by Pedro Urvi
With dawn came the dreaded attack. To the south the Nocean legions were advancing towards the wall, while the siege weapons launched massive granite missiles which battered parapets, battlements and the spirits of the brave defenders. To the northeast the Norghanian hosts were advancing once again, with the two colossal siege towers being pushed toward the great wall by hundreds of men. Two huge battering-rams were heading towards the reinforced gate of the Rogdonian capital. Thousands of enemies surrounded the city, and that morning they intended to take it whatever the cost.
“Archers! Let fly!” Gerart shouted, facing the red and white sea of the immense Norghanian host.
He was in the middle of the wall, commanding his men in what he knew would be a desperate defense. But he would not let discouragement weaken his resolve. He would fight to the death, as would his men, each and every one of them.
“Send them back to the tundra they come from!” he cried, and his men launched thousands of arrows against the enemy lines.
Shields and armor repelled the rain of arrows with varying success.
“Volley! Bring them down!” Gerart cried, and his archers caused death to rain on the sea of enemies advancing in close formation. But nothing would stop them. The siege ladders and the hooked ropes filled the length of the wall in the blink of an eye.
“Men of Rogdon! Push them back!” Gerart roared. The fierce Norghanians reached the battlements amid chilling war cries. The Rogdonian soldiers fought them back with all their courage and spirit.
The tide broke against the great wall.
“Death to the enemy! Have no mercy! Gerart cried as he delivered strokes left and right. Without Haradin they would not be able to keep the wall, but he could not let himself be beaten. No, he would fight till he was hacked to pieces by the enemy axes. The cries engulfed the wall in chaos. The fighting turned as brutal as it was desperate. The Rogdonians fought with the fervor of desperation to defend their own, while the assailants fought with the greed for victory gleaming in their lustful eyes.
They fought for hours, pushing back the constant waves of the Norghanian tide. Gerart, his armor covered in enemy blood, gazed along the wall and was able to confirm despairingly how few of his men were still alive. And then he saw the two colossal siege towers arriving beneath the wall. Despair almost overmastered him, but he recovered when he saw his men fighting with their last shred of courage. He gathered together a dozen soldiers. His eyes on the towers, he said:
“Set them on fire! Burning arrows!”
His men followed his orders at once and launched burning arrows at the two towers which were approaching like giant gods of wood and steel. The arrows hit their targets and Gerart saw fire engulf the structure. For a moment the flame of hope took hold in his soul as well. But as soon as the fire was lit, it went out. An Ice Mage appeared at the top of the nearest tower and with two swift spells put out the flames on both structures.
“We’re lost…” said the Prince through his teeth, and immediately was sorry.
He looked at his men, whose eyes were on him, undecided and anguished.
“Bring him down!” he ordered, pointing at the Mage with his sword. The archers hesitated for a moment and Gerart repeated his order: “Bring him down, quickly!”
The arrows flew towards the Mage but struck his defensive barrier of ice and frost.
“Release again!” Gerart shouted. But before they could, the Ice Mage swept the area with a beam of frost. Several soldiers were frozen on the spot. Gerart leapt to one side and rolled over the bloodied ground to avoid it.
The two giant siege towers reached the wall. The ramps fell on the battlements with a dull blow. With chilling war cries the Norghanians flooded the wall, bringing death and horror to the desperate defenders. Gerart stood up. The wall was lost, the Norgahnians were coming up the towers and stepping onto the battlements by the hundreds.
There were too many of them.
“Retreat!” Gerart shouted, seeing that they were about to be slaughtered. “To the Royal Castle!” he called to his men. “Quick, to the Castle!”
On the southern section of the wall the Nocean siege machines had finished the attack by air, and the legions of men in blue and black had begun their assault on the wall like a plague of locusts. The fighting on the desolate battlements was atrocious; suffering, horror and despair had made their stronghold there. Dolbar was leading a defense as frantic as it was desperate, in the midst of a bloodbath not even the gods of war would dare to look upon.
“Hold fast! Send them to the abyss!” he shouted as he launched strokes and slashes at the enemies who surrounded him. His men were falling one by one, giving their lives to save Rogdon, outnumbered by the sons of the deserts.
“They’re not conjuring the blackness… this time… They’re planning something different…” a breathless voice said behind Dolbar.
He spun round and saw Mirkos climbing the stone stairs, leaning heavily on his staff.
“What are you doing here?” Dolbar said. “You’re in no condition to fight, Mirkos, you must go back to the Castle.” He gestured towards the hill in the midst of the city.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, my lad. I’ve rested all night, I can fight.”
“You can barely stand, Mirkos. We almost lost you yesterday. If you fight today…”
“I’ll fight, and there’s nothing more to said. My decision is final.”
Dolbar nodded. He could understand what the old Mage was trying to convey. But that day, on the wall, the future was darkening rapidly. The Noceans were assaulting the battlements in their thousands, and the defenders could no longer contain the avalanche. He looked to his left and saw his men being hacked by those Noceans who had already secured part of the section. Furious and hopeless, he launched into the attack with a yell, intent on recovering what already seemed lost forever. Mirkos hurried after him, fearing the daring Rogdonian would be cut to pieces.
Suddenly Mirkos sensed a great arcane power in front of him. He stopped at once.
Sorcerers!
At once he raised his defenses, and the translucent sphere enveloped him. The thick group of enemy soldiers parted, and in their midst appeared two terrifying Nocean Sorcerers. The first one saw Dolbar, who immediately ran towards him, and cast a rapid spell.
Mirkos tried to stop the brave Rogdonian, but he was too late. “No! Stop!”
A sharp claw, half human, half beast, sickly and diabolic issued from the first Sorcerer’s staff and struck Dolbar in the torso. With the impact the young man stopped and fell on his knees, clutching his chest. Helplessly, Mirkos watched as the claw poisoned Dolbar’s body. His skin turned yellow, his veins became so black they looked as though they were filled with ink, and his eyes turned black as he died in unbearable pain.
“His blood is rotting,” the other Sorcerer explained with a macabre smile and marked Nocean accent.
The gaze Mirkos turned on him was full of hatred. The Sorcerer was so pale that it seemed all life had been drained from his body. Mirkos knew that this was the Nocean Great Master of Blood Magic. The scarlet, bloodshot eyes of the man left no room for doubt.
“My friend here does not speak your language, Mage of the Four Elements, but let me do the honors. My name is Asuris, and as you have already guessed, Blood Magic is my specialty. This is Isos, Grand Master of Curse Magic, and as you just witnessed” ‒ he pointed at Dolbar ‒ “his power is exceptional.”
“You’ll pay with your lives for this!” Mirkos said furiously, and with all the speed he was capable of he threw a ball of fire at the two Sorcerers.
The missile exploded above their defensive spheres, engulfing all the surrounding soldiers in flames. The screams of horror of the Noceans as they jumped off the wall to flee the torment rose to the sky.
“Great is your power, old mage, but our defenses hold,” Asuris said with a grimace of amusement.
“Not for long!” Mirkos said, and from his staff of power there issued a cone
of intense fire which flared over both Sorcerers. That would weaken their defenses, consuming their well of magic.
To Mirkos’ surprise, the two Sorcerers did not cast any spell on him but merely held up their spheres, imbuing them with power. This puzzled the old Mage, for though the power of those men was great, it was finite. He could sense the enemy spheres being damaged by his spell and the energy of the two enemies flowing to hold them. Then why did they not attack? Why?
The answer did not take long.
A voice came from behind the Mage: “A very powerful rival you have been, Mirkos,”
Mirkos turned his head in surprise, but kept up the burning spell.
Zecly was gazing at him, his face serene, one hand covered in blood.
Beside him rose a terrible abomination: a blood demon. The monster was more than nine feet tall and vaguely human in form. Its body was translucent, but of a vivid red. Its arms and legs were long and powerful, its torso and head those of a beast. Its colossal maw and claws were out of a nightmare.
And then he understood.
They were not attacking him because they had used their power to assist Zecly in conjuring that very dangerous being of the abyss.
“Zecly… you treacherous snake,” Mirkos said, realizing he was finished. He had no way of escape.
“It’s time to die, Mirkos the Erudite,” Zecly said with a small bow.
Mirkos looked at the abomination and then at the three Nocean Sorcerers. He stopped the spell and heaved a long, heartfelt sigh. His time was up. He gazed at the wall, filled with Nocean soldiers who were already entering the city, as if a dam had burst and the wild stream were flooding the metropolis. He closed his eyes and thought: The rage of a kind man. Yes, I think the moment has come. He concentrated and used his entire pool of energy to cast one last spell: a spell more powerful than any he had cast before, a spell he had feared he would have to use one day. And the fateful day had come, and he must cast it, for death was coming for him and it was time to leave. But he would leave on his own terms, with pride, fighting to defend his kingdom, his people, protecting the innocent who sheltered behind those walls. He who had always been a man of peace, a scholar who had never wanted to take part in any war, would die in the midst of the most cruel and ruthless of battles. But he would die with honor, giving his life for his own countrymen.
“Kill him!” Zecly ordered the blood demon.
And Mirkos completed the final spell, the one he had wished would never be necessary. All his energy was suddenly transformed into a massive explosion of fire. A great ring of fire, of devastating power, issued from the Mage’s body, sacrificing his life in the process. Mirkos, in his last moment of life, saw everything around him reduced to dust. The blood demon was consumed by the flames, as were the two Nocean Sorcerers, whose defenses could not sustain the explosion of fire. They died amid shrill screams of suffering. But Zecly, using his enormous power to defend himself, miraculously managed to withstand the blazing outburst.
With a last thought of joy and good wishes for his two beloved pupils, Mirkos the Erudite was consumed in the midst of the devastating flames.
Gerart led the survivors of his section to the Royal Castle and ran to the great gate of the wall, where he knew he would find his father the King. As he was running to the lower part of the city he heard a terrible din, followed by enemy cheers. He stopped, fearing what this might mean. But he shook his head and kept running; they would not make him cower, he would go on fighting to the end.
As he neared the wall he met soldiers and civilians retreating in the general confusion, frightened and hysterical. They were stumbling on amid cries and sobs, fear eating at their souls. As Gerart had guessed, the great gate of the wall, the sign of Rilentor’s impregnability, had fallen. The Norghanians, supported by Nocean troops, were making their way through it and heading for the main avenue.
Tragedy was close at hand. The two armies managed to open a path each, pulling down the most battered parts of the wall. The Norghanians north-east of the gate to the city, and the Noceans south-west, the armies could now enter more easily.
It was the end.
His father was organizing the retreat. “To the Castle, Gerart! The gate has fallen!”
“At your command, my Lord!” Gerart replied, his eyes on the King. The monarch’s face showed exhaustion and concern, and his armor was soaked in blood and dented. There was a recent cut on his forehead which was still bleeding.
“We retreat to the Castle!” ordered King Solin. He was helping a group of stragglers as he spoke.
The retreat was chaotic. Soldiers and civilians ran desperately, chased by the first enemy troops which streamed into the city like a water snake.
In the cathedral Aliana watched those few wounded who could still walk and for whom there was some hope being led hastily towards the castle. Everything around her was chaos and confusion. The enemy troops would soon be there. The evacuation of the wounded to the Royal Castle was becoming desperate.
“What do?” Asti asked. Her face was pale, her eyes fearful.
Aliana looked at the badly injured Haradin on the bench. The Mage was still unconscious. She had done all she could to heal him, and although she had stopped him from dying, she had not managed to awaken him. And she was physically and mentally exhausted. She had no energy left, having consumed it all in healing as many wounded as possible. Her legs felt like two blocks of rock.
“We have to leave… the enemy is almost here…” she said. Her eyes turned to the remaining wounded: soldiers and civilians so seriously injured they would never make it to the Castle. Her heart broke at the sight, they would be abandoned to their fate.
That war had taught her what suffering really was, had hollowed out her heart and awakened it to the terrible reality of men’s greed and evil. The horrible truth which her soul now understood: there is nothing noble or glorious about war, only pain, suffering, blood and agony, mutilation and viscera. But most of all, despair and horror. She lowered her gaze and felt her soul stricken. Men in agony were being abandoned there, with death already waiting to claw at their innards. The futility of war, the barbarity and hopelessness of it, broke her soul into a thousand pieces.
“Leave, now,” Asti urged her, tugging at her sleeve.
Aliana did not want to leave, she did not want to abandon all those poor unfortunates there to be butchered by the Norghanians or the Noceans, whoever arrived first at the Cathedral in their race to conquer the city.
“Save Mage, leave,” Asti insisted again, and began to haul Haradin after her as best she could.
When Aliana saw frail Asti trying to carry Haradin all by herself, she ran to help her. Between the two of them they began to make their way up the causeway towards the Castle. A crowd of men, women and children were running to the fortress amid cries and weeping. Hysteria was getting the better of the population as the horror of the enemy soldiers’ proximity took hold of them.
Gerart helped the last straggling survivors to reach the Royal Castle. They crossed the moat and took shelter behind the wall.
“Push them back!” King Solin cried, and the soldiers loosed volley after volley on the enemy troops who were advancing euphorically, roaring their victory.
The fortress was teeming with civilians and soldiers. Men, women and children, among them a great number of wounded, had taken refuge there. The situation was chaotic. Gerart’s eyes searched for Aliana among the Healers, and he spotted her beside the well. His heart was joyful and he sighed with relief: she was safe.
Aliana spotted the Prince, and their eyes met. She smiled faintly, conveying hope to him in that moment of great need.
Gerart was anxious to go to her; he needed to talk to her for a moment, hold her in his arms. But the enemy attacked the door with battering rams. Gerart waved at Aliana, turned and went to fight. To do his duty.
The Rogdonian soldiers defended the door with burning oil and an incessant rain of arrows.
“Don’t give in
, keep fighting!” King Solin cried above the gate.
The catapults made their appearance in the lower part of the city and began to batter the wall and fortress. The enemy troops were still streaming into the city, and the castle was surrounded.
“Hell!” Gerart exclaimed as he saw the missiles impact violently on stone and man. Hope was fading in his heart. They would not come out of this alive. The fortress would not hold for long.
“Hold fast, Prince of Rogdon,” his father whispered in his ear, as if he had read his thoughts. “They must have faith in their leaders, and we must have courage to lead them to the end. The battle is not lost until the last man stops fighting. And we are that last man, and we won’t cease fighting. Never. Never consider the battle lost; heroes and unthinkable prowess are born out of moments like this, out of men like those around us. Never cease fighting, Gerart of Rogdon.”
Gerart looked at his father’s eyes and recognized him as the great leader he was. He would never yield, he would defend his people to the last drop of blood in his body.
“Defend the door! For Rogdon!” the King cried as the attacks were renewed.
Both went down to the door, while several men secured it with wooden beams. The shouting of the assailants was like the roar of a pack of rabid dogs with the taste of fresh blood in their jaws. The brave defenders rejected them for what seemed an eternity, but at last a loud, sinister crash announced what everybody feared.
The head of the battering ram penetrated the great door, which gave way with a loud crash. Pieces of wood and steel flew everywhere and under the pressure of the enemy the great reinforced doors shattered. The defensive line released their arrows against the invading army, which now rushed inside amid roars of victory.
Solin came to stand among his men. “Let fly at will!” he ordered them.
The first enemy lines were felled as they tried to burst in, but more kept coming. A savage, endless tide which battered the rocky defensive barrier of brave Rogdonians. They battered and battered until at last they managed to overcome the defenders, and then they were inside. The Rogdonian soldiers were being hacked to pieces, as the fight to contain the tide became impossible. Solin and Gerart were fighting desperately shoulder to shoulder in a heroic attempt to contain the enemy.