The Forlorn Dagger Trilogy Box Set

by Jaxon Reed

  Twenty-five, he thought to himself.

  One of the soldiers nearby turned, and stabbed him in the back.

  He felt the blade go through his ribs, and watched it pop out in front dipped in red. The man pulled upward, and he felt bones snap as it sliced toward his heart.

  Fret saw his father go down. He had fought to within twenty paces of Barley.

  “Pa!”

  Fret ran toward the swordsman, who had his back to him, jumped up and stabbed him in the neck. The soldier collapsed in surprise.

  Fret reached down and held Barley as the older dwarf gasped for air, his lungs punctured.

  “Pa! Stay still! We can get a healer. We can get a wizard. Don’t move, Pa!”

  But the blood flowed quickly through the long gash in his back and front. Barley looked at his son, and reached up to touch the boy’s face.

  “Take care o’ yer mother, lad.”

  His hand fell, and his eyes rolled up to the top of his head. Barley son of Wort breathed his last.

  Artereo’s facsimile ran through the crowd, stabbing and slicing. Soldier after soldier fell to his blade. Before those around the fallen could gather their wits, he ran off to kill some more.

  The final wave of Emeraldian infantry crested the ramparts and ran down into the trench. About the same time, Artereo ran through what remained of the halberds and reached the other edge.

  A group of soldiers stopped abruptly, surprised someone with such impudence dared challenge them on the opposing lip of the trench. But as they gathered their wits, one of them whispered, “Artereo!”

  Anyone hearing the songs and stories at inns and public houses knew of Artereo’s appearance. A short man with light brown skin, silver hair and goatee. The greatest sword fighter the world had ever known. Some may even have seen a portrait of him by the great Fulton. The educated among the soldiers might have read a more accurate account of his exploits than what was usually told around campfires. But regardless of where they had heard the stories, they all recognized his facsimile when they saw it.

  He stood facing them, and brought his sword up straight in front of his face, in the traditional dueling salute.

  “Shall we begin?”

  He ran into the trench, and in a blur of motion with a series of footsteps and moves none of them had ever seen before, he slew five men in the space of one breath.

  He paused as the last one fell, and held his sword up straight again. Now it glistened red, covered in blood.

  He looked at the group of soldiers. Their mouths gaped open in astonishment. They turned and fled.

  Chapter 17

  Bellasondra held her breath and squeezed the arbalest’s trigger. The mechanism released with a click, and shot a bolt out thirty paces into the forehead of a soldier racing toward her.

  She handed the weapon back to one of the wizard’s servants, and another servant handed her a loaded one. She aimed it at another soldier, held her breath and squeezed the trigger. She paused briefly to watch in satisfaction while blood spewed from the man’s head as he fell down to the ground yelling in agony.

  She had no idea how many Emeraldian soldiers she was personally responsible for sending to the Creator. She stopped counting after ten. That had been a long time ago, it seemed. If she had to guess, she’d say somewhere between thirty-five and forty.

  She looked over at Kirt, shooting his weapon next to her. He was not quite as true in his aim, and being shorter, the boy had missed several opportunities for head shots. But he showed determination, and as far as Bellasondra could tell he was getting better. She watched as a soldier collapsed from a bolt Kirt shot through his heart.

  She smiled, and aimed for another soldier coming toward them. This time, she caught him in the eye. He went down screaming.

  “We’re running low on bolts.”

  She turned and looked for the person who said it. The butler looked back at her evenly and without emotion. Bellasondra had decided the servants were not quite human. They performed their tasks mechanically and with no feeling. Doubtless they were magical, somehow, either under a spell or . . . something. She decided to ask somebody who understood wizardry about it later. If they survived.

  “How many do we have left?”

  “What we’ve loaded presently is all that remains, milady.”

  An icy chill ran through her veins as she turned back toward the battle and saw hundreds more soldiers clawing through the weakening line of halberds. Many villagers lay stricken on the field, and she couldn’t see signs of resistance at all in the trench.

  She turned back to the butler.

  “When the last have been shot, spread the word for everyone to run back to the gate. We’ll make a last stand there. Only a few can get through the portal at once, and we’ll have a chance to hold them off.”

  “Splendid idea, milady. I’ll pass the word.”

  The battlemaiden proved far more powerful than he would have guessed. She seemed to expect his every move, and no spell Darkstone cast seemed effective at stopping her.

  He flew miles away from the battlefield, throwing up sudden walls of stone and dirt from the ground behind him. She flew through the dirt walls, and dodged the stones.

  He called down flurries of lightning bolts and fireballs. She swerved and seemed to know where they’d strike before they hit.

  He threw back spells of immobilization, hopelessness and confusion. She negated them all, sometimes with a wave of her hand, sometimes purely with her mind.

  Through it all, she kept following him.

  He seethed in anger, and stopped suddenly, dropping to the ground so he could face her. He concentrated and called forth as much energy as he could hold. He cast Wizard’s Fire, his most destructive spell.

  A streak of ragged white light shot out from his arms. It enveloped her blue Globe of Protection, crackling along the edges. The globe blinked once, twice, then winked out of existence as she dropped to the ground, too.

  He laughed victoriously as the white light danced around her body, snapping and popping with destructive energy.

  He stopped laughing when he realized she was still standing.

  “How . . . How is that possible?”

  She began walking toward him, one black high-heeled boot after another.

  She closed to within ten paces.

  “Is that all you’ve got, wizard?”

  She whipped her arms out and shot one spell after another at him. Immobilization, stun, root, energy bolt. As soon as he negated one she shot another, mixing up the order.

  Then she cast the modified Globe of Expulsion Theena had taught her, and Darkstone flew backward in the explosion.

  He landed on his rear, and he looked up in a daze as she walked toward him.

  “It’s time for you to meet the Creator, Darkstone.”

  His eyes narrowed as he prepared one final spell.

  “Not today!”

  He disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  Tomlin fell to the ground. The wound did not feel fatal, but he also did not feel like getting back up. The last of the Emeraldian pikemen were tramping through the trench now, and he knew they met no resistance.

  He tilted his head a bit to one side. Someone’s face neared his. He pulled back a little for a better look, then sighed when he realized it was the serving wench from the inn. He tried to remember how many men she had killed before dying herself, but everything was a blur right now. Maybe he could sort through his memories later. He suspected dreams of this battle would haunt him for the rest of his days, however many he had left.

  He heard a groan on his other side. He turned painfully to see where it came from. Someone nearby, lying on the ground with him, groaned again. He crawled over to the person and pulled them over onto their back. It was Altor.

  Altor groaned again. Tomlin looked down and saw most of the man’s guts spilling out, blood staining the orange-red of his Coral armor. He would not last long.

  “Ay, Cap’n,” the lancer said
weakly, pain fringing his words. “Did we get ’em?”

  Tomlin nodded, and held back tears. It wouldn’t do for the man to see his captain crying.

  “Yeah. We got ’em, Altor. We got ’em good.”

  Altor looked at him and smiled. A trickle of blood came out of the corner of his mouth, and he closed his eyes.

  Tomlin grabbed the top of Altor’s leather breastplate, pulling his face closer.

  “Don’t you die, Altor. Don’t you die! You and Beet are the only men I’ve got left!”

  But Altor’s mouth hung open, the blood flowing freely out of it and onto his neck.

  Tomlin laid him down, gently. He looked up and around. Few people were standing in the trench. Dead horses and human bodies were strewn about in all directions. The battle had moved on. He looked around for a weapon, and he spied a sword someone had dropped. He grabbed it, and used it to help pull himself up. He started for the edge of the trench.

  “That was the last one, milady. Shall I give your command to retreat?”

  Bellasondra lowered her spent arbalest and watched as villager after villager wielding halberds were struck down by soldiers. She felt a moment of fear for her brother and Stin, but put it aside. Now was not the time to worry.

  As the halberds went down, more and more soldiers turned and faced the arbalest corps. Several started heading their way.

  This is it, she thought. We’ve lost.

  “What’s that sound? Do you hear it?”

  She looked down at Kirt who had cupped a hand to his ear, looking back toward the gate.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “There it is again! Do you hear it? It’s a trumpet.”

  Suddenly, she could hear it too. In the distance, someone sounded a trump.

  Toot tooot! Toot toooooot!

  They both turned toward the village as the sound grew closer.

  Suddenly Horse crashed through the gate, in full war regalia. On the cart behind him, Dudge stood on the driver’s seat holding the reins, urging Horse forward.

  “Hah! Hyah! Hah!”

  Beside him on the seat, another dwarf stood blowing a trumpet. It sounded louder than ever now that they were through the gate.

  The back of the cart held twenty angry dwarves, all dressed in armor and hoisting swords, axes, maces, and hammers. They screamed and yelled, urging Horse to carry them faster.

  Horse did his best and galloped straight toward the battle.

  Behind them something else crashed through the gate. Bellasondra heard it before she saw it.

  Grunt! Grunt! Grunt! Grunt!

  When Horse turned the cart suddenly, she got a clearer view. A battlepig ran full speed toward the soldiers, carrying three dwarves on its back.

  Another one crashed through the gate. Then another one. And another. Soon battlepigs were streaming out of the gate, all following Dudge and Horse and the cart. They ran straight toward the battle, the dwarves on their backs screaming and the pigs grunting as they ran.

  Horse ran into the thick of the battle and slid to a stop. Dudge and the other dwarves jumped from the cart onto soldiers all around them, stabbing and slicing and hacking. Even the trumpeter dropped his horn, took out a short sword and started killing Emeraldian soldiers right and left.

  When the first battlepig passed Bellasondra she realized it was huge, at least twelve paces long and four high. It was covered in metal armor around its body and neck, even its head. A long spike poked up from the armor on the front of its head.

  Two of the dwarves jumped off and immediately began slaying enemy soldiers. One dwarf stayed on the battlepig’s back, and together he and the pig began running down the surviving Emeraldian horses. All over the battlefield, pigs charged and stabbed the horses with their spikes. The horses screamed, the pigs squealed, and the ground turned crimson with the blood of man and beast.

  As the minutes passed and hundreds of pigs and dwarves committed to the battle, there were soon no more horses alive on the field except Horse. The pigs turned to killing men instead, their tusks and spikes ripping open flesh as they helped dwarves decimate the human army. They ran down survivors trying to escape, pouncing on their backs and goring them to death.

  Soon, there was nobody left to kill.

  Mita raced back to the battlefield as fast as she could fly, her fists stretched out in front to break the wind whipping past her hair.

  She saw the black cloud hanging over the field in the distance, and her heart sank. Instinctively, she knew what that meant for the villagers’ armor.

  When she finally got there and flew over the field, the battle was over. She looked down and saw hundreds of armored pigs, and hundreds more dwarves walking victoriously among thousands of corpses and broken metal men.

  She turned and looked for the command platform, and was surprised to see it enveloped by a multi-colored globe. She flew over to investigate.

  Mita felt a mental tug and looked down. Deedles stood on the ground looking up at her and the globe, bobbing her head as she tried to get a fix on things with blind eyes.

  Mita descended and scooped the cat up in her arms. She floated gently back up to the globe surrounding the wizards.

  “What do you think it is, Deedles?”

  She felt several strong emotions emanating from the cat, and one word filled her mind: “Trap.”

  Deedles looked at it from her new position in the air and bobbed her head up and down, then right and left. She nudged Mita mentally again, asking to be brought closer. Mita floated up to the edge and carefully held Deedles out to it. The cat placed a paw on the globe. It zapped with energy and Deedles pulled back quickly. Mita and the cat floated back to the ground.

  Stin felt the numbing effects of shock. He stared dumbly at the dwarves who had quickly cut up all the green-clad soldiers around them. Vaguely, he could remember the last moments of battle. Dudge appeared out of nowhere. He had seen Stin fighting alongside Bartimo and called several other dwarves over to assist. Together they slaughtered two dozen soldiers. Now all the Emeraldians lay dead or dying.

  Stin looked over at Bartimo standing near him, and dully thought the young merchant must look as bad as he felt. Blood flowed freely from one of Bartimo’s arms, and he had half a dozen sword knicks across his chest, stomach, and legs.

  Stin heard somebody groaning and trying to get up off the ground. He and Bartimo walked a few paces toward the noise, and found someone stuck under the bodies of two Emeraldians. Together they pulled the bodies off and helped the person up. They didn’t recognize Robrigo until he stood, shakily. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the grime and blood off his face.

  “Thank you, boys. God bless.”

  The priest tried to walk then, and almost fell. Bartimo and Stin grabbed him and held him up. They looked down and found a huge gash in the priest’s thigh. The priest looked at it, completely dumbfounded.

  “I don’t feel a thing.”

  “You’re in shock, Reverend,” Stin said. “We all are, I think. We need to get you to the healers.”

  He took one of the priest’s arms on his shoulders, and Bartimo took the other. Together they slowly made their way toward the gate.

  Dudge and a dozen other dwarves stood respectfully behind Fret, who kneeled over his father. Dudge gently laid a hand on the younger dwarf’s shoulder. Fret wiped away a tear before speaking.

  “He weren’t trained in battle. He was just a brewer. But he jumped in there in th’ thick o’ things anyways.”

  Dudge nodded. He said, “Barley son o’ Wort was a hero, who gave his life fer th’ throne an’ th’ safety of our people, wi’ no regard fer his own. We’ll take him back t’ Norweg an’ bury him in th’ Tomb of Honor at Ore Stad. He will bow before th’ Creator’s throne an’ accord himself wi’ dignity on th’ Day o’ Judgment.”

  He made a motion with his hand, and the dwarves around him sprang into action. They brought out some thin white cloth and gently wrapped Barley’s body in it. Another dwarf brough
t over one of the battlepigs, and they carefully lashed the body to the pig’s back. Twelve of them formed an honor guard around the pig, and solemnly marched off the field and through the gate into Greystone Village. From there they would continue to the Coral gate, the closest to Ore Stad, on their trek to the capitol.

  A field scribe ran up to the prince, and Dudge dictated a letter. Once finished, the scribe lit a candle and heated up some wax. Dudge sealed the letter with his signet ring, and handed it to a young dwarf soldier standing at attention nearby.

  “Deliver this to his wife, and tell her on behalf o’ King Nudge an’ th’ Royal Court we thank her for th’ service Barley rendered to his people.”

  The young soldier bowed, then jogged off after the honor guard.

  Tomlin stumbled through the battlefield, looking to kill somebody. Anybody, so long as they wore Emerald green.

  But everywhere he looked, he found nothing but green-clad corpses.

  One of the dwarves saw him, and walked over to meet him.

  “There ye go, friend. Let’s get ye t’ th’ healers. Come along, now.”

  He followed the dwarf. He couldn’t think of a reason not to. Somewhere along the way, he dropped the sword as he finally grasped the battle was truly over.

  When they got to the halberd’s line, he saw some dwarves tending to someone. He headed toward the group. His guide shrugged, and followed him for a change.

  When Tomlin got closer he saw the man lying on the ground was Beet. He shouted in surprise, and stumbled over to him. The dwarves around Beet jumped, startled. The oldest one, with gray hair and wrinkles, looked to be a healer.

  Tomlin held Beet’s head.

  One of the dwarves said, “They both be wearin’ th’ colors o’ Coral.”

  Several of them nodded in understanding and sympathy. The healer spoke up.

  “We ’ad t’ cut off ’is arm at th’ elbow. ’Twas too mangled t’ save. ’E’ll be fine, though, once ’e gets some rest an’ maybe a nip ’r two. We’ll send ’im on t’ th’ human medics soon. Ye look like ye should head tha’ way y’self.”