From the Ashes (13 page)

             
The last, remaining Forester of the three stood his ground as Kurnos approached, looming large.

             
“You are the leader?” he asked, hopefully, snapping the neck of the still struggling woman with one squeeze, before casting her aside like a discarded toy. “You have taken the place of the Woodsman, yes?”

             
The youth gulped, yet didn’t flee, nodding in affirmation.

             
“I am. I am Iain. I take the place of Alann, the Woodsman, until he returns to us to take his place once more.”

             
The giant threw his head back, his mocking laughter echoing in the skies above.

             
“Returns? You think he yet lives? I pity your naivety, mortal.”

             
“I
know
he lives, wretch,” the Forester narrowed his eyes, fear lost in the face of his anger, anger at Kurnos’ snatching of their beloved leader from them. “He
will
return to us. And he
will
have his vengeance on you.”

             
Kurnos smiled, sinister and dark.

             
“Well he’s not here right now, is he?” he told the boy, chuckling quietly. “So I’ll have to settle for you.” He paused, finger on bearded chin in mock pondering. “I don’t think I’ll kill you, not straight away. For we have new Games now. Oh, you should see the Arenas of our Masters. The Games go on for years, young one. Years. And the agony never ends, for each time you die they bring you back for more.  Oh, you shall enjoy the games, of that I’m sure…”

             
His whip lashed out, but a cloud of smoke, a swirl of feathers and the cord of flames was grasped in a mighty hand that arrested its momentum, before casting it to the floor.

             
“Go, Iain. Lead your men. I’ll deal with this buffoon.”

             
The youth ran as Wrynn had instructed, knowing that he’d be no use in this particular clash. Behind him, the Shaman massaged his scorched hand, the palm still gently smoking from the fierce embrace of the whip.

             
Kurnos grinned.

             
“You must be the stick-shaker that Ceceline told me about. I was hoping to bump into you.”

             
The Shaman spat on the ground.

             
“I could smell your stink from the Plains, barbarian. I was always going to find you.”

             
Without warning, Wrynn cupped his hands together, the air between his palms erupting with flame and launching out with a shriek in a hail of piercing bolts. The streaking missiles pattered harmlessly off the laughing Huntsman’s chest, sparking and falling to the ground where they sizzled and died in the grass. The Council Member was protected by the same dark force as the Clansmen. Wrynn snarled slightly, cracking his knuckles as he drew on the power of the earth to fuel his limbs.

             
Time to do things the old-fashioned way…

             
With a roar, he charged the chuckling giant.

***

These are not men, thought Enree for the tenth time as he span in a graceful arc, the tip of his Hruti smashing another Clansman on the bridge of the nose and sending him to the floor. They have no fear, no sense of self-preservation, he seethed, as the creature rose slowly back to its feet. Unless you killed them, they just kept coming.

It had only been minutes, yet it felt like hours that they’d been fighting. The Clansmen fought with mechanical precision, but they were cold, lacking in passion or flair; Enree rang rings about them. Yet the sheer weight of numbers was beginning to take its toll and men and women of the Plains were dying all about him. Without the support of the shamans’ powers, the sacrifice of his people would be for nothing.

Yes, the sacrifice. Wrynn had told them that this would be the end of their people. That even those that survived this final, cataclysmic battle would surely fall in the aftermath. But the Plains People were fine with that. For so long they had been subdued, slaves, broken and chained. But now they were free. And a week’s freedom was worth a century of servitude. Enree, tall, proud, strong, remembered his three decades of slavery in the halls of Pen Argyle, serving wine to stinking barbarians and haughty nobles.

He would rather die a free man than live a slave.

But such noble sacrifice would be for nought if they were all wiped out to a man too soon. The numbers of the enemy should have been less by now, the strange fire-weapons of the Tuladors and the Spirit-Craft of the Shamans having taken their toll. The Plainsmen should have been able to hold the Legions to a stalemate, long enough for the Tuladors and Shamans to make their way past. But no, the plan was coming apart at the seams. If the balance didn’t shift soon, then the numbers would be too great, the legions of Clansmen barring their way, for the Plains People couldn’t occupy them all when there were still so many.

             
Another of the hulking, great Swollen ahead; body bulging with unnatural muscles as it swatted away the Plainsmen that swarmed it like flies. It picked up a Youngblood, cracking the youth’s spine with one flex of its mighty hand, before casting the corpse towards Enree. The leader ducked, just avoiding getting laid out by the blow, before brandishing his Hruti in a great spinning arc and charging into the fray, a shrill war-cry on his lips.

***

The smell of incense was strong, almost intoxicating after the decay and must of underground. Statues stood, silent, in alcoves along the walls as the Ten made their way from the top of the steps, pacing quietly along the corridor to the door that lay slightly ajar at the end. The sound of chanting voices from within, quiet, droning, as though in a trance.

             
Alann gripped his axe with white-knuckles, knowing now that he’d been right to trust the half-heard whisper on the breeze. The air tingled with static. Sorcery was afoot.

             
Slowly, the Ten made their way into the room, the darkness lit by the glow of a burning pyre. A pentagram, in the centre of the room, wherein sat several robed females, the source of the chanting. Right in the middle, a pile of still-steaming human hearts; a sacrifice, no doubt, to a dark patron.

             
Alann caught the eye of Narlen, the Plainsman’s eyebrows telling him all he needed to know. Let’s get out of here, they said. We don’t need to mess with this. We can be on a boat within hours and away. The Woodsman shook his head, to the other’s chagrin, making his way closer to the circle, hiding behind a stone column. He ran his fingers over the cold stone, perplexed; it had once been smooth, hewn blocks, but now was bent, twisted; warped, as though by great heat.

             
Closer now, the men could feel the malice, the evil radiating from the group of chanting Seeresses. Thick, foul, tangible, like cold, stagnant water. This was no accident of fate that brought them here. No coincidence.

             
Whatever these women were doing needed to be put to a stop.

             
A quick flurry of hand signals. Charge as one, taking them out. Alann will go for the leader, set slightly apart from the others, sat on the step leading up to the burning pyre. A chorus of silent nods; each man knew his part, readying weapons with trembling hands in anticipation of the violence to come.

             
Three…

             
Two…

             
One…

             
In silence the men charged, hands about mouths as daggers slid across throats, spilling blood on the floor to join that of the hearts. Hammers and axes fell, caving in skulls. The slaughter was swift and the men took no pleasure in their task, for they were not killers, for the most part. They were common men.

             
Alann charged as the slaughter began, flying across the circle and leaping the hearts, axe raised high to strike down the head witch. The head swept down, but, without even opening her eyes, the robed figure raised her hand and the axe-head froze in place, jarring Alann’s arm.

             
“Fools.” The witch hissed as she rose. “You think you can stop the will of our Mistress?”

             
A spark of dark lightning struck the frozen Alann in the chest, hurling him backwards to impact with a crump against one of the stone columns, driving the wind from his lungs. He fell, axe clattering to his side and his men spread out, wary, surrounding the lone surviving Seeress. She laughed, the sound harsh, cackling, despite the youthful brown eyes and long brown hair that trailed out from beneath the hood of her robe.

             
“Come at me then, oh mighty warriors. Even if you can take me, my work is done; even now, the army of the Shamans dies at the front gates. My mistress will prevail. This world – and others in time – shall burn…”

             
Most of the words made no sense to Alann’s groggy mind, but the Shaman Army? Here? Could that mean also that…? He grunted, rising unsteady to his feet.

             
“Kill the bitch…”

             
The men charged, but a spider’s web of black lightning struck out from the girl’s hands, knocking them all backwards to land, trembling and contorting with unnatural pain. Alann picked up his axe, threw it, aimed unerringly at her head, but a dark force turned it aside at the last second, hurling it to embed in the stone wall. He took a step forwards, willing to finish the job even with his bare hands, but the lightning crackled out again, sending him to his knees in teeth-gritted agony. He made to rise once more, despite the pain, but a hand on his shoulder kept him down, a figure striding past him to stand in the centre of the circle.

             
Jafari stood, unarmed, cheeks stained with dried tears as he faced the witch. She smiled at him, unleashing a storm of lightning that wreathed him in its agonising embrace. Yet he didn’t cry out, didn’t fall, didn’t even flinch. Her smile faded.

             
“What sorcery is this…?”

             
The Nomad snarled.

             
“The pain of your lightning is nothing compared to the suffering I already endure, witch.” He smiled, grim, menacing, the face of a man who had decided to take back the reins of his own destiny. “But no more.”

             
He charged, the warbling cry of the Desert on his lips as the witch stood, eyes wide, tongues of forked lightning licking out to smite him but to no avail. With a leaping tackle, he took the slight form of the woman about the waist, carrying her with him as he sailed through the air to land amidst the flames of the pyre.

             
A great whoosh, the heat causing each and every man to flinch, and the pair were gone, consumed by the ever-hungry blaze.

             
Silence now, the tomb once more the home of the dead. The air became lighter, the weight of the evil magicks dispersing now that the ceremony had been stopped.

             
A voice, Naresh, broke the stillness as the men stood, staring into the fire.

             
“Whatever we’ve accomplished,” he spoke quietly, firelight reflected in the glistening tears of his eyes, “I hope it was worth it.”

             
Once more, the Ten had become Nine.

***

The earth gladly took the burden from her and she relaxed with an audible sigh, opening her eyes to see the Tulador Guard who sat, staring in disbelief at his freshly healed arm where only a few moments ago a gash had hung open, vivid and sore.

             
“Th… thank you!” he stammered, his mind still echoing to the brush of her strong and wilful soul. She smiled, nodding, going to reply, when a voice called out behind.

             
“Gwenna! Gwenna, come quick!”

             
She turned, green eyes full of concern, fully expecting the tides of Clansmen to have broken through and be upon them, but no; it was Pol, the Shaman, the very same youth who had duelled the newly freed Stone only days before.

             
“What is it?” she enquired as she neared him, noting his broad smile and the joy in his eyes.

             
“Cast out,” he bade her, “cast out over the battle. What do you feel?”

             
She did as he asked, her own eyes widening in joyous disbelief as she felt what he did.

             
“Could it be?” Pol asked her. “Did someone hear the whispers of the spirits of air?”

             
The red-haired girl narrowed her eyes, flexing her fingers in anticipation, as the other shamans gathered about the pair.