The Death of Promises h-3

by David Dalglish

  17

  H arruq stood before the gap in the wall. His head was down, and his hair covered his face. Salvation and Condemnation were at his sides, their tips jammed into the dirt. His eyes stared at the people that fled to him and the safety he had offered. Even in their panic, they made sure not to touch him. Something about him made them stay clear. He did not see, but those that passed stared in admiration or reverence. He was like a deity made of stone.

  Several thousand men and woman had fled by the time Harruq saw the first orcs. They were scattered and few, the teeth lining the edge of a gaping maw swallowing his entire city. It was swallowing people he loved. It would not swallow him. The last of the refugees screamed for help, but he did not move. He would not reach them in time, and if he left the gap orcs might escape the city and give chase. So he watched, his heart too calloused, too exhausted, to feel anything more than anger as the innocents were butchered and mutilated before him.

  “You will die before you pass,” Harruq said to the first to approach. The orc ignored his words and hefted his two-handed axe above his head. Salvation lashed out and cut his throat in a single, blinding motion. The sword returned to its original position as the body crumpled before him. A second neared. Condemnation cut the axe from his hand, looped around, and disemboweled him. The orc crumpled, gasping out his pain. Harruq saw none of it, heard none of it. A strange anger had settled over him. It was not raging or burning; it did not consume him like so often anger had. Instead he felt it filling his veins like ice. As three orcs charged him, he knew without question they would die by his hand. There would be no pleasure in the killing, no thrill in the act, just a deepening of the strangeness enveloping his mind.

  Harruq smashed away the axe aimed for his head, stepped forward, and buried one sword to the hilt in the orc’s gut. His other parried away a thrust so that the orc holding the sword fell forward. Harruq’s elbow turned his nose to a splattered mess of cartilage and blood. He then pulled free his sword and slashed the remaining orc’s neck. Blood poured across the black steel. Four orcs lay dead at his feet. He stared down the street, where more than forty approached. They carried pieces of humans like trophies. His anger strengthened.

  “Come and die like the animals you are,” he shouted to them. He held his swords crossed above his head, a glowing ‘X’ that dripped blood. The mass of orcs charged. They had killed many, but not enough. They knew the innocents fled outside the walls. Only Harruq remained in the way. Only Harruq.

  He swung with all his strength, the magic in the swords cutting bone like it was dry wheat. He took out the legs of the orc before him, stepped back, and then swung again. Three more fell, their armor broken, their chests and bellies pouring blood across the ground. As the bodies fell they formed a barrier to the others behind, one they had to stumble and climb across. Harruq gave no reprieve and offered no inch of ground. The orcs swung, cut, and bit, but he did not feel the tears in his flesh, did not know of the blood that poured across him. All he knew was the death in the eyes of those he killed, and they were many.

  As the last of the forty died or lay dying, Harruq screamed to the morning sky, a single cry of anguish, sorrow, and anger. It echoed throughout the town, intermixing with the sobs of the trapped, the bellows of hatred, and the pitiful weeping of those whose lives now belonged to Karak. Qurrah did not hear the war cry, but he felt it in his heart.

  C ome,” Velixar said as the last of the undead marched through the walls. “It is time we entered as the conquerors we are.”

  The man in black raised his arms to the heavens, his red eyes rolling into his skull. He opened his mouth and whispered, and his legions of undead obeyed.

  Karak! they shouted. Karak! Karak! It rose high from rotted throats and mindless flesh. The walls shook with the cry. All who heard felt the lion’s condemning eyes upon their backs. The dark priests joined the shout, and the lion’s roar traveled for miles. The orcs took up the chant. Those who knelt, forfeiting their souls for their lives, whispered it. The entire city became a writhing cauldron of death, blood, and worship.

  Karak! Karak!

  But there were still those fighting against him and whose lips worshipped him not, whose hearts followed Ashhur even as they struggled to survive inside the maelstrom.

  K arak be damned!” Harruq shouted as he cut down his orcish attacker. “You hear me? Karak be damned!”

  He buried his sword deep into the gut of another, so that blood poured hot across his hand and wrist. He yanked out the blade and kicked the body back, another obstacle for the incoming mass. His anger had evolved. He felt it flooding his being with strength, wild and desperate to be used. His focus was no longer the narrow knife edge but instead wide. He saw everything, felt everything, as the battle grew desperate. Fifty more had come, and they charged and howled with wild abandon. Harruq braced himself and prepared for the onslaught, but then he saw they were running out of fear.

  Harruq had but a few to massacre. The rest were buried by Sergan and his soldiers.

  “Well met gatekeeper,” Sergan said, his enormous axe hefted onto his shoulder. “So what’s the toll? I can’t pay in gold, but I got plenty of orc heads for you!”

  Harruq wiped the blood from his weapons and sheathed them. For a brief moment a grin lit up his face.

  “Two heads a man, can you pay the toll?” he asked.

  “Two? Two! Bah, my men here got nine to a head easy, ain’t that right?”

  The soldiers, exhausted and ragged, raised their swords high and cheered.

  “Go,” Harruq said. To emphasize this he turned and pointed to the wolf-men charging the fleeing peoples of Veldaren. “They will need you more than I.”

  “Hear that?” Sergan shouted. “We got some mutts to kill. Stick tight, and we’ll make it fine!”

  He turned back to Harruq, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Are you sure you can hold?”

  “Until I’m dead, I’ll hold,” the half-orc replied.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sergan said, but he smiled and saluted. The kindness vanished quick as it came. Shouting with a voice hoarse and dry, he hurried his men on. As the last passed, Harruq drew his swords and placed his back to them. His momentary reprieve was gone. Swarming onto the eastern road were over a hundred orcs. Harruq twirled Salvation and Condemnation, taking comfort in their strength.

  “For Karak!” the orcs shouted as they charged.

  “And Karak can have you!” Harruq shouted back.

  His bravado was not false. He saw the hundred, and he saw them dead. It was his task to make it come to pass. From underneath his armor he pulled out the scorpion pendant Brug had made him and let it dangle from his neck. The pendant flared, its magic increasing the strength of Harruq’s swords. The first to near him lost his head. The second fell with his body in two. The half-orc rushed the army, cutting and chopping with a viciousness beyond anything he had ever known. As the orcs climbed over piles of their dead, he took off their arms and legs, letting them add to the obstacle they tried to pass.

  Three orcs ran around the side, where the pile of dead was less, and leapt over seven bodies. They were behind Harruq and beyond his line of sight. But there was one who could see them, one who ran along the rooftops with long gray cloaks trailing behind him. Haern leapt into the air, kicked off the wall, and descended upon the three. Each saber stabbed downward at a neck as he landed. A sweep of his legs took out the third. He cut his neck as he fell, bleeding out the orc before he ever hit the dirt.

  Harruq heard the commotion and spun, Salvation lashing out. Haern blocked it with both his sabers, his blue eyes unflinching even as his arms quivered against the half-orc’s amazing strength. Harruq realized who it was, nodded, and then turned back to the horde. Haern joined his side, and together they fought. As the piles of dead grew larger, the orcs pulled back. Their numbers were not enough. Their strength did not match up against the tremendous skill of their opponents. More were coming, however, th
eir numbers building higher and higher. The two watched as the orcs cleared away the dead that blocked their paths.

  “How the others doing?” Harruq asked as he gasped for air.

  “They live,” Haern said, estimating the forces arrayed against them. As he neared two hundred he stopped bothering. “We will die here, you know that right?”

  The half-orc chuckled. “No, I don’t. We’ll hold, Haern. We have no choice.”

  The assassin dropped into a stance, one weapon high, one low, as the orcs prepared to charge.

  “It’s been an honor to fight beside you, Harruq Tun,” Haern said.

  “Aye,” Harruq said. “Die well.”

  The orcs arrived, spearheaded by a brave few and followed up by a cowardly many. Haern jumped forward, slicing out the throats of two and tearing at the legs of the third. They fell, trampled by the others. The assassin leapt back, and this time Harruq unleashed a whirlwind of steel. The magical weapons tore through armor, shattered the shafts of axes, and broke the poorly wrought swords. Orc after orc fell dead, often in multiple pieces. With each spin Harruq took a step back, and with each step he left a trail of dead.

  “Fall back,” Haern shouted. Harruq did as ordered. Their opponents were too close, and as he retreated several axes cut where he had been. Haern lunged, parrying a few defensive swings before thrusting his sabers through eyes and mouths. Five died, but they were a pittance. The assassin retreated, unable to strike any more. Harruq protected his retreat, hurling a body against those nearest and then charging in. Blood poured across the dirt as he swung with both weapons left, then right, and then left again. Fearful of getting too close, several orcs hurled their axes at him, as well as the axes of the dead.

  “Fight on!” Haern shouted, using his sabers to knock down or parry the axes. He leapt over Harruq’s head and landed on the other side, batting away two more throws. His foot shot out, tripping an orc, and then he cartwheeled, his other foot breaking a chin. Axes hurled through the air where he had been. When he touched down he leapt again, avoiding a second barrage. More orcs charged, thinking him on the run. Instead, he activated the magic of his ring and appeared mere inches before them. Two impaled themselves on his sabers. The others trampled over them. Haern screamed as the weight pressed against his body. The dead orcs protected him from their axes and swords, but that mattered little as feet stomped across his face. He tried to activate the magic in his ring to teleport himself out, but the magic for the day was spent. Haern gasped for air, all the while cursing such a death.

  “ Get off! ” Harruq screamed, slamming his shoulder into the group. Three flew backwards, the unlucky fourth gurgling as the half-orc tore out his throat with Salvation. Harruq spun, daring them to approach. Haern shoved off the bodies and staggered to his feet. His face was badly bruised, and every breath filled his chest with pain. All around the orcs encircled them, howling and taunting.

  “Harruq,” Haern said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get down.”

  The half-orc obeyed. The two dropped to the ground. Haern screamed as his chest pressed against the dirt, but he would endure. Bright light flashed above them, and then lightning tore through the ranks of orcs, followed by a barrage of lances made of ice. In the span of seconds they were all dead. Harruq stood, stunned by the sight. Down the street came Mira, bits of ice still dripping from her fingers. Behind her were Antonil and his men, as well as the two paladins.

  “Well met,” Haern said, bowing to the girl with blackest eyes.

  “Form up a line,” Antonil shouted. His men spread across the street, seven deep, their shields interlocked. Lathaar and Jerico stepped beyond them and surveyed Harruq and Haern.

  “Do either of you need healing?” Lathaar asked.

  “Just my ribs,” Haern said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Healing’s for after the battle,” Harruq said.

  Their bruises and cuts denied their words, but the paladins let them be. Harruq stepped past them and saw the line Antonil was forming.

  “No,” he said. “No, get them out of the city. Get them out!”

  Antonil turned to him and frowned. “And who are you to order me?” he asked.

  Harruq stormed over, grabbed Antonil by the top of his chestplate, and yanked him close so that their eyes were inches apart.

  “I know you,” Harruq said, his voice quiet but shaking with intensity. “The people of Neldar will need a leader. Go to them. Let us die as we must, but take your men and go. That clear?”

  Antonil pushed aside Harruq’s hand, then nodded to the fields beyond the wall. The wolf-men were swarming through the refugees, though it appeared many fought against them. Brief flashes of magic, be it fire or lightning, dotted the battle.

  “Protect us as long as you can,” the guard captain said. “And I’ll do my best to ensure you have something to protect.”

  Mira slipped past them all and stared out at the battle beyond the city. Her hands shook as she watched. She could feel them dying. Her keen eyes saw many wolf-men avoiding the fight, instead feasting on the slain. Others were circling about, killing those that scattered or dropped off as if it were sport. Deep inside, she felt her power stirring.

  “We must hurry,” she said before a sudden blast of wind propelled her across the grass faster than a horse in full gallop. At Antonil’s order, his troops abandoned their wall of shields and marched outside the city. Only Lathaar and Jerico stayed behind.

  “For Neldar,” Antonil said, saluting them.

  “For Ashhur,” Jerico replied.

  The four defenders faced the west. Scores of orcs were dead, and the rest who lived ignored the gap in the wall and instead tore into homes in search of easier victims. The attacking army had been devastated, of that there was no doubt. Still, the remaining orcs were more than enough to slaughter the fleeing peoples of Veldaren. But it wasn’t the orcs that attacked.

  Karak! Karak!

  Marching down the street, far as they could see, came the undead. They jostled and bumped each other as they walked. Their eyes were lifeless but their voices were not.

  Karak! Karak!

  “There must be over a thousand,” Haern said, feeling his gut sink.

  “But they are dead,” Jerico said, readying his shield. “To my side, Lathaar. You two, stay back until you are needed.”

  The paladins weapons glowed a fierce white, and the glow grew all the brighter as Lathaar turned his swords into Elholads.

  “You’ve seen many things in your life,” Haern said to Harruq as the undead army approached. “But you have never seen paladins fight Karak’s undead.”

  Harruq guarded Jerico’s right flank while Haern guarded Lathaar’s left. The two paladins held their weapons high, their eyes closed, and their mouths whispering prayers to their god.

  Karak! Karak!

  Lathaar opened his eyes. “Stay with me,” was all he said. He launched himself at the tide of dead flesh and bone. As the blades of light tore through the bodies the undead did not just fall. They shattered as the magic controlling them was scattered and broken. Fast as he could cut them down they came, packed together so tight that a single swing massacred three at a time. As the hands tore at his flesh and teeth bit for his arms, he leapt back. Jerico slammed his shield into the mass, screaming Ashhur’s name. The rotten flesh melted against his shield like butter. He swung Bonebreaker in wild arcs, each blow blasting apart arms and chests. Deep into the army he ran, and when the undead tried to close around him Lathaar was there, cutting them down.

  “Back!” Lathaar shouted, and Jerico obeyed. He bashed his shield side to side, beating away the clawing fingers. Lathaar cut a swathe of chaos through the ranks, circling in front of Jerico’s shield with no fear of its holy power. As he circled back around to where Jerico stood firm, over a hundred undead lay in pieces across the ground. Blood ran from scratches across his exposed face and neck. Lathaar gasped for air. He and Jerico had rode night and day to reach Neldar, and their rest w
ithin the temple of Ashhur had been too brief. They were both running on adrenaline and faith.

  Each was tested as they stared out at the mass of dead chanting Karak’s name. They had killed but a tenth of their numbers.

  “Even rivers must run dry,” Lathaar said as he sheathed his short sword.

  “Amen,” Jerico said.

  As one Lathaar lifted his sword and Jerico lifted his shield. The light upon them flared, powerful and dominating. Harruq felt a comfort in his chest, his heart longing for the peace he felt emanating within the light. The undead, however, shrieked and howled. Those nearest disintegrated, and those behind them tried to flee only to be pushed back and torn to pieces by the rest.

  The light faded back to its gentle glow. Another hundred destroyed.

  “An awesome sight,” Haern said in the brief lull before the paladins attacked once more. Harruq nodded but could not find words to describe what he had seen and felt. Lathaar cut through the undead, holding his Elholad with both hands. Jerico waited, and when Lathaar needed to retreat he was there, his shield leading. As they fought Harruq twirled his swords, unable to stand by any longer.

  “Tired of watching yet,” he asked Haern.

  “You know I am.”

  To either side they attacked. Haern’s strikes were impossibly precise, cutting away tendons and muscle so that one undead after another collapsed, unable to stand or attack. Harruq was far less efficient. Salvation and Condemnation pounded through skulls and bone with brute force. Between them Lathaar twirled his Elholad and sliced through the bodies that swarmed about. When Haern found himself overwhelmed, he somersaulted back. Jerico was ready, slamming his shield into the undead while the assassin was still upside-down in the air.

  Time crawled. Harruq felt he fought an endless wave of fingers and teeth. His armor was scratched and soaked in gore. His face and neck were covered with bruises, and every exposed bit of flesh was cut and bleeding. Any normal foe would have been exhausted and daunted by the enormity of death around them. But they fought no normal foe. Bit by bit they retreated toward the wall, unable to halt the wave despite their bravery. The bodies were piling up, their adrenaline was fading, and the armor on their backs was becoming harder and harder to bear.