Chapter 18 - One Last Drink

Malfus looked down at the giant one last time. Staring down at his shortcomings and failures, as they stared back up at him from a massive, hollow eye socket. The giant lie on the bottom of the cliff. Still as the stones.

He could hear a dozen or more crows cawing, mockingly, from down below as they claimed the giant’s corpse as their own prize since Malfus couldn’t raise it. They feasted greedily on the remains of the giant. Its empty eye socket seemed to be a crowd favorite.

The giant would take more power to animate than he could muster on his own, and the rod no longer seemed to be in as generous a mood as before. The amount of power it would take was stronger than his protective measures and wards could contain. If he tried to channel that much, his wards would overflow and the energy from the plane of death would flow directly through his body. Best-case scenario, he’d be immediately aged a decade or more as it literally siphoned away his life force. Some of the worst-case scenarios involved him withering away to a tumor-filled husk as the unrestrained entropic energy flowed unbridled through his body, or even worse, just erupting on the spot in an explosion of negative energy as a temporary fissure opened up to the plane of death itself.

The blood-orange sun was saddled between two hills on the distant horizon. It was filled with the unspoken promise of freedom, just as tempting and unreachable as the giant below. A part of him wanted to run, another part of him wanted to jump off the cliff. Instead, he sighed and chose neither, turning away from the edge. He hoped that he wouldn’t regret passing up the other two options after tonight’s outcome, whatever it ended up being.

The continued brassy cry of the tolling bell called Malfus back from the cliff and pulled him back from the pit of his self-loathing and despair. Calling him back to where he was needed, back to the last place in the world he wanted to be. He wondered if that alarm bell was going to serve as his funeral bells. A bell is a bell, I suppose.

Before Malfus headed back, he switched his consciousness to one of the distant points of awareness in the back of his mind. To one of the undead-gnolls lying in the grass outside the fort. After a few seconds of greasy darkness while his mind made the transition, he became aware of damp earth and tall grass swaying in front of him. He couldn’t see anything other than the grass. He couldn’t hear anything other than the chirping crickets hiding beside him, and, more distantly, the tolling of the alarm bell inside the fort. Not yet, still too soon.

Malfus swapped his awareness back to the crow instead. It soared above the undead-gnolls in the field below. From up here, the thirty bodies placed in the grass looked like small, moth-eaten holes in a tapestry of swaying grass. Where are they?

At first, he didn’t see anything, but then he noticed the first signs of movement coming from the trees below. The gnolls were there, pushing out from the distant row of trees in front of the fort. The shapes moving through the trees were small from up here, but there were a lot of them. He flew the crow lower, trying to get a rough count of the gnolls. Rows of yellow eyes moved in between the trees. Rows upon rows of yellow eyes, white fangs, and sharpened steel reflecting the fading light of the dying sun. There had to have been hundreds of them.

Malfus released his awareness from the crow and swapped back to his own body, only to be greeted by a wave of nausea, sweating palms, a racing heart, and shallow breath. Calm down. Calm down, you coward. They aren’t here yet.

Malfus started walking back to the front of the fort. The last place he wanted to be.

The alarm bell tolled overhead in time with every step Malfus took, and the knot in his stomach clenched with each step. He tried to clear his tightening throat, but it didn’t do any good. Instead, he settled for wiping his sweating palms on his new coat. Then he put the rod in the crook of his shoulder as he unclasped his spellbook. He started flipping through the pages as he walked. It served the dual purpose of trying to take his mind off the army of gnolls just outside the wall, while trying to refresh the arcane rituals required for the spells in his mind as well.

His mind raced as he flipped through his spellbook, trying frantically to imprint the arcane words and gestures of the spells into his mind, but he couldn’t even decide which spell to start with. He couldn’t focus on anything over the sound of his pounding heart. He wondered how much longer it would be before he would be able to sit down in peace and quiet again and finally be able to study his spellbook in peace. Without the constant prickling of fear and the need to keep looking over his shoulder every other page he turned. He couldn’t wait for the sanctuary of solitude again. Away from all these people and the problems they bring with them. It was what he wanted more than anything. Well, that and bringing Kaylee back.

He had to admit, a tiny part of him felt a rare glimmer of excitement buried deep in his breast. He’d never been in a real battle, never experienced anything like this before. He’d used magic far more often to diffuse fights than while in them. Most of his magic had been cast on the dead, not the living. Most of it for the purposes of experimentation, not combat. The few times he’d had to make exceptions to that, he still hadn’t killed anyone. At least, not intentionally…

As Malfus flipped through his spellbook, he mentally multitasked and began a roll call of his undead minions, like a spider checking and testing the strands of its web.

He started with the two dozen human zombies standing by the top of the pit, some with spears, polearms, and shovels, others with nothing but their bony hands. Then he moved to the six gnolls at the bottom of the pit, lying in wait. He stretched his mind out further to the thirty distant pinpoints of awareness that lie dormant, hidden by the tall grass. Last, and what Malfus was giving the most of his inner focus to, was the crow still flying high above the field in front of the fort. Information flooded into the back of his mind from each of these points of awareness in his web. This extension of himself.

As he got closer to the front of the camp, there were other soldiers starting to run past him as they carried quivers full of bolts, crossbows, spears, or other equipment to the front. Malfus could hear orders being shouted distantly, by the unmistakable gravelly voice of First Sergeant Goren. Each sharp terse order shouted out like a mining pick chiseling away at a slab of granite.

The other soldiers seemed to be as oblivious to Malfus as he was to them, nose down in his spellbook, trying not to look up at the front gate. He felt like as long as he wasn’t looking at the dangerous place he was headed, then he could still trick his legs into continuing to move.

Malfus searched through his spellbook, trying to find the few necromantic spells he had for combat purposes. He had managed to find a handful of them in his travels outside of the academy, although he hadn’t had to use them in an actual fight before and there were far more that filled defensive purposes rather than offensive. He flipped frantically through the pages, looking for any spell that showed some combat potential.

The first spell was fear. Simple, self-explanatory, and a useful defensive spell. One of the few Malfus had used before on living targets, but in order to diffuse combat from happening, and certainly not in the middle of it. Wish I could just channel some of my own fear, I certainly have more than enough of it. He kept flipping the pages. He knew it would take a lot more than fear to survive the night. There was no running this time. The next spell that caught his eye was contagion, an offensive spell that spread rot that necrotized living flesh, but the effects take too long to be of much use in the middle of combat. At least from the animals I had tested it on… although the shock from it happening is still immediate. Still, he made a mental note of some of the words and formulas before turning to the next page. Enervation. A spell that drained the life force from the living. Ah, here we go, now we’re talking…

Malfus was so focused on his spellbook as he walked that he didn’t notice the solid object standing in front of him before he collided into it. Malfus fell backward. He barely managed to hold onto the rod, but his spellbook flew from his hands and floated in the air in slow motion. Malfus muttered a curse and then, with reflexes that surprised even himself, he just barely managed to catch it before it fell into a puddle of mud.

Malfus crouched down as he gripped his spellbook with fingers so tight they turned white as bone. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?” Malfus hissed as he glowered up at Peshka.

“I thought you said you were going to go raise that giant.” Commander Peshka stared down at him with leather-gloved hands on his hips like a disapproving father.

Malfus let out a long sigh as he stood up, eyes searching on the ground for an answer, just like he had many a time before in front of Magistrex Dis’elauxe’s class as a student. Searching for answers he couldn’t find as if they were somehow hidden underneath his feet. “Well, do you see a giant?” Malfus motioned behind him. “Isn’t it obvious? I tried… and I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t?! What do you mean, couldn’t? Don’t give me couldn’t! I thought you said you were a bloody necromancer!” Peshka snapped, clutching at his stomach with one hand from the effort.

“Yes, well, I never said I was a particularly good one.” Malfus said as he stood up and brushed himself off. Is that really the best you could come up with? You idiot… Malfus turned and strode off before Peshka could respond, leaving him standing there stammering as he clutched at his stomach. Malfus walked off with his nose held high in the air, trying to cobble together what few scraps remained of his dignity.

The closer Malfus got to the front of the fort, the louder and more chaotic things grew. First Sergeant Goren stood above it all like a bright metallic beacon to the chaos, shouting commands in terse monotone barks to soldiers as they ran past carrying equipment or weapons. He was like a big plate-armored lighthouse directing a fleet of tiny, scared-looking ships as they shuttled to their posts through a turbulent sea of milling noise, chaos, and fear.

“There you are!” The lighthouse bellowed as Malfus tried to slip past its watchful gaze.

Ugh, not again. Malfus turned and looked up at the grizzled veteran. “Yes? What is it?”

“I’ve been looking for you. The gnolls could attack at any moment.”

“I’m aware. That’s why I’m here.” Malfus said impatiently. I certainly don’t need to be reminded of that fact.

“Well…” The big man hesitated for a second as he thought of what he actually wanted to say. “Do the zombies need anything? Do my men need to… know anything? Should they keep out of their way once the fighting starts?”

“No, no, no… I’ve already told you.” I swear the dead listen better than the living. Malfus sighed, then took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “The undead will fight on their own accord. They already know to only attack the gnolls. Your men can fight right beside them if they wish, but it would be best if the undead act as the frontline. They are far more resilient.” And the living are so very fragile after all.

The First Sergeant kept looking at Malfus, as if he expected more.

Malfus sighed again. “Listen, just have your men rain down as many bolts, rocks, and sharp implements as they can upon the gnolls from above, and have the men on the ground take care of any gnolls that push past the pit in front. They can stand well-enough away from the pit so the undead don’t bother them and can just focus on any gnolls that get through… and can react to any other unforeseen surprises.”

First Sergeant Goren nodded smartly, looking galvanized by having some direction. “Alright, I’ll let the men know.” He nodded at Malfus one more time, then walked off to go bark more orders to the living, while Malfus turned his attention to the dead, back toward the undead surrounding the pit. And will there be any further interruptions? Raising the undead for the battle was one thing, but Malfus hadn’t expected that he’d become such an integral part of the defenses and having to coordinate with so many others.

Malfus remembered reading about some of the battle-magi of legend in books back in Akkadia. Names like… Phoros of the Living Flame, Kivin Torre the Marked, or Shael Dawnstrider. Truly powerful wizards that had brilliant minds for strategy, in addition to their arcane mastery. Jazelle of the Amber Blade had even used an ancient elven blade as the locus for his spells instead of the traditional staff. Or rod. It was rumored he’d even used the sword in the melee of battle, combining magic with swordplay after learning fencing from the high elves. Before stealing the sword, their secrets and the virginity of the king’s daughter, if one book was to be believed. Although it had been written by a rival mage after Jazelle had fallen in combat.

Most of the battle-wizards had been evokers. Wizards from a school of magic that channeled primordial forces from the elemental planes to devastating effect. Some spells were so powerful that there were still scars left behind on the very planet itself. Left over remnants from their great battles.

He remembered seeing some of the evoker apprentices back at the academy. Brash, arrogant, headstrong. They were all very physically imposing, at least as far as mages go. Apparently channeling the elemental forces was the most physically demanding of the schools of magic. They were the bullies of the academy. Undoubtedly, encouraged by their evoker instructors. Malfus hated them, and yet… had also wanted to be one of them. Like Kaylee…

Malfus couldn’t have felt further from any of those battle-magi in those books. He was no evoker, he was just a weasely necromancer. Even the school of necromancy itself begets cowardice, relying almost exclusively on indirect confrontation, relying on undead puppets to do the fighting for you. Almost everything with necromancy requires immense amounts of foresight and pre-planning to prepare. Evocation and many of the other schools of magic were much more reactive, acting in the moment and able to adjust and adapt to the rhythm and flow of battle. Malfus sighed. Have to make use of the tools you’re given.

Malfus walked over to the pit, stood on tiptoe near the ledge, and tried to peer between the gap in the wall. The stones the undead had barricaded between the walls were stacked too high for Malfus to see outside the fort. Even though Malfus had seen the gnolls through the eyes of the crow, he wanted to see them for his self. He needed to. He thought that if he saw them with his own eyes, then he could bury his fear of them. At least that’s what he continued to tell himself.

Malfus walked past the zombies standing near the spiked pit. They stood as unmoving as statues, except for a few occasional errant muscle convulsions as the animus energies from the plane of death flowed through them.

He walked past them all, and over to a ladder leaned against the stone wall. Malfus buckled his spellbook back in its holster and then tucked the rod into his belt and began climbing the ladder.

Once Malfus made it to the top of the wall, he saw several other soldiers leaning against the battlements. They were too busy checking their crossbows, making last minute adjustments to their armor, or wrapping crossbow bolts in strips of oiled cloth to notice one more body up on the wall.

Malfus walked over to a gap between soldiers to stand near the battlements to go see the gnolls for himself. He didn’t have to see them, though. There was no need. He could hear them. Their chittering laughter, yipping barks, growls, and whoops created a discordant cacophony that burrowed under Malfus’s nerves like a grave worm in a coffin.

Malfus swallowed as he edged closer to the wall. Forcing himself to take each successive step. It was dusk now. The dark, crepuscular sky was a swirling stain of bruised charcoal, punctuated by a few of the earliest shining stars.

Malfus looked down at the gnolls. There were so many it was hard to focus on any single individual one as they created a teeming mass of movement in front of the trees. A writhing wall of fur, flesh, fangs, and steel. They stood there, just outside of crossbow range, chittering, howling, stomping their feet, and pounding on their shields, or waving their weapons in the air. It was dark enough now that Malfus could see their eyes reflecting the dusk-light like pairs of tiny, hungry yellow lanterns. He wondered how many of them were staring back up at him.

Malfus swallowed as he saw even more hungry eyes reflecting the light in the woods behind the others.

So many.

Malfus tried to swallow, but his mouth was bone dry. His pulse felt weak and racy, and he looked down at his fingers, gripping deathly tight against the stone wall. He wished he had some more blood to drain, but doing it now and in front of so many soldiers wasn’t the time. Malfus looked over the battlements once more, taking some small solace in the fact that he didn’t see the giant anywhere.

“Oh, there you are.” A familiar voice called out from behind Malfus, yanking him out of his rumination. Morten ran over to Malfus, helmet bouncing.

“What? I take it you need something too?” Malfus snapped.

Morten looked hurt. “No, er, yes… I just wanted to say good luck is all.” Morten started to turn around.

“No wait.” So much for trying to be a good friend. Malfus sighed and tried to start over. “Sorry Morten. Nerves are just getting to me, is all.”

“That’s okay. I understand.” Morten gripped his crossbow tighter as he looked over his shoulder back at the wall. “So… you said we don’t shoot until we see the undead-gnolls, right?”

“Shoot as many of the bastards as you damn well please. Just wait to use the flaming arrows until the zombie-gnolls stand up.”

“Got it. I’ll make sure and tell the others.” Morten nodded, getting ready to walk off.

“They’re just all standing there. Why not attack? Send the undead out after them now!” Malfus saw Kaye standing a few paces down from them, leaning against the battlements.

Malfus scoffed. “Don’t be silly. There aren’t nearly enough undead and besides… we need them to come to us for this to work.”

The three of them turned back to look at the gnolls. They kept pounding on their shields. Each reverberating echo counting down the unknown number of remaining seconds until they attacked.

“Why don’t they just get it over with already?” Malfus hissed. “All this waiting is horrible.”

“I know…” Morten said. “It’s the worst part… Until the fighting begins at least.”

********

Commander Peshka twisted at his mustache as he kicked at a small rock in his path like a sullen child. He clutched at his grumbling stomach as he muttered to himself. “Bloody necromancer… can’t raise a single, bloody giant. They’re still going to have one.”

Peshka’s stomach started gurgling louder, trying to join in with his disgruntled mutterings. Peshka clutched at his stomach as he continued walking. He saw two soldiers walking toward him carrying a long wooden stake. Peshka tried to ignore the pain in his stomach, tried not to let it diminish from his command presence in front of the soldiers.

As the soldiers got closer, Peshka made ready to nod his head at them, perhaps even return a salute. But then Peshka saw there was something wrong with them. Perhaps it was the ones missing arm. Peshka just stared at the two undead, giving them a wide berth as they walked past him. He looked over at the pit, raising his eyebrow as he saw six gnolls lying at the bottom motionless, like it was their grave.

“Spotty, bloody work. Can’t even be bothered to raise them all? On a night when every bloody body counts.” Peshka looked down at the bodies one more time and scoffed. “Bet he’ll have an excuse for those, too. He’s got more excuses than… than, well, magic, that’s for certain.”

Peshka’s stomach growled like an ominous gray cloud ripe with thunder. He ignored it and looked up to see one of the zombies standing by the pit staring at him. “Private Erich.” Peshka half-mouthed, half-whispered. He is… was, a young man in his early twenties from Devonshire. Had been a blacksmith’s son. His stomach started gurgling furiously then. He felt like he was going to vomit. Peshka’s stomach felt like it was full of rusty nails, his mind felt like it was full of shards of broken glass. However, of more immediate concern, he could feel the alcohol beginning to relinquish its sweet caress on him.

Peshka looked back at the gap in the wall, and could still see the gnolls standing there, beating their weapons on their shields like a bunch of heathen savages. Peshka pulled out his spyglass and looked at the gnolls amassing. There was still no sign of the albino gnoll or his pet giant. “Still got time.” He muttered to himself and started walking through the camp toward the storeroom.

He’d drank most of the wine he’d gotten from the cellar earlier to calm his nerves before he gave the speech to his men. Then, he’d had a bit more afterward to celebrate how well it went. After a few more cups to get him through all the waiting, he ran out and didn’t have enough to calm his nerves now that the battle was about to start.

“Has to be a few more bottles in the cellar that I missed.” Peshka was certain of it. Once he got some more wine in his belly, then he could show his mettle properly as commander. He imagined the small amount of liquid courage standing between him and being who he once was in the siege of DeGaullis. “Just need one bottle.” It was a sound plan. The only part of it he was uncertain about was how he was going to deal with the Inquisitor so he could check the cellar. He was sure he was angrier than a bugbear with its head in a hornet’s nest.

He’d just make that other soldier on guard go in with him. Who had it been? Oh, yes, Finn. Surely, the two of them could handle one unarmed man. Inquisitor of Vesenia or not.

Peshka turned a corner and walked past a crestfallen soldier, looking down at his crossbow and trying to free a stuck, uncooperative windlass. “Dammit!” He sputtered, then lifted the crossbow overhead like he was about to smash it on the ground.

“Wouldn’t do that, lad. You’ll be stuck fighting with the gnolls in the thick of things if you break it.”

The soldier froze. Thought about it, then slowly lowered the crossbow as he stood up. “It’s just the damn windlass. It keeps freezing up on me.”

“Let me see it, lad.” Commander Peshka held his hand out, and the soldier handed him the uncooperative crossbow. “Freezing up on you, eh? Best get all the kinks worked out now, can’t have it freeze up on you in the middle of a fight. It’ll get you killed.” Peshka looked at the windlass, saw that the gears were a bit rusty, but also that one of the screws had come unwound by a few threads. Peshka took out a small knife and tightened it, then tested the windlass again. The teeth ratcheted together smoothly. Peshka handed the crossbow back to the soldier. “There you are.”

“Thank you, commander, sir.” The soldier said, gratefully taking the crossbow with shaking hands.

“It was Lenny, wasn’t it?” Commander Peshka asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, sir.” Lenny squeaked.

“You can call me Peshka tonight, Lenny.”

“Yes sir, Peshka sir, er… Peshka.”

“You aren’t going to freeze up tonight, will you, Lenny? A soldier that freezes up in the middle of a fight is just as useless as a crossbow that won’t fire.”

“No, si- Peshka.” Lenny said. Peshka could see his hands start to shake a bit less.

“What’s on your mind, son?”

“It’s just these damn undead. They’re just unnerving me a bit, is all. Seeing my dead friends…”

“Me too son, me too.” Peshka sighed as he put his hand on Lenny’s shoulder, then chuckled. “But if it makes us this jumpy, just imagine what it will do to the gnolls, eh?” Peshka chuckled as he slapped Lenny on the back.

Lenny let out a forced chuckle of his own, trying his best to smile.

“Plus, they’ll be the first line of defense between us and the gnolls. It’ll let us put our smaller numbers to better advantage with the tools we have, like this fine crossbow here, in the hands of a brave soldier such as yourself.” Peshka touched a finger to Lenny’s chest.

Lenny looked up and smiled.

“There, that’s it lad. Chin up. It will be just fine.”

Peshka continued walking off toward the storeroom, clutching his hands together tightly so that Lenny couldn’t see them shaking. He started muttering to himself again as soon as he was out of earshot. “Necromancer’s bloody plan better work.”

The storeroom was just ahead now. This side of the fort was a ghost town. Everyone had already moved over to the front of the fort, waiting for the gnolls to come. Peshka knew they would at any moment as the sky darkened and more stars began to show.

“Better make this quick.” Peshka reached out to touch the doorhandle, but then his stomach started churning and growling so loud he could hear it. He squawked like a chicken as his guts wracked and convulsed with pain. He clutched at his stomach until the pain finally subsided. “Ugh, damn indigestion.” He wiped his mouth and saw a bit of bloody spittle left on his gloved hand. “Of bloody course...” He spit out a mouthful of bloody bile, tasting the copper in his mouth. “At least I’ll be dead before this indigestion has a chance to get much worse.”

The door creaked open as Peshka pushed on the handle. The room was dark inside.

“Awfully dark in here, isn’t it, Finn?” Peshka called out to the darkness. “You taking a nap on us, lad?”

There was no response. Peshka thought he might have heard a rat scurry off in the darkness, but he couldn’t be sure. He clutched at his stomach as it started doing flips and he thought he might throw up. “What are you playing at, boy?”

Peshka fumbled around in the dark until he found a lantern hanging from the wall. He fumbled around some more in his belt pouch until he found his flint and steel. The scrape of metal against stone echoed in the dark, two, three times before the lantern’s fire started. Peshka lifted the flickering flame up and adjusted it until it was well lit and focused.

Something was wrong. The door to the wine-cellar was… missing. It was just completely gone, ripped off its hinges. “What the bloody devil? What could do something like that?” Peshka’s stomach rumbled a low warning growl.

Peshka looked down on the ground and saw a trail of blood leading down the steps. He drew his sword, it came out from his scabbard with a metallic hiss. The polished calvary saber shook in his hand along with the lantern, yet Peshka’s feet kept plodding forward, like bloody idiot things. Peshka walked over to the top of the stairs and raised the lantern up, shining the light down the steps. The macabre sight of Finn’s pale, freckled, blood-splattered face stared up at him from the steps below. He was lying in a pool of blood a few steps from the bottom. It looked like he had tried to crawl up the first few steps… with a missing foot.

Peshka swallowed. He could feel the sweat beading on his face. He looked around for the Inquisitor, knew he could be nearby. Anywhere. Probably had a weapon again now. Peshka started nervously backing out of the storeroom, lantern and saber shaking in his hands.

He had to get out of here. Had to warn Goren and the necromancer. Wine be damned.