A Sliver of Redemption

20

B ram rode northwest with his vanguard when they first saw the men flying in the sky.

“What in the gods’ name is that?” asked Ian riding beside him. They had just passed through a gap in the Southron Hills, and before them spread the green plains of Ker.

“Either angels or demons,” said Bram. “Though I see them flying no standard.”

“They are too far away,” said a soldier beside them. “I see only birds.”

“Damn lot of birds,” said Ian. “And I never knew a bird that wore armor that glinted in the sun.”

They pressed on, now on edge and clutching their weapons tight. Their numbers were far from impressive, only five hundred knights and two thousand footmen. The rest of his army waited at Bloodbrick Crossing, guarding the entrance from Mordan into Ker. The southern lords had already been preparing for war before Bram ever contacted them, for they feared the covetous eye of Karak’s priest-king in the north. If it came to battle now, and Antonil’s men had fallen at the Gods’ Bridges, then they were already too late. Against such a formidable host, they had little chance.

Their fears were unfounded, though, for as the army approached the standard of the Golden Mountain shone from winged banner carriers. The ground forces also came into view, and they were clearly not dead but alive, men of Mordan and Neldar.

“Several thousand,” Ian said as they veered off course to meet the approaching army. “At least a thousand winged. Might it be enough to take Mordeina back from Karak’s devil?”

“We need only one man,” said Bram. He veered his horse around a deep patch of grass that grew like a tall pillar, sprouting from a muddy stretch where a spring surfaced. “If Antonil is there, the rest of the northern lords will turn to him, at last finding a unifying name to rally behind. Despite how thin his grasp, he is still their true king.”

“Some king. Within days of his crowning he was riding east with all of Mordeina’s troops to take back his real homeland. He cares nothing for Mordan and her people, and while he was away, he lost everything. Are you sure they will welcome him so openly?”

Bram shrugged. “He was Queen Annabelle’s husband. That is good enough for me. Thrones have been taken for weaker claims than that. And I’d prefer you guard your tongue when we meet him, Ian. We need his aid, not his scorn. If that is how you speak of one king, I fear to know how you speak of your own.”

Ian accepted the reproach and let the subject die. Behind them, their army buzzed with excitement. Many were eager to see the angels, for while a few had seen the demons, none but Ian had seen Ashhur’s celestial warriors. As they neared, their gold armor shining, the noise increased.

“Here is far enough,” Bram said. “We’ll have broken legs with how distracted everyone is. Too many animal holes in the grass.”

A scout approached, lightly armored and swooping low on the wind. Bram remained mounted, and he raised his sword high so the angel might see him among the rest. Beside him, Ian raised the standard of Angkar, a wolf in profile, its eye a bloody red. The angel saw this and banked lower, and then with a great beat of its wings and scattering of feathers, it landed.

“Well met, king of man,” said the angel. His voice had a strange accent to it, as if his vocal chords were not flesh but glass, so clear was his speech. “Are you King Bram, who we have been instructed to meet?”

“I am,” said the king. “And what name may I call you, angel of Ashhur?”

“My name is Horon, and I speak for Ahaesarus, our worldly commander. Would you meet with us, and with our friend, king Antonil of Neldar?”

Bram held in a smirk. What a poor way to introduce the man. Why not king of Mordan, of a land that truly mattered and was friendly to them?

“Our agreement has already been made with King Theo. Bring your men, Horon, and your angels. Let us break bread and share stories, for unless Antonil has changed his mind, we are still allies.”

The angel bowed.

“I will send them forward,” he said. “May Ashhur watch over you, King Bram.”

As Horon flew off, Bram rolled his eyes.

“Only person I want watching over me is you and your sword,” he said to Ian.

“Honored.”

Bram waited for Ashhur’s army to arrive while Ian set about ordering the soldiers, getting tents pitched and fires prepared. They circled the wagons together in the center, preparing to cook what salted meat they had so the few livestock that followed might last several days longer. At least they had plenty to drink, though. Bram personally felt he could live on wine if the need arose. Might even make him a better fighter, given how he over-analyzed everything about his opponent come a battle.

His eyes kept returning to the skies and the winged men. Winged men…how strange. What changes to a siege did that mean? He’d known of lengthy battles, castles held by a mere hundred that fought off thousands. But without walls, without moats, without thick gates of wood and iron…what then? Might Ashhur’s angels fly right over the walls of Mordeina and open the doors for them? He shuddered to think of the demons that approached from the east. He’d kept Loreina back at Angkar where he hoped the castle would provide her safety. Perhaps it would have been better if she’d come with him, or at the least, found a secluded home somewhere along the coast.

When the human army neared, Bram dismissed such thoughts and rode to greet them. He was curious to meet this Antonil. He’d tried to learn what he could, but his stay in the west had been too brief. Antonil had been in charge of Neldar’s forces prior to its destruction, and after the death of their king, Edwin Vaelor, he’d assumed the role of lord and protector over the survivors. His claim to kinghood had been tenuous at best, but then he’d married Annabelle, solving that problem. Bram had thought the man a potential opportunist, taking advantage of the war and destruction to claim control over two kingdoms, but every story he’d heard seemed to indicate Antonil was an almost unwilling partner to the marriage, reluctant to assume his role.

Bram sighed. He wondered which was more dangerous: an egomaniacal, greedy king reaching for everything not his, or a hesitant king unsure of his own rule and forced to accept the responsibilities he should have been raised since birth to endure.

“Find Ian,” he told one of his guards. “I want him near me in case something goes wrong.”

The guard returned with Ian just in time to meet a small group hurrying ahead of the rest. Bram saw one angel flying low, and the rest seemed a strange assortment. One was clearly Antonil, an adequately imposing man (and thankfully older than some of the stories had claimed). Beside him, though…

“Is that an elf?” asked Ian.

“A beautiful elven lass,” said Bram. “Does he have their aid, I wonder? And who is that beside him?”

“Orc blood’s in the giant,” said Ian. “I’d recognize that gray curse anywhere. This Antonil fights with the banned and the cursed. I don’t like it.”

“Angels, too,” Bram said. “Don’t forget them.”

Ian smirked. “I fear they’ll be the worst of the lot. Keep them to their promise. I bow my knee to you, not Ashhur.”

Antonil stepped ahead of the others, and he bowed low but bent neither of his knees. A nice touch. Bram returned the bow, and felt mildly impressed. He waited, deciding to let this new king say the first words.

“Greetings, King Bram. My scout has told me you welcome us with open arms. After so many leagues of travel, I must say those words were a blessing to hear.”

Bram smiled. “And with an army marching toward my northern border, your winged soldiers are an equal blessing.”

He caught the orcish blooded one start to say something, then stop after the elven woman elbowed him. Good, he thought. At least one of the two knew their place.

“I have enemies on all sides,” Antonil said. “Are you sure you desire to welcome my company? I might doom your country, not save it.”

“Will you bleed to defend it?” Bram asked.

“To my dying breath,” said Antonil. “Mordeina is my right, my city to protect. Aid me in retaking it, and I’ll slaughter a hundred men with my own sword to keep your lands safe.”

Bram felt quite pleased. Not the best with words, but the man’s emotions showed plain on his face. He was honest in his desires, and sincere in his ability to kill. The man might be useful after all…

“Come,” he said. “Let us eat! I can’t claim it a feast, but it is a meal, and a chance to rest your tired feet…”

He glanced at the enormous angel that stood behind Antonil.

“…and wings,” he added.

“A n unusual man,” Ian said later that night, when the fires were burning low and the few remaining men not drunk off their feet had begun heading to bed.

“A simple man to understand,” Bram said. “He’s guided by ideals and a loose notion of nobility, yet not bound to them. He’ll be easy to guide our way, so long as we don’t directly contradict his sense of morals.”

Ian tossed another log onto their fire and started smoothing out his blankets.

“And that orc fellow?”

“Brutish. Plays dumb, but he’s not. Oblivious to proper manners, though.”

They shared a laugh. The orc-blood had interrupted their conversation twice, and after the second time, Antonil had sent him to another table. On his way, the elf had zapped his rear with a thin bolt of electricity.

“And the wizard, that mercenary leader…Tarlak?”

Bram settled into his own blankets and shifted back and forth so the grass smoothed out below him.

“Thinks he is far funnier than he really is. Held his liquor better than anyone else there. And he’s a total ass.”

Ian lay down and scooted closer to the fire.

“Think he’d really turn me into if frog if I had kissed the elven lady?” he asked.

“Probably. I might have paid him just to see it, so long as he could reverse the curse.”

Bram laughed at Ian’s incomprehensible grumble. They remained silent for a moment, both staring up at the stars.

“What of their men, and the angels? Do you think we stand a chance?”

“They’ve fought more battles than our own have,” said Bram. “And they’re driven on by desperation and ideals…a potent combination. They will defend, and kill without remorse. Ker will survive. I am certain of that now.”

Ian thought a moment, and Bram knew that was a sign the man was trying to say something he thought he might not like.

“Their ideals,” he said. “You mean their faith? It’s infectious. With the priests of Karak gone, they’ll pour into Ker once this war ends. We may not owe them loyalty through any official means, but neither were we sworn to Karak. It took slaughtering all of their priests and paladins to free us from their grasp. I would hate to do the same to them. These people are better than that. They deserve better, especially if they stand with us as allies.”

Ian paused again, and Bram inwardly sighed. Couldn’t he just be quiet and go to sleep?

“You know,” said the knight. “There was one other thing that struck me as odd. They have no camp followers. None at all!”

Bram broke out into laughter.

“Sleep well,” he said. “Tomorrow we march for Bloodbrick.”

T hey left early morning, traveling west. They reached the Corinth River by midday, and from there they followed it upstream until they arrived at the bridge. Already the defenses were in full construction. Bram met the nobleman responsible, a Lord Peleth who had provided over two thirds of the initial builders and defenders, totaling near two thousand. After their rushed greeting, they went to survey the defenses while the rest of the arriving army set up camp.

“We’ve heard many wild rumors,” Peleth said as he walked ahead. He was a large man, his belly round and his pants held tight by an over-extravagant gold buckle. While they walked, he gestured wildly with his right hand and massaged his goatee with his left. “Men and women fleeing Mordan have told us their priest-king holds sway over the dead, and that his soldiers fight with a fanatical zeal. We’ve tried to build our defenses accordingly.”

He led the king through a maze of tents leading to the bridge. Just before the bridge they stepped into and then out of a deep trench.

“In case we have to fall back,” Peleth said.

“I’m no simpleton,” said Bram.

Peleth shrugged and continued on. The bridge itself was a pale imitation of the Gods’ Bridges, but the Corinth was no Rigon River, either. Neither top nor bottom had arches: instead there were seven columns on either side propping up the flat crossing. Despite its name, the bricks were a faded gray.

“We’ve built several lines of defense,” Peleth said, pointing to the palisades of wood wrapped together with rope. “Just a few, and kept them low enough to strike over the tops. It’ll be tough climbing over if we have to retreat, though.”

“Then I suggest we don’t retreat.”

“I don’t expect us to lose the bridge,” Peleth said. “Only reason why I didn’t make a retreat any easier. Like I said, I’ve been talking to these people, and I know what’ll happen. If they’re that damned certain to win, they won’t try to crush us on the bridge. They’ll wade right through the water and to Karak with the casualties. Rain’s been low, and it’ll only go up to their chests.”

“Do we have the men to protect the riverside?” asked Bram.

Peleth gave him a smug grin. “Just you wait until you see what I’ve got waiting for them should they try to cross.”

They left the bridge and went to one side. Bram looked about and was sorely disappointed.

“Where are the palisades along the banks?” he asked. “We have time, and wood from the forest nearby. Why leave the riverside defenseless?”

“Look closer into the water,” Peleth said, his smug grin not at all lessening.

Bram leaned over, but saw only mud and his frowning reflection.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Exactly. I’ve been wanting to try this since that Moore the Red pulled a similar tactic on me up near Lake Cor. Brought me a whole mess of smiths. Follow me.”

He led them back into the camps, toward the heavy sound of hammers. Sure enough, ten master smiths worked around hastily constructed forges, their helpers hurrying to and fro. Bram saw them working on either square plates of iron, or thin spears of metal.

“I don’t like riddles,” Bram said. “What is all this?”

“Here,” Peleth said, reaching past one of the smiths and grabbing a strange object. “Take a hold of this.”

Bram accepted it, and he turned it over in his hands. It was an iron plate, flat and twice the size of his hands. Attached to its center was a four inch barb.

“Watch,” said Peleth, taking it out of his hands and placing it on the ground. He hovered his foot above it, gently letting the tip press against his boot.

“You hope to hamper them when they charge,” said Bram.

“Not just hamper them. I’ve had them working on these nonstop for weeks now. The ore’s low quality, had a stockpile of it for ages wondering what to do with it. These’ll work perfect. They’ll be rushing ahead, all hollering and hoping to catch us by surprise, but then they’ll plant foot on these beauties. They’ll drown, Bram. These won’t let go, and they’re not light. Get a whole mess of men behind, pushing and shoving to move forward, and they’ve got nowhere to go but down into the water. Best of all, no one will have a clue what’s going on until it’s too late.”

Bram grinned at the simplicity.

“Not bad,” he said. “Though I think we should still set up some palisades. How many do you have of these devils?”

“Over a thousand,” said Peleth. “My men have been shoving them into the water night and day.”

“A thousand?” He looked at the contraptions with a whole new respect. “Damn. I’m glad we’re not the ones trying to cross.”

“And don’t you worry about holding that river side,” Peleth said. “I may not look the warlord, but you’ve been treated with silk gloves down in Angkar. Up by the lake, we have the real bandits. You get your knights and hold that bridge, where the fighting is bloody and honorable. Down here in the mud…I got my own plans. My men’ll be ready. I promise you that.”

Bram smiled, clasped the man’s wrist, and pumped it twice.

“This works, I’ll make sure your lands double in size,” he said.

“The other lords won’t like that,” Peleth said.

Bram picked up one of the spike traps and held it before his face.

“The other lords didn’t give me these,” he said.

“S o where are you going?” Harruq asked as he neared.

Jerico winced, and he was glad the half-orc couldn’t see his guilty reaction.

“Was hoping to do this quiet,” he said. “But you’re not one to cooperate just for the sake of being nice, are you?”

Harruq laughed. They stood at Jerico’s campfire near the outer edges of the camp. His tent, however, was conspicuously absent. Instead, all of his supplies were on the paladin’s back, including his shield. Harruq pointed and then waggled his finger.

“I’d say you were trying to run from trouble, but that isn’t like you or Lathaar. So how about you tell me what’s really going on before I start yelling for soldiers to lock you in some stocks until you change your mind.”

“Friends of mine are in trouble,” Jerico said, shifting his pack so it hung more comfortably from his shoulders. “I spoke with several men from Mordan in between their prayers, and let’s say I didn’t like what I heard. People dear to me, people I nearly failed to protect once, are trapped and in danger. I have to help them.”

“And the fight at the bridge?” asked Harruq.

Jerico shrugged. “I’ll try to make it back in time. If not, you’ll have to kill double for me.”

He winced, waiting for a reaction, but instead the half-orc laughed again.

“Far as I know, you haven’t sworn yourself to any king here, so get going. I’d recommend going really, really far south before crossing the river, though. You hear about them spike things they’ve been laying? Not a time for a casual swim, but neither do I think they’d be too keen on you walking over the bridge.”

“Thanks,” Jerico said, and inwardly he sighed with relief. He’d worried Harruq would call him a coward or bring too much attention to his leaving. Even worse, he thought he might run and tell Tarlak. He bowed awkwardly due to the pack, then hurried off.

Of course, he didn’t get far. Less than five minutes later a blue portal swirled open, but instead of the wizard, Lathaar stepped out. Without a word, Lathaar punched him in the chest, hoisted his own pack, and then trudged west.

“That’s for trying to leave me behind,” he said without looking back.

“You were needed back there,” Jerico insisted, feeling like he’d done something wrong even though he was sure he hadn’t. “Someone needed to preach the light of Ashhur to the soldiers before battle.”

“Keziel is my friend as well,” said Lathaar, slowing a little so they could walk side by side. “I know that’s who you’re hoping to rescue. The question is, why? What is going on at the Sanctuary?”

“Two different men told me that Mordan’s priest-king had sent soldiers and priests of Karak to surround the Sanctuary, effectively trapping them inside. They’ve held out, so far as they know, but as for food and water…I won’t let them waste away, not when I have my mace and my shield.”

“And my swords,” said Lathaar. “Those at the crossing will have to make do without us. You’re my brother in arms, Jerico. Don’t try something like this again.”

“Will you punch me again if I do?”

“Yes. And much, much harder. Here’s far enough. Let’s wade across.”

Holding their supplies above their heads, they pushed across the river and into the land of Mordan, where Melorak ruled.