“You mean the stupid, dangerous way?” asked Lathaar.
“Exactly.”
They entered the throne room, all three on the lookout for guards. It was vacant and dimly lit by two torches. Dieredon rushed ahead, moving silent with practiced ease that made Lathaar jealous. When he had looped the room, he returned, shaking his head.
“No guards nearby,” he said. “And no doorways. The king’s chambers must be elsewhere.”
“When in doubt, move higher up,” Tarlak said. “Suits the ego.”
They headed down the hallway to their right, following Dieredon’s intuition more than anything. The approach of torchlight around the corner alerted them to guards. Tarlak put a finger to his lips, then start looping his hands in the air. A white mist surrounded their throats. When the guards cried out, no noise came from their mouths.
Dieredon raced toward them as they drew their swords. He avoided the first two clumsy swings, jammed his hands against one’s elbow, and then twisted the hilt free. He parried the other’s attack using his stolen sword, elbowed the guard in the face, and then spun. His feet and fists lashed out, striking both.
As they collapsed, Dieredon applied quick kicks to the backs of their heads, ensuring they stayed down for a long while.
On the other end of the hallway, Lathaar glanced at his swords and sighed.
“Why am I here again?” he asked.
“To look pretty,” Tarlak said. “Now keep quiet.”
They passed many doors, but Dieredon never paused as he led them along. The square castle seemed to have a logical sense to it. If the extravagant hallway entrance to the castle led to the throne, then on the opposite end, its back to the throne, would be the king’s chambers.
When they took a second left, the hallway ended at an enormous set of double doors. It seemed the elf was correct. The four soldiers standing at attention only confirmed it.
“Back,” Dieredon said, pushing the Eschaton away. Two crossbow bolts pinged against the stone wall where they had been. The soldiers cried out in alarm, and this time no spell silenced them.
“Take them out, quick,” Tarlak insisted, magic sparking from his palms.
Lathaar turned the corner, trusting his armor. Two of the guards rushed toward him, buying time for the other two as they cranked their crossbows. Lathaar drew his swords, the blue-white light of their blades flooding the enclosed space. The soldiers stopped at the sight.
“A paladin?” one asked. “But why?”
“We’re not here to kill anyone,” Lathaar said, hoping they wouldn’t notice the spells Tarlak prepared to unleash. “We must speak to your king.”
The wizard paused, waiting for their reaction.
“No one speaks to the king,” the leader said.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Lathaar insisted. “But too many lives are at stake. Stand down.”
“He delays too long,” Dieredon said to Tarlak. Already he could hear footsteps approaching from behind, as well as movement from a nearby door that he assumed were servants’ quarters.
The guards were clearly troubled. They looked to one another, until their eldest stepped forward.
“We cannot, under pain of death,” he said. “Lord Penwick is our majesty’s trusted advisor, and he assures us our liege is very troubled. No one is to see him.”
A squad of armored men came up the hallway behind them, twenty in number. Dieredon took up his bow and shifted his feet, his eyes glancing between the two groups.
“Many of you will die if you try to imprison us,” Tarlak warned.
“Please, you must understand, we have no choice,” another guard said.
“There is always a choice,” Lathaar said. He sheathed his swords. “Take us to this Lord Penwick, or is there an order not to disturb him, either?”
The guard looked to Dieredon and Tarlak.
“Will you put away your weapons, and come peaceably?” he asked.
Dieredon said nothing, but Tarlak shrugged.
“Eh, why not. At least we get to talk to someone, right?”
The elf slung his bow across his back.
“So be it,” he said. “Lead us on, but do not lay a hand upon my person. I am no prisoner.”
The older guard relaxed, but only slightly. He gestured to the groups, ordering them to part. The Eschaton walked between them, but as they passed through the rows of men, Tarlak paused.
“Oh, one moment,” he said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. “I almost forgot this.”
He flung a handful of dust into the air, and before anyone could react, he shouted a single word.
“SLEEP!”
Every guard fell limp, their eyelids drooping heavily. Lathaar fell as well, fighting the deep magic. Only Dieredon stood unaffected, a bewildered look on his face.
“I thought we were to talk to this Lord Penwick,” he asked as he helped Lathaar back to his feet.
“Yeah, but I’d rather find out what the Abyss is going on with their beloved king,” Tarlak said. “And if he is troubled, or ill, perhaps our paladin friend here can aid him.”
Tarlak tilted his head to one side as Lathaar collapsed back to his knees and snored loudly.
“Once he’s awake, of course,” Tarlak muttered. He snapped his fingers in front of the paladin’s nose, whispering a word of counter-magic. Lathaar startled awake instantly and reached for his swords.
“Relax,” the wizard said. “Get up. We have a king to talk to.”
Without ceremony, they pushed open the double doors and stepped into the spacious chambers. Dressers lined the walls. Thick, green curtains surrounded the bed. When Dieredon pulled them aside, they found clean bed sheets, unused.
“The king does not sleep here,” the elf said, sounding very much confused. “But these are certainly his chambers.”
“They are,” said an elderly man striding into the room. There were two different entrances to the bedchambers, and he came from the one opposite their own. He wore fancy silks embroidered with gold, crimson slippers, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. His beard was long and neatly-trimmed. His green eyes showed no fear of the three intruders.
“And who are you?” Tarlak asked.
“Lord Penwick,” the old man said, not bothering to bow. “I dare say you were on your way to meet me when you put down my guards.”
“They’re just sleeping,” Lathaar said. “We are no murderers. We come with message to the king, one he has so far refused to hear.”
“That is because there is no king to hear it,” Lord Penwick said. “Surely you have guessed that by now.”
“Obviously,” Tarlak lied. “Though the reason seems a little vague to us foreigners. Care to explain?”
“Figures the barons would send foreigners to do their dirty work,” Lord Penwick said as he sat on the bed.
“Barons?” said Tarlak. “We’re refugees from Veldaren, and while we’re not above doing some dirty work, we need to get paid for it. Trust me; we’re here for purely noble reasons.”
“And those would be?” asked the old man.
“Veldaren has been destroyed. An army of winged soldiers flies this way, accompanied by a legion of undead. You need to muster as many solders as you can to protect your people! Those who cannot fight should flee west, where they have a chance to survive.”
Lord Penwick shook his head.
“I fear you come at an ill time. How long until my guards wake up?”
“About half an hour,” Tarlak said.
“Good, then tell me your tale, and I will tell you mine.”
Tarlak started first, telling of how the creatures of the Vile Wedge had crossed into Neldar. He described their attack upon the walls, of the orcs' vicious assault upon the gates, and Velixar’s magical aid. Penwick’s face darkened with every word, and his shoulders drooped lower.
Then it came time to describe the war demons and the portal behind the throne. Tarlak left Qurrah’s involvement out of it, placing all the blame on V
elixar. He told of Mira’s portal to the elves, and of their narrow escape. Last he told of their plans to flee west.
“A horrific tale, if told truthfully,” the old man said when Tarlak was done. “Most of my people are doomed if what you say is true, and I wonder if any action on my part will change that.”
“You must try,” Lathaar said. “Now, tell us what happened to your king.”
Lord Penwick spoke with a gravelly voice, steady but weary. King Stephen had been a kind but ineffective king. The surrounding barons of Ker had threatened revolt, but Lord Penwick had managed to broker an unsteady peace. King Stephen had no legitimate heir, for he had never married. The barons would let Stephen reign until his death, but afterward, the barons would appoint amongst themselves a new king.
Originally the choice had been obvious, a powerful baron named Gregor White. However, he had died the previous winter, leaving two sons to squabble over their inheritance.
“How long has the king been dead?” Tarlak asked, interrupting.
“Three weeks,” Penwick said. “The barons will tear Ker asunder fighting over the throne. I had hoped to prolong the charade long as possible, praying that one might prove himself a clear heir. So far, that is not the case. I cannot muster troops, for the moment I do the barons will think I am making a play for the throne.”
“Do you desire the throne?” Lathaar asked.
“Of course I do,” Lord Penwick said. “But I’ll die if I try for it, and those foolish barons will darken our soil with blood. And now comes an army. What am I to do? Amid evil times you have come, Tarlak Eschaton, and evil tidings you bring.”
Tarlak glanced back at the doors, where the soldiers were starting to stir.
“I think it’s time to go,” he said. “And as for your situation, Lord Penwick… I think it’s all irrelevant. Kinamn does not have the forces to stand against the army that approaches, not even if all the troops of Ker were mustered. Tell everyone to flee, whether they believe you or not. We’ll be in the streets of your city, telling the same tale.”
“You will not be believed,” the old man said. “And I will be mocked.”
“We have to try, damn it,” Tarlak shouted. “Can you not at least concede me that?”
A bitter smile lit up Lord Penwick’s face. “You’re right. Let us try. Good night, gentlemen. I need my rest. Come the morning, I will issue a decree that will mean the end of my tenuous hold over the city.”
He turned and exited the door. Closing his eyes, Tarlak envisioned their room at the inn and summoned a portal home. The Eschaton leaped through, and with a hiss of air, the portal closed.
“Do you think he will?” asked Lathaar when they were safely in their room.
“Not a chance,” Tarlak said, shaking his head. “What proof do we have? He told us what we wanted to know, and made a weak promise he will not honor. This city is doomed, and there appears little we can do about it.”
“Will we do as you said?” Dieredon asked. “Shall we shout from the rooftops that an army comes?”
“Until Harruq and the others return, we’ll cry out warning,” Tarlak said. “Hope for a miracle, friends. That’s what it’d take to save the people of this city.”
“I fear the time for miracles is ended,” Lathaar said.
“That’s no way for a paladin to talk,” the wizard said, slapping him on the shoulder. “The world’s coming to an end. If there’s a time for a miracle, it’s now.”
Seleven drifted lower as Kinamn came into view. Harruq stretched and used his fists to pop his back.
“Can’t wait to walk on solid ground again,” he shouted.
“Don’t get used to it,” Aurelia shouted back.
They swung about, angling toward the main entrance on the southern wall. With a swoosh of feathers and flying clumps of dirt, they landed. Harruq leaped off first, catching Aurelia when she followed. Haern patted Seleven on the neck before dismounting.
“Think they’ll let us through the door?” the assassin asked.
“We’ve made doors through walls before,” Aurelia said. “Does it really matter what they say?”
Haern shrugged.
“Your call. I find people better hosts when I haven’t thrashed their place, though.”
Harruq took Aurelia’s hand and led them on toward the gate. When they were halfway there, a winged horse shot into the sky from deep within the city.
“That’s, um, them,” Harruq said, pointing. “Right?”
“Can’t imagine who else it’d be,” Haern said. “Wait a moment.”
The horse banked around, and sure enough, three riders sat atop her back. The horse dipped down, and with a great gust of air landed before them.
“Welcome back,” Tarlak said as he hopped off and tipped his hat. “Enjoy your trip?”
“Tremendously,” Harruq said. “Aurelia flung me across a cliff, and I nearly got brained by a flying boulder. We stopped a feud between the lords in the Hillock and destroyed an orc bridge. They’ll be patrolling the Bone Ditch, watching for more bridges. How’d you three do?”
“Terrible,” Tarlak said. “The king here is dead, and his advisor’s too scared to do a damn thing. We’ve been yelling from the rooftops that doom approaches. Needless to say, we’ve not convinced very many people.”
“Have any arrived from Neldar yet?” asked Haern.
Tarlak rolled his eyes, too frustrated to answer, so Lathaar answered for him.
“A few show up, but they’re mocked or ignored. Some buy or steal provisions and then continue west. Others have joined us in our warnings, but they’re few and far between. Most have just disappeared into the city. They’re probably hoping that Kinamn’s walls will protect them better than Veldaren’s did.”
“Little chance of that,” said Haern. “So do we return to Antonil, or do we stay?”
They looked to one another, and when no answer seemed apparent, they turned to Tarlak, who sighed.
“Always the leader,” he muttered. “We leave. We’ve done everything we can to warn this city, and while some have left, it’s been far too few. I will not stay and watch a massacre.”
“These people have done nothing wrong,” Lathaar insisted. “We must convince them that…”
“That what?” asked Tarlak, gesturing east. “That an army of winged soldiers and rotting undead march this way, determined to wipe out all life? I think they’d rather die in their walls than live out their lives fleeing west in terror.”
Silence fell over the group. Aurelia put a hand on Tarlak’s shoulder.
“You’ve done what you could,” she said softly. “Don’t blame yourself. Let us ride out to meet Antonil. We will make our stand as one.”
The wizard sighed, then nodded.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, hopping back onto Sonowin. Dieredon whistled, and Seleven flew over and let himself be petted.
“Once we find Antonil, I will return,” Dieredon said. “It may be to find only rubble, but I must do what I can to track Karak’s army. Nothing can keep up with Sonowin at full wing, so fear not for my safety.”
“I’m not sure there is such a thing as safety in this world,” Tarlak replied before the elf flew away.
7
Southward, the demon army followed the Kingstrip road, the undead lumbering at the lead, flattening a huge swath to each side of the beaten wagon path. Fallow fields stretched as far as the eye could see with harvest long past. So deep into winter, there was little to scavenge. The war demons relied on hard rations that seemed impervious to rot or mold. Jerico ate little of it, the taste of the meat foul and salty.
As weeks passed, their path gradually turned west. Upon reaching a fork, the army camped for a day. The southeastern path led toward the elves of the Erze forest as well as the Lords in Angelport along the coast. To the west were Antonil’s forces. Jerico assumed they discussed strategy, but he was privy to none of it. His days and nights were one long march, undead before him, fanatical tested and
dark paladins behind, and flying demons above. He felt cold and alone, and with each stare of Velixar’s eyes, he felt his faith eroding. At last, the army seemed to reach its decision. At daybreak they continued west, resuming chase of Antonil’s forces.
They pillaged as they traveled, though the spoils grew ever scarce.
“Like rabbits,” Qurrah had muttered after veering off the Kingstrip to ransack a small farming village. They’d found little supplies and no residents, only scattered remnants of chaos.
“Look west,” Jerico said, mocking as a bit of his old self flared up. “I’m sure you’ll see their cotton-white tails.”
Tessanna punished him severely for that.
Pulling her cart had at least one benefit, and that was exercise. If he had been bound and carried, Jerico feared his finely honed muscles might have withered and decayed. Instead, he found them growing stronger, though his flexibility suffered. Every night he lay down with bare earth for his bed, cold grass for a pillow, and a night sky his blanket. Sometimes Tessanna came with her knife. He’d begun to appreciate her subtle skill. He could deal with physical pain. It was Velixar’s taunts that cut deep.
The days and weeks melded together, so that the paladin lost all track of time. His throat was forever parched, his lips cracked and bleeding. Scars lined his shoulders and chest, which was sometimes bare in the cold, sometimes not. Qurrah watched with distaste. The rest of the army, seething glares. But one night, as Jerico lay shivering, his legs curled up to his chest and his arms around his ankles, he heard footsteps approach. They were steady and light.
“It seems winter is Karak’s time,” Velixar said. Jerico kept his eyes shut, hoping sleep might steal him away. The prophet continued, as if he didn’t care whether the paladin slept or not.
“The light is failing. The stars themselves dim. The elves see their goddess in the stars, did you know that? Even Celestia loses her luster within the cold. But Karak remains strong. The darkness comforts. It does not blot out the beauty of the stars, only enhance it. Do you feel the light touch on your skin, Jerico? It has begun to snow.”
Jerico stirred from an uneasy doze. He felt numb, yet strangely warm. With blurry vision, he saw a thin layer of white across his body. Velixar chuckled.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 106
