Book 3: Sound And Fury

  Chapter 22 The Witch’s Promise

  The soft, gentle hand of Sabrina, Queen of the goblins, landed on countess Tawny’s shoulder, waking her from her troubled sleep. “It begins, Countess.” The woman’s voice was soft and sweet, with a faintly sibilant lisp. She bared her sharp, white teeth in a savage grin and nodded to the slim, tiny bat–girl waiting patiently at the door.

  “Aster reports that the music has begun. Count Liam orders that we move to our rendezvous point, as planned.”

  “Thank you, queen Sabbie… How is it going out there?” The exhausted countess asked thickly, as she rose and began dressing for the road.

  The small, green lady passed her new human friend a cup of hot, well honeyed tea and smiled. “My husband is out there, with his daughters. It goes very poorly for the enemy’s scouts and patrols, but their camp is too big a fish for easy gutting.”

  The winged and scantily clad bat-girl whistled a short stream of nearly inaudible music, which brought a fresh smile to the goblin queen’s face. “She reports that two of their scout patrols have been slain in the past hour, with no significant casualties… or survivors. Their camp seems all abuzz with anxiety.” Sabbie giggled sweetly and sighed, as the dark, winged form slipped out the chamber window and flitted away into the gathering darkness.

  /

  Templar Wilhelm grunted with distaste at the untraveled wilderness all around and the little town by the distant lake, glittering in the fading sun, a few miles down the valley.

  “Heretics, heathens and barbarians, all!” He raised his visor and spat with disgust.

  “We should just mobilize a few cadres of slave soldiers and raze the light-damned place.” He snarled, furious at being ordered to patrol on foot with common legion troops.

  “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Hurley replied blandly, just as he had answered all of the surly knight’s prior complaints and bellyaching. “Perhaps we should await more than a scout team, before assaulting a castle, in defiance of orders.” The scarred veteran clapped once, stirring his four men from their break. “Squad, back on your feet. We’re moving.”

  None of them even noticed the faint rustle of leaves and the shaking of the aspen grove they were paused in, until the massive wolves and their riders were among them, carving a bloody path of chaos.

  Four small figures, wielding long, slim, sabres flashed through the impromptu campsite, slashing and biting any vulnerable flesh that presented itself for slaughter.

  The leather armored legionaries scrambled for their spears, stacked in a neatly conical arrangement, that tumbled over and became a heap of pick-up-sticks, when a wolf rider leapt the little clearing and knocked the weapons apart, cackling with glee.

  Princess Daisybelle laughed with delight, as she and her sisters leapt through again, taking a hand from one human with her new, shiny saber of keen edged steel, as he reached for a spear.

  “Nub nub, slaver cultist! Hands off!” She cackled, over the man’s screams, even while her return stroke silenced him.

  The shiny, metal man was putting up something of a fight against Maggie-may and Aja. Her two older sisters were circling and darting about, just out of reach of the man’s long, bejeweled sword’s flashing point.

  From a boxy pouch at her hip, Daisybelle plucked a small, round ceramic globe. She cracked it gently against the pommel of her saber and carefully peeled away the broken quarters of the protective globe, giggling madly all the while. In a moment, she had a small glass flask of dark red goo in her palm, gripped carefully, so that her blunted claws wouldn’t pierce the fragile bottle.

  She gave a sharp whistle, as Gloria darted by, her lance point ringing off the knight’s armored thigh, as Rhiannon lined up for a pass with her own lance. On cue, the warg riding goblin damsels scattered away from the remaining foes, one red armored warrior and the metal man, standing back to back among their fallen, bleeding and screaming comrades.

  The small flask flew from her hand, to shatter against the knight’s breastplate, releasing a choking spray of spicy, tear inducing, throat closing chili pepper oil. As the knight and his remaining companion struggled with their new adversity, the riders returned, darting by too swiftly to counter, lances and sabres flashing again and again.

  The warg riders vanished into the woodlands, as swiftly and suddenly as they had appeared, leaving behind blood spattered trees and human wreckage.

  /

  “How many scouts are missing?” Trask demanded of captain Womak, commander of his legion scout brigade.

  “Three full squads, my lord general… Reliable men and true, faithful to the light, one and all. They did not flee… I swear it, my lord general.” He stammered, his face pale with fear and humiliation.

  “And no signs of resistance from the locals?” Trask demanded sharply.

  “Some few score warriors are preparing a hopeless defence on a hill, less than a mile away. Most of the locals are fleeing to the southwest.” He lowered his head in shame before the general’s glare.

  “We were unable to capture any… Their warriors are startlingly skilled at avoiding and escaping my men. I suspect that they have some hidden source of information or someone with a long-sight gift.”

  “Hmm… That would be a prize worth capturing. Seize any you can grasp and discover where their information is coming from…” Trask grumbled.

  “And silence these foolish rumors about spiders watching our movements and spying… I’d not have my camp become a hotbed of superstition and blasphemy.”

  “Yes, my lord general.” Womak replied hurriedly and fled immediately after; leaping eagerly at the first suggestion of a dismissal from the commander.

  “Well, Skander? What do you think?” Trask demanded of the captain of his templars.

  “Perhaps that strange bug spirit is responsible for the locals’ uncanny and elusive nature… Although, the creature seemed too flighty for such.” Skander replied nervously. “Perhaps we should avoid contact with the locals, as they seem to be entirely intent on escaping, rather than thwarting our mission.”

  “I am aware of my own orders, Skander. Tighten your breastplate, if your bowels are getting weak.” The general barked. “We will complete our mission, recover the Godstone and depart. I will also collect any valuables that I find, in the course of my duties, as is custom.”

  “Yes, my lord general. It shall be as you will.” Skander replied meekly, his eyes flickering to the lantern in the command tent, searching for any tiny eavesdroppers.

  “Calm yourself, man. I had my mage corps enspell this tent with reinforced confounding and obscuring charms. The Light’s secrets will remain safe, if only here.” The giant warleader grumbled.

  As if awaiting her cue, a tiny feminine voice emerged from a shadowed corner of the command tent. “Your wizards need more practice, general. In this place, my servant’s Will is paramount.”

  Another small insect winged girl emerged into the upper reaches of the tent, this one armored in golden platemail and flitting on wasp wings, just out of sword’s reach of the two men. She rested her hand on a slender black rapier at her miniscule waist and smiled.

  “You were so frightfully rude to poor, sweet Mariah, when she called on you… So, now I’ve come, as her older sister.” She buzzed down and alighted on the back of an unoccupied camp chair with casual grace.

  “I am Kree, princess of this hive and true ruler of these lands and forests. You have offended me, now my mad wizard will work his terrible arts on your silly little army.”

  “You swat this one, captain…” Trask ordered his underling with an aggrieved sigh. “I’m not interested in empty warnings and threats from pests.”

  She buzzed her wings at the two men, when the captain of templars moved to confront her. Somehow the sound was terribly loud and threatening, filling the tent with a dire sense of impending violence and chaos.

  “I promised my servant that I would not kill any humans… He was insistent that I not sting any of you either, unless forced to it. Such a soft hearted and tender soul.” She sighed wistfully.

  “He wishes you to be fully aware of what is going to land on you, should you remain here in my territory even a moment longer.”

  While she spoke, Skander’s sword flashed out, striking at the four inch tall insect creature with confidence and skill born of long practice.

  His sword rang off a shadowy blade of something less substantial than steel, wielded by a large, cloaked figure of writhing darkness, given humanoid form. It raised its long, slim rapier in a formal salute, as it moved to attack the staggered knight.

  The shadow wight flicked its sword back and forth across the surprised and confused warrior’s guard, driving him back from the tiny wasp-girl still seated on the back of a chair.

  Shouts for the guards and demands that the alarm be raised rang out in the tent, sounding oddly muffled and hollow.

  “We cannot be heard by your minions, nor can they enter this place, so long as I and my servant Will it to be so.” She murmured, sounding pleased, while her shadow warrior drove the knight back with steady, implacable bladework.

  The being’s swordsmanship was neither flashy, nor especially talented; simply fearless, well practiced and highly skilled. It struck and moved with a sword-dancer’s deadly grace, but none of a warrior’s killing intent. Faceless and ever shifting within its dim and insubstantial form, the creature was difficult to read or predict and damnably slippery.

  Skander was no tyro, his swordsmanship displayed the no nonsense, efficient training of the temple knights with every cut, parry and thrust. The man was competent and well practiced, a veteran knight in his prime…

  Trask sat in his chair watching in silence, evaluating both swordsmen, as the shadow picked his knight captain apart, one stroke of his ephemeral blade at a time.

  First the knight’s left arm fell limp, hanging useless at his side, after a thrust that skewered him through the shoulder, leaving no blood nor wound behind. Next Skander’s right leg below the knee, which sent him tumbling to the floor in an oddly muted clatter of metal armor.

  With brutal efficiency, the shadow warrior stabbed Skander in his right arm and remaining leg, leaving the knight sitting on the floor of the command tent, essentially helpless and without functioning limbs. He still had a mouth, which he kept using to call for the guards, who continued to remain conspicuously absent.

  “You will recover soon, my silly tin-can knight of a false god… If you survive your time in my realm, that is.” The little creature sang cheerfully at the humiliated knight. “Now, sit still while I chat with the general… Or must my shadow warrior take your head, as well?”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Still yourself, Skander.” Trask ordered finally, bringing an end to the man’s pointless shouting. “You have regained my interest, creature.” The enormous man grumbled. “Speak.”

  “Oh, no… I’ve come not to warn, negotiate, nor threaten… I have come to inform you of exactly why my servant is going to wreck your army and ruin your whole plan. He wants you to know that the artifact you’ve come for is his, and will not be taken. He will allow your men to flee back, whence they came; alive, unarmed and unarmored. Such is his great mercy.” She buzzed her wings again, suggesting that she was annoyed by something.

  “You two have angered him, however.” She spoke more sharply, her voice cutting the air like the blade of her awful shadow guardian.

  “Poor sweet Mariah is still upset and nearly inconsolable, after the way you treated her. That crime must be redressed! You struck a harmless child, come on a mission of peace with a simple warning. She is the beloved niece of my master…” She stopped and blushed a little, coloring her cheeks adorably.

  “Er… Rather, the niece of my silly minion!” She corrected herself hastily.

  “Tell your master to come, then! If he is so mighty, let him sweep my army away!” Trask barked at the little bug girl.

  “I will crush your master and scour this valley of all life, before I depart this place. My god has commanded it!”

  “Your stupid, phony god…” She sighed wearily. “So be it, human. I hope you enjoy what is coming. I certainly will.” The tiny girl stood and took flight, buzzing over to her shadow creature. She flew through the figure’s form and both vanished, silently imploding into a tiny mote of shadow that evaporated away between two mortal heartbeats.

  A few seconds later, the sounds of chaos and alarm roared into the formerly silent tent.

  /

  Shadow Gary emerged in the dim confines of the enemy command tent, shrugging their simple wards away with a subtle flex of his aura. It took even less effort to enforce his own Will on the small space, isolating and sound-proofing the tent with a complex network of illusion and glamor charms.

  The remnant energies radiating from the ‘God-Stone’ sent shivers down his soul and shadow, tremors of resonance and compatibility, almost harmony danced over his dusky body of glamor and moon-shadows. In this place, without his body, there were fewer limits…

  Gary’s shadow watched silently; since he couldn’t speak without a body, as Kree scolded and abused the two presumed leaders of the army at length.

  Predictably, within a few seconds, the smaller man lunged for Kree with murder on his mind. In a single, liquid motion the knight’s sword began singing a clear, high note as he struck on the draw.

  Gary changed the rhythm, with a simple and brutal parry that almost staggered the smaller man, who was clearly not expecting to be intercepted and savagely deflected by a clot of lingering darkness.

  Again and again their blades crossed, as Gary’s greater strength and reach helped him overwhelm the templar’s well trained, but quite thoroughly shaken defences. The shadowy blade of manifest darkness Gary wielded took the man apart in a few short seconds, while Kree smugly narrated the action like a champ.

  With some surprise, Gary watched the massive form of the supposed general, stoically remaining seated, while his knight got quickly and completely humiliated in his own command tent.

  When they vanished from the tent and reappeared in the Foresthome camp, Gary had a grim and unhappy look in his face.

  “I don’t like the looks of their general… He acts like he has nothing to worry about, after having his camp infiltrated twice.” Gary grumbled, as he woke; his shadow once more attached to his feet. “The knight that was with him was already scared shitless… But the general…”

  “You were really in their camp?” Liam asked eagerly. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Yeah, they suck at warding spells and any of my kids could carve up the guy I fought like a roast chicken… Oh! Now I’m feeling kinda snacky. Anybody want a sandwich?” He asked the group, as a wicker basket filled with paper wrapped packets appeared from behind his back.

  “Ooh! Ghnash smells hot tonkatsu sandos! Fried pork goodness with spicy-sweet tamarind sauce!” The small green man cheered, as he dismounted from Amy’s pink and purple, pre-teen bike, after dishing out a few good, loud rings of the bell, just for fun.

  “Ghnash had to ride all the way here, since weakling Ward couldn’t fly, while carrying me!” The king of the goblins cheerfully explained around a sandwich with extra sauce.

  “I told you, without Gary or the kids nearby, I can’t touch physical objects or beings. That includes mouthy goblins.” Ward complained, as he emerged from the brush with a sigh.

  “Yub yub, cause Ward is weak.” Ghnash agreed merrily, drawing another aggrieved sigh from the disgruntled minor deity. “I has your lich and his filthy soul jar. Let’s light a bottle rocket up his butthole, to start this party off right.” He told Gary, ignoring the sputtering and flustered god.

  “Perfect! We’ll play some classics, till the moon comes up, then we’ll set it off.”

  The count, blacksmith, musician and goblin all ignored the protests and complaints from the gathered men, as they strolled away to where the rest of the band was quietly warming up.

  “You cannot have a mad wizard, without the madness, gentlemen and ladies.” Rolf announced to the warriors of Foresthome and their lords.

  “Let us take our positions and do our duty, before the gods and spirits. I suspect that they may just be watching.”

  He muttered that last, as his familiar trotted up, her silver mane and horn shining under the golden light of Beast’s moon.

  /

  From a hillside within sight of the war-camp, something stirred in the slowly gathering darkness. A single, sharp flute raised in an impossibly loud skirl of complex notes, singing forth into the gathering night. Other instruments joined the distant, yet clearly audible ruckus, converging on a complex musical stew of wild and devious notes and chords.

  Hundreds of voices raised in song, hurling odd, lilting lyrics into the sky, to rain down on the gathered army of the Light.

  Lend me your ear,

  While I call you a fool,

  You were kissed by a witch,

  One night in the wood…

  Off duty warriors scurried for their arms and armor, rapidly forming up to face whatever threat was incoming… Nothing approached, just the strange music, blasting forth from that distant hill, shaking the heavens and earth with terrible noise.

  You won't find it easy now, it's only fair,

  He was willing to give to you, you didn't care,

  You're waiting for more,

  But you've already had your share!

  “Really? Doing Jethro Tull, without king Ghnash?” A higher pitched voice cried out, just as improbably loud, raised in cheerful and mocking complaint, against the unseen singers and musicians.

  “Let me get in on the next number!” The new voice cried merrily, shortly before another flute raised its shrill, piercing cry in the gathering night.

  The Ward family band did a sharply pointed rendition of ‘Aquqlung’, after ‘The Witch’s Promise’ and ‘Locomotive Breath’ rounding out a three song set of classics that hit hard, designed to confuse and rattle the camp.

  The moons slowly rose over the now alert and prepared army of Light, standing in their varied formations, from ragged slave mobs and loosely arranged conscripts, to the rigid and well drilled order of the legion and knights templar. Spears and armor gleamed in their ranks, waiting patiently and confidently behind their vast swarm of thralls and peasants.

  “Mages, lights!” General Trask barked from his command tent, eying the hillside’s tree cover suspiciously.

  The sounds of chanting from the back lines tried and failed to compete with the musical madness pouring from the nearby hilltop, though the light spells the mages worked did begin illuminating the area.

  As expected, a line of cavalry waited among the pines and aspens, their tack muffled with rags and gear blackened with soot to hide the troop’s presence. Trask laughed at the pitiful sight.

  A scant few dozen mounted knights and armsmen, and a gaggle of foot… or something, around two hundred strong stood on the low hilltop, arrayed for battle against a force that dwarfed them hilariously.

  Less than three hundred warriors stood against his twenty three thousand troops… just two pens of his slaves, or even his thousand conscripts could sweep them from the field in a few bloody, wasteful minutes…

  Yet they stood firm, between his army’s might and the small troupe of musicians capering and making noise behind their thin ranks.

  The lead singer’s voice rose again, at an impossibly loud volume over the background music his band kept pouring out into the warm, summer night.

  “Is everybody in? Is everybody in? The ceremony is about to begin…”

  That odd and gently threatening declaration echoed off the hills for a few long seconds, until the voice returned, speaking casually.

  “Heya, down there…” The voice called, sounding cheery and welcoming. “Welcome to the first annual, Foresthome Funk Festival… This is going to be an awesome evening of peace and love, so long as everyone stays in the designated festival area.” He had a lilting, sing-song cadence to his voice, which somehow made it slightly more dreadful.

  “A few troublemakers tried to sneak into town… Sadly, Daisybelle’s Electric, Eclectic Carnival of Carnage caught them. I really didn’t want there to be any violence, but you guys have priors on the whole taking people as slaves and human sacrifice thing.”

  Trask’s shouted orders failed to drown out the impossible, annoying voice, but he made his wishes known. “Overseers, form your ranks, ready your slaves to march. Legion, pikes and shields, prepare to attack!”

  “Oh, no! We can’t have that. Your tickets are for lawn seating only. You don’t get to rush the stage…” The awful, cheerful voice called out merrily. Woody, hollow sounds echoed from the hillside, as melon sized objects rained down into the slave pens.

  The heads of his legion scouts, their helmets tied on with twisted vines and decorated with pretty garlands of flowers, rained down on the slave pens. More landed in the peasant camp, shaking the conscript army’s already weakening resolve.

  “Again, I was overruled on the whole ‘lobbing severed heads’ trope. I think it’s gross, trite and overdone; but again, you guys seem to go for that.” The lunatic’s disembodied voice continued in pleasant, conversational tones, while the army scrambled to ready itself.

  Full darkness fell, while the two mismatched forces aligned themselves for battle among the sparse trees, rocky hills and wide, fertile meadow.

  \

  “Lord general… We have a problem…” Head overseer Major Bernard, ‘Benji’ Malkovich murmured nervously in the silent command tent.

  “We have a few problems… Bernard.” Trask’s failure to address the major by his rank was enough to loosen his bowels a little. “Particularly, I was wondering why you have not sent two brigades of slaves to disrupt that cavalry… As I ordered nearly twenty minutes ago.”

  “Lord general… We have a new problem, sir…” Benji said, very carefully, once he had enough command of himself to speak. “The command artifacts, sir… They seem to be malfunctioning, and none of the magescan explain why, or get them to function.”

  “The control artifacts?” He hissed, showing real anger for the first time that any of the officers nearby had ever seen. “How many of the slave brigades are currently… undirected?” Trask asked just as carefully, in a very quiet tone that spoke of danger.

  “All of them, sir. Fortunately, the slaves have not twigged to that fact…” Benji slipped up and let a hint of a smile slide across his lips for the barest moment.

  “The prospect of twenty thousand terrified, desperate slaves realizing that they are uncontrolled… This amuses you?” Trask asked in a surprisingly gentle way.

  “Perhaps that is because you are a damned fool and an absolutely incompetent waste of serviceable flesh?”

  At the lord general’s barest nod, a nearby guard’s sword flashed, sending the major slumping to the floor of the command tent, cleft from collarbone to sternum. “Have that reanimated by one of the necromancers.” Trask muttered. “And bring me his lieutenant, quietly!”

  /

  “Oh, man… I feel gross!” Gary mumbled into Shai’s hair, while the band did the long instrumental intro to ‘Thick As A Brick’ so that he could take a break and try to get himself sorted out. “Those slave soldiers haven’t attacked us, because I totally cheated. Those slaves aren’t going anywhere and the cultists in the middle are probably shitting bricks right now, wondering why.” He murmured to count Liam and sir Rolf.

  “I futzed out the magical devices that control the slave collars. That patch of land they are encamped on is still mine, cause I camped there first. That rock down there is mine, the creation of my Will, divine magic, fae sorcery, necromancy and witchcraft of the darkest kind.” He belched awkwardly into his fist and grimaced.

  “What exactly do you mean, Gary. My men would prefer a little clarity on this matter.” Liam asked gently of the wobbly madman. “They are justifiably nervous, facing that horde.”

  “That means, brother… That I can exert my Will down there in many of the ways I do in my house.” He grinned and gave a dark chuckle. “I’m really corrosive to mind controlling and dominating spells and magical artifacts, they can’t abide in my presence, since I did… that thing…” He winked broadly at the two young lords, before stepping off into the bushes to barf.

  “Oh, gross… When did I eat that?” He asked cheerfully, a few seconds later.

  “That’s the problem. I’m sick as a dog right now because I’m holding back one of my odd biological processes and also contaminating my soul with a frequency of magic that I can’t tolerate.” He belched again and wobbled on his feet a little. “I’ll be fine once both moons rise and Ward starts the real show.”

  He glanced over to where Ghnash was cheerfully fronting the band, laying down a sick shamisen solo over Ward’s rock steady rhythm work. The goblin king and divine being met their human brother’s eyes, as if they’d felt the Fool’s gaze. “All right kids, let’s wind the show down.” Ghnash murmured into the bands’ private comms. “Your dad is ready to get started. Ward, make with the jumbo-tron.”

  /

  A cluster of nervous mages, officers and clerics looked up from the general’s emergency briefing on the slave control crisis, when silent lightning flickered in the fluffy, white clouds drifting above the valley.

  As one, they gasped in startled surprise, when the image of a masked man in odd insectile red armor appeared among the billowing vapors. Cast in moonlight and something else, the image moved and spoke, just out of time with the voice that once more rolled down the hill.

  “Are we live? I think we’re still out of phase… Ahh, there!” With an audible crackle and a slight jump in the image, the man in the sky smiled and spoke to the gathered army.

  “Hey guys… none of you are going anywhere until I say so. Now just sit down, while the grownups talk this out.”

  The man declared happily, from behind his hideous bug mask.

  “General Trask… I’m going to be addressing your pontiff, through the spies and unclean parasites he sent along to spy on you.” He chuckled again, showing a crooked grin behind his awful insect mask.

  “I am in control of the… situation you find yourself surrounded by. I think you and your boys know exactly what I mean by that, so don’t get stupid. Sit still and behave… You still have a chance to march out through that gateway.”

  He chuckled again, as a susurrus ran through the entire enemy camp. The furious speculation and gossip mongering going on in the far less disciplined formations became an almost physical pall of discomfort, despair, distrust and demoralization.

  “You guys get to watch me fuck up a lich-lord… before I address your own transgressions.” The giant of mist and moonlight declared happily. “Mostly I’m showing my brothers, the Tarots, how to crack the filthy soul jars you cult guys rely on so much…”

  He hummed merrily, while unfolding a tarpaulin, revealing the ragged and sagging upper third of a human corpse, the face still animated by a dead man’s Will and Mind. “Class, please meet Fletcher… I forget his last name and I don’t care enough to bother finding out. We will be extracting him from his awful phylactery today and feeding his soul into the void.”

  The lunatic shrugged his vast shoulders among the clouds, as the small green moon drifted by.

  “Fletch here, thinks he’s immortal; thanks to his handy-dandy, pickle jar full of his soul. By packing his living soul in this crystal jar and sealing himself inside, he’s removed himself from the natural processes of living and dying. Through hard work, study and a whole bunch of ritual sacrifice of helpless people, he’s become almost truly immortal, behind his impervious glass walls.”

  Despite the madman’s words, the face of the corpse seemed wracked with very mortal fear, as the projection in the clouds produced a good sized glass jar from… somewhere. Inside, a slowly beating human heart could be seen, suspended in a complex tracery of braided golden wire ‘veins’ and ‘arteries’.

  “Too bad, so sad. It turns out, he’s just a full chamber pot, waiting to be tipped into the privy pit. You lucky guys get to watch me scrub away his stubborn stains.” The Fool cackled madly, as he began to work on the jar’s elaborately carved, silver seal. “This is where the fun starts.”

  /