Monom Caughtbolted's army had spent the past four years pressing the borders of The Incidental Boards. Four times they had engaged in major battles, and four times they had been shattered by an enemy far less numerous but far more powerful.
Thrice General Monom had returned to Bitebronze with but a few score dwarcrusves, battered, bloody and teetering on the rim of madness. Thrice had she requested to wait and recover. Thrice had the king thrown over a thousand unproven recruits at her and called it an army. On the third time, the king and his warriors joined the host.
Twice in the battle of Rimcaverns had they been pushed back. Twice had King Zon demanded they advance, back into the grinder, until but five hundred dwarves remained. The enemy numbered no more than forty.
Once had the monarch of The First Iron demanded to settle the battle with a duel, commander against commander. Once had Nish Woodlabor, general of the Bloodkin and scourge of thousands, agreed to the folly. Once did the axe fall, and thus ended the reign of Zon Lancedmirrors.
Late Summer, 157
The Age of Myth
The general droned on and on in front of them, trying to instil a sense of worth in his Knights for yet another attack. Thikut was projecting all the signs of one listening with rapt attention while using the time to think about more important things. How long had it been since she’d last had a chance to be here? At least five years, surely? It hardly mattered. Nish would be just as infatuated with her as ever, and the long absences only seemed to make him desire her more.
It was a pity that she would have to let so many of them die to secure her position here, but it was worth it to finally be out from under the heels of those three lunatics. She shifted her facial expression to one of remorse as she caught the name of their deceased king. Buffoon. It had been so easy to manipulate him. A few tales of the wealth of the old world, legends of an immortal ruler destined for godhood... He had thought himself so clever, just because he had managed to cheat death for a few years.
“Loremaster?” Thikut turned as a familiar voice called her. Some unimportant pawn, but her face was a mask of familiarity and welcome.
“Magebane Olin!” she said happily. “It has been too long!”
Olin was a withered dwarf, his stature hinting at a great warrior long past his prime. He leaned on a steel spear with gemstones studding the shaft. It took a moment for Thikut to remember his levers. Loyalty, honour, duty and recognition of the great deeds he had done in the past. Boring. Another dying old dwarf afraid no one would remember him once they were gone.
“I read the book that you wrote after our time together,” Olin smiled at her. She waited for him to tell her his problems so she could placate him and move on. “But doesn’t it strike you as dishonest to claim that this is nothing but a ceremonial weapon?”
“Dishonest, perhaps, but I fear it was necessary,” Thikut answered gently, reaching out and taking his wrinkled hands in hers. Perhaps she should be glad he was old. The young ones always thought they deserved a lot more than just hand holding. “We are not what we once were, Olin. I was simply afraid that our enemies would try to steal or destroy as many of them as they could if they knew what power they possessed, and with the Smith dead and no one to replace him... I hope you can forgive a young girl her fears.”
The Smith had been sublime, a kill nearly three years in the making. She had been forced into a lot more contact with her mother than she would have liked for it, but the poisons she had provided had ended in a death that would seem perfectly natural to anyone unfamiliar with the forgotten beasts of the Old World, and methods of diluting their toxins. Thikut’s only regret was not being able to find out if blood tasted any different when it had no contact with magic. Olin was trying to comfort her fears, she realised just in time to pull on a gentle smile, perhaps tear up a little bit. A hug and then he’d be off, job done. She covered her mouth to hide a sneer that wouldn't be denied.
Early Autumn, 157
The Age of Myth
The sun began to hide behind the mountains to the west, washing the dusk with the hues of rust and flame. On the slopes beyond the Northern Gate of Clearstockades, Monom's Host settled down to pitch camp.
The day's fighting had been horrendous. Hundreds of broken bodies littered the stone slopes that led to the city gates, oozing blood from gaps in armor. They had lost three hundred dwarves in one morning. The soldiers that lived had the painful honor or reclaiming the dead, and they went about this task with nary a word between them.
Fewer than fifty Bloodkin had sallied out of the city that morning, clad head to toe in steel, looking for all the world like the typical dwarven heavy infantry. But underneath that armor, hidden beneath steel and flesh, they were naught but bloodthirsty monsters. They relished in battle, swinging their weapons and baying for the blood of their once-kin. For Bloodkin were not born. They were converted, each and every one, from innocent dwarves. And that was truly the cruelest jest of all: to slay the Bloodkin is to slay fellow dwarves.
From her vantage point in the army's camp, Queen Doren Glenbridges surveyed the grim scene. Everywhere there had been combat, squads of light infantry prowled. They would sneak up on the downed bodies first, as silent as they could. Then they brought their weapons down on the heads of the fallen, crushing skulls, piercing throats, chopping heads. It was only when this grim work was done that they would haul back the dead, dwarf and Bloodkin alike.
"Why must they do that?" She had asked General Monom the first time she saw the horrifying spectacle.
"Bloodkin regenerate," the general had replied, "and pass on their curse through blood. It's the only way to be safe." Small wonder that the few survivors of the previous campaigns went mad. How do you defeat an enemy that will not stay dead?
Though she had donned her armor, she had stayed behind during the engagement, in no way eager to repeat her predecessor's mistakes. It heartened the soldiers to see their queen in military regalia as they prepared to engage. In this war, any small boost of morale was welcome. She would be safe as long as she could control her impulse to get out there and split some skulls with the soldiers.
Doren descended through the camp, head held high, eyes forward. Dwarven soldiers saluted as she passed. Along the way, she was joined by General Monom. She adjusted her relentless pace to accomodate the older, slower dwarf.
"Are the pyres ready?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. We await only the final tally of the dead."
Over the next several hours, until the moon painted the mountain in shades of silver and pearl, hundreds of dead bodies were reclaimed. They were brought to tents at the edge of the camp for identification before being sent off to the unlit pyres. It was important that every dead soldier was accounted for. There would be documents to send to the Mountainhomes, containing the name and number of the dead to be memorialized. But this document would not arrive at its destination for several months. In the meantime, Monom's Host would be beset by the ghosts of its own fallen.
The moon had begun to descend by the time it was done. Over a dozen massive pyramids of stacked wood and kindling had been erected during the hours after the battle. The dead now blanketed the pyres, armor and all. There was no time to re-purpose the valuable steel.
Monom's Host gathered before the pyres, in front of which stood their queen and their general. They all stood at attention, nearly motionless, unwilling to betray any sort of thought or emotion. Beside each pyre stood a torch bearer, carrying the only sources of light for miles. Not that the dwarves needed lights to pierce the darkness.
"Soldiers," bellowed the Queen of the First Iron. "You have fought long and hard. You have faced an enemy horrible beyond compare. You have marched upon their doorstep time and again to rend them from the land." She paused for effect. And to think things through. She had done this after every battle, and still the words eluded her until it was time to speak them.
"You have taken their vanguard today. A feat many have tried before, but none have succeeded. Until today." Her eyes scanned the army. It felt like she was staring into thousands of hard-faced stone statues.
"But this victory came at a terrible cost. Many have fallen this day. And the circumstances of our enemy makes it impossible to give our loved ones a proper burial. Thus, we must resort to this.
"Tonight," she roared, "we mourn our dead. Tomorrow, we avenge them. We will take this city. We will put every single one of these monsters to the sword. They think they have broken our strength. We will prove them wrong."
"We are the dwarves of the First Iron. We will not surrender. We will not waver. And we will not rest until every last Bloodkin has turned to ash."
She could see it now. The anger. The hate. There was a fire blazing within the hearts of her soldiers, brighter than any funeral pyre. It was oddly humbling that these iron-hearted dwarves would call her Queen.
Wheeling around, Queen Doren Glenbridges faced the torch-bearers and spoke her last words of the night.
"Light the pyres."
Torches met kindling. For miles around, anyone who looked toward the mountain could not fail to see numerous blazing fires, nor the thousands of figures standing before them, unmoving as statues.
The screams of the dead lasted until dawn.
Thikut idly kicked the body of the last member of her honour guard. They hadn't been much fun, but if they’d been good enough to be fun, they would have been on the battlefield rather than stuck guarding some librarian. They’d dreamed of heroics, and she’d given them the chance to prove themselves. They’d failed. She kicked the body again, like a cat hoping the mouse would get up for one last chase.
She felt vaguely comforted by the fact that Clearstockades had changed so little since her last visit. She could have navigated her way to Nish’s rooms with her eyes closed- fortunate, since the Bloodkin rarely bothered with adequate lighting. Thikut ran her fingers along the wall as she strode through the nearly deserted halls. The few Bloodkin that she did come across cowered away from her as she passed. She smirked at the sight. Respect was nearly impossible to instil in the less intelligent of the creatures, but they could be made to understand fear quickly enough.
Nish’s room was one of the few in the place that had a door, which creaked as she pushed it open. He looked up from a pile of papers on his desk as she shut the door behind her.
“Nish,” she said, hitching on a smile and leaning in for a kiss. She frowned as he stood up, pushing her away. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” Nish answered. “The Father came to me earlier. He told me he had a warning about reinforcements for the Knights, one that you hadn’t warned us about. He told me not to trust you, that I was wrong when I said you’d never betray us. And now I look out at this pretty little mortal queen giving her pretty little speeches to that pretty little army of hers and I see Corley was telling me true. So I have to ask you. Did you ever mean anything you said to me? Have you said the same things to those mortal dogs? How many of them? ANSWER ME!”
Thikut would have sworn to herself, but now was no time to break character. She was on thin ice. “I did what I had to do,” she screamed back at him, calling up some tears for good measure. “Do you have any idea what it was like, knowing what they wanted and having to give it to them so I could find out what you needed to know? I’ve given up so much to get where I needed to be, and you’ve taken full advantage of the privileges I got from those mortal dogs, so don’t stand there acting like you had no idea of some of the things I had to do to get them, you self righteous piece of shit!”
Behind the mask that was her face, she was grinning. She could see his resolve buckling. Any moment now, he’d be apologising and begging for her forgiveness, probably more willing than ever to go along with her plans. Thikut watched him draw breath to apologise and-
The world turned into a blur as Thikut reeled backwards, her ears ringing from the force of Nish’s backhanded slap.
“I’ve had enough of your lies,” he snarled. “You had me fooled for so long, but I can see you now. You’ve never done anything that you didn’t want to do, not once. What was it all for? What could you hope to gain by betraying the three most powerful beings in the world?”
Thikut studied him from the floor. Someone else was pushing his buttons now, and she wasn’t getting back in charge any time soon. She let the facade drop. It felt good to let him see the contempt on her face after all these years.
“Do you know why I came here today?” she asked. “Did you think that Corley’s ‘important discussion’ fooled me for even one second? I wanted to offer you the chance to take a place beside me at the head of this country. They can have the rest of the world; I only want our fair share. There wouldn’t even be any need for bloodshed as long as they left us alone. You have fun playing lapdog if you want, I’m done.”
Thikut turned for the door. It was a standard enough gambit; she’d appealed to pride, his desire for her, equality. The only risk was turning her back on him, and she knew that Nish was still too infatuated with her to-
Thikut stared down at the steel blade poking out from between her breasts. There was no pain yet. Shock would kick in first, she thought detachedly, and the body just isn’t good at registering damage like that quickly. Her mother had said something similar once when she’d asked why the survivor of a battle back in that first fortress was ignoring the spear in his chest in favour of his broken arm. The blade vanished with a squelch, and Thikut collapsed.
Severed spine, Asmoth’s voice mused. Not enough to stop a bloodkin, but it’s a few moments of vulnerability to take advantage of while they’re-
Thikut raised a hand to... to do something. Block an attack? Plead for mercy? Nish’s blade sliced through her flesh and bone whatever her intentions had been.
-confused. A severed limb would be far more troublesome, I still haven’t managed to get them to regenerate properly yet. Of course, they can be reattached-
Thikut felt a jolt in her legs as they reconnected, rolling aside to avoid Nish’s sword. She pulled a knife from her sleeve, sending it flying through the air into her lover’s throat. Nish collapsed, gurgling as she snatched her left arm up and held it against her bleeding stump.
-but it should never be a priority over finishing off a wounded opponent. Funny, how they’re never able to think long term.
Thikut watched her right arm fall from her wrist in a flash of steel. She turned, hissing and falling to the floor as her knee shattered under the point of the sword.
“You treasonous whore,” Nish forced through the reforming lump of gristle that was his throat. Thikut realised he was weeping, then passed out.
And of course, there’s only one thing that’s really able to finish off one of us...
She was jerked back to consciousness in a splash of cold. Nish was pouring something over her. Water? No... No! He grabbed a torch off the wall.
Fire.
“I’m sorry,” Nish said as the oil caught beneath the flame. Thikut wanted to tell him how pathetic he was. She would have done, but she was too busy screaming.
The ground shook beneath Corley's feet. Dust rained around his head, cascaded down his shoulders and tumbled to the floor as he relentlessly paced around the War Room of Clearstockades. He was in a black mood, made darker still by the endless pounding at the gates.
"Has the traitor been properly disposed of?" He inquired of General Nish, who stood at attention to the side.
"Yes, Father. Burned to ashes and scattered to the wind." The General sounded his usual, no-nonsense self, even though he had killed his own wife just hours past.
"Good. Onto more pressing matters." The Father of the Bloodkin continued to walk in circles. More flecks of stone dripped from the ceiling. "Any word from the caverns?"
"No, Father. If our reinforcements are on the way, then they didn't send an outrider to hail us."
"How long until they breach the gate?"
"Several days, my lord. Sadly, we cannot harass them from the battlements. Other than yourself, there are only two thaumaturges left within the fort, and our crossbow squads ran out of munitions days ago."
"So why aren't you making more?" Corley snapped through clenched teeth.
"All surplus metal is being melted down and reforged into crossbow bolts as we speak, my lord. But as you know..."
"We have no trained smiths."
"Exactly, Father."
"And the thaumaturges? Why aren't they raining fire down over the enemy's head?"
"Blocked by some external force. We believe those meddlesome Knights are assisting the army."
Corley's shoulders slumped. "Damn the luck." He detoured from his circular path to seat himself on an ornate throne of obsidian. From within his coat, he produced a cigarette. He put one end in his mouth, set the other end alight with a flash of heat from his fingertips.
"Have my notes brought to me, and see to your soldiers. Those walking blood banks outside must be held off at all costs. You are dismissed, General."
Nish Woodlabored saluted his Father, then briskly walked out of the room. Corley's eyes fell shut as the nicotine kicked in, and he breathed a silvery plume of smoke, enjoying the solitude. That was as much relaxation as he would get in the coming days.
"Heave!"
Twenty burly pairs of arms pulled back on the crank. It made a sound like a million bear traps going off in quick succession.
"Ho!"
The gigantic cylinder shot forward. For the millionth time in four days, thirty-seven tons of oak, lead and steel rammed into the gargantuan gate of Clearstockades.
"Heave!"
The engineering crew had worked tirelessly. By middle afternoon of the third day, small cracks had begun to appear on the surface of the massive stone portal. Queen Doren was no siege expert, but even she could see the fissures in the door widen ever so slightly after every few impacts of the ram.
Too bad the door was roughly the size of a tower.
What troubled Doren was the apparent lack of defensive effort. The battlements of Clearstockades were empty, had been empty for days. Not a single bolt was fired upon her besieging army or the ram operators. If the Bloodkin of Clearstockades had thaumaturges among them, they were holding them back. Doren wondered if Scribe Medtob might have something to do with that.
The aging Scribe of Saint Zane had been travelling with the army from the day they departed the Mountainhomes. He kept mostly to himself, sometimes offering help in the medical tents, and tended to stay out of sight in her tent when battle drew near. This time, however, Medtob had chosen to accompany the engineering corps charged with tearing down the city gate, hovering close to the massive mechanical battering ram and looking quite proud of himself. When asked if he wanted protection, he had respectfully declined.
"Ho!"
Queen Doren eyed the old Scribe with some suspicion. He was standing by the battering ram, an odd smile dancing on his face. It was a peaceful smile, yet Doren couldn't help but sense a glint of mischief hiding in the curl of the lips. Noticing her scrutiny, Scribe Medtob turned and bowed to the Queen, hands clasped before his chin. Doren couldn't help but notice the rings. She had never seen Medtob wear so many rings at once. There was at least one on each finger, each adorned with a similar gemstone. What were those called? Wood opals? Some manner of opal?
"Heave!"
The Queen of the First Iron gazed back across the fields, where several battalions of her army were standing at attention. Those that weren't still as statues were twitching in anticipation.
"Ho!"
Soon, Clearstockades would cease to be a menace.
Corley nodded in approval as a handful of aides piled back in forth into his throne room, bearing the last armfuls of books and scrolls. They set these down in neat rows in the middle of hall, just as Father instructed.
"The gate will be breached within hours, my lord," Nish reported, standing beside Corley. "Our thaumaturges have done all they can to reinforce the stone, but even they must stop and rest. One over-exerted himself and seems to have lost his powers."
"You're worried we won't escape in time, General?"
"Something along those lines, my Lord." Then, after a moment of silence: "My Lord, may I be frank?"
Corley nodded his consent.
"I don't see why you're going to the effort of saving all your notes. We need to evacuate. Every second wasted here is precious."
Corley would have smirked if the situation weren't so dire. "I assure you, General, this won't take but a moment."
"That's not the only issue here, my Lord. How do you plan to transport these books? Even with aides or pack animals, the load would slow us down considerably. Is it truly necessary to take them with us?"
"No, General. As I said, that won't be a problem."
"How do you intend to transport these then?"
"I don't."
General Nish blinked in confusion. By this point, the aides had finished bringing in all of Corley's books and personal notes. They formed rows of neat stacks, a squadron of paper soldiers standing at attention.
Corley flicked his wrist. The books caught fire.
"Everything that was worth remembering, I have committed to memory," Corley explained to an astounded Nish. "Now nobody else will benefit from my work."
The two once-dwarves stood quietly for a time, staring into the flames from a fair distance away. Nish tried to keep his mind empty, but failed miserably. His last experience with fire had been one of the worst moments of his life. Even now, where his Lord saw only paper, Nish could see a figure writhing in agony. A figure clutching an arm to its chest. The figure of someone he had loved once.
The Father's voice broke the silence. "Prepare the tunnels. We evacuate as soon as possible."
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Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends. (Read 676413 times)