David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

He heard no response, but he felt his inner turmoil cease. Such chaotic emotions had no place in him, not for the prophet of a god of Order. When he stood directly facing the bridge, Angelport’s mercenaries behind him, he felt at peace. He’d been too far from the battle. In the thick of things was where he belonged. If Qurrah was to stop him, then let him come to the front. Let him try to maintain control amid the chaos. None could challenge Velixar. None could beat him. He was the voice of the Lion, and it was time they heard his roar.

“Are the men ready?” he asked.

The mercenaries’ commander saluted. “We are ready,” the burly man said.

Velixar raised his arms heavenward, giving thanks to his beloved deity.

“Go,” he said. “Sing your war cry just before you reach their lines.”

“Angelport!” the mercenary roared, and then they rushed forward, to the gap in the fires leading to the bridge. A silent order from Velixar and his undead marched, but not to the bridge, but far upriver, beyond the reach of the fire.

“Even without you I will attack them on two fronts,” Velixar said to the absent Myann. “Karak does not need your cowardly wings to achieve victory.”

O sric sat facing the river, his armor feeling twice its normal weight. He felt ragged and thin, and though he needed sleep, it felt painful to close his eyes. To pass the time he grabbed nearby stones, rolled them in his hands until they were clean of dirt, and then skipped them across the water. His previous record was nine jumps, but that night the best he could do was four.

“Not many sleeping,” he said as he searched for another rock, one he hoped to do better than the paltry two skips his last one had made before plunking below the surface.

“Velixar should have sent his human forces in first,” Qurrah said, lying beside him, his white robes easily visible in the starlight. He watched the smoke in the distance. “He could have pressed us all night with his undead, but now they’re such a pathetic remnant there would be none left in only a few hours. Come daylight, we would have been too exhausted to fight the well-rested soldiers. He’s playing games, putting his pride before strategy. He did this before, though, when he attacked Veldaren. My brother crushed thousands of orcs and undead, all because the damn fool didn’t blast holes in the walls like he should have.”

“Could he crush the bridge with all of us on it?” Osric asked, suddenly feeling anxious.

Qurrah nodded. “If I let him, yes. A few powerful spells could break its foundations, and then it would come crumbling down.”

Osric shivered, hating how every deeply ingrained idea of warfare seemed futile or foolish in the face of that strange Velixar’s power.

“What is he?” the knight asked.

“Who? Velixar?”

“Yes. Him.”

The half-orc fell silent for a moment. Osric found a stone and cast it into the water. Five jumps. Not bad, but it was more a product of the stone, not his throw.

“He was my former master,” Qurrah suddenly said. “He taught me, and I was eager to learn. Ever since the first generation of man he has lived, preaching the word of Karak. He is a twisted, decaying wretch of bones and rot. Every word he speaks is false, though he swears he has never spoken a lie. He’s determined, deceitful, and dangerously intelligent.”

“But he can’t be that perfect. He hasn’t done what you say he should. He’s kept his demons close. He’s given us rest. And you’ve held his spells at bay.”

“For now,” Qurrah said. “But he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t tire. Soon I won’t be able to lift my head while he’s still…”

Osric glanced in his direction when he suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” he asked, reaching for his shield.

“The clouds,” Qurrah said, pointing. A great blanket swarmed over the stars, hiding its light. Only the fires on the riverside remained visible, and just barely through the smoke billowing in great pillars. “He errs again. He thinks to hide his movements, when the very act of hiding them gives him away.”

The two climbed to their feet.

“Alert the others,” he said. “They’ll attack soon.”

Osric sent one of the archers to relay the message, but there was no need. Already he heard Theo bellowing orders from the front, and those orders relayed again and again in a deep echo from the rest of the soldiers. Osric shifted his shield so it hung comfortably from his left arm, then stabbed his sword into the dirt by his feet.

“Stay strong,” he said. “That’s another order.”

“Your orders are starting to irritate me.”

Despite their exhaustion, Osric nudged him with his elbow.

“You have permission to be irritated, so long as you obey.”

Qurrah chuckled. “Smug horse-humper.”

“Strong words from a twig I could break with two fingers.”

The half-orc winked at him. “You’d need at least three fingers, jackass.”

Osric laughed, but cut it short when the sound of combat reached their ears. He winced, trying to see. Something sounded different. He heard steel hitting steel. The human forces had come to play.

“Archers!” he screamed. The men scrambled for their bows and grabbed their arrows. Osric frowned at their poor coordination and wondered where their commander had gone.

“Loose those arrows like mad,” he shouted as many waited for a group volley. “No time. Go, go!”

The arrows began to fly, gradually growing in number. In the darkness he struggled to see where they landed, as did the archers. No doubt many splashed into the water, but he trusted their accuracy even in the night. A steady barrage landed on the far side of the bridge, safely away from any of Theo’s men. As he watched their quivers empty he wished they had a hundred thousand more arrows ready. At this rate, they’d be done within a few hours.

Frustrated, he flung his last rock into the water, watching it skip twice…and then vanish amid the soft churning of the surface.

“The water!” he screamed. “Swords to the water!”

There were only twenty or so soldiers nearby, but he yelled for them all. The undead arrived, just dark silhouettes in the light of the fire on the other side of the river. At first the soldiers cut them down with little difficulty, but the water heaved to and fro as hundreds more emerged, their bodies bent, their arms dragging along the surface. This was no random assortment like before: it was a tightly packed group numbering in the hundreds.

Osric screamed for Qurrah to help, but the half-orc was too busy hurling small orbs of fire to counteract similar orbs of a much greater size flying in from Velixar. Desperate, he grabbed one of the archers.

“Bring men from the bridge,” he said. “Tell them we’ve been flanked. No arguments. You make them send help!”

“Yes sir!” said the archer before racing off. Osric grabbed his shield and stood between Qurrah and the water. If any undead wanted to gnaw on the half-orc, they’d have to go through him. Sadly, it didn’t look like that would take too long. The men at the water fought valiantly, but the dead grabbed at their arms and legs and dragged them back in, clubbing them while they thrashed and struggled for air. The archers, realizing their vulnerability, dropped their bows and drew short swords from their belts. Without armor or proper training, Osric knew their defense would crumble fast.

“We need to get you somewhere safe,” Osric said as his fellow men-at-arms died.

“I thought you had orders that I not flee,” Qurrah said, his voice sounding distracted.

“I did. I’m overruling them.” Osric didn’t have the authority to overrule orders from the king, but he had a feeling Theo wouldn’t mind. He could always beg for forgiveness later…assuming any of them survived.