“Orcs. She was with child.” Dagorat’s throat started to close, and he had to choke out the rest around heaving breaths. “A child. Do something. Mix a potion and…and bring them back.”
Cyril closed his eyes in anguish. “If only I could. But nobody can bring back the dead.”
Those words shattered his last, desperate hope. Tears cascaded down his face, and Cyril helped ease him back to the ground before he fell. As he sat and rocked, the howling despair gave way to a fury so vast, it wanted to explode from his chest. The rage beat back the misery. His tears dried up and he stood, muscles tight in readiness. If he couldn’t get his family back, he’d make sure the Golgent paid for their deaths. With fingers balled into a fist, he resolved to serve them a banquet of sharpened steel. Every luscious blow dealt to the Golgent, whether by sword, fist, or dirk, would be seasoned with vengeance and dripping with a sauce of blood.
***
Dagorat stumbled into the throne room to find it crowded with ragged-looking scouts, dispensing their information to the king. A huge map on the central table bore charcoal marks and arrows as the king and his commanders adjusted their battle plans. Baldomir eyed Lyghur. “Are you sure there were no great wagons? Perhaps laden with planks and beams of wood?”
“No, Sire. I saw nothing like that,” Lyghur answered. “They’ve brought no supplies for ladders or siege engines.”
“They intend a direct attack, then. Just as well. Their confidence shall be their downfall,” Baldomir said.
“They’re relying on the Orb to do battle for them,” Lyghur said with blank stare. “How can we fight such a weapon?”
“Better figure things out soon. They’ll be here at sundown,” Dagorat said. All gazes snapped toward him.
Baldomir stroked his chin. “How do you know this?”
Dagorat examined the maps. If he looked anyone in the eye, he would choke up again. “A Golgent swine told me.”
“Well, then,” Lakewood said, “we best plan for a conventional attack. They’ll send their forces at us in reverse order of importance. Goblins in front as fodder, then orcs, and then men. They’ll want us to exhaust our efforts on the most expendable.”
The conversation faded into the background as Dagorat studied the maps. Lamortain. The one Hamish named. He shared more blame than the minions under his command. His vengeance focused on the darkest mage. Cut off the head of the Golgent. To reach the leader and kill him might satisfy his wrath. Not to mention the goblins and orcs he’d have to slay along the way. There must be a way through their formations. Dagorat didn’t care about the danger, as long as he spilled Lamortain’s blood in the end. Even if the Golgent managed to capture Ethelton, the bastard wouldn’t live to celebrate his victory.
Something immense, big enough to block the sunlight through the window, passed by in the street outside. Dagorat strode over to the window and peered out. Down below, men drove a team of straining oxen, hauling a giant catapult toward the outskirts of the city.
Baldomir edged up next to him. “We have three of them. Combined with our archers and fireglobes, we shall rain death on the enemy.”
A hint of a smile – the first since Katrina’s death – grew across Dagorat’s face.
***
The thick black canvas of the command wagon protected Lamortain, Xantasia, and the other dark mages from the light of day. Lamortain grinned at the others. “With the Orb to aid us, tonight’s battle shall be easy and swift. And afterward, we will rest and relax in the splendor of Baldomir’s bedchamber.”
Xantasia grinned and stretched out on a stack of furs. “Right after we execute the royal family. Perhaps we should make Baldomir watch his children burn first.” The others cackled in approval. “Think of the divine justice of it all,” she continued. “Does it not delight your imagination? The Easterlains will be destroyed by their own mighty weapon.”
Guilder cringed. Deep within him, his soul mourned the thought of their success. How could he let this happen? But the small, hated voice inside him insisted he let it be. His masters’ happiness secured his own safety. He composed himself, keeping an expressionless face, and refilled Xantasia’s goblet. The wagon lurched and he almost spilled the wine.
Xantasia rolled onto her stomach. “May we use fire, my lord?”
Lamortain collapsed his bloated figure next to her. “Yes, my dear. Fire will make for a better display at night.”
She brought the goblet to her mouth. “Will it be my fire?”
“Of course, my dear.” Lamortain guzzled the last of his own goblet. “Who else would I choose?” He stretched out his arm for a refill.
Guilder obeyed the implicit command and poured Lamortain more wine. He retreated back to his corner and sank into dark, horrid thoughts. Every so often, one of the Golgent’s slaves tried to escape to Ethelton. Whether they made it or not, no one ever knew, but it didn’t matter. The city remained the only shining hope for Guilder and his fellow slaves. Sometimes, the knowledge of an oasis of civilization close by was the lone spark of hope keeping him sane. What would be left for him, if Lamortain captured the city? No hopes. No dreams. No purpose for living.
***
Dagorat climbed the stone spiral stairs of the palace’s central tower. He set foot on the top floor and leaned on the windowsill, admiring the view of the vast plains below. A blood-red sky accompanied the setting sun. Fitting, he thought. Lamortain’s blood would run red this night. He mulled over his plan for getting to the sorcerer. Over and over, he rehearsed various scenarios in his mind. None of them ended well for him, but a long life no longer mattered.
Directly below, the city awaited the coming onslaught in tense silence. Baldomir’s commanders had deployed to different sectors, flying their own distinctive pennants. Large groups of armored men stood in loose formation near the banners, talking in low voices, leaning on spears, checking bows one last time. Occasionally, someone barked out a strained laugh, but it never lasted long.
Craicwyth’s voice rose above the ambient noise. “Just wait ’til they get a taste of my handiwork.”
Dagorat glanced toward the familiar voice and spotted his friend amongst the archers. He waved to Craicwyth to wish him luck but the bowman didn’t notice. Instead, he was demonstrating one of his bows to an Elf. Upon closer scrutiny, Dagorat realized that many Elves were dispersed throughout the contingent.
In the courtyards near the city walls, three catapults stood ready, manned by crews of ten. Piles of rocks and fireglobes sat nearby. Soldiers kept busy, filling the glass balls with oil, and stuffing soaked rags in the tops. Even the rocks received a coating of oil. Torchmen stood ready to ignite the payloads before launch. On the battlements above the main gate, Cyril waited with a group of Ethelton’s mages. What they planned to do, Dagorat had no idea.
A group of monks recited prayers near the gates, Liberon among them. Their chant implored The One to take in those soldiers who would fall in battle this evening. Have they included Katrina among the fallen? He shook off the thought. Surely Liberon had done so.
Good lad, that one. Dagorat smirked, thinking about how the monk bested Blackfang’s thugs on the road. Would he be fighting tonight? Maybe it was better if he didn’t. Let him stay innocent for a while longer.
The sun sank behind the horizon, the moon rose full and bright, and still Dagorat hadn’t moved. Shivering in the chill of evening, he pulled his cloak around him. A faint rumble sounded in the distance, teasing the edge of his hearing. He searched the sky for storm clouds, but found only twinkling stars. The rumble grew louder. Dagorat shifted his focus down toward the edge of the plain. On the horizon, a thin black line formed. Ever so faintly, the noise coalesced into the march of armored feet and the clash of steel. The Golgent forces had arrived.
Dagorat bolted down the stairs and out into the street. The silence had given way to a frantic but organized commotion. Commanders Lakewood and Garstill shouted orders, positioning their men to flank the great doors. Lakewood took the left, w
hile Garstill took the right. Bowmen filled the courtyard, readying their weapons for the assault. The catapult crews loaded the great machines with a combination of heavy rocks and fireglobes. On the walls, more archers pounded up the stone steps and arrayed themselves across the battlements. Dagorat scanned above the gate and found Cyril again. He followed the archers up, elbowing his way through to his last friend. “Where’s the king?”
“Above us,” Cyril said, pointing to a ladder leading up into a watchtower. Dagorat climbed up and passed into a sizeable stone room where windows opened onto a panoramic view of the plains, the city, and the battlements on either side. The king stood with Lhinthel at the window overlooking the plain. At the other openings, men held pennants at the ready. Kasomir and Plantagia, both in their armor, hovered behind their father. When Baldomir noticed Dagorat, he gave a curt nod and moved aside.
Dagorat peered out toward the plain. The Golgent army had come to a halt about two hundred yards away. The front regiments of goblins stood out of range of the Easterlain bowmen. Or so they thought. He hoped Craicwyth’s bows live up to the bowyer’s promises.
“They think they’re safe,” Baldomir said. “One flight of arrows from all bowmen, then a volley from the catapults.”
Two of the men extended pennants out the windows – one with a yellow circle on a red field, and the other with red and white stripes. Immediately, the commanders below started to bark orders. Dagorat moved to the rear window to watch.
“Nock!” With that command, each bowman yanked an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow. “Draw!” Bowstrings stretched taught, arrowheads pointed up and over the wall. “Loose!”
A great whoosh filled the air. Not long after, three heavy clunks sounded as the mighty war machines flung their deadly loads over the walls. Dagorat joined the king at the front window as lit fireglobes sailed overhead, whistling merrily on their way to deliver justice.
Arrows found their targets and fireglobes smashed against the ground, exploding in a hail of death. Goblins shrieked, loathsome little bodies on fire, charring, cooking. The carnage below filled him with savage glee. Good. Let those evil things burn.
In the courtyard, successive pings rang out as the catapult crews cranked the great arms back down. A commander shouted to the bowmen, trying to be heard above the screams outside the walls.
A small white light pierced the chaos, a faint dot in the rear of the enemy ranks.
***
A Golgent general closed a small flap in the hastily erected command tent. “Our front ranks stand at the ready, within range of their volleys.”
Lamortain took Xantasia by the hand. Together, they left the tent, Guilder trailing in their wake. A squad of soldiers waited for them near a wagon with an unusually tall load. “Uncover the Orb,” the sorcerer ordered the men. Obediently, they stripped the canvas from the wagon, revealing a white sphere atop a golden column. A golden bowl covered one side of it, tilted at an angle. In the darkness, the Orb glowed faintly. Guilder had imagined it would be more gaudy and grand. All this fuss over a simple glass ball?
“See its power. See how it glows,” Lamortain said with a satisfied smirk. “Aim it directly at their gate.” While the soldiers hastened to obey, he opened a scroll and recited:
Glorious Orb of creation’s first light
Shining pure and gleaming white
We invoke thy strength and thy might
Send forth thy storm of divine light
To strike thine enemies from our sight!
The Orb’s glow brightened. A low hum sounded. Guilder examined the thing. Yes, it was humming. The light and sound intensified. Brighter. Louder. He didn’t know whether he should shield his eyes or cover his ears. He tried to do both, hunching his shoulders up and raising a hand over his brow. Yet he couldn’t resist. Guilder peered through separated fingers. All around him, Lamortain and his lackeys did the same.
At the moment when Guilder thought his eardrums might burst, the noise ceased. Two seconds of calm stasis ensued, before a storm of divine light exploded from the Orb. The beam spread as it raced toward the city, a flat white triangle with the Orb as the point of origin.
The light hit the distant city walls and groaned a low bass tone. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. The humming stopped. Slowly, cautiously, Guilder straightened up. The Orb remained on its pillar, quiet, dark. Innocuous once again.
Lamortain unshielded his eyes and squinted toward the city. “Their gate remains!” With a raised fist he screamed at the night sky. “How can this be?”
“And thousands of our soldiers are gone,” another dark mage said, pointing to the city gates.
Guilder followed his master’s gaze. A triangular swath of mist cut through the center of the army, where thousands of orcs had stood mere seconds before. At the periphery of the mist, soldiers backed away in fear. The Orb…the Orb had done that? He eyed the sphere with a new respect.
“This can’t be happening,” Lamortain moaned. “Why?” With an extended stiff arm, he pointed a finger at a dark mage. “You! You assured me the Orb would destroy them.” He grabbed the mage at the base of his throat. Guilder looked away but couldn’t avoid hearing the strangled chokes or the thump as the body hit the ground.
Xantasia backed away, eyes wide. “Strike thine enemies from thy sight,” she muttered. “Do you not understand, my Lord? You can’t wield the Orb as a weapon after all. It decides for itself who its enemies are.”
Lamortain crumpled the scroll into a ball and flung it to the ground. “Worthless!” He clasped his hands, visibly seething. “All that time, all that effort, for nothing!” He lashed out at an unlucky servant nearby, bathing him in lightning. While the man writhed in pain on the ground, Lamortain took some deep breaths and regained control of himself. “No matter. We have enough soldiers left to smother them yet. Bring up the battering rams at once.”
CHAPTER 24
WEAPONS OF LIGHT
HORNS BLASTED A SINGLE UNWAVERING tone that wafted across the great plain. The Golgent army backed away out of range and closed their ranks, filling the gap where the Orb had obliterated their center.
Some of the archers along the parapet leaned against the battlements or rested on their bows. Others cupped their hands around their mouths and shouted obscenities toward the enemy. A murmur of ambient voices filled the courtyard behind the gate as word spread.
But in the tower, things remained tense. Several commanders, along with Kasomir and Plantagia, had taken advantage of the quiet to confer with the king. Dagorat moved out of the way and stood quietly in the corner. Through a window, Baldomir studied the Golgent’s maneuvers. “That’s not a retreat. They’re regrouping.”
“They’re moving out of range while they determine their next move,” Lakewood said.
“Whatever they do, we must be prepared to react quickly,” Kasomir added.
“The Orb has worked against them.” Baldomir’s fingers tapped on the sill. “Hmm. No ladders, no siege engines.”
“And not enough great trees within a hundred miles for them to construct any,” Garstill said. “Let that stand as a testament to the military genius of our forebears.”
“But there are smaller ones they might use,” Kasomir said.
Baldomir regarded his son. “Yes. Let me hear if we are of the same mind. What do you think they’ll do next?”
“They’ll find some trees and make battering rams. Unless they already brought some,” the prince said. “They’ll come at the gate, relying on the vastness of their numbers. It won’t matter if we kill the ram bearers, more will always be there to take it up.”
Lakewood bobbed his head. “That’s what I would do.”
The ladder groaned, accompanied by a great huffing and puffing. A moment later, Grand Abbot Clementon climbed into the upper room in triumph. “Did you see?” he wheezed. “Did you all see the power of the Orb?”
“Just as you predicted,” Baldomir said.
Clementon
affirmed the compliment with a knowing grin. “Indeed. I have high hopes for the final destruction of the Golgent this day.”
Hot rage rushed through Dagorat’s blood. Predicted? They knew the Orb would decimate the Golgent troops? His scouting mission – all for nothing? The rage exploded. He slammed into Clementon and pinned him against the wall. The room fell silent. “You knew the Orb would work against them,” he snarled, and shifted his attention to the king. “And you were never worried about their strength. Yet you sent us out there to die. My wife, my child, gone. For nothing. Nothing!” he roared.
Lakewood and Garstill pulled him off the abbot and pinned him against the opposite wall. Baldomir regarded him with pity, and then pointed at the enemy below. “Save your rage for them.” He released a heavy sigh. “I can’t express the depth of my sympathy for you. But your mission was necessary. Because of you, we knew when they were coming. People die in war, and neither anger nor sorrow will bring them back.”
Dagorat forced himself to relax. If he died here, he wouldn’t get to kill Lamortain. He stopped resisting, and the commanders let him go. On the other side of the room, Clementon swallowed hard. “We told the king about our suspicions, but they were mere suspicions. Not facts.”
“We?” Dagorat tilted his head.
“Your friend, Master Cyril. We conferred together,” Clementon said. “He’s rather knowledgeable in the ways of history and lore.”
Dagorat’s soul trembled, the core of his being shattered. Cyril, too? As if the loss of Katrina hadn’t devastated him enough. Now he’d been betrayed by the only friend that fate had left to him. Blood seething, he grunted at Clementon and stalked toward the ladder. He climbed down to the platform where the mages had gathered.
“What did you do?” Dagorat grabbed Cyril by the collar and pulled him away from the group. Bemused, the other mages let them go.
Cyril’s brows knitted into one. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You knew about the Orb. Clementon just told me. You knew it would work in our favor. That we didn’t need to scout. Yet you sent me and Katrina out there. And now she’s dead.” Sobs threatened again, but he held them back. Barely.
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