“It’s the damn men from the Craghills,” said Gregor. “They’d sheathe their swords in their asses if I let them.”
Olrim sighed. Of course, Gregor had been born on the opposite side of Mordan from the Craghills. He’d heard plenty of opinions from both geographic areas while listening to confessions prior to the war. It seemed war did not unite like he had hoped, only invited more reasons to use the excuses.
“I don’t care,” Olrim said. “Get them marching. We’re almost to the Corinth. Once we cross the river, we’ll set up camp while the rest of the wagons catch up. From there we’ll scorch the earth on the way to Angkar, and pillage whatever food we need until we reach the ocean. Then we’ll see if Bram is willing to talk peace, or if we must starve him out of his castle.”
“Of course,” said Gregor. “Ker has rarely rebelled against us, and never have they survived a siege by the Mordan army. There is little to fear in their military might. Only their angels might give us pause, damned winged men. No place on a battlefield for the likes of them.”
“Give the order to march,” Olrim said. “If there are winged men to fight, you let me worry about dealing with them.”
In their second hour of march, they saw the first angel scout. The angel hovered high above, his golden armor glittering in the morning light. There was little doubt that he came from the crossing.
“Keep the men tight together,” Olrim told Gregor. “I don’t want anyone vulnerable to an ambush. With their wings, they might strike from anywhere.”
“Of course, sir,” said Gregor.
By the third hour, Bloodbrick Crossing was in view, its surface covered with fortifications and soldiers. All along the opposite bank stretched several thousand men. Into the air went battalions of angels, flying in steady circle formations that greatly exaggerated their numbers. Olrim joined his priests, seeking their opinions.
“Save our spells for Ashhur’s warriors,” said one of the elders. “They are our only true threat. We set a trap for them, yes. A trap they will never expect.”
“We cannot delay,” said another. “If Antonil is with them, he might foster rebellion in our own troops. Our generals might turn to this former king in hopes he will be a weaker ruler than Melorak.”
“And what of our paladins?” Olrim asked.
“Wait until the first great bloodshed has ended,” said the elder. “Then send in our paladins to lead the way.”
The wisdom seemed sound, and the others agreed. Olrim returned to the front and ordered them on. They marched with one eye to the sky, always wary of a surprise attack by the angels. No attack came. They reached the crossing without incident. Only five hundred yards away, they stopped and set up camp.
“I’ve got the other generals preparing their groups,” Gregor said. “If we pelt the bridge with arrows, we can charge while they clear away the dead. Then our archers can rain upon their reinforcements. Once we push through to the other side, nothing can stop us but those angels.”
“We outnumber them fivefold,” said Olrim. “Why should we bottle ourselves up on the bridge?”
Gregor harrumphed as if he were asked a question by a child.
“The bridge might be rough going, but it is still an even fight. What else might you suggest, wading across the water? Nonsense. They can kill us no faster than we can kill them on the bridge, but the river is a different game, priest. Wet and helpless, they’ll cut us down by the hundreds as we try to emerge on the other side.”
“They don’t have anywhere near enough to guard both sides,” Olrim said. “How long can they hold the bridge? Two days? Three? The angels only complicate things further. We must win, and now.”
“Why this mad rush?” asked Gregor. “Why sacrifice certain victory days from now for a costly risk today? This is foolishness.”
Olrim dared not mention Antonil’s name. Melorak had spread word to the land that Antonil had perished. For him to return…where might Gregor’s loyalties lie? What of the other generals who served under him, or the other nobles fighting with him?
“This army is under my command,” Olrim said. He pointed to the crossing. “Send in our men. When there is no room at the bridge, send the rest into the water. Let them see the full might of Karak.”
“As you wish,” Gregor said, slapping an arm against his chest and bowing. Olrim felt the disrespect dripping off him, but he let it slide. Melorak trusted him with victory, and victory is what he would bring. With such a massive assault, there was no way the angels could tip the scales in their favor. They would be too few, and with him and his priests assaulting their every move with spells, they would accomplish little.
Feeling the excitement building in his chest, he smiled and laughed. Let it all out, he thought. The battle approached. Ker would fall to the Lion, and he would be the one to reap the honor and spoils.
T hey’d been given the basics of King Henley’s plan, but Ahaesarus had an inkling that the king kept something hidden from him. He hovered just above the bridge as the rest of the angels flew in their circular formations. Mordan’s army prepared so close, and he watched the great mass of soldiers sharpen their swords, polish their shields, and ready their bows.
“So many,” Judarius said, hovering beside him.
Ahaesarus nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel fear, not for death. He’d seen the other side, had felt the light of the Golden Eternity on his skin. But for the humans? For those slowly dying in Karak’s fist? He feared for them. He knew the price they’d pay for a loss at the crossing. Thulos had conquered a thousand stars. If he escaped from this one, he’d continue on with his destruction. It needed to end. If Ashhur was kind, he would be the one to end it.
“They wish us to ensure they hold the bridge,” Judarius said. “What a waste. Without open spaces, our skills are limited. Why not crash into the rear of our enemy’s formations? Or the priests, why not kill them?”
“They’ve proven resourceful and clever when it comes to warfare, Judarius, more so than us. We are not perfect.”
“Neither are they.”
Ahaesarus stretched his wings, falling a short distance as he did. A single powerful thrust and he shot back up to Judarius.
“If we cannot trust them, how can we expect them to govern themselves, protect one another, and live the life Ashhur desires them to live?” he asked.
Judarius shrugged. “Forget it, then. We will follow their orders, though I wonder how we became their servants instead of the other way around.”
He flew over to join in the formations of flying, and Ahaesarus let him go without saying a word. He understood his frustrations, even if he did not approve. Judarius was the strongest and most skilled angel when it came to warfare. To have him obey the orders of men he could defeat without effort, and who had not once set foot in Ashhur’s presence, surely burned. It was no secret he had been terribly upset by his repeated defeats by the half-orc warrior, either.
“Not perfect,” Ahaesarus said as he drew his sword. “Such a terrible lesson to learn.”
He thought the priest-king’s army might send someone forth to negotiate, but as the front lines tightened, and the soldiers funneled toward the crossing, it seemed they were too eager for war.
“Banner carriers!” he shouted. Three angels flew beside him, each holding a colored banner to issue instructions to the rest of the angels.
With them ready, he waited and watched the fight begin from his vantage point in the sky. Footmen charged the foremost barrier near the edge of the bridge, using their shields to protect them from the swords that lashed out above the barricade. Bram’s defenders fought well, and they held their ground in the bloody chaos that erupted. The few who fell were immediately replaced, their bodies shoved into the water.
Ahaesarus frowned as he watched a twin blast of fireballs leap from their side of the river toward Karak’s forces. The work of Aurelia and the yellow wizard, Tarlak, he was certain. But instead of erupting in a great devastation of fire, the spells sizzled and puffed, their power gone. The angel looked further back, to the line of priests behind the approaching soldiers. They held their arms high and wailed prayers at the top of their lungs. No doubt they’d cast protections of some sort. If the priests countered their magical assault, one of their few advantages was gone.
“Ready Judarius’s squad,” he told his banner carriers. Two of the three raised their banners high and waved them side to side. One of the larger groups pulled free from the formations and like a river of gold and flesh dived for Ahaesarus.
