The Death of Promises (45 page)

“Back!” Lathaar shouted, and Jerico obeyed. He bashed his shield side to side, beating away the clawing fingers. Lathaar cut a swathe of chaos through the ranks, circling in front of Jerico’s shield with no fear of its holy power. As he circled back around to where Jerico stood firm, over a hundred undead lay in pieces across the ground. Blood ran from scratches across his exposed face and neck. Lathaar gasped for air. He and Jerico had rode night and day to reach Neldar, and their rest within the temple of Ashhur had been too brief. They were both running on adrenaline and faith.

Each was tested as they stared out at the mass of dead chanting Karak’s name. They had killed but a tenth of their numbers.

“Even rivers must run dry,” Lathaar said as he sheathed his short sword.

“Amen,” Jerico said.

As one Lathaar lifted his sword and Jerico lifted his shield. The light upon them flared, powerful and dominating. Harruq felt a comfort in his chest, his heart longing for the peace he felt emanating within the light. The undead, however, shrieked and howled. Those nearest disintegrated, and those behind them tried to flee only to be pushed back and torn to pieces by the rest.

The light faded back to its gentle glow. Another hundred destroyed.

“An awesome sight,” Haern said in the brief lull before the paladins attacked once more. Harruq nodded but could not find words to describe what he had seen and felt. Lathaar cut through the undead, holding his Elholad with both hands. Jerico waited, and when Lathaar needed to retreat he was there, his shield leading. As they fought Harruq twirled his swords, unable to stand by any longer.

“Tired of watching yet,” he asked Haern.

“You know I am.”

To either side they attacked. Haern’s strikes were impossibly precise, cutting away tendons and muscle so that one undead after another collapsed, unable to stand or attack. Harruq was far less efficient. Salvation and Condemnation pounded through skulls and bone with brute force. Between them Lathaar twirled his Elholad and sliced through the bodies that swarmed about. When Haern found himself overwhelmed, he somersaulted back. Jerico was ready, slamming his shield into the undead while the assassin was still upside-down in the air.

Time crawled. Harruq felt he fought an endless wave of fingers and teeth. His armor was scratched and soaked in gore. His face and neck were covered with bruises, and every exposed bit of flesh was cut and bleeding. Any normal foe would have been exhausted and daunted by the enormity of death around them. But they fought no normal foe. Bit by bit they retreated toward the wall, unable to halt the wave despite their bravery. The bodies were piling up, their adrenaline was fading, and the armor on their backs was becoming harder and harder to bear.

Another hundred fell. The dead were crawling over the barriers made by their own fallen, yet still they came. Jerico could hardly swing his shield, instead holding it against his body as the blows rained down. Harruq swung his arms without feeling the swords in his hands. Haern’s strikes turned slower, less accurate.

Another hundred fell. Lathaar took the front, his swords weighing nothing. He used wide arcs, striking any many as he could. He called out to Ashhur, but his voice did not have the strength it once did. The dead did not recoil at his faith. They came onward, dying, their bones shattered, their blood spilt and their skin torn and broken. Despite the losses, the undead continued their chant.
Karak! Karak!
They would not flee. They would not stop.

Another hundred fell.

“Come back,” Harruq shouted as he kicked away the remains of a young man. “We’ll fill the gap with their own corpses!”

Jerico whirled in a circle, Bonebreaker blasting away seven undead swarming about him. He turned in the momentary reprieve and fled back to the wall, following the others. When they were out, he turned and placed himself in the very center of the crumbled wall. He collapsed to one knee, his shield jammed into the dirt to support his weight.

“I don’t know how much longer,” he gasped. He could barely see through the blood that ran down his face from the multitude of cuts and swelling bruises. “I don’t know…”

Lathaar stood beside him, his Elholads glowing as fierce and bright as they had at the start of their fight. The remaining hundreds of Velixar’s forces jostled and approached, but for the moment they did not attack. Harruq collapsed against the wall and glanced back to the refugees. He saw no sign of Tarlak and Aurelia. The wolf-men were gone. The last remnants of Veldaren’s people fled east. It would not be long before they were out of sight.

“They’ll have a chance now,” Harruq said, letting his gaze linger longer than he should. The undead were moaning and chanting, but holding still. They were a fraction of their former number, but still dangerous, still fearsome. Haern crouched, using every second to catch his breath.

“Why command them to wait?” Jerico asked.

“I think I know,” Lathaar said, but he had no time to explain.

Rise!

The command rolled through the homes and echoed against the walls. Hundreds of dead men, women, and orcs rose, a single chant on their lips.

For Qurrah! For Qurrah!

At their sound Harruq closed his eyes and lowered his head.

“Look what your actions have done,” Haern said. The bodies of young and old, men and women, stretched far as they could see. The number was far beyond their abilities, already stretched to their limit. They would all die, and as they were torn limb to limb, their murderers would shout and worship the name of Harruq’s brother.

“Not my actions,” Harruq said, opening his eyes and facing the horde. He stood before Jerico and held his twin blades before his face, letting their red glow seep into him. “Not my murders. Not my guilt. I will not be damned for him.”

The undead lumbered forward, driven on by a single command: kill. The others readied their weapons and their hearts. They would all fight, and they would all die. But Harruq was not convinced. Gold shimmered in his eyes as he glared at beings robbed of their peace in death.

“A thousand beaten,” he said through grit teeth. “Time for a thousand more.”

T
he wolf-men split into two groups as they neared the fleeing people of Veldaren. Tarlak swore as they went to either side of the people, trying to surround and trap them.

“Don’t worry about those who make it past,” Tarlak said. “Kill those near us, and we’ll draw enough to give them a chance.”

“Of course,” Aurelia said. She turned and kissed him on his cheek. “Thank you.”

“That better not have been a goodbye kiss,” the wizard said, winking.

“Keep your end up and I’ll keep mine.”

Tarlak pointed his wand at the river of black and gray fur. “Time to punish some very bad dogs.”

A ball of fire leapt from the wand, shrieking through the air with smoke trailing after. It slammed into the center of their numbers and detonated. Waves of flame rolled out in all directions, burning dozens of wolf-men to death instantly. Many more collapsed to the ground from the force of the explosion.

“That was pretty,” Aurelia said, lightning sparking off her fingertips.

“Five more charges,” Tarlak said. “Got to make them count.”

Aurelia launched a giant strike of lightning into the right wave. It bounced from one wolf-man to another, knocking at least thirty to the ground, smoke rising from their fur. She turned to the other side, the lightning replaced with frost. From her hands a blanket of ice stretched out for hundreds of yards. As the wolf-men ran across they slipped and slid, forming a barrier against those behind them. Over fifty tumbled or smacked into their own members until those behind started leaping over the ice or running atop the few, crushed dead.

Tarlak, sensing opportunity, sent another explosive ball of fire at the pileup atop the ice. Wolf-men howled as their fur burned and their eyes bulged in the heat. Unable to ignore the casters, twenty broke for them, the rest continuing straight for the unarmed people. Aurelia killed the first ten with bolts of lightning. Tarlak finished the rest with a ball of fire.

“Three charges left,” Tarlak said as they spun about. The wolf-men were raking their claws along the sides of the columns of men and women. Children of all ages were the first to die, having fallen behind without someone to carry them. Tarlak felt the wand shake in his hand as he saw wolf-men stop to fight over the first scraps. He spent his third charge obliterating five wolf-men that had gathered around a single woman holding two crying babes.

“Come on,” Aurelia said, taking Tarlak’s hand and pulling him along as they ran. She cast weak bolts of lightning, striking dead one or two wolf-men as they neared. The wolf-men cut and bit through the slower stragglers, quickly approaching the larger sections of people. A whirl of her hands and fire sprang from the ground, burning hot and high as it separated the wolf-men from the refugees. Hundreds closed their eyes and leapt through, enduring the pain and burns to reach the helpless. Many others turned and howled at the two spellcasters.

Tarlak sent another fireball into their midst, roasting thirty more. Only one fireball remained in his wand. The wolf-men charged, their tongues hanging out the side of their mouths.

“Grab hold of me,” Tarlak said as he clutched his wand with both hands. “Can you protect us against fire?”

“I can try,” she said, “but why do you…”

The wolf-men neared, outnumbering them forty to one. Aurelia wrapped her arms around his waist as she understood.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she told him. The words of magic for the spell were still on her lips as the wolf-men leapt at them, their claws stretched and hungry. Tarlak tipped his wand to the ground and shot the ball of flame at their feet. The shock struck them first, blasting the air out from their lungs. The heat followed, agonizingly painful. Aurelia chanted, even though she made no sound. She felt her spell weakening. Her head was light. Her eyes saw only black. The fire rolled on and on, and she felt the last of her power drain away. The protection spell faded, but it had lasted long enough.

Tarlak opened a single eye and looked about. Aurelia was in his arms, and he was hunched over her as if he had been terrified. Which was true. When he saw only charred remains of the wolf-men, he straightened and reached for his hat. He felt only smooth skin.

“My hat?” he shouted. “My hair!”

He spun around, looking for his yellow hat, and saw hundreds of soldiers marching toward him, Sergan leading the way.

“To the fight!” Sergan shouted. “Pick it up, before the crazy fire-kissing mage blows everyone to pieces!”

They marched on by, a few offering praise but most too somber to bother. The rest of the wolf-men had reached the refugees and were tearing through them in a merciless bloodbath.

“We need to draw them back,” Aurelia said as the soldiers ran on. “But how?”

“The wolf-men aren’t here to just kill,” Tarlak said. “Oh, there it is!”

He found his hat ten feet away, most of its yellow fabric now black. He propped it on his head, mumbling about the stupidity of fire spells. Finished, he gestured to the carnage at hand.

“Look at them,” he said. “We’re too late.”

Most of the wolf-men had stopped their chase, instead content to feed. Huge groups circled around masses of bloody bodies, howling and yipping in glee. Oblivious to the charging soldiers, they gorged themselves. It was only when Sergan’s axe tore through the skull of a full-bellied wolf-man that they roared and charged. Only half bothered to stop their feasting. The other half, still eager for blood, resumed their chase of the fleeing peoples.

“Stay tight,” Sergan shouted, and his sheer will alone kept his men going. Their armor was thick but the claws of the wolf-men were thicker. Giant waves of solid muscle and fur slammed against their ranks, raking, biting and tearing out throats. Over and over the wolf-men howled, knowing fear was their ally. Sergan swore as he saw many of his soldiers shying away from the yellow teeth and the bloodstained claws.

“They’re eating your loved ones!” he shouted, grabbing a man who had turned to flee and spinning him around. “You gonna let them eat you too?”

Sergan did not wait for a response. Instead he turned around and buried his axe into a charging foe. The wolf-men pulled back and started circling, snarling, their mouths oozing blood and drool. Those that had fled were cut down immediately. Sergan shouted orders, determined to face the new challenge. The soldiers formed a circle of their own, and back to back they raised their weapons and hurled insults. Every now and then a wolf-man would near, clawing at an exposed leg or an unshielded arm. Every time an axe or sword awaited it, severing claws or slicing away tendons in the leg. Those that stumbled due to their wounds were killed before they had a chance to call for help.

“Hold on,” Sergan shouted. “We got them now!”

It appeared they did, and that was why the wolf-men suddenly turned and abandoned the fight. Faster than any of the men could hope to run, they chased after their brethren and the fleeing Veldaren people. Sergan swore and gasped for air as one of his soldiers beside him slapped his back.