From the Ashes (14 page)

             
“Only one way to find out…”

             
There, a couple of hundred yards distant; Enree, leader of the free Plains People, engaged in vicious combat against a great, hulking abomination of a Clansman. Gwenna reached out her hand towards the scene, summoning with a thought the spirits of air to lend her the power of lightning. She could feel, with a thrill, the energies building up about her, the prickly static, the greasiness of the air. She held it. Held it. Held it till she could barely contain herself.

             
And released.

             
A searing flash at the moment of release, the world bleaching out for an instant as a ravenous finger of electricity arced out from her outstretched hand, directed where to go by her very thoughts. Enree and his closest men were blown backwards by the impact, but otherwise unharmed, for it was the Swollen that took the full brunt of the blast.

             
The great beast stood still, for a moment, confused, as the gathered Plainsmen that lay shocked on the floor watched on with bated breath. Slowly, the pallid skin of the monster began to take on a darker hue, as its molecules changed, breaking down, before the entire creature blasted apart in a cloud of dry, lifeless dust that was whipped away on the breeze.

             
The Plainsmen leapt up with a roar of triumph, even as the Shamans on the hilltop did the same.

             
“My friends,” spoke Gwenna to the jubilant troupe, a slight smile of satisfaction on her face. “Time to turn the tide…”

             
As one, the shamans turned to the battle, the entire world drawing breath as the power of the spirits gathered about them, before reaching out and unleashing nature’s wrath upon their foes.

***

Wrynn picked himself up from the dirt once more, spitting out a mouthful of grit and blood as he rose, achingly to his full height. His muscles burned with fatigue, his skin with the grazes, bruises and burns from that god-forsaken whip. He reached down, with a throbbing mind, drawing even further on the resources of the earth in a desperate attempt to heal, to keep pace with the punishment.

             
It wouldn’t be enough, he knew that.

             
But at the same time, he didn’t care; all about him, on the plain to the flank of the shaman army, the Infernal Hunt was in disarray. Their leader thus tied up, the ravenous, frothing berserkers had been taken apart piecemeal by the skilled, cunning Foresters. He grinned, wincing slightly as his split lips parted and bled. The pain was worth it; for though he would inevitably lose this fight, the Foresters would win this battle.

             
The bearded titan strode forwards, chuckling, his whip lashing playfully back and forth leaving streams of smoke in the air.

             
“What’s wrong, old man? I heard you were tough – did I hear wrong?”

             
The Shaman shook his head, incredulous; the stupidity of the man was beyond understanding. Even now, his army falling apart around him, he could think of nothing more than the fun to be had in this duel, here and now. The giant stalked towards him and Wrynn prepared himself for further punishment, bracing himself for the hideous, unnatural touch of the dark energy that surrounded and protected the brute.

             
Kurnos eschewed his whip for the moment, swinging instead a mighty fist with juggernaut force. Wrynn’s tired arm whipped up, catching the fist in the palm of his hand, the impact driving him to one knee.

             
Even as the looming Huntsman bore down on the shaman with all his weight, Wrynn began to chuckle, the chuckle erupting into a booming laugh.

             
The Huntsman growled as he strained.

             
“What are you laughing about old man?”

             
The Shaman smiled, his eyes filling with the raging power of the storms as he spoke.

             
“It is not I who laughs, Huntsman. It is the spirits.” He laughed once more, hearty and full of joy. “It appears your patrons have abandoned you…”

             
A moment of confusion in the Barbarian’s eyes, before a cataclysmic booming of thunder split the air and the titan was hurled away to land in an unceremonious heap. Kurnos shook his groggy head, righting himself, before looking over at his adversary, his eyes filling with an emotion he had never known.

             
Fear.

             
Wrynn rose, the air about him growing dark, even as he was wreathed in a silver web of pure, natural lightning that sparked and danced, his eyes glowing furnace-white with the power of the spirits.

             
“Behold,” he spoke in booming tones of thunder that roiled out across the Steppes, “the full fury of the elements.”

             
An outstretched hand, a crack of thunder, a bridge of silver lightning that linked the two, and the Huntmaster screamed in agony, trembling and spasming beneath the onslaught. The titan struggled to his feet, trying in desperation to throw off the energies that enveloped him, but his efforts were futile. He cried out from within the singeing, smouldering beard, his trembling hand still clutching his whip of fire with white-knuckled fingers.

             
“You… cannot… kill… me…” he gasped out in bellowed outrage. “I… am… IMMORTAL!”

             
A final, cacophonous boom and an explosion of raging orange fire that flattened the scattered warriors and rocked Wrynn backwards on his feet. Finally, the smoke cleared, leaving a scorched and steaming crater of blackened earth, the air thick with the reek of sulphur.

             
Of Kurnos, the Huntsman, there was no sign.

             
Wrynn relaxed, allowing the energies he’d gathered to drain away, flowing from his body and back to their respective spirits, the familiar claws of spirit-sickness threatening to steal his senses as he fell, unsteady, to his knees. Supportive hands grasped him. Faces swam blurrily in front of him. Voices calling out his name as though underwater.

             
Iain. He focussed on the face, straining to stay conscious.

             
“Master Wrynn… are you okay?”

             
A weary nod from the shaman and the Forester turned to gaze, almost in disbelief, at the crater before them.

             
“The Huntmaster… is he… dead?”

             
The Shaman drew deep breaths as he slowly regained his composure following his exertion, before shaking his head.

             
“I don’t think so…” he replied. “The dark powers we face have invested too much in him to allow him to fall.” He sniffed, breathing in the taint of brimstone and fire. “But he’s gone. Gone back to whatever hellish domain they call home. For now, at least, he is out of our hair…”

             
The Foresters helped the Shaman to his feet as he turned to gaze over to the battle proper, spying with great relish the unleashed power of the spirits that even now assailed the former-Clansmen.

             
“The tide is beginning to turn,” he told Iain, his words laboured, but getting stronger. “Soon we shall have to leave the fate of the battle in the hands of the Plainsmen and make headway to our objective.”

             
Iain nodded.

             
“And hopefully, en route, we shall find our lost leader.”

             
Wrynn smiled.

             
“Hold onto that hope, young friend. For hope seems to be seeing us right thus far…”

***

Those final, harrowing moments of Jafari’s life still replayed over and over in Naresh’s head as the Nine ran from the Temple, making their way through the winding streets towards the Pen. The sacrifice. The grief. The nobility. Yet also the desperation. The determination to end the suffering. Had it been bravery? Had it been fear?  Who could know what maddened thoughts had gone through the Nomad’s mind at the last?

Whatever had motivated his demise, Naresh was truly grateful to have known the man, no matter how briefly. He sent up a brief prayer to the ancestors, to watch the Desert Man’s soul, as the
men ran, low and fast, towards the servant’s entrance that he’d told them about. No guards about still, despite Elerik’s earlier apprehension, and they slipped inside without trouble.

Naresh paused at the door, looking back and out over the city that spread before him. Somewhere, out there, amidst the sprawl of the metropolis, his family dwelt. Did they still live? Would he see them again? He doubted either. A sob threatened to burst out, but he quelled it, steeling it into a rage, harnessing the grief and turning it into an anger to better keep him alive. With one last look at the city he called home, he turned and followed the Woodsman into the darkness of the Keep.

The men trod carefully, squeamishly, hands held over mouths, for the slaughter of the corridors beneath the Arena was as nothing compared to the scene before them now. Gagging, Naresh stepped over a pile of glutinous innards, before looking about, trying to discern amongst the smell and the crimson exactly where in the Keep they were.

“We’re on the opposite side of the Great Hall to the kitchens,” he finally realised. “Follow me,” he told the troupe, as he made his way to a door. “This way.”

He pushed the door open on well-oiled hinges and made his way through, the others following, making it a few steps in before they stopped, craning upwards and gazing about in abject, open-mouthed wonder.

“The Great Hall…” whispered Narlen in hushed tones, as he looked upwards to the high-vaulted ceiling, lit, as ever, by the great burning torches held in their mounts on the walls. At one end of the great room, a raised dais, upon which sat the throne of the King himself…

Elerik nodded.

“Impressive. But let’s keep moving.”

              They followed the ex-servant  further into the cavernous room, making their way past table after empty table, sweating slightly as they passed the gently smouldering orange firepit that lay, forever lit, in the centre of the room. Without warning, Naresh stopped, staring. Alann followed his eyes.

             
“Know these people?”

             
People was a generous description for the scattering of ruined corpses that lay about the table. Naresh nodded, gesturing to a headless torso that lay, sprawled, across the table, where the food still lay, congealed and uneaten.

             
It was Elerik who spoke first, stealing the words from Naresh’s mouth.

             
“Lord Alathar…”

             
Naresh nodded.

“I was the last person he ever spoke to…”

              The Woodsman grunted.

             
“What was he like?”

             
Naresh sniffed.

             
“He was a dick.”

             
The door through which they’d entered slammed shut, the bang echoing throughout the Hall and causing them to start and spin, weapons held out in readiness as pulses began to soar.

             
“Quickly!” shouted Naresh. “This way!”

             
He began to run, towards the steps which led down to the kitchens, but a blur of motion, almost imperceptible, and they heard that door, too, slam shut. One by one, the torches high up on the walls began to splutter out, the shadows encroaching on the men from both ends of the Hall.

             
Alann roared, thinking quickly.

             
“To the firepit!”

             
The men followed him, making the edge of the pit just as the last of the torches went out, the room plunged into thick and impermeable darkness, save the dim, orange circle cast by the smouldering logs at their back. They gathered together, facing out into the gloom, weapons held out before them as Alann called out.

             
“Who’s there? Show yourselves.”

             
His voice echoed back at him from a dozen angles, bouncing about in the vast space. After a few moments, a reply; laughter, cold and mocking.

             
“You call upon the shadows to show themselves?” The voice was cold, clear and sent shivers down their spines. “All you need do is look about you. We are everywhere…”

             
“Who are you?” Alann repeated, refusing to be intimidated.

             
“You’ve never met me, Woodsman. But I know you. I’ve seen you. I watched you slay the beast in the Arena. Impressive. But you’ll find us a different proposition. Cold-blooded we may be, but our reactions are somewhat…
swifter
.”