Half-Orcs: Book 06 - The Prison of Angels (39 page)

Nine arrows, nine wolf-men to put down. Grabbing one, she readied her bow, took a deep breath, and gazed beyond the river to the Vile Wedge. In the shadows she saw the yellow glint of hungry eyes. Those she dared not count. Closer and closer they ran, their outlines visible in the moonlight. In a single smooth motion she pulled back her first arrow, saw the blue-white hue surround the arrowhead. It was still weak, but it was there.

Let the arrow do its work,
she thought, remembering Dieredon’s words.
Just let it fly.

As the first wolf-man reached the river, she did just that. The arrow streaked through the night like a flash of thunder, blasting into the creature’s muscled chest. With a whimper it fell. Without thinking, without hesitating, she drew another arrow and sighted anew. More wolf-men were at the river’s edge, and one by one she shot them dead. They were many, and soon they splashed through the Gihon, swimming toward her while snarling with bared teeth.

She shot an arrow through the closest wolf’s mouth, dropping the creature into the water. Two more tried to swim beneath the surface, but when they came up gasping for air she loosed her arrows.

Six. Seven.

Still the bodies surged into the river. Still she held firm, grabbing for arrows and relying on instinct. They were reaching the other side now, the upper halves of their bodies emerging from the water dripping wet. They raked the air, they howled, but her arrows flew true. The shine on their arrowheads grew brighter and brighter, and when they struck the wolf-men it was like they were hit with a battering ram.

Ten. Eleven.

Her mind dared not think, she dared not look, as her routine continued. One after another she fired, her arrows gleams of deadly light, and after each one she’d feel soft feathers touch her fingers when she reached for just one more.

Fourteen. Fifteen.

Hairy bodies floated downstream, and from the other side roared several wolf-men that had come running at the tail end. She shot one dead, her arrow connecting with its jaw and hitting with such impact it tore off its head. Others dove in the water, howling, biting.

Seventeen. Eighteen.

Some tried to flee, but they died like the others. They’d have hunted her, and once they killed her they’d have continued on. Beyond the river were hundreds of farms, homes, innocents who would have felt the hatred of their claws. She wouldn’t let them. She couldn’t.

The monsters were all but dead. One last wolf-man emerged from the river, teeth bared with fury. She recognized his size, recognized the white circles about those hungry yellow eyes. Moonslayer was so strong, so fast, and it seemed even the river would not slow him as he rushed toward her. It’d take more than one arrow, she thought. Surely even she could not take him down with a single shot. Jessilynn looked down to her quiver, trance breaking, and she saw it empty. For the briefest moment she felt panic as she turned to face one of the Kings of the Vile.

Moonslayer’s muscles were taut, his legs curling in for a leap. Refusing to give in, refusing to let him win, she felt her instincts take over once more. Empty handed she reached for her string and began to pull it back.

Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t understand. How? How was it even possible?

Nocked in her bowstring shimmered an arrow of the purest light. She felt its feathers against her skin, impossibly soft. The head was slender, sharp. The wolf-man howled, lunged. The arrow flew, exploding with radiance. She heard bones crack as the creature’s momentum reversed with jarring speed. Into the river landed the corpse, vanishing beneath the dark waters.

In the sudden calm she stood holding her bow. And then she laughed. A grin spread across her face, huge and dumb, and she felt helpless to stop it. Taking her bow, she grabbed the string, aimed to the sky, and released anew. Arrow after shimmering arrow sailed high, continuing on as if they would escape the very world itself.

“I’m here!” she cried out to the stars. “I’m alive!”

After only a few minutes, and three more arrows, she saw the dark shape slicing through the blanket of stars, heard the heavy beating of Sonowin’s wings.

26

“I
still don’t like it,” Tarlak said as the towers loomed ever closer. His head was heavily bandaged, and he looked unsteady atop his horse.

“We’re far past doing things we don’t like,” Antonil said, riding beside the wizard as the remnants of his army made their way north along the river. “Twice now I must return to Mordeina with my head hung low and my tail between my legs. And what will any say if I try for a third campaign? If thirty thousand is not enough, then what?”

“Perhaps we should give the land up for lost?” Tarlak suggested after a moment’s hesitation. He winced as if expecting an outburst, and Antonil understood why. The words stung, but there was too much wisdom, too much truth in the simple statement.

“I’d prefer it if you were wrong more often, wizard,” he said.

“Me too, honestly.”

They turned their attention to the towers. There were two of them, each standing on opposite sides of the Rigon River. The one on the western side had its bricks painted a sheer black, making it seem as if it were built out of obsidian. The eastern side was built like the other, tall and cylindrical, except with its stones colored a deep red that invoked a sense of blood and danger. Spanning the river, held up by what Antonil assumed to be magic, was a lengthy stone bridge connecting the tops of the two towers, its bricks a mixture of red and black.

“Is there any significance to the color?” Antonil asked, hoping that learning more would put his mind at ease about the strange structures. The more unknown something was, the easier to fear it.

“The black is the Master’s Tower,” Tarlak said. He closed his eyes and held the side of his face for a moment, grimacing as if against a wave of pain. “These are the men and women who rule the roost. Their numbers vary, but it’s never more than twenty. As for the red, that’s where the apprentices go to learn. Anyone can apply, if they’re insane enough. Few are accepted, and even fewer actually survive the process.”

“Is learning magic that dangerous?”

Tarlak chuckled.

“To graduate, you have to beat one of the mages on the Council in a duel. If there is an available seat on the Council, the duel is merely one of skill, not to the death. If the Council’s full, well…” The wizard shrugged. “There’s really only one way to open up a seat.”

A shadow had passed over Tarlak’s face as he spoke, and Antonil sensed there was far more the man was hiding. He felt bad to be so inquisitive, what with Tarlak in such poor shape, but his curiosity was stronger.

“Were you ever an apprentice there?” he asked.

“I was supposed to be,” Tarlak said. His speech was slow, as if he were deeply tired. “My father paid a lot of coin to have a man named Madral prepare me, teach me some rudimentary spells to help ensure my success as an apprentice. But Madral…there was a reason he was considered a renegade among the Council. He worshipped Karak in secret, and helped topple the Citadel back in the day. Given how my father was a priest of Ashhur, you can imagine how well we got along once I discovered that fact. I was barely sixteen when I confronted him. The way he looked at me, as if I were less than a flea in his eyes…I don’t know how, but I killed him. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more frightened.”

Antonil gave him a moment of silence, instead staring at the nearing towers as he thought. Well, that explained the moment of darkness in Tarlak’s routinely cheery attitude.

“You could have joined the Council, couldn’t you?” he said. “Isn’t that how the rules worked?”

Tarlak nodded.

“Yes, I could have, but I refused. The Council guards magic so jealously, and my time with Madral did much to scar my opinion on such matters. That, and I’d have faced waves of challenges from the apprentices, some twice my age. I couldn’t do it. So I took what money I had left and worked to create my little band of mercenaries. The rest, you could say, is infamy.”

Antonil elbowed the wizard in the side, doing his best to smile.

“I’d say it turned out all right,” he said. “Sure, there’s been some tough times, but you’re friends with a king now. And some claim you helped save the world. That must count for something.”

For a moment he got nothing, but then Tarlak laughed.

“Don’t think for a second you’re getting out of your debt with a few sunny words,” he said. “And I’m running up interest, too. Saving the world doesn’t come cheap, and neither will healing this head wound.”

They rode for a while in silence. Antonil felt better seeing Tarlak’s spirits rise. Perhaps if they could not cross the river, they could still send out hunters, maybe spear some fish as a way of sustaining things until the Tarlak was well enough to create a way to cross the river on his own. When the towers were only two hundred yards away, Antonil raised his hand and ordered his army to slow.

“I don’t want them to think we come with threats,” he said. “Do you think you’d have more luck requesting passage across the river than me?”

“Pretty as I am?” Tarlak asked, gesturing to his bandage. “No, I don’t. They’ve tried to kill me twice, Antonil. Like I said, they guard magic pretty closely.”

“So you’re saying I should keep you hidden in the back?”

“I’m saying they will either let us pass, or they won’t. There’s no way of telling, not with them. They’re recluses for a reason, and the Gods’ War didn’t help matters any.”

Antonil muttered a curse against all spellcasters under his breath, then ordered his army to halt. Despite the worry in his gut, he rode ahead, determined to show the Council he was neither afraid, nor attempting to intimidate them. All they wanted was to cross a bridge so they could return home. Why did it have to be so bloody complicated?

“Just speak,” Tarlak shouted from behind. “They’ll hear you, I promise.”

Antonil swallowed, chose his words carefully, then shouted up to the red tower that rose so high above him.

“Wizards of the Council, I am King Antonil Copernus of Mordan. My army has suffered many casualties, and our stores of food dwindle. I ask that we may cross the Rigon by way of your bridge, and receive any supplies you’d be willing to give us. I promise all kindness will be repaid, and any price within reason will be met twice over.”

With that, he waited. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him, as if smelling the approach of a distant storm. Patting her neck, Antonil once more called out to the towers.

“What say you?”

Strangely, it seemed his horse’s instincts were correct. The sky above, which had been white with clouds, suddenly darkened. Antonil kept his horse still as he heard worried cries from his army behind him. It was just intimidation, he told himself. The mages wanted to show they were in control. To confirm this, he glanced back at Tarlak. When their eyes met, he saw the wizard’s concern, and rocks twisted in his gut.

All along the face of both towers various stones shifted, opening to create dozens of windows. Antonil felt his heart jump. At last he would receive his answer.

And he did, in the barrage of a dozen balls of fire, each larger than the size of a house.

His jaw fell open, panic freezing him in place. No, he thought. It couldn’t be. Why? What had they done? Looking back, he saw the fire slamming into his troops, detonating in great explosions that sent bodies flying. Lightning struck from the sky, its thunder rolling over them like mocking laughter. Soldiers fled in all directions, and following them came the fire and lightning, now coupled with lances of ice and massive boulders, all from those open windows.

So far untouched, Antonil broke free of his terror and kicked the sides of his horse. Turning about, he raced toward the dying remnants of his army, seeking one man in particular. Tarlak Eschaton stood on the ground, having abandoned his horse. Silver light shone around his hands as he tried to summon his magic.

“Can you protect us?” Antonil shouted.

“I can’t,” Tarlak screamed. “Damn it, Antonil, I can’t stop them all!”

Several of the incoming spells shattered, but they were too few. Antonil watched, his throat constricting as he listened to the screams.

“Stop it!” the king screamed to the towers. “Stop it, are you mad?”

Lightning struck. Blinded, Antonil was thrown from his mount. He landed hard on his head. Gasping for air, his vision swirling with color, he saw faint images of his men, those he had promised to lead to victory, to safety, and watched them die amid a horrible mixture of fire, lightning, and ice. Their bodies burned, their bodies bled. So horrible, so futile, and why? What had he done?

The barrage lessened, nearly all of his army broken. Antonil staggered to his feet, found Tarlak on his knees still trying to cast a spell.

“I can protect us,” the wizard was mumbling. “I fought gods. I can protect us, I can protect…”

From the windows of the tower shot three balls of flame, their centers a deep blue, their outer ring a brilliant orange. All three were aimed their way. Tarlak grabbed Antonil’s hand, and accompanying a scream of pain a translucent shield formed before the two. The first fireball exploded. The heat washed over them, rolling about as if they were in the center of furnace, yet they were not yet burned. The second hit, Tarlak screamed, and the fire passed.