David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

Since the eastern side had no gate, and therefore no traffic, the more wealthy had built their homes within. Harruq watched as the homes grew nicer and the streets better cared for. At the end of the road he saw the wall, looming high above the homes. A glance behind him showed Tarlak and Aurelia both running after. When he reached the wall he stopped, not the least bit winded.

“Cast the spell,” he said. Tarlak glared, still trying to catch his breath. He put his hand on Harruq’s neck and then muttered the spell. The half-orc felt a tingle in his throat and assumed it ready. He sheathed his swords, cupped his hands to his mouth, and began shouting.

“People of Neldar! Come to the east gate! If you want to live, if you want to fight, then here is your salvation. Come east! Come east!”

He turned back to Tarlak and nodded. The mage snapped his fingers, ending the spell.

“So,” Harruq said. “You two ready to make us a gate?”

He backed away as the two casters put their hands upon the stone. They muttered amongst each other, picking a spell to cast in unison. When decided, they began. Words of magic flowed from their lips. The wall shook as invisible waves assaulted the stone. Harruq watched as Aurelia grimaced, pain etched on her every feature. His heart ached at the sight. Their spell finished. The stone exploded outward, leaving a giant gap in the wall. Six men could walk side by side through if their shoulders touched.

The last of the rubble had not yet hit the ground when Aurelia collapsed to her knees. Harruq drew his swords and let her be. He faced the west. The road was broad. Many people could travel through. How many would come, though? How many?

“I’ll be fine,” Aurelia said as Tarlak helped her to her feet. “My head, I just can’t think straight, I can’t…give me a moment.” She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Tarlak rubbed his temples, knowing how she felt. Near the end he had almost fainted. He doubted he could throw a fireball larger than his thumb.

“So we guard our new gate,” Tarlak asked as the first few survivors came running toward them.

“ I guard our new gate,” Harruq corrected. “You two aid the refugees. They’ll need protected.” To emphasize this, he pointed to the ring of dark paladins and clerics that encircled the city. “They’ll kill any that try to cross.”

More people arrived. They held little, a few random provisions or possessions dear to them. The death and carnage on the opposite side of the city seemed worlds away.

“You be careful,” Aurelia said, kissing Harruq before taking Tarlak’s hand.

“Don’t do anything dumb,” Tarlak said, tipping his hat. The two followed the fleeing civilians out. Harruq did not watch them go. He didn’t want the distraction, nor the worry. Blades in hand, he watched for the first of the orcs to arrive, all the while screaming above the crowd.

“Come east! Come east!”

C ome east?” Velixar asked as he heard Harruq’s rallying cry.

“There is no east gate,” Qurrah said. “Has he lost his mind?”

Once the entire orc army had funneled inside the city, Velixar ordered his undead to enter. They poured in through the broken west gate like a river of rotten flesh. Qurrah did not watch, instead focused on a dark paladin rider arriving. The paladin pulled heavily on his reigns to halt his horse.

“The people of Veldaren are fleeing,” the rider said. “There is a gap in the east wall. One of their mages must have created it.”

Velixar looked at his undead entering the city and wondered. “It is too far around to seal the other side,” he said. “Push our forces harder. We will overcome them from behind.”

The man in black turned to Tessanna.

“Yes, lovely?” she asked him.

“Fetch Bloodheel,” he ordered her.

She placed two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Neither Qurrah nor Velixar heard a sound, but the five-hundred wolf-men waiting behind them howled. From the giant pack a towering behemoth of fur, muscle, and fang emerged, his entire body decorated with the bones of dead foes he had eaten.

“We come to fight,” Bloodheel said, his rumbling voice deeper than Velixar’s. “But we truly came to feast. The city is bleeding. When will we taste blood?”

In response, Velixar pointed past the southern tip of the city’s walls.

“The people of Neldar are fleeing the city to the east. Unprotected. Unprepared. Slaughter them all.”

Bloodheel arched and howled to the morning sky, his yellow eyes shimmering with hungry lust.

“We will not fail you,” he said. He dropped to all fours and began running. On either side the rest of the pack passed, howling and drooling.

“The carnage will be complete,” Velixar said, a smile growing on his ever-changing face. “Praise be to Karak.”

“Praise, indeed,” Qurrah said as the wolf-men vanished around the walls of the city.

W ell, here we are,” Lathaar said as they arrived at the fountain in the center of the city. “Ready for some fun?”

“Always am,” Haern said. He leapt to a nearby home and kicked off an open window to propel himself to the roof. From there he scanned the major roads in all directions. Thousands of people filled the streets, herding to the center and then turning east toward the supposed safety and freedom there.

“You see anything,” Jerico shouted over the commotion of the frightened people. Beside him Mira clutched at her robes, her arms crossed and her hands shaking. The fear around her was leaking in, but the bloodlust from afar was worse. When Jerico saw her tired, crying face he only wiped the tears away with his thumb and smiled.

Haern turned his eyes west. All he saw was a sea of gray flesh and burning buildings. Its progress was steady. Every home was broken into and its occupants slaughtered. The orcs who couldn’t find a warm body to butcher moved further into the city. The bulk of the army was on the main roads, but like a disease it had spread throughout the entirety of the western half.

“Almost time,” Haern shouted back. He took three steps and then leapt to the top of the statue. From there he wrapped himself in his cloaks and waited. Swarms of men and women passed, the panic on their faces obvious.

The orcs’ arrival was sudden. Thirty came barreling near, their axes and swords cleaving innocent flesh. Behind them, the few remaining humans knelt and cried out to Karak for salvation. The sound of their pleading was far worse to Haern than any scream of pain from the dying. He jumped, activating the power of his ring as he did. His momentum forward continued, even after his body vanished in a puff of shadow and reappeared ten feet west. He descended on the orcs as a swirling gray death. Two had their throats cut as he landed. A twist, a step, and two more dropped, tendons cut and necks bleeding. The orcs surrounded him, but the assassin had begun his cloak dance. The first to try a wild chop in the center of gray cloaks had three of his fingers severed. The axe dropped to the ground, soaked in blood. The orc tried to retrieve it with his good hand. He died.

“For Ashhur!” Lathaar shouted, slashing the nearest orc across the shoulder. They had encountered no resistance since entering the city. They were not prepared for the Eschaton that had gathered in the center. Most had their backs turned to them, fighting against Haern as he slaughtered their kind from within. When Lathaar tore through their ranks, the orcs knew their error. Any who turned to face the paladin felt steel biting into their backs from Haern. They screamed and fled, wanting no part of either.

“The west is dead,” Mira said, watching them go. “Those who remain alive have given themselves to Karak.”

She spread her arms, gathering her power. Her eyes closed as she focused on the magic that dwelled within her. From the sky a giant meteor of fire materialized, traveling at blistering speeds. It slammed into the street, crushing the orcs with the force of its impact. Houses beside it crumbled. Dust filled the air, blocking all vision of the road.