Venn inclined his head to the man just as a sudden stink of decay filled the cavern. Isak’s stomach lurched again and he dry-retched as the stench betrayed a presence he recognised only too well. A gust of wind rushed up from nowhere, sliding greasy fingers across his brow, and as Isak recoiled at the touch, a cold cruel voice whispered, ‘ Now I see you bound and kneeling, a slave as you tried to make me, white-eye.’
Her presence momentarily surrounded him, but before Isak could attempt to respond the Wither Queen was dragged away again. He shuddered as the stink of plague washed over him in her wake, but he forced his head up to see the Aspect of Death manifest at Venn’s side. In the magic-suffused air Isak could sense enough to see he was not the only one shackled by Ruhen’s disciples: the power Venn held contained her just as effectively — and without it she would be almost as stricken as he was.
‘My Queen,’ Venn said, the echoing voice not quite his own, ‘you will haunt these tunnels too, distract any who follow us, lead them astray as you play your games.’
The Wither Queen’s dead eyes flashed with hatred. ‘I will do as you command,’ she croaked in the rasping voice Isak remembered only too well from his own dealings with her.
At a tug on his leash Isak forced himself on again as Ruhen started off down a tunnel set just behind a stalagmite. Venn turned to follow without a further word, secure in his hold over the Goddess, and an escort of Harlequins padded along behind.
Through the rock and dirt underfoot Isak thought he felt some distant shudder — the roar of daemons, or the heave of great beasts fighting. Again he tested the silver chain, but with magic running through it, its strength far exceeded his own. His thoughts on the friends no doubt fighting and dying on the surface, Isak stumbled on as slowly as he dared through the dark towards his enemy’s final victory.
‘ Now. ’
The command went out as the sky filled with noise. Vesna heard no response, he just had to hope Nai and the other mages had heard him as the Farlan heavy cavalry charged. Behind, ahead, left and right: the voices rang out with hatred and fury, the soldiers screaming down their fear as the shuddering impact neared.
He didn’t look; there was no time, and the God in him already knew. With near-perfect timing the centre hit their enemy positions almost as one, the Menin and Ghosts making up ground with a mad, reckless burst of speed, the left flank not far behind.
The Devoted infantry stood behind a shield-wall at the foot of the hill. The irregular slope and narrow front meant their packed thousands could not all fit, so the first line of defence was set at its base. Arrows hammered down from the slopes, regiments of archers perched on every precarious ledge on the rocky hill, while more legions of spearmen waited in a second line on the slope.
Behind him, Vesna sensed a powerful pulse of magic break like a storm-cloud over the charging cavalry. A shockwave raced through the ground, causing his own hunter to check its stride mid-charge, but the magic flashed forward ahead of them in a heartbeat. Without looking back, he knew Legana’s Crystal Skull was blazing with power, the magic gathering up stones and dirt around the defensive trench dug by the Devoted. In his mind Vesna heard her scream with pain at the power she wielded, but ahead the loose ground jolted and writhed before rising up across a hundred yards of ground.
The line rushed up to meet them in those final yards, and Vesna tightened his grip on his sword and roared. His horse leaped in that final moment, and the whole leading line followed suit, the horses’ minds soothed by magic to be unafraid of the solid wall ahead of them. His head down, Vesna felt the impact on the beast’s barding, bodies and shields smashing against it, a spear punching into its belly and snapping under its momentum. All around him the tidal wave of cavalry smashed forward, crushing the ranks of Devoted infantry in an explosive impact.
The black, bitter taste of incarnating daemons blossomed in his mind and he tasted their unholy scent away on the right flank. He bellowed with renewed strength, colours and flashes of light dancing before his eyes, the Land moving too fast even for his God-blessed vision. Impacts rocked him one way then the other and his horse writhed and screamed beneath him as the stink of blood and bowels filled the air and added to the chaos and clamour.
His feet slipped from his stirrups and he threw himself forward, not waiting for his horse to fall. The golden lion helm blazed with unnatural light as Vesna unleashed his Skull’s power and before his feet touched the ground, one Devoted was dead on his sword. Vesna charged on with terrifying speed, driving his shield at a standard bearer, and as the man’s helm crumpled under the impact, his sword sheared through the shield and breastplate of another, spraying blood high into the air. He moved on through the reeling ranks, chopping and battering so fast they could do nothing but watch their deaths come.
All around him Vesna sensed his brothers driving forward, killing and bludgeoning, falling from dying horses or impaled upon the spears of their victims. Many of the first charge had died, and Vesna sensed their deaths with sudden intensity as the God of War honoured their falling, but their loss had been accompanied by hundreds of the Devoted, rank after rank killed in one swift burst; three legions broken so quickly many of their number did not yet even know it.
Behind came more mounted Ghosts, driving into the last remaining space with slaughter on their minds. Vesna felt the blood spatter and gush over his black armour while the roar all around only got louder.
Larim, Lord of the Hidden Tower, looked around in confusion. The charge had been astonishing, driven by a desperation he could not understand. They had advanced under a hail of arrows, tramping forward while they died in their hundreds, but never wavering. When the charge had come a white corona had surrounded Larim and the mage gloried in his new power, while waiting for a magical assault.
On his right, black shadows blossomed, daemons raging out across the weakened boundaries and leaping for the first line of the defenders. Larim sent a dozen golden arrows to answer them, each shining dart the length of a man, but he gave no order; it was a feint, he knew it. Within the Menin ranks, men were ripped apart, golden light enveloping their bodies and charring their flesh before they even fell to the ground, but Larim held back the full force now at his command.
The daemons had been only half-summoned into the daylight; they were easily driven off. Larim laughed, realising it was that fool Nai who’d dragged them forward. Even without the Skull he was a far more powerful mage, his necromancy far more refined than that shoeless worm’s.
There.
Larim found his gaze dragged right, where the attackers had yet to close on the rise. Thirty yards left to go, and deadly rain was hammering through shields and armour, when a burst of magic rippled the ground between them. From nowhere dark figures appeared; tall, ragged barbarians rushed forward, outstripping their allies in the last yards of the charge. Magic flashed out from the ranks, cutting forward into the defenders with red and white light, and fire erupted around one legion standard just as the unnatural barbarians reached the Devoted spear- points.
At last he unleashed the power of his Skull; churning the earth across the defending ranks as he threw wave after wave of golden arrows at the Legion of the Damned. In his mind he shouted up to Vorizh, circling up above, never slowing his assault, even as the air screamed around him under the force of bucking energies. Man and undead alike were torn apart, the nearer flank shattered by his furious assault, even before the dark shapes of the crimson wyverns dropped down from the heavy clouds above. A larger one followed — Ruhen’s grey dragon, called from Byora — and landed awkwardly on the furthest edge of the attacking Legion.
The pale white-eye giggled as he saw, amidst the cloud of dust and further, the dragon had crushed a whole section of Devoted defenders. As though inspired by its careless abandon, he redoubled his efforts at the attacking force, though they had closed with the Devoted now, and his magic incinerated attacker and defender alike.
From the broiling maelstrom of fighting, coils of black smoke reached up and whipped across the dragon’s flank. The two wyverns recoiled at the attack, realising the power behind it was beyond them; and they flew up into the air until they were hovering above the fighting. Larim laughed more, and directed his assault on the source of that magic. A white shield formed above the troops and his arrows burst upon it, cutting short his laughter. There were two Skull-bearers there, one deflecting his attack and the other tearing strips from the dragon’s wings while the beast writhed and bellowed in pain.
‘I don’t need to kill you,’ Larim muttered. ‘Enjoy this while it lasts. You cannot afford your attack to be blunted, and even now it falters.’
As he spoke, a figure dropped from the lower wyvern, spiralling down towards the mage attacking the dragon. Magic lashed up to meet him, but Vorizh reached the ground with blade slashing down. The black-armoured vampire disappeared into the press and Larim flinched in shock, sensing a sudden cut-off of energies — but not through a mage’s death; it was the casual abandoning of a spell.
