David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

Bram sighed. He wondered which was more dangerous: an egomaniacal, greedy king reaching for everything not his, or a hesitant king unsure of his own rule and forced to accept the responsibilities he should have been raised since birth to endure.

“Find Ian,” he told one of his guards. “I want him near me in case something goes wrong.”

The guard returned with Ian just in time to meet a small group hurrying ahead of the rest. Bram saw one angel flying low, and the rest seemed a strange assortment. One was clearly Antonil, an adequately imposing man (and thankfully older than some of the stories had claimed). Beside him, though…

“Is that an elf?” asked Ian.

“A beautiful elven lass,” said Bram. “Does he have their aid, I wonder? And who is that beside him?”

“Orc blood’s in the giant,” said Ian. “I’d recognize that gray curse anywhere. This Antonil fights with the banned and the cursed. I don’t like it.”

“Angels, too,” Bram said. “Don’t forget them.”

Ian smirked. “I fear they’ll be the worst of the lot. Keep them to their promise. I bow my knee to you, not Ashhur.”

Antonil stepped ahead of the others, and he bowed low but bent neither of his knees. A nice touch. Bram returned the bow, and felt mildly impressed. He waited, deciding to let this new king say the first words.

“Greetings, King Bram. My scout has told me you welcome us with open arms. After so many leagues of travel, I must say those words were a blessing to hear.”

Bram smiled. “And with an army marching toward my northern border, your winged soldiers are an equal blessing.”

He caught the orcish blooded one start to say something, then stop after the elven woman elbowed him. Good, he thought. At least one of the two knew their place.

“I have enemies on all sides,” Antonil said. “Are you sure you desire to welcome my company? I might doom your country, not save it.”

“Will you bleed to defend it?” Bram asked.

“To my dying breath,” said Antonil. “Mordeina is my right, my city to protect. Aid me in retaking it, and I’ll slaughter a hundred men with my own sword to keep your lands safe.”

Bram felt quite pleased. Not the best with words, but the man’s emotions showed plain on his face. He was honest in his desires, and sincere in his ability to kill. The man might be useful after all…

“Come,” he said. “Let us eat! I can’t claim it a feast, but it is a meal, and a chance to rest your tired feet…”

He glanced at the enormous angel that stood behind Antonil.

“…and wings,” he added.

“A n unusual man,” Ian said later that night, when the fires were burning low and the few remaining men not drunk off their feet had begun heading to bed.

“A simple man to understand,” Bram said. “He’s guided by ideals and a loose notion of nobility, yet not bound to them. He’ll be easy to guide our way, so long as we don’t directly contradict his sense of morals.”

Ian tossed another log onto their fire and started smoothing out his blankets.

“And that orc fellow?”

“Brutish. Plays dumb, but he’s not. Oblivious to proper manners, though.”

They shared a laugh. The orc-blood had interrupted their conversation twice, and after the second time, Antonil had sent him to another table. On his way, the elf had zapped his rear with a thin bolt of electricity.

“And the wizard, that mercenary leader…Tarlak?”

Bram settled into his own blankets and shifted back and forth so the grass smoothed out below him.

“Thinks he is far funnier than he really is. Held his liquor better than anyone else there. And he’s a total ass.”

Ian lay down and scooted closer to the fire.

“Think he’d really turn me into if frog if I had kissed the elven lady?” he asked.

“Probably. I might have paid him just to see it, so long as he could reverse the curse.”

Bram laughed at Ian’s incomprehensible grumble. They remained silent for a moment, both staring up at the stars.

“What of their men, and the angels? Do you think we stand a chance?”

“They’ve fought more battles than our own have,” said Bram. “And they’re driven on by desperation and ideals…a potent combination. They will defend, and kill without remorse. Ker will survive. I am certain of that now.”

Ian thought a moment, and Bram knew that was a sign the man was trying to say something he thought he might not like.

“Their ideals,” he said. “You mean their faith? It’s infectious. With the priests of Karak gone, they’ll pour into Ker once this war ends. We may not owe them loyalty through any official means, but neither were we sworn to Karak. It took slaughtering all of their priests and paladins to free us from their grasp. I would hate to do the same to them. These people are better than that. They deserve better, especially if they stand with us as allies.”

Ian paused again, and Bram inwardly sighed. Couldn’t he just be quiet and go to sleep?

“You know,” said the knight. “There was one other thing that struck me as odd. They have no camp followers. None at all!”

Bram broke out into laughter.

“Sleep well,” he said. “Tomorrow we march for Bloodbrick.”

T hey left early morning, traveling west. They reached the Corinth River by midday, and from there they followed it upstream until they arrived at the bridge. Already the defenses were in full construction. Bram met the nobleman responsible, a Lord Peleth who had provided over two thirds of the initial builders and defenders, totaling near two thousand. After their rushed greeting, they went to survey the defenses while the rest of the arriving army set up camp.

“We’ve heard many wild rumors,” Peleth said as he walked ahead. He was a large man, his belly round and his pants held tight by an over-extravagant gold buckle. While they walked, he gestured wildly with his right hand and massaged his goatee with his left. “Men and women fleeing Mordan have told us their priest-king holds sway over the dead, and that his soldiers fight with a fanatical zeal. We’ve tried to build our defenses accordingly.”

He led the king through a maze of tents leading to the bridge. Just before the bridge they stepped into and then out of a deep trench.

“In case we have to fall back,” Peleth said.

“I’m no simpleton,” said Bram.

Peleth shrugged and continued on. The bridge itself was a pale imitation of the Gods’ Bridges, but the Corinth was no Rigon River, either. Neither top nor bottom had arches: instead there were seven columns on either side propping up the flat crossing. Despite its name, the bricks were a faded gray.

“We’ve built several lines of defense,” Peleth said, pointing to the palisades of wood wrapped together with rope. “Just a few, and kept them low enough to strike over the tops. It’ll be tough climbing over if we have to retreat, though.”

“Then I suggest we don’t retreat.”

“I don’t expect us to lose the bridge,” Peleth said. “Only reason why I didn’t make a retreat any easier. Like I said, I’ve been talking to these people, and I know what’ll happen. If they’re that damned certain to win, they won’t try to crush us on the bridge. They’ll wade right through the water and to Karak with the casualties. Rain’s been low, and it’ll only go up to their chests.”

“Do we have the men to protect the riverside?” asked Bram.

Peleth gave him a smug grin. “Just you wait until you see what I’ve got waiting for them should they try to cross.”

They left the bridge and went to one side. Bram looked about and was sorely disappointed.

“Where are the palisades along the banks?” he asked. “We have time, and wood from the forest nearby. Why leave the riverside defenseless?”