There were screams and echoes of horrid beasts, but Zollin saw no other creatures, and eventually he began to smell the animals in the pens at the bottom of the the circular room. The hint of hope that he might escape spurred him on until he reached the great, round room. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief until he realized that climbing the massive staircase would be the greatest challenge of his life.
Chapter 27
The escape from the brothel near the city walls wasn’t easy. Braynar had his best archers waiting for Lorik and Spector to flee from the burning building. Lorik was forced to carry a wooden table as a shield as they ran from building to building, but eventually the archers became less accurate, and finally they were out of bow shot range. The fires sent smoke into the air, which kept the archers from having a clear field of view. When Lorik and Spector finally turned and looked back at the city, it was well past midday.
“Let’s get some refreshments,” Lorik said.
Spector was silent. The wraith didn’t eat or drink since being turned into his ghostly form. He merely nodded at the suggestion. Lorik jogged back to where the Outcasts had set up a temporary camp. Only three of his soldiers remained, Toomis and two others. Lorik found Kora near the supplies, which were starting to run low.
“We’ll need more food by tomorrow,” she told him.
“We’ll have all the food in Ort City at our disposal tomorrow,” he said.
“You defeated the soldiers in impressive fashion, but they’ll be ready for you the next time. I still believe we could make a life for ourselves in the south. You could lead us. More of us would flock to your banner.”
“We do that and the northern kings will come with armies,” Lorik said. “You don’t want to fight, but sometimes you have to fight. If we make a stand here, we can send a message to the other kingdoms and save ourselves from fighting later.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked. “Do you really believe that the humans will ever stop hunting and killing our kind?”
“There is still so much we don’t know about your kind,” Lorik said. “But I do know that you are strong, resilient, and resourceful. You are Ortisians, and we will not be pushed out of our homeland by anyone.”
He gathered some food and saddled his horse. Toomis was waiting when he finished.
“We will fight with you,” he said.
“Good, I’ll need you when night falls,” Lorik said.
“To fight or to distract the enemy?”
“Both are necessary parts of battle. Why are you so eager to shed blood?”
“My family was killed or taken away by the witch’s monsters. I saw you fighting the Outcasts when they were marching north. I vowed I would fight whoever had taken my family, but now that enemy is gone, and I am all that’s left. I know I can help if I just had a chance.”
“Toomis, I have no doubt that you can fight. Anyone can fight, but not everyone can serve. Not every man can take orders, do his duty, and be depended on in the heat of battle. When I left Ort City, I brought you and the others because I wanted to see who had what it takes to be a great man, not just a warrior. You can be a great man, but you have to learn to hold steadfast to your duty no matter what happens. Tonight I am going to slaughter the Baskla soldiers in Ort City, but many will flee. Chaos will descend on Ort City like a terrible storm, and through it all I need you to stand with the Outcasts, to keep the torches lit and the threat of your coming real.”
“But I want to follow you in battle,” Toomis said.
“The time for that will come. But for now, rest. When night falls, you must keep the fires here burning. You must make sure that our presence is seen so that this Braynar drops his guard.”
“What if you are killed?” the young soldier asked.
“Then you will have to decide for yourself what you should do. But know this: I am proud of you. You have proven your loyalty and your strength. Now, prove your fortitude one last time, and we shall be victorious.”
The young man seemed downcast but he nodded. The other soldiers didn’t seem as eager to wage war as Toomis did. Lorik could see the admiration in their eyes. Like Toomis, they probably had nothing in the city to fight for, no family or friends that would miss them if they never returned. In Lorik they found someone to admire and follow. They found their sense of purpose in serving him and a brotherhood in arms, even if they hadn’t been tested in battle yet.
Lorik rode his horse back toward the city, then built a fire where everyone on the city walls could see him. The city gates stayed closed and locked, but Lorik saw people moving in the sprawl around the city. Some were fighting the fires that the soldiers from Baskla had started by shooting fire arrows at Lorik and Spector. Others were burying the dead who had been killed in the massive volleys of arrows the soldiers rained down on the innocent. But most were looting the homes and shops that had been abandoned when the warning bell was rung and people flocked into the city before the massive gates were closed and barred.
“You have a plan?” Spector asked, as he hovered near the fire, his ghostly body blending in with the smoke.
“Yes.”
“Does it involve me?”
“Could I keep you from the slaughter?”
“No,” the wraith said. “But you need not trouble yourself with battle. I will go in the night and slay this Braynar and his generals if need be.”
“We could do that and perhaps save many lives,” Lorik agreed, “but it would not send a message. We need to crush this invasion. That is what has happened—Ortis has been invaded by Baskla, and we must make certain that King Ricard never makes that mistake again.”
“Why do you care about this pathetic kingdom?” Spector said.
“I’ve always cared,” Lorik said. “Ruling here is my destiny.”
“So why did you wait so long? If you had taken the throne when the Witch’s War ended, Vera would still be alive.”
The wraith’s scream of anger and grief echoed across the hills. The sheer volume hurt Lorik’s ears, and the horrible sound made his blood run cold, but he felt that he deserved to be tormented. Spector was right. Lorik had resisted his destiny. He had feared that by declaring himself king he would incite a war, but his mercy had only cost him the life of his oldest friend. Vera had been a voice of reason, always testing his intentions and pushing back against his ambitions until he knew what he wanted and why he wanted it. He had hoped that by curbing his plan to be king, which was a role he had never sought out because he coveted power, but rather because he wanted to protect the people around him, would save lives. Instead it only allowed the sickness of Yettlebor’s insanity to take root. He was paying for that mistake now and he vowed not to make the same mistake ever again.
He ate the rations he had taken from the camp of Outcasts. He longed for wine or ale but settled for cold water. Snow continued to fall in slow, lazy puffs that made everything seem to move at a languid pace. He spent hours honing the Swords of Acromin with a whetstone. The long, slow rasp of the rock on steel was somehow comforting to him.
When night finally fell, Lorik got to his feet and led the horse back to the camp. He gave his orders and then set out for the city. He carried no light, and with the sky veiled in thick clouds, there was no chance of being seen from the city. His black armor and helmet made him almost invisible.
In the sprawl of communities that surrounded Ort City, smoke rose from chimneys, but windows were shuttered, and no one moved in the streets. The mud and waste was freezing solid, and Lorik’s boots made no sound as he slowly moved through the maze of buildings and hovels toward the city walls. Had Commander Braynar known what Lorik had planned, he could have lowered lanterns from the city walls in an effort to keep Lorik at bay, but while torches burned bright at the high parapets, the bottom of the wall was swallowed in darkness. And darkness was where Lorik felt most at home.
He made his way to the base of the city wall. The walls around Ort City were more than ten feet thick and made of q
uarried stone, so the outer wall was smooth and the gaps between the massive stone blocks were tiny. Scaling the wall simply wasn’t an option for most people, although Lorik guessed he could do it if he really tried, but he had a better idea in mind. Closing his eyes, he summoned the dark magic, harnessing it and using it the way he might hitch a shire horse to a wagon. Then he began to blow.
Lorik could feel the magic inside him, it was cold but powerful. He felt it swirling up from the secret places inside him and tumbling out of his mouth. The night was cold to begin with, but the stones began to change as Lorik blew on them. He could feel the stone freezing, even though he couldn’t see it. He blew and blew, letting his magical senses tell him how deep his spell was working. Eventually the wall was frozen all the way through, and Lorik stepped back. He could feel the unspoken questions that Spector had, but the wraith was content to wait and watch. Lorik raised his sword, feeling the dark magic once more giving him supernatural strength.
Slamming the blade into the frozen stone wall felt wrong somehow. In most circumstances Lorik would never risk damage to his sword by hitting it against stone, but he was letting the darkness inside him guide his actions. He felt all his anger and rage feeding his strength as he swung the blade. The entire frozen section of wall shattered, just as the soldier’s body had done when it toppled from the horse. The huge blocks of stone were reduced to tiny fragments that went flying into the city. Lorik and Spector raced through the hole, and the battle began.
Lorik had to engage the enemy in the streets where the archers on the walls wouldn’t have a clear shot at him, but with over seven hundred soldiers from Baskla in the city, finding enemies was not difficult. Spector rose up to the parapets without being prompted. Of the soldiers on guard duty along the city walls, fewer than half were archers. The foot soldiers rushed down, expecting an army to be flooding in through the breach in the wall, and the archers were straining to see who was attacking and where they might take a shot. Even though there were lights in many of the buildings, the streets of the city were still relatively gloomy. The light from the torches along the top of the wall didn’t shine down to ground level, and most of the archers had no idea what was happening below. Some looked down into the city, while others leaned over the parapet trying to see out into the darkness outside the walls. Most were unaware of Spector’s presence until it was too late.
The wraith glided along the top of the wall, slashing and stabbing with his terrible blades. The archers had no armor, and most didn’t carry anything more than a dagger to defend themselves with. But Spector’s most effective weapon was his appearance. He looked like the angel of death who was coming to collect their souls. Some of the archers were so terrified that they jumped off the wall, breaking bones in the process, just to escape Spector’s attack. A few tried to fire arrows at him, but their shaking hands and the wraith’s speed, combined with his spinning movements, made hitting their target virtually impossible.
In the streets below, Lorik moved toward the castle. Most of the soldiers who saw him were shocked. Knocking the hole in the wall had made a loud crashing sound, and even the soldiers who had been free to drink or carouse in the taverns and inns rushed outside to see what was happening. Those unfortunate enough to cross Lorik’s path were cut down. It wasn’t something he relished, and in most cases the soldiers hardly made an attempt to fight back. But mercy was no longer an option. He had to kill the soldiers who were occupying his city. He had to kill as many as he could, both to send a message to the other kingdoms and to keep them from getting organized against him. He was more powerful than any of the soldiers, or even small groups of soldiers, but he didn’t want to get trapped in an alley or confined space and have to battle the entire army from Baskla on his own.
Lorik refrained from killing the civilians who ran through the streets in panic. The darkness inside him reveled in the chaos all around him, but he was still in control. When the darkness called for him to strike down the innocent, he refrained, but he couldn’t help but notice the lack of assurance he saw in the faces of his own people. They looked at him almost as if he were a monster. He could understand the shock that many would feel at his audacity in attacking a well fortified city full of enemy soldiers, but there was no admiration for his valor or relief that he was freeing them from the hordes of invaders.
He guessed that if the occupying army had been Norsik raiders, his reception would have been received in a much different fashion, but while the darkness inside him flared furiously at his own peoples’ cowardice, he let the slight go. Lorik knew that once he had routed the enemy, they would thank him—at least he hoped they would. He remembered the way they had forsaken him when Yettlebor paraded him through the streets like a criminal, but Lorik did his best to push that memory away.
Around the outskirts of the city, small bands of resistance were forming, but Lorik was working his way toward the castle in the center of the city. The soldiers nearer to the walls didn’t concern him. Lorik could hear the screams of terror and agony as the archers on the walls died. Lorik could feel Spector’s exuberance as he slaughtered the enemy soldiers. It was almost as if he blamed every person he killed for Vera’s death. Killing seemed to be the only thing that dampened the terrifying wraith’s grief.
Lorik came running into the wide space that surrounded the castle almost unexpectedly. He was met by a volley of arrows being fired in his direction, forcing him to duck back around the corner while the arrows shot past him. Commander Braynar was fond of his archers. Lorik guessed he was the kind of commander who enjoyed sending other men into battle but refused to put himself in any kind of danger.
“I’m coming for you, Braynar!” Lorik shouted.
The reply was the battle cry of two dozen men, fully armed and ready for battle. They came running from the castle intent on stopping Lorik at any cost. He waited patiently for them in the narrow confines of the street where he had dodged the hail of arrows. The street was just wide enough for Lorik to touch either side with his swords extending in opposite directions. The soldiers came into the street three abreast, their numbers hampered by the close quarters. Lorik launched himself at the soldiers, who were taken by surprise when their numbers didn’t cause him to fall back in fear.
The warriors were armored with chainmail over quilted jerkins. Over their mail they wore plate armor that covered their bodies, and scalloped armor over their shoulders and upper arms. Long gauntlets covered their hands up to their elbows and each man wore a slitted helmet. Lorik’s first slash smashed against their armor but did no physical damage. He sensed the warriors’ fear turn to confidence. They thought they were invincible in their heavy armor, but they were also slow and clumsy.
Lorik raised the sword in his left hand, prompting the expected response from the soldiers as they prepared to fend off the attack. But Lorik kicked the nearest man hard in the side of his knee. The man’s leg buckled, and he fell to the ground, knocking the man to his right into the wall. The third man tried to swing his sword at Lorik, but the big warrior caught the soldier’s blade on his own, then slammed his second sword just under the edge of the soldier’s helmet. Blood poured down Lorik’s blade before he jerked it free and stepped back for the next wave of fighters who were struggling to step over or around their fallen comrades.
A powerful front kick sent one of the soldiers flying back and knocking down four more soldiers. Lorik moved fast, dodging one sword stroke and then stabbing hard with his own weapon under the man’s arm. The chainmail held Lorik’s sword back, but not before it cut a wicked gash in the tender flesh in the man’s armpit.
The soldiers were shouting, trying to push their way forward. One of the soldiers tripped and knocked the man nearest to Lorik down. They fell in a clanging heap. Lorik reached down and pulled off one man’s helmet, then smashed it down into the back of the soldier’s head. The chainmail stopped a sword blade, but it couldn’t protect the soldiers from the power of Lorik’s blows. A downward stab to the throat
of the other man on the ground ended with a fountain of blood and a gurgled scream.
Lorik fell back once again and sheathed his swords. A chunk of stone had fallen from a structure that was in disrepair. The stone was the size of a small melon and weighed nearly thirty pounds. Lorik snatched it up and hurled it at the approaching soldiers. It hit the nearest man hard in the chest, knocking him backward off his feet to slam into the man behind him.
With his magic, Lorik could sense the doubt and fear of the soldiers. Lorik was finding ways to kill them, and their numbers didn’t seem to equal certain victory the way they had thought it would. Some in the back of the group stopped their advance, looking uncertain. Lorik ripped a beam of wood from the side of the crumbling structure beside him and rushed back toward the soldiers. He wielded the wood like a club, swinging with powerful strokes from side to side. The soldiers tried to block his attacks, but they were too slow, and Lorik was too powerful. The armor only protected them so much from the violent blows, and most were knocked senseless before the wooden club broke. By that time six of the soldiers had fled back toward the castle.
Lorik didn’t wait; he sprinted out of the side street and raced after the retreating soldiers. He ducked low as he ran, staying close to the armored soldiers, who provided a moving shield from the archers. At first their were no arrows, and Lorik felt a surge of anger from inside the castle. They were halfway to the castle, and Lorik was lamenting the slow gait of the heavily armored soldiers, when arrows were shot at the men in front of Lorik. Screams of rage from the soldiers were echoed by the sounds of arrows smashing into their armor.
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