The Tattooed Woman Pt. 42

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 42

All the best to those following this story. Sorry for the delay, I had a wee spell in hospital (all's well, but it was a pest)

Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input. Their help is really invaluable.

As always, comments are welcome and encouraged.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 42: A Lesson in Fire

Kasa Dur swore venomously as the blade of her sword shattered against the scale armour of a ravening firbolg packlord. Cackling, it clambered over the battlements and as it did so the thing's mouth split in a vile grin, revealing a row of teeth filed into bloody points. But, just as swiftly, its smile turned to a look of disbelieving horror as she hurled the hilt of her broken sabre fully into its face, before snatching up the battleaxe of a fallen warrior and bringing it down on the beast's skull with a furious scream of rage. The creature's helmet split with a hollow sound, not unlike that of an egg being cracked, and it crumpled in a bloody heap at her feet. Gripping the heavy weapon in two hands, she spun it in a vicious arc, decapitating the next of the monsters to scale the wall behind it, and then laughed like a madwoman as the headless corpse was sent pinwheeling from the parapet in a bloody arc, dragging at least three of its companions with it.

Looking about, she saw her orc struggling to fend off three attackers and grinned; "And when exactly did the ugly bastard become MY orc?" The ground around it was a veritable carpet of gore, painted crimson with blood, and strewn with hacked corpses and hewn body parts, all giving mute testimony to the savagery of the old warrior. His armour was rent, a spear had been driven deep into its shoulder, and it was slowly giving ground, spitting defiance with every step.

With a bloodcurdling yell, she charged, swinging the ungainly weapon with a grunt of effort. The heavy blade hacked into the spine of the nearest attacker with a meaty sound, dropping him like a felled log. One of the others snarled, turning on her, as she struggled to pull the weapon clear. Releasing the haft, she drew her dagger and leapt straight at it, laughing at the look of surprise that crossed its face. The beast staggered as she pounced, wrapping her legs about its powerful torso and bearing it backwards as she buried the blade hilt-deep into its neck. Wrenching the dirk clear, she stabbed again and again as the beast crumpled. Rolling clear of the twitching corpse, she came up behind the third and deftly cut its throat with a savage slash.

The orc gripped the spear impaling his shoulder.

"Wait! Don't just pull it..."

With a defiant bellow, the old warrior wrenched the bloody blade that had almost skewered him free, before hurling it away in disgust.

The dark elf sighed, "Never mind."

Looking about, she surveyed the remains of her Command, all battling furiously to stem the horde of attackers swarming up the scaling ladders in an endless tide of blood-mad savagery. The defending orcs were outnumbered beyond count, but their answering fury was undaunted as they met their enemy blade to blade.

After the fall of the broch of Kouni, she and the orc who saved her had taken almost three days to reach the besieged city. By then, she was thoroughly delirious from thirst, blood loss and fever caused by the many wounds she had suffered. Once the healers were finally done with her, she had been summoned to give her account of the battle. She had fully expected to be chastised and condemned for the destruction of her command but instead had been offered a chance to retire from the siege and return home in honour. Remembering the massacre she had witnessed, the death of her aunt, and those who had died fighting at her side, she had refused.

The Warmaiden commanding the city defences was a grizzled creature who wore her plate armour like a second skin and had eyes of hardened flint. She had given Kasa Dur a knowing look and nodded with a wry, and probably rare, grin, "Very well, Captain, let us see if we can find something more... useful for you to do instead."

Now, looking at the carnage all about, she idly wondered if her decision to decline plaudits for a battlefield command might just have been a tad... impetuous.

Standing alongside her troops, she spat her exhortation, "Hold them! HOLD THEM!"

Turning, she grabbed the robe of a passing healer, "Tend his wounds!"

The orc growled, "I can figh-"

"Shut up and do as you're told."

The healer snorted, "'Tis just an orc, I have no magic to spar-"

The dagger that came up under her chin and the wild glare of its welder held more than sufficient eloquence to instantly still the protest, "That wasn't a fucking request!"

"But... It's just an orc. S-should I not preserve my resources so they can be better spent?"

"Better spent?"

The spellweaver swallowed, "W-what if you are wounded? You command here, we can spare him. We cannot spare you."

Kasa Dur pulled the woman closer and the distinctly homicidal light in her eyes was less than comforting, "If he's not fully restored and back on his feet within the hour, I will personally throw you headfirst off this fucking wall, understand?"

She sniffed, "Besides, I cannot spare this warrior - he fights."

Overhead, lightning and fire crackled and burst in a spectacular display as Magus and Dragon did battle. With a roar that shook the very stones, a flying monstrosity smashed into the bastion. Fell claws scored deep furrows in the hard granite blocks, and a thunderbolt wreathed its great horned head in elemental violence, searing scale and wing alike. Gaping jaws, wide enough to swallow a carthorse, opened and then snapped shut, abruptly silencing a high-pitched scream of terror. And a rain of blood fell upon the defenders.

The dark elf spat and wiped the gore from her brow, "Well, shite!"

Off towards the gate, another deadly shadow fell across the garrison, and a brilliant torrent of burning venom spewed down from the sky, illuminating the battling forms and searing attacker and defender alike in a fiery conflagration. Smoke billowed upwards in a heavy black cloud, while down below the gate finally gave way to the incessant battering of the mauls wielded by hulking ogres.

With a bellowing roar of triumph, the enemy surged forward, only to pause.

Before them stood a golem.

The dwarves of Miosgan Meadhba had not sat idle as the siege raged about them. With blood and iron, they had worked their craft, and this monstrous colossus was the result.

Taller than a storm giant, it towered over the ogres. Like a great iron statue, it stood there, looking for all the world like a mighty warrior from the days of yore, crafted in rune forged Dwarven steel and bearing a huge claymore almost as long as it was tall.

Behind it, the Master Smith stood with his kin. A hoary old dwarf who had worked hot metal for many times more than a hundred human lifetimes. His armour was old, forged by his forefathers in the glory days of his clan, and, if it no longer fitted as well as it once did, only the foolhardiest of idiots would dare make mention of such. His grey beard was braided in a warrior's pleat and, even if his body had aged, the cold gleam in those eyes had not lost its fire.

Around him, stood his kin and clan, smiths and artisans for the most part; some were warriors, though hardly all. But dwarves are a hardy folk, and their armour was good.

The old Master hefted his battleaxe and, as he levelled the blade at the enemy, his voice rang out, "Iarann, mharú!"

Upon his dread command, the polished gemstone eyes of the golem ignited red, gleaming in the shadow of the gate. And then it moved.

With a creaking sound, the monstrous iron head swung to regard those who had been identified as foes and the ground shook as it strode forward. The ogres gave pause at its advance, as if disbelieving what they saw. Then, with a furious roar, they attacked.

The golem waded into them like a strong man walking into the sea. The nearest was stomped to bloody gruel as a steel boot came down, another was casually kicked from its path to sail back through the gate in a crimson arc. Ogre mauls and picks battered against the iron construct in a wild and deafening clamour, but it cared not, and drawing back that terrible sword, it swung. And in a bloody instant, the warcries turned to screams.

Powered by the dreadful strength of the golem, the blade clove through shields, armour, meat and bone with utter disdain, shearing through ogre limbs and painting the ground in a murderous spray. It marched forward over the dead and swung again, and again; scything enemies from its path and crushing their bodies underfoot. Uncaring, untiring, it was an engine of destruction, a weapon from the old days that had not been seen since the dark times of the Morrigan's War. It took its post beneath the broken gate and slaughtered everything in reach.

Behind it, the Master Smith fell to one knee, sweat beading his brow and running down his beard as he burned his will to fuel his creation. His breath laboured in his chest and a dreadful wave of weakness and nausea sapped his strength, but the axe he held aloft did not waver. Looking around, he could see his kin were watching; his wives, his sons, their sons, and, behind them, his forefathers of old. How then could he yield? He was a dwarf! And like a dwarf, he would endure. Pushing himself back to his feet, he gritted his teeth in a silent snarl.

Under the gate, the golem fought on.

...

Ashunara grunted as the arrow struck her squarely in the chest.

Thankfully, it was a broadhead and not a bodkin point, so her mail turned it aside, but it had been fired from a heavy bow and still punched the wind from her lungs. Another arrow whipped past her ear as yet another company of firbolg levelled their spears and charged.

A strong hand grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and unceremoniously threw her aside as Nyx moved past, brutally ramming her shortsword up under the guard of the closest beast, unceremoniously gutting him.

Panting, the Captain wheezed her thanks as Elsadore barreled by like a fury, piling directly into a handful of unlucky foes that were daft enough to meet her. She stabbed the first in the face, and all but decapitated the second with a vicious offhand slash of her hatchet before eviscerating a third. Another arrow skittered across her mail, and she snarled, "Somebody kill that annoying bastard!"

Nyx whistled sharply and pointed. A bare heartbeat later, Azure put an arrow straight through the eye of the would-be sniper before slamming a second shaft into the throat of the archer next to him. Eyeing her now empty quiver, she spat in disgust as she threw her bow at a nearby goblin, before opening his throat with her swiftly drawn saber, "That's me out of shafts!"

Lashelle ripped out the one that had pierced her shoulder and made to throw it at her with a grim laugh, "Well you can have this bastard if you like."

Spinning suddenly, she all but slammed the thing down the throat of an attacker that came howling out of the smoke, before kicking it back into the flames, "Never mind."

Hauling the Captain back to her feet, Nyx grinned, "Still with us?"

Nodding, Ashunara chuckled darkly, "Felt like I'd been punched right in the tit. I bet it leaves an interesting bruise. Did you at least kill the fucker?"

"Azure nailed him for you, so you can consider your breast fairly avenged, and better an embarrassing bruise than being impaled at an inconvenient moment I should say. Besides, will you not be able to use this injury, pitiful as it is, to lever all manner of affectionate pampering from Hildegard?"

"Oh, you think me such a letch that I would behave so scurrilously?"

The veteran snorted, "Too bloody right you would. Though why she would make such a fuss over such pitiful... assets is beyond me."

"Yours are hardly any better."

Nyx snorted as she disemboweled an attacker, "You once said I had great tits."

"No, I said you were a great tit. Different thing altogether."

"Oh."

Hacking down another howling firbolg, the Captain nodded with a grin, before casting her eye at the mayhem all around them. Drawing a steadying breath, she stepped away from the older woman with a nod of thanks, "How do we fare?"

"It's a glorious bloody mess! The orcs have gone on the rampage, and I've no idea where half the murderous bastards have gotten to, but from the screams I'm sure they're not sitting idle. Azure, Lashelle and Elsadore are with us with a handful of warriors. Tallis, Muriah, Varoona and Valair are over yonder, I think, with a couple more. We got pushed apart in that last rush and I can't see them through all this smoke, but I can hear the fighting."

She sniffed, and looked about warily, "Resistance is stiffening though, and if we push further forward, we risk them getting in behind us and cutting off any avenue of retreat."

Ashunara considered; when she led her company through the gate, they had found the enemy camp strangely bereft of defenders and their positions happily undermanned, though she could see reserve companies standing at the ready in the middle distance. From the smoke and signs of hard battle emanating from the besieged city standing little more than a league away, it took no great tactical genius to guess the reason. But nevertheless, she was no fool to look such a gift horse in the mouth and, with a signal, she had set her warriors loose.

Scant moments later, the enemy encampment was in uproar as the orcs gleefully leapt to attack, howling their wild battle cries and hacking down every foe they could find, while she and her sisters had added to the bedlam by firing every tent in sight and hurling incendiaries all about with wicked abandon.

Now, with fire and flame in every direction, and a thickening cloud of smoke and stoor obscuring much of the battlefield, she gave her old friend a grin.

Eyeing the wolfish expression that she knew so well, Nyx groaned, "What fresh madness occurs to you, my Captain?"

The response was about as crazy as she expected.

Pointing off, seemingly at random, Ashunara grinned, "Before all was hidden by this miasma, I thought I saw the wagons of their supply train off yonder. Now, their undead might not require vittles but the rest of this horde do, so let's head over there and see what mischief we can inflict."

...

Gorsini and Claíomh fought back-to-back or would have had they not kept Quintus between them. Gorsini was good with the longsword he bore, damned good, as the ever-growing pile of bodies around him proved. His skill had been drummed into him by long years of hard fighting and bitter experience, but even he had to admit that the ex-adventurer was better. A lot better.

He had seen Master Swordsmen at work before, only once or twice mind, for they were a rare breed, rare and dangerous, and he'd never crossed blades with one. Now, watching Claíomh fight he was glad of it. For he would have been damned lucky to survive such an encounter.

It wasn't just the speed, which was lethal enough, it was the fluid grace and deadly efficiency of his movements that marked him. Some of the swordsmen he had seen in his time had enjoyed showing off with their flourishes and fancy tricks, but not this man. He just ruthlessly slaughtered his enemy and moved on to the next. His expression calm, with none of the rage or fury that so many warriors coveted, just a precise and deadly focus. His sword seemed an extension of his body, slicing this way and that, confounding all defense while cutting throats and hewing limbs seemingly at will.

All in all, it was a sobering sight.

He had seen him being attacked by four sword-wielding firbolg while he himself had been hard pressed by two more. One dodge, two parries, and four lightning-quick strokes later and they were down, eviscerated, decapitated or simply stabbed through the throat. The bastard even had time to take the head off one of the beasts attacking him. He would have been galled if he wasn't so busy with a fresh group of foes.

The clamour from the battle was only growing more savage as the numbers against them grew. Some yards away, the dwarven company was beleaguered. They had been too few to properly surround and defend the portal that was their only hope of retreat and survival, so they had marched forth. Forming up as a blocking force, raising their standards high and drawing their enemies against them.

For the most part, it had worked. Wild firbolg and screaming trollwives had hurled themselves against the dwarven formation in an ever-increasing tide of howling fury. Against that horde, the dwarves stood firm. Their heavy crossbows brutally winnowed the enemy, punching through armour and hitting with force enough to stagger even a charging ogre. Those that reached the dwarven ranks were met by axe-wielding veterans with locked shields and clad in heavy, nigh impenetrable, dwarven steel. Battle-axes rose and fell in a brutal rhythm, cleaving helm and mail alike, as they hacked down foes in ruthless soldierly fashion.

Despite the bloodlust of their enemies, the dwarves held fast, their formation like a rocky outcrop surrounded by a raging sea of adversaries. Corpses piled against their ranks, as wave after wave of attackers crashed against them, only to be cut down and thrown back. But, in time, the sea can wear away the strongest stone, and, here and there, a dwarf fell, or was pulled from the ranks to be dragged to a gruesome fate.

Those of the enemy who were sly enough to work their way round the flanks of the dwarven ranks came upon Gorsini and his little group, sheltering, as it were, in the lee of the magical portal. Upon seeing this small knot of foes, they bared their fangs, levelled their weapons and charged.

Dana, the half-elven scout had long-since fired off the last of her arrows, and now she looked up from the body of Magda Bor. The northern woman lay in a sprawled heap atop a small host of fallen foes. Some had been smashed apart by her magics, others stabbed, and her broken spear lay by her side. She had fought as hard as any, but numbers always had their say, and despite her valour, she had been overwhelmed.

With a cry, the half-elf began furiously digging through her pouch for a healing draught, "She lives!"

A dozen more dark forms came screaming out of the murk, with more behind them, and Gorsini shouted, "No time! Stand! In the name of Dis ward yourself or they'll cut you down."

The scout hesitated, her voice torn, "B-but she breathes. I can save her."

Gorsini's face twisted in pain, but he drew a breath, and deliberately crushed the bright flicker of hope he had felt in his heart at her words. But he saw how fast the enemy was advancing and shook his head, "I know, but there's no time. Please, lass, they'll be on you before you can help her..." he sniffed, "please... she wouldn't want you to die for her this way."

Lily slipped forward. Like Dana, her quiver was empty, so she had discarded her bow and now clutched a long-bladed knife in each hand. Her face was grim, and her blood-soaked sleeves showed well what use she had been putting those blades to. Speaking as gently as she could as she grabbed the half-elf and hauled her to her feet, "Come, it'll do no good sacrificing yourself for naught."

Dana pulled her arm free, "No! She can be saved, I tell you. I can bind her wounds, a potion perhaps... I just need a little time, just a few moments is all."

The enemy was very close now, howling and snarling as they came. Gorsini saw they were many, and they were hungry. Anyone on their knees tending another would be instantly slaughtered so he grabbed the girl and yanked her back. "I tell you, there's no time! She's gone. Now defend yourself or suffer her fate."