Silenos turned, heading back down the steps and dragging the Necromancer Sphera along behind him. He’d kept her bound and collared, more for his own amusement than anything else, with a strip of keratinous material measured carefully to be the equal of her strength, then tripled for good measure. The two of them were alone soon enough, and her temper was as hot and hissing as he had hoped.
“You’re going to lose, you know.” She snapped, venomously. Silenos had found the woman rather enjoyed taunting her enemies. He could appreciate that particular pleasure, but not as much as he appreciated her inevitable fury whenever he demonstrated that he was beyond her petty attempts at enjoying it with him.
“You can think that if you’d like.” Silenos replied. He rather imagined that was the sort of vague response most likely to truly needle the woman, and as was so often the case he proved himself right a moment later. Her fury was like hearing a bowstring released.
“I know that, you fucking imbecile. Why are you so insistent on fighting this battle when it’s so clearly hopeless?”
Silenos turned to her, taking a moment to examine her before he replied. No, she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t blind with her emotion. She was testing him, trying to wheedle some hint of his plans, or else confirm a theory. He considered how best to reply.
All other things being equal, it was invariably best to keep others knowing less, rather than more, about oneself. He pursued that ideal in his answer.
“It is not my way to surrender.” Silenos replied, calmly, letting her think he was acting more out of stubbornness than he was. Her eyes narrowed.
“So that’s it? You’d rather die than give in? Fucking men.”
She was annoyed, infuriated. No, more than that, disappointed and even…Yes, worried. Intriguing.
“You have something more to say, I notice.” Silenos guessed. “Might you just save us both a wealth of time and simply say it? I have far better things to do than stand here in anticipation of your drivel.”
Her eyes were sharp again, considering, but her hesitation did not last long. Of this woman’s numerous qualities, good and bad, quick wittedness was certainly among the most notable.
“Your Necromancy.” She answered, at last. “It’s superior to the Dark Lord’s.”
The woman said it as if it were in some way notable, as if Silenos ought to have felt flattered or surprised. He only snorted.
“And it’s better than a babbling infant’s, too, are you going somewhere with this?”
She seemed more amused than irritated at that.
“I want to join you.” The woman pressed. “To study under you, I want to learn from the greatest Necromancer I can, and I think you’re greater by far than my current master.”
He hadn’t failed to notice the signs of course, and Silenos was not such a fool as to be surprised.
“No.” Silenos replied. “Was that all?”
Her face turned to surprise, first, of course. Truly gifted magic casters were invariably prideful and egotistical, and any slight against them, be it insult or rejection, tended to come as a shock. They tended also to draw out the Necromancer’s second response, fury. Her eyes narrowed, brow creased, fists curled as the rage came on. Silenos found himself probing his mana reserves, noting that even after his rest they were still nine-tenths empty.
Enough to stave off this one, now that there was no great wealth of preparation to help her gain the advantage. Even without any power at all he’d have surely won given the days spent skewing things in his own favour. Still, Silenos did not care for the novelty of weakness.
“You’re turning down the most gifted Necromancer alive?” She demanded. It was one of the funniest things Silenos had ever seen, her anger as fierce as a tyrant’s, her gesticulations as impotent as a child’s. This one knew exactly what the disparity of strength was in this conversation, and it was torturing her with every word. He almost couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the woman’s thoughts by answering.
“No.” Silenos corrected. “I am turning down the second most gifted Necromancer alive, or third. Depending on Falls’ aptitude.”
Her eyes could have been replaced with blobs of molten iron and not glared as hotly or brightly as they did. Silenos had not, in the end, been able to resist twisting the knife. It really was a bad habit of his.
“Might I ask why, or am I unworthy of such elaboration?” Sphera hissed, clearly struggling to reign in her temper.
Silenos almost sighed. The fun was over, he’d have to enjoy her misery another time.
“Because this situation is highly volatile.” He replied, skewering her rage with the simple facts of it all. “I have no guarantee your offer is genuine, nor that it will hold true. If you are telling the truth in this conversation then you have only proven to me that you are one who will not hesitate to switch sides when your current allies seem to be the worse ones, which means that you may well turn against me a second time should this city’s defence seem to be in jeopardy. Allowing you freedom on the promise of receiving help is a large risk and I have no reason to take it now. Ask me again later, when you do not have such a fine opportunity for betrayal, and I may answer differently.”
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She thought only for a moment at that before replying.
“So you have reason to be confident of winning after all, then?” She noted.
He paused, studied her, considered the conversation. Then just nodded. She’d scored a fair point on getting that from him, Silenos supposed. It was his own fault for playing with his food.
“And no more reason to continue this discussion.” He told her, moving away. “Now come, I didn’t spend half an hour building a strong enough cell to hold you just so you could not use it.”
She followed, though they got only two strides before interruption.
“Lord Shaiagrazni!” A messenger yelped, using the local, primitive title for feudal aristocracy to refer to Silenos, and almost being eviscerated in a reflexive punishment for the disrespect. Silenos instead mastered himself, recognising the messenger’s uniform and terror at once.
“What is it?” He demanded, sharply. The boy was hasty in answering.
“The enemy is attacking!” He gasped. “They’re charging the walls already, your power- your attention- is needed!”
Silenos froze for a single, morbid moment. Then he started away, sending out a silent command for undead to escort the Necromancer to her cell and for yet more to bolster the city’s walls. He stalked towards the outer perimeter, seeking a direct look at the events being so desperately described.
It did not take him long to reach the wall, Silenos was able to send himself to it by simply shaping wings and throwing himself in its general direction using a shot of blasting oil. By the time he came down the situation had barely progressed, but it was grim enough already.
Orcs, he saw. Numbering in the thousands at least and coming on as a great carpet of grey flesh and greyer iron. They were already within two, maybe three miles of the walls, and their formation, if one were generous enough to call it that, was closing faster than any humans could on foot. He estimated perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before they reached the city.
Baird was easily found at one end of the wall, barking out orders, and Silenos heard one given in particular.
“TO STATIONS!” The Governor shouted. “BUT KEEP THE CYLINDERS HIDDEN!”
So he was eager to avoid tipping their hands and letting the enemy know of Silenos’ more offence-oriented modifications, that told him that the incoming force was not such a threat, at least.
But several thousand superhumans were, in fact, several thousand superhumans. Silenos hurried in making his way to Baird so that they might coordinate their response.
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Raiar struck with the very lunge Galukar had taught him as a boy, executing it with just as much dexterity as ever, and Ohm was right behind his brother to let it drive their father into his own cleaving deathblow. Galukar avoided the former and let the latter catch on his shoulder, feeling skin and muscle part as the edged steel sank an inch or so into his flesh. His wound wept as he tore the weapon free and backed off farther.
More of his sons followed, however. They were well wise to Galukar’s tactics, having learned to counter them in his own training halls under his own tutelage. Kanai and Kuroi came from two sides at once with two lance thrusts. Neither one missed, and Galukar could parry only the right, feeling the left bite him just over the spine.
Not one of his boys had ever been a Hero, not one had ever been close, but they were all strong, deadly men who’d have shamed ninety nine Knights out of a hundred even without the armament of Princes. Now, somehow, they were stronger. Made mightier and deadlier, faster and more vicious, but the dark magics that had denied them a clean death. Galukar felt his rage burn to howling intensity at the thought.
But it sputtered out as Ohm closed in from up high. How could he sustain such rage? It had been his arrogance that did this, not the Dark Lord.
An arrow came for Kuroi, striking his helm and scraping off in a grinding, tearing, spark-spitting ricochet that sent flecks of mangled metal flying out in every direction and forced the boy- the undead- one step sidelong. Galukar made to seize the chance brought by its opening, but faltered. Another lance thrust caught him before he could make up his mind, and he was fighting a retreat once more.
He roared as his rage only grew, body taking a half dozen more wounds. None were deep, none were even substantial, but all of them together racked him with a dangerous pain and wetted him with a dangerous vascular spill. Galukar caught Ohm in the visored face with the Godblade’s pommel, then kicked his son into two more before swiping for Kanai. The last of them ducked back, as he knew he- it- would, and Galukar took his chance to break from the fighting.
“RETREAT!” He heard a voice ring out. Collin Baird’s, the murderer’s son, speaking with such command as to almost sound noble. Galukar saw plenty of men obeying plenty fast, and the battlefield was soon being emptied of Rangers. He pulled ahead of them, then paused, slowing himself to ensure he was between the fleeing men and the undead.
And his sons. If anyone was to die by them, today, it would be him. Galukar readied to stave off their assaults.
Fighting retreats were difficult things to manage, and it was damned good Galukar found himself among men as well trained as the Rangers. Shaiagrazni’s undead helped, of course, fearlessly throwing themselves at his sons the way they did, and Galukar did what he could to further draw violence away from the Rangers and onto himself. All the same, it could easily have turned into a disaster.
They reached the top of the hill without incident, and then things started to go sour. They were fast, Galukar’s boys, as fast as these damned Rangers even living, and faster now.
It was inevitable that they’d break past the defences, shrugging aside arrow hits and splintering apart shields. Soon enough they were threatening to leap among the half-formation of men, and Galukar knew that much would be death. Every one of these Rangers was deadlier than a Knight and many times longer in the training, a single loss among them was felt. They stood to lose dozens.
No disaster came, however. Not to the men. Galukar whirled as he saw Kanai barge two men aside and round on the backs of those he’d slipped behind, sword ready, death held tight to be rationed out. Then he saw Collin Baird slam into his reanimated son.
A stupid thing to do, Galukar knew. Baird was no warrior, and his strength was at best the equal of a Dullahan, at worst a Knight. He practically bounced off his enemy, swiping both ways with those long daggers of his and ripping small notches from the edges of plate armour. Kanai barely even reacted at all, simply turned, paused, then ran his weapon clean through Baird’s guts.
He landed hard in the muddy, sludgy ground. Disappearing from Galukar’s sight.