Chapter 60 Sariel
SARIEL
T he trumpets blew, the signal for the assault to begin. Sariel could only hope that Faron had reached the Tower Majestic unnoticed. He suspected he would not know Isabelle’s fate until his army marched victoriously upon the entrance of the tower.
His army, he’d thought, but that wasn’t true. Isabelle’s army, and officially led by the nervous man beside him.
“Will you stay with me to observe?” Marshal Oscar asked.
He wore his military finest, his armor gleaming and his scalp freshly shaved.
Ahead of them, two covered and reinforced battering rams rolled toward the closed gates.
Far to their sides, massive siege towers rolled on thick wheels toward six different locations of the White City.
Meanwhile nine catapults readied their stones to smash holes in the pristine walls.
“My place is where the fighting is at its thickest,” Sariel said, shaking his head. “Do not fear for my safety, Marshal. I will not die here at the culmination of all our efforts.”
“It’s a rare man who chooses when and where he dies,” Oscar said.
Sariel grinned at him. “And am I not the rarest sort of man?”
The marshal returned the grin.
“I suppose we shall discover that when the battle is done. Go as you believe best, Sariel Godsight, and I will command the troops in your absence.”
Sariel bid him goodbye and then marched through the lines. They were expertly disciplined, even with the soldiers’ obvious nerves. Sariel walked among them, letting them find courage in his presence. He stopped near the front, at a familiar little battle squadron.
“Will you be fine without him?” he asked the young man, Bart, who always seemed attached to Faron’s hip.
“Don’t got a choice, do I?” Bart asked, not needing an explanation of who “him” might be. They all sorely missed Faron, though Sariel could give them no explanation for his absence.
“Don’t worry,” Derek said, nudging Bart with his elbow. “I’ll be strong enough for the both of us. You stick by me, and I’ll get you clear and through.”
Sariel smiled at them both before continuing to the front lines, which had halted just shy of potential arrow reach.
Not that there were many arrows. It disturbed Sariel how perfunctory the defense of the city appeared.
Surely his brother had known this invasion was coming for months, so why had he not prepared?
Why hadn’t armies met them on the pass through the Sapphire Mountains, or gathered eagerly behind the walls of the White City?
Perhaps he expected to lose. Perhaps, having seen the might of the Crownbreaker in ages past, he thought victory impossible. Still, that didn’t sit right with Sariel. Eder would always seek a path to success. Which meant the city meant nothing to him. Then what did?
Let Eder sacrifice her! Let the tower awaken!
Sariel wished he could banish every word from his mind, but they would not leave. He glared at the Tower Majestic and wished he possessed the knowledge to break hardstone so they might tear the tower down and cast its broken pieces into the sea so it never plagued them again.
Catapults let loose their stones as the first battering ram reached the gate.
Meanwhile, the siege towers struck the walls, their ladders latching on to the sides and the men inside pouring out to fight the defenders.
Sariel watched the blood flow, already knowing the outcome.
Their numbers were too great, and Racliffe’s too scattered and few.
The fate of the city would not be decided here, but by whatever deviousness Eder planned within the Tower Majestic.
“And so dies the Astral Kingdom,” Sariel whispered as the battering ram smashed open the entrance and the catapults opened huge chunks in the wall. The gates swayed loosely on their hinges, and through the broken gap between them, he saw defenders readying to hold the line.
This was it. Sariel lifted Redemption high above him as soldiers shifted, eager and nervous for the coming charge.
“This day, we end this war,” Sariel shouted, radiance flooding his throat. All would hear him, no matter where they were upon the battlefield. “This day, the goddess shall have her victory.”
No going back , he thought, taking that first step, then another. A walk became a run. A run became a sprint. His soldiers rushed with him, roaring a jubilant battle cry. Sariel kept the lead, his speed beyond human. No longer would he hide his true nature.
“This day, we save our queen!”
When this battle ended, he would need to travel west, with a new name and face to disguise his accomplishments. But until then? He would not hide his radiance. Let the people attribute it to Leliel, no differently than Faron had the healing of his wound. As for the form of that radiance?
Silver gleamed across the edge of Sariel’s blade, mimicking the power Isabelle summoned in battle.
He had never thought to use it in such a manner, but it called to him now as the gates opened and soldiers formed a line ten wide to battle the charge of the protectorate.
Sariel focused his power into Redemption, imagining it building, sharpening, and preparing for release.
“For the goddess!” he screamed.
Moments before crashing into the line, he swung. An arc of silver radiance slashed through the air. Armor bent. Shields crunched inward. Limbs fell, severed from those who did not protect themselves. The entire front line staggered, and then Sariel was among them, and the blood flowed.
Dragon bone was unbreakable, and with radiance shimmering across its edge, nothing could withstand its strike.
He cut through Racliffe’s soldiers, his every swing long and wide like a reaper harvesting a field.
The defenders panicked, frightened by radiance and the way their shields broke in half at his cuts, and then the rest of Isabelle’s army arrived.
Onward. Deeper. Sariel refused to let anyone else be the spear point.
He twisted and turned as he moved, a macabre dancer among gore and corpses, his sword twirling to lop off limbs and open throats.
A leap, and he pushed past the next line, finding himself in the middle of dozens of the Astral Kingdom’s soldiers.
Sword gripped in two hands, he spun in place, extending its length to its limit.
Dozens fell, cleaved in half. The gore spilled across the street, accompanied by the screams of the men and women meant to fill the line in their place.
Sariel slashed the air, and a second flash of radiance crossed the space, decapitating one man and cleaving the arm and shoulder of the woman beside him.
There would be no reinforcements. There would be no battle lines.
Racliffe’s defenders broke, retreating deeper into the city as Sariel’s troops blew horns and shouted their victory.
The walls were similarly overrun, the soldiers there finding stairs and ladders to climb down into the city to rejoin the main force.
Up ahead were the streets of the White City, eerily empty.
People were hiding within their homes, praying they would be spared the horrors that befell a conquered city.
Sariel gave them not a thought. He had but one goal, and it was within the Tower Majestic looming over Racliffe from above the sea.
Soldiers gathered around him, their eyes wide, and many were silent in their awe. Sariel shook the blood from his sword, and he stood tall over them, wishing he did not feel such pleasure in allowing his true glory to be known to humanity.
“If there is a defense, it will be along the lengths of Bridgetop,” Sariel shouted to them.
“We stay together, and we march upon it in full force. Our goal is the Tower Majestic, and the Luminary within. Do not spread out. Do not falter. The hour of victory is at hand, and by my blade and my might, I shall lead you to it.”
Whispers spread among the soldiers. Names forming, titles given. Another chosen. Leliel’s champion. Isabelle’s savior. Sariel let them speak it. Tales would warp in time, his name shifted, his purpose forgotten. Only one thing mattered.
I’m coming, Isabelle , he thought as he stared at the tower in the distance.
The mass of soldiers flowed through the streets of Racliffe, encountering little resistance.
Slowly their number spread out, greedy men seeking to loot or force themselves upon women.
They, too, knew the supposed spoils of a conqueror.
Sariel pushed those with him onward, hoping haste would prevent any doubts or further splintering. This war was not yet won.
True to his expectations, the remaining soldiers of Racliffe gathered in the narrow passage across Bridgetop.
They were stacked five wide and dozens deep.
Slapdash barricades blocked the way, made up of anything the soldiers could find; crates, overturned carts, and chunks of wood nailed together to form crude X’s.
Marshal Oscar should be the one leading, but Sariel had given up that pretense. This was his army, as it was always meant to be. Eder had crossed too many lines and dragged his family down with him. Sariel lifted Redemption and let its edge shine silver.
“Make way,” he said, his voice thundering. It seemed the entire bridge quaked at his words. He slashed, cutting down the front line. The effort was taxing but worth the reward when fear spread in the defenders’ eyes.
The ground rumbled before he could order the assault. Shouts from both armies spread as a low humming built in their ears. Sariel’s eyes widened, and panic sliced through him as an otherworldly light shone from the top of the Tower Majestic as a tremendous beam racing toward the sky.
“Isabelle,” Sariel whispered, as the tower, and all its ancient magics, surged to life.