Outcast. Part 4 (Rooney)

Whilst night still held its grip on the world, he’d crept toward the wall, moving from shadow to shadow. The ground around the fortress-city was kept clear of anything higher than a man’s knee for over a hundred paces in all directions, and there was nothing more than scattered scrub and bushes for a hundred paces after that, leaving the defenders atop the wall with a clear killing ground. Even the larger corpses of attackers were removed – hacked apart or burned to ash where they fell. But even this killing ground afforded some cover for those with the knowledge to use it. Taringal had that knowledge; he knew the patrol routes, guard stations, and observation posts along that walltop. He knew the positions of the fixed defences, and where the mobile defences were likely to be deployed.

In short, he knew where not to be if he wanted to stay out of site. His current hiding place was a small depression in the ground that he shared with a pair of corpses – a semi-decomposed Warg, and some unidentified humanoid demon. He nestled in amongst their corpses no more than thirty paces from the wall. He dared go no closer, but a powerful curiosity drove him forward. He felt a desire, a need to be inside the walls. Something in there seemed to be calling to him.

He shook his head slightly at the absurdity of the notion. There was nothing and no-one in there that wanted to see him inside the wall. Lord Omar and his cronies wanted him dead, and everyone else that knew him thought he was dead. Lifting his gaze above the shrouded battlements – from the outside the walls nothing of the defenders could be seen whilst the barrier was up. Warding spells cloaked what little could be seen above the stone ramparts – his eyes settled on the shimmering dome of the barrier.

It had been up for days now, but there had been no sign of an attack. It was unheard of for the barrier to be erected and maintained for this long without a clear and present threat to the fortress-city. The mages and witches that powered it needed to rest after a shift channelling their magics into it. It was said to be incredibly draining for them, and they complained vociferously about having to deploy the barrier needlessly. They must be driving Lord Omar mad with complaints-

His train of thought was ended abruptly at a sudden surge of magical power from the ramparts. There was always a hum of magic up there for those that could sense it – battle-mages and other magical defenders patrolled alongside the regular troops, and there were always observing spells and wards reaching out invisibly to detect hidden attackers. But this was a concentrated search into the killing field. Someone atop the ramparts was searching for something out here. Most likely him. He’d lingered here too long, gazing at the wall and its defences like some fool boy.

He felt the searching spell sweeping the fields like a searchlight. As if his thoughts had been a summons, real searchlights lanced out from the wall tops. Behind the shrouding magics huge oil lamps with curved polished mirrors provided the defenders with more conventional means of spotting the enemy. Light washed over his hiding place and he resisted the urge to flinch. Such a sudden movement would draw the attention of the defenders immediately. The light moved on, unslowed.

He slowly slid away from the corpses, bunching his legs to dart away. That was when the searching spells found him. He felt them touch him, felt them change immediately. Even as he moved in a blur of motion, a firebolt streaked down from the ramparts. He was fast, but caught unawares, not fast enough to outrun a firebolt. The head-sized ball of flaming magic slammed into his back as he ran, knocking him forward. His armour bore the brunt of it, but he felt the searing heat on his neck and grunted loudly. He could feel more magic being cast, and in moments more offensive spells were raining down at him.

Firebolts, the larger explosive fireballs, blasts of ice, pillars of flame. All these and more erupted around him. If not for the minor shielding provided by the demon parasite that made it difficult to target him magically, those spells would have ended him in a moment. As it was he was singed, chilled, and sent reeling as he sped from the killing fields.

Now he sat, brooding in the wan grey light of dawn in the upper branches of a large Oak. He could smell the burned fabric of his coat, and singed hairs on the back of his head. The forest surrounding the fortress-city was largely deserted at the moment, the creatures lurking there retreating deeper into the darkened woods after witnessing the magical onslaught in the night. They’d be back, but for the moment, he was alone. His eyes rested on the fortress-city. He still felt that peculiar need to be there, but his encounter with the fireball earlier had convinced him of the folly of trying to sneak closer to the walls again.

What was this feeling? Some scheme of Olphidius, the Mage-Lord that had headed the research into the parasite that Omar had ‘gifted’ him with? Certainly the Mage-Lord was not above using others to do his dirty work, but how could he know Taringal was still alive? How was he creating this desire to return? If it wasn’t a plan set in motion buy Omar and Olphidius, then what was it?

He had no answers, and nowhere to seek any except inside the walls of the fortress-city.