David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“Ashhur has done well,” Velixar said. “Guided the strongest of this world to his side and then brought them to fight against us. But I have done the same, have I not?”

“We are ready to obey,” Qurrah said.

“I know,” Velixar said. “Kill the archers.”

Qurrah raised his hands and went over the words of a spell he had learned from Velixar’s journal. He had become a master of manipulating the bones of the dead, but the spell he was about to try was far beyond anything he had attempted before. Just before beginning the spell, he tried something new: prayer.

Aid me in this? Karak, he prayed. Prove to me your allegiance, and I will prove to you mine.

Words of magic poured from his lips. Hundreds of dead lay piled beside the two blasted gates of the city. Every single one was an entity he felt in his mind, their death lingering in anger. He harnessed the power of that death and then turned it on their broken bodies. His hands hooked and curled. The words came faster and faster. In the dark recesses of his mind, he heard the growl of the lion.

In one giant explosion, the bones of the dead tore into the air, numbering in the thousands. There they hovered while beneath them blood poured down like rain.

“Let death ride along the walls,” the half-orc whispered.

The bones swirled together, a storm of white and red. It started at the west. Like a floating meat grinder, it descended on the archers atop the walls. The bones pelted their bodies, tore across their skin, and shredded their flesh. From there it traveled south. Many archers leapt from the wall, accepting the broken bones in their legs or arms to the carnage they witnessed upon their brethren. By the time it reached the second gate, half of the archers had fled down ladders and steps. The other half died.

Qurrah was not done. He pulled the bone tornado higher, letting the blood and gore within it fall across the city. The tornado sucked in on itself, collecting into a giant grotesque ball of bone.

“Death is rain,” Velixar said, seeing what was about to happen. “Let them learn it.”

Qurrah slammed his fists together. The ball of bone exploded. The pieces pelted the city. The effect was dramatic. The stench of fear rose high from the city, and the necromancers drank it in with pleasure. Tessanna kissed Qurrah’s lips, giggling madly as she did.

“Do it again,” she said. “Break their buildings. Knock down the walls. Bones, Qurrah, the bones!”

The half-orc kissed her twice. “Perhaps later,” he said.

“One of the gates will fall soon,” Velixar said. “When that happens, the entire city will collapse.”

“What if too many die before then?” Qurrah asked. “You have the strength to sunder the walls, so why don’t you?”

The man in black laughed.

“Those who die will serve me in death just as well as they would serve me in life. Does it truly matter?”

“No,” Qurrah said, staring at the western gate and wondering if his brother was inside. “I guess it doesn’t.”

“As for the walls…the soldiers are here for a reason. They are to fight, and they are to die. I would not deny them their right. Besides, we must save our strength. Breaking Celestia’s will to open the portal to Thulos’s world will require everything, Qurrah, and then even more.”

Velixar gestured to the combat, his anger gone.

“Enjoy the battle. Enjoy the death. We have sown these seeds for centuries. Let us enjoy the reaping.”

T he smell of blood was overpowering as they neared the west gateway of the great wall surrounding Veldaren. This should have excited him, but the blood was not the intermixed carnage of battle. No, it was the stench of a massacre, and even worse, it was his army suffering the great loss of life. Worst of all to Krieger, the pathetic paladin Lathaar helmed the defense.

“This is no time for private duels,” Carden said to Krieger as they approached. With the archers dead or hiding after the bone tornado, they approached the sundered gate without worry. “The paladin’s death proves our strength, regardless the circumstances.”

“Then my failure to kill him showed Ashhur’s strength,” Krieger said. “Or does it not work both ways?”

Carden turned, his eyes burning with anger.

“You are the High Enforcer now,” he said. “Act it. Our enemies are strong and clever. We will overcome them by sheer faith and will, not by assumptions and ego. Draw your swords, paladin of Karak.”

Krieger did. Beside him, Carden raised his enormous sword, the dark fire visible throughout the battlefield. All around orcs gathered. Their bloodlust was high, and the sight of the fire heightened it further. If only they could get inside. If only the gateway defenders could be broken.

“Paladin of Ashhur!” Carden shouted. “Your kind is dead. Your god is fallen. Do you weep for your souls, knowing no arms wait to embrace you in death?”

Lathaar emerged from the line of shields inside the city, the glow on his swords strong. Krieger felt his blood boil at the sight of him. He should have killed him when he had the chance, he realized. He could have slaughtered him as a faithless, broken man in a backwater village. That was the fitting end for him, not some heroic last stand in the greatest battle of his life.

“Ashhur be damned,” Carden said, stirring him from his thoughts. “You were right. There is another.”

Jerico stepped beside Lathaar, and together they raised their holy armaments, their glow combining into an awesome display. Carden held his sword near his face, letting its dark fire absorb the painful glow.

“His name is Jerico,” Krieger said. “They are the last. We can eliminate their kind right here, right now.”

“We cannot draw them out,” Carden said. He turned to the orcs around them. “So we must meet them within. Orcs! Your cowardice ends now! You will charge, you will fight, and you will slaughter. Let the name of Karak sound from your lips!”

The force of his voice whipped them into a greater fervor. Krieger felt the authority in Carden’s voice and realized just how much he still had to learn and grow in his faith.

“Fight hard,” Krieger shouted, determined to fill the role he was given. “Break through the guards and you will have an entire city waiting. Pillage! Rape! Every sin, every vice, you can have it all!”

The orcs were screaming now, ready to tear apart their own kin to engage in battle. Krieger slammed his sabers together, the sparks showering around his enormous frame. As one, the dark paladins charged, the orc army hot on their heels.

“Let’s see how tough you are,” Jerico said, hurling another giant shield of light. Carden raised his sword and bellowed out the word ‘Felhelad.’ His sword became a blade of pure fire, its color darker than the night. When the shield of light approached he slashed the air, cutting it in two. A force struck the two dark paladins but they were not harmed and they were not held back.

“Ashhur be with you,” Jerico said to Lathaar as he stood to fight.

“You as well,” Lathaar replied. “Elholad!”

His swords became pure light, the counterpoint to the black fire that bore down upon them. Jerico raised his shield as Carden’s sword slammed against it. He had never felt a blow he could not withstand. He had never tried blocking a Felhelad. He screamed in pain, needing every bit of strength to hold back the sword. Anger fueled his determination, and then it was Carden’s turn to experience something he had never felt in all his long life: the holy retribution of Jerico’s shield. His Felhelad jerked back, pain stabbing his hands, shoulders, and stomach. The struggle had been mere seconds, but each one stared at his opponent with newfound respect.