Ghoulslayer

Chapter Twenty-Eight Rancour

‘Nia!’ cried King Galan as the traitor beheaded her steed.

Her drake slumped beneath her and plunged towards distant flagstones.

Galan kicked his mount forwards, steering it after her. He hurtled past the steps at the centre of the tower, struggling to hold his reins.

Nia’s steed trailed crimson as it looped and fell, but he could still see his queen, hanging onto its ridged back. The traitor was there too – squat and heavy and gripping an axe almost as tall as he was. His head was shaven apart from a central strip greased with so much animal fat that the hair stood up in a flame-like crest. He was climbing over the dead animal even as it fell, still trying to reach Nia, drawing back his axe to strike again.

‘No!’ howled Galan, driving his drake towards the ground as he tried to ready his spear and take aim.

His steed swooped low and slammed into Nia’s drake seconds before it landed, sending all of them tumbling across the floor. Galan was hurled from his mount and thudded into the wall, losing his spear as he hit the stones.

He sat there for a moment, too dazed to move, staring up at the hollow tower, trying to remember who he was. There was a circular window nearby that looked out onto the wide boulevard. His men were gathering outside, preparing to attack, and the sight of them filled Galan with pride. They had fought their way through the city with ease, and their chins were raised in triumph as they rode towards him, colours flying in the breeze. Behind them, his war machines were laying waste to the city, pulverising everything.

‘Galan!’ cried Nia.

She was lying a dozen feet away, at the foot of the stairs, pinned beneath her dead drake and struggling to breathe.

He groaned at the sight of her, unable to hide his shock. She had been crushed. There was blood rushing from her armour and her hips were twisted at a revoltingly unnatural angle.

‘Galan?’ she called again.

The traitor with the mohawk was on the other side of the stairs, looking equally dazed, massaging his face as he used his axe to lever himself back onto his feet.

Galan rushed over to Nia and tried to shift the dead drake. It was impossible. The beast was the size of a full-grown oak.

Nia reached up to him, no fear in her voice, only frustration. ‘Damn it.’ She strained to move. ‘Can you move it?’

He wanted to scream and pull away. To see his love like this was more painful than anything he could have ever imagined. But he knelt next to her, forcing himself to meet her feverish gaze.

‘Why do you look at me like that?’ she croaked, struggling to breathe. The colour was draining quickly from her face as the pool of blood spread around her. She nodded, slowly, and settled back against the floor.

Galan could think of nothing to say. A numbness seized him at the thought of life without her.

She gripped his arm, smiling through her pain. ‘We have almost done it, Galan. We are almost there. You are almost there.’

There was a thud of boots as the Hounds of Dinann entered the tower and dismounted. Their triumphant expressions faded when they saw Galan holding their dying queen. They stumbled to a halt, lowering their spears.

‘Melvas and the others are here,’ he said, struggling to speak. ‘Rest for a while, and I will come back for you when the traitors are dead. Then we will fetch the healers to–’

She silenced him with a horrific smile. ‘No lies. I see the truth in your eyes. No healer can help me now. But I’m not afraid of death, Galan. This is all I ever wanted. To die in battle, with you by my side. I would rather this than any number of–’ Her words were interrupted by a violent coughing fit.

‘I could never have been a king without you,’ he said.

She tried to nod, but the coughing grew worse until she was choking. Her grip on his arm tightened and she pressed her already blue lips against his skin, giving him a last, long kiss. Then she lay back, still smiling as her final breath rattled from her chest.

Galan stared at her, his own breath stalling in his lungs. He gently touched her silver wedding ring, tracing the runes, remembering the day he had put it on her hand.

Then he saw someone striding towards him across the atrium.

Fury jolted through him, forcing him to take the breath he had been holding back. It was the barbarian with the crest of golden hair – the muscle-bound savage who had murdered his queen.

Galan forgot his grief and lurched to his feet. He did not care who the strange-looking warrior was. Nia’s murder would not go unavenged. He reached over his shoulder and found, to his relief, that Rancour was still there. He drew the longsword and gripped it in both hands, feeling its sorcery pulsing through its handle. Then he rushed at the barbarian.

‘King of the ghouls!’ cried the savage, laughing as he saw Galan coming towards him. ‘Finally we meet!’

It was only now that he was so close that Galan saw how short the warrior was. He had an absurdly muscular frame, but his head only came level with Galan’s chest. Galan had never encountered a duardin before, but he was educated enough to know that this must be one.

‘On your knees, murderer,’ he cried, drawing Rancour back to strike.

The duardin laughed again, clearly unimpressed. ‘Are you trying to talk? With half your neck missing?’

Galan faltered, unsure what the barbarian was talking about. He touched his neck, but found no wounds.

‘Tricks won’t save you,’ he hissed.

He hefted the ensorcelled blade with all the strength he could muster, aiming for the duardin’s mocking grin.

The savage parried, but as the sword struck the axe, sorcery erupted from Rancour’s blade, hurling him backwards in a storm of darkness, as though he were buried under gauzy black sheets.

The duardin cried out in annoyance as he tried to fight his way through the darkness. He swung his axe furiously, causing a flame to shimmer in the metal, but the harder he fought, the more dense the darkness grew, tightening around him like a net.

‘Curse you!’ he roared, staggering from side to side, unable to free himself.

Galan circled him, relishing the moment.

Then he came to a halt, noticing something strange. There was a golden face embedded in the duardin’s chest, and as the warrior struggled to escape Rancour’s sorcery, the metal mask pulsed with inner fire, glowing like an enormous ember.

As the duardin reeled back and forth, howling in outrage, Galan stepped quietly towards him, drawing back Rancour, feeling its seething power. The blade was charged with the might of the Great Wolf. It was blessed with sorcery so powerful it would cut through anything – even the golden rune.

But as the rune-light flooded into Galan’s eyes, he felt a strange sensation. It was as though the breeze were blowing through his neck rather than against it. He remembered the duardin’s strange insult and reached up to touch his throat. His fingers brushed wet, torn meat.

Cold dread gripped him, as though he were waking from a dream, but he still could not tear his gaze from the rune in the duardin’s chest. The light burned through his mind, twisting his thoughts, giving him the most peculiar sensation that he was not who he thought he was.

Pain exploded in Galan’s chest as a blade jutted out from between his ribs.

‘No need to look so grave,’ whispered a sardonic voice in his ear.

He staggered forwards, and his attacker wrenched the blade sideways as he fell, tearing his flesh apart.

Galan hit the floor in a fountain of blood and looked back to see a sneering aelf standing over him, whipcord thin and clad in barbed, blood-splattered leathers.

He tried to rise, but she put her boot on his chest, holding him down and waving a disapproving finger. He collapsed back onto the floor, dizzy with blood loss.

The aelf strolled away with the sprightly, elegant steps of a dancer, heading over to the duardin.

From where Galan was lying, he could see Nia’s dead drake and the soldiers who had entered the tower. Only, they weren’t soldiers at all. They were something else – grey, twisted horrors, with torn flesh and leering, lipless mouths. Rather than watching over their fallen queen, they were hunched over her steed, tearing hungrily at its flank, ripping its muscles, filling their mouths with blood.

He could just see Nia’s outstretched hand, mottled and grey, like rotten meat. Then he saw the wedding ring, glinting on her bloodless finger.

With his last breath, he whispered her name.