The Steward and the Sorcerer, James Peart [novels to read in english .txt] 📗

the helpmeet that was called Tan Wrock smile in response.  Wrock was not without power.  To control a being like this with such magic at its disposal was not inconsequential.  Iridis walked toward the centre of the battlefield, stepping over and past the lifeless forms that lay on its soil, untroubled by the possibility of a fresh attack.  Wrock was curious to meet him and to do that he must allow Iridis to place his hand on his monster.  What he expected exactly Iridis did not know.  Did he think there would be a joining of minds, that they would, after a fashion, merge into each other?  If so, he would get a rude surprise.  Nothing could survive his touch.  Even the Druid was likely dead by now, though it had been a long time coming. When this was over he would impale the sorcerer’s head on a pike and mount it outside the city limits for all to see.

Confident now, striding toward the Tochried, he outstretched his arms in a parody of welcome.

33.

Commander Dechs gave the order to fall back.  He had heard the demon shriek and it made him glad for the second time that he and his men were not fighting alongside it.  They had retreated to the second barricade of the Pass, his archers quickly loading and shooting arrows in response to a sudden lunge by the enemy as, buoyed by the Legionnaires’ retreat, they tried to use their momentum to push clear into the citadel.  The crossbows whistled once more as a volley of arrows fired into the heaving mass of citizens.  The mist that had settled before the citadel gates half a mile east was not so prevalent in the Pass, enabling the Legionnaires to better see the enemy.  Dechs cut his way through a body of surging men- and womenfolk that had scaled the barrier he stood behind, knocking the ramparts clear for their kinsmen behind them to push the barricade to one side.  Dozens of them spilled over the obstacle, wielding household swords and crudely fashioned spears, nearly tripping over themselves in their attempt to reach the Commander.  He hacked at the forefront of these with his axe blade, cutting the throats of several in one precisely aimed stroke, spearing others with the broadsword held in his imperfect left hand, roaring at his men to do the same further along the barricade.  Blood and dirt ran down over his forehead and he wiped his eyes clean with his forearm, glancing downhill.  They had killed thousands, yet there were thousands, if not tens of thousands more and those they hadn’t slain never seemed to tire.

Then he had heard the demon’s cry and the deadly hush that had followed it.  Longfellow had told him it would make a difference to the outcome of the battle but not how that would happen.  Now though he was beginning to see it.  Looking past the faces of those he fought, his eyes travelled to the citizens’ rear guard at the edge of the Trenholm and what he witnessed there caused him to immediately order a retreat.  A ripple, apparently constructed of sound, bowled through the forty thousand strong ranks of the foe, cutting through them like a set of monstrous jaws, invisible save for its hideous effect, tearing through fibre and muscle and bone like knife through paper, tearing...no, splitting...its casualties with the force of its impact like a dog shredding a toy caught in its teeth’s snarling grip.

Abandoning his strategy to defend the Pass, he shouted at his men to withdraw into the citadel.  Together they fled back, headed for the fortified complex that housed the Steward’s tower.  Behind them, Dechs could see, the pitch of sound had reached the last of the citizenry, caught them in its grip as they spilled into the citadel, screaming and wailing, the ripple echoing off the inner stone walls of the fortress, beginning to quiet and fade, though striking out with its stilling reach like unseen tentacles at those close by.  One of his men was caught in its snare and they witnessed in horror as it snaked around his form, lifting him clear to the height of the wall, tearing muscle and bone, his insides exploding in one final wrench as he dropped to the ground in a pool of his own blood.

The Legionnaires hammered at the doors to the complex, seeking safety within its perimeter walls.

After a time, the doors swung wide, permitting entry to the compound.

Standing in the entryway, his face ashen with terror, was Karsin Longfellow.

“My Lord!” Commander Dechs said as his men ran past them into the safety of the compound, forgetting or abandoning protocol in front of the Steward, flying right and left to either side of him.  A number of them closed the doors behind them and secured the heavy iron bolts that were mounted across the interior.  A young man stood beside Longfellow, quietly speaking to him in words that Dechs could not overhear.  The Steward seemed different, the Commander thought, even given the circumstances.  His statesmanlike mien was gone, robbing him of a sense of authority.  Also absent was the air of studied distraction he sometimes wore.  In this moment he appeared no more than a badly frightened citizen.  He was fitted in the Steward’s dress yet the robes hung differently on him, Dechs thought.  He wore a crystal fixed to a piece of string that hung around his neck like a pendant.  He fingered it like a holy man rubbing a keepsake in an attempt to ward off evil.

“My Lord, the citizenry is finished,” Dechs reported.  “The Northern Army too.  The remainder of the army lies in the Drague Territories days away on horseback.  By the time they arrive Brinemore will have fallen.  The demon sent to protect us from the two sorcerers has destroyed everyone outside of here.  They’re all gone.  In a matter of moments, it will breach the citadel too and this place.  What