The Tattooed Woman Pt. 41

All the best to those following this story.

Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 41: Demon's; Aren't We All.

The walls of Miosgan Meadhba were a maelstrom of fire and madness, and upon its battlements, mayhem reigned.

With drums rolling and horns sounding, the enemy host marched into a steel-tipped blizzard of arrows and shrieking scorpion bolts that cut them down in their scores. Yet they came on, utterly careless of cost and casualty alike. The fallen lay in heaps, and even if only wounded, they were callously trampled underfoot by the advancing army.

A fetid host of undead draugr shuffled forth, driven by the fevered will of the necromancers that raised them. Arrows thudded into their dead flesh, and here and there, a walking corpse, riddled and pierced by a score of crow-fletched shafts, would stumble and fall. But the dead cared not for such things, and heedless of the storm, they continued their shambling advance, and behind them came the Firbolg.

Using the undead horde as foul shields, they surged forward in a wild rush until they were close enough for their shortbows to range upon the walls, and there, they halted. Bows creaked as they were drawn; there was a moment of dreadful silence, then with a sound like the onrush of a winter's gale, ten thousand arrows filled the sky, and the first of the defenders began to fall.

The undead reached the moat, and without pause, they heeded the commands of their dreadful masters and simply walked unhesitatingly into the murky, blood-stained water. Their numbers seemed limitless, for the enemy had been gathering them for an age. There were Firbolg and Orc, Dwarf, and even storm and hill giants among their foul ranks. Most disconcerting to the defenders were Dark Elf revenants, among whom could be spotted deceased loved ones. Others had been raised upon the march, animated from the corpses found in the plundered farms, slaughtered villages and massacred towns the horde had left in their wake. These were simple farmers and townsfolk; women, children, it mattered not. For they had all been callously murdered and then, in turn, given a vile semblance of life and set to murderous purpose.

Rank upon rank of them followed, falling, stumbling and splashing until there were so many that the waters of the moat seemed to thrash as if filled to the brim by innumerable writhing eels. Then, like stinking, mud-covered crabs, they began to crawl ashore on the far side.

Off towards the main gate, a host of Ogres bellowed their warcries and advanced doggedly across the bridge that led to scarred and scorched bastions that had held them at bay for so long. They were armed with wicked spiked mauls; their armour was thick, and they held broad shields before them as they came. Some fell, but the others came on, stepping uncaring over the bloody corpses of their fallen kin, singing their barbaric warsongs and snarling as the hot baresark rage began to consume them. Behind them came trollwives, driving them forth with screams and flaying the backs of the slowest with barbed whips. One Ogre jerked as he felt the petty sting of the lash as it nicked his ear. Spinning, he bellowed his rage and smashed the offending troll to gory ruin with a single sweep of his maul. Other trolls shrieked, but the thing just laughed as it turned its back upon them and continued to move forward.

Reaching the gate, they began to batter it with picks, hammers and axes. Many went down, pierced by arrow and quarrel, but others simply lifted the bodies, and even though some were but wounded, they tossed them carelessly from the bridge to clear the way. The frenzied battering continued unabated, and slowly, surely, the great strength of the monsters took its inevitable toll, and the thick wood of the armoured gate began to crack and splinter.

Laden Gnomes moved past the archers, and with skilful fingers, heedless of the mayhem about them, they began to assemble the pontoons that would allow the moat to be crossed. Behind them, just beyond the range of easy bowshot, the reserves stood ready, assembled in endless dark lines, with scaling ladders at the fore.

Upon the walls, Kasa-Dur swore venomously as she saw what was developing below. She spat and bellowed, "Load silver! Load cold iron! Ready the alchemist's fire! If these cunts want to play silly bastards, then let's show them we're game!"

There was a roar from the nearest defenders as her orders were carried out, and below, the first of the undead fell as the silver arrowheads set them aflame while the cold iron unravelled the spells that animated them.

She grinned, and then a hard hand jerked her aside as a javelin slammed into the battlement where her head had been but a moment before. She turned to the old Orc at her side and gave him a wolfish smile of thanks. The scarred warrior shook his head and muttered, "Maybe too much Orc in you. Might get you in trouble one day."

"Ha! You should be so lucky!"

Turning to a handful of archers, she pointed across the moat. "Hey, fuckers! Are Orcs not better shots than those bastards? Kill a few for me, and I'll buy you a pint tonight," a movement caught her eye, and suddenly she pointed, "NECROMANCER!"

There was a roar, and the warbows sang their dreadful song. The figure was instantly transfixed by a score of barbed arrows that punched into its body. As it fell, the undead about him collapsed or went mad with bloodlust and attacked whoever was within reach. Kasa eyed the blood-soaked madness and grinned, "Nice!"

Overhead, Dragons emerged from the storm clouds and dove upon the city with fire and venom pouring from their jaws. The great shadows of their outstretched wings fell across the defenders, but where men and Elves might quail at such a sight, the Orcs simply bellowed back defiance and turned their bows to the sky, for they were hardy folk, and not given to fear.

The skies darkened ominously, and with a deafening peal of thunder, a great fork of lightning lit the heavens! It struck a dragon squarely, wreathing it from wingtip to wingtip in crackling fire, and the thing screamed.

Trailing smoke, the monster fell from the sky, plummeting to the earth and impacting among the ranks of the attackers, crushing scores in an explosion of blood and dirt. But from the crater came enraged screams and thrashing noises showing that, hurt or no, the thing was not done yet.

Suddenly, from along the walls, there was a noise the like of which had not been heard in an age, and the waters of the moat first boiled and then exploded into flame. Like a river of fire erupting from an active volcano, it engulfed the attackers and charred them to the bone in an instant. The heat from the spell washed over the walls, and even the Orcs recoiled.

Looking back, Kasa Dur saw a figure standing upon a high battlement with burning staff in hand. She slapped the Orc on the shoulder as she laughed wildly, "Look! A Battlemage!"

The Magus pointed to the sky, and thunderbolts rained down upon the enemy army, blasting holes in their ranks and wreaking havoc and chaos as Firbolg, Ogre and undead alike were blown apart or incinerated where they stood. But despite the ruin she inflicted, more, and yet more, of the enemy, took their place, and the attack barely slowed.

A Dragon swept down, and the figure was driven back as a torrent of flame washed across the walls where she had stood, and sparks flew as dreadful talons, curved, razor-sharp, and each as long and lethal as a scimitar scored the battlements. A livid thunderbolt caught the beast on the side of the head, and it reeled away, screaming in rage.

Below, the battle raged on.

...

Ashunara stared at the spellgate before her. The magical vortex writhed in a sinuous, non-Euclidean way that somehow drew the eye and twisted the mind, but despite its hypnotic attraction, her thoughts were elsewhere, and she all but ignored the thing.

Around her, the encampment was abuzz with frantic activity. It looked to all the world like a nest of angry ants that had been kicked over, but centuries of soldiering revealed the order and efficiency of her Company as the veteran troops made ready, and she swore as she shook her head with a heavy sigh.

Nyx appeared at her side and eyed her for a long moment, "You're thinking of leading us through, aren't you?"

Turning to her old friend, the Captain snorted, "Tell me I'm wrong, Nyx. Tell me it's an unwarranted risk that'll likely get us all killed. Tell me I'm an idiot."

Nyx grinned, "With pleasure. You're an idiot, it's a stupid, fucking risk, it's going to get us killed, oh, and did I say you were an idiot."

"Twice."

"Yeah, but some things are worth repeating. Did it make you feel better?"

Ashunara grinned, "Not in the least, you old pirate."

Producing a flask, the old veteran passed it to her and sniffed, "Tell me your thoughts, Captain, and I'll give ye the best advice I can."

"As you always have, Nyx."

The woman grinned, "Not always, mind that time in yon wee Goblin-town down on the Borderlands when I insisted we try the "Orcish chicken"? I think I had the shits for a week."

Ash took a swig and chuckled, "Oh fuck, I remember! Gods, it felt like my arse was on fire for days. You know, I don't think that was really chicken."

"You think!"

Nyx took a swig from the flask and passed it back, "What ails you then, lass?"

"Tis this; the enemy outnumbers us greatly, and they have Dragons. Surely the Matriarchs will try to match them with our battlemages, but those flying bastards are so swift they can turn up fucking anywhere! Once we get trapped behind that siege, as is likely, they could disengage and fly off to the capital. With the bulk of the army stuck here, the city is defended by nothing more than household guards and a bunch of crusty old bitches well past their glory days. They could burn the place to the ground by dinnertime."

She turned to her old friend, "We need to match them."

"How?"

"Ellén is a Dragon, and you heard Adair. She has an accord of some kind with the thing's mother, who I presume is an older, more powerful creature.

"If it was just the one, I would say the risk was too great. I mean, I like the girl as much as any, and she did save our bacon at the tower, but the odds are piled against us. Even so, you heard Adair! The woman is determined to make the attempt, and I doubt there is anything you or I could do or say to dissuade her."

She pointed at the gate, "Once she passes through that thing, any enemy with half a brain that realises what's going on will draw their troops up behind her and block her retreat, or worse! They'll call up a handful of Drow sorcerers and seal the portal, trapping her. We'll lose Adair, we'll lose Ellén, and possibly the creature's mother will withdraw her support for our cause or even turn against us. And if that happens, we likely lose the war, and we'll die."

Nyx nodded sagely and pursed her lips, "On reflection, that doesn't sound too good, does it?"

"No, it does not. So, what's your advice?"

Draining the flask, the old veteran laughed, "My advice? What the fuck do you need my advice for? You made up your mind long before I wandered over here, but either way, Ash, I have your back."

The Captain shook her head with a wry grin, "As you always have. Now, go gather the troops. Time is pressing, and we must make our move."

"By your command, Captain!"

"And Nyx?"

"Aye?"

"Thanks."

The veteran gave a mock salute and grinned, "'Tis what I'm here for, Boss."

The Captain eyed her old friend, "And listen well, Nyx, if you fucking die on me, I'll..."

Nyx grinned, "I know you'll dock my pay."

Ashunara sniffed and looked away, "No, I'd miss you..."

...

Garrow stalked down the corridor like a prowling wolf. The wound to her side had been treated, and gently so, which confused her significantly, for she was more accustomed to far rougher and harsher use. Indeed, in the brutal regime of the arena dungeons, injuries were distinctly commonplace, and she normally had to bind, sew or simply sear the wounds she suffered closed herself, using such rudimentary tools as a length of catgut or an iron nail heated over a candle.

She was unused to anyone wasting coin on a healer for the likes of her, and yet, within an hour of her return to the manse, one had attended to her in her chamber. And no cheap surgeon either, but an actual apothecary, and a sober one to boot! The old fellow had muttered to himself as he washed and cleaned the stab wound in her side most thoroughly before stitching it closed and carefully applying a soothing poultice. Then Garrow had watched in amazement as he had his apprentice pour a measure of some malodorous concoction from a flask the wench had produced from the satchel she carried.

The Half Orc had eyed the brew suspiciously, "What's that?"

The girl, a lass probably no older than Cassie, had smiled brightly as she held it out, "Why, 'tis a healing tincture, Miss. It'll fix you up right as rain by morning, I should think. Here," she set the measure upon the nightstand and then placed a small linen-wrapped packet next to it, "some chocolate to take the taste away and make the medicine go down easier as they say."

"Are you taking the piss?"

"Oh, no, Miss! I'd not dare, truly. The Doctoré brews the potion himself, and it's marvellous effective, but some of the patients claim it be a little... harsh on the tongue. I just thought the chocolate would help."

The old man looked up from cleaning his instruments and gave the Half-Orc a wry grin "'Tis not untrue, I'm afraid. The tincture is most efficacious, but it tastes like shite, or so I'm told. I've tried cutting it with gin, but all that happens is you pass out and wake with the most hellacious hangover. No doubt I'll get the mixture right eventually. But, in the meantime, just get it down your neck, mayhap after a bite of food would be best, or it'll curdle your stomach, and if you throw it up, I'll have to see to its replacement."

He finished packing his tools and passed the bag to the girl before turning his attention back to Garrow, "Right, that's me done. You'll live, methinks. The wound was deep enough, but I'm glad to say you've the constitution of a damned horse, and by tomorrow I'd wager you'll be none the worse for wear."

Garrow nodded her thanks, "Um, Doctoré, how's Hildegard?"

He sniffed, "Well, I'm off to see her now, but I doubt she's in any danger. She'll be in a bit of pain, and she'll surely be weak from blood loss, but I'll soon fix her up."

The Half-Orc's eyes narrowed, "Wait, you came to see me first? Before her? Was this something she ordered?"

Snorting in annoyance, the man waved a hand dismissively, "Oh, she bleated some shite to that effect, but the day I take medical advice from some swooning twit, will be the day I turn in my scalpels. No, lass, the decision was mine, and it was an easy enough one to make. 'Tis simply that you were the most sorely hurt, nothing more. Her cut appeared messy but superficial, and the younger lass suffered nothing more serious than a black eye."

"And none of the nobles made objection to you seeing to the likes of me before treating someone of higher station?"

"Fuck them. I came out of retirement from being Master of Medicine on the understanding that the Matriarch does not interfere in my work, provides me facilities for my research, and that she pays me handsomely," he grinned, and his eyes twinkled mischievously, "Well, that and the opportunity to sometimes examine a nimble young Dark Elf doesn't go amiss."

Garrow gave a snort of laughter at his happy leer, "At your age? For shame, man."

"My age? Dammit, woman, the youngest of these pixies are likely old enough to be my great-grandmother at least."

"Fair point," she picked up the measure of tincture and sniffed it gingerly before knocking it back in a single swallow. Her reaction was instantaneous, "ACK! Fuck! Dear Gods, man! That stuff is singularly foul! What the fuck did you make it from? The sweat from an Orc's balls?"

The man looked thoughtful, "Hmm, now you mention it, Orcs have a reputation of stamina and fortitude, and 'tis well known the humors are concentrated in such organs... Mayhap such an ingredient might actually increase its potency. What say you, apprentice?"

The young woman had picked up the chocolate and handed it to Garrow, who thankfully stuffed it into her mouth, "I think, Master, that you should not tease your patient so."

"Quite right, lass, but I'm old and can wear purple and a red hat as is my wont."

"Huh?"

"Never mind, lass, you'll understand one day."

That was earlier in the day, and now Garrow was prowling the halls looking for a particular individual. She had ranged through the usual places, but eventually, she spotted the woman she sought stalking along a hallway by the servants' quarters. The figure was tall, dressed in her usual sombre black. As Garrow watched, she paused to bend and run the finger of a gloved hand along the skirting board. Seemingly satisfied by what she found, she continued upon her rounds and moved from sight as she turned down a side corridor.

Garrow hurried after her but, upon reaching the intersection, found the passage distinctly empty. To one side, she could hear laughter from the kitchens, while to the other, there came the smell of the distant baths. The corridor itself, however, appeared deserted, yet the strange scent of the Dark Elf hung tantalisingly faint in the air, so she paused, her eyes flicking from side to side.

The sound behind her was the merest whisper, but it brought her whirling around, falling instinctively into a half crouch, teeth bared. There, standing not six feet away, Matron Livia watched her impassively. The woman tilted her head slightly, "Greetings to you, Garrow, you look well."

"How... was that magick?"

The Dark Elf smiled, "Only the magick of a misspent youth perhaps, that and having abided within this house for centuries and knowing well the sounds of each floorboard and the whispers of every draft," she sniffed, "you were... hunting me?"

Grinning at the choice of words, the Half-Orc snorted, "I was looking for you true enough."

"I see. How then may I serve?"

"I need to leave the house."

The woman stared at her for a long moment before turning and inclining her head slightly along the corridor in invitation, "Walk with me."

Garrow moved alongside the enigmatic Dark Elf, "Look, I want to go back to yon dress shop."

"Indeed?"

"Aye, look, those knife-wielding bastards that came at us somehow knew where we were headed and had time to arrange an ambush despite us not having decided on our course until we were at the dress shop. I'd like to go back there and see who was eavesdropping and who sold us out, for I fancy having a few words with them."

"And would those words perchance be punctuated by the merry percussion of someone's head being bounced off any solid object that might be conveniently to hand?"

The towering Half-Orc sniffed, "I'd doubt they'd measure such convenience favourably, but otherwise, I couldn't rightly say. Still, I'd wager it's not an entirely impossible outcome."

"Quite."

The Dark Elf considered as she walked along the hallway. Garrow was suddenly struck by how quietly the woman moved. There was no sound of light footfall, no swish of skirt or rustle of cloth, and her sombre garb oft seemed to blend with the shadows. She wore no bright jewellery or trinket, and only her silver hair glittered in the light of the witchfire lamps.

"Mind you, yon dark sash she wears about that slender waist of hers could be whipped around those tresses quick enough, methinks."

Livia eyed her, and her lips quirked as if seeing the younger woman's thoughts, but still, she shook her head, "Your reasoning appears sound, to be sure, but I do not think it wise for you to engage in this enquiry at this time."