Diary kept by Cian Dranach, survivor of the siege on Point Grey, and asylum seeker in Penance.
***
By the time Fionn reached the Goldworks of Penance, the commercial district was already evacuated. Whereas typically the air was alive with scents of spices and the sounds of trade, now everything remained silent. A cold wind blew through the empty stalls, buffeting dust along the wide, stone streets.
The huge stone structure of the Gold Gate loomed ahead of Fionn as he walked, but the mountains of the northernmost region of Alabach rose even higher. The Northern Reach was what the Firstborn had called the area when they came to conquer Alabach. It was said that the first Simians had fled through the rough mountainous terrain when the Humans came, and they made their last stand at the stronghold of Penance, though it wasn’t called Penance back then. The Humans found it difficult to follow at first, but with the Lord Seletoth’s gift of magic, the battlemages reached the Simian city with ease.
If only it was so easy today. Fionn took a corner past an abandoned warehouse. When he stepped into the area adjacent to the gate, Fionn recoiled with shock.
Rows upon rows of armoured soldiers stood at attention, facing the Gold Gate. Most were clad in the grey and black colours of the triad, with blue-tinted armour beneath their surcoats. Both men and women, Humans and Simians alike, filled their ranks, while captains and lieutenants patrolled the perimeter.
“Firemaster!” called a voice Fionn didn’t recognise. The red mage had come dressed in the traditional crimson robes of his station, so it was no surprise that even strangers would know him by title, if not by name. Still, there was none stranger than the Simian who approached him now.
In gilded armour that could have been set on display, the Simian held out a massive hand to greet Fionn. “I am General-Commander Plackart,” he said, each word sounding like a cough. “I was told you’ll be honouring us with your presence on the front-line.”
“I…” stammered Fionn. It was almost too much for him. The General-Commander of the Triad’s army was honoured to meet him?
Gods, I’ve never even seen a battle, let alone fought in one.
But he doesn’t know that, whispered Sir Bearach. And the dead don’t know that, either.
Fionn made a fist inside his sleeve and idly rubbed a thumb across the two flint-rings on his index and middle fingers.
General-Commander Plackart cleared his throat harshly, not bothering to cover his mouth as he did. He wore a heavy chainmail coif over his head, and every inch of his exposed face was thick with scars. One deep cut covered his left eye, leaving only a hollow, withered eyelid in its place.
“Yes, sir,” said Fionn, trying to sound surer than he really was. “What news is there of the horde?”
Plackart nodded his head toward the gate. “Walk,” he said, although it seemed more like a command. Fionn promptly joined the commander as Plackart marched past the ranks.
“It’s possible that they’ve reached the Northern Reach by now,” he said, not paying much mind to the many pairs of eyes that were drawn to them. “Though there’s no telling how soon they’ll be upon us. The horde has been anything but predictable over these past weeks.”
Fionn nodded in vigorous agreement, noticing that a ripple of excitement was running through the crowd. Plackart grunted in response.
“Most of these are as green as the Glenn,” he said. “Refugees who fled their homes and just want to fight. Some don’t even know how to hold a spear, let alone wield one. But what they lack in discipline, they make up in mettle.”
“And you think that’ll be enough?”
The commander snorted. “I don’t think anything will be enough. But Sin will be damned if we don’t fight till our last breath.”
They carried on toward the wall, when an audible cheer rose up from the front of the ranks. Amongst them, Fionn saw some fresh, young faces under their thick armour. One in particular grinned ear to ear like a fool and was even waving at Fionn.
“Cormac?” said Fionn to himself, squinting to get a better look. The farmhand looked as if he had cleaned himself up, or shaved at least, and enrolled in the very army that was about to clash with his daughter’s. But despite this, he seemed completely oblivious of what waited for them beyond that gate.
Gods. What if she comes herself? Will he still be so eager then?
Plackart hurried onward, for which Fionn was eternally grateful. Now Cormac was no longer the only one smiling so strangely at him.
The commander grunted again, though this one seemed almost like a laugh. “That’s why I’m bringing you to the front,” he said. “The initiates have been talking about nothing else but ‘The Last Battlemage of Alabach’ ever since they learned you were fighting. Seeing you guard the gate will be a better morale boost than victory itself.”
“Really? But… I’m no battlemage.”
“Well, you won’t be seeing much battle then,” said Plackart. He pointed to the top of the wall. “You’ll be with the marksmen, helping keep the undead from the walls. The infantry will see you light up the horde, and that’ll give them strength when the time comes to open the gate.”
“The gate?” asked Fionn. The wall stood before them now, thick with stone and twenty feet high. Dozens of archers and crossbowmen patrolled back and forth across the top, over a complex system of ropes and pulleys that looked like they operated the massive portcullis that made up most of the gate’s width.
“We’ll fight the at a distance as much as we can,” said Plackart. “On the other side of the gate, the Silverback has left some ‘surprises’ for the undead. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. If the horde get too close, I’ll give the order to open the gate, and our infantry will charge forward.”
Fionn gasped. “But won’t that end in slaughter?”
“I was given the task of keeping the dead from entering the city, same as those at the Dust Gate and the Salt Gate. Only way to beat the horde is to put an arrow in the bitch that’s leading them. All we can do until then is protect the civilians.”
The commander led Fionn up the stone steps of the wall. Upwards they climbed, until the tingling fear in Fionn’s stomach began to finally dissipate.
I have magic, he reminded himself. I’ll need to be brave, at least for the rest of them.
All his reassurances failed him, however, when they emerged at the top of the wall. To his right, the soldiers of the Triad were visible in their ranks, a thousand faces eagerly looking upwards. To his left was the Rustlake, and the surrounding valley of the Northern Reach. It was this vast emptiness that filled Fionn with the most dread.
That’s where they’ll come from. The valley won’t be vacant for much longer.
“Now,” said Plackart. “I believe you’ve met Lady Carríga before.”
Fionn barely recognised the armoured figure who stood before him. Her dark armour was glimmering in the waning light, topped with a huge great-helm fashioned into the shape of a swan’s head. Only when this helm was removed, revealing the pale face of Aislinn Carríga, did Fionn offer his hand in greeting.
“Your armour,” started Fionn. “It’s….”
“It’s been cleaned and repaired,” she said, proudly beating her chest with a gauntleted fist. “It belonged to my brother, but Cathal would be proud to know that it’s being used to fight our last stand against the horde.”
And Bearach, too, said the dead knight in Fionn’s mind. The Black Swan of Carríga has never been more suited to anyone but you, sister.
