“What is going on here?” Haern asked. “How could there be so many?”
“Our victory was shallow,” Dieredon said. “Karak’s army fled before suffering any major casualties. We assumed they traveled with the demons toward Veldaren. We were wrong.”
“We need to stop them,” Haern whispered. “Somehow.”
“There is more ill news,” Dieredon said. He trudged back down the hill and brushed away a large patch of grass taller than his thigh, revealing a tunnel dug deep into the earth.
“I found several of these,” he said as Haern peered within. “And I even followed one to its end. They lead underneath the walls. They’re getting in and out at will. I closed up the few I found, but there are many more, and they lead all throughout the city.”
“They were ready for this,” Haern said. “They couldn’t have dug these in the past few days.”
“How many years?” Dieredon asked. “How long have they controlled the hearts and minds of Mordan’s people?”
“I don’t know,” Haern said, shaking his head. “But far too long. Let’s head back to the city. I have a few friends I need to talk to.”
Dieredon covered the hole back up with grass and sprinted north, Haern at his heels. Behind them, Karak’s army continued building their strange contraption.
F or seven nights, the lion roared in the sky. The entire city remained on edge, sleep often impossible. Guards remained constantly alert. And then the killings started.
“Shadows,” Deathmask said as they gathered around the bloodied body in the middle of the street.
“They’re targeting at random now,” Haern said, sadly shaking his head. “There’s no way we can stop this.”
“We can,” Deathmask said, glaring at the roaring lion shimmering amid the stars. “If someone had the guts to do what must be done.”
“Leave the walls?” Dieredon said. “Leave them for open warfare with the few soldiers we have left?”
“The walls don’t matter,” Nien said.
“They just pass through,” Mier said.
“We stay,” Haern said. “Until we know their plan, we stay.”
“Stubborn mule,” Deathmask said, scattering ash over his face. “But again, that’s hardly a surprise.”
He and his guild separated, each of them eager to hunt for shadows and priests. Only Dieredon and Haern remained.
“The city reeks of fear,” Dieredon said. He gestured to the corpse. “This will only make it worse.”
“We keep the queen safe, and protect the city best we can,” Haern said. “But it’s been a week. Have you returned to their camp?”
The elf shook his head. “Not yet, but I shall. If they plan on marching against the walls, I want to be ready.”
“The night is still young,” Haern said. “Go now.”
Dieredon bowed, drew his bow, and raced down the street.
“We won’t lose this,” Haern said, staring down at the mutilated body of a young man. “Not so close to victory. We won’t lose. We can’t.”
He drew his sabers and leaped to the rooftops, searching for signs of another attack.
D ieredon crept across the hill, shifting his weight with every inch to leave no sign of his passing. His eyes narrowed at sight of the camp. The object in the center appeared closer to completion. It looked like a gigantic lion reared back on its hind legs with its mouth open in a roar. Priests surrounded it, either worshiping, praying, or casting spells; he couldn’t decide which. Hundreds of undead marched in a circle around the camp, a constant guard against attack.
Where are the paladins? he wondered. The past two times he’d seen several of them milling about, a pathetic remnant of their former numbers.
He heard a soft rustle of grass just behind him. Dieredon spun, grabbing his bow and swinging. Blades snapped out the ends. They smashed into the gray robes, cutting flesh but drawing no blood. Dieredon felt his heart skip a beat as a man with glowing red eyes pointed a finger at him.
“You should not interfere,” said the priest. A wave of black mist rolled from his body. Dieredon felt his mind blank, and the muscles in his body tensed and twisted.
“You can’t be,” Dieredon said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be another.”
“I am not the prophet,” the priest said, yanking the bow out of his leg. “I am not even worthy to travel at his side. My name is Melorak, a humble servant of our glorious god. What does this city matter to you, elf? They chased your kind away, slaughtered thousands as they burned your forests and poisoned your waters.”
“You hurt Sonowin,” Dieredon said, the muscles in his body returning to his control. “That’s more than enough.”
He rolled, avoiding a black arrow that shot from the man’s finger. Several more followed, but he flipped to his feet, spun, and leaped, his right heel smashing into Melorak’s face. Dieredon winced, feeling as if he kicked stone, but the priest staggered back, blood spurting from his nose.
“Be gone from here!” Melorak shouted. Waves of power rolled from his body, each one like a board of wood slamming into Dieredon. He hid his head and braced himself, enduring each blow. When they ended he uncurled, grabbing his bow and leaping backward.
“I’ve fought your better,” he said, drawing an arrow. “Compared to Velixar, you’re nothing.”
He released the arrow, its aim true. It should have pierced through Melorak’s right eye, but instead it halted in air an inch from his face.
“He may be my better,” Melorak said. “But I am far from nothing.”
Dieredon fired several more arrows, each one halting as if gripped by invisible hands. One by one they turned around, their glistening tips aimed straight at him. A wave of Melorak’s hand and the arrows resumed their travel. The elf twisted and fell, the arrows whizzing by his body, all but one, which tore through the flesh of his leg.
“How long have you been a champion for the elves?” Melorak asked as he twirled his hands, summoning a gigantic ball of flame at his feet. “How long have you represented the pinnacle of skill with blade and bow?”
Dieredon clutched his bleeding leg and glared.
“Always questions,” Dieredon said as the ball of flame grew. “Why does your kind have to ask so many damn questions?”
He somersaulted into the air as the ball rolled across the ground, spitting globs of fire in all directions. When he landed he collapsed, his injured leg unable to support his weight. He gritted his teeth, holding in a scream. A blast of red lightning from Melorak’s hand released it.
“I question because I am considered the liar,” Melorak said. “I question because I am seen as evil. But what are you, if you cannot answer? Certainly not good. Certainly not truth.”
Dieredon twirled his bow in his hands, tensed on his one good leg, and then lunged. Melorak cast a shielding spell, but the enchantments on his bow were strong, and the sharp spike on the end punched through the shield, through his upraised hand, and through the flesh of his throat. Dieredon kicked him in the chest, twisted his bow, and then yanked it free. Melorak collapsed to his knees, gagging and clutching his bleeding throat.
“Like I said,” Dieredon said, breathing heavily. “Nothing.”
Light flared around the priest’s hands. The flesh on his neck stitched together. The blood dried and flaked away. Melorak gasped in air as if emerging from deep within a pool of water.
“Nothing?” he said, his voice hoarse. The red in his eyes flared bright. “You fool. You blind, arrogant fool.”
He outstretched both hands, a swirling black and red vortex on his palms. Two beams of magic shot from them, slamming into Dieredon’s chest. He flew several feet from the impact before rolling down the hill like a rag doll. Melorak wiped blood from his nose and spat out a chunk of red phlegm.
“Leave my camp,” he said to Dieredon as the elf struggled to a stand. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave the city entirely. Return to your kind. I have no quarrel with you.”
Dieredon said noth
ing. He limped away, accepting his good fortune to still be alive. Melorak watched him go, a grim smile on his face. He had fought the best the city had to offer, and won. No longer did he hold any secret doubts. The siege was guaranteed. Soon, very soon, the city would be his.
T hat morning, Haern and Dieredon gathered atop the outer wall and watched Karak’s army approach. The undead led the way, hundreds of rotting corpses lumbering mindlessly in long rows. The tested followed, singing hymns with their skeletal hands raised skyward. Dark paladins followed next, their black armor shining. The priests were last, surrounding Melorak as if he were a king. In the center of the army rolled a gigantic lion carved atop a massive cart pushed by a combination of tested and undead.
“Will they assault?” a nearby soldier asked the two.
“No,” Dieredon said. “They’re too patient. Our army is marching across the nations. They have all the time in the world for a siege.”
A few hundred feet out of bow range they stopped and spread out. The undead circled the city, the majority of the army staying before the gates. They rolled the giant lion forward, and from its mouth clouds of black smoke billowed out.
“What is its purpose?” Haern wondered aloud.
Dieredon had no answer, and so they watched as it neared the outer ring of undead. The priests began chanting. The smoke poured out thicker and lower. Melorak joined in the chant. The smoke took on an unearthly quality, falling like water from the lion’s mouth and splitting into two rivers. These rivers surrounded the city, rolling up to the walls like waves at a shore. It stained the wall black wherever it touched.
“Completely surrounded,” Dieredon said as the undead began circling the city in a slow, lumbering ring. “And I fear what might happen should someone living touch that smoke.”
“How long can we last?” Haern asked. “How much food do we have?”
“A month or two,” Dieredon said. “I checked our storehouses. The army left and took everything with it.”
High above, the lion roared, well aware of how close its victory was.
19
“I swear,” Harruq said, stretching his arms behind his back and wincing as his muscles twitched painfully. “We were not meant to travel by air.”
“I find it rather comfortable,” Aurelia said, sitting next to him on the grass, a cozy fire before them. “It murders my hair, but the pace is swift, and the land beautiful.”
“Only reason you’re comfortable is because your angel’s got you held so tight he might as well marry you tomorrow,” the half-orc grumbled. “Me, on the other hand, I must smell since I’m hanging by my arms waiting for a really tall tree to say hello.”
“I weigh less,” Aurelia said, sticking her tongue out at him. “I can’t help if that has benefits.”
“The one truly benefiting is that angel,” Tarlak said as he joined them at their fire. “And let me say, I’d switch positions in a heartbeat.”
“With me or with my angel?” Aurelia asked, winking.
“Always wanted a tryst with a man with feathers,” Tarlak said.
“You both need help,” Harruq said, massaging his wrists. They had traveled for a week, carried by their arms or waists by the angels as they chased the demon soldiers. The day was nearing its end, and so they camped in a wide field beside a creek. The grass was short and thick, and to their aching muscles it felt like a luxurious royal carpet.
“Antonil’s troops are falling behind,” Harruq said, glancing west, where small tufts of smoke many miles away revealed their location. “But I think I’d prefer horseback and marching over this.”
As the sun set, one by one, fires filled the camp and the sharp sound of ringing steel grew in frequency and intensity. Harruq heard the sound and felt an itching in his fingertips. Many angels were sparring, trying to stay sharp amid the countless hours of tedious flight.
“Haern’s not here,” Tarlak said. “But perhaps you can spar with them.”
“Guess I could use a warm-up,” Harruq said as he stood. “After Haern, who here’s going to compare?”
He wandered deeper into the angels’ camp. He felt a little intimidated by their height, and the folded up wings against their backs only enhanced their difference. Strangely timid, he found a trio of angels taking turns sparring and quietly watched them. Their fighting style seemed strange, a jarring mix of brutal strength and careful, weaving feints. After several minutes, one of them saw him watching and nodded.
“Care for an attempt?” asked the loser of the last match. Another angel nearby laughed. Harruq drew his swords and twirled them in his hands. The others stepped away, giving him room to face his opponent, who wielded a large sword in both hands.
“I promise not to hurt you,” Harruq said, a grin on his face. The angel feinted a low slash, shifted his weight, and then swung for Harruq’s shoulder. The half-orc slapped it aside, stepped forward, and placed his other blade on the angel’s neck.
“Don’t patronize me,” Harruq said, his voice deepening into a growl.
The angel’s wide eyes, however, revealed how little he had held back.
“Mortals can’t move that fast,” he said.
“Then you haven’t fought enough mortals,” Harruq said, stepping back and falling into a defensive stance, both his swords at ready. “Again?”
The angel swung. Harruq blocked with both his blades, grunting at the strength of the impact. The angel stepped to the side and then thrust for Harruq’s chest. Instead it cut air, for Harruq spun, smacking aside the blade with his elbow as his own swords twirled above his head. When he finished the spin the angel’s sword was raised high, blocking Condemnation’s chop, but Salvation slipped underneath, its sharp tip jabbing against the top of the angel’s chest piece.
By now a crowd had formed, with a couple laughing and clapping when he scored the hit.
“Let me have a try,” an angel said, grabbing his mace and stepping forward. Harruq bowed, dodged his initial swing, and then smacked him twice in the back. Another competitor approached, wielding a gigantic sword. Again the fight lasted only seconds, with Harruq dancing around a few slow but powerful hits before slapping the angel’s face with Condemnation’s flat edge.
Harruq laughed, feeling adrenaline coursing through him. It felt good, engaged in honest combat with new opponents, though he was beginning to miss Haern. Strong as his opponents were, they relied entirely on that strength. He chuckled, realizing he probably felt like Haern in their early days after he and Aurelia had joined the Eschaton.
“I hear we have a true fighter in our midst,” shouted an angel above the rest. The crowd split, revealing Judarius and his enormous mace. He hefted it onto his shoulder and bowed with his free arm held against his chest. “Care for a duel, half-orc?”
“Been wanting some fun,” Harruq said, twirling his swords. “So let’s go.”
“Give it to him, Har!” Tarlak shouted from outside the ring of angels, having arrived with the crowd. “Just remember, it’s not your life on the line, just your pride. Oh, and your woman!”
Harruq shook his head as he tensed, already deciding who his next opponent would be. Judarius did not attack, instead watching and waiting for the half-orc to make a move.
“Patient, are we?” Harruq asked as the two circled.
“You excel in your reactions,” Judarius said. “You’re faster than you look, and you use that. But what if someone matches you in speed?”
The angel swung, the mace nothing but a blur. Harruq braced his legs and slammed both swords in the way, gasping for air as they connected. It felt like Judarius had swung a boulder at him. Grass tore as his feet slid across the ground. Before he could react the mace was coming in for a second hit. Harruq leaped back, not dumb enough to try another block, but Judarius was ready, lunging in with his elbow leading. Harruq ducked, slashed with Salvation to buy some separation, and then thrust both blades. Judarius’s mace twirled in his hands, batting them away.
Again their weapons cras
hed into each other, strength versus strength. Harruq grimaced, just barely able to hold back the enormous mace.
“You can’t out-react,” Judarius said. “Your best hope is a stalemate, but I am the stronger. You have no hope of winning.”
“Forgot one thing,” Harruq said as he pushed away the mace and slammed his swords together. “I can get really, really pissed.”
Harruq lunged, roaring like a wild animal released from a cage. Judarius parried the first couple strikes, but Harruq kept coming, his hands a blur. He pressed and pressed, unafraid of the giant mace, until he was close enough to drop Salvation and slam his fist into Judarius’s face. As the angel staggered, Harruq kicked out his legs, blocked a desperate swing with the mace, and then descended upon him, his knees on his throat and Condemnation stabbing into his arm.
This time there were no cheers or clapping. The angels stood stunned, their greatest fighter knocked low by a mere mortal. Harruq stood, sheathed Condemnation, and then offered a hand.
“We’re good at adapting,” Harruq said. “You need to remember that.”
Judarius accepted the hand, but his face was a somber glare as he brushed the dirt and grass from his armor. Blood trickled from his nose.
“I have much to practice, and much to learn,” Judarius said. “That should never happen again.”
He pushed his way through the angels, but before he could leave Ahaesarus was there, blocking his way.
“If we underestimate them, it is always our own failure,” Ahaesarus said. Judarius glanced back at Harruq, shook his head, and then continued on without saying a word.
“I’m sorry,” Harruq said as Ahaesarus approached and the rest of the angels dispersed. “Didn’t mean to upset him.”
“Just as we need to learn of you, you need to learn of us,” Ahaesarus said. “We are not perfect. We have pride and anger and doubt like we did when we served Ashhur on Dezrel. Judarius needed a bit of humbling.”
Ahaesarus led him back to Aurelia and Tarlak, who sat waiting by the fire.
“Now that was great,” Tarlak said, a giant grin on his face. “You did us human types proud.”
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