The Death of Promises

17

H arruq stood before the gap in the wall. His head was down, and his hair covered his face. Salvation and Condemnation were at his sides, their tips jammed into the dirt. His eyes stared at the people that fled to him and the safety he had offered. Even in their panic, they made sure not to touch him. Something about him made them stay clear. He did not see, but those that passed stared in admiration or reverence. He was like a deity made of stone.

Several thousand men and woman had fled by the time Harruq saw the first orcs. They were scattered and few, the teeth lining the edge of a gaping maw swallowing his entire city. It was swallowing people he loved. It would not swallow him. The last of the refugees screamed for help, but he did not move. He would not reach them in time, and if he left the gap orcs might escape the city and give chase. So he watched, his heart too calloused, too exhausted, to feel anything more than anger as the innocents were butchered and mutilated before him.

“You will die before you pass,” Harruq said to the first to approach. The orc ignored his words and hefted his two-handed axe above his head. Salvation lashed out and cut his throat in a single, blinding motion. The sword returned to its original position as the body crumpled before him. A second neared. Condemnation cut the axe from his hand, looped around, and disemboweled him. The orc crumpled, gasping out his pain. Harruq saw none of it, heard none of it. A strange anger had settled over him. It was not raging or burning; it did not consume him like so often anger had. Instead he felt it filling his veins like ice. As three orcs charged him, he knew without question they would die by his hand. There would be no pleasure in the killing, no thrill in the act, just a deepening of the strangeness enveloping his mind.

Harruq smashed away the axe aimed for his head, stepped forward, and buried one sword to the hilt in the orc’s gut. His other parried away a thrust so that the orc holding the sword fell forward. Harruq’s elbow turned his nose to a splattered mess of cartilage and blood. He then pulled free his sword and slashed the remaining orc’s neck. Blood poured across the black steel. Four orcs lay dead at his feet. He stared down the street, where more than forty approached. They carried pieces of humans like trophies. His anger strengthened.

“Come and die like the animals you are,” he shouted to them. He held his swords crossed above his head, a glowing ‘X’ that dripped blood. The mass of orcs charged. They had killed many, but not enough. They knew the innocents fled outside the walls. Only Harruq remained in the way. Only Harruq.

He swung with all his strength, the magic in the swords cutting bone like it was dry wheat. He took out the legs of the orc before him, stepped back, and then swung again. Three more fell, their armor broken, their chests and bellies pouring blood across the ground. As the bodies fell they formed a barrier to the others behind, one they had to stumble and climb across. Harruq gave no reprieve and offered no inch of ground. The orcs swung, cut, and bit, but he did not feel the tears in his flesh, did not know of the blood that poured across him. All he knew was the death in the eyes of those he killed, and they were many.

As the last of the forty died or lay dying, Harruq screamed to the morning sky, a single cry of anguish, sorrow, and anger. It echoed throughout the town, intermixing with the sobs of the trapped, the bellows of hatred, and the pitiful weeping of those whose lives now belonged to Karak. Qurrah did not hear the war cry, but he felt it in his heart.

C ome,” Velixar said as the last of the undead marched through the walls. “It is time we entered as the conquerors we are.”

The man in black raised his arms to the heavens, his red eyes rolling into his skull. He opened his mouth and whispered, and his legions of undead obeyed.

Karak! they shouted. Karak! Karak! It rose high from rotted throats and mindless flesh. The walls shook with the cry. All who heard felt the lion’s condemning eyes upon their backs. The dark priests joined the shout, and the lion’s roar traveled for miles. The orcs took up the chant. Those who knelt, forfeiting their souls for their lives, whispered it. The entire city became a writhing cauldron of death, blood, and worship.

Karak! Karak!

But there were still those fighting against him and whose lips worshipped him not, whose hearts followed Ashhur even as they struggled to survive inside the maelstrom.

K arak be damned!” Harruq shouted as he cut down his orcish attacker. “You hear me? Karak be damned!”

He buried his sword deep into the gut of another, so that blood poured hot across his hand and wrist. He yanked out the blade and kicked the body back, another obstacle for the incoming mass. His anger had evolved. He felt it flooding his being with strength, wild and desperate to be used. His focus was no longer the narrow knife edge but instead wide. He saw everything, felt everything, as the battle grew desperate. Fifty more had come, and they charged and howled with wild abandon. Harruq braced himself and prepared for the onslaught, but then he saw they were running out of fear.

Harruq had but a few to massacre. The rest were buried by Sergan and his soldiers.

“Well met gatekeeper,” Sergan said, his enormous axe hefted onto his shoulder. “So what’s the toll? I can’t pay in gold, but I got plenty of orc heads for you!”

Harruq wiped the blood from his weapons and sheathed them. For a brief moment a grin lit up his face.

“Two heads a man, can you pay the toll?” he asked.

“Two? Two! Bah, my men here got nine to a head easy, ain’t that right?”

The soldiers, exhausted and ragged, raised their swords high and cheered.

“Go,” Harruq said. To emphasize this he turned and pointed to the wolf-men charging the fleeing peoples of Veldaren. “They will need you more than I.”

“Hear that?” Sergan shouted. “We got some mutts to kill. Stick tight, and we’ll make it fine!”

He turned back to Harruq, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Are you sure you can hold?”

“Until I’m dead, I’ll hold,” the half-orc replied.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sergan said, but he smiled and saluted. The kindness vanished quick as it came. Shouting with a voice hoarse and dry, he hurried his men on. As the last passed, Harruq drew his swords and placed his back to them. His momentary reprieve was gone. Swarming onto the eastern road were over a hundred orcs. Harruq twirled Salvation and Condemnation, taking comfort in their strength.

“For Karak!” the orcs shouted as they charged.

“And Karak can have you!” Harruq shouted back.

His bravado was not false. He saw the hundred, and he saw them dead. It was his task to make it come to pass. From underneath his armor he pulled out the scorpion pendant Brug had made him and let it dangle from his neck. The pendant flared, its magic increasing the strength of Harruq’s swords. The first to near him lost his head. The second fell with his body in two. The half-orc rushed the army, cutting and chopping with a viciousness beyond anything he had ever known. As the orcs climbed over piles of their dead, he took off their arms and legs, letting them add to the obstacle they tried to pass.

Three orcs ran around the side, where the pile of dead was less, and leapt over seven bodies. They were behind Harruq and beyond his line of sight. But there was one who could see them, one who ran along the rooftops with long gray cloaks trailing behind him. Haern leapt into the air, kicked off the wall, and descended upon the three. Each saber stabbed downward at a neck as he landed. A sweep of his legs took out the third. He cut his neck as he fell, bleeding out the orc before he ever hit the dirt.

Harruq heard the commotion and spun, Salvation lashing out. Haern blocked it with both his sabers, his blue eyes unflinching even as his arms quivered against the half-orc’s amazing strength. Harruq realized who it was, nodded, and then turned back to the horde. Haern joined his side, and together they fought. As the piles of dead grew larger, the orcs pulled back. Their numbers were not enough. Their strength did not match up against the tremendous skill of their opponents. More were coming, however, their numbers building higher and higher. The two watched as the orcs cleared away the dead that blocked their paths.

“How the others doing?” Harruq asked as he gasped for air.

“They live,” Haern said, estimating the forces arrayed against them. As he neared two hundred he stopped bothering. “We will die here, you know that right?”

The half-orc chuckled. “No, I don’t. We’ll hold, Haern. We have no choice.”

The assassin dropped into a stance, one weapon high, one low, as the orcs prepared to charge.

“It’s been an honor to fight beside you, Harruq Tun,” Haern said.

“Aye,” Harruq said. “Die well.”

The orcs arrived, spearheaded by a brave few and followed up by a cowardly many. Haern jumped forward, slicing out the throats of two and tearing at the legs of the third. They fell, trampled by the others. The assassin leapt back, and this time Harruq unleashed a whirlwind of steel. The magical weapons tore through armor, shattered the shafts of axes, and broke the poorly wrought swords. Orc after orc fell dead, often in multiple pieces. With each spin Harruq took a step back, and with each step he left a trail of dead.

“Fall back,” Haern shouted. Harruq did as ordered. Their opponents were too close, and as he retreated several axes cut where he had been. Haern lunged, parrying a few defensive swings before thrusting his sabers through eyes and mouths. Five died, but they were a pittance. The assassin retreated, unable to strike any more. Harruq protected his retreat, hurling a body against those nearest and then charging in. Blood poured across the dirt as he swung with both weapons left, then right, and then left again. Fearful of getting too close, several orcs hurled their axes at him, as well as the axes of the dead.

“Fight on!” Haern shouted, using his sabers to knock down or parry the axes. He leapt over Harruq’s head and landed on the other side, batting away two more throws. His foot shot out, tripping an orc, and then he cartwheeled, his other foot breaking a chin. Axes hurled through the air where he had been. When he touched down he leapt again, avoiding a second barrage. More orcs charged, thinking him on the run. Instead, he activated the magic of his ring and appeared mere inches before them. Two impaled themselves on his sabers. The others trampled over them. Haern screamed as the weight pressed against his body. The dead orcs protected him from their axes and swords, but that mattered little as feet stomped across his face. He tried to activate the magic in his ring to teleport himself out, but the magic for the day was spent. Haern gasped for air, all the while cursing such a death.

“ Get off! ” Harruq screamed, slamming his shoulder into the group. Three flew backwards, the unlucky fourth gurgling as the half-orc tore out his throat with Salvation. Harruq spun, daring them to approach. Haern shoved off the bodies and staggered to his feet. His face was badly bruised, and every breath filled his chest with pain. All around the orcs encircled them, howling and taunting.

“Harruq,” Haern said.

“Yeah?”

“Get down.”

The half-orc obeyed. The two dropped to the ground. Haern screamed as his chest pressed against the dirt, but he would endure. Bright light flashed above them, and then lightning tore through the ranks of orcs, followed by a barrage of lances made of ice. In the span of seconds they were all dead. Harruq stood, stunned by the sight. Down the street came Mira, bits of ice still dripping from her fingers. Behind her were Antonil and his men, as well as the two paladins.

“Well met,” Haern said, bowing to the girl with blackest eyes.

“Form up a line,” Antonil shouted. His men spread across the street, seven deep, their shields interlocked. Lathaar and Jerico stepped beyond them and surveyed Harruq and Haern.

“Do either of you need healing?” Lathaar asked.

“Just my ribs,” Haern said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Healing’s for after the battle,” Harruq said.

Their bruises and cuts denied their words, but the paladins let them be. Harruq stepped past them and saw the line Antonil was forming.

“No,” he said. “No, get them out of the city. Get them out!”

Antonil turned to him and frowned. “And who are you to order me?” he asked.

Harruq stormed over, grabbed Antonil by the top of his chestplate, and yanked him close so that their eyes were inches apart.

“I know you,” Harruq said, his voice quiet but shaking with intensity. “The people of Neldar will need a leader. Go to them. Let us die as we must, but take your men and go. That clear?”

Antonil pushed aside Harruq’s hand, then nodded to the fields beyond the wall. The wolf-men were swarming through the refugees, though it appeared many fought against them. Brief flashes of magic, be it fire or lightning, dotted the battle.

“Protect us as long as you can,” the guard captain said. “And I’ll do my best to ensure you have something to protect.”

Mira slipped past them all and stared out at the battle beyond the city. Her hands shook as she watched. She could feel them dying. Her keen eyes saw many wolf-men avoiding the fight, instead feasting on the slain. Others were circling about, killing those that scattered or dropped off as if it were sport. Deep inside, she felt her power stirring.

“We must hurry,” she said before a sudden blast of wind propelled her across the grass faster than a horse in full gallop. At Antonil’s order, his troops abandoned their wall of shields and marched outside the city. Only Lathaar and Jerico stayed behind.

“For Neldar,” Antonil said, saluting them.

“For Ashhur,” Jerico replied.

The four defenders faced the west. Scores of orcs were dead, and the rest who lived ignored the gap in the wall and instead tore into homes in search of easier victims. The attacking army had been devastated, of that there was no doubt. Still, the remaining orcs were more than enough to slaughter the fleeing peoples of Veldaren. But it wasn’t the orcs that attacked.

Karak! Karak!

Marching down the street, far as they could see, came the undead. They jostled and bumped each other as they walked. Their eyes were lifeless but their voices were not.

Karak! Karak!

“There must be over a thousand,” Haern said, feeling his gut sink.

“But they are dead,” Jerico said, readying his shield. “To my side, Lathaar. You two, stay back until you are needed.”

The paladins weapons glowed a fierce white, and the glow grew all the brighter as Lathaar turned his swords into Elholads.

“You’ve seen many things in your life,” Haern said to Harruq as the undead army approached. “But you have never seen paladins fight Karak’s undead.”

Harruq guarded Jerico’s right flank while Haern guarded Lathaar’s left. The two paladins held their weapons high, their eyes closed, and their mouths whispering prayers to their god.

Karak! Karak!

Lathaar opened his eyes. “Stay with me,” was all he said. He launched himself at the tide of dead flesh and bone. As the blades of light tore through the bodies the undead did not just fall. They shattered as the magic controlling them was scattered and broken. Fast as he could cut them down they came, packed together so tight that a single swing massacred three at a time. As the hands tore at his flesh and teeth bit for his arms, he leapt back. Jerico slammed his shield into the mass, screaming Ashhur’s name. The rotten flesh melted against his shield like butter. He swung Bonebreaker in wild arcs, each blow blasting apart arms and chests. Deep into the army he ran, and when the undead tried to close around him Lathaar was there, cutting them down.

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

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

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

“Amen,” Jerico said.

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

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

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

“Tired of watching yet,” he asked Haern.

“You know I am.”

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

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

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

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

Another hundred fell.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why command them to wait?” Jerico asked.

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

Rise!

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

For Qurrah! For Qurrah!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My hat?” he shouted. “My hair!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We got them running,” the soldier said. “Let’s finish this.”

“Aye,” Sergan said, hoisting his axe onto his back. “Smart words.”

“I’ll agree to that,” Tarlak said, also slapping the general on the back.

“Where the abyss did you come from?” Sergan asked, startled. Tarlak pointed back toward the city.

“You ran by us, remember?”

Before they could say anymore, Mira flew past them. Only the sound of rushing wind marked her passing.

“Who the blazes was that?” Sergan asked.

“Give chase and see,” Tarlak said.

“Wait,” Aurelia said. She walked through the tired men, and despite her exhaustion and wounds the regal sight of an ageless elf fighting alongside the mortal men filled them with hope. When she reached their center she closed her eyes and raised her hands.

“I have one last spell,” she said. All around the men felt their skin tingle. As the spell ended, she collapsed into Tarlak’s waiting hands.

“What’d that do?” Sergan asked.

“March and see,” Tarlak told him.

Sergan gave the order, and to his shock his men raced away like horses, their arms and legs pumping faster than he thought possible.

“You going to follow?” Tarlak asked. Sergan glanced back at the mage, who was cradling Aurelia’s head while she lay on the grass, and then the general realized his own troops were leaving him far behind.

“Wait up!” he shouted. He sprinted, his old bones running faster than they ever had in his youth. Tarlak watched him go. They would reach the wolf-men soon, but not before many innocents were slaughtered. Again they would be outnumbered, and he also knew the effects of Aurelia’s spell. Once it ran out, the soldiers would be exhausted. If they did not kill quickly…

“You better enjoy this nap,” Tarlak said. He shifted his hat and scratched the bald spot on his head. “Because I might need you to wake up and save my ass if those wolves come back.”

T he man pushed his way through the waves of fleeing people. In the distance, he could see Veldaren, now a smoking shell of its former glory. The sound of screams and crying were all around him, but they rolled in greater strength from the trailing end of the masses where the wolf-men fed. Three others followed this man, all attired in red robes and armor. They followed their leader, trusting him with their lives.

“Kill quickly, before they know any challenge them,” the man said. The closest to him, a red-haired girl who would be beautiful but for the brutal scar that had taken her right eye, drew her daggers and smiled.

“Too fast and we won’t get to have any fun,” the girl said.

“Too slow and one of us won’t ever have fun again,” the leader said. He pulled his hood off his head, revealing long black hair that fell past his shoulders. None could see his face, for he wore a pale cloth pulled tight about his features. Only his eyes peered through two holes, the left a dark hazel, the right, a vivid red. The girl couldn’t see, but she knew he was smiling.

“We’ll do it perfect,” she said. “Hate for us to die just when things were getting interesting.”

The four neared the end of the refugees, with only a panicked few men and women in between them and the hounds that chased. The leader dipped his hand into a bag tied to his waist and pulled out a handful of ash. Tilting his head back he scattered the ash across his covered face. Instead of scattering in the wind the ash hovered about his body, held in place by powerful magic. When he lowered his head a haze surrounded it, obscuring his already hidden features.

“No hesitation, and no mercy,” he said as he prepared his magic. His name was Deathmask, leader of the Ash Guild. With his home destroyed, and all his negotiations, contracts, bribes and wealth of his thief empire ruined, he was eager to show the wolf-men just how he had earned his title.

The last of the refugees fled past, and the four stood ready. Deathmask raised his palms to the sky, chanting dark words. A leading pack of ten saw them gathered in a protective circle around their leader, their daggers drawn and their red cloaks flapping in the wind. The foremost howled, and into the air they leapt, determined to crush the sudden resistance.

“Burn for me,” Deathmask whispered, his spell completed. His fingers clenched into fists and then jerked downward. The grass before him cracked and broke as columns of fire tore into the air. Three wolf-men plunged through, whimpering as the flame ignited their fur and blackened their skin. The three guarding Deathmask launched into action as the remaining wolves descended. The lady with the missing eye jumped and collided in the air with her chosen prey. The wolf-men bit and clawed, but she kicked and spun, avoiding every scratch. Just before they struck ground she buried a dagger into each eye, scoring the first kill of the group.

“Behind you, Veliana!” Deathmask shouted. The lady did not check to see, instead trusting her commander. She dropped to her knees and curled down her head. A swirling black ball of molten rock flew above her, courtesy of Deathmask. It struck dead an attacking wolf-man, knocking his jaw clean off. Veliana stood and spun, daggers lashing. More had joined the initial ten, furious at being denied easy kills and feasting. Blood splattered across her from cuts across a surprised wolf-man’s lip and nose. A sharp elbow to his gut doubled him over, and then her daggers finished him.

Smoke swirled around Veliana in a large circle as if escaping from some underground fire. Recognizing the spell, the lady faced her attackers and beckoned them to assault. Seven charged, howling for blood. Deathmask activated his spell as the first crossed the ring of smoke. Lava sliced through grass and formed a wall. Thin as a leaf, the melted rock splashed across the wolf-men, melting their eyelids to their eyes and coating their fur. As they crashed to the ground, howling in pain, the lava hardened, locking their bodies in strange, painful contortions.

The lava wall vanished as quickly as it appeared, but by now the wolf-men had no desire to engage. They leapt straight for Deathmask, who laughed behind the gray haze.

“Mier, Nien, care to keep me alive?” he asked. The remaining two of the four clicked their daggers together and stood side by side in front of their leader. Gray bandanas obscured their mouths and chin, but their brown eyes and black hair were mirror images of the other. Twins by birth, they were also twins in combat. Mier dropped to one knee and swept his leg underneath the first attacker. Nien plunged a dagger through heart before the wolf-man hit the ground. While he pulled his dagger free, Nien spun and slashed the tendon above the heel of a second. This time it was Mier who buried his dagger into the heart of the fallen.

Simultaneously they leapt into the air as three swiped their claws and bit at them. As they spun and their cloaks swirled, eight pairs of throwing daggers flew down, piercing arms and legs. Both landed behind Deathmask, who stood with his palms open. Gray darts shot from his fingers, over a hundred in number. Six wolf-men collapsed as the darts pierced their skin before vanishing into smoke. They bled out and died.

“Little help here?” Veliana shouted, twisting and parrying the claws of two wolf-men that attacked her in a animal frenzy. Numerous cuts lined their bodies, all superficial. As Deathmask whispered a spell, Veliana at last failed a dodge. Claws ripped through the leather armor and across her chest. Blood poured as she screamed and fell back. Nien and Mier hurled daggers as they chased. The wolf-men tensed and guarded against the painful but shallow stings, buying Veliana time. Deathmask slammed his hands together, anger fueling his magic.

“You cut her,” he whispered. His spell needed no semantic components. Just rage. “You cut her and now you’ll bleed.”

A vortex of gray smoke billowed from his mouth, arching through the air like a snake through water. It struck the two wolf-men, and instead of blowing across them it shredded their flesh as if the smoke were made of steel razors. Veliana sheathed one of her daggers and clutched her wounded chest. Deathmask felt his heart skip. The wound must have been deeper than he thought. Nien and Mier ran on, for they saw what Veliana did not: the remaining fifty wolf-men barreling toward her.

“Get back!” Deathmask shouted. The twins heard and obeyed. Veliana had fled too far out. She would need to save herself. Deathmask hurled several orbs of black fire, killing the nearest, but it was too little, too late.

“We could save her!” Nien shouted to his leader.

“They are not that many!” Mier agreed.

“At my side, she knows that,” Deathmask said, his mismatched eyes flaring with anger. “Do not question me.”

Veliana glanced at the wolf-men, saw their closeness, and then turned to Deathmask. She blew him a kiss, then started running for her life. She was the slower, and she should have been caught, but she was not. Mira arrived. Lightning, fire, and ice exploded through the wolf-men’s ranks in a simultaneous barrage that left them devastated. Only a scattered few escaped, fleeing with all their speed toward the safety of the city. Deathmask sighed and pulled the cloth from his face. The people of Veldaren were safe, at least for now.

The four sheathed their weapons and bowed as Sergan and his men approached. They gasped for air, yet still offered a mild cheer.

“They’re safe,” Mira said, staring at the refugees that continued their eastward trek. She smiled at Deathmask. “Thank you.”

“Alright, let’s form up and get an idea what we got,” Sergan said. He smiled when he saw Antonil and his troops in the distance. “Ashhur be praised,” he said.

“Ashhur may not be to blame for this,” Veliana said as she looked upon the smoking rubble of Veldaren. “But he certainly deserves no praise, not this day.”

“Maybe,” Sergan said, “but I’ve got breath in my lungs and a weapon in my hand, so at the least I’ll praise him for that.”

Deathmask chuckled. “Amen, I guess.”