Chapter 8 - To the Gates!

Malfus sat in the middle of his cell. A pile of stones gathered in front of him, carefully selected amongst the rubble and brick fragments. He picked up a rock from the top of the pile and tested it in his palm, small, round, well-balanced. Malfus gingerly brushed off the dust covering the rock. Throw boulders at me, will you? Malfus casually flicked his wrist, sending it clattering across the stone floor, before tumbling out the hole in the wall, falling silently into the yawning abyss. Hopefully, it brains one of you furry bastards. Malfus looked over at the hole expectantly. The curiosity to check what damage his missile had wrought welled up inside him, until a tiny voice weaseled its way into his awareness. C’mon, it’s just a little peek. What’s the worst that could happen? Being sucked out and falling to your death? Possible, but unlikely. Just take a little look… c’mon.

Malfus thought about it briefly, but then shook his head. If the giant saw him, it could be an invitation for it to practice its aim, and Malfus didn’t want to find out if it could send another boulder into the same spot. Besides, there was no need for him to look. The rumbling earth constantly reminded him of its presence with each step it took. The cacophony of chittering laughter rising up from below let him know the gnolls were all still slowly making their way up to kill him. Or might already be here. Between the chimes of the alarm bell, he could hear the accompanying chorus of men yelling and shouting, but he couldn’t tell if they were the shouts of men getting ready for battle or the shouts of men already in battle. Thankfully, it was coming from other areas of the fort, for now…

He wanted to get out of here. Malfus rubbed at his wrists. Needed to get this damn arcanull off, couldn’t think clearly with these manacles on. He sighed hopelessly as he looked down at the intricate locking mechanism. He needed to continue his research. He really needed to get to Kaylee’s finger… He groaned at the thought of it sitting in the Inquisitor’s bags somewhere with the rest of his possessions. If it withered and rotted away, then all of this, his entire life’s work in the pursuit of necromancy, would have been meaningless. He had already been kicked out of the magic academy for it and exiled from Akkadia. His future, his home, all of it gone. What more could the Inquisition possibly want from me? That smarmy, black-clothed bastard. This is all his fault. Why couldn’t he just leave me be? I wasn’t hurting anyone.

“Ow! Dammit!” Malfus growled, scratching at a painful itch on his scalp. Must have picked up some new friends from the pile of hay he had slept in. He dug around in his greasy hair until he found the offending parasite and plucked it free. He held it pinched between two fingers, watching the tiny insect wriggle helplessly as he squeezed harder. He stopped right as it was about to burst and sighed, flicking it out the hole of the wall instead and sending it sailing into the night.

Then he picked up another stone from the pile, raising it unenthusiastically above his head. Before he could let loose his next dangerous volley, he jumped at the sound of a familiar voice from behind him.

“Ah, good. I see you’ve managed to survive. Wouldn’t want you to miss your trial.”

Malfus dropped the stone like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar as he scrambled up to his feet, accidentally kicking his carefully gathered pile of rocks and scattering them across the floor. How does that bastard move so damn quietly?

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it Inquisitor.” Malfus said, trying to mask the surprise in his voice with sarcasm.

Inquisitor Deza whistled as he surveyed the damage to the wall, then looked at the recently flattened soldier underneath. “Seems like your cellmate did not fare so well. Hope you did not waste time becoming too acquainted.” The Inquisitor walked up to the bars of Malfus’s cell, shaking them. “Although you have a new window, it seems like your cell is still secure. Nowhere for you to go but down.”

Malfus shook his head in disbelief. “Aren’t there more pressing matters right now than the security of my cell? I mean, even if I got out, it’s not as if I could do anything.” Malfus shook his shackles for dramatic effect. “You do realize that there is an army of gnolls coming for us with an actual, sodding giant.”

“Yes, so it would seem.” The Inquisitor said, leaning against the bars of the cells, no sign of concern on his impassive face.

So it would seem?! This smug prick… “Well, what’s the plan then? You do have a plan, don’t you… to get us out of here alive?” Frustration and fear growing on the edges of Malfus’s voice.

“My goddess has little need for plans, only faith. Something I wouldn’t expect a necromancer like you to understand… but just look at where all of your plans have gotten you.” The Inquisitor said.

Malfus tried to scoff, but his bone-dry mouth didn’t have the necessary amount of spit for it, and he just made a gagging sound instead. What a time to run out of spit. He tried to clear his throat but that didn’t make it any better. He knew that this was it, though, his moment. He doubted he could change his mind, but he had to try to get the Inquisitor to see reason and he may never get another opportunity. It’s now or never, baby. Malfus sauntered over to the bars and rested against them, just a few paces down from the Inquisitor, then leaned over casually, as if to tell a secret to one of his mates, that is… if Malfus had had any mates. “You know… I can help us. Why not just let me raise a few dead to help bolster the fort’s defenses? Looks like they already have plenty to spare.” Malfus waited a long moment for the Inquisitor’s response, but none was forthcoming, he didn’t even bother looking over. Malfus, was left with no choice but to continue as nervous as a merchant trying to sell a dwarf a shaving kit. “Just th-think of the lives we can save with just a little bit of undeath. If not for the soldiers, for us at least. Just to make sure I make it safely to the trial. You can add it to the long list of crimes you already have me in for. Even get a few eyewitnesses to bolster your case.” Malfus missed the nonchalance he was aiming for, his voice registering more on the whiny, wheedling side.

The Inquisitor said nothing for a long time, giving Malfus plenty of opportunity to attempt swallowing again, but still not enough spit for it. The Inquisitor stopped leaning on the bars and turned to face Malfus, there was a steel in his eyes that made Malfus take a cautious step back. “You think I would just stand by and watch you commit heresy against my goddess? Against life itself. Just for the value of my own?”

Malfus swallowed, this time finally managing to find enough spit to make a full go of it. His mind searched for something to say, a way to deflect. “Y-you know, had I been in the other cell, I would have been crushed to death. Then there would be no need for a trial at all.”

A faint smile crossed Inquisitor Deza’s lips, the smile of a patient parent. “But even the clouded eyes of the faithless can see that you were not. Clearly, it was not in Vesenia’s divine will.”

Is there no getting through to this zealot? Malfus could feel his lips tingling as he pressed them together and clenched his jaw. “Well, what about the gnolls’ plans? What about when they storm the fort and cut us both up for meat? What do they care about your goddess or my trial? Why not just kill me here then and be done with it?”

“Kill you?” Inquisitor Deza had a look of genuine surprise on his face. “You are not going to be simply… executed for your crimes. There will be questions. We are the Inquisition, after all. The priests will question you while they cut away your lies and falsehoods so that the bare, raw, naked truth is all that’s left. The true extent and nature of your heretical crimes will be catalogued as each sin is excised from your broken body. You will be begging for death by the end. That will be holy Vesenia’s final mercy. A gift.” The Inquisitor looked at the open hole in the wall. “You are, of course, welcome to choose jumping out of the tower now, if you wish. I can’t stop you.”

Inquisitor Deza’s proclamation hit Malfus as hard as the boulder that hit Giles. The way he said it only adding to the impact, no malice in his voice, just a man simply stating the facts. The Inquisitor gave Malfus one last icy glare before striding away. Malfus watched as he left, wishing he had enough spit to let some fly at the back of his head. Before he could check to see if he did, something on the ground caught his eye; glistening, dark, and shiny in the moonlight.

“Most peculiar…”

The Inquisitor turned around to look at Malfus, impatience lining his face.

“You’re bleeding Inquisitor…” Malfus said, looking down at the palm-sized puddle in front of his cell, where the Inquisitor had been standing and at the few drops that spattered over to where he stood now. The Inquisitor looked at his arm, a thin trickle of blood still dripping down his sleeve and wrist. He wiped it away with his other hand, then left, saying nothing else.

“Most peculiar indeed.” Malfus said. Once he was sure the Inquisitor was gone, he scurried over to the pile of hay, grabbed a handful, then hurried back over to the bars of his cell. He strained with effort as he reached through the bars, smashing his face against them to make it through far enough with his shackled hands. His long, lanky arms were barely able to reach, and he dipped the straw in the pool of blood, soaking up as much as he could before it dried. Guess it’s up to me to come up with a plan to escape from this nightmare.

******

“I’m out of fucking bolts!” Finn yelped from a dozen paces away.

Morten reached into his quiver to check his own supply, less than half left now. He fished around with his free hand, grabbed as many as he could, then threw his quiver with the rest to Finn. It didn’t quite make it, but skidded across the stones the rest of the way. He was a better shot, after all. Morten didn’t give the street urchin much, but he had to admit Finn knew his way around a crossbow. Finn nodded, his ratty teeth sticking out in his crooked smile. Morten nodded back, then gritted his teeth as he fought with the crossbow’s windlass. Every crank made the muscles in his arm burn like fire now. There was a satisfying click once it locked into place, setting the tension in the string. He reached down and grabbed a bolt. “Shit.” His hand was shaking so much he dropped it before he could load it. Morten dared a look over the edge of the wall, loaded crossbow clutched to his chest as desperately as a shipwrecked man clinging to flotsam floating in the ocean. Morten clenched his jaw as he left the precious safety from the stone battlements, slow as the sun rises, with the gleaming point of his loaded crossbow leading the way.

Morten looked down the sights of his crossbow, searching for a target and waiting for his moment. Damn, but the gnolls were close now. Every time he looked over the wall to take a shot, there were more and more of them. Close enough now that Morten could stop and count them all, that is, if they would stay still long enough, and not that he could even count that high.

Their eyes occasionally caught the moonlight, glinting green or yellow for a second, like hungry demons. It reminded Morten of the wolves that would come for their chickens at night back at the farm. He remembered seeing their yellow eyes out in the darkness that night and then seeing red on white the next morning. Finding Buckler lying there, blood covering the white snow, his throat torn out. Killed just for barking, just for trying to warn them about the slaughter of their chickens. Killed just for doing his job.

No time to think about that now. Not many bolts left, so he had to make each shot count. Always pick a target, even in a crowd, Sarge’s words echoed in his head. He picked out a pair of those yellow eyes and concentrated on them, took a deep breath, finger inching away on the trigger.

There was a crack like a whip as an arrow snapped against the stone. Hot pain knifed into Morten’s cheek. His hand clenched as he lurched backwards, sending his bolt flying off wildly into the night sky. “Dammit!” Morten hissed, as he reached up to touch his stinging face. His fingers were damp with blood, luckily not with much, just a few splinters and not an entire arrow. Morten sighed, hissing air through his clenched teeth and shook his arm out, already dreading reloading again. Nothing worse than going through all that effort only to miss.

Morten’s arm started burning again the second he started cranking. He glanced around at the rest of his squad to take his mind off the pain. Finn the urchin, Big Duncan, Heimrich, Higgins, Sarge, all busy cranking their crossbows, reloading, and firing. None of them showing a sign of a weak nerve, not even Higgins. Morten wondered if they were all just a bunch of churning worries, just like he was. Putting on stern faces to hide the terror stewing in their guts below, just like he was. Or maybe it was only him that was scared… but being scared didn’t do anyone a lick of good out here. The barking retort of the other crossbows around him was a small measure of comfort, at least.

Morten finished reloading his crossbow and brought it up to aim, proud to see that at least his hands weren’t shaking anymore. Even though he just wanted to throw the crossbow over the wall and run away as far and fast as he could, leaving this foolish business of soldiering to others. Why couldn’t he have just been happy being a farmer? Morten growled, taking his frustrations out on the gnoll at the other end of his crossbow. Morten’s steady finger pulled the trigger, and it barked in response, kicking reassuringly against his shoulder. He watched with satisfaction as his bolt struck a gnoll running across the open field below, hitting it right in the skull. It stopped brandishing its axe and crumpled into a rolling ball mid-stride, its legs folding underneath it. Morten smiled. He couldn’t follow every shot through to its final outcome, but he had to make sure he was hitting some of these bastards, dammit. It didn’t seem to matter though, because a dozen more had already taken its place. There were a lot bloody more of them than he had bolts left, and that was a fact. Morten shook out his arm. Nothing to do but get back to cranking.

The pain in his arm was easier to ignore now that the burning had faded to numbness, and it wasn’t long before he finished cranking again. He slid another bolt onto his crossbow, then lifted the wooden stock up to his cheek, squinting one eye as he picked another target.

There was a loud crash and then entire wall shook. Morten fell back, sending his bolt sailing wildly into the air for the second time tonight. He looked over his shoulder and saw a boulder and more bricks flying from the western wall. He was grateful the boulders were coming from the other side, but there was a gaping hole in the wall now. If this kept up, they would have an entire section down soon. What were they coming from, though?

“There you are.” A gravelly voice called out from behind him. Morten turned and saw First Sergeant Goren’s craggy face cresting the top of the wall. The wooden ladder creaked as he climbed, struggling under the weight of his heavy armor.

“First Sergeant.” Sergeant Donovan said, walking over to the ladder to give the man a hand. Goren refused the help, climbing the last few rungs and spryly making it to the top of the wall on his own. No small feat for someone up in his years and in full plate armor.

“Gather round men.” First Sergeant Goren said. A flaming arrow passed right over his head, but he paid it no mind. “Sergeant Donovan, I need you and your men to listen closely. There is a giant attacking the western wall from the valley below.” He paused a moment as the impact of his words landed, hitting the men with the weight of an anvil.

“A g-giant.” Finn echoed meekly.

“It’s a giant over there? Giles wasn’t lying then? What can we do against a bloody giant? We’re all doomed!” Higgins wailed.

“Get yourself together, Corporal!” Sarge grabbed him by his mail tunic, giving him a shake.

“A g-giant.” Higgins sputtered, slinking down on the stone with his back against the wall like a wet sack.

There was a moment of silence before anyone said anything. A glum and bitter feeling hung in the air that none of their efforts would make a lick of difference against a giant. Morten hung his shoulders, his crossbow now feeling as useless to a man adrift in the ocean as an anchor. “Our crossbows will just be toys against a giant.”

“You’re correct, Private Morten. That’s why I’m here. To give you and your squad orders to get the ballista ready. It’s our only hope of launching a counter-offensive.” First Sergeant Goren said.

There was more silence amongst the men, as they considered the implications of the First Sergeant’s orders, that is, if you can count the constant chiming of an alarm bell, shouts of orders, screams of the wounded, and cackling gnolls as silence.

Corporal Heimrich looked over at the distant western wall. The top half of an entire section was already crumbling into a pile of rubble. “A few more boulders in the right spot and the gnolls could climb right over,” Heimrich muttered to himself, “and we’re the only ones that can fire her.”

“You are, you mean…” Big Duncan said.

“Guess we better get over to ol’ trusty, rusty Gertrude.” Finn mused.

“Don’t call her that, you peasant. Use her dwarven name, Urgo’Etrudzke, or no name at all. And rust…” Heimrich just scoffed. “I won’t even respond to such slander.”

“You have your orders, Sergeant Donovan. I need to go see to the rest of the defenses.” First Sergeant Goren said, already making his way back onto the ladder.

“Alright, you heard the First Sergeant.” Sarge said, standing up and brushing himself off. He looked over at Higgins, still squirming against the wall. “You too, Corporal, on your feet.” Higgins covered his face with his hands and slumped lower, muttering to himself, just like Giles had when he got back from the patrol alone covered in blood. Even though Higgins had been the first and most vocal in denouncing him as a madman and a threat to morale. Morten shook his head.

“Luckily the ballista is already in the tower on that side.” Heimrich said.

“And it’s still standing… at the moment.” Big Duncan added.

“Alright, let’s go men! The rest of the men are depending on us!” Sarge yelled.

******

“Come on, we need to make it across the front gate!” Sergeant Donovan yelled over his shoulder. “Then we’re almost there!”

The fighting was thickest here above the gates. There were a dozen other men on top of the gates raining crossbow bolts down on a cluster of gnolls below them, that were using a fallen tree as a makeshift battering ram. The gnolls held their shields overhead, but they did little good against crossbows firing directly above them at such close range. Unfortunately, for every gnoll the archers managed to pick off, there was another one that quickly came to take its place.

The battering ram hit the gate with a splintering crack. There was no way to see how bad the damage was while right above it, but that crunch didn’t sound good. Neither did the panicked shouts of the men below him holding the gate.

The air was filled with a foul, acidic tang from a steaming cauldron full of burning pitch near the edge of the wall. Morten saw several soldiers struggling with it, pushing it closer to the edge over the gate. Morten grinned. There we go, pour some of that on those bastards. Send them running back to the wilds with their tails tucked between their legs.

Morten tried to keep up with the rest of his squad as they pressed through the crowd, but he was falling behind. The cauldron squealed on its rusted metal tracks next to him as the men pushed it. He had to cover his nose as he got close to the acrid smelling pitch.

Morten paused as something caught his eye below the gates, a gnoll with shock white fur and blood-red eyes. “Ghostface…” Morten muttered under his breath. It was bigger than the other gnolls, wearing armor made from bones, and holding a wicked-looking, barbed sword big enough to cleave a man in half. He barked something in the gnoll’s guttural, growling language, pointing up at the wall where the cauldron was.

Morten ducked behind the battlements right as he heard the piercing shriek of a volley of arrows. Warm blood sprayed against his face as they skewered the men pushing the cauldron right next to him. One slumped against the burning cauldron, dead, which was good for him, since his skin started bubbling against the hot metal. Another vomited blood, as he clutched uselessly at his ruptured throat, blood spurting between his fingers. The third screamed as he tumbled forward over the wall onto the gnolls below. Morten couldn’t hear if he kept screaming after he landed, or if the fall had killed him. The gnolls below didn’t wait to find out either, hacking his body into bloody pieces in seconds.

Morten wiped the blood from his face, his hands shaking uselessly as he ducked behind the parapet. There was another crunch as the battering ram smashed into the gate again. He heard the wood splintering and the men holding the gate shouting in panic.

Where was everyone else? Morten looked around frantically. He heard his squad calling out to him from across the gate, but they sounded so far away. “No.” Morten heard himself whisper. It almost felt like someone else’s voice, and it sounded very angry. He didn’t know why he was so angry, he hadn’t even known the soldiers that had been shot. And he damn sure didn’t know why he was running toward the cauldron as fast as his legs could carry him.

Morten smashed his shoulder into the cauldron with all the strength his slight frame could muster, but it barely budged an inch. Where was Big Duncan? He would have made short work of moving this thing. However, perhaps his small frame was working out to his advantage for once. Even though he was struggling against the cauldron, the gnolls couldn’t see him behind it and hadn’t shot him full of arrows yet.

Morten hissed a curse as the hot metal from the cauldron burned his hands. This won’t work, need to find something else. C’mon, think, think, before they shoot me. Morten scanned the area, trying to find something, anything, to push the burning cauldron over with. Morten’s helmet slumped over his eyes as he looked down. That’s it! Morten tore off his oversized helmet and put his hands inside, using it to push against the cauldron as hard as he could.

There was a crunching sound as the wheels of the cauldron’s frame rolled over the obstruction, the dead guard’s hand. Morten slipped forward and fell as the cauldron careened on its metal tracks, squealing like a pierced pig. Then there was a pregnant silence as the cauldron reached the end of its tracks and leaned over the edge, tottering indecisively for several seconds, like someone finding their courage before diving in an icy lake.

Then the cauldron groaned and slammed forward, spewing its bubbling contents in a spray that rained down right in front of the gates. Sputtering steam hung in the air expectantly, then a few seconds later, screams, howls, and yelps filled the air. The battering ram thudded onto the ground impotently as the gnolls that were carrying it screamed and tore off their burning armor, pieces of melted flesh coming off with it. Even from up here, the smell of burning pitch mixed with seared flesh was uniquely horrendous, and enemy or not, Morten knew he would never forget those inhuman screams.

Morten dared a peek over the edge of the wall. Nearly a dozen, still-smoldering, gnoll corpses were strewn around the front of gates, lying motionless. Several more screaming gnolls were still running away or just writhing on the ground as the viscous substance continued to burn their flesh.

Morten could feel the hairs on his neck rise as the albino gnoll glared up, staring directly at him. It raised a great ram horn up to its mouth and blew a single, somber note that wailed into the night. He glowered up at Morten one more time, then turned and walked away from the gate, back to the trees. The other gnolls that still could, slowly backed away into the woods too, leaving the dead and injured gnolls behind.

“They’re falling back! They’re falling back!” Someone yelled, snapping Morten out of his hazy trance.

“He stopped the battering ram! The gate is saved!” Morten heard shouting and cheering behind him. Then he was being lifted up by the big, strong hands of Big Duncan.

“Excellent work, Morten.” Heimrich said, looking at the cauldron still hanging over the ledge.

Sarge looked at Morten and nodded, making him feel bigger than Big Duncan. After giving Morten his well-deserved moment, he said, “C’mon lads, let’s save the celebration for later. We’ve got a giant to kill.”

They all nodded in agreement, but before they could move any further, that blaring note sounded a second time, hanging in the air like a curse. Morten saw Ghostface standing by the trees holding the great ram horn, staring back at him with those red eyes.

Then the ground rumbled and shook, the trees in front of the gate rustled as something massive moved through them. Then they made creaking screams as they snapped apart, toppling over to make a path for something… something big.

“Another fucking giant?! Two fucking giants?!” Morten heard someone next to him yell. But he didn’t know who, he could barely make sense of the words, too transfixed by the towering figure, emerging, head and shoulders above the tall pine trees. It had smooth gray skin, like polished stone, that stretched tight over lean cords of rippling muscle. It was tall and lanky, like a colossal scarecrow brought to life. It held a huge boulder, as big as one of the massive doors of the front gate. It kept walking toward them, the entire wall shaking with every step it took. Then it paused for a moment before taking a measured, bounding stride forward, throwing the boulder into a bouncing roll.

Morten watched as the boulder came hurdling toward the gate, right at him. He knew he needed to move, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how silly the boulder looked. Bouncing on the ground like it was a toy, and Morten and the gate were part of some game the giant was playing… and it was about to be Morten’s turn.

There was a crash and then a violent explosion of stones and timber. He tumbled through the air, wailing, feeling weightless for a sickening second, hands clutching at nothing. And then there was darkness.