THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 50
The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 50: The Road to Hell
Before the ruined gates of Miosgan Meadhba stood a golem. A war machine from the days of old, crafted from Dwarven steel and powered by the will of their Forgemasters. It had held the gate since foul sorcery had obliterated all other defences. Thunderbolt and siege engine had pounded it ceaselessly, but when Dwarves built a thing, they built it to last, and it had endured the battering. It stood there, like a titan of animate metal, and wreaked bloody doom on all who came against it, until mangled bodies and hewn corpses lay strewn about it like so much gruesome chaff, and Firbolg and Drow alike feared to go near the thing.
But there was no fear in the eyes of those who now cast their baleful gaze upon the construct, for Fomorians were cursed giants from the ancient world, and they had seen golems before.
Each of them stood near as tall as an oak tree and they were just as broad. Clad in heavy armour of splint and scale, or plated mail, they wore horned helms that hid their terrible faces.
Silently they watched the golem a while as a boulder launched from a trebuchet smashed against it, shattering upon its steel hide and leaving little more than another dent in its already marred and battered form. Unfazed, the thing paused to regard the fragments of spent missile at its feet, and then, with a ponderous deliberation it strode to a section of the collapsed gatehouse, casually wrenched a horse-sized block of granite from the ruined fortifications and heaved it back across the moat.
The crew of the trebuchet scattered, but many were too slow as the slab of masonry pulverised the siege engine in a violent explosion of wooden splinters and shattered beams, before tumbling and bouncing through the serried ranks of infantry massed behind it, leaving a trail of bloody smears and screaming wounded in its wake.
With a creak of leather and iron, the tallest and mightiest of the Fomorians turned to his dour companions and pointed his greatsword. From within its dark helm there came a commanding voice both deep and cruel, "Go! Fetch yourselves into the fray and rid me of this troublesome automaton."
Sheathing their own long blades and hefting mallet and maul, pick and morningstar, they turned and as one, strode down towards the gate.
Emerging from the smoke of battle, the giants came on, moving apart as they advanced, laughing harshly, even as crossbow bolts and arrows from the defenders rained down upon them.
Hefting its great claymore, the golem watched them come.
With fearsome and terrible warcries that seemed to shake the very stones about them, the Fomorians attacked. The golem swept up its blade to meet them and struck the first an irresistible blow, cleaving through armour, flesh and bone like wet paper, and splitting the creature from neck to groin.
Undaunted, the others pressed their assault, and sparks flew as they struck the metal colossus with such blows that only a giant's strength could deliver. They crowded around their mighty foe, swinging weapons so heavy that no man could lift them, and the air rang with the clamorous frenzy of battle.
A giant was spitted through the middle but gripping the blade that skewered him with a bloody death-grip, it wrenched the claymore from the hands of the golem, before falling back in a spray of blood. A maul smashed against the face of the steel colossus, staggering the thing, and a pick came down on the construct's knee joint with such force that the haft of the weapon shattered.
Stricken, the construct hit back hard, and a steel fist punched into the chest of a giant, caving in its heavy breastplate like paper. The monster gave a sudden choking gasp as the metal fist exploded from its back, taking its heart and spine with it in a welter of gore. A backhand blow sent another Fomorian sprawling and a metal boot came down, stamping the creature's leg to crimson ruin and cracking the paving stones beneath.
But even as it fought, one of the giants circled the battle and moved behind it. Wielding the harpoon that had been crafted and given unto his hand by Balor himself, the monster cried an ancient word of power and lunged, driving the jagged blade deep into the back of the steel champion.
Arching its spine in a paroxysm of silent agony, the golem went down to one knee. Other Fomorians closed in, battering at it mercilessly while the one behind worked the spear in its hand, snarling as he relentlessly drove the point ever deeper.
There was a brilliant flash as the harpoon finally clove the heartstone buried deep within that metal chest, severing the magic that had so animated it. With a shrieking of tearing metal there came a hot spray of molten iron and caustic steam from the wound, and with a final shuddering creak it collapsed and lay still.
Bellowing a cry of victory, the Fomorian held his smoldering, half-melted spear aloft. Its companions joined their voices to his in a thunderous shout, and beyond the walls the battalions of Drow and Firbolg began to move.
...
Kalis drank directly from a bottle of strong spirits as she watched while a sister nervously sewed shut the wound in her thigh. The bottle had been thrust into her hand to dull the hurt, but even so, and despite her reputation, she drank frugally. She had already been dosed with a healing draught and the midst of a siege was a poorly chosen time to get steaming drunk, maybe tomorrow, if she lived, but not now. Besides, she was used to pain, they were old companions and had kept each other company after many a battle. Which, seeing the young girl's shaking hand as she worked her needle and thread, was probably just as well,
"Am I so fucking terrifying?"
Across the chamber Vulgara-Bal, aged Matriarch of the besieged city chuckled, "You'd best have a care, Swordmistress, a couple of inches higher and they'd have shot you right in the backside, though how they could miss a target of such... 'eminence' is beyond me."
The veteran warrior made a disgusted sound, "Fucker wasn't even aiming at me, he was firing blind. If I hadn't stopped to push that fat bastard of an overseer out of the way I'd have been missed clean."
She tossed the bottle across the room, "Here, drink this, I cannot afford to be insensible right now, despite obvious temptation."
The Matriarch sniffed the bottle and eyed the emerald concoction it contained with some suspicion, "What is this stuff?"
"Some Gnomish brew I think, who cares?"
"I think I've brewed blade-venom with a more appetising odour than this."
"Well, feel free to drink that then, if you're too fussy and effete to quaff from my bottle."
The Matriarch made a grumbling noise but upended the glass demijohn nonetheless and took a swig. It tasted like she had set her throat on fire and then scrubbed it vigorously with a wire brush for good measure. After she had more or less recovered from the fit of coughing and wheezing the sulphureous liquor had inspired, she turned an angry glare at the Swordmistress who was laughing so hard she all but fell from her stool, "Sweet murderous Gods, that stuff is evil! What the fuck is it?"
"It's..." she eyed the bottle a moment and shrugged, "it's green. Besides, it serves you right for saying I had a fat arse."
"Well, if the shoe fits..."
The swordswoman snorted, "And I know exactly where my shoe is going to fit if you keep up with that impertinence, you cheeky mare."
The Matriarch responded with an insult of her own, but their good-natured banter was murdered when the door to the chamber was thrown open and a runner, breathless and blood-spattered, eyes wide with fear, dashed in, "The gate has fallen! The enemy is inside the walls."
Kalis exchanged a look with the Matriarch and sighed, "Well, shit, looks like I should have drunk my fill when I had the chance."
...
The creature with the glowing eyes and feral aspect ran a delicate tongue over its sharp, sharp teeth, as, with languid grace, it rose from leaning against the wall. But instead of advancing on the scout it paused and tilted its head as if listening to the faint cry of the distant banshee. Physically, it had not transformed entirely, or even for the most part, and the ghostly form of Queen Maeve, garbed in mail, and wielding her sword could still be seen clearly enough. But now her aspect was thoroughly untamed and wild, her entire pose was somehow completely feral and savage, eyes bright with a terrible hunger, and her talons were keen.
Azure also licked her lips, but for an entirely different reason, as she furtively cast her eyes about for some weapon she could use. Instantly, as if reading her intent, the creature's wild gaze transfixed her once again, and it gave a ravenous chuckle as it edged closer, shivering as it did in eager anticipation.
The scout played for time, "Why did the silver not affect you?"
It blinked, and, for the moment at least, halted its stalking advance as it considered its answer, "Because I am dead, long dead, and death has a way of taking the edge off so many things."
"Does that mean that your bite will no longer..."
"Turn you?"
Azure swallowed, "Yes."
