Destiny (17 page)

He walked to the parapets. Looking down at the sea of enemies he began to cast a powerful spell, raising his staff of power and moving it in circles above his head. Two Norghanian soldiers, massive and grim-faced, reached the wall. Haradin ignored them, as he could not interrupt the spell. The three Royal Swords killed them swiftly, keeping him safe as he had known they would. He went on conjuring, impassive, making sure his magic was responding.

Suddenly a missile of pure ice reached him with great force. The defensive sphere repelled the attack, resisting the blow, but fragments of rock flew from the sphere, it was weakened. Haradin kept the spell going; he needed more time, he had to stand firm. Out of the corner of his eye he identified the origin of the missile among the first Norghanian lines: apparently a soldier of the Invincibles of the Ice. He was wearing their snow-white uniform, winged helmet and scaled armor, except there was a single detail about that soldier that did not fit: he was not holding a spear but a staff, white as snow. He was an Ice Mage and now Haradin knew where he was.

The Ice Mage launched a frozen javelin at him which buried itself in the protective sphere, throwing off chips of rock.

“Protect him!” Gerart cried from his right. He was driving back a group of enemies who had climbed over the wall and were establishing themselves.

Haradin looked at the tip of the ice javelin which had penetrated the defense to a few inches from his face but he did not flinch, he kept up his concentration. He had to continue with the spell, it was vital. He glimpsed the glacial Mage hurling a dozen icicles at him at high speed. That startled Haradin, and he nearly lost the concentration he needed to keep up the spell he was making so much effort to cast. Would the defensive sphere hold? He was not at all sure. The missiles kept coming…The first one hit the sphere hard, weakening it still further. Three more followed almost instantly, and chips of protective rock began to fall to the ground.

It would not hold…

At that moment two metal shields appeared in front of the Mage, covering him. The remaining icicles crashed against the shields which two of the Royal Swords were holding up. One of them dropped his shield and fell, in pain. Haradin saw that the icicles had pierced the metal, taking away the brave soldier’s arm. He cursed to himself but went on conjuring; he almost had it, just a bit longer. The third of the Royal Swords picked up another shield and took his fallen comrade’s position.

A bolt of frost flew towards Haradin from out of the snow-white tide.
Another Ice Mage camouflaged among the Invincibles of the Ice.
The bolt of frost fell on the battlements the Royal Swords were holding.
Just a little more, a little more,
Haradin thought to himself, carrying on with the spell. The bolt of frost began to freeze the shields, covering them with a thick layer of ice. The Royal Sword on his right fell, half his body frozen. The one on his left was speared by a hundred small stakes of ice.

And at last Haradin finished his spell.

In front of the wall, fifty paces away, in the middle of the enemy hordes, the earth split in two with a deafening rumble, as though an evil god were rising from the deep. The enormous crater of a volcano rose, dislodging earth, rocks and men, all within an area of twenty paces.

Haradin gave a last twirl of his staff and pronounced the final words of power.

The volcano erupted, in the midst of the mass of enemy troops.

There were violent explosions of fire and lava over the Norghanian forces, and black smoke rose to the skies. The men of the Thunder Army burned everywhere, caught by the fiery terror, unable to escape, surrounded by their own fellow-soldiers. The cries of the victims filled the air.

Haradin took three hurried steps back from the parapet and left quickly. Several ice missiles brushed past him, and the bolt of frost hit the merlons in front of him.

“By a hair’s-breadth…” he muttered in relief.

The battlefield filled with the terrible screams of the soldiers caught by the volcano. Hundreds of men were burning alive with no means of escape, while inside the crater the rhythm of the explosions sped up, widening the area of horror and death. A rain of fire began to fall in the midst of the Norghanian troops who were trying to escape from the chaos, crushing their comrades in the stampede. The volcano began to throw up gobbets of lava in all directions in a giant eruption. The incandescent tide advanced slowly, spreading across the plain and approaching the wall. The Norghanians died, burnt by the scorching magma amid horrific screams of suffering, or else crushed by their own panicking fellow countrymen.

Gerart came to Haradin’s side and said in astonishment:

“That spell is more powerful than I could ever have imagined.”

“It is indeed. It’s used up a great deal of my energy. But it’ll soon run its course, unless it’s destroyed before that.”

“The tide of lava has already come up to the walls. The Norghanians are fleeing as best they can, trying to save their lives.”

“Prepare twenty archers,” Haradin told him.

“As you wish, Battle Mage,” Gerart said.

Suddenly, above the volcano, a freezing storm began to take shape. A winter blizzard enveloped the crater and the temperature began to drop rapidly. Torrential, freezing rain, glacial wind and ice began to devour the volcano in a battle between fire and ice. The storm grew in intensity as the volcano lost power. As the storm grew, so did its area of action, rapidly putting out the burning lava around the crater.

“Archers, with me!” Haradin said, and went to stand behind the parapets. “At my signal.”

Haradin fixed his gaze on the false Norghanian soldier with the staff, who was really one of the Ice Mages conjuring up the winter storm. He concentrated and tried to invoke a bolt of fire.

The spell failed.

Hell, not now! I need my magic!

The twenty archers were waiting with their bows ready. Haradin tried once again, and this time the bolt of fire hit the Mage in his protective ice sphere. The sphere held and Haradin kept up the bolt, trying to penetrate it.

“At him!” he called to the archers.

Twenty arrows struck the sphere of the Ice Mage, cracking it and chipping away pieces of ice and frost. The Ice Mage turned his attention to them.

“Quick! Release again! Bring him down!”

Another twenty arrows were launched an instant before an enormous ball of icicles with cutting edges exploded over the group. On impact shards of ice, sharp as knives, flew out in all directions. Haradin’s protective sphere withheld the attack, but the twenty archers fell, their bodies mutilated. Blood and human remains were spread all over the parapet. Haradin bent his head, overwhelmed by the horrible outcome. He looked behind him and saw with relief that Gerart, a few steps back, was luckily unscathed, but only just…

“Get away from me, Gerart!” he warned.

Haradin looked down at his enemy as he reinforced his defensive sphere, which was practically destroyed. The Ice Mage lay dead with three arrows in his chest. Haradin exhaled sharply and fixed his gaze on the other Ice Mage he had identified. The storm of snow had already destroyed the volcano, but Haradin had expected that. The volcano had done its job, several thousand Norghanians had been burnt to ashes and the attack on the walls had ceased. But now the lethal winter storm was advancing towards the wall, guided by the enemy Mage, like some winter monster with glacial breath and frozen heart.

Damn, I must stop it!

Haradin focused on the Mage and launched the bolt of fire at him to weaken his defense. Immediately four Norghanians with huge frozen shields came to stand in front of him, blocking the bolt. The lethal storm reached the wall twenty paces or so to Haradin’s right, and Rogdonian soldiers began to fall, frozen by the low temperatures it carried under its white presence of death.

I must get rid of him!

He conjured a ball of fire and sent it against the shields. The ball exploded, burning and roasting the Invincibles of the Ice around the Mage, but the shields remained.
They’re covered in ice, the fire can’t do anything against them. I must use something different, but what?

He pointed at the enemy. “Gerart, the archers! The mage must not survive!”

Gerart nodded. Moving away from Haradin, he summoned two dozen archers to punish the area.

The storm of ice and snow, with its deadly glacial touch, was causing havoc among the helpless Rogdonian troops. The casualties were now nearing a thousand.

“They’re decimating us with this frozen storm!” Gerart lamented bitterly.

Haradin watched the Ice Mage. Only his staff was visible above the shields which protected him. The archers’ arrows could not penetrate them. How could they break down those protective shields? How? A blast of wind carrying the disgusting scent of burning flesh reached his face. He had to move away to avoid choking. And then it occurred to him! Without a moment’s delay he began to chant a long spell of power.

But the spell failed.

Not now! Come on, come on, there’s too much at stake!

He tried again.

The spell failed anew.

Despair began to grow on Haradin. Brave Rogdonian defenders were dying because of his own failure, and he had to save them.
Come on, Spell of Air, I must manage it or else they’re finished.
He tried again, and at last the spell worked. In front of the bearers of the frozen shields, a tornado fifteen feet high began to take shape. Haradin conjured again and the tornado advanced towards the shields, swirling at devilish speed with hurricane winds. The Ice Mage sent a trident of ice which stuck deep into Haradin’s protective sphere, causing it to crack and forcing him to step back.
I’m going to lose my sphere, it won’t withstand another impact like this.
The tornado reached the shields and swept over the Norghanians holding them.

It reached the Ice Mage, but he protected himself with an anti-magic cloak and avoided the harmful effects of Haradin’s spell.

“Now, Gerart, now!” he urged the Prince.

Two dozen arrows fell on the Ice Mage while the tornado continued its advance on the enemy lines, whirling the men who crossed its path into the air with hurricane strength.

The Ice Mage retreated, his defense weakened.

“Keep shooting! Don’t let him escape alive!” Haradin shouted, his source of energy practically spent.

The archers kept releasing volley after volley as the Mage fled.

Two hundred paces.
The arrows still reached him. The Mage ran through the lines as if the devil were after him.

Three hundred paces. Almost safe
. Haradin cursed bitterly.

Four hundred paces. He was safe
. Haradin gave a cry of impotence.

A single arrow crossed the distance with a deadly whistle. It hit the weakened defensive sphere, destroying it; it pierced it and buried itself deeply in the Mage’s back.

Haradin turned, astonished.

With a yew longbow in his hand, exquisitely decorated, Gerart smiled at him.

“A gift from my father at my coming of age. There’s no other bow like it in all Rogdon.”

The winter storm above the wall vanished in a matter of moments.

Haradin smiled. His soul relieved.

“Look, they’re retreating, Haradin! The Norghanians are withdrawing!” Gerart cried.

“Punish their infamy!” Haradin said.

Gerart nodded. “Archers! Death to the enemy!”

The archers took up their positions. Thousands of arrows were released against the enemy troops as they formed an orderly retreat. The cheers of the Rogdonians filled the battlements with joy and hope.

The enemy was falling back.

“Are they really retreating?” Gerart asked, still unable to believe it.

“They’re withdrawing, rather. They’ll form lines at about four hundred paces and prepare for a new assault. I barely have any energy left, I won’t be able to stop them, there are too many of them. You’ll have to drive them back, with steel, Prince of Rogdon.”

“We’ll fight to the last man. I’ll gladly give my life for my Kingdom, my people,” Gerart assured him.

A blast, as of an ice block breaking, sounded suddenly above Haradin’s head. He looked up in alarm and saw an enormous cone of ice coming directly down on him from the sky.

Hell! A third Ice Mage… I hadn’t seen him.

The cone hit Haradin’s protective sphere with shattering force, and it broke into a thousand pieces of rock and earth.

I’m a dead man.

Back in the Nocean war camp, Sumal was watching the events on the northeastern wall without missing a detail. The Norghanians had thrown themselves into the capture of Rilentor, which was very daring, and also completely stupid, in his view. The reason why Count Volgren had taken that course of action he already knew. His informants infiltrated in the Norghanian camp had told him of the arrival of King Thoran and with him, the order for the assault.

“Those brainless brutes of the snow dare to attack the city without respecting our agreement!” roared Mulko, Regent of the North of the Nocean Empire. His voice revealed all the rage he felt.

“They want the city, my Lord,” Zecly said.

Sumal observed his master, the powerful Sorcerer, with respect, and wondered what he might be plotting in his exceptional mind.

“I want those northern bastards impaled!” Mulko roared, and drew his gold and silver scimitar.

“And you will have them, my Lord…” Zecly whispered in his ear. “But now we must act with the utmost care and intelligence, since these are critical moments which might lead us to a grand victory, or, if we make any mistake… to death.”

Mulko looked at his Counselor and appeared to grow calmer. He put his weapon away and rearranged his turban.

“What do you suggest?”

Zecly clasped his hands behind his back and bent his head thoughtfully.

“The Norghanians are suffering heavy casualties. The Mage, Haradin, is extremely powerful, he’ll make them pay in blood. This is to our advantage…”

“Shall we attack from behind, then?” said Mulko, jumping to the conclusion with his eyes bright with greed.

“No, my Lord, it’s not the time for that, they’re still strong. Attacking them would mean heavy losses for our legions, enough to prevent our taking the Rogdonian city after defeating the men of the Snow. No, it would be more prudent and advantageous to let them continue their attack on the northeastern wall and suffer more losses still. Remember, the Rogdonians are growing weaker too, and that will allow us to conquer the city more easily.”

“I see what you’re proposing, Counselor… Then what must I do? I can’t stay here watching the battle, the men would see it as a clear sign of weakness or something even worse: cowardice. I can’t allow myself that.”

Zecly nodded.

“Attack the wall at the southern section with the siege weapons, my Lord. Punish the enemy while my Sorcerers finalize the rituals of Blood and Curses, and once we’re ready we’ll attack the city. They won’t be able to stop us, my Lord.”

“Let it be so!” Mulko exclaimed, raising his fist.

Aliana was working without respite in the great Cathedral of the Light in Rilentor, where the Healer Sisters had established themselves in order to attend to the many wounded. The spectacle inside the great basilica was desolate, with hundreds of men lying everywhere, badly wounded, mutilated, bleeding, dying. The sacred floor was now corrupted by the red of death, and however tirelessly the several Priests of the Light might clean it, blood stained the floors as if Rogdon herself was bleeding.

The Healer Sisters were trying to help everyone there. Alas, there was nothing to be done for many, for their wounds were too severe. The power of healing had its limitations. Nothing tore at Aliana’s heart more than watching the hopeful eyes of a dying soldier, putting his faith in the healing power, then soon realizing that nothing could be done. Aliana could not even alleviate the agonizing pain of those who were suffering, since every ounce of energy was needed to save those who did have a chance. They could not waste a single drop of their power. Mother Healer Sorundi had made this clear. The leader of the Order was exhausted, but nothing stopped her; she went on working non-stop, trying to save as many as she could. Gena, Aliana’s young pupil, followed Sorundi wherever she went, helping her at every moment.

The soldier Aliana was tending to breathed one last sigh of suffering and died with a twisted grimace on his face. Aliana bent her head in despair. Surrounded by so much pain and death, her kind spirit was overwhelmed and tears came to her eyes.

“Not cry,” Asti told her.

Aliana looked at the Usik, who was making such efforts to help her with all the wounded, and tried to hold back her tears.

“You good. You cure. Not cry,” the Usik said, and hugged her fondly.

At this gesture Aliana broke into sobs, filled with pain for the suffering of all those good men, and at the same time with happiness that she had Asti as her friend.

Through the great door, open wide, where the Protectress Sisters were on watch duty, a new batch of wounded men made their appearance. Aliana sighed deeply.
Strong, I must be strong. I can’t allow myself to be beaten by the horror before my eyes, nor the despair my heart feels. I must help them, to the last of these soldiers. It’s my calling, my duty.
She looked at Asti, so frail and so brave at the same time, and the Usik smiled back at her in the midst of that horrifying situation, infusing in her the courage she needed.
Thank you, my friend.

Feeling slightly better, Aliana recalled the battle at the wall, Gerart defending it with all his courage and honor. That cheered her; the Prince would never let them be destroyed. And at that moment her thoughts soared like a royal eagle, rising higher, to Komir. What might have happened to the brave Norriel? Would he have reached the other Bearers? Was he still alive? This last thought brought such pain to her chest that she was left almost breathless. She put her hand to the Ilenian medallion and it responded with a flash.
He’s alive, I know. I don’t need the medallion to confirm it. He’s alive, and soon he’ll be back with us.
Aliana’s spirit surged from its ashes, kindling an unexpected fire in her heart. She would soon see Komir, the Norriel with emerald eyes, the cat-like warrior, the tormented leader, the object of her desires… She shook her head to free herself from those thoughts and the handsome face of Gerart, the most honorable and courageous man she knew, filled her mind again.
I’ll lose my mind if I go on like this. What’s happening to me?

A new wounded soldier was placed in front of her, and all those thoughts were banished. The soldier’s leg had been severed at the thigh and he was bleeding profusely. Asti did not hesitate to put her hand over the horrendous wound and press. Aliana shouted for a belt to make a tourniquet and once again attempted the impossible.

A silhouette crossing the door caught her attention. An elderly man with snow-white mane and beard wearing a thick grey robe was heading towards the southern wall, leaning on his staff. Aliana half-closed her eyes while she tightened the tourniquet and recognized the old man.

“Mirkos! But where on earth are you going? You mustn’t, you’re too weak!”

But the great Rogdonian Mage either did not hear her, or chose not to.

Behind the parapet on the southern section of the wall, Dolbar was watching the attack of the Nocean siege machines. He knew the situation very well, having lived through it during the siege of Silanda. His brother Duke Galen had died there, and if it had not been for Gerart’s master-plan nobody would have escaped from the Duke’s castle alive. Luckily he and close to five thousand brave men had managed to get out through the secret tunnel and reach Rilentor. Now they were defending the southern wall as the Nocean legions began to advance.

They seemed impatient. Dolbar calculated close to forty thousand men on the plain, all in black and blue, with banners and standards proudly bearing the emblem of the ruthless desert sun. King Solin had granted him the command of the defense of the southern section of the wall, and he would not disappoint him. He would rather die.

“Well, well, well, it seems our little friends are coming to pay us a visit,” came a sarcastic voice behind him. Dolbar, taken aback, turned at once.

“But Mirkos, you’re not fit… those wounds of yours were terrible, you must go back to bed and rest.”

“Hah! Rest, you say? So that a Nocean can slit my throat while I’m asleep in my room, or perhaps a Norghanian can slice open my chest with an axe? No thank you, here is where this old mage wishes to die, not in bed.”

“But you’re wounded and very weak…”

“Nonsense! Feeble and old I might be, but I’m stubborn and tenacious as a mule. I’ll fight because my heart demands it of me. Besides, there are few enough of us, and with me in bed we won’t defeat the enemy.”

Dolbar bowed. “In that case, I remain at your service.”

Mirkos smiled at Dolbar.

The explosions of rock and granite were coming all along the wall, damaging the battlements and the buildings immediately behind them. The soldiers under Dolbar’s command were sheltering in the centre of the city, awaiting the order to take up their positions on the wall. Mirkos beckoned to Dolbar to come with him, and both of them took shelter on the stone staircase. The bombardment remained constant for hours, and Mirkos was aware that the blue and black legions were advancing unstoppably. They risked a glance, while the immense missiles of rock blasted against the wall and shattered the battlements amid explosions of granite. At the far end, covering the advance of the legions, the sinister cloak of darkness of the Nocean Sorcerers made its presence felt.

“The arcane blackness that covers all,” Dolbar said.

“Yes, the maleficent arts of the enemy are beginning to show themselves. Now they’ll extend, enveloping everything on their way in darkness until they reach the wall. We must prepare.”

“What do you think they’re planning, Mirkos? There aren’t many of us to hold the wall in the face of these great Nocean legions…” Dolbar said, looking worried.

“That’s not the only thing that should be worrying us. I very much fear that they’ll already be using the rituals of the deeply dangerous Blood Magic. I don’t even want to imagine the number of innocent lives, of slaves and prisoners, they’ll be sacrificing in those bloody rituals. It’s something terrible, which my old soul abhors. Then, most certainly they’ll seek to amplify the power of the Sorcerers of the Curse Magic through the ritual of blood, and they’ll surely make use of the mystical union with their acolytes to take possession of their energy, which is something no mage should do…”

The attacks stopped and a tense silence followed.

“There are twenty of them for each of our men… our chances are slight, if any…” Dolbar said, as he watched the blackness covering the enemy legions.

“The siege weapons have stopped. Call your men to the wall. The time has come to shed the invaders’ blood and defend the country!”

Dolbar summoned his men, who took their positions on the battered battlements, above the southern section. The bows were raised, and behind them stood four thousand brave Rogdonian hearts.

Mirkos’ gaze rested on the faces of the soldiers and saw fear taking its toll in the presence of that threatening cloak of darkness. He went to speak to them, but as he took a step forward a terrible pain ran along his back and he was forced to bend double. Dolbar, concerned, went to help him, but Mirkos stopped him with a wave of his hand. He could not show weakness, not now. The terrible wounds inflicted by the blood demon were torturing him but would not succeed in beating him; he was too old and stubborn for that. Mirkos was aware that he was alive by a miracle of the ancient gods. But he would fight with all his courage and determination, for his own countrymen, for his land, until pain and death took him away, never to return.

He straightened with the help of his staff of power.

“Listen to me, Rogdonians!” he called at the top of his voice. “Don’t give in to fear, hold fast!”

The soldiers listened in silence, looking for the slightest trace of hope to lighten their spirits.

“Fight with me, Rogdonians! Fight beside Mirkos, Battle Mage of the King, and I promise we’ll send those vipers to the hole they came from!”

The ominous cloak of darkness reached the foot of the wall. Beneath its ill-omened shadow advanced the sons of the desert, those who served the sun of death. Mirkos conjured the two protective spheres, the one of earth to protect against physical attacks and the ethereal anti-magic one, for he did not wish to repeat past mistakes. What had happened in Silanda had taught him a valuable lesson. Keeping up both spheres consumed his energy but he had no choice, as he knew with absolute certainty that two hundred paces away under the blackness several Curse Sorcerers were waiting eagerly to attack him.

“Clear this area quickly,” he told Dolbar. The soldiers fell back immediately.

Mirkos closed his eyes and concentrated. He pronounced words of power in a mystical chant, invoking the Spell of Air he needed. He pointed at the blackness with his staff and a white light of great intensity leapt out in its direction. The light attacked the cloak of darkness, filling it with brightness.

The soldiers on the wall cheered when they saw the darkness being destroyed by their powerful Mage, and hope surged up within their hearts like a seed germinating in the warm sunshine of Spring.

An ocean of enemies lay revealed. The archers fired at once, sending thousands of arrows against the Nocean legions. Death began to fill the plain, death which would now seek the battlements like a demon with blue body and black wings which thirsted for Rogdonian blood.