The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 03 - Seven Days

by Ben Hale

  Before she could ask more, she was ushered into a side room that she recognized as one of the First Legion’s quarters. Small and square, it carried a weapon rack, some shelves and a bed on either side with a large trunk against the wall. Several figures huddled around a small child shivering under several blankets.

  Without hesitation she swept to his side, brushing aside three elves in ornate blue armor. “Has a healer already looked at him?”

  “Three,” one elf said.

  She glanced at him, recognizing him vaguely as Captain Loken, captain over the first legion.

  He shrugged, his features tight with concern. “Each said the same thing. His strength is waning and they could do nothing.”

  Her lips tightened. “We shall see,” she said, but before she could begin a loud echo of metal striking metal reverberated through the hallway. As one they glanced towards the door. Both Newhawk and Loken stepped to the opening and looked down the corridor. Another gong echoed, and then another while the two had a quick conversation that she only caught snatches of.

  “. . . a kraka, even larger than normal.”

  “I know, and too far for arrows. We can’t get close enough to . . .”

  Newhawk shook his head. “Curse that thing!”

  “. . . have to fall back again.”

  “. . . only take a few minutes for it to break through . . .”

  Between the echoes of the beast striking the gate, Aléthya turned back to the boy and touched his burning forehead. Taking a deep breath she whispered, “See you in a minute kid.”

  Then she began to transfer the disease into herself.

  At first it wasn’t too bad, not unlike the colds she had healed—but it quickly became worse. Enhanced by evil magic, the disease latched onto her with a tenacity that astonished her. Seeping throughout her body, it cramped her muscles to the point of snapping, clenched her stomach until she would have vomited if there had been anything in her stomach, and clouded her vision as her head began to heat.

  Finally her healing power launched a counter-assault, and the blessed coolness flowed through her like a wellspring of clean water, washing every bit of the sickness away. Her eyes fluttered open and she eased herself to a sitting position, rubbing her forehead where a dull ache refused to diminish.

  “Are you alright?” a timid voice said, and she turned to see the small boy looking at her with innocent eyes.

  She smiled, causing him to flush. “I’ll be fine. You?”

  His brow furrowed as he thought about it. “I think so, but I am hungry.”

  She laughed, noticing for the first time that only Newhawk still stood at the door, looking down the corridor with a worried expression.

  “Newhawk?” she called, rising to her feet.

  He turned and glanced at her, then did a double-take when he saw the boy sitting up. “Daq! Are you alright?”

  “Can I get something to eat?” Daq asked plaintively, but his question only made Newhawk laugh.

  “How long was I out?” Aléthya asked.

  “Nearly ten minutes,” he replied, his tone relieved. “But the other soldiers told us not to worry.”

  Then she realized the ringing had stopped and she felt a trickle of fear ease down her spine. “What is going on?”

  He sighed and glanced down the corridor again, but didn’t poke more than his head out before jerking it back.

  “The kraka managed to knock a hole in the gate a few seconds ago, just before it collapsed. Plague is climbing through right now.”

  She nodded with understanding. “No doubt the fiends have a resistance to the disease magic, but not an immunity.”

  Newhawk blinked at her, surprise and understanding written on his features, but before he could say anything Daq spoke first.

  “Commander Braon wants to know if everyone has been pulled back behind the next gate.”

  Newhawk nodded, glancing down the corridor apprehensively. “Yes, but we should get going. We didn’t want to move either of you without knowing the impact. Now that you are awake . . .”

  “We should move,” Aléthya said.

  He gave her a small smile, the worry on his face making him look aged. “Now would be best.”

  They gathered their things and stepped into the corridor. A hundred paces behind the next door, the elves had withdrawn once more, keeping their distance. Two elves remained behind, ready to close the gate as soon as they passed through.

  Newhawk and Daq hurried through the door, but just as Aléthya reached the portal she paused and looked back at the repulsive figure. Twisted and diseased, Plague climbed through the ragged hole in the portcullis, intent on its advance. Unbidden, the faces of all the elves she had healed—or had died before she could—flashed through her mind. Deep inside her a spark of anger blew into a fire. As she remembered more faces, it became an inferno of rage, directed at the creature just beginning to walk towards her.

  She turned away from the door and its relative safety, and began to stride towards the diseased creature. With her entire focus on her target, she closed her ears to the desperate calls for her return. In seconds she reached the half-way point, her stride full of purpose, her expression a mask of determination. Plague stopped and raised a withered hand, pointing at her, but she felt nothing.

  She was immune.

  Step after step, she came closer to one of the creatures that had caused so much pain to her people. Stride after stride her fury built. Reaching ten paces away the creature seemed to hesitate, and its hand formed a fist, still directed at her. Its head tilted forward as if it were concentrating with all its might.

  She didn't slow.

  Closing the distance she reached the powerful, disease riddled figure of Plague, and came to a halt. Her face full of furious indignation, she said, “A disease can die just as easily as anything else. It just needs some healing.”

  The creature tried to turn and stumble away, but it was far too late. Aléthya reached out and grasped the scarred and disgusting arm. Then she began to draw the fiend’s disease into herself.

  Heat erupted through her body, tearing a ragged scream from her suddenly parched lips. Lancing pain cut into her midsection, and spasms arced from muscle to muscle. Collapsing to her knees, she refused to let go, tightening her grip and yanking Plague down as well.

  A fever rippled through her, blotting her vision and blistering her skin. She began to cough, hoarse and deep. Cold sweat blossomed across her body, and despite her fevered form, she began to shiver.

  Blacking out, she thought it was over, that she had been wrong—but her willpower refused. Roaring with an inner fury, her own magic rose to the challenge. Driven by the pain of her past, fueled by rage, her healing magic flooded her from head to toe.

  Enhanced disease fought the magic of healing, each edging against the other, seeking any advantage. Her body shivered again and her skin began to glow, darkly luminescent—then white—then dark again. The battleground of her body reached the breaking point as the two unseen magics fought for supremacy.

  Resisting the disease, gasping for breath, Aléthya forced her swollen, bloodshot eyes open and watched as the figure of Plague began to disintegrate before her eyes. Sensing victory, she screamed at the creature before her, and reached out to clasp its other arm, drawing even more of it into herself.

  Black ash began to shed from the creature, more and more as each of the diseases were pulled from its form. Unable to sustain itself, Plague opened its mouth, but no sound issued. Silently, it yielded, crumpling into a pile of black dust, disintegrating right through her clenched hands.

  But the war for her body still raged, with neither one the victor. One moment she felt herself winning, healing, the next, Plague’s magic fought back, giving her a glimpse of the horrific result if her body lost. She would become Plague, stronger than ever with her own innate abilities part of his. Her mind would be lost, and she would begin to slay the elven race.

  She shuddered against that future and s
teeled her mind.

  Growling her fear and hate she clenched her eyes shut, collecting every bit of energy she had and gathering it deep within her—massing it together until it became an enormous, concentrated collection of magic. Then she attacked. With a will born of desperation, she sent her magic out, and snatched a piece of the dark magic ravaging her body. Swallowing it whole, she obliterated it and hunted for the next. One by one she sought out and destroyed the evil within her, compelling herself to heal.

  Bit by bit she felt herself begin to mend as the evil diseases started to dissipate. Each fragment gradually restored itself, until finally she collapsed, whole once more.

  Fighting to stay awake, she struggled to sit, but she felt jubilant arms lift her from the ground. Cheers of joy and hope radiated through the corridor that had just moments before carried such despair.

  She opened her eyes only once, her desire to see her people’s momentary happiness overcoming her need to rest. A soft smile graced her lips as she saw tears streaming down their cheeks, and hardened elven soldiers weeping like babes.

  Triumphant, she succumbed to fatigue, lapsing into blissful unconsciousness.

  Chapter 24: Retreat

  The cheering and shouting around Braon was deafening. Soldiers, mages, and anyone else in the room yelled themselves hoarse as Thacker described the slaying of Plague, but Braon did not participate. Although he felt a swirl of emotions at the victory, he knew what would come next.

  Retaliation.

  If he had been the one attacking and a major offensive had been stalled, then he would send everything he could to attack the flank. His gut told him they would attack the Lake Road. He was right.

  Even as he watched the magical map, blotchy and shimmering from its damaged magic, the black army rippled, and the tide moved towards the Lake Road. Catching Thacker’s arm he began issuing quick orders.

  “Tell Golic to sound the first stage of our retreat. It’s time to gather into Azertorn.”

  The joy faded from the telepath’s face as he began to understand his words. “But I thought you said we couldn’t gather until the start of day seven?”

  Braon nodded, his mind working overtime to plan all the variables. “It’s better to fall back in an organized fashion than a rushed retreat. If we wait, we will lose many more lives than we have to.” He allowed a small smile. “Besides, three of Draeken’s generals are dead. Without them, we just might stand a chance.”

  “But—.”

  Braon raised a hand. “Thacker, our entire line has been threatening to buckle for the last twenty-four hours. If we delay, we risk losing everyone on the cliff. We also know another army is coming from the north. Even with our scouts posted, they might not warn us in time. It is time to collect everyone to the city. With any luck, we will hold out until tomorrow night, or until Taryn slays Draeken.”

  Thacker had blanched at the idea of losing so many, and his expression changed to the familiar one of transmitting information. Braon sighed and turned back to the map. If he didn’t do this right, hundreds of thousands would die because of him. Once he started, he didn’t hesitate.

  “Start with Talfar's gnomes and orcs in The Gray Battalion. Have them send any non-battle personnel to Azertorn. Do the same with General Golic and his troops on the Lake Road. Then have him send the surviving ships on the lake to deeper waters. We don't have time to bring them in. After that, have any surviving giants and Dwarven fire mages in the area report to the road. They are going to need help."

  A stray thought caused him to hesitate. When had he last heard from the northern scouts? What if the northern fiend army arrived before the races had gathered in? A shiver of foreboding trickled down his spine as he considered the result.

  "Also, have a small force do a quick run to the northern trees before they come in. Send them from the . . ." he scanned the map to select the best choice "—Eastern Falls command. That should give them enough time to connect with our scouts and return in time. If the northern fiends have arrived, have them raze the forest. It will delay them enough for all battalions to reach the city."

  Satisfied that that their backs were protected, Braon moved on to the rest of their orders.

  "After that, order all contingents to dispatch their first and second reserves to Azertorn. Let's do this right.”

  ***

  Gaze mounted his horse amid the chaos of retreat. On all sides men scrambled to gather gear, collect weapons, and move the wounded. For six days the humans of Talinor had fought and died to prevent the fiends from taking this part of the cliff. With their line thinned by death and the Lake Road about to fall, they were forced to flee to Azertorn.

  It would be their last stand.

  Gaze kicked his horse into motion and tried to ignore the flickering nausea. Wheeling his horse behind Lexi's, he fell into line with the last of the Riverguard. Unlike many in Eastern Falls battalion they had been fortunate. Only one of the elite elves had been killed since they had been transferred. Now Lexi, Arzai, and two others hurried through the frantic bustle of retreating forces.

  Soon they hit a clear patch in the mass of tents and running men. As they picked up the pace, Lexi guided her horse beside his. "Does this bring back memories?"

  He couldn't bring himself to respond. When a frayed and exhausted Graden had dispatched them on the scouting mission, his expression had been apologetic.

  "I'm sorry to do this to you Gaze," He had said, "But you and the Riverguard are the only ones with experience in this. Just travel north and meet the elven scouts. If the northern fiends are there, then raze the forest. If not, then collect the scouts and get to Azertorn."

  "What if it is already overrun?" Gaze asked, feeling an eerie sense of dread. The last time he'd been sent on such a mission, everyone had died except for him.

  We did it before, and we can do it again, Anders said in his mind.

  And you died, Gaze thought.

  So do better, Anders replied.

  Graden paused to issue orders to a man that had rushed into the command tent. "If they are overrun then our entire line will be crushed before the ends can withdraw." Flashing a warning look, he added, "Just be safe Gaze. You have less than thirty minutes before the fiends climb the cliff and surround Azertorn. Don't be late."

  The orders had left Gaze feeling a crawling sense of fear, and he tried in vain to convince himself that this time it would be different. This time he would not fail to protect those he cared about. Winding past scattered crates of foodstuffs and wagons, they found the trail north and pushed their steeds into a gallop.

  It would take ten minutes of hard riding to reach the tree line, leaving just a few moments to gather the scouts and light a fire. Then they would be forced to leave or they wouldn't reach the city in time. He threw a glance at Lexi and felt a wave of determination crash over him. Clenching his jaw, he leaned over the neck of his laboring mount.

  Whatever the cost, he would not be the sole survivor again.

  ***

  King Tryton whirled, sending his massive sword out in a smooth arc to cut down two quare and a siper. Darting forward he finished off a kraka that had tried to flank them. Catching him by surprise, he deflected a slash and slew him with a crushing blow. Before he could seek for another target, he heard someone call his name.

  As his ears sought the source of the summons, he smashed his shield into two fiends, sending them flying off the cliff and towards their deaths. Catching sight of General Golic, he weaved his way through the battle, slaying several more on his way.

  Arriving at the last remaining wall at the highest point of the Lake Road, he grabbed a kraka from behind and spun him around. Blocking the expected strike, he leaned forward and smashed his forehead into the fiend captain's head, sending him collapsing to his knees.

  “General?” he asked, sinking his blade into the stunned enemy.

  “King Tryton,” Golic began, launching a throwing axe into the back of a quare. “Commander Braon is calling for an
organized retreat. Someone slew an enemy general and they are rushing the road in retaliation.”

  Tryton nodded, accepting the order, even though he didn’t understand it. “Inform me when everyone else has gotten a head start to Azertorn. We will cover the front line as we retreat.”

  Another axe flew from Golic’s hands, adding another kill to his long list. “Somehow I knew you would say that.”

  They were interrupted then as a skorpian spear streaked out of nowhere, seeking Tryton’s chest—but he sidestepped, catching it deftly before spinning it around, sending it back at its owner. The beast died even as Tryton looked back at Golic to hear the rest of the order.

  “Giants and dwarven magi are being sent to reinforce our position. Braon expects us to be hit hard in the next few minutes.”

  Tryton nodded and slipped back into the battle, calling out orders to his own forces. Of the nearly six hundred and fifty they had arrived with, only four hundred remained fighting. Very few were on the injured list.

  Rock trolls fought to the death.

  Re-forming their ranks, they readied themselves for an onslaught. Not a minute later the enemy struck. A contingent of krakas, numbering well over twenty thousand, thundered up the road towards their position. Knocking aside the smaller fiends, they smashed into the wall of massive shields with the sound of snapping bone.

  Buckling under the sheer weight, the rock trolls around Tryton bellowed their battle cry and broke apart, re-forming into tight triangle formations of shields. Weapons lashed out from within, striking down any that drew near, but the fiends still advanced. Trained for combat since birth, hardened in battle since youth, the rock trolls struck back with the renowned fury of their race. To their enormous credit, they managed to slow the advance to a crawl—but they couldn’t stop it.

  Even with the aid of the giants and a throng of mages, they still could not muster the strength to halt the charge. Sensing a shift in the battle, Tryton called for them to begin falling back. Azertorn was ten miles from their position, and they would have to fight their way across every inch of it.