Richard Baker - Swordmage

“Let them go for now, Geran.” Harmach Grigor limped up and set a hand on Geran’s shoulder, following Geran’s gaze with his own. The old lord looked pale and haggard, but a spark of defiance animated his features. “At the moment I’d just as soon let a potential adversary leave the field if he has a mind to. We must concentrate on repelling the Bloody Skulls before we pick another fight.” Grigor watched the Verunas leave and sighed. “Whatever else happens today, Sergen and House Veruna are finished in Hulburg.”

“I know it, Uncle,” Geran answered. “But I’m afraid of the mischief Sergen might do before he knows it too.”

Grigor nodded. “I am as well, but as Kara said-we aren’t done yet here. How did you gain control over the lich king’s warriors?”

Geran showed him the amulet. “I took this from Sergen. It’s the amulet Aesperus gave to the Verunas in payment for the book he sought.” The mist around him was noticeably lightening now, though he could still hear echoing through the fog the roars of orc warriors, the shrill ring of steel on steel, and the fearful bellows of dimwitted ogres. “I don’t know how many warriors it summons or how long they’ll remain.”

“I suppose we’ll find out.” The old lord smiled. “Well done, Geran.”

The swordmage gripped his uncle’s shoulder then stepped clear. He held out his empty hand and half-closed his eyes, groping through his mind for the arcane symbols he needed for the spell of returning. “Cuilledyrr,” he whispered, and a moment later his Myth Drannan blade came hurtling through the unnatural mist to meet his hand. He’d dropped it when he threw Sergen off his horse, and it was far too valuable a weapon to leave on the battlefield. With his sword in one hand and the amulet in the other, Geran hurried to the old dike and scrambled to the top to see what was going on in the orc ranks.

The cacophony of battle was tremendous, an awful mix of hundreds of savage voices, fell magic, roaring monsters, and more. The eerie fog was too dense for him to see well, but he caught glimpses of fighting a bowshot north of the overgrown dike. The orcs were fierce and brave fighters, but even their most bloodthirsty berserkers had little stomach for a battle against an enemy who shrugged off all but the most powerful of blows and simply climbed back to his feet when he was struck to the ground. All around him the surviving Shieldsworn and Ironhammers peered into the mists, trying to judge for themselves how the fighting went, with a curious mix of relief that they were out of it for the moment and dread of the allies that had turned to their side.

Geran watched for what seemed a long time in the bitter cold. Then he noticed that the amulet in his hand was growing warm. He looked down in surprise and saw that a bright orange gleam had appeared on the ancient copper. “What in the world?” he murmured. The gray mists cloaking the battlefield took on an orange hue and began to thin. The clash of arms from the orc lines faded sharply-and suddenly the morning was full of the Orcish shouts of triumph. As the sun finally climbed above the ragged hills fencing the Winterspear Vale, the ancient amulet quietly crumbled into dust, and the skeletal warriors sank back into the ground.

“Geran! The skeletons!” Kara called.

He looked over at her helplessly. “It’s sunrise,” he told her. “Aesperus must’ve promised them for only one night.”

She nodded once, and her azure eyes flashed in the morning light. “Stand to your arms!” she ordered the Shieldsworn. Then she lowered her helm’s visor, slid down from Dancer’s back, and sent the horse toward the rear with a slap to its rump, taking up her position at the head of the footmen guarding the open spot where the Vale Road pierced the dike. “Stand to!”

The unnatural mists cleared just as quickly as they had come, dissipating like dark dreams forgotten in the morning light. The day brightened swiftly, as if the supernatural fog had never been. Now Geran finally got a good look at the orc horde that faced Hulburg. He could see hundreds of orcs lying dead in the disordered battle lines left behind by the skeletons’ attack; the ancient warriors had dealt a heavy blow to the Bloody Skulls, but hadn’t defeated them. The orcs looked around as well and saw that their supernatural foes were gone, but that the dike was still held against them-and they began to surge forward in wrath, perhaps mistakenly believing that it was some ploy of the harmach’s that had sent the skeletons of the fallen at them.

“Stand your ground!” Kara shouted, and dozens of captains and sergeants took up the cry and relayed it down the lines. Grim-faced and determined, the defenders of Hulburg set spears in the ground and held blades and bows at the ready. Then, with a wild chorus of roars, battle cries, curses, and shrill war screams, the warriors of Thar hurled themselves upon Hulburg’s defenders once again.

“Mages and archers-fire at will!” Kara shouted. In answer, shrieking missiles of wizard’s fire, dark flights of arrows, and brilliant bolts of lightning burned awful swaths of devastation through the onrushing warriors. Geran saw that Kara had gathered most of the merchant company wands-for-hire at her command around the gap of the Vale Road, and the mercenary mages took a heavy toll of the attacking orcs and ogres. But other spells flew as well: dripping spheres of acid that arced from the back ranks of the orc lines to splatter against the old earthen dike, and black clouds full of whirling red cinders that seared and scoured anything they touched.

Geran shielded himself from a fierce cinder-storm with a word of warding, throwing his arm over his eyes and slashing his sword back and forth to drive away the burning sparks. Searing pinpricks announced places where the burning embers had found their way through his defenses. He hissed and brushed one from his shoulder, nostrils burning with the hot, acrid stink. “Where in the Nine Hells did the orcs find wizards to aid them?” he demanded. No one nearby heard him, for they were swearing or praying or shouting in anger or pain at the same time.

The Bloody Skull horde smashed into the failing line of Hulburg’s defenders like a mighty black-armored fist. Geran fought in a bright frenzy, determined to stand his ground, but the rush was irresistible. He was swept back twenty yards in twenty heartbeats, simply carried along in the orc charge even as he slashed at the warriors streaming toward him. Then the whole roaring wave of savages seemed to shudder and slam to a stop. Across the breach the Ironhammer dwarves and Kara’s Shieldsworn linked their shields together in a fortress of steel and determination, refusing to give any more ground. The Bloody Skull charge became a furious melee that roiled and surged within the breach, a storm tide hammering into a battered coast. Rage though they might, for the moment the orcs and ogres were contained, funneled into the narrow space of the road and its gap.

In the crowded field, human mages and orc shamans did terrible work. Furnace blasts of yellow-glowing sparks and seething clouds of green, poisonous vapor washed back and forth among the combatants. A brilliant sphere of crimson light hurtled at Geran and exploded nearby, sending stabbing bolts of red lightning through a band of Ironhammers and Shieldsworn struggling to hold the gap. The swordmage deflected the vicious spell with his enchanted blade, but dwarves and humans all around him fell writhing to the ground. He whirled from side to side, wildly searching for some glimpse of the enemy spellcasters amid the chaos and confusion of the fight-and then he spotted a tall human in black armor, wearing a horned black helm.

“A Warlock Knight,” Geran said softly. That explained much. Orcs had little talent for sorcery, but the masters of Vaasa were formidable magic-users. Did they incite the Bloody Skulls against us? the swordmage wondered. Or did they come in answer to the Bloody Skulls’ promises of loot? Either way, the Vaasan mage was a dangerous enemy, shielding the Bloody Skulls from the spells of Hulburg’s defenders and burning down soldier after soldier with cold, inhuman efficiency. Several black-armored Vaasan soldiers stood near their master, guarding him against the fray. Geran frowned-the soldiers would be skillful swordsmen, handpicked as bodyguards. He’d have a hard time getting to the Warlock Knight as long as the swordsmen were on their guard, and he simply didn’t have any more spells or arcane words left to him that could overwhelm them quickly.