He swung his staff about, unleashing a crackling surge of magic. More daemons were erased from existence, ripped apart by golden bolts or shredded by tendrils of thrashing iron. But for every chortling plaguebearer that fell, two more took its place. The daemons were without number, and without fear. They crashed again and again into the ragged and ever-shrinking shield-wall of the Zhufbarak like a limitless tide of filth. The air was thick with flies and screams. Not even his magic could hold them back indefinitely.
The knowledge didn’t weigh as heavily on him as it once might have. As far as he was concerned, he was living on borrowed time. He had cast his soul into the blackest depths, and it was only by chance that he had been saved from damnation. If this be doomsday, I will not flinch from it, he thought, and then smiled at his own pomposity. It’s not like I’ll have the time, at any rate. The world is coming apart and it will take greater powers than mine to hold it together. He tossed his staff from one hand to the other and drew his sword, parrying a blow from a pox-riddled blade. As their weapons scraped apart, Gelt rammed his staff into the plaguebearer’s belly and sent a pulse of magic thrumming through it. The plaguebearer twitched in consternation, and then exploded as a thousand thin spikes of gold tore it apart from the inside.
Gelt swung his staff about like a morning star, and sent the ever-expanding sphere of spikes hurtling into the packed ranks of the enemy. The sphere exploded into a thicket of thrashing tendrils, and at his shouted command, the dwarfs took the opportunity to fall back while their foes were otherwise occupied. As dwarfs streamed past him, Gelt set his staff and roused the hidden deposits of ore in the bedrock of the Fauschlag, summoning them to the surface. Great barricades of molten metal flowered into being between the Zhufbarak and the plague-host.
‘That won’t hold them long.’
Gelt turned to see Hammerson stumping towards him. The runesmith had lost his helm, and his face and beard were streaked with blood and soot. Nonetheless, he was smiling grimly. ‘Good plan, though. Give us a minute to have a wee drink, at any rate.’
‘I think we’re out of Bugman’s,’ Gelt said. ‘You’ll have to settle for water.’
‘I’ll die thirsty then,’ Hammerson said. ‘Out of Bugman’s… it really is the end of the world.’ He tossed his head, indicating the remaining elves. ‘The elgi woman, Alarielle… she’s dying, lad.’
Gelt turned and looked towards the ragged ring of elven shields that sheltered the fallen Everqueen. Her remaining warriors surrounded her, fighting alongside the dwarfs. The treeman, Durthu, loomed over the Everqueen, killing any daemon which drew too close. As Gelt watched, the ancient spirit spread its arms and roared so loudly that a semi-ruined wall nearby collapsed, filling the air with dust.
‘What is he doing?’ Gelt muttered, as Durthu hurled its sword into the leering, bloated face of a great unclean one, spitting the greater daemon like a hog over a fire-pit. The treeman shoved Alarielle’s defenders aside and sank down beside her limp, pale form. Gelt started forwards, but Hammerson grabbed him.
‘Don’t even think about it, lad. Whatever he’s doing, it’s only bound to help, and you’ll only rile him up if you interfere,’ the dwarf said. Gelt subsided, but continued to watch, unable to look away. As he watched in awe, the treeman’s bark-flesh withered and cracked, and leaves fell like dust from his shoulders and head. Gelt could feel the power flowing between Durthu and Alarielle, and knew, without knowing how, that the treeman was giving of his own life to restore the Everqueen.
The calcified and crumbling husk of Durthu collapsed in on itself as Alarielle’s form swelled with light and life. She rose, her flesh unmarked, her eyes clear. She gently touched the crumbling remains of Durthu and then turned. The light of Ghyran crackled in her eyes, and she spread her arms and threw back her head to sing a single perfect note.
Gelt and Hammerson threw up their hands to protect their eyes as white fire, crested with green, filled the Middenplatz and roared hungrily through the Palast District. It passed over the heads of the remaining elves and dwarfs harmlessly, but where it struck the hordes of daemons, it wreaked a terrible destruction. Hundreds of daemons were reduced to ash in a matter of moments, but thousands more pressed forwards, through the sooty remains of their fellows. To Gelt, it was as if the Dark Gods were determined to prevent them from reaching the centre of the city at any cost.
And why wouldn’t they be? That is where Archaon is, and his devilish artefact, and that is where the true battle is. Not here, Gelt thought, looking around. They were cut off. Surrounded on all sides… save one. The northern gatehouse had been cleared by Alarielle’s fire. As she moved to join he and Hammerson, he looked at her. ‘We must get to the Temple of Ulric,’ he said. She frowned, one hand pressed to her head.
‘Yes… I can feel it. That is where the artefact is,’ she said, wincing as if the thought pained her. ‘But we have no time. Our forces cannot…’
‘No,’ Hammerson grunted. ‘We cannot. But we can hold the way clear, and buy you time.’ The runesmith gestured and Gelt saw one of Hammerson’s Anvil Guard lead his pegasus, Quicksilver, towards them. His heart leapt at the sight of the proud animal. It had been hurt during the battle in the King’s Glade, one wing badly scorched. But though the animal couldn’t fly, Quicksilver was still the fastest stallion this side of the famed stables of Tiranoc. Or would have been, had either the stables or Tiranoc still existed.
‘I do not wish to ask this of you,’ Gelt began, as he looked at Hammerson. He reached out, without thinking, and placed his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. Hammerson twitched, as if to knock the hand aside, but in the end, he merely shook his head.
‘Then don’t. No time for long goodbyes, lad,’ Hammerson rumbled, placing his heavy hand over Gelt’s. ‘We made an oath, and we’ll not break it now.’
Gelt hesitated, trying to summon the words. Hammerson nudged him impatiently, poking him in the belly with the flat of his hammer. ‘Go on, lad. Get moving, the both of you. There’s work to be done, and it’s best done well. Don’t let the elgi and that tottering tower of bones mess it up.’ The runesmith grinned. ‘We’ll see to things here, one way or another.’
Gelt nodded and turned away. He caught hold of Quicksilver’s bridle and hauled himself into the pegasus’s saddle. The animal whinnied and reared, as Gelt extended his hand to Alarielle. She climbed into the saddle behind him, without hesitation. ‘We must ride swiftly, wizard,’ she murmured as she wrapped an arm around his midsection. ‘They will pursue us.’
‘Let them try. Quicksilver has outpaced daemons before. Aye, and worse things besides,’ Gelt said confidently. At a tap of his heels, the pegasus began to gallop towards the northern gatehouse. He did not look back as he felt the twinge of Hammerson’s magics on the wind, and heard the crack of gunfire. Alarielle pressed her face to his back as her people moved around them, elves and dryads fighting and dying to clear them a path.
Daemons bounded forwards to block their route, but Gelt thrust his staff out, over Quicksilver’s head, and swept the creatures aside with a gout of shimmering energy. Then they were past the northern gatehouse and galloping through the streets beyond, in the direction of the Ulricsmund and the Temple of Ulric.
As they rode, Gelt whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening that the other Incarnates would be there to meet them.
Hammerson watched Gelt ride away, and smiled sadly. ‘A good lad, that one, for all that he’s had a rough path to walk.’