Journey into the Void (24 page)

Preparing to face them, Tasgall saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced back out to see a taan, with arrows sticking out of her back, stagger to her feet and run off. Tasgall started to shout a command to bring her down, then kept silent. He did not have the stomach to shoot a fleeing enemy in the back. Let her go. What harm could one do, after all? He turned back to the battle.

Young, unblooded warriors, who had been relegated to the rear while their elders and betters invaded the city first, heard the cries and came rushing back. The young warriors, accompanied by taskers, attacked the barricades that had been piled up around the stairs. In minutes, the taan tore apart what it had taken the Vinnengaeleans hours to erect. The barricades fell. The taan stormed up the stairs, shrieking and wielding strange and fearsome-looking weapons: spears with three sharp
heads; enormous curved-bladed swords; a V-shaped weapon formed of two blades, each sharp enough to cut off a man's arm. The archers had no need to aim. They were sure to hit something by simply firing into the mob.

Unlike the elder warriors, the young taan fighters wore almost no armor. Arrows thudded into their bare hides, but had little effect. Sometimes the young warriors would halt and yank them out and toss them away in irritation, but more often, they would simply leave them and carry on, too caught up in their battle lust even to notice.

Tasgall's magic and that of his fellow battle magi proved more effective. Balls of flame exploded among the taan on the stairs. The fiery blast killed several immediately, and many more were set ablaze when the flaming corpses fell among the crowd of taan below.

The fiery deaths of their comrades did not stop the taan. They surged up the stairs again, kicking aside the still-blazing bodies of their comrades, climbing over them, or stepping on them in order to reach the enemy above. Those who reached the top crashed into the knights and soldiers waiting to halt the advance. Knights and soldiers who had never seen anything like this.

Overwhelmed by the strength and savage ferocity of the taan, the defenders began to fall back. Tasgall dared not use his magic, for fear of hitting his own men. He and Dagnarus exchanged glances and simultaneously drew their swords and ran forward to halt the retreat.

Tasgall was an adequate swordsman, not a great one. He wielded a two-handed broadsword and depended on the sheer force of his blows to kill. Dagnarus was a superb swordsman. He set upon the taan with such skill that few came close to touching him. He had obviously fought them before. He was familiar with their methods and their strange-looking weapons.

Tasgall was curious to see how the taan would react to their “god” attacking them, and was surprised to see that none apparently recognized Dagnarus. Tasgall would have liked to watch Dagnarus's sword work, but he was battling for his life.

Having discounted the taan as unskilled savages, he was now being forced to reconsider that idea. Their weapons looked strange and outlandish, but they were incredibly lethal, and the taan wielded them with skill. One taan came at him, twirling a multibladed sword in both hands,
the blades moving so fast that they blurred in Tasgall's vision. The taan defended with one weapon, attacked with the other. The sharp steel sliced through the metal-studded glove Tasgall wore, cutting open the back of his hand. The other blade trapped his sword, halting its deadly downward stroke.

The taan's snarling face thrust close to Tasgall's. He could smell the foul stench of the creature, look straight into the small eyes glaring with rage. The taan was tall and barrel-chested and seemed made of nothing but muscle and sinew and bone covered by a hairy hide tougher than leather armor. The taan was not above using his feet as weapons. He kicked at Tasgall, trying to knock him off-balance, all the while slashing at him with his deadly blades.

The two shoved and heaved and grappled, neither making any headway, then suddenly the taan gave a grunt and arched backward, falling away so suddenly that Tasgall was overset and almost tumbled off the battlements. The taan slumped at his feet, dead, the blade of a sword protruding from his belly. Dagnarus caught hold of Tasgall, steadied him, and pointed below.

The taan had gained the stairs leading to the battlements and more were coming up every moment. Another fiery blast from one of his battle magi cleared the bottom of the stairs, but only momentarily. More taan ran to take the place of those who were being roasted alive.

“Look out for the shamans!” Dagnarus shouted to Tasgall. “Void magic-users!”

Tasgall looked down among the taan to see several taan shamans, some almost naked, others wrapped in robes that looked like winding sheets, pointing up at him. He was forced to shift from the use of steel to the use of magic, which meant that he had to clear his brain of the blood-dimmed rage that comes with hand-to-hand combat and find within himself the clear, cold logic required for the casting of magic. He was trained to refocus his thoughts, but even so, he needed a few moments to concentrate and bring the words of the spell to mind.

Four black darts erupted from the chest of one of the shamans. The darts soared upward, trailing hideous black ooze behind them. The darts moved with incredible speed. Tasgall only had time to realize that one was aimed at him before it struck his cuirass.

Tasgall's armor was enchanted to repel magical attacks and it dissipated
the Void magic. The dart burst harmlessly on his cuirass. The man beside Tasgall was not so fortunate.

The dart struck the knight in the center of the forehead, slammed through his metal helm. His skull exploded, splattering those around him with blood and gore.

Tasgall was too far from the brazier to be able to use Fire magic. He had with him several vials of blessed earth. Drawing out one of these, he hurled it to the stone floor, stamped his foot upon the stone, and spoke the words of the spell.

The ground beneath the taan shamans began to quake and buckle. The jolt threw them off their feet. Tasgall took a spear from the hand of the dead knight and hurled it with all his force at one of the shaman, who was struggling to regain his feet. The spear impaled the taan. The body twitched for a few moments, then went limp. Tasgall shouted commands, ordered archers and spearmen to turn their fire on the shamans. Within moments, all of them were dead.

Wiping blood and brains off his face, Tasgall looked about hastily. Dagnarus was leading a charge that was sweeping the taan off the stairs. Most of the taan warriors were dead or dying. The taskers milled about, uncertain and disorganized. The archers fired at them, like shooting ducks in a barrel. The battle magi flung spells at them. Now it was just a matter of slaughter.

When Dagnarus returned, grinning and unscathed, he asked gaily, “How goes the rest of the battle? What are you hearing from your magi in the field?”

“Very little now, my lord,” Tasgall replied. His magi had fallen silent, and he was worried. “Of course, they should conserve their strength for fighting, not waste it talking to me. But the reports indicated that the fighting in the city was fierce.”

“The taan have a saying,” said Dagnarus, sobering. “‘Derrhuth are in love with life. The taan are in love with death.'”

“Which means?” Tasgall asked.

“That those who fear death will always be at a disadvantage,” Dagnarus replied.

“Maybe, my lord,” said Tasgall. “Or maybe not. For those of us who fear death will fight to survive.”

That day, the Vinnengaeleans fought to survive.

The taan knew now that they had run headlong into an ambush. Enraged, the taan meant to kill as many humans as they could before they died.

The Vinnengaelean soldiers were completely taken aback by the ferocity of the taan warriors, who fought with a raging joy that came near to demoralizing their opponents.

Dagnarus had tried to warn the Vinnengaeleans, tried to prepare them for what they would face. It is doubtful if they could have ever been prepared for the sight of taan warriors, their bodies smeared with blood, slavering and raving, smashing bodily through lead-paned glass windows and charging headlong into a barrage of arrows.

Elite taan warriors wore armor, much of it taken from derrhuth they had slain. They disdained wounds; most would fight on even after losing a limb. They used magic to shield themselves from weapons of steel or sorcery, emerging unscathed from the firestorms of the battle magi. Outnumbered, trapped, the taan hit their enemy with such shocking force that for a moment it seemed the taan might yet win the day.

 

Although trained as a battle magus, Rigiswald was too old and out of practice to participate in the fighting. He had instead volunteered to use his magic skills in healing the wounded. At dawn, he walked over to the hospital along with a cadre of other magi who had forgone their own various areas of specialization to take up healing magic.

Rigiswald walked side by side with magi skilled in engineering or architecture, stonemasons (who used their magic to shape, lift, and lay building blocks), Portal-seekers, librarians, members of the Order of Inquisitors, alchemists, cooks, and tutors. Most carried spellbooks, some magi actually reading as they walked, trying hastily to bone up on magic they had not used since they were novitiates. Even young magi had been pressed into service, for they could at least cast simple cantrips designed to treat minor wounds and ease pain.

Rigiswald had just entered the Houses of Healing—a sprawling building reminiscent of elven design, surrounded by green lawns and trees and blooming shrubs, with many areas that could be opened to fresh air and sunlight—when he heard and felt the boom of the falling gate. He and everyone else turned to look out the windows in the direction of the north part
of the city, where the battle would take place. The Houses of Healing were located on a natural rise, and although their view was blocked by tall buildings, the magi could catch glimpses now and then of small figures (battle magi, perhaps, or men-at-arms) prowling about atop the buildings.

The howls of the taan—inhuman and ghastly—pierced the still morning air. Rigiswald's stomach clenched, and he was not a man easily disturbed. Faces around him went pale. People exchanged grim glances. The Hospitalers put their volunteers immediately to work, had them moving beds, rolling bandages, helping prepare and bottle poultices and salves, ointments and potions, or comforting frightened patients.

The howls and shrieks grew louder. Rigiswald, who was scooping ointment into stone jars, had managed to position himself near a floor-to-ceiling glass pane that faced in the direction of the battle. He saw a sheet of blue-white flame rise into the air, a wall of fire that would incinerate anything in its path. The screams of taan being burned alive were horrible to hear. At the dreadful sound, a young novice sitting next to Rigiswald gave such a violent start that she dropped the vial she was filling, sent it crashing to the floor.

Rigiswald said what comforting words he could, which weren't many, advised her to drink some water, take deep breaths, and move away from the windows. A second glance outside showed a huge column of black smoke spiraling into the air. Those in the hospital continued their duties in silence. Then the wounded began to come.

The first casualties were those who could walk under their own power. They came singly, or in groups of two or three, helping each other. They had been sent on by healers present at the site of the battle, who were dealing with more critical wounds.

“They need more litter bearers up there,” were the first words out of the mouth of one soldier, gesturing wearily with his head toward the front lines.

The strongest magi went off with litters. Healers descended on the wounded, giving them shoulders to lean on and helping them into the hospital. One woman slumped to the ground, unable to go farther. Recognizing by her armor and her tabard that she was a battle magus, Rigiswald went to see to her himself, for he was familiar with the types of wounds these magi tended to receive.

Several young novices hung around her, clearly uncertain what to do, for she was clad in armor and they had no idea how to unfasten it. Rigiswald ordered one to remain with him, in case he needed help, and sent the others off to help someone else.

The young man ran over to inspect what appeared to be a stream of dark water running down the broad highway known popularly as “Fine Day Way,” for on fine, sunny days, the populace would turn out to walk the road, greet friends and family, show off new finery and hear the latest gossip.

The stream running down Fine Day Way was gradually widening to a steady flow. The young man bent down to stare at it. He gasped, backed away, his face livid. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he staggered off into some bushes.

The dark stream was not water, but blood.

Rigiswald shook his head and bent over the battle magus, who was regaining consciousness.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked crisply.

Her limbs were sound. She had taken no blow to the head. She was covered with blood, but it might not be her own. Her pulse was weak, but strengthening. She had no fever. He thought he knew what was wrong, but he wanted to make certain.