Sword of Vengeance by Chris Wraight

Author:Chris Wraight
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781849700214
Publisher: BL Publishing
Published: 2011-01-25T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Night in Averheim. Fires burned in the braziers placed across the city. The dull sound of massed chanting resounded along the narrow streets. Broken clouds circled the pinnacle of the Iron Tower, ripping away from it as the arcane energies thrumming along its massive flanks flared and whipped around the six-pronged crown.

The citadel was complete, glinting darkly, a vast spike of curling metal erupting from the very heart of the corrupted city. It dominated the entire valley, thrusting into the tormented air from the great circular courtyard below.

No sane man could possibly have doubted its baleful intent now. Lilac tongues of flame licked at it from pits sunk deep into the heart of the earth. Vast engines had been chanted into life by gangs of shackled supplicants, constructed in secret by scores of mutated workers and branded with smouldering icons of ruin. The machines churned with a deep, pounding murmur, gouts of coal-black smoke rising around them like pillars, billowing up through deep-sunk vents and fouling the air above the ground. Deep vibrations cracked the older buildings of Averheim, shattering walls that had stood since the very foundation of the Empire and jarring the rich merchant townhouses into piles of rubble.

From deep within the dungeons of the Tower, ranks of dog-soldiers emerged. They marched in close formation, wheezing and growling, their humanity now long forgotten behind masks of beaten metal, riveted to their tortured bones and daubed with the blood of their live human prey. They swung crystal-bladed halberds fresh from the underground forges where packs of Stone-slaves toiled without hope of release. The dog-soldiers fanned out from the Tower and into the streets, thousands of them, all once men, now turned into voiceless, inexorable bringers of death.

The populace of Averheim had been addled by joyroot, now billowing in vast columns of lilac smoke from furnaces all across the city. The six lesser towers burned night and day with the narcotic fumes, dousing the houses, garrisons and taverns with the mind-altering cocktail prepared in hulking underground vats. As the twisted warriors marched to their allotted stations, mortal men cheered them wildly, lost in a haze of visions. None slept. None had slept for days. The houses were empty, and the squares were full. Madness had come to Averheim, and the debased populace revelled in it.

At the summit of the Tower, out on the open platform at the very pinnacle of the huge citadel, Grosslich and Natassja stood alone.

Natassja was revealed in all her dark majesty. The wind, whipped up by the latent forces surging beneath Averheim, screamed past her, rippling her black robes and tousling her long raven hair. Her body now glowed a deep, luminous blue, and tattoos as black as night writhed across her exposed skin. Her white-less eyes glittered in the night air and her lips were parted. She gazed on the maelstrom, and the maelstrom gazed back.

‘It begins,’ she murmured.

Grosslich wore a new suit of armour, blood-red and forged from some unnatural alloy created in Natassja’s forges.

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