The thundering roar of footsteps shook the entire wall, as hundreds of bodies emerged from the huge dust cloud on the far end of the valley, seemingly undeterred by the burning arrows that rained down upon them.
“Hold the gate!” roared a voice from somewhere behind Fionn. “Hold!”
What does he mean? thought Fionn, pulling the flames between both hands. The host was about three hundred feet away.
“Hold!” roared the voice again. Fionn quickly made note of the width of the valley. Could I fill it with fire? Could I hold them back?
The cries of the dead rose up over the clamour of their charge. Guttural, inhuman voices gurgling unintelligible sounds.
The individual faces of the dead were close enough to pick out. Men bearing crests and sigils of families Fionn didn’t recognise. Faces half-obscured by decaying flesh. Children clad in torn, bloody clothes. Some wielded weapons, fewer wore armour, and none showed any sign of slowing.
Children…. Fionn shook his head in disbelief. Why aren’t we fighting them? Why is nothing being done?
Once the front line of the horde was in stone-throwing distance of the wall, three strange figures leapt forward to meet them. For a frightening second, Fionn feared that some madmen had broken ranks to fight the horde alone, but when the valley lit up with blue flames again, Fionn understood what had happened.
The Reapers. They can move!
As the charging dead reached the blue inferno, their battle cries turned to blood-curdling wails unlike anything Fionn had heard before.
What kind of power is this? Fionn watched as the three figures paced back and forth, ensuring no wight made it through their wall of fire.
Blackened corpses started to pile up before the machinations. But even those that were charred to a crisp still writhed beneath the fire. Other undead soldiers climbed atop the stack of bodies to reach the Reapers, but the blue flames cast each back, and they too joined the others upon the smouldering heap.
They’re holding them back! roared Sir Bearach from inside Fionn’s head. They’re holding the whole damn lot of them back!
From behind the pile, a single body leapt through the fire and collided with a Reaper. The metallic figure lost its balance for a second, then turned its cannon upon the corpse. As if taking advantage of this distraction, four more wights followed, leaping over the burning bodies and knocking against the Reaper.
A second Reaper took notice but continued to keep the rest of the horde at bay. The first swung its other arm in a wide arc, but more and more came pouring over the pile.
“No!” roared Fionn, watching on helplessly as the Reaper fell to the ground. More decaying corpses fell upon it, tearing at its armour. The other Reaper turned to look at its fallen comrade for a split second, but it too was overwhelmed by the coming dead. The rest of the wights climbed over the smoking pile and continued on their march towards the gate.
The last Fionn saw of the fallen Reapers was one of their heads being pulled off. Inside was a Simian soldier, alive and breathing as the undead pulled his bloody body from the wreckage.
No. They weren’t statues. They weren’t machines. They were….
“Now!” roared the same voice from earlier. Beneath Fionn, the mechanisms of the Steamgate frantically churned into action, and the Triad’s soldiers poured out to meet the horde. The two front lines crashed into each other amidst a cacophony of roaring voices and clashing steel.
“Fire!” came another voice from atop the wall, and another salvo of burning arrows rained down upon the tide of undead. More and more of the Triad’s soldiers pushed against the horde, but their line still held. Inch by inch, the dead kept pressing forward, as more and more corpses joined them from further down the valley.
We can’t fight them. There’s just too many. There’s—
Gods take you, lad! cried Sir Bearach. Are you a Firemaster or not? Use your magic!
Fionn glanced down at his flint-rings. After all that had happened, he had let the flames in his hand extinguish. He shook his head and produced another spark, turning it into a flame and cupping it between both hands.
He ran forward to the battlements and sent the flame soaring down into the fray below. He pulled on the power of his soul. Right as the fire landed on the side of the horde, it erupted into a spiralling cyclone of flames, consuming all it touched.
The side of the Triad took this opportunity to push forward again, this time making ground. Some soldiers split from the column and ran through the undead’s ranks, only to be engulfed by their sheer numbers.
Quick! Do it again! roared Sir Bearach. Without question, Fionn reached for another ball of fire. But when it came to throw it amongst the undead, he hesitated.
I can’t tell… I can’t tell which side is ours anymore.
Indeed, the two frontlines below were blurred as one, and soldiers from either side were scattered into the other. But like the coming tide, another wave of undead surged through the valley, quickly overwhelming the living unfortunate enough to be on the wrong side.
“Retreat!” came the booming voice of Commander Plackart from somewhere amongst the chaos. “Retreat to the gate!”
There was some movement below as those capable of turning back did, but many more were still lost amongst the horde. Two Simian soldiers fought with their backs to one another, keeping the undead away in a wide circle around them. A Human tried to turn to make it back to the gate, but a skeletal soldier pursued him, running a spear into his back. A cluster of a dozen or so Humans and Simians had banded together beyond the frontline, keeping their backs against the valley wall as they fought against the undead. But the horde’s numbers only swelled, the Triad’s line no longer held, and the dead crept ever closer to the wall.
The churning of the closing gate beneath Fionn’s feet caused every ounce of hope left in his heart to dissipate. It seemed only a fraction of those who fought had managed to safely retreat behind the portcullis.
“We’ve lost,” he muttered, scanning through the horde. Those two Simian soldiers were nowhere to be seen and had more than likely joined the undead. But to the side of the valley, that small cluster of survivors by the valley wall was now three times its original size. They huddled together in a tight semicircle, those still capable of fighting on the outside.
They won’t last much longer. The gate is closed. The call for retreat has been made. They—
His trail of thought was cut short as he spotted one figure amongst the others. A soldier of the Triad wearing no helm, pushing the undead back away from the column with a two-handed greatsword as tall as herself.
Aislinn!We have to do something. We need to tell the Commander.
No, Fionn, whispered Sir Bearach. There is nothing Plackart can do without risking the lives of the rest of his men. Her fate is already sealed….
“Bollocks to that,” said Fionn aloud, catching the attention of other marksmen along the wall. “I’m done with fate. I’m done with being afraid.”
With that, he clicked both his flint-rings together, and conjured a stream of fire that encircled him. He climbed up atop the battlements and looked down at the valley beneath him, gauging his distance from the ground.
Fionn, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? demanded Sir Bearach.
Instead of responding, Fionn leapt from the wall and joined the battle below.
***
Farris didn’t realise that he had taken both short-swords into his hands, but they were there, moving in a flurry with little feedback from his brain.
Just like a normal bar fight, he thought, ducking under the wide swing of a great-axe and shoving a sword into the chest of its wielder. The undead soldier barely flinched as Farris twisted the blade and pushed further. The great-axe swung back again, but having anticipated this, Farris hopped back then struck forward again. This time he took soldier’s head clean off, but the corpses did not fall in response.
Maybe not like one after all. He bounded back to join the others as the headless soldier stumbled around blindly.
The rest of the prisoners and the Churchguards were dispersed around the Basilica Market. Whereas once this was a regular meeting place for trade and commerce in the Dustworks, now its buildings burned with fires of crackling orange and bright blue.
A crossbow bolt whirred past Farris’s head, but he did not turn to see where it had come from. Ned and several other Churchguards struggled against a group of skeletons pouring in from a nearby alley.
How can we possibly beat them? thought Farris, dodging to the side as a single undead villager swung at him with a broadsword. As the sword’s weight knocked the villager off balance, Farris ducked under its arc and grabbed one of its arms. With a quick swing of his blade, Farris sliced it from the villager’s shoulder. Before the broadsword hit the ground, Farris tore across the Market toward Ned and the others.
As he ran, booming footsteps echoed above the cacophony of battle. He turned to see a great, black shape bounding towards him, taking great leaps with each stride. The flames illuminated the shimmering fur of a black bear, its beady eyes fixed on Farris as it came. Flesh hung from its sides in strips, revealing greying, rotting bones beneath. The bear grunted and bore its teeth, shining white daggers protruding through bloody gums.
Farris held his ground, putting one foot back to augment his balance. He gripped both blades tight, lowering them beneath his hips.
“Come on!” he cried, bending his knees as the bear approached. “Come on!”
