Deathmask scattered ashes about his face, then nodded to Veliana.
“Let’s go,” he said. “If I’m to die, I’m taking as many as I can with me.”
Haern followed Nien until there was no reason to. Smoke and fire billowed near the walls ahead of them. He leaped to the street and continued running, whispering a desperate prayer to Ashhur as he did. Nien stayed on the rooftops, trying to analyze the carnage. Over a hundred undead marched through a tunnel dug underneath a collapsed home. Pieces of buildings were scattered everywhere, set aflame by a magical assault. Nien halted above a nearby home, and from its roof he let loose a barrage of daggers, each one shimmering purple. The daggers punctured bone and rotted flesh, and one by one he downed the undead warriors.
Haern crashed into their ranks, twirling and cutting through tendons, removing their ability to move and attack. More troublesome, though, were the tested that followed. They waved their skeletal hands in the air, shouting out Karak’s name in a fevered wail. Haern slipped back, fighting away the undead as Nien hurled his daggers.
“Get away!” Haern shouted as the undead surrounded the home. Priests of Karak climbed out of the tunnel, curses on their lips. Nien balanced as the undead tore at the sides of the house, ripping at its walls with their bony fingers. He tried to leap to a nearby house, but the priests’ curses gripped his muscles. All his strength left his body. He tumbled off the side, his legs refusing to cooperate.
“No!” Haern screamed, but he could not press forward, not with the tested clubbing at him with their hands. Unable to stand, Nien screamed as the undead tore him to pieces. High above, the lion roared.
Swearing revenge, Haern turned and ran. The vast bulk of Mordeina’s troops patrolled the two walls, their inner forces woefully unprepared for such an assault. He had to locate Deathmask and the others, and perhaps together they could counter the tunnels. Sheathing his swords, he leaped to the rooftops and searched for a similar pillar of smoke and fire. Sure enough, he found one far to the east. He jumped from roof to roof, approaching as fast as he could, but he knew it was too late. Even from his distance he could see the swarms of undead pouring into the city. Many turned north, back toward the main entrances. They were blocking in the soldiers on the walls, he realized, leaving the castle vulnerable.
“This is bad,” Haern said. “Very bad.”
He ran for the castle. If they were to make a last stand, it would be there. He caught a glimpse of the undead swarming the city. They did not beat on doors or try to climb through windows, and for that Haern was thankful. Whoever led the assault had no desire to exterminate them all.
When he reached the stairs before the castle doors he saw a collection of guards with weapons drawn, watching with looks of fear and unease.
“Well met, Watcher,” one said as he approached. “Good news would be much appreciated.”
Haern shook his head and joined them in assessing the walls. Several more fires burned in the city, more tunnels bypassing their main defenses. The soldiers on the walls fired arrows, but they could not stem the tide. Karak’s forces surrounded them on both sides, and they dared not climb down. They were trapped, and therefore useless.
“I wish I had some to offer,” Haern said, sighing. “But I’m a poor liar.”
Undead pooled into the main center street, the tested at their heels. Soldiers lined up at the top of the stairs as one of them shut and locked the castle doors from within.
“Die for our Queen!” one cried.
“For the Queen!” the others shouted in unison.
Haern just closed his eyes and sighed. He lurked behind the line, wishing he had Tarlak’s skill to cheer on soldiers, or the paladins' unwavering sense of faith. All he had were his sabers, his cloaks, and his skill. The first wave of undead neared, never making it up the stairs. Dieredon came crashing in from one of the alleys riding Sonowin, whose giant wings curled up against her sides. They trampled the undead before riding up the steps.
“Well met!” Dieredon shouted, raising his bladed bow. The soldiers cheered and saluted. The elf dismounted and slipped between them to speak with Haern.
“How is it?” Haern whispered.
“Dreadful,” Dieredon whispered back. “And I have yet to test Sonowin’s wings. I’m not sure she can save us.”
“Here comes more,” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing their attention down the steps.
“Fight until we die,” Haern said. “It’s what we’re good at.”
“Perhaps the fighting part,” Dieredon said, firing an arrow through the eye of a limping undead. “The dying I’m terrible at.”
Deathmask stood in the center of the street, Veliana at his back. Fire surrounded them in a protective wall, incinerating any that approached. Dark fire rolled outward, blasting away wave after wave of the dead. The tested tried leaping through the fire, but then Veliana was there, kicking and slicing into their flesh with her daggers. Bodies piled up around them, but they were but a single drop of a rain in a thunderstorm.
“We can’t stop them all,” Veliana shouted amid the din of songs and moans, all worshipping Karak.
“We’ve lost the twins,” Deathmask shouted back. “We’ll damn well try.”
With a thought the fire wall moved forward, and together they walked.
“If we can get the soldiers off the walls, we might have a chance,” Veliana said.
“That’s my hope,” Deathmask said, pointing. “We’ve got company.”
Priests of Karak marched toward them, their hands raised to the sky. Deathmask struck the first one dead with an arrow made of ash that dug into his flesh and burst his heart. He surrounded a second with fire, burning his flesh as he screamed. The other priests pointed their hands and sang their songs. Curse after curse fell upon the two, sapping their strength and clouding their minds. They both crumpled to their knees.
“Fight it,” Deathmask said through clenched teeth. Veliana did not respond, instead taking one of her daggers and stabbing it into her hand, hissing as the pain soared through her, filling her body with strength to fight away the curses. She stood, glared with her one eye, and leaped over the fire. Her body twirled in the air, avoiding blasts of shadow. She landed amid them, a blur of steel and blood. She tore through throats and faces, cutting and slicing between them. Just as quickly, she leaped back, landing in the center of Deathmask’s wall of fire. Seven priests lay dead or dying, their blood on her blades. Deathmask stood to his full height, feeling their curses slipping off him like broken chains.
“You’ll need more,” he said to the few that remained. They crossed their arms, summoning a magical shield. Deathmask laughed at it, then slammed his wrists together. A solid beam of dark magic burst from his hands, shattering their protective magics as if they were cloth. The beam continued, shredding two more priests before tearing off a sizable chunk of a home. He expected the rests of the priests to scatter, but instead they continued singing. Another joined them, the center of his eyes shining red. He bowed, a smile on his lips.
“I had hoped some would still fight,” this strange priest said to them. “Overcoming your valiance makes the victory earned.”
“Do you lead this army?” Deathmask asked. He snapped his fingers, sending the ash that covered his face swirling around his head. Through the flames of his wall, he was an intimidating sight.
“I do,” said the priest, not impressed. “My name is Melorak. Are you prepared to die?”
“Sure,” Deathmask said. “Let’s give it a try.”
He unleashed a second beam of magic, but this time it pooled around Melorak’s shield like water hitting a stone. The priest shook his head.
“Disappointing,” he said. A wave of his hand and the wall of fire died. Veliana lunged, her daggers leading, but Melorak opened his mouth. From within came a wail so loud and powerful it was a physical force, slamming her aside. Deathmask cast another spell, covering Melorak’s body with fire. The flames flickered and died without burning. Melorak
locked his hands, and from the ground rose a tidal wave of shadow that rolled them along the street, flooding their nerves with pain. When the wave ended, they lay crumpled on the stone, barely able to move.
“What now?” Veliana asked as she struggled to stand.
“Self-preservation,” Deathmask said. He grabbed her hand and then reached into his pocket. As a ball of yellow fire flew from Melorak’s chest Deathmask enacted his spell. The two vanished in a puff of shadow right before the attack hit. Melorak laughed, only energized by the fight. He wanted more. He looked to the castle, where many still fought against his forces.
“Go back to the walls,” he said to the priests at his side. “Shout your praises to Karak. I will handle those at the castle.”
“As you wish,” the priests said in unison.
“Praise be to Karak,” Melorak said as he approached the castle. “Praise be.”
“Block either side!” Dieredon shouted to the soldiers. “Funnel them to me!”
The soldiers formed two lines at the top with a gap in the center. Further back in the gap Dieredon stood, his bow drawn. He fired arrows three at a time from a quiver that never ran empty. Wave after wave of undead dropped, and those that made it to the top were either chopped down or pushed into Dieredon’s line of fire. Haern weaved between the sides, crushing any undead that looked like they might score a kill. They were a mere force of twenty, but over two hundred lay defeated on their steps, the bodies increasing the difficulty of the climb for the rest.
The fight raged on, and another hundred fell. The undead surrounding the walls drifted further into the city, each one headed straight for the castle.
“Dark paladins,” Haern shouted as seven raised their swords and charged in unison.
“I see them,” Dieredon said. He drew only a single arrow, hesitated, and then released. The arrow slipped past his target’s sword and into his throat. He fired another. The dark paladins ducked, crossing their arms as they climbed, but it didn’t matter. Dieredon’s aim was true, this time digging into the flesh just underneath the arm. Another pierced through the eyehole of a helmet. Haern swore as they split to either side, outside Dieredon’s line of fire. Blades wreathed in dark fire, they crashed into the line of guards.
Dieredon resumed firing at the undead climbing the steps, knowing he had to trust Haern and the others. If he paused to fight, they would all be buried. Behind him, Sonowin neighed, and he could hear her nervousness.
“Easy, girl,” he told her, drawing three more arrows. “No matter what, you’ll be fine.”
Haern squared off with one of the paladins, wielding a sword in either hand. It felt like fighting a slower, weaker Harruq, and as such Haern knew exactly how to react to every slash and every thrust. He twisted and dodged, blocking only when he must. It didn’t take long before the paladin grew frustrated and made a mistake. Haern made him pay for it, burying his sabers deep into his chest.
Haern rolled to one side, behind another paladin unaware of his presence. His sabers slipped around his neck and cut. He glanced about, and swore at what he saw. Most of the guards lay dead, and still two more paladins remained. One died as he chopped down a soldier, Dieredon pausing momentarily to bury an arrow in his throat. Haern leaped at the other, ignoring the stinging fire of his sword to get close so his cuts and weaves could not be matched by the man in his bulky plate mail. The paladin shouted the name of Karak, hoping for strength. Instead Haern rammed his saber down his throat and twisted. He kicked the body down the stairs and glanced at Dieredon. His look said enough.
“I know,” Dieredon said, releasing another wave of arrows. “Until death?”
Only four guards remained, their armor soaked with blood and gore. As their enemies continued up the steps, seemingly endless in number, they lost their initial cheer.
“Hold faith,” Haern said to them. “For the Queen, and yourselves.”
Dieredon grabbed his bow with both hands. Spikes shot out from the ends, and rows of blades jutted out the front. He joined Haern’s side at the center, the guards on either side.
“Enough arrows,” the elf said. “Let’s build a wall of bodies.”
A combination of tested and undead ran up the steps, stumbling over the fallen. The second they neared, Dieredon was upon them, spinning and twirling his bladed bow like it was a part of his body, a mere extension of his will. The magic on it was strong, and it cut through bone with ease. Haern stayed at his side, parrying away any attack that neared Dieredon, and gutting any that tried to ignore the elf and run past. The guards, in awe, felt hope renewed in their hearts.
“For the Queen!” they shouted, joining in the fight, pushing and shoving their enemies toward the spinning death that was Dieredon.
“Priest!” one of them shouted. Dieredon paused, and sure enough he saw a man in black robes at the foot of the steps. When the priest looked up, his eyes shimmering red, the elf felt his hopes sink.
“Get into the castle,” the elf said to the others. “Now!”
The panic in his voice was enough for them to turn and bang on the castle doors.
“What is going on?” Haern demanded.
“Take Sonowin and go,” Dieredon said. “I don’t know if she can fly or not, but don’t let her die here.”
“I can help you!” Haern shouted.
“The city is lost!” Dieredon shouted back, shoving the assassin. “Now get her to safety!”
Melorak pulled his hood off his head and raised his arms. High in the sky, the lion roared, and as the roar shook the city, the priest glowed with red fire. It did not consume him. The rest of the army stayed behind, not daring to come between their master and his prey.
“We come as conquerors,” Melorak said. “Step aside or be burned.”
Haern leaped atop Sonowin and wrapped his arms around her neck. Dieredon patted her side and whispered something into her ear. The majestic horse snorted and shook her head.
“Go!” Dieredon shouted to Haern. Sonowin spread her wings and took a tentative step. Her wings fluttered, and as their strength remained firm, she leaped from the steps, her wings flapping. She soared into the air, Haern on her back. Dieredon watched, a smile on his face to see his beloved Sonowin able to fly again. The smile faded as his eyes shifted downward, to where Melorak stood shaking his head.
“You should have gone with him,” the priest said.
“One more chance,” Dieredon said as he held his bow with its blades out. “I end you, and this world is better for it.”
“I end you,” Melorak said, “and my world is better for it.”
Dieredon leaped, the blade on the end of his bow aimed straight for Melorak’s throat. He stopped halfway down the steps, slamming into a wall of air that rippled into visibility at his contact. As he fell, Melorak cast a spell, bathing the elf in fire. He screamed and rolled across the steps, but could not extinguish the flame. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver vial, then smashed it against his chest. Cool blue light bathed over him, banishing the fire and softening his burns.
“Pathetic,” Melorak said, the fire swarming around his body pooling into his palms. “I expected better.”
Dieredon drew an arrow and fired. The arrow punched through the fire and flesh, its tip sticking out the other side of Melorak’s hand. The priest screamed, his concentration broken. The fire fell like lava to the ground, melting the stone. Dieredon fired a second arrow, but it halted in the air as if gripped by an invisible fist.
“We’ve played this game before,” Melorak said between gasps of pain. A clenching of his fist and the arrow shattered. “I won, remember?”
“It’s a new game,” Dieredon said as he stood. “You’re bleeding.”
Another clenched fist and the arrow stuck in his hand shattered. Blood poured down his arm and dripped across the ground. Dieredon was closer now, and he twirled his bow as he stared down Melorak, watching, waiting.
Melorak hurled a bolt of shadow. Dieredon somersaulted over it, h
is feet landing on Melorak’s shoulders. He twisted, locking the priest’s neck in his grip and pulling him down. As he landed he spun, ramming a blade straight for Melorak’s head. The priest shifted just enough so that the blade struck the ground, just grazing his cheek. As the blood dripped, Melorak shoved the palm of his hand against Dieredon’s chest and let loose all his fury. Shadows and fire blasted into Dieredon, flinging him several feet back. Dieredon twisted his body so he landed on his feet, jamming his bow into the stone to halt his movement.
Neither said a word as they both struggled to breathe. The elf’s chest was mangled and burned, and his hair hung wild and drenched with sweat over his face. Melorak clutched his bleeding hand and glared, one eye shut from the blood that ran into it. Sonowin circled high above, and upon her back Haern watched. All around, priests and dark paladins gathered, not daring to interfere.
Melorak reached into his pocket and hurled a handful of bones, animating them with magic so they flew like bullets. Dieredon spun his bow and ducked. They punched into his body, leaving deep welts but causing no serious harm. Dieredon drew several arrows, firing them in rapid succession. Melorak caught them all with his mind, shaking his head as if disappointed. But Dieredon was not finished. He dropped his bow and charged, and before Melorak could shatter them, he grabbed an arrow from its position, mere inches from Melorak’s chest, and rammed it forward. Melorak gasped as the arrow punctured his robe, slipped between his ribs, and entered a lung.
In the sky above, the lion roared in fury.
Dieredon snapped off the shaft and then knocked him back with an elbow to the face. Melorak tumbled down the steps, his body rolling to the feet of the onlookers.
The elf retrieved his bow. His ears heard only gasps of shock and horror. He turned about, drew an arrow, and smirked at the servants of Karak.
“Next?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Melorak gasped. He sat on his knees, propping his weight up on one hand while the other clutched the arrow in his chest. “Karak damn it all, not yet.”
The Shadows of Grace (Half-Orcs Book 4) Page 32