What Lies Beyond, page 53
part #6 of The Cycle of Galand Series
"I think it's our best idea," Dante said. "Although I'm starting to wonder if it was very stupid of us to turn down those offers to stay and live in the Realm."
He gave the signal to Olivander, who nodded to his officers, who ordered their flagmen to raise the flags indicating it was time to get on the march. The troops left the shore and entered the pine forest that began as soon as the soil was solid enough to bear the trees' roots. Scouts ranged ahead, both human and a small flock of reanimated flying insects. They would have had more of the latter, but there weren't many to be found in the current weather.
They'd encountered no sign of the enemy by the time they emerged from the forest into the open ground outside the city. Narashtovik was now just two miles away. Dante confirmed the spire of Ivars was still standing, along with the Sealed Citadel. Typically when winter fell on Narashtovik, smoke climbed from tens of thousands of chimneys to mingle in the sky. But on that day, despite the snows gathering on the ground and the rooftops, not a single hearth was lit.
They took a short rest before continuing across the stump-studded ground. Priests sent their undead insects ahead to try to scout the city, provoking the first combat of the day with the bugs the lesser liches had waiting for them.
The army came to the humble neighborhoods at the city's edge. Dante sent men to check the houses for survivors in hiding, but the buildings were as empty as the streets. Except for a scattering of Blighted sent out as spies, who flushed from cover like beasts and ran back toward the Pridegate. Dante had ordered all of his nethermancers to save their powers for the White Lich and his underlings, leaving the archers to attempt to take down the fleeing Blighted, but the undead ran erratically, and often required multiple arrows to fell. Half of them made it away to safety.
Dante found a moth dying in the premature cold, put it out of its misery, and sent it flying high toward the city. The falling snow made it hard to see much detail beyond a few miles, but only a full-blown blizzard could have hidden the motion of the Blighted in the streets. In some places, the streets seemed to be the Blighted, writhing like sickening rivers of maggots. An army larger than anything Dante had ever seen.
The moth's sight blanked out. Something had found it.
On the march toward the Pridegate, nearly all of the homes had broken doors or shutters—the result of the Blighted going house to house to drag out any citizens who'd chosen to remain—but only a fraction of the structures had been severely damaged or knocked down. It was much less destruction than Dante had feared the lich would inflict on the city. Then again, maybe the enemy simply hadn't bothered with things so unimportant they were kept outside the walls.
The Narashtovik of yore had been so crumbled and abandoned by one sack after another that its desolate streets had earned it the nickname of the Dead City. The moniker hadn't made much sense since its revitalization, first by Cally, and continued by Dante. Now, though, the name felt like prophecy.
The walls loomed ahead. Dante had once thought them imposing, but after the defenses and fortifications of the gods' kingdoms, the Pridegate looked wimpy enough to knock over with a good kick. As they drew near, pale, ghastly figures stood from the battlements. At first by the dozen. Then by the hundred.
Then by the thousand.
The advance slowed. Not due to the snow, though this now lay in a three-inch cover over the streets, but to watch for enemy attacks. But the lich made no attempts at ambushes or sorties, and in due time Dante stood in a square in easy bow shot of the gates they'd chosen to assault.
He turned his back to the enemy to look upon his people. He lowered the hood of his cloak, letting the snow swirl about his face. His soldiers stood silent, waiting with weapons ready, the priests and monks distributed among them so no section of the infantry would be without cover, anticipatory shadows wrapped around their hands.
There was no city noise to compete with, and the Blighted were quiet as well, with the snow muffling what little sounds the troops were making. Dante didn't need to amplify his voice at all.
"My friends," he began. "You know these walls we stand before. You know the streets outside them and the churches and temples within them. You know the riches of the markets of the Ingate. The glory of the spire of Ivars. The strength of the Sealed Citadel. You know the taste of the food grown on the farms that surround the city. You know the cold of these snows and that it will grow much colder—but due to that same cold, you know the relief of the first warm spring day when winter is behind us for another year.
"You know the people who live here, who you live and work and worship alongside; you know our long history, centuries of wars and struggle that date all the way back to the two tribes of the Rashen and Elsen. You know our culture of independence and perseverance. You know all of these things because this city is ours."
Dante closed his hands into fists. The gesture was not meant to be merely theatrical. Nor was the anger that now lifted his voice louder. "Though it is more true to say that it was ours. Now, it has been taken by a man whose mind is so warped he wants to exterminate every last person on earth. The ghouls you see there on the walls are the future he means to convert us to. Most of the dead are from other lands, but the White Lich killed everyone he found here and added them to his vile ranks. He'll use the shells of your own people to kill you.
"There is a part of me that's glad he took our city. For we aren't here to reconquer Narashtovik. No, we're here to kill every last one of them that we can. For even if we can't destroy the lich, we can murder his army. Even if we falter, and victory eludes us, every single Blighted we kill today gives those who come after us that much better of a chance to finish what we couldn't.
"It was a grave mistake for the White Lich to come here. For us, there is no defeat. Just vengeance. And we will fight all the more viciously to claim that vengeance in our own streets. You have fought the enemy before, and courageously, but it was without hope of anything more than survival. Today is different. Today, you fight for your souls—and the glory that comes from saving them. You fight for your city. You fight for—!"
"Still your tedious tongue."
The words cut short Dante's speech like the stroke of a sword. On a tower beside the gates, a lesser lich raised her hand, shadows dancing within it, her white dress flapping in the gusts of the storm.
"You speak like you're set and ready to invade!" Like the White Lich, her skin bore a blue-white glow, rendering her features difficult to make out. If her voice was anything to go by, they would look extremely arrogant. "Where is your sense of propriety?"
"You sack our home," Dante said levelly, "and speak to me of propriety?"
"Whenever there is a war, someone's home gets sacked. If the invaded later come to reclaim it, it is proper to hold a parley before the battle."
"At this point, what would the Eiden Rane and I possibly have to say to each other?"
"That can't be known until conversation begins."
"All right, then let me open the dialogue. Here are my terms. First of all, go fuck yourself. Second of all, I'm going to reach into your chest and rip out your wrinkled little heart. Thirdly, but no less important, when the White Lich finally shows his cowardly hide, I'm going to tie him by the ankles to the spire of the cathedral and—"
"Your words become very bold as long as you believe I am not there to hear them."
This came from a new voice—though Dante knew its source as deeply as he knew the feel of the ground beneath his feet. A massive head appeared from behind the wall, beardless, the man's eyes an ever-shifting but always-piercing blue. The White Lich took another step upward, revealing his massive shoulders and the cape draped from his shoulders. He carried his glaive. The blade at its end was big enough to gut a bull.
"Hello, little sorcerer." His eyes fell on Dante. "I thought perhaps that you feared to face me again. Where have you been hiding while your people fought in your stead?"
Dante hadn't prepared for this and feared he'd give it away by hesitating too long. Then he just thought about what Blays might say. "We thought we might hunt down the prime body and put an end to this thing. But then I thought that killing the shriveled little mummy you used to be wouldn't be very sporting."
The lich made a noise that might have been amusement. "You have so many funny ways to say that you have failed. Do you have a joke to make about your failure to protect the city I now stand within?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. I'll tell it to you right before I kill you."
"After so many losses, your bravado is forced, little sorcerer. This is a sad thing to see. I won't toy with you any longer." He turned his huge head to survey the army opposing him. "I come here to offer terms. For as you know, I am not quite the monster you make me out to be to your people. For you, little sorcerer, I have nothing to offer, for you have already turned your back upon the greatest gift I could give you.
"But I do have something to offer your people. The people of Narashtovik. I could scheme to lie to you, and promise that I will let you live if you lay down your arms and walk from these walls. But I have no need to lie. Instead I offer you this. I will not let you live here—and by 'here' I mean not just this city, but this world.
"But if I come to own this world, I will have no interest in the Mists. The life that comes after. You may live there as long as you like and I give you my promise that I will give you no trouble. Rather I vow to you to keep the Mists safe. No more damage will be done to them. You may live there in peace and without fear."
Dante laughed out loud. "What kind of an offer—"
"Silence. Did you not hear me when I said this offer is not for you?"
"Do you think we can't see right through you? You're making this offer because you're afraid of us."
The Eiden Rane laughed lowly. "You believe that I offer you this because I fear you? No. I offer you this because I pity you. In their hearts, these people know that you have nothing to offer them but annihilation."
"And you have nothing to offer them but lies."
"Why should I lie on this matter? My sole interest in the Mists is how they may be used to aid my conquest of these lands. You have seen my mind, little sorcerer. You know that I am not without honor."
"I also know that you will do anything to achieve your ends. Including betraying any promise you make."
"Yet I will swear on my blood that my offer is true."
"It may be that you would honor your words," Gladdic said. "Yet you make a promise you cannot keep. For even if you do nothing more to destroy the Mists, Taim will. Thus any man who takes your offer would sell his soul just to see it eradicated in the beyond."
"You know nothing of what will come to pass for the Mists should I choose to protect them. There is room for you there. You should take it, for there is no room left for you here."
"What a brilliant deal," Dante said. "All we have to do is forfeit our homeland, and in exchange we get to die. Did you really think that was going to work?"
"They have faced me before," the lich said gravely. "They understand that the end is only a matter of time. Yet they can choose to still have an after."
"An after." The disgust he'd felt since the lich had proposed his "offer" boiled up Dante's throat. "Are you so crazy that you think that's remotely appealing? Is it your age that's made you this insane? Or the amount of power you've gathered? Because this is not how people think."
"When no other choice is left to them, they will come to see reason."
"Do you know what the worst part of you is? None of this even has to be happening. Why didn't you just conquer Tanar Atain and be happy with that? Even if you'd killed every last Tanarian, do you think anyone outside of the swamps would have cared about it? You could have ruled your land until the end of time. Done whatever you wanted with it. Turned it into your private paradise.
"But no. You had to try to take everything. As if the existence of people outside of your rule was an offense to you. Or worse, a threat to you. Combine this with your belief that all these people are living lives of crushing misery, and you're compelled to subjugate the whole world under your banner. You don't understand how our world works. There are supposed to be hundreds and hundreds of different kingdoms. That's the way it was meant to be."
"Meant to be? Why do you believe this fragmented world is superior than one that is united?"
Dante bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying "because a god told me, that's why." If he revealed they'd been palling around with the gods, it would only take a short leap for the lich to suspect they'd found the spear.
"All you have to do to figure that out is look at the world around you," Dante said instead. "Yes, neighbors go to war with each other. Sometimes they conquer each other. Sometimes the conquered rebel. There's plenty of strife. But there's nothing that threatens everything. Nothing except for you. Tanar Atain could have been your perfect vision made real—but it wasn't enough. For you, it never is."
"There are many men and women that is true of," the lich said. "But I am the only one with the power to make it so. Now the old ways will fall. And mine will replace them."
"That's why there can't be any deal. Why there was never any hope of peace. Because as long as you exist, it's either you or us." A cold understanding moved through him: he knew, finally, why the Mallish thought they had to exterminate nethermancers from their land. "And that's why our next task will be to learn how to find people like you before any of you can threaten us again. But I'm getting ahead of myself."
"In what way?"
"First, we have to destroy you." Dante turned away from the enemy and toward his people. "Now, we end this."
36
A volley of arrows flew from the archers. At the same time, a volley of nether flew from the priests.
And a roar of bloodlust flew from everyone.
Arrows bounced from the merlons of the wall. The Blighted were already retreating behind cover and few of the missiles found their mark. Yet the volley served its greater purpose: driving the lesser liches into cover as well, leaving them less able to defend against the flood of shadows streaming toward the wall.
The Eiden Rane made no move at all. Not even as the arrows struck him—most deflecting away or breaking, but two finding purchase, one in his chest and one in his neck. Even then, he didn't so much as flinch. Some unknown process pushed the arrows free from his skin. They dropped atop the wall without having shed a single drop of his glowing, pearlescent blood.
He bowed his arms to the side and lowered his head. Light exploded from his hands, a galaxy of ethereal stars that he sent crashing into the river of shadows. Scores of sorcerers had contributed to the attack against him. The lich neutralized it without the aid of a single one of his lessers.
He stared down at them in amused contempt. "You have rejected my offer of peace in the next world. You will soon see that it was generous beyond what you deserve."
He descended from the wall and disappeared from sight, dashing any hopes that he might wade forward where Blays could get at him with the spear. Dante called to his priests and ordered a second volley. This time, though, the lesser liches coordinated their defense with their master. A few scant streaks of shadows made it past the deluge of light, but it wasn't enough to do more than gouge a few scrapes into the wall.
Dante ordered both archers and nethermancers to fire at will, hoping that in the full confusion of battle, the defenders would find it harder to focus on every single attack, allowing some portion to slip through. Archers shifted back and forth in search of better angles. Men brought ladders to help the bowmen up onto the roofs of houses. Even from higher vantages, they weren't able to strike many of the Blighted. Then again, stuck behind the wall, the Blighted weren't able to do any damage to the attackers at all.
The priests were having little better luck than the archers. So far they hadn't killed a single one of the lich's sorcerers, and had only put one meaningful crack in the wall.
"I don't think they even care about keeping us out," said Blays, who so far had had virtually nothing to do. "But it's a great way to get us to waste our supplies."
"Of arrows and nether," Dante agreed. "We could send a monk along the wall to a place that isn't guarded and breach it there. But if we can't force our way through here, I'm not sure how we're going to get the lich to expose himself anyway."
"Isn't that what the attack on the port is for? To split his attention?"
"That only works if it's a threat. Or the attack on the gate is. Right now, we're not."
"We only have to distract the lich for a second, right? That's all the time it will take to punch through the wall. So why not go tell him his mother is a lich-whore or something?"
"That just might work."
"Better yet, call his dad one."
Dante was already running away from the conversation and Blays had to make each word a little louder than the last. Not that Dante was actually running off to call the lich names. Rather he was heading toward Somburr, who was crouched beside an old home with a sod-covered roof and watching the action on the wall like he was considering kidnapping it.
"We're not making any progress," Dante said.
"I have seen that."
"But I've got an idea. I want you to throw an illusion at the lich. Something that will draw him away from the wall, if only for a second."
Somburr's brown eyes flicked between Dante's. "Illusion. Yes. Can he fall for one?"
"I suppose that depends on the illusion."
"Hmm. Go and get yourself ready."
Without another word—such as explaining what he was about to do—Somburr dashed away, heading for one of the ladders up to the rooftops. As Dante crouched among the shrubs and gathered the nether, one of his monks broke ranks and ran toward the wall, shadows streaming from his hands. The man meant to put his palms to the wall and blow it apart directly, with no chance of interception. A lesser lich pointed down at him and sent a flare of ether into the air. A rod of light arced from behind the wall and smashed the monk across the cobbles.
