Tides of Blood and Steel (37 page)

“Oh no. Death certainly stalks you, but I will not let it claim you just yet. You are going to be my grand masterpiece.”

Argis narrowed his eyes. His heart beat a little faster. “What do you mean?”

“Word is already being spread throughout the kingdom. I am going to have you executed publicly. All of Delranan will see what fate awaits traitors. Your death will be the end of the rebellion and I will have peace.”

“No,” Argis whispered. “My death changes nothing. All you are going to accomplish is the hardening of resolve. My death will be the spark that turns the kingdom on end. You and your kind will be trampled under the boots of vengeance.”

“A vengeance unfulfilled. I will drown the kingdom in blood before I allow your peasant conspirators to rise up.”

“Then you damn us all.”

Harnin sneered. “So be it.”

He turned and stalked away. His rage was so great it threatened to consume him, urging him to run Argis through and be done with it. Harnin snarled. Killing Argis now served no purpose other than instant gratification. The people needed to see him die. It was the only way. Until then he was going to have to imagine Argis dying over and over again in his dreams.

“You tread a fine path, Harnin One Eye.”

Harnin didn’t bother facing his accuser. A persistent feeling warned him that the Dae’shan was never far away. Tonight should be no different.

“I walk the only path allowed me,” he retorted.

Pelthit Re materialized from the darkness. His lidless yellow eyes watched impassively as the mortal continued pouring a mug of mulled wine. The Dae’shan briefly recalled such simple pleasure. The tender sweetness of grape and spices caressed his tongue. The memory faded much too soon, replaced by the unending suffering of his continued existence.

“The day of judgment is fast approaching,” he continued.

Harnin waved him off. “We shall be ready. I will make Delranan strong again.”

Pelthit Re might have smiled had he lips. “I have no doubt.”

Harnin drank deeply from his mug and let his mind dance over thoughts of empire.

Badron Triumphant

“Fall back! Fall back to the tunnels!”

Aurec struggled to contain the rising panic in his voice. Most of his men were already dead, their bodies filling the gateway. Sergeant Thorsson had done his best. The burly man was a natural killing force. Scores of Goblins fell under his blade, but it wasn’t enough. A dozen more swarmed into the lines for every Goblin killed. The grey tide was endless.

Soldiers dragged the wounded off. Some made it, some didn’t. More than one group of soldiers was cut down by squads of Wolfsreik who had already secured the rear stairs. Enemy soldiers completely controlled the walls. Catapults continued to pour heavy fire into the compound, heedless for their own men’s safety. Aurec found it reckless and correctly guessed Badron was behind the frantic push. The city and keep had fallen; all that remained was the mopping up.

A heavy hand snatched Aurec’s collar. “I thought I told you to get out of here.”

He looked into Thorsson’s bloody face. A deep cut peeled back the flesh on his right cheek and temple. “The men come first.”

Thorsson nodded slightly, wincing from the pain. “That is exactly what I am doing. Now get your royal ass out of my way. I don’t need you dead.”

“I can’t leave them. Not like this,” Aurec protested.

“You are damned stubborn all right. Don’t make me knock you out and drag you away myself.”

Aurec couldn’t stop from grinning. “Sergeant, if we make it through this I will gladly let you punch me in the mouth.”

Thorsson snorted a laugh. “Deal. Lead the next group of wounded out. I follow with the rear guard. I want to take as many of these grey bastards as we can along the way.”

They clasped hands, a final gesture in the face of insurmountable odds. “No unnecessary heroics, sergeant. I still have more work for you to do.”

Thorsson grinned savagely. Satisfied he had done all within his power, Aurec went to gather the next batch of wounded to move out. Chaos raged around him. Goblins streamed into Rogscroft, their hobnailed boots marching across a makeshift bridge of their own dead. They snarled and gnashed, eager for the taste of human blood. Their blades were sharp and slightly rusted. Theirs was a horrifying flame poised to sweep across the northern kingdoms. Just a moment longer.

Thorsson turned back to the fight, bellowing orders as he rejoined the slaughter. “Come on you lazy dogs! Send these grey bastards back to the underworld!”

What few defenders remained rallied to his call with the knowledge that the sum of their deeds would still meet with defeat. Thorsson ducked under a wild slash from a spear and stabbed up. A sickly grunt and soft spray of dark blood met his blade. The Goblin slumped down beside him as more Men and Goblins fell. He kicked the corpse away and drew back to swing again.

Thorsson was suddenly knocked back by a bone-jarring impact. The wind forced from his lungs and new pain racked his body. Something dark and sticky flowed down his chest. Damnation, he cursed. The Goblin arrow struck right above his lung. The wound wasn’t totally life threatening, but he feared for poison. Thorsson spit a mouthful of blood and struggled back to his feet. He’d just as soon die fighting than running.

Venten led the various lords and nobles in full retreat through the winding halls to the freshly constructed escape tunnels. A signal fire had already been lit atop the highest tower in the castle, signaling everyone to abandon the city. It also served to warn units already in the wild that the king was coming. It was the only way Venten saw getting Stelskor to safety.

“Just a little further,” he called back over his shoulder as he pushed on through the near dark.

Embers of flame drifted from his torch and singed the hairs on his hand. He didn’t care. The smell of dirt caressed his nostrils. He didn’t care. Venten’s only drive was to get the king out of the dying city. All was lost without the king alive. Voices and a lot of heavy movement triggered old instincts. Venten immediately drew his sword and wished for a platoon of infantry at his back rather than the lax noblemen. A pair of guards pushed their way through the crowd to join him.

With no hesitation, the trio moved forward. Relief and despair greeted them. Venten watched as dozens of wounded soldiers made their way into the tunnel from a separate entrance. Many would not live to see the dawn. Trails of blood made the dirt slick with mud. Venten cursed. The blood was going to lead the enemy down on top of them. It also meant the tunnel ahead was clogged with men.

“Who is in command here?” he demanded.

Aurec looked up at the sound of a familiar voice. Mixed emotions showed on his tired face. Venten’s presence could only mean one thing: the king was here as well. Aurec passed off the wounded man he had been assisting to another and slipped back to his old friend and mentor.

“It is good to see you alive, Venten,” he exhaled.

They embraced in relief. “Prince Aurec, I feared the worst when I couldn’t get back to your side. The king kept me in council until the decision to retreat was made.”

“Where is my father?”

Venten glanced fleetingly back over his shoulder. “He should be right behind the corner with the others.”

Aurec felt something was wrong and started pushing through the small crowd of nobles. Desperation gripped him as previously unknown fears forced him into action. His heart pounded, almost ached. Try as he might, he did not find his father. The fear of losing the king sickened him. He didn’t know what to think. Tremors in his veins threatened to sink him to his knees.

“Father!” he shouted. “Where is the king?”

General Vajna reached him quickly. “Lad, your father refused to follow us into the tunnels. He stayed behind. There was nothing we could do.”

Aurec felt gut punched. “You...you left my father? How dare you!”

Vajna gripped him by the shoulders. Aurec didn’t have the strength to resist. “Listen to me. Your father, the king of Rogscroft, explicitly ordered me to move on. We argued, but in the end it was his will that was done.”

“So you abandoned him? Your duty lies with the crown.”

“And that crown belongs to your father!” Vajna spit back harshly. “So long as he commands, I obey. He deserves nothing less.”

“There is no time for this!” Venten shouted at them. “The enemy is almost upon us. We must flee now or forfeit all.”

Aurec hung his head. “Why did he not come?”

“He goes to try and make peace with Badron.”

“Then he goes to his death,” the prince replied.

Venten softened his stance. “His fate is beyond any of us, my prince.”

* * * * *

Two men pulled Sergeant Thorsson to his feet and began half carrying him away from what remained of the battle. Perhaps a score stayed to hold off the waves of Goblins. They resigned themselves to death so that many more would survive. The gesture was not in vain, though the Goblin army slaughtered them mercilessly. Thorsson’s fight was over, though he was loath to admit it. He begged and struggled to be let back with his men, to die a warrior’s death. The pain in his chest burned throughout his body. Soldiers, he grimaced. They seldom did as they were told. That’s when Gaml and Yorl snatched him up and dragged him off despite his screams of protest.

“Be quiet, Sarge. Whining like a little baby isn’t going to help you none,” Gaml scolded.

“S’right, Sarge. You leave it to us. We got your best interests in mind,” Yorl added.

Thorsson bit back a moan. Damned brothers. “You pig-headed fools, the least you could do is let me die with my men. I never should have put you both in the same unit.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say, ‘specially after me and Yorl here went through all this trouble to drag your heavy ass to safety.”

“Safety? Bunch of damned fools. We are all going to die.”

“We’ll see, Sarge. We’ll see.”

Thorsson hoped they were right, for all of their sakes.

* * * * *

Alone. King Stelskor sat upon his throne for what he knew was the very last time. His kingdom, his legacy, crumbled to dust around him. Wolfsreik and Goblin soldiers were everywhere, looting and destroying. Smoke and flame licked up into the early dawn sky. Rogscroft was finished. The dream of a prosperous, civilized kingdom was suddenly torn from Malweir and the future. Generations from now no one would even know this land existed. Stelskor wondered if this was how the last Gaimosian king felt during the final moments. Memories of the ancient kingdom remained only through blood and the deeds of less noble children. Stelskor doubted his own legacy would be so strong.

Battle sounds edged closer. The roar of fresh fires and collapsing buildings sounded as the darkest agonies to the failed king. All he had spent his life to achieve was shattering around him. Stelskor was helpless to prevent it, hopeless to find the dawn. He had nothing left to offer. Soon the enemy would break into the throne room and his reign would fade to ash. He resisted the urge to second guess himself, to ask what might have been.

Stelskor sighed heavily. There was no point in asking
what if
. This was the end the Fates had decreed for him and his people. Nothing was going to change it. Death stalked him like an old friend from the shadows. The sudden crashing against the once proud throne room doors made him jump. His wait was over. The old king drew his sword, an heirloom handed down through the generations, and made ready to meet his end. His one regret lay in not being able to give the sword to his son. The pounding grew louder, more fierce. He sneered. Perhaps the Wolfsreik weren’t so smart after all. Common sense said that this was the one room that no one was supposed to be in. There was no reason for the king to remain behind.

Stelskor rose, his resolve strengthened by the hopes that he might soon stride into the halls of his forefathers and be welcomed. The doors splintered apart. Chunks of ancient carvings blew inwards across the marble floor. Enemy soldiers streamed in behind. Their weapons glimmered in the torchlight. The lead soldiers froze, surprised at what they saw.

“Come you jackals, come and meet doom,” Stelskor growled.

The Wolfsreik edged closer.

“Hold!”

The command bellowed throughout the room, bouncing from the walls. Even Stelskor held fast, so great was the power in the words. An older man moved through the mass of hungry soldiers. His uniform was nearly immaculate. Hardly a stain could be found, as if he had been saving it for just this occasion. Soldiers ringed him in a lazy half circle.

“King Stelskor, I am Commander Piper Joach, Second of the Wolfsreik and loyal son of Delranan.”

Stelskor kept his sword at the low guard. “Save your titles. They mean little at this point. Kill me and get it over with.”

A half smile. “I am glad we see eye to eye, but your death will not be on my hands or conscience. I arrest you by order of King Badron. You and your kingdom now belong to Delranan.”

“You dare!”

A new voice drowned out Piper’s response. “No, I do.”