A Sliver of Redemption

22

A urelia endured their awkward stares as she walked across the bridge. While the men of Ker hadn’t been completely responsible for the elven exodus to the east, they’d certainly done nothing to stop it. Even worse, they’d turned down every request for aid throughout the trek from Bloodbrick to the Gods’ Bridges. She knew her kind, already exotic to humans, was even rarer to the men in the land between the rivers. They treated her politely, and she smiled back in return. A few even offered clumsy bows or hurried out of her way. No doubt they knew of her magic, her vital role in defending them. Would she earn their respect? Even with its walls, doors, archers, and Eschaton, Veldaren had fallen to the onslaught of Karak. Would they do any better, here with a shallow river and a bridge?

“Lovely as ever,” said one of the men in charge of reinforcing the bridge’s barricades. His smile grew underneath his lengthy mustache and beard.

“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head slightly and curtseying to the compliment. The man blushed and returned to his work.

Beyond the final barricade she stood alone, staring off to the distant fields. She knew, if she followed the river northeast, she’d reach Lake Cor, and then, nestled against it, the burned remnants of her homeland. For a fleeting moment she considered visiting those ruins of Dezerea, to walk where she had been raised, to put her hands on the charred trunks that had once held aloft her home. Perhaps enough time had passed for new trees to begin sprouting, and the grass to return to the forest floor. But what point was there in hurting herself with memories? The past was a flood of pain and sadness. Her homeland, her parents, her only child…

“Please,” she whispered, though to whom she did not know. Perhaps Celestia. “Don’t forget about us now.”

There, at that bridge, her parents had made their stand alongside the greatest spellcasters of their time. Tens of thousands of troops had marched against them, held back for days by the slaughter. The rest of the elves, herself included, had escaped because of their sacrifice, and a heavy one it had been. The magical bloodlines of elves, already thin, had nearly vanished. She was one of the rare few remaining with the gift, and now here she stood. Once more the gift of elven magic might die upon the Bloodbrick.

She’d heard the stories about that battle years later, always filtered to them through humans that had survived. Part of her still regretted never coming back to help them. She’d been young then, especially for an elf. Perhaps she could have tipped the balance. Perhaps she could have held the line long enough for some to escape, her father, her mother…

“Uh, miss?” said one of the builders, breaking her thoughts. “Miss, your husband’s looking for you.”

She glanced back to see Harruq on the far side of the bridge, and she heard him call out her name as he spun about. One of the soldiers pointed him her way, and she crossed her arms and looked to the distance as he approached.

“Started worrying you’d left me,” he said as he slid his arms around her.

“Just hoping to get a bit of quiet,” she said.

“So you stood near the men with hammers and saws?”

She kissed his cheek and hoped he’d let the matter die. He did, but switched it to something just as upsetting.

“This is where they died, isn’t it?” he asked.

She tensed in his arms, then felt ashamed. He held her tighter, and she relaxed and put her head against his neck.

“Ten against thousands,” she said. “If only I were as strong as them. In a single day I could send our enemies fleeing back to Mordeina.”

“Wasn’t there,” Harruq said. “So I can’t say whether or not that’s true…but I know you’re as brave as they were, as noble, and most certainly prettier.”

“You never saw my mother,” she said, but she kissed him for the compliment anyway.

They both quieted and stared to the distance. With their sensitive eyes, they saw the smoke of many campfires drifting lazily to the sky.

“Less than a week,” he said.

“If that.”

“We’ll defeat them when they arrive. We’ve faced worse and won.”

She chuckled.

“When?” she asked. “Kinamn was massacred. Veldaren crumbled. The angels are the only reason we survived at Mordeina.”

“Well this is rather gloomy, especially for you.”

He kissed the top of her head, and she sighed. He was right, of course. Normally she tried to keep her emotions above such pessimism, but this bridge was different. It remained a symbol throughout her race, of how they were forever outnumbered, forever persecuted, and doomed to die no matter how strong they might be and how many they might kill. They lived in mankind’s world. Celestia’s blessing was slowly leaving their clerics, and her gift of magic had dwindled in their bloodlines. Was there any future for them in Karak’s world?

“We have to win,” she said. “We fall here, and our hope is gone. The angels are just a reprieve. No more miracles await us. Come Karak’s paradise, men and elves will be slaves at best. How did we come to this, Harruq? How did we sink so far? What happened to this world?”

“Questions with no answers,” he said.

“No,” she said, wrapping her arms around his and holding him tight. “Too many went unstopped: King Baedan, Velixar, Tessanna, King Vaelor. The cowards have ruled, the strong have remained silent, and Karak’s pets ruin everything they touch. Your brother was the first, don’t you see that? He was the first we’ve saved.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. “I was the first. And because of you. Only you. And you’ll save us again. You’ll stand here with us and show mankind the strength and honor of the elves. Now come. Tarlak’s prepared some sort of game for us to play to help get your mind off all this drudgery.”

“Shouldn’t we help them build?” she asked.

He laughed, and the warm sound soothed her fears and pushed away her sadness to the past.

“We’ll help enough,” he said. “When the blood starts to spill, we’ll be there in the thick of it. I may not wield magic like you and Tar, but my blades will drink their fill.”

N othing could have prepared Olrim for the bittersweet joy in controlling Karak’s army. The thrill he felt in planning, sending out scouts, and giving orders to his generals was undeniable. Matching in its frustration, however, were the conflicting reports, petty squabbles, struggles for food and supplies, and the overall headaches induced by cramming so many different men into a single cohesive unit.

“We’re ready to march,” said Gregor Black, one of his generals. He was the most insistent in his abilities to aid Olrim. No doubt Gregor felt him unprepared for his new position.

“We were supposed to be ready twenty minutes ago,” Olrim said. “What excuse do you have this time?”

“It’s the damn men from the Craghills,” said Gregor. “They’d sheathe their swords in their asses if I let them.”

Olrim sighed. Of course, Gregor had been born on the opposite side of Mordan from the Craghills. He’d heard plenty of opinions from both geographic areas while listening to confessions prior to the war. It seemed war did not unite like he had hoped, only invited more reasons to use the excuses.

“I don’t care,” Olrim said. “Get them marching. We’re almost to the Corinth. Once we cross the river, we’ll set up camp while the rest of the wagons catch up. From there we’ll scorch the earth on the way to Angkar, and pillage whatever food we need until we reach the ocean. Then we’ll see if Bram is willing to talk peace, or if we must starve him out of his castle.”

“Of course,” said Gregor. “Ker has rarely rebelled against us, and never have they survived a siege by the Mordan army. There is little to fear in their military might. Only their angels might give us pause, damned winged men. No place on a battlefield for the likes of them.”

“Give the order to march,” Olrim said. “If there are winged men to fight, you let me worry about dealing with them.”

In their second hour of march, they saw the first angel scout. The angel hovered high above, his golden armor glittering in the morning light. There was little doubt that he came from the crossing.

“Keep the men tight together,” Olrim told Gregor. “I don’t want anyone vulnerable to an ambush. With their wings, they might strike from anywhere.”

“Of course, sir,” said Gregor.

By the third hour, Bloodbrick Crossing was in view, its surface covered with fortifications and soldiers. All along the opposite bank stretched several thousand men. Into the air went battalions of angels, flying in steady circle formations that greatly exaggerated their numbers. Olrim joined his priests, seeking their opinions.

“Save our spells for Ashhur’s warriors,” said one of the elders. “They are our only true threat. We set a trap for them, yes. A trap they will never expect.”

“We cannot delay,” said another. “If Antonil is with them, he might foster rebellion in our own troops. Our generals might turn to this former king in hopes he will be a weaker ruler than Melorak.”

“And what of our paladins?” Olrim asked.

“Wait until the first great bloodshed has ended,” said the elder. “Then send in our paladins to lead the way.”

The wisdom seemed sound, and the others agreed. Olrim returned to the front and ordered them on. They marched with one eye to the sky, always wary of a surprise attack by the angels. No attack came. They reached the crossing without incident. Only five hundred yards away, they stopped and set up camp.

“I’ve got the other generals preparing their groups,” Gregor said. “If we pelt the bridge with arrows, we can charge while they clear away the dead. Then our archers can rain upon their reinforcements. Once we push through to the other side, nothing can stop us but those angels.”

“We outnumber them fivefold,” said Olrim. “Why should we bottle ourselves up on the bridge?”

Gregor harrumphed as if he were asked a question by a child.

“The bridge might be rough going, but it is still an even fight. What else might you suggest, wading across the water? Nonsense. They can kill us no faster than we can kill them on the bridge, but the river is a different game, priest. Wet and helpless, they’ll cut us down by the hundreds as we try to emerge on the other side.”

“They don’t have anywhere near enough to guard both sides,” Olrim said. “How long can they hold the bridge? Two days? Three? The angels only complicate things further. We must win, and now.”

“Why this mad rush?” asked Gregor. “Why sacrifice certain victory days from now for a costly risk today? This is foolishness.”

Olrim dared not mention Antonil’s name. Melorak had spread word to the land that Antonil had perished. For him to return…where might Gregor’s loyalties lie? What of the other generals who served under him, or the other nobles fighting with him?

“This army is under my command,” Olrim said. He pointed to the crossing. “Send in our men. When there is no room at the bridge, send the rest into the water. Let them see the full might of Karak.”

“As you wish,” Gregor said, slapping an arm against his chest and bowing. Olrim felt the disrespect dripping off him, but he let it slide. Melorak trusted him with victory, and victory is what he would bring. With such a massive assault, there was no way the angels could tip the scales in their favor. They would be too few, and with him and his priests assaulting their every move with spells, they would accomplish little.

Feeling the excitement building in his chest, he smiled and laughed. Let it all out, he thought. The battle approached. Ker would fall to the Lion, and he would be the one to reap the honor and spoils.

T hey’d been given the basics of King Henley’s plan, but Ahaesarus had an inkling that the king kept something hidden from him. He hovered just above the bridge as the rest of the angels flew in their circular formations. Mordan’s army prepared so close, and he watched the great mass of soldiers sharpen their swords, polish their shields, and ready their bows.

“So many,” Judarius said, hovering beside him.

Ahaesarus nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel fear, not for death. He’d seen the other side, had felt the light of the Golden Eternity on his skin. But for the humans? For those slowly dying in Karak’s fist? He feared for them. He knew the price they’d pay for a loss at the crossing. Thulos had conquered a thousand stars. If he escaped from this one, he’d continue on with his destruction. It needed to end. If Ashhur was kind, he would be the one to end it.

“They wish us to ensure they hold the bridge,” Judarius said. “What a waste. Without open spaces, our skills are limited. Why not crash into the rear of our enemy’s formations? Or the priests, why not kill them?”

“They’ve proven resourceful and clever when it comes to warfare, Judarius, more so than us. We are not perfect.”

“Neither are they.”

Ahaesarus stretched his wings, falling a short distance as he did. A single powerful thrust and he shot back up to Judarius.

“If we cannot trust them, how can we expect them to govern themselves, protect one another, and live the life Ashhur desires them to live?” he asked.

Judarius shrugged. “Forget it, then. We will follow their orders, though I wonder how we became their servants instead of the other way around.”

He flew over to join in the formations of flying, and Ahaesarus let him go without saying a word. He understood his frustrations, even if he did not approve. Judarius was the strongest and most skilled angel when it came to warfare. To have him obey the orders of men he could defeat without effort, and who had not once set foot in Ashhur’s presence, surely burned. It was no secret he had been terribly upset by his repeated defeats by the half-orc warrior, either.

“Not perfect,” Ahaesarus said as he drew his sword. “Such a terrible lesson to learn.”

He thought the priest-king’s army might send someone forth to negotiate, but as the front lines tightened, and the soldiers funneled toward the crossing, it seemed they were too eager for war.

“Banner carriers!” he shouted. Three angels flew beside him, each holding a colored banner to issue instructions to the rest of the angels.

With them ready, he waited and watched the fight begin from his vantage point in the sky. Footmen charged the foremost barrier near the edge of the bridge, using their shields to protect them from the swords that lashed out above the barricade. Bram’s defenders fought well, and they held their ground in the bloody chaos that erupted. The few who fell were immediately replaced, their bodies shoved into the water.

Ahaesarus frowned as he watched a twin blast of fireballs leap from their side of the river toward Karak’s forces. The work of Aurelia and the yellow wizard, Tarlak, he was certain. But instead of erupting in a great devastation of fire, the spells sizzled and puffed, their power gone. The angel looked further back, to the line of priests behind the approaching soldiers. They held their arms high and wailed prayers at the top of their lungs. No doubt they’d cast protections of some sort. If the priests countered their magical assault, one of their few advantages was gone.

“Ready Judarius’s squad,” he told his banner carriers. Two of the three raised their banners high and waved them side to side. One of the larger groups pulled free from the formations and like a river of gold and flesh dived for Ahaesarus.

“The priests!” Ahaesarus shouted as they neared. He pointed to the line, protected by dark paladins. “Take them out, or distract them until our casters go unchecked.”

Judarius saluted, an enormous grin on his face. Into the most dangerous part of battle he was being sent, and against the original plans of the humans. No doubt for him, this had been the best outcome possible.

“For Ashhur!” Judarius shouted, lifting his two-handed mace high and then leading his hundred into the fray. They looped once and then dropped, swooping with near reckless speed. Ahaesarus crossed his arms and waited, a strange worry stirring in his gut. The priests were in the open, unguarded. He saw dark paladins nearby, yet they did not protect their most valuable leaders. Something was wrong, but what? Why did they not cast a spell as Judarius approached?

And then the angels hit. They shredded the robes and tore through the priests…who were not priests at all, but illusions of dust that scattered at the mere touch of their weapons. The angels started to bank into the air, but they were still low to the ground, and now in the open. From within the ranks of the footmen, men in plain clothes stepped out, their hands outstretched. The worry in Ahaesarus’s gut turned to full blown horror.

A barrage of shadow flew toward them, compacted into bolts that seeped into their skin and sent their muscles into wild spasms. As they tried to bank around, the ground cracked, and fire erupted from the deep chasms of the world. The first few barreled straight through, and the screaming bodies that emerged on the other side were terrible to behold. The rest streaked higher and higher. One by one angels fell, their wings withering to dust. By the time they reached safety beyond the river, the soldiers of Karak were cheering. Of the initial five-hundred, only four-hundred returned.

“Where is Judarius?” Ahaesarus asked as they rejoined the ranks.

“I am here,” said Judarius, curling in his wings and dropping down so they could speak face to face. Ahaesarus put his hand on the warrior’s shoulder, then let him go.

“Such cowardice!” Judarius snarled.

“They are clever, devious, and vicious,” Ahaesarus said. “Catch your breath, and combine with Ataroth’s angels. Go swiftly. We are still needed!”

The proud warrior accepted the orders, then flew away. Ahaesarus turned his attention back to the battle. During the brief skirmish between the angels and priests, it seemed Aurelia and Tarlak had managed to score a few good hits. Fire burned along the far riverside, and amid their forces he saw a gap, and in its center was a great boulder of ice. Their latest attacks fizzled and dissipated, however, the priests’ protections once more established.

Meanwhile the fighting intensified against the first barrier. The footmen had to climb atop their own dead, but the height was enough so they could stab over the wall, and several leapt across, knocking down men and pushing aside a small space that others could follow. The defenders always surrounded and slaughtered them, but each time it took them longer, and each time more made it over. If they were to hold instead of retreating to the second wall, they would need reinforcements soon.

“I want Ataroth’s assault to be against the…” he started to tell his banner carriers, then stopped. A collective roar swept across the river, and then en masse the entire army surged forward, splitting into two groups, one on either side of the bridge. When they reached the river they never even slowed.

“Milord, your orders?” asked the banner angel to his left.

“Wait,” he said. “We watch and wait. If either side, or the crossing itself, falls then all is lost. Find where we are the weakest, then descend. Make sure they are ready!”

Feeling every muscle in his body tighten, he watched the soldiers wade across the river. To make matters worse, the footmen attacking the bridge pulled back, and onward came twenty paladins of Karak, their blades burning with dark fire as they held them high.

“With me!” he cried, seeing the turn of events. “Ataroth, watch for a break in the lines. Terah, Solom, with me!”

He curled his wings in and dived, trusting them to follow. The priests were ready for the attack, for a barrage of over thirty bolts of shadow crackled through the air toward them. Ahaesarus spun, narrowly avoiding them. From the screams of pain behind him, he knew many were not so lucky. The paladins also saw their approach, and they braced themselves for the crash. Ahaesarus let his sword lead the way, and then with a horrific screech of metal, they collided.

The black fire burned his flesh, and he felt pain spike up and down his wings. He swung his sword in circles, hacking and cutting. More and more angels slammed in beside him, some even rolling through the lines with their wings curled against their bodies. Such valiant sacrifices…Ahaesarus blocked a chop of an ax, stepped closer, and then rammed an elbow into the face of the paladin. Down came his sword, finishing him off. An arrow of fire struck the blade as he pulled it back, and he looked up to see the priests approaching. Fire and shadow flew in waves, and the angels had no protection against it.

“Retreat!” he cried, taking to wing. He felt a blast of fire roll across his arm, only for an instant before he was soaring through the air, but long enough. He gritted his teeth to hold in a scream as he flew to the river. A glance back showed Terah’s group had endured the worst of the assault, losing ten men under the attack. The dark paladins were destroyed, however, which meant the bridge still had a chance.

He flapped higher, then risked a glance at his arm. Patches of his skin were black, and pieces of his armor had melted against his flesh. Come nightfall, the pain would be immense trying to remove it. Assuming they were still alive by nightfall. Fearing the worst, he looked to the river, but was stunned by what he saw. Hundreds of bodies floated in the water. The enemy soldiers attempting to cross clearly struggled against something, and as he watched he saw many drown, pushed underwater by the men behind them. Those defending the river, while lightly armored, proved more than a match. They wielded long spears and thrust them into the water, stabbing Karak’s soldiers long before they might reach the edge.

Ataroth was yet to join a side, so Ahaesarus flew to him in his position high above the bridge.

“Might they hold?” he asked.

“The humans put traps in the water,” said Ataroth. He pointed to the bank. “They’re too slow wading in their armor. The spearman are finding them easy prey. Already the rest retreat. Such poor tactics were a gamble, and we have made them pay dearly.”

“How many?”

“At least two thousand,” said the angel. “Perhaps more. We choke the river with the dead.”

Ahaesarus looked to the camp stretching for hundreds of yards on the other side of the river.

“Not enough,” he said. “They’ll push back to the bridge and forsake the water. With all their might pressing forward, we will find…Archers! Get back!”

They retreated as arrows sailed into the air, traveling much farther than he ever could have expected. Several angels fell, while others dripped blood atop the bridge’s combatants as they flew to safety. Over a thousand archers readied for another barrage, safely surrounded by footmen and guarded by the priests of Karak as they chanted and worshipped their dark god.

“Shields up!” came the cry from the men on the bridge. Arrows rained down upon them, and the noise was terrible to hear. Shouts of pain and anger followed. The army pushed into the bridge, emboldened by the archers’ success. Another rain came down, and the beams of magic that shot toward the archers hit a spherical shield and splashed against it, unable to penetrate. More thuds, more wood and steel hitting shields, and more cries of death and blood.

“They can’t hold against that,” said Judarius, joining Ahaesarus to watch. “We have to take out those archers!”

“The priests guard them,” he said. “And they have footmen around them in a wall. The moment we charge, those arrows will turn on us, not them.”

“But why else are we here?” asked Judarius. “We do what they cannot. We bleed so they might live. Hundreds of us will die. So be it. What chance do they have if the archers go unchecked?”

He watched as another volley fell upon the men on the bridge. What choice did they have?

“Get ready to give the order,” he said.

Banners lifted and spun. As the angels gathered, another volley descended upon the shields of the men. Footmen climbed over their own dead to cross the first barrier. Trumpets called below, and then the defenders abandoned the first wall. The attackers did not chase immediately, instead waiting for one more volley to land. Ahaesarus winced, but the expected slaughter did not happen. Instead the arrows bounced back as if hitting a clear wall of glass.

“Delay the order,” Ahaesarus said.

“Why?” asked Judarius. In answer, he pointed to where Aurelia and Tarlak stood side by side, their hands glowing a soft white.

“They’ve begun to protect against the arrows instead of wasting their energies attacking.”

“Then what of the priests? Might they begin their own attack?”

Ahaesarus crossed his arms, and his body rose and fell as he thought.

“They’ll test the defenses and watch us, and we’ll do the same. They suffered greatly because of their haste crossing the river. Let us see if they try such a gamble again.”

With his excellent eyes, he watched the fight on the bridge. It seemed Karak’s soldiers were struggling worse against the second wall than the first. Then he saw the half-orc in the thick of things, and he understood why. Harruq raged like a beast, his swords red blurs as they tore through armor and flesh. He’d seen him spar his angels, but never in full fury. He glanced at his own two-handed sword and wondered how he’d fare in straight combat against that berserk. Not well, he thought.

Harruq bolstered those around him, and they did their best to keep up with his relentless assault. From behind the front lines came Lord Peleth’s men with their spears, no longer defending the riverside after the disastrous attack upon it. They stabbed over and between their allies, braced tight so the attacking surge of troops continuously impaled themselves on the spearheads. Only Harruq went without aid, for he needed the space to hack and swing.

“The wall is impeding him,” Ahaesarus wondered aloud. “What could he do in open battle?”

Judarius smirked and said nothing.

Bolts of shadow splashed across the Eschaton’s shield, making it shimmer momentarily into view. Men rotated in and out from the front line, Bram doing everything he could to keep them rested. Karak’s men surged forward without hesitation, never once slowing. Ahaesarus shook his head. The crossing was certainly earning its name this day.

“The priests,” Judarius said, pointing to where they gathered. “They prepare a spell, but what?”

“Whatever it is, the cost is tremendous,” said Ahaesarus. Twenty bodies lay slain before them, soldiers sacrificed so their blood might be used in the casting of the spell. “They can’t break their concentration. Our time to attack is now.”

“I will take the archers,” Judarius insisted. “You lead against the priests.”

“Very well. Go quickly, and may Ashhur protect us both!”

Beside him, his banner carriers relayed the orders. In moments they had split into two groups, branching like rivers toward their respective targets. The archers saw, and Ahaesarus twirled through the barrage that met their charge. Arrows pinged off his armor, and two sliced his flesh, but none pierced deeply. Saying a prayer for those behind him without such luck, he led the dive toward the priests. With his sword leading, he aimed for the closest and swung.

The angels crashed through the priests, and this time they were no illusion, no phantom magic. Blood soaked the ground as they pulled up toward the sky, arrows chasing them. When he reached safety from the arrows, he glanced back to see the results.

Half the priests lay dead, but the other half had finished their chant. Lions made of fire and shadow leapt from the sacrificial dead, pawing the ground and snarling eagerly. Ahaesarus thought they would leap for the bridge, but then long, bony wings stretched out of their backs, their feathers billowing strands of darkness like smoke. Nearby Judarius continued his assault on the archers, encircling them and hacking down their footmen guards.

“Retreat!” he screamed. The lions leapt to the air, trails of smoke billowing behind them as they flew for Judarius’s angels. Ahaesarus took his men to the air above the bridge and set up a perimeter.

“Wait until they arrive,” he shouted. “When they do, the lions shall not pass. They shall not!”

His angels saluted with their weapons. Hovering, waiting, they watched as Judarius turned, his hundred angels attempting to follow. The lions slammed into them, raking their chests with claws and biting at their vulnerable wings. With the combined weight they could not fly, and the lions roared as they slammed the angels to the ground. The few that survived the fall died instantly after, swarmed by footmen.

The lions leapt again, chasing after Judarius and the rest.

“Wait!” Ahaesarus screamed. “Wait for them!”

The angels flew past the line. Ahaesarus readied his sword. The lions neared. They were enormous, twice the size of a man. Fire shone from their eyes, and when they opened their mouths to roar, they saw lava burning deep within their throats. Closer. And closer.

“Now!”

They met the lions head on, swords and maces swinging. Molten blood splashed across them. Fangs tore into flesh. Ahaesarus’s blade pierced the belly of one, and as it fell it roared up at him, breathing fire. He twisted his blade, protecting himself against most of it. That which got through splashed across his neck, and he screamed at the pain. Channeling it into strength, he turned and slashed another in half, kicking the lion’s head away so that its final death roar burned only air. Holding his sword in one hand, he clutched his charred neck with the other and struggled to breathe.

“Azariah?” he cried out. He felt his head start to swim, and was unsure of where he flew. “Azariah, where are you?”

“Come with me,” said an angel, grabbing him by the arm. Together they flew, back to the riverside. Ahaesarus felt his knees tremble, and upon landing he lacked the strength to stand.

“Cursed blood,” he heard another say. A hand pressed against his neck, and the pain stabbed deep into him, far greater than any mortal wound. White light flooded his eyes, and he let that sight soothe him. The sickness left him, the strength in his legs returned, and, feeling made anew, he stretched his wings and took in his surroundings.

They were behind the human forces. Azariah’s priests walked about the clearing, tending to the wounded that came to them from the front. Azariah himself attended him, and he looked to his leader with guarded worry.

“I am fine,” Ahaesarus said, seeing that expression and wishing nothing more than to banish it. “Do not worry for me.”

“The lions’ fire is a foul creation of Karak,” said Azariah. “You are lucky Ataroth brought you to me in time.”

Ahaesarus realized who it was that had brought him back, and he saluted the angel.

“You’d have done the same for me,” Ataroth said.

“Who commands your angels?”

“I left Zekiel in charge. It should have been Judarius, but…”

He pointed to where the angel lay. Ahaesarus felt his heart shake. Judarius had been bathed head to chest by the fire, his armor melted to his flesh, half his hair gone. His eyes were closed, and even the lids were scarred black.

“He lives?” Ahaesarus asked.

“For now,” said Azariah, glancing at him. “I will attend to him when I can, but there are too many, and more come even now.”

Soldiers carrying friends and comrades approached, the wounded bleeding and sobbing in their arms. Ahaesarus’s heart went out to them, even though he knew he should numb himself to their pain. There was too much about him, too much blood, too many wounds, and far too many dead.

“How many archers?” he asked Ataroth.

“We killed a third before the lions came, not counting the footmen that fell before us to protect them. Come, let us survey the battle, if you are strong enough to take wing.”

Ahaesarus wasn’t sure, but he knew he could not show weakness, not now. He grabbed Ataroth’s wrist to be sure, and then together they flew above the crossing. Indeed, half the archers had fallen, and those that remained had gathered farther back. They’d ceased their volleying, no doubt because of the Eschaton’s shield. The priests looked to be discussing something, though what he could only imagine. As for the soldiers, they had pulled back. For now, the battle had ceased.

“Both sides have suffered tremendous casualties,” Ataroth said. “They suffered greater, but I fear they have far more than we to lose.”

“The river runs red with both our blood,” Ahaesarus said. “This is no victory.”

“Nightfall comes. Perhaps we can assault under cover?”

Though the idea might be worth considering, Ahaesarus winced at the thought. He’d lost so many angels already. Could he risk losing more?

Of course he could. They were all dead men, clinging to a desperate hope for a miracle.

“Tonight we rest,” he decided. “We need to be ready, though. They might try an assault of some sort at night. And what of the elf and the wizard? Can they protect us all through the night and day?”

Ataroth’s look said enough. Of course not. And Karak had enough men to harry them every hour. They would get no rest. Sheer exhaustion would defeat them.

“What else is there to do?” he asked. “We kill until we die. That is our fate.”

Feeling defeat tugging at his heart, he watched as the elf slipped through the lines until she stood before the first wall, which the attackers had surrendered during their retreat to safety.

“What is Aurelia doing?” he asked. “What if the priests…”

He stopped as the very ground seemed to groan.

“What is going on?” asked Ataroth.

“I don’t know,” said Ahaesarus. They could only watch and see.

Lightning crashed, so bright that spots swam before his eyes. The earth cracked before Aurelia, and the sound was as if the spine of the world had broken. Karak’s soldiers readied their weapons as the priests prepared spells, no doubt protections against the sudden onslaught. Fire leapt from the river, crawling as if it were alive. It took shapes, those of strange beasts with four arms and no faces. The creatures crawled upon the ground, burning everything beneath them. A wind tore in from the south, gusting so strong that Ahaesarus feared he might fall.

“This isn’t possible!” Ataroth shouted. “She can’t be that powerful!”

The elf raised her arms. The ground heaved, cracking and splitting in a thousand places. Onward the fire creatures crawled. All around the lightning struck, each bolt the size of several trees lashed together. The thunder boomed, strong enough to make his heart quake. It seemed the very end of the world had come, focused before the army of Karak. The sky opened, and from it great blasts of white magic struck the ground, tearing open chasms that stretched to the very depths of the Abyss.

Against such an onslaught, the various generals did what any sane man would do: they gave the order to retreat.

The fire rose higher from the river, a great wall that seemed to stretch to the sky. It rolled forward, sweeping up the flame creatures and carrying them on. Horses panicked and fled. The priests cast protection spells, but their magic failed to even alter the path of the destruction. Great boulders of ice slammed into the gap between the armies, forming craters that stretched for hundreds of yards as the ground roiled beneath. Further and further the army fled as the spells gave chase. The last to leave were the priests, who hurled bolts of shadow behind them as they fled, which did nothing.

“What manner of devilry is this?” Ahaesarus asked. “No mortal is that strong. Come with me, Ataroth. I must find out.”

The angels dived, then eased up carefully onto the bridge. The soldiers cheered, but it was subdued, as if they too were in awe of the broken wasteland before them. Aurelia stood before them, her arms raised. Tears ran down her face from her closed eyes. Ahaesarus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He felt as if he were witnessing something terribly private and feared to interrupt.

“Awesome, wasn’t it?” Tarlak asked, pushing through the soldiers and joining them on the bridge. Harruq ran with them, and he hurried to his wife. When he wrapped his arms around her, she looked to him and smiled. Her hands lowered. Throughout the crossing, a gentle breeze blew.

“I must hear an explanation,” Ahaesarus insisted.

“The memories,” Aurelia said, but her tears overwhelmed her again. She clung to her husband.

“It was my fault, really,” Tarlak said, jumping in to help her. “When we couldn’t penetrate the priests’ defenses, I remarked how I wished we could have had her parents and their kin to help us. And that’s just what she did.”

“Memories,” Aurelia said again, composing herself. “Just the memories of the past.”

A breeze blew again, stronger, and as if blowing away sand from a glass, the illusion before them broke. The shattered ground became smooth. The ice and fire faded like stars before the sun. Broken trees became erect, and the chasms unearthed closed and were made whole.

“It wasn’t real,” Ahaesarus said, stunned.

“I wasn’t here,” Aurelia said, wiping tears from her face. “But the memories lingered. I finally saw, felt the power they commanded. I let everyone see what had transpired. I let everyone see what we once were capable of, before mankind slaughtered our strongest and best. I’m what’s left, and I am nothing compared to them. Illusions and smoke, that is all.”

“But they fled!” Harruq said, and he squeezed her in his arms. “Surely you can take pride in that.”

“She should,” said Ataroth. “We will prepare just in case they return. Let’s clear the dead, rebuild the walls, and perhaps add a trench or two on the opposite side of the bridge.”

“If they return, they won’t fall for such a ruse again,” said Ahaesarus.

“Then we’ll give them a taste of Aurelia’s real power,” Harruq said, and he smiled through their worry and sorrow for the dead. “None can stand against us, right?”

“Sure thing,” Tarlak said. His look to Ahaesarus said otherwise.