Chương 47: The Battle of Lastgate

"You're listening to Teddy Web with Saturday Night Oldies on KOB ten-seventy. Up next, the Flamingos!" The phone rang halfway through "I Only Have Eyes for You" and startled them both. Una's phone was an old off-white Bakelite Western Electric rotary. Her old exchange number was still printed on the little card under the receiver: ALpine 5033-3. According to the Kit-Cat Klock, it was after nine. Una and Robin looked up from their birds, neither wanted to answer. At this hour, it could only be bad news.

"Probably a wrong number," Una said.

"I'll get it." Robin got up so Una wouldn't have to. Her hip bothered her more at night. But, her chair was closer. Una rose and beat him to the phone.

"Yes, hello?" Una answered. She lifted her head and spoke loudly and clearly in her announcer voice. A high voice piped from the receiver.

"Yes, he's here. One moment." Una held out the phone.

"It's for you," she smiled. Confused, Robin took the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Robin! It's Yvonne. What are you doing?"

"H-hi! Just, uh... painting. What's up?" Robin fumbled. His cheeks burned. He could almost see Yvonne's smirk.

"Just haaanging out. That rat Sandy wouldn't give me your number. I had to look you up! Did you know you're the only Martillos?"

"Yup. It's just us."

"Sandy is some friend, huh? Wouldn't give your number to a pretty girl. He said he didn't want me to bother you."

"It's no bother," Robin said at once.

"Ha, obviously. What did you do to him anyway? He won't shut up about that dumb game."

"Oh yeah, it was pretty wild. Did he tell you what happened?"

"Only about five times. Mom had to tell him no more battle reports at the dinner table. He's sulking in his room now."

"That's a shame. Genius is so often misunderstood." Yvonne laughed, pure as a bell. Robin's smile was like a wave through his whole body; he could feel it tingle on his scalp.

"I'm going to bed. Clean my brush." Una patted his shoulder and shuffled out of the kitchen. Her blue jay lay half-painted on the newspaper. * To the surprise of all, the Windsworn held the line as the Chaos armies approached. The white banners of the Windsworn Lancers whipped in the hot wind. Soot and ash smoked from their hooves as they thundered down the mountain. Clad in blackened armor, a formation of Chaos Legionnaires stood ready to receive their charge.

The Chaos Standard Bearer raised the All-Seeing Eye Banner and issued a vile challenge. The jeer was ignored, for Hymionier the Rune King had told his Lancers to plug their ears with wax. At the last moment, the cavalry pivoted and galloped past the Legionnaires. Instead, they drove into the Black-Handed One's camp, right into the Chorus of the Eyeless. The damned chanters wailed their treasonous song, but the Lancers could not hear the dirge, and the black madness could not touch their hearts.

With white-shafted lances, they ran the blind sirens through, and then drew their cutlasses to finish their bloody work. Soon the choir was slain, and it seemed the Black-Handed One would share their fate. From the rear of the host, Slish-Slish the Riftmaster lurched in his ebon throne. Four horrid Flesh Golems bore the Black Palanquin on their patchwork backs, for the Riftmaster was too bloated to move under his own power. Slish-Slish hissed a word so foul that reality itself recoiled from its touch.

A whorl of distortion roared across the battlefield and a screaming rift opened beside the Black-Handed One. In the blink of an eye, he leapt in and reappeared at the Riftmaster's side. Unwilling to let his foe escape, the Lancer Captain spurred his horse and charged into the Shadowrift. The Riftmaster croaked a wet laugh and drew his thumb and forefinger apart. The journey that was but a blink for the Black-Handed One stretched into a thousand years for the ill-fated Lancer Captain.

The horse and rider flew from the portal, lifeless and desiccated. The remains crashed to the ground and crumbled to dust. The Legionnaires turned to give chase, but a whistle shrieked overhead. They looked up just as a falling cask crushed the Standard Bearer and flung his profane banner into the dirt. He was the lucky one. A terrible pestilence swarmed forth. The Legionnaires screamed and clawed at their helms as the flies swarmed their eyes and burrowed in. A second cask exploded and halted their march.

The third broke them. The Chaos Legionnaires were left kicking and writhing in the dust. The cavalry they were meant to escort charged past, unprotected. Slit-eyed and serpent-tongued, the Lizard Lords rode on the backs of gargantuan six-legged crocodiles. Frenzied by the noise and heat, the beasts surged uphill with venom slavering from jaws full of scimitar teeth. A great feast waited above. All the Hawkmoon and Seershots were positioned along the ridge.

From that high vantage, the marksmen rained death on the entire western host. Yureg saw the danger first. Unstoppable as the wind, he and his Blade Dancers flew across the battlefield and counter-charged the Lizard Lords. As they closed, their horses spooked and reared. They were trained to fight men, not monsters. The Lizard Lords hissed with sibilant laughter, but not for long. Yureg leapt from his saddle with his great swords outstretched like wings and flew into their midst. The riders set on him with delight.

Spears stabbed, jaws snapped, and tails lashed, but nothing could touch Yureg. They were not ready for The Whirlwind. By the time his Blade Dancers had mastered their mounts, three of the Lords were dead and another was crawling away, bloody and begging for mercy. A moment later, a riderless crocodile bit him in half. Yureg was already on to the next target. Single-handedly, he halted the enemy charge. His dervishes swept in and set upon the Lizard Lords. Soon, they were no more.

The surviving crocodiles turned tail and barreled into the Chaos lines, trampling all in their path. The skirmish became the focus of the western front. Slavedrivers scourged mobs of spidery Abominations towards the breach. Windsworn Spearmen rushed in to fight them. Soon, the ground was a threshing pit of whirling blades and hacked off limbs. The Summoner Coven crashed their toneless cymbals and beat upon drums stretched with human skin. The din reverberated in the bonds between worlds until the seams split.

The ground cracked open and soldiers fell screaming into the fissures. Black smoke billowed and red haze rose as Rift Fiends crawled from the cracks. They were molten beings of magma and burning metal. The Windsworn spears shattered against their steely skin and sulphurous steam hissed from their wounds. The Spearmen broke and fled, but Yureg's Blade Dancers were drunk on battle and crazed by the Rune King's mind-bending brew. They fought on to the last, though their swords wilted and their armor melted like wax.

Soon, only Yureg was left. His fury burned hotter than the fiends and his Bluebane blades cleaved right through their ranks. The Whirlwind fought on, heedless of his wounds. When the last demon crumbled to dust, Yureg fell to his knees and wept for his fallen brothers. At terrible cost, the archers were saved. The sacrifice was repaid, many times over. Atop the ridge, the marksmen unleashed volley after volley. Guided by fate, the arrows of the Seershots flew unerringly.

The proud Hawkmoon loosed with astonishing speed, unwilling to be outdone. Their arrows fell in a feathered downpour and devastated the ranks of Chaos. Above it all, Cinnabinathi soared, borne on black wings. Her shrieking shots flew true and each pierced the heart of a Chaos Dominator. As the slavemasters perished, the dark bonds died with them and the beasts they once dominated went berserk.

The once-proud Lizardman Warriors woke from their trances and turned on the Corrupted Shaman who had sold the tribe into dark bondage. It was all coming apart. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The Riftmaster and the Black-Handed One saw the western half of their army on the verge of collapse. They joined their voices in a powerful incantation, Sunder the Sky.

The spell would wrench apart the heartstrings of space and draw the rampaging Black Angel into a void without form. From atop the ridge, a grand voice rose against them. From Bobbert's slight frame, the words of Abaxios Oslune boomed across the battlefield and unraveled each sigil as soon as it was uttered. Countered, the Riftmaster thrashed in his throne while the Black-Handed One clasped blinking palms to his skull. Blood dripped from their noses and trickled from their ears.

The Chaos pretenders reeled, stunned by the rebuff of a true master. The west was almost won, but the east was in peril. A howling wall of Reaver Footmen crashed against a phalanx of Chaos Legionnaires. For a time, fervor and woad let the Reavers stand against the elite warriors. Alas, their axes were forged from inferior northern steel. They died to a man and could not drop a single Legionnaire. The Legionnaires advanced, now in full flush of the Bladed Lady's Favor.

Behind them, a horde of Cultists and Beastmen howled for blood. Desperate to hold the line, Hilg ordered his Shieldbearers to pivot into the breach. Sufferen the Mastersmith cried out in warning, too late! As the Shieldbearers diverted, they passed too close to an ancient cairn. The menhirs rippled and changed forms, revealing a trio of grinning, toad-faced demons. The Warpfire Wheezers puffed up and spat streams of gleaming quicksilver into the Shieldbearers.

A few managed to turn and get their shields up, but they were no help. The quicksilver burst into prismatic blooms of multicolored flame. It did not burn, it changed. Flesh became fluid, wood disappeared in a swirl of sparks, steel froze and shattered. The air screeched and squealed in a din of unchecked transmutation. Only the legendary will of the Shieldbearers kept them from buckling under such terrible losses. With his hammer raised, Sufferen charged at the Wheezers.

The Mastersmith's furious strikes drove the demons back, into a formation of Imperial Halberdiers. With ease, they skewered the Wheezers, but even in death, the demons took a terrible toll. Each exploded in a gout of Chaos Manifest that tore apart scores of pikemen. To their horror, the blasted bits of their countrymen began to slither together and reform. At either flank of the eastern front the Windsworn were beaten back, but the center held. A light blazed at the vanguard, too bright to snuff.

Aflame with diamond shine, Burbak Breakbow and his Berserkers tore into the Chaos ranks. No foe could touch Breakbow in his Sharddrake Plate, no monstrosity could withstand the vicious swings of his Unbreakable Drakefang Axe. The Blackened Chaos Plate that had stymied the Windsworn Footmen parted like ripe cheese beneath the Bluebane Steel Axes of Burbak's Berserkers. They cleaved through the Legionnaires and bit deep into the great horde of Cultists and Beastmen.

Surrounded, the Dwarves set on the unclean ones like wolverines. The Chaos host broke and tried to flee in all directions, upsetting the other formations. The beaten Windsworn rallied behind the wedge and thrust towards Lastgate. Step by bloody step, the Windsworn Reavers and the Heartbroken Brigade battled up the far side of the valley until the Chaos Host was driven against the walls of Lastgate. Seeing all was lost, Slish-Slish gave the signal.

Inside the walls, a cell of Chaos Infiltrators murdered their unsuspecting allies, lowered the drawbridge, and threw wide the great gates. The Riftmaster's entourage fled into the city and screamed to raise the bridge behind them. They were too late, Burbak's Berserkers were already halfway across the bridge. Desperate to avoid a return to the Realms of Chaos, Slish-Slish threw his remaining troops into their path and ordered his Flesh Golems into a full retreat.

No matter how he bellowed at them or what black magics he unleashed, he could not shake the crazed dwarves. At last Burbak Breakbow broke through and chopped a Palanquin Bearer down like a tree.

"NOOOOO!" The Riftmaster howled. Slish-Slish pitched from his black throne and slid into the corpse-choked street. Mindless, his Golems marched on and left him trapped on his back in the muck. The Riftmaster looked up into the insane face of Burbak Breakbow. The Drakeslayer grinned back in all of his gory, glittering glory.

"I yield," Slish-Slish raised his pudgy palms in surrender.

"S'posed to take you alive." Burbak smiled. The Riftmaster smiled back. Then, his tongue split in three so he could pronounce the Seven Sigils of Atrocity. Before he could, the Unbreakable Drakefang Axe cleaved his head in half. The Riftmaster was slain.

"Whoops," Burbak laughed. Others joined in; Runagir, Potboy, and even Yureg the Whirlwind had fought his way to the finale. They were all streaked in the same blood and slime as Burbak. For a strange moment, he looked from Northman to Southerner, Dwarf to man, and they all seemed the same. They had fought as one, triumphed over their hated foe, saved the city, and survived. Skalds and bards would sing of this day until the end of time.

Yet, as the rage ebbed from his limbs, Burbak felt the ancient hate whisper to him. Yureg's savage ancestors were the ones who'd raided the northern outposts of Blagg Bore for generations. The loss of those critical farms played a large part in the mountain's downfall. They were laughing now, but these Reavers were no different from the beasts who had burned Dagbellow Dell. Why had they shed so much Dwarven blood for these men? They'd bled badly, only a handful of Shieldbearers remained.

Hilg's son Bhloki was gone, burned by the accursed flame. Young Geboe had his belly torn open by a beastman. His brothers had to put him down and burn his body on the spot, lest he turn into one of the monstrosities. So many lost. They could never be replaced. A black voice whispered that the rage did not need to end. He could turn on these wicked Northmen, pay them back for all their evil deeds. And the Halberdiers, comrades or not they were no better.

It was their ancestors who'd ventured north, deaf to Dwarven warnings. They listened instead to the whispers that promised immortality. The child empire, idiots without history. They never thought to ask, who would offer such a thing? What would they demand in return? Heedless, the humans tampered with ancient seals they could not begin to comprehend. They bartered with terrors that Burbak's ancestors had spent everything to contain. Of course, they were betrayed.

Chaos flooded into the world, nothing could put it back. In truth, these Imperials had done far more harm than the Reavers, who only wanted to pillage and steal. Burbak's grip tightened on the axe. He knew it was madness, but he was so tired, so sick of losing friends and kin. Every year, the Dwarves dwindled and there was no end of foes. They were a fading race, all that was left was to rage, rage, rage! Others shrank from him, sensing the tumult. A darkness fell over his face, and they heard black wings beat.

Cinnabinathi landed beside Burbak and the hate in his eyes burned away. The Purest of the Hawkmoon was immaculate after battle. By looking at her, one would never guess the Black Angel had slain more foes than Burbak and Yureg put together. With divine grace, Cinnabinathi looked down at her filthy friend. Burbak met her stare, rapt. She nodded at the halved head of the Riftmaster.

"Didn't we say we'd take this one alive, so that his black masters can't summon him back from the Abyss again?" Cinnabinathi reminded Burbak.

"Let him come back. I'm not done killing him," Burbak gruffed. The Black Angel smiled. At terrible cost, the day was won. Lastgate stood. *"Oh my god! That's great. What did JC say? Was he mad?"

"SO mad! He lost both generals! Then he threw a fit and almost got thrown out. He only settled down because losing two more games would drop him from third place. I can't believe we won! Everyone was cheering for us. Duncan said it was the loudest he's ever heard it in there. The people from Baskin-Robbins came in to see if we were ok."

"Serves him right. I can't stand Jeremy. He laughed at my opening once. Like, actually laughed at me for playing the Queen's Indian. The referee gave him a warning. He's such a jerk—wait, sec." On the other end of the line, Robin heard Mrs. Amsler tell Yvonne 'five more minutes' was up five minutes ago. Robin glanced at the clock. Somehow, it was after midnight. It felt like Una had handed him the phone minutes ago.

"I gotta goooo. We're picking up the gremlins from camp tomorrow and doing some dumb family thing. But maybe I'll see you at chess club?"

"Sure! I mean, I hope so. I have to see how my numbers are on Monday."

"Of course! Good luck and good night, Robin."

"Good night, Yvonne!" The corners of his mouth ached. Robin had finished Una's bird and painted four more while they talked. He wondered if he'd kept Una awake. He tried to keep quiet but Yvonne kept making him laugh. He turned off all the lights and got ready for bed as quietly as he could. As he brushed his teeth, his throat was sore. He wondered if he was getting sick, but realized it was just from talking. It was the most he'd said at once to anyone since his mother died. Outside his window, the storm was past.

Stars shone through the cauda clouds. The night was still, the crickets sang and trucks rumbled on Interstate 40. From the Rio Grande, a coyote let out a long howl. It went unanswered.