* * * * *
Garret watched the enemy climb, believing them yet another type of blessed troop in Sigrant’s arsenal. He swore at his bad luck, angered beyond measure that against these troops his ballista and other war mechanisms were useless. They moved too fast and kept distance from one another. Before he knew what was happening the attackers were climbing the walls like insects swarming out of a hive. His mages and archers began an assault in retaliation but there were so few left, their impact was miniscule.
Garret called upon his blessing and a moment later watched as Borrik did the same before flinging himself over the edge of the wall. A minute. Maybe two. That was all the time Garret had before they breached the top of the wall and inevitably made it into the city. If that happened the gates would be compromised and all was lost.
Then it struck him.
Dashing down the walkway atop the wall, Garret watched as his remaining soldiers dove aside at his approach. He had no time to slow. Reaching the first great cauldron, he bent his knees to prepare for the right moment.
Usually these cauldrons, filled with boiling oil, were tilted into a stone gutter that led down into the wall and out a sluice that caused it to rain down below the wall on gathered troops and siege engines. The problem was that in this case the enemy was on the wall, not below it on the ground. Garret had a solution.
Planting his feet and wrapping his one immense, metallic arm around the cauldron, he shoved with all his might, leveraging the giant bronze container against the battlements. Growling with the exertion, he pressed upwards with his legs as the cauldron scraped slowly up the stone. Reaching the top, he pressed further still as the oil began to spill out.
“Mages!” Garret shouted in a deep resounding tone that was sure to be heard by everyone. With that single word he pressed once more, and using his shoulder he tipped the giant cauldron over the edge of the wall and began sliding it down the wall to coat as much as he could.
Boiling oil cascaded down the wall. Invaders not only fell from the burning torment from above, but those who remained found it impossible to find a hand or foot hold any higher than their current position. Those below Garret either fell or found themselves sitting ducks, for as soon as the cauldron was emptied, the king released it to fall again to the stones of the castle wall with a hollow resounding toll. On that mark, battle mages unleashed their inferno upon the oil-coated section of wall, burning those who remained and creating a fire barrier for any who climbed from below.
Garret dared not wait, he had only protected a hundred feet or so of the wall that stretched on for what now seemed an eternity. Running once more, he approached the next cauldron and began to lift it as Borrik slammed to the stone wall opposite him. Together they lifted the second immense container of boiling fluid and repeated the process.
By the fourth cauldron some of the invaders peaked the wall, but Garret dared not stop, hoping his men could handle the foes.
“Borrik, we must continue!” he shouted, to a replied nod.
There was no one else able to lift the giant cauldrons. Even the great werewolf was having issues, his skin beginning to blister on his hands and arms as the fur burned away.
Minutes passed and the men upon this western wall managed to hold their foes as the king and great wolf dumped cauldron after cauldron, working their way northward along the wall, but they were too slow. Ahead, more and more of the foreign men topped the wall and the defenders could not hold them. Garret witnessed as the unnatural invaders pounced upon his meager forces, biting and clawing them ferociously. They drank the blood of those they felled before leaping to the rooftops beyond, to be lost again in darkness. He had seen another drink the blood of her foes.
It was no use, and Garret abandoned the next cauldron, rushing past it to help those falling back upon the wall. Borrik leapt into the air, out of his way, and took up the fight as well. Within seconds, the masses of the enemy began breaching the wall everywhere the burning oil did not protect. The city would fall on the very first night.
With that thought Garret got his wish as his vision turned red and a chuckle escaped his lips, before he drew his massive blade and began hacking the unholy creatures to bits. He stomped ahead on the wall, allies trying to make a clear path as he came. The one-armed king, a giant among men, cut a path of gore upon the great stone wall as hundreds of the creatures poured over the edge to meet the defenders.
Approaching a group that did not flee at his approach, Garret swung low, knowing the things would easily leap above his blade. Then, mid swing, he changed the angle of his attack and bending one knee he arced his blade upwards, catching more than half of the creatures across the abdomens, effectively severing each of them in two.
Five or six at a time was not going to be enough, however, as his forces upon the west wall began to fail at an increasing rate. There were more enemies than allies, and within moments the wall would be lost. Garret charged ahead, swinging his blade wildly, hacking anything that did not evade him. The city was lost. There were too many to hold off with such diminished forces. Even the few remaining werewolves realized it, as they all howled into the night as if of one mind. If things were not bad enough, as Garret focused his attention on a throng of enemies topping the wall, a series of explosions sounded as a great wind blasted him, driving him back a step. He had failed Valdadore’s people.
* * * * *
Seth soared along on his great, black, leathery wings, feeling at one with the night. His magical wind propelled him on at an alarming speed that made his eyes water and his flesh rise in goose pimples. Flying was amazing, even with everything that had gone wrong in the last few months. Right now he did not have the luxury of dwelling on all of his mistakes. He could not afford to repeat them, either. It was best to focus on the present, and what he could do to fix it.
Reaching out, he once again checked his progress. Sigrant’s camp grew nearer by the second, and Valdadore was only a few miles beyond that. He had noted the small contingent breaking off from Sigrant’s forces, and checked in every few moments to see their progress. At first, when the two forces seemed to collide it appeared that Valdadore was winning. Now, however, the tide was rapidly turning for the worse. Again Seth shut away his vision of the gods. It would do him no good to watch if there was nothing he could yet do about it. He could not get wrapped up in the emotional aspect of what was happening. Such a mistake had cost him on several occasions. He would arrive when he could and then decide what actions to pursue.
Just minutes passed, and he watched as Sigrant’s camp passed beneath him. Seeking again a look through his magical vision, he could easily see King Sigrant himself, but there was nothing Seth could do. Sigrant held too much power. The aura of the invading king was immense, unlike anything Seth had ever seen before in a man, and it grew by the second. Seth could not contain that kind of power. He did not know his limitations, but knew for certain that the power held by Sigrant exceeded them.
Seth’s own power was immense, having grown more and more each time a person loyal to him died. But the invading king’s power was more than five times that of what Seth had amassed. Seth both envied and feared the man below as he winged overhead. The best he could do for now was assist in defending the city and try to find a solution.
A minute passed as Seth rushed the great flaming walls in the distance. Even from here he could see the creatures scaling the walls by the hundreds, their bodies a stark contrast to the white painted walls of the city. Then it struck him.
Reaching out as he made his approach to the city, Seth located his few remaining troops and infused them each with power. Diving lower, he watched as Borrik noted him, an instantaneous howl breaking from his open maw, echoed by each of the remaining werewolves as the image of their god was shared telepathically. Explosions occurred again and again as his troops called upon the power. Seth dove lower, pulling up just before colliding with the battlements atop the wall. Ahead of him, perhaps twenty paces, his brother fought in a
rage, hacking and cleaving his way across the wall.
Seth folded his wings behind and around himself like a cloak, watching the scene play out before him. His brother, lost in rage, made no note of him even as a cheer erupted from those defenders remaining. The common troops of Valdadore witnessed Seth’s troops valiantly summoning their blessings once more, and more still witnessed the landing of the walking, now flying, god. Seth looked upon his brother, his breath catching in his chest a moment. Garret, the king, was a wreck. He battled on with one arm, growling and grunting as he stomped a path. His strikes swung wild more often than not. It was apparent he was weary and worse, being reckless with his own life and the lives of those loyal to him.
Seth shook his head. No emotions, he reminded himself. Reaching out, he snuffed out the lives of over a hundred vampires upon the top of the wall as the defenders again cheered his return. Then, with a thunderous boom, green and yellow lightning split the air, breaking into dozens of electrical fingers that crackled, each seeking a foe.
Breathing deeply as his brother turned and their eyes met, Seth tried to remain focused as the metallic giant’s eyes grew moist, a broken half grin trying to show through the king’s obvious pain.
Seth merely nodded at his brother before leaping off the wall and unfolding his wings to glide further down the wall. He could feel Garret’s eyes tracking him but tried to ignore it.
Landing anew, he watched as Borrik raced overhead, lancing fireballs, his jaw snapping again and again. Seth reached out, snuffing another hundred or more invaders, feeling the power rush into his reserves once more. Reaching out past the wall, he turned his palms downward and let the power free. Unholy green flame erupted from his hands, spreading out in a wall of death below him, encompassing the entirety of the wall for several hundred yards. From the top of the wall all the way to the ground was scorched almost instantly, its white paint peeling and smoldering as the ashes of enemies floated slowly through the air to the ground below.
Again and again Seth sprang into the air, only to land once more and extinguish the lives of his foes within moments. When nearly all upon the walls or climbing them were destroyed, there remained yet another task for the dark prince. Reaching into the city, he found those infected by the change. There were nearly two hundred, and the number was rapidly growing. Focusing his mind he tugged at the sparks of life from each and every one of them, wincing as he separated the life of a young baby and its mother. Power rushed into him, but with so few foes remaining he turned as the battle came to an end, and strode towards his brother, the king.
* * * * *
Anna watched as the beast-man nearest her exploded in size, howling as it turned to look down the wall of overrun defenders. There a winged man settled upon the wall, and even at this distance she recognized him. It was Lord Seth, the prince of Valdadore. She had met the man once, in the tavern where she had been employed. She had personally served the man and his young wife. Essentially, he had made her who she was. For that reason she did not know whether to praise the man considered a god among mortals, or loathe him.
She watched as he snuffed out the first round of enemies with nothing but a thought. The defenders cheered. Though she was not the enemy, she truly wasn’t an ally either. Anna realized that if she did not flee, her end was near. Unlike these fledglings that fell from the wall to splatter on the ground below, Anna leapt into the darkness, digging her nails into the stone of the wall as she plummeted downward, slowing her descent. She had been feeding unhindered for weeks. Her spawn already numbered near a hundred and they had spawned hundreds more. But most from outlying towns had gone south seeking prey, instead of coming here to Valdadore.
She struck the ground, jarring both her ankles and knees, and waited a few moments until her ligaments repaired themselves before sprinting away from the city, careful to avoid Sigrant’s camp as well. Looking back over her shoulder, she glanced to the top of the wall where she could see the immense king in all of his shining glory. Something about him called to her. He had looked upon her differently than any other man. She would return to discover why, after the prince departed. That is, if Valdadore survived the war.
* * * * *
Garret strode towards his brother, releasing his blessing, not really believing what just happened. In that moment, nothing in the world made sense. His head spun, as if in a dream, and he found it hard to breathe, let alone wrap his mind around what it was that he saw. He had seen his brother’s corpse. Seth had died. Nearly the entire kingdom of Valdadore had witnessed his body impaled on the battlefield. This was an apparition, his brother’s ghost of some sort. Seth had died.
“Garret,” Seth said smiling, his eyes wet with emotion.
“Seth?”
“Of course. Who else?”
“Seth… You’re dead.”
“I was, yes, but now I’m not.”
“You can’t come back…” Garret paused, his tortured mind spinning. “Is Dad with you?”
“No, Garret,” Seth replied with a choking sob, obviously fighting his emotions. “It’s just me.”
“But Dad died too, right? And Jack?”
“Yes, Garret, and I am sorry. It is all my fault, and I can’t fix it.
“But… how?” Garret managed.
“I struck a bargain with Ishanya to return, it seems she has yet more plans for me.”
“But you’re really you?”
“Yes, Garret.”
“And you have wings?”
“Yes.”
“What do we do then?” Garret asked, his mind still unable to understand what was going on in entirety.
“We prepare to hold your city against an enemy, the likes of which the world has never seen.”
“So what should we do?”
“They won’t attack during the day. Get everyone healed and rested, you especially. The sun will be up soon. Me and my men will keep watch through the day.”
“OK.”
Without another word Garret turned, his shoulders sagging and back hunched. Those near him and Seth upon the wall had heard what was to be done, but even so he located an officer and gave his orders. All of the soldiers were to rest during the day and visit the healers if needed.
Garret walked, mindlessly numb, across the wall and down the nearest staircase. Flight after endless flight he climbed down the steps, before reaching the street and heading east towards the castle. The roads were dark, but those who had come to the city for safety inhabited them and watched their broken king as he passed them. They whispered prayers to him as he passed, asking Gorandor to look over him. Some thanked him for the solace he offered them, others simply watched him either in awe or with pity in their eyes. Garret noticed none of them.
More than an hour passed as he made his trek across the city, passing through the gates into the castle complex. He first turned towards the knights’ garrison but then, thinking better of it, changed course to the mages’ tower.
Knocking upon the door that had once been enchanted to open of its own accord but had recently been replaced, Garret grinned oddly as the door swung open to reveal a young woman in a white robe.
“I crushed that once,” Garret said, jerking his head towards the door.
“Yes, your Majesty, I recall the tale,” replied the young woman, concern showing clearly in her face. “Let’s get you inside and see if we can get you patched up.”
* * * * *
King Sigrant felt the loss of each of his newly created troops. But found solace in the fact that his power did not diminish with each one’s death. Even if it had, his power was growing so quickly they were each but a drop in the pond. Slowly he noted the deaths as they came, amused that Valdadore had such issues in killing them. Many minutes later a small torrent of connections left him as if a large fraction of his troops had died all at once, and a moment later another wave of deaths. Within the span of another quarter hour the deaths stopped, all of the troops he had sent to Valdadore having apparently perished.
He stepped once more into the crude ring created by the tents and beckoned to his opponent, one of his most valiant blessed warriors. The man who was captain to his knights charged at breakneck speed, yet to the king it was as if he jogged across the meager sparring field. Stepping back at the last moment, Sigrant thrust out his arm, catching the man under the chin as he passed, the momentum of his movement ripping the captain off his feet to land unceremoniously on his back. Again he rose and tried to strike the king, but to a man as powerful as Sigrant even his fastest warrior seemed slow and weak. Perhaps if he were bitten he would again become useful? Maybe if given more strength and agility he would be a challenge. Then they could spar again and perhaps it would actually feel like sparing. Sigrant, bored beyond measure, decided to test another theory. Walking to the middle of the small clearing he turned and faced his captain, beckoning him with a hand to continue. The knight attacked with what was once considered lightning speed, his thrusts and jabs vicious and relentless.
“Enough,” Sigrant said, looking down to his tattered clothes, the only proof of the thousands of wounds he had received in only a couple minutes time. “I suppose that I need not worry, as no blow has the ability to kill me.”
His knight captain bowed, obviously impressed, and turned to return to his duties. Sigrant stood a moment longer, a moment that to him felt like hours, and pondered how Valdadore had managed to kill his troops so quickly. A man of calculations, it seemed that he may have overestimated the abilities of his troops and would need more than a single night to destroy Valdadore. Thus decided, he altered his plan. The city would need to be taken in a single attack, but required more than a single night. Yet his troops could not withstand the sun. Calculating the days, King Sigrant smiled. His solution was being given to him by the gods. All he needed to do was wait.
The Crowned (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga, Book 6) Page 3