A Sliver of Redemption (22 page)

“Yes, sir,” said the soldier.

Velixar stormed away, needing space to clear his head. He didn’t want to think about the enigmatic girl, her lies and her mockery.

Please,
he prayed to his god.
Calm me down. Give me strength. This is our finest hour, and our greatest challenge. I must meet it. I must crush the wayward son.

He heard no response, but he felt his inner turmoil cease. Such chaotic emotions had no place in him, not for the prophet of a god of Order. When he stood directly facing the bridge, Angelport’s mercenaries behind him, he felt at peace. He’d been too far from the battle. In the thick of things was where he belonged. If Qurrah was to stop him, then let him come to the front. Let him try to maintain control amid the chaos. None could challenge Velixar. None could beat him. He was the voice of the Lion, and it was time they heard his roar.

“Are the men ready?” he asked.

The mercenaries’ commander saluted. “We are ready,” the burly man said.

Velixar raised his arms heavenward, giving thanks to his beloved deity.

“Go,” he said. “Sing your war cry just before you reach their lines.”

“Angelport!” the mercenary roared, and then they rushed forward, to the gap in the fires leading to the bridge. A silent order from Velixar and his undead marched, but not to the bridge, but far upriver, beyond the reach of the fire.

“Even without you I will attack them on two fronts,” Velixar said to the absent Myann. “Karak does not need your cowardly wings to achieve victory.”

18

O
sric sat facing the river, his armor feeling twice its normal weight. He felt ragged and thin, and though he needed sleep, it felt painful to close his eyes. To pass the time he grabbed nearby stones, rolled them in his hands until they were clean of dirt, and then skipped them across the water. His previous record was nine jumps, but that night the best he could do was four.

“Not many sleeping,” he said as he searched for another rock, one he hoped to do better than the paltry two skips his last one had made before plunking below the surface.

“Velixar should have sent his human forces in first,” Qurrah said, lying beside him, his white robes easily visible in the starlight. He watched the smoke in the distance. “He could have pressed us all night with his undead, but now they’re such a pathetic remnant there would be none left in only a few hours. Come daylight, we would have been too exhausted to fight the well-rested soldiers. He’s playing games, putting his pride before strategy. He did this before, though, when he attacked Veldaren. My brother crushed thousands of orcs and undead, all because the damn fool didn’t blast holes in the walls like he should have.”

“Could he crush the bridge with all of us on it?” Osric asked, suddenly feeling anxious.

Qurrah nodded. “If I let him, yes. A few powerful spells could break its foundations, and then it would come crumbling down.”

Osric shivered, hating how every deeply ingrained idea of warfare seemed futile or foolish in the face of that strange Velixar’s power.

“What is he?” the knight asked.

“Who? Velixar?”

“Yes. Him.”

The half-orc fell silent for a moment. Osric found a stone and cast it into the water. Five jumps. Not bad, but it was more a product of the stone, not his throw.

“He was my former master,” Qurrah suddenly said. “He taught me, and I was eager to learn. Ever since the first generation of man he has lived, preaching the word of Karak. He is a twisted, decaying wretch of bones and rot. Every word he speaks is false, though he swears he has never spoken a lie. He’s determined, deceitful, and dangerously intelligent.”

“But he can’t be that perfect. He hasn’t done what you say he should. He’s kept his demons close. He’s given us rest. And you’ve held his spells at bay.”

“For now,” Qurrah said. “But he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t tire. Soon I won’t be able to lift my head while he’s still…”

Osric glanced in his direction when he suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” he asked, reaching for his shield.

“The clouds,” Qurrah said, pointing. A great blanket swarmed over the stars, hiding its light. Only the fires on the riverside remained visible, and just barely through the smoke billowing in great pillars. “He errs again. He thinks to hide his movements, when the very act of hiding them gives him away.”

The two climbed to their feet.

“Alert the others,” he said. “They’ll attack soon.”

Osric sent one of the archers to relay the message, but there was no need. Already he heard Theo bellowing orders from the front, and those orders relayed again and again in a deep echo from the rest of the soldiers. Osric shifted his shield so it hung comfortably from his left arm, then stabbed his sword into the dirt by his feet.

“Stay strong,” he said. “That’s another order.”

“Your orders are starting to irritate me.”

Despite their exhaustion, Osric nudged him with his elbow.

“You have permission to be irritated, so long as you obey.”

Qurrah chuckled. “Smug horse-humper.”

“Strong words from a twig I could break with two fingers.”

The half-orc winked at him. “You’d need at least three fingers, jackass.”

Osric laughed, but cut it short when the sound of combat reached their ears. He winced, trying to see. Something sounded different. He heard steel hitting steel. The human forces had come to play.

“Archers!” he screamed. The men scrambled for their bows and grabbed their arrows. Osric frowned at their poor coordination and wondered where their commander had gone.

“Loose those arrows like mad,” he shouted as many waited for a group volley. “No time. Go, go!”

The arrows began to fly, gradually growing in number. In the darkness he struggled to see where they landed, as did the archers. No doubt many splashed into the water, but he trusted their accuracy even in the night. A steady barrage landed on the far side of the bridge, safely away from any of Theo’s men. As he watched their quivers empty he wished they had a hundred thousand more arrows ready. At this rate, they’d be done within a few hours.

Frustrated, he flung his last rock into the water, watching it skip twice…and then vanish amid the soft churning of the surface.

“The water!” he screamed. “Swords to the water!”

There were only twenty or so soldiers nearby, but he yelled for them all. The undead arrived, just dark silhouettes in the light of the fire on the other side of the river. At first the soldiers cut them down with little difficulty, but the water heaved to and fro as hundreds more emerged, their bodies bent, their arms dragging along the surface. This was no random assortment like before: it was a tightly packed group numbering in the hundreds.

Osric screamed for Qurrah to help, but the half-orc was too busy hurling small orbs of fire to counteract similar orbs of a much greater size flying in from Velixar. Desperate, he grabbed one of the archers.

“Bring men from the bridge,” he said. “Tell them we’ve been flanked. No arguments. You make them send help!”

“Yes sir!” said the archer before racing off. Osric grabbed his shield and stood between Qurrah and the water. If any undead wanted to gnaw on the half-orc, they’d have to go through him. Sadly, it didn’t look like that would take too long. The men at the water fought valiantly, but the dead grabbed at their arms and legs and dragged them back in, clubbing them while they thrashed and struggled for air. The archers, realizing their vulnerability, dropped their bows and drew short swords from their belts. Without armor or proper training, Osric knew their defense would crumble fast.

“We need to get you somewhere safe,” Osric said as his fellow men-at-arms died.

“I thought you had orders that I not flee,” Qurrah said, his voice sounding distracted.

“I did. I’m overruling them.” Osric didn’t have the authority to overrule orders from the king, but he had a feeling Theo wouldn’t mind. He could always beg for forgiveness later…assuming any of them survived.

He grabbed Qurrah’s arm to pull him along, but the half-orc jerked free.

“Wait,” he said

“But we have to…”

“I said wait!”

Osric felt his heart pound in his chest at the sudden look of fear that crossed Qurrah’s face. The half-orc crossed his arms and braced his legs. High above, the smoke swelled with lightning that shone an eerie red. A crack of thunder boomed down, shaking the grass. Osric startled at its massive volume.

“He’ll destroy the bridge,” he cried as the first blast of lightning arced down. The half-orc held his arms upward, surrounding the entire army with a shield that sparked into existence with every touch of the lightning. With every blast, Qurrah winced. The thunder crashed, its volume rising, its anger growing.

“Not good,” Osric said, looking to the river. The undead were pushing through. They’d be on Qurrah in moments. Seeing no other choice, he smacked his sword against his shield and waited for them to hit. His ears ached from the thunder. The dead shone red in the evil light, with blood on their rotting fists and great lipless grins.

The archers broke, overrun.

“Stand your ground!” Osric shouted, despite knowing they would neither hear nor obey.

The undead surged up the banks, half chasing after the archers, the other half curling around to trap the defenders upon the bridge. A handful charged directly for him, and he met them with his shield. Their slimy fingers reached, and he beat them back with chop after chop of his sword. He decapitated one, removed both hands from a second, and then slammed a third back down the bank, to where it rolled until it splashed into the water.

Too many remained. He felt one sink its teeth into his forearm, crunching the metal of his vambrace while simultaneously shattering its own teeth. Another shredded its own skin pulling on the top of the shield, its dead eyes staring at him. Hungry. Vicious. Unstoppable.

“He can’t win,” Qurrah cried behind him. At some point he’d fallen to one knee, yet he kept his arms skyward toward the storm. “You can’t let him win!”

Osric flung them back and then slashed wildly with his blade. He remembered what Qurrah had said earlier, and did his best to cut their necks or slam his sword through an eye socket and into the brain matter. Their fists beat against him, hurting even through his armor. He felt his flesh bruise under their assault. He tried to push, but his weight was off—there were too many. He fell onto his back, his shield pinned against him by putrid bodies. Too many…

“Be gone!” Qurrah screamed. He grabbed one by the wrist, igniting its rotting flesh. He waved a hand at another, flinging it back with an invisible force of magic. Two more died, their spines ripped out of their backs.

“No!” Osric yelled, smacking away the half-orc’s offered hand. “Them! Not me, them!”

He pointed to the bridge, where the red lightning was tearing through Theo’s ranks, killing tens at a time.

“I’m sorry,” Qurrah said, and Osric could barely believe the words he heard. “I couldn’t sit here…I couldn’t just watch as they killed you.”

Once more he lifted his arms, shielding the army. Shouts echoed over the sound of thunder, followed by combat far too close to be on the river. Half the army had abandoned the bridge and come to their defense. Steadily they pushed back the tide, forming a solid line along the bank at either side of the bridge. Osric cleaned his sword on the grass and then sheathed it. He thought to check his wounds but lacked the time. Qurrah’s arms shook with every breath, and his skin had taken on a sickly color paler than his normal shade of gray. The storm he weathered was incredible.

“Second wave!” one of the knights along the riverside shouted. A fresh surge of undead came roaring forth, gurgling the name of their deity. Osric wished he could join them, but instead he stayed before Qurrah, making sure none jostled or interrupted him while they rushed from the bridge to join the battle. More and more he wondered if the half-orc would endure. The lightning flared so bright it seemed a bloody sun had risen. The translucent shield shimmered and bent under the assault. Sweat ran down his face.

“I can’t!” he screamed, a cry of horrible despair.

Osric grabbed his shoulders and held him steady. “You will! You must!”

“Too much,” he said, his voice dropping to a whimper. “Please, I can’t. He’s too strong…”

And then the storm ceased. Qurrah collapsed into the knight’s arms. Osric held him, struggling to see in the sudden darkness. One by one the fires along the far bank faded and died. Trumpets signaled the retreat of the men on the bridge. They’d held, but for how long, he didn’t know.

“You’ve got another chance to recover,” Osric told the half-orc. “Just rest, relax. They’ve run out of tricks. How many dead you think we’ve killed? A thousand? Two? We’ve made our stand, Qurrah, and we’re not done yet.”

Qurrah laughed. “You haven’t even fought the demons.”

He lifted his hand, looped it around twice, and then pointed a single finger toward the sky. A soft ball of light shot upward, and after rising to the clouds, it exploded into a great flare.

“This darkness is no accident,” he said. Hundreds of winged silhouettes filled the air, rising from behind the army. Osric felt his blood chill, and then the flare died, hiding the war demons from their sight.

“Can we survive their attack?” he asked.

Qurrah glanced at him, then shook his head.

“Soldiers with wings, ancient armor, and skill beyond any man here? No. We won’t.” Osric felt despair, but then the half-orc clutched his wrist and used it to steady himself. “But it doesn’t matter. We’ll take as many of them with us as we can. You with me?”

“Until the end,” Osric said, and slapped the half-orc’s shoulder.

The defenders on the bridge saw the demons’ approach as well, and they braced their shields and wondered in what way they would attack.

“We’re vulnerable here,” Osric said, glancing at the archers. “What do we do?”

“Onto the bridge,” Qurrah said. “Hurry. Even the archers.”

Osric started shouting orders, motioning over any nearby knights he saw.

“To the bridge!” he shouted to them. “Hurry, we have no time. Get to the bridge!”

The men that had lined the water’s edge backed away, then stopped when another wave of dead emerged.

“Ignore them!” Osric shouted. He led Qurrah by the arm amid a great throng flooding the back end of the bridge. “Form up ranks. Protect the front lines!”

About half of them had made it when the demons arrived in a hail of spears. Some archers fired arrows in random directions, but most flung their bows down and rushed for safety. A few made it. The rest died as the demons flew low, their glaives sweeping down to slash their throats and cut off their heads. The undead curled around, now free to exit the water without difficulty. Steel rang out from the front lines, a fresh assault from Thulos’s human soldiers.