by Mark Barber
“So this is it,” Jeneveve said, turning back to her comrades, one side of her face illuminated by the flames of the burning mining town to the north, “this is where we stand and fight.”
Orion walked past her and looked down from the hilltop to the town of Andro. The tall, wooden frames of the mine’s pump houses and ventilation shafts were still visible amidst the raging flames. The road snaking through the town was well lit by the inferno, allowing Orion’s eyes to pick out dozens of figures swarming toward the hill to the south; it took only the briefest of moments for him to realize that their red hue was no reflection from the flames, but their very skin. Dionne’s army of Abyssals advanced rapidly toward them and the portal stone.
“We hold the high ground,” Tancred said, his tone betraying his fear. “We stand our ground here and we knock them back down this hill. There is no room for them to use their numbers on this little hill – we must remain resolute, indefatigable. We trust in the Shining Ones and we hold this hill until help arrives.”
“They are some way away yet,” Jeneveve remarked. “There is time for prayer.”
“Prayer?” Valletto exploded. “Look down there! You wish to spend your last few moments in prayer? We cannot win! We cannot hold this hill for anything more than a few moments! It is too late! We need to fall back and find the army traveling here from the capital!”
“You need to conquer your fear, Captain!” Tancred pointed a finger in accusation. “Coming apart at the seams now does no good!”
“Fear?!” Valletto yelled. “What do you know of fear? You’ve got nothing to lose! Nothing! To you, this is just an opportunity to either live or die as a hero! You’d gladly waste all of our lives for that!”
“And what is all of this to you?” Xavier demanded. “Why do you know fear more than any others?”
“Because I have responsibilities that you cannot understand!” the mage retorted. “I went to war when most of you were just boys, and afterward I saw what happened to children when their fathers never came home! I saw war tear families apart with grief, never to recover! I won’t do that to my family!”
Tancred walked over and placed a hand gently on Valletto’s shoulder.
“Valletto, there is no escape from the situation we find ourselves in,” he said firmly, but with some compassion. “I would never wish ill on you or your family, but in my eyes, your family is no more important than any of the others we are here to defend. This portal we stand on right now is the gateway to the doom of all Basilea. If we run, the nation may fall. Thousands of children will lose their parents. Thousands more will die themselves. I cannot prioritize your family over all of them. We must all stand here and fight to the last.”
The dark haired mage looked down at the short paladin. His face, twisted in rage, transitioned through sorrow, shame, and eventually came to rest at grim resolution.
“I am sorry,” Valletto’s head dropped forward. “I lost perspective. I am so very sorry. Of course, we must fight here to the last. We must do the right thing.”
Tancred offered a brief, uncomfortable smile and nodded. He walked over to stand before the assembled paladins and militiamen, and unchained the Eloicon from his hip. Unclasping the sacred texts, he held the thick tome aloft to the heavens in a moment of symbolic reverence before opening the book at one of its many colored bookmarks. Orion joined his paladin brethren in dropping to one knee in front of Tancred, taking his sword and gently digging the tip of the blade into the soft earth in front of him. Resting both of his hands atop the upright pommel of the sword, he bowed his head in preparation for prayer. Tancred looked across, the surprise showing on his face quickly replaced with a grateful smile.
To his side, he saw Dorn usher the militiamen and the handful of surviving men-at-arms from the original force clear of the hilltop. Valletto, his features still wracked with apprehension, walked across to join the paladins in prayer. More surprising to Orion was when Aestelle knelt next to him. She followed the example set by the paladins and dug her own greatsword into the earth in front of her, one hand resting on the pommel while the other clutched an Eloicon to her heart. Orion looked across at the sacred tome and noticed the icon of the Sisterhood stamped into the brass of the clasp. Aestelle glanced across at Orion and offered a warm, encouraging smile.
“Julius’ First Letter to the Suanites, chapter three, verse one,” Tancred began.
Orion knew the letter well. They all did. Written in the days after The Mirror smashed and the God War began, Julius’ writings to the Suanites spoke of courage and resolve in the face of overwhelming adversity in an attempt to bolster their will before help could arrive in facing the new terrors unleashed on the world by the rendering of the Celestians.
“We enter a new age,” Tancred read from the Eloicon, “we face new adversities as well as old. Our people must stand together and stand strong, for we are chosen for great things. Our people must maintain the will to fight, even when facing overwhelming opposition. Our people must defend the word and defend the faith, even when darkness threatens to envelop us from all around.”
His eyes closed, Orion’s mind drifted from the familiar words to consider those around him. He briefly wondered how many of the militiamen wanted to join the paladins in prayer, having seen hundreds of men with scant faith suddenly becoming the most god-fearing individuals on the eve of their death. He thought on Valletto and Aestelle’s faith, and whether they would have joined them in prayer had it not been for the tide of red-skinned demons cascading toward the foot of the hill at that very moment. Mentally chastising himself, Orion focused his mind again to think upon Julius’ words and the plight faced by the ancestors of Basilea.
“Our people must remain devout, thankful with the burden of being the chosen, thankful in Grace.”
Grace. A word that appeared again and again in sacred texts, homilies, and sermons. A word that held special meaning within the confines of faith, but one that Orion still felt he did not truly understand. Perhaps his meeting with the Elohi would start the path to Grace, if the hellish army rushing toward him would not end it on this night. Orion searched his soul for confidence, optimism, a belief that they could survive. He found none. It mattered little. He could not control the events around him, one man could not change the outcome of an entire battle. But he could control how he faced his end.
“Our people must…”
Tancred stopped. Orion opened his eyes and looked up. Dorn stood by Tancred, his face apologetic as he leaned in to converse in a whisper, disturbing the prayers. Tancred’s eyes widened in surprise at whatever news Dorn delivered. He dashed over to the south side of the hill. Jeneveve and Xavier exchanged quizzical glances and both stood to join their leader. Orion closed his eyes again, concluded his own prayer silently for a moment, and then stood. By the time he had reached the others at the far side of the hill’s dark summit, the militiamen were cheering joyously.
“There!” Dorn pointed excitedly to the south, “on the coastal road, just to the east of Twin Barrows!”
Orion’s eyes searched the darkness to the south, unfamiliar as they were with the reference point the local militiaman had mentioned. Then he saw the source of the commotion. A procession of twinkling torchlights moved slowly along the coastal road, heading north toward them. Snaking out from in between hills painted black by the night, the torches continued onward and provided just enough light to illuminate a tiny banner.
“The Vanguard!” Jeneveve exclaimed. “They are here!”
Orion allowed himself a brief smile as a feeling of relief and euphoria washed over him. The vanguard was closing. The cheering continued unabated. Quickly calculating the distance, he realized that the hill was nearly halfway between the Basilean vanguard and the Abyssal horde. They would not need to hold the hill for long before help arrived. They had a chance.
“Wait!” Aestelle yelled above the excitement. “Look!”
Orion’s smile faded as the realization of Aestelle’s alert quickly
set in. The Basilean soldiers had reached a fork in the road. Inexplicably, against all reason, the force turned west and began to head inland away from Andro and the hilltop portal stones.
“No!” Jeneveve shouted. “No, you fools! Over here!”
Cries of frustration and angry expletives were roared from the militiamen as they watched their only hope for survival turn away, slowly disappearing behind the darkness of another of the low hills inland of the coastal road.
“Why?” Dorn shouted. “Why are they going west?”
“Dark sorcery and trickery? Navigational ineptitude?” Valletto offered quietly as he sank down in despair to sit on a smooth rock. “It matters not now.”
“We’re not giving up!” Aestelle snapped. “There! Look southwest, by the windmill! There is a tall hill, halfway between us and the vanguard. If I can get there in time, I can signal them. I’m going. There isn’t a moment to spare.”
“You are right,” Tancred nodded, moving over to look across the dark hills to the tall peak between them, their salvation, and their only hope of keeping the portal closed. “Take my horse, she is the fastest…”
“Not now!” Aestelle interrupted in frustration and she quickly returned her greatsword to its scabbard on her back.
“I am not offering, I am ordering you!” Tancred growled. “Desiree is the fastest horse I have ever seen and every second counts! Tantus – take the barding off her, quickly!”
The young paladin nodded and dashed over to Tancred’s graceful warhorse where he quickly set about unbuckling her armor. Xavier paced purposefully over to Aestelle as she rapidly loaded her pistol and slung her bow and arrows over her shoulder.
“You shall need a proper signal for them to understand who we are,” the aging knight said.
He walked over to his own horse and took the unit banner from where it was clipped to his saddle. Aestelle looked over to Tancred. The Lord Paladin nodded curtly in approval. Xavier handed over his banner and then raised his right hand to shoulder height in salute. Aestelle placed her right hand over her heart and bowed her head; the salute of the Sisterhood.
“I will guard your banner with my life, Brother Paladin,” she said seriously.
Tantus brought Desiree over to Aestelle by the reins, the powerful warhorse now stripped of all armor. Orion felt a rising sickening in his gut as he watched the events unfold. She needed to leave, now, but he still found his feet moving beneath him, and in an instant he was by her side. Aestelle turned to face him. She flashed him a confident smile and rested one hand against his neck.
“Do what you do best, Ri,” she said softly. “Kill ‘em all. Stay safe. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Orion watched in silence as Aestelle vaulted up onto the warhorse, secured the banner to her saddle, and accepted a lit torch from Tantus. She nodded a final farewell and kicked the warhorse into a gallop, hurtling down the hillside and quickly disappearing into the night. Orion felt relieved that she had a safer task ahead of her than defending the hill, but he still felt a gnawing regret at her departure. There were things left unsaid, and he doubted they would meet again.
“Lord Paladin!” Silus shouted from the north side of the hilltop. “Scouts! At the foot of the hill! They are here!”
Tancred unsheathed his sword and paced over toward Silus.
“Form up the defense!” he shouted. “Stand strong! It begins now!”
Chapter Twenty
Trees rushed past Aestelle to either side in a blur, briefly illuminated by her lit torch as she urged every last shred of speed out of Tancred’s warhorse. Aestelle was an experienced enough rider to appreciate the strengths and weaknesses of horses, but she remained astounded by the sheer speed and power of Desiree – a finer steed she had never seen. The horse’s hooves crunched on the stones of the path beneath them as she reached the foot of the hill. Ahead of her was a narrow valley leading to the next hill, a shallow plateau which lay between her and the final destination; the peak overlooking the inland road and her only way of attracting the attention of the lost army.
“Come on,” Aestelle urged, desperately digging her heels into the horse’s flanks again, “faster!”
Drizzle impacted her face and wind rushed through her hair as the horse galloped at breakneck speed across the valley, responding to her pulls on the reins as she navigated her way through the skeletal trees ahead. Aestelle leaned forward in the saddle in an attempt to avoid the low branches of the trees, but at a full gallop in the darkness she could only respond so quickly; twigs that felt like knives scratched her face and bare arms.
Thundering through the far side of the woods, Aestelle reached the foot of the plateau and urged Desiree up the shallow incline toward the next area of high ground. The wind, channeled through the valley, howled past her as she kicked at the horse, fighting to maintain speed as the slope grew steeper. An inkling, an old instinct, suddenly washed over her and filled her with dread. Twisting in the saddle, Aestelle turned to look all around her as she sensed danger approaching.
Behind her, swooping down through the black clouds, a dozen winged demons rushed through the skies to pursue her from the north.
***
Peering down into the darkness at the foot of the hill, Tancred could hear the Abyssal scouts before he could see them. The rapid and eclectic changes of their vicious chittering and guttural language was barely audible through the night air. The seven paladins stood shoulder to shoulder at the top of the hill, their swords held ready as the cold drizzle sank through their robes and armor. Ten ragged militiamen stood in lines to either side of the paladins, securing their flanks from attack. Behind them, at the far side of the hill’s crest, Dorn had assembled the other half of the forty militiamen and the five last men-at-arms to stand guard at the south side of the hill, in case their enemies attempted to attack from the rear.
Below them, in the darkness of the hillside, the foliage rustled. Tancred tightened the grip on his sword and fought to even his breathing. Every moment that passed was a moment closer to their reinforcements arriving.
“East!” Dorn yelled from behind him. “East side of the hill!”
Tancred spun in place and saw a trio of lower Abyssals scrambling over the lip of the hilltop, raising their jagged swords and axes high above their heads. Valletto stepped out from the midst of the militiamen and held out his staff in one hand. A second later, the hilltop became a deafening cacophony of wind as a violent and invisible hand picked up the three demonic warriors and threw them back down the slope. The warrior-mage stepped forward, directing the harsh winds onto the east slope and forcing back a wave of Abyssal warriors who attempted to trudge forward through the blast to the crest of the hill and the portal stones themselves.
“Let them come!” Silus growled angrily. “Let them fight!”
“We’re delaying them, you fool!” Valletto yelled as he held his staff up before him, keeping his magic alive and preventing any of their enemies from progressing up the eastern slope. “We are not looking for a glorious death!”
Before Silus could answer, a ball of fire shot up from the undergrowth in the darkness of the northern slope, roaring through the air to impact into one of the militiamen and set him alight. The man tumbled down the northern slope, screaming as he fell, his entire body ablaze. Before Tancred could react, a second fireball shot up from the slope below and set another militiaman on fire, his screams of pain clear even above the howling wind created by Valletto’s sorcery.
“Fall back!” Tancred ordered. “Get away from the edge of the slope!”
He knew the connotations of his order – the Abyssals, clearly advancing simultaneously up all sides of the slope, would now be able to reach the summit unopposed. Tancred’s small force would lose the advantage of fighting downhill, but better that than have his soldiers picked off one by one from balls of hellfire.
Tancred heard the clash and din of battle behind him as Dorn and his militiamen were engaged in fighting at the top of the
southern slope of the hill; a moment later, the first Abyssal warrior appeared atop the northern slope, and with a snarl, rushed forward to fight. Orion darted out to meet the demon, ducking beneath the Abyssal’s first sword swing and bringing his own blade up to tear open the guts of the monster, sending it sprawling to the ground in its death throes. More fanged, horned faces appeared at the rim of the hilltop. Letting out a cry, Tancred held his sword aloft and led his paladins forward to attack.
***
Checking over her shoulder again, Aestelle slammed her heels into the warhorse’s flanks and yelled in desperation as they neared the top of the final hill. Her pursuers were close now, close enough for her to make out their lithe, iron-gray forms swooping through the sky behind her. Perhaps a dozen gargoyles, their flame red eyes glowing in the black sky, relentlessly kept pace with her as she urged her horse on to its final destination.
Rounding the crest of the hill, Aestelle let out a cry of relief as she saw the Basilean force advancing along the road beneath her. Quickly jumping down from her horse, she ran over to the nearest tree and held her torch to it, but the flames failed to catch onto the damp bark. Aestelle turned and saw the swarm of gargoyles was only moments away, hideous shrieks echoing across the rain-streaked skies as they folded their wings back to dive down toward her. She snatched the Sacred Arc banner from the saddle and ran over to the edge of the hilltop. Holding the banner up high above her head in one hand and waving her torch from side to side with the other, Aestelle sucked in a lungful of air and roared for all she was worth. The banner fluttered above her, the rich blue fabric rippling in the wind and rain as her chest burned with the exertion of the frantic ride and her desperate shouts for attention.