The Death of Promises h-3

by David Dalglish

  He strode over to them and saluted.

  “Wake the king,” he ordered. The right guard tapped against the door. Antonil pushed him aside and slammed his fist against the thick wood.

  “King Vaelor,” he shouted. “Your majesty, you are needed.”

  He heard shuffling, then a clank of wood and metal as the lock was thrown open. The door crept open a crack.

  “For what reason do you interrupt my sleep?” the king asked through the crack.

  “My apologies,” Antonil said after bowing. “An army comes, and I seek your council.”

  “Remain here until I am ready,” his king commanded. The door slammed shut. Antonil opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. His blood boiled, and he slammed his shield against a wall, not caring that he dented it.

  “Damn fool,” he muttered.

  His glare to the guards made it clear that repeating that outburst meant death. The two saluted, understanding perfectly.

  Antonil paced before the door, seething as the time passed. He needed to be commanding his guards, positioning and rallying them into a fighting state. Instead he was stuck inside the castle, bereft of all news. Twenty minutes later, the king exited his bed chambers.

  He wore armor made of gold. It was soft, impractical, but it looked beautiful in the torchlight, and Antonil knew that was what mattered to his liege. A garishly jeweled sword swung from a belt trimmed with silver. A red cape hung from his neck. Upon his head was the crown of Veldaren. It had once been a simple ring of gold with a ruby upon the front, but Vaelor had declared it unfitting of a true king, adding several large gems and rubies. Attached to the bottom of the crown was a veil of red silk, recently added to hide the loss of the king’s left ear.

  “Sir, your attire…” Antonil said.

  “Is this not how a king should be dressed for battle?” Vaelor asked.

  “My men have needed me,” he argued. “Could you not have spoken with me before you dressed for…for battle?”

  “Do you dare question your king?” Vaelor asked. He crossed his arms and frowned. He was not much older than Antonil, and when they were children training together they had been mistaken for brothers due to their similar looks. But now Antonil’s face and hands were worn and calloused. The king lacked a single scar on his pampered skin. His beard was trimmed and hair neatly curled around his shoulders, not a strand too long or too short. Only his ear marred the image.

  “No sir,” Antonil said, bowing. “Forgive me, I am just worried. They are far more than I have ever faced. All the races of the Vile Wedge have allied against us. They will destroy every life in our fair city if we let them.”

  King Vaelor walked to his throne and sat down. “Do as you must,” he said. “I trust you to keep our city safe.”

  “No, sir, you don’t understand.” Antonil stepped forward, his worry overcoming his discipline. “We have no troops mustered from the reaches of Neldar. The green castle, as well as all of the Hillocks, are most likely destroyed. If this were a siege, we could hold out for months. Lord Gandrem would ride the host of Felwood through the northern plains and crush our foes against our walls. So too would Lord Meren ride up from Angelport, a whole legion of his archers ready to feather our enemies.”

  Antonil knew he treaded on dangerous ground, but he had no choice but to continue. “But they will not,” he said. “This is no siege. The beasts of the wedge will storm our walls. Our troops are weak in number and wholly unprepared. We should order the populous to ready a retreat. If one of the gates falls, we can…”

  “What is this?” King Vaelor asked, his voice thundering in the empty throne room. “Retreat? You would surrender our walls to orcs and dogs? I will not be written into the history of our world as such a coward. Already Woodhaven has been lost to the elves because of your weakness. You will fight to the death to protect what we all hold dear. You have defeated the orcs once. You will do so again.”

  “It is not cowardice to think of protecting the commonfolk should we fail.”

  “But it is cowardice by failing those helpless before that battle was even begun!”

  The guard captain turned away, his fury rising with the stinging mention of Woodhaven. He was arguing with his king. Had times truly sunk so low?

  “Very well,” he said, falling to one knee and bowing his head. “I will not fail you.”

  King Vaelor put his hand on Antonil’s shoulder. “We will be praised in songs for ages to come after our victory this night,” he said.

  Antonil thought a funeral dirge was more likely. With his king’s permission, he left to join his men.

  When Antonil arrived at the western gate, he was immediately aware something was amiss. His generals had done well to position and defend during his absence, but they were all terrified. Even the grizzled old men who had fought many a battle appeared ready to cast aside their weapons. The guard captain bound up the steps and joined his archers, determined to find out the reason. When he saw the ocean of bodies approaching, he understood their fear.

  Leading the army were the bird-men, clutching their torches in their clawed and misshapen hands. Long feathers stretched out from their forearms, a mockery of their lost ability to fly. Their heads were small, dominated by their giant beaks of all colors. Behind them were the wolf-men. They were bigger than the hyena-men, their skin gray and their bodies lean and muscular. Their backs were heavily curved, causing their long arms to drag near the ground. Their awkward walk vanished when they ran, their bodies balanced for running on all fours.

  The hyena-men were the last of animal men, and their yipping was already reaching the city. They looked like smaller cousins of the wolf-men, except their skin was yellow and black and their legs better suited for walking and running upright. Then came the orcs, howling and waving their torches. Antonil frowned as he saw their banners. It was the lion standard of Karak.

  “You’re right to be afraid,” a quiet voice told him. He glanced left to see Mira smiling at him with twinkling eyes. “But you needn’t be. They haven’t seen what I can do. Go down the stairs. The paladins are waiting for you.”

  “Paladins?”

  He looked behind him, and sure enough he saw the telltale glow of white and blue. He gave one last strange look to the girl with black eyes and climbed back down from the wall.

  “Paladins of Ashhur!” he shouted. Buried in the center of the hundreds of footmen lined before the gate shone two swords and a shield. “Come forth!”

  Jerico and Lathaar knelt before the guard captain as the man approached.

  “We come to offer our aid, and the aid of Ashhur,” Lathaar said.

  “If there was ever a time we needed Ashhur’s aid, it is now,” Antonil said. “But I thought only one remained.”

  “I hid, but no longer,” Jerico answered. “I ask you let us fight alongside your men in defense of this city.”

  Antonil pointed to the locked and barred gate.

  “I have heard stories of paladins fighting off hundreds before falling in death. Let’s put those stories to the test. To the front.”

  “If the heathen creatures burst through, Ashhur’s light will wait for them,” Lathaar said as he stood. The two took their positions. Antonil watched them shouting and ordering around his men. The sun was rising, but darkness remained heavy in the hearts of his men. Fear was the weapon of Karak, and Antonil knew nothing turned aside that weapon better than a paladin.

  “We will hold the gate,” someone whispered into Antonil’s ear. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

  “If you are here as well, Haern, then I’m sure we will,” Antonil said.

  Archers and ground troops ready, the guard captain and his personal guards marched to the southern gate. They had half the ground troops but the gate was thinner and the street narrower. Antonil expected the strongest blows to fall against the west. When he arrived he saw his best general, Sergan, shouting with a voice rapidly approaching hoarseness.

  “Greetings Sergan,” A
ntonil said, saluting the old veteran. “Think we have a chance?”

  “Compared to Woodhaven this will be a picnic,” the man replied. “Long as we don’t got elves shooting at us…hey, who the abyss taught you how to buckle a sword?”

  Sergan stormed over to a young footman who appeared lost on how to strap his sword to his waist. The general grabbed it from him, flipped it around, buckled it tight, and returned to Antonil in the span of five seconds.

  “It’s always the simplest stuff,” Antonil said, a grin on his face.

  “Wasn’t my trainee,” Sergan grumbled. The two quieted as each looked to the men on the ground and walls and pondered the strength of their forces.

  “Sergan…” Antonil began.

  “We can hold,” the general said. “Even if they send more than you’re thinking, we’ll hold.”

  “And if the gates fall?” Antonil asked.

  “You mean like last time?”

  The guard captain nodded. Sergan sighed and gestured wide with his hands.

  “They won’t find the going easy. Lead your men, and I’ll lead mine. We’ll hold. Believe it, and we’ll do it.”

  “See you at the battle’s end,” Antonil said. He drew his sword and held it high, rallying the soldiers around him.

  “A pint of ale for every man who beheads an orc!” he shouted. The men shouted back, but their cheers were hollow. After saluting Sergan, he sheathed his sword and marched back to the western gate.

  W hen the last of the sun rose above the horizon, the priests of Karak made their presence known. They slipped out of the king’s forest, garbed in their finest black robes. They formed a loose semicircle around the city with forty of their members. They spread their hands and faced Veldaren. They opened their mouths. A single, solid roar of a lion shook the city and filled all who heard with fear. Every third minute they released Karak’s power into that roar, so that all within knew that a god himself had come to destroy.

  G reat master,” the goblin said, groveling on his hands and knees as if Qurrah were a deity. “Men come to speak with you, and they kill orcs who say no.”

  “Where are they?” Qurrah asked.

  “Leave us,” Velixar told the goblin. “Our guests are here.”

  Marching through the horde of orcs were twenty-five knights arranged in rows of five. Their armor was black, their eyes were blacker, and waving from banners attached to their saddles was the skull of a lion. The half-orc glared, recognizing his new arrival.

  “The priests herald our arrival,” the centermost of the leading five said as he removed his helmet. “And now the last of the obedient are joined as one army.”

  “High Enforcer Carden,” Velixar said, embracing the man after the dark paladin had dismounted. “It has been far too long.”

  “Aye, it has, prophet. And I am High Enforcer no longer. Krieger has assumed my mantle.”

  Krieger dismounted from the horse beside them and knelt.

  “It is an honor to be at your side at the final purge,” he said.

  Velixar bade him rise. “The dark paladins have done far more than I in swaying hearts to the true god. It is I who is honored by your allegiance. The sun has risen, the walls are in view, and the great lion roars. The battle is ready to begin.”

  He turned to Qurrah, who along with Tessanna had remained quiet beside Velixar, wanting little to do with their new guests.

  “Prepare the torches,” he said to them. “Afterward, stay at my side.”

  “And us?” Krieger asked.

  “Join the priests in their circle. Not a single soul is to escape. Let the lesser races shed their blood for Karak first.”

  The dark paladins rode out, their banners held high. They filled in gaps of the circle, and when the priests released the lions roar, they held their swords high and shouted the name of their god.

  “When we start the fun!” boomed an intoxicated voice. Gumgog pushed his way through the orcs, using his club arm to beat senseless any who didn’t move. His face was painted white, and on his chest was the skull of a lion. The orc lumbered up to Velixar and slammed his club to the ground.

  “WHEN?” he roared.

  “Calm yourself, Warmaster,” Qurrah said, not giving Velixar a chance to speak. “Order the beast-men to raise high their torches. When the fire hits the city, order the bird-men to attack the western gate. You do know which is west, right?”

  “Bwah hah hah!” Gumgog lifted his club arm and shifted his shoulder so he could point at the gate directly across from them. “That one. Gumgog drunk, and Gumgog want to kill, but me still know what is what. What about the south gate?”

  “The hyena-men will assault that one,” Velixar replied, grinning at Qurrah. “Keep the wolf-men back. Their use is later. When the gates fall, have Trummug unleash the horde.”

  “What Karak wants, Karak gets,” the orc bellowed before turning around and beating his way back through the orc ranks. “Raise your torches!” he shouted throughout the army. “All of you, get them torches high!”

  “Amusing orc,” Velixar said, laughing. The fear wafting from the city was intoxicating, and by the smile on Qurrah’s face he knew his disciple sensed it too. “Will you begin the assault on your own, or do you wish my help?”

  “Let the first strike be mine,” the half-orc said. “It is only just.”

  Tessanna kissed his cheek and stepped back, giving him room to cast his spell. The horde army completely surrounded the city, with the bird-men and hyena-men near their designated gates. They held their torches high as ordered. Qurrah closed his eyes and let the magic pour out. Dark words flowed across his tongue. He felt the torches in his mind, lighting his inner vision like stars across a sky. He grasped them as he would with a fist, except he used his power, his will, to command. The fires of the torches flared hot, blinding even in the morning light. With a triumphant cry he tore the fires into the sky.

  They soared upward, yellow tails streaking after them as if they were comets. Hundreds upon hundreds dotted the blue, crackles of black within the heart of the flames signifying the dark magic that controlled them. With another cry, Qurrah sent them rushing toward Veldaren like a river of fire. They rained down upon the walls, the buildings, and the castle. Flesh, cloth, and wood blackened. The soldiers crossed their arms and ducked their heads. Screams lifted to the sky, first few but then many as the fires spread. Veldaren was burning.

  Qurrah opened his eyes to witness the destruction of his spell. At his side, Tessanna slipped her hand back into his.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered into his ear.

  The priests lifted their arms and opened their mouths. Karak’s roar shook the city, this time angrier and ominous amidst the fire. Gumgog slammed the ground and roared for his army to attack. The bird-men squawked and charged the west gate, while hundreds of hyena-men yipped in earnest fervor. The archers along the walls released their first volley, and as the tips pierced the flesh of bird and hyena, Velixar lifted his eyes to the sky in thanks.

  Veldaren’s purge had begun.

  B ird-men to the west,” Mira shouted, using magic to escalate the volume of her voice so that all the soldiers near her heard. “Hyena-men to the south.”

  “Fill them with arrows!” Antonil shouted as he ran up the stairs and joined Mira’s side. The first volley fired, the twangs of bowstrings in perfect unison. Hundreds of arrows fell upon the bird-men, piercing their tough skin and shoddy armor. They ran with their heads low and wings spread wide, so those that fell were trampled without slowing the charge. They squawked with fanatical anger and determination. A second volley lessened their numbers even further, so that by the time they neared the gate they numbered only eight hundred.

  The outermost gate was made of wood, with the inner side reinforced with iron. Lacking any sort of siege weaponry, Antonil wondered what lunacy made them think they could break through. Then from his perch he saw their sharp claws shred inches into the wood, showering the ground with splinters.

 
“Fire at will,” he ordered his archers. “Focus on the door!”

  “Yes sir,” Mira said, a grin spreading across her face. Fire swirled around her hands, begging for release. She slammed them together, unleashing a giant funnel of flame. The fire struck just before the gate, incinerating tens of the grotesque creatures. Then the spell detonated. Dozens more flew back, leaving ugly, featherless corpses in the spell’s wake. The archers along the wall assaulted the scattered remnants who tried to mass at the gate.

  “Well done,” Antonil whispered. “Better than hot oil.”

  “Perhaps not,” Mira said. She pointed to the greater army waiting. “I think I made a friend.”

  T here,” Velixar said, his eyes locked on the fiery bomb igniting his forces on the western side. “Foolish to give away her position so early in the fight.”

  Darkness clouded his fingers, but Tessanna halted his spell.

  “No,” she said, glaring at the wall even as she laughed. “She’s mine. She is me, and mommy wants me dead.”

  “The other daughter of balance?” the man in black wondered. He had figured the spell to be cast by Harruq’s wife. “So be it,” he said.

  “Here kitty-kitty,” Tessanna said, twin red orbs of magic growing inside her palms. “Big dog’s coming and he’s coming for you!”

  She threw them, the force of the spell knocking her to her knees. Mouth agape and eyes sparkling, she watched her spell.

  “Get back!” Mira shouted, seeing the two orbs rotating around each other as they approached. She spread her hands wide, mentally pushing Antonil and the other archers to safety. She had but a second to cast a shielding spell before the orbs struck.

  “Mira!” Lathaar shouted as half the western gate swarmed with yellow fire. The fire burned hot and died, drifting to the sky in a putrid smelling smoke. The paladin cheered as it dissipated, for hovering a foot above the wall was Mira, her hair swirling and her eyes black as night.

  “Get off the wall,” she ordered the rest of the archers, who obeyed without hesitation. Antonil grabbed Lathaar’s shoulder and twisted him around to face him.