Chapter Forty Five: Nightwings Over Nether
The glow of the sunset still light the western horizon as the King's Special emerged out of the main doors of the cathedral of Nether Wallop, its golds and deep pinks shining in a breath taking display of beauty that was completely lost on the inhabitants of the city as soldiers and townsfolk a like scurried to the walls. Old men and woman armed with kitchen knives and sharpened stakes hurrying to gather the children of the small city into cellars and small rooms hidden deep within the buildings, trying to protect them from what was coming.
Lady Zilvra and Ulrich had already disappeared towards the walls, their mounts covering the distance with breath taking speed. Thorian stumping along at a slower pace was able to to see that the doors to the smithy had been flung wide and the fire looked like the glow deep in the throat of some great beast, hidden as it was by the deep open sided porch and then the workshop itself. A man Thorian didn't recognise sat perched at the side of the forge, one hand clutching the shaft of a make shift crutch, the other pulling again and again on a rope that had been lashed around the pole that controlled the double bellows positioned over head. A sandbag at the other end of the pole pulled the other end of the centrally pivoted pole down every time Sam McGuggin relaxed, meaning that no matter whether he was pulling or relaxing one of the bellows was emptying into the pipes leading to the fire.
Altan raked the charcoal over and eyed it critically before using a set of long handled tongs to lift a small bar of metal into the heart of the heat.
"What if we have several heating up at once?" Sam suggested, "I don't want to rush you but we need bolt heads as fast as you can make them and I know the initial heating takes time."
"I wouldn't usually," Altan remarked, "But I think that this time I'll risk it. If we put the second in as I take the first one out it should work. In the mean time..." He picked up a small shovel and tucked it into the edge of the fire, just where the charcoal was beginning to glow red, "Just in case we have an unwelcome visitor." Sam McGuggin frowned and then grinned a not nice grin.
"I like you already," he admitted, the stump of his right leg twitching.
"Oh that's not all I have in mind," Altan admitted, picking out a heavy lump hammer from his tool kit and swinging it a couple of times, "I reckon that this will give a werewolf a sore paw."
"I reckon so," Sam McGuggin agreed.
"Good," Altan nodded, "'Cause it's yours for tonight." Sam McGuggin blinked as Altan put the lump hammer down by his elbow. "This ones mine." Altan hefted a long handled, double handed Apprentice hammer that made the air thrum when he swung it.
Sam McGuggin grinned even harder as Altan propped the Apprentice hammer within easy reach against the anvil. The sound of the bellows picked up pace.
Thorian was also grinning as he climbed the steps of the curtain wall, rolling his shoulders in anticipation of the nights fun. Granted nobody else seemed to be enjoying themselves, the four squads of soldiers spread out along the walls had grim faces. Their formation was ragged and there were long gaps between them, one squad taking the north east corner, trying to steady the group of townsfolk that was with them. There was then a huge gap down the east wall, plugged by another group of townsfolk then Lady Zilvra with her body guard, the spider dragon at the repaired breech and then the King's Special. Two squads of soldiers, alternated with groups of townsfolk took the south wall, while the last squad re-enforced the townsfolk on the diagonal south west wall. The townsfolk shuffled nervously, hands clammy on the hafts of unfamiliar weapons.
"Steady friends, steady," a booming voice called, "We all owe a debt, let tonight be the night that these little beasties pay theirs!"
Thorian looked over to the diagonal lake side wall, the one that bent back the south west wall to almost complete the irregular shape of the town, as he made his way along the south wall.
"Aye didn't think you'd be here!" he bellowed with a grin.
"Well I did say that sailing with thee would not be a-boring," the Captain grinned back, a long harpoon in his hands, "And a-boring it has not been, even if mah ship is still stuck on a sand bar for safe keeping."
"Well done chaps, wot," Ulrich was saying to the windlass crews as the last baskets of provisions hastily gathered during the day were cranked to the top of the wall with the foraging parties. The foraging party hastily cleared the top of the wall, carrying the baskets down towards the cathedral.
"That's it, chaps," Ulrich continued, "Quick's the word, sharp's the action." Then he saw that two of the crews were still straining at the windlasses they manned.
"What's up chaps? Something sticking?"
They didn't answer him but a metallic hand suddenly clanged against the edge of the battlement and Marmaduke heaved himself over the edge of the stonework, something inside sparking even as his feet clanged against the rock of the curtain wall.
"Well done, chaps!" Ulrich grinned, as they unlashed the ropes from Marmaduke's frame, "Glad to have you on board Marmaduke." The automaton saluted with a mechanical whir. Peter hissed quietly with annoyance, the audio equivalent of an eye roll but said nothing more.
"Our apologies, Favoured of the Matriarch but the giant crab that was with him scuttled off to the river before we could leash it," an Ash Elf reported, the serpent tattoo on his palm plain as he saluted Ulrich.
"Ah," Ulrich said and turned to Lady Zilvra, "Shall we..."
A thin, shifting rattling, whippy sound, hissed through the air, chilling and whispering, the sound of something wrong, something cold, something made, designed not to kill but to hurt, to entangle, to leave you bleeding and in pain cut through the air, stilling Ulrich's tongue. The last time he'd heard a noise like that he'd still been in the King's Own Northern Cuirassiers and a wizard had demonstrated his newest invention, a coil of magically created wire that was covered in barbs. It could be tied up small but unleashed from its confinement it bounced out many yards long, setting up an instant barricade against a charge that could barely be seen at a distance. The metallic, almost insectoid sound it had made was the only thing that Ulrich could liken this noise to and it raised the hairs on his arms and made his stomach churn. They had used that stuff on a pack of orcs that came raiding from the mountains and it wasn't a defensive barricade, it was a horror disguised as something defensive. Ulrich swore some of those barbs had grown into the flesh of the orcs entangled on it, holding them up even as they died. He'd never wanted to see that stuff ever again and now he could hear it and the bile rose in the back of his throat. It sounded like it was climbing up the wall, by all the gods alive, it sounded like it was climbing up the outside of the wall!
Ulrich turned his head slowly as the sound reached a crescendo and then Hartseer rose over the edge of the battlements, his cloak billowing, only it wasn't a cloak. Ulrich swallowed, again and again, as the multitude of wires crawled and snaked, rattling and hissing over the stones, digging their tips into any crack and crevice, acting like a thousand limbs to lift Hartseer's massive weight up and over the parapet, the sound of them freezing the blood. Hartseer had unbound his warrior's check and now it revealed its true purpose, its life and its deadly intent.
Slowly Hartseer was lowered until his feet touched the walkway, his talons making hardly a click. The wire 'hair' rattled as it rearranged itself to flow behind him, a dark mantle of promised pain.
"Sir," Ulrich bowed his head.
"So, you are back," Hartseer noted, "It is about time but I will give you points for finding us more allies in this fight. We have need of them." He turned and inclined his head to Yaga Tuf, who stood on the walkway of her house, staff in hand, looking almost relaxed as her abode was flanked by Jeremiah's bone golems. She inclined her head back, power recognising power. "If we live until dawn I will want a full report," Hartseer continued, "If we live until dawn."
"Oh it's him," Jeremiah's lip twisted where he stood down at the base of the wall, "And here was I hoping that one of these incompetent werewolves would have had the sense to give our esteemed King's Blade an early retirement. It appears they can't even be trusted to do that. How disappointing."
Hartseer gave no sign of having heard Jeremiah's muttered complaint in the dark as he stalked away to anchor the north wall, his 'hair' rattling, the ends flicking in the air as he went as if every single individual strand was questing to identify and lock on to a target.
Ulrich shuddered after Hartseer was gone.
"Your Man King must be greatly blessed by the Begetters to have one such as he serving him, "Lady Zilvra noted, "We have talked among ourselves but we have agreed that even if we return to the Citadel to retrieve more of our people's inheritance it is doubtful that we would find mention of one such as he in all of the Library of the Disciples of the Begetters. The Begetters bestow their favour in strange ways and creating metal that walks like a man is a wonder my people have never seen before. Even Ceann Mor respects him."
Ulrich looked and sure enough the spider dragon had shifted, giving way, crawling down the inside face of the curtain wall, watching Hartseer pace with wary eyes and he had a lot of eyes to beware with.
"That is probably for the best," Ulrich noted, Hartseer very much believes in respect is given as it is returned."
"I do not follow," Zilvra admitted after a moment.
"Hartseer will respect you," Ulrich explained, "But only as much as you respect him. Those that do not respect Hartseer," Ulrich looked down to where Jeremiah stood, one hand stroking the head of his reclaimed drake while the other tugged at his beard, face ceased in dark thought, "Those that do not respect Hartseer are not respected by Hartseer."
"I see," Zilvra nodded, accepting the concept more readily than Ulrich had expected. There again, he considered, she had experienced over a month of cultural emersion and it was possible that since Hartseer was something of an automaton and therefore gender-less, her mind had accepted the concept of respecting 'him' more readily. Ulrich peered into the dark, just able to make out the writhing silhouette on the north wall and a very faint hissing rattle could be heard as the night closed harder than a vice around them. Ulrich shuddered again and then smiled as Lady Zilvra looked at him with concern.
"Now, while out hairy visitors have not arrived," Ulrich's grin lacked any caution at all, "I have another pet that I haven't had the moment to show you. While we were on our way home I managed to collect a giant crab would you like to meet him?"
"Now?" Zilvra asked.
"No time like the present," Ulrich laughed.
"My Lord," Quenril stepped forward, "May I remind you that Weatherall, your giant crab mount, retreated to the river. It is outside the walls, where we expect the werewolves to attack from."
"And if they did, I could give them a proper welcome," Ulrich smiled, "Would my Lady care to join me?"
Several expressions flashed across Lad Zilvra's face, shock, concern, doubt to name a few and even a moment of anger but then she settled into amusement.
"As much as it is an interesting proposition," she remarked, "My mount is not as swift at climbing walls as yours and it would be irresponsible of me to risk my life when I am the last Matriarch of the Clan. However, if you want to impress me..." She smiled suggestively.
"Tally ho," Ulrich called as he whirled Peter and sent him plunging over the edge of the wall with a joyful scurry of legs.
"oceo axudanos!" Quenril gasped, lunging to the edge of the south battlement ends of the white scarf he'd been tying around his throat flapping, peering over the wall, "Please Sister, we cannot climb down there to help Sir Ulrich if the werewolves come. I mean no disrespect but your favourite rushes headlong into danger and risk, sometimes without thought. We struggled to keep him safe and..." He trailed off, realising what he had admitted and wondering if he had just displeased his Matriarch.
"Rushes headlong into danger and risk?" Lady Zilvra raised an eyebrow, her face stern in the light of the flickering lanterns tucked against the base of the battlement wall. Quenril held still, knowing his life now lay on her whim and then she smiled and he held still, knowing that he was safe for now.
"I know," she smiled, "After all, how else would a lowly human dare to approach a Lady of the Snake Clan and try to win her favour? It is his daring, his recklessness that I admire. If he succeeds then he is blessed by the Begetters and worthy of being my favourite. If he dies then..." She hesitated, the words of dismissal she'd been about to utter halting on her tongue.
"He changes things," Quenril admitted, "They change things. Humans. That seems to be their power. They can take beings that should be mortal enemies, predator and prey and turn them into companions, comrades, family. Forgive me, my Matriarch, but it seems to me that we lost because we tried to stand alone, unmoving and unchanging. "We lived by the past, for the past, in the past and we became the past. And now we must become the future, we must move, change become part of a whole bigger than we are."
She took a breath, tasting her own fear.
"But as the Matriarch there must be a child," she murmured. Quenril looked at his two companions. Sabal nodded.
"A child is possible," Quenril stated quietly. Zilvra stared at him.
"One of the allies we have brought is the grandchild of a human from another realm and a Shulmi Elf of a place called the Great Dust Plains. He is the one making that noise in the forge." Zilvra tilted her head, listening to the ringing of the hammer on iron. "He also knows of a way to increase Sir Ulrich's lifespan. We need to find a..."
Marmaduke groaned, gears grinding, steam venting from joints, trying to reach Sir Ulrich and failing that because even a machine would not throw itself over the edge of the battlements into a fatal drop. Desperate, the automaton whistled and groaned, trying to call to its master, mechanical distress echoing.
Lost in dark considerations in the shadow beneath the wall Jeremiah didn't even look up, Karma his vigor pack bearer standing to one side, eyes down cast, unaware that the drake watched it.
Kaelin turned her head from side to side, nose testing the air but with the night breeze coming off the lake, all she smelt was duck weed and warm water. She frowned at that, knowing that at this time of year the lake shouldn't be that warm but then her ear twitched. She could hear something, something trying to fly quiet, fly high to mask the sound of its passage and it would have worked on humans, maybe even elves but on her...
She'd left her pack at the cathedral but she had not left all her equipment at the cathedral, bringing along a bundle of stuff wrapped in her bedroll. She unrolled it and lifted on of the tubes out, taking up her stance slightly to the north of the east gate.
The chemical charge arched high into the night sky on a tail of sparks and then burst into a floating, shimmering globe of alchemic fire that drifted on the breeze, rocked by the wing beats of the winged werewolves closing in.
"Here they come!" Kaelin yelled. That was an understatement.
Three packs were closing in from the south while another three powered down from the north. As the light burst and destroyed the cover of night the winged wolves howled and dived, air ripping across their wing edges with the noise of tearing cloth.
Kaelin swung Haggis under her arm and blew into his airbag, the droning, swirling sound starting up as he inflated. As her fingers settled Kaelin turned north noting how two of the packs where clustered nearer together as they approached the north east corner. The rift she blew was sour and jagged, Haggis' voice rapping through the air like talons through meat, snarling in the ears, by passing the brain to directly attack the brain stem. The two winged packs she'd targetted fell, wings snarling, patterns thrown into chaos, barking, growling voices snapping and biting at each other as hard wired instincts for self preservation short circuited in the absence of an immediate enemy. They tumbled in the air, sleek aerial killers transformed into a hopeless snarling mess as Kaelin's music jerked them about by the ears.
The townsfolk of Nether Wallop stared, opened mouthed as some of their assailants faltered, the terrors that had tormented them for so very long scattering before music alone. The corporals of the soldiers called to steady their men and as the flare began to peter out, a member of the squad nearest Kaelin picked up another and sent it fizzing into the sky, the actioned echoed by Tasnar on the other side of the east gate.
Blinking in the sudden light, Thorian narrowed his eyes as he saw Marmaduke standing beside a strange collection of logs and ropes and a basket at the corner where east and south wall met. He grinned as he realised that it was one of those rock lobba things that the dwarfs sometimes used, though not as big. He grinned wider as he saw that though it was not loaded, it had been cranked back and locked.
"Here," Thorian ran up to it and lifted the back edge of the whole thing, swivelling it round by brute strength, lining it up by eye.
"Here," he repeated, jumping into the basket and drawing his sword, "Do you think you could give that big lever a yank?"
Marmaduke tilted his metal head and buzzed a questioning sound.
"Yeah, that one there," Thorian gestured with his sword.
"What are you doing?" a soldier yelled but Marmaduke already had his metal first around the lever.
The walking hut craned its neck back and gapped as Thorian flew over its head, whooping and cheering; even Yaga Tuf raising her eyebrows as he sailed through the air towards the pack of winged werewolves closest to the corner.
The crash echoed off the stones of Nether Wallop, smothering Kaelin's music for a moment. Screaming, a winged werewolf spiralled towards the turf, it's remaining wing helpless to keep it airborne, a second plummeting soundlessly beside it, neck twisted at an impossible angle.
Thorian whooped and bellowed with glee, hands gripping the wing tips of a flying werewolf's span, hanging below it, forcing the wings to bend just enough to let him grip them against the muscle lock that had set in the moment his sword had crashed into its skull. The look of shock was still frozen on its muzzle, it's head tilted back by the weight of the blade lodged in its skull bones as Thorian whooped and laughed as the ground glided up towards his feet. He stumbled into a run as his boots met the turf and then he ducked as the stiff winged werewolf crashed over his head to plough into the turf. Sill laughing Thorian planted his boot on the back of it neck and yanked his sword free with a grunt, propping it up on his shoulder.
"That was a good little fight," he grinned, turning back to eye up the curtain wall of Nether Wallop. The question now was how to get back up there. It was tricky.
Jeremiah finally decided to climb to the top of the walls of Nether Wallop, having arrived at the conclusion that, unless these annoying, buzzing pests would be courteous enough to come down to the ground floor his drake was rather useless as it couldn't fit on the battlements. Of course, it was unseemly for the servant of the One True God to be involved in such an uncouth activity such as this barbarous pitting of muscle against fang and claw bu at the same time it did offer so many delicious opportunities to feed souls to the glory of his god. What is more that overly judgemental metal stick insect wouldn't even be able to object. It was gratifying to know that no matter how the sanctimonious bug objected this time the ends would justify the means.
Jeremiah smiled and as he was feeling just so generous at this moment, he viewed Thorian's predicament and decided he would help. Closing his eyes a moment, he concentrated, double checking that he still remembered all the words to the spell of shrinking. Truly he was blessed by his god to be allowed to utilise the unholy power of a wizard style spell, thus purifying it and making its work holy.
He spread his hands and proclaimed the words in ringing, strident tones.
There was a thunder clap of in rushing air as the catapult was suddenly the size of a child's toy. Jeremiah grinned as he picked it up in one hand and looped round in a piece of string. That was one thing he would agree with Yaga Tuf on, though he would never say it out loud - it was always useful to have a piece of string in your pocket.
"Here," he handed the now toy sized siege weapon to Sabal as he was closet.
"And I am to do what with this?" Sabal asked carefully.
"My dear, dear Sabal," Jeremiah smiled as he shook his head, for all the world like a loving father chastising his errant son while they had all the time in the world, "Have you not noted our dear companion's plight. Though he has struck a great blow for us, he is now on the wrong side of the wall. Do you not think that it would be a good deed to send unto him the means of returning to us before these uncivilised creatures reveal their true power?"
"Ah," Sabal said and rested his hand bow on the lip of the crenel nearest while he deftly looped the string holding the catapult round the shaft of the bolt.
He levelled the hand bow, slowing his breathing as he squinted down the sights. For a moment he bracketed Thorian with the iron sights and then moved the point of aim three feet to his left.
Thorian looked round as something whistled and then thudded into the turf to his right. He grinned as he saw the catapult in miniature.
"Jerry's sending me presents," he laughed and then frowned. Just how as he supposed to use it while it was so tiny?
Yaga Tuf pursed her mouth as she looked up at the swirling, blundering pair of winged werewolves that were all that was left of the pack Thorian had crashed into.
"Whoop?" he house asked, clattering its wooden wings, "Whoop?"
"Yes," she decided, "These things need dealing with." She banged the butt of her cane forcibly against the wood of the walkway.
The ground groaned as the thirty foot vines burst up from underneath, writhing into the air, growing in girth as they lengthened, wriggling through the air. The last two of that pack of winged werewolves screamed as the thrashing vegetation grabbed them from the air, their limbs trapped, their wings pinned, the vines, now as thick as pythons crushing the breath from their lungs. Their eyes goggled as the plants they had always ignored revealed that they too could be disgusted with the existence of werewolves.
Yaga Tuf banged her cane again and the vines slammed the wolves into the turf before their green bulk vanished back into the soil.
Up on the tallest tower of the cathedral, one hundred and sixty feet above the ground, a door creaked open. Milena stepped out on to the leaded roof, the light from her lantern refracting and shining in the thick panels of glass that formed the walls of the circular room up there. She gazed at them as Alina and Estella followed her out noting the thickness of the glass and how the light refracted through them. A light source inside that room would produce a mighty beam of light that could cut through the night, shining for miles across the water.
"Wizard made," Alina noted, even as the screams and howled of the winged werewolf packs cut through the night.
"Indeed," her mother noted, finding the landside door and opening it, revealing the dwarf made mechanisms within. She studied it and then carefully opened the door to her lantern. A taper lifted the flame to the opening of the great nozzle at the top of the contraption.
"Turn that nob there," Milena instructed her daughter.
"This one?" Alina questioned.
"Yes," Milena replied, holding the flame steady. Alina slowly turned it. The flame leapt up with a muted roar, Estella crying out and lifting her arm over her eyes as the light blazed into being, cutting through the night.
"It is good," Milena nodded and adjusted the crank that lead to a piece of metal that had started spinning. A small concave mirror started circling the flame, narrowing the beam and sending it flashing across the sky. The werewolf packs pulled up abruptly as the light dazzled them, their attack dives stopping short of the battlements. They circled and barked confused by the sudden light and the fact that it didn't hold still. Just as they blinked the stars from their vision it came back again, making their eyes stream and throwing the attack pattern off.
Milena closed the door and turned her back on the shining light, giving her vision time to adjust. Estella wiped the tears from her eyes and straightened.
"Which one?" Alina asked, her hand resting protectively on her lower belly, "North or south?"
"South," Milena decided and held up her hands, tips of her thumbs and forefingers pressed together.
"Gratia mea te appello," she spoke and drew her hands apart. Estella realised that Milena had bracketed the centre of the south wall in her first gesture and was now spreading the effect along the entire length of the wall as the vines rippled out of the stones of the merlons, arching away from the defenders and towards the winged werewolves, only these just vines. The thorns on them were nearly as long as swords, wicked barbs of wood, sharp enough to pierce a Mulo's undead skin.
Peter whistled as he lunged away from the tangle of living defence that had sprung into being in a second.
"By heck," Ulrich exclaimed, ripping the tail of his jacket free, "That's impressive, wot!"
Above him, the winged werewolves howled, some scratched and bleeding, hides torn by the vicious claws of wood. They howled their confusion . How could the prey they had harried and tormented suddenly do this?
Alina stepped up beside her mother and spread wide her hands.
"Mater nos benedicat et protegat," she intoned, eyes half closed, feeling for the connection to the ley lines.
The vines that had burst into being with her mother's spell bloomed, huge red flowers, that poured their pollen into the night air. The two packs south of the wall, beat their wings circling for height to rise over the sudden defence to close with their prey, only their path took them into the cloud of pollen , not once but twice as they circled. One after another they sneezed, the pollen clogging their sinuses, digging into their olfactory bulbs, unloading their chemical contents directly into their brains.
The collisions sounded like meat hitting the butcher's slab, yelps and squeals ringing through the cool night air, the edge of panic gripping them, brains buzzing with inputs that didn't exist. Estella laughed quietly.
Zilvra nodded in approval and turned her gaze to Ceann Mor. The spider dragon turned some of its eyes to her, the silken link between them thrumming. The secondary eyes, made of glowing light opened on Lady Zilvra's forehead.
"By this word declared, "She intoned, "This power now I share."
The humans around her squeaked as they felt the unfamiliar Ash Elf magic touch them but they had understood her words, therefore the spell took root, eyes of power opening in their minds for this moment.
"Huh," Kaelin sniffed, testing the feel of the enhancements, her sight blue shifted but somehow the packs stood out even better against the night sky with it. "Useful," she noted.
"Parp," Haggis agreed. That last note was enough for one of the winged ones. It turned tail from the centre north pack and fled into the darkness, whimpering and sobbing. Caught as they were in their own confusion, its pack failed to notice the fact that it was gone, too busy milling in the air, the same way the other pack she had discombobulated was doing. Kaelin nodded at that as she slung Haggis back in place with a pat and hefted the crossbow she'd taken from the training yard. Always pulls left? She considered it and knelt on one knee, resting the fore grip on the crellon lip.
On the ground to the south east of the south wall, Thorian scratched his scalp with a rasping sound. Jerry had sent him this little toy but Jerry was so far away he probably couldn't see to make it big again so how could he, Thorian, help Jerry see where the little bitty thing was? Thorian grinned and stuck his sword in the turf. Grabbing the claw of the winged one he had used as a hang glider, he bent it until it pointed to where he left the tiny rock lobba. That done he yanked his sword from the turf and turned to where the last survivors of the pack he'd crashed through were climbing up from the turf. They snarled and growled at him.
"It's Thorian Time!" Thorian bellowed, lunging forward, stride lengthening, sword lifting in a two handed grip. The two winged werewolves lifted their wings and snarled. They could have jumped, they could have been up and away within moments, out of reach of Thorian's bright steel. Unfortunately for them the concept of retreat, even to better, more tactical ground was not a strategy that was included in werewolves in instinctive behavioural wiring.
They powered forward, wings smashing down, air tearing as they surged forward, claws out stretched.
Thorian came to a stop, the noise of bones disintegrating still echoing across the lake. Behind him a rather horrid stain spread over the grass, the soil darkening as the steam drifted into the air.
"One down," Tasnar noted.
"That was five," Lady Zilvra corrected.
"And one out of six packs," Tasnar smiled, cocking his hand bow.
North of the eastern gate Kaelin breathed out, held her breath and squeezed the trigger.
A werewolf of the pack nearest the north eastern corner coughed blood, throat torn. Another spiralled, screaming, bones of its wing fingers shattered, while beside it another shrieked wing membrane ripped open and spilling air. The last one tumbled, already silent, the bolt buried to the fletching low in the left side of its chest. The last one of the pack circled, yipping with the high pitched whine of a scared puppy.
Ulrich grinned as he reached the river and then the grin faltered as he noticed the grove of weeping willow trees that now surrounded a stretch of the water up the water way from where he was. He was fairly sure that they hadn't been there that afternoon. The trailing fronds shimmered in the night breeze, flicking their silvery undersides in the gloom. Then the figure materialised out of the gloom, the waterfalls of leaves trailing over her sleeves, her eyes luminously dark in her pale face.
For a moment, Ulrich felt the tug on his mind, felt the need to turn to her, to reach for her but then he heard Lady Zilvra's voice calling and he looked away. When he looked back Yaga Tuf's sister lifted a finger and laid it on her lips, the universal gesture for hush. Ulrich shuddered and then turned his attention to the water in front of him.
"Ho Weather's?" he called, "Weatherall, where are you? Now come on, I know you're in there. Come on out."
After a moment the surface of the river bubbled and then Weatherall came stamping out, making that grinding noise in his belly as Ulrich had destroyed any chance of an ambush attack.
"Now there is no need to be like that," Ulrich noted as the winged werewolves circled above, "There'll be plenty for the clean up crews come tomorrow. Now, I don't suppose you could throw something at that group up there." Ulrich pointed at the pack that was circling near the middle of the southern wall.
Weatherall waggled his eye stalks a moment, then picked up a stone in his mighty pincer and handed it to Ulrich.
"Oh do come on," Ulrich chided, "A little more effort than that!"
Weatherall stamped his feet, waving his arms around stiffly, trying to demonstrate that crabs were not built for ballistic warfare.
"Well I must say that I am disappointed!" Ulrich exclaimed, "Very disappointed!"
Above him the pack of winged wolves nearest the south west corner turned, reforming their formation and slid into a silent dive towards him as Peter sniggered at Weatherall. Whether it was shame at disappointing his master or rage at the Giant Centipede's mockery, Weatherall seized a chunk of stone torn from the wall in an earlier battle and hurled it straight up into the air, arm joints jerking.
The pack leader disintegrated, the pillow sized boulder smashing straight up through him. Deflected slightly, it smashed the wing arm of the wing wolf to the leader's right and its screaming tumble snared the one behind it, smothering its face, blinding it. It clawed free, just in time to meet the turf face first at full speed. The crunch turned even Ulrich's battle hardened stomach. To the destroyed leader's left the winged werewolf holding the back edge jinked and vented a gurgling cry as it discovered the hard way that it didn't have the room for such a manoeuvrer that close to the hedge of thorned vines, its wing catching and arresting its momentum, twisting it to slam full length on to a thorn. Its legs went limp as its spine was cut and with a flinch of sympathetic pain Milena dropped the spell, allowing he drop to finish the job so that its suffering was as short as possible.
The last survivor of that pack twisted its wings, fleeing the other way, pumping its wings once, twi... It discovered the hard way that what goes up has to come back down.
"Well done Sir!" Ulrich cried. Weatherall wiggled his eye stalks, apparently stunned by his own success.
The last pack of winged werewolves, the one that was supposed to be holding the centre of that battle line circled, lining up for an attack run on Ulrich. The bolt slashed out of the darkness, smacking into the leader's big chest muscle with a solid thud. It pulled up with a howl and a yelp, twisting in the air as it struggled to yank the bolt free, the rest of the pack breaking off as well, circling, snarling and growling as they tried to understand where the threat kept coming from, how the humans kept fighting back this well when they were supposed to have been worn down to the point where they could just sweep them from the walls and have their fun.
Quenril lowered his hand bow and recocked it.
"Good shooting," the Corporal who had met them when they came over the wall congratulated and then turned to his own men, "Steady men, steady. Pick your targets and fire on opportunity. Disrupt them as much as you can!"
The arrows sang through the air and the winged werewolves scattered, tumbling through the air to evade and one kept tumbling until it knocked a hole in the turf.
"Well done," Quenril returned the compliment with a nod.
Up on the north end of the east wall, the soldiers drew string and loosed , the arrows sheeting into the air and the last of the decimated pack tumbled from the sky, chest looking like a badly used pin cushion.
"No mercy for the fleeing?" Kaelin asked.
"These things never gave mercy," a soldier said grimly, yanking back on the cocking lever, "And they like it when you run away, they think it's funny."
After a moment Kaelin nodded. No mercy given, none received. She narrowed her eyes at the remaining two packs that circled the northern wall, picking out the wing leaders. There were always leaders in her grandfather's packs, always leaders because how else did the strong rule if not by bullying the weak?
"Parf!" Haggis commented.
At the other end of the east wall, Jeremiah stroked his beard, peering into the dark, realising a slight issue with his plan. It was very difficult to resize the catapult if he couldn't see where the damn thing was. He stroked his beard more, glowering into the night. Why couldn't the dumb orc ave stayed near the dratted thing? Just how was he supposed to aid the brainless lump if said brainless lump didn't have the sense to act like a marker to let him know where the equipment now lay. He banged his fist on the battlement, face like thunder, the words to a hideous curse bubbling behind his teeth. If that cretin was going to ignore his duty so he could perform an over dramatic demonstration of mindless muscle then he, Jeremiah, had a good mind to see if he could render him, Thorian, down to being a mindless bug, a cretinous carbuncle, a pea brained...
Gerard took off from Jeremiah's cage of twisted antlers and buzzed through the air, his blue glow, trailing in the air behind him as his now dragon like wings beat. He landed, fluttering in the grass near the winged werewolf that Thorian had jerked about as if posing. Gerard buzzed around in the grass, legs jerking, antennae flicking as he cast his blue light. Jeremiah narrowed his eyes, about to call Gerard back but curious as to what the bug had found. Then realisation thumped him between the eyes. In Gerard's shine he could see the hand of the winged werewolf stretched forth as if to point at something laying in the grass.
Jeremiah drew himself tall and declared the words of the spell of shrinking in a booming voice, twisting them just right to reverse the effects of the spell. With a crack of displaced, air the catapult was suddenly stood there on the turf, the stems of the grass bent under its weight.
"Thank you the Mighty, One True God," Jeremiah smiled and then flinched, his god's impatience rumbling through him, his god's hunger for the fear, the worship and the souls Jeremiah could dedicate to him growing, demanding Jeremiah hold up his side of the bargain for it seemed to his god that Jeremiah was an awful lot of talk and not a lot of trouser.
Jeremiah turned, whispering a prayer to his darksome, demanding god and pointed at his undead drake. It reared up, its head almost level with the windows of the upper floors of the buildings around it, its eyes blazing, taking on a hue that seemed to fester and rot. The noise that echoed from its jaws drove the last pack of winged werewolves to the south lower, their voices turning high, thin, eyes rolling as they clustered, the raw stench of fear rippling on the breeze.
Still grinning, Ulrich rose high on Peter's back, held one arm out straight before him and shot putted the rock he was holding at the swirling swarm. A winged werewolf yipped as Ulrich's rock smacked of its backside.
"Oh do come on," Ulrich sighed.
Weatherall stamped sideways a little and deliberately picked up another pillow sized rock. The winged werewolf seemed to fold around the boulder and dropped without another sound, its shattered body protecting its pack mates from the blow.
"Well done," Ulrich nodded to Weatherall.
Quenril took a deep breath and sighted.
"Center," he said.
"Right," Tasnar confirmed, stepping up beside his brother, hand bow levelled.
"Left," Sabal replied, beside his cousins, hand bow locked and loaded. The bows spoke as one and what was left of the winged werewolves that attacked from the south dropped like stones, having never reached the walls they intended to sweep clear. The towns folk cheered, ragged, uneven relief back washing through the battered community but then the howls echoed out from the dark, the howls that were more like roars and the ground trembled with the tread of something, or somethings, massive.
"Wall breakers!" a soldier on the diagonal western wall shouted and he wasn't the only one.
"Oh shite!" Ulrich noted, "There goes the neighbour."
The trees on the far side of the river were bending and toppling as two massive siege beasts forced their way forward. To the south another was stomping forward its movements co-ordinated by the two white werewolves that were commanding the two packs of regular werewolves that ran beside it. Behind it a pack of abominations scurried, their sleek, hairless hides shining in the flare light.
Nearer to Thorian another two packs loped into the field with their white commander.
The bulk of the army came along the east road, the siege beast smashing holes in the gravelled surface, a white werewolf commander to the south having no less than three packs of regular werewolves under his command as well as a pack of abominations. The formation was echoed on the north side of the east road.
The formation coming down the north shore was only slightly was only slightly smaller with two packs of so called ordinary werewolves flanking the seige beast while the pack of abominations scurried ahead, the white werewolf commanding them loping behind, tongue lolling in a grin as the trap closed about Nether Wallop, the two scurrying packs of winged werewolves circling over head. The howls were triumphant.
"It's Thorian time!" the orc crossbreed bellowed, cutting across the turf, ignoring the group closed to him, instead charging the pack of abominations that were sprinting up from the south, over taking the other packs they were with. The crash sounded like thunder and two abominations came apart in flares of red splatters.
Quenril suddenly jerked, a pattern of green stripes flickering across his skin.
"Out of the way!" he yelled, spinning from the south wall, pushing his way up the east wall.
"What is happening to you?" Zilvra cried, looking at him as he forced his way towards her. He drew his sword.
"Brother!?!" she gasped, not comprehending what she was seeing, the giant lizard jigging away at her fearful shift of weight.
His blade crashed down on the claw of the Abomination reaching over the top of the wall. The front runner of the pack of werewolf abominations to the south of the east gate had already made it to the top of the wall and as it yanked its hand back and screamed, its kin on the lower stone work barked in anger.
To the north of the east gate the next pack of werewolf abominations reached the top of the wall, leaping to the top of the top of the battlements, claws slashing. The soldiers had already drawn their short swords and met claws with steel and teeth with skill. Abominations howled shallow, stinging cuts opening up on their hides. Soldiers grunted and yelled, ribbons of flesh coming free.
"Rut you!" the corporal yelled, striking back at the werewolf abomination that had just gouged his arm, "Rut you! I'm not changing tonight!"
The snarls were blooded.
On the north wall the abomination pack reached the base of the wall and started scaling it, claws digging for grips, three legs scrabbling and gouging. They yipped and yelped with glee. The silly man things could build their mountains but the true race of the world could over come their petty reshaping of the land with ease. The first two leapt to to the top of the wall, teeth bared, claws out stretched, grinning snarls slobbering off their tongues.
The four long, gracefully curved swords were already unfolded from their secret realm, shining bright in the dark as they slashed.
The lead abominations reeled back almost falling, one clutching the bloodied stump as its forearm fell to the stone walkway, the other gasping through the pain carved across its midriff. Hartseer's talons seized the severed limb and kicked it up into its owner's face.
"It is a good day to live!" he roared, "It is a good day for you to die!" The glass marbles of his eyes shone as green as poison with unholy joy, his four arms spread in a close pattern, every sword held in a different on guard position, a cage of sharp metal denying them access to his central line. His laugh was a husky sound, dry and cold, a killer finally allowed off his leash, allowed to do what he did best, allowed to dance in the space where the meat met the metal. The night rang to the metallic sound of his wire hair as it whipped and hissed, cold metal ringing as it fell cloak like to the stones, a mantle of promised pain.
"Well, what do we have here?" Valodrael's voice spilled from Estella's lips, "It really is Hartseer himself. I did not expect him to have survive the Day of Destruction. Looks like that Paladin Kill Team had no more luck than the ones who went rogue to go after him at the start of the war."
"Kill Team?" Alina looked at her friend, eyes wide as she saw the dragon so close to the surface but Estella shook as she blinked his influence from one eye, her hands already half way through the pattern of circles and passes to summon the power that was held in the water of her blood.
"Introductions later," Estella commanded, "We have something more important to be dealing with." Her talismans twitter in agreement, circling her in complicated geometric as they sang, pouring their power into hers. The circle of rainbow sparks contracted like a fist and punched down from the cathedral tower. The abominations to the south of the east gate screamed as one, lashing out at things not there, not a few crying out in pain as they bite limestone instead of flesh.
Estella nodded in satisfaction and then her gaze turned inward.
"Alright," she said, "You can come out now." Milena caught her as the cramp viced her double, the wretch sounding like it came from her pelvic floor, the black oil flood splattering to the leads and piling up like molasses in a jar. The sludge quivered, writhed, flowed upwards, coiling round itself, wriggling like worms.
Milena and Alina stepped back as limbs soothed out, a body formed and wings flecked with gasping stars spread wide, nebula patterning over the sleek hide.
"Do I have my lady' permission to join the flay," Valodrael turned his hungry face to his queen.
"Permission granted," Estella wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. The Void Dragon grinned a serial killers smile and dived off the cathedral tower,landing heavily enough to shatter roof slates and crack the beams beneath. He didn't so much run as flow towards the east gate, a river of appetite leaping from roof to roof, pain bubbling in his bones but relief promised with the live meat that struggled and strove at the walls. Valodrael's tongue unrolled and the noise that echoed up from his belly sang of agony rolling down a hillside towards a village that could not run.
If Hartseer heard the fluid destruction behind him he gave no sign, focused completely on the Abominations rearing on the wall before him. They really did not get the idea that the wounded should retreat or be carried off the field as the one who was now minus an arm lunged out at him, one hand of claws out stretched, jaws wide.
The swords sang in the dark as Hartseer danced aside and the Abomination separated from its head as it toppled off the inner wall, Hartseer's flare planting a metal foot in the stomach muscles of the other, cruelly digging talons into its wounds before it was lifted from its three feet and smashed backwards off the battlements. It's scream ended in a smash that was followed by a second shortly after but if bouncing did not count as flying then that affliction was not suffered by its winged brethren as they dived at the wall and two of the townsfolk toppled screaming from the walkway. Hartseer roared, wire hair billowing after the winged packs as they pulled up and away. One yelped as the rattling metal threads lashed the sole of its foot, flaying the skin away in a single, hissing second of contact. It spiralled sharper, the red drizzling behind it.
The squad at the corner of the north and east walls leaned dangerously over the edge, taking pot shots at the abominations scrambling up the stones but the angle was bad and the bolts went wide, tearing the turf but nothing else. The squads on the south wall had better luck, their bolts riddling the face and neck of the siege beast approaching their wall. It roared and shook its head, pawing at the new, quill like decorations it now had but neither eye or nose had been hit and it thundered on, a snarl rising from its gullet. However, the Abominations that were supposed to be clearing the wall so that it could force a breach were not going to be rendering their aid any time soon or indeed, ever for that matter as Thorian was making excellent work of rendering them down for mulch.
One lost its head outright, corpse thudding to the turf hard enough to leave a dent. The second reared back howling, both hands gone at the elbows and then Thorian's back swing tore out its throat. The last threw itself forward heedlessly, claws outstretched. It's chest caved in at a single strike.
Thorian panted, looking about himself, shaking the frenzy from his skull, trying to focus on what he was planning to do before the little doggos interrupted. His sword point drooped to the floor as he found staring a the big old beasty as it stomped away from him towards the wall. Ah that was it, he was needed back on the wall! He looked round and saw that the big rock lobba was back to its right size. It seemed that old Jerry was playing nice for once, for once. Shaking the muck from his sword blade, Thorian stomped over to the rock lobba, pausing to wipe his blade on the pelt of the winged one that had pointed to it. With a grunt he started twisting the handles back.
The roar that shook from the dark was not the half melodious howl of the werewolf packs but a deeper, more guttural growl that Thorian half turned to, recognising the sound of his big, hairy friend from the night they fought at Black Randal's cabin.
The dire bear came out of the night like an avalanche of fur, muscle and thundering had temper. He smashed into the white werewolf leading the pack group to the north of the eastern road, flinging it through the air like a rag doll, several things inside going crack before it even landed. It was gasping as it tried to crawl back to its feet, looking up to see the barrel of rage and fur baring down on it with bared teeth and red hot eyes. A friend lay dead for no good reason and Black Randal was retribution incarnate, nature itself rising up against those that would pervert her beauty with the twisted values of the worst of mankind. The dire bear reared in the dark.
Lady Zilvra scanned the battle and decided that the siege beast from the south was the biggest threat that she could do something about. She patted Bartholemew's neck, wordlessly telling him she needed him to hold still. Lifting her hands she spoke in a sibilant, clicking tone, fingers weaving the spell, like a spider's web, her gestures oh so similar to a child's game of cat's cradle.
The siege beast, studded with bolts, stumbled, growling and shaking its head.
"Your prey is by your feet," Lady Zilvra instructed, "Your prey is by your feet. Bite them."
It hesitated, shuffling, head wavering.
"The prey is by your feet," Lady Zilvra repeated, "Eat them."
The siege beast wavered, head tracking from side to side. The white werewolf leading the south group of packs howled, a complicated pattern that slide up and down the scales, weaving the tone back and forth. The light shimmering between Zilvra's fingers snapped and she flinched as the threads of power lashed back across her palms, stinging and raising welts over her skin. The siege beast turned its head to the walls, snarling.
"Oh... bother," Lady Zilvra dug in her mind a moment to dreg up the human curse words she'd heard recently.
At the corner of the wall the walking hut of Yaga Tuf turned and she narrowed her eyes at the abominations scaling the wall south of the east gate. One of them snarled back, considering if she would be too stringy to eat. A sharp wrap of her cane echoed from the boards of the balcony. The abominations howled the thorny barrier lifted them from the wall and they were suddenly occupied with trying to not fall over thirty feet straight down. They swarmed and writhed among the thorns, trying to not fall, trying to scramble higher, trying to not impale themselves of foot long thorns. Yaga Tuf gave a small nod of satisfaction.
Up on the tower of the cathedral, the revolutions of the light flashing shadows and brilliant glares across her form, Milena moved carefully around the wall of crystal lenses until she could see the north wall and the packs of winged werewolves spiralling above the defenders.
"Mater inimicos nostros confite," she intoned and the rocks of the battlements bulged and shifted as the vines, these ones smooth and twisting burst up from between them, entangling the feet of the pack closet to the beach. They howled and thrashed their wings, jerking around on the ends of the vines like kites on the ends of strings, wings tangling and snaring each others flight patterns. They snapped and clawed at each other, loosing height, loosing cohesion, tumbling towards the towns folk waiting on the wall, fingers nervous on triggers.
"Sol purgans, timores nostros pelle," Alina spoke and the stones creaked again but settled without any further effect as Alina suddenly bent double, hands clapped over her mouth. Her shoulders heaved and shook, her eyes screwed shut and she shivered convulsively. Estella stepped up beside her and rubbed her back, eyes full of sympathy, remembering too well hat it was like.
Kaelin glanced up at the cathedral tower from where she stood by the eastern gate. There was definitely something wrong with the shadows cutting before the light beams from the tower but she didn't have time to fly up there and investigate. The mob of packs coming down the eastern road were becoming entirely too close for comfort, especially with that siege beast at its head so she took a deep breath, pocked Haggis' blow stick back between her teeth and blew into his bag.
The siege beast began to slow down, ears swivelling back and forth, its eyes widening. The white werewolf directing it faltered, slowed, stopped, rearing to its hind legs, lips rippling back from its teeth as its eyes flicked about trying to see what the threat was, where it was coming from. It snarled, its white pelt stirring as its hackles stood up. The pack of regular werewolves to its immediate south, sank to the ground on their bellies, Kaelin's music touching something primal and instinctive in their brains.
Kaelin puffed again and again, Haggis swollen out with air, chanter reeds droning a colder, more chilling note. This wasn't music, not in the way many would understand it. This was something raw and primal, an invocation of the reaper, a motif as recognisable as the bones and skulls and sharp edges that came with the Lord of Death himself.
Kaelin shifted her fingers as the siege beast took a lumbering step backwards, closing her eyes to bring a memory into sharp focus. The smell of deep stone, the tall buildings of Endingborough, the howls of of the werewolves and Sinbar's piping music, his flute thin but cutting with its intensity as his skeletons stepped forward in their black and silver grace.
The white werewolf that was supposed to be anchoring the centre of the east line whined as it drew back, not understanding what it was seeing.
A figure was forming on the road, a figure tall and thin, limbs of shining white, its lower hands out stretched while its higher hands held the sickle of reaping and the hammer of mending but this time its face was not the serene mask. This time Kronzyn wore the face of the snarling warrior, the dragonkin soldier, he who stands between the monster and the flock, he ho guards, he who protects and though he said not a thing his step was implacable, unstoppable, inevitable.
Jeremiah frowned as he watched the apparition form on the road. Something about its four armed form, its height and its thinness, the very way it moved reminded him of... He snorted and shook his head. No that was not possible, he would not believe it.
With sudden, shocking howls the white werewolf anchoring the centre of the east line broke. Screaming it turned and bounded away into the shadows, the wet stink of fear leaking into the night. With a sound that was both human and animal the siege beast stamped back, span and thundered into the dark, its roars and the crash of its passage echoing long after the noise of the pack of werewolves that had followed it were lost to the hearing of those on the walls of Nether Wallop.
Kaelin was running out of puff as the figure on the road turned and lifted one hand in salute of those who's stories were not done yet. Out of the night a whole cloud of orbs floated to the figure and it opened its arms to them, face fading back to that serene mask before both it and them vanished from view as if a veil had been drawn over them, separating them from the sight of the living.
Haggis' blow stick fell from Kaelin's lips and she leant against the battlements gasping for breath. Her ears flicked as she picked up the sound of a clawed hand not far below the edge of the battlement on the outside of the wall. She jerked back with a curse and the creature she had taken to calling Spidy, even if that was only in the privacy of her own mind, rippled passed her, hairy legs clicking against the stones as its pincers gripped and released, tail wiggling as its mouth gaped, fangs swivelling forward on their basal segments. It bit and bit again at the werewolf abominations clinging to the stone work north of the east gate, mewing and whining when they proved too fast to catch. The abominations spread out on the stonework, barking and chattering, lunging, snapping but then jerking back but if they thought they could bait Ceann Mor into a full on charge into their midst they were disappointed. He was already to wily a predator for that, falling back instead, blinking his eyes, his many eyes and arching his tail up and over his back, flicking the massive spinnerets at the abominations.
Ulrich did not know about the difficulties the most prized treasure of the Snake Clan faced as he was facing problems of his own near the river at the south western corner of Nether Wallop.
The pack of werewolves bounded out of the gloom at him, howling and snarling.
"Tally Ho!" Ulrich yelled and Peter the centipede did not hesitate as he rattled forward, determined to give a good account of himself or at least beat that miserable crab creature that kept trying to steal his thunder. The werewolves were obviously not used to prey that fought back instead of running away. Indeed several of them jumped aside from Ulrich's path, only to be snarled at by the white werewolf behind them, one even being caught and shaken for its cowardice.
"Now, now," Ulrich called, "Bad form wot! Either lead from the front or you, sirrah, don't have the right to chastise your men!"
A second later, a hot red line of pain whipped up his arm from his wrist to his elbow. He very nearly said a rude word aloud about that but was not about to allow these things to turn him into a vulgar potty mouth, biting off the expletive behind his teeth.
Thorian was also in something of a bother as the third pack of werewolves that were meant to be with the big white doggo who had run away decided that instead of just milling around like the second pack was doing they were going to charge the nearest prey they could see, that prey being Thorian.
"Oy!" Thorian bellowed, "Push off! I'm working here!"
They didn't listen, attacking without hesitation, claws wide, mouths agape, howling as they came.
"I said push off!" Thorian bellowed, well and truly ticked off with having to let go of the the crank lever of the catapult as it wasn't big enough to have a ratchet system so all his hard work came unspun as he turned to face the big doggos. Thorian didn't know what a ratchet system was but he did know that the handle started turning itself backward, rapidly, the moment he let go.
With a roar that rivalled the howls of the siege beasts Thorian swung his sword in a massive arch and no less than three werewolves came apart in midair, the red flying from throats that were suddenly silenced. The big un in the second rank slammed into Thorian a second later, mashing him back against the side of the catapult, snarling in his face. Thorian roared back, nose to nose with the beast, spit flying as he slapped the beast hard across the face.
The night split with thunder. The siege beasts, the wall breakers, had reached Nether Wallop.
The one at the north east corner set its claws into the stone work and gouged, the sound of keratin scrapping over stone ripping, through the night, putting the teeth on edge and making Kaelin shudder.
The one coming up from the south took a different tactic, slamming into the wall with its shoulder and then body slamming the wall over and over again, making the stones shudder and grind against each other. The repetitive blows sounded like crashes of thunder breaking over head.
The other two siege beasts shouldered their way out of the trees on the far bank of the river, revealing the packs of abominations and werewolves swarming around their feet. The white werewolves howled and they all plunged into the river, the siege beasts striding forward heedless of the mountainous sheets of spray they kicked up, while the smaller werewolves threw themselves in headlong. The singing did not begin until all of them were in the water.
Ulrich felt the hairs stand up on his arms and the back of his neck and he refused to look, tugging Peter's head round when the giant centipede tried to. Somehow, some instinct told him not to look as the voice rang out in the words of the love song from the grove of willows on the river banks.
The werewolves in the water however, either did not comprehend the danger they were in or ignored it, especially once their two white leaders turned towards the woman who stood singing in the water, the leaves of the willow trees twined in her hair. Her white dress shimmered in the moonlight and her throat, bared by the tilt of her chin was a lovely long column of white that just invited the bite of a werewolf's teeth.
The wolves were very hungry, gnashing pointed teeth as one by one they turned, striking out against the flow of the river, white werewolves, regular werewolves and abominations alike, all of them wanting to be the first to taste this foolish human wench, all wanting to be the one to make her part of the pack. They fought the current and each other, snarling and snapping as they fought this race, unheeding of the cold water sapping the strength from their limbs, unheeding of the water weeds that bound round wrist and ankle, unheeding of each other as one by one they were dragged down in the water, dragged down to where it was blue, deep, dark blue.
Ulrich looked as the last howling voice was silenced and the splashing ceased. Yaga Tuf's sister raised a claw like finger to her waxy lips and smiled before withdrawing among the willow fronds, her larder full of all sorts of new playmates. Ulrich shuddered. Only the two siege beasts had made it across the water to tear at the walls.
The five remaining white werewolves lifted their heads and howled, long, drawn out songs of death and despair.
"Oh pull the other other one," Tasnar sighed, his face aching where the wounds were still red and swollen, "Can't you sing anything else?"
Unfortunately the townsfolk, worn down from weeks of fighting,with only short training at best, shaken by lack of sleep, could not brush off the physic assault so easily. They broke and ran sobbing for the steps down from the wall, the two groups from the north wall and the two groups flanking the squad of soldiers on the diagonal south west river wall. The gaps opened up in the defences with even fewer to hold the walls at the very points where the wolves were striking hardest. Though the bolts of the townsfolk had been inaccurate and wavering, they had kept the werewolves threading the rain of hot metal, now that defence was down.
"Ah cack," Quenril muttered, twisting his head, not dropping his sword but earnestly needing to scratch his neck. His skin had started itching the moment the white werewolves had howled.
"Brother?" Tasnar asked, concern in his eyes.
"Eyes front and centre people!" Sabal snapped, nearly leaning over the edge of the wall to snap a pot shot at a werewolf abomination clinging to the stones, "We have work to do remember?" the abomination yelped and snarled at him, a deep gash grazed across its shoulders.
Similar yells were being shouted all along the walls, corporals trying to hold their men steady as their allies ran, trying to keep the weight of withering fire pouring on as the siege beasts clawed and hammered at the walls, the abominations threatening to clear the last of the defenders while their werewolf allies gathered to force the breaches as they were created.
Ulrich stood high on Peter's carapace, roaring his defiance as the pack pressed him, Peter and Westherall back towards the river. Ulrich yelled; there was no way he was going backwards into that water! Not when he knew what was waiting in it! Ignoring the burning pain in his arm, he doubled the number of blows he was hammering out, not caring if they were polished, only caring that he forced the werewolves back, only caring to give his team some breathing room. They needed room to retreat, if they could make it to the wall then Peter could lift him out of the kill zone while Weatherall baited the werewolves into the river. Once in the water the uncouth beasts could talk to the sister of the Lady of the Mountains.
Hartseer was in his element on the north wall. The civilians were out of the way so he had no need to hold back. The noise he made was beyond the animal and into the monstrous. An animal roars as a threat display or in effort. Hartseer was enjoying every damn minute of going up against a foe where mercy and decency could be dumped as unwanted baggage on the way side. The next abomination over the wall received two blades to the chest cavity, blades that lifted him, struggling and gasping off his feet and then tore out side ways, ripping their way free. Bright silver metal turned black with blood in the moonlight.
The next abomination, by its own good fortune, crested the wall outside of Hartseers immediate strike range. Their eyes met and held. Hartseer deliberately stepped on the corpse at his feet, crunching the skull under his weight, bursting it like a ripe plum over the stones.
The abomination turned and ran. Hartseer bounded after, bloody footprints tracing his path. He lunged. The abomination twisted aside. Hartseer barked as his blade jammed in the crack between two of the battlement stones. The last abomination of that pack cleared the battlements in a leap, its full weight crashing broadside into the trapped steel. It snapped with a steely ring. Hartseer reeled back, limbs jerking as the sudden shock lashed through him, vision red shifting for a moment. The abominations grinned and lolled their tongues at him. Hartseer glanced down at the snapped off stump of his blade and then looked up at them, the other three swords repositioning slowly as both parties tensed.
"The last one who did that to me was a paladin," Hartseer snarled, "And you are not worthy to lick her boots!
The abominations leapt.
On the tower top of the cathedral, Estella focused her mind, ignoring screams and howls and the thunder of rock in distress. All that was, all that existed, was the water, the water that lay not too deep in the soil. All that kept Nether Wallop safe from being undermined was the same water that threatened it everyday and forced the foundation s to be dug wide as they could not go deep. But that meant the water was near the surface where she needed it. Twittering her talismans pulled into position and lifted with her.
The pack of abominations clinging to the wall south of the east gate yelped as they found their claw being ripped from the stone work as the wave of water surged up from below, a crashing roar of water from the land that faced the mountains not the lake. They were flung up and had no choice but to scramble and snatch at handholds as they came down.
Quenril hefted his sword but Valodrael was there first, breath rattling as his fluid chest swelled out. The frozen breath of an Artic gale rattled across an ice flow.
The abominations to the north of the gate, paused in their efforts to bait Ceann Mor as the screams of their comrades rang out, cut short by the howl of air contracting as the Chill of the Void rippled down the face of the wall. The abominations that Estella had soaked just moments before creaked and cracked as the water set solid, entombing them in ice even a their cells rupture at the membrane level.
The last of the chill rippled between Valodrael's fangs as he smiled with satisfaction at his work. Some of them had even tried to leap clear and were now frozen in the act of pushing off from the wall. Valodrael smiled as he looked at them and an idea percolated. He raised a fist and smashed it down on the top of the ice sheet clinging to the wall. The cracks spread immediately, staggering down the face of the wall, the bangs as loud as the siege beast's efforts as lumps and chunks of it peeled away, the frozen bodies of the abominations toppling with them to smash on the ground below.
Vlodrael breathed deep, revelling in the moment.
"It is a good day to live," he roared, "It is a good night for YOU to die!"
At the other end of the wall the so far untouched pack of abominations began considering if they would be better served by fleeing. They started to back away.
Unfortunately they seemed to be the only ones that considered the fact that maybe they should leave, one pack of the winged ones arrowing straight across the city aiming for the top of the cathedral tower. They had caught the scent the of the women up there, women of power, women who defied the order of the Wild, women they would crush one way or the other. They howled as they came.
The other pack of winged ones dived screeching at the north east corner of the wall, claws raking into the group of townsfolk that had managed to hold their nerve. Most where swept from the wall, falling screaming to smash on the ground below, one or two were plucked from their feet, lifted into the sky by clawed hands and thrashing wings. The winged werewolves were deliberate in their feeding, deliberate and messy, all the more to distress the rest waiting below for their attention.
The sergeant lifted his bow and sighted. The arrow whistle the screams fell silent. The winged werewolves didn't care, red soaked and circling for another kill.
In the streets below a pipe started up, a rallying call, a call to arms, a call to resistance, the moment to take the stand, the call to stop running and start fighting. It was the anthem of resistance, of courage, of the moment fear broke to be replace with anger. It was the cry of the rising force, where slaves were no longer willing to accept their chains, the strength of fathers to protect their homes, the fury of mothers to avenge their children. Jeremiah sniffed. Something about the tune tugged at his mind, even as voices, quiet and hesitant began taking up the chorus. Then a new music, stronger and more sure cut across the night, the deep voice of the cello thrumming in the dark. Without meaning to Jeremiah's hand flew to his pocket where the magnum opius nestled among the books of his god.
Upon the tower top the three women span round to face the source of the music. The figure sat upon the wall, cello gripped between his knees, the bow sweeping in short, swift bursts across the strings, a music that stirred the blood and fired the soul, that called for the back to straighten and the knees to unbend. The left side of his fac was handsome, youthful and clear, though almost as pale as the bunch of lace at his throat. The right side was turned away from them, hidden against the raise of his hunched shoulder. The hand that held the bow was wrapped in heavy bandages, its grip reduced to a crab like pincer through which little sharp points showed.
"And so even my foes are my salvation," the figure smiled as he spoke, two voices warring in his throat.
"Who are you sir?" Milena stood in front of her daughter and her husband's niece, recognising someone of a dark and coiling power in this strange man who had appeared from no where. "And what do you mean? What is your intent?"
"Who am I?" the figure smiled, his hair falling in an inky waterfall to his black clad shoulders, "I am Michael Azrael and I mean that enough living beings have heard the music of my magnum opus now for the barrier to be fragile enough for me to come through. While my music lives in their minds I can be in the living world once more, even if only briefly." Below someone screamed. "Though if many more die the door to me will close again and I have no ready wish for that, not now that my darling laughing dragon has allowed me through." A slight frown marred his features. "I suppose I will have to prevent that, so that would be my intent." He lifted the bow from the strings and leant the cello up against the wall of the tower, slipping down to stand upon the leads. Milena hustled the girls aside as Michael stepped to the landside wall of the tower. He looked down at the swirling pack of winged ones coming for them and then beyond the walls to where white werewolves drove their minions to the walls. Finally his gaze rested on where Hartseer clashed with the two abominations, hold both at bay despite the damage he had taken.
"I remember when that one led the fight against the Domilii," Michael said, the two voices fighting to be the most heard, "The song his people sang as they left the reservations and refused to bow to the paladins any more.
Eirionn laochra,
Da bhfaigheadh muid bas,
Bhuel, cad mar sin?
Warriors rise,
If we should die,
Oh well, so what?
Estella felt the hair on her arms stir, her mind somehow recognising the song even though she had never heard it before.
Michael took a deep breath, tilted his head back and spread his arms, cloak billowing in the rising breeze.
"Laochra!" he sang and the two voices united.
"Laochra!" rich tenor and gravelly baraton bass sang side by side, a harmony that lifted the hair and sent chills up the spine.
"Eirionn laochra,
Da bhfaigheadh muid bas..."
The werewolves beyond the wall stumbled to a halt, half rising, ears forward, heads tilted, fur rippling as Michael's voice reached impossibly far. The white werewolves snarled and slapped, trying to drive them on but their growls fell on deaf ears.
"I know that song!" Valodrael jerked his head up, wonder and stunned amazement stamping across his face.
"What is it?" Quenril asked, complicated patterns of colour racing over his skin, the song shaking something deep within. In reply Valodrael lifted his voice, the common tongue version of the words resounding forth.
"Warriors rise,
If we should die,
Oh well, so what?"
Hartseer struck again and again, driving the abominations back along the wall, voice almost reedy as he repeated the words, fighting to say them as he learned once move the true pain of what the Domilii had inflicted on him - that eyes of glass cannot cry.
"Sorry my mother,
Sorry my father,
But if we should die,
Oh well, so what!?!"
Ulrich stared as the werewolf pack he was facing suddenly fell back, clutching their heads, wringing their ears, whimpering and yipping. He looked up and saw the white werewolf closest trying to keep control of the other pack.
"Wait," he instructed, halting Weatherall's advance, "Wait, something is going on here."
The pack closest suddenly threw their heads back as one and howled, something like a seizure shaking through them. Ulrich gapped and had to remind himself to shut his mouth as the werewolves brown and black fur fell out in clouds, pushed aside by grey fur and white manes. The werewolves looked at each other like people coming back to themselves as Michael's song rang through the night over and over, other voices finding the Shulmi refrain, adding to its power as it swelled and grew and swelled again.
All along the battle line the song shook through the packs of the regular werewolves, brown and black replaced by grey and white as the white werewolves screamed and snarled, watching their army fall apart as the Intoner’s words, his music rang through the blood and minds of the infected. The call to resist the packs control was irrefusable.
"My people," Lady Zilvra put a hand to her mouth, "My people."
The white werewolves took a step back, looking around as they realised that they had four packs left under their command and those packs were suddenly outnumbers two to one.
"Sorry my mother, sorry my father," the music chilled the spine but buzzed in the mind.
A white and grey werewolf sneezed on a clot of brown and black fur and shook its head.
The white werewolves took a step back as dozens of eyes focused on them.
"If we should die,
oh well, so what!?!"
"Rise!" Jeremiah bellowed, "Rise people of Nether Wallop! Rise for the glory, rise for victory! The blessings of the One True God are upon us. Do you deny his Will? Do you run and hid before his gaze? Rise up! Rise up! Earn the love of your god! Obey his will and smite the unclean beasts that would invade your home! Rise in the glory of the One True God!"
In the alleys and streets something rumbled.
"Even now he sees you, even now he works his Will upon you!" Jeremiah's sigil glowed brighter, casting twisting shadows through its cage of coiling antlers, "Rise up and serve the will of the One True God! Rise up and strike at his foes! Prove you are worthy of his favour, prove you are worthy of the One True God!"
Voices began rising out of Nether Wallop, angry voices, loud voices, voices shouting for destruction.
"Rise!" Jeremiah nearly capered on the battlements, "Rise! Rise! For the One True God! Rise for his glory and smite his enemies! Rise for the glory of Klu'ga-nath!"
The werewolves all reeled, changed and unchanged alike, even the siege beasts falling back from the walls, crying out and pulling at their ears as if that name was a shard of glass piercing their brains.
Kaelin threw herself flat, Haggis whining under her weight as she covered her eyes. For a minute, she was a puppy again, cowering under her blanket, trying to hide from the big, bad monster that stomped and roared in the light outside.
"Tra'kan'hini." Ulrich gasped, fighting his stomach's efforts to turn inside out, while his intestines bloated with gas, "Tra'kan'hini protect us! Protect us from the selfish and the judgemental! Protect us from the arrogant and prideful. Protect us from those that would use us!" He gasped a breath to say more but his tongue stilled. His limbs still shook and Peter whistled in distress but Ulrich's mind had settled, something like a calming hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you Tra'kan'hini," he whispered.
The voices however where not quieted, anger solid and righteous, whipping itself to a frenzy as the townsfolk flooded back towards the walls, new torches in their hands, feet drumming to a bitter rhythm.
The winged werewolves flying over the city suddenly banked and spiralled as bolts whipped up from the street below, voices bellowing from the dark for their deaths.
Jeremiah grinned as the mobs swelled towards the wall steps.
"All haul Klu'ga-nath," he said smugly.
