He let the soldier go and turned to the gate. The number of monsters coming through were countless, but he’d have to face them nonetheless.
“Chieft Milstrom!” someone shouted at his back, and turning round Milstrom saw the same soldier come running toward him, holding his double bladed sword over his head. Behind the soldier followed a hundred or so more warriors coming to aid in the defense of the gate. “Catch, my chieftain!”
The soldier hurled the weapon into the air, and dropping both the swords in his hand Milstrom put out his arm and caught the thing perfectly. He turned about and brandished it, feeling its perfect balance, basking in the glory of what awaited.
“Now for Aldabaar!” he roared as his troops came round behind him, “Now for death and glory! Charge!”
They all cried as one, pulling the attention of the monsters and rangers toward them, and the two forces charged one another in the frozen courtyard of the ancient city. Blood froze in the ice, black and red.
*****
Milstrom through the corpse of the horg off him, spinning round and ramming one end of his blade through two darklings as they stood front to back. Another horg charged him, but he ducked under its heavy axe and shoved the other end of his blade upward, through the bottom of its jaw, and out the top of its head. Blood ran across the ice underfoot as he cast the body to the ground, and he brushed the red-stained hairs out of his eyes as he looked for his next target.
His armor was torn apart by now, ripped by claws and teeth and the jagged edges of axes and knives, and his hands and face were stained with the colors of the blood of his enemies. The area around him was almost cleared, his troops forming a perimeter around the gate both inside the courtyard and outside on the causeway. If they held long enough, and by now Milstrom doubted they could, they would have survived the assault. But suddenly outside on the causeway he heard the shouts of his men, and turning saw them fall one by one to the ice, tumbling off the bridge and into the frozen river below, black arrows sticking from their throats.
A black figure emerged from the snow on the far side of the bridge, walking toward him and the open gate.
“Shut the gate, now!” he bellowed at his troops, and they jumped on the crank and began turning it.
Minarch black bow, the dark ranger, through up his arm and a wave of black smoke hit the doors, swinging them open and blasting the Adya back from the crank. Two werewolves burst from the snow behind him and charged forward.
“You two,” said Milstrom to two Adya as they watched the scene unfold, “Follow me!”
Brandishing his weapon, Mistrom ran out onto the causeway, and two Adya followed at his back with worried expressions.
“We do not give up this gate without a fight!” Milstrom roared, and he dropped onto his knees and slid toward the nearest of the charging werewolves, punching his blade up as it leaped over him.
His blade merely grazed its underside, and it landed between the Adya. They attacked it, although their attempts were hesitant and fearful, and were only in vain. The beast ignored the thrust of one of them, grabbed him by the neck with its massive jaws, and tossed him over the side of the causeway. The other stabbed it in the backside, but the monster only turned around and slashed him across the chest with its claws, knocking him onto his back.
Milstrom had no time to watch his men fall, but had the second werewolf to reckon with. He came up onto his feet and spun round, whipping his blade across the face of the monster. It yelped and dodged to the side, a slash across its face dripping red blood over its red eyes.
The werewolf circled round him, bearing its yellow fangs but not leaping or attempting to attack just yet.
“Come at me, you foul fiend!” Milstrom screamed at the monster.
He heard the scream of his last comrade as he threw himself off the bridge, afraid to be devoured by the monster he faced, and the second werewolf came running back to join its companion. Milstrom moved first, though, not wasting time or allowing them to team up on him.
The monster ducked below his swing and knocked him to the side with its claws as it slipped past, nearly pushing him off the causeway. But he caught himself and turned round after it, whipping his double bladed sword this way and that, but always falling just short of the agile monster. The second werewolf came, then, and leaped at him. He ducked to the side and turned toward it, just as the other leaped at his back.
They pulled him to the ground, but Milstrom wasn’t finished yet. He twisted beneath it, turning the handle of his blade and popping it into two separate swords of equal weight and balance, just in time to jab upwards through the midsection of the werewolf above him.
The monster roared and crawled backwards, leaving a trail of blood across the white surface of the bridge. But there was still the second werewolf. It charged him just as he turned to face it, but sweeping both swords out he sliced its face, and the werewolf dropped to the ground and slid off the side of the causeway and into the ice below. The other lay dead, having bled more than its heart could spare.
An arrow hit him in the shoulder, knocking him off balance but not hurting him. He knew it was just an expression from the dark ranger now standing before him, on the end of the causeway.
“Look at your people, warrior, this city that you defend,” said the faceless ranger, a black hood pulled over his features. “It is hopeless to resist, and yet you do so. I wonder what force drives you to fight so desperately.”
Milstrom reached for the arrow and plucked it from his shoulder, dropping it to the ground. He winced and put his hand to his side, suddenly feeling the sharp pain of his wounds there, feeling warm blood trickling over his frozen hand. Looking at his blood, and back at the city now full of corpses; watching as the archers were thrown from the towers and the fortress they defended, Milstrom understood the weight of this loss.
Everything Duoreod had feared had come to pass, and there was nothing that could be done about it.
“Your enemy is stronger than you, we have prepared for centuries,” said the ranger, “and you think you can stand against us? Why?”
Milstrom sighed heavily, locking his blades together as one and waving its blood stained edges before his face. “We fight to live, and we live to die,” he said in response. “I believe you have similar principles. But you are wrong about one thing... The enemy is never stronger than the will of the one who defends!”
He rushed the assassin all at once, ignoring his pain and leaping into the air above him.
Minarch ducked to the side, allowing Milstrom to plow into the ice where he had been standing, and whipping an arrow from its quiver he stabbed it into his back.
Milstrom grunted, turning round and swinging madly with his blade.
Minarch slid back and drew another arrow, pulled it back to his head, and shot him in the stomach; all in the blink of an eye.
Milstrom growled, pushing forward and thrusting at him, but the ranger caught the blade between the shaft of his bow and the string. He flipped, twisting his bow with him and the weapon in Milstrom’s hand, and pulled it out of his wet fingers. Time seemed to slow as Milstrom watched it flip through the air, glistening in the morning sunlight as it broke over the far horizon, and his last defense disappeared into the chasm of ice below them.
He turned and punched Minarch in the face and then the stomach, and then throwing another punch up at his jaw. The ranger stumbled back behind the blows, and spat blood from his mouth.
Milstrom charged him again, his fist raised as he roared, his final effort.
Minarch dropped low and hit him in the stomach with his bow, striking his wounds and sending shocks of pain through his body. He whipped his bow up, snapping off the arrow shafts that protruded from his stomach and shoulder, and brought it back down into his side.
Milstrom grunted, pain overwhelming him as he dropped to his knees. He put out a hand and grabbed Minarch by the shoulder, gripping him hard. His strength was spent, his pain all coming to him at once, and as he looked up
from where he knelt he saw the city that had been entrusted to him fall into the hands of the enemy. There were no Adya left to defend it.
Minarch ignored the Adian’s hand, but pulled another arrow from his quiver and dropped to his knee beside him, ramming the point of it through his heart. Milstrom grunted, his hand falling off the assassins shoulder, though his eyes remained fixed upon Grindle.
“You were never going to win this, Adian,” Minarch said in his ear.
Milstrom said nothing, but watched as the world went black and all hope faded.
Epilogue
They trod on ground frozen by winter and burned by summer, breezes as dry as bone and as moist as earth, blowing leaves in and from their path, hair of gold and red and yellow and white cast aside to reveal trim faces of stark features. They carried weapons of bronze and silver and gold, wore armor of leather and steal and cloth, helmets with plumes and horns and feathers, and glyphs of many shapes and sizes cast upon their chests and backs and brows. They had no fear, they had no courage, they had no shame, and they had no honor. They were war makers, and they were peacekeepers. They were among the many, and they were among the few. They were one, and they were all. They were in company, and they were alone. They were followers, and they were leaders. They were lost, and they knew where they stood upon the face of Aldabaar. They were everything, and they were nothing.
They are gone. They are here.
Doomstriker approaches the Anvil of Torment.
Book Two
Lost and Alone
Why must we fight?
I find it hard to understand the nature of us living creatures to find it a necessity to constantly war with one another, as if killing were just as important as breathing. I see men who glory in shedding the blood of their enemies. Some do it to protect their loved ones, friends, family, fellow countrymen, and I can understand that. But there are those who do it for the glory of having beaten another, even killing another, whether it is a man or beast. To be honest, I’m not sure where I fall in these two categories.
I know that gold and other treasures of the earth can easily distract the mercenary from the thought, until at last he retires and thinks back on his accomplishments and finally realizes what he has done with his life. Even when we are fed with honor from our fellowmen, who claim we have saved their lives, is it impossible to stifle the guilt. And when we are alone it consumes us. I’ve seen it eat away at soldiers thought to be strong and unyielding to their fellow brothers-in-arms, bringing them low even to the earth, crying out to those whose blood he sees upon his hands for forgiveness.
During the time I served in the Urden’Dagg’s ranks, making war with the Adya, I was told almost every day that what I was doing was an honorable thing in the sight of that all great and all powerful being that I had worshipped as a god. But in the end, not glory or honor was rewarded to me. No, I was given guilt, even a remembrance of the things that I had done and now live the rest of my life to regret. It drove into my heart with such force that I desired the blood of the Urden’Dagg, believing that I could wash the blood of the Adya and men of Heinsfar from my hands with his own. But would that have really helped? No, it would have destroyed me.
When I walked from that battlefield, leaving death and destruction behind me, I was lost. I was without hope of ever returning to a people who I had loved, or at least believed I had loved. I didn’t care whether or not their love for me was real, I just cared that I loved them and cared about them, and wanted that calming assurance that I knew what I believed again. This world was nothing to me, then.
I was led to believe that perhaps there was something better up here for me, and I wanted to believe it was true. I wanted something, anything, just as long as it kept my swords in their scabbards and my hands clean. No more death, no more fighting. I wanted to pray to someone for help and guidance, but the Urden’Dagg was dead and had betrayed me. He was the only god I had ever known.
So I was lost, but I was never alone.
If you think that you will hear a great tale of joy and happiness come out of my mouth, you are wrong, and whoever put the idea into your mind was a liar and a thief of your beliefs. Although I eventually found what I was looking for, I had to fight to keep it. So I ask why we must fight.
When will the end of it come, and how could it be happy if this is how we must live our lives? Why must we fight?
~ Neth’tek Vulzdagg
17
An Unexpected Visitor
Upon Duoreod’s return to the Silver City, he found it just as he had left it. Black char and ashes still littered the ground even years since the battle with The Fallen army, turning the blankets of pure white snow into dirty piles of burned flesh and scorched bones. They stoked great fires throughout the city to burn away the bodies of the dead Adya and the monsters that stalked their streets. The tombs had all been filled, and the Adya had no desire to add darklings to their holy graveyards and cathedrals; for they were an unsightly race of monsters, having fallen even lower than The Fallen themselves.
He was greeted by the sentinels, however, a warm welcome already in store in this cold world that had become his. He and the four select companions he had brought with him out of Grindle were taken to the citadel of the king, centered in the middle of the city to be reached evenly by all. A feast was prepared for him in the courtroom of the citadel, and though it was meager compared to times past, it was fit for someone of his station during this time.
Duoreod was never one to take much for himself. He always gave to his people, constantly joining them in the streets to put an end to the monsters and help any who were in need of service. He talked with his councilors about the needs of the city even as they celebrated his return, and gave orders to the general of his armies to send reinforcements to aid in Grindle’s security, not yet knowing of its fall into the hands of the Shadow Queen’s wicked servants.
As he looked about the table at all the leaders of his armies and councilors of the city, he noticed one among them was unfamiliar, and wore a grey hood to hide his face from them it seemed.
“Excuse me,” he said, addressing the visitor, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No,” the stranger replied, looking toward him, “But I have spoken with your father in the past.”
He rose from the table, as if to introduce himself, and cast his hood back from his face. A brilliant light emanated from the being before them, and as he stood he seemed to grow taller and more splendid, almost as if he weren’t touching the floor at all. “Behold!” he cried, his voice rising above all other sounds, and all faces and eyes were drawn toward his splendor and voice, “I am Muari of First Born of the children of time, and I bring news to you in your dark times... Even so, grave are the words which you will hear me speak; for the soldiers which you had placed at Grindle have been destroyed by the servants of the Shadow Queen. Even now she gains power and will surely rise. In this, there is nothing you can do. However, before Doomstriker comes into the world and oblivion takes you all, there is one who will save you. Indeed, I have chosen one in the far east of Aldabaar, even in the distant valley of Narthanger, who dwells among the men of Fourth Hold. Go there, seek out The Fallen of the Adya, and you will have strength enough to withstand the powers that The Watcher from his High Tower has conjured up to destroy you. Do not allow yourselves to pass into oblivion! You have the power at your fingertips to seize your glory, and stay Doomstriker’s Sword of Retrabution! Now my time is done. Farewell!”
And after that a bright light filled the room, even to the point that none could keep their eyes open, and the being before them was gone. All eyes turned to Duoreod, who sat motionless in his chair at the head of the table. He knew, even as Muari had spoken it, that it was true. Grindle had fallen and Milstrom was no more. He had seen the world ripped apart in a vision, had witnessed Doomstriker’s hand, and feared what would come to pass.
You have the power to seize your glory, he heard the words echo in his mind, seek out
The Fallen of the Adya.
“What is to be done?” the councilor to his left demanded, dumbfounded by what they had beheld. “Muari has come to us again! How many decades has it been since last his showed his face to us?”
“This can only mean doom for us all,” said the chief general, “Muari said it himself. Doomstriker is already at the Anvil of Torment!”
“Do not dismay!” cried Duoreod, cutting off any one who was about to speak, “We will not dismay. Or would you rather cower in the shadows, afraid of what The Watcher has placed against us? I, and whoever stays at my side, will fight to the end of this. I will go east and search for The Fallen, the means of our salvation.”
“I will prepare an escort, my liege,” said the chief general.
“No,” Duoreod replied, “I will go alone, and as a common traveler. I’m afraid an escort would draw too much attention. Send no one to Grindle!”
“But do you know the way to Narthanger, or how to find The Fallen among the people you will encounter along the way?” his councilor asked him.
“You make a great point,” he said, nodding his agreement, “I have received word from Brestoe of Valdorin and Port Hemingway that one of The Fallen lives among them, deckhand to one of his ship captains in his merchant fleet. I will seek out The Fallen there, and perhaps he will know of whom the Beloved speaks.”
He stood and walked from the table, making for the anteroom door.
“My lord!” one of them cried at his back, “you do not intend to leave now, do you?”
“I don’t see any reason not to,” Duoreod said over his shoulder, and opened the door to leave, “Muari has given me instruction, and I must obey.”
Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle Page 10