Chapter Forty-three

The gates of Thezmarr had splintered apart, a sight Wilder had never thought he'd live to see. As Thea led the charge into the fortress, their horses' hooves thundering over the fallen gates, Malik's fighting words came back to him, as they always did: Glory in death, immortality in legend. It seemed a fitting motto, today of all days.

As they burst into the fortress, horror sank its claws into him. Around them, vine blights strangled the ivy across the walls, seeking out new hosts, creeping across the ground.

Thezmarr had been made into a lair: a deep, despairing lair, home to everything it had been created to fight against. Darkness had their home in its clutches, and the proof was harrowing.

Night had well and truly fallen and the moon hung low, shrouded in dark clouds and shadows, casting an ominous glow upon the battlefield and the masses of monsters before them. The ear-piercing wails of the howlers echoed as they banded together and hit the midrealms' unit in a wave. In seconds, Wilder was assaulted by the cacophony of battle – the clash of steel, the screams of their fighters, the haunting shrieks of the shadow wraiths that lay in wait within the walls. The creatures' acrid scent tangled with the sickly-sweet perfume of fear that clung to their own forces.

Wilder steered his stallion into the fray, the bitter taste of desperation coating his tongue. It was pandemonium. Shadows lashed out at them from the wraiths on the parapets above, while the howlers took advantage of the distraction, cleaving into their men with gut-wrenching screams.

Gripping his saddle with his thighs, Wilder unsheathed both swords and let his steel sing. He cut through the howlers like butter, one by one, not even deigning to watch as they fell onto the blood-slicked cobbles; he was already onto the next. As he fought, he could feel the pulse of evil in the fortress, an otherworldly malevolence echoing through the very fabric of the place – and yet he could see no reaper at the heart of the fray, no sire of darkness watching on from the turrets; only chaos and carnage.

In the centre of the courtyard, Thea, Vernich, Talemir and Drue were fighting back an onslaught of howlers, defending against those curling whips of power dredging nightmares to the surface. Their forces were splintered already, a great many dead, a great many more injured. By the entrance to the Great Hall, Anya, Dratos and Adrienne battled three wraiths who'd deigned to partake. Terrence flew overhead, aiming his talons at the monsters' eyes.

The fortress was overrun. And there was still no sign of the reapers.

‘Where's Cal?' Wilder shouted at Torj, who was wielding his war hammer to great effect, leaving a trail of bloodied pulp in his wake.

‘Should be in position by now,' Torj said, slamming his hammer into the face of a howler with a sickening crack, blood spraying.

But when Wilder looked to the walls, where their archers were meant to be in place, there were only wraiths and their shadows.

‘Fuck,' he muttered, scanning the raging turmoil. ‘We need to get up there!'

Torj motioned towards one of the watchtowers. ‘That way.'

As the battle raged on, the Bear Slayer and the Hand of Death carved a path through the enemy, their Naarvian steel creating a symphony of destruction and pain. Wilder relished the feeling of throats opening beneath his blade, the sound of the screams that pierced the air at his will. It was brutal and bloody, but also a rallying cry to their forces. Both he and Torj knew well enough that a show of strength could harden the resolve of broken warriors, and they needed all the resolve they could get.

At the foot of the tower, Wilder leapt from the saddle and started for the stone steps, Torj close behind. They should have seen the first volley of arrows by now, which meant that something was terribly wrong atop the walls.

Heart pounding, Wilder sprinted up the stairs, thrusting his swords into the soft bellies of the howlers in his path, cutting off a head, then a second one. They had to get to Cal, and fast.

The steps became slippery with blood, but determination grounded Wilder as he reached the door at the top. The fortress trembled, and he wondered what Thea and Anya were unleashing below. They'd agreed not to use storm magic until the reapers made themselves known, for they would come in force, and the storm wielders would need every ounce of lightning and thunder to fight back.

Throwing himself out onto the parapet, Wilder saw the problem.

Darkness billowed, and at the centre of the wall, Cal was strung up like an animal, shadows binding his wrists and ankles, another tendril curling around his throat. He was held in midair, his body fighting the onslaught of whatever nightmares the wraiths were forcing upon him. His mouth was wide open, screaming, but no sound came out.

With a shout, both Wilder and Torj surged for him.

Together, the Warswords cleaved through the shadows with their steel. A dozen images swarmed Wilder's mind – Malik, Talemir, Thea, all at the mercy of the reapers, all suffering. But he gritted his teeth and fought the visions back, just as he battled the lashing tendrils of obsidian, severing them and freeing Cal from their clutches.

The young Guardian fell, knees crunching on stone as he landed on all fours, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face.

Wilder whirled around, anticipating the wraiths descending at any second.

They didn't.

Instead, the shadows dissipated around them, revealing the remains of Cal's archery unit. Many were lifeless on the stones, their eyes frozen wide in shock, their mouths agape with silent screams. But there were a few in similar states to Cal, dry heaving, hands around their bruised throats.

‘Everyone up,' Wilder ordered, twirling his blades. ‘Cal,' he barked. ‘On your feet.'

‘Yes, sir,' he rasped. Eyes still streaming, Cal staggered upright, reaching for his bow. ‘Archers!' he wheezed, his voice hoarse, broken. He shot Wilder an apologetic look. ‘You may have to give the order.'

‘That I can do,' Wilder said, turning to the handful of archers. ‘Your men and women are dying down there! Nock!' he bellowed.

The men struggled to their feet, but did as ordered.

‘Draw!'

Wilder scanned the parapet, horror dawning as he did. For as the shadows fell back, they revealed long spikes lining the walls, and impaled there…

Bile rose up the back of his throat, but he forced it down, forced his attention back to the trembling archers.

‘Loose!' Wilder shouted.

The first volley of arrows rained down on the monsters below, their tips treated with sun orchid essence, bursts of gold exploding in the courtyard. Wilder prayed to the Furies that Cal and his comrades aimed true.

He lifted his sword, motioning to the new wave of howlers breaking into the courtyard. ‘Again!' he roared. ‘Nock… Draw… Loose!'

Screams echoed from below, and the metallic tang of blood drifted in the air.

Torj was moving towards the stairs. ‘I'm going to see about the catapults. They should be raining fire upon this shithole by now.'

Wilder merely nodded and returned his attention to the archers. He desperately wanted to be down amid the fighting, but from the look on Cal's pale face and his lack of voice, they needed someone to rally them. Wilder only hoped they hadn't yet spotted the spikes… He made sure not to look himself, so that he didn't draw their attention that way. There were enough horrors below, let alone those that surrounded them.

‘Nock!' he called again. ‘Draw!'

He watched the archers do as he bid, their bowstrings pulled taut, their chests expanding.

‘Loose!'

This time, when the arrows rained, so did rocks and flaming balls of twine, courtesy of the catapults beyond the walls. It seemed Torj had found them and taken them under his command, wreaking havoc upon the fortress that had once been their home. Glass shattered, and the thunderous roar of a turret crumbling echoed across the parapet.

‘Take cover!' Wilder shouted to their own forces.

Fire and stone pummelled the fortress, and Wilder could take it no longer.

‘Callahan.' He gripped the Guardian's shoulder, forcing Cal to meet his gaze. ‘You're the Flaming fucking Arrow. These men are yours to command. Command them.'

Cal's expression hardened. ‘Yes, sir.'

Wilder didn't wait. He sprinted once more for the stairs, hearing the echo of Cal's firm orders as he rushed to rejoin the fray.

The courtyard was a bloodbath.

And Thea was at the helm.

Wilder fought his way towards her, needing to be at her side amid so much death and destruction. He was assaulted from all directions, barely registering as a blow found its mark. With singular focus, he sliced through one howler after the next, parrying and stepping over the dead, both monster and human alike. Arrows littered the ground, and in the near distance, great plumes of smoke billowed from a blazing watchtower. From the courtyard perimeter, Wren and Farissa were throwing vials of weaponised powders and potions, glass shattering upon the enemy and dousing them with all manner of alchemical horrors.

When he reached Thea, she glanced at him, eyes wild as she swung her blade and beheaded a howler in one fell swoop.

‘We need to find the reapers. We need to end this,' she shouted, thrusting her sword into the gut of another monster, splitting the creature from navel to nose, showering herself in black blood.

She didn't so much as flinch.

Back to back, they fought together, bodies of howlers piling up around them as they went. Wilder scanned the courtyard, looking for any sign of the reapers manipulating this whole bloodbath, but there was nothing. Only howlers and wraiths, vine blights and the odd arachne, hitting the midrealms' forces in brutal waves.

But with Thea at his side, hope began to bloom. Together, they were unstoppable, and they became a beacon for the others. He felt the change in the air, felt it as their unbroken resolve lifted their forces. All around them, the midrealms' soldiers rallied. Talemir, Anya, Drue and Dratos all moved with a resurgence of energy. They would not rest until the fortress was reclaimed, until the last howler, the last reaper was vanquished, until the wraiths were nothing but forgotten whispers in the wind —

Darkness erupted, threatening to send Wilder and Thea flying across the cobbles. Screams echoed from every direction, and the hope that had bloomed so fleetingly in Wilder's chest was snuffed out. A barrage of emotions hit him, so hard that he staggered with the force of them, blinking back burning tears.

‘What the fuck…?' Thea murmured beside him as the shadows receded, just enough to reveal the figure wielding them.

At the heart of all that darkness was Princess Jasira.