Turn 39
"Who goes there?"
"Ah, relax Fred, it's me."
"Sorry, this blasted fog makes me nervous. Can't see a thing."
"I know, I'll be damn glad when the morning watch comes on."
"I'll be doubly glad. This is my last night on freeze-your-nose-off duty. Wait, what was that?"
"What?"
"Ah, nothing. I just thought I saw a shadow move."
"Heh. Good old Fred, getting jumpy from watching shadows. Hey, that's funny, 'watching shadows', cause we're at the Shadow Watch and we're the night watch, and night is like shadow. Funny, eh? Fred? Where did you go? Fred! Quit fooling around you idiot, it's..."
Glitch
Foen
The undead are worst during the day. During the night they are shadows, nightmares, things that go bump; during the day they are all too real -- translucent abominations flickering under the sun and blighting green grass with their otherworldly tread.
And so we snuck through the Bright Woods in the Shadow Watch at night. Brother Guide protested a little, but he's been relying on our protection for this past year as we preached and fought in the empty shadow lands, and he's learned to respect the opinions of druids (reformed branch, of course-- Brother Guide is a loyal member of the Church). We helped him past the tangle of thorns and thickets that makes this wood an impenetrable barrier to living foes, and he handily dispatched the few sentry shades and spirits we came across.
We came to the edge of the woods across from the southern bridge into the Shadow Watch. All seemed quiet, but we were not deceived. The bridge was held inside by the Archbishop of Marignon himself, but not even he could safely overcome the hordes of undead that lurked on this side of the bridge. Every building in the druid encampment where I had spent years training waited to boil over with foul spawn at the first sight of a living being. But not even undead eyes can see a druidic woodsman under the trees.
I took up my bow to give the signal, and paused. A shuffling creature had emerged from one of the houses and in the moonlight I saw the ruined half-face of Ashaltar, the druid priest who had been instructing me in the priesthood long ago, before death had crept into the woods, before we had allied with the inquisition as the only force strong enough to save our woods from blight, before the inquisition had barred women druids from the priesthood. This was Ashaltar, dear friend, now an abomination, spreading disease with each step. My bow twanged as I sent an arrow speeding to send his soul to rest. I cannot miss, but the creature is no longer troubled by a piece of wood through its heart.
The buildings boil over with stark black and ghostly white shapes, and the silence is broken:
"Legionnaires, on the left!"
"Get back into the woods, stay our of the reach of the zombies!"
"Oh LORD, in the name of St. Lynad we beseech your aid in the hour of our death!"
Arrows fly around me, but pass uselessly through the dead things which are closing fast. If Marignon doesn't see the trouble we're in... but he does. With a loud clap the arrow in my bow glows with a holy fire and now as the shafts take flight and strike into the mass of spirits, the foulness melts and disappears.
It is not enough. We can't fire fast enough to catch all of them and they swarm, relentlessly from every side. A soulless reach me, and my bow drops as I grab my dagger, slicing its putrid wrist, then its elbow, then shoulder. Bizarrely I think of butchering a fresh deer under dappled leaf-light in the summer...
The blast wave knocks me down before I see or hear it. Then my hair is on fire and my cloak. A figure, Marignon, stands on the bridge, wreathed in flame. Another flare lights the night, and this one thuds into a nearby building, which erupts like a hornet's nest as ghosts and shades boil out and melt back into hell.
"Foen!"
Relieved that my hearing still works, I turn to see where Guide points. It is Ash... no, the abomination, almost upon me. My bow lies on the ground, and I manage to get a flaming arrow into the thing's eye socket before it can touch me with its deadly diseased finger.
"Sleep, friend," I whisper, as my dead mentor burns to death standing upright.
The battle for the Shadow Watch has just begun.
Marignon moves and speaks quickly for so fast a man, "Father Muzel and Spire hold the northern bridge, but cannot get out. Meanwhile, Shenlar, captain of the Tower Guard, holds out against all odds among he buildings near where the waters of the River Hvarl flow under the Shrine of St. Torgin and, sanctified, forms the moat of the Shadow Watch. We must relieve him. Guide, you have the lance?"
"Yes my lord," and that bastard pulls out a herald lance from somewhere in his dark cloak. That might have come in handy any number of times during our long months in the Shadow Lands.
"Let's move then," says Marignon.
We set out, leaving the wounded to guard the southern bridge, and march north over fallow fields with no sight of life. To the west, the sky lights up with fire, and shouts ring out. The undead must be attacking the north gate. We double our pace.
There is no cover, but the undead are too intent on their task (building a bridge over the sacred creek out of dead townsfolk) to notice us. The Archbishop mutters and our arrows flame again. The dead can't help but notice this. Even an indirect hit on one of the corporeal buggers knocks it into the sacred water where it dissolves like a bad dream. But most of them aren't corporeal, and our quivers are nearly empty before the last spectral legionnaire fades in holy fire, his horrible grin fading, as his ghostly limbs suddenly find themselves unable to support his nothing-shield of fear, or wield his invisible sword of hate.
Guide walks unconcerned into the water I had just seen melt bone. Holding aloft the herald lance, he runs into the burnt-out ruins on the other side. We watch for a moment, then hear mighty cries. Over and over the night opens up and sunlight pours down, setting fires among the undead on the other side.
But Marignon's face shows no joy, only deep weariness. "Hopevoid is over there," he says. "I can hear his death cackle."
"Who is that?" I ask.
"One of the most powerful of the old Spectators of Ermor, brought back to serve death. He's cunning. Perhaps Spire and the guard can drive him back, but he'll have a plan. Is there any other way across the river?"
"There's a place where it's possible to ford the Hvarl just by that bend to the east," I say. "But, from the north? Don't we hold Wacce?"
"Not anymore. A large undead force has been ravaging T'ien Ch'i's south-lands and took Wacce last month. That's where Hopevoid's reserves will be."
We ran east until we found the ford. Peering out over the swiftly moving water, my eyes were just able to discern movement on the other bank.
"There, my lord."
"Well spotted, Foen," said the archbishop. "When this is over, I'll appoint you as chief priestess over the druids here are the Watch -- scriptures against women priests be damned. I'm afraid the former chief priest, Ash-something, didn't survive the first days of the siege."
I don't know what to say, so I pull an arrow from my quiver. "More fire?"
"Alas, I am too tired for that spell again. Let's sneak across and engage them on the far side."
I would protest, but he's the head of the Church. And his plan would have been a good one if he hadn't slipped off the narrow shallow path and made a huge splash. Skeletons jumped into the water from the far bank, and the rest of the night is some nightmare combination of mud wrestling with walking bones and exchanging arrows with the treacherous crossbow on the far side who must have made some sort of pact with the undead for their service. Have they never heard of the Fall of Ermor? Surely, not even St. Reggie, who watches over mercenaries, will be able to save their mortal souls.
At last, bloodied, out of arrows, and with many of our companions floating dead in the river, we gain the far bank. The human leader of the crossbows, Qos Qon, still barely lives, an arrow through each shoulder pinning him to a tree. Marignon quickly says the man's last rite and then sets the tree on fire, burning away the man's sin.
Dawn is breaking now, and with my eagle eyes I can see the dark shape that is Hopevoid in the midst of a throng of undead marching hard for the main bridge across the Hvarl. But clear trumpets ring out, and the Tower Guard is marching forth to meet them in perfect step. A herald lance, no two, are held aloft, and the head strides an unarmed, barefoot man in the black robes a a high inquisitor. The undead will be crushed between our two forces. Marignon lets fly with a fireball, and I think, as the sun rises behind us, I can see a glimmer of hope in the spectator's hollow eyes -- he is about to be freed from long, silent slavery.
Esclave
I placed the purple crystal in the kindling and turned to the stack of parchment one last time. St. Wordscigam's Compendium is a useful reference for creating magick items, but its instructions for the most powerful ones are often frustratingly obtuse. It had taken me the better part of three months and several re-buildings of the lab to decipher the ingredients and procedure for the communion matrix. I had remembered to expose this batch of crushed feldspar to moonlight, right? Ah well. I pulled out my huge pitted lead shield and crouched behind it. Then, with a flick of my wrist, set the kindling ablaze.
I winced, but no explosion shattered the early morning quiet... yet anyway, the fire was supposed to burn until the crystal changed color, and I planned to stay here behind my shield for the whole time. I heard the door creak open.
"Escalve, are you there?" said Wic.
"Wic, get out, quickly -- the fire!" I shouted.
"Oh yes?" Wic sounded mildly interested. He crossed over to the flame and peered down at the crystal. "Is this a slave matrix?"
"No, it's a crystal matrix. You know, for the leader of the communion," I said, still from my safe hiding place.
"Hmmm... aren't those the ones with a propensity to shatter during production?"
"Yes. Yes they are!" I sighed. One day, Wic's blatant disregard for his own safety would get a good number of people killed.
"Well, looks like it worked this time, it's changed color -- though how you expected to see that from all the way over there I'm sure I don't know. C'mon, put your things away and come with me. Ratty wants to have a meeting."
We walked through the chill spring air around the wall of Fort Doom to the central keep. Stormclouds hung off the Mountains of Madness and wreathed Aftial's shrine in an eerie light. When we reached Muszinger's office we saw that Polgrave was already there. He looked extremely ill. Always pale, his skin was now translucent, and he had lost much of his hair.
"Brothers, be seated," and we took our place at the table. Spread out upon it was a large version of the map I had just completed, showing the extent of the kingdom and the threats we faced on all sides.
"My... research assistants at the... Shadow Watch... report that Marignon... crushed the undead army... and marches on... Ermor now," said Polgrave, pausing for a breath after every few words.
"They ignored the truce of Carrofactum all along the western front. The Archbishop of Marignon lacks all respect for tradition," said Muszinger. "But I am most concerned about what happens if Ermor falls. There is a vast store of evil and evil things there. Our erstwhile brothers could easily be corrupted."
"Might Aftial be corrupted?" asked Wic, innocently.
"No," said Muszinger, "but she is delayed in the east on important other affairs anyway."
I laughed, and every eye turned to me. "Aftial remains far from the fight because the evil of the Shadow Lands make her weak. Once the force of death is reduced she'll be there to take possession of the soulgate in person."
"How do you know this, Esclave?" said Muszinger.
"I read. I pay attention. Since her return, Aftial has focused on Ermor with a single-minded zeal. She wants control of Ermor, it's the only thing of value in the Shadow Lands, everything else is waste. Besides, it's prophesied."
"Really? I thought there were no prophecies concerning her," said Wic.
"None about Aftial, but Aftiel..."
"We've heard this heresy before, Esclave," said Muszinger.
"But you do not listen! You're a fool, Father," I said, angry now. "Aftial is the doom of Marignon, and she has abandoned you in favor of more malleable fools."
"I could have your head, you little..."
"Do you know what I found in my travels? The grave of a woman named Ghost, she whom Aftial had sworn to protect. Her body was desecrated by foul death magicks and her soul surely rots in hell." It had felt good to get that out, but Muszinger would surely kill me now.
Muszinger rose, but Wic did too, and reached out a hand, palm up. "Friends, friends," he said, "we must stick together of we'll all be destroyed."
"Wic... is right," managed Polgrave.
I drew an uneasy breath as the fire in Muszinger's eyes faded. Wic turned over his out-stretched finger, tracing a near little circle around the north end of the Black Gorge.
"I've heard bad things about this place, Imictan. Massive armies of undead under Vanheim's control, and Vethru himself, who I now believe to be undead also. We should attack this place and cleanse it."
"But we are beset on all sides by foes," said Muszinger. "If I had three armies I'd send one against those egg-sucking snakes, and another against Man. St. Onbec reports from the fall of Pythium that Man used a swarm of undead to murder the angel Martu, whom God had sent to protect the secrets contained therein. Yes, I'd send my third army against those tricky Vans, but surely they pose the least threat?"
"Yes... which is why... it makes sense," said Polgrave.
"A famous T'ien Ch'i philosopher once said, 'Pit your strength against your enemy's weakness,'" I said.
"We are hardly prepared to fight Man or C'tis just yet," said Wic, "and we must keep Sir Gawain and his knights busy or they'll start pillaging again."
"Very well, since you are all in agreement... I must stay here to preach and pray. Wic, you're in charge of the attack, and take Esclave out of my sight with you."
But I am not going to fight the Vans. Last night I had a dream. I saw my love, Aftial, as she had appeared to me in the library: soft, and surrounded by light. My breath caught as I gazed into her eyes, and I heard her voice in my head.
"Esclave, why do you say such awful things about me?"
"Because they are true," I replied.
"My love, I have only your best interests at heart."
"I cannot believe that. You crave only power. Now begone from my dreams, you are not welcome here."
"Very well," she replied and her visage changed from young woman to otherworldly thing with two great wings and a bright flaming sword. "If you will no love me, you will fear me; you will still be my slave!"
From behind her robes, she brought forth a young boy, and held him by his had, as he gazed blissfully up at her.
"My son!" I cried.
"Yes. Flesh of your flesh," and so saying she grabbed his hand and pulled forth his little finger. The boy cried as the rough treatment, and his eyes went wide with fear, but no sound escaped his lips. "I hold you life in my hands," she said, "and you will learn the price of disobedience." She swung her sword across her body, and, laughing, sliced off the boy's finger.
I awoke in the darkness, clutching my bloody, mangled hand, with that horrible angelic laughter still ringing in my ears. And so I go north, alone. I cannot risk further harm to the child, I must save him. But I cannot fight angels... not yet.
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