The King of the Vile (14 page)

“We’re not children,” Gareth said from behind Mal. He was one of the few who wielded a glowing shield like Jerico, and he lifted it up before him. “We can fight.”

Jerico leaned in closer, lowered his voice.

“Perhaps it is time,” he said.

“No.” Lathaar clenched his jaw, and he held his ground. They were too young. Too lacking in training. “You and I, we’ll stand together against them. It’s time we showed these beasts how badly they’ve erred in coming to our home and threatening those we’ve sworn to raise and protect.”

There was no hiding the disappointment on the faces of the younger paladins, but Lathaar knew it was better they be disappointed than dead. None of them had ever faced a real opponent in battle. To handle hundreds at a time, and those of a bestial nature like the goat-men? No, he would not have those deaths on his conscience.

“Bar the doors after we leave,” Lathaar told Mal. “If something happens to us, you’ll be in charge of the defense. Stay inside, ration food carefully, and keep the youngest in their rooms until you’re certain the beasts won’t attack. If Ashhur is kind, help will come from Mordeina. Is that understood?”

Mal nodded, looking relieved as well as disappointed. Lathaar turned to his friend and drew his swords.

“At my side?” he asked.

Jerico patted his glowing shield.

“Always and forever.”

Together they exited the doors of the Citadel. The gathered army cheered at the sight of them, and they stomped their hoofed feet eagerly. Lathaar approached their leader, and calm slowly spread through his body. This was it. Not since the second Gods’ War ended had he drawn his blades with death in mind, but the anticipation of battle, the heightening of all his senses, came back to him as familiar as his own reflection.

“Come to die?” their leader shouted when the two paladins were halfway between the Citadel and the ring of goat-men.

“I offer this one chance,” Lathaar shouted back, ignoring the question. “We have brought low ancient evils from when the world was first born. We have sundered armies of the dead and slaughtered demons of the air. We have faced down gods and not broken. You are nothing to us but rabid beasts to be put down. Retreat, and you will live. Attack, and you will face the fury of Ashhur.” Lathaar grinned. “Your choice.”

The goat-men slammed their hands together and let loose a communal roar of anger. Lathaar shook his head. He’d not expected them to listen, but at least he’d tried.

“You are but two against many,” their leader spat. “We will stomp your bones into dust, and we will rip apart the children you protect.” It pointed its ax toward them. “Kill them, kill them both!”

The creatures charged from all directions, roaring. Jerico smacked his mace against his shield and Lathaar clanged his swords together.

“Surrounded, outnumbered, and with no chance for retreat or surrender,” Jerico said with a smile. “Just like old times.”

“And come the end, we’ll both remain standing,” Lathaar said. “Just like old times.”

Lathaar braced his legs as Jerico lifted his shield. The blue-white glow shimmered, growing stronger, brighter, as Jerico prayed to their god. Energy swelled within it, and right before the creatures overwhelmed them, the paladin stepped forward, his scream flooded with power.

“
Be gone!
”

Jerico thrust his shield forward, and from it flew a mirror image, only it grew as it traveled, widening out as if it were the shield of Ashhur himself. The light struck the goat-men like a physical force, slamming dozens to the dirt. The sound of their screams accompanied cracking stone and breaking bones. Only the leader endured, having remained back when the others charged, and even it was forced to one knee from the overwhelming power.

One direction cleared, Lathaar turned left, Jerico right, to face the remaining horde. Swords shining in his hands, Lathaar charged, unafraid. Despite their numbers, it was the beasts that should be afraid of
him
.

“Elholad!”
he shouted, and the metal of his swords vanished completely, becoming blades of purest light. No weapon could resist it, no flesh could endure it. The first of the goat-men reached him, head ducked, horns leading. Lathaar side-stepped, short sword swinging in an upward arc. The blade decapitated the goat-man without the slightest resistance, its body stumbling several feet more before collapsing. Two more rushed in, swinging their long arms for his face, hoping to tear into him with their thick yellow fingernails. Lathaar cut the hands off of one, then met the other with his shoulder. Their bodies connected, Lathaar trusting his platemail to keep him safe. The goat-man tried to knock him to the ground, but Lathaar dug in his heels, braced his legs, and pushed back enough to buy himself separation. It was only for a heartbeat, but that was enough to swing both blades in a wide arc, cutting the goat-man in half at the waist.

More rushed at him in an overwhelming wave, and Lathaar steadily retreated, still swinging. With each step, the blood of his enemies splashed across his armor. Some tried to leap at him with their horns, others protect their bodies with their arms. It never mattered. Lathaar clenched his jaw and kept his focus razor-sharp. The dead were piling around him, but they had him surrounded. With no place left to retreat, he couldn’t make a single mistake. The moment one scored a significant wound, or he fell to the ground, he’d be no more.

Back and forth Lathaar swung, feet never still for a second. He cut reaching hands, forcing them back. He cleaved off charging horns and the heads they were attached to. Multiple times he felt fists slam into him, and despite his platemail, he feared the blows might still break bones. Constantly turning, constantly swinging, he caught sight of Jerico from the corner of his eye. His friend faced off against the army’s leader, absorbing blow after blow of its ax with his shield while his mace swung wildly to keep the others at bay.

“Enough!” Lathaar screamed, and he slammed his two blades together high above his head. Light flared from their contact as if a new sun were being birthed. The goat-men staggered away in all directions, lifting their arms and turning their heads against the painful brilliance. Lathaar prayed the reprieve would be enough. Dashing forward, he cut a path through the blinded goat-men, reached open space, and sprinted toward his friend. Jerico blocked another blow, saw him coming, and then leapt backward.

The leader moved to charge, but Lathaar was there, throwing himself in the way. The chainmail the goat-man wore might as well have been cloth when the holy blades sliced through its neck and out its waist. It dropped to the ground and shuddered.

Lathaar thought the rest might retreat with their leader’s death, but it only seemed to spur them on harder. Again Lathaar met their charge, trusting Jerico to hold his own. As he fought, the air around him thickened and he felt a growing unease. He ignored the feeling as best he could as he slashed one of the beasts across its long face, sending horns and teeth flying.

A sudden surge of emotion nearly sent Lathaar to his knees. His arms shook, and he gasped for air as if underwater. Overwhelming rage poured through him. The light of his swords expanded, brighter, longer. The weapons cleaved through multiple goat-men with a single swing, their blood evaporating at the very contact with the light. Another swing, and several more fell. Lathaar’ didn’t hear their death cries, but a solid ringing deep in his head. Only one thing he was certain of, and it frightened him deeply.

Ashhur was furious.

That fury drove him on, the light of his swords like whips, trailing after each swing in curved arcs for a dozen feet beyond their initial reach. The beasts dropped, and before such a sight, they howled in fear and turned to flee. Lathaar knew he should let them, but he chased after nonetheless. His swords sang the song of blood as the beast-men fell and fell until there were none left to chase. Turning about, he found Jerico equally terrifying in his frenzy. With each slam of his shield, a goat-man’s body would shatter. Afterimages of the shield continued on, scattering dozens more. By the time Jerico swung his mace, his foe was often already dead.

Only a scattered few remained by the time Lathaar reached Jerico’s side, and they were far out of reach. Lathaar sheathed his swords. Though the light vanished from the weapons, his anger did not fade so easily. Jerico let out a deep breath, and he flung his shield onto his back and clipped his mace to his belt.

“What in Ashhur’s name was that?” he asked.

Lathaar shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The priests say Ashhur slumbers, but I don’t think that is true any longer. He’s awake, and he’s furious.”

“Furious...” Jerico looked to the dead around them, and he shuddered at the memory of battle. “That’s one way to describe that. I could barely think, Lathaar. If you asked me my name, I doubt I could have told you.”

Lathaar understood well what he meant. He still felt the lingering effects, and as time dragged on, he feared that burning sense of anger in his chest would never fade.

“Back to the tower,” he said. “This isn’t over yet.”

Lathaar and Jerico left the Citadel, weapons sheathed, shield on Jerico’s back, and supplies hanging from both their belts.

“I’m still not certain it’s wise to leave them alone,” Jerico said as they walked the faded path toward the nearest village to the west.

“I’m not sure there
is
a wise choice right now,” Lathaar said. He flexed his hands. Even an hour later, his god’s fury still smoldered in his chest. “But if there’s a reason for Ashhur’s rage, it must be Karak’s paladins, and we’re not bringing untested youths to face them.”

“But how will they gain experience if we don’t
let
them be tested,” Jerico argued. “Whether we like it or not, this is what we were training them for. You heard them back there. They wanted to fight. They wanted to help us. That has to mean something.”

Lathaar froze in his tracks and turned to face his friend.

“Then tell me,” he said, “should we fall, and our students be captured, which of them do you think could endure the torture that would follow? You suffered at the hands of the prophet and his paladins. You know their cruelty. Tell me. Give me a single name you believe with all your heart could endure those trials, and I will let every student who wishes to come with us do so.”

“Jessilynn,” said Jerico, meeting his gaze.

Lathaar shook his head.

“Jessilynn’s not here. And you know as well as I we’ve failed our own students. You saw the glow on their blades, if there was any at all. For now, they must be on their own. The bodies of the dead surround our Citadel. Perhaps without us, they’ll realize what Azariah always insisted: this world isn’t safe, and neither are they.”

“They’ll learn that just as quickly at our side, facing down our enemies,” Jerico said as the two resumed walking.

“Perhaps.” Lathaar glanced over his shoulder at the building they’d worked so hard to rebuild. “But I’d rather they be here when they realize it, not dying on a battlefield. Give them time to grow, both in heart and body. We’ll bleed and die like we always have to buy them that time.”

“So be it,” Jerico said, picking up his pace as they crossed the dying grass. “If Karak wants to rear his ugly head again, we’ll cut it off and burn the pieces so we can return home. We were supposed to be done with all this, Lathaar. What happened? Where did we go wrong?”

Lathaar swallowed, thinking of Ashhur’s rage burning so hot in his chest.

12

J
essilynn and Dieredon lurked at the forest’s edge, observing the distant Castle of the Yellow Rose in the morning light. They saw dozens of sprawling camps, pastures, and gardens within the castle walls, likely tended by refugees fleeing to safety. The walls were short and thick, easily scalable with ladders, this opponent had no ladders, only sharpened claws.

“Maybe we should wait until nightfall,” Jessilynn said.

“These creatures see better at night,” Dieredon said. “No, we must go now. Follow me, and stay close. Should we be spotted, do not panic. If we are swift, we still might reach safety in time.”

Jessilynn nodded, pretending his words were comforting. Spread out before her, in similar arrangements to how they’d camped back in the ravine in the Vile Wedge, was the growing army of the King of the Vile. Groups of bird-men, twenty to thirty in each group, dotted the flat grasslands between the forest and the wall. Most were still, possibly sleeping. Far more active were the groups of hyena-men that lurched about in greater numbers. Even from a distance she could hear their yips and snarls. Most gathered near the wood gate, the sole opening through the curtain wall, though several patrolled the surrounding areas, and Jessilynn spotted a second large pack guarding the rear of the castle, as well as the road that led in from the north.

But the wolf-men had the greatest numbers of all. They formed a single enormous pack, nearly a thousand strong, just beyond arrow reach of the walls on either side of the gate. Though they were many, Jessilynn knew that number was a fraction of the total forces the beast-men could muster. As for the goblins and the goat-men, she saw no sign of either.

“Why so few wolf-men?” Jessilynn asked.

Dieredon squinted at the throng.

“Manfeaster is yet to arrive. That’s why the camps are so disjointed and uneven. This is only a pen to keep Arthur from fleeing, not the actual conquering force. Once Manfeaster comes, the beasts will assault the walls from all sides with far greater numbers. Come. There will be no better time to sneak past.”

“Wait,” Jessilynn said, grabbing his wrist. “What do we do when we reach the wall?”

Dieredon grinned at her.

“Do you think something as simple as a wall can keep us out? Now try to keep up.”

Dieredon ran from the cover of the trees, quiet as a whisper. Jessilynn focused on keeping her head down and her body hunched as she raced after him. The faded grass was tall, reaching up to her thigh, and she prayed that the cover might be enough to keep the two of them hidden as they approached the western wall of the castle.

Dieredon led them on a path between two clusters of bird-men. They were so close, she couldn’t imagine they might miss her, but she trusted Dieredon as they rushed along. At one point, when they were halfway to the wall, he dropped to his stomach. Panicking, Jessilynn did the same. He gestured for her to join his side, and she slowly crawled through the grass.

“Patrol,” Dieredon whispered.

Jessilynn nodded to show she heard, then waited. The elf kept his head down, and it seemed like he was counting. After about a minute or so, he slowly rose on his hands and knees, peering over the grass. Shaking his head, he dropped back down, mouthed the words ‘
not yet’
. Jessilynn lay still, fighting off her rising panic. They were in the open, with no place to run should they be found. What if their scent reached the sensitive noses of the hyena-men and wolf-men? There’d be no outrunning them, no fighting them off.

Stop it,
Jessilynn told herself, digging her fingers into the dirt. They would reach the wall, or they would die trying. Worrying about anything else was pointless.

Dieredon pushed off to his knees, peered over the grass, and gestured for her to follow. Jessilynn rushed after him in her painful back-bent stance. To her left she saw the patrol that had stalled them, a good twenty wolf-men loping lazily around the castle. As they ran, they drew closer to the bird-men, and Jessilynn saw that many indeed were asleep.
Good
, she thought. Maybe they might get a lucky break after all.

When they were several hundred yards out from the castle wall, Dieredon dropped back to the ground. Jessilynn settled down beside him. They were at the edge of the tall grass; the remaining space between them and the castle was wide open, more padded dirt than grass. There’d be no hiding as they crossed the final distance. She thought the elf waiting for an opportune time, but instead she was surprised to see him ready his bow, aim skyward, and release an arrow toward the wall. It went streaking past one of the soldiers stationed atop it, missing his head by several feet. Jessilynn couldn’t decide which surprised her more, that the elf had attacked one of Arthur’s men, or that he’d missed.

Embarrassment replaced her surprise as she realized it was neither. Dieredon glanced about to ensure none of the creatures saw, then fired a second arrow, again missing the guard. The guard braced his hands on the parapet and stared down, and Dieredon waved as if they were close friends. The soldier nodded in confirmation.

Now we wait,
Dieredon mouthed to her.

The soldier they’d alerted wandered further down the wall, then returned with two compatriots. They moved unhurriedly, doing little to alert the besieging army that something was afoot. After a minute, another soldier arrived carrying a bundle of rope. Dieredon grinned.

“Time to go,” he whispered.

He lurched to his feet, and this time there was no attempt at stealth, no hiding or keeping low. Dieredon ran as fast as his legs could carry him, and Jessilynn sprinted after him. The soldiers tossed the rope over the wall at their approach. After only a few seconds, Jessilynn heard a single high-pitched shriek. They’d been spotted. Several more animal sounds followed, then dozens. She pushed onward with strength born of fear, ears ringing.

Dieredon reached the rope and scampered up the wall with ease. Even though she knew better, Jessilynn spared a glance over her shoulder. Dozens of bird-men from each encampment were rushing toward her, and further away came the wolf-men patrol.

Run,
she told herself.
Run, run, run!

Lungs burning, she reached the rope and grabbed on. She didn’t even bother to slow down, slamming into the castle wall.

“Hurry!” Dieredon shouted from above. Arrows flew from his bow, and she heard pained cries as the approaching bird-men dropped one by one. More howls, more shrieks. Soldiers up top had joined in defending her, bolts plunging into the vile army. A body of a bird-man rolled beside her, an arrow lodged in its eye. Jessilynn stared at it; panic froze her in place. She had to move. She had to act.

Jessilynn grabbed the rope and began to climb, but she was weighed down. Her armor, while light compared to the platemail Jerico and Lathaar wore, still had significant portions of chainmail. And then there was the matter of Darius’s sword...

Though it pained her, she reached across her back and undid the leather clasp of the enormous sword’s sheath. The sword slid free, landing below her in the dirt with a heavy thud. The weight no longer on her shoulders, she pulled herself up, all her concentration on putting one hand higher. As she neared the top, Dieredon leaned down and helped her over. She collapsed on her back, gasping for air.

The soldier they’d first alerted stood above her, grinning.

“Welcome to the Castle of the Yellow Rose, you crazy bastards,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

The soldier escorted them through several refugee camps to the castle proper. Jessilynn winced at the sight of the frightened and hungry people, most sleeping on the ground or on shared blankets. Only a few of the young and the elderly had been given tents. Their arrival seemed to give hope to the people, and Jessilynn tried to smile and stand tall as the downtrodden greeted her. Even as they cheered, or shook her hand, she felt like she were a living lie. They thought she symbolized the arrival of an army come to save them. They were wrong.

Once past the camps, they reached a well-worn dirt road leading to the keep. It was a tall but plain structure, four square sides of even length. Its only real decoration was the impressive yellow rose painted across the front, the flower dipping with a single petal falling free. Vines grew from either side of the castle doors, coming together to form the stem of the rose. The yellow rose was the symbol of the Hemman family, who had ruled the North for decades.

“We’ve already alerted Arthur to your arrival,” their escort said as they climbed the gentle rise. “I’m sure he will be happy to greet such distinguished visitors.”

“I’m sure he will,” Dieredon said. “I doubt he’d received too many visitors lately.”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” the soldier said, waving a hand toward the refugee camps behind them. “We have far more visitors than we can feed and protect.”

Dieredon smiled grimly. “True enough.”

The castle doors opened, and the soldier bid them to enter. Unescorted, Jessilynn followed the elf inside to find the lord of the castle waiting for them beyond the entrance.

“Greetings,” said Arthur Hemman, “and welcome to my home.”

He was an older man, though his perfect posture and sparkling green eyes seemed like that of a young soldier. His hair and beard were carefully trimmed, and both contained a significant portion of gray. He wore a thin suit of chainmail over his clothes, and over it, a tunic bearing the yellow rose.

“Greetings, Lord Arthur,” Dieredon said, and he bowed low. “I am Dieredon, Scoutmaster of the Quellan elves. With me is Jessilynn of the Citadel. We’ve come to pledge our aid.”

“The Citadel,” Arthur said. “It still makes me smile knowing it was rebuilt. You continue a proud tradition, Jessilynn. Jerico once crawled through mud-filled tunnels to bypass a siege of my castle, and now you sneak through an army of beasts to do the same.”

Jessilynn blushed. To be compared to Jerico in any way seemed ludicrous. All she’d really done was run for a bit and then climb a rope. Did he have to make it sound so...valiant?

“Thank you,” Jessilynn said, not sure of what else to say.

Arthur smiled, gestured for the two to follow him.

“The situation isn’t quite as dire as it seems,” he said as he climbed a set of stone steps. They exited at the third floor, into a wide room filled with a rectangular table and dozens of chairs. Spread across the table was a worn map of northern Mordan. Scattered about the map were sheets of parchment, and when Jessilynn glanced at them, she saw symbols marking extensive catalogs of provisions, weapons, and numbers of soldiers.

“It seems dire to me,” Dieredon said as the lord took a seat before the map.

“I said not
quite
as dire, not that things were pleasant,” Arthur said. “Our food should last several weeks, and our water all winter. We’ve culled fighting men from the refugees as they arrived, and so far the primitive beasts out there have shown no capacity to build something as simple as a ladder to bypass our walls. Even if they tried, I have five hundred manning the walks. We’ll spill our share of blood, but we’ll hold them back.”

Jessilynn thought of the thousands upon thousands of strong, fast creatures the King of the Vile commanded. Only five hundred? Arthur thought he could hold them off with only five hundred? It seemed Dieredon had the same fears as her, and he was not afraid to speak it aloud.