“Do you want the honor?” she asked him.
“Many good men died today,” Deathmask said as he approached the fireplace. Every step seemed slow and gingerly taken. Aaron wondered just how badly his face pained him, yet still he hid it. Could he handle pain so well? He had a feeling he was about to find out.
“Not just a good man,” Deathmask continued. “One of the best. Bernard may be dead, sacrificed to save us from the fate you created. My mask has become my own face, and my own flesh will soon rot to ash. But you…you deserve the fire of the Abyss. It’s coming for you, but not yet. Let the angels and demons wait. I have my own fire for you.”
He spat onto the bundle of arms and legs. When he reached down his hand, flame burst about it. When it touched the saliva, it roared to life as if it were lamp oil. Aaron’s eyes widened as he realized he could still feel sensations within his severed appendages. He writhed and screamed as he felt every inch burn and blister. The fire spread, consuming his fingers, his toes, his thighs and arms and elbows. A pathetic, bloodless stump, he screamed and cried.
“All at once,” Veliana whispered into his ear. “That is when the pain will come. Beg for mercy. Beg for it, Lord Hocking. Beg for it, worm.”
“Mercy,” he cried, his head rolling side to side. “Please, mercy, kill me, I beg you!”
Deathmask reached into the fire and pulled out a handful of ash. A gentle throw and it floated together, once more becoming a mask to hide his face.
“I don’t know the meaning,” Deathmask said.
He snapped his fingers.
The blood burst from every cut across Aaron’s body. He howled until there was no air in his lungs, no sound from his throat. He felt every single cut Veliana had made, slicing, chopping, and cracking his bones and joints. The blood pooled about him. He felt it stick to his face, seep into his clothes, and still the pain, still the burning. It didn’t seem possible. He should have passed out. No one could endure such pain. But he did. While Veliana and Deathmask watched, he sucked in another groaning breath and screamed again.
Veliana placed her dagger above his left eye, its tip dripping blood.
“We’ll make sure everyone knows of your death,” she told him. “We’ll let everyone know the fate awaiting those who betray the Ghost and his Blade.”
The dagger thrust, and in the last fleeting moments of thought remaining, Aaron thanked the gods for the end.
Melorak stood beside the empty wagon, his hands wet with blood. The blood of a priest. Bernard’s blood.
“You were lucky,” he said. “Bear the scars proudly, fool. Ashhur has so few followers left, he must have given you every scrap of his power, and it was still not enough.”
He looked to his dead soldiers, slain by the supposedly peaceful sect of Ashhur. After the blinding eruption of light, he’d seen little, regaining his senses in time to protect himself from a barrage of spells that shimmered gold but stung like fire. Every last one of his guards had died in the onslaught. One on one, Melorak versus Bernard, they had battled. And when he should have had victory, when he at last held Bernard’s robes in his fist and cast a spell that would explode the blood out of his chest, the priest had vanished in a sudden shimmering of silver.
“A cowardly escape,” he said. He’d thought to hunt for him, but the act was pointless. He wouldn’t know where to look, hadn’t even known where to look prior to the attack. But with both the Ghost and his Blade escaping, he knew his last link of discovering their location was gone. Dagan Gemcroft and John Ewes both rotted from chains in their cells. He’d personally cut their throats. He could summon back their souls, but the stubborn rebels would not remain in any safe house they’d used prior to that night. They were intelligent, resourceful, and dangerous.
“This is not over,” Melorak said as he stared at the blood on his hands. “I will find you, priest. Your kind has no place in my world, not anymore. Karak’s time to reign has come. When Olrim returns victoriously, my soldiers will scour every tiny nook and crevice within the city. Be with me, oh mighty lord. Hear my prayer. Let his death be mine, and mine alone.”
He looked to the wagon, where the body of Haern lay still. Bernard had waved his hand, paralyzing him with a single word. Melorak focused, seeing the sparkling chains in his mind’s eye. One by one he broke them.
“Your mission is not done,” he said as the undead assassin stood and retrieved his swords. “This is your last chance. Whatever remnants of you are in there, understand that I will keep you here for eternity should you fail. You’ll hang from the hooks, feeling them pierce your flesh. The maggots will feast, the worms will crawl, and still you’ll await my orders like the obedient slave you are. Find them, and kill them. No rest. No mercy. Go.”
Haern left without a single remark or sign of understanding, only a lifeless sprint that was frightening in its speed.
“Guide me, oh lord,” Melorak prayed to the stars. “The time is almost come.”
He returned to the city, to where his throne awaited. If all went as planned, he’d have his army back in a few months, fresh from the slaughter of the nation of Ker.
22
Aurelia endured their awkward stares as she walked across the bridge. While the men of Ker hadn’t been completely responsible for the elven exodus to the east, they’d certainly done nothing to stop it. Even worse, they’d turned down every request for aid throughout the trek from Bloodbrick to the Gods’ Bridges. She knew her kind, already exotic to humans, was even rarer to the men in the land between the rivers. They treated her politely, and she smiled back in return. A few even offered clumsy bows or hurried out of her way. No doubt they knew of her magic, her vital role in defending them. Would she earn their respect? Even with its walls, doors, archers, and Eschaton, Veldaren had fallen to the onslaught of Karak. Would they do any better, here with a shallow river and a bridge?
“Lovely as ever,” said one of the men in charge of reinforcing the bridge’s barricades. His smile grew underneath his lengthy mustache and beard.
“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head slightly and curtseying to the compliment. The man blushed and returned to his work.
Beyond the final barricade she stood alone, staring off to the distant fields. She knew, if she followed the river northeast, she’d reach Lake Cor, and then, nestled against it, the burned remnants of her homeland. For a fleeting moment she considered visiting those ruins of Dezerea, to walk where she had been raised, to put her hands on the charred trunks that had once held aloft her home. Perhaps enough time had passed for new trees to begin sprouting, and the grass to return to the forest floor. But what point was there in hurting herself with memories? The past was a flood of pain and sadness. Her homeland, her parents, her only child…
“Please,” she whispered, though to whom she did not know. Perhaps Celestia. “Don’t forget about us now.”
There, at that bridge, her parents had made their stand alongside the greatest spellcasters of their time. Tens of thousands of troops had marched against them, held back for days by the slaughter. The rest of the elves, herself included, had escaped because of their sacrifice, and a heavy one it had been. The magical bloodlines of elves, already thin, had nearly vanished. She was one of the rare few remaining with the gift, and now here she stood. Once more the gift of elven magic might die upon the Bloodbrick.
She’d heard the stories about that battle years later, always filtered to them through humans that had survived. Part of her still regretted never coming back to help them. She’d been young then, especially for an elf. Perhaps she could have tipped the balance. Perhaps she could have held the line long enough for some to escape, her father, her mother…
“Uh, miss?” said one of the builders, breaking her thoughts. “Miss, your husband’s looking for you.”
She glanced back to see Harruq on the far side of the bridge, and she heard him call out her name as he spun about. One of the soldiers pointed him her way, and she crossed her arms and looked to the distanc
e as he approached.
“Started worrying you’d left me,” he said as he slid his arms around her.
“Just hoping to get a bit of quiet,” she said.
“So you stood near the men with hammers and saws?”
She kissed his cheek and hoped he’d let the matter die. He did, but switched it to something just as upsetting.
“This is where they died, isn’t it?” he asked.
She tensed in his arms, then felt ashamed. He held her tighter, and she relaxed and put her head against his neck.
“Ten against thousands,” she said. “If only I were as strong as them. In a single day I could send our enemies fleeing back to Mordeina.”
“Wasn’t there,” Harruq said. “So I can’t say whether or not that’s true…but I know you’re as brave as they were, as noble, and most certainly prettier.”
“You never saw my mother,” she said, but she kissed him for the compliment anyway.
They both quieted and stared to the distance. With their sensitive eyes, they saw the smoke of many campfires drifting lazily to the sky.
“Less than a week,” he said.
“If that.”
“We’ll defeat them when they arrive. We’ve faced worse and won.”
She chuckled.
“When?” she asked. “Kinamn was massacred. Veldaren crumbled. The angels are the only reason we survived at Mordeina.”
“Well this is rather gloomy, especially for you.”
He kissed the top of her head, and she sighed. He was right, of course. Normally she tried to keep her emotions above such pessimism, but this bridge was different. It remained a symbol throughout her race, of how they were forever outnumbered, forever persecuted, and doomed to die no matter how strong they might be and how many they might kill. They lived in mankind’s world. Celestia’s blessing was slowly leaving their clerics, and her gift of magic had dwindled in their bloodlines. Was there any future for them in Karak’s world?
“We have to win,” she said. “We fall here, and our hope is gone. The angels are just a reprieve. No more miracles await us. Come Karak’s paradise, men and elves will be slaves at best. How did we come to this, Harruq? How did we sink so far? What happened to this world?”
“Questions with no answers,” he said.
“No,” she said, wrapping her arms around his and holding him tight. “Too many went unstopped: King Baedan, Velixar, Tessanna, King Vaelor. The cowards have ruled, the strong have remained silent, and Karak’s pets ruin everything they touch. Your brother was the first, don’t you see that? He was the first we’ve saved.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I was the first. And because of you. Only you. And you’ll save us again. You’ll stand here with us and show mankind the strength and honor of the elves. Now come. Tarlak’s prepared some sort of game for us to play to help get your mind off all this drudgery.”
“Shouldn’t we help them build?” she asked.
He laughed, and the warm sound soothed her fears and pushed away her sadness to the past.
“We’ll help enough,” he said. “When the blood starts to spill, we’ll be there in the thick of it. I may not wield magic like you and Tar, but my blades will drink their fill.”
Nothing could have prepared Olrim for the bittersweet joy in controlling Karak’s army. The thrill he felt in planning, sending out scouts, and giving orders to his generals was undeniable. Matching in its frustration, however, were the conflicting reports, petty squabbles, struggles for food and supplies, and the overall headaches induced by cramming so many different men into a single cohesive unit.
“We’re ready to march,” said Gregor Black, one of his generals. He was the most insistent in his abilities to aid Olrim. No doubt Gregor felt him unprepared for his new position.
“We were supposed to be ready twenty minutes ago,” Olrim said. “What excuse do you have this time?”
“It’s the damn men from the Craghills,” said Gregor. “They’d sheathe their swords in their asses if I let them.”
Olrim sighed. Of course, Gregor had been born on the opposite side of Mordan from the Craghills. He’d heard plenty of opinions from both geographic areas while listening to confessions prior to the war. It seemed war did not unite like he had hoped, only invited more reasons to use the excuses.
“I don’t care,” Olrim said. “Get them marching. We’re almost to the Corinth. Once we cross the river, we’ll set up camp while the rest of the wagons catch up. From there we’ll scorch the earth on the way to Angkar, and pillage whatever food we need until we reach the ocean. Then we’ll see if Bram is willing to talk peace, or if we must starve him out of his castle.”
“Of course,” said Gregor. “Ker has rarely rebelled against us, and never have they survived a siege by the Mordan army. There is little to fear in their military might. Only their angels might give us pause, damned winged men. No place on a battlefield for the likes of them.”
“Give the order to march,” Olrim said. “If there are winged men to fight, you let me worry about dealing with them.”
In their second hour of march, they saw the first angel scout. The angel hovered high above, his golden armor glittering in the morning light. There was little doubt that he came from the crossing.
“Keep the men tight together,” Olrim told Gregor. “I don’t want anyone vulnerable to an ambush. With their wings, they might strike from anywhere.”
“Of course, sir,” said Gregor.
By the third hour, Bloodbrick Crossing was in view, its surface covered with fortifications and soldiers. All along the opposite bank stretched several thousand men. Into the air went battalions of angels, flying in steady circle formations that greatly exaggerated their numbers. Olrim joined his priests, seeking their opinions.
“Save our spells for Ashhur’s warriors,” said one of the elders. “They are our only true threat. We set a trap for them, yes. A trap they will never expect.”
“We cannot delay,” said another. “If Antonil is with them, he might foster rebellion in our own troops. Our generals might turn to this former king in hopes he will be a weaker ruler than Melorak.”
“And what of our paladins?” Olrim asked.
“Wait until the first great bloodshed has ended,” said the elder. “Then send in our paladins to lead the way.”
The wisdom seemed sound, and the others agreed. Olrim returned to the front and ordered them on. They marched with one eye to the sky, always wary of a surprise attack by the angels. No attack came. They reached the crossing without incident. Only five hundred yards away, they stopped and set up camp.
“I’ve got the other generals preparing their groups,” Gregor said. “If we pelt the bridge with arrows, we can charge while they clear away the dead. Then our archers can rain upon their reinforcements. Once we push through to the other side, nothing can stop us but those angels.”
“We outnumber them fivefold,” said Olrim. “Why should we bottle ourselves up on the bridge?”
Gregor harrumphed as if he were asked a question by a child.
“The bridge might be rough going, but it is still an even fight. What else might you suggest, wading across the water? Nonsense. They can kill us no faster than we can kill them on the bridge, but the river is a different game, priest. Wet and helpless, they’ll cut us down by the hundreds as we try to emerge on the other side.”
“They don’t have anywhere near enough to guard both sides,” Olrim said. “How long can they hold the bridge? Two days? Three? The angels only complicate things further. We must win, and now.”
“Why this mad rush?” asked Gregor. “Why sacrifice certain victory days from now for a costly risk today? This is foolishness.”
Olrim dared not mention Antonil’s name. Melorak had spread word to the land that Antonil had perished. For him to return…where might Gregor’s loyalties lie? What of the other generals who served under him, or the other nobles fighting with him?
“This army is under my command,”
Olrim said. He pointed to the crossing. “Send in our men. When there is no room at the bridge, send the rest into the water. Let them see the full might of Karak.”
“As you wish,” Gregor said, slapping an arm against his chest and bowing. Olrim felt the disrespect dripping off him, but he let it slide. Melorak trusted him with victory, and victory is what he would bring. With such a massive assault, there was no way the angels could tip the scales in their favor. They would be too few, and with him and his priests assaulting their every move with spells, they would accomplish little.
Feeling the excitement building in his chest, he smiled and laughed. Let it all out, he thought. The battle approached. Ker would fall to the Lion, and he would be the one to reap the honor and spoils.
They’d been given the basics of King Henley’s plan, but Ahaesarus had an inkling that the king kept something hidden from him. He hovered just above the bridge as the rest of the angels flew in their circular formations. Mordan’s army prepared so close, and he watched the great mass of soldiers sharpen their swords, polish their shields, and ready their bows.
“So many,” Judarius said, hovering beside him.
Ahaesarus nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel fear, not for death. He’d seen the other side, had felt the light of the Golden Eternity on his skin. But for the humans? For those slowly dying in Karak’s fist? He feared for them. He knew the price they’d pay for a loss at the crossing. Thulos had conquered a thousand stars. If he escaped from this one, he’d continue on with his destruction. It needed to end. If Ashhur was kind, he would be the one to end it.
“They wish us to ensure they hold the bridge,” Judarius said. “What a waste. Without open spaces, our skills are limited. Why not crash into the rear of our enemy’s formations? Or the priests, why not kill them?”
“They’ve proven resourceful and clever when it comes to warfare, Judarius, more so than us. We are not perfect.”
“Neither are they.”
Ahaesarus stretched his wings, falling a short distance as he did. A single powerful thrust and he shot back up to Judarius.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 150
