David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“Please,” she whispered, though to whom she did not know. Perhaps Celestia. “Don’t forget about us now.”

There, at that bridge, her parents had made their stand alongside the greatest spellcasters of their time. Tens of thousands of troops had marched against them, held back for days by the slaughter. The rest of the elves, herself included, had escaped because of their sacrifice, and a heavy one it had been. The magical bloodlines of elves, already thin, had nearly vanished. She was one of the rare few remaining with the gift, and now here she stood. Once more the gift of elven magic might die upon the Bloodbrick.

She’d heard the stories about that battle years later, always filtered to them through humans that had survived. Part of her still regretted never coming back to help them. She’d been young then, especially for an elf. Perhaps she could have tipped the balance. Perhaps she could have held the line long enough for some to escape, her father, her mother…

“Uh, miss?” said one of the builders, breaking her thoughts. “Miss, your husband’s looking for you.”

She glanced back to see Harruq on the far side of the bridge, and she heard him call out her name as he spun about. One of the soldiers pointed him her way, and she crossed her arms and looked to the distance as he approached.

“Started worrying you’d left me,” he said as he slid his arms around her.

“Just hoping to get a bit of quiet,” she said.

“So you stood near the men with hammers and saws?”

She kissed his cheek and hoped he’d let the matter die. He did, but switched it to something just as upsetting.

“This is where they died, isn’t it?” he asked.

She tensed in his arms, then felt ashamed. He held her tighter, and she relaxed and put her head against his neck.

“Ten against thousands,” she said. “If only I were as strong as them. In a single day I could send our enemies fleeing back to Mordeina.”

“Wasn’t there,” Harruq said. “So I can’t say whether or not that’s true…but I know you’re as brave as they were, as noble, and most certainly prettier.”

“You never saw my mother,” she said, but she kissed him for the compliment anyway.

They both quieted and stared to the distance. With their sensitive eyes, they saw the smoke of many campfires drifting lazily to the sky.

“Less than a week,” he said.

“If that.”

“We’ll defeat them when they arrive. We’ve faced worse and won.”

She chuckled.

“When?” she asked. “Kinamn was massacred. Veldaren crumbled. The angels are the only reason we survived at Mordeina.”

“Well this is rather gloomy, especially for you.”

He kissed the top of her head, and she sighed. He was right, of course. Normally she tried to keep her emotions above such pessimism, but this bridge was different. It remained a symbol throughout her race, of how they were forever outnumbered, forever persecuted, and doomed to die no matter how strong they might be and how many they might kill. They lived in mankind’s world. Celestia’s blessing was slowly leaving their clerics, and her gift of magic had dwindled in their bloodlines. Was there any future for them in Karak’s world?

“We have to win,” she said. “We fall here, and our hope is gone. The angels are just a reprieve. No more miracles await us. Come Karak’s paradise, men and elves will be slaves at best. How did we come to this, Harruq? How did we sink so far? What happened to this world?”

“Questions with no answers,” he said.

“No,” she said, wrapping her arms around his and holding him tight. “Too many went unstopped: King Baedan, Velixar, Tessanna, King Vaelor. The cowards have ruled, the strong have remained silent, and Karak’s pets ruin everything they touch. Your brother was the first, don’t you see that? He was the first we’ve saved.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. “I was the first. And because of you. Only you. And you’ll save us again. You’ll stand here with us and show mankind the strength and honor of the elves. Now come. Tarlak’s prepared some sort of game for us to play to help get your mind off all this drudgery.”

“Shouldn’t we help them build?” she asked.

He laughed, and the warm sound soothed her fears and pushed away her sadness to the past.

“We’ll help enough,” he said. “When the blood starts to spill, we’ll be there in the thick of it. I may not wield magic like you and Tar, but my blades will drink their fill.”

N othing could have prepared Olrim for the bittersweet joy in controlling Karak’s army. The thrill he felt in planning, sending out scouts, and giving orders to his generals was undeniable. Matching in its frustration, however, were the conflicting reports, petty squabbles, struggles for food and supplies, and the overall headaches induced by cramming so many different men into a single cohesive unit.

“We’re ready to march,” said Gregor Black, one of his generals. He was the most insistent in his abilities to aid Olrim. No doubt Gregor felt him unprepared for his new position.

“We were supposed to be ready twenty minutes ago,” Olrim said. “What excuse do you have this time?”

“It’s the damn men from the Craghills,” said Gregor. “They’d sheathe their swords in their asses if I let them.”

Olrim sighed. Of course, Gregor had been born on the opposite side of Mordan from the Craghills. He’d heard plenty of opinions from both geographic areas while listening to confessions prior to the war. It seemed war did not unite like he had hoped, only invited more reasons to use the excuses.

“I don’t care,” Olrim said. “Get them marching. We’re almost to the Corinth. Once we cross the river, we’ll set up camp while the rest of the wagons catch up. From there we’ll scorch the earth on the way to Angkar, and pillage whatever food we need until we reach the ocean. Then we’ll see if Bram is willing to talk peace, or if we must starve him out of his castle.”

“Of course,” said Gregor. “Ker has rarely rebelled against us, and never have they survived a siege by the Mordan army. There is little to fear in their military might. Only their angels might give us pause, damned winged men. No place on a battlefield for the likes of them.”

“Give the order to march,” Olrim said. “If there are winged men to fight, you let me worry about dealing with them.”

In their second hour of march, they saw the first angel scout. The angel hovered high above, his golden armor glittering in the morning light. There was little doubt that he came from the crossing.

“Keep the men tight together,” Olrim told Gregor. “I don’t want anyone vulnerable to an ambush. With their wings, they might strike from anywhere.”

“Of course, sir,” said Gregor.

By the third hour, Bloodbrick Crossing was in view, its surface covered with fortifications and soldiers. All along the opposite bank stretched several thousand men. Into the air went battalions of angels, flying in steady circle formations that greatly exaggerated their numbers. Olrim joined his priests, seeking their opinions.

“Save our spells for Ashhur’s warriors,” said one of the elders. “They are our only true threat. We set a trap for them, yes. A trap they will never expect.”

“We cannot delay,” said another. “If Antonil is with them, he might foster rebellion in our own troops. Our generals might turn to this former king in hopes he will be a weaker ruler than Melorak.”

“And what of our paladins?” Olrim asked.

“Wait until the first great bloodshed has ended,” said the elder. “Then send in our paladins to lead the way.”

The wisdom seemed sound, and the others agreed. Olrim returned to the front and ordered them on. They marched with one eye to the sky, always wary of a surprise attack by the angels. No attack came. They reached the crossing without incident. Only five hundred yards away, they stopped and set up camp.