She feigned a stumble and snapped a kick into the ogre's groin. Air whoofed from its lungs, and the chain went slack. She jerked it out of the limp grasp and whirled it over her head, charging at the dark figure's back—right into an invisible fleshy wall.
Something snatched her high off the ground by the very chain she had planned to wrap around Darkmist's neck. A cry of pure, ragged hatred tore at her throat as a rock troll materialized between her and the Nekdukarr, grinning at its prize.
"Careful, thief," Iveron chuckled. "I would not want you damaged before fulfilling the destiny I have planned for you."
Her foot lashed out, impacting with the rock troll's nose. But its black-toothed grin only widened; her kick hadn't even bloodied it. Then she saw the familiar crosspiece and black scabbard of Gaulengil tucked through the rock troll's belt.
Let's see you laugh now! she thought, bending her will toward the magical blade. Gaulengil, come to me!
The blade hung motionless.
She tried again, screaming mentally at the weapon to help her, but with no better results. A feeling of betrayal swept over her; Gaulengil would not answer.
"You see, I now possess all four of the gems that you thought to steal from me," the Nekdukarr continued. "And your two friends will share your destiny... tomorrow..."
Her skin crawled at the tone his voice had taken, but his words suddenly struck her: Two friends, she thought. So, DoHeney and Lynthalsea are here, and they're alive! And Shay is still free. Though how any of this could help her current situation, she could not imagine.
At his master’s command, the troll looped the chain over a hook upon the wall. As Avari struggled, her ankles were bound to ring bolts with braided leather rope, leaving her splayed like a sacrificial lamb.
"You see," Darkmist said, stepping closer, "I rarely have the opportunity to entertain a woman of your caliber."
The broadsword at Darkmist's hip whispered from its scabbard as he slowly drew it, the blade giving off a smoldering black radiance of revulsion as he raised it to within inches of her face. He stroked her cheek with the flat of the fell blade, its touch feeling like the morbid caress of something long dead. As he slid the weapon down her throat, chills of abhorrence shot through her. She clenched her jaw against the urge to cry out, refusing to give him the satisfaction. As the razor edge parted her tattered linen shirt, she silently pleaded once again for Gaulengil to come to her, and for a brief moment, she thought she heard a muffled cry.
"What is this?" Darkmist cooed, stepping closer.
His gloved hand reached for her, but before it touched her, Avari felt a faint tingle. A crack of electricity made her jump, but not as badly as it did Iveron Darkmist. He stood back, staring in surprise at his smoldering glove.
What in the name of— Then she felt the comforting pressure of her father's medallion between her breasts. It shocked him!
"A charm of power?" he said, reacquiring her attention. "How interesting," he observed, slipping his sword under the thin chain around her neck.
The tiny links parted, and the medallion fell to the stones with a note like a crystal goblet struck by a fork. He stepped forward and plunged his fell weapon down and through the medallion. It shattered with a shower of sparks, and a high-pitched screech rang in her ears, the heart-wrenching cry of a dying bird.
"Your fairy charm cannot protect you now," Darkmist said, sheathing the dark blade amid swirling wisps of smoke. He removed his gloves, stepping closer to her once again. With a command, he sent the guards away.
Oh, Gods, this can't be happening! she screamed inwardly as his first touch sent shivers of revulsion through her very soul.
This can't happen! This can't—
Yenjil Thallon hacked at the waglok that had broken through the shrinking line of soldiers, parting its axe-wielding hand from its arm, adding the member to the broken and twisted mass of bodies that fouled Gargantua's footing. If not for Gar's overpowering strength and superb training, Thallon would have fallen long ago, as had half of his remaining cavalry. The lighter mounts had suffered the worst, falling prey to the grasping hands and staggering blows of the larger beasts.
Yenjil ducked under a slashing swipe of the waglok's other hand, and toed Gar into a rearing spin. The horse's hooves lashed out, one catching the beast in the forehead, staggering it long enough to allow Yenjil a lightning cut across its neck. Blood fountained as the creature thrashed and finally fell.
In a brief moment of calm amidst the storm of blades and arrows, Yenjil surveyed the scene. Their position between city wall and rocky shoreline gave their line solid anchors at each end. Also, a steady rain of arrows from the city walls—finally—had kept the mob of fiends wary.
The main body of the enemy was holding back out of bowshot, only sending forward sufficient troops to keep Yenjil's infantry pinned. But his archers were almost out of arrows, and facing always-fresh opponents had exhausted the infantry to the point where breakthroughs had become common. Yenjil was about to spur Gar back into the fray when an unfamiliar horn call split the air with a tone so penetrating that it shook his teeth.
There was a lull in the fighting, some unknown signal prompting a mutual disengagement. Thallon yelled for the line to be scoured for wounded. While his troops complied, he scanned the distant tree line from which the blast had issued. There was a sound like ripping cloth, then a mass of charging jackaleks crashed from cover.
"They're bringing in their reserves," Thallon shouted in to no one in particular. He had lost track of Sergeant Kaplan, the chain of command having long since collapsed. "Form those lines! Archers without arrows, pick up a sword and shield. And if you can find any more arrows, for the gods' sakes, pick them up! They'll charge as soon as—"
Yenjil stopped as another sonorous blast shook the air; this also had issued from the concealing cover of the trees.
"Dear Gods," he prayed, "not more of them. Please, not—"
The source of the din issued from the trees in gleaming ranks of armor-clad dwarves, which formed into a square with the precision of a gem-cutter's deft strokes and advanced.
"Dwarves!" someone shouted, raising a bloodied sword.
A cheer went up from the bedraggled ranks. The enemy troops were not charging, but fleeing from the ripping volleys of dwarven crossbows. The mass of dwarves advanced like a block of granite, grinding slowly but inexorably onward, and Yenjil's heart swelled with new hope.
"Front line, advance five paces!" he roared over the din. "Scour for wounded and arrows! And be quick about it; we are still outnumbered, but we may just have a fighting chance!"
The line advanced, and a few more wounded were found among the heaped bodies of the slain. Yenjil Thallon kept a keen eye on his foe. Their number was still more than twice the combined dwarven and imperial forces, but Thallon knew how relentless dwarves could be.
As the square of dwarves advanced, perhaps three hundred packed so tightly that it appeared as a solid block of glittering steel, the chaotic mob of the enemy broke into three ragged groups. The smallest advanced to clash with Thallon's troops, keeping them confined. The two others swept in wide arcs to crush the dwarven force in a pincer movement.
The lines of tall jackaleks and wagloks swept over the shorter dwarves like a wave crashing over rocks. Many of the attackers died, their legs cut out from under them, but those that survived wreaked havoc among the less-armored bowmen. The dwarves advanced still, but as they moved, the enemy withdrew and charged again and again, using the force of their assaults to sweep over, instead of through, the dwarven shields.
Finally, though a quarter of their number had been lost crossing the field, the dwarven front line crashed into the back of the forces that fought against Thallon's dwindling contingent. The imperial captain led a reckless cavalry charge into the enemy separating the two forces, finally linking up with the dwarves in a single, formidable unit. The horses retreated under the deadly accurate, but dangerously low, fire of dwarven crossbows. As the caval
ry regrouped in the rear, Thallon's ears rang with the bellowed commands of the dwarven commander.
"Welcome!" Thallon yelled, dismounting and grasping the dwarf's hand. "Captain Yenjil Thallon, at your service."
"Thank ye, lad." The gnarled old dwarf grinned around his eye patch, nearly crushing the captain's tired hand in his iron grip. "DoHurley's the name. I see yer in a spot o' trouble, but it looks like me boys have firmed up yer lines."
"They have indeed!" Yenjil agreed, surveying the line of axemen half a step in front of his own swordsmen. The coordinated lines offered the enemy only shields and sharpened steel. "But I fear you've joined a hopeless cause. The very city I had thought to deliver from this siege has betrayed us! They refuse to open their gates, even to admit us in retreat."
"Why, the slimy ingrates!" DoHurley spat, shifting his axe back to a fighting stance. "We'll teach 'em how real soldiers fight, eh? One thing though: me bowmen can't shoot over yer lads. I was thinkin' that if yer horsemen let 'em ride behind—"
"Done!" Thallon agreed, at once seeing the value to the strategy. "Let us show them how, shall we?"
Thallon vaulted into the saddle, then reached down to help the dwarf scramble aboard. They both commenced shouting orders for others to do likewise, and soon the enemy was being raked with the deadly fire of mounted dwarven crossbowmen.
The lull in the battle ended in a roar, as yet another wave of beasts crashed against their shields and blades like roaring surf against a stone quay, dashing itself to blood-flecked foam. They were using the same tactic: the wounded, tired and weaponless among the enemy were replaced by fresh, unbloodied troops with every charge. In short order, the infantry and axemen would be too exhausted to offer an effective defense. Even now the number of wounded and dying lying in the rear outnumbered those standing, and there seemed no end to the opposition's ferocity.
"It's no good, Thallon!" DoHurley raged in anguish from his seat behind the captain. "We've got to figure somethin' better'n jist standin' here takin' their blows."
"I'm open to suggestions!" Thallon shouted helplessly, spurring Gar back and forth behind the thinning line. "Any advance we make will leave the wounded unprotected. Even if we could reach the gate, my guess is that it would remain closed. Unless you can swim with armor, I think we are stuck here."
"Mayhaps them city-dwellin' scum could take the wounded over the wall," the dwarf suggested. "That'd free the rest o' us up to fight a movin' battle."
"It's worth a try," Yenjil admitted. "I hope they'll listen."
As he wheeled Gar around, however, the sun was eclipsed by a great shadow. The battle ceased for a moment as everyone on both sides craned their necks to see what had passed. Yenjil gaped at the great ruddy red wings that wheeled across the sky.
It was a dragon, and it was banking around to attack.
"Disengage!" Thallon roared. "Protect the wounded! Cover them with your shields! Where the hell is Feldspar?"
The defenders' line collapsed, the warriors drawing back to huddle in a tight mass among the wounded. The enemy ranks withdrew, evidently satisfied to let the dragon do their work. A few brave soldiers dashed into the littered ground to recover wounded and more shields, but even as they did so, the great beast stooped. Shields were raised, offering a thin resistance. Thallon helped DoHurley down, but refused to unhorse himself.
"Git down, ye blasted fool!" the dwarf yelled. "Yer gonna git fried fer sure up there!"
"I can't see from down there! Someone has to direct things. Now get down; here it comes!"
The dwarf swore, but complied, filling a spot over an injured man and raising his shield in defense. It was vital that the defenders know exactly when the flames would reach them, for they must hold their breaths, lest flames be inhaled. Also, the fire would make the air unbreathable for a while after its passing.
"Ready now!" the captain bellowed, staring straight at the streaking shape as it approached from across the battleground.
It seemed for a moment to Thallon as if he stood alone upon the field. He noted the dragon's great wingspan with awe, saw a long black scar etched upon its side, and its jagged teeth as its mouth gaped wide to draw in air. It was still several hundred yards away when he yelled for his troops to hold their breaths. He then spurred Gargantua directly at the beast, raising his sword in a last desperate attempt to draw its attention.
With a sound like the world being torn apart, an inferno spewed from the dragon's maw. The wind from its passage nearly tore him from the saddle, but the flames did not touch him. In fact, they had not touched any of his huddled troops.
The dragon had loosed its wrath on the army that opposed them.
Thallon reined Gar in and gaped at the spectacle. The flames had enveloped hundreds, scouring the formation from back to front. The enemy army had been cut in half. Recovering from his shock, Thallon whirled his mount and raced back to his troops, shouting orders to reform the ranks.
Phlegothax looked back at the charred army in his wake and grinned, but he was not finished yet. His first blast was just the beginning of his repayment for Iveron Darkmist's betrayal. He bent his wings and turned sharply, coming around from a different angle to bathe one of the remaining groups of the dark lord’s army in flames as he passed. He arched up into a stall, then wheeled into a dive in the opposite direction. Once again he let his flames rush forth. The army had scattered, but well over half of the remainder died with his fiery passage.
Phlegothax chuckled in vengeful mirth as his great wings bit into the air. He pointed his still-smoking snout north and gained altitude. There was a cavern full of treasure behind Mjolnir Falls that he had decided was his. There he could rest, heal and think. Perhaps this single act of vengeance had squared his debt with Iveron Darkmist. And then again, perhaps not.
Yenjil Thallon dismounted and stood in stark wonder as the remains of the enemy army fled in terrified disarray. His mind boggled at the thought of what had happened. A dragon had saved them. DoHurley walked up and shook his head.
"Ye shoulda' said ye had such a worm on yer side, lad," he barked with a laugh. "And ye shoulda' called the thing sooner."
"I would have," Yenjil assured him, "but I've never seen the thing before. Let us see to the wounded, my friend. I hope your force includes a priest or two."
"Aye, we indeed have a healer or two, but mightn't the—"
"Captain!"
Thallon whirled, and was surprised and delighted to see Kaplan, head bandaged and arm slung. He was being aided by the young priestess, Mynnx, who was herself bandaged.
"Kaplan, you tough old piece of rawhide! I thought you were lost!" He started to embrace his old friend, but held back for fear of worsening his wounds.
"And I very nearly was, sir," he admitted, "and would have been, if not for this brave young lass here. I should've kept my helm. Some critter's club took me right out of the saddle, and Mynnx here jumped in and saved my life."
"Not really, sir," she said, embarrassed at the sergeant's praise.
"Well, it looks like you've both had a rough time," Yenjil observed, not missing the admirable glances flashing between the two. "Unfortunately, you'll have to bear your injuries for some time yet. There are a great many who are in dire need—"
"That's what I been tryin' ta tell ye, lad," DoHurley cut in, pointing to the now-open gates of Beriknor. "Mayhaps we could convince these no-good city folk to lend us a priest or two."
Soldiers and priests poured from the gate, hurrying to the huddled wounded with bandages and healing spells. When an embarrassed-looking officer approached, spouting apologies and offers of help, Thallon had to restrain his fist. He knew that the man had only been following orders, but he hoped that, in a similar position, he would have decided that lives were more important than orders. He saved his wrath for the order-giver.
“Take me to Duke Ceryl at once.”
CHAPTER 38
If Yenjil Thallon's gaze had been a dagger, the guards escorting them down the halls of the
Beriknor imperial palace would have been stabbed dead long ago. Indeed, Yenjil was almost sorry that the dragon had not destroyed the city as well.
No, he thought, not the whole city, just their arrogant, self-serving sovereign.
Although his troops had been given provisions and treatment for the wounded, they had also been ordered to remain outside the city, camping like vagabonds—his brave men and women who had sacrificed all to defend this city. That angered Yenjil more than all else.
His demand for an audience with Duke Ceryl had been met with a smirk by the captain of the guard, a fat, Duke-appointed toady who knew nothing of combat and had left the defense of the city to his lower-level officers. After convincing him that an interview was indeed necessary, the second hurdle was the palace guard, who had made them wait until His Grace was ready to receive them. Four hours later, Thallon, DoHurley and a much bedraggled, burned and frazzled Feldspar, who had survived an "interesting encounter" with the Dukarr wizard, were finally escorted toward the duke’s audience chamber.
The royal guards had eyed them with disgust; Thallon and DoHurley both bore dozens of small cuts and bruises, as well as the general grime and gore of battle, while Feldspar sported a painful burn across his shoulder and reeked of singed hair.
They passed through doors decorated in gold leaf, and strode into a cavernous chamber of white marble. Duke Ceryl, a skeleton of a man dressed in green silk brocade, frilly sleeves hanging loose on his scrawny wrists, sat imperiously on the provincial throne.
"Captain Yenjil Thallon of The Imperial Guard of Fengotherond, Master DoHurley of the Boontredk Warrens, and Master Feldspar of His Majesty's Royal Retinue of Wizards." The herald stepped back and knelt, bowing his head. When he realized that the visitors were still standing, he glared, but their backs remained unbent.
"Ah, good Captain," Duke Ceryl squeaked in a tone usually reserved for describing an ugly stain, contempt fairly dripping from his rheumy eyes. "My dear uncle, the emperor, mentioned that his guard captain was insufferably impudent, but I suppose I must overlook it in light of the service you have performed. You have our thanks, Captain Thallon, for dispersing that rabble from our doorstep. Now, what was it that you want? I have pressing matters that require my attention."
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