The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  “Goat-men,” Jerico said. “That’s new.”

  “It is.” The creatures had humanoid arms and chests, their faces long, their nostrils flat. From their heads curled long, thick horns. Their legs were backward bent and covered with fur, much more resembling a goat’s.

  “What are they doing across the river?” Lathaar wondered.

  “It’s a small group,” Jerico said. “Perhaps they sneaked past the patrols?”

  “Or Tower Violet has fallen,” Lathaar said, referring to the southernmost building that was part of the Wall of Towers. Hundreds of soldiers and boats patrolled the Gihon from there, ensuring no creatures of the Vile Wedge escaped to terrorize the west.

  “Tower Violet,” Jerico said, shaking his head. “Or the entire Wall.”

  “We won’t find out up here,” Lathaar said. He headed back for the stairs. “Let’s go. The doors won’t hold them forever.”

  Lathaar prayed to Ashhur with every step he took. At the bottom of the stairs, he leaned against the wall on one side of the door, Jerico taking position on the other. And then they waited.

  And waited.

  “What in the world is taking them so long?” Jerico asked. They should have easily reached the Citadel by now, yet they heard no battle cries, no thump against the doors. With those thick, sharp horns of theirs, they could have gorged into the wood until it broke, but so far, relative silence. After another minute, Lathaar gestured up the stairs.

  “Go see what’s going on,” he told Jerico. “We’re clearly missing something.”

  Jerico vanished up the stairs, returning moments later. By the confused look on his face, Lathaar could only assume the worst.

  “They’ve surrounded us,” he said. “And it looks like they’re settling in. This isn’t an attack. It’s a siege.”

  Lathaar tapped his fingers against the hilts of his swords and shrugged.

  “Very well then,” he said. Grabbing the bolt locking the door, he yanked it open with a loud screech.

  “What are you doing?” Jerico asked.

  Lathaar grinned.

  “I’m going to go greet our guests. Keep ready at the door. You might need to shut it very, very quickly after I come back inside.”

  Jerico pushed the door open.

  “I always thought I was the reckless one.”

  “You’ve clearly rubbed off on me. Consider it your fault if I die.”

  Lathaar exited the Citadel to a wave of guttural cries. The goat-men raised their arms, clapping their long fingers together and shouting. They formed a solid perimeter about the Citadel, but the majority was bunched before the door. Lathaar noticed how their skin had a leathery look to it and was covered with thin, fine hairs. Their wide eyes stared at him, most yellow, some red or orange. To his surprise, he saw many wielding crude weapons, thick clubs and sharpened stakes. Even worse were the ten near the very front, facing him while holding swords and axes. The beast-men were primitive creatures, incapable of such craftsmanship. Lathaar felt even more certain Tower Violet had fallen.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw many of their students peering down at him from the upper windows. He waved at them, smiling. If he might ease their minds with false confidence, then he was more than willing to try. That done, he turned back to the waiting goat-men. Keeping his swords sheathed, Lathaar approached the creatures, hands held out to either side in what he hoped was a recognizable symbol of peace.

  “That’s far enough, human,” said a goat-men carrying an ax. This one was taller than the others, and wore a set of tattered, warped chainmail. Its voice was deeper than Lathaar expected, and far more intelligent. Jerico had told him all about his fights against the wolf-men, and how clever they could be, but hearing it in stories and hearing it in reality were two completely different things.

  “Welcome to our home,” Lathaar said, standing in the middle of the gap between the Citadel and the surrounding army. “A shame you didn’t give us notice beforehand. We could have prepared a more proper welcome.”

  The leader’s eyes widened, and it panted in what was either laughter or anger.

  “Our king has sent us to destroy you,” it said. “You may choose how.”

  “Your king?” Lathaar asked, not liking the sound of that.

  “The King of the Vile!” the goat-man cried, and it hefted the ax above its head. The rest joined in, deep, trembling roars akin to vicious bulls. Lathaar let the sound wash over him, and he had to clench his fists to keep them from trembling. He would not show fear, not to his enemies, and certainly not with his students watching.

  “You said we have a choice in our destruction,” Lathaar said calmly, as if they were discussing the weather. “Care to tell me what those choices are?”

  The goat-man leader stepped forward with a rattle of chainmail.

  “No one will come save you. All the lands fall to our king. Come out. Fight us, and die like warriors. Or stay in your stone home and starve. We will not attack. We will not throw away lives on your doors and steps. Come to us and die, or stay within and die.” The creature’s lips pulled back to reveal thick yellow teeth. “Your choice.”

  The goat-men chanted, swinging their weapons or stomping their feet. “Fight! Fight! Fight us!”

  Lathaar let them go on for a bit, forcing the smile to stay on his face. If the creatures of the Vile Wedge had crossed the Gihon united under a king, then hope for aid was painfully low. Thousands of soldiers had marched east with King Antonil, and though the angels still protected the land, they were spread far too thin. With King Bram invading from the south, pressing Mordan from both fronts, which direction would the angels even choose to defend?

  “A fine offer,” Lathaar said when the commotion died down. “If you’ll give me a moment to discuss it with my friend, I’ll come back with an answer.”

  The leader gestured to the Citadel. “Go. We wait.”

  Lathaar turned his back to them, keeping his walk calm and his back straight. He wouldn’t let the creatures think him fleeing. When he reached the doors, Jerico stood leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed.

  “I heard every word,” he said. “Get in here.”

  Lathaar entered, Jerico shutting the door behind him. Lathaar leaned against the wall and sighed.

  “Well?” Jerico said.

  Lathaar shook his head. “I don’t know. If they attacked us we could hold, killing their numbers advantage with both the doors and the stairs. But out there, in open fields, we’d have no chance. There’s too many, Jerico. It’s not worth the risk. I say we wait it out.”

  “Wait it out,” Jerico repeated. “While paladins of Karak march alongside Ker’s soldiers toward Mordeina?”

  “What other option is there?”

  Before Jerico could answer, they heard footsteps on the stairs. Both turned to see several of their older students coming down in a group. They held their weapons, swords and maces and shields. The weapons’ glow was so soft, so faint in the daylight. The weakness of their faith bothered Lathaar terribly, and he felt the blame lay solely on his shoulders.

  “We want to fight them,” said the eldest student, a tall, dark-haired boy named Mal. “All of us. We’re not scared.”

  The cracking of his voice said otherwise. Jerico looked back, and Lathaar shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “We’re not sending children out to die.”

  “We’re not children,” Gareth said from behind Mal. He was one of the few who wielded a glowing shield like Jerico, and he lifted it up before him. “We can fight.”

  Jerico leaned in closer, lowered his voice.

  “Perhaps it is time,” he said.

  “No.” Lathaar clenched his jaw, and he held his ground. They were too young. Too lacking in training. “You and I, we’ll stand together against them. It’s time we showed these beasts how badly they’ve erred in coming to our home and threatening those we’ve sworn to raise and protect.”

  There was no hiding the disappointment on the fac
es of the younger paladins, but Lathaar knew it was better they be disappointed than dead. None of them had ever faced a real opponent in battle. To handle hundreds at a time, and those of a bestial nature like the goat-men? No, he would not have those deaths on his conscience.

  “Bar the doors after we leave,” Lathaar told Mal. “If something happens to us, you’ll be in charge of the defense. Stay inside, ration food carefully, and keep the youngest in their rooms until you’re certain the beasts won’t attack. If Ashhur is kind, help will come from Mordeina. Is that understood?”

  Mal nodded, looking relieved as well as disappointed. Lathaar turned to his friend and drew his swords.

  “At my side?” he asked.

  Jerico patted his glowing shield.

  “Always and forever.”

  Together they exited the doors of the Citadel. The gathered army cheered at the sight of them, and they stomped their hoofed feet eagerly. Lathaar approached their leader, and calm slowly spread through his body. This was it. Not since the second Gods’ War ended had he drawn his blades with death in mind, but the anticipation of battle, the heightening of all his senses, came back to him as familiar as his own reflection.

  “Come to die?” their leader shouted when the two paladins were halfway between the Citadel and the ring of goat-men.

  “I offer this one chance,” Lathaar shouted back, ignoring the question. “We have brought low ancient evils from when the world was first born. We have sundered armies of the dead and slaughtered demons of the air. We have faced down gods and not broken. You are nothing to us but rabid beasts to be put down. Retreat, and you will live. Attack, and you will face the fury of Ashhur.” Lathaar grinned. “Your choice.”

  The goat-men slammed their hands together and let loose a communal roar of anger. Lathaar shook his head. He’d not expected them to listen, but at least he’d tried.

  “You are but two against many,” their leader spat. “We will stomp your bones into dust, and we will rip apart the children you protect.” It pointed its ax toward them. “Kill them, kill them both!”

  The creatures charged from all directions, roaring. Jerico smacked his mace against his shield and Lathaar clanged his swords together.

  “Surrounded, outnumbered, and with no chance for retreat or surrender,” Jerico said with a smile. “Just like old times.”

  “And come the end, we’ll both remain standing,” Lathaar said. “Just like old times.”

  Lathaar braced his legs as Jerico lifted his shield. The blue-white glow shimmered, growing stronger, brighter, as Jerico prayed to their god. Energy swelled within it, and right before the creatures overwhelmed them, the paladin stepped forward, his scream flooded with power.

  “Be gone!”

  Jerico thrust his shield forward, and from it flew a mirror image, only it grew as it traveled, widening out as if it were the shield of Ashhur himself. The light struck the goat-men like a physical force, slamming dozens to the dirt. The sound of their screams accompanied cracking stone and breaking bones. Only the leader endured, having remained back when the others charged, and even it was forced to one knee from the overwhelming power.

  One direction cleared, Lathaar turned left, Jerico right, to face the remaining horde. Swords shining in his hands, Lathaar charged, unafraid. Despite their numbers, it was the beasts that should be afraid of him.

  “Elholad!” he shouted, and the metal of his swords vanished completely, becoming blades of purest light. No weapon could resist it, no flesh could endure it. The first of the goat-men reached him, head ducked, horns leading. Lathaar side-stepped, short sword swinging in an upward arc. The blade decapitated the goat-man without the slightest resistance, its body stumbling several feet more before collapsing. Two more rushed in, swinging their long arms for his face, hoping to tear into him with their thick yellow fingernails. Lathaar cut the hands off of one, then met the other with his shoulder. Their bodies connected, Lathaar trusting his platemail to keep him safe. The goat-man tried to knock him to the ground, but Lathaar dug in his heels, braced his legs, and pushed back enough to buy himself separation. It was only for a heartbeat, but that was enough to swing both blades in a wide arc, cutting the goat-man in half at the waist.

  More rushed at him in an overwhelming wave, and Lathaar steadily retreated, still swinging. With each step, the blood of his enemies splashed across his armor. Some tried to leap at him with their horns, others protect their bodies with their arms. It never mattered. Lathaar clenched his jaw and kept his focus razor-sharp. The dead were piling around him, but they had him surrounded. With no place left to retreat, he couldn’t make a single mistake. The moment one scored a significant wound, or he fell to the ground, he’d be no more.

  Back and forth Lathaar swung, feet never still for a second. He cut reaching hands, forcing them back. He cleaved off charging horns and the heads they were attached to. Multiple times he felt fists slam into him, and despite his platemail, he feared the blows might still break bones. Constantly turning, constantly swinging, he caught sight of Jerico from the corner of his eye. His friend faced off against the army’s leader, absorbing blow after blow of its ax with his shield while his mace swung wildly to keep the others at bay.

  “Enough!” Lathaar screamed, and he slammed his two blades together high above his head. Light flared from their contact as if a new sun were being birthed. The goat-men staggered away in all directions, lifting their arms and turning their heads against the painful brilliance. Lathaar prayed the reprieve would be enough. Dashing forward, he cut a path through the blinded goat-men, reached open space, and sprinted toward his friend. Jerico blocked another blow, saw him coming, and then leapt backward.

  The leader moved to charge, but Lathaar was there, throwing himself in the way. The chainmail the goat-man wore might as well have been cloth when the holy blades sliced through its neck and out its waist. It dropped to the ground and shuddered.

  Lathaar thought the rest might retreat with their leader’s death, but it only seemed to spur them on harder. Again Lathaar met their charge, trusting Jerico to hold his own. As he fought, the air around him thickened and he felt a growing unease. He ignored the feeling as best he could as he slashed one of the beasts across its long face, sending horns and teeth flying.

  A sudden surge of emotion nearly sent Lathaar to his knees. His arms shook, and he gasped for air as if underwater. Overwhelming rage poured through him. The light of his swords expanded, brighter, longer. The weapons cleaved through multiple goat-men with a single swing, their blood evaporating at the very contact with the light. Another swing, and several more fell. Lathaar’ didn’t hear their death cries, but a solid ringing deep in his head. Only one thing he was certain of, and it frightened him deeply.

  Ashhur was furious.

  That fury drove him on, the light of his swords like whips, trailing after each swing in curved arcs for a dozen feet beyond their initial reach. The beasts dropped, and before such a sight, they howled in fear and turned to flee. Lathaar knew he should let them, but he chased after nonetheless. His swords sang the song of blood as the beast-men fell and fell until there were none left to chase. Turning about, he found Jerico equally terrifying in his frenzy. With each slam of his shield, a goat-man’s body would shatter. Afterimages of the shield continued on, scattering dozens more. By the time Jerico swung his mace, his foe was often already dead.

  Only a scattered few remained by the time Lathaar reached Jerico’s side, and they were far out of reach. Lathaar sheathed his swords. Though the light vanished from the weapons, his anger did not fade so easily. Jerico let out a deep breath, and he flung his shield onto his back and clipped his mace to his belt.

  “What in Ashhur’s name was that?” he asked.

  Lathaar shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The priests say Ashhur slumbers, but I don’t think that is true any longer. He’s awake, and he’s furious.”

  “Furious...” Jerico looked to the dead around them,
and he shuddered at the memory of battle. “That’s one way to describe that. I could barely think, Lathaar. If you asked me my name, I doubt I could have told you.”

  Lathaar understood well what he meant. He still felt the lingering effects, and as time dragged on, he feared that burning sense of anger in his chest would never fade.

  “Back to the tower,” he said. “This isn’t over yet.”

  Lathaar and Jerico left the Citadel, weapons sheathed, shield on Jerico’s back, and supplies hanging from both their belts.

  “I’m still not certain it’s wise to leave them alone,” Jerico said as they walked the faded path toward the nearest village to the west.

  “I’m not sure there is a wise choice right now,” Lathaar said. He flexed his hands. Even an hour later, his god’s fury still smoldered in his chest. “But if there’s a reason for Ashhur’s rage, it must be Karak’s paladins, and we’re not bringing untested youths to face them.”

  “But how will they gain experience if we don’t let them be tested,” Jerico argued. “Whether we like it or not, this is what we were training them for. You heard them back there. They wanted to fight. They wanted to help us. That has to mean something.”

  Lathaar froze in his tracks and turned to face his friend.

  “Then tell me,” he said, “should we fall, and our students be captured, which of them do you think could endure the torture that would follow? You suffered at the hands of the prophet and his paladins. You know their cruelty. Tell me. Give me a single name you believe with all your heart could endure those trials, and I will let every student who wishes to come with us do so.”

  “Jessilynn,” said Jerico, meeting his gaze.

  Lathaar shook his head.

  “Jessilynn’s not here. And you know as well as I we’ve failed our own students. You saw the glow on their blades, if there was any at all. For now, they must be on their own. The bodies of the dead surround our Citadel. Perhaps without us, they’ll realize what Azariah always insisted: this world isn’t safe, and neither are they.”