Asmodeus did not consult his crystal sphere that night. His previous exertions and the ill-effects of th-e smoke had left him too foggy-brained to muster the necessary concentration. He needed to rest and restore his powers for the climactic battle about to begin.
If the Adventurers returned as expected, they might still employ Malachai’s instrument to cast down the Black Stone and thereby disrupt the unity that had welded the normally querulous Keltin tribes into a cohesive fighting force. With any luck, their immense horde would begin to melt away. Old rivalries might turn the tribes against one another.
But even then, the Keltins would remain a deadly threat. Stone or no Stone, their numbers were so great that they might still storm the walls of Gorgonholm and butcher its population.
That was not the only danger. Unless Malachai’s instrument worked perfectly, the Stone would release such an intense blast of infernal energy that a person such as himself, a person with one foot in the otherworld, might be consumed in an instant.
Unfortunately, Asmodeus was, at this moment, too weak to protect himself from either demonic or human foes. He summoned a servant, the one called Knuckles, to fetch a sleeping draught. Downing the mixture, he retired to his featherbed for a night of undisturbed slumber. Only sleep would bring the regeneration he so badly needed.
Had he gazed into his crystal sphere that night, he would have been pleased to see the Adventurers pushing toward home even in the dark. They rode through broadleaf woodlands and rolling hills, across rocky streambeds and grassy valleys, the road steadily improving, their pace quickening, as they grew closer and closer to home.
Had the wizard then turned his eyes to the west, he would have spied shadowy masses moving stealthily through the trees, always in the direction of the river. Near the bank, screened from view by a dense growth of bushes and reeds, men and oxen hauled heavy rafts to the water’s edge. Others carried light currachs suspended on wooden poles.
The most venerable of the Keltin kings waited with their warriors. They would, by ancient right, lead the main assault—Ferkin of Kilconaquer, Black Dingus of Dalraden, Dermot mac Quaddy of Dunayre, and ill-tempered Colin Red of Brae.
All around them, the massed clans waited, panting for the day of reckoning that the ancient legends promised. Warriors of the Hornfinger clan, the Dancing Snake, the Fire Leapers, the Chewbone. Thousands and thousands of tattooed faces alight with battle lust. Spearpoints glinting in the moonlight. Bronze-bladed swords clutched in gnarly fists.
With them stood the shamans, naked save for feathers, twigs, and dried serpent skins twined in their dung-encrusted hair. They shook rattles and waved bones, chanted and pranced. They would call down the fury of nature on the accursed city. Savage winds would tumble the towers, temblors cast down the massive gates. Rats would rise from the sewers in a ravenous brown flood and consume all in their path.
Further upstream, the Painted Men squatted silently by their currachs, their naked bodies smeared blue with woad. They would be the first to cross, the first to spill the blood of the detested laigi. Moving silently through the night, they would be over the city wall before the sleepy sentries awoke to their presence. Then they would slay and slay and slay.
The Small Folk had been set to a task uniquely suited to their capabilities. These little men spent much of their lives in extensive souterrains, venturing forth only to hunt or gather. Thus, they would be sent into the Catacombs. They would follow the underground passage by which uisge was delivered to laigi smugglers, and then cross the subterranean lake in tiny coracles. When the city’s defenders were fully engaged with the assault upon their walls, the Small Folk would spill from concealed openings scattered throughout the city and fall upon them from behind.
Fergis was busy that night. An unending procession of messengers came and went, came and went. Kings awaited his counsel, chieftains his commands. Wild-eyed shamans brought their prophecies. Famous warriors waited patiently for a chance to bend their knee and swear an oath of fidelity. Beautiful young women offered their services in more personal ways.
Quite unexpectedly, his brother Oengus had appeared before him and begged to pledge his loyalty upon Fergis’s stone scepter, the ancient symbol of kingship. This was the most sacred of vows. Should Oengus betray Fergis now, his own children would be cursed for seven generations. Far worse, he would be remembered as an oath-breaker in story and song.
So Fergis could trust his brother for the moment. He would still have to kill him, but not for a while at least.
The Ard Righ was pleased. The ill-fortune that had delayed his plans had finally passed. The boats and rafts were almost ready. His men were taking their appointed positions. All were in good spirits and eager.
The attack would commence the next night at the rising of the moon.
On the river’s far side, many leagues beyond Gorgonholm, a vastly different force was approaching from the east and south. Avincraik’s most experienced and celebrated warriors, Baron Phineas Hardbottle, Lord Pikadilly Fudg, and Sir Marmaduke Twaddle, answered the summons of their feudal overlord, Earl Ralf Mortimer. Above their heads, proud heraldic banners proclaimed their illustrious lineage.
With them came their personal retinues of knights, squires, and men-at-arms—battle-hardened veterans in leather, mail, and plate. Then the long lines of foot soldiers—tough spearmen and keen-eyed archers clad in padded jacks and iron caps. And, finally, the peasant levies, untrained but eager for blood, armed with the savage weapons of the farmyard—grain flails hastily fitted with crude spiked collars, heavy wooden mauls, razor honed sickles, pruning bills.
This mighty force grew with each passing league as other lords, greater and lesser, joined its ranks. Sir Bors of Ballycock, Sir Stefan Greenwald, Sir Henry Bone, and Lord Balin Runt were eager to fulfill their feudal duty. This great host would join Earl Ralf beneath the walls of Gorgonholm.
Nor were the nobles of the city wanting in courage and devotion. As if awakening from a dream, they suddenly became aware of their plight, stopped their internecine bickering, and turned to face their common foe. Lords Wiffie, Hooey, de Wanque, and de Poot added their armed retainers to the earl’s ranks.
The city’s militia, the Trained Bands, assembled at the municipal armory, each craft guild fielding its own company. Potters, glass-blowers, barbers, clothiers, masons, wheelwrights—Gorgonholm’s stalwart backbone—were issued pikes and crossbows, breastplates and kettle-hats. They followed Sheriff Brandon through the South Gate, determined to defend their shops and homes. Men too old or infirm to march out would guard the gates and man the city walls.
Clerics of all denominations—Blue, Black, White, Brown and even a few surviving Grays—would fight alongside the Trained Bands. The Whites, an especially numerous sect, fielded a large contingent of pikemen. The Blacks, smaller but much wealthier, formed up as a squadron of heavily armored cavalry. The Blues and Browns provided a mixed contingent armed with swords, spears, and crossbows. Charonism was not a pacifistic faith.
Bishop Boniface, the city’s spiritual leader, rode at the head of the holy men. Armed cap-a-pie in plate, he brandished an oversized ceremonial mace. Behind him, young acolytes carried the cathedral’s sacred relics and swung censors of burning herbs to inspire martial ardor.
The women of Gorgonholm, led by a scurrilous fishwife named Barberry, mounted the battlements to stand shoulder to shoulder with their menfolk. They were of all ages and occupations—brawny washerwomen and submissive housewives, bright-eyed ale-pourers and wrinkled crones, unrepentant harlots and habited nuns. They brought hot water, paving stones, and pots of human waste to drop on enemies beneath the walls. Their children were sent to gather cobblestones, broken bricks, and fallen roof tiles—anything that might inflict injury.
The city’s magician’s guild, The Most Sacred Fellowship of Spell-Casters, Alchemists, Diviners, Sorcerers, Philter-Mixers, and Thaumaturgists, gathered in their meeting hall. Armed with amulets, potions, and rods of power, they searched moldy books and crumbling parchments for useful spells of destruction and desolation. Hellish entities were summoned and dispatched on errands of ruin. Wards were laid to counteract the enemy’s psychic attacks.
Bartos Freez, Gorgonholm’s chief engineer, opened the corroded lock and forced apart the creaking doors of dusty warehouse where the city’s war engines were stored—disassembled springalds, ballistae, and mangonels. After years of neglect, the iron fittings were rusted and some of the wood was split and decayed. Most, however, were thankfully sound. Beams, braces, and throwing arms were loaded onto carts and carried to the walls for assembly.
The citizens of Old Shambles—smugglers, pimps, cut-throats, and corner boys—stood by to do their bit. A destroyed city and massacred populous would be, after all, distinctly bad for business. They would not join the Trained Bands nor man the walls. The Shamblers preferred to handle things in their own way.
The famous Hawkwood rode in with his company of hard-bitten mercenaries, famous for their fierce tenacity in battle. Numbering nearly five hundred, they were a most welcome addition to the city’s forces.
And then came Lord Drakar de la Pole, the most fearsome warrior in all of Avincraik—and beyond. The cunning survivor of fifteen mortal battles and dozens of skirmishes and raids. Thrice had he slain his foe in trials-by-combat. Lauded for his hatred for all things Keltin. Infamous for his merciless cruelty.
With these resources, Earl Ralf laid plans to preserve his country from the Keltin onslaught. He would do as the Mortimers had always done—defeat the savage invaders or die in the attempt.
Lord Ubo was unaware of any of these developments. He was concerned only with the humiliation he had suffered during that morning’s abortive raid on the towerhouse. He brooded far into the night, and his thoughts were red thoughts. He would slay all those wretched peasants and drink the blood from their veins, pull down their miserable tower so that not a single stone stood atop another. He would….
Another thought struck him. The peasants had been insolent beyond words, they would all most certainly die, but they had not been the true cause of his defeat. It had been his own men, the woodsmen, who failed. They had refused to press the attack, had routed to the cover of the woods at the first sight of blood.
Their cowardice had given him no choice but to retreat. He and a handful of guardsmen could not have stormed a stoutly defended towerhouse by themselves.
His rabble had cost him a much-needed victory. Worse, they had sullied his honor by forcing him to withdraw most ingloriously in the face of the foe. Something must be done to avenge this affront. Blood was always the best remedy.
He summoned his one-eyed sergeant.
“Pons, assemble your men. Then round up those whey-faced woodsmen who deserted us today. They fled while you and I were facing a deadly storm of arrows. Facing a ballista!”
“Remove the head from every tenth man and arrange them by the main gate. Turn the faces forward—I want their friends to recognize them. Let the message be clear—I will not tolerate poltroonery.”
The sergeant shifted his feet uneasily. He was more than happy to let the woodsmen take the blame, but he had no wish to tangle with the tribe of untamed forest dwellers.
“I dunno, milord. There’s lots of them woodsmen, and ain’t but eight of my men fit to fight. Two of ‘em is hurt bad.”
Ubo was in no mood to hear his excuses.
“Make it happen—I care not how. Get the charcoal burners to help you—they bear little love for the woodsmen. You must make haste. Tomorrow night I will reduce that vile little tower to rubble.”