The Wall of Darkest Shadow (Nysta Book 5) Page 21

  The medallion around his neck was warm, too. It'd never been warm. It was always cool to touch. Even in the hot temperatures of Sharra, it had been icy cold.

  But not here. Not now.

  What was different?

  He felt movement on the ladder below and chanced a look.

  Saw her.

  He moved faster. Wanted to reach the top so he could work his hands. He needed his hands free to cast. Panic touched his heart as he realised she was climbing fast.

  “The Lord of Light is with me,” he cried, feeling strength fill him with the words. “I am blessed!”

  Nysta shook her head to clear the sound of drumming. A steady rumbling beat which was at odds with the chaos below. Was also not coming from the Doomgate. It was coming from somewhere else. Somewhere inside the town, maybe.

  She shook her head, dismissing it. That wasn't her job. Her job was here, on the ladder.

  She climbed faster, the cleric only just ahead. He was physically struggling with the climb and she figured she could catch him before he reached the top she could maybe throw the glowing bastard down. If she was lucky, he'd hit his head on the way down.

  She remembered a fight on another wall. A cleric, healing his men.

  Shatter their heads, Sharpe had shouted.

  It sounded like a great idea and she couldn't wait to break this cleric's skull.

  Then the first arrow speared into the gate beside her leg, wiping the killer's grin from her face. “Shit!”

  Another.

  Holding on with one hand, she swung around and out. Managed a look at two archers poised on the other side. They'd been shooting into the battle, but obviously saw her as the more immediate threat.

  An arrow hit where she'd just been.

  She pressed her foot against one of the rungs.

  And, as the second archer let loose another arrow, launched herself out into the air. She sailed sideways, hearing the buzz of the missile miss her head by less than an inch. Felt a moment of smug satisfaction.

  Then fear as she realised how high up she was.

  And how fast she was falling.

  She twisted in mid-air, body whipping around in desperation. The Queen of Hearts lashed out and found the painted wood of the massive gates. By rights, the blade shouldn't have held her weight. A normal blade would have snapped. But it held with steely defiance, though the resulting halt of her fall nearly pulled her arm from its socket.

  The knife's enchantment whipped the gate's back, searching for meat. Not finding any, they writhed and slapped the surface as though hoping to beat their way through and find blood.

  She looked up. Couldn't see the cleric. Her view was obscured by the guard rails along the top of the gate.

  The elf looked down.

  Saw Tophead weaving among a few of Bucky's men. The old goblin was mostly ignored, with the orks and dead getting their fullest attention. This seemed to be working for him.

  Also saw Chukshene. The warlock stood near the base of the ladder. Hands at his side. Eyes aimed up to her. They locked gazes for a moment, and she nodded.

  Looked up.

  Then, using her knives for leverage, began to climb.

  Asa saw the elf fall, but didn't see her land. “Shit!”

  “What is it?” Jagtooth leaned in close, his gore-coated hammer making her stomach churn.

  Everywhere she looked, the innards of men. She felt cold and isolated. This wasn't where she belonged. Not out here. Not on a battlefield. She belonged in the cold quiet battlefield of the courts. Where words, not weapons, slaughtered the weak.

  But she had to be here. They had to see her.

  All of them.

  If she survived, then defenders and enemies alike would fear her after this. And their fear was something she would need one day.

  She had to keep going. Had to prove something to them all. She forced herself to look past the gore and into the ork's red eyes. Pointed to the gates. “We need to get to that cleric. Nysta was our last chance. She's gone.”

  “You sure?”

  “I saw her, Jagtooth,” Asa snarled. “She's gone! We must get to get to those gates! We need to get into Lovespurn, Jagtooth. Get them up against the wall! Maybe if we can get inside, we can salvage something from this shit.”

  Jagtooth nodded and waded forward. Lifted the hammer high. The monstrous instrument of death spattered everyone nearby with blood as he swung it over his head.

  “Blood!” His voice carried through the barbican, sending chills down the spines of Bucky's remaining survivors. As his voice travelled across the dead, their eyes glowed even brighter with the necromantic green energy which had awakened them. So bright, they were like stars inside every head. They opened their mouths and those still with tongues were able to scream the word in a scream which drew gibbering sobs from the living who faced them.

  “Blood!”

  And they surged forward, tearing and clawing their way toward the gates with renewed hate.

  To where the cleric, Saint Eliphsen, had finally made the top of the wall. He turned to look down upon the wave of dead rushing toward the town's gates. And he smiled, knowing they would be too late.

  He lifted his arms.

  Words of power scribbled from his tongue.

  He could feel the thread of gold which linked him to Rule. A thread which pulsed with fresh energy now the god's avatar had reinforced it. Such blessings had been given few times in the past and it was with no small amount of pride that Saint Eliphsen stood on the wall of Lovespurn and aimed his face at the condemned who fought in the shadows of the Cursed Wall.

  The medallion burned hot. So hot his skin blistered beneath it, though he didn't notice.

  Then something hit him in his side and he staggered, struggling to breathe. His spell scattered with a flash of sparks and the thread tying him to Rule twitched like an angry snake.

  Looked down and saw blood flowing freely down his robe. His blood. Staining its purity. Wasn't sure what angered him more. The fact he was dying, or the stains on his robe. He grabbed the knife by its handle and tugged it free with a whine. Threw the slim blade down to the ground and looked up to see the elf climbing over the wall. Her violet eyes glittered with such terrible bloodlust that he took another step just to get away from the evil in her eyes.

  “Stay back!”

  The elf pulled herself over, ignoring the exhaustion in her arms. It hadn't been an easy climb. Then she'd had to throw Go With My Blessing a greater distance than she'd wanted to.

  As she climbed to her feet, she eyed the cleric with a mix of caution and hate.

  “Reckon I should warn you, feller,” she said evenly, rolling her shoulders and dropping into a crouch. Ready to move. “I can't fucking stand clerics. Killed one or two in my time. But that was the past, and you're my present.”

  He spat words of power and his side glowed as the wound in his ribs closed and healed at his command. “I'll not die easily, Tainted one,” he said. “I've been blessed by the Lord of Light himself.”

  She shrugged. “Figure that means you'll make the perfect gift from me to Rule.”

  “Gift?”

  “Sure.” She let her lip curl cruelly in a crooked line toward the scar on her cheek. “On account of how when I'm through with you, they're gonna send you back to him in a cardboard box.”

  “How dare you-”

  The elf spat. “You better run.”

  And moved, dodging in low. Rolled to avoid the first blast of white light which sheared the air where she'd been only half a second before. She slashed out at him, hoping to rip a line across his thighs. Hoping he'd then double-over and she could bury A Flaw in the Glass in his throat. Hoped he'd have a hard time casting with a knife in his neck.

  It'd worked before.

  But he skipped back, faster than she expected, and his hand brushed her shoulder.

  Barely touched it.

  First there was nothing. Then there was pain.

  It smashed into her
like a giant fist. Perhaps, she thought in the back of her mind, that's exactly what it was. Rule's fist.

  Where his fingers had touched, fire bubbled and burned her flesh. Stripped it to the bone, boiling blood before it could flow. Flecks of ash rained to the stones of the ramparts and she screamed as she realised that every flake of ash was a part of her.

  It was a long guttural scream. The kind of scream she hadn't screamed for a long time. One which carried agony from the depths of her soul.

  “Feel it,” the cleric howled, hovering close. Eyes manic. “Feel the blessed touch of Rule!”

  He moved in, hands glowing with inner fire as he reached for her.

  She couldn't move her arm.

  There was no muscle left. No tendons.

  Nothing to make it work.

  But her other arm worked just fine.

  And with it she drew Corporate Takeover. The wide-bladed dagger had been sheathed against her boot. It glittered free and she buried it in his guts as he made to wrap his hands around her throat. The force of her attack flung the cleric backward with a high-pitched shriek.

  “Don't touch me,” she spat at him. Looked down at her shoulder and saw there wasn't much meat left over the joint. Horror built as she watched her ruined shoulder smoke and burn as though acid was eating it away. She remembered watching the ork die, and her heart began to pound. “Shit.”

  The ice-cold ball in her guts spun freely, filling her with fear. Was this where she would die?

  She let out a scream as pain ploughed up her arm and neck. Her shoulder was on fire. Pinpoints of burning embers kept chewing deeper into her flesh. Consuming her.

  Through tears of agony she watched the wound crackle and burn.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for the worms to come.

  And then when they did, her mouth grinned in a cruel line.

  The small black ribbons slithered from the meat, wrapping gently around the bone. Filling the crater in her shoulder which had been formed by the cleric's holy touch. Black blood dribbled down the ruined limb and the burning embers fizzled and died.

  Slowly, head light as the pain grew more bearable, she looked up. Stink of acrid magic mingling with her own cooked flesh in the air, filling her nostrils and making her want to gag.

  “You can't kill me, you Tainted monster,” the cleric said through his teeth. He was doubled-over, but his belly was glowing with white energy. In seconds, he would be fully-healed. Her own wounds would take longer, she knew. He took a shuffled half-step toward her. “I'll kill you first. Then I'll kill your evil friends and the unholy creatures they've spawned. I'll open the Cursed Gate and King Scarrow will march. Rule will come, and not in avatar this time. He will be here in flesh. In the flesh! His wrath will show no mercy on your kind. It is over. You are defeated. You will be wiped from the world and it shall be cleansed.”

  “Didn't come up here to kill you,” she said, slumping back against the stone wall. It was cold and hard and somewhat soothing. “Ain't my job.”

  He blinked. “Then why are you here?”

  “We flipped a coin,” she said. Throbbing pain made her slur some words. “See who'd distract you and who'd get to kill you. Ain't your lucky day, feller.”

  Sudden understanding dawned and the cleric jerked himself upright, words of power moving nimbly across his lips. Words which burned in fire as a ball of solid flame vomited from Chukshene's outstretched hand and powered into the cleric's head.

  Turned the cleric's upper body into fine vaporous red mist.

  “Fuck me,” the warlock said in a trembling voice edged with excitement. He slithered onto the wall and moved quickly toward her. “Fireballed his head clean off. Did you see that? Right fucking off. I always wanted to do that. I can't believe it worked.”

  As the words left his lips, a horn blasted from the rear of the town. The sound of it rang through the air and seemed to herald a fresh bout of rain from the grey skies above. Whoever blew on it had big lungs, she thought.

  The defiant sound dominated her ears for longer than she was comfortable with.

  It also gave meaning to the drumming she'd been hearing.

  The marching of boots.

  “Sounds like the cavalry's arrived late again.” Then managed to drawl through the pain at the smoking remains of Saint Eliphsen, “No matter what happened, looks like it was always gonna be heads you lose.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She choked back a cry as the warlock dropped down beside her, fumbling to check her shoulder. He paused at the edge of her, watching the black worms rushing. Didn't reach out. “Shit. Nysta, are you okay?”

  The elf nodded, feeling a soft calm creeping through her. Said through lips tight with pain. “Reckon I'll be fine, 'lock. Whatever they are, they seem to be doing something to fix it.”

  “Yeah,” he watched the worms knit together without expression. “It looks like he nearly took your arm off.”

  “He tried.”

  “That was a stupid fucking thing to do. You should be more careful. Especially with clerics. Don't count on those things inside you growing another arm if you lose it.”

  “Didn't count on them to start with. Had hoped you'd climb a bit fucking faster, though.”

  He nodded, unsure what else to do. Hesitated. Then reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a wide strip of dark cloth. Handed it to her without looking at it. “Here. Cover it with this. I don't think you want anyone seeing it. It's not normal. With what they've just seen, fuck knows what they'll think. Or what they'll do.”

  She took the cloth and looked at it before beginning the painful process of wrapping her shoulder. Nodded to him. “Obliged.”

  “Just give it back to me when you're done. Don't throw it away.”

  “It important?”

  “Only to me.” He stood, looking out from the wall as soldiers poured into Lovespurn, aiming for the Doomgate. Led by an ork with wide spiked shoulders of unpainted iron. Horned helmet. Red eyes burning bright as he smelled the opportunity for war.

  Beside him, a goblin ran as fast as he could and kept close to a young girl somewhere in her middle teens. She carried a spear and though her face was red with exertion, she showed no sign of wanting to slow.

  Behind them, thousands of orks and humans. The Fnordic hordes. A ragtag collection of armour, spikes, cruel weapons, and occult fetishes pinned to their clothes. Heavy boots thundered through the muddy streets.

  Chukshene watched the approach with a mix of awe and relief.

  “It Spoonfed,” Deadeye said, sitting down beside the elf. “Me tell him if he run with Longarm, he miss fight. And what he do? He miss fight. It good fight, too. Many bits of man. No bits left now dead get up and fight. Me not want to try taking from dead now.”

  Tophead limped up beside her, the old goblin munching on something wet and meaty. “Yeah.” Tophead nodded. Held out a scrap of ear to the younger goblin, who took it with a grunt. “Look at him run. He fucked in head.”

  “Real bad,” Deadeye said. She scratched her head thoughtfully. “You think dead will stop walking soon and we get bits of man?”

  “Nysta!” Asa flew onto the wall, having scrambled up the ladder as fast as she could. The small woman with the flimsy sword held herself proudly. She purred in open joy as she saw the remains of the cleric. “You killed him. I knew you would. I knew it. First, you take the head of the enemy and then you take its beating heart.”

  “She had some help, you know,” Chukshene muttered.

  “Did you say something, apprentice?”

  He bowed low, pulling a few shreds of dignity. “No, Your Imperial Highness. Nothing at all.”

  Jagtooth came up next, the big ork still bleeding from his arm. He turned to help Vuk then left the deathpriest with Inkiri. Came to stand behind Asa, red eyes still bright and alert. “They've come from Ghostfear,” he told her. “And some from Breakbone, too. General Ironclaw will be here in a minute. He's just making sure there ain't no more o
f the bastards skulking about. He said it ain't pretty in there. Looks like they killed everyone in Lovespurn. Ain't anyone left alive.”

  “How did they know to come?” Asa asked.

  “Believe it or not, a goblin convinced them.”

  “It Longarm's idea,” Tophead offered. “He go with Spoonfed. They say Big Gate need more orks. He say there not enough.”

  “It stupid idea,” Deadeye said. Lifted her goblinknife which oozed strips of torn skin from the savage teeth and spikes on the blade. “We Wallrats. Best there is. Not need orks.”

  But Tophead eyed the Doomgate thoughtfully. Tugged on the wisps of beard jutting from his sharp chin and nodded sagelike. “Might need ork now,” he said. “We got dead. Many dead. Long eat just waiting.”

  “But they not lay down and let goblin take bits of ear,” Deadeye complained. “What good they?”

  “If we not eat dead, then maybe dead help make more dead things,” Tophead said. “Then goblins eat for long time. Days, maybe.”

  “You think open Big Gate?”

  He grinned at her. “We open Big Gate. Eventide say we keep Big Gate safe. Can't keep Big Gate safe if many men outside.” He waved his goblinknife at the Doomgate. “We go.”

  Deadeye grunted. “You still leader. Me not lead no more today.”

  The two goblins made to move past Jagtooth, who blocked their way with a hiss. “What the fuck do you think you're doing? You can't open the Doomgate! Haven't you seen what's out there?”

  “Bits of man?” Deadeye looked confused.

  “They not bits yet,” Tophead said.

  “Will be soon, if ork gets out of way. He in way, Tophead. Me kill ork?”

  “He big.”

  “You right. You always right. We go this way.”

  They turned to head back along the ramparts. “Stop them!” Jagtooth called to the men below. Strangled panic creased his face and he lifted his hammer.

  Still sprawled on the ground, Nysta sighed. Her good arm moved to put hand to A Flaw in the Glass. Unsure who she'd be killing, but figuring someone might have to die. Then winced as pain shot up from her shoulder.