Days Of Light And Shadow (73 page)

It had been a long time since Iros had been in a battle, and then it had never been a battle like this. It had been even longer since he had finished his training. But it didn’t matter. With the fear and rage coursing through his veins, all his training and skills came rushing back to him. The swords felt as light as air in his hands, and every strike was true as he knew just where the blades should go.

Using his knees and his heels he controlled his horse precisely, wheeling her from side to side, so that for each new attack he had his swords in position, and pieces of abomination rained down on both sides of him. And on those rare occasions when his strike wasn’t perfect, Saris was there to take them down as well, the jackal hound leaping on the abominations and bringing them to the ground where the foot soldiers could finish them off quickly.

The wolves were performing the same service, guided it seemed by something more than their natural intuition. They weren’t tearing out throats as they should, but simply bringing them to the ground where soldiers with swords could finish them off quickly.

Step by step the army advanced, slowly pushing the enemy back.

It was a hard fought and bloody battle, but that was  true of all of them. Time lost all meaning for him. Seconds dragged by like hours and yet perversely the time also slipped by far too quickly to keep track of as he concentrated on the fight around him. All around he could hear men screaming and dying, he could see other riders being torn down from their horses. Happily though he could also hear many others roar with triumph as they brought another enemy down. He could smell blood, thick and cloying in his nose, and the air was filled with smoke from the cannon as every so often another cannon found a shot and fired over the heads of the combatants and into the temple grounds. In the distance the warspells continued working their magic, with lightning and fireballs crashing down all around, while the priests’ magic worked closer to them, causing some of the enemy to freeze where they stood while others exploded into dust.

The only thing that mattered though, was that they were winning, little by little thinning the enemy’s ranks as they pressed on.

He didn’t know that at first. Not for a long time. It wasn’t until Iros looked up at some point that he realised it. But to suddenly see the enemy’s makeshift fortifications so much closer than they had been, and behind them a sea of bodies, that was victory. He couldn’t have said whether that was two hours into the battle or twenty. But he didn’t care. They were winning.

What he could have said was that their tactics were working. The temple complex was on fire, all the vegetation covering it having ignited. The cavalry were in the thick of it as they were meant to be, and each rider was surrounded by a small cadre of foot soldiers and shield men, all working together to hold the enemy off until they could be guided into the swords of others. And best of all the numbers of the abominations ahead of them were growing fewer. Lines that had stretched hundreds or even thousands across and scores deep, were now little more than fragile spider webs with huge holes in them.

But that was due as much to the enemy striking at its own army from behind, as it was to them. For, the watchmen, by then down to their last few hundred, were striking with an immortal fury. Many were injured among even those still standing and fighting. Many were even missing limbs. But it didn’t stop them. It didn’t even seem to slow them down. And stranger still they had been joined, by women. Tiny elven women wielding whatever sorts of weapons they could find, and laying into the abominations as though the power of the gods themselves was in their frames. Maybe it was. Whatever they hit it either broke apart as the blade tore through it, or flew through the air. They had no technique, but they had strength beyond that of a dozen large men. And though he didn’t understand it, he knew they were the same as their companions had been at Python Pass.

Iros took another head, his sword slicing cleanly through the foul thing, then wheeled the horse around to take the next one only to find that there wasn’t one. The things were starting to run short in numbers. Finally. And it was then that he knew that they were almost through them. Victory was at hand. He wasn’t quite sure how, in large part it had to be the watchmen turning against the others, in part Y’aris’ bungled strategy, but he didn’t care. They were winning.

He raised his swords in triumph as he waited for the next abomination to break through, and all around him he could see others doing the same. They knew that the battle was nearly won too.

But nearly won wasn’t the same as won, and they still had to carry on. So step by step they continued their slow advance, and the abominations fell before them.

And then in one truly amazing moment, he looked up from his kill looking for the next shambling monstrosity, and couldn’t find him. The only ones in front of him were the few still struggling on the ground as the infantry rammed their swords through their skulls.

All around it was the same. The abominations had been slain. And stranger still the wooden stakes and poles that had sheltered the trenches where the abominations had been hiding, were suddenly only a few paces ahead of him. They had crossed the battlefield.

“Aswa.” He whispered the word as he sat in his saddle and stared. It seemed appropriate somehow to give thanks. The Divines had surely stood with them this day. It was the only explanation he had.

And not only had they won through, but the casualties had been light. He looked across his flank to both sides and saw tens of thousands of windriders and rangers with him. While the infantry that had stood with them through the advance, looked to be covering the ground in heavy numbers.

Behind them when he risked looking back he could see hundreds of riderless horses. But that was hundreds when it should have been thousands. And while there was the steel of the infantry mixed in among the dead, the numbers that had fallen were far less than the numbers of leather skinned monsters. Bits of flotsam in a sea of black blooded bodies.

It wasn’t just a victory, it was a mighty victory.

“Aswa!” Iros screamed his praise out to the heavens, unable to contain himself, and if there truly were any above listening they surely heard him. Others took up the cry as the last of the battles ended, and soon the cry was a thunder upon the air. From one side of the battlefield to the other the soldiers called out, a cry of both triumph and relief that could surely be heard all the way back in Irothia.

“Aswa!”

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen.

The cries of the wounded were terrible, and Dura did her best to ignore them as she rushed around the makeshift infirmary with buckets of hot water. But it wasn’t easy.

At least five thousand men and women lay on the grass being tended to by far too few healers, and many she knew would not survive. And of those that did, many would be scarred or injured for life. She was one of them. After being unhorsed by an abomination during the battle, she had lost a chunk of her thigh to his teeth, even through leather and canvas, while one shoulder had been heavily raked by his claw like fingers. But still she was lucky. She had survived, plunging her belt knife deep in its eye. Many others hadn’t been so fortunate.

Every so often when she had a chance she cast her eyes over the battle field. Four hundred paces of what had once been a grassy meadow, now piled high with bodies. And too many of those who had passed were their own.

The Black Otters had lost four, and she was ashamed to admit even to herself that she had not seen them fall. She did not know how they had met their ends. And six more were busy fighting for their lives with all the rest. It was they that she was bringing the hot water too, as the healers tended to their wounds. Clean bandages and hot water, that had become her life these past few hours. And not just hers. An army of former soldiers were doing the same.

The euphoria that had been after they had broken through to the temple complex, had quickly vanished. The cheering giving way to the cries of the suffering, and in time, the weeping of the families. So many were dead.

Iros was right in that. Once she had heard him speaking to the captain, and telling him that glory was for bards. And at the time she hadn’t quite believed him. But then she was young and stupid. What had she known? But now she knew. The soldier’s true victory was survival. The Lord of Greenlands was a wise man. The rest of the Otters probably knew the same.

One third of the patrol dead or injured. It was unthinkable. A normal patrol would be unlucky to suffer one death in a year. And yet in that they were probably no better or worse off than any others. Every patrol, every squad, every dragoon had taken heavy losses. And had it not been for their strategy and the foolish tactics of the black blood, it would have been so much worse.

Yet if the captain was right, if Iros and the elders were right, had they not fought and won this battle now, millions more would have died in time. Maybe even everyone. That was a thought to cling too as she witnessed the suffering. Something to give thanks for.

And for her the battle was over. She had work to do and people to help, but she would not be called into battle again. Not today. The same was true for all the rangers. The final battle would be fought in the temple, and in enclosed quarters longbows were useless. They needed heavy armour, swords and infantry, which was exactly what Commander Tyrus was busy assembling as they prepared to storm the temple. And strangely the priests and elders were joining them. Though maybe it wasn’t so strange when they were likely going to be facing other priests.

Iros and the captains were out searching the myriad of ruined buildings for enemies, and every so often they heard the screams as another was found and put to the sword. Priests mainly, they were the only ones that seemed to know how to shriek in terror, though she hoped Y’aris would join their number as well. There was an elf that needed to die.

But for her, with her wounds bandaged and not even a belt knife left to her name, duty consisted of chores. And there was an irony.

She’d taken the cloak to avoid a life of drudgery. Of cleaning up after others and washing floors. Yet suddenly it seemed that even having fought through and survived the most terrible battle she could ever have imagined, her life had turned full circle.

Maybe the Mother had a sense of humour. Cleaning wounds or cleaning floors, maybe her life had always been meant to be one of cleaning. And the worst was that she was sure that when they returned to the chapter house, whichever one they went to, there would be more cleaning to do.

But still that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the last be done, that the demon was driven from the world, and that life could one day return to the way it had been. That her family would be safe. Iros was right in that.

Dura offered a small prayer to the Mother as she continued in her duties. Because the only thing she was certain of was that she never wanted to have to ride into a battle like this one ever again.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen.

Tyrus stared at the entrance to the Reaver’s temple with a feeling of dread. He didn’t want to go inside, but he had to. The army had been defeated - he still wasn’t completely sure how - but  some of the dark priests and the altar still survived. The priests had to die and the altar had to be destroyed, or sooner or later there would be more armies to face.

The battle had been won now they had to win the war.

Still the huge steel doors in front of him gave him pause. In appearance they looked no different to many others. Dull grey iron covered with a delicate sheen of rust, large enough for four men to enter abreast. But there was something about them that screamed unclean at him. That screamed that this was the way to Sandara’s underworld.

Tyrus would much rather have stayed outside and spent his time with the others searching the other buildings looking for Y’aris. The priests - all of them - swore that he was important somehow, and that Y’aris needed to be found. Though typically they wouldn’t tell him why. So he had given that duty to Iros and the riders Though the riders had fought valiantly, entering into a dark temple filled with enemies and likely fortifications, required heavily armoured infantry, not lightly armoured riders.

At least the task looked like a simple one. Enter the temple, kill the priests, destroy the altar. How hard could it be? After all the army was gone, and they had priests of their own with them. And while the temple was huge, it was still not as large as the battlefield they’d just crossed.

Taking a comforting breath Tyrus raised his hand to give the command.  Before he could give it however, he was interrupted.

“Hold please. We will take the lead.” Tyrus was surprised by the call, and more surprised still when he saw who made it. The black clad watchmen, fifty or sixty of them at least, most of them wounded, some of them badly, were heading for the temple door. And with them were half a dozen elven women, all injured, one of them completely naked, and carrying blood stained weapons.

“But -.”

“It is our place.” The place for the man was actually the healer’s tent in Tyrus’ view. For he had blood seeping down his side from an open wound, and more blood trickling down his face from a head wound. Yet he was only lightly injured compared with many of his comrades. Several of his companions were actually hopping into battle with missing legs. Injuries that should have killed them, that had left them crippled, and yet they were still intending to go in to battle again.

“It is their place Commander.” The witch Trekor Aileth spoke softly in the quiet air, and in agreeing with them gave the broken watchmen enough time to reach the temple doors. Huge iron doors set into the stone were simply wrenched out of their frames by the watchmen before they threw them to the ground.

Tyrus stared in shock at the doors. That sort of strength just wasn’t normal. But before he could even think about asking they had started entering the darkness inside the temple, and he had to order his men to follow.

Inside it was dark. More than dark, it was pitch black, and though he looked for them Tyrus couldn’t see any torches on the walls. He couldn’t even see brackets for them. How did the priests find their way down through the place, he wondered? Fortunately his men were carrying plenty of torches, and Ericus, the priest of Silene,   seemed to have a magic that made the stone glow. They weren’t going to be blind as they hunted down the enemy inside the temple.

The air though, was far more threatening. It was dry and stale, and filled with the stench of decay. Every breath came with the promise of a long painful disease and a horrible death.

Though the temple was a huge pyramid of massive stone blocks above them, the passage to the heart of the temple led down through a small mountain of carved rock. And that troubled him. It was almost as though the massive pyramid was merely a cover for the true temple. And that as large as it was, the temple was far larger. Suddenly it seemed as if one of his guesses had been wrong.

At least the path was easy enough to remember being a series of passages and right turns that spiralled deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. Here and there along the way down, they came across doors leading to side rooms, and the crippled watchmen pushed them open to see what was inside. For the most part they found nothing.

Occasionally they came across an abomination or two lurking in the side rooms, but the watchmen made short work of them. A screech and then a few short thumps and bangs was all it took, and then they marched on down through the darkness. Say what you would about the watchmen and their terrible injuries, they seemed to have no equal when it came to battle.

And then they came to the first chamber and it wasn’t just one or two abominations waiting for them, it was scores. And they weren’t alone.

There was no warning. Nothing to tell them that there was trouble ahead. All they knew was that the passageway suddenly widened out to become a huge hall, and the light from the torches reflected off the whites of eyes in the darkness ahead. Lots of eyes. Then the battle was joined, and as far back as Tyrus was he could barely even see what was happening. But he could hear it.

He heard the screeching of the abominations as they rushed into the attack, and the cries of the men and women as they were met head on. He heard the dull thuds as heavy weapons buried themselves in soft flesh, and the somewhat more liquid sounds as badly broken bodies hit the stone floor. He heard the blood chilling chanting of dark priests as they called on the power of their demon. And then he heard Ericus.

“Silene meyer bor passa. Aswa!” Just as the words ended Tyrus was blinded by the light as the priest of Silene sent his goddess’ glory streaming in, and he desperately tried to cover his eyes. But there was nothing that could keep the light of the goddess of light from his sight. Certainly not the mere flesh and blood of his eyelids or arms. But no matter how badly it blinded him it was far worse for their enemies.

The enemy priests stopped chanting and the abominations started screeching furiously. The watchmen however, were completely untroubled by the light and they went quickly about their business. And then by the time the light had passed and he could see again, even if his vision was filled with strange colours, the battle was over and both the dark priests and their abominations lay dead, their bodies mangled and cut into tiny pieces.

The battle was over. It took Tyrus a moment to understand that. Even as he struggled to make his way past the others to the front to see the battle’s remains. But when he did get there he knew.

There were only bodies left. Hacked and slashed into in pieces. Dismembered then burnt to black and ash. But they weren’t all abominations and priests. One of them at least was theirs. Sadly, when Tyrus could see properly again he recognised the dark stained robe of one of the women even if he couldn’t see her head, and knew that one of their own had fallen. To a soldier like him it was unthinkable that women should be fighting, but worse than that, falling in battle. Being torn apart by foul monsters. The elves had some strange ideas about life.

“Priests, can you offer some prayers.” Normally he didn’t have much call for the clerical. Mostly they just seemed to get in the way. But this didn’t seem like a normal time, and their magic was proving useful. “No one should die unblessed in this dark underworld.”

“They did not die unblessed commander.” Trekor Aileth was suddenly beside him without him even realising; it was amazing how quiet she could be despite her size. “The blessings of the Mother flow through them all as they fight the demon.”

“But we will have some light in this darkness.” Ericus was standing some distance from them, in the very middle of the underground hall, with his staff held high above his head. Tyrus barely had the chance to close his eyes as he realised what was coming next. It wasn’t enough.

The priest spoke the name of his goddess and instantly lit up like the sun. And then with a few more words a ray of that unbearable brilliance shot for the ceiling and started eating its way into the stone.

Tyrus covered his eyes with his arms again. They all did. But still he could see that impossible light tearing through the stone above their heads, and he knew what the priest was doing. He was carving a channel to the sun. He was opening the vault up to the first rays of sunlight it had ever seen. What began as a narrow channel widened quickly into a tunnel as the priests was joined by his brethren above.

Surprisingly quickly that small channel had become a tunnel as wide and as tall as a man, and the sunlight was streaming in. The sunlight illuminated the entire cavern. An effect that Ericus added to a moment later  when he turned around and cast his magic into the floor, somehow transforming the dull grey stone into a rounded mirror. A mirror that reflected the new light in all directions, shining even into the darkest and most distant parts of the cavern.

“Silene, aswa.” Thanks given to his goddess, the priest turned and walked to him, his work done.

“Commander, my friends above us are even now creating a globe of focus that will take the light of the sun and the moon and the stars from wherever it shines and send it down here. Soon this dark vault will never know darkness again, and will become a sanctuary should we need one.”

“Good. Thank you.” Those few simple words seemed completely unworthy of the gift the priest had given them. He had brought light to the darkness. But what else was there to say? Still Ericus seemed happy enough with what was said as he nodded and wandered over to stand with the other priests as they waited to move on.

It was then that Tyrus finally understood that this was never a battle of swords and cannon. Not even one of magic. It was one of the gods. Of the Divines as they fought a demon. He, his soldiers, all those who had fought and died, and even those who had somehow been transformed into those hideous abominations, were like pieces in a board game. They were simply being moved as they were needed. But now, the final battle was upon them, and the pieces were not enough. Now the players would show themselves.

He swallowed nervously, as he realised that he was no longer in command. That he never truly had been. And that he had no idea what awaited them.

Then, taking his courage firmly in both hands, he gave the order and they marched on into the darkness.