David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“Two? Two! Bah, my men here got nine to a head easy, ain’t that right?”

The soldiers, exhausted and ragged, raised their swords high and cheered.

“Go,” Harruq said. To emphasize this he turned and pointed to the wolf-men charging the fleeing peoples of Veldaren. “They will need you more than I.”

“Hear that?” Sergan shouted. “We got some mutts to kill. Stick tight, and we’ll make it fine!”

He turned back to Harruq, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Are you sure you can hold?”

“Until I’m dead, I’ll hold,” the half-orc replied.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sergan said, but he smiled and saluted. The kindness vanished quick as it came. Shouting with a voice hoarse and dry, he hurried his men on. As the last passed, Harruq drew his swords and placed his back to them. His momentary reprieve was gone. Swarming onto the eastern road were over a hundred orcs. Harruq twirled Salvation and Condemnation, taking comfort in their strength.

“For Karak!” the orcs shouted as they charged.

“And Karak can have you!” Harruq shouted back.

His bravado was not false. He saw the hundred, and he saw them dead. It was his task to make it come to pass. From underneath his armor he pulled out the scorpion pendant Brug had made him and let it dangle from his neck. The pendant flared, its magic increasing the strength of Harruq’s swords. The first to near him lost his head. The second fell with his body in two. The half-orc rushed the army, cutting and chopping with a viciousness beyond anything he had ever known. As the orcs climbed over piles of their dead, he took off their arms and legs, letting them add to the obstacle they tried to pass.

Three orcs ran around the side, where the pile of dead was less, and leapt over seven bodies. They were behind Harruq and beyond his line of sight. But there was one who could see them, one who ran along the rooftops with long gray cloaks trailing behind him. Haern leapt into the air, kicked off the wall, and descended upon the three. Each saber stabbed downward at a neck as he landed. A sweep of his legs took out the third. He cut his neck as he fell, bleeding out the orc before he ever hit the dirt.

Harruq heard the commotion and spun, Salvation lashing out. Haern blocked it with both his sabers, his blue eyes unflinching even as his arms quivered against the half-orc’s amazing strength. Harruq realized who it was, nodded, and then turned back to the horde. Haern joined his side, and together they fought. As the piles of dead grew larger, the orcs pulled back. Their numbers were not enough. Their strength did not match up against the tremendous skill of their opponents. More were coming, however, their numbers building higher and higher. The two watched as the orcs cleared away the dead that blocked their paths.

“How the others doing?” Harruq asked as he gasped for air.

“They live,” Haern said, estimating the forces arrayed against them. As he neared two hundred he stopped bothering. “We will die here, you know that right?”

The half-orc chuckled. “No, I don’t. We’ll hold, Haern. We have no choice.”

The assassin dropped into a stance, one weapon high, one low, as the orcs prepared to charge.

“It’s been an honor to fight beside you, Harruq Tun,” Haern said.

“Aye,” Harruq said. “Die well.”

The orcs arrived, spearheaded by a brave few and followed up by a cowardly many. Haern jumped forward, slicing out the throats of two and tearing at the legs of the third. They fell, trampled by the others. The assassin leapt back, and this time Harruq unleashed a whirlwind of steel. The magical weapons tore through armor, shattered the shafts of axes, and broke the poorly wrought swords. Orc after orc fell dead, often in multiple pieces. With each spin Harruq took a step back, and with each step he left a trail of dead.

“Fall back,” Haern shouted. Harruq did as ordered. Their opponents were too close, and as he retreated several axes cut where he had been. Haern lunged, parrying a few defensive swings before thrusting his sabers through eyes and mouths. Five died, but they were a pittance. The assassin retreated, unable to strike any more. Harruq protected his retreat, hurling a body against those nearest and then charging in. Blood poured across the dirt as he swung with both weapons left, then right, and then left again. Fearful of getting too close, several orcs hurled their axes at him, as well as the axes of the dead.

“Fight on!” Haern shouted, using his sabers to knock down or parry the axes. He leapt over Harruq’s head and landed on the other side, batting away two more throws. His foot shot out, tripping an orc, and then he cartwheeled, his other foot breaking a chin. Axes hurled through the air where he had been. When he touched down he leapt again, avoiding a second barrage. More orcs charged, thinking him on the run. Instead, he activated the magic of his ring and appeared mere inches before them. Two impaled themselves on his sabers. The others trampled over them. Haern screamed as the weight pressed against his body. The dead orcs protected him from their axes and swords, but that mattered little as feet stomped across his face. He tried to activate the magic in his ring to teleport himself out, but the magic for the day was spent. Haern gasped for air, all the while cursing such a death.

“ Get off! ” Harruq screamed, slamming his shoulder into the group. Three flew backwards, the unlucky fourth gurgling as the half-orc tore out his throat with Salvation. Harruq spun, daring them to approach. Haern shoved off the bodies and staggered to his feet. His face was badly bruised, and every breath filled his chest with pain. All around the orcs encircled them, howling and taunting.

“Harruq,” Haern said.

“Yeah?”

“Get down.”

The half-orc obeyed. The two dropped to the ground. Haern screamed as his chest pressed against the dirt, but he would endure. Bright light flashed above them, and then lightning tore through the ranks of orcs, followed by a barrage of lances made of ice. In the span of seconds they were all dead. Harruq stood, stunned by the sight. Down the street came Mira, bits of ice still dripping from her fingers. Behind her were Antonil and his men, as well as the two paladins.

“Well met,” Haern said, bowing to the girl with blackest eyes.

“Form up a line,” Antonil shouted. His men spread across the street, seven deep, their shields interlocked. Lathaar and Jerico stepped beyond them and surveyed Harruq and Haern.

“Do either of you need healing?” Lathaar asked.

“Just my ribs,” Haern said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Healing’s for after the battle,” Harruq said.

Their bruises and cuts denied their words, but the paladins let them be. Harruq stepped past them and saw the line Antonil was forming.

“No,” he said. “No, get them out of the city. Get them out!”

Antonil turned to him and frowned. “And who are you to order me?” he asked.

Harruq stormed over, grabbed Antonil by the top of his chestplate, and yanked him close so that their eyes were inches apart.

“I know you,” Harruq said, his voice quiet but shaking with intensity. “The people of Neldar will need a leader. Go to them. Let us die as we must, but take your men and go. That clear?”

Antonil pushed aside Harruq’s hand, then nodded to the fields beyond the wall. The wolf-men were swarming through the refugees, though it appeared many fought against them. Brief flashes of magic, be it fire or lightning, dotted the battle.

“Protect us as long as you can,” the guard captain said. “And I’ll do my best to ensure you have something to protect.”

Mira slipped past them all and stared out at the battle beyond the city. Her hands shook as she watched. She could feel them dying. Her keen eyes saw many wolf-men avoiding the fight, instead feasting on the slain. Others were circling about, killing those that scattered or dropped off as if it were sport. Deep inside, she felt her power stirring.