by R A Oakes
But another problem was quickly approaching. Looking ahead along the base of the western wall, White Angel 19 saw hundreds of gargoyles charging the front entrance. The winged apes were no longer individuals, having been forged into a mindless mob fueled by mass hysteria.
White Angel 19 quickly looked across the bridge to assess the situation and saw it was clear. The youngest White Angel had expected an attack from that direction, but the real threat for now was the horde of winged apes running at the front entrance from within the castle.
They’re a bunch of rabble, but I can’t let them leave the castle and attack my father along the mountain trail, White Angel 19 thought.
As the mob closed in on the front entrance, Prophet was still fighting an angry Balzekior who was furious with herself and frustrated by how easily Marcheto and White Angel 19 had caught her off guard. As Prophet swatted at her with a huge paw, the flaming lava woman tried to back away but was too slow, the tiger angel’s sharp claws slashing across her stomach causing deep cuts and extinguishing the fire in the wounded area.
Howling in pain, Balzekior tried to fight back using her favorite method of attacking her enemies, drenching them with her sick, decaying inner-self, sending generous portions of putrid evil and wretchedness all through an adversary, just as she’d done to Marcheto.
Looking right into Prophet’s eyes, she began her assault on the tiger warrior angel hoping to use her psychic powers of suggestion to crush the big cat’s confidence, wreak havoc on the animal’s emotions and drive Prophet to the brink of insanity.
“Languishing in Dominion Castle’s tiger compound waiting for King Tarlen to surface must have been awful. Watching friends and family fighting and dying in Swarenth’s gladiator arena while being unable to do anything to stop the carnage must have saddled you with enormous burdens of guilt and regret. You were the greatest tiger of them all, consistently fighting well and surviving, but your loved ones died horrible deaths. The pain you carry deep within you must be crippling. I don’t know how you can stand it.”
Balzekior looked at Prophet’s face ready to enjoy the signs of devastation her powers of suggestion always had on her opponents. But to her surprise, there were none.
“What are you trying to do, make me feel bad?” Prophet asked laughing. “Well, it’s not working. This is the best my life’s been in a long time, and I’m enjoying myself. What about you?”
Fear entered Balzekior’s heart. This tiger warrior angel seemed immune to her evil thoughts and feelings, but she kept trying.
“You’re not worthy of serving King Tarlen,” Balzekior shouted desperate to destroy her enemy. “Your motives aren’t noble. Your negligence and neglect caused dozens of tigers to be slaughtered in Swarenth’s gladiator arena. You’re as responsible for their deaths as the gargoyles who killed them.”
“That’s not true, and I won’t tolerate your telling me how to think and feel,” Prophet said firmly. “I have plenty to be proud about. I served as mentor to Chaktar, King Tarlen’s tiger- brother. He’s free today because I gave my life to save his.”
Realizing she was unable to destroy the tiger angel, Balzekior began feeling trapped, but then she noticed a large hole in the wall next to her. This was the exit of the tunnel King Ulray had used to bring King Tarlen, White Angel 19, Chen and the others from the tiger compound to the castle’s front entrance.
Suddenly Prophet was distracted by the howling gargoyle mob that was now so close he could see the berserk expressions on their faces. Balzekior, desperate to escape, took advantage of her opponent’s momentary lapse bolting away from the tiger warrior angel and into the tunnel.
The White Angels from the future, along with White Angel 19, had been protecting the bridge leading into the castle, but now they turned from it and faced the mob of winged apes.
“Steady, steady,” the youngest White Angel cautioned her friends.
The White Angels from the future, all of them 15-feet- tall wielding Swords of Fire, braced for the onslaught. White Angel 19, astride Zorya and holding Baelfire high above her head, looked at Prophet standing next to her and smiled grimly.
Marcheto, still feeling nauseated from Balzekior’s assault on him, was desperately trying not to pass out. The young wizard had been holding onto his giant girlfriend trying to steady himself when he saw the lava woman making her escape. Knowing he was in no shape to fight and might even prove a liability if White Angel 19 had to protect him, Marcheto slid off Zorya’s back and fell to the ground landing on his hands and knees.
After struggling to his feet, the young wizard stumbled toward the tunnel. Upon entering, he didn’t see Balzekior but could see the staircase leading down under the castle. Though nowhere in sight, the fire pouring off the lava woman was lighting up the passageway below as well as the stairs.
Placing one hand on the wall next to the stairway, Marcheto tried steadying himself while descending slowly, being careful to concentrate on each step and hoping not to fall.
I’m going to have a hard time catching up with her, Marcheto thought. Yet he was still determined to try.
Back outside, the gargoyle mob had almost reached White Angel 19 and the others when she turned her head to make another quick check on the status of the bridge. To her dismay, she saw hundreds of winged apes racing along the top of the mountain trail, the ones in front almost having reached the bridge.
The youngest White Angel, while fighting to keep her own fears under control, caught a glimpse of a giant warrior, 275 pounds and six-feet-five, riding a huge warhorse on the other side of the ravine. It was her father, Lord Pensgraft.
Part of her wanted to be independent, but another part of her longed for the safety of her father’s warm, comforting embrace. Comforting, that is, not comfortable. Lord Pensgraft’s muscles were so solid that being hugged by him had always made his daughter feel like a big sack full of rocks was wrapping itself around her. She had never really enjoyed being hugged by her huge warrior father before, but it was an experience she would gladly welcome now.
White Angel 19 knew she was in serious trouble. Caught between two rivers of desperate winged apes, the youngest White Angel put aside her pride, stood up in her stirrups and with all her might shouted, “Father, help me!”
The young angel watched as Lord Pensgraft’s head whipped around at the sound of her voice. She saw his warhorse rearing up on its hind legs, and then with relief heard her father’s words of encouragement echoing off the sides of the deep ravine. “No gargoyles will make it completely across the bridge! I’ve got your back! Do you hear me? You’re father’s covering your back!”
With those reassuring words, she turned to confront the mob of gargoyle warriors racing towards her from within the castle.
“For the king!” the youngest White Angel shouted spreading her wings and waving Baelfire over her head as Zorya reared up on her hind legs clawing at the air with her front hooves.
Without hesitation, White Angel 19, Baelfire and Zorya, known collectively as the Trinity of Light, leapt forward to engage the enemy.
Chapter 30
At the top of the mountain trail, near the bridge leading to Dominion Castle’s front entrance.
Eager to make good on his promise to protect his daughter, Lord Pensgraft turned to General Tark and said, “After getting the catapults into position, I want that bridge covered in flames from one end to the other. We can’t burn it down since it’s made of stone, but we can make it impassable.”
“Yes, my lord,” General Tark said, but was privately thinking, How can we possibly get our warriors inside the castle with the bridge engulfed in fire?
Upon seeing the doubt and concern on the general’s face, Lt. Nantaric spurred his warhorse up alongside General Tark and whispered, “Lord Pensgraft’s order makes no sense. Yes, I realize gargoyles retreating across the bridge will pose a serious threat to Aerylln, but our overall objective is to save King Tarlen.”
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t need to ma
ke sense. My duty is to obey.”
“But obeying an order that guarantees our failure is absurd. How can we rescue the king if we can’t get across the bridge?” Lt. Nantaric demanded.
The overall leader of the king’s personal guards, Captain Polaris, was inside the castle with Tarlen. So for now, and on this side of the ravine, Lt. Nantaric carried the burden of commanding the guards, all of whom had been protecting the king since he was a boy of six. The lives of these elite warriors were centered on one thing, their unswerving loyalty to King Tarlen.
As the catapults were being moved into range of the stone bridge, it was all Lt. Nantaric could do to keep himself from ordering his own men to destroy them. The lieutenant was imagining his warriors pushing all four catapults off the cliff, the sheer drop into the deep ravine offering an enticingly clear and simple solution.
Snapping out of his reverie, Lt. Nantaric noticed his men’s eyes were riveted upon him waiting for their leader’s command. All knew what needed to be done. It would be risky since many of the warriors comprising the main army were from The Rock, Lord Pensgraft’s stronghold, and were loyal to him. However, by relying on the element of surprise, half the king’s personal guards could concentrate on shoving the catapults off the cliff, while the other half headed for the bridge, possibly even reaching the castle before anyone got over the shock of what was happening. All of Lt. Nantaric’s men were used to having the odds stacked against them; it was nothing new.
Thirty years ago, when Swarenth was overrunning Dominion Castle, King Ulray had charged his greatest warriors, the king’s personal guards, with the task of spiriting Tarlen out of the castle via an underground cavern leading to a hidden exit at the base of the mountain. Protecting Tarlen, who began his reign as a boy king, was an instinct deeply ingrained in them.
However, when Lt. Nantaric looked back at Lord Pensgraft, he saw Captain Jeriana mounted on a powerful warhorse hovering protectively right next to the giant warrior, and the lieutenant noticed one thing more. With eyes full of suspicion, Captain Jeriana was watching Lt. Nantaric very carefully. She and her warrior women had taken oaths sealed in blood swearing to protect Chen, Lord Pensgraft and their family at all costs. On top of that, the warrior women’s love, admiration and respect for the black leather panther bound them to her even more than the ritual.
So, at least for now, these two powerful and determined groups of elite warriors were at cross-purposes.
Leaving no doubt as to her intent, Captain Jeriana unsheathed her sword and wheeled her warhorse around facing Lt. Nantaric. Immediately, all 100 of her warrior women, mounted on magnificent black stallions, unsheathed their swords in unison. Following their captain’s gaze, they saw she was glaring at Lt. Nantaric, so they glared at him, too. The warrior women weren’t sure why their leader was threatening the head of the king’s personal guards, but that Jeriana was doing so was all they needed to know. On her command, they would attack without hesitation.
Lt. Nantaric slowly backed away from the catapults realizing that Captain Jeriana had somehow guessed his intent. No longer having the element of surprise working for him, the leader of the king’s personal guards wanted nothing to do with a direct confrontation between his men and these outstanding warrior women, especially after seeing them fight at the sixth, and final, mountain-trail fortification.
When half the front wall had flipped off the cliff into the ravine, Lt. Nantaric and his men had ridden right into the middle of almost 2,000 winged apes. Fighting valiantly, the human warriors had cut down hundreds of the enemy, but it was Captain Jeriana and her warrior women who sealed the gargoyles’ fate.
After Captain Jeriana led the women through a long tunnel taking them past the fortification’s front wall, they climbed a staircase and, using sledgehammers, had broken through thin slabs of rock that were covering a series of windows. This provided plenty of room for 50 archers to stand above the fray while unleashing a deadly rain of arrows upon the mob of gargoyles below.
Captain Jeriana’s remaining 50 warrior women charged up another flight of stairs to a second staging platform. Once again using sledgehammers to break through thin slabs of rock, they uncovered a second set of windows directly above the first. With bows and arrows having been stored there for this assault, the women joined their sisters in firing volley after volley at the enemy below.
Every time Captain Jeriana and her warrior women unleashed a torrent of arrows, scores of gargoyles were instantly cut down. Right in the midst of the fray with gargoyles all around them, Lt. Nantaric and the king’s personal guards had been amazed by, and grateful for, the warrior women’s uncanny accuracy.
The female archers had targeted the winged apes closest to Lt. Nantaric and his men cutting a swath through the horde allowing their brothers-in-arms to penetrate deeper and faster into the enemy causing a maximum amount of chaos in an incredibly brief span of time. In less than a few minutes, almost half the gargoyles lay dead or dying on the ground. The rest had exploded into a wave of panic, retreating as fast as their legs would carry them.
And now, not far away, the winged apes could see an escape route that would put them behind stone walls once more and not just a fortification’s walls but those of Dominion Castle. With hope in sight, almost 1,000 gargoyles made for the stone bridge that was spanning the ravine and would take them directly into the front entrance.
However, right as the winged apes closest to the bridge were getting ready to set foot upon it, General Tark, seeing that one of the catapults was loaded and ready, shouted, “Fire!”
The powerful war machine flung its dangerous cargo high into the air, the large pot of oil with a flaming cloth tied around it making a graceful arc in the nighttime sky. Holding his breath, Lord Pensgraft waited to see if the pot of flammable oil would land on its intended target. Much to his relief, it did.
At a spot about halfway across the ravine, the pot of oil slammed onto the bridge quickly bursting into flames sending smoke and fire billowing high into the darkness. Yet the gargoyles seemed oblivious to what was taking place and, in spite of the flames, kept running towards the center of the bridge.
“I can hardly believe it. They’re still heading for the entrance,” Captain Jeriana marveled.
Looking sternly at General Tark, Aerylln’s father shouted, “I want them stopped and stopped now!”
“All right, men, let’s take that bridge out of commission. Fire!” the general shouted with grim determination.
Three more pots of oil shot through the air with one missing its mark entirely, while another went smashing into the side of the bridge, liquid flames pouring down the stones like a brief but blazingly-intense waterfall, the fire dropping deeply into the ravine before evaporating. But the last pot struck home landing on the right side of the bridge spewing flames all along the surface of that section.
However, between the first good strike and the second, there was a stretch of bridge completely untouched by fire, and the gargoyles who’d already reached that space found themselves caught between two raging infernos. Figuring they had nothing to lose but their lives, which Swarenth had conditioned them into believing counted for little or nothing, the gargoyles barely hesitated before covering their faces with their gray tunics and charging through the fire in front of them.
Worried that the gargoyles were still making progress towards his daughter, Lord Pensgraft shouted, “Drench the entire bridge in oil. Cover it in flames. Show those gargoyles what hell really looks like.”
With a wave of his hand, General Tark signaled his men to launch all four catapults. As the large clay pots filled with their deadly cargo went speeding through the nighttime sky, the general shouted, “Reload and fire at will.”
While the warriors rushed to do the general’s bidding, Lord Pensgraft became further upset upon seeing a dozen winged apes actually emerging from the other side of the fiery barrier. But after a moment, he realized their brashness was posing a greater threat to themselves than to Aeryll
n. With their oil-soaked feet looking like torches and with their tunics afire, the gruesome apes were being roasted alive.
Screaming in agony and running around blindly, the burning tunics had ignited the hair on their necks and shoulders, and the flames began spreading to the shaggy hair on their chests and legs turning them into living bonfires. Thrashing and flailing about, the gargoyles were stumbling and falling off the stone bridge lighting the deep ravine all the way to the rocks below.
Hearing the gargoyles far up ahead beyond the flames screaming hideously and seeing more pots of oil arcing through the darkness, many winged apes began questioning the wisdom of using the bridge as a means of escape. Almost 200 confused and frightened gargoyle warriors turned around and began scrambling to get off the very bridge they had been trying so desperately to cross.
But after dashing off the bridge and reaching the mountain trail, the winged apes faced a new dilemma. Panicked and terror stricken, they began looking for the main group of gargoyles, who they had thought, up until now, was right behind them. Only 100 winged apes were still at the top of the mountain trail directly in front of the bridge, but even they were rapidly joining hundreds of other gargoyles who had found an alternate escape route, one that was proving to be quite precarious.
A narrow goat path winding its way down the steep, rocky mountainside looked barely wide enough to accommodate small animals let alone hundreds of retreating gargoyles. However, in the rush to get away, this difficult and dangerous route seemed like a reprieve compared to the alternative. Seeing Lord Pensgraft and his troops closing in on them, the winged apes near the bridge began shouldering each other aside attempting to reach the goat path as quickly as possible.
Farther down the path, which wove back and forth threading itself ever deeper into the steeply-angled mountainside, gargoyles were becoming so tightly packed together in some spots that progress had almost come to a standstill. Sharp rocks and several extremely narrow ledges had to be negotiated with precious few handholds available. Faced with such harsh terrain, the courage of many gargoyles began to falter.
