Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (50 page)

The Rygan officer spoke to the enemy in a loud voice. “Offenders to the crown, you are hereby…”

The robed skeleton interrupted him, but how he formed words was beyond Vincent; his mouth did not move.
“Insignificant mortals,”
a drawn-out, deep, and unearthly voice began to announce,
“I am General Clyde. Today the world begins to die. Kargoth the Almighty is ready to welcome you
.
”
He let his haggard words resound across the field.
“Come to him now. Or be taken.”

A moment passed. The officer didn’t respond to this but instead made a pronouncement. “You are in violation of the king’s law against necromancy,”-a menacing black arrow quickly formed out of the nothing above Clyde’s gray staff-“you will now face summary just…”

Before he could finish saying
justice
, there was a loud whistle and the black arrow struck him squarely in the chest where he stood, piercing his armor. His right hand slowly reached up toward the haft in futility while he looked down at it. His teeth clenched and sweat covered his face during the last painful instants before he fell.

Everyone stood still, gazing in shock, except for Vincent, whose hand found the black handle of his sword and slowly drew it, the quiet scraping of its metal filling the air. He felt a scowl form on his face. From his position among the masses of undead, Clyde let out a deep, otherworldly laugh. His skeletal mouth and jaw still did not move from their closed position. It was unnerving to hear and watch. Master Anthony glared at the body when it hit the ground with a clank, and then redirected it back toward Clyde. Vincent kept his eyes fixed on the dead officer near Master Anthony, expecting treachery, and soon found it.

No sooner had the body fallen, than it began to rise again without even a hand to a knee. An invisible force quickly lifted him into a standing position, his body remaining erect. His head snapped toward Master Anthony, gazing with gray lifeless eyes that had thin black streaks running through them. His sword came out and he made a mad lunge toward their master.

Without looking, Master Anthony lifted his left hand toward him and a harsh wind threw him at least thirty feet to land on his back with several harsh, collective clanks. The blade had nearly touched him. In the next instant while the corpse tried to regain his feet, a thick stream of lightning shattered his entire body in a loud thunderclap, shooting charred pieces everywhere. Men turned heads or lifted shields to avoid being soiled.

Afterward, silence reigned across the field. The time for talking was over. Master Anthony held his hand high and back, his elbow bent, and then swung it forth swiftly toward the enemy. The signal to attack.

Drums began to sound again. Swords were unsheathed everywhere, causing a massive amount of metal scraping. Feet clanked and mail rustled, adding to the cacophony. The flag bearer and the soldiers marched downhill, breaking in their middle to go around the wizards. They rejoined after they passed, keeping their formation tight.

The enormous horde of zombies charged like animals, swinging their arms in disarray. Some couldn’t hold their heads up straight. They crashed into the line of men, who fought back, hacking into them, drawing blood, and severing limbs. The undead bit viciously wherever possible and were resilient to most of these attacks. Rygan soldiers attempted decapitating strikes as they had been instructed. Often there was little room, and they struck at what they could, vertically slicing heads open, exposing blood and brain and chopping off arms. Those of the enemy who were struck in the heads were sometimes downed and sometimes not when only a shallow slice had come off and the damage was not enough. Whenever a leg was hacked off, the corpses still crawled on the ground, biting, grabbing, scratching, and trying to gain advantage while others still standing moved in behind them. Fingers clawed at eyes in a mess of ooze even as the arms they belonged to were being cut off. Wounded men screamed in agony. The undead were not as well armed, only a few had so much as a pitchfork, yet they were durable and quite savage.

And they were numerous.

The worst results came when Rygan soldiers began to fall to the horde and cultists lifted skeletal hands. Many still standing were caught immediately off guard and killed when their dead brothers began to turn on them. Confusion broke out as men had trouble distinguishing friend from foe. The enemy’s new additions were better armored and equipped than their predecessors, deadlier in combat, and harder to kill. The living men fought hard, but winning under such conditions seemed impossible.

Their army quickly started losing ground. Openings were appearing in the front row downhill of the mages, providing small paths for clear aim. Stacy grunted and sent out a thick stream of lightning from her hand that blasted apart its target: a dead Rygan soldier rising to his feet. Other atmomancers quickly joined her, including the man with the iron rod.

While they were occupied with this, black arrows from the skeletal cult members materialized simultaneously and flew at the magi. They were destroyed by lightning bolts from atmomancers and fireballs from Rick and other pyromancers. Three of the arrows hit, killing wizards. Vincent decapitated one near him, and Karl smashed the skull of another in a red spray. The third grabbed a woman by the throat and tried to bite it out. Rick flung a compressed fire spark that blew him apart into burning cinders, but the woman he tried to save was injured by it: thrown on her back by its force, shrieking in severe pain as the pieces burned her face and set her clothes on fire. Someone else bent down to help her, patting her fiercely and trying to beat out the flames with the sleeves from their robe. Her cries of pain continued unabated.

Their side responded in kind by sending more lighting bolts and exploding fire back toward the cultists. Vincent was horrified when the cultists held up skeletal hands in a
stop
gesture and they disappeared a few feet in front of each robed figure. It was as though they had created some kind of invisible shield.

The pyromancer Elf that scouted with Stacy availed himself by sending a wide streak of flame up and over the Rygan soldiers out front to try to consume the undead. The intensity of the heat was enough to sear off flesh, which fell in bright strips, piece by burning piece, yet only set fire to others who then drove into the soldiers as a burning heap. The men used their shields and hacked at them with swords.

Unfortunately, each burning corpse that made it to their line was a serious impediment that only opened the way for others. The breaches were contained at great difficulty. Seeing this, Rick unleashed a similar overarching stream of flame but sent it much further back into the horde. The Elf and other pyromancers desperately started doing the same, trying to stop the men in front from being overwhelmed.

Vincent’s eyes went wide in fright as he saw several green balls of fire much bigger than the cult had used before fly down toward their army. Some hit their front ranks, making explosions that killed many and flung over and burned others. Those who didn’t raise their shields accordingly were wounded by tiny molten fragments of chain mail shot through the air, leaving them in screaming agony. The soldiers that had died from the attack, even those with one side of their bodies missing, immediately began moving and turned against their fellows. A few hesitated and were killed. Other soldiers realized what was happening and fought back.

One of the balls of green flame was aimed directly at their company of wizards, and they all looked up, awaiting their doom. Rick thrust his hands in the air, elbows bent, gritting his teeth, and his whole body began to shake. It came closer. Sweat covered Rick’s face, and he growled in a painful effort. The course of the green blast began to barely steer left of their group during its quick descent.

It wasn’t enough.

The sound tore into his ears. Burning hot pieces of men, chain mail links, and green flame filled everything left in Vincent’s vision. The tiny pieces of metal cut his face and made shallow stabs in his flesh. He threw himself to the ground and rolled while frantically beating his clothes. A deep searing pain came from parts that were on fire and from the hot metal fragments lodged in his skin. He gritted his teeth and released his sword a moment while he hammered like mad. The flame wouldn’t go out fast enough. Nearby, he heard and saw his cousin kicking and screaming on the ground, rolling and yelling every curse known to man. More of him was on fire than Vincent, and Karl frantically used his power to rip dirt from the ground and bury himself with it, keeping only his head uncovered.

Vincent grabbed his sword and stood up, staggering a queasy step from the pain. He immediately noticed that the enemy had torn their formation apart. The rent pockets, including the one just left of him, were generating a lack of cohesion that threatened them with defeat, badly outnumbered as they were.

Without warning, several undead soldiers appeared at his side. They attacked, swinging swords. Vincent leapt back to block one strike while another made a superficial slash to his torso below his rib.

He held a hand to the cut and backed up quickly, going near other wizards who were either dazed and confused or still blasting their relentless enemies out front with magic. The undead soldiers continued to close in on him. With that many swords approaching, caution would not save him. He sent magic into his blade, heating it to the point of being able to cut through metal. He waited until they were just close enough to each other and with a loud yell he swung outward to the right with both hands, cutting through raised swords and the necks of chain mail coifs in a flash of sparks, broken links, and blood. Three headless corpses collapsed.

Another went after Karl where he lay, still covered in dirt.

“
Karl! Look out!” Vincent shouted.

Karl looked up and then closed his eyes and turned away when a shower of red fell on his face and hair. The body collapsed, and his rock made several tugs to pull itself free from the crumpled helmet it was lodged in. Afterward, Karl emerged from the dirt, conserving his energy by not bothering to use his power to remove it, and ran over to Vincent’s side.

Lightning shot out from both of Stacy’s hands in a crack of thunder while sweat poured down her face. Arching streams of fire burnt corpses. Men fought hard against zombies and against their own dead brethren. Many positions were overrun before the men reinforcing them could provide assistance, and the horde was encroaching fast upon the gathered wizards. In quick response, Master Anthony held up the first two fingers of his left hand high over his head and motioned them forward several times.

“
Taylos Naughferre!” (
Arrows ready!
) Vincent heard Deralon shout loud and long in Elvish to his men. “Snighne!” (
Fire!
)

Their mercenary bows unleashed a well-aimed hail fletched with yellow feathers, and many of the men downhill who had been turned were struck down. As good as his word, all but two of the arrows had found their mark, dealing fatal wounds to the heads. Stacy blew another corpse apart with a thick, thunder-cracking band of lightning. The living soldiers gained the upper hand in one of the pockets of contention, and Deralon’s men sent volley after volley, trying to assist at another.

Vincent froze, his eyes wide, unable to breathe as the undead cultists cast more green fire. He watched as the masses of flickering light flew down toward their army. The roaring impacts shook the earth. Rygan soldiers out front were annihilated. Two more massive green blasts arched up and descended toward their group.

“
Deflect them at priority!” Master Anthony yelled, thrusting his hands up into the air. Wizards broke from their supporting attacks to join his effort and were forced to leave the men to guard the front on their own. A high-pitched, screeching wail of blowing air ensued when they unleashed what Vincent knew must have been a terrible wind. Fierce though it must have been, it only caused the two burning masses of green light to slow and separate and not by nearly enough.

Rick was already breathing hard and struggling to move them. “Help me out!” He screamed angrily to the other pyromancers.

They were busy unleashing explosive sparks at the zombies. “We don’t know how!” The yellow-eyed Elf exclaimed frantically.

“
Try it, anyway!” He hollered. Panicked pyromancers in red robes immediately complied.

The balls of flame split from each other somewhat more yet continued coming dangerously closer and closer. Several wizards quickly stepped back and forth, the thought of running clearly on their minds. “STAND AND FIGHT TOGETHER!” Master Anthony shouted to keep discipline.

The flames descended closer.

Fear clenching his insides, Vincent pressed his back up against their group in the center, keeping his sword facing out. Karl stood not far from him. One man in red robes gave up on trying to deflect the barrage, and broke and ran. Two others separated from their group as well.

BOOM!

The paired green balls of light exploded on each side deafeningly but seemed to spare those that remained between them; the two wizards that had separated from them late were destroyed. Black arrows flew. The exhausted magi fought back, stopping most of them. Vincent swung at the necks of zombies rushing in to take advantage. Karl crushed skulls. The first man that fled had joined the approaching enemy throng, one of the black arrows protruding from his chest.