The Rigon River formed the eastern border of Ker. Twice as wide as the Corinth, its only crossing was via the two fabled Gods’ Bridges that connected the Rigon Delta, Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine, Karak’s Bridge over the eastern. But as Tarlak approached Ashhur’s Bridge alongside Antonil, it resembled little of what he once remembered. In between the arches, where there’d been worn statues of winged knights, there were now rows of barricades. The stone floor, which had once been rare white marble, was now hidden beneath wooden walls and planks. It seemed spears poked out in all directions, as if the bridge were the back of a porcupine. Killing lanes, walls, trenches, all built with one purpose in mind: protecting Ker from the orcs beyond.
A single soldier rode out to meet them as they approached the bridge.
“Greetings King of Mordan,” said the soldier. “My name is Yoric, and I control Ashhur’s Bridge. I’ve been informed that your army will pass through without incident. My men have stood down, and we request you make haste to the other side.”
“We will do our best,” Antonil said.
“Thank you,” said Yoric. “So you know, the orcs haven’t touched us in months, but I think that’s because they figured out we’ve no intentions of traveling beyond the river. Be careful in there, your highness. It’s a different world, even compared to when you last came.”
The reminder of his failed first campaign made Antonil’s face twitch.
“Your warning is appreciated,” he said dryly.
In tightly packed rows his army marched through the winding pathways built upon the bridge, coming out the other side into lands of the delta. Another few hours and they would cross the second bridge, which would dump them out into an area that had once belonged to the nation of Omn. Now only orcs remained, with the exception of the distant city of Angelport, whose walls had helped protect it from the invaders and whose ships kept its people from starving. Being fairly close to the elven lands didn’t hurt much, either.
When the last of the soldiers and wagons were across, Tarlak finally crossed the bridge himself.
“Keep the way back open for us,” he said, tossing Yoric a wink. “Just in case we come screaming for our lives, a horde of orcs on our tail.”
“No orc will cross this bridge,” Yoric said. “I assure you, come your return, victorious or otherwise, we’ll be here waiting.”
“My heroes,” Tarlak said, offering an exaggerated bow before snapping his fingers, summoning a gust of wind to blow him into the air and back toward the front of the army, where Antonil marched.
After crossing into Omn, Tarlak oversaw the setting up of the camp, positioning wagons and yelling at men dumb enough to pitch their tents beyond his preset lines. It gave the wizard a headache, but at least he got to take it out on the rest of the men. When he’d circled the enormous camp twice and yelled himself hoarse, he finally joined Antonil. To his surprise, he found the king sitting alone before his tent, a fire burning not far from his feet.
“Shouldn’t you be surrounded by generals, advisors, and various bootlickers?” Tarlak asked.
“I sent them away,” Antonil said.
“Proof you’re a good king, or a terrible one,” Tarlak said, grabbing one of many empty chairs from the tent and propping it opposite Antonil. “Sadly, I’m not sure which.”
“We’ll know the answer by the time this campaign ends.”
Tarlak took off his hat, reached inside, and pulled out a long-necked bottle. Popping the cork with his thumb, he took a drink of the wine within.
“So morose today,” he said when finished. “What’s eating my glorious king?”
“Nothing. I wished to be alone is all, something a certain wizard appears incapable of understanding.”
“Have you ordered me to leave yet?”
“No.”
Tarlak lifted the bottle in a toast.
“Then I’m staying, your highness. Have a drink if it’ll help loosen your tongue. You’re too strong to be eaten by nothing, so how about you share what
Antonil reluctantly accepted the bottle. He took a sip, then frowned at it.
“Is there any alcohol in this?” he asked.
“Somewhere in there. That’s the fruitier blend. I’m saving the hard stuff for after our first battle.”
Antonil chuckled and shook his head.
“You’re something else,” he said.
“Well aware. Now talk.”
After a deep drink, Antonil handed it over, wiped his face on his sleeve.
“I’ve been thinking of the first campaign to retake Neldar from the orcs,” he said.
“Aaah,” Tarlak said. “Dwelling on old losses. That’s not the best for morale, your highness. In my professional opinion, stop it.”
“Duly noted, and ignored. Did I ever tell you how it happened?”
Tarlak scratched at his goatee, trying to remember. Would have been three years ago, so he’d have been…
“No,” he said. “I was helping Jerico and Lathaar rebuild their Citadel. The priesthood helped too, but you’d be surprised how much funding I had to beg, steal, and borrow to get that place up and running. I heard about your return. Was all anyone could talk about for a few months, not that anyone really cared about how it had happened, just that you failed.”
“I sometimes wonder if the people
“Careful with that,” Tarlak grumbled. “Drink the whole thing and you might get tipsy.”
“Compared to Sergan’s special brew this is just water,” Antonil said. “I can handle water. What I can’t handle is watching men who trust me, who expect me to protect them, die by the thousands.”
He fell silent, and Tarlak frowned. When it seemed he wouldn’t continue, he forced the story along, figuring it better to get Antonil talking about it instead of just brooding.
“So what
“I was too confident,” Antonil said. “After all, I was Antonil the Dragonslayer, defeater of demons, friend of angels. For eternity’s sake, we’d even retaken a city from a god. What could a couple hundred orcs do against us? I had Harruq with me, too, while his wife was away showing their daughter to her distant family in Quellassar. The two of us together, along with eight thousand men strong. What could defeat me? At least, that’s what I thought. Nearly every night was a celebration. That army wasn’t like this one. A lot of them were from Neldar, had fought with me since our days of fleeing Veldaren when Karak’s forces captured its walls. We were coming home. We were going to take our swords and shove them down those orcs’ throats, and piece by piece reclaim what was ours.”
He shook his head.
“So foolish. So arrogant. We didn’t clear out any outlying villages. We didn’t check with Angelport, or send scouts to ask the elves for information when we were near their forests. No, we marched straight toward Veldaren. I don’t know why. I guess I felt once we retook that city, then everything else would fall into place. Perhaps I thought it’d wash away all the blood and death that had happened since I fled, abandoning it for Karak’s prophet. Like an arrow we shot toward the city, but we never made it. Not even close.”
Tarlak thought on what he did know about Antonil’s first campaign. It’d been cut drastically short, his return to Mordan coming months earlier than expected. There had been only a single battle, but from what everyone said it had been a crushing defeat.
“Where did the orcs finally attack?” he asked.
“Harruq told me they’d been developing siege weapons,” Antonil said, seemingly ignoring his question. “I didn’t listen. Of course I didn’t. The orcs were brutes, stupid, leaderless, or so I thought. When we were three day’s ride out from Kinamn we encountered the first of the raiding parties. They were small, quick, and knew exactly how to hit us. They never let us sleep, and they targeted our supplies whenever they could. Thinking they were based out of Kinamn, I steered us toward the city with hopes of crushing the bastards where they couldn’t flee.
“Still the raiders hit us, always at night. They slipped in wherever fires flickered out, cutting the throats of my men while they slept. Reached a point where many refused to sleep, and I had to keep huge portions of my army on
