All the best to those following this story.
Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input.
The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 41: Demon's; Aren't We All.
The walls of Miosgan Meadhba were a maelstrom of fire and madness, and upon its battlements, mayhem reigned.
With drums rolling and horns sounding, the enemy host marched into a steel-tipped blizzard of arrows and shrieking scorpion bolts that cut them down in their scores. Yet they came on, utterly careless of cost and casualty alike. The fallen lay in heaps, and even if only wounded, they were callously trampled underfoot by the advancing army.
A fetid host of undead draugr shuffled forth, driven by the fevered will of the necromancers that raised them. Arrows thudded into their dead flesh, and here and there, a walking corpse, riddled and pierced by a score of crow-fletched shafts, would stumble and fall. But the dead cared not for such things, and heedless of the storm, they continued their shambling advance, and behind them came the Firbolg.
Using the undead horde as foul shields, they surged forward in a wild rush until they were close enough for their shortbows to range upon the walls, and there, they halted. Bows creaked as they were drawn; there was a moment of dreadful silence, then with a sound like the onrush of a winter's gale, ten thousand arrows filled the sky, and the first of the defenders began to fall.
The undead reached the moat, and without pause, they heeded the commands of their dreadful masters and simply walked unhesitatingly into the murky, blood-stained water. Their numbers seemed limitless, for the enemy had been gathering them for an age. There were Firbolg and Orc, Dwarf, and even storm and hill giants among their foul ranks. Most disconcerting to the defenders were Dark Elf revenants, among whom could be spotted deceased loved ones. Others had been raised upon the march, animated from the corpses found in the plundered farms, slaughtered villages and massacred towns the horde had left in their wake. These were simple farmers and townsfolk; women, children, it mattered not. For they had all been callously murdered and then, in turn, given a vile semblance of life and set to murderous purpose.
Rank upon rank of them followed, falling, stumbling and splashing until there were so many that the waters of the moat seemed to thrash as if filled to the brim by innumerable writhing eels. Then, like stinking, mud-covered crabs, they began to crawl ashore on the far side.
Off towards the main gate, a host of Ogres bellowed their warcries and advanced doggedly across the bridge that led to scarred and scorched bastions that had held them at bay for so long. They were armed with wicked spiked mauls; their armour was thick, and they held broad shields before them as they came. Some fell, but the others came on, stepping uncaring over the bloody corpses of their fallen kin, singing their barbaric warsongs and snarling as the hot baresark rage began to consume them. Behind them came trollwives, driving them forth with screams and flaying the backs of the slowest with barbed whips. One Ogre jerked as he felt the petty sting of the lash as it nicked his ear. Spinning, he bellowed his rage and smashed the offending troll to gory ruin with a single sweep of his maul. Other trolls shrieked, but the thing just laughed as it turned its back upon them and continued to move forward.
Reaching the gate, they began to batter it with picks, hammers and axes. Many went down, pierced by arrow and quarrel, but others simply lifted the bodies, and even though some were but wounded, they tossed them carelessly from the bridge to clear the way. The frenzied battering continued unabated, and slowly, surely, the great strength of the monsters took its inevitable toll, and the thick wood of the armoured gate began to crack and splinter.
Laden Gnomes moved past the archers, and with skilful fingers, heedless of the mayhem about them, they began to assemble the pontoons that would allow the moat to be crossed. Behind them, just beyond the range of easy bowshot, the reserves stood ready, assembled in endless dark lines, with scaling ladders at the fore.
Upon the walls, Kasa-Dur swore venomously as she saw what was developing below. She spat and bellowed, "Load silver! Load cold iron! Ready the alchemist's fire! If these cunts want to play silly bastards, then let's show them we're game!"
There was a roar from the nearest defenders as her orders were carried out, and below, the first of the undead fell as the silver arrowheads set them aflame while the cold iron unravelled the spells that animated them.
She grinned, and then a hard hand jerked her aside as a javelin slammed into the battlement where her head had been but a moment before. She turned to the old Orc at her side and gave him a wolfish smile of thanks. The scarred warrior shook his head and muttered, "Maybe too much Orc in you. Might get you in trouble one day."
"Ha! You should be so lucky!"
Turning to a handful of archers, she pointed across the moat. "Hey, fuckers! Are Orcs not better shots than those bastards? Kill a few for me, and I'll buy you a pint tonight," a movement caught her eye, and suddenly she pointed, "NECROMANCER!"
There was a roar, and the warbows sang their dreadful song. The figure was instantly transfixed by a score of barbed arrows that punched into its body. As it fell, the undead about him collapsed or went mad with bloodlust and attacked whoever was within reach. Kasa eyed the blood-soaked madness and grinned, "Nice!"
Overhead, Dragons emerged from the storm clouds and dove upon the city with fire and venom pouring from their jaws. The great shadows of their outstretched wings fell across the defenders, but where men and Elves might quail at such a sight, the Orcs simply bellowed back defiance and turned their bows to the sky, for they were hardy folk, and not given to fear.
The skies darkened ominously, and with a deafening peal of thunder, a great fork of lightning lit the heavens! It struck a dragon squarely, wreathing it from wingtip to wingtip in crackling fire, and the thing screamed.
Trailing smoke, the monster fell from the sky, plummeting to the earth and impacting among the ranks of the attackers, crushing scores in an explosion of blood and dirt. But from the crater came enraged screams and thrashing noises showing that, hurt or no, the thing was not done yet.
Suddenly, from along the walls, there was a noise the like of which had not been heard in an age, and the waters of the moat first boiled and then exploded into flame. Like a river of fire erupting from an active volcano, it engulfed the attackers and charred them to the bone in an instant. The heat from the spell washed over the walls, and even the Orcs recoiled.
Looking back, Kasa Dur saw a figure standing upon a high battlement with burning staff in hand. She slapped the Orc on the shoulder as she laughed wildly, "Look! A Battlemage!"
The Magus pointed to the sky, and thunderbolts rained down upon the enemy army, blasting holes in their ranks and wreaking havoc and chaos as Firbolg, Ogre and undead alike were blown apart or incinerated where they stood. But despite the ruin she inflicted, more, and yet more, of the enemy, took their place, and the attack barely slowed.
A Dragon swept down, and the figure was driven back as a torrent of flame washed across the walls where she had stood, and sparks flew as dreadful talons, curved, razor-sharp, and each as long and lethal as a scimitar scored the battlements. A livid thunderbolt caught the beast on the side of the head, and it reeled away, screaming in rage.
Below, the battle raged on.
...
Ashunara stared at the spellgate before her. The magical vortex writhed in a sinuous, non-Euclidean way that somehow drew the eye and twisted the mind, but despite its hypnotic attraction, her thoughts were elsewhere, and she all but ignored the thing.
Around her, the encampment was abuzz with frantic activity. It looked to all the world like a nest of angry ants that had been kicked over, but centuries of soldiering revealed the order and efficiency of her Company as the veteran troops made ready, and she swore as she shook her head with a heavy sigh.
Nyx appeared at her side and eyed her for a long moment, "You're thinking of leading us through, aren't you?"
Turning to her old friend, the Captain snorted, "Tell me I'm wrong, Nyx. Tell me it's an unwarranted risk that'll likely get us all killed. Tell me I'm an idiot."
Nyx grinned, "With pleasure. You're an idiot, it's a stupid, fucking risk, it's going to get us killed, oh, and did I say you were an idiot."
"Twice."
"Yeah, but some things are worth repeating. Did it make you feel better?"
