From the Ashes (10 page)

“You… you guys okay?”

Alann strode to the bars, nodding in thanks at the speaker, noting his dress, his skin, his mannerisms; this man was a serf of the Pen, like the many they’d seen before, bustling hither and thither.

“Most of us, yes. Thanks to you. A brave and foolhardy idea, releasing a tiger.”

The servant gave a short laugh, before nodding his head to one side.

“Thank Jafari for that. I just thought he was going mental.”

Alann turned to the other of the duo; a dark-skinned desert man, by the looks of him. He was dirty, his clothing in tatters and Alann’s keen eyes took in the cruel weals of whiplash that crisscrossed his body.

“Then thanks to you also, Jafari. We are grateful.”

The nomad smiled.

“And I in turn thank the luck of the djinns; the beast could easily have turned on me instead. Thankfully, it seemed to take a dislike to the Clansmen. It was as though they offended it, somehow…”

Alann nodded, thinking back to the vacant, ashen faces and dark, soulless eyes.

Jafari spoke again, craning his neck to look about the cell behind Alann.

“You are only men? There are no women with you?”

The prisoners all shook their heads as Alann replied.

“Only men I’m afraid.”

The desert man looked downcast at the news.

“But there are other cells – I passed them as I was brought here. Free us and we will lead you to them if there are people you seek.”

The nomad turned, looking sidelong as the servant with hope in his eyes, who nodded, holding out his hand to Alann.

“You swear on this deal?”

“I do.”

The servant smiled as Alann grasped his hand in a firm, warrior’s grip.

“Naresh.”

“Alann.”

Naresh’s eyes widened.

“The Woodsman?”

A nod.

“The same. Did you pass any tools that might help us break the chain on this gate?”

Naresh thought back to the storeroom they’d just been through.

“I think I saw an axe…”

The Woodsman smiled as the men behind him chuckled as if at some shared joke.

“Then an axe’ll have to do…”

Chapter Four
:

An army, gathered before the gates of Pen-Merethia. A twisted reflection, a dark parody of one that had assembled on the same spot a century before. For these legions fought not for the honour of their Clan. Not for the survival of their traditions. Nor even something as base and simple as the ambition of one man. No; these warriors stood, waiting, in cold, disciplined ranks, for their lives were no longer their own; their souls forfeit.

              The Legions of the Damned.

             
The army of the past had faced but a single warrior, though one of unparalleled power. The army of today faced no such might. Cresting the hill before the city, the ragtag army of the North came into view; a thousand proud, ready Plains Warriors; a smattering of silver-armoured Town Guards; a troupe of Shamans, eschewing their robes for jerkins of leather armour. An army bound for the Beacon that rose, a lurid green, like a festering eye, in the stormy broth of the sea behind the Pen. A small army. Yet an army nonetheless.

             
And the dark powers that, even now, clamoured from behind the veil, would bend their will to its complete and utter destruction.

             
For nothing could be permitted to halt their plans.

             
As one, the Legions of the Damned began to march.

***

              “The sheer numbers… How can we possibly defeat that many?”

             
“Focus not on the size of the army we face,” yelled Wrynn in countermand to Arbistrath’s gasp, steeling the nearby warriors with the sureness of his words. “Focus instead on the individual warriors before you; they do not wish to be here; they wish an end to their suffering, to their damnation. Give it to them and know that every soul you release will be forever in your debt.”

             
A cheer went up from the ranks, a cry of determination, a statement of intent. Forget noble, grand visions of saving the world, of vanquishing evil, of light triumphing over dark; each and every man and woman in the Shaman army had his own reasons for being there, be that loved ones at home, lost honour, or cold, simple revenge. And each and every one would hold to those reasons in the battle ahead, drawing from them strength and courage to see them through.

              Wrynn turned to the gathered leaders, all there save Iain, for he already had his orders. They looked at him, expectantly, as he spoke.

             
“Hofsted; you recall your part in the plan?”

             
The grey-moustached veteran nodded.

             
“Aye, Master Wrynn,” he replied, hefting the crudely fashioned cannon that hung, suspended, from his shoulders in a sling of leather. “The Tulador Guard are ready.”

             
“The Plainsmen will take over from you when the enemy draw too near. Gwenna and her Shamans will offer support from afar.”

             
Arbistrath turned to the tall shaman, his face a curious battleground of emotion; an eagerness to exact revenge for his fall, tempered by a keen fear of the bloodshed ahead.

             
“And what about yourself, old man? Where will you be during all this?”

             
The Shaman refused to rise to the man’s tone, instead, gazing out with narrowed eyes across the gathered army.

             
“I shall be where I’m needed. I have a feeling we will face more than Clansmen upon this plain…”

***

The Halls of the Pen were all but empty, unless one counted the brutally dismembered corpses of the servants that lay strewn about the corridors like grim rugs. The carnage was terrible, the slaughter absolute.

None had escaped the wrath of the Damned.

Alann’s stomach threatened to turn; he was a man used to conflict, used to the shedding of blood, used to the desperate brutality of battle, where man sought to take the life of man. But this was something else. The smell that assailed his nostrils, that caused his fellow prisoners to gag, was the murder of innocents. The wanton and wholesale slaughter of the unarmed, the helpless. Killing without honour. This was not the work of Clansmen, he thought to himself. The men of the Steppes, brutal though they may be, had at least some notion of honour, of pride; they wouldn’t lower themselves to the killing of unarmed servants, not without at least giving them the chance to run.

No, no man did this. These deeds were the work of something darker, older. Something of cold, inhuman malice. He thought back once again to the empty stares of the pale warriors before, suppressing a shudder at the memory, before turning left away from the Arena and heading towards the Slave Market.

              The Market, with its podium and stands, was as Alann remembered it from days before, though empty now, bereft of the hustle and bustle of human life that had filled its yawning space when he’d been here last. Here and there, a corpse lay sprawled on the floor, in a dried, crusted pool of its own dark blood. Brief moments of scanning the area and Alann’s keen eyes picked out what he sought; the entrance to the jails beneath the Market.

             
“This way,” he whispered. “Follow me, stay low.”

             
He led the way, running in a crouch, the remaining captives plus the two newcomers, all armed with the various weapons taken from the Arena stores, straggling out behind him as they wove their way between the seats and stalls, making their way quickly and stealthily to their goal.

             
Rounding the corner, the ten powered their way into the corridor, skidding to a halt as they almost barrelled straight into the two pale Clansmen that were striding, mechanically, towards the exit. One of them opened its mouth, jaw distending as it readied a piercing screech, but was silenced as the head of an axe buried itself in its face. The other ran forwards, scimitar drawn, aiming a swing to take Narlen’s head, but the Plainsman was the quicker, dropping to his knees to avoid the blow and thrusting forwards with his spear to catch the creature in the midsection, the point of the weapon bursting two feet clear from its back.

             
The Damned Clansman barely noticed the injury, smashing down with his sword to cleave the spear in two, taking a step forwards towards the horrified Plainsman in readiness to end him, before stopping, lifeless eyes crossing, then falling sideways to the ground, its ruptured head pouring vital fluids and brain matter onto the stone floor.

             
Naresh stood behind the creature, a raised hammer still in his hands, blood that was already congealing slowly sliding down the haft.

             
“Thanks.”

             
The ex-servant nodded, even as he shook the hammer with a grimace to rid it of the gore.

             
“Don’t mention it.”

             
The underground corridor led them down to a crossroads, the hallway branching off in different directions.

             
“Do we split up?” enquired Narlen.

             
Elerik shook his head.

             
“That’s how people get killed.”

             
Alann nodded.

             
“The farmer’s right; we stick together. They might be the only Clansmen down here, but they may not. We don’t want to split into two groups then bump into a troupe of ten.” He looked side to side. “We go left.”

             
The corridor continued further, another hundred feet, dark, most of the torches in the recesses along the walls having spluttered out from lack of attention, till it opened out into a vast chamber. Cages of black iron hung, suspended by chains from the ceiling, a forest of them. The pungent aroma hit them, once more, as it had in the corridors about the Arena; the smell of death.

             
As their eyes adjusted, gasps of horror went up; pale, stiff limbs extended from the bars of every cage, sticky, half-dried tendrils of congealed blood hanging down in grotesque strings to mat on the floor. They walked closer. Naresh gagged, turning to run off, throwing up with violent spasms against a wall as the cheese and wine from before came back up. Arrows, Alann noted, dozens, scores, stuck out from every angle, the corpses of the hapless prisoners festooned with the missiles; they had not the luxury of running, he thought with sadness, not cramped up in such conditions.

             
Doomed fish in an iron barrel.

             
Nine of the ten set about the grim task of wandering the dangling den of death, searching for any that, by some miracle, had survived.

Naresh still leant against the wall, catching his breath, diaphragm throbbing with the ache of ejecting his stomach’s contents all over the floor. He pulled away from the wall, rubbing the tears that stung his eyes, noticing as he did a door set into the wall. He made his way to it, curious, pulling tentatively on the handle; the door opened easily. Another corridor, though small, with only one door at the end. He made his way down it, cautiously. The door at the end was shut, locked up with a chain, rusted and covered with dust from lack of use.

              What lay inside that would be locked up, so? Provisions? More weapons?

             
He took his hammer, gripping it firm in his hand, bringing it down with a sharp crack on the padlock. The rusted mechanism parted easily, the chain falling to the floor, the sharp noise of metal on stone in the corridor causing him to jump, despite the fact that it was he that caused it. With a trembling hand, he reached for the handle, readying his hammer lest some horror jump out. He pulled the door open, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed out into the fresher air.

             
The room was dark, dusty, old. He stepped inside. The air was cold – colder than the warmth of the prison beyond – and the atmosphere had an unpleasant, tingling feel to it. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as though he were being watched by someone behind his back, and Naresh turned, spinning this way and that, hammer raised to strike any that might surprise him. But there was no-one there. Manacles on one wall, he noticed, held in place with chains. This was a torture room, he suddenly realised, with a shiver. There was nothing here, save bad memories of evil deeds.