The Tattooed Woman Pt. 57

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 57

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 57: It's What Drow Do.

That blast of wild magick had been of such potence that the echoes of its eldritch violence reverberated nigh from one horizon to the other. The air had shaken and the ground had trembled, causing the crows to rouse themselves from their carrion feasting and take to the skies, flapping and cawing their complaints at being so rudely disturbed from their bloody repast. The creatures of the forest, those few that yet remained, cowered in place as the rumbling shockwave passed through the trees like the distant snarling of an angry war god. Wolves paused in their hunting, hackles rising at the sound; while bears growled in their dark caves, and even the lonely banshee looked up as the unnatural breeze tugged at their hair. Turning, they lifted their dead eyes away from the ghosts still lingering upon the battlefields and casting their cold gazes back towards the distant walls of the beleaguered city they began to drift towards that unearthly summons.

And they were not alone in looking, for others felt it too, and in the shadows and gloom of his encampment a darker shadow stirred.

With a quarrelsome hiss it pulled back from its labours, and the gruesome bloody veil it was weaving parted and tore as distraction caused delicate enchantments to fail. Fomorian giants ceased their droning incantations and cast down the great rune-marked wingbones they were engraving, spitting vile curses as their spell collapsed into sizzling impotence.

To one side a towering form, standing tall and solitary in its malign brooding, uttered a disgruntled and impatient sound as it turned away from the work at hand, regarding its hated ally with a single baleful eye as it did so, and its voice rumbled from deep within its cavernous chest, "What ails you, godling?"

Shadows coiled tightly about the smaller figure, roiling and troubled, as it glanced up, "Can you not feel that? Are your senses as dull as your wits, cursed giant? That was Her ."

Beneath the Fomorian's horned helm an eye of scarlet flame blazed ever hotly at the slight, and its hardened fists clenched tight, for it was unused to such careless disrespect. It had been long centuries since any had possessed courage enough to even look upon his form, let alone meet his fatal gaze or mutter defiances in his presence, and even the mightiest heroes of old took care to gird their loins as they made their puny challenges against him.

No such heroes remained now, for in his time he had seen them all to their gruesome deaths, but be that as it may, he still had enemies aplenty, foes both ancient and powerful, and thus he still had need of this tiny upstart godling. So instead of bandying useless words, he lifted his head and sniffed at the air, much like a scarred and hoary wolf catching a scent.

With a growl of agreement, he nodded, "Aye, 'tis so," drawing a breath his mighty brow furrowed, and his voice softened to a low and ominous whisper of anticipation, "she takes to the field at last."

With a dark and terrible chuckle, he regarded the smaller creature at his side once more, "Does this news unsettle you?"

Shadows wrapped themselves around the entity he addressed, playing along its limbs like some fawning lover as the monster considered; only to scatter like so much chaff as it made a dismissive gesture of annoyance and lifted its eyes upwards, "She is the most crafty of witches, and she would not have announced herself so, had she not expected us to hear, and to act."

The giant nodded slowly at the words. Staring off towards the city, he leaned upon the pommel of his burning sword as he brooded, "True; there is a purpose to this. She all but invites response."

Like living ink, the darkness flowed back, shrouding the towering figure like armour, hiding its great form in a veil of night until only the baleful feral flame of its one burning eye gleamed. And from that murk its voice echoed, "Indeed. She makes challenge."

Fetid breath hissed from between its teeth in a spite-filled snarl, "And so we must give answer."

***

"ASH!"

The cry was torn and broken, made ragged by lungs and mouth clogged and cracked by sand, grit and blood.

The choking plume of dust and smoke was abating, but there was still a rumbling from deep underground, and beneath their feet the earth still shook from the aftershocks as the subterranean galleries and stairwells of the Necropolis collapsed upon themselves.

Still coughing, with her hand shielding her face, Nyx desperately lunged back towards the gate to the tombs even as the masonry around it cracked and sagged. She managed barely a handful of staggering steps before being tackled hard.

Instinctively she slammed an elbow viciously back into the figure holding her, and was rewarded by a muffled grunt, but the strong arms wrapped around her only tightened.

Wriggling and snarling like a furious cat she hammered blows against whoever held her, but instead of forcing her release she felt herself lifted bodily from her feet and thrown to the ground with enough force to take the wind from her.

Lifting her eyes, she saw the face of her oldest friend looking down at her.

"Let me pass!"

Elsadore grimaced, the pain plainly visible in her eyes, "You know I can't."

Slowly Nyx got back to her feet, one hand moving to the pommel of her sword as she snarled, "Let me by, you insubordinate bitch!"

The grizzled veteran standing before her set her jaw and clenched her fists as she growled a reply, "You take one step back towards that fucking death-trap, Nyx, and I swear, you'll wake up with a bastard headache."

"But the Capta-"

Elsadore shook her head sadly, "If she's still in there then she's gone. You know it as well as I."

Nyx sagged, as if gut-punched, "No. She can't..."

"She's alive."

The voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it was enough to snatch the attention of both women.

Adair stood a little apart, with poor Quintus lying crumpled at her feet. The wizard was still befuddled and stunned by the violence and ruination he had wrought, and the woman standing by his side was no less dust-covered and dishevelled than they, but instead of looking back towards the destroyed portal to the underworld, her eyes were tilted upward, towards the crows wheeling and cawing madly above them.

Nyx swallowed, "How...?"

Eyes still fixed on the circling birds, the woman nodded slowly, as if to herself, before answering, "They have ever been my mother's creatures, her spies and her heralds, and now they bear her tidings to those who care to listen."

Typically unimpressed, Elsadore spat a mouthful of dust onto the ground, "And did those fucking feathery wee bastards maybe say where she was?"

Adair nodded, and pointed a finger out beyond the wall, "She is yonder, in the camp of our enemy."

Shaking her head, the swordswoman gave a snort of resigned irritation, "Of course she is..."

Nyx stared at Adair, voice incredulous as she demanded, "How the holy fuck did she end up..."

The sound of brazen horns and the clatter of heavy armour interrupted them.

Adair peered about, and then frowned, clearly less than pleased by the way events were unfolding, "This noxious miasma vexes me."

She clenched her fist.

Abruptly, the great fume of dust halted its billowing, as if somehow inextricably frozen in mid-air. Then the chaff simply fell to the earth like a rain, leaving the skies completely clear and allowing the sun to spill down upon them.

Lifting her face towards the warming light, she took a breath of clean air, "Better."

The Company and its allies were scattered and gasping upon the worn cobbles of a broad avenue. To the left and right were the temples and tombs of the city, and before those temples, towering above even such imposing structures, were the statues of those heroes who over the ages had been carried in state down this great boulevard to their final resting place. Cast in gleaming marble and bronze, they stood there, tall and proud; heroes long forgotten, standing among statues of gods no longer worshipped.

Adair looked up into the faces of her kin, and her eyes were drawn to one statue in particular.

He stood tallest of them all, a mighty figure, broad of shoulder, bearded and immeasurably proud. He carried his great cudgel in one hand and his harp in the other, and at his feet lay his cauldron.

Over long centuries, crows aplenty had nested upon his shoulders, and during that time had decorated his pate and shoulders with their droppings until his unruly hair and wild beard were streaked in white. Sensing something of the pettiness of her mother in such a gesture, she shook her head with a wry chuckle and looked again at those worn features, seeing that for once the will of the Morrigan had been entirely thwarted.

If she had meant to ridicule or make mockery of her errant husband she had failed, for those streaks in his hair and beard only gave the man a look of stern and steadfast wisdom, his hooded expression was undaunted, and his mien remained fierce and implacable.

Skilled indeed were the artisans of the dark elves she thought, for the eyes beneath that furrowed and imperious brow seemed to follow her with a will and intent all of their own.

She stared for a long moment before finally acknowledging the figure with but the slightest of nods and the softest of whispers, "Father..."

To her side, Ellén watched, casting a pensive glance up at the titan towering above them both. There was no whisper soft enough to be hidden from the ears of a Dragon they said, but if indeed she heard the woman's faint murmur, she kept her silence and said nothing.

The sound of horns disturbed Adair's reverie, and she drew her eyes away from the statue to look along the road towards the host that was advancing cautiously towards them.

They were formed in ranks and companies and filled the street from one side to the other with spears at the ready. There were dark elves, flying the banners of the city, and among them many orcs bearing the wolfshead sigil of their clan upon their shields, and all were armed and armoured as if for a violent sortie.

Looking to the left and right, Adair could see and sense other figures flanking them, as they moved stealthily among the tombs, or crouched behind pillars, bow in hand and arrows nocked in readiness. Around her, the Company gathered themselves, and there was the sound of steel being bared as swords were drawn.

One of the advancing host stepped to the fore. She was a dark elf; tall, armoured in a carapace of fine plate and bearing the colours and tabard, as well as the chain of office, of a High Marischal over her steel. Others moved to flank her until she was backed by a cadre of knights. Beside her stood another tall elvish woman. This one looked tired and pale and she wore not armour like the rest, but a richly embroidered coat that was belted at the waist with a sash of blue silk. Her silver hair was not bound in a warrior's plait, but hung free, and instead of a sword, she wielded an engraved staff of rune-carved wood that all but shimmered with latent sorcerous power.

Nyx took one look, and grimaced, "Bollocks..."

The armoured woman waited until one of her warriors made a show of unfurling and proudly planting her standard by her side, before gesturing curtly to a retainer. The herald took a pace forward and bellowed, "Who are you, and how did you bypass our defences? Make yourselves known or be charged!"

Already in a most prodigiously foul mood, Nyx did not find her temper improved overmuch when, in response to this brazen declaration, all the eyes of the Company turned to regard her.

With a groan she heard herself muttering sulphurously, "What a bitch..."

Elsadore sniffed, "Who? This popinjay?"

There was a growl, "No, the Captain. Fucker goes and promotes me, then callously leaves me to deal with this utter horseshit. I tell you, sometimes I think I should just..."

With a derisive snort, Elsadore turned to her, "Retire? Who are you trying to kid? You'd go mad with boredom by the end of the first week and have fallen to murder and mayhem by the end of the second. Besides, the Captain is many things, but she's no fool - she knows quality when she sees it. As officer or base popular, you stand as her Champion, Nyx, as you always have," she sniffed, "and deservedly so."

She gestured over her shoulder, "Now enough, go talk to the nice lady before they do something annoying and we end up slaughtering them all. I mean, we just fucking got here. Be a shame if we accidentally burned the bloody place to the ground just because it's your time of the month or whatever."

There was a long-suffering sigh, "Fine, but when this turns to shit, I'm blaming you."

Unperturbed, Elsadore only chuckled, "No change there then."

"Oh, fuck off."

With spectacular indifference to her friend's disgruntlement the woman casually raised fist to chest in mock salute as she turned to amble away, "Fucking off, Ma'am."

Muttering sulphurous invectives in at least a half-dozen languages, the old veteran gestured roughly to the banner carried by their newest recruit, "Muriah, unfurl that bastard thing and come with me."

Stepping forward, she eyed the younger woman now moving to her side. Muriah had come a long way since being dragged unwilling into their Company; blackened eye, naked as a jaybird and trussed up like a prize turkey. She was still the same hellaciously ill-tempered and cantankerous harpy she'd always been, but Nyx had seen that same harpy stand by her side in battle often enough since then, and even if she was still as green as fresh-cut grass, she'd never once seen the wench take a step back or turn from a foe.

Now she was looking around almost fearfully, not at the host massing before her, but peering about the Company, as if looking for someone...

"She's fine."

Muriah started at the words, "Wha-?"

"The Captain, of course. Adair says she's alive and well," Nyx sniffed, "doubtless up to her tits in some tricksy nefarious scheme of hers; but either way, she's not been left dead and crushed in yon hole. So set your mind at ease, lass."

For a moment the young woman only stared at her mutely, before quickly looking away. She swallowed, and there may have been a slight trembling to her voice when she spoke, "Her fate is her own, I-I care not."

Chuckling, the grizzled veteran reached up to squeeze her shoulder, "Of course not, soldier; you and me both, we're far too salty for such maudlin nonsense. Now, with that blatant lie safely out of the way, let's go bandy words with these clowns."

As they moved, Elsadore and Valair stepped up to flank them. Nyx eyed them both with a frown, "What price this?"

Elsadore fetched her something of an uncaring shrug, but her lopsided grin didn't so much as waver as she spoke, "Like it or not, you are Captain, 'til she returns and fires you that is, and the Captain needs an escort. Unless, of course, you'd measure me too old and too frail for such a task."

Nyx snorted, "Aye, well, it's true you are getting on a bit, but 'tis more your sobriety than your age that usually brings me pause," she turned to Valair, "what's your excuse?"

The deadly swordswoman replied by simply nodding to Muriah, "I would stand with my kin."

Muriah blinked, "Me?"

"Especially you."

Shaking her head, Nyx gave a disgruntled mutter, "My, aren't we all being nauseatingly charming to one another this day. If this keeps up, I may just puke."

Winking to Muriah, Elsadore grinned, "Probably morning sickness. Her and yon daft swordsman have been sharing blankets for a while now and given their nightly shrieking they must be at it like two cats stuffed in a sack."

"You're just jealous."

"Me? Why I'd break the scrawny wee fucker in half."

Nyx sniffed, "Well, I wasn't going to say anything about your weight, but now you mention it..."

"Hey!"

***

Maggie's startled shriek of surprise drew the eyes of half the cooks in the kitchen. She could absolutely swear for a certainty that the chair had been empty not but half a moment before, and now the old woman was sat there calm as you please, wrapped as usual in her tattered black garb and watching her with eyes a-gleaming, and mayhap something of an impish smile curling the corners of her mouth. Behind her the sturdy side door from kitchen to grange was still as closed and bolted as when the sentry had last done his rounds and she had no recollection of feeling the draft of it being opened, which was strange, for it was a cold and miserable day outside. Still, she'd been busy fussing over the coffyn pie she'd been making, though she'd heard that gentrified folk oft called it "Pagan Pie", though what was pagan about simple meat and apples she had no idea.

"Bloody hell, wench, you damn near gave me conniptions sneaking up on me like that! Did the door warden let ye in?"

The woman gave her a grin, "Something like that, I'm sure he would have anyway."

"What?"

The old woman eyed the tray Maggie was hefting and raised a brow, "You been baking a pie? It looks good."

The cook beamed at the compliment, "That I have, and it's come out braw even if I do say so myself," she gestured at the steaming crust, "you'll be having a slice?"

"Och, I'd no like to impose."

Maggie was already cutting into the flaky pastry and heaving a slab of pie probably large enough to feed a family of five onto a board, "Away with you. Nothing like a slice of hot pie to warm the belly on a day as cold and wet as this. Besides," she winked, "beef and apple pie goes well with mug of Scáiltín, or so I've been told, and it so happens I've a goodly measure of toddy on the stove and ready for the drinking."

Ladling a lightly steaming brew from pot to goblet she placed the spiced concoction down on the table before the crone, "Here, try this, it was my ma's recipe, and her ma's before her. A bellyful of that and you'll no be catching any sniffles I can tell ye."

The old woman took a sip of the spiced concoction, and her hoary brows raised in appreciation. Taking a more generous swallow of the drink she sighed happily, "Oh, now that's good. A potent draft young Maggie, I doubt I've tasted better since last I was in the faerie realm."

Laughing, Maggie waved the compliment aside, "Och, you and your stories! Faerie realm indeed."

"Indeed... Here," the old woman gestured, "have ye met Freydis?"

Maggie hadn't noticed the girl, which was strange for it seemed she was standing right there in plain view as it were. She was a fair enough looking lass, with flaxen hair and eyes as clear as chips of ice, though mayhap she had something of a dour and unhappy expression about her, but that was no strange thing, for girls had their moods after all. She was young, but looked tall for her age, or so she appeared, long limbed and sturdy. Not like Cassie, Maggie thought, who had been a skinny wee thing to be sure.

Wiping the flour from her hands, she eyed the girl, "I'm sorry, lass, I must be going blind in my old age, for I didn't see you there," she gave a smile and gestured to a stool, "here now, have a seat at the table and I'll fetch you a plate. I've no doubt you have an appetite; young folk always do."

The girl seemed about to say something, but the old woman interrupted, "Aye, young Freydis here," she made a tutting sound as she shook her head, "a sad tale to be sure, for she's an orphan girl..."

Maggie looked up from the plate she was setting, her face suddenly filled with concern, "An orphan? Och, the poor wee soul."

The crone sipped at her mug, "Aye, I knew her folks, and so it has fallen to me to look after her, such as I can. But you know how it is, Maggie. When you get to my age it's hard enough to look after yourself, let alone another. It's a poor mother I'd be to her," she gave something of a weary sigh, "I did badly enough with my own weans after all."

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