by Logan Petty
The giants that once pressured Ylsgrin lay beneath the sea of glass, now one with the destruction. The librarian unleashed his utter wrath upon the remaining conversion temples, reducing them to molten slag as he belched forth white-hot magma created by his meal of vampyr. Without their control tower, the remaining priests could no longer maintain the bulk of their army. Half a dozen of the cloaked nightmares drifted farther back into the city, leaving a wall of useless flesh standing in the invaders’ path. Jatharr thanked Turin that they had stopped swinging their swords. His forces dwindled in number, only a little over a hundred strong now. Many of the thralls he trained had perished in the battle, their corpses mixed with the enemy. The Harthaz felt the impact of sacrifice on the shores of Jordborg as well, having given their lives by the score. Jatharr knew that, had it not been for Ylsgrin holding their attention so long, his tiny siege force would have been decimated within an hour. That they managed not only to survive the night, but take the gate of the foe’s stronghold by morning, astounded him beyond words. He glanced up as a gale of wind rushed over the plain. Ylsgrin circled high above the city, roaring victoriously. The temples lay as tiny lakes of fire and glass. The Grey King’s air superiority failed. Jatharr smiled as he thought to himself.
We own the skies now. All that’s left to do is take the Sea King’s palace. Oh, if only you could see us now, Torvald. You’d be a proud man. Your son is a greater hero than either of us dared dream to be.
Binze and Terina galloped to Jatharr’s side and the Ghosts’ drakes slithered along behind. Blasts of fire and electricity mingled with a sprinkling of arrows not nearly as numerous as before. The defenseless zombies crumbled beneath the assault. Grim silence fell about the invasion party as they broke through the wall of the dead and beyond the smoke choked ruins of the gates. Their gait slowed as they entered the empty streets of Jordborg. Jatharr pointed his crimson soaked blade down the main street as he roared.
“Forward to victory! The city will be ours!”
His comrades answered the call to action with a chorus of yells and battle cries. Dust rose from the trembling earth as the Swerdbrekker’s army charged forward. Sawain felt the rumbling and heard the yells from his position at the southern docks, nearly two miles away. Giltglim sparkled with gnoll blood as he weaved in and out among enemy spears, catching them one by one on his blade. The bite of the enchanted sword made the gnoll corpses difficult to reanimate for the priests who joined their defense. Though outnumbered, the Spirar managed to chew away at the slowly regenerating bulk of the gnoll outfit. Sawain kept the pressure on them with prayers of his own that magically stitched his wounds back together and soothed the fatigue of the soldiers who fought alongside him. Sydarion’s barrage of arcane arrows pushed the Grey Priests to the edge of the battle, making their support less effective. Axel crashed through the enemy like a rampaging bull, his hammer crushing bone and shattering armor with each skillful swat. The gnoll entourage dwindled and the oncoming attack from the outside forces demolished enemy morale. Ylsgrin’s looming presence over the city proved the final blow to their cohesiveness. The priests broke ranks and fled toward the palace. Sawain grinned as he gutted a cowering gnoll. The remainder of the hyena-like skirmishers scattered, scurrying in whichever direction they could find that was not blocked by a Spirar’s blade.
Syd’s shockwave of arrows, and a few expertly placed soldiers, managed to corral the broken fiends straight toward the oncoming allies. As the first pale rays of morning light glowered against the skyline, the Spirar managed to herd the gnolls straight into the path of Jatharr’s forces. Screams of terror and yelps of agony mingled with sadistic roars and clashing steel. Within minutes, the chaos of battle subsided and Hilmr’s mighty army of gnolls lay dead in the streets, completely routed.
“Hail, Swerdbrekker,” Jatharr called out over the din. “Yer looking well! I take it yer part of the invasion went as planned. And you brought some friends!”
Sawain sauntered up to Jatharr, who had dismounted from his drake. The two clasped hands firmly, like old brothers. Sawain grinned at the Halfling.
“You’re still in one piece? What was that explosion that shook the whole earth about? Did you make the dragon mad?”
Binze trotted up to Sawain, waving his axe merrily. “Sorry about that, Swerdbrekker. We needed a miracle, so we made one with some ancient Harthaz faerie talk.”
Sawain glanced backward at the still burning ruins of the gates in the distance. “Looks like your miracle got carried away. Might want to try apologizing to Vaskar for breaking down his front door.”
Terina joined the conversation as she melded out of the crowd. “We’ll be sure to do that. Where is our noble prince?”
Sawain pointed toward the array of spiraling towers and walls that made up the complex known as the Sea King’s Palace. “He should be waiting for us inside. What say you to knocking down that door next?”
Binze glanced at Terina, who returned with a grin. She flexed her muscles anxiously.
“What are we waiting for?”
Jatharr nodded in agreement as Eldingbál wriggled up to Sawain, nuzzling him fondly. Sawain returned the drake’s affection with a few scratches on his scalp before he climbed onto his back. The Spirar forces integrated into the Swerdbrekker’s army as they returned to their advance. Jashr limped up to Sawain’s side, smiling.
“I’ve not had this much fun in years. If I survive this battle, remind me to thank you later.”
Sawain spoke softly as he returned Jashr’s smile. “Dawn is rising on a new day. We will put Lord Hervoth’s soul to rest and drive the vermin from the city. Your new king awaits our arrival. This will all be over soon. Hold on a little longer.”
Jashr nodded, his eyes turning toward the ever growing palace. “I am ready for whatever horrors come through those gates. They are nothing compared to being a prisoner within your own dungeon. Nothing compared to the agony of living while your mentor remained a slave to undeath. Come what may, I am prepared to fight and die for my king and my Hold.”
The first rays of the morning sun broke over the city walls as the army drew near the square that served as the entrance to the Sea King’s palace. Screams broke out from the left and right as orcish arrows peppered the army’s flanks. Flesh searing waves of necrotic energy rippled out from every direction as four Grey Priests hovered out into the open, drifting just out of arrows’ reach. Their sinister staves radiated with dark magic as two bands of orc commandos unleashed a barrage of arrows upon the trapped force. Sawain flinched as a handful of arrows glanced off his armor, nearly knocking him from his drake.
“Archers! Eye on the upper floors! Focus on suppressing the orcs! Terina! Anyone who has longer range! Aim for the priests’ masks!”
Sawain began an earnest prayer as he took an arrow to the shoulder. A divine whirlwind of healing energy struggled against the deluge of necromancy. While it protected those in his immediate area, the greater army suffered as old wounds split open, shedding fresh blood.
Suddenly, a barrage of flaming arrows from the rooftops pelted the priests from multiple directions. Ghastly shrieks arose from them as their corporeal forms disintegrated from the blaze. Sawain watched in disdain as the ghostly black shades fluttered away into the morning sky. He knew they would reform later, but at least it comforted him that it would not be here. He glanced around the upper stories of the surrounding buildings. A series of screams and sputtering noises issued forth as roughly thirty orc corpses fell from open windows and upper awnings. Kyra, Mari, and Timbrell appeared from the top of a nearby inn, waving down at Sawain. A grungy looking red haired man in a dirty blue coat and trousers stood beside Kyra, hands on his hips, grinning like a charming rogue, though he did not look the part. Twenty or so ruffians dressed like bandits, waving spears and cutlasses, appeared around them, cheering jovially. Naralei and Banthan strode out of a nearby general store on the other side of the street, grinning mischievously. Kyra, Mari, and Timbrel slid down the roof
, fluttering gently to the ground. The pirates on the rooftop remained above. The two groups of friends converged upon Sawain. Naralei spoke first.
“You miss us, cousin?”
Sawain returned her grin. “Of course. I see you’ve made some new friends. Or, to be more specific, I see Kyra’s new friends.”
Banthan nodded cryptically. “You can’t see our friends, but the piles of dead orc assassins speak volumes of their presence.”
Kyra cut in, “And I think ‘friends’ might be a bit too casual for our new acquaintances. Mari, Timbrel, and I merely found some strays in a sewer who wanted to help fight. They said we should consider it the fulfilment of an old contract.”
Axel sidled up to Kyra, nodding in the direction of the red haired rogue. “And that man on the roof, is that the notorious captain of the Ravenwake Corsairs?”
Kyra twitched her nose irreverently without looking up at the man in question. “That is merely the lord of the sewer rats we managed to coax out into the light. He shouldn’t be a problem, but if he tries anything, I’ll roast him on the spot.”
Axel’s eye widened and he nodded, trying to hide a smile. “Good to know, lass. Ye’ve come a long way since the Stones of Nath.”
Kyra blushed, looking away. “Axel, is this really the time for that? We need to get inside the palace fast. The sun is already rising!”
Axel grinned as the other drakes approached their respective riders, greeting them with nuzzles. Everyone made ready for the final battle. The Ghosts mounted their serpentine steeds. The Dawnstar Company checked equipment. Sawain tried to patch up the bulk of his forces with healing prayers, though his weariness made their effects weaker. The Ravenwake Privateers kept a watchful eye on the palace, reporting no movement from within. The Spirar stood still and calm, like rugged sentinels. Mari rode up beside Sawain, glancing at him sideways. He attempted to return her gaze, his eyes falling a moment later.
“Ready to ride, Mari? This is it. The final push.”
He looked back at her as he signed to him, sorrow etched on her face. < I am ready. Sorry about earlier. I acted foolish. >
Sawain smiled, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s go free Jordborg.”
The morning sun shone down upon hundreds of ragged warriors as they approached the Sea King’s palace. Though many of them appeared as walking skeletons, their own hearts still beat inside their chests. Their feet moved of their own accord, not bent to Xifrieg’s will. Sawain’s eyes locked upon the gate as it came into view. The remaining Grey Priests hovered above the castle, desperately weaving dark magic. A host of creatures waited before the entrance, bows drawn, axes and swords flashing in the morning light. Sawain surveyed the host of orcs and trolls spattered with a few score zombies of fallen soldiers. He estimated them to be roughly the same in number as his army. He glared up at the ghostly figures of the priests who hovered just out of range. He knew their presence would make this battle difficult.
Jashr nudged Sawain, pointing at a figure on the opposing frontline. “There he is. Lord Hervoth, still wearing the same armor he died in last time we clashed. To think we would ever be on differing sides of the battlefield.”
Sawain dismounted Eldingbál, then drew Giltglim from his belt. “I’ll keep my promise, Jashr. Lord Hervoth will not be a slave to Xifrieg or his master any longer. Keep the rest of the foes occupied, but leave him to me.”
Jashr nodded, signaling his Spirar. “Of course, Swerdbrekker. It is befitting that his soul be released by his own blade. Something about that feels . . . ordained.”
The sky dimmed slightly as the first volley of arrows took to the sky. The bolts of the free folk of Hammerhold mingled with those of the enemy for a moment before thudding into shields and necks and torsos on both sides. The infantry rushed forward, the charge led by Binze and Terina. The siblings’ dread weapons cut through the first wave of resistance effortlessly. A pair of rampaging trolls slammed tree-sized clubs down upon the attackers, sending humans, elves, and centaur flying through the air with each successive swipe. Arrows could not faze them. Binze threw himself at one of the titans. Harmeta carved through flesh and bone, severing its right arm at the elbow. By the time he turned to take another pass, the troll had managed to reattach his limb.
Sawain wove skillfully through the chaos of war, cutting down anyone foolish enough to get between him and Hervoth. The elven general showed equivalent calm and prowess. His blood stained, silver armor glistened with malice. The sword of pure darkness he wielded flashed through steel and flesh like it had no corporeal form. Those struck by it fell to the ground, only to rise moments later and turn on their allies. The elf prince’s eyes shone dimly, two white orbs without irises or pupils. When he struck, Sawain could feel the furious precision in his attacks, yet he showed no emotion at all.
The two warriors crossed the battlefield in a dance of death. Plumes of blood sprayed from the brawlers who tried to get between them. Swords detached from their owners as fingers met Giltglim’s edge. Soldiers who engaged Hervoth swiftly perished, adding to the enemy forces. The gap between the two closed. Sawain brought his blade up to parry the undead prince’s sword of dark energy as he swiped. Giltglim stopped the umbral edge from severing Sawain’s soul and body. Hervoth pushed against him with a might not entirely his own. Recognition flashed across his face, the first sign of emotion he displayed since the battle began.
“I . . . know this sword . . . .”
Sawain broke away from Hervoth, circling him as he searched for an opening. “Yes, this is Giltglim. It onced served you as a defender of Jordborg. Do you remember who you are? Fight the usurper! Don’t be his slave.”
Recognition faded and Hervoth’s countenance became neutral again. He unleashed a flurry of overwhelming blows. Sawain dodged and parried, unable to get in a hit of his own. The Swerdbrekker staggered backwards as each strike crashed against his blade, gaining momentum. Sweat dripped into Sawain’s eyes, stinging him as he struggled to stay alive against the rapid attack. From the corners of his vision, he watched his soldiers fall to the horde. Necrotic energy drifted down upon them, healing the dead and tearing apart the living. Even Sawain’s flesh rent apart as he managed to deflect the ongoing assault from Hervoth. If something did not happen soon, the invasion would fail.
A deafening roar erupted from the sky above as a stream of white fire enveloped one of the priests from behind. The unholy screams mingled with the rush of wind from Ylsgrin’s wings as he flew over the battle. The break in the flow of dark energy stunned Hervoth momentarily. Sawain jumped at the opportunity.
He returned the prince’s storm of blows with one of his own. Giltglim flared brightly as each slash pushed Hervoth back. He moved slower now, with less resolve. A blast of wind caused him to stumble as Ylsgrin passed again, swallowing a second priest whole as his open maw closed around it. Sawain managed to score a hit on Hervoth, gashing his right arm to the bone.
The prince returned to the assault as more rippling waves of dark energy poured out from behind the gate. Sawain focused on a prayer to Turin as he exchanged parries and thrusts with Hervoth. He did not have time to form words in his head, but feelings came to him, directed to his god as the two warriors fought fervently to gain the upper hand. His prayer shielded him from the corruption that rained down, but could not affect anyone else as more allies fell to the effects of the necromancers’ magic. Sawain heard the gate open slowly as he clashed.
A corpulent giant dressed in a chain mail tunic and massive iron crown strode out of the open portal. He wore gleaming golden bracers on his wrists and a belt of dark leather held his pants up. His bulging gut partially covered a silver buckle fashioned to look like the head of a serpent. A pendant of gold hung about his neck on a silver chain. A gleaming crystal shone unnaturally, set within the pendant. Tiny red eyes sank into a fatty, blue-gray face covered in sores and boils. The monster held aloft a sword twice the size of a normal blade of its fashion.
Sawain heard Jashr growl nearby.
“Xifrieg . . . .”
Raucous laughter shook the giant’s bulky frame as he swung his sword in wide arcs, indiscriminately killing anything that stood before him. Ylsgrin dove upon Xifrieg, claws ripping at his gelatinous form. The usurper cackled at the dragon’s efforts to harm him, swatting at him with his blade. The sword bit deep into Ylsgrin’s shoulder, forcing him to withdraw upward. The giant opened his mouth, tongue lolling as the dragon’s blood sprinkled on him. He laughed darkly, licking the gore from his lips.
“Mmm, never tasted dragon before! I need more!”
He lumbered forward, his wounds pulling together on their own. Several arrows fired from surrounding buildings pierced his blubber. He continued his march. He stopped momentarily as the wires that ran from the arrows became taut, tethered to invisible anchors. Xifrieg guffawed manically as he pushed onward, snapping some of the cords, pulling others free of the pillars they clinged to. Nothing slowed him as his blade cleaved friend and foe alike.
“Pesky ants! How dare you invade my home! Don’t you know how hard I’ve worked to fix up this place? It was so nice until you lot showed up. I will have to work for weeks to amass an army as large as my last one. Oh well, I’ll start by recruiting you!”
Screams of pain rang out across the battlefield as the giant waded closer and closer to Sawain and Hervoth as they continued to exchange blows. Sawain winced as his muscles began to burn from overusing Turin’s power. If the battle continued much longer, all hope would be lost.
“Come on, Vaskar . . . . Where are you?” he muttered through clenched teeth.
Hervoth’s ferocity intensified as Xifrieg drew nearer. Sawain ducked and wove around the prince’s skillful assault. He returned the attacks with slashes and stabs of his own, none able to connect. Sawain’s troops fell back in panic as the unstoppable giant cut a path forward. His blood-crazed cackles filled Sawain’s ears and his footsteps caused the street to tremble. The tyrant appeared behind Hervoth, madness etched into his grotesque features. He smiled broadly, revealing rows of rotting teeth, as he raised his broadsword. An explosion rocked the air behind Xifrieg as his expression twisted into one of pain and anger. He turned around to face his assailant, the black crater in his back already mostly healed. Sawain glanced over Hervoth’s shoulder as he locked swords with him.