argue, then closed it. His blood boiled, and he slammed his shield against a wall, not caring that he dented it.
“Damn fool,” he muttered.
His glare to the guards made it clear that repeating that outburst meant death. The two saluted, understanding perfectly.
Antonil paced before the door, seething as the time passed. He needed to be commanding his guards, positioning and rallying them into a fighting state. Instead he was stuck inside the castle, bereft of all news. Twenty minutes later, the king exited his bed chambers.
He wore armor made of gold. It was soft, impractical, but it looked beautiful in the torchlight, and Antonil knew that was what mattered to his liege. A garishly jeweled sword swung from a belt trimmed with silver. A red cape hung from his neck. Upon his head was the crown of Veldaren. It had once been a simple ring of gold with a ruby upon the front, but Vaelor had declared it unfitting of a true king, adding several large gems and rubies. Attached to the bottom of the crown was a veil of red silk, recently added to hide the loss of the king’s left ear.
“Sir, your attire…” Antonil said.
“Is this not how a king should be dressed for battle?” Vaelor asked.
“My men have needed me,” he argued. “Could you not have spoken with me before you dressed for…for battle?”
“Do you dare question your king?” Vaelor asked. He crossed his arms and frowned. He was not much older than Antonil, and when they were children training together they had been mistaken for brothers due to their similar looks. But now Antonil’s face and hands were worn and calloused. The king lacked a single scar on his pampered skin. His beard was trimmed and hair neatly curled around his shoulders, not a strand too long or too short. Only his ear marred the image.
“No sir,” Antonil said, bowing. “Forgive me, I am just worried. They are far more than I have ever faced. All the races of the Vile Wedge have allied against us. They will destroy every life in our fair city if we let them.”
King Vaelor walked to his throne and sat down. “Do as you must,” he said. “I trust you to keep our city safe.”
“No, sir, you don’t understand.” Antonil stepped forward, his worry overcoming his discipline. “We have no troops mustered from the reaches of Neldar. The green castle, as well as all of the Hillocks, are most likely destroyed. If this were a siege, we could hold out for months. Lord Gandrem would ride the host of Felwood through the northern plains and crush our foes against our walls. So too would Lord Meren ride up from Angelport, a whole legion of his archers ready to feather our enemies.”
Antonil knew he treaded on dangerous ground, but he had no choice but to continue. “But they will not,” he said. “This is no siege. The beasts of the wedge will storm our walls. Our troops are weak in number and wholly unprepared. We should order the populous to ready a retreat. If one of the gates falls, we can…”
“What is this?” King Vaelor asked, his voice thundering in the empty throne room. “Retreat? You would surrender our walls to orcs and dogs? I will not be written into the history of our world as such a coward. Already Woodhaven has been lost to the elves because of your weakness. You will fight to the death to protect what we all hold dear. You have defeated the orcs once. You will do so again.”
“It is not cowardice to think of protecting the commonfolk should we fail.”
“But it is cowardice by failing those helpless before that battle was even begun!”
The guard captain turned away, his fury rising with the stinging mention of Woodhaven. He was arguing with his king. Had times truly sunk so low?
“Very well,” he said, falling to one knee and bowing his head. “I will not fail you.”
King Vaelor put his hand on Antonil’s shoulder. “We will be praised in songs for ages to come after our victory this night,” he said.
Antonil thought a funeral dirge was more likely. With his king’s permission, he left to join his men.
When Antonil arrived at the western gate, he was immediately aware something was amiss. His generals had done well to position and defend during his absence, but they were all terrified. Even the grizzled old men who had fought many a battle appeared ready to cast aside their weapons. The guard captain bound up the steps and joined his archers, determined to find out the reason. When he saw the ocean of bodies approaching, he understood their fear.
Leading the army were the bird-men, clutching their torches in their clawed and misshapen hands. Long feathers stretched out from their forearms, a mockery of their lost ability to fly. Their heads were small, dominated by their giant beaks of all colors. Behind them were the wolf-men. They were bigger than the hyena-men, their skin gray and their bodies lean and muscular. Their backs were heavily curved, causing their long arms to drag near the ground. Their awkward walk vanished when they ran, their bodies balanced for running on all fours.
The hyena-men were the last of animal men, and their yipping was already reaching the city. They looked like smaller cousins of the wolf-men, except their skin was yellow and black and their legs better suited for walking and running upright. Then came the orcs, howling and waving their torches. Antonil frowned as he saw their banners. It was the lion standard of Karak.
“You’re right to be afraid,” a quiet voice told him. He glanced left to see Mira smiling at him with twinkling eyes. “But you needn’t be. They haven’t seen what I can do. Go down the stairs. The paladins are waiting for you.”
“Paladins?”
He looked behind him, and sure enough he saw the telltale glow of white and blue. He gave one last strange look to the girl with black eyes and climbed back down from the wall.
“Paladins of Ashhur!” he shouted. Buried in the center of the hundreds of footmen lined before the gate shone two swords and a shield. “Come forth!”
Jerico and Lathaar knelt before the guard captain as the man approached.
“We come to offer our aid, and the aid of Ashhur,” Lathaar said.
“If there was ever a time we needed Ashhur’s aid, it is now,” Antonil said. “But I thought only one remained.”
“I hid, but no longer,” Jerico answered. “I ask you let us fight alongside your men in defense of this city.”
Antonil pointed to the locked and barred gate.
“I have heard stories of paladins fighting off hundreds before falling in death. Let’s put those stories to the test. To the front.”
“If the heathen creatures burst through, Ashhur’s light will wait for them,” Lathaar said as he stood. The two took their positions. Antonil watched them shouting and ordering around his men. The sun was rising, but darkness remained heavy in the hearts of his men. Fear was the weapon of Karak, and Antonil knew nothing turned aside that weapon better than a paladin.
“We will hold the gate,” someone whispered into Antonil’s ear. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“If you are here as well, Haern, then I’m sure we will,” Antonil said.
Archers and ground troops ready, the guard captain and his personal guards marched to the southern gate. They had half the ground troops but the gate was thinner and the street narrower. Antonil expected the strongest blows to fall against the west. When he arrived he saw his best general, Sergan, shouting with a voice rapidly approaching hoarseness.
“Greetings Sergan,” Antonil said, saluting the old veteran. “Think we have a chance?”
“Compared to Woodhaven this will be a picnic,” the man replied. “Long as we don’t got elves shooting at us…hey, who the abyss taught you how to buckle a sword?”
Sergan stormed over to a young footman who appeared lost on how to strap his sword to his waist. The general grabbed it from him, flipped it around, buckled it tight, and returned to Antonil in the span of five seconds.
“It’s always the simplest stuff,” Antonil said, a grin on his face.
“Wasn’t my trainee,” Sergan grumbled. The two quieted as each looked to the men on the ground and walls and pondered the strength of their forces.
“Sergan…” Antonil began.
“We can hold,” the general said. “Even if they send more than you’re thinking, we’ll hold.”
