Previous Chapter: The Necromancer
The Pursued Meet Their Pursuers
Cassilda smiled with satisfaction as her firefly burned through the grotesque soldiers, depriving them of limbs, heads, or intact torsos. She knew little of necromancy and had feared that the undead soldiers would require a special solution, some eldritch knowledge that Ambierce had never taught her, but her suspicions were unfounded, for bodies made of flesh and blood still retained mortal weaknesses whether their original owners inhabited them or not. She watched as Josun embedded his spear in the torso of a guard the firefly had missed. The Thief came to his aid and thrust a knife into the creature’s skull, but it still groped awkwardly, flailing about and making terrible noises. Witnessing the results of his companion’s combat and realizing his own inadequacies, Fergal scurried beneath a cart and tried not to draw attention to himself. Crouching beside the same cart, Callimachus pulled out a pistol and shot several rounds into a soldier with no effect. I must do more thought Cassilda, so she let the firefly roam and cast a shield over her companions strong enough to deflect several arrows. Blood began to leak from her nostrils and pain drummed in her head. What did Ambierce say about pain? Some triteness about weakness leaving the body. How she missed his petty advice and pretentious mannerisms. Careful. If you fall too far into the past, you’ll become part of it. He had said that as well, though she wasn’t sure if he was the original author or if he’d read it somewhere. A face suddenly leered at her, its broken jaw dangling from thin strings of flesh. She flicked her hand and emitted just enough force to throw the undead thing into a pile of bricks. Magic had its limits, and she was pushing her own, summoning energy from deep places, the depths that every mage was warned about, the dark vales and wells which bound matter together, what the physicists called the strong force. Dip too far into it and a magician could lose control, unleashing enough energy to level everything in the immediate vicinity. She wiped the blood from her nose and took control of the firefly, steering it towards an archer sniping from a parapet. After he had been deprived of his skull, she released the shield and slumped against the wall, watching with bated breath as her companions fought to dispatch the last few soldiers. After all, what are they good for if they can’t defend a weary witch? Josun and the Thief struggled to hold a squirming undead as Callimachus lit her blow torch and immolated the creature, which was released to wobble off down the street, howling in an unearthly clamor. Fergal appeared and peeled Cassilda off the wall, and they set off after Callimachus, who pointed at the zeppelin hovering low in the sky. What if they turn the trebuchets on us thought the sorceress, but she didn’t deign to ask. The Professor seemed to be a haughty woman, and Cassilda was naturally inclined to disagree with someone of that nature, and the last thing they needed was an argument. Living soldiers now filled the courtyard, but they seemed disinterested in the motley company and instead turned their attentions to a large skirmish raging further down the street, unfortunately right beneath the zeppelin. I’m sure they’ll be polite enough to step aside so that we can board the airship thought the sorceress, grimacing. Her firefly danced along, leaving shimmering green particles in its wake.
“Stop,” said Callimachus, and they all did, including Cassilda, to her surprise.
“We can’t just stand here gawking,” complained the Thief. “The victor will likely turn on us.”
“It’ll be the Capetians,” said Cassilda. “Those are Medjay warriors decapitating those poor Beaune boys. I’m afraid my firefly will be no help against them.”
The witch was correct; the Medjay pushed through as a solid block of scuta, knocking the soldiers to the ground, where they were quickly dispatched with a few downward thrusts of the shield. A voice was heard over the raucous sounds of battle, and a brawny man emerged at the forefront of the phalanx, a zweihander leaning on his shoulder, dripping with blood. His face, broad and ugly, was contorted with rage; he pointed upward at the zeppelin and shook his fist at it, as though his anger could will it down from the sky. Another man, lean and goateed, pointed at ropes tethered to a parapet and began to walk down the road, seeking an entrance to the tower. He stopped when he saw the company, a look of recognition flashing across his evil face. Even though Jekkar Firenze had only seen a spectral image of Cassilda summoned at the end of a séance, he immediately recognized the beautiful sorceress. A buzzing in his sinuses indicated the presence of a powerful magic user, so the assassin barred his arms together and cast a ward to reflect any spell. From his belt he took two throwing knifes and held them in each hand. His sharp movements barely registered, and the knives soared through the air, with only a quick snap of Cassilda’s fingers saving the lives of the Thief and Josun. Both blades landed harmlessly before the feet of the men, prompting a sharp intake of breath from Fergal, who was hiding behind the barbarian’s legs. The assassin smiled a hideous grin, too wide and too full of chipped teeth. He took out his sword and shouted behind him, and soon the whole contingent of Medjay were marching forward.
“Stop!” yelled Callimachus, and she produced a small ribbed device which she held up above her head.
“I am Rhea Callimachus, an agent of the Vaalbarian Social Republic, licensed weapons dealer and friend of Beaune. Here in my hand is a detonator capable of incinerating every person within a four-hundred yard radius. My finger is on the primer, and I am inclined to toss this explosive in the direction of your troop if you do not clear the way and let us ascend to my zeppelin. Any man who seeks to detain myself or my companions shall earn the enmity of the Vaalbaran States, and furthermore risks the degradation of diplomatic relations between their country and my own. I am warning you: stand aside.”
“That’s a nice speech,” said the big man with the zweihander, “but I did not cleave skulls and wade through blood to be restrained by mere words. I am Silas Amaro of the Capetian Secret Service, and that witch and her scarred accomplice have stolen Capetian property, as you well know. Doubtlessly you wish to carry the Heart of Rankar away in your airship to the North, where it will serve your masters’ imperial ambitions. Well, I must have it back, along with the persons of Cassilda and whatever you call the other one. Drop the ruse, Northron. Even if you are willing to throw your bomb, be sure my Medjay possess the reflexes and aim to knock your little present out of the air to fall at your feet. You don’t have to die. Just give us the thieves.”
“No, she doesn’t have to die and neither do you, Amaro!” said Cassilda. “What use is the Heart of Rankar to you? It’s a relic that was hidden in a tomb inaccessible to anyone, the Priesthood and the Duke included! What practical use does it have to the Capetian Secret Service? Would anyone know the difference between the real Heart and a forgery? I swear to you that I’m not in league with Vaalbara or Galvania or any secret cabal conjured up by your imagination! Hell, I’ll even give it back to you when I’m done with it. Let us part ways without any spilled blood, and we’ll arrange a date and time to rendezvous. Here, my knife is in my hand. I will give my blood and make a binding pact promising to return the Heart of Rankar. What do you say?”
“You know, witch, I agree with you about the Heart,” replied Amaro, his blood-stained face forming a smile. “It is useless as far as I can understand. The Cult claims the fate of the world is tied to the damn thing, but I don’t believe in religion, and I think they’re a bunch of prattling morons. But I’m a climber of ladders, woman, and my ambitions are high. There’s plenty of glory to be won in stealing the Heart of Rankar from the clutches of a cabal, one that’s likely to include the High Priest himself! Anyways, this errand has spiraled out of control, and there’s one inevitable conclusion. Do you know that I slew General Merovech simply because I lost my temper? I have not behaved as an agent of the Capetian government should behave! An intelligence officer does not beat down doors when they are closed; he sneaks around and finds someone to open them. Yet I have busted down the gate and more than one-hundred men lie dead in this castle. You’re appealing to me with reason. I want you to know that such arguments are useless, for my choices have been made for me, and I am doomed to play my part. So let us conclude with our discourse. We need to proceed to the final act.”
The Medjay leapt forward, their heavy shields clanking, spears aimed at the company. Callimachus was about to throw her grenade when she found herself being pulled backward by an invisible hand. The explosive flew from her grasp as though hurled by a catapult; the Medjay reacted, thrusting their shields down and huddling behind them as the explosion tore through the air. Josun howled as shrapnel wounded his right arm, but most of the damage afflicted the Medjay, whose ranks were decimated. Body parts fell from the sky like hail; an entire arm landed before Fergal, who howled and ran in terror. The Thief dived behind a pile of bricks and cracked his head. Cassilda stood before the carnage, a defiant smile on her face, hands glowing with emerald fire. She watched as Silas Amaro pushed himself up from the earth, shaking his head. Blood poured from his ears—his eardrums had been ruptured by the blast—but he was otherwise unharmed. The zweihander lay in between the sorceress and himself.
“Can you hear me, you fool?” taunted the sorceress. “What good is the magical resistance of your mutants now? I see a few staggering in the background with lame limbs and missing eyes. Let them come: I will kill them with shards of wood or bits of rubble. Josun, my knight, come here and release this scoundrel from his misery, for I cannot be bothered to, for he is a nuisance.”
Josun staggered forth, his lame arm dangling uselessly at his side, and picked up the sword.
“I cannot slay him lying there unarmed,” he said, turning the sword over in his hand. He looked at Cassilda and then back at Amaro, who shook his head like a dog.
“You cannot?” she asked, nearly whispering the words.
“I will not,” he said, before throwing the sword to Amaro. He bent down and picked up a broken spear, and thus armed, stared back at his opponent.
“Come die a warrior’s death and perhaps someone will remember your name.”
Amaro charged, the zweihander raised with both hands. Josun deftly moved aside, tossing out his foot as he did so, and Silas sprawled forward on top of his sword. The spy master howled but quickly stood up, his face dripping with blood. Behind him, a Medjay warrior approached, dragging his broken leg. Cassilda knocked him down with a stone, but like Amaro, he returned to his feet. She was just about to launch another stone when a knife whistled through the air, slicing the top of her left ear, and Firenze was upon her, his fist connecting with her skull.
“Cur!” yelled Josun, turning his attention to the assassin. Amaro made his move, swinging downward with the big sword; its tip tore through the front of the barbarian’s shirt, leaving a red slash, but the barbarian spun away and countered with his spear, embedding it in the spy master’s throat. Amaro’s eyes widened; he looked upward in amazement, gasped, and fell over, blood gushing from his neck.
“You have drawn the blood of a warrior, and so I have granted you a good death,” Josun said, before turning to Firenze. “You, coward, shall not have the same privilege.”
“I don’t need it,” he said. He had his arm around Cassilda, with a knife at her throat. “Step away, or the witch bleeds. Where’s that fucking wizard at? Dazbog! Come out of whatever hole you’re hiding in.”
“So it was Dazbog who raised the dead and begun this gruesome slaughter,” said Cassilda. “That explains much. He bewitched your boss and has likely been playing your whole troop like marionettes. Who is going to pay you? The necromancer? Certainly not Amaro, who lies dead on the ground.”
“You are going to pay in Capetia after the Inquisitors have nailed your body to the Tree of Misfortune, harlot. What good will your magic be then? Medjay, come forth, and take this sorceress by her hands. We’ll drag her back ourselves, without Amaro or the necromancer.”
Two of the Medjay stumbled forward on broken knees. Josun picked up Amaro’s sword with one hand, his face contorted with pain. Callimachus stood with an empty pistol pointed at the Medjay, who ignored her.
“You,” said Firenze, pointing at Callimachus, “will take us on that zeppelin to Capetia where the Duke’s gold awaits. There’s no reason for you to have any loyalty to these thieving scum. A ragtag bunch of losers destined for the gallows! I recognize the type, having kept company with such folk. You’re smart, aren’t you, woman? Along with myself, you could be a hero. This woman has the heart of a god on her, does she not?”
Firenze stuck his hand down Cassilda’s shirt while digging the knife into her neck. Josun swung the zweihander at the closest Medjay, who dodged and then used a gauntlet to grab hold of the blade. With superhuman strength, the mutant tore the sword out of the barbarian’s grasp and then plunged the blade into his guts.
“There goes your champion, witch!” spat Firenze. He had slipped a pair of adamant cuffs on Cassilda, and he pushed her towards the other Medjay. She tried to run, but the long arm of the mutant reached out and pulled her close.
“A life for a life. Amaro was a bastard, but he always gave me good work. Come now, let’s go to the zeppelin. Call it down for us, Northron. If I know anything, I know it isn’t wise to linger around a massacre.”
A rock bounced off Firenze’s skull, causing him to stagger. A second stone busted the assassin’s lip. The third hit his right eye, breaking the skin beneath it. The dazed and bleeding mercenary peeked behind raised hands and saw a defiant, incensed Fergal.
“Killer! Mangler of men! Louse! Ratfink!” he babbled. Firenze flicked something at him, and suddenly his speech slowed, along with his movements, until he stopped talking and fell over, immobilized.
“Nice spell, eh witch? You’re not the only conjurer. Let me step over here and put a knife in that little freak’s back, and we’ll be on our merry way.”
Lightning cracked the sky, splintering the heavens. A cold wind blew through the courtyard, rustling the lying figures of the dead. Bloody hands reached out and seized the ankles of Firenze and the Medjay, pulling them to the ground. The mutants stabbed with their spears, but eventually the hands of the dead seized their throats and wrung the twisted life from their bodies. Cassilda tore herself free from the grasp of the assassin and watched dispassionately as he was strangled. She looked back towards the castle walls and saw the silhouette of a figure standing atop a tower, its arms outstretched as though it were asking the heavens for aid. The wind’s velocity increased and nearly blew her to the ground. Fergal and Callimachus rushed to her, and together they made their way to the zeppelin. The Thief was already waiting beneath the airship, clutching his bleeding head and making small moaning noises.
“Where’s Josun?” he asked.
They pointed towards the bodies strewn about the courtyard, and the Thief moaned again, blood dripping from his brow.
“He was a knight, a defender of women and…”
“He was an aimless mercenary, and now he’s dead,” interrupted the Thief. “I’m sorry for it, but platitudes won’t bring him back. When I die, don’t whisper such things about me.”
“Should we leave him there, with the rest of them in the courtyard?” asked Fergal.
“I have no place to keep a corpse,” said Callimachus. “I’m sorry, but we cannot take him aboard my vessel.”
“I suggest we leave now. There’s an army amassing at the gates.”
Rheineland troop were battering at the portcullis. Cassilda looked at the zeppelin tied to a parapet and stretch out her fingers. The massive ship moved towards them, drawn by the sorceress’s powers of telekinesis. The climbed aboard just as the portcullis gave way to the force of a battering ram, and the zeppelin was already high in the sky when soldiers streamed through the courtyard.
A strong wind battered the airship, pushing it further east. Her companions sat on the floor, demoralized and staring blankly at the rushing onset of a storm. The Thief twitched and moaned, yet no one moved towards him to offer aid. I must do something thought Cassilda. They won’t hold out much longer. With an immense effort of will, she tore herself away from the window and went to the Thief. Extending a hand, she touched his bloody cranium and whispered a spell to settle his mind and ease the symptoms of a concussion.
“He’ll sleep now,” she said, though no one paid her any heed. “You two should do the same.”
“But where are we going?” said Fergal, looking at her with his huge empty eyes.
“I was planning on heading back to the Mitte Academy, but this storm us pushing us south, and we’ll have to cooperate until it dies down,” said Callimachus.
“That might take some time,” Cassilda said, facetiously. The storm that had appeared was not natural, and she knew that Dazbog must have summoned it to push them towards Archaea, the Shimmering Isles, the Land of the Dead.
With a simple gesture, she put Fergal to sleep. Callimachus would be needed to pilot the vessel, so the sorceress planted the seeds of cooperation in her mind. She felt guilty performing such manipulative magics as she had never felt before, and she dwelt on that guilt for a while, letting it soak her anger and strengthen her resolve. Josun had died, but there was no turning back, despite the dangers. And so, after a thorough rearrangement of her conscience, Cassilda let herself rest.
Next Chapter: The Shimmering Isles
No comments:
Post a Comment