The Wall of Darkest Shadow (Nysta Book 5) Page 20

  And the cleric rose to his feet, white fire boiling around his fists. Eyes opening to bright illuminated orbs. “I live to serve, my God.”

  Nysta was close. Legs pumping hard. Breath hot in her lungs. A Flaw in the Glass in her hand. Entrance Exam in the other.

  Leapt a trench. Foot skidded on the other side. Splashed into a puddle of blood and gore. She struggled for balance.

  Kept running.

  The cleric turned toward her. Began to raise his arms.

  Then Rule saw her.

  And his eyes, barely visible through the glaring light, widened. “You!”

  She leapt.

  Entrance Exam left her fingers. A bright glittering line which should have found flesh, but didn't.

  Then the second thing happened.

  Hemlock, deep in the guts of the Wall, finished the final word he needed to speak. Throat hoarse, he held his spell a moment longer. Savoured a spell greater than anything he'd ever cast before. He'd raised many undead in Grimwood Creek. But that was different.

  That was unfocussed. They would have fallen where they stood only a few minutes after he'd left.

  Lornx's grimoire made many promises for this spell. He'd read the cryptic mage's notes over and over again and had been struck by the genuine glee in the lost mage's words. As though he'd been anticipating the casting of it. As though he knew what it would bring and when it would be cast.

  There was a brief moment, just before he cast the spell, that the necromancer wondered if he was a puppet on Lornx's strings.

  The throne shivered beneath him.

  It was alive, he thought. It crept into his mind and listened to his thoughts.

  It sifted through his memories as he'd wrestled to control magic wildly beyond his control. And it had assisted with cool detachment. Its voice was the song of the Wall, and while he couldn't make out the words, he could understand their intention.

  The spell hung in front of his outstretched hand, runes hovering as though painted onto electrified glass. Bright and green. Fuming with power.

  Flickered.

  Sparked.

  And then something rang like a bell deep within the stone of the Wall.

  Bucky's head burned with necromantic light, dead mouth spewing green sparks and a moan which served to pierce the veil of the Shadowed Halls.

  The call was made.

  And the dead, bound by oaths stronger than death, answered.

  Entrance Exam flitted in the air. Hit the nimbus of light surrounding the god, passed through it, and exited out the other side. As it went through him, the Lord of Light's head twisted and skewed like a bubble about to burst.

  He opened his mouth in a wordless scream drowning in static.

  The light exploded as the roar from the enraged god tore the fabric of the air.

  The elf was tossed backward, arms wheeling. Managed to keep hold of A Flaw in the Glass. Landed on her side and bounced in the mud. Lifted her head, but couldn't see anything. Her eyes still burned in the aftermath of the bright light.

  She blinked, panicked and afraid. But when she could finally see again, Rule's avatar was gone.

  And the ground was churning where he'd stood. The cleric strode forward, rubbing his eyes. Long white cloak gleaming so bright she blinked again. Cursed herself for having changed her target.

  The cleric opened his mouth to vent his hatred. Raised his arms, ready to cast.

  But froze as a skeletal arm thrust from the ground in front of him. Clawed at the mud. Raked at his shins.

  Scraps of armour still lashed to its bones, the ancient warrior struggled to free itself of the mud.

  “Oh, shit,” one of Bucky's survivors howled. “They're everywhere! They're fucking everywhere!”

  Tophead splashed to a halt next to her. “You get up, Bloodhand,” he said, voice thrilled with urgency. “Eventide say we fight now.”

  “Sure, feller,” she said. Spat mud. Wiped her face with the back of her hand. And launched herself toward the cleric. “Fight!”

  It wasn't just the old dead.

  The new dead, still fresh. From both sides. As Freemen, Bucky's men and Asa's alike had sworn their oaths. So, they came. They moved slowly at first. Dragging themselves across the ground, weapons seemingly too heavy to lift.

  But with each step, they grew stronger. With each kill, they grew faster.

  Each scream they grew meaner.

  A Flaw in the Glass ripped through the air. Tight in her fist, it hungered for the cleric's throat.

  He raised an arm, shouting words of power. Which turned the air between them to fire and seared her flesh. The elf let out a shrill cry of pain and wheeled back, uninjured hand drawing and throwing Killed by Death. The heavy metal blade cruised through the fire and should have buried itself to the hilt in the cleric's chest, but he aimed his hand and a bolt of white light hit the knife, turning it to slag.

  The elf let out a thin groan, devastated to lose one of her favoured blades. Thought bitterly that whatever Rule had done to the cleric, it had improved his aim.

  She made to chase the cleric, but lost him in the scattered crush as Jagtooth's soldiers traded hate with Bucky's.

  Saw he was sending waves of light from his arms. Waves which rolled across the battlefield enveloping the freshly raised dead. When it touched them, they disintegrated with a shriek of flame and plasma.

  If he kept it up, any advantage they'd gained by Hemlock's spell would be undone.

  An ork jumped on him. Raised his axe with a savage leer.

  The cleric's hand snapped out, brushing against the massive ork's chest. Just touching it.

  And where he touched, the ork's flesh burned and bubbled with white light. He dropped without a scream. He had no lungs left as the acidic light had eaten his chest cavity in the time it would have taken for him to suck a breath.

  Nysta shuddered.

  And gave chase.

  Melganaderna and Jagtooth fought to bring the remaining defenders back. To form a line. To regroup.

  But Asa came charging from the mists, dead and living in her wake. Her face was set in a mask of fury and she had the shortsword in her hand as she ran.

  The young axewoman's mouth opened wide as she saw Martyn, the old soldier's eyes burning with necromantic glee. He rushed beside the imperial princess, a club in one hand and sword in the other. Teeth bared in a blood-hungry grin as he prepared to fall on the men he'd called brothers only hours ago.

  “Kill them,” Asa shouted. “Kill them all! For the Wall! Blood for the Wall!”

  The ancient cry stirred something in what was left of the ragged band, and even Jagtooth found himself turning to enter the chaotic melee, his voice booming above them all. “Blood for the Wall!”

  “Homicidal maniacs,” the elf spat, burning with anger. She'd nearly had the cleric, and he'd slipped away again.

  The Queen of Hearts ripped into the guts of a heavyset scar-faced man. His tight-cropped beard moved, showing an open mouth with missing teeth as the evil blade clawed his flesh, tearing meat from his body when she ripped the blade free. It seemed to want to cling to him, to soak itself in his blood.

  She didn't hear his scream. It wasn't loud enough to reach her ears above the cacophony of what was quickly becoming an execution, if only the cleric didn't interfere.

  Asa's small force hit the remnants of Bucky's like a hammer hitting a nail. Everything slid sideways. Men tumbled and were crushed beneath the sudden surge. The elf had to fight to keep her footing and found herself stabbing blindly at anything which moved. Her confusion made more real by the fact both sides wore the same armour.

  She tried to keep in mind Bucky's men didn't wear the fetishes. Didn't wear ornaments or insignias. But there wasn't time for cool-thinking. No time for judgements. Only reactions.

  She slashed and chopped, tearing flesh and bone. Not caring who died to her blades so long as she tore her way through the line.

  And then she saw him. He was trying to climb to the top
of Lovespurn's gates. Trying to get a view of the battle. No doubt he wanted to cast across the top and take down all of Asa's undead.

  She set her jaw.

  Tightened her grip on her knives.

  And charged forward, shoulder slamming into a man almost twice her size. He took her force in the gut and spun, trying to bring his sword down into her back. But lost strength in his legs and fell. Didn't know why until he looked down to see his intestines flopping loose through an horrific hole which she'd cut from one side of his belly to the other.

  “My legs,” he gasped. “Can't feel my legs.”

  Then Tophead dropped down on his shins. The old goblin's eyes were calm.

  Looking into them, the former-Freeman saw wisdom. A deep understanding of the world at its most crude. Its most predatory. Its most beautiful.

  And then he saw nothing as the goblinknife cleaved his head in two.

  Working quickly, the goblin tore loose an ear from the fallen man and skipped after the elf. He'd seen her heading to the gate. Knew why, too. He stuffed the ear into his mouth and chewed, enjoying the warm texture and fresh taste.

  Casually slashed out with his goblinknife. A knee exploded as the heavy weapon crunched through bone, the spikes ensuring nothing remained of the joint. He didn't stop to look at the dying man. Could see the elf fighting two. She was dodging their swords and cutting them slowly to pieces. Was surprised by how quick she was, but reminded himself she was Bloodhand.

  “Bloodhand best there is,” he murmured.

  Then chopped his goblinknife into the hip of the young boy trying to sneak up on her from behind. The boy managed a ragged spin, trying to lash out at the source of his agony. Desperate to live. Cries of pain bubbling from his mouth.

  The sword in his hand should have taken the goblin's head clean off his shoulders. Except the boy was swinging as though expecting someone taller. More his size.

  Tophead grinned up at him.

  Jerked the horrible blade free of the shattered hip and then brought it smashing the boy's exposed side. “Sometimes me like being small,” Tophead said as though unaware of the boy's suffering.

  He chopped again.

  And again, with a butcher's mechanical grace.

  Blood splashed beautifully, he thought. Eventide was right, as always. Today was the best day there is.

  Finally, he looked down at the dead body. Blue eyes begged to be cut loose and eaten. He resisted the instinct. He had to find the elf. Patted the boy's head as he moved on. Finished his previously spoken thought as he went. “But when it over, goblins always biggest.”

  As he limped onward, the boy's eyes opened and filled with green necromantic energy. His arms twitched. Body spasmed. The Shadowed Halls would need to wait for his soul, but they were patient.

  Endlessly patient.

  The boy rose on unsteady feet. Looked around. Saw more of Bucky's soldiers positioning themselves closer to the gates. He grinned a grin which spoke of mindless killing and headed toward them. Scooped up a sword along the way.

  His oath was strong.

  He knew that now. He had a single purpose.

  Defend the Wall.

  Nearby, Melganaderna fought beside Asa and was finding it increasingly difficult to protect the small woman who refused to stand back. Asa was the Imperial Princess. She lived in Doom's Reach which hadn't seen war in centuries. She'd never learned to handle a sword. And she swung it like it was a stick.

  Even though it grated on her, the young axewoman understood the other woman's lack of skill. Nevertheless, she began to understand how Gormen's students must have felt when they learned she'd be fighting with them. They'd figured they'd be where she was now. Forced to concentrate on defending someone who had no understanding of the soul of a battle.

  Frustration.

  She didn't know much about the Fnordic Lands and its people. Didn't know how the courts of Doom's Reach worked. She assumed they were as bitter and ruthless as those of Cornelia, but she knew there would be differences she'd never understand.

  But what she did know was everyone agreed that if an army lost its leader, then that army would be destroyed. So, she worked with Jagtooth to keep the young-looking woman alive as they strode through the traitorous Freemen with Asa's rage doing more damage than her shortsword.

  It didn't stop her cursing every step of the way, though.

  Picking their way behind Melganaderna, Hicks and Hudson worked hard. They fought together, often pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. Hudson moved a little stiffly, his body still not fully recovered from the battle at Tannen's Run and their escape through the Bloods.

  Snotshank whipped through a couple of Bucky's survivors. The big ork had a look of madness on his face. Red eyes wide and a grin powered on adrenaline. He swung a heavy sword which severed the leg of a crusty old soldier. As he fell, Snotshank grabbed a fistful of the old man's hair. Wrenched his head back and spat full in his face. Roared gleefully, “I always fucking hated you, Feyden, you old cunt.” Looked up suddenly, mean face delighted. “Hey! Davin Spoor! I see you. I see you! Come and fight, you puny little fuck. Fight me, Davin!”

  The big ork might have died then, but Hicks launched himself onto a golden-haired man who came lunging for the ork's back.

  The two men rolled in the mud together, each struggling to hold back the other's sword while pushing on their own. Their physical strength was a match and there was a point where Hicks was certain he was about to die. But the fight ended abruptly as Hudson stomped his boot down on the blonde man's cheek.

  Followed it up by burying his hatchet in his throat.

  “Fucker,” Hudson growled, extending an arm to lift Hicks to his feet.

  “Good fight, mercs!” Snotshank had to bellow to be heard over the noise. “But it ain't over, yet, and you already look done in. Sure you ain't thinking of switching sides? Heard you mercs do that sometimes if a few coppers are waved in front of your noses.”

  Hudson lifted his fist, middle finger firmly raised. “Hey, he saved your life, asshole!”

  “And I reckon I'm obliged to you,” the ork grinned wider. “Do it again. Look. Plenty more headed this way. Guess we're gonna find out where you folks really stand. Fuck. I lost Davin. Where is the skinny little motherfucker? I really wanted to tear his fucking head off and shove it down his neck...”

  Hicks, numb and feeling lost among the storm, shook his head. Orks were crazy, he thought.

  Then there were swords coming from all directions and his thoughts scattered in his desperation to survive.

  The Imperial Princess Asa had never been afraid of dying.

  Until now.

  Her little blade pricked the side of a big red-haired man, his fists wrapped around a sword almost as tall as he was. She didn't seem to notice that all she'd done was make him mad. Then he wheeled around, and she almost threw her weapon aside in her need to bolt away.

  But Melganaderna's axe was a purple blur and sheared both his arms at the wrists. The young axewoman's curses filled Asa's ears.

  The imperial princess blinked as the man flopped down in front of her. Her eyes refused to look at the stumps of his limbs as blood fountained loose. Didn't watch as Jagtooth's hammer turned the man's head into mash.

  She was already looking up and beyond.

  To the gates.

  To where the cleric, robes gleaming, was struggling for a vantage point. She knew why he needed height. He needed to see where to cast. If he made it to the top. If he turned. If he raised his hands and spoke his words...?

  “Oh, Grim,” whispered the woman who'd been loved by a god. “Help me, my love.”

  Behind the trenches, the Doomgate was still shaking the ground. In the bowels of the Wall, Hemlock lifted his weary head. Eyes blinked sweat away and he tried to lift himself up.

  “It's not stopping,” he said through his teeth. He looked to Bucky's head, the necromantic green light still poured from the mouth. The moan still passed across dead lips. Hemlock frowned at it. �
��Oh, shit. Why isn't it stopping?”

  The runes flared. The air was alive with plasmic energy.

  And Hemlock listened in horror as a voice spoke to him. A voice he'd heard only once before. When he'd died.

  Disembodied, it vibrated within the Wall itself.

  Hemlock? Is that you? Well, it's about time...

  The cleric, now called Saint Eliphsen, climbed the inner wall of the gates.

  A ladder, just inside, had been lashed in place for him. He'd been using it for the past day and a half. Sneaking to the top and healing from a distance where no ork archer could see him. He'd have preferred to work inside one of the nearby buildings with dignity, but General Buckinum had been clear. They couldn't afford any losses.

  And the Lord of Light had also been clear. Obey the fool general.

  The constant healing had taken most of his energy. And then the cursed Tainted creature had led him on a chase from the town. He still didn't know why they'd chased her. Buckinum wasn't all that much of a leader, he thought. He'd had more gold than experience.

  So, why did everyone like him so much?

  When the general had been savagely murdered, he'd gotten caught up in the rush. Had wanted the Tainted dead as much as everyone else. She'd surprised him, sneaking into the town like that. How had she gotten inside? He'd set up safeguards inside the gate. They should have told him she was there.

  And then the manner in which he killed Buckinum? He shuddered at the memory of the headless corpse.

  Still, she was just an elf.

  It didn't matter what ghost stories Willem had said. Willem couldn't be trusted, regardless of the letters he carried or what his servant said. Rule would never fully trust one of the Tainted.

  Not without the sacrifice. He couldn't be Accepted as he was.

  Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself up a few more rungs. The energy Rule had given him still coursed in his veins. It burned. It hurt. But he would hold it. His God had blessed him with more power, and he would endure the blessing even if it melted his soul.