The horde followed, a screaming mass that flowed out and up the ramp, coloured in a motley assortment of armour black, flesh pink, and blood red. Weapons waved in the air. Crashing noise followed as they screamed, roared, screeched and howled all at once.
Pandemonium had come to the Rock.
A ballista bolt shot into the front ranks. Then another. Monsters fell, impaled, but they kept on coming, crushing the dead underfoot, climbing one atop another, frenzied. These were the normal beastmen in front, shadowed by scores of smaller creatures. To Vergil they looked like slightly larger goboids, unarmed and unarmoured, squat and muscular, grey-skinned and red-eyed. For every beastman hefting a weapon there were three of the smaller beasts.
And they all screamed bloody murder.
Vergil was among the first heading back into the fray, sword and axe held out, breath heavy as he ran to engage.
? Fight’s found ye, sprig.
? Aboot time!
A crash of smashed rock and splintered timber boomed above the screaming din. The rhino shook off the ruins of the armory and was trying to extricate itself from the rubble.
Vilfor bellowed orders. Ballistae were turned around, loaded, loosed. The heavy bolts splintered against the thick carapace in a shower of sparks and wood chips.
The monsters roared as they reached the lip of the ramp and were met by equally frenzied soldier. Silver shone in the torchlight. Blood spurted, ruby red, flying in arcs as the two forces crashed against one another. Vergil was right there, in the middle of the throng, lashing out with his weapons, striking as hard as he could at whatever came into reach.
He was on the first line. Spears poked by the sides of his head, impaling monsters as he kicked out.
The first goatman up the ramp found itself headless as Promise lashed out and across its throat. The next got an axe slammed in the middle of its forehead, head cracking apart, brain spilling like the yolk out of an egg.
Behind the first line of monsters, the horde was endless. A swelling tide of red eyes and black bodies filled the tunnel beyond. They were all screaming as if being herded from behind.
Fine moment they chose.
Vergil ducked a blow, swayed under an extended spear, and brought Promise across a bull-headed creature’s throat. Blood spurted, hot and thick, coating his breastplate. The next monster aimed its horns at him and met Arin’s shield, was deflected aside, and the beastman gutted by both Vergil and the soldier. They kicked out together and cast the corpse down to trip its kin.
Just when Tallah’s not here.
This was a wound only Tallah could cauterise. In her absence, it fell to the soldiers to hold the line.
? Duck, sprig.
? Raise yer axe!
? Kill!
Blow by blow, Horvath became more and more agitated, his messages coming at speed. Vergil’s mind raced as one of the grey little monsters leapt onto him, trying to drag him down. He headbutted it and felt the crack of bone against his armoured forehead, heard the squeal of pain, and followed up with his axe.
The grey head, mouth agape, teeth glistening wetly, spun off like a punctured skein of water, throwing blood everywhere.
We can’t win this.
It wasn’t even a shock. The monsters’s force was incredible, a tide of violence ready to finally take the Rock. Either Tallah had done something unspeakable on her end, or they were here to try and kill her. The why of it mattered very little
The monsters were inside the gates, and all Vergil and the soldiers could do was make sure they bled for every step they gained.
Vilfor roared somewhere nearby and Vergil caught a glimpse of the huge rhino pulling itself out of the rubble. There was a bolt sticking out of its back, lodged between two interlocking plates of armour, bleeding. The vanadal commander had all four arms in the air, clanging weapons together, screaming bloody murder at the monster. He was to draw it away for the soldiers to rally the defence properly.
More men climbed out of the city. Arrows flew. Whistles sounded.
Vergil let go of any other thought and bent entirely to the slaughter. Sil’s tether would have made all this much easier, but she wasn’t here and he had an entire army at his back pressing him forward.
Men screamed and died. Monsters roared and gurgled blood. The distance to the ward might as well have been a mountain.
In the noise and chaos, he accepted, in a moment of perfect clear-headed lucidity, that he would die here.
“Arin!” He ducked another blow and lashed out with the axe, cutting one of the goboid creatures nearly shoulder to groin. They were small and quick, but cutting into them was jarring. They screamed like children.
Arin was at his side with sword and shield, killing, parrying, defending. Where one couldn’t reach, the other was there, cutting down the monsters as ever more flowed up from the depths of the tunnel. The stream had no end in sight. The push would crush the front ranks soon enough.
“A bit busy,” Arin yelled to be heard above the din. “There’s a thousand of them.”
The daemons were climbing up the side walls of the ramp, bodies forming ladders so they could escape the murderous clash. There were monsters flanking them now, cutting into the soldiers to the sides, the fighting spilling out of the tunnel and into the courtyard proper.
“We need to collapse the tunnel!” Vergil screamed.
A monster grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back, trying to draw him into the writhing mass. Vergil punched out with the hilt of his sword. The grey thing was inexorably strong, pulling, pulling, pulling. Vergil hit it again, harder. Again. He bashed until the skull gave way and the grip slackened. Finally, he kicked the corpse forward, straight into a beastman’s arms, then followed with an overhead axe strike.
It split the wolf-man’s skull in two. He pulled away with a sickening squelch and a tail of grey goo trailing the axe head.
He couldn’t breathe in the melee. He could barely see. Blood coated his helmet, dripped down his visor, spattered on his lips. Blood everywhere. It pounded in his ears, a steady, quick rhythm.
? Kill!
He killed.
? Left! Dodge!
He dodged, as far as he could go against the other soldiers crowding him. Claws scratched at his helmet, tried to grab hold, pull his head off. He fought them off with everything he had.
The soldiers on his sides crowded forward. The spears struck out from the back, whistling by his ears as the shafts scratched against his helmet.
Claws dug painfully into his side, his plate crumpling. A sword clanged off his shoulder, the armour denting in painfully. His mind raced, searching for options to ease the fighting. There were none that he could see.
He was going to die. He would tire, he would make a mistake, and he would die. No matter how much Horvath screamed at him, no matter how much he wanted to keep fighting, he was just human.
His only hope was for Tallah to return in the neck of time to save their asses.
Or—
Realisation hit him hard enough that a cleaver nearly passed his defence and cracked his skull open. Arin saved him, blocking the blow and cursing wildly.
Sil!
If he could get Sil out here, get her to use the goddess’s power, she could cause the tunnel to cave in. That attack was powerful enough to at least slow the tide of monsters.
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But would she come? Could she make it in time?
And, more importantly, how to get to her?
“I have a plan,” he called to Arin as the soldier blocked desperately a goatman’s mace.
Vergil pushed to his aid, slamming his shoulder into the beastman. There was nowhere to push it. The others crowded behind, braying and screaming. He could smell only blood and the animal stench of so many bodies crammed together.
“I need Sil,” he yelled. “I need to get out and get Sil here. She can close the tunnels.”
Luna clung to his shoulder. It had webbed his helmet to his breastplate to keep it from being yanked again.
“Go to her,” Vergil demanded. “I’ll try and come to open a path, but find her and get her out here.”
He was going to demand Sil sacrifice herself again. He’d make it up to the healer somehow—now was not the time to hesitate.
Luna leapt off and disappeared without a word, sailing across the sea of fighting, shoving bodies.
“And what do you want me to do?” Arin asked as he finally pushed aside the creature crowding him. He was panting heavily, sword arm shaking. “We can’t disengage.”
“We must,” Vergil insisted. “We need a corridor. Sil needs to get here.”
There was also the rhino but, blessedly, it was away somewhere.
Arin winced, drew a deep breath, and whistled. Others took up the tune. Vergil recognized it. They were calling for healer barriers, even if Vilfor’s standing orders were not to bring the healers into the fighting. They were more useful in the medical ward.
But now they needed every able body they could get. The sun was still up on the sky, but it was dipping beyond the mountains. The monsters were here to end them, seemingly too frenzied to care about the light.
Those that passed through errant beams of light screamed as the skin on them bubbled and smoked, but they kept on coming.
A soldier howled to the side. Three of the goboids had grabbed hold of the man, lifted him up, and threw him bodily into the army crowding the mouth of the tunnel. Vergil expected to see blood but, instead, the victim was lifted on strong arms and passed backward in spite of his protests and flailing. He disappeared into the tunnel, his screams echoing out.
Lovely. Something else to worry over.
Fighting slowed, became harder, more brutal. No room to lift the axe. No room to swing the sword. The crush was unbearable, a shield wall pushing from the back into the fortress of flesh in front.
“Up,” Arin called on his side. Vergil turned and saw the soldier holding his shield like a stepping stone. “Get up and get the lady healer,” Arin demanded.
Vergil nodded, pushed against the monster he’d been fighting, stepped onto the shield and found himself flung upward. Arin was stronger than he looked. Vergil landed atop other shoulders, steadied himself, and scrambled backward, stepping on helmets and shield and armour pieces.
He could grasp now the true extent of the chaos. Soldiers were fighting off the flanking monsters, pushing them back into the pile, aided by archers from the back. More were escaping into the city, or filling up the various buildings. The smithy was overrun, the storehouse shattered, the doors leading inside the keeps smashed.
Chaos was growing into order. As hard as the monsters were pushing, the soldiers pushed right back, meeting them in ferocity and brutality.
He couldn’t spy the rhino anywhere, but could hear its bellows of anger. Was Vilfor really fighting that thing alone? Could he survive it?
It didn’t matter. Vergil ran on the shifting floor, jumped off the shoulders of the farthest rank of soldiers, and fell into the dust. He scrambled to his feet and rushed away, trying to orient himself.
Sil was in the ward. Luna would find her, probably, but Vergil had to defend her all the way to here. Squads of soldiers were chasing the beastmen that had broken through. Vergil considered getting one of the squads to aid him.
One of the beastman turned a corner and made a dash for the edge of the ramp. It was dragging a woman by the hair.
Vergil rushed to her aid before he could figure where he even was. He crossed the distance and rammed into the goatman, toppling it mid-stride. The monster lost its grip and the woman rolled through the dust. She rose quicker than Vergil expected and dashed away without waiting to be told.
Resilient people, Vergil marvelled as he brought his axe down onto the goatman’s chest. It parried the axe blow, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid the sword. Vergil opened the creature’s stomach in a long, red line. Guts spilled out and the monster brayed in agony. He didn’t bother killing it. Instead, he turned and—
The white-faced daemon barred his way, descending from the sky, its body covered in arrow shafts.
It stopped to hover several meters off the ground, batting its great raven wings. That bone-white mask, pristine and unblemished, regarded Vergil and, under the attention, he froze.
All his muscles locked rigid and he could barely draw breath at the sight of the creature.
“You’re here. Good.” The voice was odd, like music that wormed its way into Vergil’s head.
The creature dropped heavily to the battlefield ground and approach with an unhurried, confident swagger, as if the battle was of no concern to it. It raised a hand an pressed it to Vergil’s head, squeezing slightly.
Vergil’s mind went aflame, as if something was digging through every corner, pulling out every thought in his head. For a moment he remembered everything. It knocked the air from his chest and his heart stopped beating for a fraction.
He remembered the things hidden from him, and the things hidden behind those.
Sidora, Merk, Davan, and their horrid death. Vergil stared into eyeless pits, studying the wounds around the sockets, the desiccated face, the mutilated body. He wanted to scream but had no air, no lungs, no mouth, no—
Something yanked on the memory.
Everything happened all at once. His memories were dragged from his head. But this one was left untouched, like a stone in the stream. A figure emerged out of the fabric of memory, squat and angular, head shaven, built like the idea of war. It carried a spectacular double-edged axe, its edges glinting in the firelight.
“Aight, this ain’t real, sprig,” the figure spoke in a heavily accented voice. “Let ol’ hammerhead show ye what be behind th’ curtain.”
Horvath, the Hammer, raised his axe and swung it with might enough to shatter mountains. In Vergil’s mind it looked as if the dwarf meant to cleave Sidora in two. Instead, the blade embedded itself in the very air, wrapping the world around the axe head.
It tore through.
Vergil remembered.
A black sun—no, an endless eclipse—hung in the sky, frozen in place, lighting a world drowning in the blood of billions. Thorns covered this accursed place. They snagged in his skin, tore gashes in his muscles, blinded him with their cuts as he was dragged to a citadel of endless night, squatting like a nightmare atop a field of bones.
Creatures of pure inky black dragged his soul across the jagged cobbles, his screams the only noises echoing the labyrinthine corridors.
Gagged and bound, kept in impenetrable dark, he had things done to him. Voices whispered ancient secrets in his ears and bound a fragment of night in his soul. It opposed the binding and nearly killed him, angry at the promise of being shoved into the light.
Vergil had endured the pain and the despair. Through endless torment and endless pleading for mercy, he had endured. And he had made into an instrument to serve a lord of the Prison.
And then he had been sent.
Sidora had never been the aelir’rei’s name. He had never known the girl’s name. Never heard her speak. The rats had mutilated her long before he’d been placed in their cage.
Davan and Merk hadn’t been his friends. Two men had just been there, on that day, fighting to the death for the rats’ pleasure.
Barriers crashed and shattered. Vergil’s mind reeled at all that flooded it, but Horvath’s arm was beneath him, raising him over the tide of unleashed pain, keeping him from drowning in the memories.
“Ye survived it all, sprig. Ye’ll survive this too.”
Vergil stared into a face he’d never seen before. Ugly did not begin to describe Horvath. His mug was a mass of battle scars earned in centuries of fighting. He had no ears and barely still had a nose. One eye stared blindly out, immobile, and that side of the head was caved in, the wound healed over in a jagged mess of bone protruding against skin.
“Aye. I ain’t pretty,” the dwarf grinned, his face twisting horribly with the act. “But I’s yer only friend now. Listen good to ol’ hammerhead, aye?”
“Unto death,” Vergil heard himself swear. “I give you my word.”
“Och, aye, ye do! Ye fancy slayin’ one o’ them muckle great corbies?”
Vergil nodded stupidly, feeling himself on solid ground again, like coming up from the depths of a lake to take the first great gulp of air. His head spun.
Outside, in the real world, the daemon had taken its hand off his head and nodded.
Vergil sucked in a great breath of air, feeling the taste of smoke and blood on his tongue, the scent of burning in the back of his throat, the bile rising from his stomach.
“Kill the healer,” the daemon commanded. “Do it quick, before the child realises her gambit is failed.”
Vergil nodded as Horvath disappeared from his mind with a grin. His fists tightened on his weapons, skin painfully stretched across his knuckles.
Something pulled him to obey the daemon’s command, just as it had made him freeze. It dragged on his hands and legs to do as was bidden, to turn, find Sil, sink his axe into her chest.
Vergil shook his head and spat.
? Bind me, ye blighted ghost?
? We’ll see aboot that, wull we not?
? Naebody messes wi’ a true-blood dwarf!
Error messages crowded in Vergil’s sight, red on red on red. He blinked them all away and stared up into the monster’s white face. It was turning away from him, heading into the fight.
Vergil spread his stance, went down into a half-crouch, drew in another breath of smoke-tainted air, and roared. His voice frayed as the helmet’s strength flowed into his veins. The power hit like a cold shower. Something in him had been snapped clean off. He could breathe again.
For the first time since he’d woken in Valen a lifetime ago, Vergil was free. He knew it to the marrow of his bones. Whatever Horvath had done—and he’d have time later to understand—had released something in him. Horror flooded his mind, but he turned his focus on the moment. If they survived the evening and the coming night, he could have a complete shut down come the morning.
For now, he launched himself forward, took three strides and leapt with axe raised high above his head.
The daemon did not turn to face him. Vergil did not care. He landed heavily atop the creature’s back, and slammed his axe straight through the white mask.
“Fuck. You!” he roared.
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