by Ben Hale
Then he looked down and saw that his own body was like that of a normal man. He was no longer overweight. Trim and muscular, he now carried the build of a warrior. But to gain what Wall had desired most, his brother's life had been the price.
Because Wall had failed to pay it.
“I’m sorry Derek,” Wall whispered as he wept.
“I am so sorry . . .”
***
Transfixed, Braon watched the figure of Famine crumple to the ground, slain by the heroic human. Even in the magic of the map, he could see the despair of the second human as he cradled the body of his friend. Swallowing, he looked away, blinking as he felt the wetness in his eyes. When he looked back, both the form of Famine and the human slayer had gone dark, indicating their deaths.
Opposite emotions swirled through him as he listened to the relieved cheers of those in the room and the report of victory. The slaying of another of Draeken’s generals marked a clear note of triumph in their defenses, yet his heart still hung heavy at what he had witnessed.
How high will the cost be? He found himself asking, wondering, if they somehow managed to survive, would they ever be the same? Glancing at the enchanted ceiling, he saw that it was just past noon on the fifth day of their battle. Only two and a half days before it ends, he thought as a shiver ran down his spine.
One way or the other.
Shaking his head, he re-focused his attention on the battle and took the chance to assess their situation. The Deep desperately needed reinforcements, and he decided to send the balance of the druids, and several of the giants to help. The giants could provide some strength on the front line, and the druids could reinforce both the cavalry and the ranged lines. He swept the map to the side while reviewing the different shifts in his head. Finally satisfied, he ordered Thacker to send the appropriate forces to The Deep, and moved on to the next problem.
Time and again, he resolved problems and closed breaches, still struggling to work around the areas of the map that had gone dark. Shortly after noon, the battle lulled, allowing him to place Newhawk in charge while he caught a few hours of much needed rest.
Collapsing onto the cot next to the map room, he instantly fell asleep. Brynn, daughter of Thacker, appeared first in his dreams, only to die moments later as Braon looked in the wrong direction. Then he saw her brothers and sister perish as well, because he was not paying attention. Everyone died, because he always looked the wrong way.
Last, they came for him, and the fiends snarled in the darkness as they hunted him. He looked skyward at the last rays of daylight, disappearing under the onslaught of the endless night. It was the seventh day, and they had lost. Then he felt them clawing into his shoulder and he screamed. . .
Jerking awake, he nearly smashed his head into Newhawk. The scream died on his lips even as the druid’s worried expression came into focus.
“I am sorry to wake you, Braon, but we have a problem,” he said, his hand still gripping Braon’s shoulder.
Braon nodded, alert despite a gnawing headache, and he hurried to follow his second in command to the map. Other soldiers and guards huddled close to the center of the map, talking in hushed tones as he approached, and hey separated to make room for him. The few things he overheard only magnified his sense of foreboding.
“Any idea what that thing is?”
“ . . . not like any of the others.”
“. . . did you see it shrug off the magic? I don’t think it even affected it!”
Then the map came into view, and Braon saw the lower sections of Azertorn magnified as far as possible. The fluid sliver showed the elves firing arrows and magic at a solitary hulking figure standing in front of the main gates to the city.
At first glance he appeared to be similar to the kraka captains, but upon closer inspection Braon saw that whereas the fiend captains wore bone armor, this creature was covered head to toe in dark glimmering armor. Towering at twelve feet, its helmet swiveled from side to side as it examined the main gate, oblivious to the rain of arrows and magic bouncing off of him.
Braon could not suppress the shudder when he realized who stood at their gates.
“Thacker, tell them to stop wasting their arrows and magic, and pull anyone back from the gates. Get them ready for battle,” he breathed, fear mounting in his chest.
“But how are they going to get through—”
“Just do it!” Braon said, and the intensity in his voice caused several around him to flinch.
Newhawk caught his eye. “Who is it?” he asked. “Who is at the gates?”
Braon couldn’t take his gaze off the massive armored fiend. “It’s War, general of Draeken’s army.”
Gasps and murmurs erupted from those in earshot of his exclamation, but Braon stood, waiting for what he knew was about to happen. He didn’t have to wait long.
A moment later War reached to his back and drew the biggest weapon that Braon had ever seen. At well over seven feet in length, and almost two hands wide, it took his breath away, even masked somewhat by the magic of the map. Braon didn’t doubt that in person the blade would cause any man to freeze in terror.
War stepped close to the doors, already crushed by thousands of blows. In a blur of strikes and slashes, he attacked the gates. Wood splintered and shattered, stone cracked and broke off, and when the dust settled, the doors boasted a ragged hole, revealing the stone pillar that was the elves greatest defensive secret.
Collectively the watchers in the map room sucked in their breath, but War didn't move. Then his helmet tilted upwards and looked directly at them . . .
He knows where I am! Braon thought, fear lancing through him as his anonymity was stripped bare, leaving him with the cold realization that War knew who he was fighting against—and that he was just a boy.
War seemed to laugh as he sheathed his fearsome weapon. Then his fists struck the broken gates with such force that the ground rumbled even in the map room, and the stone cracked around the gates—including the secret entrances on either side of the dark general.
War turned and strode away as his army of fiends, hungry for blood, rushed in once more. In seconds the hidden entrances to Azertorn were no more than pebbles, and black forms flooded into the city.
Azertorn had been breached.
Chapter 20: The Gates of Azertorn
Deiran darted through throngs of wounded elves in the packed corridor, bellowing for his troops to allow him through. Shouldering through another knot of soldiers carrying bundles of arrows, he turned and raced down the ramp that led to the first hall of the elves at the base of Azertorn.
This cannot be! His mind screamed as he sprinted under multiple portcullises and several anchored strongdoors.
All around him the tunnels stank of sweat and blood, and were so crowded with elven soldiers that it made swift movement difficult. Some of the elves were returning from their shift. Wounded and haggard, they moved slowest as they worked their way to their bunks. Others hurried to replenish stores of arrows to the archers, or to replace broken spears and damaged swords. Last, soldiers pushed their way in the same direction he did, summoned by him to aid in the new battle echoing below.
Threading through another mass of soldiers he reached the bottom level of the city and turned towards the main gates. Passing more and more gates and choke points, he barreled his way into the First Great Hall. The sounds of furious battle pummeled his ears as he slid past soldiers, weapons, and training circles on his way to the front.
Before the war, the First Great Hall had housed and trained the first legion of his army, the finest regiment of battle trained elves in their kingdom. Shaped like an oval, the great cavern was broken by an enormous pillar reaching over a hundred feet to the ceiling. Like a natural turret, The First Pillar was the command post for the First Legion.
Arcing out from both sides of The First Pillar, a forty foot wall angled towards the back of the cliff until it fused into the solid rock. Hundreds of elves massed on the top of it, fightin
g for their lives as fiends flooded through the broken gates of Azertorn. Exhausted soldiers were pulled from the wall to their deaths, or torn apart when a fiend managed to get to the top.
Deiran’s jaw tightened as he saw the slaughter, and he forced himself to pick up the pace. Finally he reached the First Pillar and pushed his way inside. Spanning the gap, a massive steel portcullis was the only route from the city gates. At two hands in depth, the square bars of the barricade had always seemed like overkill to him, but now their tremendous strength was the only thing keeping the horde of black fiends at bay.
Siper dogs howled and clawed at the lowest rungs, quare beat against it with their bare hands—but the krakas were the ones doing the damage. Overcome with rage, the fiend captains threw themselves at the steel wall, heedless of the long spears being poked through at them. The wooden shafts snapped and elves were knocked sprawling as each kraka collided with the barrier.
The resulting clang reverberated throughout the chamber until it mingled with the cries of agony and the clash of weapons. Deiran pulled up short, flinching as he saw his slain elves.
Then Deiran saw it, and his stomach shrank inside him, freezing with the utter terror of disbelief . . .
Some of the bars were starting to bend.
“General!” someone shouted beside him, and he turned automatically to see one of his captains, wild eyed and bloody. “We cannot hold them!”
Another echo shattered through the First Pillar, and Deiran whirled to see another kraka stepping back, its bone armor cracked, but it lunged against the bars again.
“General!” a high pitched voice screamed in fear. The voice was young and human, and suddenly Deiran remembered Daq. Spinning on his heel, he saw the small boy racing towards him, his short legs struggling to catch up.
The sight of the telepathic child galvanized Deiran into action, and he looked at his captain. “Can you hold the wall?!”
The elf hesitated, and then nodded, “For an hour at least, but this gate will not hold!” He swept his hand in the direction of the portcullis, still ringing from the last blow.
“Bring me every water mage you can find, now!” He barked.
Daq appeared by his side then, huffing with exhaustion, his face white with fear. “General I—”
“Not now Daq!” Deiran yelled, and grabbed a passing lieutenant. “Get Captain Lokan and get him here now!”
He let go of him and reached for a light mage that had just raced by. Snatching his cloak, he spun him and pointed at the gate. “Buy us some time! Get as much light on them as possible! It’ll make it harder for them to do as much damage! By Skorn, blind them if you can!”
The elf sputtered, shrinking back into his robe, “But I am just a second level—”
“Just do it!” General Deiran bellowed into his face, causing him to flinch and nod.
***
Garol, second level mage of the guild of light, turned away from the general, barely hearing him continue to issue orders to anyone nearby. He looked at the gate, shaking and trembling from each concussion by the enormous fiends. Swallowing, he readied himself for what he had been asked to do.
Even at a young age, he could do two of the three parts to magic with an ease that astonished many master magi. His sight was accurate and perceptive, allowing him to see and use light magic in all but the darkest of the rooms. His Force, the second point on the triangle of magic, was also very strong, giving him the ability to focus energy into tighter and tighter lines, magnifying them into more powerful spells. But Control, the skill to direct his magic, had always been his weakness.
That was the reason he had been held back as a second-level mage, and the reason he had been stationed underground instead of helping light the night on the surface.
He shook his head, trying to ignore the snarling and roaring of the fiends less than twenty paces in front of him. Concentrating, he fought to focus on the light in the Pillar and the Great Hall. His eyes slipped into the sight, and he saw the waves of energy that formed light. Praying that it would work, he began tightening and bonding the beams of light together, weaving and angling them together until almost all of them pointed through the gaps in the portcullis.
He hoped this worked . . .
***
Deiran turned as the area began to darken, and he caught sight of the light mage, gathering the light from every available source. Shielding his eyes like everyone else, he felt, rather than saw, the light intensify more and more until he felt it burning through his eyelids.
Without warning the light exploded, detonating with such force that it knocked elves and fiends alike to the ground—but the elves had been shielding their eyes. Deiran rose to his feet and blinked until the spots cleared. Flickering light illuminated the lowest level of the First Pillar, and Deiran’s eyes sought the iron wall.
The fiends had risen to their feet, but were attacking anything and everything in reckless abandon. Apparently they were all blinded, and without being able to distinguish friend from foe, they attacked anything nearby.
Deiran fought down an insane desire to laugh, and instead worked his way to the elven mage. Reaching him, he rolled him onto his back and breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes fluttered.
“I am sorry,” he mumbled, “I have never been good at Control.”
Despite himself, Deiran grinned. “This time, your Force and Sight made up for it.”
The elf smiled weakly and staggered to his feet before continuing on whatever errand he had been on. Deiran snorted as he watched him go, and finally turned to Daq, who had been tugging on his shirt for the last several minutes.
“What is it Daq?” Deiran asked.
“Braon is sending you some dwarven mages to help strengthen the wall,” he said in a small voice. “He said to tell you to hold the First Hall until tonight—if you can.”
Deiran nodded, remembering one of the conversations that he'd shared with Braon before the war. Braon had told him that if the city was breached before the middle of day six, the gathered races would not survive. Deiran’s reply had been a firm belief that his army could hold the First Great Hall indefinitely.
Time to put my faith to the test, he thought grimly, and turned to the small group of water magi that had collected next to him.
Addressing the one wearing a master’s knot, he said, “My troops can hold the wall for a while longer, but the portcullis won’t last that long.” He pointed to the ominously bent bars. “I need you six to keep them from breaking through.”
The master looked dubious. “How do you suppose we are going to do that?”
Deiran pointed to the four channels of water that drifted through the cavern, providing for the needs of the army. “There is your source of power, use it. All four of the streams channel through here and out through underwater holes in the cliff. You can even pull in water for all I care. Just get enough water going through the gaps in the gate to keep them from breaking it. Can you do it?”
The master glanced between the gate, his journeymen, and the water channels. “We will try."
Deiran nodded, “Then do it. Send a runner to find me if it looks like they are going to breach it.” He looked at the fiends still fighting each other, and the ones pouring in behind them. Soon the blind would be dead, and the attack would begin anew. “Whatever you are going to do, do it quickly,” he said.
Leaving the mages to their work, he caught sight of Captain Lokan, captain of the First Legion. Striding towards him, he said to Daq. “Inform Commander Braon that the first push has been repelled, and we should be able to hold until tonight, but I doubt much longer than that. I am also coordinating a withdrawal into the Second Great Hall. And remind him—
***
Braon sighed and relaxed his shoulders, realizing that he had been tensing them, again.
“I can’t believe General Deiran stopped them,” Thacker said from behind him, unknowingly echoing his own thoughts.
“He said he could do it. I just hope
he can hold it for another two days. He’s already lost a lot of his troops.”
Throughout the rest of the day, he kept a close eye on the bottom of Azertorn, and Thacker was hard pressed to funnel all the necessary information to him. The telepath had already fallen asleep twice in the last hour during momentary lulls in communication.
Braon wished he could give him more sleep, but it was impossible. Too much depended on him. Just today, Braon had seen and stopped over three score potential breaks, and without Thacker, it would have been for naught. Glancing at him, asleep again with his head tipped forward, he didn’t have the heart to wake him.
But a few minutes later, Thacker snapped awake so fast that he nearly fell from his chair. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, the fisherman said, “Deiran reports that they are pulling back from the attack.”
Braon’s breath caught and he swirled the map away from the Lake Road, grateful for the rock trolls reinforcement of the crippled Lake Road. Reaching Azertorn he moved the map subterranean until he once again looked at the First Great Hall. Fighting the familiar sense of foreboding, he stopped the map and watched the fiends pouring back out of the ruined level of the city.
“Did they manage to break through the First Pillar?” he asked Thacker.
“Just a few minutes ago,” the telepath replied in a tight voice.
Braon’s eyes closed, his mind whirring, but no solution came to mind. Famine had been slain, leaving only War, and Plague—if he was still alive. Plague had almost single handedly destroyed the Lake Road on the first day. War had breached the city gates in seconds. Braon had studied every scrap of parchment he could get his hands on that mentioned Draeken’s remaining generals—but nothing had so much as mentioned a way to even hurt either one of them. He’d anticipated one of them attacking the Lake Road, and he’d gotten lucky in The Deep with the overweight soldiers. Now? He could only hope and pray.