Turalyon had shivered a little. "Danath . . ." he had begun.
Danath had waved it aside. "I've no death wish," he said, "don't worry about that. I want to get home one day, and to bring these boys home with me. I don't want to write one damned more letter that begins "It is with deepest sympathy.''
Turalyon had gripped his second-in-command's shoulder and nodded. Danath would hold the orcs long enough for the second force to crash upon them like a tidal wave.
Kurdran and his gryphon riders, along with Khadgar and some other magi, would be ready to be part of that wave. Turalyon would miss the mage's presence — they had been together throughout the Second War, and it would feel strange to go to battle without Khadgar by his side. But if all went well they would meet up and celebrate their victory.
Now he waited in the chill predawn for the signal. Danath's group had gone around and would be attacking from the rear with horses and loud shouts while Turalyon's group had moved carefully, quietly, on foot to a place close enough to see the signal but far enough away that the night still hid them. He gazed at the citadel, at the mile-long, solid wall that encased it. At intervals along that wall, huge braziers burned sullenly, casting just enough illumination to show the barest hints of the iron spikes that adorned the citadel. Jagged, powerful, dark — the building had a vivid presence. Turalyon somehow felt that not only would they need to defeat the orcs within its walls — the living ones and the death knights — but they'd have to defeat the citadel itself. It was an utterly hideous place, angular and organic at the same time, as if it were some massive beast whose flesh had melted in places to expose the sharp bones that had given it form.
He stared at the watch towers until his eyes ached from the strain. There… one of them had gone out. And then been relit. Once the final light had been doused and relit, Turalyon heard the sound of human voices raised in a battle shout and the thunder of hooves. He wanted desperately to charge in, but he forced himself to wait. The rangers would need time and the opportunity to get to the gate, and that would only come when the orcs manning it had been called to fight Danath's men.
Every second was agony. Finally, when he heard the sound of weapons clashing and the bellow of orc war cries mixing with those of his men, he knew the moment had come. Turalyon lifted his hammer and raised it to eye level, where its dull metal head caught the early morning light.
"May the Holy Light grant us strength." he said quietly, and those gathered around him nodded, a murmur spreading among them as his hammer began to shine and then to glow from within. "May it guide us in this endeavor, leading us to victory, to honor, and to glory." For an instant the hammer seemed composed of white light. Then that light burst outward, washing across them all in a wave, and Turalyon knew the others felt the same strength and peace he did. A faint aura clung to the hammer and to each of them, outlining them against the red rock all around, and he smiled at this open sign of the Light's blessing.
Turalyon led his men at a fast lope toward the wall. The citadel loomed before them, and the closer they came, the more oppressive and mammoth it grew. He could see the gate now looking like a mouth in a hideous face.
And then, right when he was wondering if he had mistimed the charge, the gate began to open.
"She did it," one of the men whispered.
"Of course she did," Turalyon said softly. "She's Alleria Windrunner." Light, how he loved her.
They were not the only ones who had noticed the gate opening, however. Even as Alleria and her rangers darted forward to join with Turalyon's group, a handful of orcs raced after them. Turalyon caught a glimpse of Alleria's golden hair in the faint light, and he sped up, breaking into a full run. His hammer rose almost of its own accord and began to glow again, a gleaming white light held high above his head. That caught one orc's attention, and the creature turned toward him instead of the rangers. It charged, and for a moment he thought it weaponless and mad — until he saw the scythe that served the creature for a hand.
"For the Sons of Lothar!" the paladin cried, tongue liberated as the need for stealth evaporated. He brought the hammer crashing down, crushing the orc's skull. Even as the first orc dropped, Turalyon hauled his weapon back around, striking a glancing blow to one in front of him before smashing an orc two paces over with his full strength. Another orc raced toward them, but an arrow suddenly protruded from its left eye and it toppled without a sound. A fifth snarled and swung the heavy club at its side, but Alleria leaped forward, ducked the blow, and thrust, her sword blade piercing the green-skinned creature's throat and emerging from the back of its head. Turalyon had spun and finished off the orc he'd stunned, and now he charged up the stairs at full speed, Alleria and her rangers and his men right behind him.
A troop of orcs met Turalyon as he rounded a bend in the stairs halfway up. They had the advantage of size, strength, and position, but he had momentum and determination. Holding his hammer before him, his hands gripping it just below the head, Turalyon used it like a small battering ram, slamming into one orc after another. The force of the impacts jolted him, and he had to fight not to totter back a step, but the orcs found themselves tossed aside and cither slammed into the wall or toppled from the stairs, and fell to the ground below. The orcs that retained enough presence of mind to attack him in turn found themselves pierced with arrows, courtesy of Alleria and her rangers, and any orc Turalyon stunned but didn't kill the men behind him finished off as they raced up the stairs behind him.
In what seemed like minutes, but Turalyon knew had probably been longer, he reached the top. The citadel's ramparts stretched out before him, far longer than Honor Hold's but less even, more chaotic and oddly shaped. Some orcs stood here, heavy spears in hand, ready to hurl them down upon the approaching army, but most of the Horde had poured out of the front gates, Turalyon saw, and were running to meet the Alliance head-on. He also saw long black figures circling above, and knew the black dragons were just waiting for the right moment to join the fight.
“Alliance!" Turalyon shouted, holding his hammer high and racing to the rampart's front edge. “Alliance!" From here he spotted Danath riding near the front of his group, and the warrior raised his sword in response. He was covered with blood and gore, but none of it was red human blood. Nor had he lost many men. The Light was with them!
Then what orcs were still up here reached him, and Turalyon was busy defending himself and clearing the ramparts of their defenders. The sounds of battle were everywhere: metal against metal, stone against plate, flesh against flesh, mixed with growls and roars and bellows and cries. The bodies were all mingled together, the green of the orcs against the pink of the humans and the browns and blonds and blacks of the horses, with the gleaming sheen of armor and the dull luster of axes and hammers mixed in as well. At one point when he was able to spare a glance, Turalyon managed to pick out Danath again, and watched as the warrior impaled a charging orc upon his sword, yanked the blade free, and whirled to slice another's throat open.
Turalyon had just smashed down the last orc when he heard a loud shriek from above. Glancing up, he saw a cloud sweeping down toward the citadel, carrying a blast of hot air with it. He grinned at the sudden moist heat. The cloud had broken apart, forming a haze that settled over the citadel, blanketing it in fog that blurred edges and hid shapes and details.