Then, the wall beside them exploded.
The high-pitched whistle of the stray wrath bolt had been heard only a second before it arced over the horde and impacted the blacksmith’s shop. Stone, glass, and deadly debris were blown out across the second tier, knocking Vighon and many others to the ground. Being the closest, the northman should have been dead but, for the second time already, his life had been saved by magic. His enchanted shield had been raised, positioned to come down on the hard skull of an orc, when the blast struck him.
With his ears ringing and sight wobbling, Vighon stumbled to his feet just in time to see the orcs finally push through the entrance of the second tier. Captain Gallow and his men were dispersed by the sheer number of orcs that burst through. He witnessed more than one knight being trampled to death.
With a fire in his belly, the northman dashed forward to engage the wicked monsters. He was intercepted, however, by those who had climbed over the logs after the explosion. His shield came up with instinct and his sword plunged under the rim to gut the orc. His blade came out of the foul creature, red from guard to tip.
When his shield came back down, Gideon and Galanör were by his side again, their lethal blades hacking away at the enemy’s numbers.
Vighon Draqaro let loose a feral roar to match the orcs, hammered his steel against his shield, and rallied alongside the Skids. They were in the fight for their lives…
42
The Eighth Lesson
Alijah was damned. Between watching the deaths of the innocents he failed to save and the daily torture, he decided that death had claimed him long ago and he now resided in hell.
For every memory he gleaned from inside Malliath’s mind, be it ancient history or simply flying over the ocean, Alijah was subjected to an act of pure aggression. The dragon’s mind was fractured, tormented by the violence he had seen. It chipped away at the rogue.
After passing out against the cold wall, his beatings over for the day, Alijah had slipped into his bond with Malliath. At first, the sights, sounds, and smells had been incredible. The land beneath him was unrecognisable, leaving the half-elf to wonder if he was looking at Erador, to the west.
Then, the serene landscape had become one of fire and blood. Dragons both swarmed the air and littered the ground, their magnificent bodies twisted and contorted into horrifying corpses. Alijah looked through Malliath’s eyes, searching for the source of death, be it some army of man.
It was not men, nor even an army…
Alijah beheld a creature so terribly massive that it made the dragons look no more than lizards. The monster was a mountain of scales on four legs, but the back half of its body was a writhing mass of thick tentacles, not dissimilar to an octopus. Its head was all mouth and teeth, adorned with four bulbous eyes as black as the abyss. One word came to Alijah’s mind.
Leviathan…
The dragons flew in every direction to evade the monster’s tentacles and snapping maw. Those that were too slow were ensnared by the beast and crushed by one of its tentacles before being discarded.
Malliath dropped down and unleashed his breath of fire upon the Leviathan, scorching a line down its head and over one of its eyes. The Leviathan screeched, an ear-piercing sound that threatened to knock Malliath out of the sky.
Despite the mounting bodies, the dragons pursued the Leviathan across the land. Alijah noted that the ocean dominated the horizon in front of the marching monster. It had to be The Hox, the largest ocean known to man and elf. It was also uncharted, due to the fact that every ship that set sail was never heard from again.
Seeing the Leviathan, Alijah felt he had unravelled that mystery…
Covered in burns, the four-legged monster charged into the waters of The Hox, sending great plumes of ocean into the air. The dragons never relented, desperate to kill the hulking Leviathan. Alas, the monster dived down and the last thing to be seen was one of its massive tentacles.
The memory was instantly interrupted by a savage and dark flash of Malliath’s time in Korkanath, the mages’ school. He was chained down and branded from head to tail in ancient glyphs, a torture that required many days to complete. Alijah felt it all.
It was his screams that woke him up, as they often did in these dark days. Standing before him, a silent observer, was The Crow.
Alijah looked about, examining every inch of his horrid cell, checking for any sign of his next torment. Besides the two Reavers, guarding the door, The Crow was alone. Behind him, Malliath lay very still, his purple eyes fixed on the rogue. Asher, as always, was silently standing in the dark, awaiting his next command.
“Maintain control, Alijah,” The Crow warned. “Your bond grows with every day. You must not let Malliath’s mind fracture your own.”
Alijah kept his mouth shut, too cold and terrified to do anything else.
The Crow tilted his head and gave the rogue a curious look. “What is the third lesson?”
Alijah blurted, “Sacrifice without hesitation.”
The Crow nodded, apparently satisfied. “And the sixth lesson?”
“The truth is not always what you want it to be. It is what it is. You must bend to its power or live a lie.” Alijah knew the words like he knew the names of his family.
The Crow moved ever closer. “And the second lesson?”
Alijah quickly replied, “Heroes die.” The rogue took a breath and recited The Crow’s every word. “The world doesn’t need people to stand up for it and die in the process. They would be called heroic and selfless. Martyrs to the cause of peace. But, Verda needs more than a dead hero to recall in hard times. It needs someone who doesn’t die, someone who will stand firm against the darkness and maintain peace at all costs.”
The Crow laughed silently to himself. “Very good. You have a lot to accomplish in your life, Alijah. To see the fruits of your great work, however, you have a lot of training to complete first. Warriors and heroes aren’t made in a matter of days.” The wizard glanced up at the black sky. “Beyond these walls, the world continues to turn, bringing with it the new Age. Sadly, we don’t have the time to complete your training in such fashion.”
Alijah pushed the memories of his lessons aside and tried to focus on what The Crow was saying. It seemed, unfortunately, that the ancient necromancer was determined to speak in riddles.
The rogue looked anywhere but in The Crow’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Explaining it would be difficult,” The Crow lamented. “But, since it’s time for your training to move on, I will simply show you.”
The Reavers joined their master and went about releasing Alijah from his manacles. Their firm grip kept the rogue upright before the wizard.
“This will be the last time you see this chamber. It will also be some time before you are reunited with Malliath.” The Crow turned to the dragon and his rider before Alijah could respond. “Take flight, voiceless one! Burn Namdhor to the ground! Kill any that try to stop you!”
Alijah tried to struggle against his undead guards, but there was nothing he could do to stop Asher from mounting Malliath and the pair taking off into the sky. The farther away the dragon flew, the wider the hole grew in Alijah’s chest. He was conflicted, fearing for the lives of those Malliath was going to take as well as the dragon’s life itself.
After the pair had disappeared from sight, The Crow strode out of the chamber and the Reavers marched Alijah behind him. They journeyed through The Bastion, passing shadowy halls and curious mages of The Black Hand.
The rogue was taken deep into the keep’s bowels, through the long corridors of prison cells, each filled with scared and confused people. At the end of the hall stood a heavy iron door. It wasn’t the door that captured Alijah’s attention, however, but the ancient glyphs inscribed along its edges and over the threshold.
The Crow flicked his wand and the thick door swung open with a grating creek. Inside, the windowless chamber was illuminated by mounted torches, all of which highlighted more
ancient glyphs. The runes marked the walls from floor to ceiling, painted in red.
Besides the glyphs, the room was entirely ordinary. “What is this?” he asked, trembling.
The wizard looked from Alijah to the interior. “This is where you will conclude your training. Think of it as a forge. In there, you will be tempered and reshaped until a true king is born.”
The Crow lifted his hand and revealed a green apple. He clamped his teeth around it and removed a sizeable chunk, which Alijah watched him eat with ravenous eyes. When he had swallowed the bite, the necromancer casually threw the rest of the apple into the cell.
Alijah instinctively backed away from the open door as he witnessed the effects on the apple. The Reavers held him in place, forcing him to watch as the apple deteriorated, rotting before his very eyes. The bite mark quickly became brown sludge and the green exterior wrinkled and began to close in on itself.
“What… What is that?”
The Crow regarded the rotten apple. “Time is against us. For all the centuries of planning I always knew our time together would be limited. This war is distracting, but it will not last forever.”
Alijah heard the words but he took from it another meaning. Was The Crow saying that people would come looking for him? Was that why they didn’t have time? It was a speck of hope in what appeared to be an eternally dark future.
“Inside this room,” the wizard explained, “you will experience the passage of time differently. A day in the real world is a month in here.”
Alijah swallowed hard. Even his nightmares couldn’t have prepared him for this. Now, inside that room, he would have to live through what? Months of torture? Years even? The rogue didn’t know if he could do that. His mind was already teetering on the edge of despair and madness. How could he do this without Malliath?
“Go, Alijah,” The Crow bade. “Pass through and let the remnants of your old self die away. Embrace this change and rise above pain and loss and grief. Become something more!”
The Reavers let go of his arms and stood back. Any thought of rebellion was fleeting, given his circumstances. He had but one direction. Still, his feet remained planted on the floor.
The Crow whispered in his ear, “The fear that has taken a hold of you is an opportunity. Use it to find your courage, Alijah.”
His hands clenched, Alijah stepped forward and entered the chamber, his fate sealed…
43
Under Shadow
“Come on, ye stupid pig! Faster!”
Doran had his Warhog charging down the main slope of Namdhor at full speed, its hind legs kicking up snow and mud in their wake.
With no defences in place, the northerners searching for shelter were able to get out of the dwarf’s way with ease, but when he reached the halfway point, the sharpened logs narrowed the path, a path that was currently filled with soldiers and orcs.
Using the Namdhorian horn he had borrowed, Doran announced his arrival with three loud blasts. The soldiers at the back turned to see a dwarf riding towards them astride a large Warhog, a strange sight even on a day when dragons flew in the sky and orcs laid siege to the city.
Quite sensibly, the soldiers shouted the warning ahead and a neat parting was quickly formed down the centre of the path. Doran hollered and blasted the horn a few more times as he approached the front line. When the last of the soldiers moved out of his way, the son of Dorain discarded the horn and held both his sword and newly acquired axe at the ready.
Then, he saw them. Orcs!
Seeing flesh atop what had only ever been skeletons to Doran enraged his inner dwarf. Hearing them and smelling the foul creatures didn’t help either. Had he his senses about him, the dwarf would have glimpsed the bewildered expressions of Gideon, Galanör, and Vighon as he charged past them.
A terrifying growl let rip from deep in his soul and he unleashed the Warhog upon the orcs. The pig leaped forward, into the masses, as Doran barrelled into the orcs who escaped the Warhog’s bulk. Together, they forced the beasts back, creating space for the soldiers in the second tier.
Swinging his axe and sword about him, Doran yelled, “I am Doran, son o’ Dorain, son o’ Dorryn! Heavybelly’s our name an’ don’ ye forget it, ye ugly monsters!”
Unaccustomed to fighting one his size, the orcs struggled to land a successful blow to Doran. More often than not, they missed him entirely and struck one of their own. Those that did hit the dwarf found their swords bouncing off his armour.
Doran did not have any such problems…
His axe curled around him, cutting legs out from under his foes, while his sword swung out backhand, blocking and chopping at once. His kin were renowned for their sense of direction, but in the middle of the fray, Doran had lost his north and south. Every step he took, unknown to him, was a step towards the main bulk of orcs.
Pig battered its way through the horde, knocking orcs down from left to right. Its fierce tusks ripped through their pale bodies and dragged them about, creating even more chaos. Thankfully, its proximity to Doran stopped the overwhelming numbers from getting the better of the dwarf.
One particularly bold orc ran at Doran with a spear, hoping to kill him from beyond the reach of his axe and sword. The son of Dorain, however, was a veteran of more wars than the orc had enjoyed hot meals. A strong throw of his axe and the stupid orc found he had a curved blade buried in his chest. Before he could die, the dwarf ran at him, jumped, and used the axe handle to pull himself up. He came down on the orc with his sword raised over his blond head, ready for the next beastie.
This was the most fun he’d had in years!
“Doran!” Galanör’s melodic voice found the dwarf’s ears and he turned to see the elf behind a blur of steel.
“Good to see ye, lad!” Doran knocked out the knee of an orc and head butted him to the ground.
“You need to fall back!” the elven ranger warned.
“Fall back?” Doran echoed incredulously. “I’ve only jus’ got ’ere!” Two more orcs fell to his sword and axe, their blood splattering against his black and golden armour.
“Doran!” Galanör’s voice had an edge of urgency to it now. “You must retreat with me!”
The Heavybelly groaned and jumped back onto his Warhog. “Come on then!” he moaned, lashing out with his sword on the way back up the slope.
With Galanör close on the Warhog’s hooves, the pair dashed behind the spearmen guarding the narrow entrance to the third tier. Doran ignored the curious looks everyone was giving him and made for Vighon and Gideon.
“What’s all this runnin’ away for?” he demanded, dissatisfied with the amount of blood on his blades.
Vighon didn’t grant him an answer but, instead, turned up the slope and shouted, “Release!”
The men parted again and a string of barrels were sent rolling down the hill. The spearmen thrust their weapons forward one last time before rushing back, allowing the barrels to roll between them. The picture came together for Doran when Gideon threw out his hand and cast a fireball at the entrance to the third tier.
The orcs struggled to navigate the cumbersome barrels, but their efforts were short-lived when Gideon’s spell struck the barrel in the middle. In the most violent fashion, the oil inside was immediately ignited to the point of exploding. The barrels in front and behind were victim to the impact and they too exploded. The fiery oil reached in all directions and soon had the sharpened logs on either side aflame.
The orcs in the entrance were writhing around, their pale bodies on fire from feet to horns. The light, combined with the heat of the fire, pushed the orcs behind them back. Those trying to climb over the spikes were similarly pushed back, their limbs scorched and eyes blinded.
Doran had held up his arm in time to shield himself from the oil, but more than one of the Namdhorians was in a state of distress, their cloaks on fire. Vighon had been protected by his round shield, allowing him to come back at the orcs with renewed fury.
Doran turned his Warhog
and joined Vighon in slaying the few orcs who had succeeded in climbing over the spikes. The dwarf took advantage of Vighon’s aid and weaved in and out astride Pig, hacking, chopping, and slicing his way through the enemy.
Orcish snarls and gnashing fangs found Doran’s ears, but the source caused great alarm. The pale beasts were using their brains and had foregone the narrow entrance in favour of ramming their way through the buildings either side. To their left, a cluster of orcs had broken through anything they could and now charged at the dwarf and the northman from the alleyway. On the other side of the third tier, the same outbreak was taking place and Captain Larnce had been forced to redirect his men to hold the side street.
The son of Dorain spurred Pig towards the alley only to be beaten by Galanör, the elf’s light but powerful strides propelling him into the orcs. His scimitars flashed and hot blood splattered up the walls. Doran protested, proclaiming that the orcs were his, but the elven ranger was as swift as he was deadly. Before the dwarf could hop off his Warhog, the orcs were dead.
Thankfully, and this word was thought only by Doran, there were more piling into the alley having followed the others. He ran his axe down the length of his sword, licked his lips, and cried out to the Mother and Father as he rushed into the fray beside Galanör.
“The name’s Heavybelly! Doran Heavybelly!” The dwarf brought orcs down with every swing. “I tell ye ugly bastards so when ye get to the hall o’ Grarfath an’ he flings ye into the black pit, ye can tell ’im who sent ye!” Doran laughed heartily.
Gideon could see the coming calamity before it happened. The orcs, relentless in their assault, were throwing their dead on top of the fire, piling them up to douse the flames and allow them back into the third tier. There was no honour given to their fallen, their bodies serving nothing but a practical use.
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