David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“If they aren’t equipped with siege weaponry, then they’re going to throw their numbers against the gates and see if it’ll break. If we position enough weight on the other side, and place archers…”

“You don’t understand,” Tarlak said. He stepped back as Antonil swung an arm around, nearly clobbering him in the head in his attempt to fasten a buckle near the back of his waist. His room was well furnished but still small. Only the king had a gigantic room for his own inside the castle.

“The man in black, the necromancer who commanded the orcs that last attack…he leads this one as well.”

Antonil paused, his sword belt in mid buckle.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Tarlak rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t I answer that already?”

“Last time that man shook our walls with his sorcery,” Antonil said. “He destroyed the western gate as if it were made of sticks and mud. Are you telling me that same man marches against our town with five times the numbers?”

Now it was Tarlak’s turn to rub his eyes with his fingers.

“Did our great guard captain develop a hearing problem over the last five minutes?”

Antonil buckled his belt and sheathed his sword. He took his shield off a rack and slung his arm through the two straps. At last he donned his helmet. He looked regal and deadly in the golden hue.

“I must alert the king,” he said.

“Send someone else,” Tarlak said. “We need you at the walls.”

“If anyone else tells him but me,” Antonil said, a strange hardness in his eyes, “he will not believe them.”

“So be it. The Eschaton will help you, but we will not follow the orders of the king.” He grabbed the man’s arm as he turned to leave. “Antonil,” he said. “There is a very real possibility the city will fall. They do not march to occupy. They will kill every one of us, some even eating our remains. If that will happen…abandon the city. Please.”

The guard captain pulled his arm free of his grasp.

“I will obey my king,” he said. He left to visit the king’s private bed chambers. Tarlak swore as he paced the small room.

“Everyone has to make things so bloody complicated,” he said as crossed his arms and glared at the floor. If Antonil followed the king’s orders, not a soul would be allowed to flee. He’d bury everyone in his paranoia and selfishness. Ever since the elven assassin had taken his left ear…

“To the abyss with it all,” Tarlak said. “I just want to burn stuff.”

He opened a portal to the city walls and stepped through.

A t first the soldiers barred them from the walls, but then Haern showed them his sigil.

“My apologies, Watcher of the King,” one of the soldiers said, offering a clumsy bow. He moved away from the stone steps, letting them pass. Haern led the way, followed by the paladins. All along the wall, soldiers prepared arrows and readied armor. Jerico guessed at the numbers, and was none too pleased with his estimate.

“There can’t be more than three hundred,” he said. Haern nodded as he scanned the horizon. They were above the western gate, which was sure to take the brunt of the attack. He watched the sea of torches marching closer, his stomach hardening.

“The king lost too many to the orcs’ siege, and then the elves at Woodhaven,” Haern said. “Three hundred archers and two thousand footmen are all he commands.”

“Rumors say it’s more than just orcs coming,” a soldier beside them said. He looked old and grizzled. Neither paladin was familiar with Veldaren’s military ranks but the man was clearly not of a lower station.

“Do they?” Lathaar asked.

“The whole Wedge is coming, the wolf and bird and hyena.” The man nodded towards the torches, both his hands gripping his bow tight. He was missing two of his fingers on his left hand.

“And where did you hear this?” Jerico asked.

“That man,” the soldier said, pointing farther south along the wall. It was still dark, but in the torchlight Tarlak’s pointy yellow hat stood out above the metal and armor.

“Excuse me,” Haern said, slipping past and chasing after. He found Tarlak cheering and slapping archers on the backs and arms, encouraging as only he could.

“Kill twenty of those orcs and I’ll polymorph your mother-by-marriage into a goat,” he said. “Fifty, and I’ll make her a toad! Hate your hair? Hate your face? I’ll change it too, only fifteen kills each. Oh, you sir, I’ll even give you a discount, since you’re nose is so…”

“Tarlak,” Haern said, grabbing the wizard and turning him about. “We need to talk.”

“Howdy Haern,” Tarlak said, grinning at him. “Ready for some mindless slaughter?”

“I hear there are more than orcs coming,” the assassin whispered. “What did you see?”

His grin faded, but when he saw others looking at him and perked right up.

“When they hit the walls they’re all yours,” Tarlak shouted. “So don’t have too much fun as they pretend they can climb with their bare hands!”

He leaned in next to Haern and whispered, “All races of the Wedge, Haern. Every blasted mongrel. We’re outnumbered ten to one.”

The assassin grabbed him by the collar and yanked him closer.

“They will bury us,” he whispered back. “The whole city will burn.”

“Then we’ll burn with it,” Tarlak whispered. “Scared of a little fun, Haern? Besides, you’re worth a couple hundred kills. I’m good for a few hundred as well. Aurry, Lathaar, Jerico…how many can Mira handle? We’re their hope, their only chance, and I will not let us descend into cowardice and retreat. Now go back to the west gate and cause chaos like I know you can. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Lord Eschaton,” Haern said, his voice and subsequent bow filled with sarcasm. He returned to the paladins and drew them close so others would not hear.

“Twenty thousand against our two, according to Tarlak.”

Both nodded, neither appearing surprised.

“To the ground,” Jerico said. “I will defend the west gate if it breaks. The troops there will need me.”

Lathaar drew his swords, their glow shining bright in the night.

“I’ll be there with you. I was not there at the Sanctuary. I will make amends.”

Mira grabbed Lathaar’s hand and squeezed it tight.

“I’ll stay here,” she said. “And I’ll do what I can. They won’t be ready for me.”

“No one ever is,” Lathaar said.

He kissed her cheek and joined Jerico and Haern down the stairs. Mira, a tiny, diminutive figure amid the bustling soldiers, waved. She looked so out of place, the man with missing fingers put his hand on her shoulder and asked her to seek shelter.

“No,” she said, a bit of fire sparking in her eyes. “I’m here to protect you.”

The soldier let her be, and if any raised eyebrows or gestured toward her, he only shook his head and sent them on their way.

H arruq and Aurelia stationed themselves at the southern gate, using a portal to get up top. At first the soldiers there startled and drew their swords, but a glare from the half-orc sent them back.

“Get to work,” he growled. “We’re here to help, and you best like it.”

“Such a silver tongue for a brute,” Aurelia said. She smiled and poked his side. “Save the gruff. It’s going to be a long night.”

“You mean day.” The half-orc pointed east, where the first glimmer of sunrise pierced the sky. “It’s already been a long night.”

The distant army grew closer, the glow of the torches stronger. Aurelia watched, her brow wrinkled.

“Orcs see perfectly in the dark,” she wondered. “Why do they carry torches?”

“Velixar’s making them do it,” Harruq replied, gripping his sword hilts for comfort. “Has to be. It’s the fear, the numbers. Same for that damn lion in the sky. If he had his way, we’d throw open the gates the second he got here and beg him to command us.”