Hello, I hope you are all very well and having a great day. Welcome to the next chapter of this yarn. Once again, thanks to Avicia, Sandra (and others) for the editing and input. Their help is really invaluable.
Also, many thanks to all of you who have taken the time to leave some very kind comments. I really do appreciate them, and so often they just make my day.
All the best.
The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 47: The Tolling of Drums
"The dead have risen in the Necropolis beneath the city. They assault the gates and claw at the walls in their hunger to get at us."
Vulgara Bal, Grand Matriarch of the besieged city, turned to the veteran making the report, "How bad is it?"
Kalis Mal, Mistress of Swords, and commander of the defenders of Miosgan Meadhba poured herself a hefty goblet of wine and unceremoniously drained it before replying. As usual, she wore her carapace of plate and scale armour and, despite her rank, the footman's mace tucked into her belt had seen hard use. She had long been a warrior and sellsword, and she'd fought in both duel and battle for centuries before finally "retiring" to her small manse near the shore on the outskirts of the old city, thinking to spend her autumn years in peace and quiet, with her steed and her hunting cats for company.
She'd lasted less than a year before the boredom almost drove her to drunken madness.
The offer to participate in the contest for the position of Strategos at the Academy of Arms had piqued her interest enough that she'd set aside the bottle and picked up her sword once more.
She found that the previous Imperator of the academy was a fatuous twat of a woman more concerned with social positioning and backstabbing than training her charges to fight. The blubbering fool had made a few cutting remarks regarding Kalis and her apparent lack of breeding and topped it off by speaking ill of her daughter before accepting the challenge.
Kalis had killed both her and her chosen champion in a duel that was as marked both by its brutality as it was by its brevity. Then she had waited calmly upon the sands, seemingly utterly untroubled and untouched, looking down at the severed head of her opponent as she waited for any further challengers to step forth.
None had.
She sniffed, "It could be worse, but 'tis not good. The gates of the necropolis are warded and sealed, and I have a detachment of soldiers guarding it. Also, for days now, I've had the Sisters of All Gods and as many volunteers as I could spare, exhuming and burning the bodies laid to rest there in anticipation of such necromancy."
The Matriarch pursed her lips as she listened and then shook her head wearily, "Wise, but those catacombs have been there for centuries, and they stretch for miles beneath the city. We've been laying our honoured dead to rest in those tombs since the days of Queen Maeve, they say."
"Gods! You don't think she's down there, do you?"
"No, her barrow lies off the Carrowmore, half a day's journey to the south."
"Been there, have ye?"
The woman nodded, "I have. My mother took me there one Samhain when I was wee, to light the fires and pay respects to my dead kin. I remember looking at the cromlech that marked the place and the shiver that ran up my spine when its shadow fell upon me, but then," she sniffed, "'twas a cold day, and mayhap it was just the chill, but I made my bow and left an offering just the same."
The veteran grunted as she poured herself another measure of wine, "Wise; she's not a spirit I'd want to offend. But drow necromancers haunt that area now. They say they break open the tombs and awaken those who lie within."
With a snort, the Matriarch chuckled, "Well, the bastards had best have a care if they go knocking upon her door. According to the tales, she was prickly enough when she was alive. I don't suppose being dead these last centuries will have improved her mood any."
"Aye, true enough."
"So, Commander, how fares the defence?"
The armoured woman sighed as she moved to the balcony and gazed out towards the walls of the beleaguered city. The chamber was situated high in the citadel, and from such elevation all of Miosgan Meadhba was laid out before her. She could see the harbour and bay, where galleys and longships were once moored, now clogged with wrecks and burned timbers. The area between the inner and outer walls had once been a bustling warren of baroque houses and workshops, peculiar little emporiums and bazaars, linked by a maze of narrow lanes and alleys that oft led to many a hidden tavern or house of ill repute. In her time, she had spent more than a few evenings carousing or drowning her sorrows in both.
They were all gone now, demolished, and the stone carried off to be used to reinforce the defenses of the city. Now, all that remained was a barren, flat space between the walls, a killing ground littered with traps and other works designed to slow and torment the enemy. It was a shame; she missed those taverns.
Beyond that, it looked like the city had been ringed in fire as the siege was contested. The enemy trebuchets and mangonels outnumbered the engines of the defenders at least ten to one and they worked endlessly, launching stone and fire at the walls.
Many towers had fortified the outer walls and most now bore the marks of this endless battering. Some had shrugged off the pounding, while others listed like drunkards after a brawl, and a couple had been utterly demolished.
The gatehouse and barbican, where the fighting had been fiercest, was a pulverised ruin of rubble and masonry, where cyclopean blocks of granite lay carelessly in piled heaps. Dark elf and drow, orc and firbolg, battled savagely over the blasted debris, neither side asking or offering quarter, while the dwarf-forged iron golem stood in its midst like a titan of old, barring the way and wreaking bloody ruination on any who dared stand before it.
Three times, a dwarf runemaster had given his all to keep the monstrous thing animated, burning their life-force away to nothing to drive the colossus. But each time one fell, another marched forth to lift the burden; for they were Dwarves, and Dwarves do not yield.
Kalis cast her eyes over the sea of foes that ringed the city, towards the pillars of smoke that marked the pillaged villages and farms that dotted the landscape, "They burned my house down."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was cold in winter and too hot in summer. The roof leaked, and I couldn't be arsed fixing it."
Lifting the jug of wine, Vulgara moved to the woman's side and refilled their goblets, "How long was it in your family?"
"Oh, bout two thousand years or so. My great grandmother used the booty from raiding a Dwarven clan to build the place. Don't think the wee fuckers ever did forgive her."
"'Bout time for a change then?"
The warrior sighed, "Aye..."
The Matriarch grinned, "Well, when you rebuild the place, mind and put in a decent bathhouse."
"The last place had a bathhouse! Well, sort of."
"A heated one! I'm too fucking old to go skinnydipping in the bay when I come visit."
"Ach, you're just fussy, you are. Heated baths make ye soft. Besides, who says you'll be getting an invite?"
"I'll bring booze."
"Ahhh, well now, in that case..."
Vulgara nodded, "Good! Well, now we've discussed the important stuff, let us waste a little time on trifles. How fares the defence?"
