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!”
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.
