out a howl, and called the monsters to converge.
“Shit,” Calfon muttered as he and Corran once again stood back-to-back, facing an onslaught. Few of the farmers and villagers remained, but Corran spotted Trent and Ross amid the scrum of monsters. Calfon and Corran wielded torches in one hand and their swords in the other, slashing and jabbing to hold their ground.
“Cover me!” Corran shouted above the shrieks and screams of the creatures. He reached for more oil pots, knowing his supply was dwindling quickly. He lit the pots and hurled them into the thick of the creatures’ stampede, past fearing that the fire would spread and engulf them all. Trent and Ross lobbed their pots, and the twilight sky lit with flames as the fire spread and caught in matted fur or tangled hair.
Corran heard the hum of a sling and saw a red wound blossom on the forehead of the dark-haired blood witch as the sling’s stone hit its target. Thinned by Elinor’s magic, blood poured from the wound, and the witch swayed, then tumbled forward to the ground. Ross threw an oil pot, and the blood witch’s body ignited.
Monsters still outnumbered the hunters, and while some of the creatures had turned on each other or stopped to feast on the flesh of the fallen beasts, Corran doubted enough hunters remained to battle the creatures. He felt a wave of grief and acceptance at the knowledge.
Bloodcurdling shrieks rang from the verge of the Old Wood. Loud howls answered. Corran blinked, and when he looked again, shadowy shapes poured from the darkness beneath the trees. He ducked a murderous swipe of claws from one of the hancha, and drove his sword through its wide-open mouth and out the back of its skull, giving a savage, two-handed twist that snapped the head from its rotting spine. When he looked up again, a flare of firelight revealed lithe, graceful creatures with the pale, elongated features of the guin running with immortal speed straight for the battle. Farther down the treeline, a pack of unnaturally large wolves bounded toward the snake monsters. The azrikk broke off their attack on the hunters, as if aware that a more dangerous threat had joined the fight.
In moments, the thropes were on the huge snakes, five or six shapeshifters tackling each azrikk, bearing the writhing, coiling creatures to the ground beneath their weight, teeth, and claws, sending up a spray of blood.
The guin went after the vestir and the lida, as if the remaining ghouls and hancha were beneath their notice. Freed from the control of the blood witches, the vestir tried to run, but the
guin stalked them in pairs, herding them like cattle, steering them away from the human fighters until they finally gave an inhuman leap and landed astride the backs of the vestir, their sharp fangs piercing through the beasts’ coarse, matted hair and tough skin.
The remaining hunters let out a whoop of exultation at the surprising turn of the battle. Corran feared the farmers might see the thropes and the guin as new monsters to be fought, but so few of the fighters remained against such an overwhelming enemy that they welcomed whatever help appeared.
Corran ran toward a ghoul, sword raised to strike, when the creature wavered, then collapsed without being touched. Corran stumbled to a stop, staring wide-eyed as all around him, the ghouls and hancha froze in their tracks, then began to shake violently as blood or ichor spilled from their mouths, eyes, and ears. They dropped, twitching and trembling, before falling still. Corran imagined that he must be grinning like a madman as he realized that somehow, Aiden and Elinor’s magic had found a way to bring down the most human-like of their opponents.
Corran spotted Ross, Calfon, and Trent near the barricade, along with a handful of village hunters. On the other side of the makeshift wall, he saw movement, and he lifted his sword as a rallying point for the surviving fighters.
“Over the fence!” he shouted, finding a reserve of energy in the giddy surprise of still being alive. “We’ve got to clear the road for Rigan!”
He scrambled over the tree trunks and stumps. A glance behind told Corran that the guin and the thropes were making quick work of the last of the monsters, which looked to be focused more on trying to escape than in engaging the fearsome predators.
Corran jumped down from the barricade, landing on the wet remains of a ghoul. He straightened, weapons ready in his grip. In the dim light, he caught sight of Ross, Calfon, and Trent once more. They moved and carried themselves as if they had been wounded and were exhausted, but the fact that they were still alive and fighting mattered most. Several more volunteers rallied behind them, getting their bearings as they looked for enemies.
Together they ran toward Thornwood’s entrance, intent on sweeping away resistance so Rigan and the Wanderers could get close enough to take on the three senior blood witches inside. The closer Corran got to the manor, the more his head throbbed. The sense of being observed grew stifling, an oppressive alien touch that he could only guess originated from one of the First Creatures, peering through the Rift.
Half a dozen ragged soldiers ran out of the smoke to block the approach to Thornwood. They threw themselves into the fray with wild eyes and frantic movements, dangerously unpredictable.
Corran beat back an attack as one of the soldiers flailed madly with his broadsword, jabbing and slashing in sheer panic. The strikes came with the strength of lunacy, clanging against Corran’s blade and shuddering through his bones as he dodged and wove to keep the swings from doing real damage. Even so, the tip opened a gash on Corran’s arm, and the blade grazed his shoulder as the frenzied attacker showed no sign of backing down.
Corran feinted left, and thrust into his opponent’s unguarded flank when the man left himself open. The blade sank deep, opening an artery. A second swing of Corran’s sword sent the man’s head toppling into the dust. Corran wiped his bloodied hands on his pants and spotted his friends amidst the fighting. Ross and Trent fought as a team, bloodied but still on their feet. Calfon battled one of the ruffian soldiers a few feet away, and Corran ran to flank his attacker.
Together, Corran and Calfon hemmed in the soldier, who fought with abandon, as if he knew he was already damned. Up close, Corran wondered how Calfon remained on his feet. Pale with blood loss and shock, limping from a wound in his leg, Corran feared his friend’s injuries would challenge even Aiden’s skill, and might well claim him before they could reach the healer.
Corran swung low; Calfon swung high. The soldier missed blocking Corran’s swing, but his blade skidded down Calfon’s, turning away the strike and jabbing the point into Calfon’s left shoulder. Corran’s strike slit the man’s belly wide open, spilling out his steaming guts as the soldier screamed and collapsed.
“Corran, watch out!” Calfon threw himself forward, knocking Corran nearly off his feet, as a new attacker emerged from the stinking smoke. The newcomer’s sword caught Calfon between the ribs, and the wound blossomed red with blood as the strike took Calfon through the heart. Corran cried out as he saw Calfon fall dead, and lunged toward his friend’s killer, sword raised.
“Valmonde!”
The burly, broad-shouldered man in a stained and threadbare uniform closed on him, murderous intent in his eyes. His attack showed both training and experience, backed up with a muscular build that put power enough behind the strokes to cleave a man in two. Corran found himself unexpectedly on the defensive, blocking and parrying with all his skill as the man rained down one blow after another.
Madness sparked in the man’s eyes, and his thrust nearly caught Corran in the throat, cutting a gash into his shoulder as Corran dodged at the last instant. Corran scored cuts on the man’s forearm and thigh and took new slices on both arms as he fought for his life.
That allowed little time for Corran to recall where he had seen his attacker before. Smoke stung his eyes and made it hard to breathe. His heart thundered in his chest, and he felt the flood of adrenaline that kept him on his feet and moving despite exhaustion and injury.
“You’ve destroyed everything!” the man shouted, and cursed Corran by all the gods, old and new. “I’m a walking dead man thanks to you and your brother and your godsdamned hunters!”
Steel clashed, punctuating each phrase as Corran and the man circled and struck at each other. Both bled from new, deep cuts. The stranger attacked with the ferocity of a man who had nothing to lose, and Corran realized with a frisson of fear that his opponent would welcome death if only he could kill them both.
Jorgeson. The name finally came to Corran as his mind pieced the clues together. Lord Mayor Machison’s attack dog, the man in charge of the hated city guard.
“Vermin,” Jorgeson spat, swinging with manic strength.
Corran blocked the strike, but Jorgeson’s blade rang against his own, reverberating through Corran’s arm with enough force he thought the bone might snap.
“Ruffians. Troublemakers. You’ve brought Ravenwood to its knees!” Jorgeson growled, launching another flurry of blows that forced Corran back a step.
Everything felt wrong. The mental assault of the First Creature had grown to constant, throbbing pain that dulled Corran’s thinking and threatened to slow his reactions. Whatever had begun within Thornwood’s walls added new, crackling energy to the confusion of the battlefield, making Corran feel as if someone had set a match to his nerves. And something about Jorgeson sent a warning to Corran’s gut, even as Jorgeson pulled an amulet from his pocket and snapped the talisman in two.
Gray specters rose from the blood-soaked ground, swirling around Jorgeson like a maelstrom, shrieking so loudly Corran could barely think. Wraiths, Corran thought, breathing heaving as he tried to control the psychic pain crowding in from all sides. Wraiths were the rabid dogs of the spirit world, shells of their former selves driven mad by anger and vengefulness until only a thirst for blood remained, driving out any memory of the people they had once been.
The wraiths swept forward, clawed hands solid enough to rip flesh from bones, intent on taking their revenge on any living creature. Jorgeson’s triumphant laughter rose above the sounds of battle and the keening of the wraiths, welcoming his own bloody death if he could take his enemies with him into the After.
Instinct took over, and Corran reached for the only weapon left to him, his grave magic. He had rarely sought to summon spirits, but now he called to any and all within the range of his power, offering them swift passage to the Golden Shores in exchange for their protection.
Ghosts flocked to the battlefield, from the cellars beneath Thornwood and the rocky seas beyond the cliff, from the forgotten bones bene
ath the ground of old sacrifices and the buried remains at the edge of the Old Wood. They heard Corran’s summons, and they came, swarming the wraiths, carrying them away on a wind as cold as the grave. The shrieks of the wraiths vied with the howls of the restless dead, and even the undead guin drew closer, as if entranced by the pull of the grave magic.
Corran shouted the words of the Old Language above the chaos, fighting with every breath against the overwhelming pressure of the hungry darkness from beyond the Rift that lapped at the edges of his consciousness. He saw the passageway to the After open, and the ghosts swept the wraiths along with them toward the darkness and Doharmu, who awaited them. Too late, the wraiths realized the intent and tried to fight their way back to wreak their fury on the living, but the ghosts, desperate for surcease, clung all the harder until the howling storm of tortured souls vanished, and the portal to the After vanished.
“No!” Jorgeson’s scream forced Corran back to the battle, as he flung himself forward, intent on murder. Corran parried, barely averting a fatal blow, pressed to block a series of hard, fast strokes that forced him backward. He saw his chance, and lunged, thrusting with his sword and sinking the blade deep into Jorgeson’s chest. Jorgeson’s body went rigid, wide-eyed with shock and pain, shaking with death tremors. A final instant of clarity burned in Jorgeson’s eyes, long enough for his expression to twist in contempt as he spat in Corran’s face.
“Go to the Abyss,” Jorgeson grated. In the next instant, his body slumped, sliding free of the bloody sword that had held him on his feet.
The two opponents who weren’t dead fell to their knees in surrender.
“Clear the road!” Corran shouted, staggering forward as Rigan, Mina, and the Wanderers ran for Thornwood’s entrance, finally able to cross through the battle zone without squandering their magic against lesser foes. Storr’s ragtag band of Wanderer-fighters and surviving volunteers closed ranks to hold the approach, assuring that their witches would not have to worry about new enemies at their backs.
Vengeance Page 52
