The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

“How much closer?” he asked as he trotted along.

  “Just outside the range of their archers, if possible,” Keziel said.

  Antonil looked behind, to where the thousand stood to defend their rear. High above, the angels had begun their battle.

  “No time,” he said. “Begin now, if you can.”

  “Continue to the wall,” the priest said. “Trust us, and we will fulfill our obligation.”

  He rode back to Sergan and relayed the information.

  “Ride on?” he asked. “They’re mad, right? They don’t even want us to wait and see if they can make it through? This is suicide, Antonil. We can’t. Turn back. Let’s aid in the fight behind, and then conquer the city at our leisure.”

  Antonil looked to the priests, and then to the far end of the line, where Bram rode with his knights.

  “No,” he said. “No, we trust them. I won’t doubt them, not now.”

  Sergan followed his gaze, saw Bram, and then lifted an eyebrow.

  “What’s this got to do with him?” he asked.

  “Consider it opposing views of how to be a king. Send the men on.”

  The priests stopped, gathered together for a moment of prayer, and then turned to the wall.

  “Keep our sight clear!” Keziel shouted, and the men shifted to either side, giving them a gap in the lines. Antonil thought about staying beside them, then rode on. He would not remain behind and appear the coward. His thousands continued their rush to the walls of Mordeina, though he felt a moment of despair when Bram’s knights remained back.

  “He keeps himself and his most trusted safe,” Sergan said. “The cowardly sot.”

  “They’ll charge when the walls fall,” Antonil said. “I hope.”

  The priests’ prayers echoed louder, and they knelt with their palms facing the wall. A great beam shot forth, collected together from their power, and then pressed against the city gate. The wood and stone buckled, and even from that distance they could hear it cracking.

  “I’ll be damned,” Sergan said. “Hey, keep those men away from that…that…whatever the Abyss that thing is!”

  The soldiers spread further away from the beam, and they charged with renewed hope.

  And then the roar swept over them from the city. A great beast soared over the walls, looped about, and then dived for the charging men, its reptilian wings folded against its sides. Smoke trailed after it, as if billowing from its obsidian scales. Again it roared, and the wave of sound was like a fear curse placed upon every member of Antonil’s army. They stopped and trembled, with many turning to flee.

  “What is that?” Sergan asked, his jaw hanging open.

  “It can’t be,” Antonil said, watching as it circled high above them. “Only stories, nighttime tales…a dragon. They don’t exist. They can’t.”

  The creature swooped low, belching dark fire in a wide arc. Antonil veered his horse to the side to avoid the last of it. Those caught in the blast rolled and screamed, their bodies covered with a clear liquid that burned black. The dragon circled again, then dived, and this time Antonil had the wits to issue a command.

  “Attack!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Attack now, or we all die!”

  He led the rush, bolting his horse directly into the dragon’s path. The creature slammed into the ground, barreling through soldiers like they were twigs. It snapped and lunged, biting men in half. Those who tried to face it stopped before its great claws, as if confused how to attack. Its tail whipped left and right, breaking legs with each snap. Their archers fired arrows, but they plinked off without a dent. All thought to attack the walls halted in the face of that monster.

  Antonil rode through his men, spurring his horse on. When he reached the dragon his mount leapt, and he swung his sword in a desperate arc. Men gave chase after, those brave enough to die at the side of their king. All Antonil saw was dark scales and burning eyes, and enormous teeth opened to engulf him. He slashed the scales across the dragon’s snout, but his sword bounced off. Its warm breath blew against him. He felt more than saw the bite. He flew against the dragon’s side as his horse screeched in pain, its body torn in two. Antonil dug his sword between the scales and held on for dear life while his men clamored toward it, slashing at its claws and stabbing at its face.

  Seeing his men die, Antonil twisted the blade and rammed it deeper in until blood poured across his hands, black as ink. The dragon twisted once, then belched fire across the field, burning hundreds alive. Again he twisted the blade, but it didn’t seem to matter. His army was lost. They would die without ever reaching the walls. So much for his throne. So much for his plans. They’d crumbled before the teeth and scales of Karak’s pet.

  “Not yet,” he growled. He was just beneath the wing, and as it flapped he reached up and grabbed another scale, careful to lay flat against the body to avoid the spikes along the bone. When his grip was secure, he pulled his sword free and stabbed it higher. As if scaling a mountain, his sword his pick, he ascended amid the screams of the dying. At last he reached the dragon’s back, its spine protruding through the flesh. He tried stabbing it, but the bone was too hard. His sword only slid aside.

  Suddenly the dragon howled and leapt back, shaking from side to side. Antonil held on to the bone and looked to see what was the matter. Bram’s knights had come riding in, hurling spears toward the dragon’s face. The horses still circled, just outside the reach of its tail. When it turned to belch fire, those at its sides lunged in and thrust their swords through the grooves of its scales. As it turned, Antonil saw the priests’ spell had ended, they too having given up on the wall. Instead he saw golden chains lash around the dragon’s claws and face. It scratched and tore at them, but the distraction was enough for the footmen to assault. They died by the hundreds, but inky blood covered their corpses, stab after stab wounding the great beast.

  “Its neck!” he heard someone shout, and the rest took up the cry. “Go for its neck!”

  The men swarmed its front, and Bram’s knights threw the last of their spears for its throat. As the blood continued to pour, the dragon beat its wings and tried to flee, but then came more glittering shackles. Kept landlocked by the priests’ will, it started flailing and biting, slaughtering more and more in a horrific display of blood.

  Forcing himself to look away, Antonil climbed along the spine toward the dragon’s head, stopping only when its flailing was too much for him to move. At one point it reared back, and the ridge of its spine slammed into his chin. Blood filled his mouth, and he swore he’d bit his tongue in two. He turned, spat, and then continued on, his sword still clutched tight in hand. When he reached the neck, he lay flat and found a groove where the vertebrae connected. Before he could strike, the beast shuddered and screamed. Its flesh turned a sickly color, as if it had suddenly lost much of its strength. Not willing to waste such an opportunity, Antonil stabbed the sword with all his strength deep into the spine. This time the dragon’s shriek was a lengthy wail. Its wings crumpled, and it collapsed to the field, whole body shaking. Antonil clutched the hilt and endured the violent throes. The remaining footmen swarmed over it like ants, stabbing and hacking it to pieces. Blood spilled across the battlefield like a black pool.

  When at last it lay still, Antonil withdrew his sword and stood atop the corpse. He raised the blade high and hollered a mindless cry of victory to his troops. Bram’s knights did not stay, for they were already riding south, to where their flank had weakened to the point of crumbling.

  “Antonil the Dragon Slayer!” someone shouted as he climbed down, and others quickly took up the cry. A soldier brought him a horse, and he mounted it on shaking legs.

  “Gather up,” he said. “Back to formations! We still have a city to take!”

  They cheered despite the thousands that lay dead around them, nearly a third of their force. He rode to the priests, who had gathered to resume their spell.

  “Can you get us through?” he asked.

  “We shall see,” Keziel s
aid. A grin tugged at his lips. “I’d hate to disappoint the Dragon Slayer.”

  Antonil laughed and slapped the priest on the back, leaving an inky handprint atop the white cloth. Trusting Bram to protect their flank, and the priests to open the way to the city, he rode back to the front and urged his army on. The white beam shot forth, slamming into the city gates. Already weakened, they crumbled and broke, gaining them access to the ground between the two walls. The beam continued, striking the thick stone. Though it seemed almost unaffected, Antonil urged them on.

  “Keep them off of me!” Tarlak cried as he dropped to one knee, avoiding a swing that would have cut off his head. He flicked his hand, and a thin bolt of electricity arced into the soldier. As his muscles broke into spasms, Lathaar spun about and cut him down.

  “Trying!” Jerico shouted back. He slammed his shield forward, its light flaring over the many attackers. They winced and stepped back, and then he shoved and swung with his mace, trying to clear a space for the wizard to cast. To the other side, Lathaar steadily weaved his sword back and forth, his blade of light shattering swords and ignoring what little armor the conscripts possessed. Compared to the battle-hardened men who fought beside him, having faced demons, undead, and the best soldiers of Mordan, these foes were unskilled and clumsy. But they also outnumbered them by a horrific amount.

  Tarlak staggered to his feet, his vision swimming. He’d used nearly every spell in his repertoire, plus a few more he made up on the spot. He’d layered the battlefield with fire and ice, flung boulders, and lost count of how many bolts of lightning he’d thrown. Still they came. All around, they were hard pressed, cutting men down nearly three to one, but it didn’t matter. They were dwindling, might have already crumbled if not for the stalwart paladins.

  And every time the dragon roared, he felt their men weaken a little bit more. But this time, that roar seemed different…pained instead of victorious. He chucked a fireball over the heads of the paladins, not caring what it hit or how dramatic the explosion, and glanced back to the city. The dragon lay on the ground, its body swarming with soldiers.

  “Not possible,” he muttered, stunned.

  “Get back!” Lathaar shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him along. “It’s a rout!”

  The rest were fleeing toward the city, hoping for safety with the greater army gathered there. With no other choice, Tarlak ran along. As he gasped for air, he wondered just how closely they were followed. A conscript could be a mere pace away, his sword ready to thrust deep into his back, all because he was unprepared and couldn’t…

  He looked behind to settle his fears. He was wrong. The conscripts were five paces back, not one. This didn’t make him feel much better.

  “Faster,” Lathaar urged, tugging on his arm. Tarlak’s breathing quickened. His lungs felt on fire. He wondered how in the world Lathaar could run so long in his plate mail after flinging his sword around like a madman. If he lived, he vowed to drink less wine and try to exercise with Harruq occasionally. Sweat dripped down his neck.

  “Can’t,” he said between puffs.

  “Keep going,” Lathaar said, glancing back.

  Tarlak followed suit. Karak’s army was maintaining pace, and one by one soldiers fell and were trampled underfoot. Jerico was only a step behind them, his shield slung across his back. His look to Lathaar was dire.

  “I can’t,” Tarlak said again. He felt a stabbing pain in his side, as if one of his lungs had just rebelled and called it quits. He felt his legs stumbling, his vision swimming, and then he was lifted into the air. After the vertigo passed, he realized he was atop Lathaar’s back, carried like a sack of grain. He opened his mouth to speak, but then dry heaved instead. A bit of spittle ran down his chin. He glanced at their pursuers, who seemed even closer. A spell…surely he knew a spell that might help?

  But he didn’t have the chance to think of one. The conscripts suddenly slowed, then stopped completely. Some turned to flee, but most flung down their weapons and fell to their knees. Before Tarlak could wonder why, hundreds of knights rode past them, their hoofbeats thunderous across the grass. They circled those who had surrendered, then gave chase after the rest. Tarlak felt his perspective change again, and then suddenly he was on his feet, held up by Lathaar’s arms.

  “You going to make it?” he heard the paladin ask.

  Tarlak nodded, hoping for his heart to stop pounding at a million beats a second. Jerico ran up beside them, doubled over to catch his breath, then gestured to the knights.

  “Good timing,” he said, then laughed.

  Tarlak looked past them to where the remaining forces of Karak gathered. Unlike the conscripts, they appeared better armed and trained. Very few were mounted, though, and when the knights came charging, their leaders came out to meet them.

  “What’s going on?” Lathaar asked, squinting to see.

  “It’s too far,” Tarlak said.

  “Don’t you have a spell or something to help with that?”

  The wizard rubbed his eyes. Surely he did…that was right. What were the words? It took a moment more, but his pounding head remembered them. He cast the spell, and his eyes zoomed further and further in, until he could just barely see the leaders as they stepped out on their mounts.

  “They’re carrying something,” Tarlak muttered, still out of breath. “It’s…hah. It’s some demon’s head. Oh, and there’s his body.”

  The leaders dumped the body before them and then tossed the head as if it were a gift. The rest knelt and offered their swords.

  “Looks like with the dragon dead and our forces coming to bear, they’ve switched sides,” Tarlak said. “Can’t blame them. Doubt they had much choice to serve Thulos in the first place.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Lathaar said, tugging Tarlak along. The wizard fought off a wave of vomit as his vision jostled every which way, far too sensitive for the sudden movement. He looked back to the wall, where Antonil was making his charge.

  “Well, would hate to miss the rest of the fun,” he said before limping along, wishing just for a moment where the stitch in his side might leave him alone.

  Damn, he needed a glass of wine. If only…

  “Uh, Tar?’ he heard Lathaar ask, disturbing his thoughts.

  “Yeah?”

  Lathaar pointed to the sky far to the south.

  “Who the Abyss are they?”

  Deathmask hurried from street to street, proclaiming the same message.

  “The king returns!” he cried. “Bring forth your rage! Rebel against those who have raped, murdered, and stolen from you! The king is here, the king is here!”

  At first his call went unanswered. The fear of the priest-king had been driven in deep over the past months, but he did not despair. The few guards he encountered he slaughtered with ease, and it seemed with each one he killed, the bloodlust grew among the crowd that watched him. It seemed forever that he cried in vain, but he gained his handful of stalkers, not many, and they did little but watch and listen. It was his seed, he knew, and it was time to help it germinate.

  “Take back what is yours!” he shouted when he reached the main market running through the center of the city. “Remember your beloved queen. Did she die for nothing? Are your loyalties so thin?”

  Angry murmurs echoed through the crowd. He knew they felt fear because of the war waging outside the wall. Should it be a foreign conqueror, the rape and murder would be massive. He had to counter that fear, and he knew how. He climbed atop a market stand with a wooden roof, lifted his arms, and set them aflame for effect.

  “That is no enemy outside!” he screamed. “That is no conqueror! That is your king, bound by blood and marriage to queen Annabelle. A queen the priest-king murdered! Do you serve a murderer? Do you serve Karak? Throw off the chains. Drink in the blood of your oppressor! Strangle him with his whip. Drown him in your anger!”

  Of the hundreds listening, he knew he had maybe thirty. It didn’t matter. He felt the tension growing, and when a troop
of Lionsguard arrived, they found the crowd none too willing to let them pass. They had to shove their way through, at last coming to where Deathmask stood atop his stall.

  “You’re under arrest!” one of them shouted.

  Deathmask laughed.

  “Why do you wait?” he asked the crowd. “Must I do all the killing for you? Now is the time! Now is the place!”

  A guard with a bow drew an arrow, but before he could fire it, someone bumped him from behind, ruining his aim. The arrow sailed wide, and Deathmask snagged it in his mind with magic. It took only a little persuasion for it to hook sharply downward, piercing the leg of a man close by. His cry of pain was music to Deathmask’s ears. Anger rippled through the crowd, and safe in its numbers, the people let out their anger and frustration. The Lionsguard drew their swords, but they had to face both Deathmask and the crowd, and they were far too few to face either.

  “People of Mordeina!” a woman cried, and Deathmask smiled when he recognized her voice. Veliana stood atop a nearby building, looking beautiful and deadly as ever. “Behold the fate of your priest-king!”

  She hurled a head to the street. It cracked in half upon the stone, and at that crack, it seemed the entire crowd exploded. They raged against the guards, tearing them from limb to limb. They tore at the stalls, broke windows, and gave in to the anger sweeping over them. They only needed directing, and though they might have headed for the castle, Deathmask knew a far better use.

  “To the walls!” he shouted. “Throw open the gates to your saviors! Those loyal to Melorak are there. Kill them, people of Mordeina, kill them all!”

  “To the walls!” Veliana shouted, echoing his cry. “Melorak is dead! To the walls!”

  She leapt like an acrobat to the street and rushed ahead, still calling, still urging.

  “To the walls!”

  “Beautiful,” Deathmask said, basking in the anger of his own making. He’d always wanted to start a riot, and it’d been more enjoyable than he’d hoped. Not wishing to miss the show, he followed after, pushing his way through so he might help lead. The Lionsguard that tried to stop them, those few who did not flee, died crushed and beaten. The mob surged toward the main gates, where the several thousand loyal to Melorak waited.