Every eyebrow rose in surprise. The heavy Warhaven infantry was trained and equipped to defend the rocky terrain of their home, not to speed across the Plains of Alencia. They had been left behind on the first day, for men in full armor could march at half the speed and for half the time as their mounted counterparts. Yet here they were arriving less than an hour behind the vanguard of the army. And coming in on the flank of the embattled Northings!
“A fortunate arrival,” said Argus grimly, leaving others to guess who’s fortune it was. “It appears you will live for at least another day, Paladin.”
Darius eyed the man, and there was an actually touch of regret in his expression.
“Only a delay,” he promised them both, still softly. Then more loudly. “My Lord Duke, Warhaven’s arrival threatens the enemy flank. I ask you again to release your cavalry to relieve Maganhall and pressure the enemy’s front.”
Argus stared at him for a long moment, and then without moving his eyes, he called, “Kragos, send forth the 1st, 3rd, and 5th squadrons to try the enemy’s right flank. Move the rest of the cavalry to the crest of the hill and await my orders. Have Mardax move his regiment to the front of the hill and prepare to screen any retreat.”
Darius paused only long enough to hear the orders, and a moment later, he was swinging himself up onto Andros again.
“It is clear you deserve your reputation as a worthy general, Duke Argus,” he said. “You shall reap the reward you so richly merit for your actions this day.”
With that, he was off again, launching Andros back towards the front of the battle even as the black cavalry of Corland began to gather for its charge.
*
“Warhaven!” came the cry from the far end of the battlefield, and it was taken up by every weary warrior of the Southlands, shouting to take comfort from the word and to pass it on to others.
“Warhaven! Warhaven is come!”
Lord Boltran tried to raise a cheer, but the sound stuck in his throat as one of the fiery green warriors struck the trooper directly in front of him and set the man on fire. The man’s horse went mad with terror, charging into the thinning ranks of the goblin spears to send its flaming burden crashing into them.
Two more of these burning horrors were pressing forward, and his men were understandably giving ground before them, having no desire to share the fate of their colleague. I am the Duke of Maganhall, Boltran reminded himself as he felt a similar desire to shy away. These men look to me.
Snarling in anger, the young lord put spurs into his white charger, Elwine, and forced him to rear closer, giving Boltran the opportunity to slash down on the thing and leave an ugly wound on its torso. But the thing didn’t die, didn’t even flinch from the obvious damage.
It’s already in agony, Boltran realized suddenly. What does it care about the pain of wounds? The thing swung back with its battle ax, but Boltran edged Elwine away in the nick of time. He bumped into the mass of riders already engaged in their own fights behind him, and in desperation, he pulled hard right on Elwine’s reins and actually made the stallion pivot in place, the movement momentarily holding back his opponent.
Suddenly, a grey charger rushed between him and the blazing green nightmare, a heavy lance leveled with deadly precision skewered the monster perfectly and threw him to the ground.
“Honor to Eldoran!” Boltran cried jubilantly to the aged fighter who was casting away his broken and flaming lance. “Honor to the Duke’s Champion!”
But Eldoran only replied, “Ware, My Lord, ware!”
Boltran barely had time to steady himself when something struck the back of his charger a deadly blow, buckling Elwine’s hind legs and causing a horrid scream of agony from the animal. The Duke fell to the ground and was just able to roll out from under as the horse came crashing down beside him. A huge fiery ogre had brought its war hammer down on Elwine’s exposed back, crushing the steed’s spine.
Boltran struggled to his feet, trying to steady himself, but once again the gray steed interceded, Eldoran charging the second monster, though this time he had only his sword with which to strike. The gray horse reared at its riders command, and sword and hooves came down together on the ogre. But the monster hunkered down and threw its weight and strength both up into the belly of the steed, and the charger staggered to the left, tried to right itself, and crashed down on its side.
Miraculously, Eldoran found his feet despite the fall, but the ogre leaped on top of the dying animal to get at the rider. The monster lunged, its ax plunging down in a killing stroke, and Eldoran’s wounds and years combined to betray him. He rushed inwards to try to get inside the stroke, his own sword flashing upwards into the ogre’s belly, but the ax caught him in the back with a terrible wound.
“No!” roared Boltran, denying the evidence of his eyes, and he threw himself forward to bury his own sword in the thing’s side. The ogre twisted, impaled on two sides, and both warriors drove their blades home. It collapsed in a ruin of green fire, but it fell directly on top of Eldoran.
Another green fire was coming at him from the right, two of his bodyguard already slain, and Boltran had no time to think about his fallen champion let alone mourn him. He couldn’t even tell what type of creature was upon him as he parried a savage spear thrust and tried to fall back to gain some room, but he nearly tripped over the head of the grey charger and staggered, leaving himself open.
Suddenly a huge white form seemed to descend from the sky and intercede between him and the green death that was upon him, and Boltran actually wondered if an angel had been sent to his aid. He spun around and half smiled at the aptness of the thought. Darius had send Andros leaping over the fallen bodies of the grey charger and the fiery corpse of the ogre, and Sarinian had put a sudden end to the green fire that had been pressing upon him.
“Come, My Lord!” Darius shouted coming back to him. “We must withdraw while still we may!”
The Paladin reached down and grabbed the breastplate of Boltran’s armor, and the young Duke felt himself lifted up and swung around to sit on the back of Andros, his arms immediately going around the Paladin’s chest. From here, he looked out over the dead and dying and saw the wisdom in Darius’ words.
“Withdraw!” he called to the dwindling group of his household. “Thelsan! Call the retreat!”
*
In the midst of the Silver Horde, Regnar watched the swaying of fortunes, and his lips twisted with a sneer of contempt as he saw the Corland cavalry commit itself to battle. His vision had grown so sharp that he could even make out the figure of young Duke Boltran riding on the back of the Paladin’s charger and count the numbers of the Corland and Warhaven infantry approaching to crash into his right flank.
“So Argus makes his choice,” he rumbled.
The vanguard is overthrown, the Ohric warned. If Boltran rallies them, the heavy horse of the enemy will strike the Juggernaut before your main body can engage. We cannot risk any further wounds.
No more than a dozen of the Rage Warriors remained, and while they continued to take a satisfying toll, they were scattered and cut off from each other, no longer able to affect the tide of the battle. No matter. It was time to demonstrate to these impertinent fools the utter hopelessness of their cause.
“The goblins were of little enough use in life,” Regnar answered. “Let us see if they can be of some greater service in death.”
He raised his arms to the heavens, his red eyes radiating scarlet light, and the massive green clouds slowly swirled in answer, thunderheads moving closer together, lightning crackling between them.
Then the two largest thunderheads directly overhead began to descend.
*
Across the entire field of battle, warriors staggered backward, Northing and ogre, Rock Goblins and Southlanders, all disengaging to watch in stunned amazement as the Canopy of Oblivion that had protected the Juggernaut now began to fall upon them.
“What in the blessed name of Mirna…?” murmured Darius, loo
king over his shoulder as he and the remains of the Maganhall cavalry made good their escape.
Already some troops were falling back from the area around the Juggernaut where the battle had raged the hottest and the dead were the most numerous, none of them wishing to be enveloped in that hideous cloud. The thunderheads continued to descend until they were a green fog that obscured the Juggernaut and all about it, and the green mist began to fan out like slow shrapnel from a measured impact.
The fighting had all but stopped, the clouds a strange peacemaker separating the two armies, and attention had shifted from killing to watching what magics had been unleashed. A huge black form appeared within the cloud, becoming more and more distinct as it continued its inexorable march towards Jalan’s Drift, the Juggernaut, unharmed and unaffected. But more forms were emerging from the cloud, smaller, deformed entities, moving with the same pace and the same intensity as the black titan
“The Dead!” came the terrified cry. “The Dead have arisen!”
The rock goblin dead had been reanimated and were coming forward to renew the battle, dozens, hundreds, thousands, staggering forward out of the haze, still gripping their weapons, ignoring the wounds that had laid them low, many with arrows still sticking from torsos, heads, and throats, their eyes gleaming with a gangrenous green light. They were advancing at much the same pace as before they had died, though now they seemed oblivious to their surroundings and to each other. But everyone who beheld them sensed the truth. They were being drawn forward by the warmth of living flesh and marching towards the beating of living hearts.
There were worse than rock goblins emerging from that green gas. Human forms, too, were trotting forward, Northing warriors slain in the battle taking up their arms again and, far worse, figures that wore the golden armor of Maganhall. The soldiers of the Southlands looked on, aghast, their hearts rejecting the evidence of their eyes, the fallen heroes of Maganhall denied an honorable rest, now marching against their friends, their brothers, and their lord.
Darius spurred Andros to the top of the small hill where the banners of Hathage and Gemsbrook had been joined by the newly arrived banner of Warhaven.
The leaders of the Southlands were looking on with the same frozen horror as the youngest of their soldiers, such visions beyond even the nightmares of warrior or Duke.
“What now, Paladin?” asked Boltran, as he took a fresh mount, but he was unable to completely control the shiver of fear in his voice. The dead seemed to be moving even faster than their living foes. “How can living men fight against those already slain?”
Darius studied the bloody, terrible army rising before them, and dreadful as the sight might be, his heart did not quiver with the same terror that racked all others who beheld it.
“The Dead will fall to blade and spear, just as the living goblins did,” Darius answered. “Terrible as they appear, they are no more than the ultimate reserves of Regnar’s army. The real danger comes from the main body of the Silver Horde that now draws closer.”
“Even though my heavy infantry has hammered the Northings’ flank,” said Mandrik of Warhaven, “we have not the force with us to face all of Regnar’s might as well as these undead. And my men will…begin to tire soon.”
Darius shot a sharp look at Mandrik, and there was confirmation in the man’s eyes. The warrior’s of Warhaven went to battle carrying a special draught made from dwarf’s root that would increase both their strength and their stamina. The miracle of Warhaven’s unlooked for arrival ahead of the other infantry was no longer a mystery, and the threat of exhaustion was very real.
“We must withdraw,” Darius agreed simply. “We have done the greater damage and learned much of the enemy, but it would seem he is not to be defeated in open contest.”
“So we have done no more than if we sheltered behind the walls of the Drift?” Boltran asked with a hint of anger.
“Bleeding the enemy is a soldier’s duty,” growled Mandrik. “Regnar has put forward the greater power and suffered the greater loss. That is what victory looks like.”
“And the titan moves slower to my eyes,” said Clarissa. “I think it was hobbled by the Paladin’s first blow.”
“Yes, we have taken blood from the Juggernaut, and we will see what that tallies in the end,” replied Darius, looking over the field of battle. “The green canopy is clearly thinner, much of its power consumed, and I doubt Regnar can now play this same card against the Drift.” His eyes then moved to the army of Corland, already in full retreat. “I feel in my heart we have forced other commitments with this battle. Warriors who have fought together once will stand the more readily in future battles.”
The Dukes followed his eyes and his thoughts. Several heads were nodded in agreement.
“Come, My Lords,” Darius said. “We must maintain an orderly retreat from the field of battle. Even brave men faced with the risen dead may break ranks. They will meet this enemy again all too soon, I fear.”
But even as he began to turn Andros away from the enemy, he became aware that Duke Boltran had stiffened suddenly in his saddle, frozen by some sight or thought.
“My Lord…” Boltran said with a soft broken voice that only Darius could hear. Darius came closer to the young Duke who had carried himself with such valor throughout the battle, and he saw at that moment the face of a frightened and vulnerable boy. Boltran pointed with a shaky hand and said, “…look…”
Darius turned and followed where the boy was pointing, and there, in the front rank of the undead, was the walking body of Eldoran, the Duke’s Champion.
Instantly, Darius nudged Andros over to one of the Duke’s household and took an arrow from the man’s quiver, drawing Sarinian with his other hand.
“Mirna devou, Mirna devou, Mirna vilas devou,” he said softly as he scraped the head of the arrow up and down the shining blade. The Avenger trembled with anger at this indignity, but Darius placed the sword back into its scabbard and took the bow from the hands of the warrior. He pushed Andros to the front of the party, notched the arrow with its shining head, and pulled the bowstring back to its greatest draw.
“Mirna vilas devou,” he whispered again, and as he let the arrow fly, it burst into white fire. It arched upwards, its light capturing the eye of nearly half the army, and it fell with flawless accuracy to strike the undead form of the Duke’s Champion. Elboran’s body fell once more to earth, now at final peace, though the army of undead marched over top of it.
Darius returned to the group and tossed the bow back to its owner. Rathman was there, pushing his horse forward, and his face showed a barely controlled anger.
“The Vilas Evoke,” he said through clenched teeth. “The Holy Fire. That is the weapon granted only for the defense of Holy Ground. How dare you…”
But Boltran reached back with one hand and grabbed the Priest’s arm, silencing him. He then turned to Darius, and there was a tear of gratitude on the boy’s face, though his voice was firm once again as he said, “Thank you, Paladin. Thank you for all of us.”
Darius bowed gracefully from the saddle and said again, “Let us withdraw. If we are to make Regnar pay for this sacrilege, there is still much to do.”
CHAPTER 8
Dragons at the Gate
Three questions.
Three questions were promised, and now were poised to be asked. Questions that would reveal as much about the interests of the questioner as the answers would reveal about the subject. An honest exchange of academic interest, except that most scholars did not have to fear being devoured whole if they did not respond correctly to an inquiry.
Malcolm stood expectantly beside the small doorway into Llan Praetor which he had created more than a decade before, politely waiting as the three huge forms gathered around him and trying hard to hide his growing excitement. The dragons had come here to discover some secret, some hidden knowledge contained within the castle, for which they were prepared to offer aid against the fast approaching forces of Alacon Regnar. But M
alcolm had studied Llan Praetor for more than two decades, and he, too, stood to gain considerable insights from their visit. Insights into the dragons and their purpose. And insights into Llan Praetor itself.
“We cannot enter through such a doorway,” came the fierce rumble of Mraxdavar’s voice. The massive gold body was looming in Malcolm’s side vision, dominating even the presence of the castle and the fierce winds whipping around the mountaintop. As dangerous as it might be to keep one’s eyes off a potential enemy, Malcolm knew that even here in the open air, meeting the eye of a power such as Mraxdavar was more perilous still.
“It is the only means by which I have ever been able to enter,” he replied guilelessly, being equally careful to tell nothing but the strict truth. He knew all too well the propensity for liars to become ensnared in the dragon-speech.
The small door Malcolm had made in the mountainside that gave entry to the ancient fortress of Llan Praetor was absurdly small beside the mass of Mraxdavar and his two children, Albathor and Bramaclese, each measuring huge compared to their brethren, yet hardly more than half the size of their intimidating father. It had been nearly three days since their bargain had been struck, and they had passed the time in the convoluted negotiations that dragons held so dear, playing with words and meanings to test the stamina, the patience, and the wisdom of all parties involved. Malcolm understood the game well, the importance of showing no physical or moral weakness despite the growing exhaustion, and he knew he had won the grudging respect of the dragons by giving as good as he got, though he had been forced to use magic to sustain himself and match the tireless constitution of the wyrms.
“Our pact was for you to supply entry to the fortress,” Mraxdavar murmured, his voice soft with menace. “This you have not done.”
“Our pact was to give you access,” Malcolm countered. “That, I have now supplied. I cannot help you to walk across a threshold, whether I would or not. Therefore, entry is entirely your own concern.”
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