Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  “The Orb has not been used in battle for generations.” He yanked one of Dagorat’s hands away. “We thought it might act against them, but we weren’t sure.”

  “You thought? You might have told me, at least. Maybe we wouldn’t have bothered going out there. Maybe my family would still be alive.”

  “We spent hours reading tomes of old lore and legends. You were already out there when we started suspecting the Orb might do this. Stop trying to find fault in others over Katrina’s death,” Cyril said. “The Golgent are to blame. Not me.” He shook off Dagorat’s other hand and backed away, holding his staff in a defensive position.

  Dagorat dropped his arms and let Cyril go. For now. But he wasn’t convinced. What else had his “friend” known that may have saved his wife? His baby?

  Cyril peered over the parapet, and then pointed his staff at Dagorat. “The battle will engage again soon. Get to your post.”

  ***

  Horns rang across the distance between the city wall and the ungodly host nearly in range. The army of the Golgent lurched forward again toward Ethelton. The ground rumbled under their feet. Two columns of orcs in the center carried a pair of battering rams, headed straight for the portcullis and main gate. Within minutes they had moved back into range of the Easterlain archers and catapults.

  The whoosh of arrows and fireglobes passed over Dagorat’s position behind the battlements. Pierced by cold metal, bathed in spreading fire, screaming goblins dropped to the ground. The orcs behind paid them no mind. They marched over the wounded goblins, stomping them to death under their feet. With that kind of motivation, the goblins kept surging forward toward the walls.

  Signal horns blared again, and the army charged. The rumble of their heavy steps thundered across the plain. Another volley from the Easterlain catapults and bowmen rained on the enemy. Fire and thick glass shards exploded outward on impact. Goblin bodies fell in all directions. Some made it to the walls and launched their spears, but not many found their targets.

  The ranks parted, letting through a mass of orcs carrying battering rams. They charged toward the gate. Moments later, the wall shuddered; heavy logs pounded on the outer portcullis.

  ***

  Cyril called for his fellow mages to target the orcs ramming the portcullis. Above him, Baldomir shouted orders to his signalers. “Catapults traverse to the center!”

  In between the orcs, a number of dark figures sprouted from nowhere. Their hands glowed red, and fire bolts sprang from their fingers to set the great wooden gates ablaze. “Abate the fire of the dark mages!” Cyril yelled. He tried to move to another battlement for a clear shot, but slipped on a slick of blood and fell. His hand rested in a small red pool. Before he could get to his feet, another mage tripped over him, but caught himself with an outstretched arm.

  He extended a hand to help Cyril to his feet. “I’ll need my reflexes before – ” A goblin spear pierced his eye, and the tip protruded out of the back of his head. Chunks of brain and bone splattered from the wound and clung to Cyril’s robes. He squinted at the ruined face. No! Not his old friend. “Cassius!”

  Cassius’ body slumped between the battlements. Cyril’s chin quivered. But there was no time to mourn in the heat of battle. Wrath welled up inside him instead. Without even being conscious of it, he jumped to his feet and let out a roar. He aimed his staff at the bastards below, and his comrades joined him. Kavolet! Small white glowing arrows of light exploded from their staves and sped toward their targets. Each arrow split and multiplied into five as it neared the field. Screams filled the night; dark mages and orcs alike fell to the ground, pierced by the light.

  A stench wafted up over the wall, making Cyril heave. By Korak’s hairy ears, what was that? Neither orc, nor goblin, but worse than both. It must be dark mage blood. All around, his fellows turned ashen; several vomited over the edge while others held back their heaves.

  Cyril tripped over Cassius’ body. The accidental nudge was enough to make the corpse fall over the wall and onto the battering ram with a horrid splat. After a moment, Cyril chanced a glimpse below. All the dark mages anywhere nearby had doubled over, vomiting uncontrollably at the scent of Cassius’ blood. Cyril faced his comrades and raised a fist in triumph. “Cassius still fights for us!” A goblin spear struck the wall, and a stone chip cut his cheek. He ducked behind a battlement. “The dark mages are out of the battle. Bring down the orcs.”

  The mages rallied, and more light missile volleys felled more orcs. From above, the king shouted more orders. “Short range!” Not long after, a battery of arrows flew overhead, and descended like a rain of great thorns upon the front ranks of the enemy. The battering rams thudded to the ground. But other orcs swarmed in, picked up the logs and resumed pounding on the portcullis. Cyril and his companions continued the fight, but no matter how many orcs dropped, more ran in to pick up the rams. Before long, the portcullis gave a last dying groan, and gave way with a crash.

  A mighty cheer went up from below, and the attackers piled through the tunnel to the inner wooden gate. A rhythmic thud shook the walls as they began the assault anew. “Murder holes!” Baldomir ordered from above. A number of men abandoned the battlements, running to obey.

  With most of Cassius’ blood now soaked into the dirt, the dark mages recovered and returned to the fray. A fire bolt struck one of Cyril’s companions, and he fell into the city courtyard. Cyril shot a light arrow in retaliation and felled his foe.

  He searched for another target and spotted another dark mage taking aim at him. An arrow came straight down and pierced his neck. The mage flailed wildly; lightning sprang from his hands and scattered in random directions, striking orcs and other dark mages all around. One brave orc came up from behind and decapitated him, stopping the carnage.

  A great roar came up from below. Defenders through the murder holes had doused the attackers in hot oil. The collective screams of bass-voiced orcs, high-pitched goblins and human mages resonated through the tower in a horrible chord of suffering.

  ***

  Neither a bowman nor a swordsman, Dagorat didn’t know where to position himself. Bodies piled up all around. The goblins below had to throw their spears blindly over the walls for a chance at striking a target, but their vast numbers assured that some found their marks by sheer chance.

  Through the battlements he caught sight of a large tent in the distance. The same one he’d seen on the scouting mission, Lamortain’s command tent. He glanced over at the main gates. Above them, great piles of rocks balanced on the ramparts, poised as if waiting for orders. If released, they would block the gate and keep the Golgent from entering the city. But then there would be no way out, either. Don’t lock us in, Baldomir.

  He spotted a number of soldiers lobbing heavy stones over the wall to crush the goblins, and decided to pitch in with them. As he made his way over, the king’s shouted orders rose above the noise, as did Craicwyth’s taunts at the enemy. “Take that, you filthy pieces of swine shit! Not enough? Enjoy another taste of my generosity!”

  He reached the walkway and searched for a spot. There. Ten yards away, a soldier had fallen, speared in the head. He rushed in to help the unlucky soul’s partner, an unkempt man who bore the brand of a convicted thief on his face. The man gave him a tense smile, and together they grabbed another stone and heaved it over the wall. They fell into a rhythm. Hurl, wait, grab, hurl again. Dagorat’s chest blazed with an odd feeling of belonging. This stranger had become his ally in survival. It was as if he’d found a brother, without even knowing his name. Was this the effect of war? All his problems faded to the background, and his partner and the rocks became his entire world.

  The sickening smell of blood and entrails wafted up to them, but he paid it no mind. “Another stone,” the haggard man bellowed.

  Dagorat’s ears filled with the chaos of battle – catapults, arrows, shouted commands, but above the noise, the screams of the wounded and dying. Forcing it away, he helped his partner pick up another st
one and launch it over the wall.

  “A fine stone that was,” the man yelled. “Did you hear it?” His unkempt beard opened, revealing a mouth with barely any teeth. He sported bloodshot eyes and red swollen nose.

  “No,” Dagorat yelled back.

  “A thud means the stone hit the ground. But if you hear a splatter, you know, like it hit loose mud, then you’ve crushed a goblin’s head.”

  Dagorat laughed. “I’ll trust you at your word.”

  They lobbed another stone over the wall. The man tilted his head and listened for the result. “Another good one!” he yelled.

  “You fight well for a prisoner,” Dagorat said.

  “Prisoner? Ha! That’s exactly why I fight. After this battle, I’ll be pardoned and freed.” He shouted at the next pair of men down the walkway. “Throw three stones as far as you can.”

  They launched a stone further from the wall, straining Dagorat’s arms. “That’s one,” the man said. “By the way, I’m Bandoras, rascal and rogue.” He pointed to the brand on his face.

  “I’m Dagorat.”

  They heaved another far stone. “That’s two,” Bandoras said.

  “Too bad you were caught.”

  “I should’ve fled the kingdom like Blackmond Moonshadow did,” Bandoras said. “That’s three.” He yelled to their neighbors again. “Now let the next one roll over the wall.” They picked up another stone. “Throwing them out far makes the goblins move up and cling to the base of the wall.” They placed the stone on top of the battlement and let it roll off. Bandoras placed a hand behind his ear and listened for the result. “Aye, did you hear that?” He cackled and bounced, then broke into song.

  These fine stones

  Break their bones

  Death comes from the sky

  It’s never dull

  To crack a skull

  And hear those goblins die

  “Let’s do that again.” Bandoras giggled like a child with a new toy.

  “I think you’ve been in the dungeons far too long,” Dagorat said.

  “But I’ll be free after today! Free to hunt down that bastard Blackmond Moonshadow. An oath to myself, sworn every day in the dungeons.”

  Great. Shoved the Grand Abbot, angered the king, fought with Cyril, and now my new friend here wants to kill me. I just bring out the best in people.

  ***

  Cyril stumbled on the corpses all around him. Only one other mage still stood, and he looked exhausted. Cyril made a decision and grabbed his last companion’s shoulder. “Go!” he yelled. “We can do no more here!” The mage stared at him a moment, eyes hollow, then bowed his head and made for the stairs to the courtyard. Adrenaline pumping, Cyril clambered over the bodies and climbed the ladder to the king’s command center. No sooner had he gotten to the small stone room than the other commanders arrived on his heels.

  “My liege, the gates will give way soon,” Garstill yelled. “We must release the stones.”

  Lakewood stepped up. “No, Sire. The stones will indeed keep them out, but they’ll also lock us in.”

  “True, Father,” Kasomir said. “We won’t be able to meet them on the plain.”

  Plantagia moved close to her father’s side. “Our sworn duty is to protect the city and its people.”

  The king held up his hand, and the others fell silent. He peered through the window at the Golgent and the remainder of their still-vast army. Thuds from the battering rams shook the small space. He moved over to where a map of the city hung on a wall, and stared at it for some moments. “What if we were to let them in?” he mused aloud.

  Let them in? Had Cyril heard that right? By the expressions on the others’ faces, he had indeed.

  Baldomir continued. “Hear me out. On the plain, we would have to face their entire host. But with the streets barricaded, we’ll only have to face a small portion of their army at a time.” He pointed to several larger intersections on the map. “Reinforce the barricades here, here, and there. Make them bottleneck, and pick them off. What do you think, gentlemen?”

  A thoughtful silence ensued. Then Lakewood shook his head. “Don’t let our city be soiled, Sire.”

  “If only one barricade should be breached…there’s nothing to stop them,” Garstill added.

  The king rubbed his chin, then slumped his shoulders. “You’re right. And you” – he hugged his daughter – “are also right. Our foremost duty is to protect the city and my subjects.” He regarded his signalers, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes tight.

  Cyril squinted. He couldn’t bear Baldomir’s next order. With the stones piled behind the gates, a prolonged siege would ensue. Even Lhinthel bowed her head.

  The king raised his hand, ready to have his signaler wave the pennant of blue and white diagonal stripes, which would send forth the cascade of rocks to seal the gates. Kasomir released an angry moan. Lakewood clutched the prince’s arm.

  Baldomir’s hand tightened, as if fighting against himself. His arm relaxed; he turned his back to the signaler and brought his hand to his side. Kasomir and Lakewood sighed in relief. The king spun around and beckoned his advisers closer. “Some of you think we should seal the gate. Others want me to attack, and meet the enemy face-to-face.” A pregnant pause ensued. “We’ll engage both plans.”

  Befuddled faces met Baldomir’s eyes. The king stood tall. “We’ll open the gates and greet them with shock-ballistae. Then we’ll set the bulls upon them. Pikemen will follow the bulls, and cavalry will follow the pikemen.”

  Kasomir stepped up. “And once we’re outside, the gates will close and the stones will be released.”

  Lakewood’s hand covered his face, rubbing his forehead and temples before moving to his chin. “But my liege, that means victory or death.”

  “Is that not the meaning of all battles?” Baldomir rushed to the window. “We’ll take the battle to the plain and crush them. Bring shock-ballistae to the gates. Commanders, gather your soldiers and cavalry.” He rifled through some papers on a nearby table and pulled out a map of the plain, marked with arrows and troop placements. “Do you all remember when we drew this? This is our battle plan once outside.”

  “We remember it well,” Lakewood said.

  Swelled chests and proud postures filled the room. Cyril took comfort in the fact that these leaders stood proud and confident, with a glint of steel in their eyes. These men would protect the city to the last strand of their strength. He stood a little taller himself, as if a heavy weight had dropped from his shoulders.

  Lhinthel grinned. “A bold maneuver. Truly, you bear the blood of Etheldreda in your veins.”

  Plantagia flipped her shield from her back.

  “Not you, daughter,” Baldomir said.

  She crossed her arms. “But I must go.”

  “No. You must stay. If we should fall, someone must lead. Someone who can command must remain behind these walls. Someone who can take the crown. Someone who has the respect of our soldiers.”

  The princess stared defiantly at her father, but he did not look away. In the end, a curt snap of her chin relayed her bitter agreement.

  Lakewood retrieved different pennants and relayed the king’s new orders. Garstill moved next to him to watch the muster below. The chaos of preparations erupted anew in the courtyard as the king approached Lhinthel. “I can’t order you to follow me.”

  “We are here to fight by your side,” she said.

  He offered her a grave nod. The room filled with an odd calm while they waited for the regiments below to get into position. Plantagia busied herself inspecting her brother’s armor, while Lhinthel checked her arrows. They watched the movement below, as the gates shuddered under assault. With the bulls, pikemen and cavalry in position, the king led the way below. The group clambered down from the observation room to the main bailey. Prince Kasomir and his father mounted their warsteeds at the head of the heavy cavalry.

  Pressed against the wall out of the way, Cyril committed their faces to memory, in case
he never saw them again.

  CHAPTER 25

  BULLS, BALLISTAE, AND BANDORAS

  DAGORAT STARED AT BANDORAS. “WHY kill Blackmond Moonshadow? What did he ever do to you?”

  “Were it not for him, I never would’ve turned thief. That’s two,” Bandoras said, watching the rock fall out of sight. “So I never would’ve been captured and thrown into the dungeons. That’s three.” They picked up the next stone and let it roll over the top of the battlement. “That’s one. I saw him once.”

  Dagorat turned his face away.

  “I can see you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you.” He kept his face down, staring at the next stone.

  “He rode into our village with food and coins for the poor. Oof. That’s two stones. The whole village cheered him and I thought ‘that’s the man I want to be.’ That’s three.”

  A great commotion from behind drowned out the screams from outside. Dagorat glanced below into the outer bailey. The bulls and cavalry were lining up. “Look. They’re heading out.” His opportunity to catch Lamortain had come, if he moved quickly.

  Bandoras grunted, struggling by himself with a new stone. Dagorat helped him get it over the wall and said, “That’s the last one, my friend. I must ride out with them.” He squinted and found the Golgent command tent again, far to the rear of their forces. Lamortain. The rage which had lain dormant for the last hour fired in his veins anew. He charged down the ramparts to the main bailey. Spotting a familiar face near the rear of the cavalry, he ran up to him. “Lyghur! I need a horse.”

  “There are none to spare. If you must, follow us and take a horse from a felled rider.” He paused and stared at the gate, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty.”

  At the front of the formation, the king raised his sword high in the air. “Forever will your children and grandchildren be safe for what we do this day. May The One true God be with you all!”