David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

Harruq bolstered those around him, and they did their best to keep up with his relentless assault. From behind the front lines came Lord Peleth’s men with their spears, no longer defending the riverside after the disastrous attack upon it. They stabbed over and between their allies, braced tight so the attacking surge of troops continuously impaled themselves on the spearheads. Only Harruq went without aid, for he needed the space to hack and swing.

“The wall is impeding him,” Ahaesarus wondered aloud. “What could he do in open battle?”

Judarius smirked and said nothing.

Bolts of shadow splashed across the Eschaton’s shield, making it shimmer momentarily into view. Men rotated in and out from the front line, Bram doing everything he could to keep them rested. Karak’s men surged forward without hesitation, never once slowing. Ahaesarus shook his head. The crossing was certainly earning its name this day.

“The priests,” Judarius said, pointing to where they gathered. “They prepare a spell, but what?”

“Whatever it is, the cost is tremendous,” said Ahaesarus. Twenty bodies lay slain before them, soldiers sacrificed so their blood might be used in the casting of the spell. “They can’t break their concentration. Our time to attack is now.”

“I will take the archers,” Judarius insisted. “You lead against the priests.”

“Very well. Go quickly, and may Ashhur protect us both!”

Beside him, his banner carriers relayed the orders. In moments they had split into two groups, branching like rivers toward their respective targets. The archers saw, and Ahaesarus twirled through the barrage that met their charge. Arrows pinged off his armor, and two sliced his flesh, but none pierced deeply. Saying a prayer for those behind him without such luck, he led the dive toward the priests. With his sword leading, he aimed for the closest and swung.

The angels crashed through the priests, and this time they were no illusion, no phantom magic. Blood soaked the ground as they pulled up toward the sky, arrows chasing them. When he reached safety from the arrows, he glanced back to see the results.

Half the priests lay dead, but the other half had finished their chant. Lions made of fire and shadow leapt from the sacrificial dead, pawing the ground and snarling eagerly. Ahaesarus thought they would leap for the bridge, but then long, bony wings stretched out of their backs, their feathers billowing strands of darkness like smoke. Nearby Judarius continued his assault on the archers, encircling them and hacking down their footmen guards.

“Retreat!” he screamed. The lions leapt to the air, trails of smoke billowing behind them as they flew for Judarius’s angels. Ahaesarus took his men to the air above the bridge and set up a perimeter.

“Wait until they arrive,” he shouted. “When they do, the lions shall not pass. They shall not!”

His angels saluted with their weapons. Hovering, waiting, they watched as Judarius turned, his hundred angels attempting to follow. The lions slammed into them, raking their chests with claws and biting at their vulnerable wings. With the combined weight they could not fly, and the lions roared as they slammed the angels to the ground. The few that survived the fall died instantly after, swarmed by footmen.

The lions leapt again, chasing after Judarius and the rest.

“Wait!” Ahaesarus screamed. “Wait for them!”

The angels flew past the line. Ahaesarus readied his sword. The lions neared. They were enormous, twice the size of a man. Fire shone from their eyes, and when they opened their mouths to roar, they saw lava burning deep within their throats. Closer. And closer.

“Now!”

They met the lions head on, swords and maces swinging. Molten blood splashed across them. Fangs tore into flesh. Ahaesarus’s blade pierced the belly of one, and as it fell it roared up at him, breathing fire. He twisted his blade, protecting himself against most of it. That which got through splashed across his neck, and he screamed at the pain. Channeling it into strength, he turned and slashed another in half, kicking the lion’s head away so that its final death roar burned only air. Holding his sword in one hand, he clutched his charred neck with the other and struggled to breathe.

“Azariah?” he cried out. He felt his head start to swim, and was unsure of where he flew. “Azariah, where are you?”

“Come with me,” said an angel, grabbing him by the arm. Together they flew, back to the riverside. Ahaesarus felt his knees tremble, and upon landing he lacked the strength to stand.

“Cursed blood,” he heard another say. A hand pressed against his neck, and the pain stabbed deep into him, far greater than any mortal wound. White light flooded his eyes, and he let that sight soothe him. The sickness left him, the strength in his legs returned, and, feeling made anew, he stretched his wings and took in his surroundings.

They were behind the human forces. Azariah’s priests walked about the clearing, tending to the wounded that came to them from the front. Azariah himself attended him, and he looked to his leader with guarded worry.

“I am fine,” Ahaesarus said, seeing that expression and wishing nothing more than to banish it. “Do not worry for me.”

“The lions’ fire is a foul creation of Karak,” said Azariah. “You are lucky Ataroth brought you to me in time.”

Ahaesarus realized who it was that had brought him back, and he saluted the angel.

“You’d have done the same for me,” Ataroth said.

“Who commands your angels?”

“I left Zekiel in charge. It should have been Judarius, but…”

He pointed to where the angel lay. Ahaesarus felt his heart shake. Judarius had been bathed head to chest by the fire, his armor melted to his flesh, half his hair gone. His eyes were closed, and even the lids were scarred black.

“He lives?” Ahaesarus asked.

“For now,” said Azariah, glancing at him. “I will attend to him when I can, but there are too many, and more come even now.”

Soldiers carrying friends and comrades approached, the wounded bleeding and sobbing in their arms. Ahaesarus’s heart went out to them, even though he knew he should numb himself to their pain. There was too much about him, too much blood, too many wounds, and far too many dead.

“How many archers?” he asked Ataroth.

“We killed a third before the lions came, not counting the footmen that fell before us to protect them. Come, let us survey the battle, if you are strong enough to take wing.”

Ahaesarus wasn’t sure, but he knew he could not show weakness, not now. He grabbed Ataroth’s wrist to be sure, and then together they flew above the crossing. Indeed, half the archers had fallen, and those that remained had gathered farther back. They’d ceased their volleying, no doubt because of the Eschaton’s shield. The priests looked to be discussing something, though what he could only imagine. As for the soldiers, they had pulled back. For now, the battle had ceased.

“Both sides have suffered tremendous casualties,” Ataroth said. “They suffered greater, but I fear they have far more than we to lose.”

“The river runs red with both our blood,” Ahaesarus said. “This is no victory.”

“Nightfall comes. Perhaps we can assault under cover?”

Though the idea might be worth considering, Ahaesarus winced at the thought. He’d lost so many angels already. Could he risk losing more?

Of course he could. They were all dead men, clinging to a desperate hope for a miracle.

“Tonight we rest,” he decided. “We need to be ready, though. They might try an assault of some sort at night. And what of the elf and the wizard? Can they protect us all through the night and day?”