“Do either of you need healing?” Lathaar asked.
“Just my ribs,” Haern said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Healing’s for after the battle,” Harruq said.
Their bruises and cuts denied their words, but the paladins let them be. Harruq stepped past them and saw the line Antonil was forming.
“No,” he said. “No, get them out of the city. Get them out!”
Antonil turned to him and frowned. “And who are you to order me?” he asked.
Harruq stormed over, grabbed Antonil by the top of his chestplate, and yanked him close so that their eyes were inches apart.
“I know you,” Harruq said, his voice quiet but shaking with intensity. “The people of Neldar will need a leader. Go to them. Let us die as we must, but take your men and go. That clear?”
Antonil pushed aside Harruq’s hand, then nodded to the fields beyond the wall. The wolf-men were swarming through the refugees, though it appeared many fought against them. Brief flashes of magic, be it fire or lightning, dotted the battle.
“Protect us as long as you can,” the guard captain said. “And I’ll do my best to ensure you have something to protect.”
Mira slipped past them all and stared out at the battle beyond the city. Her hands shook as she watched. She could feel them dying. Her keen eyes saw many wolf-men avoiding the fight, instead feasting on the slain. Others were circling about, killing those that scattered or dropped off as if it were sport. Deep inside, she felt her power stirring.
“We must hurry,” she said before a sudden blast of wind propelled her across the grass faster than a horse in full gallop. At Antonil’s order, his troops abandoned their wall of shields and marched outside the city. Only Lathaar and Jerico stayed behind.
“For Neldar,” Antonil said, saluting them.
“For Ashhur,” Jerico replied.
The four defenders faced the west. Scores of orcs were dead, and the rest who lived ignored the gap in the wall and instead tore into homes in search of easier victims. The attacking army had been devastated, of that there was no doubt. Still, the remaining orcs were more than enough to slaughter the fleeing peoples of Veldaren. But it wasn’t the orcs that attacked.
Karak! Karak!
Marching down the street, far as they could see, came the undead. They jostled and bumped each other as they walked. Their eyes were lifeless but their voices were not.
Karak! Karak!
“There must be over a thousand,” Haern said, feeling his gut sink.
“But they are dead,” Jerico said, readying his shield. “To my side, Lathaar. You two, stay back until you are needed.”
The paladins weapons glowed a fierce white, and the glow grew all the brighter as Lathaar turned his swords into Elholads.
“You’ve seen many things in your life,” Haern said to Harruq as the undead army approached. “But you have never seen paladins fight Karak’s undead.”
Harruq guarded Jerico’s right flank while Haern guarded Lathaar’s left. The two paladins held their weapons high, their eyes closed, and their mouths whispering prayers to their god.
Karak! Karak!
Lathaar opened his eyes. “Stay with me,” was all he said. He launched himself at the tide of dead flesh and bone. As the blades of light tore through the bodies the undead did not just fall. They shattered as the magic controlling them was scattered and broken. Fast as he could cut them down they came, packed together so tight that a single swing massacred three at a time. As the hands tore at his flesh and teeth bit for his arms, he leapt back. Jerico slammed his shield into the mass, screaming Ashhur’s name. The rotten flesh melted against his shield like butter. He swung Bonebreaker in wild arcs, each blow blasting apart arms and chests. Deep into the army he ran, and when the undead tried to close around him Lathaar was there, cutting them down.
“Back!” Lathaar shouted, and Jerico obeyed. He bashed his shield side to side, beating away the clawing fingers. Lathaar cut a swathe of chaos through the ranks, circling in front of Jerico’s shield with no fear of its holy power. As he circled back around to where Jerico stood firm, over a hundred undead lay in pieces across the ground. Blood ran from scratches across his exposed face and neck. Lathaar gasped for air. He and Jerico had rode night and day to reach Neldar, and their rest within the temple of Ashhur had been too brief. They were both running on adrenaline and faith.
Each was tested as they stared out at the mass of dead chanting Karak’s name. They had killed but a tenth of their numbers.
“Even rivers must run dry,” Lathaar said as he sheathed his short sword.
“Amen,” Jerico said.
As one Lathaar lifted his sword and Jerico lifted his shield. The light upon them flared, powerful and dominating. Harruq felt a comfort in his chest, his heart longing for the peace he felt emanating within the light. The undead, however, shrieked and howled. Those nearest disintegrated, and those behind them tried to flee only to be pushed back and torn to pieces by the rest.
The light faded back to its gentle glow. Another hundred destroyed.
“An awesome sight,” Haern said in the brief lull before the paladins attacked once more. Harruq nodded but could not find words to describe what he had seen and felt. Lathaar cut through the undead, holding his Elholad with both hands. Jerico waited, and when Lathaar needed to retreat he was there, his shield leading. As they fought Harruq twirled his swords, unable to stand by any longer.
“Tired of watching yet,” he asked Haern.
“You know I am.”
To either side they attacked. Haern’s strikes were impossibly precise, cutting away tendons and muscle so that one undead after another collapsed, unable to stand or attack. Harruq was far less efficient. Salvation and Condemnation pounded through skulls and bone with brute force. Between them Lathaar twirled his Elholad and sliced through the bodies that swarmed about. When Haern found himself overwhelmed, he somersaulted back. Jerico was ready, slamming his shield into the undead while the assassin was still upside-down in the air.
Time crawled. Harruq felt he fought an endless wave of fingers and teeth. His armor was scratched and soaked in gore. His face and neck were covered with bruises, and every exposed bit of flesh was cut and bleeding. Any normal foe would have been exhausted and daunted by the enormity of death around them. But they fought no normal foe. Bit by bit they retreated toward the wall, unable to halt the wave despite their bravery. The bodies were piling up, their adrenaline was fading, and the armor on their backs was becoming harder and harder to bear.
Another hundred fell. The dead were crawling over the barriers made by their own fallen, yet still they came. Jerico could hardly swing his shield, instead holding it against his body as the blows rained down. Harruq swung his arms without feeling the swords in his hands. Haern’s strikes turned slower, less accurate.
Another hundred fell. Lathaar took the front, his swords weighing nothing. He used wide arcs, striking any many as he could. He called out to Ashhur, but his voice did not have the strength it once did. The dead did not recoil at his faith. They came onward, dying, their bones shattered, their blood spilt and their skin torn and broken. Despite the losses, the undead continued their chant. Karak! Karak! They would not flee. They would not stop.
Another hundred fell.
“Come back,” Harruq shouted as he kicked away the remains of a young man. “We’ll fill the gap with their own corpses!”
Jerico whirled in a circle, Bonebreaker blasting away seven undead swarming about him. He turned in the momentary reprieve and fled back to the wall, following the others. When they were out, he turned and placed himself in the very center of the crumbled wall. He collapsed to one knee, his shield jammed into the dirt to support his weight.
“I don’t know how much longer,” he gasped. He could barely see through the blood that ran down his face from the multitude of cuts and swelling bruises. “I don’t know…”