The Tattooed Woman Pt 49

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 49

Let's get this road on the show.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 49: The Wolf Queen

Cruel is the snow that sweeps the Carrowmore, covering the graves of the Dark Elves. The plateau had been a burial ground for long, long centuries, and the ghosts that oft prowled that haunted place took it ill and did not care for their barrows to be disturbed.

Now, sorcerers had come, with their rude spells and vulgar minions, clumsily breaking open the tombs, wantonly pilfering, and troubling the bones of those who rested and slumbered within. Their long sleep rudely interrupted, many had been compelled to rise, and to march off in service of these vile usurpers, and among those that remained a bubbling anger began to brew; and in their graves they began to stir.

For these were the royal and honoured dead, dating back to eras long forgotten. Some were Kings and Queens, from before even the days of the Matriarchs or the great curse, while others were fallen heroes. They had been laid to rest in honour, and then barrows raised in their memory. They had earned their eternal sleep, paid for it in blood spilled and lives taken, and now that pact was being broken. It was an insult.

One that merited fair reply.

Most of the spirits may have been satisfied to only grumble their discontent, for they were long dead, their bones had crumbled to dust, and while they may have been murderous enough when living, passage of years now left them unmoved as to mortal affairs. But there were yet a few, and one in particular, who were possessed of significantly less gentle temperaments.

Azure slid through the falling snow as silently and stealthily as any spectre. Despite the scarf wrapped around her face her breath still misted before her. The chill breeze moaned softly around the remains of an ancient wicker man that still crowned a nearby barrow, keening like some mournful banshee as it slithered across the decrepit bones trapped within, but she allowed neither the cold, nor such dirge-like sounds to distract her. For she was hunting, and her prey was close.

Eyes that gleamed like chips of ice penetrated the darkness as she prowled, her fingers curled around the curved bow in her hands and, knowing the reputation of this haunted place, the arrow she had nocked was both wickedly barbed, and tipped with silver.

The scent of cooking fires was carried to her by the treacherous zephyrs, as well as the iron tang of freshly spilled blood, and she paused her prowling, crouching, half invisible, like some feral creature, as she considered.

"They're close, they must have made a fresh kill, and with luck this cold will drive them closer to their cooking fires."

Like some deadly stalking thing, she moved from her hiding place and slid forward.

The camp was empty, more or less. It had been placed in the lee of a large cromlech, and the granite stones, windswept and cyclopean, sheltered it from the biting wind.

Looking at the great splashes of gore, and the toppled cookpot, with the remains of a charred stew still smoldering on smoking embers, she blew out a quiet breath,

"What murky, bloodstained business is afoot here, I wonder?"

Peering at the ground the sign was easy enough to read, but confusing, nonetheless.

With a fingertip she idly traced a footprint, one of the many tracks her skilled eye could see,

"They had their Firbolg sentries and watchers set and in place, while the drow lurked near the warmth of the campfire. Then... something, some entity that left neither track nor spoor, came out of the snow, and it just... took them, though from the violence of these bloodstains and the way these tracks scatter hither and yon, they did not go voluntarily."

There was a trail, one of crimson splashes and desperate drag marks, leading away from the encampment. It all but beckoned to her, and for a moment she hesitated,

"I should go back... I should go back and warn the others."

But the snow was falling heavily now, and the wind was picking up. Soon the trail would be thoroughly obscured, and if a blizzard descended the chances of even finding the despoiled camp again would be slim indeed.

After a moments indecision her mind was made up, and she turned to follow the trail, vanishing into the snow like a wraith.

The lonely cries of distant banshee and the howling of the wind as it crept around the barrows merged to form a sound eerily akin the keening of distant wolves, and for a moment Azure paused to appreciate the spectral choir. Then there came that familiar crawling sensation as the hairs on the nape of her neck raised, and she knew.

"Something watches me."

She considered; behind her the way led back to the murdered camp, with its great cromlech that she could use for shelter and cover. But doubtless whatever stalked her was familiar with that place. Off to her right was a path that wound between a number of smaller barrows. She had seen them earlier, and more than a few looked to have been broken open and despoiled. They might make for decent hiding places, but there was no way of knowing if some undead horror still lurked or waited within any of them, so there was risk. To her left was an unknown, for she had not yet scouted that way, but from what she had seen, it looked to be more open, with a few standing stone circles and toppled menhirs scattered hither and yon. Not a great deal of cover to be had that way.

Ahead was a mound, where a great wicker man stood. Like some lonely giant it towered above her, and she had wondered what poor doomed soul was meant to meet their fate within that ominous construct. She snorted,

"Well, it's not going to be me, that's for bloody sure."

She edged leftward, cautiously circling the mound,

"Less cover, but the same disadvantage holds true for whatever follows, and the open ground favours the bow."

Pausing by the bole of a long-dead tree, she crouched low with her weapon at the ready as her eyes scanned back along the trail she had traversed, but other than the falling snow nothing moved.

Despite this, the sensation of being watched grew ever more acute, and she pursed her lips in irritation. Her eyes narrowed as she considered.

With the smooth speed of long, nigh uncountable, hours of practice she drew the bowstring to her cheek and loosed a shaft. It hissed through the falling snow, and with unerring accuracy passed directly through the exact space she would have chosen for a hiding place if she were stalking prey.

There may have been a flicker of swift, half-hidden, movement, but a flurry of sleet obscured her vision before she could follow with a second shaft. The wind whistled, and for just a moment she fancied it held something of a mocking note. Her lips curled in a wry grin, and she sniffed,

"Prick."

Doubtless whatever spectral entity it was that hunted her it possessed some skill, though, she mused, it might be easy enough to slither about unseen if you were nothing more than a ghostly wisp of smoke,

"Mind you, whatever tore those drow to bits was likely solid enough."

Her heart thumped in her chest; her senses keen, as her eyes flicked to every shadow, even as her ears took in every stray sound. Whatever was out there was likely to be some dreadful haunt, pining for her blood, but despite that, the smile on her lips did not waver. The air was crisp and clear, she was playing the game she loved and playing for blood. She felt alive!

With a silent chuckle she nocked another arrow and moved off.

Another cold flurry was driven at her by the icy wind, forcing her to blink away the sleet. A moment later her vision cleared.

The Great Barrow loomed out of the snow just ahead of her, a mighty burial mound easily big enough to hide a longship with room to spare and adorned by a bleak crown of tall standing stones. Its dark entrance stood open directly before her.

The trail of bloody drag marks led directly to that ominous portal.

Looking at the door, she snorted at the obvious lure,

"So, that's a trap if ever I saw one. Well, in the immortal words of Seargeant Nyx I say, "Sod that for a game of soldiers!" If they think I'm wandering in there all on my ownsome like some idiot sacrificial lamb, they can just kiss my arse. Time for discretion to play the better part of valour, methinks"

She eyed the darkened entryway, with its enticing blood trail, for a moment longer,

"Pity though."

With an almost wistful sigh, she turned to skulk away.

The ghost was standing not six feet behind her.

...

'Twas a gie dost and glaikit thing that ye did, lass. Ye might have caused the killing of the girl."

Looking up from her small campfire, Adair turned her eyes to the dark entity that had emerged from the woods, and uttered a quiet chuckle before replying, "Unlikely."

The Crone hissed her irritation, "She may be Dragonkind, but that flame you bandied about with such feckless arrogance is of no mere mortal radiance, and no mundane stuff, even if it be as obdurate as Dragonscale, can withstand o'er much of it. It would have murdered her for a certainty."

Adair sniffed, and idly poked at her fire with a stick, before she spoke, "Nah."

From her own campfire Ashunara winced as she saw the Crone's expression darkening ominously. Seething, she stepped forward, and stray shadows simply fled before her in a panic. A flurry of snow tugged at her grey mane and in response she made a vexed gesture.

The wind and snow just... stopped.

Across the encampment, Ky and a pair of orcish warriors had been making a snowman, though in this case it was more akin to a fairly hideous snow-goblin, and in orcish fashion the warriors had armed the thing with a brutal-looking cudgel and placed a red cap upon its head. But that did not stop the young girl from gazing in delighted amazement as the snowflakes stopped falling and simply hung suspended and unmoving in the air before her. She gently touched one with a fingertip and watched as it drifted away from her, sparkling as it reflected the starlight.

The orcs however looked distinctly less pleased by this strange occurrence.

The Crone's angry glare fell upon her daughter, "You'd best have a care afore ye take that tone with me, my girl."

The woman by the fire shook her head with a grin, eyes sparkling, "You mistake me, mater. I say she was safe enough. After all," she looked up with a mischievous smile, "you were there."

The ancient being snorted, "And now you would accuse me of such mushy, soft-hearted sentiment. Is there no end to your impudence this night?"

Adair's reply was to laugh, "Ha! I accuse you of being the best of us, certainly the wisest."

"Oh, piffle!"

"Not so, mother. Nemain might have let Ellén die, for her heart is as cold as Winter and mercy is not in her nature. As for Badb? Who knows what she would have done? For her grasp on sanity is at best "questionable". She might have turned the lass into a moonbeam to protect her, then like as not became distracted by a shiny pebble and forgotten to turn her back, or even where she left her in the first place. But you? That you would watch the girl burn never so much as entered my mind."

With a grumbling sigh the Crone shook her head, "You might be doing Nemain a disservice there, lass. She has no mercy for her enemies 'tis true. But her heart may not burn quite so cold as you think."

Looking down at Adair, she frowned a moment before nodding at the fire, and the stick in her hand, "Why do you poke at it? You know it'll not go out 'til you will it so."

"Aye, I know," she shrugged, "why do you sometimes share a drink with those you visit? It's not like mortal fare can sustain you?"

The old woman grinned, "Ah, but they say a wee nip now and again keeps the cold from your bones. You'd no begrudge me, would you?"

Shaking her head, Adair looked down at her hands, and her voice may have trembled, "Well, in that case, mayhap you'd care to share a dram now, with me?"

The Crone froze, "You would drink with me... after what I did?"

"I would."

The creature looked off into the darkness a long time, before shaking her head, "I... should not."

"Azure is away out scouting; we have an hour or two before she is like to return, and we must part again," she pointed across the fire from her, "will you no sit with me for a wee while at least? Who knows what the morrow will bring, after all?"

"That is true enough... Well, there's no harm in sitting a while."

Adair hid her smile as she held out her flask, "Aye, no harm..."

...

The smoke from the besieged city hung in the air like the pall from a funeral pyre. The battle before the walls was unending now, as the enemy hurled themselves into the attack in wave after endless wave, utterly careless of losses, screaming in frenzy, and giving no respite to the defenders. The siege engines never halted their bombardment, and boulders, fire and acid rained down, taking their toll on those that fought to hold the walls.

Three times that day alone the attackers had gained the ramparts, only to be hurled back by furious counterattack. Twice those attacks had been led by Kalis-Mal herself.

The Mistress of Swords did not favour the dark chain armour so often worn by her kin, nor did she wield their typical shortsword and spear. No, she wore battered armour of segmented plate with a full helm, and the heavy warsword she carried cleaved through the enemy like a scythe.

Old she was; a hardened veteran of battle and single combat alike. She had retired for a "quiet" life some years ago, content to teach skill at arms and the arts of war to those younger than her, which was almost everyone. But as the siege progressed, she found that age had not yet calmed the fire in her heart, nor had it slowed her sword arm. Often, she would appear where the fighting was hardest. Whenever she took to the field, she left only a bloody trail of corpses in her wake, and even the Orcs walked softly around her.

Now this skirmish was done, and she stood, panting softly, as she surveyed the field from atop the walls. The battlements were strangely quiet, but the corpses lying about her gave grisly testimony to the carnage of mere moments ago.

The warriors of her bodyguard moved alongside. Each was a skilled and hardened fighter in their own right and all were well blooded. One of the more grizzled was standing nearby, wiping innards from her blade, and she turned to her, "They'll be back soon enough. Get a reserve company up here to reinforce this section afore 'tis overrun, and while you're at it see if you can scare up a magister of some kind to back them up."

Looking about at the myriad slaughtered bodies sprawled all about she snarled, "Where are the work crews? I want these corpses stripped, beheaded and burning upon a pyre afore the bastards rise from their deaths to bedevil us further."

A nearby Sergeant was having a slash on her arm bound by a tired looking novice from the Temple of All Gods. She nodded her thanks to the young woman before looking up in response to the query, "The overseer holds them back until the wall is secure, milady."

Kalis all but growled in aggravation, "You tell that pustulent prick to get his arse up here with his labourers right fucking now, or I'll personally feed him his entrails."

The Sergeant made her salute and signaled for a runner to attend her, and as she did the Captain of the bodyguard moved close enough to murmur, "In fairness, the overseer is but being cautious with the lives of his workers. Many are but slaves but even so he toils alongside and does what he can to preserve their lives," she shrugged, "only yesterday they say one of his crews was caught out near the gatehouse by a counterattack and slaughtered to the last, and I'm told it hit the man hard."

With a sigh, Kalis shook her head, "We have not the time to pander to such sentiment, but fine, tell him we'll hold here until the reinforcements are in place, but these bodies need disposed of immediately, we need more arrows brought up, as well as water for the living. Also, there are wounded here that are too mauled to fight on and needs must be conveyed back to the leeches, and all must be attended to before the next attack rolls in. See it done."

Nodding, the Captain turned to bark orders.

...

Across the battlefield, within the camp of the besiegers the dark entity was enraged, and the screams of those he had ordered impaled did nothing to mollify him.

His lumbering mount had collapsed nearby, licking its chops in lazy contentment after ravaging and devouring his brother, Demeritus. Bits of stray flesh still clung to its claws, gory strands of meat hung from its jaws, and its eyes gleamed in the dark with hungry anticipation as the monster watched its master remonstrating with his minions.

Ten figures knelt before the dark one and while their pose was one of submission, their wicked smiles suggested entirely otherwise, and he seethed, "I commanded you to hold the daughter of Shalidar here and teach her obedience, and yet I return to find the camp in chaos, with tents afire and scores, if not hundreds, dead. Worse, my will is defied, and she has escaped, and three of your sisters are destroyed.

The crows cawed nearby.

The foremost of the demons shrugged, "They were weak."

"They were supposedly immortal."

"Apparently not so much."

He sighed, "Thirteen of you escaped when the door to the land of the dead was forced. Fearsome and feared you were meant to be, devious beyond measure, nigh invulnerable to all mortal harm, and yet now only ten of you remain."

The succubae chuckled, "Oh, My Lord, more than thirteen escaped, but they attend to their own business. We chose to serve you."

"You serve badly."

The daemon shrugged insolently, "If you say so. We serve according to our nature; no more, no less."

From the trees and gallows nearby the cackling of the crows intruded upon the conversation yet again.

The entity snarled and stamped a foot. There came a breaking sound and instantly the intrusive noises ceased, as from the trees every crow, every raven and every blackbird fell dead to the ground. A few still flapped in sporadic shock at their sudden demise, but they were dead, nonetheless. Every one of them.

That is, every crow, bar one.

From atop a gallows cage, a singular corvus remained. Its wings were shining black, but its dark eyes were rimmed with red. It gazed about at its murdered kin, before turning to look back at the killer. After a moment, it cawed.

The demons shifted uncomfortable, a few licked their lips in apprehension while their leader watched with malicious fascination.

The entity gazed up at the bird and hissed, "I see you there

Corpsecrow.

Squawk all you like, screech and caw to your heart's content, you ancient bitch. You are obsolete! Your time will come soon enough, and when I am done with thee there will not even be a barrow raised in your memory."

Badb watched him rant, tilting her head in bored curiosity, then, after a moment, it insolently cawed once more.

"Accursed BITCH!"

The tittering of the succubae dragged him back from the precipice of his frenzy. Spinning, he grabbed their leader by her slender throat, wrenching the infernal creature from the ground with violent strength. She pulled uselessly at his grasp, but her black claws refused to bite upon his skin. Her tail flicked from side to side, and she gurgled in choked distress as he snarled at her, "Why have you not found the dragonling? Where is Shalidar's spawn, and what pitiful excuse do you have for not bringing her back to me?"

In the background, Typhonus rose from his gory bed, padding closer to watch the scene before him.