Camilla obeyed, dropping to the dust and rolling under the barred gate. She bounded back to her feet, turning. “I’m through!”
Safira gasped. She released her hold and fell back. With a clang the portcullis fell back into place. The war priestess panted, looking at the heavy metal bars which divided them, and in her heart bloomed a sense of peace. Safira smiled sadly at the young elf. “Run, Camilla,” she said softly.
“Safira?”
The war priestess rose slowly and grasped her hammer, turning and facing the road. The riders barreled towards her, the pounding of their hooves like thunder. The gleam of their weapons curving through the dark.
“Safira!”
The war priestess lifted her hammer. Strength poured through her like molten gold. Her eyes narrowed towards the dark road, her lips lifting in a snarl. Light poured off of her like golden wings as she spun her hammer in her free hand. Her soul sang with the song of her god’s battle cry. With a shout she rushed towards the closing orcs.
“Safira!”
Safira smiled, satisfied. One survived their horrid trek. One would live.
And so she brought her hammer round, and fought her final stand.
Epilogue
Tatarod was dead.
Every window of the once bustling town was dark. Every doorway shuttered tight and barred, though their residents were long gone.
Camilla trudged slowly through the silent streets. Rage and fury warred inside of her, leaving her feeling hollow. Empty. Recalling how desperately she’d searched for guards within the tower. How she’d found the gate house, but its machinery was smashed, broken beyond her skills to repair.
And by the time she’d gained the window, the battle was done, but far from won. Not an orc had survived. And neither had Safira.
She’d pushed on, then. Past the gate. Determined that the sacrifice of the war priestess would not be in vain. And for that, it had succeeded. She had reached Tatarod.
But though the town was dead, it was not quite empty. Sound reached her from a distance, and as she crested one of the hills the city had been built upon she saw one corner of the town was alive yet. The port was crowded with people, hastily loading a few waiting ships with what goods they could.
Numbly, Camilla descended the street, walking slowly into the crowd. Her presence was barely noted, the people around her too frantic to pay attention to anything beyond the ships. She scanned the crowd, at last sighting a man in the sweeping helmet of the town watch.
“What’s going on?” she asked, approaching him.
The man gave her a look of surprise. His eyes flicked down to her uniform and he drew himself up a little more. “Evacuating, miss. Tatarod is no longer safe for men.”
“Evacuation?”
“Aye. You must be a straggler. We’ve been getting a number of survivors from the emperor’s armies. Fool that he is. He’s fled back to Moskov, miss. And his sister has declared herself empress. She marches to the plains to confront the Duke of Ashes. Looks to head him off before he can strike Brazno and Kirinovo.”
“And Tatarod?”
The guard winced. He bowed his head, his helmet shadowing his face. “Tatarod… cannot be guaranteed its safety. She’s pulled the forces from the walls to bolster her troops. We leave the city lest the monsters take us undefended.”
Camilla looked about the milling people as they hastened on to waiting ships. “I see,” she said softly.
The guard coughed. “There’s still space aboard, miss. I’d suggest you come with us. We sail east, to safer lands. There’s nothing left for us here.”
“No,” Camilla said, glancing back at the distant forests and silent homes. Her face grew grim and she brushed past the guard, walking towards the waiting ship. “Nothing left at all…”
Last Stand of the War Priestess Page 6