Chapter 135: Breakwater

Chapter 135: Breakwater

As the third sunset, Brother Faerbar began his mass to the men that would join him on the walls tonight. He did it as much to put steel in their spines as to feel a fraction of the light he missed so much, though.

The way that the broken stained glass would glow and the darkness would be forced out of the stone structure as he recited the old words was a balm to his spirit. After seeing how few men here had taken up the light, he needed it.

As battered and looted as it was, the Grand Temple of Rahkin was still probably in better shape than the spiritual landscape of the city’s inhabitants. Despite how many hours he’d spend scrubbing its floors between meeting with the Queen and her generals to discuss the city’s defense, it looked no better than it had when he arrived, except for in moments like this when the divine gave all of them a taste of what all of them had missed for so long.

For a moment, all of them together here in fellowship didn’t have to see the timeworn stone or the threadbare walls. They didn’t even have to see the dull red light of Balzaar as he galloped alone across the heavens. Instead, they could see the world as it had been, with white light, veined marble, and blue skies.

It was the way things should have always been. Those were high standards, though. In truth, even the holiest men he’d known were far from perfect. Less than half the men in Siddrimar had been devout enough to catch Brother Faerbar’s fervor, and outside those hallowed walls, he had not expected to find even half that much devotion.

Still, in the sea of eyes that looked at him as he lectured on the fight to come, less than one man in ten looked at him with the blazing gaze that he’d come to expect as the true blessing of the light. All of them looked at him with rapt devotion, and some even with fear, but those things were not enough.

He couldn’t say what was required beyond righteousness, but he didn’t need to. There was no time left for speculating now. That thing was on the move. Whether your place was at the altar or the gutter no longer mattered. At this point, Brother Faerbar no longer cared if you were rich or poor or even a man or a woman. Stained souls could defend the lives of their fellow man almost as well as those with pure ones, as far as he was concerned.

All that mattered was that you could hold a sword and stand in the face of the devil because it was coming for all of them. The scouts had been reporting it for days. Further dungeons were emptying, and nearer dungeons were filling as the dead shuffled their forces and prepared for something larger than usual.

Would they actually try to breach the walls for good this time? He wondered.

Rahkin was the capital. It had walls between walls and districts that could be individually defended, so all might not be lost even if the main gate was breached, but once the dead could roam the catacombs at will, it would probably be over.

Brother Faerbar had learned that lesson more than once. Above ground, it would be a bloody battle, but it would still be a battle. Below it, though. That, it would be a slaughter.

Those terrible memories of those he’d lost in the Lich’s lair were almost enough to shake him free of his blessing, and the Templar paused for a moment to steady himself mid-sentence.

“The light will not prevent your death,” he started again, “But know that your death, should it come to that, will save the lives of countless others. More importantly than any of our lives, though, are our immortal souls.”

He drew his sword, willing it to flare with light to better drive this point home to the hundreds of kneeling men who were listening to his words before the battle to come. “For as long as we hold this city, you and the souls of everyone you love are safe, but if it falls, then all of us are damned, and you shall spend an eternity slaving away for the monster we fight, becoming one more foot soldier in its terrible army. Is that what you want?”

They didn’t have to wait too long. An hour after the fight started, but several hours before midnight, the first sodden zombies began to wade onshore. They were pitiful, waterlogged things with rusted armor. The Templar didn’t even need to dispatch them himself. While he fought, he kept the visor of his battered helmet down and hid the light that might frighten larger prey while he waited to see what would follow them.

The things that came next were a real horror show. First, there were corpses that had been stitched together out of several people until they were two times the size of a normal man, and the ones that followed them had been crafted from so many limbs that they looked more like crabs than people.

Brother Faerbar joined the fight as soon as these abominations broke the surface, but only because the dregs he’d chosen to fight alongside him would have broken and fled if he hadn’t. They were horrifying and strong, but they were not difficult to kill.

He was just beginning to doubt his certainty that the true battle would take place far from the walls of the city when it finally broke the surface and began to glide toward them. When it reached them, its tentacles wrapped around the docks. It didn’t climb them, though. Instead, it smashed them to flinders.

The Templar wasn’t sure exactly what it was in the dark, but even as he ignited his sword to try to understand, he realized that he'd probably made a mistake. He could see the monstrosity towering above him like the brow of a ship now, but so could the men fighting beside him, and several of them broke immediately.

Some part of him didn’t even blame them as he called to everyone else, “Rally to me! Do not let them establish a beachhead and take the docks!”

The last time that Brother Faerbar had fought something like this, it was Oroza’s leviathan, deep beneath Fallravea. This one was worse, though. That thing had been a mockery made from cast-off human limbs, but for this, someone had found the half-eaten corpse of a true kraken and reanimated the thing. The fact that they’d used other random bodies and carcasses to make it whole made it that much more disgusting.

Here, a person had been used instead of the foot-like fin that belonged there, and there snakes and giant eels replaced tentacle sections that had been bitten away or rotted off. In addition to that, everywhere there was a hole large enough to be a structural concern, it was riveted over with metal plates or thick, scaly hides from who knew what.

None of that mattered right now, though. What mattered were the writhing tentacles that could just as easily crush a man as sink a ship or bring down a building. For the first few minutes, it was stuck at the water's edge, and for every trunk-like tentacle he removed with his glowing blade, it slew a few of his men.

Once it managed to drag itself ashore, though, the destruction only got worse. That was for two reasons. The first was that now, every time it failed to strike down Brother Faerbar, it would crush a wagon or knock down some part of a building. The other reason was the zombies it began to vomit up, though.

These slime-covered monstrosities were heaved up past its three rows of sword-like teeth. They weren’t the sort that tried to fight you, though. They were the sort that exploded. Brother Faerbar found that out the moment he cleaved one and two and, the alchemical contraption ignited.

One moment, he was the brightest light on the waterfront, and the next, he was bathed in green fire as the corpse he had just cleaved in two exploded, riddling him with poisoned shrapnel for the second time in his life and knocking him back into the ruins of what had once been someone’s home.

It was a painful blow but not so terrible that he couldn’t rise to his feet once more. Brother Farbar yanked out the largest pieces of metal that had penetrated his armor with his free hand, and then he leveled his sword back at his enemy and mentally steeled himself to return to the fight.