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
