The Shadows of Grace h-4

by David Dalglish

  “Woooohooooo!” the assassin shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Harruq vowed to kill him if they actually survived the landing.

  At least the orcs were as surprised as he was when he tucked his shoulder and barreled through their ranks. He went head over heels three times, rolled along his side twice more, and then jumped up to his feet. Dirt covered his armor, and bits of grass stuck to his hair. The first orc unlucky enough to attack Harruq died in three pieces, completely unprepared for the vicious wrath unleashed upon him. Three more closed in, surrounding the raging half-orc.

  Harruq grinned darkly at them.

  “I’m not the scary one,” he said.

  And then Haern came whirling in, his feet hardly touching the ground before he changed course. His sabers cut around their axes, giving them no time to block or strike. As they fell, Harruq and Haern linked up, standing side by side as the rest of the orcs not manning the catapults turned to fight.

  “No reprieve,” Haern said as the orcs charged. “Scare the shit out of them.”

  “Will do.”

  The two Eschaton met the rush head on, Harruq leading the way. With his magical blades and greater reach, he cut down the first two, then flung his weight into his run. He slammed through them, lacking Haern’s skillful weavings and parries. Instead he flung his opponents aside, tore through their defenses with incredible strength, and emerged coated in blood. Haern followed, his sabers deftly cutting ankles, wrists, and necks. He left a wounded, immobilized force in his wake, his cloaks also soaked. Together they spun, raised their weapons and attacked.

  The orcs broke, having already lost half their numbers while hardly incurring a scratch. They were the weak, the ones left behind to build and construct while the warriors traveled with Velixar into Veldaren. Against such skill, they had no chance. Harruq cut down a few before turning back to the catapults. He watched as they unleashed a barrage of four boulders. Two of them halted in midair and fell into the chasm, while the others crashed and rolled through a distant mass of warriors.

  “Take the left,” Haern said, sheathing his sabers before breaking out in a sprint. Harruq chased after, veering off as his mentor asked. A couple noticed their approach and shouted, as if in disbelief that they were still alive. Harruq let out a bellow from the pit of his stomach. The orcs had only hammers and ropes for weapons. It was no contest. Harruq gutted one, cut down another, and then slammed his shoulder into a third. The orc flew off the cliff, his scream slowly fading as he fell.

  One catapult out of commission, he turned to the second. Its orcs let off one last boulder, then fled. Harruq shrugged and looked for Haern. The assassin had made quick work of his own catapults. Half the orcs were dead, the other half fleeing into the Vile Wedge. Harruq trudged over and then pointed.

  “The bridges weren’t for the orc soldiers,” he said. “They were for the catapults.”

  “This should slow them for a few weeks,” Haern agreed. “Neither the Green Castle nor Felwood would survive long if the orcs had actual siege weaponry.”

  “Let’s hope we bought them a chance, then,” Harruq said. “How’s the battle going over there?”

  Haern squinted, trying to make out shapes.

  “Looks like the horsemen are running rampant through their lines,” he said. “It will be over soon.”

  Sure enough, tiny figures were falling down the chasm, the bodies of hundreds of orcs as they were corralled and pushed to their deaths. When the battle ended, the dead bodies followed after. Harruq and Haern cleaned their weapons and armor as best they could, then waited. Aurelia arrived soon after, riding atop Seleven.

  “Enjoy the ride?” she asked as she landed.

  “You’re evil,” Harruq said, accepting her offered hand and hopping onto the winged horse’s back.

  “So, no?”

  The half-orc rolled his eyes as Haern joined them.

  “They seem to be getting along all right,” Aurelia shouted as they took flight. “Either way, our time here is done. Tarlak will be waiting for us in Kinamn.”

  They swooped over the combined human forces, Aurelia waving. Sir Kull’s men saluted with their blades while the horsemen cheered.

  “That’s better than our last greeting,” Harruq said.

  “To Kinamn,” Aurelia said, banking Seleven southward.

  “Let’s hope Tarlak’s had as much luck as us, eh?” said the half-orc.

  It took three days to fly across the Hillock, and when they reached Beaver Lake they stopped again for food and rest. The Bone Hills loomed before them, tall and barren. Nestled against the southern tip of the hills would be Kinamn, capital of Omn and in the very center of the trading paths between what had been the largest and wealthiest nations, Neldar in the east and Mordan in the west.

  “Kinamn will be more like Veldaren,” Aurelia said as they lay down for the night. “An expansive city, though not as large. More importantly, it’s far less defended. They have little chance of surviving against Qurrah’s army.

  “Velixar’s army,” she corrected. Harruq kissed her cheek and rolled over underneath their blankets. The cold winter night dragged on, silent but for the lapping of the lake against the shore. A lone owl hooted once, then quieted.

  Harruq turned about and pulled Aurelia into his arms and held her tight.

  “What…” she started to ask, but he stopped her with a kiss. He pressed his forehead against hers. When she stroked his face with her fingertips, she felt tears. She needed no explanation, no excuse. After a quick glance to make sure Haern slept far away by the lake’s bank, she climbed atop her husband.

  Afterward, she cuddled him, feeling her body meld with his. His rough hands encircled her waist.

  “Forever,” she whispered. “You’ll have me forever.”

  “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered back.

  “And you never will. But since when did that matter?”

  They slept until morning, the winter’s bite held at bay by their warmth.

  6

  “I hope Harruq and them are doing better than us,” Tarlak grumbled as he joined his companions in their meager lodgings. Lathaar looked up from his seat at the table, several cards in hand. Dieredon sat opposite him, holding cards as well. They were in their room above an inn. It was cramped, with two beds, a table, and a small chest to store their belongings. Over the past week they’d drawn straws to decide who slept on the floor. For the third night in a row Tarlak had drawn poorly, and he had begun to wonder if Dieredon was cheating.

  “Cards?” the wizard asked, pointing toward Lathaar’s hand. “Since when do you gamble?”

  “I gamble nothing, except perhaps my pride,” Lathaar said, scrunching his face as he looked at his hand. “Though I wonder if I have even that left. Take a look. What do you think I should discard?”

  Tarlak walked over and frowned.

  “That,” he said, pointing at a crudely drawn prince.

  Lathaar tossed it down. Dieredon quickly matched it, then placed the remaining two cards of his own down, revealing another matching pair.

  “Your loss again,” the elf said. When Lathaar scowled at Tarlak, he only grinned.

  “Never said I knew how to play, either. Was just surprised that you did.”

  “Have you made any progress with the king?” Dieredon asked as he gathered up the cards.

  “Evidently getting an audience with King Stephen is akin to asking for a private conversation with Ashhur,” Tarlak said. “And don’t you dare correct me about that, Lathaar. I’m in no mood.”

  Lathaar stood and stretched his back.

  “We’ve stayed here under his majesty’s request,” he said. “And we’ve played along, all to plead our case before the throne. But instead we’ve gotten nowhere, and warned no one. It won’t be long before a number of refugees and traders arrive, bringing who knows what sort of bizarre rumors with them. If we’re to be believed, we must act first; otherwise we’ll be lumped among the madmen.”

&
nbsp; “He’s right,” Dieredon said. “Why this delay? I come as official envoy of the elves, and even then I am turned away from the palace gates. Something is amiss.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” asked Tarlak. He crossed his arms and scowled. When he realized the other two were looking at him, he raised an eyebrow.

  “What? Oh. Wait. You’re both kidding right? You want me to open a portal directly to the king?”

  “Can you?” asked Lathaar.

  “There’s no wardings here,” the wizard said. “So hypothetically, yes.”

  “Then I think it time we do so,” said Dieredon.

  “We’re apt to get killed,” Tarlak insisted. “We’ll be trespassing, perhaps taken for assassins. Bigger problem is I can’t go somewhere I haven’t seen. Have either of you been to the throne room before?”

  Both shook their head. Tarlak sighed.

  “Get your things ready. I have an idea, but it won’t be fun. Our time is running out. Any longer, and we’ll have an army of demons and dead conveying our message a lot louder than us, but by then it’s going to be way too late.”

  They ate a meal in the commons area of the tavern, deciding any deviation from their normal pattern might attract notice. A few came over to Lathaar to discuss their troubles, and the paladin listened, giving advice when he could, and providing a sympathetic ear when he could not. Tarlak amused a few people by summoning an ethereal flute that played a rather popular tune. Dieredon stayed in the corner, watching everything.

  When night fell, Tarlak cast a spell of invisibility over the three of them.

  “I can’t do much about the noise,” he explained once the spell took hold. “Being unseen won’t mean much if you make a cartload of noise walking around.”

  “I could make it to the castle unseen without need of a spell,” Tarlak heard Dieredon say from his right.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think we can say the same for our paladin friend.”

  From his left, armor clinked and rattled as Lathaar shifted nervously.

  “I oiled it best I could,” he said.

  They headed down the stairs, trying to be quiet as possible. For Tarlak in his robes and Dieredon in his oiled leather, this was hardly difficult. Lathaar, however, felt like a gargantuan drum, an invisible metal can of noise. Part of him was glad he couldn’t see the winces his friends made as he followed after.

  Tarlak had put a small rock in his pocket after casting the spell. When inside the folds of his robes, it was invisible, but when he took it out and held it in his hand, it regained visibility. Using the rock as a floating guide, Lathaar and Dieredon followed Tarlak out of the inn and into the streets of Kinamn.

  A few torches lit the crossroads, but the rest of the streets were left to darkness. Thin clouds hid the stars, and the moon peeked through only occasionally. The streets themselves were wide and smoothly paved, so following the floating rock as it glimpsed in and out of existence proved fairly easy. They traveled north toward the castle, stopping only when guards in groups of four passed by, a gold symbol of a cautious fox emblazoned on their red tunics.

  A thin wall surrounded the city, along with several fields and wells. The castle itself had a second wall, only high enough to reach Lathaar’s chest. An iron gate blocked the initial entry. The rock hovered still for a moment just within sight of that smaller wall and then vanished. Lathaar paused.

  “You guys hear me?” Tarlak whispered.

  “Aye,” whispered Dieredon, so close to Lathaar’s right that the paladin jumped.

  “And that clatter must be Lathaar,” Tarlak said, his voice still low. “Good. There’s four guards watching the gate, and several more patrolling. I’ll cast a sleep spell on those two on the left. Climb over fast as you can, and head for the castle’s main doors. I’ll wake the guards once you’ve made it over.”

  “How will you know?” Lathaar asked.

  “I won’t. Just move quickly. Well, not too quickly. Dear gods, you’re louder than a smithy’s workshop.”

  Lathaar approached the wall, feeling like an idiot as he took step after careful step. He could see his own skin and armor, and it took a great amount of self-control to walk toward the guards without fear of being spotted. The heads of the guards were easily visible over the wall. When a patrol of four walked past, leaving just the two at the closed gate, Tarlak cast his spell.

  Their heads drooped, and their shoulders slumped. Lathaar scrambled toward the wall and flung his arms atop it. He grunted as the heavy weight of his armor screeched and groaned. What the Abyss was he thinking? Why hadn’t he removed it back at the inn? Shouldn’t Tarlak have convinced him to do just that?

  “Quiet,” Dieredon hissed directly behind him. Strong hands grabbed his waist and shoved upward. With the grace of a falling boulder, Lathaar toppled to the other side. There was no hiding the noise. Both sleeping guard startled awake, looking worried and embarrassed. When they saw no intruders, they chuckled nervously and stood a bit straighter at their posts.

  Step after baby step, Lathaar made his way toward the castle doors. Idly, he wondered how long the invisibility spell would last. Perhaps it’d run out while he crept along; the biggest, dumbest, most incompetent burglar ever.

  Begging to Ashhur for that not to happen, Lathaar continued on, albeit a bit faster. When he reached the doors, he bumped into something invisible.

  “Watch it,” Tarlak muttered. “You made enough noise to wake the dead. Why in the world are you wearing that armor, anyway?”

  Lathaar didn’t respond.

  “How do we get through the door?” asked invisible Dieredon.

  “Now that’s the fun part,” Tarlak said. He reached out until he found both their shoulders. “Stand very still, and keep your eye out. If a soldier wanders too near, tell me to shut up.”

  The castle doors were at the top of twenty stone steps, and the closest guards were at the bottom. Unless they started singing, Lathaar didn’t expect any difficulty. Quietly, Tarlak began chanting another spell, his hands still holding his companions.

  Suddenly Lathaar felt his stomach lurch. The world turned gray and oversized. The walls shifted like smoke, and the door before him shook as if it were made of liquid.

  “What the…” he started to say, and then Tarlak yanked him right through the door. They reappeared on the other side, in a well-lit entryway leading toward the throne. Banners hung from the ceiling, their embroidery shimmering in the torchlight.

  With an audible pop, the world returned to normal, and Tarlak and Dieredon appeared within view.

  “Enough of that nonsense,” Tarlak said, stroking his beard. “There’ll be guards inside, but I think we can handle them without any need for magical or lethal force. The question is, where do we look?”

  “We need to find the king’s chambers,” Dieredon said. “Though I fear we will surely come across as assassins now.”

  “Oh well,” said Tarlak. “Their own damn fault. We tried diplomacy. Time for the Eschaton way!”

  “You mean the stupid, dangerous way?” asked Lathaar.

  “Exactly.”

  They entered the throne room, all three on the lookout for guards. It was vacant and dimly lit by two torches. Dieredon rushed ahead, moving silent with practiced ease that made Lathaar jealous. When he had looped the room, he returned, shaking his head.

  “No guards nearby,” he said. “And no doorways. The king’s chambers must be elsewhere.”

  “When in doubt, move higher up,” Tarlak said. “Suits the ego.”

  They headed down the hallway to their right, following Dieredon’s intuition more than anything. The approach of torchlight around the corner alerted them to guards. Tarlak put a finger to his lips, then start looping his hands in the air. A white mist surrounded their throats. When the guards cried out, no noise came from their mouths.

  Dieredon raced toward them as they drew their swords. He avoided the first two clumsy swings, jammed his hands against one’s elbow, and
then twisted the hilt free. He parried the other’s attack using his stolen sword, elbowed the guard in the face, and then spun. His feet and fists lashed out, striking both.

  As they collapsed, Dieredon applied quick kicks to the backs of their heads, ensuring they stayed down for a long while.

  On the other end of the hallway, Lathaar glanced at his swords and sighed.

  “Why am I here again?” he asked.

  “To look pretty,” Tarlak said. “Now keep quiet.”

  They passed many doors, but Dieredon never paused as he led them along. The square castle seemed to have a logical sense to it. If the extravagant hallway entrance to the castle led to the throne, then on the opposite end, its back to the throne, would be the king’s chambers.

  When they took a second left, the hallway ended at an enormous set of double doors. It seemed the elf was correct. The four soldiers standing at attention only confirmed it.

  “Back,” Dieredon said, pushing the Eschaton away. Two crossbow bolts pinged against the stone wall where they had been. The soldiers cried out in alarm, and this time no spell silenced them.

  “Take them out, quick,” Tarlak insisted, magic sparking from his palms.

  Lathaar turned the corner, trusting his armor. Two of the guards rushed toward him, buying time for the other two as they cranked their crossbows. Lathaar drew his swords, the blue-white light of their blades flooding the enclosed space. The soldiers stopped at the sight.

  “A paladin?” one asked. “But why?”

  “We’re not here to kill anyone,” Lathaar said, hoping they wouldn’t notice the spells Tarlak prepared to unleash. “We must speak to your king.”

  The wizard paused, waiting for their reaction.

  “No one speaks to the king,” the leader said.

  “We don’t want to hurt you,” Lathaar insisted. “But too many lives are at stake. Stand down.”

  “He delays too long,” Dieredon said to Tarlak. Already he could hear footsteps approaching from behind, as well as movement from a nearby door that he assumed were servants’ quarters.