Shrieking, they plummeted, falling from the sun’s blinding white well, Ciphrang summoned from across the Hells, bound with cruel and subtle sorceries to the agony of the Created. Puskarat, Mother of Perversions; foul Hish, the Great-Jawed Glutton, who shambled as a living heap of fire and putrescence; and monstrous Hagazioz, the Feathered Worm of the Pit, a Godling the size of two galleys set end upon end; mighty Kakaliol, Reaper-of-Heroes, armoured in the glory of the damned; and appalling Urskrux, the vulturous Father-of-Carrion, whose vomit was pestilence—and two dozen other malformed demons from the abyss, slaves of the Daimos, arcane puppets of Iyokus and his Daimotic confreres. The Ciphrang hooked wide their folded wings, scooped wind to slow their descent. They swooped over Gwergiruh, screeching in a chorus that clutched the throat and clawed the ears, plucking every tone on the scale of human terror. A heartbeat saw them over the Oblitus, sailing to the root of the High Horn, where they fell shrieking upon the High Cwol, dropped as balls of iron through floors, igniting interlocking Wards …
The Men of the Ordeal stood dumbstruck, blinking, peering after glimpsed monstrosities, watching the blossoms of fire erupt across the High Cwol above the shoulder of Corrunc. One soul whooped … and the whole of ?gorrior boomed in reply, a roar that was almost a collective scream, such was the passion vented.
It was happening. It was finally happening!
Somewhere deep in Golgotterath, bestial arms hammered gongs, and a cacophonous racket made hash of the skies. Their deception spent, the Ursranc surged onto the heights of Golgotterath’s walls, armoured in hauberks of black scale, their cheeks branded with Twin Horns, hooting in their corrupt tongue. But the holy ghus sounded also, so deep as to roll under all other sounds. Archers and crossbowmen burst from the forward ranks of each of the three great Trials: Agmundrmen for the Sons of the Middle-North; Eumarnans for the Sons of Kyraneas; and Antanamerans for the Sons of Shir. In what appeared an act of reckless lunacy they dashed out exposed onto the dust, and before their unruly Foe could organize, they nocked their shafts and bolts, raised their weapons—released …
The gold-fanged parapets seethed with activity, bristled with black iron. Howling white faces crowded the embrasures—but nary a shaft fell upon them. Without exception, the shafts and bolts fell short, clattering across the sheer faces and squat foundations of Corrunc, Domathuz, and Gwergiruh. White lights flared across the fortifications, implosions. And a sound climbed into the collective bewilderment, one unlike any heard by Mannish ears, like a thousand mastodons charging across the drum-skins of Soul and World …
Wards cracking, unravelling, dissolving.
Golgotterath had been raised with ensorcelled stone. Fell Quyan sorceries strapped and permeated the fortifications, some binding structure, others set like springs primed to burn and concuss, and many more applied like coats of arcane lacquer, shielding exposed faces from the violence of Cants. The Chorae Hoard rained upon and across them, each sparking a violent dissolution, explosions of salt. Blocks cracked. Joists groaned. The Ursranc on the parapets were thrown from their feet.
The Schoolmen had already begun their muttering song at the command of their Exalt-Magus, Anas?rimbor Serwa, the Witch Most Holy. Even as the bowmen fled back into the great phalanxes, hundreds of Triunes stepped from them, climbing into the vacant heights—the greatest concentration of sorcerous might the World had ever seen. One thousand Schoolmen, their faces—and thus the telltale light of their singing—obscured by deep cowls. One thousand Kites, as the Ordealmen had come to call them, fairly every sorcerer of rank the Major Schools of the Three Seas could muster.
The Mandati under Apperens Saccarees, their red billows monkish for their simplicity; the Imperial Saik under Temus Enhor?, their gold-trimmed gowns as black as ink, glossed with deep shades of violet, scored with the white of reflected sunlight; the Mysunsai under Obw? G?swuran, their garb eclectic save for their cowls, which resembled those of Amoti shepherds, white striped with sky-blue; the decimated Vokalati, their white-and-violet numbers dwindled to a mere handful for the travesty of Irs?lor; the Scarlet Spires under Gir?mm? Tansiri, their garb an iridescent play of crimson upon crimson, like blood upon autumnal leaves; and of course the Nuns, the Swayali Sisterhood, the most numerous and certainly the most bewitching in their gleaming saffron gowns, their voices complicating the ponderous, masculine chorus with a high-drawn, feminine keen.
One thousand Schoolmen, the greatest concentration of sorcerous might the World had ever seen. As one, they unfurled their silk billows, became as flowers in the gleaming sun.
The Men below roared in jubilation.
Brilliant explosions pimpled the distant ramparts of the High Cwol.
The Scylvendi assassins watched from afar upon the Occlusion, breathless for awe and dread.
The Triunes formed three lines at the fore of each phalanx, tentacular blooms hanging the height of mighty oaks. Their skulls cauldrons of light, the witches and sorcerers began singing in unison …
“Imrima kukaril ai’yirarsa …”
A sudden breeze whipped their hair about their faces, tugged at the extremities of their billows. Chaos and terror ruled the black walls and towers before them.
“Kilateri pir mirim hir …”
And as one the Schoolmen paused, inhaled, and blew, puffed as a child might blowing fluff from a dandelion …
A great gust of air exploded before them, blasting the hard floor of ?gorrior, scooping vast quantities of sand and dust, tossing it into a vast pluming curtain that boiled upward and outward. Within heartbeats, Golgotterath’s savage defenders could see naught but grey. Even their fellows had been reduced to ragged silhouettes in the murk. The Ursranc howled in frustration and terror, for they knew the Schoolmen had merely begun their catastrophic song.
Vile angel.
It knows not this place. The animals scurry from its smoking onslaught, squealing and grunting. Kakaliol shrieks for agony and fury, stamps them like rats beneath its horned feet, lays its lash upon them, lays them out as burning bundles, blistered pulps, flesh like paper thrashing in the flame.
Surcease! it screams.
The galling implacability, the needling obstinance, the knifing reality, cutting and cutting and cutting, sawing them, it, as a carpenter might, joint from joint, limb from limb, over and over and over again. What torment was the World—what shrieking agony! Pricking it point by point, every thimble of diabolical substance, pinning it to these monstrous solidities, these pealing, stabbing, details …
Surcease! the Carrion Prince bellows to the Blind Slaver within. Surceeease!
After your task is complete …
Blind worm! How I shall care for thee! Love and invert thee!