The Death of Promises (42 page)

T
he priests’ shield was weakening. It no longer harmed those that struck it, so Trummug had every orc in his army hurling his weapon at the shimmering white magic. Velixar laughed, enjoying every second.

“Let the dead rise,” he whispered. Karak’s power flooded his being. He shouted out the words of his spell. Over a thousand dead bodies of orcs, hyena-men, and bird-men rose from the ground, held sway by his command. A chill swept through Qurrah at the sight.

“Beautiful,” Tessanna whispered.

In his joy, Velixar could wait no longer. A solid black beam shot from his hands and into the white shield, which flickered and bowed inward against the barrage. The ground shook as the priests’ last protection for the city broke. The orcs needed no command. Into the city they poured, where the priests waited. Their strength was spent. Their role was played. They raised their arms to the sky and let the axes fall, knowing the Golden Eternity waited for them.

Velixar gave his last warning to the city.

“Your walls are breached. Your city is lost. Come out of your homes and kneel. Cast aside your weapons, your faith, and your lives. Serve Karak as you were always meant to serve.”

The thousand undead shouted the name ‘Karak’ in perfect unison, the sound horrifying to every soul within the walls. Velixar cast one last spell on his orc army. They heard his voice in their ears, and the power of his command was great. Those that kneeled, lived. Those that did not, died. The orcs obeyed. The slaughter began. Those hiding behind locked doors and barred windows lived as long as the barricades held, which under the biting axes and raging muscle of the horde, was not long. In minutes, the entire west side of the city was filled with blood and the cries of the dying.

S
hit,” Harruq said as he heard Velixar’s message. All around were the people of Neldar. They were terrified, and every one was filled with an instinct to flee. They had nowhere to go, no safe haven. And then they started kneeling. More than half cast down what meager weapons they had and kneeled. A few prayed. Others just waited for death.

“Cowards!” Harruq screamed to them. “Karak brings you nothing! He’s no savior. He doesn’t know mercy!”

“They’re just scared,” Aurelia said. “Put me down, Har.”

He did as he was told. The sight of so many on their knees filled his blood with anger. How many had died to protect their lives? Would they blaspheme against the sacrifice made for them by their worship of a death god?

“Aurry,” Harruq asked, “can you make my voice loud, like his?” He gestured west, toward the general direction Velixar’s voice had come.

“I can,” Tarlak said. “What you have in mind?”

“We go east,” he said. “And we go fast.”

He ran down the street, not caring if they caught up. His heart was racing. He could hear it throbbing in his ears. All about men, women, and children were opening their doors and kneeling. He wanted to shout and curse their names, but he did not. There were those loyal to Ashhur, he knew. He would call them to him. Those with the will to live. Those with the courage to fight.

Since the eastern side had no gate, and therefore no traffic, the more wealthy had built their homes within. Harruq watched as the homes grew nicer and the streets better cared for. At the end of the road he saw the wall, looming high above the homes. A glance behind him showed Tarlak and Aurelia both running after. When he reached the wall he stopped, not the least bit winded.

“Cast the spell,” he said. Tarlak glared, still trying to catch his breath. He put his hand on Harruq’s neck and then muttered the spell. The half-orc felt a tingle in his throat and assumed it ready. He sheathed his swords, cupped his hands to his mouth, and began shouting.

“People of Neldar! Come to the east gate! If you want to live, if you want to fight, then here is your salvation. Come east! Come east!”

He turned back to Tarlak and nodded. The mage snapped his fingers, ending the spell.

“So,” Harruq said. “You two ready to make us a gate?”

He backed away as the two casters put their hands upon the stone. They muttered amongst each other, picking a spell to cast in unison. When decided, they began. Words of magic flowed from their lips. The wall shook as invisible waves assaulted the stone. Harruq watched as Aurelia grimaced, pain etched on her every feature. His heart ached at the sight. Their spell finished. The stone exploded outward, leaving a giant gap in the wall. Six men could walk side by side through if their shoulders touched.

The last of the rubble had not yet hit the ground when Aurelia collapsed to her knees. Harruq drew his swords and let her be. He faced the west. The road was broad. Many people could travel through. How many would come, though? How many?

“I’ll be fine,” Aurelia said as Tarlak helped her to her feet. “My head, I just can’t think straight, I can’t…give me a moment.” She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Tarlak rubbed his temples, knowing how she felt. Near the end he had almost fainted. He doubted he could throw a fireball larger than his thumb.

“So we guard our new gate,” Tarlak asked as the first few survivors came running toward them.

“
I
guard our new gate,” Harruq corrected. “You two aid the refugees. They’ll need protected.” To emphasize this, he pointed to the ring of dark paladins and clerics that encircled the city. “They’ll kill any that try to cross.”

More people arrived. They held little, a few random provisions or possessions dear to them. The death and carnage on the opposite side of the city seemed worlds away.

“You be careful,” Aurelia said, kissing Harruq before taking Tarlak’s hand.

“Don’t do anything dumb,” Tarlak said, tipping his hat. The two followed the fleeing civilians out. Harruq did not watch them go. He didn’t want the distraction, nor the worry. Blades in hand, he watched for the first of the orcs to arrive, all the while screaming above the crowd.

“Come east! Come east!”

C
ome east?” Velixar asked as he heard Harruq’s rallying cry.

“There is no east gate,” Qurrah said. “Has he lost his mind?”

Once the entire orc army had funneled inside the city, Velixar ordered his undead to enter. They poured in through the broken west gate like a river of rotten flesh. Qurrah did not watch, instead focused on a dark paladin rider arriving. The paladin pulled heavily on his reigns to halt his horse.

“The people of Veldaren are fleeing,” the rider said. “There is a gap in the east wall. One of their mages must have created it.”

Velixar looked at his undead entering the city and wondered. “It is too far around to seal the other side,” he said. “Push our forces harder. We will overcome them from behind.”

The man in black turned to Tessanna.

“Yes, lovely?” she asked him.

“Fetch Bloodheel,” he ordered her.

She placed two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Neither Qurrah nor Velixar heard a sound, but the five-hundred wolf-men waiting behind them howled. From the giant pack a towering behemoth of fur, muscle, and fang emerged, his entire body decorated with the bones of dead foes he had eaten.

“We come to fight,” Bloodheel said, his rumbling voice deeper than Velixar’s. “But we truly came to feast. The city is bleeding. When will we taste blood?”

In response, Velixar pointed past the southern tip of the city’s walls.

“The people of Neldar are fleeing the city to the east. Unprotected. Unprepared. Slaughter them all.”

Bloodheel arched and howled to the morning sky, his yellow eyes shimmering with hungry lust.

“We will not fail you,” he said. He dropped to all fours and began running. On either side the rest of the pack passed, howling and drooling.

“The carnage will be complete,” Velixar said, a smile growing on his ever-changing face. “Praise be to Karak.”

“Praise, indeed,” Qurrah said as the wolf-men vanished around the walls of the city.

W
ell, here we are,” Lathaar said as they arrived at the fountain in the center of the city. “Ready for some fun?”

“Always am,” Haern said. He leapt to a nearby home and kicked off an open window to propel himself to the roof. From there he scanned the major roads in all directions. Thousands of people filled the streets, herding to the center and then turning east toward the supposed safety and freedom there.

“You see anything,” Jerico shouted over the commotion of the frightened people. Beside him Mira clutched at her robes, her arms crossed and her hands shaking. The fear around her was leaking in, but the bloodlust from afar was worse. When Jerico saw her tired, crying face he only wiped the tears away with his thumb and smiled.

Haern turned his eyes west. All he saw was a sea of gray flesh and burning buildings. Its progress was steady. Every home was broken into and its occupants slaughtered. The orcs who couldn’t find a warm body to butcher moved further into the city. The bulk of the army was on the main roads, but like a disease it had spread throughout the entirety of the western half.

“Almost time,” Haern shouted back. He took three steps and then leapt to the top of the statue. From there he wrapped himself in his cloaks and waited. Swarms of men and women passed, the panic on their faces obvious.

The orcs’ arrival was sudden. Thirty came barreling near, their axes and swords cleaving innocent flesh. Behind them, the few remaining humans knelt and cried out to Karak for salvation. The sound of their pleading was far worse to Haern than any scream of pain from the dying. He jumped, activating the power of his ring as he did. His momentum forward continued, even after his body vanished in a puff of shadow and reappeared ten feet west. He descended on the orcs as a swirling gray death. Two had their throats cut as he landed. A twist, a step, and two more dropped, tendons cut and necks bleeding. The orcs surrounded him, but the assassin had begun his cloak dance. The first to try a wild chop in the center of gray cloaks had three of his fingers severed. The axe dropped to the ground, soaked in blood. The orc tried to retrieve it with his good hand. He died.

“For Ashhur!” Lathaar shouted, slashing the nearest orc across the shoulder. They had encountered no resistance since entering the city. They were not prepared for the Eschaton that had gathered in the center. Most had their backs turned to them, fighting against Haern as he slaughtered their kind from within. When Lathaar tore through their ranks, the orcs knew their error. Any who turned to face the paladin felt steel biting into their backs from Haern. They screamed and fled, wanting no part of either.

“The west is dead,” Mira said, watching them go. “Those who remain alive have given themselves to Karak.”

She spread her arms, gathering her power. Her eyes closed as she focused on the magic that dwelled within her. From the sky a giant meteor of fire materialized, traveling at blistering speeds. It slammed into the street, crushing the orcs with the force of its impact. Houses beside it crumbled. Dust filled the air, blocking all vision of the road.

“South!” Jerico shouted, pushing his way through the crowd with his shield. More orcs had come, flooding the streets from the back ways of the western quarter. The paladin watched in horror as the orcs butchered over a hundred unarmed men and women. Only nine lived, all falling to their knees and shouting Karak’s name at the top of their lungs. Jerico felt his mace shaking in his hand at the sight. The last of the human survivors ran past, and only he stood before the gray mass.