“We can’t stop them all,” Veliana shouted amid the din of songs and moans, all worshipping Karak.
“We’ve lost the twins,” Deathmask shouted back. “We’ll damn well try.”
With a thought the fire wall moved forward, and together they walked.
“If we can get the soldiers off the walls, we might have a chance,” Veliana said.
“That’s my hope,” Deathmask said, pointing. “We’ve got company.”
Priests of Karak marched toward them, their hands raised to the sky. Deathmask struck the first one dead with an arrow made of ash that dug into his flesh and burst his heart. He surrounded a second with fire, burning his flesh as he screamed. The other priests pointed their hands and sang their songs. Curse after curse fell upon the two, sapping their strength and clouding their minds. They both crumpled to their knees.
“Fight it,” Deathmask said through clenched teeth. Veliana did not respond, instead taking one of her daggers and stabbing it into her hand, hissing as the pain soared through her, filling her body with strength to fight away the curses. She stood, glared with her one eye, and leaped over the fire. Her body twirled in the air, avoiding blasts of shadow. She landed amid them, a blur of steel and blood. She tore through throats and faces, cutting and slicing between them. Just as quickly, she leaped back, landing in the center of Deathmask’s wall of fire. Seven priests lay dead or dying, their blood on her blades. Deathmask stood to his full height, feeling their curses slipping off him like broken chains.
“You’ll need more,” he said to the few that remained. They crossed their arms, summoning a magical shield. Deathmask laughed at it, then slammed his wrists together. A solid beam of dark magic burst from his hands, shattering their protective magics as if they were cloth. The beam continued, shredding two more priests before tearing off a sizable chunk of a home. He expected the rests of the priests to scatter, but instead they continued singing. Another joined them, the center of his eyes shining red. He bowed, a smile on his lips.
“I had hoped some would still fight,” this strange priest said to them. “Overcoming your valiance makes the victory earned.”
“Do you lead this army?” Deathmask asked. He snapped his fingers, sending the ash that covered his face swirling around his head. Through the flames of his wall, he was an intimidating sight.
“I do,” said the priest, not impressed. “My name is Melorak. Are you prepared to die?”
“Sure,” Deathmask said. “Let’s give it a try.”
He unleashed a second beam of magic, but this time it pooled around Melorak’s shield like water hitting a stone. The priest shook his head.
“Disappointing,” he said. A wave of his hand and the wall of fire died. Veliana lunged, her daggers leading, but Melorak opened his mouth. From within came a wail so loud and powerful it was a physical force, slamming her aside. Deathmask cast another spell, covering Melorak’s body with fire. The flames flickered and died without burning. Melorak locked his hands, and from the ground rose a tidal wave of shadow that rolled them along the street, flooding their nerves with pain. When the wave ended, they lay crumpled on the stone, barely able to move.
“What now?” Veliana asked as she struggled to stand.
“Self-preservation,” Deathmask said. He grabbed her hand and then reached into his pocket. As a ball of yellow fire flew from Melorak’s chest Deathmask enacted his spell. The two vanished in a puff of shadow right before the attack hit. Melorak laughed, only energized by the fight. He wanted more. He looked to the castle, where many still fought against his forces.
“Go back to the walls,” he said to the priests at his side. “Shout your praises to Karak. I will handle those at the castle.”
“As you wish,” the priests said in unison.
“Praise be to Karak,” Melorak said as he approached the castle. “Praise be.”
“B lock either side!” Dieredon shouted to the soldiers. “Funnel them to me!”
The soldiers formed two lines at the top with a gap in the center. Further back in the gap Dieredon stood, his bow drawn. He fired arrows three at a time from a quiver that never ran empty. Wave after wave of undead dropped, and those that made it to the top were either chopped down or pushed into Dieredon’s line of fire. Haern weaved between the sides, crushing any undead that looked like they might score a kill. They were a mere force of twenty, but over two hundred lay defeated on their steps, the bodies increasing the difficulty of the climb for the rest.
The fight raged on, and another hundred fell. The undead surrounding the walls drifted further into the city, each one headed straight for the castle.
“Dark paladins,” Haern shouted as seven raised their swords and charged in unison.
“I see them,” Dieredon said. He drew only a single arrow, hesitated, and then released. The arrow slipped past his target’s sword and into his throat. He fired another. The dark paladins ducked, crossing their arms as they climbed, but it didn’t matter. Dieredon’s aim was true, this time digging into the flesh just underneath the arm. Another pierced through the eyehole of a helmet. Haern swore as they split to either side, outside Dieredon’s line of fire. Blades wreathed in dark fire, they crashed into the line of guards.
Dieredon resumed firing at the undead climbing the steps, knowing he had to trust Haern and the others. If he paused to fight, they would all be buried. Behind him, Sonowin neighed, and he could hear her nervousness.
“Easy, girl,” he told her, drawing three more arrows. “No matter what, you’ll be fine.”
Haern squared off with one of the paladins, wielding a sword in either hand. It felt like fighting a slower, weaker Harruq, and as such Haern knew exactly how to react to every slash and every thrust. He twisted and dodged, blocking only when he must. It didn’t take long before the paladin grew frustrated and made a mistake. Haern made him pay for it, burying his sabers deep into his chest.
Haern rolled to one side, behind another paladin unaware of his presence. His sabers slipped around his neck and cut. He glanced about, and swore at what he saw. Most of the guards lay dead, and still two more paladins remained. One died as he chopped down a soldier, Dieredon pausing momentarily to bury an arrow in his throat. Haern leaped at the other, ignoring the stinging fire of his sword to get close so his cuts and weaves could not be matched by the man in his bulky plate mail. The paladin shouted the name of Karak, hoping for strength. Instead Haern rammed his saber down his throat and twisted. He kicked the body down the stairs and glanced at Dieredon. His look said enough.
“I know,” Dieredon said, releasing another wave of arrows. “Until death?”
Only four guards remained, their armor soaked with blood and gore. As their enemies continued up the steps, seemingly endless in number, they lost their initial cheer.
“Hold faith,” Haern said to them. “For the Queen, and yourselves.”
Dieredon grabbed his bow with both hands. Spikes shot out from the ends, and rows of blades jutted out the front. He joined Haern’s side at the center, the guards on either side.
“Enough arrows,” the elf said. “Let’s build a wall of bodies.”
A combination of tested and undead ran up the steps, stumbling over the fallen. The second they neared, Dieredon was upon them, spinning and twirling his bladed bow like it was a part of his body, a mere extension of his will. The magic on it was strong, and it cut through bone with ease. Haern stayed at his side, parrying away any attack that neared Dieredon, and gutting any that tried to ignore the elf and run past. The guards, in awe, felt hope renewed in their hearts.
“For the Queen!” they shouted, joining in the fight, pushing and shoving their enemies toward the spinning death that was Dieredon.
“Priest!” one of them shouted. Dieredon paused, and sure enough he saw a man in black robes at the foot of the steps. When the priest looked up, his eyes shimmering red, the elf felt his hopes sink.