“It’s the damn men from the Craghills,” said Gregor. “They’d sheathe their swords in their asses if I let them.”
Olrim sighed. Of course, Gregor had been born on the opposite side of Mordan from the Craghills. He’d heard plenty of opinions from both geographic areas while listening to confessions prior to the war. It seemed war did not unite like he had hoped, only invited more reasons to use the excuses.
“I don’t care,” Olrim said. “Get them marching. We’re almost to the Corinth. Once we cross the river, we’ll set up camp while the rest of the wagons catch up. From there we’ll scorch the earth on the way to Angkar, and pillage whatever food we need until we reach the ocean. Then we’ll see if Bram is willing to talk peace, or if we must starve him out of his castle.”
“Of course,” said Gregor. “Ker has rarely rebelled against us, and never have they survived a siege by the Mordan army. There is little to fear in their military might. Only their angels might give us pause, damned winged men. No place on a battlefield for the likes of them.”
“Give the order to march,” Olrim said. “If there are winged men to fight, you let me worry about dealing with them.”
In their second hour of march, they saw the first angel scout. The angel hovered high above, his golden armor glittering in the morning light. There was little doubt that he came from the crossing.
“Keep the men tight together,” Olrim told Gregor. “I don’t want anyone vulnerable to an ambush. With their wings, they might strike from anywhere.”
“Of course, sir,” said Gregor.
By the third hour, Bloodbrick Crossing was in view, its surface covered with fortifications and soldiers. All along the opposite bank stretched several thousand men. Into the air went battalions of angels, flying in steady circle formations that greatly exaggerated their numbers. Olrim joined his priests, seeking their opinions.
“Save our spells for Ashhur’s warriors,” said one of the elders. “They are our only true threat. We set a trap for them, yes. A trap they will never expect.”
“We cannot delay,” said another. “If Antonil is with them, he might foster rebellion in our own troops. Our generals might turn to this former king in hopes he will be a weaker ruler than Melorak.”
“And what of our paladins?” Olrim asked.
“Wait until the first great bloodshed has ended,” said the elder. “Then send in our paladins to lead the way.”
The wisdom seemed sound, and the others agreed. Olrim returned to the front and ordered them on. They marched with one eye to the sky, always wary of a surprise attack by the angels. No attack came. They reached the crossing without incident. Only five hundred yards away, they stopped and set up camp.
“I’ve got the other generals preparing their groups,” Gregor said. “If we pelt the bridge with arrows, we can charge while they clear away the dead. Then our archers can rain upon their reinforcements. Once we push through to the other side, nothing can stop us but those angels.”
“We outnumber them fivefold,” said Olrim. “Why should we bottle ourselves up on the bridge?”
Gregor harrumphed as if he were asked a question by a child.
“The bridge might be rough going, but it is still an even fight. What else might you suggest, wading across the water? Nonsense. They can kill us no faster than we can kill them on the bridge, but the river is a different game, priest. Wet and helpless, they’ll cut us down by the hundreds as we try to emerge on the other side.”
“They don’t have anywhere near enough to guard both sides,” Olrim said. “How long can they hold the bridge? Two days? Three? The angels only complicate things further. We must win, and now.”
“Why this mad rush?” asked Gregor. “Why sacrifice certain victory days from now for a costly risk today? This is foolishness.”
Olrim dared not mention Antonil’s name. Melorak had spread word to the land that Antonil had perished. For him to return…where might Gregor’s loyalties lie? What of the other generals who served under him, or the other nobles fighting with him?
“This army is under my command,” Olrim said. He pointed to the crossing. “Send in our men. When there is no room at the bridge, send the rest into the water. Let them see the full might of Karak.”
“As you wish,” Gregor said, slapping an arm against his chest and bowing. Olrim felt the disrespect dripping off him, but he let it slide. Melorak trusted him with victory, and victory is what he would bring. With such a massive assault, there was no way the angels could tip the scales in their favor. They would be too few, and with him and his priests assaulting their every move with spells, they would accomplish little.
Feeling the excitement building in his chest, he smiled and laughed. Let it all out, he thought. The battle approached. Ker would fall to the Lion, and he would be the one to reap the honor and spoils.
They’d been given the basics of King Henley’s plan, but Ahaesarus had an inkling that the king kept something hidden from him. He hovered just above the bridge as the rest of the angels flew in their circular formations. Mordan’s army prepared so close, and he watched the great mass of soldiers sharpen their swords, polish their shields, and ready their bows.
“So many,” Judarius said, hovering beside him.
Ahaesarus nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel fear, not for death. He’d seen the other side, had felt the light of the Golden Eternity on his skin. But for the humans? For those slowly dying in Karak’s fist? He feared for them. He knew the price they’d pay for a loss at the crossing. Thulos had conquered a thousand stars. If he escaped from this one, he’d continue on with his destruction. It needed to end. If Ashhur was kind, he would be the one to end it.
“They wish us to ensure they hold the bridge,” Judarius said. “What a waste. Without open spaces, our skills are limited. Why not crash into the rear of our enemy’s formations? Or the priests, why not kill them?”
“They’ve proven resourceful and clever when it comes to warfare, Judarius, more so than us. We are not perfect.”
“Neither are they.”
Ahaesarus stretched his wings, falling a short distance as he did. A single powerful thrust and he shot back up to Judarius.
“If we cannot trust them, how can we expect them to govern themselves, protect one another, and live the life Ashhur desires them to live?” he asked.
Judarius shrugged. “Forget it, then. We will follow their orders, though I wonder how we became their servants instead of the other way around.”
He flew over to join in the formations of flying, and Ahaesarus let him go without saying a word. He understood his frustrations, even if he did not approve. Judarius was the strongest and most skilled angel when it came to warfare. To have him obey the orders of men he could defeat without effort, and who had not once set foot in Ashhur’s presence, surely burned. It was no secret he had been terribly upset by his repeated defeats by the half-orc warrior, either.
“Not perfect,” Ahaesarus said as he drew his sword. “Such a terrible lesson to learn.”
He thought the priest-king’s army might send someone forth to negotiate, but as the front lines tightened, and the soldiers funneled toward the crossing, it seemed they were too eager for war.
“Banner carriers!” he shouted. Three angels flew beside him, each holding a colored banner to issue instructions to the rest of the angels.
With them ready, he waited and watched the fight begin from his vantage point in the sky. Footmen charged the foremost barrier near the edge of the bridge, using their shields to protect them from the swords that lashed out above the barricade. Bram’s defenders fought well, and they held their ground in the bloody chaos that erupted. The few who fell were immediately replaced, their bodies shoved into the water.
Ahaesarus frowned as he watched a twin blast of fireballs leap from their side of the river toward Karak’s forces. The work of Aurelia and the yellow wizard, Tarlak, he was certain. But instead of erupting in a great devastation of fire, the spells sizzl
ed and puffed, their power gone. The angel looked further back, to the line of priests behind the approaching soldiers. They held their arms high and wailed prayers at the top of their lungs. No doubt they’d cast protections of some sort. If the priests countered their magical assault, one of their few advantages was gone.
“Ready Judarius’s squad,” he told his banner carriers. Two of the three raised their banners high and waved them side to side. One of the larger groups pulled free from the formations and like a river of gold and flesh dived for Ahaesarus.
“The priests!” Ahaesarus shouted as they neared. He pointed to the line, protected by dark paladins. “Take them out, or distract them until our casters go unchecked.”
Judarius saluted, an enormous grin on his face. Into the most dangerous part of battle he was being sent, and against the original plans of the humans. No doubt for him, this had been the best outcome possible.
“For Ashhur!” Judarius shouted, lifting his two-handed mace high and then leading his hundred into the fray. They looped once and then dropped, swooping with near reckless speed. Ahaesarus crossed his arms and waited, a strange worry stirring in his gut. The priests were in the open, unguarded. He saw dark paladins nearby, yet they did not protect their most valuable leaders. Something was wrong, but what? Why did they not cast a spell as Judarius approached?
And then the angels hit. They shredded the robes and tore through the priests…who were not priests at all, but illusions of dust that scattered at the mere touch of their weapons. The angels started to bank into the air, but they were still low to the ground, and now in the open. From within the ranks of the footmen, men in plain clothes stepped out, their hands outstretched. The worry in Ahaesarus’s gut turned to full blown horror.
A barrage of shadow flew toward them, compacted into bolts that seeped into their skin and sent their muscles into wild spasms. As they tried to bank around, the ground cracked, and fire erupted from the deep chasms of the world. The first few barreled straight through, and the screaming bodies that emerged on the other side were terrible to behold. The rest streaked higher and higher. One by one angels fell, their wings withering to dust. By the time they reached safety beyond the river, the soldiers of Karak were cheering. Of the initial five-hundred, only four-hundred returned.
“Where is Judarius?” Ahaesarus asked as they rejoined the ranks.
“I am here,” said Judarius, curling in his wings and dropping down so they could speak face to face. Ahaesarus put his hand on the warrior’s shoulder, then let him go.
“Such cowardice!” Judarius snarled.
“They are clever, devious, and vicious,” Ahaesarus said. “Catch your breath, and combine with Ataroth’s angels. Go swiftly. We are still needed!”
The proud warrior accepted the orders, then flew away. Ahaesarus turned his attention back to the battle. During the brief skirmish between the angels and priests, it seemed Aurelia and Tarlak had managed to score a few good hits. Fire burned along the far riverside, and amid their forces he saw a gap, and in its center was a great boulder of ice. Their latest attacks fizzled and dissipated, however, the priests’ protections once more established.
Meanwhile the fighting intensified against the first barrier. The footmen had to climb atop their own dead, but the height was enough so they could stab over the wall, and several leapt across, knocking down men and pushing aside a small space that others could follow. The defenders always surrounded and slaughtered them, but each time it took them longer, and each time more made it over. If they were to hold instead of retreating to the second wall, they would need reinforcements soon.
“I want Ataroth’s assault to be against the…” he started to tell his banner carriers, then stopped. A collective roar swept across the river, and then en masse the entire army surged forward, splitting into two groups, one on either side of the bridge. When they reached the river they never even slowed.
“Milord, your orders?” asked the banner angel to his left.
“Wait,” he said. “We watch and wait. If either side, or the crossing itself, falls then all is lost. Find where we are the weakest, then descend. Make sure they are ready!”
Feeling every muscle in his body tighten, he watched the soldiers wade across the river. To make matters worse, the footmen attacking the bridge pulled back, and onward came twenty paladins of Karak, their blades burning with dark fire as they held them high.
“With me!” he cried, seeing the turn of events. “Ataroth, watch for a break in the lines. Terah, Solom, with me!”
He curled his wings in and dived, trusting them to follow. The priests were ready for the attack, for a barrage of over thirty bolts of shadow crackled through the air toward them. Ahaesarus spun, narrowly avoiding them. From the screams of pain behind him, he knew many were not so lucky. The paladins also saw their approach, and they braced themselves for the crash. Ahaesarus let his sword lead the way, and then with a horrific screech of metal, they collided.
The black fire burned his flesh, and he felt pain spike up and down his wings. He swung his sword in circles, hacking and cutting. More and more angels slammed in beside him, some even rolling through the lines with their wings curled against their bodies. Such valiant sacrifices…Ahaesarus blocked a chop of an ax, stepped closer, and then rammed an elbow into the face of the paladin. Down came his sword, finishing him off. An arrow of fire struck the blade as he pulled it back, and he looked up to see the priests approaching. Fire and shadow flew in waves, and the angels had no protection against it.
“Retreat!” he cried, taking to wing. He felt a blast of fire roll across his arm, only for an instant before he was soaring through the air, but long enough. He gritted his teeth to hold in a scream as he flew to the river. A glance back showed Terah’s group had endured the worst of the assault, losing ten men under the attack. The dark paladins were destroyed, however, which meant the bridge still had a chance.
He flapped higher, then risked a glance at his arm. Patches of his skin were black, and pieces of his armor had melted against his flesh. Come nightfall, the pain would be immense trying to remove it. Assuming they were still alive by nightfall. Fearing the worst, he looked to the river, but was stunned by what he saw. Hundreds of bodies floated in the water. The enemy soldiers attempting to cross clearly struggled against something, and as he watched he saw many drown, pushed underwater by the men behind them. Those defending the river, while lightly armored, proved more than a match. They wielded long spears and thrust them into the water, stabbing Karak’s soldiers long before they might reach the edge.
Ataroth was yet to join a side, so Ahaesarus flew to him in his position high above the bridge.
“Might they hold?” he asked.
“The humans put traps in the water,” said Ataroth. He pointed to the bank. “They’re too slow wading in their armor. The spearman are finding them easy prey. Already the rest retreat. Such poor tactics were a gamble, and we have made them pay dearly.”
“How many?”
“At least two thousand,” said the angel. “Perhaps more. We choke the river with the dead.”
Ahaesarus looked to the camp stretching for hundreds of yards on the other side of the river.
“Not enough,” he said. “They’ll push back to the bridge and forsake the water. With all their might pressing forward, we will find…Archers! Get back!”
They retreated as arrows sailed into the air, traveling much farther than he ever could have expected. Several angels fell, while others dripped blood atop the bridge’s combatants as they flew to safety. Over a thousand archers readied for another barrage, safely surrounded by footmen and guarded by the priests of Karak as they chanted and worshipped their dark god.
“Shields up!” came the cry from the men on the bridge. Arrows rained down upon them, and the noise was terrible to hear. Shouts of pain and anger followed. The army pushed into the bridge, emboldened by the archers’ success. Another rain came down, and the beams of magic that shot toward the arc
hers hit a spherical shield and splashed against it, unable to penetrate. More thuds, more wood and steel hitting shields, and more cries of death and blood.
“They can’t hold against that,” said Judarius, joining Ahaesarus to watch. “We have to take out those archers!”
“The priests guard them,” he said. “And they have footmen around them in a wall. The moment we charge, those arrows will turn on us, not them.”
“But why else are we here?” asked Judarius. “We do what they cannot. We bleed so they might live. Hundreds of us will die. So be it. What chance do they have if the archers go unchecked?”
He watched as another volley fell upon the men on the bridge. What choice did they have?
“Get ready to give the order,” he said.
Banners lifted and spun. As the angels gathered, another volley descended upon the shields of the men. Footmen climbed over their own dead to cross the first barrier. Trumpets called below, and then the defenders abandoned the first wall. The attackers did not chase immediately, instead waiting for one more volley to land. Ahaesarus winced, but the expected slaughter did not happen. Instead the arrows bounced back as if hitting a clear wall of glass.
“Delay the order,” Ahaesarus said.
“Why?” asked Judarius. In answer, he pointed to where Aurelia and Tarlak stood side by side, their hands glowing a soft white.
“They’ve begun to protect against the arrows instead of wasting their energies attacking.”
“Then what of the priests? Might they begin their own attack?”
Ahaesarus crossed his arms, and his body rose and fell as he thought.
“They’ll test the defenses and watch us, and we’ll do the same. They suffered greatly because of their haste crossing the river. Let us see if they try such a gamble again.”
With his excellent eyes, he watched the fight on the bridge. It seemed Karak’s soldiers were struggling worse against the second wall than the first. Then he saw the half-orc in the thick of things, and he understood why. Harruq raged like a beast, his swords red blurs as they tore through armor and flesh. He’d seen him spar his angels, but never in full fury. He glanced at his own two-handed sword and wondered how he’d fare in straight combat against that berserk. Not well, he thought.
A Sliver of Redemption (Half-Orcs Book 5) Page 25