From the Ashes (11 page)

             
He turned to go, but stopped halfway, eyes squinting in the gloom as he regarded the walls to the sides. Symbols, shapes, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Dark, not painted on with a brush but looking almost as if… yes, almost as if
burnt
on. He moved closer, frowning, fingers outstretched to touch the flaky, charred residue that had endured for so long.

             
As he did, he winced slightly, as a soft, subtle, scraping noise began to claw, delicately yet insistently at his senses. A quiet, almost imperceptible noise, like the whining of a mosquito. It sounded almost like voices. Almost like
whispering
…

             
A cry, loud and stark, snapped him out of his contemplation of the symbols and he turned and ran from the chamber, memories of the burnt icons forgotten, the insistent whispering dying away into frustrated silence.

***

The Savaran came in a thunderous charge of martial might, steeds galloping, topknots trailing, yet it wasn’t the brandished weapons that unnerved the waiting Tulador Guards.

             
It was the silence.

             
No war-cries, no oaths, no threats or vows or hungering shouts for glory. Only eyes that stared in silent torment from taut, grey faces.

             
“End their misery…”

             
At Hofsted’s growled command, the first rank of Guards touched taper to barrel, the thunder of hooves drowned out, momentarily, by the cacophony of detonation. Tongues of fire leapt out from the ends of the cannons, almost blasting the braced Guards backwards off their feet, and the leading Savaran disappeared, mounts, riders and all, torn apart like paper in the storm of red-hot shrapnel.

             
“First rank, reload! Second rank, fire!”

             
The first rank dropped to their knees, fumbling with pouches of Marlyn’s mysterious black powder, even as the second rank behind them unleashed their own fusillade. And so the cycle went on, the fearsome power of the Tulador Guards’ new weapons matched against the brutal charge of the Clan Cavalry. Long seconds passed into minutes, guardsman limbs growing weary, fingers growing tight, till at last the smoke cleared from the Plain before them and silence prevailed.

             
Before them, the last of the Savaran, charred, smoking, in pieces.

             
A cry of triumph from the Tulador Guard, yet Hofsted didn’t smile beneath his moustache, for he followed the gaze of Arbistrath who stood next to him, staring through the dissipating smoke. For the cavalry may be dead, but the Legions of Clansmen were still very much alive.

             
And they were marching, inexorably towards them, by the thousand…

             
Hofsted called out to his troops, his voice loud, clear and strong, taking his example from the leadership of Master Wrynn.

             
“Remember your orders; we hold, as long as we can. The Shamans will aid us, have no fear.”

             
He looked up, behind him, to the hill, where stood, silhouetted in the sky, the distant figures of the mages.

             
“Have no fear…” he repeated, with a whisper.

***

Wrynn soared high, the wind beneath his wings keeping him aloft with no effort, his keen avian eyes scanning the battle below. The first wave of the attack had been repulsed; with Stone’s aid, the invention of Marlyn had proven its worth. But the real tests were yet to come. The Clansmen stretched out across the steps in a vast and dark tide. The Tulador Guard would hold out as best they could, which, given the aid of the Shamans, should be a while. But before long the numbers of the enemy would tell and the Guard would be forced to withdraw.

             
Then it would be the turn of the Plainsmen to shine.

             
Hopefully the enemy would be weakened enough for the Plainsmen to fight them to an impasse, allowing the elite of the army to move around the flanks, make their way, unnoticed, towards the Beacon while the battle played out behind them. Hopefully.

             
Flanks on his mind, Wrynn’s beady black eyes scanned to the left, now, zooming in with incredible acuity, picking out, even half a mile below, the distinctive shapes that raced out from the Pen, hoping to catch the outlying Shaman forces by surprised.

             
Kurnos, the Huntmaster, riding the rumbling wheels of his chariot. His Hounds. Riding in an attempt to outflank them, to spread carnage and confusion.  Just as he had suspected they would.

             
He turned his attention back to the centre of the battle, noting the erupting bursts of orange and grey as the hand-cannons wrought havoc amidst the ranks of enemy infantry, clods of earth, limbs and sprays of red filling the sky as the shrapnel flew out in unstoppable hails of piercing death. Yet something was wrong. Something wasn’t going according to plan.

             
With a caw of confusion, he registered; the Shamans weren’t aiding the Guards – no lightning lashed out, no bolts of fire or gale-force winds. What was wrong? Why were they not unleashing their powers? The Guardsman, despite their firepower, would be overwhelmed…

             
Wrynn clasped his wings to his sides, plummeting, beak-first, towards the ground, picking up speed like a lightning bolt from the blue as he dropped towards the hill whereupon stood the Shamans. At the moment of impact, he opened his wings, the spread feathers filling with air to slow him down, before calling upon the twisting, changing power of the elements to bring forth his true form.

             
He blinked quickly, for a second, as he adjusted to the poor vision of his human form, stamping, wringing his hands, as he sought to regain the use of his new limbs, before turning to the red-haired girl to his side who gazed at him, wracked with concern.

             
“Gwenna – what happens? Why do your shamans not aid the Guard?”

             
She pointed outward, towards the encroaching Legions of the Damned, eyes flashing green as she unleashed a bolt of lightning to smite them; but the crackling, searing finger of energy dissipated as it lashed out, licking across the ranks of soldiers but failing to harm them.

             
“Something is protecting them, Master Wrynn. A dark power covers them, rendering them immune to the power of the elements.”

             
The fearful eyes of all the impotent shamans were on him as Gwenna continued.

             
“Unless the source of that dampening effect is killed, we cannot aid our army…”

             
Wrynn looked out upon the Guards, hundreds of yards away, the vast tide of Barbarians threatening to enclose them now, on all sides.

             
“We cannot lose the Tulador Guard – their firepower will be crucial in the battles to come.” He wringed his hands, aged joints cracking in protest, before calling out. “Enree?”

             
The leader of the Plainsmen of Pen-Argyle came to his side.

             
“Yes, Master Wrynn?”

             
“Tell your warriors that the time is nigh. The honour of the Plains People is theirs for the taking.”

             
“Yes, honourable shaman. But what of the Guards? The Barbarians approach too quickly. Without the powers of the shamans to hold them off, we will not get there in time to save them…”

             
Wrynn nodded, eyes narrow and jaw set grim.

             
“Leave that to me.”

***

Arbistrath roared his indignation as he ducked yet another scimitar. The shamans had failed them; he always knew they would. All he had lost; his rank, his comfortable life, his people – all because he’d listened to them. And now, at the crux, they had betrayed him.

             
The Barbarians were all about now, hacking and slashing. Every now and then, the cracking report of cannon-fire, a cone of empty air suddenly clearing as a crowd of Damned were laid low, but the battle was too close, too packed. No meaningful, disciplined fire now. Every man for himself as he fought, tooth and nail, in the close press of bodies.

             
Arbistrath’s family sabre lashed out, here and there; he had quickly learned that the superficial wounds such as he’d learned in drills, were to no avail here – the creatures that posed as Clansmen seeming to feel no pain. Only killing blows counted; necks opened, hearts skewered. His sword arm was tiring, but he’d killed those closest to him. He took a moment to look about at the desperate troops.

             
Hofsted was there, still alive, bellowing encouragement to the troops even as he smashed the barrel of his cannon down on a Barbarian’s head, sending it twitching, brain-dead, to the ground. The young lad, Marlyn, he was still going too; his youth and reactions keeping him safe in the swirling melee, at least for now. Others, however, were not so lucky. Arbistrath watched, cringing, as a Guardsman was brought down by a horde of Clansmen; pinned helpless and screaming by weight of bodies and impaled, a dozen times over, by the sharp points of swords. Another span, goggle-eyed, reaching out in desperation to his Lord with one hand, the other clutching futilely at the blood pouring from his neck, before his knees gave way and he collapsed, face first, into the churning mud of the Steppes.

             
The fallen Lord was struck by the horror. In the dark of the hall, back at Tulador, he had only heard the sounds of slaughter. But here, on the bright plains before the Pen of Merethia, it was there to be beheld in every terrible detail. These men, his subjects, dying about him as they fought against an insurmountable evil.

And what was worse, he didn’t even know their names…

Even Invictus – sorry, he corrected himself, Stone – made a point of learning everyone’s names. If a tyrant could know his people by name, each and every one, then what excuse someone who thought himself a kinder, more benevolent lord?

A shadow loomed over him, his brief moment of melancholy forgotten, sent fleeing before a surge of fresh terror. For, before him, towering high and blotting out the light, a huge and ungainly parody of a Clansman; muscles, infused with dark power and swollen to gargantuan proportions; scimitar eschewed, in its stead huge claws that erupted through the broken flesh of fingers; at the top, a moustachioed head, small in comparison to the body, with tiny shrunken eyes, dark and cold, yet filled with a remorseless animal rage, the topknot flailing eight feet above the ground, almost as an afterthought.

The beast opened its mouth, the gaping maw stretching wide, a bestial roar erupting from the cavernous chest and Arbistrath fell to his knees, sabre limp at his side in the face of the monstrosity.

Was this it? Was this how the glorious dynasty of Arbistrath came to an end?

A massive, clawed hand swung down towards him, to end him. A hand lashed out, catching the creature’s wrist and hurling it back. In between the two, the monster and its victim, a figure strode, tall, greying, yet exuding ageless power.

Another clawed swing and Wrynn ducked, the lethal talons skimming the feathers of his headband. He replied with a blow of his own, his strength incredible, staggering the monster for a moment, but only a moment. Another swing from the creature, this one turned aside just in time by a thick forearm, the shaman avoiding the worst of the blow but being smashed aside to land on the ground. Leaping to his feet with an agility that belied his years, the tall man growled, crouching in readiness even as the beast bore down on him with staggering footsteps, as though in the control of someone who had only a vague idea of how legs were supposed to work. Then all of a sudden, the Shaman relaxed, standing up straight in the face of the charging monster, a slight smile of triumph already playing across his features.

The beast loomed high, claws poised to kill, and Arbistrath wondered at the shaman’s motionless, but just as the arm swept down, a booming crack, like that of thunder, and the offending limb went flying off with a spray of blood and the audible snap of tearing ligament. The once-Clansman stood still, staring in confusion at the missing arm, before turning to gaze in the direction of the sound.

This time, its head exploded and the beast fell with a crash, to land in the dirt.

              Mind numbed, heart still a-flutter in his chest, Arbistrath turned from the standing shaman and the fallen monster, looking right, to the braced forms of Hofsted and Marlyn who stood, grim and battered, slowly lowering the barrels of their still-smoking cannons. All about them, the forms of the surviving Tulador Guards gathered, all wounded in one way or another, all weary, grateful of the respite.

             
Respite?

             
He gazed about them; a sizzling, cracking circle surrounded the men, sealing them in, the smell of ozone assaulting the nostrils. Outside the circle, a press of Clansmen, innumerable, restless and ready, but not advancing, for the sparking dome of coruscating energy was keeping them at bay.