Page 72 of Crucible of Chaos

While the demons flocked to Strigan like vultures on a fresh corpse, Estevar, his abused throat so raw he could scarcely draw breath, scrambled to find his own rapier.

Caeda recovered her axe and joined him in slashing and hacking at the demons, as Malezias lifted one of the smaller ones up above his head and hurled it against a colonnade. Imperious, shivering with rage as much as fear, was kicking furiously with his back hooves at a long-jawed, fork-tongued creature standing between him and the pair which had tried to rip him apart– but they had a new toy to play with. They had taken Strigan by the ankles and wrists and to the merriment of their fellows, they lifted him up high and making of themselves an impromptu rack, started stretching him, inch by inch, until his shoulders were straining in their sockets.

Discovering somewhat too late that he was not, in fact, the Sorcerer Sovereign of Isola Sombra, the Wolf-King begged, ‘End me, sweet God of Death! Take me now, I beg you!’

The thunderous discharge of a pistol broke through the cacophony of jeering laughter and panicked screams. Strigan’s arms went slack as the hairless white head of the demon holding his wrists exploded. Blue-grey mush and bits of shattered bone spewed onto the courtyard. Witnessing the demise of its comrade, the creature holding Strigan’s ankles dropped him– then ran to the dead demon and began gleefully dipping its claws into the open skull and painting its own grinning face with the gory remains.

A small figure in black and grey slid the still-smoking wheellock into the same pocket of her robes from which she drew a second one. ‘Never thought I’d waste such a good shot on such a lousy prize,’ said Brother Agneta.

Estevar, Caeda, Malezias and the near-feral Imperious fought their way to her side before the demons could rush her, but it wasn’t long before the five of them were surrounded. The odds had shifted from unimaginable to merely impossible. By Estevar’s count, they had dispatched a dozen of the monstrous invaders, but twice as many remained, and the weary defenders were showing their wounds.

‘I imagine you conceived some brilliant plan to get us out of this mess before you chose to challenge a band of maniacal demons to a fencing match?’ Agneta asked Estevar.

He whipped the tip of his rapier across the face of one of the approaching creatures to give it pause. ‘I did, but I must confess, that plan has thus far failed to live up to expectations.’

The old inquisitor fired her second pistol into the gaping maw of the creature lunging at her. The ball came out the back of its horned head, bringing quite a lot of skull with it.

Three more took its place. ‘Then I shall take what solace I can from the fact that it is surely as embarrassing for you to meet your death at the side of a cruel and unfeeling Cogneri as it is for me to die alongside a sentimental and suicidally idealistic Trattari.’

Estevar smiled in acknowledgment, but their gallows humour was not shared by all. Malezias grabbed Caeda by the shoulders, his deep voice quavering as he asked, ‘Are we doomed, then, my Lady? Will you not save us?’

She shook him off, making space to swing the shaft of her now-headless hatchet into the outstretched fingers of the nearest demon. ‘What in the Seven Hells the five of us are headed to are you talking about, Malezias? I’m doing the best I can!’

Sensing victory, the demons had resumed their playful demeanour, dancing around their soon-to-be victims, head tilted like cats watching scurrying mice in preparation for pouncing on them.

Another of the blind artist’s observations about his infernal work came to Estevar then: ‘We think of evil as simply a darker shade of malice. It isn’t. Evil contains joy within it, ecstasy so potent that it transcends judgement, for how can we judge that which defies our comprehension?’

He stabbed the heart of a creature with a bulbous chest and six arms so thin and curiously jointed it looked like a pregnant spider. The blow struck true, but the blade became lodged between two of the monster’s ribs and snapped when Estevar tried to get it free.

‘Caeda. . .’ he began, the analytical part of his mind, unsilenced by even fear and despair, warning him the end was near.

‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ she asked, hurling the broken haft of her hatchet futilely at the slowly approaching horde. ‘We failed.’

They had only moments before they would be overwhelmed, and Estevar could think of no better use to put those final seconds than to tell her, ‘You did not fail, my Piccolo. You were as clever, as insightful as any magistrate I ever knew. In this place and at this hour do I hereby name you to the Great—’

A brassy blare broke through the din, then again, and a third time. A dozen or more misshapen heads with all their assortment of horns and fangs and spiky protrusions swivelled in the direction of the Vigilance Tower, where light from candles and torches could at last be seen through the windows. A throng of women and men in yellow and black robes, armed with longswords, spears and crossbows, raced from the open door. Leading them was a smaller figure, no less daunting in her fury.

‘Her?’ Agneta asked, catching Estevar’s eye as the battalion of yellow Trumpeters attacked in precise formations against the demons. ‘You risked everything on gods-be-damned General Leogado’s heretofore undiscovered sense of decency and compassion?’

Estevar bent down to help Strigan to his feet. ‘I wagered that if the monks of Isola Sombra saw that a mortal like themselves could stand against the living embodiments of malice, they might recall that this abbey was meant to be a place where men and women came together to be closer not only to their gods, but to each other as well.’

Half the Trumpeters formed a bright yellow shieldwall in front of the demons as the other half stood behind, firing arrows and bolts into the panicking ranks of the enemy. A keening whine emerged as the demons began to retreat, step by step, into the ruined statuary.

‘You were wrong,’ General Leogado said, coming to stand beside Estevar. ‘I didn’t come because of you.’ Sheathing one of the twin curved shortswords she was carrying, she reached out a hand and stroked Imperious’ muzzle. ‘I have known and ridden some of the finest warhorses ever bred, but never met one so magnificent as this mule.’

Estevar’s pride in his companion being so recognised was slightly muted by the far less glamorous reality. Leogado had spoken the truth: she would have let them all die, had not the sight of his mule’s bravery and subsequent torment so shamed her followers that her own courage would have been questioned if she’d refused them the chance to fight.

‘I will confess to a crisis of conscience.’ Brother Agneta pointed to each of them in turn. ‘Can there truly be any gods left when the General of the Trumpeters, the King of the Hounds and the Bone-Rattler’s Inquisitor unite in common cause?’

Strigan laughed. He looked about to make some bold– and almost certainly lecherous–joke, but before he could, Caeda, her face as pale as a gravestone, said to Estevar, ‘Something’s not right.’

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Strigan chuckled. ‘Why, is that my little Caeda? Damn, but that’s good timing. I was just thinking how I never got the chance t—’

Malezias slammed his hands on Strigan’s shoulders and shoved him away. ‘What troubles you, my Lady?’

But Caeda was looking only at Estevar. In the night sky above, flashes of light shot through the black clouds, and a rolling thunder shook the earth beneath their feet. ‘Something is happening, my Cantor.’ She clutched at her stomach. ‘I feel. . . hollow inside.’

---