Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  “The Light must shine!” the regiments cheered, raising their weapons.

  “Open the gates!” Baldomir yelled. War cries rose from the ranks, and guards in the towers hauled on the pulleys that lifted the great beam barring the gates.

  The battering rams gave one last thump, and the heavy doors swung open. The front rank of orcs fell through the entrance, thrown off by the lack of resistance. Those behind them stopped in surprise, staring down the barrels of the four massive shock-ballistae.

  “Fire!” the king cried.

  Sixty bolts loosed in quick succession. Arrowheads thrice as wide as normal sliced through the enemies at the gate, filling the tunnel to the portcullis with screams. Bodies dropped, dark spurting blood displaying their hearts’ final action. The lucky ones scuttled back and ran from the death trap, tripping over corpses as they went.

  The crack of whips sounded out, followed by the thunder of hooves. A stampede of a hundred bulls rushed through the tunnel. Their powerful bovine muscles rippled, and the force of their passage trampled the orcs within. Exploding from the portcullis, they mowed down the enemy, impaling them on their sharpened horns or crushing them underfoot. While the quicker goblins managed to dodge, a great number fell before the onslaught.

  Pikemen moved forward, their shields forming a thin wall, thrusting their weapons into the enemy with great agility. The strength and size of the orcs proved no match against trained soldiers. Soon a path opened through the fray, wide enough for mounted regiments.

  Led by King Baldomir, the cavalry charged through the gates, cutting and slashing their way forward. Horses flew over bodies or stumbled through their guts, but either way their riders hung on. Dagorat followed the left flank, staying behind Lhinthel. A goblin ran at him from the right; he killed it with a throwing dagger.

  A rider fell not ten feet away, speared through the gut, intestines spilling onto the ground. Dagorat ran to him, salvaged his sword and shield, and chased down the horse. He yanked the reins until it stood still enough to mount, then swung up and engaged the foes. Blocking a spear with his shield, he wheeled his horse to the left and swung his sword in a vicious fury. His target froze in shock, then picked up its arm from the ground and stumbled away. Mage-Sense pulled him into its grip then, and movement on the battlefield went into slow-motion. He twisted in his saddle to stare up at the battlements, not far away.

  Bandoras stared back down, piercing him with the intensity of his glare. He tapped a finger on the side of his head and yelled, “I recognize you now, Blackmond!”

  Great. That was all he needed. No time to worry about it now, though. He deflected another goblin attack from his right and had to quickly stab an orc on his left.

  The king’s voice carried over the din. “Forward! Advance!”

  Dagorat squinted into the distance, where the great tent of Lamortain stood. With a savage kick, he galloped over to the king. Pointing to the tent, he yelled, “Sire! That’s the Golgent command tent. The masters of the dark mages are in there.”

  A great thunder sounded from the city. The battle paused, all eyes on the Ethelton gate, where a cloud of dust rose from behind. Earlier he’d hoped not to be locked in. Now, he was locked out. He’d either avenge Katrina or die trying.

  Baldomir grinned. “Let’s end it, then.”

  ***

  Guilder managed to not spill the wine when a Golgent commander burst into the tent. “Baldomir comes for us! Run for your lives!”

  Lamortain bolted up and hurried outside. When he returned, he grabbed the commander by the throat. “Keep fighting and buy time for our escape.” He hurried back outside and called for Xantasia and Sudalya. The women and Guilder snatched armfuls of trinkets and joined their master. They clambered onto a waiting wagon. Guilder whipped the draft horses into a ground-eating trot and held steady at the reins.

  “Don’t leave the Orb behind,” Xantasia said.

  Guilder glanced over his shoulder for his master’s order. Lamortain waved his hand in dismissal. “Pfft. That thing is of no use to us.”

  Xantasia leaned in closer. “It’s their most prized possession. We can use it to bargain if we must.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then a cold hand pressed on Guilder’s shoulder. “Stop,” Lamortain said. “I’ll drive from here. Get the cart with the Orb, and bring it back to the stronghold.”

  Guilder hauled on the reins and jumped down once the horses stopped. He ran through the field back to the cart, covered the Orb and tied down the canvas.

  ***

  All the bulls lay dead or dying from heavy wounds. The hulking corpses proved too much of an obstacle for the horses, halting the advance of King Baldomir’s regiments. While a great number of Golgent minions had been trampled and gored by the wild stampede, too many others had survived. Superior numbers pressed against the narrow line of brave Easterlains. Orcs smashed through in two places, and the thin row became three pockets of resistance.

  At the center, Lhinthel, Dagorat and Lakewood took up defensive positions around the king. An orc raised its sword above its head and struck at Lhinthel. She parried, and their swords met with a clang. Another thrust at her. She deflected its sword with her shield, and its momentum steered it to rush into the first orc, blade first. With her sword free, she removed the other’s head from its foul body. A nasty little goblin tried to take advantage of her distraction and leaped onto her horse’s back. Dagorat loosed a dagger at it, right in the eye. He launched another at a different goblin climbing up Baldomir’s leg.

  Stinging pain pulsed in Dagorat’s thigh. He wheeled his horse around, and knocked over an orc holding a bloody spear. The thing stood up. Dagorat swallowed the pain and gave it a well-placed kick to the chest, sending it to impale itself on the sharpened horn of a dead bull.

  Lakewood’s sword swept in broad arcs, trying desperately to keep a multitude of attackers at bay. “There’s too many!” A spear scraped his knee, and he bashed the orc over the head with his shield.

  Where’s our pikemen? Dagorat stood in his stirrups and surveyed the battlefield. “Our ranks are broken!” No one would be coming to their aid. It was kill or be killed now, on this plain of death.

  But they had halved the distance to the command tent. With his vengeance so close, his heart pumped faster. Frantically, he looked for a clear path through the waves of orcs and goblins.

  Baldomir’s horse rose on its hind legs. The king held his sword high. “Advance!”

  ***

  Guilder climbed onto the cart and took the reins, tugging on the right to follow Lamortain. But the master’s wagon had disappeared into the night. He twisted around to stare at the city, and yanked back on the reins to halt the team. His chance had come. Amidst the distant screams, the clang of weapons, the reek of death, tears of joy rolled down his face. Free! I’m free of Lamortain. Years of torment, abuse, and horror lifted away from his soul. With a newfound lightness of being, he sprang to his feet. Standing tall on the driver’s bench, he craned his neck to witness Baldomir’s advance.

  He brought his hand to his mouth as the Golgent army closed in on the king. Turning his face away, a pang thrummed in his chest. So close to freedom. But if Ethelton fell, he’d have nowhere to go. He glanced down at his empty hands. That was the worst of it; there was no way for him to help. Frustrated, impotent, he collapsed onto the bench and curled up into a ball. Through his tears came the blurred sight of the canvas covering the Orb. He bolted up. The Orb. I have the Orb.

  His hands clumsily untied the knots and he tore off the canvas. Rotating the Orb to face Baldomir, and opening the shield to give the widest possible area of effect, he tried to remember what Lamortain had said. “Glorious Orb of…of...” He jumped from the cart and staggered in a circle, grasping at his hair. No good. He couldn’t remember. Guilder fell to the ground, bitter tears flooding his face. As he lowered a hand to brace himself, his palm came to rest on a crumpled scroll.

  CHAPTER 26

  GUILDER�
��S GAMBIT

  EVERY SLASH OF DAGORAT’S BLADE drew blood. Some maimed. Most killed. None satisfied him. Enemy swords nicked him now and then, but he barely paid attention. Inch by inch, he moved closer to the command tent, hacking his way through the mob alongside the other soldiers. Whenever exhaustion threatened, he called up an image of Katrina, and the resulting surge of fury gave him the energy he needed to go on.

  Twenty yards away, Baldomir screamed a battle cry as a swarm dragged him off his horse. The king bashed a goblin’s face with his hilt, then swung his sword wildly as he fell. A nearby orc yowled and raised its war hammer high, about to deal a death blow to the royal head. Time stood still as Dagorat tried to rush to the king’s aid. But he was too distant, and in despair he watched the hammer begin its descent. Dimly, he thought, Today I witness the passing of a great king.

  But then, the world filled with a blinding white light. Dagorat fell to his knees, hands over his eyes. The field lapsed into silence; even the clang of weapons ceased. It lasted for what seemed like seconds – or hours, or days; he wasn’t sure. He squinted and peered through his fingers to find that the light had dissipated. All around him, Easterlain soldiers blinked in the aftermath, standing or kneeling among a multitude of steaming ash piles. With the mass of surrounding orcs vaporized, an open path to the command tent lay wide open. An abandoned wagon with a strange glowing object stood in front of Lamortain’s tent. That must be the Orb. Like the scepter and crown I saw.

  King Baldomir must have seen the object too, for he mounted his horse and raised his sword. “The Orb is with us!” A great roar rose from the ranks. He pointed to the tent. “Advance to the Orb!”

  With a shout of victory, the Easterlains pressed forward. On the edges of the swath of destruction, fear and confusion broke out among the remaining enemy. All the commanders must be cowering in the tent. Not one was brave enough to come out and take charge of the mob. Many of the goblins ran off, while the orcs tried to stop them. Others squabbled amongst themselves. None had any interest in challenging Baldomir, and so the Easterlains pushed onward without resistance.

  Dagorat followed close behind the king, along with Lhinthel, Lakewood, and Kasomir. They dismounted near the command tent and the wagon carrying what must be the Orb they’d been chasing for so long. Baldomir and Lhinthel rushed to the ancient relic, and together they offered a quick bow of respect. The king glanced back at Lakewood. “Order our pikemen to secure the perimeter.”

  Lakewood fetched his horn and sounded three short pulses. Pikemen obediently formed a circle around the Orb, overlapping their shields. The battle horn caught several orcs’ attention, but they lost interest once they eyed the sharp, glittering forest of steel.

  His moment of revenge had come. Dagorat pulled back the flaps to the tent and strode inside. The place lay empty, save for one dead Golgent commander. No ash. Spilled goblets and scattered furnishings spoke of a hasty exit. He breathed hard, fury building with every passing second. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Where was Lamortain? What kind of cruel gods ruled this world, that allowed evil to snatch away his family and then denied him any chance at justice? He braced himself against a post and hung his head, still gulping air. What to do now? He slid down to plop on the dirt.

  A low whistle sounded. Through tear-filled eyes, Dagorat squinted at Kasomir. The boy must have followed him in. “Damn him,” the prince muttered. He must have sensed he wasn’t welcome, though, because he left shortly afterward, kicking a goblet on the way out.

  Dagorat wrestled his despair back down, wiped his face and headed back outside. No time for this, now. When would there ever be time, he wondered. Time to let himself feel again. Time to grieve. Time to be…well, just to be. He joined the others ogling the Orb. So this little ball was what they’d spent so much time and blood on. So much pain better have been worth it. Lamortain lives. He must die.

  A face peeked up from behind the wagon. They all stared. Slowly, a thin, cowering shape edged around and came into view.

  Dagorat stared at the gaunt figure. The face spoke of long hardship; the way he held himself told of years living in terror. Lakewood stomped over to him, making the poor man shriek. The commander grabbed him by his collar and put a sword against his neck. “Who are you?”

  “Guilder! I’m called Guilder.”

  “Hold your sword,” Baldomir ordered. He strode over to Guilder. “Did you call upon the Orb’s light?”

  “Yes, great king.” He pointed toward the left flank of the remaining Golgent. Dagorat followed his finger to find a number of similarly fear-stricken men, half-hiding at the edge of another tent. They kept ducking their heads out to catch a glimpse of the Easterlains, then drawing back into the shadows. Lakewood let Guilder go, and the man fell to his knees. “You see? The Orb spared them. They’re not servants of evil, but slaves…slaves who served out of fear of a slow, torturous death,” Guilder said. “Let us be men again.”

  Lakewood raised his sword to strike. “A lying Golgent dog will say anything to save its life.”

  Guilder flopped to the ground, covering his head.

  Lhinthel approached and laid a hand on Lakewood’s shoulder. “The battle still harkens unto us. This is not time for a trial.” At that moment, a strange horn sounded from near the Queen’s River. She leaped up onto the wagon and peered into the distance. “My brethren come,” she announced with glee. Nimbly, she hopped down and mounted her horse, putting heels to its flanks to gallop off towards them.

  Baldomir eyed Guilder again. “What to do with you, then? Or the others?” He thought for a moment and then grinned. “Of course. How simple. Commander, face the Orb towards that tent. Guilder, go and stand with your fellows.”

  The gaunt man clambered to his feet and offered him a ragged scroll.

  “No need,” Baldomir said with a flick of his hand. “I know it well.” He pointed at the distant tent. “Go and stand in the path of the storm.”

  Guilder did as ordered, while Lakewood maneuvered the Orb into position. When all was prepared, Baldomir recited the prayer. Dagorat couldn’t quite hear the words. Again, the world became bathed in white light.

  The light dimmed as suddenly as it had come. He opened his eyes. Beyond the far tent, piles of ash lay steaming where more of the enemy had been hiding. Out to either side of the destruction, the last remaining orcs and goblins scattered for the forest. Dagorat focused on the shadows of the distant tent; Guilder remained alive, along with a handful of his comrades. Still cowering, the little group approached the king and knelt. “Spare us, Majesty,” Guilder begged.

  “Who am I to condemn those whom The One True God hath spared?” Baldomir said. He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome, and the former slaves breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Fists clenched, Dagorat approached Guilder. “Where’s your master?” he growled through gritted teeth.

  The thin man flinched but answered, “He rides for his stronghold.” Guilder held up a finger. “Once inside, follow your nose.” He mimicked a downward spiral with his finger. “Find the descending stairs.”

  Dagorat craned his neck, watching the orcs fade into the forest. That way. It had to be. Kasomir sidled up beside him and whispered, “Lamortain’s stronghold is probably no longer guarded.”

  Dagorat eyed him. “You’re with me, then?”

  “Yes. Our people have suffered enough at his hands. Let’s end it.”

  “How many will follow us?” Dagorat whispered back.

  “Enough.”

  “What if your father forbids it?”

  “I’ll do it anyway. One day the throne will be mine. I must act now to protect it against future attacks.”

  Their eyes locked and Dagorat bobbed his chin. They quietly left the group and mounted their steeds. Kasomir rummaged in his satchel and retrieved a small horn. He sounded five notes. Two dozen men gathered around him.

  Baldomir spun around. “Where are you going? The battle is over.”

  Kasom
ir straightened his shoulders. “The next one waits at the stronghold.”

  The king glared at the two of them. “There’s been enough bloodshed for one evening.”

  “Not enough,” Dagorat said. “Besides, I’m not in your army. I fight when I please and leave when I please.”

  “You’re a defiant one. But I fear you’re heading down a dark path.” Baldomir shifted his attention to Kasomir. “Son, don’t fall under the influence of this bitter man.”

  “I ride to safeguard the kingdom, not to further his revenge,” Kasomir said. “One day I’ll be king. And I shall reign in peace.” With that, he wheeled his horse and cantered off to the forest.

  Dagorat galloped up beside him, followed by the thundering soldiers. Not far into the trees, they caught sight of the fleeing Golgent army. He unsheathed his sword and held it high. “Kill them all!”

  The men around him let out a roar and their horses surged forward. Side by side with the prince, Dagorat led the way into the mob, weaving through the trees, slashing in a frenzy.

  Righteous vengeance warmed the core of his being. Every severed, spewing artery bestowed a hint of solace, like a gentle cascading fountain. Every pain-laden scream transformed into a faint chord of glorious music. Every collapsing corpse lightened the pressure in his chest. But he needed more. Fifteen thousand dead weren’t enough. Only gliding Frostbite across Lamortain’s malevolent neck could put this monstrous bloodlust to sleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  STRONGHOLD OF SHADOW

  A GLOOMY FOG BLOTTED OUT THE moonlight, enveloping Dagorat, Kasomir, and their men with a cold, clammy grip. Galloping blind at this frantic pace was madness. Clenching his teeth, Dagorat slowed his mount down to a walk, and the rest followed suit. Darkness, his old comforting friend now turned against him.

  No longer did any sort of path mark the way between Ethelton and Lamortain’s stronghold. The entire Golgent army had passed over the plain a half-day earlier. Thousands of footprints and rutted tracks had torn up a wide swath of grass. Before Dagorat’s group lost the torchlight of the battlefield, they had followed a set of tracks drifting away from the main path of destruction. But now – nothing.