by R J Hanson
Eldryn asked no questions. There was no time. Roland strained again with everything he had and managed to lift the log four inches from the top of the dam. Eldryn quickly laid the green crystal on the log beneath. Roland released the log and the top sixteen logs of the dam disappeared into thin air.
Water rushed over the top of the dam sweeping what was left of it along its path. The men, giants and ogres, that were crossing the stretch between dams, were engulfed in the rush of water. Roland and Eldryn held their breath as the river crashed into the second dam. Their hopes fell when the second dam held.
Roland and Eldryn ran the fifty yards to the remaining dam. By the time they reached it four of the giants and two ogres had managed to get their feet under them and were wading across the water. At least fifty more troops and fifteen giants from the other side of the river were running southeast to get around the second dam and cross. The water had pooled in what had been the dry area between the dams. Roland looked to the sky as he drew out Swift Blood with one hand and took his shield from Road Pounder’s back.
“Bolvii,” Roland cried, “give us the answer!”
Eldryn held his shield low and hoisted his shrou-sheld high into the air. Both men prepared themselves for the end. Then something on the pommel of Eldryn’s sword caught his eye. A lightning bolt.
“Get back from the water!” Eldryn yelled to Roland.
Without hesitation or question, Roland stepped back; Eldryn pointed his sword. On a mental command from Eldryn, a bolt of lightning ripped from the sword and struck the water that pooled around the wading giants and ogres. Electricity burst through the bodies of the monsters blowing them apart. The logs of the dam charred and water was forced in all directions as the bodies within it exploded.
The second dam had been pushed to its limits when the rush of water crashed against it. It had already begun to leak. Now the force of the lightning bolt was all that was needed to push it beyond its capacity. The dam broke away from the southern bank and water rushed past it carrying the bodies of the giants, ogres, and evil men with it. The waters flowed past at an uncommon speed, as if the breath of Bolvii pushed it, and tore away the remains of the dam as it went.
“El,” Roland said. “It won’t be an easy road but you are a much better rider than I am, and probably one hundred stones lighter. Can you take the horses back down the road toward Skult? With both of them you should be able to switch out which one you ride. If you push hard, you could make it back in less than two weeks. Perhaps within ten days. That would be much faster than both of us riding.”
“Sure, I could do that but I’m not going to leave you here,” Eldryn said.
“I’m not staying either,” Roland said as he hoisted the leather strap of his pack over his shoulder and tossed it to Eldryn. “I’ve got to get back to Claire. I hope I’ll see you soon.”
“Roland what are you talking…”
Eldryn was cut short when he saw what he thought was certain suicide. Sir Roland sheathed his Great sword and pulled his arm out of the loops of the heavy full shield. He gripped the loops in both hands and pulled the shield to his chest. Then he charged at the river and jumped.
Bolvii in his courtyard on high smiled. He had watched over this bloodline for generations. Roland’s rash behavior gave him pause, but Roland’s unblinking bravery was a sight to behold.
Eldryn could have been no less shocked when the shield struck the water and began to float. To float! The enchantment of the shield bore its weight, and Roland’s, well. Roland rode the swift flow of the river to the southeast. Then he recalled Roland’s story of how he escaped from Engiyadu. A floating shield. Eldryn watched, amazed, as Roland laid atop the shield and traveled down river at increasing speed. Eldryn mounted Lance Chaser and caught up the reins to Road Pounder.
“We have a long ride, boys,” Eldryn said.
He kicked Lance Chaser into a gallop and started for the town of Skult.
Lady Clairenese looked with hate at the undead army that rained into the riverbed. She wondered about what sort of siege Daeriv would surround her father’s lands with after he had taken the rest of Lawrec. She watched as the rest of the undead masses began to reach the southern riverbank. They would take as many with them as they could.
She should have been thinking about teleporting to safety. She should have been thinking about saving the lives of as many there as possible. However, all Lady Clairenese thought of, for she was the daughter of the Warlock of the Marshes, was the destruction of Daeriv and those that served him.
Clairenese began to prepare another spell. Tindrakin and Ungar struggled at the gate cutting down corpse after corpse. The brimstone and decayed smell of their breath was hot in their faces. To Tindrakin’s terror, some of the creatures he faced wore the rotted clothes and features of fallen comrades. The dwarves on the wall pelted the enemy with bolt after bolt but the small supply of blessed bolts had been used up. Now it took four or more quarrels to drop just one of the creatures attacking the home. Several of the undead had made their way around to the other door of the house. Ungar and Tindrakin heard the commotion behind them but were helpless to turn. Some of the dwarves bailed off of the wall and headed for the interior of the house.
“Don’t worry about the house,” Claire yelled above the din. “It is protected, for now.”
All heard the screams of the undead that had breached the doorway. Each creature that set foot across the threshold cried out in agony as his flesh ignited in holy flame.
A roar came to their ears above all of the sounds of combat. Tindrakin and Ungar were too engaged in battle to see the sight but Lady Clairenese and the dwarves that remained on the walls watched it happen. Kullen was on the roof jumping up and down all the while with Travelin’ Jack in his arms. They watched, stunned, as a tidal wave of water tore its way down the riverbed. The wave caught the bulk of the undead army between the banks of the river and flushed them downstream toward the sea. Thousands of undead were buried under that rush of flowing water. The river’s force took several of the creatures that were on the banks, both southern and northern, along with it in its cleansing charge to the sea.
There was a little over a thousand undead still on the northern side of the river. They searched back and forth along the bank for a path across the insurmountable embodiment of life.
There were still several hundred of the creatures that had made it to the southern banks. Over three hundred charged toward Skult. The home of Sir Roland and Lady Clairenese was still surrounded by over one hundred of the undead soldiers.
“Kullen, get inside!” Claire commanded. “Now!”
Claire rained spell after spell onto the creatures. The strains from her pregnancy and exhaustion from such a magical drain were beginning to show. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she fought to remain conscious. She shook her head violently to clear her vision.
Eight more dwarves were pulled from the walls of the defenses and consumed by the sieging forces that engulfed the home. Ungar stomped shins into splinters and hammered skulls. The mighty dwarf felled over forty of the creatures but the battle was beginning to strain even his stamina.
Tindrakin fought with more skill and more effectiveness than he ever had in his life. His new skills learned from Eldryn and Roland were put to good use. He slayed more than thirty of the unholy things before taking injury. That injury, however, was devastating.
One of the undead clawed at Tindrakin’s helmet trying to get to the tender flesh of his neck. The creature pulled on his helmet and was beginning to drag Tindrakin out into the number of waiting fangs and claws. Tin struggled with his helm and finally cut the chin strap free and the creature fell back into the onslaught clutching Tindrakin’s helmet. Tindrakin hacked down two more of the things before a claw shot through his defenses. The diseased and rotting finger stabbed into Tindrakin’s left eye and gouged it out.
Tindrakin screamed and put a hand to his face to slow the bleeding. The evil creature moved back from the g
ate to enjoy its trophy of human flesh. Two dwarves pulled Tin back and took his place at the gate. Ungar fell back and was replaced by another of the dwarves. Ungar hauled Tin back toward the house.
Harriette had four irons in the fireplace, five pots of boiling water going, and was cutting a blanket into bandages. Whit had closed and blocked the back door with a chair and was now feeding logs into the fire in the fireplace. Clowie searched through the house for anything that might be used to help the injured. She had gathered a sack of flower, and several twine strings.
Ungar hauled Tindrakin inside and laid him on the bed. He took a wine skin from his belt and uncorked it.
“Drink this, Tin,” Ungar said. “You have a rot in your eye. I’ve got to burn it out.”
Ungar put the skin in Tindrakin’s hands and helped him get it to his lips. The dwarven liquor was strong and burned the common man’s lungs and stomach fiercely. The potent drink soon began its work.
“Woman, you and the children help me hold him down,” Ungar said to Harriette. “I need him still.”
Harriette, Whit and Clowie piled onto Tindrakin. Ungar took one of the irons from the fire and walked over to the bed. He climbed up onto Tindrakin’s chest and held Tin’s forehead in a strong grip. Ungar whispered a quick prayer to Roarke, the god of Stone, and then guided the hot iron into Tindrakin’s eye socket.
Pain ripped through Tin’s head like a hungry beast tearing away the most sacred parts of his inner self. It overwhelmed him and, mercifully, he passed out.
As Ungar turned for the door, two more dwarves came in carrying a third. The injured dwarf had claw marks on his face and neck and a bit mark on his arm.
“Boy, you are going to become a man today,” Ungar said to Whit. “Your mother and sister will take care of the hot water and the bandages. The wounds of every injured soldier that comes in here must be cauterized. That’s your job. Don’t do it light or it won’t take. The hot iron must burn through enough flesh to kill off the disease these creatures carry. You understand me, boy?”
“Yes sir,” Whit replied.
Ungar went back out the door and Whit went to the fireplace to retrieve one of the red-hot irons. A roar came from somewhere behind the house. Not the cursed wail of the undead. Not a human shout. The roar of a large wild animal. The roar of a bear.
The numbers of undead were thinning as was the strength of Lady Clairenese. She held onto the top of the wall for support as she forced her mind to focus on another spell. The next sight she saw blew all concentration from her mind.
Roland had managed to angle himself enough in the river flow to get closer to the bank. He saw that he had no chance of reaching the bank and getting hold before he was washed far past his home. He did, however, see another option.
One of the poles from the dam was lodged into the side of the riverbank and jutted out into the stream. He aimed himself for the pole and crashed into it with brutal force. His shield was ripped from his hands by the strength of the river and the wind was beaten from his lungs. Roland, feeling the sharp pains of at least two broken ribs, wrapped both of his mighty arms around the log, knowing that if he let go, he would drown.
He fought against this deadly enemy, the river, that had only moments before been his ally. He struggled and climbed finally making his way to the southern bank of the river. He pulled himself up onto the grass and collapsed there sucking in the wind that his lungs starved for.
He looked up to see twelve hearty dwarves approaching him, and beyond them, his home still surrounded by nearly forty undead. It seemed that finally some help had come from somewhere. Roland relaxed into the grass for another few moments. He still had fighting to do but he had to catch his breath first. As he laid on the ground, he realized that the crash into the log must have broken more than just a few ribs. Each new breath brought a stab of pain into his right side and he tasted fresh blood in his mouth.
The dwarves approached and Roland assumed they were coming close enough to help him up. At the time he didn’t feel too proud to accept that help. Roland’s shock was only matched by his immediate dismay.
The first dwarf to reach him jerked Swift Blood from his back. The second slapped a crushing blow to his right knee with a battle hammer that bent it in a viscous angle. Roland rolled to escape his attackers but two others of the strong dwarves latched themselves to his arms and brought him up on his knees. The dwarf that had taken Swift Blood from Roland’s back hoisted it in the air preparing a strike that would severe Roland’s head. Roland saw through the duel vision of his magical helm that these dwarves were as cool as their surroundings. They had already been killed in combat once this day. The dark contagious magic of Daeriv’s army had stolen their lives and perverted their bodies.
The dwarf wielding Swift Blood started it in a killing arc. In moments like that it is amazing what sort of detail a fighting man can catch with his eye. Roland noticed the dead look in the dwarf’s eyes. He saw the wall built around his home in an attempt at defense. He looked beyond that wall and watched as his love, Clairenese, collapsed.
A charge of something Clairenese would later explain as ‘mana fire’ swept out of the hilt to consume the unwelcomed user of the mighty Shrou-Hayn. The undead dwarf vanished into dust. Roland wasted no time. He pulled with all of his strength and slammed the two dwarves holding his arms into each other. The resounding crack told all listening that the skulls and upper spines of both creatures were crushed. Roland rolled away from the other nine dwarves and pulled two daggers from his belt that he had taken from Nolcavanor. These daggers bore the symbol of the hourglass on their pommels and blades.
Roland hurled the daggers with deadly accuracy and two of the undead dwarves burst into a blessed flame. Their bodies fell to the ground, slain by the holy weapons. The other seven dwarves hefted their own magical weapons and encircled Roland. Roland threw two more daggers and felled two more dwarves. He drew his remaining mercshyeld hand axe, he had lost the other to the river somewhere along the way, and tried to stand. The wounded knee would not serve him and he collapsed to his good knee. Now he was eye level with the five deadly warriors that surrounded him.
The undead dwarves realized that they had wasted too much time already. They charged. Roland parried a cut from a battle axe that was aimed for his neck. He also managed to pull his axe back down to block a thrust from the spearhead of a hand axe directed at his armored thigh. The other three attacking dwarves struck their target.
Roland was struck again in the injured leg. The pain washed through his body and almost stole consciousness from his weakened grasp. A hammering strike from a mace caught him in the back knocking the wind from his lungs. If he had not been wearing such superior armor, that blow would have broken his spine. The fifth undead dwarf attempted to severe Roland’s lower left leg. As irony would have it, the boots that this particular dwarf crafted in life defeated his attack in death. The dwarf’s axe blade struck the smoke colored boots the dwarves had given Roland. The blade struck and bounced off not even leaving a scar on the leather.
Roland parried with his axe in his right hand. With his left, he drew another dagger. The dagger sought the neck of one of the undead dwarves, however, the throw was high and skipped off of the dwarven helm.
Roland noticed a blue streak out of the corner of his eye coming from the northwest but he had no time to look away. If it was a bolt of some magic aimed at him then he would just have to find a way to endure it, for there was no chance to dodge it. He managed to parry two more attacks but knew that three more were coming. Roland tightened his chest for the attacks he knew were about to strike him. Roland was amazed when a lance tip ripped through one of the undead dwarves. The lance pierced the back of the evil creature’s breastplate and skewered him. The dwarf standing next to the victim of the lance was trampled by a horse that charged at godly speeds. The third dwarf landed his attack. He struck Roland again with the mace, this time on the left shoulder causing his whole left arm to go numb.
The warrior that does nothing but defends only gets tired Roland thought.
He knew that he would have to accept two more attacks and either of them could result in mortal blows. However, it was now kill, or be killed. Roland swung the single hand axe in a viscous arc that severed the mace wielding dwarf’s head. The dwarf’s body staggered back stupidly and then fell to the ground, dead…again.
A battle axe blade struck Roland in the already broken ribs and shot pain throughout his torso. Roland’s breath was stolen by the razor jagged pain that racked his body. The spear head of the thrusting hand axe slid between Roland’s breastplate and pauldron to stab deep into the meat of his shoulder.
Roland growled through the wounds and roared as he ripped his hand axe across. The blade bit into the leather-like throat of the dwarf swinging the battle axe. The undead dwarf staggered back from the force of the attack and then regained his balance. With ragged meat hanging out of his unbreathing neck, the dwarf came back at Roland.
Roland swung his axe down and this time the blade split the iron helm the dwarf wore. The mercshyeld blade continued on its path until it was eight inches into the undead dwarf’s skull. Roland realized the error as soon as he made it. His axe was stuck.
The remaining undead dwarf stabbed at Roland again with the tip of his hand axe. Roland tried to slap the tip aside and instead had his hand gored open by the point. Roland ground his teeth together and wrapped the fingers of his wounded hand around the blade of the hand axe.
Roland drew another of his daggers from his belt and pulled the undead dwarf to him by his hand axe. The dwarf tried to wrench the hand axe free from Roland’s grasp but Roland maintained his iron grip. Roland pulled the dwarf close as he stabbed the blade of the dagger through the slit in the dwarf’s helm and deep into his eye and brain. As the creature fell back, Roland caught the hand axe that was still stuck in his hand.
Blood loss and pain again tried to steal Roland’s strength. He fought to clear his vision and remain coherent. Finally, his sight did clear. Nothing could be done for his injured knee. Roland took the dwarven hand axe and broke the wooden handle off of it. He loosened his leg armor and, in a moment of absolute agony, jerked his knee back straight as Ashcliff had once done. Once the black wave that tried to press him under the tide of unconsciousness passed, Roland pushed the handle of the hand axe inside the armor and along the side of his injured knee. He tightened the straps of the armor again and managed to stand with his leg ‘splinted.’
