David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

Tarlak shrugged.

“I’m all for going home, but roasting orcs is fun, too. Give the word, my king, and I’ll begin the bonfire.”

Behind them, thirty thousand men prepared for battle. They were far out of range of any catapult, just in case the orcs there still had them functioning. Dozens of smoke trails lifted lazily into the sky, proving the city occupied.

“It’s been several years, don’t forget,” Tarlak said. “There may have only been five thousand last time, but it wouldn’t surprise me if thousands more flocked out of the unguarded Wedge and into the place.”

“I assure you, Tarlak, treating the situation lightly is the one thing I will absolutely not do this time,” Antonil said. “We go in with eyes open, and more importantly, your magic at the ready. The orcs might have ballista and catapults, but we have an Eschaton, who is worth a hundred catapults.”

“And costs more, too, I might add.”

Antonil laughed.

“No need to mention it,” the king said. “You only remind me daily.”

“I know. And one sweet day you’ll finally listen, and pay me.”

Again they laughed, but for Tarlak the jovialness was forced. He didn’t like this assault one bit, but he wasn’t the one in charge. So what if they hadn’t encountered a single orc raid on their travel east? So what if their supplies had gone untouched, their passage completely unimpeded into enemy territory? Antonil’s generals assured them that their numbers were so great the pitiably few orcs remaining would only flee.

But Tarlak’s gut said differently, and staring at the broken walls of Kinamn, he knew that something was amiss. He just couldn’t decide what.

“The men are ready to move out,” said Sergan, coming up to join the three. Sergan was an old, battle-hardened veteran from Antonil’s days as Guard Captain for the city of Veldaren. His face was scarred, his beard long, but he wielded his ax with a spryness many of the younger men struggled to match after days of marching.

“Remember, I want the archers spread as far apart as possible,” Antonil said. “If they do have war engines, I want their effect minimized.”

“And the city gates?” Sergan asked. “You sure you want to cram all twenty-five thousand of our fighting men into such a narrow space? One well-placed boulder from a catapult and we’ll have hundreds turned to jelly.”

The king gestured to Tarlak, who tipped his hat.

“Consider me the anti-boulder guy,” he said. “And trust me, the city gates won’t be that narrow after I’m done with them.”

Sergan shook his head.

“Putting our faith in wizards,” he said. “It’s going to get us killed one day.”

“Love you too, Sergan,” Tarlak said, shooting him a wink. “Now go tell the men to move their asses. We’re not getting any younger, and we have orcs to kill.”

Horns began to sound throughout the massive camp. They left much of their supplies behind, along with the wagons. With the city a mere quarter-mile away, there seemed little point in lugging it all with them. Tarlak watched it all, thinking of them like an incredibly dangerous nest of ants. Toward the city they swarmed, and Tarlak rode beside Antonil and Sergan. The rest of the generals filtered throughout the army, to command their individual forces.

Tarlak saw the smoke trails within the city extinguish, one by one. For some reason, that frightened him more than anything. A foe awaited him behind those walls, moving, strategizing. Yes, they were orcs. Yes, they were stupid. But they still had the blood of elves in them. When it came to killing, they seemed a bit more willing to use their brains instead of muscle. But no matter how clever they might be, Antonil commanded thirty thousand men. Even if they’d doubled their number since the previous assault, they were still outnumbered three to one.

Five to one, really, once they counted in Tarlak’s advantage.

As they neared the city walls, the first of the orcs finally appeared atop the ramparts. There were several hundred of them, all wielding long spears.

“Take them out!” Antonil shouted, and Sergan quickly relayed the order. The archers lifted their bows, and five thousand men sent a barrage of arrows toward the walls. The fighters on the front lines raised their shields, and those behind kept their heads down and followed after. Spears rained down upon the soldiers, scoring kills. The archers took down many, and even more spears broke against the shields. Tarlak nodded, liking the sight. He remained at Antonil’s side, watching the fight, waiting for the right time.

“They’re almost to the gates,” Antonil said.

“I know.”

“They’re not carrying even a battering ram.”

“I know.”

Tarlak cracked his knuckles, mentally counting down. Three…two…one…

He slammed his wrists together, shouting out the words of a spell. From his palms shot a fireball that grew larger and larger the farther through the air it flew. It arced upward, as if shot from a catapult, then slowly began to descend. Tarlak watched, his eyes tracing its downward fall.

“Come on,” he said. “Come on, drop, drop, drop…”

With perfect aim the fireball slammed into the gates when Antonil’s men were only dozens of feet away, exploding with enough force that the shieldmen in the front had to brace against it. Metal and wood twisted and fragmented. More impressive, the stone walls cracked and rumbled, and leather-armored orcs screamed and as the towers atop the portcullis crumpled and fell. Suddenly the entrance to the city was triple what it’d been only moments before. Antonil’s men let out a cheer, and with renewed vigor they rushed ahead, to where the orcish defenders stood at the ready.

“Something’s wrong,” Tarlak said. “Antonil, what in blazes is going on?”

There were only a mere thousand to stand against them. They shouted and waved their weapons, crude blades and axes, but against the swarm of men they would be buried in minutes. Antonil frowned, and he clearly had the same worry.

“It’s been years,” he said. “Perhaps the orcs abandoned the place? Or there was infighting among the tribes?”

Tarlak didn’t buy it. He readied his magic, his gut still screaming trap.

And then the catapults fired from either side of the far street. The giant rocks sailed into the air, four at a time. They surely couldn’t see the combat from behind all the buildings, Tarlak knew, which meant someone coordinating the attack. With no time to think on it, he acted fast, his hands dancing. In his mind he gripped the broken rubble of the gateway he’d just shattered, clutching it with invisible hands stronger than a giant’s. Into the air he flung them, slamming them against the incoming boulders. The hits halted their momentum, showering thick sledges of heavy stone all across the city-which was fine with Tarlak, so long as they weren’t landing on their own men, crushing them into jelly as Sergan had so eloquently stated.

More catapults fired, and this time Tarlak was better prepared. Instead of relying on crude rocks, he used the force of magic itself, slamming into them with invisible barriers that shoved the projectiles back before they could even complete their upward arc. A third volley lifted, and Tarlak defeated it just as easy.

“Not even breaking a sweat here,” Tarlak told the king. “Perhaps I should have been with you last time.”

“Perhaps,” Antonil said, clearly distracted. The catapults ceased firing, and Tarlak lowered his arms and took a deep breath. When he brought his attention to the fight, he realized there wasn’t one at all. The orcs had been slaughtered in a single wave. Tarlak guessed they’d taken maybe a hundred casualties at maximum, the fight had gone so well. And that really, really worried Tarlak.