The Battle for Jordborg

by Logan Petty

  “It hurts . . . . Make it stop . . . .”

  Vaskar drew his blade and ran a hand across the gleaming metal, which began to glow. “Hold her down. If we don’t take her leg, the acid will spread until it completely dissolves her.”

  Sawain’s heart leapt in his chest as his muscles moved involuntarily. He placed himself between Vaskar and Kyra, spreading his arms out wide.

  “Wait, Vaskar. Let me try to heal her first.”

  The prince lowered his sword, sighing at Sawain. “This again? We don’t have time!”

  Kyra screamed again, beating Sydarion’s chest as she writhed in pain. Sawain turned to her, dropping to his knees and pulling his totem out from under his armor. He gripped it firmly as his other hand hovered over her leg. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He focused on Kyra as he began to pray.

  Turin, I don’t know why you won’t answer me, but I come to you now a desperate man. My friend is dying. If this wound is allowed to spread, it will kill her. Please don’t let her die. I know my friends are all willing to die for me, and I will not pretend that it does not scare me. But their sacrifices would mean nothing if I fail today.

  Sawain opened his eyes as realization struck him like a bolt from above. He stared at Kyra as he spoke, more to himself than anyone else.

  “Because I cannot do this alone.”

  Sydarion looked at Sawain, clearly confused. “What?”

  “That’s why you haven’t answered. It was in rebuke. I’ve been trying to do this alone. I’ve put the burden on my own shoulders. I invoked your power like it was a tool wrought of my own power. In my pride, I let everyone down because I would not put my faith in them. That’s why I failed before. I understand now. It’s not my power at all that will see us through.”

  A flame sprang to life in Sawain’s chest and spread like electricity through his entire body. A warm light emanated from his hand, shining down on Kyra’s wound. Everyone gathered around in awe as Turin’s holy light stopped the oozing and dried up the wound. Kyra’s skin knitted back together as she released her grip on Sydarion. The electricity subsided, leaving Sawain’s muscles sore and shaky, but intact. He sat back as Kyra ran her hand over the smooth part of her leg where the nearly fatal injury once ate away at her. Her eyes locked on Sawain as her mouth parted slightly. He saw something in her eyes he had not seen before. She threw her arms around him as she lunged forward, hugging him tightly. She spoke through sobs.

  “You did it . . . . You really are chosen . . . . I’m so . . . . Thank you . . . thank you for saving me.”

  Sawain sat there for a moment before pulling away from her. “Hey, don’t thank me. Thank Turin. I realized I’ve been going about this all wrong until now. I let my pride take over. Turin’s power does not belong to me, but to everyone.”

  Vaskar sheathed his sword, a smile on his face. “You surprise me yet again, Swerdbrekker. I have much to apologize for, but for now we cannot be caught loitering here. We must move.”

  Sawain dusted himself off as he rose to his feet, helping Kyra up as well. She fell forward, but straightened up again as she flexed her leg. He looked away from her as she continued to stare at him softly. He turned to Vaskar as he felt the color rising in his cheeks.

  “Right. What’s our first stop?”

  Vaskar slipped around the corner opposite of the great wall that rose up from the ground and into the sky. He returned a moment later, motioning for the others to follow. Sawain obeyed, moving toward the prince. He suddenly noticed the noises of the city were different than he expected. It was quieter, though the earth shook at times as Ylsgrin roared somewhere beyond the walls.

  “Where are the people?”

  Vaskar stopped suddenly. He hesitated as he answered. “The survivors are in hiding. Only servants of the usurper prowl the streets now. The living either work as thralls or fight against the dead. Only problem is they lack unity. If the true children of Jordborg could band together, we would be unstoppable. That’s why we are here.”

  Banthan spoke up, “Okay great, so how do we do it if they can’t do it themselves? I mean I get it, you wave your kingly spear around and they all fall in line. But how are you going to get it while you’re busy getting them to play nice?”

  Vaskar darted between buildings, motioning for the others to do the same. Sawain waited for everyone to go first. He noticed Mari and Timbrell lagging behind. He held his hand out to her to hurry her pace. She glared at him and took her time crossing. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end at her sudden shift in attitude. He followed along behind her. Once they were in the clear, Vaskar answered Banthan’s question as he walked.

  “It’s not so much about getting them to play nice as it is getting them to direct their wrath at a single target -- at the same time. And that’s why I needed a team this large. We have to act fast, or our forces beyond the walls will be torn to shreds, even with a dragon’s help. Which means I can’t go to them all myself. You will need to bring them to me.”

  “So,” Naralei spoke slowly, “you’re going to split the party? Yeah, that never goes poorly.”

  Vaskar ignored her as he weaved through back alleys. The others slunk along behind him, avoiding any roaming eyes. Sawain could smell the dead all around him. As they passed an alley that led into a large open pavilion, Sawain heard the familiar cackling that froze and boiled his blood simultaneously. He peeked around the corner to see the pavilion full of gnolls. A handful of humans dressed in little more than rags hoisted a large timber, walking along the street. Sawain began to head toward them as a hand caught him by the shoulder and spun him around. Vaskar’s piercing eyes stabbed into him.

  “I warned you not to let yourself get distracted,” he whispered. “They are not our primary target. We must move according to plan.”

  Sawain glanced over his shoulder. He only wanted to break away and fulfil his bloodlust against his mortal enemies, but he kept his calm and nodded. Vaskar released him and returned to the front. Sawain followed the rest of the team, smoldering over the fact that the city was full of gnolls. Vaskar must have purposefully hid this from him. He brooded as they moved from alley to alley, sticking ever to the shadows. Vaskar only halted to check the crossings before plunging onward. He halted at an old stone cellar door hidden among piles of trash.

  “Listen very carefully. An old friend is visiting the city today. She will be your guide. I have to leave you now. Only I can retrieve the spear of kings, and only I can enter into the vault unscathed. It is up to the rest of you to win the people’s trust. Turn them against their oppressors, and help me take back my home. You have until the next dawn to meet me within the throne room of the Sea King’s Hall. Good luck, my friends. The fate of Hammerhold rests upon our shoulders today.”

  Rognur grabbed Vaskar by the shoulder as he turned to walk off. “Wait a minute, boss. I’m coming with you.”

  Vaskar shook free of his friend’s grasp. “No Rog, you also have an important role to play in this fight. You are the only one among us who can infiltrate the Goretusk gnolls. They trust you by now. We need you to start pulling those strings we’ve been attaching for months.”

  Rognur growled discontentedly, but did not argue. He merely sighed and slunk back into the shadows. Vaskar pointed at the cellar door.

  “Go on in. Don’t worry about knocking. She’s expecting you.”

  Sawain nudged the door warily before turning to Vaskar as he vanished into the shadows. “Stay safe in there. See you in the morning.”

  Vaskar called back as he turned a corner. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Sawain returned his attention to the cellar door. Axel sidled up next to him. The dwarf sniffed the air near the door. “Smells like mold and rust. No oil, no blasting powder. Looks pretty mundane, too. I think it’s fairly safe.”

  The alley grew suddenly dimmer as the thrumming beat of thousands of wings filled the sky above them. Sawain did not care to wait longer as he grabbed the handle, pulling it open. No
thing exploded, to his relief. He motioned to the others.

  “Inside, quick!”

  One by one, they hurried down into the darkness of the cellar. Sawain followed last, closing the door behind him. He jogged down the steps as his eyes shifted to his nocturnal vision. The room they crammed into appeared to be a large, empty cellar with no contents and only bare dirt walls, floor, and ceiling. Axel ran his hands along the walls, squinting at them as he went.

  “Odd. His majesty seemed convinced someone would be waiting here for us. So where is she?”

  Sawain’s heart pounded, as something drew his attention to the far wall where Axel tapped away with a small hammer. The dwarf noticed him approach the wall and shook his head.

  “No luck here, lad. Maybe there’s some--”

  Sawain silently strode headlong into the wall. It peeled away at his approach. The chamber beyond glowed with a ghostly green light. Banthan shuddered.

  “I’ve felt this magic before.”

  A large round table made of stone adorned the center of the room. Dozens of candles floated around the room, their green flames casting the eerie light. Nine stone chairs circled the table. A woman in long black robes sat on a cushion on the opposite side of the table. Her blue eyes glowed in the darkness under her hood, illuminating her toothy white grin.

  “Come children, take a seat. We have much to discuss and little time to delve into details.”

  Sawain’s heart fluttered as he set eyes on her. “S-Sibilach? What are you doing here?”

  The fey witch chuckled, gesturing to a seat. “You looked like you could use a hand. So here I am. Quickly now, we must talk. Sit, sit.”

  Banthan took a seat next to Sawain as they filed in, heeding their given instructions. “So you were the one who sank those soldiers in the bog, weren’t you?”

  Sibilach waved her hand dismissively, irritation wrinkling her forehead. “You elves, always chittering like little squirrels. I had no such dealings. Now, the next one who asks a question walks out of here with slugs for eyes.”

  Silence reigned as everyone quickly found their seats. Once satisfied with everyone, Sibilach leaned forward.

  “Listen closely, now. The young prince runs headlong into certain death at this moment.”

  Rognur jumped up, but quickly sat back down, yelping as he went. Sibilach glared at him, her bony finger still pointing at the gnoll, smoke rising from her nail. She took a breath and continued.

  “However, you have the power within you to pry open the jaws of death and allow him to pass into its bowels unscathed. Several powers vie for power as we speak. Some for better, some for worse, all for control of this city. If you do exactly as I say, you can bend them to our will.”

  She reached under the table and pulled a broken blade from a sword, placing it on the surface of the table. “This is the Shard of Giltglim, a sword that is now as broken as the soul of the man who owns it. If one could restore it to its former glory, it would reawaken the warrior spirit of its master. Axel Rimebeard. You are a renowned smith of Anvilheim. Who else is better fitted for this task? Of course, you will need apprentices. Sawain, Sydarion, you will go with him. Travel east, until you reach the sea. There, you will find a great tower that rises from the waters. Deep within its spiraling halls, you will find the man you seek. Ignite the spire’s beacon and there restore mighty Giltglim. Once you have succeeded, make your move against the one with the burning eyes, but not until Giltglim shines again.”

  Next, she took a black candle out of her sleeve and placed it on the table. “To the north, near the ancient oak where the ravens nest, sits an even older manor with white gates and marble walls. Within this mausoleum of the living resides an altar. Place this candle upon the altar and light it. The one who appears to you there will help you come into contact with the leader of a group called the Chandlers’ Guild. Do not let their name fool you. Much like the candle makers with whom they share a name, they are tasked with keeping the right kinds of lights burning and snuffing out lights that burn too brightly for too long. Their loyalty is to the true king of Jordborg, and this candle will be all the proof needed to unite their blades to our cause. Banthan, Naralei, I leave this task in your capable hands.”

  She withdrew another item from beneath the table and placed it before them. A simple cloth scroll, rolled and sealed with wax sat among the other two artifacts. Sibilach smiled as her eyes swept Mari and Kyra.

  “Once upon a time, a powerful faction of pirates and cutthroats ruled the seas of Jordborg. When the late Segrammir rose to power, he managed to subdue those rogues with his military prowess and cunning. Instead of condemning them to the gallows, he saw their potential and cut them a deal. In exchange for their undying loyalty to Jordborg, he would allow them to continue raiding the high seas. His conditions were simple. Take what you want from any foreign ships, but spare citizens of the Hold and pay a small tribute to the crown. They agreed, and thus the privateer company called the Ravenwake Corsairs began. When the city fell and the harbor burned, Ravenwake retreated to the city’s underbelly, where they wait, licking their wounds, looking for a reason to seek revenge. This scroll will give them everything they need to follow you into battle. Kyra, Mari, Timbrell, your task is to deliver it to Captain Wyteskornr. You will find him hiding in the palace of rats.”

  Kyra stiffened, gazing at Sibilach as if she’d seen a ghost. Axel and Sydarion glanced at each other, then at Kyra, then at Sibilach. Kyra shook her head as if in a daze.

  “What? No, you can’t be serious. No, no, not happening.”

  Sibilach nodded slowly, her glowing eyes locked onto Kyra. “Oh, it will happen. Unless you have resigned the fate of the world to the Tyrant’s whim.” She broke visual contact with Kyra to focus on Rognur. “And you, my furry friend, know already what you must do. And do it you must if you do not wish to see this current future set into motion. Now then, all of you have your tasks. At this moment, the Tyrant’s forces move against your own with overwhelming power. Even the great dragon will not last long if you do not turn the tide of war in our favor. Go now. Take your trinkets and save this city.”

  Mari hopped up jovially, grabbing the scroll and placing it in her bag, shooting Kyra a haughty sideways glance. The young mage sat still, staring at the table. Axel stood up and walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “Ye know ye don’t have to do this. I can send Syd in yer place and ye can just come with us.”

  Mari’s eyes widened as they darted from Kyra to Sawain. She opened her mouth to shout, but nothing came out. Kyra shook her head.

  “No, Axel. I need to go. I need to see him with my own eyes. I’ll be alright.”

  Axel sighed, his eyes filling with sadness. “If yer sure lass. Just remember: we’re yer real family. Be careful out there.”

  Sawain wrapped a strip of cloth around the blade shard and placed it in his satchel. He glanced around at his friends as they gathered their belongings.

  “Remember, we don’t have long. Night is only a few hours away. Move with purpose. We meet at the gate of the Sea King’s palace first thing in the morning. Don’t be late, or you’ll go without breakfast.”

  Nervous chuckles answered Sawain’s quip. The tension lay thick in the air. Each team checked their gear nervously. Banthan tucked the black candle into a sash he pilfered from the enemy camp. Naralei absentmindedly ran her favorite knife over her whetting stone. Sydarion ran his fingers along the serpentine bow that hung across his back. Sawain could not stand it any longer. He took a slow breath, then let it out as he turned and headed for the exit.

  “Let’s go team. We’re wasting daylight. Oh, and Sibilach?”

  The witch shook her head, waving him off. “Save it for another time. Now all of you get out before I decide to turn you inside out.”

  Sawain nodded as he turned back around. “Alright. Let’s go save the city.”

  . . .

  Thousands of dead soldiers crawled up the cliffside where Jatharr’
s forces held their position. He spread his army thin, as far as possible along the ridge so they could effectively beat back the oncoming assault. Jatharr kicked an advancing zombie in the face as its head appeared over the ledge. It fell backwards, gnashing and flailing until it hit the ground below. He watched it lay still a moment before it wretched, pulling its broken bones together. It returned to climbing the cliff, its soulless, glazed eyes peering into the sky. Jatharr sighed as he sliced the neck of another one. Its head bounced down the rocks, while the body grabbed at Jatharr’s feet. He growled, hacking at its arms until it lost its grip and fell.

  The centaur archers stayed busy launching fire arrows into the climbing hoard. The blazing corpses rained down upon their compatriots, yet the fire did not slow their advance. Jatharr shook his head, muttering to himself.

  “Truly the dead have nothing to fear.”

  He let his gaze venture to the skies above Jordborg, where Ylsgrin remained locked in battle with the cloud of vampyr. He squinted through the black haze, where he could make out the silhouette of the dragon, flailing and gnashing within the cloud. Each flap of his massive wings dissipated the swarming enemies, revealing him fully. He seemed in good health still, though several wounds stood out against his gleaming scales. The enemy closed in around him as soon as he could push them away, so he continued snapping at them, swallowing a mouthful of vampyr with every bite. Jatharr noticed the swirling dark mass around him grew thinner by the minute. He returned to killing the undead soldiers, satisfied their plan to stall held out. Suddenly an explosion on the ridge sent a dozen of his soldiers in every direction.

  At the foot of the cliff, a stony gray giant wearing frosted leather armor and a mammoth hide kilt stood in the midst of the undead horde as they swarmed around his ankles. Several kegs hung across his chest in two bandoliers that crisscrossed one another. He held one in his right hand and a torch between the fingers of his left hand, like a match. He lit a wick that ran down the keg and wound up his arm. He threw it with a mighty heave. It soared upward, clearing the cliff and landing behind Jatharr. The resulting explosion shook the ground, leaving a crater where it struck and ringing in Jatharr’s ears. He growled as he shouted over the noise.