War of the Feathers Part 6

Day 3

I

It was painful to comprehend, a tight knot stuck in General Aedion Teague’s sternum, but here he was, still incamped on the northern most part of the Mayne Peninsula on what had just become the third day of the battle.

Worse, bearing the caustic shame of a decimated army and the loss of a general, Aedion had never felt so powerless. He had promised the Regents, his Regents the Maytoni peninsula and thus far he had delivered them a barren, bitter swath.

The camp, his camp, was a mordent sight. In place of ballads where the moans of the wounded. Sentries slumped against their halberds in slovenly displays, the survivors anyhow. Serfs had been conscripted to fill in the defensive gaps, civilians with no knowledge of how to apply the weapons that had been forced into their hands. Their own demeanour fell short of amateurish, more a mockery of what it was to stand proud as a Xellcarrian warrior.

Even the absences of hisses and yowls from the battle cats brought in a heavy, morale sapping despondency. The beasts’ handlers had too been conscripted into filling in defensive gaps, though they at least seemed to know how to hold a halberd.

Sitting by the split remnants of his desk, next to his ornate bow rack, in the smouldering dark, Aedion knew he must have underestimated the Maytoni archers. In his hands he turned about a recovered Maytoni arrow, pulled from one of his dead soldiers. The shaft was stained a burnt red, replete with tern-griffin feathers, and amazingly, still straight.

“Having archers who know how to use a bow is a lethal advantage in any army, but archers who know how to craft such instruments… It only maximises that lethality,” he mused to himself.

“I’ve seen dragon’s blood stained on arrow shafts before,” General Bronagh Puga added. “Not to this extent. How they weave the magical properties of the blood into the shaft, it’s far more potent than anything I’ve known.”

Even with an armour-piercing pile, an arrow loosed from a bow would need to hit the plate flush, or plumb, for any hope of penetration. Once the shaft was stained with dragon’s blood, and the magical potential brought out, it focused every ounce of force into the impact. The shaft was as well protected from the impact as any bastion, and thus all of the energy behind the shot could only go in one direction, delivered forwards into the armour plating.

“Maybe the blood is from some singular species,” Aedion added chucking the projectile into the dirt like a dart.

“More likely the Maytoni are just better at pulling the magical potential out of the materials than the rest of us.”

“They don’t even have any dragon species in Maytoni. Where do they get it from?”

“Imported from Bessian and Hasjin I’d say. Maybe even the Vhenuri wilds.”

Aedion reflected on the thirty-odd inch of wood and feathers caught in the dirt, how small and ineffectual it looked compared to a broadsword or a halberd. It was not a wonder that countries outside of the northern subcontinent labelled Maytoni as one of the Diamond States – not because of any minerals or affluence, but because, like a diamond, the country was small and impossible to crack. The same label applied to Xellcarr of course, and Hasjin, however in the here and now, Aedion couldn’t help but agree with the assessment of Maytoni.

“Who did you put in charge of the remaining regulars?” Bronagh then asked, leaning on her knees and shaking out her longer hair.

“Lieutenant Odhran Cannon, or General Cannon now,” Aedion answered, unable to prevent a sneer. Casey’s older world beliefs toward the acceptance of the Daemosaurs were repugnant, but at least he had had the wit to keep them to himself ultimately.

“Well, there’s still plenty of fighting to be done. Maybe Cannon will join the ranks of his charges by the end of this.”

“If I had listened to Casey in the first place, we wouldn’t be in the position,” Aedion lamented. “I should have forced the knights into the battle, honour be damned.”

“You’ve never been one for wallowing about that should have been done, general,” Bronagh added.

“No. But now the best we can expect to achieve here is occupying this northern slab of nothingness – hardly the honourable Maytoni banner I promised the Regents.”

Bronagh straightened, her face still resolute and likely the only one in the remains of the camp not haggard. “It’s not a trophy now, but when we hold the causeway and the fort, the Maytoni will have no choice but to utilise major military resources in reclaiming it. They can’t afford it to be turned into a foothold. There’ll be gaps in the boarder defence, gaps that can be taken advantage of. What we have is a cultivated seed, something like a Jubilant Rose. It starts out looking like a weed, but when it blooms, it’s worth a king’s ransom.”

“If only I could keep a firm hold of the future as you, general. But I have fifteen thousand dead soldiers, more wounded, and a dead general. I focus on the losses and the shortcomings because that’s what the Regents do.”

“Well, if I may continue with my optimistic approach to our annexation, we still have exceptional archers and crossbowers, enough to keep that lighthouse fort under our control alone and inflict significant casualties on any Maytoni army coming up from the south. We’re taking our lashings now, but soon positions will be reversed, and we will deliver to the Maytoni what they have been giving us, tenfold. When this event is put into tapestries and tomes, our losses will turn into gallant sacrifices, speaking only of Xellcarrian tenacity as we persevered. And I think the Regents will stir up these tales for all they’re worth. They’ll soon forget the casualties, and blunders, general, and be more than happy to spin our failings into stories of heroics and legend.”

Aedion’s response was a mirthless grin. It was easy for Bronagh to cultivate such notions. Her legacy wasn’t the one laid bare before the mercy of the Regents.

A serf, grim faced as if reflecting the acrimony of the day, appeared from the dank shadows. “Sir! Honoured Yvaine Argall requests your presence!”

The God-Heads, the greatest manifestation of the will of the Gods, holding within their might terrifying destiny. General Aedion had a trio of these celestial beasts within his army. He never considered them under his command, not in the truest sense of the phrase. What mortal could tame and command any sliver of divine might never mind anything as powerful as the griffin. These beasts in particular were, after all, teaming with the will of the Gods. To be amongst them was to stand before a degree of the potential wrath, indifference, beauty, horror, or grandeur of his Gods within this little realm of his.

Never in Aedion’s many decades of life did the sight of a griffin, any griffin, fail to remind him of both his wretchedness and his mortality. Even the mightiest levitation in the deepest ocean, or the largest behemoth within the grandest landscape shrank like shrivelling grubs before the griffin.

Yvanie, the Honoured paired with a God-Head, wore holy vestments, not armour for battle. Each of the Honoured Archers wore fur lined jambons and hoes to match the colour of their God-Heads, under leather tunics and padding. Upon their leather protection over their chests was embossed the names of their God-Heads’ ancestry, woven to resemble either a bird-of-prey’s talons, or a wild cat’s paws, each name highlighted in either silver or gold.

Yvaine’s quivers were decorated with shed claws, and layers of griffin feathers, even dislodged fangs, all from her God-Head, recovered as the years went by. Her own bow, Diviner, was a short, curved item crafted from the wood of the trees used by her own God-Heads species as nests. Both limbs were sculpted to resemble the curving tail of a big cat, including the meticulous addition of the texture of fur. Flecks of old talons had been infused into the grain of the wood, accentuating the remarkably fine details.

By comparison to the rest of the Xellcarrian soldiery, the archers of the God-Heads resembled ancient shamans or even primitive hunters.

“General, thank you for seeing me,” Yvaine Argall said in a subdued tone. All of the Honoured Archers retained a meek persona. They spent most of their time within the holy presence of the Gods’ grandeur, and thus any of the more poisonous traits of human nature were gradually purged.

Aedion said nothing, only coming to a halt as he struck an invisible barrier of pure divinity. Twenty yards away, lay Crest-Feller, an Arch-Griffin with aurumistic traits. The God-Head was six yards in length, with a cloudy-grey feline body, sheens of gold rippling over the fur, and a head resembling that of a golden eagle. Its wings, all the colours of an ocean under a moonlit night, were folded by its side, hiding the gleaming gold talons on its rear paws.

The irony was not lost on Aedion that the Maytoni Summiteers wore a pair of Arch-Griffin feathers on their dress uniform cap, or that they favoured the feathers from this species for their arrows.

Crest-Feller opened its eyes to see what the intrusion was. An orb the colour of a newborn star glared, unimpressed, at Aedion and Bronagh before rolling away as the lid sealed the portal into the beauty of divinity. A sharp huff of air escaped its golden beak, with a shudder shaking its torso.

As Yvaine continued to walk, Aedion found his courage and followed.

“He’s in a huff. The smell of blood is rich to his senses, and yet he’s not been permitted to enter the battle,” Yvaine explained.

They stopped by a demarcation line of sorts, painted into the grass; a firm boundary between Aedion and the divinity he dares not sully.

“A serf didn’t see the line earlier and lost their arm. Excuse the blood, please.” Yvaine nodded to the streak running diagonally across the painted boarder, blood glaring angrily in the wavering light of a nearby brazier. “Don’t worry though. He knows to stop once a limb has been removed.”

Aedion automatically clasped his hands tightly behind his back without realising he’d done it.

“Well, considering the losses the Men-at-Arms have suffered, I think I can claim the decision to hold back on deploying the God-Heads, as a firm one,” Aedion replied, feeling a brief spark of confidence at getting something right.

Yvaine stepped into the invisible, yet tangibly obvious, den of Crest-Feller. Sensing her, the beast opened its eyes again and shifted its weight to lean on its right side, exposing its belly and stretching out its left back leg. A searing golden scythe emerged from the cloudy-grey fur of the paw and raked at the dirt. Crest-Feller’s purring thrummed the air like oncoming thunder and set Aedion’s pulse to quicken.

Retrieving a few vessels, Yvaine returned to their side of the line. She handed one small clay pot to Aedion. He looked into it, the liquid only enough to coat the bottom of the cup, its presence obvious when he turned the interior towards the brazier’s light.

“I once heard about Summiteers using a natural means to enhance their ability to see in the dark,” Yvaine began.

“No magic?” Bronagh inquired.

“Far too complicated compared to this,” Yvaine answered, nodding to the cups. “Our God-Heads can of course see in the dark, better than they can in the day. It’s something we’ve never been able to properly utilise in the past. But I have managed to create a serum that can turn the dark of night into the clarity of day for us.”

Aedion glanced up from the contents of the cup to meet Yvaine’s narrow eyes. He wondered if her eyes had always held such sharpness to them or had they over time changed to match that of a griffin. “Are you sure it works?”

“I’m using it right now.” There was a lilt to her inflection, a slight smile accompanying it.

The words initially stayed any response from Aedion. These talented – supremely talented – archers could now see as well as any griffin.

“What have got planned, Honoured Archer?” He inquired with a smirk.

“With your permission, sir, I can lead the God-Heads over the fort and send down a rain of concussive arrows into their line archers – even suppress their wall guards.”

“And they won’t see you above them,” Bronagh added, her eyes lighting up to match the brazier.

“We only have enough of this potion to last the night, so if we are to act, it should be now,” Yvaine continued in her flat, sombre tone.

II

It was a mild night, and with the combined heat of many a campfire swirling heartily, filling the fort, it didn’t matter where Evander went, he felt as if he was under an invisible blanket.

Rich smells reigned across the night too. Many of the dead battle cats had been brought in, skinned, and placed on spits. The collective pits could hardly compete with the permeating stench of charred bodies and excrement which now besieged the Maytoni from the north of course, but it helped to hold it at bay.

Ebrill had insisted the wounded get the first cuts and was seen wandering back and forth from her tavern with trays of thick, searing, steaks, dripping with fat.

“Here, remember that cat that almost ripped your intestines out! Look! Here’s its haunch!” Juliet laughed, watching as, further down the throughfare Ebrill stepped back into the doorway of the tavern, assisted of course by a few soldiers. “Would you want to see the beast that almost killed you, again?”

“Kellen, you sowed the wrong gash shut,” Ignatius added.

“I’d want to eat the beast that tried to claw me,” Kellen added, through a mouthful of meat, fat, searing hot, running down his chin, a rack of rib bones in hand. “I hope this was the bugger. I know I punched one in the ribs – but this meat doesn’t seem to be bruised.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.

Ignatius gestured towards Kellen’s greasy chin with his fork. “Is that how you got your burn scars, Kellen? A lack of patience at the dinner table?” He asked, lounging on the base steps leading up towards the lighthouse.

“You mean a lack of decorum, look at the savage,” Bunny quipped, neatly cutting pieces off of his steak before eating them. He even had a cloth tucked into his tunic. “I can imagine you just ripping the cauldron off the fire and downing the contents, personal injury be damned.”

The group laughed through their mouthfuls of meat.

“If I’d done anything like that, my ma would’ve bate me with the pot…” Kellen recalled with a nostalgic sigh.

“Sounds about right,” Evander added. “My mother’s the same. I think I inherited her temper.”

“See that, that is why these idealistic notions of egalitarianism, equality, and equity struggle in Maytoni,” Ignatius added. “Mother… How very proper, Evey. I too have a mother. But him,” Ignatius waved his fork once more towards Kellen, who wore a big greasy grin. “He has a ma. Speak the language properly, man,” Ignatius jested.

“It’s a goal,” Evander clarified with a sigh. “Classes were brought in by fleeing elites, and the Seers didn’t do enough to prevent the spread of that idea. It’s all a lesson in complacency, and a curse we’re still dealing with today. Besides, what Maytoni looks to instil, is equality. Egalitarianism isn’t the right word – the actual context has been lost in translation over the centuries. Equality was a radical ideal two thousand years ago and still is even today. It was something Maytoni cultivated at its beginning and is still hopeful about achieving in the future – we could have seen it ourselves, in Maytoni, had the Seers been bolder. We may never see it, but future generations will.”

“Gods, Evey, that was far too sobering. Lighten up will you,” Juliet remarked, next to him, rubbing his shoulder.

“You’d never guess my parents were Charismatics for the Church would you?” Evander joked, trying to do as Juliet suggested. Both Evander’s parents were preachers for the Church, granting him and his brother a very learned upbringing.

“That explains it then,” Bunny jumped in, waiting to swallow before continuing. “You’re brother’s a whoremonger, and you’re a Church sanctioned assassin. I think those are the only two realistic outcomes for a childhood steeped in ridged dogma and theology.”

“Which is it for you, Fiadh, ma or mother?” Juliet then asked.

“Ma, of course, raised proper and humbly,” she replied.

“See, class pride. We’re no better than Mudhonnel – and they fornicate in the mud,” Ignatius added.

“Don’t knock it,” Juliet chuckled as she tore another bite from her steak.

“I have Mudhonnel ancestry!” Evander shot back, leaning behind Juliet to cuff Ignatius.

“Sea pirates and then the spawn of minotaur, you never stood a chance, Evey – no wonder you’re a fighter,” Ignatius continued, bating away Evey’s attacks with his free arm.

“That from a lightweight Dytrentian,” Evander retorted in good humour. “Your ancestors fled from a failed empire – I mean how hard is it to keep peasants down. Imagine being overthrown by pitchforks and clubs.”

“Never mind being illiterate, too” Bunny added. “How did they ever organise an uprising?”

“At least my sea raiding ancestors had honest intentions for joining the exodus. Yours were looking for somewhere to hide.”

The pair continued to clip and bat at one and other behind Juliet, who was forced to lean over her platter. “Hey! Hey! Can you not fight across me!”

Kellen cracked them both across their heads, “Stop it!” He shouted, through staggered laughter. “You don’t want me becoming the mother figure here.”

“They eat their children in the arid lands,” Fiadh quipped.

“Aye, and don’t forget it. It takes a lot to survive an arid lands ma,” Kellen started, losing himself to laughter – laughter which was joined by all of the others.

It couldn’t have been long after midnight Evander figured. Above them, the lighthouse still threw out intermittent winks of white brilliance but did little to sweep away the thick darkness.

In spite of it all, Evander was feeling at peace for a change. His mind, or rather the murkier aspects burrowed within it had retreated for now, the violence of the day having suppressed them. For the first time in days, he felt a sense of reality coming back. This could have been any camp night, any evening at Blair Tower.

“Can’t believe this tower is almost as old as Maytoni proper,” Kellen spoke softly. “And I’ve never come up here to see it.” He looked up the length of the tower, to the blare of light atop it.

“If I where inscrutable,” Bunny began.

“You are. We all are, or we wouldn’t be Summiteers,” Juliet added.

“I thought it’s because we’re all emotionally stunted,” Fiadh joined in.

“Just you, dear,” Juliet teased. “And possibly, Evey.”

“Possibly?” Kellen chipped in.

“If I was of less moral character,” Bunny continued. “I’d destroy the lighthouse and blame it on the Xellcarrians.”

There was a pregnant silence, as the group waited for him to justify this outrageous statement.

“Think about it. Oakthei, Mudhonnel, Gantede, Reywher, Quatijil, and even Hyire rely on the lighthouse.” He turned back to look up into the dark overhead, waiting for the glint of light to pass by. “It keeps their ships from running aground on the shallower waters up here, functions as a signpost to lead them down to Footfall and other ports in other nations and helps them get back home again. Not to mention doing the same for ships from The Mane, and Crown that come this far into the Poet’s Sea. And all trade, fishing, and such, within this side of the Poet’s Sea relies on it. If anything happened to it, the initial loss in trading and goods would be devastating to all of the Poet’s Sea states,” Bunny explained.

“Then the pirates lords would grow in strength again,” Evander added, getting the picture.

“Right. It could, very potentially bring Oakthei, Gantede, and Quatijil into the war, on our side. And that would worry the Xellcarrians, I reckon.”

“Mudhonnel would stay out of it, they get enough land trade, but would still suffer a depression,” Ignatius mused. “And Reywher and Hyire lack any proper unity to make a decision either way.”

“But it would force the Xellcarrians into a deadlock, force them to stay within their borders,” Bunny concluded. “They’d have no choice but to seek a diplomatic solution. I bet it’s not even a real phoenix feather up there, too.”

“I don’t know. I had a look when we first arrived,” Evander said. “Nearly got blinded for my trouble. Either way, there is a furious amount of heat coming off the crystal casing… I mean, ordinary glass couldn’t contain what’s in there.”

“We’d have to kill the general for sure. He’d never keep it to himself,” Fiadh thought aloud.

“Either way my answer in any scenario is, not a chance,” Evander said firmly. “This war is contrived enough, without including a false flag mission – and I’m not about to be responsible for destroying Maytoni’s oldest known structure. We’d be no better than pirates, or the so-called prince. Besides, we worked far too hard putting down the pirate lords, just to go and bring them back into power.”

“You could have just said, no, Evey,” Bunny sighed.

III

Evander figured he had been asleep for an hour when Bunny began shaking him awake.

“Come on! The wall guards are spooked.”

Sparks of icy adrenaline had Evander up and right behind Bunny, despite his head still swimming from the sudden awakening. The little merchant’s shop was still swamped in pitch darkness, and Evander knew he had only been out cold for an hour or so.

There was plenty of shouting as they ran outside, soldiers and archers running to their posts. Evander and Bunny darted nimbly around the rank and file, between the buildings and over to the stone steps on the north wall. Soldiers coming down from the wall halted or tossed themselves aside to let the Summiteers through.

“Ready arrows!” Juliet was shouting, the strength of her voice unaffected by the glowing red scar running down the side of her face. She was belting along the two-hundred-and-fifty-yard stretch, trying to cover the north wall until officers and line sergeants could get in place to relay orders.

As Evander split from Bunny, who took off into the leftmost tower, he looked out over the wall. Only a flat, plain black wall met his eyes. Nothingness.

“What’s the situation, Juliet?” He managed, clearing his throat.

“Sentries reported movement out there, along the north field, going out towards the eastern tower,” she replied quickly. “I’ve put Faidh on the centre wall with Ignatius, to spread us out a bit more.”

Evander was perplexed. He continued staring into the abyss, so dark, that is made him feel as if the fort and everyone in it were all that remained in the world. The silence felt unnatural. Four thousand soldiers now, and the quiet that seized the fort should not be possible from such a large number of people. Evander quietened his breathing, willing his ears to pick up whatever it was that spooked the guards.

Then the crump of thunder had Evander spinning on the spot. Within the north fields a shady, horror ridden blur of dust and limbs plumed, followed by screams. Before he had a moment to figure out what had happened, another eruption followed, and another. The line archers scattered chaotically as sergeants and officers cried out for order.

“Are they hitting us from afar?” One soldier on the wall shouted, leaning past a balustrade as if it would help him see further into the dark.

Several more eruptions ripped furrows along the north field, torrents and plumes of dirt and organic mist scoring the ground. Limbs, shattered bows, and bodies were scattered in all directions, left in the wake of the withdrawing archers. Wounded screamed, crawling with missing limbs, or holding in their bowels, or writhing, caked in blood and clutching at wounds.

Evander looked over the wall as another wave of thunderous bursts tore through the fleeing ranks.

“That’s not coming from out there!” He shouted, then looked high into the void. “It’s coming from above us!”

“What?” Juliet looked up as well, scowling.

“They’ve deployed their God-Heads, they’re riders can see us in the dark!” He slapped the still warm stone of the wall.

Juliet looked back to him, figuring it out. Or at least theorising enough to act. The continued volleys of pounding thunder brought their eyes back to the chaos in the north fields, the archers breaking and withdrawing to the cover of the buildings.

“Get word to Bunny and the others!” He ordered before racing down the steps of the wall.

As he bounded across the field the ground quickly became a squelching mire broken up by sudden hard lumps, and though they felt like protruding roots, Evander knew them to be arms and legs. Piercing howls snagged at his ears, but he forced himself to ignore the cries for help. Every time he jumped over a wounded archer, Evander cursed himself, but he kept moving towards the buildings.

There were three God-Heads, that is what Fiadh saw, he recalled moving through the press of bodies packed into an alley between buildings. He wanted to get up to the apex of the lighthouse, for any chance of responding to this threat.

As he bore into the mass of bodies a wall of sheer pressure walloped him around the face. Next Evander found himself on all fours, eyes a blur. Only when he righted himself, staggering like a drunkard as the world tilted sharply, did he realise another impact had hit yards in front of him. His saving grace had been a press of archers in front of him, their bodies now clumping up the exit to the ally. Over the blood, and lose guts spilled from shrapnel, Evander gracelessly clambered out into the main throughfare of the fort. His face was numb, his vison still a blur of shadows and amber lights. Only now did he release he was deaf too. He tried to turn to run towards the lighthouse’s steps, but his legs barely responded, and all he could manage was to hunch over, winded.

Hands grasped him, and Evander was righted, looking into Gaylord’s eyes. The commander was shouting something, the words struggling to break the surface of his mire. Yet the timber of Gay’s voice was enough to shake off the dizziness, and Evander forced himself to stand taller.

“Come on! To the lighthouse!” Gay was shouting. Evander hardly had time to move before Gay was pulling him along.

A second eruption tore up dirt and all put vapourised a trio of archers ahead of them. The spiralling remnants of a longbow whipped by and narrowly missed impaling Evander as splitters of wood and bone scraped his face.

“To the Chasm with it!” Gay roared. “I don’t have time to ascend all those steps. A roof will do.” He took off to one of the taller buildings, and Evander charged after him. More explosions shook the ground under his feet, followed by cries of the wounded and dying rattling his composure.

Gaylord and Evander charged past archers using the interior of the building for cover, and past wounded on tables and in chairs. They tore up wooden steps, several at a time, covering the floors rapidly. Gay practically leapt from the top floor up through the roof hatch, barely touching the ladder. Evander slung his bow and followed the larger man. He pulled himself up, another archer helping him. Surrounding him where half a dozen archers all looking up into the night’s dark in vain for their attackers.

He joined Gay in the centre of the roof, panting and trying to still his hammering heart. In his hand was Centuries Reach, and Evander fumbled for an arrow. As he did so, he looked to Gay whose eyes were intently scanning the void above, bright as any predators. Finaly, the commander of the archers raised his bow, tilting back at the waist.

“Most archers faulter with rock-bark because they don’t realise that it’s a living thing too. It can’t be forced into the shape and role of a bow,” Gay began to explain, his tone level despite the rocking explosions surrounding them on the ground below, and the ever-increasing wails of pain rising up like a roaring tide about to swallow them up. “But unlike a stallion, or a wolf, you don’t break it…” His voice fell away to almost a whisper, and Evander thought that this was some form of mediation to help Gay drop his pounding heart and steady himself. “You honour what it can give you and humble yourself before it to show it how it can aid you.” He drew back, rotated on the spot for half a second, and then his fingers slipped from the string. “And the wood will bless you with whatever you need it for.”

Evander followed Gay’s gaze – as did several other archers. For a many thumping heartbeats there was nothing, and then plummeting from the night, into the southern side of the fort, came a flailing figure. Its frantic waving ended abruptly as the rider cracked their back on the side of a roof before disappearing behind it.

“Gods, are they dead?” One archer gasped.

“After that you’d hope so,” another answered.

Even before Evander could ask, Gay looked to him and answered. “Every time I bring this bow to bear, it clears the shroud from my line of sight and together we send the arrow where I want it to go.”

Yet, before there was a chance to say more, a wrathful shriek tore through the dark, aimed directly at them. Instinctively, with trembling limbs, Evander raised his longbow. Whilst Evander couldn’t see through the dark, he followed Gay’s eyes once more as he drew on something… Something coming along fast judging by Gay’s rapid movements.

Gay loosed another arrow as the shade began to manifest high and in front of them. Evander already knew what horror was about to break from the abyss to claim them. Instead of trying to draw on it he dived to the side. So did the other archers, except one who attempted to loose his shot.

A blur of orange and silver cut the air over Evander, a streak of hot red following in its wake as it eviscerated the archer without slowing. The archer didn’t even cry out as he was knocked from the roof.

Evander rolled onto his back and then rose quickly searching for the beast. It wasn’t hard to miss now. Fur the colour of brimstone fuelled fire, cut through with Chasm dark stripes, crowned with the screeching maw of what looked like a peregrine falcon pulled around impossibly fast, with impossible agility, fifty yards away and level with himself. Wings of mountainous grey struck out to arrests its speed, and talons revealed themselves, dripping with gore.

With Gay and the other archers doing the same, Evander drew on the griffin and as a group they loosed their arrows towards it. Recognising the attack, the griffin pulled up at the last moment, only two of the arrows cutting into its gut, barely slowing it. Before Evander had another arrow nocked, the griffin spun around eighty yards above them before descending with horrifying speed. The archers scattered as the six-yard-long beast crashed amongst them. Two archers staggered and fell, and a third was thrown from the roof as the beast rushed her. The remaining archers, Evander, and Gaylord had their dagger drawn and set upon the animal like a pack of wolves. Its hide was surprisingly dense, the fur jagged and coarse. Still, Evander had his blade hilt deep into the side of the beast, between the ribs.

The beast cried only in anger and frustration. It pounced around on the spot, its gait throwing the archers off of it. Evander now found himself under its beak, with eyes as deep as any oceanic abyss staring down at him. Through manky, hot breath it made to bisect him with its beak. He rolled, feeling the density of the beak against his back as it narrowly missed him. A lumpen, rough foot came down on him, as the beast fought to steady itself. A mountainous pressure bore into his left shoulder. Evander thought his collar bone and arm were going to be ground to dust. He managed to bring up his right arm and cut his dagger into the griffin’s ankle. As he did so Gay ordered the archers around to his side of the beast, and together, he had them plough into it. The griffin’s foot lifted from Evander, replaced by the feet of several archers clambering over him instead – though this was merciful by comparison.

With the beast pushed to the edge of the building, wailing in high pitched protest, arrows from archers in the main throughfare met its right side in their dozens. The griffin’s head rose as a final defiant screech broke loose from its beak, and then it wobbled, shuddered, and slipped from the roof.

Achingly, hands bracing himself on the slate roof first, Evander rose. The thought of having just slain a God-Head was there, somewhere in the swamp of his mind, lurking, but unable to find any purchase for the moment as he poured out breath after breath. Cheers rose from the archers beneath the building as Gaylord lead the celebrations.

IV

Evander ran back to the wall, weaving around the wounded as they were seen to by those with medical training or the hospitallers. Line sergeants and officers were roaring at their charges to get back into formation now that devastation had ceased falling out of the night.

The air was rife with tangy copperish scents, undercut by the sharp ripe smells that came with opened up bodies. Yet over it all was the acrid, prickly discharge from black powder cutting harshly at his eyes. As Evander took the steps up the wall, he pulled the stop from his water skin and sunk back the glorious liquid.

Coming to the top of the wall, he saw the archers and siege soldiery in cover, or ducking beneath the covering wall. “Up! Up! Come on, up! Make ready!” Evander shouted, spittle flying as he ran along the wall.

Juliet met him, clapping him on the back. “What happened?” She blurted out. Even the closer archers paused to hear the account.

“Damnable God-Heads,” Evander found himself panting. His shoulder and left arm winced, sharp biting pains seizing him. “They hit us with some form of explosive arrows…”

“In the dark? We had our fires covered, and there’s no moon,” Juliet replied.

“Night-Sight I’d bet. At least it’s the only thing I can think of right now.”

“Some clever bugger managed to make some. Bet its rife with griffin dug, or the beasts’ piss.”

They looked back out into the darkness before the fort, Evander waiting for another attack, now that they’d had their legs taken out from under them.

“Everyone, stay ready! You don’t want to turn up before the Judge God, Tovorn, balled up in the foetal position, quivering like a child!” Juliet yelled.

“What’s it going to be? Scouts, trying to sus our numbers and weak points,” Evander ventured, just before he saw it, his eyes adjusting to the darkness… Then he saw more, and more, now that he knew what he was looking for.

“They’re using the dead as cover to get closer to the fort,” Juliet added, nocking an arrow to Whispering Forest.

“Crafty, patient, and swift…” Evander’s voice trailed off as he locked with a pair of bright, amber tinted, blue lights, as the eyes belonging to this species of big cat locked onto his own. The moans began, a chorus, like the tortured howls of the dead, began to rise, and stretch out across the walls of the fort.

“They’re surrounded the whole fort,” Juliet whispered.

“Get to Ignatius, tell him to get to the south wall, help there. You back up Faidh on the east wall,” Evander ordered.

Juliet nodded and took off down the wall.

“Steady everyone!” Evander cried as loud as he could manage, trying to rise above the wailing, ungodly, chorus. “They’re just animals! Only cats! Big, yes, but they have to get up these walls, and we have arrows, and siege troops, don’t we!?”

Each of the siege troops began to roar back; wolflike howls and bearlike roars met the moans and wails head on. The manticore amongst the ranks let loose their own roars to drown out the attack cats.        

“Archers! Let the siege troops get their hammers and axes bloody will you!” Evander shouted, to laughter. His hand met the antler hilt of his own dagger; smooth and cold, and reassuring. The obsidian, steel composite was a work of smithing genius, and it was the only weapon he carried that he had not made himself – though he did build the hilt from red deer antler.    

Along the walls the siege troops began hurling flaming torches as far as they could manage to light up the foreground for the archers. Archers began squinting into the pockets and connecting rivers of amber light.

“How many cats do they have?” One soldier muttered.

“Be grateful their Godheads have gone, mate,” another solider added.

“Here they come!” Came a shout further down the wall.

Before the words fell away, Evander made out the inky, wavering shapes bounding forward – beasts in the harsh, amber flames. Lithe climbing cats, with dark grey coats and white strikes ripping diagonally through their fur, leapt across the piles of dead. Some were ordained with manes of silver, others had crests of spikey, black fur. All bore huge, curved fangs from their upper jaws, protruding down past their lower jaw lines.

Visibility was only thirty yards at best, and the archers hadn’t the time to loose any arrows before the animals were on the walls, clambering upwards as fast as they had cleared the ground, clambering with frightening ease. Evander leaned over, taking aim with Centuries Reach, using broadhead arrows. He hit one feline, striking it high in the head, knocking it from the wall. He loosed and struck another climbing up to his left, siege soldiers hurling rocks and lead balls at a savage rate. These cats, however, were far nimbler, and craftier than the slate lions had been. Most dodged, and others flattened themselves in against the wall, and proved nearly impossible to strike.

Rules of engagement for night defence did not permit the use of burning oils, or pitch, for fear of alighting the parapets along the wall – not that anyone had the time to pour the pitch and set light to it.

One cat pulled itself over the parapet next to Evander, and he loosed an arrow point blank into its neck. A shrill, gurgling, death knell hit his ears in return. Evander then wheeled around as a paw, wide as his face, arced downwards. He ducked back, and Centuries Reach was swiped from his hand. As Evander staggered, he came to an abrupt thudding halt, and turned to meet the coarse, dark fur of another cat. In a flurry of hot panic, he kicked up his longbow into the face of the first cat whilst drawing his dagger. He dropped low and plunged the blade into the second cat’s ribs, almost deafened by a pained yowl. As he withdrew the dagger the first cat tackled him, crashing over him. The assault forced the second cat to stagger and fall from the wall into the north field. Evander thrust wildly into the ribs of the cat on top of him, as sour, wet breath coughed over him. Each stab felt like he was punching a stone wall, despite the gouts of hot blood pouring down his arm. With his legs he kicked the cat up and off himself, rolling around and throwing a punch into its maw. A soldier behind the cat cracked her poleaxe down through its head to finish the beast with a sudden, final metallic crack.

Most of the cats were bounding past the defenders now, flawlessly scampering down the sloped inner wall. The archers below caught a few with arrows as they descended but could not match the speed of the beasts, finding themselves loosing point black into the fangs, and hissing maws before being forced into drawing short swords or daggers.

The newly formed front line of archers was overwhelmed once more, and with disturbing quickness. Cats ripped into screaming archers, sundering armour and torsos, whilst the lines behind tried to pour forward with blades to rescue their comrades. Most of the cats utilised their pronounced fangs to bite through skulls where they could, otherwise they lashed at necks and legs. The coolness of the night became humid with torrents of blood.

On the buildings behind, the roof stationed archers couldn’t risk shooting arrows without hitting their own, hardly able to distinguish much amongst the flailing and screaming.

On the wall, Evander stabbed manically as another cat pulled itself over the parapet. It wailed and fell away. He turned and pulled another cat by its jagged, course mane from atop an archer and booted the animal from the wall. He helped the bloody archer back up and moved down the wall.

A paw struck at him, just beyond reach, but close enough to carve rents into his leather armour and pull a pauldron from him. More claws embedded themselves into his silk tunic and pulled Evander to the side – though he was ready and thrust with his dagger. Frustratingly the blade struck the bone of the beast’s shoulder, and the cat was unfazed. Fangs alighted by torch flames rose over him, and the cat lunged down at Evander’s face. Instinctively he threw his left arm up, and the cat’s teeth clamped over his leather guard. As he was pulled off his feet, Evander thrust the dagger into the beast’s neck, feeling his left shoulder wrench and twist with blinding agony. The bursts of pain weakened the thrusts from his right arm, but he stabbed and stabbed as frantically as he could, defying the pain, sprays of hot blood covering his face. A tangy, streamy heat washed over him entirely, as the cat’s bite relented, and the beast finally fell back. As it did so, Evander was tugged out over the wall. An icy lightning jolt of fright plunged through him as he realised, he had no footing, and his right arm waved against open air. An archer grasped the back of his leather armour and yanked Evander back to a solid footing.

To his left shield bearers came running along the wall in support of the archers and siege troopers – all manically hacking and stabbing in a fury of silver blurs and a haze of red mist. With short spears and maces, they stabbed and battered their way into the defences, hosting their shields high along the wall to frustrate the progress of more cats. Archers and siege troops formed up with these frontline soldiers, applying their own strength under and against the hexagonal shields, pushing cats back off the wall. Wide, tufted paws, glittering with jet talons reached around, most to no avail, few only managing to connect with a shoulder or arm. Through strained roars the soldiers threw the climbing cats back into the night and dammed up the flow of wild beasts.

On the ground, the archers had formed lines interspersed with more shield bearers, many using their longbows as prods or spears to herd the big cats whilst others with swords and daggers attacked the flanks, or whatever blind spot they could take advantage of.

Shouting soldiers now drowned the ghastly moans and hissings from the cats. Any which made it beyond the archers and shield bearers on the ground were struck down by the archers on the rooftops.

Evander, both bloody hands pushing against what felt like a landslide, helped throwback one of the last cats. It’s howl, one of bitterness, and anger came to a sudden stop as it met the ground below.

“I thought cats landed on their feet?” One soldier panted heavily within earshot.

“I don’t think it matters when you catapult them,” another soldier returned.

Evander looked around for Centuries Reach and saw it by the outer edge of the wall ten yards away. Limping – from a knee wound he couldn’t figure how he’d gotten – he picked up the bow and made for the steps down. As he did, he grabbed an archer. “Get up to the left tower, tell Bunny to take charge of the north wall.”

Looking about there were far fewer archers and siege soldiers present than there had been at the start of the attack. Not that it was over. From the east side of the fort, by the main gate, there was still the tumult of violence and commotion. He bounded down the steps, checking over Centuries Reach as best he could in the hazy dark and fleeting amber torch lights held by soldiers rushing past.

On the north lawns, the archers were reorganising and finishing off the big cats with daggers. Line sergeants were bawling out orders and direction as the dead were unceremoniously dragged aside and out of the way – an ugly necessity for the moment. Screaming wounded with bloody strips of flesh were limbs had been, or gashes opening up their faces down to the bone, were being carried off, whilst frantically worked on by hospitallers. The familiar squelching sound became prevalent once more as Evander moved between buildings to the main thoroughfare.

Shouts were still ringing out all around him, as many cats were still within the fort. The eastern and southern walls did not have the vast open ground of the northern wall, or the bulk of the archers either. The attacking cats that had made it over the eastern and south-eastern walls were still hiding and striking from between buildings. To Evander’s right, groups of shield bearers under the organisation of officers, were using their large hexagonal shields of block off alleys and lanes. More soldiers behind them struck between the clefts in the shield walls at the cats with spears and swords. Where the lanes were much wider, archers on the roofs were launching arrows down at the battle animals.

The tavern Ebrill was staying in looked as if it was under siege itself as mobs of hospitallers were struggling to get the wounded in through the single doorway. Several soldiers were smashing the wide front windows, and clearing the frames of glass so more wounded could be passed through. Evander thought about ducking in, to make sure Ebrill was okay. However, he didn’t want to get in the way of wounded – or Ebrill as she ministered.

As he passed by the tavern, working his way up the throughfare, something grasped his shoulder and threw him across the stony ground. He went down onto his back and skited over the blood slickened ground, cracking the back of his head as he did so.

Before his vision settled something he knew to be a battle cat had his right shoulder in its maw, wrenching him up. Evander pulled his dagger around, but before he could strike, the cat threw him again, tossing him around and across the thoroughfare into the base of a stone plaque, cracking his head once more. His blood ran through the engraved groves detailing the names of some of the workers who had erected the buildings within the fort. The attack cat struck again, pouncing high. Brining his dagger up, Evander’s right arm was caught in the beast’s maw as it tried to close its fangs over his face for the execution style bite. He felt a fang pressing down into the side of his skull, piercing like a dagger, and poured all of his strength into bracing his right arm, caught between the cat’s maw and his head. He roared his own animalistic cry as he tried pushing away the beast’s mouth, throwing punches into its seemingly iron ribs with his left fist to no effect. Sour breath poured over his face, stinging his eyes, and suffocating him. With it was the metallic scent of blood, a foreboding, blood chilling aspect threatening to weaken Evander’s arms. Using his left hand, he reached up and grasped at a fang, the one attempting to burrow into his temple. He wrestled with it, but it was as steadily fixed to the beast’s jaw as the lighthouse at the end of the lane was to the cliff’s edge. Rather, Evander took the dagger from his right hand and jabbed it into the base of the fang, feeling a satisfying spray of hot blood, and the deep plunge of a successful stab. The cat recoiled with an abrupt, glass-shattering cry of anguish, the dagger lodged in its upper jaw, the antler hilt jutting out next to the curved fang like a protruding, ingrown, tooth of its own. The beast shook its head, tossing its shaggy mane, before bobbing up and down, and even backing away as if it could walk out of the stab wound.

Evander staggered to his left and picked up his bow, putting close to ten yards between him and the beast. He hastily knocked an arrow with blood-slickened, trembling fingers, and drew and loosed faster than he ever had in his life. For a brief moment, he thought of his first archery instructor, back when he was only a child, shouting at him for poor form, and said aloud, “Do one, you wretched twat.”

Yet, as he had still been wrapped in a mild fugue state from cracking his head, twice, Evander had accidently nocked a Banshee arrow. As the arrow left the string, the cat ceased its futile attempts to dislodge the dagger. Its eyes went wide, not in alarm, but in total frozen terror. It ducked low, front paws reaching out, splayed wide as it picked up the ungodly shriek of the arrow, something beyond Evander’s hearing. The arrow struck the beast high in the back, behind the shoulders. Had the beast not dropped, it would have been a swift lung-shot, a typical hunting shot. Even so, the beast was still ripped apart by the stringent, violent reverberations within the air, the unholy wails beyond Evander’s scope of hearing. Dark, silvery fur whirled into bright red plumes and streams of dank pink and chunks of gristle and bone.

It was overkill, but Evander was too relieved worry about the waste of ordinance. He was more annoyed that he had just obliterated his good dagger. Naturally, he was going to receive Chasm from the others about that.

Without taking a moment to mourn his dagger, Evander continued running to the main gate, past soldiers, and through a tumult of cries, shouted orders, and hissing that could saw through stone. As Evander reached the rows of shield bearers, he could see them putting down the remainder of the cats, whilst pulling their wounded and dying out of the way. Before the tall wooden doors, shield bearers were reforming their defensive line, under the direction of Oscar Glace. Every soldier present was clearly carrying the weight of someone bloodied and exhausted, and behind their helmets, Evander knew they would be wearing exhausted expressions.

“Oscar!” Evander called, limping up through the lines. “Oscar, how’s it here?”

The warrior turned and moved in to meet Evander. His sword was mired in gore and tendrils, his face ashen and caked in dirt and blood. “If I never see another cat as long as I live, I’ll be a happy man – Gods, can’t they just have pets like normal people!”

“Are Juliet and Fiadh still up there?” Evander panted, looking up to the top of the wall. Streams of orange light streaked the darkness as soldiers carried torches along the parapets, but Evander could see nothing distinctive.

“Aye, I think so. We had bodies falling down from up top, among the cats, but no sign of a Summiteer. What does it look like out there?”

“It was all glowing eyes when I last looked. I don’t think they’ve got infantry backing the attack, I think they’re just trying to strip down our wall defences for something later. A hit and run when you consider the God-Heads’ part.”

A thunderous hammer blow, like a giant working on a forge anvil, came from the wooden doors in front of them. Metal groaned and wood cried out as it split. Evander and Oscar both looked to the twelve feet of wood and the gap forced between the doors.

“More war beasts!” The cry came from atop the wall, and Evander recognised it as Faidh’s voice. For a brief moment there was a wholesome sense of relief – and then it was sent fleeing by the throaty blare of something big. Another cry split between the faltering doors, if the land was being torn apart.

“What happened to the portcullis on the outside?” Evander asked.

“I suppose it managed to claw through the steel,” Oscar replied with a tense tone of voice. “Evey, what kind of cats do the Xellcarrians have?” Oscar brought his shield around, hunching over, readying himself.

“At least these ones aren’t flying,” Evander replied, nocking an arrow. “There are over twenty cat species in Xellcarr. Only a five or so are, well, small… Ish.”

“When I was little, a cat bit me. It was at the time the most painful thing I had experienced,” Oscar replied, gulping.

An ear-splitting rending filled the concourse just beyond the gate as talons the size of short swords ripped through the gap in the wooden doors. The weight of what lay beyond forced the doors inward, sheering hinges with whimpering twanks. The long wood and steel reinforced bar began to split in a sickeningly long-drawn-out crack as every fibre of wood and metal gave their final pained cries.

Soldiers began muttering about the proposed size of what lay behind the crumpling doors, and Oscar turned to berate them, waving his sword. As he did, the first paw came punching through the gap in the doors; serrated, curving talons spread out wide and reaching from a pad as large as Evander’s torso. Behind it a black sphere looked directly at Evander, hate glimmering from its depths.

Then the wood and steel barrier finally split, both ends flung wide, jagged shrapnel narrowly missing Evander and Oscar. Debris clanged off of the shield wall behind them, toppling a few of the soldiers, who were quick to recover.

From the pitch blackness of the portal prowled the gigantic frames of several colossal tiger species. Black fur bodies with golden stripes, and white tufts under their jaws, like fluffy jowls. Their whiskers glinted with the same platinum colour of the armour of their masters.

“Cave Tigers,” Evander gasped, every nerve in his body going cold. The beasts loamed eight feet from gut mangling talons up to their slight, flat foreheads.

The first shook its head as if fluffing up its glorious coat in an aggressive display. Evander knew at any other time he would have been in awe, rather than the fearful reverence striking him now. He was shaken out of it by the roar of the shield bearers behind him, and the clatter as they charged forward to contain the breach.

It was gloriously brave, though futile. Evander went for his dagger, then recalled its destruction. He ducked back, drawing an arrow as the first troops engaged the beasts. Each tiger reared against the spears, and shields were brought up and over the front line. Unfazed, the lead beast – its natural adversities normally large bears and griffins – fell upon the shields. Men and women cried out as the structure caved in like rotten wood, several crushed to death by the weight of the animal. The second tiger surged forward clamping its mighty paws down on several more soldiers all the while leaning over and biting down on another, taking the armoured head and pauldrons into its slavering maw.

For a moment Evander thought about the Banshee arrows, then dismissed the notion. There were too many soldiers around the beasts, and they would all be pulped by the intense, reverberations. He loosed a broadhead as the first tiger stalked across the bodies of those it had just crushed under its gait. The arrow struck the chest, barely burrowing beneath the dense muscle, but startling the beast, nonetheless. From the wall above came more arrows, deftly aimed. The barrage made a tall, long crest down the animal’s neck and back. It flinched, looking up and over its shoulder to howl at the archers, before it turned back and charged Evander in fury. Evander bolted to the right for the cover of an abandoned stall, but the tiger was far too nimble and came crashing down upon the wooden structure to intercept him. Under the tumult of shattering wood, panels collapsed over him. Searing, burning jabs seized his back, and Evander was pulled through the wreckage, lifted into the air, before finding himself thrown, and tumbling across the stoney ground.

He was getting bitterly aggravated with how much time we had been spending in flight. His face was numb, throbbing with an underlaying pulsation he knew would cripple him later – if there was to be a later. On an aching knee, with shoulders grating like rusty hinges, Evander raised his bow hand, only find Centuries Reach was missing again. He swore, a hardly legible curse and glared at his empty hand, oddly angry at it for being bare. Then he looked back to the tiger.

Oscar came at it from behind, slicing wide with his sword at a back leg. The beast howled, collapsing on the wounded appendage. The tiger half turned and swiped its paw in annoyance clashing with Oscar’s shield, knocking the warrior onto his back. Evander pounced forward, leg muscles attempting to lock up on him. He saw Centuries Reach to his right and made for it. The tiger however spun, and smashed its paw down on the bow, shattering the wood, as if it knew what it was doing. The glare it cast Evander only reinforced this notion.

“Well, bugger me with a great yew stave.” Evander stopped and pointed at the beast, frustration simmering throughout his body, assuaging the torn hole in his spirit from the sight of his shattered bow. “I’m going to build a damned fine beast of a bow from your bones, sinew, and whatever else I can! And I’m going to make a feast of what’s left over.” The tiger reared, hissing, before it yowled forlornly, and staggered off to the side. It tried to raise up to all fours but crumpled. Oscar was back up, drawing his sword from the tiger’s exposed belly, stammering over the loose reels of intestines he had just cut from it. He followed up by plunging his blade into the beast’s neck. A geyser of hot blood and steam washed over him, but with a last soul-shaking moan, the beast collapsed, dead.

“I’d find you that stave, Evey…” Oscar panted, choaking on tiger blood and the sharp, tangy reek of its exposed bowels. “But you’d only enjoy yourself.” He grinned through teeth awash in tiger blood.  

Evander marched forward, towards the chaos. Sheild bearers threw up shields and spears, only to have them swatted aside and broken. Not wanting to be out done by Oscar, Evander pulled a hand full of broadhead arrows from his quiver and ran at one of the tigers. He wove between several soldiers hoisting shields, and under the tiger. The beast rose a paw and brought it down – onto the packed broadheads in Evander’s grasp. The dragon’s blood on the shafts absorbed the impact preventing the arrows from snapping but did nothing to prevent Evander’s arm from buckling. As Evander’s wrist faltered, the tiger reared again, reeling from the sudden, painful jab. The shield bearers swarmed around its flanks and began thrusting into its softer gut. More ghastly moans filled the air, through which came the cries and roars of soldiers caught up in the fury of a fight. Evander pulled back, tepid blood pouring down his arrows and over his hand from the beast’s paw, and the tiger collapsed. The soldiers didn’t even hesitate after bringing down the second tiger, swarming the third, to aid their comrades already battling with it. The final tiger was forced against the fort wall, lashing out with its vast paws, knocking shields aside with enough of a force to break the arms of those holding them. It swept out in a wide arc, felling half a dozen soldiers before bouncing around the gate’s frame, charging away into the dark, back to Xellcarrian lines.