into such a narrow space? One well-placed boulder from a catapult and we’ll have hundreds turned to jelly.”
The king gestured to Tarlak, who tipped his hat.
“Consider me the anti-boulder guy,” he said. “And trust me, the city gates won’t be that narrow after I’m done with them.”
Sergan shook his head.
“Putting our faith in wizards,” he said. “It’s going to get us killed one day.”
“Love you too, Sergan,” Tarlak said, shooting him a wink. “Now go tell the men to move their asses. We’re not getting any younger, and we have orcs to kill.”
Horns began to sound throughout the massive camp. They left much of their supplies behind, along with the wagons. With the city a mere quarter-mile away, there seemed little point in lugging it all with them. Tarlak watched it all, thinking of them like an incredibly dangerous nest of ants. Toward the city they swarmed, and Tarlak rode beside Antonil and Sergan. The rest of the generals filtered throughout the army, to command their individual forces.
Tarlak saw the smoke trails within the city extinguish, one by one. For some reason, that frightened him more than anything. A foe awaited him behind those walls, moving, strategizing. Yes, they were orcs. Yes, they were stupid. But they still had the blood of elves in them. When it came to killing, they seemed a bit more willing to use their brains instead of muscle. But no matter how clever they might be, Antonil commanded thirty thousand men. Even if they’d doubled their number since the previous assault, they were still outnumbered three to one.
Five to one, really, once they counted in Tarlak’s advantage.
As they neared the city walls, the first of the orcs finally appeared atop the ramparts. There were several hundred of them, all wielding long spears.
“Take them out!” Antonil shouted, and Sergan quickly relayed the order. The archers lifted their bows, and five thousand men sent a barrage of arrows toward the walls. The fighters on the front lines raised their shields, and those behind kept their heads down and followed after. Spears rained down upon the soldiers, scoring kills. The archers took down many, and even more spears broke against the shields. Tarlak nodded, liking the sight. He remained at Antonil’s side, watching the fight, waiting for the right time.
“They’re almost to the gates,” Antonil said.
“I know.”
“They’re not carrying even a battering ram.”
“I know.”
Tarlak cracked his knuckles, mentally counting down. Three…two…one…
He slammed his wrists together, shouting out the words of a spell. From his palms shot a fireball that grew larger and larger the farther through the air it flew. It arced upward, as if shot from a catapult, then slowly began to descend. Tarlak watched, his eyes tracing its downward fall.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on, drop, drop, drop…”
With perfect aim the fireball slammed into the gates when Antonil’s men were only dozens of feet away, exploding with enough force that the shieldmen in the front had to brace against it. Metal and wood twisted and fragmented. More impressive, the stone walls cracked and rumbled, and leather-armored orcs screamed and as the towers atop the portcullis crumpled and fell. Suddenly the entrance to the city was triple what it’d been only moments before. Antonil’s men let out a cheer, and with renewed vigor they rushed ahead, to where the orcish defenders stood at the ready.
“Something’s wrong,” Tarlak said. “Antonil, what in blazes is going on?”
There were only a mere thousand to stand against them. They shouted and waved their weapons, crude blades and axes, but against the swarm of men they would be buried in minutes. Antonil frowned, and he clearly had the same worry.
“It’s been years,” he said. “Perhaps the orcs abandoned the place? Or there was infighting among the tribes?”
Tarlak didn’t buy it. He readied his magic, his gut still screaming trap.
And then the catapults fired from either side of the far street. The giant rocks sailed into the air, four at a time. They surely couldn’t see the combat from behind all the buildings, Tarlak knew, which meant someone coordinating the attack. With no time to think on it, he acted fast, his hands dancing. In his mind he gripped the broken rubble of the gateway he’d just shattered, clutching it with invisible hands stronger than a giant’s. Into the air he flung them, slamming them against the incoming boulders. The hits halted their momentum, showering thick sledges of heavy stone all across the city-which was fine with Tarlak, so long as they weren’t landing on their own men, crushing them into jelly as Sergan had so eloquently stated.
More catapults fired, and this time Tarlak was better prepared. Instead of relying on crude rocks, he used the force of magic itself, slamming into them with invisible barriers that shoved the projectiles back before they could even complete their upward arc. A third volley lifted, and Tarlak defeated it just as easy.
“Not even breaking a sweat here,” Tarlak told the king. “Perhaps I should have been with you last time.”
“Perhaps,” Antonil said, clearly distracted. The catapults ceased firing, and Tarlak lowered his arms and took a deep breath. When he brought his attention to the fight, he realized there wasn’t one at all. The orcs had been slaughtered in a single wave. Tarlak guessed they’d taken maybe a hundred casualties at maximum, the fight had gone so well. And that really, really worried Tarlak.
“It’s not supposed to be this easy,” he murmured.
Antonil clapped him on the shoulder.
“If there’s bad days, then there’s allowed to be good days,” he said.
“If you insist.”
The archers had begun to join the rest of the men still flowing into the city, and Antonil went with them. Tarlak remained on the outside, watching. Something felt wrong in his gut. The orcs wouldn’t have abandoned the city, and he doubted their numbers would decrease so dramatically. More troubling, the city showed too many signs of orcish occupation. All along the walls were crude paintings, signifying allegiance to their tribal lord. From various wooden poles hung flags made of tanned hide. Their distance was too great for him to see, but he knew such decorations meant the orcs considered this land to be theirs to keep and defend.
So why such a pitiful defense?
His feelings of being cornered, of being trapped, led him to glance behind him, and it was there he saw it.
“Oh shit,” said Tarlak.
Smoke rose in great plumes from the south. Their camp.
Tarlak slammed his hands together, ripping open a portal to take him to the camp’s outer edge. Leaping through, he prepared his magic for a fight. But when he stepped out, there was nothing for him to kill. Only wreckage remained. Their tents had been smashed and ripped, the tent poles snapped. The cattle they’d brought for slaughter were in pieces, intestines ripped open and left for the swarms of flies that had already begun their feast. Worst were the wagons, and feeling himself in a dream Tarlak slowly approached. Every one of them was aflame. Corpses lay about them, throats cut, limbs broke and bodies savaged. Perhaps a hundred had remained behind, tending the animals, preparing the food. They hadn’t stood a chance against whatever force descended upon them.
The wizard shook his head, the pit in his stomach growing.
“I hate being right,” he said to himself. “Damn it, Tarlak, you know you’re allowed to be wrong for once. At
But not this time.
In the ruins of Kinamn the three gathered to discuss their options while the rest of the soldiers scavenged the city for anything useful.
“We’re fucked,” Tarlak said. “Righteously, magnificently, pants-rippingly fucked.”
“So eloquently stated,” Antonil said, sitting opposite him, a small fire between them. The sun had begun to set, but without tents, the army would have to make do with sleeping under open air or bunking in one of the many filthy homes that remained standing within the city walls.
“Truthfully stated as well,” Sergan agreed. “Whoever set this trap showed more cunning than I’d ever give an orc credit for. I looked over the bodies of the thousand left behind, and they were all runties, weak by orcish
