Bowstrings snapped as one, launching a salvo of arrows that sought revenge in the hearts and lungs of her soldiers. Sati knew it would come, but there was little she could do to steel herself, if anything at all. Cassock, Sapna, even that bastard Orarion: she feared, feared for their safety. The Hounds of Gevaudan sensed the danger to their riders and at once bucked on their hind legs, baring their underside as rippling shields of fur and muscles. The steel tips glanced off as if striking stone ramparts, some nicked, others shattered. A few shafts from crossbow quarrels had dug into the three hounds’ skin, though they were quickly pushed out by surges of red and black mist that poured out like gaseous blood. Alas, the zealots hadn’t fared as well under the volley, more than two dozens having fallen upon first strike while twice as many were wounded.
Sati snarled as she quickly assessed the damage with a backward glance. Even faced with such a sudden wave of death, the zealots had not buckled, and even the injured still held onto their long swords, plucking splinters of wood out of their bloodied chain mail. This had been nothing like a harmless rain, but they would not let a bit of bad weather pull them down – neither would she. More arrows were being nocked, though thankfully the crossbows were slow to the charge. Theirs would simply have to be faster.
Over a hundred zealots charged onward, their onslaught of steel and war cries a thing of marvel. The first clash of swords was followed by a dissonant orchestra of ringing and slashing, of plates banging and mail links splintering. Sometimes, she could hear the gurgle of blood as a blade plunged into a man’s throat. Sometimes, she could hear the cries of one assailed in all directions, feeling cold steel in his neck, spine and guts right before the weapons jerked, twisted and pulled out. The priestess had to shake herself back to reality right then, lest her mind wander further in vengeful fantasies against mankind. She would have to let her old wounds itch, today, so that no new ones could mar her further.
The priestess gave Cassock a quick look, then sent his way a swift, meaningful nod. In reply, the Patriarch looked away, sealing off his fiery eyes behind lids of dappled grey as he spread the order telepathically. As if on cue, the ranks of the hundred zealots that hadn’t been sent to the forefront parted halfway, a swath of scaled bodies cutting through the path they made, battalion lances bared and lowered. All forty of the Basilisk Dragoons were stampeding forward as fast as mounted soldiers, their four reptilian legs slipping deftly over parcels of grass, even under the weight of their half-plate armour. As they charged, they bellowed and hissed in their native tongues, clicks, rolls and snarls mixed with a sibilant elegance; in answer to the cantrips, their lances darkened and glowed simultaneously, the brown shafts turning a poisonous black while the dehlar heads were alit in a sickly green.
Their leap in the fray had changed the tides of battle. They spread a stunning disease through the sorcerous poison of their spears, infecting all those whose flesh they cut. Stranger, however, was how some of their opponents seemed to freeze upon a glance, as though they’d seen a petrifying horror through the slits of the Dragoon’s visors. In these moments, swarms of Crones swooped down from the skies, croaking their hexes in what could have been maniacal laughter. Those who’d gone as still as stone underwent a second transformation, their bodies transmogrified into minuscule rats or toads that were picked off the ground and squished within the witch crows’ jagged beaks. Alas, some had been struck down on their downward arcs, unsuccessful with their witchcraft, while two dragoons had already been felled by well-aimed strikes to their flanks and hamstrings. One of them, however, had lost its helmet in the fall, revealing on its face the features of a man crossed with a vicious dragon’s head, with eyes that sparked a thundering green. In the sudden flash, it had turned a handful of foes into stone statues, killing them in petrifaction.
The earth growled underneath everyone’s feet, as though they’d been standing on the spine of a slumbering beast from forgotten tales. Out came a hulk of rocks and packed earth, its heavyset limbs scraped and broken from more sword slashes than could be counted. The Beast of Stone was on its last leg, almost literally at that: there was very little it could do in its state, and a strong wind could well end its short stay in the material world. “Pitiful creature,” Orarion howled from the back of his Crone. “Your brother has been of much better use, up there on the hills. Why don’t you reclaim your pride down here, where all that is earth is your bailwick?”
The beast cringed, dust rolling off in a grating noise as what could have been its neck moved up and down. The Necromancer’s teeth parted, but considering his lack of skin and muscles, the cackling that accompanied it was the only thing to suggest it was a smile. He outstretched a bony hand, aiming it at the solidly-packed mass of humanity. His bones shook, overtaken by wretched spasms, and a wave of ghastly light rippled in the air, aglow in deathly purples and blacks as they struck a group of soldiers from the House, as well as a Dragoon and a few of their own zealots.
They writhed and grunted as life seeped out of them like water from a broken cup, swallowed in drafts into Orarion’s body. With his other hand, he aimed at the Stone Brother, then unleashed the life force he’d just garnered onto the creature. Its stone body seemed to bubble; earth moved from the ground beneath like climbing mud, filling the hollows and gashes, making the creature whole once more.
Orarion fell silent for an instant, catching something on the currents. He spoke again, without a hint of emotion. “Your Brother has just fallen. He lasted longer than I would have fought.” The renewed golem was shaken by the news, or at least the malevolent spirit within it had been struck by the feeling of a severed link. Sati watched the monstrous sorrow with an empathic look; it was strange, relating to something she had thought to be mindless. It roared, the deafening bellow coming out of its splitting, rocky mouth, and it rushed to the battle in a vindictive rage.
Sati sighed, reminded of the things she’d done when her sister was broken by men, so many years ago. She would kill everyone alive, only to avenge the wrongs that had been done unto her. “If it kills enough, I might consider reviving the other,” the Lich said listlessly as he riled his mount into flying off. In that moment, she regretted fearing for his safety, regretted that the arrows hadn’t bored a thousand holes in his skull.
“Have the Crones pick off the archers and mages. They can maneuver around arrows, and spells can do no harm to them,” she told Cassock, who instantly relayed the order. “And tell the Undertakers that they can summon a rainstorm.”
“Sapna, Cas, come with me. Orarion, you stay here and lead. We’ve overstayed our welcome; it’s time for us to say goodbye.”
:::::
There was commotion up in the House encampment, the sounds of celebration. Bent by the wind, a hundred thin streams of smoke trailed upward from the remnants of the fires. A larger source of black fumes came from a pile of ashes, big enough to be the remains of a scorched elephant. The monks and soldiers had killed it at last; the beast had escaped death too many times, due to its swiftness, but that would no longer be a problem. A wayward gust wafted by, scattering the ashes.
It was a victory for them, and it made them proud. When monsters such as this one were slain, the slayers always revelled as though they’d done the world a great service, as though they were heroes – a daft idea. One monster, as wicked and dangerous as it was, remained just that: one monster. Down below, at the foot of their homes, stood hundreds more. Even beyond that, on the plains between Tylmerande and Yarborough, in the forest of Concordia, dwelled thousands and thousands more. The whole world teemed with creatures such as the one they’d felled, and they were killing unhindered while these men laughed and smiled. “One damn monster. That’s just pathetic,” one gritty, hollow voice spoke, disembodied as if the winds had found words in their whispers.
“You should look down, once in a while, boy.” Another had come from nowhere, a sweet echo in counterpoint to the grating of the previous one. “Your first wave is quite nearly wiped out.”
“A glance upward is never lost as well. Does the House not preach the limitless skies?” Monotonous, this time; it held none of the disdain and condescension the previous two voices had outwardly shown, only a sedate tedium so often viewed in disillusioned teachers. “Look up, and you may learn something from it before the end.”
Three thin shadows climbed the heavens, piercing through clouds. It was a strangely slow ascent, like the rise of fireworks at the end of a midsummer festival in Radasanth. The voices fell silent as though their owners were watching the slow ascent. The shadows bogged down, reaching their peak, over a hundred paces above the small mountain where the House stood in watch, noticing that the shapes were eerily reminiscent of a man’s spine. A fourth voice came on unseen currents, posing an innocent query. “Will this firework be as pretty as the last ones?”
Then, the three shadows burst into three hundred, drawing a blossom of white flowers in the sky.
Splinters of bone rained from the clouds, shooting down like a shower of polished stars. They battered the tents, piercing holes through cloth and awnings, poking exposed skin, eyes, cutting tongues, drilling through throats. All those who had not sought cover were pelted, and though the projectiles were small, they could be deadly due to their speed and number. What monks remained had blasted many away with gusts of wizarded wind, but their numbers had thinned since the first assault. Before they could recover from the rain of splinters and tears of bone, three blurs had appeared in the heart of the settlement, from which the horrible silhouettes of hell hounds emerged. Three of the four Hexxen Nacht leaders had made their appearance, right before the eyes of the child the House had sent to stand as a prettyboy commander.
They were quick to dismount, and they sent their hounds to wreak havoc on the camp. There were still many, many standing, but the three did not look the least bit worried. After all, they were close enough to kill the House boy, and the Hounds were no slouches either – something that had become quite apparent when they bit off and devoured the heads of their opposition, at once healing the wounds inflicted by the crossbow bolts in the first volley. Sati lifted and arm, telling the dogs, as well as all soldiers, to stop.
“They kill unless we tell them not to.” The warning was as clear as could be. Kill us, and nothing will stop them from killing you. “Even if you somehow manage to dispose of all of us, and you’ll still have to deal with the commanders left with my army at the foot of the hills.”
“Now,” she continued, as lightly as if she’d begun a routinely business. She turned to the boy, whatever his name was. “We’ve only come to say farewell, really. There’s no purpose in doing any more... it’d be wasted on the likes of you.”
“You’ve lost so many already, and we’re still fresh. Those Golems we sent in? They won’t be down for too long.” Sati absently dusted off her priestess’ garb, then flipped a stray cluster of silky, crimson hair out of her eyes. She smiled something disturbingly angelic. “And those tricks of mine? I’ve only shown you appetizers: believe me, the main course is much, much harder to digest.” Hands behind her back, she leaned forward in a rise of crystal laughter, so innocent, so endearing. So wrong. “What can I say? I’d have already killed myself out of boredom if I had to resort to simplistic tactics like yours.”
“I could be bluffing though. So please, take your chances; that might liven up this day a tad.” At those words, a crossbow bolt was let loose, aimed to burst into her skull. The quarrel glanced off an invisible barrier that pulsed into existence around the three, then vanished just as quickly. “What do you know? Another trick of ours,” she said with a sigh, giving Cassock a look of feigned defeat.
“It’s too bad ghosts can’t hurt people – not yours, at least. Then you might have a shot in hell, considering you’ve got almost as many ghosts as we’ve got soldiers.” A not too subtle jab, and oddly the boy had still not spoken a word. “Ah well, I believe this covers all our bases. No more loose ends. Cassock, you can let him speak now.”
With a blink, the Patriarch released the leader’s mouth from the invisible hand he’d used to shut him up. It was no secret that he could just as easily snap the boy’s neck and be done with it.
“To live or to die, the age-old question,” the priestess mused solemnly, waiting for the reply. Hopefully, he’d realize that though the question was ancient, his answer needed not be so long.
“Your verdict?”
Sati smiled at the futility of her build-up; he only ever had but a single choice. That would dawn on him, soon enough... and so would the reality of his defeat.
Out of Character:
With that said: it's been fun, man!
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