The Tattooed Woman Pt. 32

I hope folks are enjoying the story so far. Please leave comments, as criticism both positive and constructive is inherently useful. Plus, I like reading comments, so that's cool.

Again, a shout out to Avicia for their suggestions and much-needed help with editing this.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 2: A Lesson for Monsters.

The four hunting packs had assembled, with yet others on the way, and though a dozen at least of their great hounds had already been slaughtered by Orcish arrows and more than a few of the remaining were sorely wounded, enough of the slavering beasts yet remained to support her attack or run down those of her foes that eventually fled. A coven of Troll witches had gathered and were already brewing their foul sorcery, and canny Drow assassins skulked in the shadows.

Even holed up as they were with the crumbling walls of the ruined watchtower to offer some little protection, Dullahan was confident she had amassed sufficient strength to crush a single Company of Dark Elves and their Orcish and Human mercenaries.

Still, the bastards had a warlock of some sort among their number, and the effect his conjured familiar had upon the Trollwife who had exchanged words with the thing caused her to be leery. Even so, despite her concerns, with the superior numbers at her disposal, and with reinforcements near to hand, it would likely be best to press the assault without undue delay, as pausing would only give this enemy spellcaster time to invoke some further mischievous necromancy.

Turning to the gnarled bony creature squatting nearby, she gestured down towards the enemy position, "Tell me, witch, what is it about that creature down there that vexed you so? Your reaction was... singular."

The Troll hunched lower and glowered at the Drow, "She spoke old names, dread names, names of power."

"What names?"

"The creature claimed to be blood kin to the Morrigan, but..."

Dullahan guffawed, "That old wife's tale? The Gods abandoned us long ago, witch. Now we must fend for ourselves and not pander to stories of ancient magi."

The witch hissed, "Do not mock! The Trow still remember the Old Ones, and the name of the Morrigan casts a long dark shadow upon my kin. We did not worship her as some folk did, but we recognise her power. Do you think we were always thus, Drow? We were fair! We had command of potent spirits of Earth and Sky, and in our arrogance, we defied her. And look how she repaid that defiance!"

Dullahan gave the thing a wicked smile, "Indeed, you are hardly comely, are you?"

The witch hissed malevolently and turned to go, but the Drow continued, "So, do you think this spirit is as she claims then, some lost child of the Phantom Queen?"

In the distance the mournful cries of the bean-sidhe echoed about the barrows, and the witch paused a moment to listen to their keening before turning back to the Drow, "I think, Dullahan, that it is most likely a Demon, and it is doing what those vile spirits always do. It invokes fear and strife, terror and doubt, or so I hope."

"You hope?"

"Oh, aye Drow, something you should hope for too, I think, for the alternative would be a truly terrifying thing."

Dullahan eyed the creature with a thoughtful expression, "Regardless of your hopes and fears, you still say this spirit is possessed of troubling potency. So tell me witch, what magics can you offer to deal with it?"

The Troll favoured the Night Elf with a vile hungry leer, "Fret not little Drow. My sisters and I have well prepared, and this place offers us no little grist for our mill. You may make your attack, and should this spirit prove troublesome, you will see that our art is powerful enough to sate even your needs."

The Packmaster turned a cold glare upon the witch, and her voice held more than a note of vindictive malice, "As you say, but I warn you Troll, I am done tolerating insolence or failure this day. If your boasts prove false, I shall wear your skin for a cloak before I'm done with you."

Dullahan's unblinking stare held the creature's eyes for a long moment until, with a growl, it was obliged to avert its gaze. Nodding the Drow drew a breath, "Then let's be about this bloody business."

Her standard-bearer stood in the shadow of the nearby cromlech, and at her gesture, the Firbolg lifted the curved hunting horn that hung at his waist and blew the clarion call that signalled the attack.

With a hideous howling roar, the packs surged forward.

...

From her position in the ruins Magda watched the ravening, screaming swarm of monsters charging towards them and turned to the red-bearded man beside her with a grim smile. "I don't know how, but I'd wager a gold against a full chamber pot that this is somehow all your fault."

Gorsini hefted the longsword in his hands and gave her a wry chuckle. "You know, I would not be fucking surprised. If it wasn't for just one little thing, I'd be pretty sure that my life was entirely cursed."

"What thing?"

He grinned, "You."

The woman sniffed as she tried to hide her smile, "Do not die this day, Gorsini."

"So, you do care?"

Magda snorted, "Fuck no! But I promised to break your nose someday, and you're not getting off that easy."

...

Across the battlefield, Orcish arrows rained down upon the advancing foe. Some missed their mark, and some hammered into the hide shields the Firbolg held aloft. But others hit the hounds that ranged ahead of the main body of attackers, and they hit hard. Within moments, a score of the fel beasts had fallen as the wickedly barbed missiles slammed into them with deadly effect.

Nyx strode alongside the archers, ignoring incoming arrows as she called out insults and encouragement in equal measure. "Who taught you to shoot, you fucking eejit?! I've seen officers do better! Shoot straight you bastard! That's it! Keep at it; keep hitting those curs! What the fuck? How could you miss?"

Whipping her own bow round, she unerringly slammed an arrow into the eyeball of a charging hound. "See?! It's not fucking difficult! Maybe Orcs can't shoot as well as Dark Elves! Is that it?"

The answering roar made her grin.

Eyeing the approaching mass of enemies with the skill of hard centuries of experience, she expertly gauged their rate of advance and spat. "Right! You fuckers up high keep shooting! The rest of you bastards get ready, aaannndd... Shields up!"

As one the Orcs dropped their bows and moved their broad shields into position as they hefted axe and spear in gleeful readiness.

Moments later the enemy ranks crashed into their positions and the bloodletting began in earnest.

Adair watched the howling mass of Firbolg, Drow and feral beast charging towards her and sighed. Not since the Morrigan's War had one of the Danu taken up arms and stepped in person upon the field of battle. Mortals had such short memories that they had long forgotten what this meant.

Today they would be reminded.

Slavering, howling, screaming and bellowing the enemy reached her.

With a wild laugh the tattooed woman brought her spear round in a wicked blurring arc and the gleaming blade scythed through mail, flesh, fur and bone with equal disdain. A great splash of blood splattered on the ancient stones of the crumbling walls as hewn limbs and severed body parts were left in its wake, and the front rank of attackers was mown down like so much gory chaff. Whirling the blade like a dervish Adair's next stroke was equally terrible.

All around the perimeter the enemy threw themselves at the defence, arrows whipped past each other, and the air was filled with the deafening roar and clamour of battle. The Firbolg were wild and feral, vicious and cruel, but the fury of the Orcs matched them. The heavy blades of their battle-axes tore through hide shields as though they were paper and reaped bloody havoc upon the lightly armoured attackers.

Man and boy, Gorsini had been a sellsword for near enough his entire life, and his longsword wove a crimson web as he brutally hewed down one foe after another. At his side, Magda fought as though she were one of the Valkyrie that haunted the legends of her folk, and her spear was coated in blood from blade to shaft.

A crossbow quarrel fired by a sly Drow took the bearded man in the chest. His mail turned the bolt, but he staggered and a group of snarling Firbolg rushed to press their advantage. Magda shrieked and the wild magic of her voice caused the nearest to simply explode in a crimson spray while the others were merely reduced to screaming torches as brilliant flames ignited across their bodies. Gorsini beheaded one while she impaled the other with a thrust so vicious the tip of her spear protruded from its back.

Breathing hard the man picked bits of charred meat from his beard and took in their gore-spattered state before eying the woman with a bloody grin, "Really?"

"Oh, shut up and fight."

Foul spirits, conjured and summoned by Trollish witches, hovered over the battlefield eyeing the mortals hungrily, but the magics of Quintus fended them off before they could cause mischief. Those that came too close were swiftly dispelled and fell back screaming into the void.

On the other side of the ruin Muriah was fucking terrified! For the Captain had placed herself where the battle was thickest, and all about her was chaos and mayhem as madness and violence reigned across the battlefield. Ashunara grabbed her and firmly planted the young Dark Elf behind her, "Stay by me girl, and if anyone gets too close take your pigsticker and jab them with the pointy end!"

Moments later the words proved prophetic as a trio of Firbolg crested the runed wall. One was immediately hacked down by an Orc but the other two leapt past the warrior and launched themselves at the Dark Elves with ululating war cries.

Ashunara intercepted one and deftly sliced its spear in twain with one swipe of her sword before cutting its throat with a vicious backhand stroke.

The other leapt straight for Muriah with an enraged scream. Stumbling backwards, she instinctively raised her spear and the thing impaled itself upon the blade with a wet grunt. The next instant Ashunara's blade licked out in a blur and took its head off.

Hauling her back up to her feet the Captain grinned fiercely, "There you go lass, just do that a couple of hundred more times and you'll have won the battle for us."

Still trembling the young woman forced herself to swallow her fear and gave Ashunara a wide-eyed grin that only looked slightly panicked, "Bring them on."

"Good girl."

...

From her vantage point Dullahan looked down upon the carnage and felt herself grow increasingly vexed. The battle for the ruined walls was hotly fought but the contest for the gate was nothing more than a ruinous slaughter as the madly laughing Demon holding it ruthlessly cut down everything that came with her reach. More than a score of bodies lay hacked and hewn at her feet and every time she swung that fucking spear blood would spray across the stone as she sent more foes screaming on the road to Hell. Already the attack had faltered as those facing her began to fear to approach.

Turning to the Troll the Drow snarled, "Work your magics Witch. Kill that fucking thing!"

"If that is your command?"

"Yes! Do it now!"

The Trollwife looked to her sisters who howled and cackled by the bonfire they had lit. In response to their conjuring the witchfire conflagration burned ever higher, ever brighter, and with an evil laugh she turned back to Dullahan with an exultant cry, "Look upon our works then Drow, and bear witness to the potency of our dread craft!"

Stalking to the crumpled figure of Feroth she crouched by the maimed creature and stroked a clawed hand across the scarred face of the tortured hunter, "Sweet, sweet sacrifice, I supped long and well upon your strength, but I also made promise of glory did I not?"

The creature moaned in pain.

"Hush now child, here let me help you."

With a clawed hand she curled the hunter's fingers around the ancient stone dirk she had left him and raised the blade so its graven point rested against his chest. Staring into his eyes she gave the Firbolg an evil leer, "One last bit of pain and the deed is done. And then, ohhh, then you shall possess such power before the darkness takes you."

Casting her eyes back to Dullahan she gave the woman a terrible smile, "Call back your forces Drow, or watch them die!"

Still staring into the Drows eyes, she slowly pushed the stone blade hilt deep into Feroth's chest and spoke a word of obscene power.

For a moment all was still, then like a herald of dread, a fetid breeze blew across the barrows and the crows took flight from the trees in a cawing black cloud.

With a growing rumble and a groan, the earth shook and split open as the unquiet dead of that ancient battlefield rose from where they had fallen. Mighty towering figures of undead giants, covered in soil and dirt, wearing the remains of ancient mouldering armour stood. And in answer to the eldritch command, they reached for the rusted remains of the weapons they had wielded in life before turning to begin their march upon the tower.

Behind them, the air was rent by a terrible sound as there came a mighty bellowing roaring noise! The earth heaved upwards and tore apart like a giant bursting blister as a great scaled form hauled itself free from the ancient stones and grasping roots that had buried it.

The cadaverous form of the long-dead Dragon erupted from the ground in an avalanche of muck and soil as it violently tore itself free. Its great taloned claws biting deep into the dark loam, carving and crushing rock even as it uprooted trees and scattered ancient standing stones with a careless sweep of its mighty tail. Of its wings only skeletal shapes remained, but Dragonscale is harder and more obdurate than the strongest steel and the bones and teeth of such a thing does not rot in the cold earth as do those of mortal creatures.

With a violent shaking of its serpentine neck, it discarded the detritus of its long slumber, and brilliant incandescent flames ignited deep in the eye sockets of that terrible fanged skull as it peered about.

Rearing back, the monster gave forth a scream of hungry rage, and with a slow deliberate beating of its great skeletal wings it began to rise into the air.

Stepping up alongside her old friend Nyx gazed at the flying horror and sniffed, "Well, that's not good."

Ashunara looked out at the battlefield and the host of towering forms shambling closer, and her grin was equal parts wild and feral. It was the unsettling smile of a Dark Elf and when she turned to Nyx the old veteran could see the savage gleam in her eyes, "Undead? These Drow have been raiding hapless humans for too long. They forget who it is they fight this day. We are the Sidhe, and we are not afraid of a few boogeymen!"

Nyx chuckled, "Well, that's because we usually are the boogeymen."

"Then let us remind them of this. Have your archers nock with cold iron and silver, distribute salt and fire for when the bastards draw close, and we shall soon send these lanky cadavers crawling back to their barrows."

Nyx drew a draught from her flask before passing it over with a nod, "Righto, Boss."

The Captain took a swallow of the proffered libation and pursed her lips, "Here now, what's this? Some new brew?"

"Not sure, I filched it from the bar before we left. I think 'tis called Drumshanbo," she grinned, "it's not half bad, has a wee bit of bite to it."

Ashunara grinned as she passed the flask to Muriah. The younger Dark Elf sniffed at it suspiciously before taking a taste. After she finally finished coughing and could breathe again, she wheezed, "Holy fuck, you drink this stuff?"

"Aye, pretty good, no? Keep it, I stole a couple."

With a grin the Captain made a gesture of dismissal, "Off you go now you demented tippler. Be about the business at hand."

"Aye, Captain!"

With a salute and a final wink at Muriah the old soldier moved off.

Muriah watched her go, "Did she just salute?"

"Pay no mind, 'tis the banner. She always gets strange around the thing; besides, she's probably drunk."

Turning the Captain peered about her position. The crackle of a thunderbolt drew her attention, and she watched as a lurid streak of magic leapt out from the walls, reaching out to touch one of the undead giants, blowing it in half in a brilliant fiery blast.

She nodded in appreciation of the spectacle before letting out a bellow, "Quintus! Stop showing off and get over here!"

When the young man jogged up, she held up a hand, "Take your ease there a moment, you'll wind yourself."

"I'm fine, Captain, truly."

"Well, that's good to hear," moving alongside him she patted the man on the back and pointed out at the monstrous form of the undead Dragon that was drawing ever closer "because I'd quite like you to bring that down for me, there's a good fellow."

He swallowed, "What?"

She drew a breath and scratched the tip of one ear, "Do you see yon flying monster, just over there? The one that's getting nearer even as we speak? Well, if it's not too much of a bother, could you mayhap do something about it before it kills us all?"

The man looked at the thing and back to the Dark Elf standing before him, "B-but it's a Dragon!"

She snorted, "That's no Dragon! That's a flying corpse held together by evil spirits and necromancy. So just do what you're good at and burn that fucking Lich right out of the sky!"

The man gave her a wide-eyed stare and swallowed, "Uh, yes Captain."

With a smile the Dark Elf moved close enough to whisper, "Do this thing for me, Quintus and I'll personally tell Rose how you slew a Dragon and saved us all. You'll have to use a stick to keep her off you."

The man blushed, "You think so?"

"Dear Gods man! By the time the tale is told in full there will be nubile Dark Elven maidens lining up from here to The Veil looking to share your company."

"Rose is enough for me."

Ashunara shook her head in good-natured exasperation, "Humans! I'll never understand you."

The Wizard gave her a boyish grin and drew a breath as he hefted the iron blasting rod he had forged under the hard tutelage of Fiamma Vor. The device felt cold and heavy in his hands, and it hummed with deadly intent, for it had been crafted for this very purpose.

"I'll do my best, Captain."

She nodded, but as he turned back to the walls she stopped him with a hand upon his shoulder, "Quintus. You have already done much for me and my sisters. And regardless of what happens here I am grateful. Should you ever need me to repay this debt you have but to ask."

"There are no debts between friends, Captain."

She smiled and shook her head, "That is not our way..."

"It is mine."

Clambering up onto the walls the Wizard drew upon his magic as he focused his will. The black rod he wielded crackled and steamed as the sky overhead darkened with a disquieting grumble of thunder.

In the gloom Orcish bows began to sing, and fireflies of magical fire ignited on the nearest of the shambling corpses as a hail of arrows tipped with cold iron and silver fell upon them.

Ignoring such petty distractions, the Wizard raised the blasting rod to the Heavens and spoke one of the Words of Power taught to him by the ancient Battlemage of House Varro.

Quintus jabbed the device towards the flying monster and with a high-pitched scream of tortured metal the iron rod in his grasp flexed spasmodically like some tormented living thing as he drove his will through it. The runes he had painstakingly engraved by hand all along its length ignited, multiplying the power of his spell tenfold and the firebolt it spat forth was an incandescent orb almost as bright as the sun.