Just as the beast was mere feet away, Farris leapt to the side and ran both blades across its black body. But instead of reacting as he expected, the bear growled and shifted towards Farris. Its weight knocked him off balance, and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the bloodied ground, looking up at the bear’s massive head. The beast opened its mouth and roared, blanketing Farris with the stench of decay. Something inside the bear’s open mouth seemed to be moving, glistening, writhing… but Farris couldn’t quite tell what it was. The bear’s mouth opened even wider—more so than any living creature’s should. Hundreds of maggots filled its corners, squirming with every movement of the bear’s tongue. Some fell and trickled down upon Farris’s face.
The Simian frantically pushed with his legs to get away, but a heavy claw came down upon him, pressing against his chest and pinning him to the ground.
“Do it,” roared Farris, balling his hands into a fist. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but he was not willing to do down without a struggle. “Do it!”
The bear raised his head back slightly, as if about to lunge forward, but before it could, a great blue hue filled Farris’s vision. All he felt was heat—an unbearable, boiling heat—followed by something grabbing his shoulders. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled away from the burning bear, its shrieks of agony filling the sky like the blue flames that emitted from it.
“Farris, are you alright?” came a voice. Farris looked up to see a familiar pendant dangling before him. Three interlocking circles, each crooked in shape.
“Ruairí!” coughed Farris as he was pulled to his feet. The Human stood before him with a large breastplate covering his chest, the Son’s pendant resting upon its surface. In his hands, he held what looked like one of Nicole’s firearms, but much longer, and be wielded with two hands.
“Sweepers, to me!” Ruairí called over Farris’s shoulder. There two other Humans stood, both holding weapons like Ruairí’s, with blue flames pouring out of each. In an instant, the fires stopped, and both men left to return to Ruairí’s side, leaving the smouldering body of the black bear behind them.
“The Dustgate has fallen,” Ruairí said. “Our brothers were scattered, and our numbers are too few now.”
“I brought men,” said Farris, nodding towards Ned and the others, still fighting to keep the skeletal soldiers from entering the perimeter of the Market. But they wouldn’t hold for much longer. “Can the Dustgate be taken back?”
Ruairí had started off towards the others. “Help these first!” he called back. “Then we’ll see what can be retaken.”
Farris sprinted up to join the three Sons. The two Ruairí had called sweepers held their weapons forward. They were of a slightly different shape to Ruairí’s, with wider brims and what looked like a large container of liquid attached, built to be held under their arms.
Thainol. Beggar’s flames. Nicole. The fires, they—
“You know how to use one of these?” asked Ruairí, shoving a small firearm into Farris’s hands. He held it before him, taking a second to admire the complex mechanisms at its handle.
“Point and shoot?” guessed Farris, his finger finding the trigger. “Just like a crossbow.”
“Exactly,” said Ruairí, raising his own weapon before him. “Aim for their heads.”
“Help!” called Ned from the alley. “We can’t hold them back much longer!”
“Everyone, move!” roared Ruairí, as he and the other two Sons pushed through the Churchguards and the prisoners. The others immediately stepped aside, though this left a wide gap in their defence. The alley was crowded with undead, all of which charged forward on seeing that the dozens that had once blocked their way were replaced by a mere three.
“Sweepers!” commanded Ruairí, and the other two Sons raised their weapons. With a crackling roar, blue flames flooded the alley, and the undead inside shrieked and burned.
“Push forward,” cried Ruairí, and the two other Sons started moving slowly down the alley, one step at a time, and not letting their fires fail.
Ruairí turned to the other men who stood bewildered, staring at the brilliant blue flames that consumed the dead. “Guard our flank,” he commanded.
The others nodded and fell into a protective formation, facing forward and following backward as the sweepers pushed through the alley.
Keeping behind them Ruairí raised his firearm and aimed it over one of the other Sons’ shoulders.
“Make sure none reach us,” he said lowering his eye to the surface of the weapon. “If either of the sweepers fall, the dead will overwhelm us.”
Farris raised his own weapon in response. Some fifty feet beyond, the thin walls opened up to reveal the Dust Gate. Its portcullis was opened, and some of the living were fighting the dead before it. Loud cracks rang out, and more blue flames filled the darkness.
“There’s more Sons beyond,” realised Ruairí. “I thought they were lost. I thought—”
A charging undead soldier leapt through the flames. Before it could reach the sweepers, Ruairí raised his weapon and fired. A huge bang echoed and resounded through the alley, and the wight fell to the ground, its head split in two. He burned along with the others. And the sweepers pressed forward.
A deafening buzz rang out in Farris’s skull. “Skies above!” he roared, not quite sure how loud he was speaking. “What has it done to my ears?”
“You’ll get used to it,” said Ruairí, raising his weapon to fire again. “Focus on the dead. We’re almost there.”
Farris gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the buzzing. He pointed his own weapon forward. A skeletal soldier came running down the alley, showing no signs of slowing. Farris aimed for its head and pulled the trigger. The firearm kicked back with such power that it almost fell from Farris’s hand. He caught it with his other, and the skeletal soldier collapsed to the ground, a gaping hole left in its skull. It wriggled and squirmed as the azure flames consumed it.
Again and again, he fired at oncoming corpses, and the column pushed on. After shooting for the seventh time, Ruairí reached for his pack and handed something to Farris.
“You’re out of ammunition,” he said. “The compartment right above the handle clips out. Replace it with this, and you’re good to go again. I’ll cover you.”
Farris took the object, and immediately went to work. The compartment slid out easily, and he discarded it on the ground. The second one slotted in with a satisfying click. When he went to return to Ruairí’s side, however, Farris found that they had already left the alley and reached the Dust Gate.
“Split up,” ordered Ruairí. “Disarm as many of the undead as you can. They won’t fall until our sweepers burn them, but make sure they can’t fight back!”
Farris stepped to the side and raised his weapon toward a coming wight—a woman wearing layers of folded skirts in the fashion of the countryside. He pulled the trigger and hit her right in the centre of the forehead. The impact knocked her to the ground, but she was still moving, struggling to find her feet again.
A sweeper suddenly appeared by Farris’s side and set the undead woman alight.
“Go,” he grunted. “I’ll cover the alley. Take back the gate!”
Farris left made his way toward the gate. The other Sons who had been left now fought back against the oncoming undead tide, joining Ruairí and the others as they did.
Two Sons were tending to the pulleys of the portcullis as Farris arrived. One sighed in relief.
“Thank the Lord you came,” he said, looking as if he wanted to hug Farris. “We’ve been trying to close the gate, but there’s too many of them. We couldn’t hold them off long enough to—”
“Say no more,” said Farris, turning his back to the two men. “Lower the gate. I’ll keep guard.”
He raised his weapon and fired at another undead soldier, missing his head by mere inches. The pulley-mechanism chugged into action behind him as more wights seemed to take notice. Three others broke away from the fighting and started towards Farris.
“Keep them away!” cried Farris. Frantically firing at each of the oncoming corpses. Some Sons and Churchguards chased down the dead before they could come any closer. Farris fired his weapon again and again, dropping two, three, four undead before pulling the trigger no longer produced a reaction. He swore under his breath and threw the weapon aside.
I’ll keep them away. I’ll fight them with my bare hands if I need to!
A loud crack came from behind Farris, followed by scattered cheers of joy. More and more voices joined them, and it took Farris a further second to realise that there were no more wights left. The survivors started making their way toward the gate, stepping over the charred corpses of the undead.
“We did it!” cried Ruairí. “We took back the gate. Now we stand a chance of holding them off!”
More cries rang out in response to this. The Sons started taking up their previous posts at the Dust Gate, along its perimeter and among its battlements above. The prisoners and the Churchguard from the Basilica stayed where they were, panting for breath and tending to their wounded.
Not even half made it through. The horde has only arrived, but there’s already so many dead....
“Look!” cried a voice from amongst the Churchguard. “It’s a scout!”
Further down the wall, a huge elk trotted casually toward the gate. A figure lay slumped over its back, with two fists held tight to the great beast’s reigns.
“He’s still alive,” said Farris, rushing to meet the scout with several others following. The elk stopped as they approached, its massive head held proudly above everyone else. Two antlers spread out either side, perhaps spanning a distance as long as the mount itself.
