Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  The High King of Andomhaim had perished in the city, but whoever was in command of Andomhaim’s host was reacting well. The army had drawn itself into two lines, one to face Mayascora’s force, the other to defend against the arachar orcs approaching from the east. Mayascora intended to hang back and let Valdrammis and Tuldrask’s soldiers do the bulk of the killing. They had the larger force, and it would be better for Mayascora’s prestige if she could return to Cintarra with most of her soldiers still alive. Not that she cared for their lives – the soldiers of the Heptarchy were the expendable tools of the goddesses and nothing more. But if Mayascora returned with most of her soldiers still alive, she could claim an even greater victory over Agravhask. After all, Agravhask had sent Tuldrask and Valdrammis and their men to engage the army of Andomhaim, and Mayascora could blame the Warlord for any losses.

  “Go,” Mayascora told the messenger. “Return to the commanders Valdrammis and Tuldrask. Tell them to attack the army of Andomhaim with all their strength, to reserve nothing.”

  The arachar orc bowed but eyed the enemy army as he did. The messenger would have to go to the north or the south around the army, and by the time he reached the commanders, the battle would be well underway, perhaps even over. Though no doubt Tuldrask and Valdrammis would require a stern reminder. In Mayascora’s experience, soldiers became slothful the minute the eye of their superiors turned to other matters.

  The messenger started to go…and then froze.

  “High Priestess,” said the orc, pointing to the north.

  “Carry out my commands, fool!” snapped Mayascora. “Or else I shall…”

  Her voice trailed off in surprise, and she saw several other messengers running towards her.

  Another army approached.

  ###

  “They’re stopping,” said Mara.

  Ridmark was not surprised. The Anathgrimm continued their steady pace south, already drawn up in battle formation. The arachar army coming from the eastern gate stopped and turned, forming itself up to face the oncoming Anathgrimm.

  For the first time in a day filled with catastrophes, Ridmark felt a flicker of hope.

  “They don’t understand,” said Ridmark. “At least not yet. Not what kind of soldiers the Anathgrimm are. The arachar think that they can take us, and then turn and attack Accolon’s army.”

  Because it was Accolon’s army now, Ridmark realized. If Arandar had been killed in Cintarra, then Accolon was the new High King of Andomhaim.

  Qhazulak barked out his harsh laugh. “The fools. We are the Anathgrimm. War is our business. What is the business of the arachar? Cringing before their false gods? If they love the urdmordar so much, then let the urdmordar come forth to save them.”

  “We once worshipped the Traveler,” said Zhorlacht.

  “And now we follow the Dominus Christus,” said Qhazulak. Doubt never unduly troubled the Lord Captain of the Queen’s Guard.

  “Queen Mara,” said Calliande. “There are several priestesses of immense power with the arachar. Likely they command the reinforcements.”

  “There’s no sign of Agravhask?” said Ridmark. If the Herald of Ruin had come forth himself, Ridmark would draw on the power of the Shield Knight and take him.

  Or die trying.

  Calliande shook her head. “No dark soulblades. But the priestesses are powerful.” She looked at Antenora, and then at Mara. “I think we should work with your wizards and guide their efforts. Antenora and I will defend against the dark magic of the priestesses, and your wizards can strike back.” Once the Anathgrimm had possessed many warlocks who wielded dark magic. After the death of the Traveler, the Anathgrimm wizards had renounced dark magic and instead turned to wielding elemental power. Most of the wizards had become clergy in the newly formed church of the Anathgrimm under the supervision of Bishop Zhorlacht.

  “So be it,” said Mara. “Do as you think best.”

  Ridmark looked at Gavin. “You and I will have to deal with the priestesses ourselves.”

  Gavin nodded and gripped Truthseeker’s hilt.

  ###

  Mayascora watched the enemy orcs approach and felt her confidence return with new strength.

  The orcs were mutated creatures, their bones jutting from their flesh to create spikes on their arms and masks on their faces. The dark elves, before they had been forced to bow to the goddesses, had enjoyed creating mutant orcs for various roles. Likely these orcs were another such variation of the dark elves’ vanity. The pathetic creatures would be useless in combat – what sort of soldier could fight with bones jutting out of his flesh? Likely the mutant orcs were in constant pain. No doubt that was why they all wore heavy armor.

  Which would make for good spoils, come to think of it. An army required steel for weapons and armor and taking the fine armor from the mutant orcs would strengthen the Heptarchy’s forces, at least until the population of Cintarra was properly put to work.

  “Sisters,” said Mayascora to the priestesses around her. “Prepare your spells. Once the enemy has engaged our soldiers, rain destruction upon their heads. Kill as many as you can for the glory of the goddesses. Spare no one.” Her mouth twisted with disgust. “Such misshapen creatures are not fit even to serve as slaves to the Seven Temples.”

  The priestesses bowed, and Mayascora felt herself smile, an unaccustomed expression. Her pincers and claws, glorious marks of her divine ancestry, slid from their hidden sheaths, and her remaining six eyes opened. The spiderlings kept their extra eyes and their claws hidden under most circumstances, lest they be accused of mocking the goddesses. But in combat, against foes of the Heptarchy…was it not fitting and proper that the priestesses show their divine marks? Let the fools who stood against the seven goddesses know fear before they fell.

  The arachar continued their steady, unhurried advance towards the mutant orcs, who responded in kind.

  Odd that the mutant orcs maintained such strict lines even while moving. Better than the arachar, come to think of it.

  The mutant orcs stopped in place, their heavy shields raised before them.

  Mayascora’s eyes, all eight of them, blinked in surprise. Why the devil had they done that? Exultation filled her as understanding came. Yes, the mutant orcs had been overwhelmed by the power of the goddesses’ forces. Fear would sweep through them, and they would flee from the field of battle to save their wretched lives. This would further enhance her prestige.

  In one smooth motion, the front ranks of the mutants produced javelins, drew back their arms, and flung the weapons in a smooth arc. Mayascora watched in astonishment as the weapons soared overhead…and then fell like an iron-tipped rain among the first few lines of her soldiers. Hundreds of arachar orcs died in an instant, and hundreds more fell wounded, the heavy javelins punching through shields and armor.

  And then the mutant orcs flung a second volley.

  “Charge!” screamed Mayascora, fury erupting through her. Those misshapen creatures dared to fight the servants of the goddesses? “Charge! Kill them all! Charge!”

  Her Chosen Guards sounded the advance, and the arachar rushed forward in a ragged mass.

  The mutants stood in a smooth line to meet them, and Mayascora cast a spell, calling dark magic to kill the spiny orcs.

  But a shield of white light appeared over their heads, deflecting her power and the attacks of the other priestesses.

  ###

  “Come,” said Ridmark, and Gavin nodded.

  He ran around the right flank of the Anathgrimm host, the younger Swordbearer a half-step behind. The Anathgrimm advanced with a steady, grim pace, cutting down the arachar with every step. The red orcs put up a good fight, but they were not as heavily armored as the Anathgrimm, and far more arachar fell. The priestesses rained dark magic on the Anathgrimm, but so far Calliande’s and Antenora’s combined power had been enough to hold it at bay.

  The Anathgrimm were winning. The enemy force was starting to collapse, and the way was clear to attack behind the lines.<
br />
  To where the priestesses waited.

  Ridmark took another few steps, lifted Oathshield, and called on the power of the Shield Knight.

  White fire erupted from the sword and sheathed him from head to foot. The fire condensed into blue plate armor and Ridmark felt strength and speed surge through him. The armor was impervious to nearly all attacks, both physical and magical, and made him stronger and faster. He could not hold the power for long, no more than a quarter of an hour.

  But at the right time and the right place, a quarter of an hour was more than enough.

  Ridmark charged at the collapsing arachar line, Gavin right behind him.

  ###

  Mayascora growled in fury, her attack shattering against the shield of white light.

  This could not be happening. What sort of power was strong enough to resist the fury of a High Priestess of the Crimson? For that matter, how were the mutant orcs prevailing against the arachar? It should not be possible. Yet it was happening. The spiny orcs were cutting their way through the arachar, and Mayascora’s forces were starting to buckle.

  Mayascora’s rage redoubled.

  This had to be Agravhask’s fault. He must have realized what she intended to do and had arranged for her to be sent out with wounded and lazy soldiers. Or perhaps he had secretly plotted with the enemies of the Heptarchy to betray her. Yes, that was the most likely explanation. He had known that she would try to undermine him, and so had arranged this ambush. Well, she would make him pay. He dared to consort with the foes of the goddesses? Once this was over, she would deal with Agravhask once and for all.

  “High Priestess!” screamed one of the Chosen Guards. “High…”

  His shout and his life both ended when a sword of white fire took off his head.

  Mayascora whirled, shocked.

  Two humans attacked her Chosen Guards and subordinate priestesses. One wore dark elven armor and carried a soulblade and a bronze shield. He moved fast, killing with every blow, but he wasn’t nearly as fast as the other warrior. This human was armored from head to foot in a strange blue metal, and a soulblade burned in his right fist, a wooden shield on his left arm. These had to be the Swordbearers that Agravhask had discovered, wielding soulblades given to them by the high elves of Cathair Solas.

  Well, these Knights of the Order of the Soulblade had not yet faced the servants of the seven goddesses.

  The armored knight turned towards her, and Mayascora grinned as she lifted her hand. She unleashed her full power at the blue-armored knight, a spell that would turn a strong man into nothing but bones and dust.

  The bolt of shadow and blue flame struck the armored knight…and absolutely nothing happened.

  The Swordbearer came at her, his soulblade rising high.

  And in that frozen, shocked instant, Mayascora realized something.

  Save for the seven goddesses, Agravhask had been the only thing she had ever really feared.

  That had been a mistake.

  She should have feared this man.

  The thought passed through her brain, followed a heartbeat later by the soulblade as it split her skull and sank into her chest.

  ###

  Ridmark ripped Oathshield from the priestess’s corpse and turned, seeking for more of the spiderlings or those peculiar three-eyed orcs.

  But Ridmark couldn’t find any.

  He and Gavin had cut down all the three-eyed arachar and the priestess. The arachar line had collapsed. Most of the survivors fled to the safety of Cintarra’s walls, or back to the beach and the various camps and Heptarchy warships. Those few arachar still fighting the Anathgrimm were dying.

  Ridmark looked to the east and saw that the army of Andomhaim was waiting. The Heptarchy force facing the army had drawn back, alarmed by the destruction of its reinforcements. Ridmark hesitated, trying to decide what to do next. With the destruction of the relief force from Cintarra, they had a moment in which to act.

  A moment to salvage something from the catastrophes of this day.

  He released his hold on the power of the Shield Knight.

  The blue armor dissolved back into white flame and flowed back into Oathshield. A wave of crushing fatigue went through Ridmark, but the bracer he wore on his right forearm absorbed it. Antenora had forged the bracer for Ridmark years ago, and it kept the fatigue from overwhelming him. Otherwise, Ridmark would have slept for days.

  “Are you all right?” said Gavin, wiping sweat from his face. Arachar blood and the dark slime that served as spiderling blood spattered his armor.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “We need to find Mara and Calliande, and then talk to Accolon right now.”

  ###

  A short time later, Ridmark, Calliande, and Queen Mara stood before Crown Prince Accolon Pendragon, flanked by Qhazulak and some of the Queen’s Guard.

  Accolon’s expression was calm, in a grim sort of way, but Ridmark had known the Prince since he had been a squire, and Accolon looked as if he had aged ten years in the last day. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and lines on his face that had not been there this morning.

  “My father is dead,” said Accolon, his voice weary.

  They stood in the heart of the army, surrounded by the chief lords of Andomhaim. Aridain Martel waited near the Crown Prince, his armor stained with blood, his shield riven and his sword notched. Tormark waited near the Dux of Caerdracon, red-faced and sweating. An electric tension seemed to burn through the lords and knights. They knew the realm tottered on the edge of disaster.

  “I saw his death with the Sight,” said Morigna. “He faced Agravhask with Excalibur in hand, and the Herald of Ruin overpowered him. The High King is slain. I am sorry.”

  “Caelmark must be dead as well,” said Tormark. “He would not have left the defenses or the High King.”

  Ridmark said nothing, thinking of Niall and Moriah and all the others in Cintarra. They had most likely gone down fighting as well. The city was firmly in the hands of the arachar, and Ridmark had seen the red orcs guarding the walls…and the black banners of the Heptarchy flying from the towers of the Prince’s Palace.

  “Then you are to be the High King now, Accolon Pendragon,” said Calliande.

  Accolon looked at her for a moment, weary despair on his face.

  Then he pulled himself together, the grim mask returning.

  “What must be done?” said Accolon.

  “There is only one choice open to us,” said Ridmark. “We must withdraw to the north and abandon Cintarra to the Dragon Cult and the Heptarchy. Warlord Shalmathrak’s scouts can screen our path and watch our flanks.”

  “And shall we abandon Rhudlan as well?” said Accolon.

  “I don’t think we have any other choice, High King,” said Mara, voice gentle. Accolon flinched, once, but regained his control. “We could have defended Rhudlan against the Dragon Cult, and we might have been able to retake Cintarra, but at hideous cost. But we cannot face them both at the same time.”

  “I think our best choice,” said Ridmark, “is to withdraw north to Khaluusk.”

  “It will be easy to bring supplies from Nightmane Forest there,” said Mara. “Jager can arrange it.”

  “The ghost orcs will be able to scout as well,” said Ridmark. “We will be able to plan a campaign to take the river and Cintarra itself.”

  “Then we are to just abandon the people of Cintarra to the Heptarchy and the Dragon Cult?” said Accolon, anguish showing through his effort at calm. Ridmark understood why Arandar had felt guilty about becoming the High King, about the burden he would pass to his children. This had already been one of the worst days of Accolon’s life, and now he would have to make immense decisions.

  “We cannot defend them if the army is destroyed,” said Ridmark. “Because if we stay here, the army will be broken. The attack from the eastern gate of the city…I think Agravhask made a mistake. Or one of his commanders took the initiative and attacked without his permission. If he had waited a few hours, he c
ould have encircled and destroyed our army, and the Anathgrimm would have had no choice but to withdraw back to Nightmane Forest. We can save the host of Andomhaim and rebuild our strength in Khaluusk…but only if we act right now.”

  Accolon stared at him, face calm, eyes stricken.

  “It is your decision,” said Ridmark.

  “I know,” said Accolon. He looked at Calliande. “What do you think? The Keepers have always counseled the High Kings of Andomhaim in dark hours, and this is among the darkest.”

  “It is,” said Calliande. “I think my husband is right. We can save the army, but only if we withdraw right now. I know this is…difficult, lord King.” She sighed. “I have lived a long time…and I have seen the Northerland lost to the Frostborn twice. Your grandfather was murdered and betrayed on the field of battle, and I could not save him. I could not save your father. I have seen more defeats than I wish to remember.”

  “Then how do we proceed after such losses?” said Accolon.

  “We keep going,” said Calliande. “We keep going…and when we are ready, we return, liberate Cintarra, and defeat Agravhask and Merovech both.”

  Accolon said nothing for a long time, grasping Hopesinger’s hilt.

  “So be it,” he said. “We march north for Khaluusk.” He gazed at Cintarra’s walls to the east. “And we will return. If it is God’s will that the first day of my reign must end in defeat…then I swear before God and all the saints that I will not rest until either Cintarra is liberated and the Heptarchy driven back into the sea or my life is spent.”

  ***

  Chapter 25: Exile

  As the defenses at the docks were swept away and the soldiers of the Heptarchy stormed into the city, Moriah raced through the streets, Sir Niall a half-step behind her.