Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 24: Too Little, Too Late.

"We're too late!" Regis stared out in stark horror at the scene below. An avalanche of torches poured down from the opposite side of the valley, marching straight into Middlefort, already having pierced the inner sanctum.

King Erik's Chosen had already breached the city.

"Calm yourself, Harold," Olaf said, catching Regis before he could charge down the hill. "This was all part of my plan from the start. We were never meant to arrive on time to begin with."

"We weren't?"

"No," Olaf shook his head. "You and I are meant to rally the Lightbringers at a later time. Jarl Kriggith will play his part as the martyr of my prophecy for now. The massacre of Middlefort will be the final spark needed to finally set my rebellion ablaze."

"Massacre?" Regis balked. "What are you talking about? I thought this was supposed to be a trap?" He turned to Vausk, but the man said nothing as he stared out over the besieged city, eyes wet rimmed and glistening.

"It is, partially, but even I must be realistic about the outcome. King Erik's soldiers are still empowered by his witch's magick, especially with his own Right Hand amongst them. The Lightbringers will kill many, but we were never meant to expect victory, merely acceptable losses."

Regis shook his head, fear gnawing away at his guts over the implication of Olaf's words. "How in the seven hells did you convince the Jarl and his men to this farking suicidal last stand?"

Olaf frowned. "Please Harold, do not utter pagan damnations in my presence. It offends my ears." He paused to stare at Regis, his eyes slowly beginning to glimmer with light. "And to answer your question, I didn't."

"So...you sent them to their death." Regis frowned over the sour taste in his mouth, memories of the Empress floating to the surface of his mind. "That's ruthless even for you, Aulderman."

"Everyone has a purpose in my prophecy," Olaf said, his old, wise facade melting away to reveal frightening fanaticism. "You, me, and the rest of the people down there. I will not deny fate if it means the return of my goddess."

"There's no such thing as prophecy! There's no such thing as fate!" Regis snarled at the man, cold fear burning into hot rage over what he was hearing. "And there's no such thing as Aurora as far as I'm concerned! Just the ramblings of a crazy, old man with too much silver tucked under his tongue. Only now do I realize the true madness that has taken over this land. Not even you have been spared, my old friend."

"Oh ye of little faith. How little do you realize what is truly real in this world. I will prove you wrong. Here and now." Olaf's eyes began to shine mirror bright, and it wasn't stopping there. It ran down his cheeks like molten gold, pouring over his body, becoming an all enveloping aura.

Regis stepped back, shielding his eyes from the sudden brilliance. Shadows clawed at him, raking at his flesh, reminding him terribly of the disaster in Orienta all those years ago.

Olaf turned back to the city and pointed a finger towards the swirling miasma serving as Danic's sky. "It takes time to force such power into the physical realm, but Aurora has finally gathered enough strength to create the miracle we need, and as her herald I call for this miracle now!" The aura around him began to coalesce, gathering up into the tip of his finger as he spoke the second stanza of the prophecy.

"In the darkest hour, our lady's omen will guide us back to the righteous path!"

With a shout, the light burst from his fingertip and shot out like a star heading straight towards the sky. It twinkled in a cascade of twinkling diamonds, golden sparks, smaller clouds being ripped apart as it hurtled past.