“If we cannot trust them, how can we expect them to govern themselves, protect one another, and live the life Ashhur desires them to live?” he asked.
Judarius shrugged. “Forget it, then. We will follow their orders, though I wonder how we became their servants instead of the other way around.”
He flew over to join in the formations of flying, and Ahaesarus let him go without saying a word. He understood his frustrations, even if he did not approve. Judarius was the strongest and most skilled angel when it came to warfare. To have him obey the orders of men he could defeat without effort, and who had not once set foot in Ashhur’s presence, surely burned. It was no secret he had been terribly upset by his repeated defeats by the half-orc warrior, either.
“Not perfect,” Ahaesarus said as he drew his sword. “Such a terrible lesson to learn.”
He thought the priest-king’s army might send someone forth to negotiate, but as the front lines tightened, and the soldiers funneled toward the crossing, it seemed they were too eager for war.
“Banner carriers!” he shouted. Three angels flew beside him, each holding a colored banner to issue instructions to the rest of the angels.
With them ready, he waited and watched the fight begin from his vantage point in the sky. Footmen charged the foremost barrier near the edge of the bridge, using their shields to protect them from the swords that lashed out above the barricade. Bram’s defenders fought well, and they held their ground in the bloody chaos that erupted. The few who fell were immediately replaced, their bodies shoved into the water.
Ahaesarus frowned as he watched a twin blast of fireballs leap from their side of the river toward Karak’s forces. The work of Aurelia and the yellow wizard, Tarlak, he was certain. But instead of erupting in a great devastation of fire, the spells sizzled and puffed, their power gone. The angel looked further back, to the line of priests behind the approaching soldiers. They held their arms high and wailed prayers at the top of their lungs. No doubt they’d cast protections of some sort. If the priests countered their magical assault, one of their few advantages was gone.
“Ready Judarius’s squad,” he told his banner carriers. Two of the three raised their banners high and waved them side to side. One of the larger groups pulled free from the formations and like a river of gold and flesh dived for Ahaesarus.
“The priests!” Ahaesarus shouted as they neared. He pointed to the line, protected by dark paladins. “Take them out, or distract them until our casters go unchecked.”
Judarius saluted, an enormous grin on his face. Into the most dangerous part of battle he was being sent, and against the original plans of the humans. No doubt for him, this had been the best outcome possible.
“For Ashhur!” Judarius shouted, lifting his two-handed mace high and then leading his hundred into the fray. They looped once and then dropped, swooping with near reckless speed. Ahaesarus crossed his arms and waited, a strange worry stirring in his gut. The priests were in the open, unguarded. He saw dark paladins nearby, yet they did not protect their most valuable leaders. Something was wrong, but what? Why did they not cast a spell as Judarius approached?
And then the angels hit. They shredded the robes and tore through the priests…who were not priests at all, but illusions of dust that scattered at the mere touch of their weapons. The angels started to bank into the air, but they were still low to the ground, and now in the open. From within the ranks of the footmen, men in plain clothes stepped out, their hands outstretched. The worry in Ahaesarus’s gut turned to full blown horror.
A barrage of shadow flew toward them, compacted into bolts that seeped into their skin and sent their muscles into wild spasms. As they tried to bank around, the ground cracked, and fire erupted from the deep chasms of the world. The first few barreled straight through, and the screaming bodies that emerged on the other side were terrible to behold. The rest streaked higher and higher. One by one angels fell, their wings withering to dust. By the time they reached safety beyond the river, the soldiers of Karak were cheering. Of the initial five-hundred, only four-hundred returned.
“Where is Judarius?” Ahaesarus asked as they rejoined the ranks.
“I am here,” said Judarius, curling in his wings and dropping down so they could speak face to face. Ahaesarus put his hand on the warrior’s shoulder, then let him go.
“Such cowardice!” Judarius snarled.
“They are clever, devious, and vicious,” Ahaesarus said. “Catch your breath, and combine with Ataroth’s angels. Go swiftly. We are still needed!”
The proud warrior accepted the orders, then flew away. Ahaesarus turned his attention back to the battle. During the brief skirmish between the angels and priests, it seemed Aurelia and Tarlak had managed to score a few good hits. Fire burned along the far riverside, and amid their forces he saw a gap, and in its center was a great boulder of ice. Their latest attacks fizzled and dissipated, however, the priests’ protections once more established.
Meanwhile the fighting intensified against the first barrier. The footmen had to climb atop their own dead, but the height was enough so they could stab over the wall, and several leapt across, knocking down men and pushing aside a small space that others could follow. The defenders always surrounded and slaughtered them, but each time it took them longer, and each time more made it over. If they were to hold instead of retreating to the second wall, they would need reinforcements soon.
“I want Ataroth’s assault to be against the…” he started to tell his banner carriers, then stopped. A collective roar swept across the river, and then en masse the entire army surged forward, splitting into two groups, one on either side of the bridge. When they reached the river they never even slowed.
“Milord, your orders?” asked the banner angel to his left.
“Wait,” he said. “We watch and wait. If either side, or the crossing itself, falls then all is lost. Find where we are the weakest, then descend. Make sure they are ready!”
Feeling every muscle in his body tighten, he watched the soldiers wade across the river. To make matters worse, the footmen attacking the bridge pulled back, and onward came twenty paladins of Karak, their blades burning with dark fire as they held them high.
“With me!” he cried, seeing the turn of events. “Ataroth, watch for a break in the lines. Terah, Solom, with me!”
He curled his wings in and dived, trusting them to follow. The priests were ready for the attack, for a barrage of over thirty bolts of shadow crackled through the air toward them. Ahaesarus spun, narrowly avoiding them. From the screams of pain behind him, he knew many were not so lucky. The paladins also saw their approach, and they braced themselves for the crash. Ahaesarus let his sword lead the way, and then with a horrific screech of metal, they collided.
The black fire burned his flesh, and he felt pain spike up and down his wings. He swung his sword in circles, hacking and cutting. More and more angels slammed in beside him, some even rolling through the lines with their wings curled against their bodies. Such valiant sacrifices…Ahaesarus blocked a chop of an ax, stepped closer, and then rammed an elbow into the face of the paladin. Down came his sword, finishing him off. An arrow of fire struck the blade as he pulled it back, and he looked up to see the priests approaching. Fire and shadow flew in waves, and the angels had no protection against it.
“Retreat!” he cried, taking to wing. He felt a blast of fire roll across his arm, only for an instant before he was soaring through the air, but long enough. He gritted his teeth to hold in a scream as he flew to the river. A glance back showed Terah’s group had endured the worst of the assault, losing ten men under the attack. The dark paladins were destroyed, however, which meant the bridge still had a chance.
He flapped higher, then risked a glance at his arm. Patches of his skin were black, and pieces of his armor had melted against his flesh. Come nightfall, the pain would be immense trying to remove it. Assuming they were still alive by nightfall. Fearing the worst, he looked to the river,
but was stunned by what he saw. Hundreds of bodies floated in the water. The enemy soldiers attempting to cross clearly struggled against something, and as he watched he saw many drown, pushed underwater by the men behind them. Those defending the river, while lightly armored, proved more than a match. They wielded long spears and thrust them into the water, stabbing Karak’s soldiers long before they might reach the edge.
Ataroth was yet to join a side, so Ahaesarus flew to him in his position high above the bridge.
“Might they hold?” he asked.
“The humans put traps in the water,” said Ataroth. He pointed to the bank. “They’re too slow wading in their armor. The spearman are finding them easy prey. Already the rest retreat. Such poor tactics were a gamble, and we have made them pay dearly.”
“How many?”
“At least two thousand,” said the angel. “Perhaps more. We choke the river with the dead.”
Ahaesarus looked to the camp stretching for hundreds of yards on the other side of the river.
“Not enough,” he said. “They’ll push back to the bridge and forsake the water. With all their might pressing forward, we will find…Archers! Get back!”
They retreated as arrows sailed into the air, traveling much farther than he ever could have expected. Several angels fell, while others dripped blood atop the bridge’s combatants as they flew to safety. Over a thousand archers readied for another barrage, safely surrounded by footmen and guarded by the priests of Karak as they chanted and worshipped their dark god.
“Shields up!” came the cry from the men on the bridge. Arrows rained down upon them, and the noise was terrible to hear. Shouts of pain and anger followed. The army pushed into the bridge, emboldened by the archers’ success. Another rain came down, and the beams of magic that shot toward the archers hit a spherical shield and splashed against it, unable to penetrate. More thuds, more wood and steel hitting shields, and more cries of death and blood.
“They can’t hold against that,” said Judarius, joining Ahaesarus to watch. “We have to take out those archers!”
“The priests guard them,” he said. “And they have footmen around them in a wall. The moment we charge, those arrows will turn on us, not them.”
“But why else are we here?” asked Judarius. “We do what they cannot. We bleed so they might live. Hundreds of us will die. So be it. What chance do they have if the archers go unchecked?”
He watched as another volley fell upon the men on the bridge. What choice did they have?
“Get ready to give the order,” he said.
Banners lifted and spun. As the angels gathered, another volley descended upon the shields of the men. Footmen climbed over their own dead to cross the first barrier. Trumpets called below, and then the defenders abandoned the first wall. The attackers did not chase immediately, instead waiting for one more volley to land. Ahaesarus winced, but the expected slaughter did not happen. Instead the arrows bounced back as if hitting a clear wall of glass.
“Delay the order,” Ahaesarus said.
“Why?” asked Judarius. In answer, he pointed to where Aurelia and Tarlak stood side by side, their hands glowing a soft white.
“They’ve begun to protect against the arrows instead of wasting their energies attacking.”
“Then what of the priests? Might they begin their own attack?”
Ahaesarus crossed his arms, and his body rose and fell as he thought.
“They’ll test the defenses and watch us, and we’ll do the same. They suffered greatly because of their haste crossing the river. Let us see if they try such a gamble again.”
With his excellent eyes, he watched the fight on the bridge. It seemed Karak’s soldiers were struggling worse against the second wall than the first. Then he saw the half-orc in the thick of things, and he understood why. Harruq raged like a beast, his swords red blurs as they tore through armor and flesh. He’d seen him spar his angels, but never in full fury. He glanced at his own two-handed sword and wondered how he’d fare in straight combat against that berserk. Not well, he thought.
Harruq bolstered those around him, and they did their best to keep up with his relentless assault. From behind the front lines came Lord Peleth’s men with their spears, no longer defending the riverside after the disastrous attack upon it. They stabbed over and between their allies, braced tight so the attacking surge of troops continuously impaled themselves on the spearheads. Only Harruq went without aid, for he needed the space to hack and swing.
“The wall is impeding him,” Ahaesarus wondered aloud. “What could he do in open battle?”
Judarius smirked and said nothing.
Bolts of shadow splashed across the Eschaton’s shield, making it shimmer momentarily into view. Men rotated in and out from the front line, Bram doing everything he could to keep them rested. Karak’s men surged forward without hesitation, never once slowing. Ahaesarus shook his head. The crossing was certainly earning its name this day.
“The priests,” Judarius said, pointing to where they gathered. “They prepare a spell, but what?”
“Whatever it is, the cost is tremendous,” said Ahaesarus. Twenty bodies lay slain before them, soldiers sacrificed so their blood might be used in the casting of the spell. “They can’t break their concentration. Our time to attack is now.”
“I will take the archers,” Judarius insisted. “You lead against the priests.”
“Very well. Go quickly, and may Ashhur protect us both!”
Beside him, his banner carriers relayed the orders. In moments they had split into two groups, branching like rivers toward their respective targets. The archers saw, and Ahaesarus twirled through the barrage that met their charge. Arrows pinged off his armor, and two sliced his flesh, but none pierced deeply. Saying a prayer for those behind him without such luck, he led the dive toward the priests. With his sword leading, he aimed for the closest and swung.
The angels crashed through the priests, and this time they were no illusion, no phantom magic. Blood soaked the ground as they pulled up toward the sky, arrows chasing them. When he reached safety from the arrows, he glanced back to see the results.
Half the priests lay dead, but the other half had finished their chant. Lions made of fire and shadow leapt from the sacrificial dead, pawing the ground and snarling eagerly. Ahaesarus thought they would leap for the bridge, but then long, bony wings stretched out of their backs, their feathers billowing strands of darkness like smoke. Nearby Judarius continued his assault on the archers, encircling them and hacking down their footmen guards.
“Retreat!” he screamed. The lions leapt to the air, trails of smoke billowing behind them as they flew for Judarius’s angels. Ahaesarus took his men to the air above the bridge and set up a perimeter.
“Wait until they arrive,” he shouted. “When they do, the lions shall not pass. They shall not!”
His angels saluted with their weapons. Hovering, waiting, they watched as Judarius turned, his hundred angels attempting to follow. The lions slammed into them, raking their chests with claws and biting at their vulnerable wings. With the combined weight they could not fly, and the lions roared as they slammed the angels to the ground. The few that survived the fall died instantly after, swarmed by footmen.
The lions leapt again, chasing after Judarius and the rest.
“Wait!” Ahaesarus screamed. “Wait for them!”
The angels flew past the line. Ahaesarus readied his sword. The lions neared. They were enormous, twice the size of a man. Fire shone from their eyes, and when they opened their mouths to roar, they saw lava burning deep within their throats. Closer. And closer.
“Now!”
They met the lions head on, swords and maces swinging. Molten blood splashed across them. Fangs tore into flesh. Ahaesarus’s blade pierced the belly of one, and as it fell it roared up at him, breathing fire. He twisted his blade, protecting himself against most of it. That which got through splashed across his neck, and he screamed at the pain. Chann
eling it into strength, he turned and slashed another in half, kicking the lion’s head away so that its final death roar burned only air. Holding his sword in one hand, he clutched his charred neck with the other and struggled to breathe.
“Azariah?” he cried out. He felt his head start to swim, and was unsure of where he flew. “Azariah, where are you?”
“Come with me,” said an angel, grabbing him by the arm. Together they flew, back to the riverside. Ahaesarus felt his knees tremble, and upon landing he lacked the strength to stand.
“Cursed blood,” he heard another say. A hand pressed against his neck, and the pain stabbed deep into him, far greater than any mortal wound. White light flooded his eyes, and he let that sight soothe him. The sickness left him, the strength in his legs returned, and, feeling made anew, he stretched his wings and took in his surroundings.
They were behind the human forces. Azariah’s priests walked about the clearing, tending to the wounded that came to them from the front. Azariah himself attended him, and he looked to his leader with guarded worry.
“I am fine,” Ahaesarus said, seeing that expression and wishing nothing more than to banish it. “Do not worry for me.”
“The lions’ fire is a foul creation of Karak,” said Azariah. “You are lucky Ataroth brought you to me in time.”
Ahaesarus realized who it was that had brought him back, and he saluted the angel.
“You’d have done the same for me,” Ataroth said.
“Who commands your angels?”
“I left Zekiel in charge. It should have been Judarius, but…”
He pointed to where the angel lay. Ahaesarus felt his heart shake. Judarius had been bathed head to chest by the fire, his armor melted to his flesh, half his hair gone. His eyes were closed, and even the lids were scarred black.
“He lives?” Ahaesarus asked.
“For now,” said Azariah, glancing at him. “I will attend to him when I can, but there are too many, and more come even now.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 151
