Our story began here.
The Battle of Timon
Katrin was awoken by the sound of boots on gravel. Then before she had even opened her eyes she heard muted shouts of marshalling sergeants amid the cacophony and reluctantly she allowed thoughts of the day to touch her mind. She reached out then, but Fear was no longer beside her. Why was that important, she pondered as wakefulness caught up with her?
The taste in her mouth was a little sour and the urge for the pot competed with her thirst for her attention. So she sat up and opened her eyes.
There was a warm orange light as the beige canvas tent glowed all around her in the morning light and Arlon Fear was crouching in the sunny gloom at the foot of the bed.
“Good morning,” she smiled, the love-light warm in her eyes.
Fear straightened up and smiled back.
“You’re awake then sleepyhead,” he teased.
He grinned as she pulled the covers about her naked form and peered at him under a bird’s nest of raven hair that cascaded across her face like straws in the wind.
She nodded and her own grin widened.
Then his smile left his eyes and he turned to retrieve his black robe.
Katrin watched Fear finish getting dressed with a sense of foreboding. Thoughts of the coming day could no longer be ignored. If the battle did not come this day, then it would be upon the next.
The tent had a lacklustre feel now as if they were going through the motions of ordinariness. It was hard for Katrin to imagine that she may never be alone with this man again.
“Can’t you stay a little longer?” she asked sullenly.
Fear regarded her with a hard stare and then purposefully snatched up his staff as if warding off his emotions.
“You know that I can’t,” he sighed.
Again she nodded, but this time she looked sad.
“Listen to me,” he said with sudden hard edge to his voice, “I have not forgotten that you disobeyed me. You will not do so again. Once you have washed and bathed, I want you to find the healers and offer your services at the rear. If things do not go well do not go to Timon, flee south-west. Take a horse if you can and try and get to Gansk. From there you can find your way back to Pandoria.”
“But…” Katrin began to protest.
“Obey me,” he barked with a flash to his eyes. “If all fails here you will be needed at Pandoria. Now go to the rear and find work with the healers.”
The heat rose to Katrin’s cheeks and she gave him a pout. But he held her gaze until she nodded her assent.
“I love you,” he whispered and stooping to her they kissed.
She held on to him like it was the last time and then he left.
*
Sometime that afternoon word reached them that the Great Western Host was drawing near. They had made far better time than any had imagined and the order went out to strike camp.
“There is a ridge to the east of Timon, with a slight southerly slope between. We will set our command post atop of the high ground with our ranks aligned up along the top of the slope guarded at the flanks by the ridge on the left and the city on the right,” William Armarlon told his senior officers. “Their majesties have decided to combine our cavalry and place them on our left flank beyond the ridge. In that way we will make the most of the cover and have a hammer blow in reserve should the opportunity arise to use it.”
All around them men were striking tents and gathering weapons for the tactical withdrawal east and among the clanking of iron and urgent shouts came singing.
“Are there any questions?” the Duke of Timon asked.
There were some shrugs and exchanged glances, but most shook their head. What was there to ask? By the end of the next day they would be dead or they would be victorious.
As the men left him to attend to their various commands, William looked southwards dreading what he might see. However the horizon was mostly clear, and but for a few circling crows and the last straggling refugees, devoid of life.
“It will take all day to strike camp and move it north,” his aide said.
William nodded absently. That was what he had told his brother and their ally Peron. But he doubted that the enemy would reach them before nightfall and by then they would have secured their defensive positions.
It was a good plan and made the most of their inferior numbers as it did not tie down their cavalry in defence. This left it free for the counter attack. If this had been any other battle he would be feeling confident despite being outnumbered, but this conflict would be decided by magic.
*
The next day word reached Peron about an hour after dawn. The Great Army of the West was moving up fast and would be with them by noon.
“The gods help us,” he muttered.
“And so it begins,” William Armarlon said from somewhere behind him.
The rest of the general staff looked at King Peron expectantly as if he might say something else but the King of Precips could not meet their eyes. What was there to say?
Then someone laughed. “Will you stand with me your majesty? Shall we bear this burden together?” said a voice.
King John strode from behind the assembled ranks beaming as if he had just issued a party invitation. In response Peron’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he began to chuckle.
“I will,” Peron whispered and then with more heart, “I will.”
“And I,” said one of the officers.
Others joined in the assertion and in a moment the mood had changed.
“We have a good battle plan and I for one welcome the foe,” the Duke of Timon added to the chorus.
“Well-spoken William,” King John said cheerfully. “Now there is only one detail to which we must attend.”
“Those mages,” Peron agreed with a nod, anticipating his ally’s thoughts.
*
Noon came and went and a strange calm befell the amassed ranks of the allied army. Officers had been coming and going all morning but none of them had anything new to report. Although at eleven the General of Horse, Sir Mark De Lacy, rode up and said that all final arrangements had been made and that his men were in position. Then with a ‘good luck’ and a ‘fare thee well’ he rode away.
The Duke of Timon felt a knot in his stomach and remembered the part Sir Mark had played in their abortive attack on the West. As he watched the retreating back of his old comrade he wondered if he would ever see the man alive again.
But then an officer handed him a note and the press of duty overtook him. Now all reports had ceased and all but the furthest extent of the outriders had returned. There was nothing to be done but wait.
William glanced at his brother who sat his horse with aplomb and a steady look in his eye; he might even be enjoying himself. But the assembled staff officers merely looked bored now and only Peron held himself with concern. His shoulders looked as if his armour was now too heavy and there were two sharp lines marking his brow.
On the lower slope less than a furlong from his position a dust devil swirled along parallel to the ranks of waiting warriors. William followed it with his eye and idly wondered if it might turn on them. And then it died with the breeze leaving the army marooned in still air like a ship becalmed.
Far to his right a horse whinnied and another began to kick at the traces rattling its war gear. If the Duke listened hard he could hear such sounds all along the lines, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. This gentle melody was marred only by the intermittent buzz of solitary horse fly.
But as he listened another insect hum caught his attention, a more rhythmic sound on the very edge of his hearing. Then it was gone.
Next to King John a mounted courier sighed and began to blink hard as if awakening. He was a callow youth with carrot red hair who was not above 17 and who looked far too young for war. The boy pulled a cork stopper from a pewter horn and took a swig of water. William had to laugh as the courier struggled with the bottle and fumbled with the top for long nervous moments before pushing it home.
Then the insect hum was back and William surrendered to his own drowsiness. But this time the sound did not fade and the Duke fancied he heard a bell above the chimes of the harness.
“What’s that sire?” the redheaded courier asked.
Several ears pricked up and then let their attention drop again. The long wait was apt to play on the mind of the inexperienced. But William heard it too. An indistinct drone that seemed to end on a… he strained to hear, a bell?
“It sounds like… voices,” the boy said hesitantly.
King John pulled a face and shook his head doubtfully. But now he was listening too.
“I hear it,” said a voice from the assembled staff.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” was carried to them on the wind and then a small bell rang.
*
At eight minutes past one the Western Host spilled over the far hills like black water as the vanguard tumbled pell-mell towards them. In its train came dark blocks of cohorts, slowly but surely advancing on their positions like the teeth of some huge monster. Wending between the oncoming ranks were small lines of slowly chanting priest-witches. This army was vast, having near twice the ally’s numbers. It was a grim sight.
King Peron looked like a greyhound that had caught a scent. His horse skittishly danced as the king looked up and down the ordered ranks for any detail he might have missed.
While King John opted for ostentation and drew his sword then then charged up and down the lines urging the men to hold-fast.
“I think my brother is going to make a speech,” William laughed; battle had now come and he was ready.
“Good, for I have no words on this day,” Peron replied.
John made three turns on the battlefield before coming to a halt at the dead centre.
“Comrades,” he screamed with more authority than any man in the history of the world. “My brothers and sisters in arms…”
Peron knew then that he may be the director of this battle, but King John, ruler of the great Timbre Empire would command it.
“Once again the armies of the West have come to our lands. And once again we have risen to meet them. There is nothing new here today. Look at them and their pretty little formations. Look at the heedless rabble and the unwashed witches that come dragging on their tails,” King John sounded as if he were addressing a village hall, yet his words were quiet and firm and heard by all. “Once again we will meet these unwelcome guests in the land of Timbre as our forefathers have before. But do you remember your history? Do you?”
The King now paused for effect. Every man and a woman in the army knew the histories and the great victories of old.
“Just weeks ago we met this rabble in Precips and cast them out as we have many times before. But who remembers when they conquered us?”
There was muttering now and some men called out.
“When have they ever?” King John answered them.
“Never,” came a shout.
“Never,” John bellowed and 40,000 voices answered him.
John broke now from his position and reared his horse.
“So I say to you,” he called to them, “Once again we meet them and once again we will have… victory!”
He rode then in triumph as if victory was already theirs for the whole length of the line while 40,000 men screamed in a chant, “Armarlon, Armarlon, Armarlon…”
The enemy tried to answer him with drums, but horns and trumpets from the Precips contingent drowned them out.
But still weaving its spell among the celebrations was the relentless song, “Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” followed by that bitter little bell.
*
Arlon Fear could feel the waves of dark magic fouling the air like stale smoke and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. As he scanned the patterns, he saw them tremble as if a shadow was trying to supplant them and push them aside. It was as if a hundred million spike ants were burrowing under the fabric of reality.
“What do you see Fear?” Gort asked, the strenuous mage now standing at his side resplendent in golden yellow.
Fear frowned at his colleague and saw from his eyes that he did not sense it.
“It has begun,” Fear replied, but now he was troubled, for if Gort did not see the obvious then how could he combat it?
*
The crone was as a walking corpse and twice as foul. Her clothes were barely worthy of the name and it was beyond understanding how even the Wild Magic had sustained her life for so long.
She held aloft a twisted stick draped in feathers and bones and twirled thrice in the air before muttering something under her stench-ridden breath.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” sang her followers as they came on behind her.
Already they were within arrow range of the front ranks of the Timbre troops, but as yet not a shot had been fired.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” the crone added to the chant.
Two dozen voices countered with, “Saggy, saggy, saggy, sah,” followed as ever by the nasty little bell.
The men in the front rank, who up until then had viewed the small foray with amusement, began to feel uneasy. One or two of them were even sick. Then men who had stood in the face of certain death many times before began to feel the terror and made as if to break ranks.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da.” The terror spell worked its will, weaving among the mortal men and turning their hearts.
Suddenly then the bestial cat leapt from the long grass and landed on the dead-faced crone with a wailing scream. Before a single priest-witch could react the old priestess’s head had been torn from the shoulders and now rolled on the ground. None would mourn her, not even her own.
The next witch in the line who knew the lead chant well let his mouth hang open indecision for a heartbeat too long. For in another moment the wild cat’s dread caterwauling was joined by the feral shouts of a dozen other voices.
A near naked Hemple reached the procrastinator first and took his throat with her knife. Others may have overwhelmed her, but the first two who tried died on the spot clutching their necks as if slashed by an unseen blade.
Once on the Silver Shore Tabitha had told ptarmigan to wait passively for her knife, but now seasoned warrior witches and foul priests stood agape as she danced among them taking heads.
Brusquely Amber Sage strolled into the melee ordering heads from necks with a spell and putting up warding spells for the sisters like Tabitha who had to come close for the knife work.
“Meredith can you…?” Amber was not wont to give orders here, but so far the more powerful witch had held back.
“Where there was terror there will be resolve,” she said simply and cast a mutter-supported hand in the direction of the allied ranks.
Two of the Shadow Dreamers rushed at her, the air before them fizzing with hellish hornets, but Meredith dusted the insect-spawn and then set the two to become at once toads and rats so that their bodies twisted in the conflict and they spewed blood.
The remaining eight and two more pacts of priest-witches that had been closing on other positions first waivered and then broke, a hell-born tiger-beast lunging at their heels.
“Peel, fall back,” Amber ordered the shape-shifting witch.
Finally the previously paralysed archers let fly with a volley and the first wave of Shadow Dreamers together with their supporting warriors perished or fled the field.
“Did you see what Meredith did?” Erin gushed excitedly.
Amber turned to see her friend and pupil grinning from ear to ear whilst holding up a rat by its tail.
“Best I could do I am afraid,” Erin said sheepishly.
“You turned a witch into a rat?” Amber gasped. Sure she could do it, just, but not under battle conditions.
“Sorry,” Erin winced, “I got a bit squeamish about knife work.”
Amber rolled back her head a laughed.
*
All along the battlefront, sorties of Western warriors were repelled by well entrenched defenders. Only where there were no witches to counter the Shadow Dreamers did they make any headway. But they were not the only magical forces at work.
Fear and the other mages had set-up on the right flank where less effective adepts and journeymen could be placed nearby on the walls of Timon safely passing on magical intelligence.
At intervals behind the lines there were mages and wizards to counter various magical attacks, but for the most part they could only detect such assaults. After all a water mage might creatively counter a direct attack but there was little he or she could do against a spell that cast a whole phalanx of regular veterans into a funk.
The Fire mages fared rather better and although in terms of fire power they were barely equal to a company of archers, they did have the ability and skills to be immune from the Shadow Dreamers terror spells and pick out the leadership of various chapters and incinerate them where they stood.
“Our people are overstretched,” Fear yelled above the din of the fighting, “We have far too few witches and Wild Magicians on our side.”
Maxine du Jared at his elbow nodded. It would seem that Fear and Amber had been right all along, thaumaturgy in this instance was no match for powers that could by-pass the physical world and directly influence the soldiers on the ground.
Maxine herself had little to do for now. Even though she could raise an ocean and dash it onto fleets at sea, the most she could do here on a grand scale was set the ground to frost and slow up the enemies cavalry.
Nevertheless, in private she had dabbled in forbidden magic that had enabled her to boil the water content of person in seconds and with some effort she could extend that to a dozen warriors or more, she had no doubt. But that was but a drop in the sea in this fight.
“We could try forming a concert,” Maxine yelled.
Fear nodded, but he was at a loss to what the target should be. Not unless Maiestatis showed himself and then what?
“Concert be damned, let me show you what a war mage can do,” Gort growled.
A moment later Gort the High Hand had lifted from the ground like a harrier and with ever increasing speed soared over the battle field. Below him a rain of fire from the fire mages showered the Western Army and from his lofty vantage he could see the puddles of death delivered by his comrades amid the fray. But it was not enough, he could see that now. A flight of arrows did almost as much damage and the Allies had far more archers than it had fire mages.
But Gort was no mere Fire Mage and with a thought and barely a sweep of his arm a dozen fire balls spun from his hand and splashed like waves among the enemy. Where each ball of plasma landed small lakes fire expanded in all directions engulfing hundreds in their wake.
A great cry went up among the Allied troops and where previously they had fallen back, great sections of warriors pushed forward and began to recover lost ground.
Not content, Gort affixed his mind on his staff of office and filled it with flame. Then in a great rolling whip he unleashed tongues of white hot fire along the attackers’ lines. This was even more effective than fire balls and whole companies ceased to exist.
“I take it back,” Maxine screamed gleefully at Fear. “Sic ‘em boy, kill them all Gort.”
Fear tried to be horrified by the sight of death and Maxine’s enthusiasm for it, but part of him rejoiced. It was working and if he could just hold them back on the ground then…
His train of thought was interrupted by an unearthly scream. The loud eeriness of the sound was somewhere between the wail of leviathan and the roar of a dragon. It was the howl of a wolf like no beast Fear had ever heard before. And then he saw him. Maiestatis, the Wolf Lord, the Warmonger and now he feared, the Three-Who-Are-One in the combined power of the Triptych.
The creature was at once merely a man and a giant, his demonic form bursting to escape the mortal facade it had usurped. And although on the scale of the battle he was a dwarf, all eyes were suddenly drawn to him and transfixed so that there were none who did not shudder.
Maiestatis howled again and the great Western Host surged forward.
“We must hold them,” Maxine yelled.
Half a league away Maiestatis strode through his minions, his eyes scanning the opposing mortals for any who could trouble him. To his left he quickly found the Magister and dismissing the distance between them he devoured each one in turn with his eyes as he marked them for death. He was not complacent, but for each one he had a plan. That left Gort high above him as he put the Army of the West to the flame.
Always challenged by the present, it took the Wolf Lord a moment to focus as he saw the two armies rise and fall in death and defeat, and survival and victory by turns as his visions cycled through the past and present.
Then among it all was an archer, a mere youth from the farthest end of the Western Plains. The boy stood just yards from where Maiestatis’s mortal form now surveyed the battle and in all versions of the past and future the boy shot arrow after arrow unerringly into everything he aimed at.
The Wolf Lord let out another terrifying howl and then waded through his minions as they fell dead at his touch.
“Boy,” he hissed, “The War Mage above; end him for me.”
The archer glanced upwards and wondered at the shot. But before he could answer his dread lord, Maiestatis laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and drank his soul leaving nothing but his aim.
The boy, a dead thing now, bleeding from his unseeing eyes, staggered for a moment and then notched another arrow. It sailed further and faster than any he had ever shot.
Gort barely noticed the shaft that screamed past his head. It was not the first and any that came too close he smashed them to ash with a thought. Nor did he notice the next six or the seventh, which all came near with deadly speed, but could scarce be called a threat.
Below, the archer, one of many when viewed from the sky, seized arrow after arrow from a frame that stood adjacent with a demonic speed now. Each arrow was collected and fired in a blur so that the ghoulish marksman became the equal of his whole company.
Above and much too late Gort realised the danger and extended his will to counter the rain of deadly darts that were launched at him. Had they been mortal or one fewer he would have prevailed, but the last escaped his sanction and glanced off his staff. Then like a shard of ice the necromantic spike speared his side and deep into his heart.
It was a death he may even yet have survived. A War Mage was ever hard to kill, but what little of his will there was left smashed into the ground from a hundred yards above, where a dozen Western Axmen fell upon him and Gort the High Hand was no more.
Uncaring the demon released his hold on the archer, who fell dead to the ground finally expended for the life of a magus.
*
Katrin saw the Mustard Mage, as she remembered him, hang in the air and knew at once something had changed. Then like a broken golden kite he seemed to twist and fall, tumbling to the ground until he passed from her sight among the melee of angry soldiers on the ground.
Just minutes before she had gained Timon’s outer battlements after some premonition had pulled at her. The healers had set-up in impromptu hospitals within Timon itself, leaving Katrin with no choice of obedience to her master. But that was far from her thoughts as she watched the death of Gort. Was this what she was meant to see then? All around her the old men and boys left warding the city gasped in horror and there were startled screams.
Katrin thought of Rachel then and wondered at the girl’s feelings for her former mentor. They were never close, but Pandoria without Gort… Katrin heaved a sob. Yet deep within her she knew that this was not what she had meant to see.
Free of the fire the Western Army rallied itself and again surged forward. Now the Shadow Dreamers were in their element and as their song took hold, whole companies of the allies broke ranks and fled back up the slope.
Katrin felt sick. She could even smell the terror of her countrymen as they ran and for the first time in her life she knew the meaning of defeat. Is this what you show me, she cursed the universe, is it? And then she doubled over crying.
But the world was not done with her yet and something compelled her to look again. Amid the fleeing troops she made out a dark figure who stood his ground. In moments the last of the warriors had broken past him and he was alone.
It took no sixth sense, if that was what had brought her here, to tell her that it was Arlon Fear who now stood like a solitary battle pike on the field. Oh the gods no, she wailed within herself, please by all that is holy…
As she watched a storm of arrows almost blotted out the sun in an indecent haste to smudge the Black Magus from the world, and in a blink she could see her love no more.
Katrin’s heart filled her mouth and she went numb. Nothing could have survived such an onslaught. Why hadn’t he dashed the arrows from the sky?
But the storm passed and among a forest of knee high sticks in the ground Fear still stood unwavering. Katrin found the strength to breath.
Calm then befell the battlefield and the only sound was the chanting of the Shadow Dreamers punctuated by that damn bell. Ten thousand men who should have charged forward held back and Katrin again held her breath.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” was carried on the wind, “Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” and a hollow metallic clang.
It was enough and all at once the enemy surged ahead.
Katrin trembled then. An unstoppable quaking seized her body and her knees crumpled beneath so that she had to hold on to the wall. But the shake did not stop and all around her others staggered to hold their feet.
Then as she watched, far out on the battlefield the ground rolled as smoothly as an ocean until a great crack opened cleaving the grass. The Black Magus, master of Fire and Earth, had seized the land and melded it to his will.
Katrin saw the crack grow into a chasm and men who would have slain all in their path staggered at the abyss and then tumbled before it. Her fellows were too shaken to cheer, but the dying are rarely so silent and Katrin had to clamp her hands to drown out a hundred-hundred screams.
The earthquake lasted for several minutes and when it was over near a tenth of the Western Host were dead. Better yet, there was now a great ditch between the armies, a trench of twisted shattered ground.
*
King Peron had never been so afraid. The terror had seized him from nowhere and it was all he could do to hang onto his horse and not flee. But others were not so strong and whole battalions of soldiers flowed past him in a torrent of fear for some imagined haven a league beyond the battle he adjudged.
“Rally to me, rally to me,” he yelled.
But there was no conviction in his voice and for the price of his spit he would have turned and fled with his men too.
Unknown to the king, Meredith Greydove and her coven had found a spot behind the lines to form a circle and hold hands. At once they sensed others doing the same and in a chant as old as the mountains they gave all they had to counter the Shadow Dreamer spell.
“What is it?” Tabitha gasped as she burned where she touched Erin and Amber in their place within the circle.
“Hold on,” Meredith yelled, but she felt as a woman drowning in a sea of evil as the terror, like winter mist chilled her and surged up to engulf them. “Hold on.”
Magic can break a soul. Sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, but magic-shattered souls there were, and this day would see more yet if Meredith’s coven could not hold. The terror rushed at them and surrounded them to blind senses and still they held…
The threat was slowed but not yet defeated but before the covens could claim a triumph the Shadow Dreamer chant abruptly stopped and a new threat began.
“The ground, it is shaking,” Amber screamed.
“It is the demon,” said another in terror.
“This is not Wild Magic” Meredith said.
Amber focussed and looked for the patterns of Earth Power as she had been taught. There was only one who could do this. She grinned, about time you did something Fear, she thought happily.
By now Peron had gathered his courage and joined by King John and the Duke of Timon they put renewed spirit into their men and little by little the ranks reformed.
“We are not done yet boys,” John said affectionately, “Those Pandoria magicians have not deserted us.”
By the time the ground stopped shaking lines of warriors had returned to formation wondering why they had ever been afraid.
High beyond the battle lines Katrin should have felt relieved, but something still compelled her and deep inside she knew that she had not yet seen all.
“My lady, the walls are unsafe, the earthquake has undermined them,” said an old watch sergeant commanding that section, “We must fall back to the inner ramparts.”
Katrin nodded absently. But in her heart she knew that Fear needed her. It made no sense of course; the man had just torn up the battlefield single-handed and probably won the war for them, but…
*
Fear studied the retreating Westerners and regained some of the hope he had felt before the fall of Gort. The Allies now just about matched the foe for numbers and they had the added advantage of the high ground. Even the Shadow Dreamers had fallen silent and in any case before the quake Fear had sensed that Meredith and her ilk had begun to turn the tide. It also boded well that neither king had fled.
But the ground was littered with the corpses of the dead, many at his hands, both friend and foe alike, although thankfully, most of his fallen comrades had died by an honest sword or arrow. It was a grim sight and in the late afternoon sun the bodies had begun to stink.
The Black Mage looked for Maiestatis now. The last of the Triptych was all that mattered now and as he and Dniester had defeated his brothers, so he would deal with Maiestatis and send him back to hell.
As he scanned the warriors that faced him he was pleased that in adversity they had not the discipline of his own side, convincing him that without the Wolf Lord they would flee or surrender.
But then he saw one among them, as one does when someone stands out against a rabble and Fear narrowed his eyes. It was not Maiestatis, but nevertheless Fear sensed danger.
The man who drew near was not a man at all. Not by his appearance. He was a shrivelled ugly thing with bluish white paper dry skin. Everything about him spoke of death, he even moved like one who had died and had forgotten to lie down. But it was his eyes, like two dead polished coals that made Fear shiver.
The cadaverous creature was less than 20 yards away now and only separated from Fear by the broken ditch that was left as a consequence of the earthquake.
“You are Dr Fear,” he said, his voice like sand running off parchment. “I have heard so much about you.”
“Draken, I presume,” Fear replied.
The warlock inclined his head in acknowledgement that suggested he was flattered.
“Where is Maiestatis?” Fear growled, he had no more time for minions.
“You will meet him soon enough,” Draken said sardonically.
Fear was on his guard now. What did this necromancer want with him if he had not come to fight? Surely he did not intend to die?
“So what business do you have with me?” the Black Mage asked.
“With you?” Draken sounded like one genuinely puzzled, “No my brother, you are for Maiestatis.”
Fear frowned. There was something he had missed. He had battled two demons now and Maiestatis was no greater than they? The Western Host had tried and failed to triumph and now they had a stalemate surely. That was why the demon hid from him?
“You speak in riddles dying one, or are you already dead?” Fear sneered. He had no understanding of this level of sacrifice. What did Draken have to gain? “What do think you do here?”
Fear readied himself to blast the creature out of existence, although a witch of the seventh circle would not go down so easily and this warlock had the power of the Triptych behind him.
“Do? I do nothing,” Draken said gently, “It is done.”
There was a shimmer and suddenly the magus found it hard to focus on the warlock. The natural elemental patterns were disrupted in a haze of Wild Magic and Fear knew that few if any of his colleagues would even have seen it. Then he realised, Draken believed himself invisible as he retreated back into the ranks of the Western Army. What was that all about? He wondered, suspecting that he had been distracted while some cunning trap had been set.
Fear gathered himself and braced against any unseen attack. But there was none. The sun still shone and the only sounds for the moment were the flies feasting on the dead and occasional cry of a dying horse. No, that was not all. There was a scrape to his left, like the claws of a dead rabbit on hard ground. Then he heard the metallic ring of a sword being taken up. Fear sensed dread and foreboding so strong that it was tangible, but there was no magic that he could discern.
Then a man he had previously taken to be dead staggered to his feet with a groan. Fear almost blasted him where he stood until he saw that he was of Precips; a marine from his light armour.
“You gave me a fright friend,” Fear said, relaxing a little, “Come on, let me help you back to the lines.”
The man grunted angrily and although Fear could not see his face, from the man’s posture he looked as if he was glaring at the enemy.
“Over here,” Fear called him, “This way. You are in no shape to fight again this day.”
The man ignored him and slashed angrily at the air with his sword. There was some clumsiness to his movement and the sword blow was inexpert. But who was he fighting?
Then Fear saw the reason. Another of the fallen men had gained his feet, this time one of the Westerners. Oh the gods, Fear cursed, there must be many wounded out here unattended.
The wounded Westerner was so battered that something reminded Fear of Draken as he lumbered awkwardly towards the other wounded man as if to do battle.
Fear might have dropped the lame soul, but he felt sorry for him and then he heard another scrape behind him. Turning he saw another warrior had risen, but this man was different. For all down his left side he was bloodied and Fear saw that not only did he have no arm, but half his face was missing. The man was as clearly dead as any the Magus had ever seen.
Then all around him corpses got to their feet lashing out the nearest mobile cadaver in a slow parody of a fight already lost. There were hundreds if not thousands of them now.
Fear backed away. An entire army of the dead had risen to refight the battle, broken warriors now all sharing gory damnation. There must have been half as many as there were yet living on both sides, Fear realised, but why?
Then far to the rear of the Western lines a horn sounded three times; a sound so low and ominous that Fear felt his teeth on edge and nausea tremble in his guts.
Then as one and in strange synchronicity, the entire army of the damned swung their dead faces to regard the Allied army on the rise above them and began to advance.
To be continued.
