From the Ashes (9 page)

             
The Shaman blew out a steady tendril of smoke from the pipe at his lips, the sweet scent of the aromatic blend reaching out with soporific fingers across the circle. He withdrew the pipe, lowering it, before replying, his voice sombre, low.

             
“I know.”

The admission surprised the fallen Lord, his tired eyes widening as he listened on.

“But the doom of the Plains-People was sealed a long time ago, my young Lord Arbistrath. Long before any here, save I, were born.” He took another puff on his pipe, the bowl glowing with gentle heat, before continuing. “But I once told someone, very long ago, that the sacrifice of my people would be a worthy one. And it will.”

Hofsted now, looking up from his contemplation of the dying fire, smoothing his bristling, grey moustache before he spoke.

“They are fodder…” he remarked quietly, voicing that which they all were thinking. “The Plains-People are a screen, to hold off the hordes of the Clans as we strike for the Beacon…”

The Shaman let out a quiet sigh, nodding in solemn affirmation as Gwenna looked up at him with glistening green eyes.

“There is no other way, Lieutenant. Your Tulador Guards are trained and well-armed. Your Foresters,” he gestured to Iain who sat, ever uncomfortable in the presence of leaders, “are hardened and hungry. And our Shamans,” he turned now to the diminutive red-head beside him, “are powerful. But we are all few and our strength will be needed to strike at the head of our enemy. We cannot waste ourselves, crashing against the wall of Clansmen.”

“But how can a mere thousand Plains-People hold off our foes long enough for us to reach the Beacon?” enquired Arbistrath. “The Clansmen are almost without number; skilful, strong and armoured. The warriors, brave though they may be, will be cut down in short order…”

              Wrynn smiled, sadly.

             
“You underestimate the value of honour to the Plains-People, my friend.” His eyes grew vacant as he gazed back through the mists of time. “I once rebuked some of my friends for placing too much emphasis on honour; for letting it blind them, causing them to be arrogant and headstrong. But it turns out now that those very qualities, that fire in the Plainsman’s blood, are what will carry this battle.”

             
He raised his free hand, gently, towards the fire, his fingers making a subtle and complicated dance in the air and the gathered leaders watched in amazement as the smoke from the dying flames twisted and wreathed in the air to form a picture. It was a Clansman; long, drooping moustache and high topknot, an example of the warrior they faced. But his eyes, such that should be fiery and hungering for glory, were dead. Hollow, sunken chasms of black wherein dwelt only suffering and unending cold.

             
“The men we face are not the Barbarian Clans; they are mere puppets now – their souls taken captive by the powers we fight. Their bodies will fight against us, have no doubt about that, but their hearts are not in it.” He took a puff of smoke, letting that which lingered above the campfire dissipate now, the image fading. “And therein lies the key to the Plainsmen’s prowess; they fight for lost honour. They will gladly attack, with a passion and a pride, rendering each warrior the equal of two of the soulless automatons we face.”

             
“They each face ten,” stated Hofsted. “Not two…”

             
The thought hung in the silence of the air for a moment, as each contemplated it, before the stillness was broken by a fresh voice. Iain.

             
“It’s not the Clansmen that worry me, Lieutenant…” he quietly said, thoughts playing across his mind’s eye, of bearded titans shrugging off mortal wounds.

             
Gwenna nodded in understanding, for her mind was similarly occupied, only with a hauntingly familiar pair of cold blue eyes.

             
“The Council…”

             
Arbistrath and Hofsted looked at each other, shivering at the word, remembering the lightning-blades of the Khrdas; the lethal nonchalance of Memphias; the unstoppable rampage of the Plated General.

             
“How do we do it?” the Lord asked the Shaman, no trace of condescension in his voice, only a hopeful curiosity, tinged with undertones of trembling fear. “How do we defeat the Immortal Few and whatever infernal allies they summon…?

             
Wrynn’s expression was hidden by the cloud of pipe smoke that wreathed his features. Only his eyes shone through, ageless, knowledgeable, yet at the same time uncertain.

             
“We cannot,” he admitted. “All we can do is try our hardest, pray for a little luck and trust that our own Immortal will return in time to tip the balance…”

***

The darkness seemed to go on forever, the lamps in this section having not been relit for a while by the looks of it, the only light that lit the way the tiny, orange semi-circle cast by the lamp held out before the duo. More than once they’d had to stop, pausing in mid-step, hearts hammering as the distinctive sounds of marching Clansmen passed by; above, to the sides.

But, by blessed luck, never in the same tunnel as they…

A faint light ahead, as though the tunnel opened up into a wider space. Closer, they came to the exit, crouched, feet moving silently. A store-room, like the one they’d been in before; crates, sacks, tools leant up against the walls. Within the storeroom, a metal cage, within which were locked all manner of gruesome weapons mounted on racks. No doubt the same weapons lent to the captives in the arena to bestow upon them some false hope. To make the drama more exciting. Another door, at the far wall. They made their way over to it, grasping the handle with tentative hands and opening it, achingly slowly on creaking hinges.

             
Naresh leant out, cautiously, into the corridor. He looked right; the corridor widened into a circle of doors, thick and sturdy, each bearing the symbol of a different beast. He shivered at the thought of the ravenous animals penned within those cells. Looking left; the corridor stretched onwards, barred cells clearly visible on either side. He strained his ears, listening, as the cool air brought with it tiny whispers of sound.

             
Voices.

             
Prisoners, in a cell down the corridor. He smiled, for an instant, then froze, as the tell-tale sounds of marching began to echo from the entrance at the far end. Clansmen. He backed off, into the storeroom, nearly knocking Jafari over in his urgency.

             
“What’s up? What’s out there?”

             
“Clansmen…”

             
“Shit. What about prisoners, any out there?”

             
Naresh paused for a moment, half tempted to lie, to fly from the room and leave the threat of the Clansmen behind. His conscience won out.

             
“Aye. I heard some up ahead in the corridor. But I fear it’s too late for them.”

             
Jafari hissed.

             
“No. What if my sisters are there? And even if they’re not; an enemy of my enemy is my friend. We should do what we can to help them…”

             
He stuck his head out the doorway a fraction, gulping as he saw a troupe of ashen Clansmen making their way down towards the cells.

             
“What would you have us do?” snarled the Steppes man. “Grab a shovel or an axe and go charging into them? We’ll be cut down like children…”

             
Jafari looked right now, pausing for a moment before replying, eyes shining with the madness of whatever idea he’d thought up.

             
“No. Not that. Wait here. Keep this door closed until I knock on it three times.”

             
“Where are you going?”

             
The Nomad smiled the grin of a lunatic.

             
“To get help…”

             
With that, he stepped out into the corridor and fled.

             
Right.

***

The prisoners backed away from the bars as the Barbarians came into view, five of them, a Marzban and four Clansmen, armed with bow and scimitar. Only Alann held his ground, meeting the cold, lifeless gaze of the Marzban that regarded them through the bars.

             
“They don’t look right,” remarked Narlen from behind him. “They look… dead.”

             
He was right, noted Alann; the pale faces; the sunken, staring eyes. The once-proud Clansmen before him looked more like drowned corpses, reanimated by some dark power. Cold, stiff puppets on macabre strings.

             
The Marzban opened his mouth, his jaw elongating like that of a serpent beneath his moustache as he emitted a high-pitched screech that sent the prisoners’ hands to their ears. At the inhuman command, his men raised their bows with jerking, mechanical motion, nocking arrows and aiming through the bars at the helpless men.

             
“Ready yourselves!” shouted Alann, his limbs flooding with adrenaline as he prepared himself to leap to one side. The cell was small, their movements confined and the range was short; but he was determined to make things as difficult as possible for these monsters. The inevitable twang of release, as the arrows flew, men leaping this way and that in an effort to avoid the barbed missiles. A cry of pain as someone took an arrow to the flesh.

             
The automatons readied themselves for another volley and the prisoners continued their dashing, frantic movements, racing from side to side in the cramped cell in an hilariously futile effort at making themselves hard targets. Again, the arrows flew. More cries of pain. More blood spraying in crimson droplets across the cold, stone floor.

             
The blood whistled in Alann’s ears, his stiff limbs burning from efforts not called upon for days whilst they’d been incarcerated in this cell. The whole charade, running back and forth, put him in mind of the games of tag the children of his village used to play, way back in simpler times; dashing to and fro between the mill and the stream.

             
But there was no such fun to be had here. He was slowing, he noticed, his lungs screaming with fatigue. All of a sudden, an arrow caught him across the knee, not lodging, just scoring across the flesh, the sudden pain sending him to the floor as he ran, scraping the palms of his hands across the rough stone. He looked up, now that he’d paused for a second, knowing that a second was all his foes needed to get their bearing on him.

             
With grim inevitability, he saw the points of four arrows aimed unerringly at his head. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

Perhaps he wouldn’t get his revenge, after all.

A sudden, bestial roar cut through the sounds of groaning and pain; a deep and menacing growl that unleashed a primal fear through the hearts of all the captives. Alann looked up, eyes open now, watching with confused interest as the Clansmen turned, as one, to face down the corridor. No fear on their ghoulish faces as the raised their bows anew to meet this fresh threat. But their lack of urgency would be their undoing.

A flash of black and orange, a hideous ripping of flesh as clawed paws staved in skulls, massive fangs rending limb from torso. Like a terrier amidst a pack of rats, the tiger tore into the Clansmen, hurling them about like toys, their lifeblood staining the walls and bars. The once-Marzban unsheathed his scimitar, lunging forwards to attack the beast with cold and clinical lack of fear, but the tiger dashed the puny weapon from his hands, leaping upon him, crushing him to the ground before wrapping its gaping maw about his neck and tearing his head free with a sickening crack and spray of arterial red.

At last, silence; save the steady trickling of the gore that dripped down the walls; and the steady, rasping breath of the mighty, feline predator.

It turned, gazing through the bars with slitted eyes. Alann met its gaze with a nod and the beast slunk away, pacing up the corridor to freedom.

An exasperated cry of disbelief from Narlen.

“What the living fuck…?”

Relieved laughter from the rest of the prisoners; Alann turned, taking in the carnage wrought in the tiny cell. Blood, here and there. Men clutching legs, shoulders. Jorgen, his heavyset frame lying still on the floor, an arrow protruding from his side.

One dead, out of nine. A tragedy, yet also a miracle, of sorts.

Where had the tiger come from?

A fresh noise, now. A padding of feet, from the same direction whence the tiger had come. The group halted their chatter for a moment, tense once more, awaiting the source of the footsteps. Two figures came into view this time; and these were clearly not Clansmen. One of them spoke to the group, his voice trembling, nervous, gazing about in horror at the gore strewn about. The prisoners relaxed, for there was clearly no threat here.