Soldiers carrying friends and comrades approached, the wounded bleeding and sobbing in their arms. Ahaesarus’s heart went out to them, even though he knew he should numb himself to their pain. There was too much about him, too much blood, too many wounds, and far too many dead.
“How many archers?” he asked Ataroth.
“We killed a third before the lions came, not counting the footmen that fell before us to protect them. Come, let us survey the battle, if you are strong enough to take wing.”
Ahaesarus wasn’t sure, but he knew he could not show weakness, not now. He grabbed Ataroth’s wrist to be sure, and then together they flew above the crossing. Indeed, half the archers had fallen, and those that remained had gathered farther back. They’d ceased their volleying, no doubt because of the Eschaton’s shield. The priests looked to be discussing something, though what he could only imagine. As for the soldiers, they had pulled back. For now, the battle had ceased.
“Both sides have suffered tremendous casualties,” Ataroth said. “They suffered greater, but I fear they have far more than we to lose.”
“The river runs red with both our blood,” Ahaesarus said. “This is no victory.”
“Nightfall comes. Perhaps we can assault under cover?”
Though the idea might be worth considering, Ahaesarus winced at the thought. He’d lost so many angels already. Could he risk losing more?
Of course he could. They were all dead men, clinging to a desperate hope for a miracle.
“Tonight we rest,” he decided. “We need to be ready, though. They might try an assault of some sort at night. And what of the elf and the wizard? Can they protect us all through the night and day?”
Ataroth’s look said enough. Of course not. And Karak had enough men to harry them every hour. They would get no rest. Sheer exhaustion would defeat them.
“What else is there to do?” he asked. “We kill until we die. That is our fate.”
Feeling defeat tugging at his heart, he watched as the elf slipped through the lines until she stood before the first wall, which the attackers had surrendered during their retreat to safety.
“What is Aurelia doing?” he asked. “What if the priests…”
He stopped as the very ground seemed to groan.
“What is going on?” asked Ataroth.
“I don’t know,” said Ahaesarus. They could only watch and see.
Lightning crashed, so bright that spots swam before his eyes. The earth cracked before Aurelia, and the sound was as if the spine of the world had broken. Karak’s soldiers readied their weapons as the priests prepared spells, no doubt protections against the sudden onslaught. Fire leapt from the river, crawling as if it were alive. It took shapes, those of strange beasts with four arms and no faces. The creatures crawled upon the ground, burning everything beneath them. A wind tore in from the south, gusting so strong that Ahaesarus feared he might fall.
“This isn’t possible!” Ataroth shouted. “She can’t be that powerful!”
The elf raised her arms. The ground heaved, cracking and splitting in a thousand places. Onward the fire creatures crawled. All around the lightning struck, each bolt the size of several trees lashed together. The thunder boomed, strong enough to make his heart quake. It seemed the very end of the world had come, focused before the army of Karak. The sky opened, and from it great blasts of white magic struck the ground, tearing open chasms that stretched to the very depths of the Abyss.
Against such an onslaught, the various generals did what any sane man would do: they gave the order to retreat.
The fire rose higher from the river, a great wall that seemed to stretch to the sky. It rolled forward, sweeping up the flame creatures and carrying them on. Horses panicked and fled. The priests cast protection spells, but their magic failed to even alter the path of the destruction. Great boulders of ice slammed into the gap between the armies, forming craters that stretched for hundreds of yards as the ground roiled beneath. Further and further the army fled as the spells gave chase. The last to leave were the priests, who hurled bolts of shadow behind them as they fled, which did nothing.
“What manner of devilry is this?” Ahaesarus asked. “No mortal is that strong. Come with me, Ataroth. I must find out.”
The angels dived, then eased up carefully onto the bridge. The soldiers cheered, but it was subdued, as if they too were in awe of the broken wasteland before them. Aurelia stood before them, her arms raised. Tears ran down her face from her closed eyes. Ahaesarus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He felt as if he were witnessing something terribly private and feared to interrupt.
“Awesome, wasn’t it?” Tarlak asked, pushing through the soldiers and joining them on the bridge. Harruq ran with them, and he hurried to his wife. When he wrapped his arms around her, she looked to him and smiled. Her hands lowered. Throughout the crossing, a gentle breeze blew.
“I must hear an explanation,” Ahaesarus insisted.
“The memories,” Aurelia said, but her tears overwhelmed her again. She clung to her husband.
“It was my fault, really,” Tarlak said, jumping in to help her. “When we couldn’t penetrate the priests’ defenses, I remarked how I wished we could have had her parents and their kin to help us. And that’s just what she did.”
“Memories,” Aurelia said again, composing herself. “Just the memories of the past.”
A breeze blew again, stronger, and as if blowing away sand from a glass, the illusion before them broke. The shattered ground became smooth. The ice and fire faded like stars before the sun. Broken trees became erect, and the chasms unearthed closed and were made whole.
“It wasn’t real,” Ahaesarus said, stunned.
“I wasn’t here,” Aurelia said, wiping tears from her face. “But the memories lingered. I finally saw, felt the power they commanded. I let everyone see what had transpired. I let everyone see what we once were capable of, before mankind slaughtered our strongest and best. I’m what’s left, and I am nothing compared to them. Illusions and smoke, that is all.”
“But they fled!” Harruq said, and he squeezed her in his arms. “Surely you can take pride in that.”
“She should,” said Ataroth. “We will prepare just in case they return. Let’s clear the dead, rebuild the walls, and perhaps add a trench or two on the opposite side of the bridge.”
“If they return, they won’t fall for such a ruse again,” said Ahaesarus.
“Then we’ll give them a taste of Aurelia’s real power,” Harruq said, and he smiled through their worry and sorrow for the dead. “None can stand against us, right?”
“Sure thing,” Tarlak said. His look to Ahaesarus said otherwise.
23
“Quiet,” said Jerico as he led the two of them toward the forest’s edge. “Wait here until I say.”
Lathaar frowned but accepted the order. They’d marched toward the Sanctuary at a steady rate, and at last they’d come to the shallow forest that grew beside the Elethan Mountains. They’d come for their friends, but they had the slight problem of the siege. For the first few miles in the woods they heard and saw no sign of life, but as they approached the end, they’d seen tracks and heard occasional shouts in the distance.
Jerico vanished behind a line of trees. Lathaar sighed and drew his swords. He felt eager to kill, which seemed wrong when he realized it. Of all the times he’d felt abandoned by Ashhur, he’d never enjoyed hunting and killing the servants of Karak. Yet now, with Mira dead, he wanted nothing more than vengeance. Vengeance…was that Ashhur’s will?
“Be with me,” he prayed. “I’m lost. I’m confused. And I really, really want to kill someone.”
“Amen,” Jerico whispered, startling him.
“Bastard,” he grumbled.
“Such language for a paladin. Come on. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
They reached the last of the trees without difficulty. Beyond them camped a small army of soldiers, their tents spreading out in a half-c
ircle surrounding the Sanctuary. Only its front half was made of wood, the rest built deep into the mountain rock. Torches burned in its four towers, and Lathaar felt relief at the sight. Survivors still hid within, not yet defeated by the siege.
“How many you think?” Lathaar asked, careful to keep his voice at a whisper.
“At least two hundred footmen,” Jerico whispered back. “Another hundred archers.”
“You realize there’s only two of us, right?”
Jerico winked. “You’re right. We should give them fair warning before we attack.”
He dropped his pack of supplies, readied his shield, and then drew his mace. Lathaar looked at him like he was mad.
“We’re not that good,” he said. “They’ll kill us with arrows alone.”
“I’m not an idiot, despite evidence to the contrary,” said Jerico. He pointed toward the Sanctuary’s door, which was burnt and cracked, yet still holding together. The soldiers that milled about maintained no strict lines or attention. Lathaar doubted they’d seen any combat since the first day or two, when they’d obviously tried, and failed, to breach the door.
“You want us to make a run for it?” Lathaar asked.
“I’ve got my shield,” Jerico said, giving it a pat. “We push through, then bar the door behind us. Once we’re inside…”
“Once we’re inside, we’ll starve with the rest of them. Are you out of your mind? We’ll be no use in there.”
“Well, we’re not doing much good standing here.”
The two looked upon the few hundred and struggled for a plan.
“I wish the mage was here,” Lathaar said at last. “What I’d give for a few of his fireballs on their tents.”
“That’s it!” Jerico said.
Lathaar smacked him to keep his voice down. A quick glance around showed none had heard him, but they backed into the forest just in case. He listened as Jerico outlined his plan, which while truly insane, at least made more sense than joining the starving priests inside the Sanctuary.
“They’ll have only a token guard,” he said when Jerico finished. “It could work if we move fast, and strike a few hours before dawn, when they’ll be their most tired and inattentive.”
“We have little time,” said Jerico. “Hurry. I want them to have one vicious wake up come the morning.”
They took turns sleeping to make sure they didn’t miss their chosen time. Lathaar was already awake when he felt Jerico nudge his shoulder with his foot.
“It time?” he mumbled.
“Close enough. Get ready.”
Lathaar reattached his armor, with Jerico helping him with the buckles. Once ready, they said one last prayer and then split. Jerico made for the forest line, while Lathaar wrapped a thick branch with cloth soaked in what little lamp oil they had. He set it ablaze and then counted to two hundred. Beside them was one of many piles of kindling pushed up against the trunks of trees, also wet with oil. At two hundred, he set it ablaze and then ran.
Prior to nightfall, they’d made over twenty such piles, and he dashed from one to the other, lighting them and then continuing. Some burned too weak to set their tree aflame, but he only needed a few to start the fire he wanted. The trees were lush and full, plenty of fuel for their needs. When he reached the last of the piles, he looked up to the sky. Smoke blotted out the stars. Good. At least several had grown strong, and the kindling piles lined all around the camp, forming a nice U-shaped goal for the fire. Now he just needed to wait for the fire to grow and then…
Shouts came from the camp, first a few, then many. From far to the side, he peeked out to see. The men were rushing to the edge, carrying whatever tools they could find. The fire wasn’t evenly spread yet, but growing. Without any source of water, the men did the only thing they could: they began digging a trench so they fire would not spread beyond the forest.
“Go get them, Jerico,” Lathaar whispered, thrilled at how smooth their plan was working. The light of the fire made it difficult for him to see the Sanctuary. Only the torches in the towers shone clearly, the rest a dark haze. If all was well, Jerico had sneaked inside without notice, and at worst, killed a few before dashing in. Well, not the very worst. Very worst, he lay dead on the ground, an arrow in his side. Lathaar had a feeling it’d take a lot more to bring down Jerico than a few inattentive guards.
The smoke billowed higher, and all attention was now on the fire. Time for him to act. He curled around to the side of the camp. No guards. He took a few deep breaths and then burst into a full sprint, heading for the far side of the trench where the people were at their fewest. At the last moment he drew his swords, and one man glanced to the side and shouted just before he crashed through the line. He spun and cut without any finesse and thought, spilling blood across his armor and knocking bodies into the shallow trench. Unarmed and unprepared, they had little chance. The rest scattered, crying out for aid.
“Fear the wrath of the elves!” Lathaar screamed before turning and racing back into the forest, figuring any sort of misdirection could only help. He kept his head low and curled around the outer line of the fire, which was still growing at a pace that worried him. He thanked Ashhur it wasn’t fall, and the leaves dry and brittle. His armor was hot enough as it was. Last thing he wanted was to be baked inside it.
He followed the fire, keeping it to his right until he emerged on the other side of the ditch. Some of the soldiers were armed, and many on the lookout. Not enough, though, not to deter him. Gasping in the clean air, he waited until he felt ready and then charged. This time they saw him just before his arrival, but the bulk only tried to flee, not fight. He cut down the nearest, who wielded an axe, two more who swung their shovels at him, and then gutted a fourth before he could escape. The smoke drifted over them, so that only his glowing blades shone in the confusion.
“Eyes on the forest,” Lathaar muttered as he turned back to flee.
The fire still burned strong, but the wind seemed to be keeping it from pushing deeper into the center. He went to the middle of the line, but once there he felt his bravado fade. The fire licked off every thin trunk. The ground shimmered red, and it seemed more liquid than solid. The heat gathered in a great wall, one he could feel growing stronger with every step. Could he do it? Could he really?
But Jerico was relying on him. Lathaar needed to be the reaper from the flame, to keep all eyes on the forest, all backs to the Sanctuary. When the priests made their escape, any who happened to notice would fall to their spells and Jerico’s mace. Only a concentrated effort by the army could stop them, and if they were scattered, exhausted, and unaware a battle had started…
He ran, his eyes barely able to stay open from the heat. He felt his armor grow warm, then excruciatingly hot. Sweat soaked him beneath his inner layers of padding. His lungs burned from the smoke. Step after step, he forced himself through step after step. When he burst into the fresh air, he laughed, stunned to be alive. The men digging the trench were in no way prepared for his maniacal approach. He cut them down, a swirling death of glowing swords. This time men closer to the inner parts of the camp noticed him and came running, their weapons at the ready. Lathaar barely saw them in his oxygen-starved delirium. He swung in wide arcs, clumsy maneuvers that better opponents might have easily defeated. But they were tired, confused, and poorly armored.
Even with such advantages, and far more years in training, he felt himself slipping. Blades rang off his armor, and one cut through the padding at his elbow, slicing all the way to bone. His breath came with difficulty, and either blood or sweat, he didn’t know which, ran from his forehead to sting his eyes. More soldiers swarmed about him, trapping him against the burning forest. He laughed, knowing he had to look like some horrific demon from the Abyss. He sheathed his short sword, held his long sword in both hands, and screamed out the word to unleash the full power of his faith.
“Elholad!”
The blade remained the same. He felt doubt tug on his heart, and his dire grin spread
wide. It had to be Mira, he thought.
Damn her, she’s got me doubting.
He kept swinging wide, taking step after step back toward the forest. Might he burn within? He felt its heat blowing against him from the wind. It was growing, the fire still spreading. He couldn’t fight them off, couldn’t defeat them. His faith was weak, Ashhur’s greatest gift denied to him. They must have seen the weakness in his eyes, for they pressed closer, wielding swords and shields that blocked every counterattack.
In the distance, he saw flashes of white. Someone shouted his name. The priests were coming, or were they fleeing? Would they rescue him, or leave him to die? He didn’t know. He felt weak and lightheaded. Swords cut in, and he parried best he could. Any thoughts to counter vanished. Another step back as a blade missed gutting him by an inch. Another step as he braced to block a powerful overhead chop. More light, closer, brighter. Men turned, a few raised their weapons, but then Keziel burst through. He spoke a word, though strangely Lathaar heard not a single syllable, only felt its power roll across them. The enemy soldiers fell back as if struck by a battering ram.
“Come, my son,” said Keziel, grabbing Lathaar and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Into the fire.”
Lathaar didn’t understand, but he was too exhausted to question him. Together they rushed into the forest, the flames licking behind them. Light glowed from his skin, and he saw it lift off in waves. They were not consumed. He couldn’t even feel its heat. Step after step they walked, Lathaar leaning much of his weight on the older man. At last they came out the other side. The light faded.
“Next time think of a better plan,” Keziel said as they both sucked in air. “I don’t want to ever do that again.”
“Where’s Jerico?” Lathaar asked.
“With the others. They ran about the southern edge of the fire. We must keep moving. It won’t be long before the rest of the army comes in pursuit.”
“How will we find them?” Lathaar asked as they walked deeper into the forest, where the flames were but a frightening red haze in the distance.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 152
