David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

Trapped in the middle of all those orcs, there was little Antonil could do, and nowhere for his men to go. Another volley of catapults released, and it took immense willpower for Tarlak to continue his defense. A flawlessly executed ambush, and even though he guessed Antonil to have twice the number of men compared to the orcs, they’d still take devastating casualties. What had happened? Who in the world was this orcish commander?

Tarlak let the next volley hit, knowing those deaths wouldn’t matter if the greater bulk of their forces upon the hills were destroyed. Opening a portal, he stepped through and appeared at the base of the hill, where the soldiers were still trying to force their way up.

“Left and right flanks!” Tarlak screamed, pointing toward the distant orc forces. “We need lines, shields at the front. Move!”

He heard commanders relaying his orders, and he turned his attention away from them to the fight up top. The last volley of stones had smashed through the remnants of their camp, taking few casualties with so many making their way to the hill. Praying the next volley was as foolishly aimed, he summoned the last of his magic. Fire burst around his hands, and with a dark grin he began to hurl balls of flame toward the orcs along the top of the hill. Over a dozen slammed into the hillside before detonating. The fire spread in all directions, leaving enormous gaps in the orc assault. The men, once they reached the crest, found their enemy thinned and without reinforcements, and with such an advantage they quickly chopped them down.

When the last of his fireballs burned out, Tarlak fell to one knee and vomited. He glanced to either side, saw the conflict had begun in earnest. The outnumbered orcs fought with ferocity, but Antonil’s men were well trained, and despite all that had happened, they still had numbers on their side. Upon the hill, the thousands of men pushed on, with Antonil at their forefront, his golden armor shining. Antonil wished him the best of luck.

With his enhanced eyes, he scanned the hill, searching for the commander. As another volley released, he caught sight of a man in red armor, with black wings curled around his sides. Tarlak’s blood ran cold.

A war demon, leading an orc army?

The catapults had not pulled back as far, and the stones rained down upon the hill. Their speed was less, but it didn’t matter, not with such weight. Tarlak clenched a fist, trying to force out one more spell. At the nearest projectile he hurled a bolt of red lightning that struck the boulder’s center. Instead of halting it, it exploded into heavy chunks which rained down upon the men.

Tarlak caught sight of one such piece heading toward him. He raised his hands, summoning a shield to protect himself, only to find his well of magic empty. The rock continued unslowed past his hands, striking him across the head. His body spun, the world shifting at sickening speed.

His body struck ground. All around him he saw feet rushing ahead, continuing to join the fight.

Then darkness.

They propped Jessilynn by the exit of the ravine so all would see her as they marched. Jessilynn endured it best she could, her mind clouded by whatever herbs the shaman had placed upon her wounded face. Two wolf-men guarded her, with explicit orders to kill her should anyone attempt a rescue.

“I hope your elf friend is wise enough to stay away,” Silver-Ear had said after relaying the instructions to the brutes.

Jessilynn said nothing, only nodded. Occasionally she looked to the sky, hoping to see Sonowin’s great wings, but they were never there. More and more she grew convinced that Dieredon had abandoned her so he might fly west to warn the people of Mordan. And while she knew it was the right thing to do, the course of action that’d save the most lives, it did nothing to remove her feeling of abandonment as she stood there, her arms tied with primitive ropes to a wooden stake. The creatures snarled at her, lapped their tongues and gnashed their teeth. Her eyes closed, she pretended not to hear them, not to be afraid.

Once the ravine was empty, and the various races had exited, Silver-Ear returned for her, along with an escort of wolves.

“Come,” the female said, taking her wrist. “Moonslayer would have words with you.”

They left the ravine, Jessilynn half-walking, half-dragged across the yellow grass. Up ahead she saw the great mass of bodies that was the combined army, but they did not go to them. Instead they slowed, coming upon a small fire. Moonslayer sat waiting, hunched over the fire with the bones of his meal at his feet. Several wolf-men were with him, taller than the others, stronger. His most faithful and trusted, she decided, as Moonslayer stood upon her arrival. Manfeaster was not with him, but she could only assume he was farther ahead, leading the army in his brother’s absence.

“On your knees,” Silver-Ear said, shoving her to the ground. Jessilynn let out a small cry and remained where she’d fallen. Without saying a word, Moonslayer turned around, grabbing something that had been hidden behind him. He tossed it her way, where it landed with a loud clang. Jessilynn frowned, not understanding what was expected of her. The object was an enormous shield, the front bearing the crest of the army of Mordan.

“What of it?” she finally asked.

“Pick it up,” the wolf-man said.

If it was a trap, it was a strange one. Slowly getting to her feet, she walked over to the shield, feeling the eyes of the monsters upon her. The metal was cool to the touch, and heavier than what she could use with any sort of proficiently. She lifted it before her, settling into a basic stance. Apparently whatever she’d done was wrong, for Moonslayer lashed it out of her grip with a swipe. She flinched, expecting an attack, but instead he went back to where he’d been sitting and this time retrieved a sword. He tossed it at her feet.

“Pick it up.”

She lifted the sword, careful to keep the tip pointed downward to show she had no crazy ideas. There were a dozen wolf-men surrounding her, and it’d take more than a rusted blade to slice and dice herself free. Again she was judged poorly, the blade knocked out of her hands. The enormous wolf-man lunged forward, wrapping his paw around her neck and lifting her up.

“You said you were a paladin,” he growled. “You lied.”

The glow, she realized. They were looking for a glow, something to match the stories of Darius and Jerico. Trying not to panic, she fought for breath through his grip.

“I am,” she insisted. “I can prove it.”

Moonslayer dropped her. His back curled so he might stare at her eye to eye.

“How?” he asked.

“My bow,” she said. “I need my bow.”

“I left it at the cave,” Silver-Ear said, having been standing nearby, watching the events.

A quick snap from Moonslayer sent one of the wolves racing back toward the ravine. Jessilynn sat on her knees, focusing on breathing in and out. She didn’t know why he wanted proof of her being a paladin, nor did she care. All that mattered was finding a way to survive, and keeping her eyes open for a chance to escape. She could do that. No matter the humiliations, they would not break her.

Silver-Ear beckoned Moonslayer over, and she whispered something in her soft, gravelly voice. Whatever it was, the wolf-man wanted no part of it, and he pushed her aside. Jessilynn looked away, unable to explain why she felt she might earn their wrath if they caught her watching.

“Human,” Moonslayer said, walking over to her. From her knees she looked up at the beast. “There are those who doubt you are what I say you are. This must be settled. You will have your bow, and you will prove that you are a paladin.”