Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  They should have been met with a hail of arrow fire. But most of the warehouses the archers had been using had been destroyed by the explosions.

  “What happened?” said Niall.

  “I do not know,” said Rufinius. “Some sort of dark magic. The priestesses of the Heptarchy must have unleashed a mighty spell upon us. But the defensive line is broken. We must act quickly if we are to hold the city. My father is trying to rally the survivors. Come!”

  “Moriah,” said Niall, getting to his feet. He seemed to have come through the explosion unhurt, though his head spun. “Moriah. Do you…”

  “I have not been able to find her,” said Rufinius. “Hurry!”

  They ran down the street, and Niall heard the archbishop’s voice raised in command. Caelmark stood at the mouth of one of the streets at the edge of the quays, and men rushed to his side. Niall and Rufinius ran to join him, and arachar orcs charged into the streets, swords and axes at the ready. Niall remembered the first Heptarchy attack, remembered the desperate struggle against the invaders. The men of Andomhaim had won that skirmish, but things were different now. The dockside district had been shattered, flames dancing in the shells of empty buildings. Smoke and dust choked the air. Caelmark might have rallied some of the defenders around him, but Niall didn’t know how the other streets fared.

  The first arachar orc reached him, and Niall caught a blow on his shield. The familiar shock plunged up his arm and into his shoulder. The arachar orcs were strong, and if he wasn’t careful, they would simply hack right through his shield and into his arm. The orcish soldier drew back his sword to strike again, and Niall swung his shield before the arachar could get his blow lined up. The shield slammed across the orc’s face, rasping against his tusks, and the soldier staggered. Before the orc could recover, Niall’s sword plunged into the arachar’s throat, and he wrenched the blade free.

  The arachar orc slumped dead to the ground, but three more rushed to take his place, and Niall found himself forced back on the defensive.

  The battle became a brutal slugging match, the defenders and the invaders packed together in the narrow street. Niall saw Caelmark’s mace rising and falling, the metal head spattered with arachar blood and brains. Step by step, they were getting forced up the street as more arachar orcs poured off the longboats. The entire harbor was filled with enemy boats, with hundreds or perhaps thousands of soldiers storming ashore. Every quay was full of them, and everywhere Niall looked, the defenders were falling back or simply overrun and cut down.

  Worse, the strange explosions had torn down dozens of buildings and had destroyed every single barricade overlooking the quays. The defenders had planned on making their stand at the barricades, forcing the enemy to advance along the streets as arrows rained down on their heads. But all that was gone. To make matters even worse, the arachar orcs clambered over the piles of rubble. The footing upon the destroyed buildings was too uneven to allow for fighting, but the orcs did not intend to stand and fight. They instead circled around the defenders to attack them from the back, and even as Niall looked, he saw a large company of arachar orcs scrambling over the ruined building to his left.

  They were going to encircle and trap the archbishop and his defenders.

  Niall realized that the only hope they had of holding Cintarra was to fall back to the Prince’s Palace, to hold until someone outside the city could send help.

  But as the arachar scrambled to attack from behind, Niall realized that it would not matter, at least for him.

  Because no matter how good he was at violence, no matter how ferociously he fought, Niall was going to die here.

  He braced himself, preparing to make a good accounting of his death.

  Fresh shouts rang out, and a band of men-at-arms came into sight, rushing down the street to attack the arachar about to strike from behind. The men-at-arms wore blue tabards adorned with the crimson dragon sigil of the Pendragons, and they tore into the arachar. The men charged to the aid of the archbishop, and Niall saw the High King himself leading them. Arandar Pendragon carried a shield, Excalibur burning with white fire in his right hand, and even as Niall looked, he cut an arachar orc in half. Literally in half – Excalibur’s keen edge sliced right through the orc, and both the soldier’s halves fell to the ground in a pool of blood.

  The royal men-at-arms rushed into the fray, and the arachar advance halted, the orcs falling back under the fury of the attack. Arandar must have brought thousands of men with him, and they were fresh and unhurt. The arachar attack wavered, the boats piling up behind the quays for lack of space to unload. God and the saints, if they could get some archers into place, the defenders could slaughter the orcs as they waited in their boats.

  “My lord archbishop!” shouted Arandar as he cut down the last of the arachar orcs behind Caelmark’s struggling men. “You seem in need of assistance.”

  “Your timing is most welcome, High King,” said Caelmark. “If we can but seize the quays proper, we can hold the enemy here.”

  Arandar shouted instructions, and Niall saw men-at-arms in blue tabards begin to push the arachar back towards the water.

  ###

  Agravhask’s longboat bumped against the quay, and he leaped ashore, the Chosen Guards following him.

  Shieldruin rasped against its scabbard as he drew the sword, and he felt his bond to the dark soulblade stir, the soulstone set into its tang crawling with dark shadows. At once, Agravhask sensed the sword’s hunger, its desire to feast upon life force, and the blade burst into howling crimson flames.

  He took in the battlefield at a glance. The initial attack had gone well, better than he had hoped. The defenders’ barricades had been destroyed by the bombards and the explosive canisters, and his soldiers had seized most of the quays and advanced into the streets, driving the dazed defenders before them.

  But reinforcements had arrived. Soldiers in chain mail and the blue tabards of the High King of Andomhaim himself rushed to the aid of the defenders, and the arachar orcs’ attack had stalled. Agravhask’s raiders had learned that the military of Andomhaim was organized along principles of vassalage and overlordship, and the individual nobles all displayed their own colors and badges in battle. A dozen different nations of the Heptarchy had similar traditions, though the individual customs varied quite a bit.

  But this meant that the High King himself had come within Agravhask’s reach.

  Agravhask sent his will into Shieldruin, sensing the sword’s hunger and fury. It was reacting to the presence of high elven soulblades nearby, and Agravhask knew the High King himself bore an ancient soulblade. He could not use Shieldruin to pinpoint precisely where a soulblade was, and certainly not over any distance, but he could get a general sense of the direction…

  Yes. There. A street leading up from the quays to the red walls and towers of the Prince’s Palace itself. The resistance there was stiffer, and Agravhask glimpsed the white fire of soulblades.

  He felt a moment’s…not pity, not truly, but empathy for Arandar Pendragon. Agravhask knew what it was to be a king who lost his realm. Though, to be strictly accurate, the High King would die before he saw the destruction of his kingdom. Was that a mercy?

  No. It was inconsequential.

  “High Priestess,” said Agravhask, turning back to look at one of the boats floating next to the quay. Mayascora stood there, proud and stark in her black robes. “I suggest that you direct your powers against the defenders.”

  Mayascora drew herself up, and for once, there was no scorn in her voice. This was when she was happiest, or as close to happiness as a creature like her could be, bringing destruction against those opposed to her beloved goddesses. “They shall know the dregs of despair as they die.”

  “To me,” said Agravhask, and the Chosen Guards followed him as he strode into the melee to break the back of the defense.

  ###

  Niall felt hope return, felt the tide of the battle begin to shift.

  The arrival of the
High King’s men-at-arms and knights had given new vigor to the defenders. They started to advance out of the streets and onto the broad space between the destroyed warehouses and the quays themselves. Steel rang against steel, and Niall fought on, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and knees and hips, the ground slippery with blood beneath his boots, both human and orcish.

  Bolts of blue fire and shadow began to fall from the sky.

  The blasts of dark magic hurtled down and fell into the bands of struggling defenders. Each spell killed a dozen men at once, turning them into withered corpses that looked as if they had been dead for a thousand years. Gaps opened in the defenders’ lines, and the arachar orcs slashed into them.

  And Niall saw the strange orcs heading towards the High King and the archbishop.

  They looked like arachar orcs, but they each had an extra eye in the center of their foreheads that glimmered with a strange green light. The three-eyed orcs wore elaborate crimson plate mail adorned with stylized reliefs of spiders, and they wielded both spells and swords. The hewed through both the Cintarran militiamen and the royal men-at-arms without slowing, leaving corpses in their wake.

  The biggest arachar orc that Niall had yet seen led them.

  He stood eight feet tall, almost as tall and broad as the ogres Niall had fought at Castarium and Rhudlan. The huge orc only had two eyes, and his crimson armor was simple and unadorned – chain mail and plate and a spiked helmet sized to fit his massive body. Yet despite his bulk, he moved with a fluid, serpentine grace, and the burning crimson sword in his right hand killed with every step that he took.

  A sword that burned crimson…

  Moriah had told her about the fight against Merovech and Aeliana before the Great Eye, how their dark soulblades had burned with blood-colored flame.

  The huge orc had to be Agravhask, Warlord of the Heptarchy, Herald of Ruin, and bearer of the dark soulblade Shieldruin.

  And he was heading right for the High King.

  Niall fought to reach the High King, but he could not get any closer. There were too many arachar orcs around Niall, and if he disengaged, they would cut him down in a second.

  Agravhask and the three-eyed orcs crashed into the defenders, breaking through their lines, and suddenly the Warlord stood before the High King.

  “You must be Agravhask,” said Arandar in the orcish tongue, raising Excalibur in guard.

  “High King,” said Agravhask in the same language. Shieldruin came up, its harsh light falling over the hard planes of Agravhask’s face. “I salute your bravery, here at the end.”

  And he moved with terrifying speed, Shieldruin a blur of crimson flame in his fist.

  Arandar raised his shield, but Agravhask stayed out of the High King’s reach. He swung Shieldruin, and suddenly Archbishop Caelmark’s head was rolling into the melee, his armored body falling to clang against the ground. Rufinius shouted in fury, and the royal knights rallied around Arandar, throwing themselves at the Warlord.

  It was like watching sheep attack a wolf. Agravhask savaged them, cutting down the finest knights of Andomhaim one after another, their blood splashing across his armor. Niall shouted and killed two more orcs in rapid succession, hoping to carve his way to the High King’s aid, but there were too many arachar in front of him.

  Then Agravhask was before Arandar. Excalibur crossed against Shieldruin a dozen times in as many heartbeats, the soulblade’s white flame struggling against Shieldruin’s dark fire. For a moment, Agravhask was forced on the defensive, and then the Warlord brought down Shieldruin in a massive two-handed strike. The High King’s shield, steel and oak and painted blue with the red dragon sigil, shattered like so much kindling, and Agravhask hewed off Arandar’s left arm at the elbow. The High King fell back with a cry of pain, and Agravhask’s next blow took off Arandar’s head.

  The High King’s body fell next to the archbishop, Excalibur ringing against the stones of the street.

  Niall screamed in rage and threw himself into the fight, trying to reach Agravhask, but the remaining defenders crumbled under the fury of the arachar attack.

  A voice rang out in anger and defiance, and Sir Rufinius sprang at Agravhask, taking the Warlord off-guard. Rufinius attacked with all the power and fury of a Swordbearer, Starflame a white blur in his right hand. For the briefest moment, Agravhask was forced on the defensive, and then Shieldruin stabbed out. The dark soulblade locked against Starflame, and Rufinius’s sword was forced down. Niall saw the strain on his friend’s face, saw his teeth bared in a snarl as he fought to rip his sword free.

  Agravhask was just stronger.

  The Warlord’s left hand shot out and closed around Rufinius’s throat like an iron shackle. Even over the distance and the din of battle, Niall heard the crunch of crushed bone and cartilage. Agravhask lifted Rufinius one-handed and flung him, and the Swordbearer tumbled head over heels to smash into a brick wall. He fell to the ground with a clang of ruined armor, Starflame still clutched in his right hand.

  Niall shouted and cut down the last of the arachar in front of him. He sprinted to Rufinius’s side, knowing that the enemy would kill him even as he tried to reach his friend. Yet they did not. The arachar and the three-eyed orcish warrior-wizards were overwhelming the remaining royal knights. Perhaps they thought Niall was fleeing in terror and planned to hunt him down later during the sack of Cintarra.

  He skidded to a halt at Rufinius’s corpse. His throat had been crushed to a bloody pulp.

  Yet, somehow, Rufinius was still alive. Perhaps it was the power of his soulblade, letting him endure a little longer than a normal man. His bloodshot eyes met Niall’s, and somehow, he smiled.

  “I’ll…I’ll find a Magistrius,” said Niall. But the words were empty, and he knew it. “I’ll…”

  “Take it,” whispered Rufinius. “Sir Niall.”

  “What?” Niall.

  “Take the sword,” said Rufinius. “I bestow the bond on you. Take it!”

  Almost against his will, Niall dropped his own sword and took Starflame’s hilt from Rufinius’s bloody fingers.

  Sir Rufinius breathed his last, his eyes going glassy.

  And strength and vigor flooded through Niall, Starflame crackling with white fire in his hand. He felt a bond form with the soulblade, felt its rage flood through him. It hated dark magic, and the three-eyed orcs were creatures of dark magic. Agravhask wielded a mighty sword of that malevolent power. Niall started to turn in the direction of the quays, his teeth bearing in a snarl.

  Agravhask. He was going to kill Agravhask. Most likely he would die trying, but…

  “Niall!”

  The woman’s voice, shrill with urgency, snapped Niall out of his fury.

  He looked to the side to see Moriah emerge from an alley next to a collapsed warehouse. There was blood and dust on her armor. She had retracted her helmet, and her eyes were bloodshot and haunted. But she looked alive and mostly unhurt.

  “I thought the explosion got you,” said Moriah. “I…”

  She skidded to a stop, gazing at Rufinius’s corpse with wide eyes. It was one of the few times Niall had really seen Moriah taken aback. It made her look younger, vulnerable.

  “Agravhask killed him,” said Niall. “I tried to save him. He gave me the sword.” He glanced down the street, saw the final royal men-at-arms falling to the three-eyed orcs and Agravhask’s fury. “I’m going after Agravhask. That should slow him down long enough for you to escape. I…”

  “No!” said Moriah. She grabbed his shoulder. “I need you to come with me.”

  “I will not abandon the field like a coward!” said Niall. “Not after so many men have died!”

  “To save Prince Tywall?” said Moriah.

  Niall blinked, his mind reeling beneath exhaustion and strong emotion.

  “It’s over, Niall,” said Moriah. “The city’s falling. The arachar have already gotten onto the walls and seized the eastern gate. But they haven’t taken the Prince’s Palace yet. We need to get Tyw
all out of there right now.”

  “And do what with him?” said Niall.

  “Get him out of the city,” said Moriah. “Or hide him. Because if the Heptarchy gets ahold of him…they’ll turn him into a puppet. He’s only a boy. They’ll twist him into one of their worshippers, and they’ll install him on the throne of Cintarra. We have to save him. It’s what Accolon would want us to do.” She looked at Rufinius’s corpse, and a spasm of emotion went over her face. “It’s what Rufinius and the archbishop would have wanted us to do.”

  Niall said nothing. The thought of leaving the battlefield where so many good men had died made him recoil with shame. What right did he have to live when they died?

  “I’ll do it myself if you won’t come,” said Moriah. “If I can. But I’ll have a better chance of getting him out with your help.” She swallowed. “Please, Niall.”

  He gave one sharp nod, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Come on,” said Moriah, her helmet sliding back over her head. Niall followed her as she ran for the Prince’s Palace, Starflame shimmering in his right hand. He heard the screams and shouts from the rest of the city, and he saw the glint of arachar soldiers running along the ramparts of the eastern wall.

  Cintarra was falling to the Heptarchy.

  Niall felt ashamed to leave the defeat at the docks…but perhaps it didn’t matter.

  Perhaps death would find him today no matter what he did.

  But he would not give up until the enemy killed him.

  Niall sped up, running alongside Moriah.

  ***

  Chapter 22: Four Obelisks

  “I think you should wear your armor today, not a gown,” said Tyrcamber.

  At the moment, Ruari wore nothing as she sat next to him in bed, and she gave a quizzical tilt of her head.