The Death of Promises (43 page)

“Death’s waiting,” Jerico said, slamming his shield with his mace. “Come and you shall receive.”

The orcs charged. He blocked the first strike against his shield, smiling at the sound of the weapon shattering. He stepped back and swung his mace, cracking the orc’s skull open. Two more rushed, but he parried both their attacks, stepped closer to the first, and then slammed his shield across its face. Holy power flared, killing it instantly. Jerico backed off, rotating from side to side, letting the orcs endure the pain they felt every time their swords or axes struck his shield. Several tried to run past to flank, but every time he’d spin and slam Bonebreaker into their gut or face.

He was nearing the fountain when he saw a gray blur fly overhead. Jerico charged, knowing all too well what that meant. Howls of pain came from the pack as Haern did what he did best. Jerico struck down the two nearest, slammed aside a third with his shield, and then met Haern amid the bodies.

“Well met,” Jerico said to Haern before running toward the larger group of orcs further down the street. At least thirty by his count. Probably more. He shouted the name of his god and met the charge. His legs braced, his shield raised, he felt the tremendous weight slam against him. Axes cut across his platemail. Fingers pried at his eyes and the open areas of his armor. The orcs tried to bury him beneath their feet, but he was a pillar of stone that would not be broken.

As the last of their momentum died, he screamed in mindless agony. He could feel the blood running down his body, much of it his. And then he pushed them back. A glowing image of his shield filled the entire street, its light blinding even in the morning sun. When he stepped forward the shield struck. The orcs shrieked as it crushed their bodies, broke their bones, and knocked them hundreds of feet back as a pile of twisted corpses that rained upon the street.

Jerico staggered, his strength fading. When he turned to the fountain he saw Lathaar making his stand against streams of orcs. Mira fought behind him, killing tens at a time with fireballs and lances of ice. Haern weaved around the sorceress, taking down any who avoided Lathaar and tried to attack the unarmored girl.

“Too many,” Jerico shouted as he ran to them. “We go to Harruq!”

Over a hundred filled the southern roads. Some approached them at the center, while others continued east, slaughtering those who refused to kneel. He looked to the north, expecting the same scene, but instead he saw soldiers marching in rows. Their swords were drawn and their armor was caked with blood. Antonil led them.

“Pull back!” Antonil shouted to the Eschaton. “We will cover your retreat.”

Lathaar swung side to side, forcing his opponents to step back, and that room was all he needed. He turned and ran east, grabbing Mira’s hand as he did. Haern spun his cloaks to hide his form and then cut down the first two who tried to run past. Before he was buried by the orcs, he activated the magic in his ring and reappeared on the other side of the fountain.

Antonil’s men were down to two-hundred, having lost twenty during their march south from the castle. He positioned five at the start of the eastern road, saluting them with his sword.

“Hold,” was all he told them. The men saluted and then turned to the mass of orcs. They locked together their shields, braced themselves, and prepared for death.

“They’ll be slaughtered,” Mira said as they ran.

“They sacrifice so we may live,” Antonil said. “And may Ashhur forgive me for demanding such a thing from them.”

The girl pulled her hand free from Lathaar’s grip and turned back to the five. The orcs pushed and slammed against them, but they held firm, stabbing over their shields and pushing back the greater numbers. When over a hundred more orcs neared, the men only raised their swords high and cheered.

Mira did not understand what she was witnessing, did not understand the valor and courage driving them, but she knew she would honor it. They would not be defiled and made to suffer. She hurled a giant fireball as they were buried beneath the wave of orcs. It turned them to ash and slaughtered more than forty of the orcs they had fought.

“Come on,” Lathaar said, taking her hand once more. An army on their heels, they ran.

S
tay hidden among the people,” Tarlak told Aurelia as they hurried away from Veldaren. “If we can catch them off guard, the better.”

The sea of refugees neared the circle of priests and dark paladins. A hundred were ahead of them, their legs fueled by fear and adrenaline. Their hearts in their throats, Tarlak and Aurelia watched as the first reached the black circle. The men and women tried running past. The dark paladins drew their swords, offered a prayer of thanks to Karak, and then slaughtered any who neared. Bodies piled at their feet, killed by their burning black blades. The priests poured prayers to Karak and touched those near them with their hands. Horrible pain flooded those inflicted, and wounds like knife cuts covered their bodies. Of the first hundred, only twenty made it past alive.

“Butchers,” Tarlak said. “Take out the priests first.”

“I’ll try,” Aurelia said. The two picked a target and attacked. Tarlak’s priest was caught unaware and without any wards for protection. A bolt of lightning struck him square in the chest, obliterating his heart. Trailing behind it was a lance of ice by Aurelia. Her priest managed to bring up his hands, and a spell was half-finished on his lips when the lance punched through his throat and pinned him to the ground. They both turned on the final priest. He summoned a protective shield, but Aurelia’s fireball broke its power, and Tarlak finished him with a barrage of twenty magical arrows.

The dark paladins attacked, cutting down those unlucky enough to be in their way. They split, one after Aurelia, one after Tarlak. Aurelia knew any spell she cast to protect herself would not be strong enough against their blades, so instead she did her best to keep them back. She tore up chunks of earth and hurled them at him. As he punched and pushed his way through she knelt and touched the ground. A patch of ice stretched from her fingers to his feet. In his bulky armor he had little hope of keeping his balance.

She tried to cast a spell, but then those behind her jostled her forward. The people were running scared, and there were too many for them to recognize the battle transpiring. She fell onto the ice, cracking her forehead. Purple lines marred her vision. She tasted blood. As if underwater she heard the rest of the refugees, their shouts and crying a garbled murmur. But worse was the knowledge that the dark paladin surely approached.

“I got you,” a voice whispered, still muffled. It felt like swabs of cotton clogged her ears. Someone picked her up and balanced her on her feet. She looked up and saw the dark paladin dead, smoke rising from his armor. She glanced to her side to see it was Tarlak holding her. The two were levitating an inch above the ice. The swarm of people fleeing were avoiding the ice, and therefore avoiding them.

“They’re dead,” Tarlak told her. “Are you alright?”

“I can’t think, I can’t…” She closed her eyes and put her head on his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m not weak, not like this, shouldn’t be, I shouldn’t be…”

“Shush,” Tarlak said. “We both are. My head is going to explode if I cast another spell, but we have no choice. More are coming, Aurelia.”

She looked back to the city, and there she saw the wolf-men, almost five-hundred running on all fours. They were less than a mile away, yet already they could smell the fear in the sweat of their prey.

“I can’t,” Aurelia said, turning away. Her eyes downcast, she shook her head again and again.

“You can,” Tarlak said, taking her head in his hands and forcing her gaze back up to him.

“No,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “Please, I can’t.”

“You will,” Tarlak said. “And so will I. If we fail, we fail. But I will not let any more die, even if it means dying myself.”

The ice below them faded, its duration ended. Tarlak lowered them to the grass, took off his hat, and reached inside. He pulled out a single vial. He had hoped for more but he had been too quick to scavenge items from his tower.

“Drink this,” he told her. “It’ll clear your head and make you feel like you just had a solid hour of sleep.” The two stepped out from the stream of refugees running a blind east, with no goal other than to leave the city far behind. A few spotted the wolf-men, and their screams of fear alerted the rest. They fled faster, pushed harder. Those who tripped or were too weak to continue were trampled.

“Pay no attention to behind us,” Tarlak said. “Stand still and cast until you can’t cast anymore, and even then continue. If we take enough, then maybe they’ll have a shot.”

The wolf-men howled in unison, ready to kill, ready to feast. Aurelia drank the contents of the vial, all her will keeping her from gagging on the foul taste. Her mind did clear, and the terrible ache in her temples faded. She dropped the vial to the grass.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” Tarlak said. He took out a wand from within his robe and held it with both hands. “Let’s just hope I get the chance to make you another.”

A worn and battered pair, they waited for the wolf-men to close the distance and the slaughter to begin.

17

H
arruq stood before the gap in the wall. His head was down, and his hair covered his face. Salvation and Condemnation were at his sides, their tips jammed into the dirt. His eyes stared at the people that fled to him and the safety he had offered. Even in their panic, they made sure not to touch him. Something about him made them stay clear. He did not see, but those that passed stared in admiration or reverence. He was like a deity made of stone.

Several thousand men and woman had fled by the time Harruq saw the first orcs. They were scattered and few, the teeth lining the edge of a gaping maw swallowing his entire city. It was swallowing people he loved. It would not swallow him. The last of the refugees screamed for help, but he did not move. He would not reach them in time, and if he left the gap orcs might escape the city and give chase. So he watched, his heart too calloused, too exhausted, to feel anything more than anger as the innocents were butchered and mutilated before him.

“You will die before you pass,” Harruq said to the first to approach. The orc ignored his words and hefted his two-handed axe above his head. Salvation lashed out and cut his throat in a single, blinding motion. The sword returned to its original position as the body crumpled before him. A second neared. Condemnation cut the axe from his hand, looped around, and disemboweled him. The orc crumpled, gasping out his pain. Harruq saw none of it, heard none of it. A strange anger had settled over him. It was not raging or burning; it did not consume him like so often anger had. Instead he felt it filling his veins like ice. As three orcs charged him, he knew without question they would die by his hand. There would be no pleasure in the killing, no thrill in the act, just a deepening of the strangeness enveloping his mind.

Harruq smashed away the axe aimed for his head, stepped forward, and buried one sword to the hilt in the orc’s gut. His other parried away a thrust so that the orc holding the sword fell forward. Harruq’s elbow turned his nose to a splattered mess of cartilage and blood. He then pulled free his sword and slashed the remaining orc’s neck. Blood poured across the black steel. Four orcs lay dead at his feet. He stared down the street, where more than forty approached. They carried pieces of humans like trophies. His anger strengthened.

“Come and die like the animals you are,” he shouted to them. He held his swords crossed above his head, a glowing ‘X’ that dripped blood. The mass of orcs charged. They had killed many, but not enough. They knew the innocents fled outside the walls. Only Harruq remained in the way. Only Harruq.

He swung with all his strength, the magic in the swords cutting bone like it was dry wheat. He took out the legs of the orc before him, stepped back, and then swung again. Three more fell, their armor broken, their chests and bellies pouring blood across the ground. As the bodies fell they formed a barrier to the others behind, one they had to stumble and climb across. Harruq gave no reprieve and offered no inch of ground. The orcs swung, cut, and bit, but he did not feel the tears in his flesh, did not know of the blood that poured across him. All he knew was the death in the eyes of those he killed, and they were many.