24. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Irin
about the mysterious country. For all the tragic accounts I have heard, I cannot regret that the death of a country
brought me Sinna Val Toric, now Sinna Wend, and my beautiful daughter Janna. My wish is for this book to one day
help rebuild this wonderful culture. For now, I consider this book complete, until further information comes forth
regarding Julra and its people.
-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 69 of Ber's First Reign
T here were no amount of private sword lessons, no amount of magic tutoring, no kind of experience that I could ever garner in my short life that could have prepared me for the sight that lay before us.
The hill our troops crested gave us an excellent view of the absolute carnage taking place in the valley below.
From my back, the rattling of armor and gasps of shock were interspersed with retching from the front row of the cavalry.
These were seasoned men, trained and raised by the sword and hardly strangers to battle.
But this sight… it was like hell had broken open and spat out its prisoners.
Most of the corpses still had Julran colors, stained pieces of dark blue gambesons barely clinging to their bones through the missing pieces of tarnished armor.
Some I could even see the blows that had killed them, from dents in helmets and jagged holes pierced through, along with several missing limbs.
Others didn’t even have their heads, but still swung their halberds and scythes with shocking accuracy.
Arrows flew from the walls of the looming castle across the valley, easily picking off the Hollows tribesmen as the undead archers kept a heavy barrage from atop the Clifftombs' walls. It didn’t matter where the arrows landed, really.
The reanimated army didn’t even react to friendly fire.
They just kept swinging. Hacking away at whoever stood in their way that could bleed. And I watched in horror as those freshly killed tribesmen rose again and turned on their own. This was the most literal definition of a bloodbath I could ever have imagined.
“How…” Beolf was at an obvious loss for words. He brought his kisteral up to the right flank of mine, staring out at the massacre. “How can this even be possible? The amount of magic one would need to control all these is… impossible.”
“Obviously not impossible.” My voice shook, slightly muffled by my helmet.
Behar stood at attention near my mount’s left front leg, ears perked and tail still with his eyes trained on the mass of bodies.
His teeth were bared. “This is what a necromancer with limitless knowledge can do. Fucking Gennel!” If I ever found that conniving bitch again, I would lop her head off myself.
“It’s unlikely she will survive, if she’s out there at all. But I think I found your necromancer.”
Since she left that body with the charming little message for me, she wasn’t really the Haron we knew anymore.
I wasn't entirely sure what name to call her now.
There was definitely some kind of disturbance among the chaos of full-blown war.
A small cluster of undead moved steadily through the battlefield from one side to the other, like a morbid entourage guarding someone in the middle.
And that someone—I couldn't tell exactly who through the thick swarm of bodies—swung two wickedly curved blades each the length of my forearm and twice as wide.
They flashed silver swiping through the air in-between the undead, slicing off any part of a body that came close enough.
And above the whirling cyclone, high enough to be out of reach even if someone was thrown, floated a thick tome laid open as if it were innocently set on a desk.
The cover was pitch black, a void against the bright noon light, with a blood-red gem easily the size of two fists inlaid with crisscrossing silver wires like a cage.
Some kind of scrawling script spiraled out from it, pulsing deep indigo with the same tempo as the gem.
The eerie glow covered the whole battlefield, and it seemed that wherever it touched, the dead rose.
And right in the center of the back cover was the family crest of Hilj: a skull set atop crossed swords with wiranblood flowers circling its head like a crown.
“If you think she’s under the massive floating tome that looks like it came straight from a nightmare, you’d probably be right,” I answered solemnly as we watched her cut a path across the valley with my beast-sharpened eyes. “She’s not being very subtle, is she?”
Even in this morbid situation, Beolf snorted a bitter laugh. “When has she ever been subtle? Lucky for us, she isn’t, since she is probably leading us right to Gennel.”
He pointed to the northeast, where another large group of Hollows warriors tried desperately to defend their vantage point on another hill.
They had no organized formation, but were clearly trying to protect someone at the top.
From my limited studies on the savages from the Hollows, every tribe had a sort of hierarchy of their own with two leaders, a head chief and a shaman.
Shamans typically wouldn’t fight, but they were believed to bear witness to whatever gods they worshiped now.
It was impossible to think this was just one tribe, though.
How Gennel had brought them together under one banner was a mind-blowing feat all on its own.
“I’m sure Gennel is hunkering down with their shaman, too afraid to fight in the war they started,” I snarled. “We would get slaughtered trying to enter that fray. I have half a mind to just turn around and fuck all the way off to the palace.”
“You would be satisfied with turning tail now, after seeing who could turn their eyes to the south? How would we get back to Gilamorst in time to rally the army, before these tribes came banging on our walls?”
Curse Beolf and his level-headed rationale.
“Gods damn it,” I spit harshly. The kisteral beneath me skittered to the left with the unintentional squeeze of my legs and Behar shifted his stance to follow.
My eyes stayed locked on the slow bubble of undead and their master as she continued her personal warpath to the adjacent hill on our right.
“Fine, we can try to intercept her on the southern side. I’ll leave the strategizing to you. ”
“Understood.” Beolf whirled around on his own mount and plucked a red and white striped flag from his saddlebag, raising it high in the air. Murmurs rippled through the formation, passing the message along for unit leaders to fall out and meet him at the front line.
We’d only remained undisturbed this long because of the utter chaos and bloodshed sprawled across the valley.
The Hollows tribes didn’t seem to have any organization or structure in their own fighters, or if they did, it had been shattered against the dry bones of the risen dead.
They didn’t even have suitable armor, clad in breastplates made of what appeared to be human rib bones and long loincloths stretching to their knees.
At one point, they had been white, but most were now drenched in blood and torn apart.
Just as I turned to join Beolf and his commanders in their planning, a cacophony of war cries screamed from the eastern hill and rolled across the valley.
Their violent yells sent a wave of cold shivers straight through to my bones.
A massive wave of white-painted bodies waving bone clubs and spears sprinted down the steep slope to crash against the wall of violence.
I watched in mortification as the undead turned on their new victims with brutal efficiency.
Then, from the cluster of bodies beneath the hovering tome, one slung a tall shield across its back and bent low, facing the oncoming Hollow tribes as it hunched down and braced its bony hands against the ground.
Deep blue fabric fluttered in an elegant arc, following a body that launched itself in the air off the back of the soldier.
A tall woman flew through the air like she had wings, swords raised high overhead, as she braced to land in the fray on a vicious downswing.
From my vantage, only her profile was visible—and barely at that—but the wild grin that spread across her lips was unmistakable.
And wrapped around her neck and shoulders was a very recognizable Julran collar, just like the one on the painting of Princept Morrette in the Necromancer’s Guild and my tomes.
Wherever she had come from, she was obviously not dressed for war.
Beyond the collar protecting her neck, there was no armor to speak of on her body.
In fact, her clothes looked very ceremonial and not at all practical for mobility, with cuffs on her biceps attached to blue silk meant to drape around her back like a shawl.
Even as I watched in jaw-slackened horror, she used that fabric to loop around a man’s throat and, with an intricate twist, flip him onto the ground before stabbing through his chest.
Gore sprayed with every swing, splattering across her face, and even then, that unhinged smile remained.
Maybe it was the disbelief of seeing someone act like a total berserker excited to hack into people, or the mesmerizing grace in which she threw herself into the battle, but for a brief moment I truly feared Wira herself had descended from Genma to fight among us.
“Maybe she doesn’t need our help.” Beowulf had moved back to my side as his commanders dispersed to pass their message down the lines. “Looks like that hellion is having a good time dismembering people.”
“She may kill Gennel before we can get to her.”