Even Gods Must Fall

by Christian Warren Freed

  Blood splashed across Piper’s chest as his blade ripped a terrible score through his unarmed foe. The body collapsed even as the dying man struggled to register what had just happened. Piper took a half step back and brought his blade up diagonally to block a blow from the second attacker. The impact jarred his bones. Gritting his teeth, Piper pushed back and used the sudden separation to swing upward.

  The blow was well placed but blocked immediately. Clearly this man was a skilled swordsman. Piper didn’t have time to enjoy a bout. He needed to end the battle quickly and see to the rest of the fort. He was forced back another step as his attacker launched a series of blows. It had been a long time since Piper met his match with another swordsman. The challenge was appreciated at a fundamental level even as he snarled at having such difficulty.

  Deciding quickly to let his opponent think he had the upper hand, Piper reeled backwards. Taking the bait, the other soldier charged foolishly. Piper ducked back from a blow aimed at his neck and drove the hilt guard into the man’s throat. Blood fountained from the wound, telling Piper he’d struck the jugular. The enemy soldier dropped his sword and reached for Piper’s throat. Hot fingers curled around his neck before he managed to punch a knee into the soldier’s groin. Dazed and bleeding out, he fell back enough for Piper to deliver the merciful death blow.

  Piper’s breath was ragged. He looked around for another combatant but saw the battle had moved well beyond his tiny circle of influence. The main quarters were already on fire. More than a score of enemy had surrendered. Others were being forced to their knees and stripped of any weapons or personal possessions. He’d ordered his infantry not to take any chances until the final assault ended. Soldiers carried fallen comrades back through the gates, their bodies covered in cloaks. Medics treated those less severely wounded. Only a handful appeared to be seriously hurt. Piper winced as one soldier was carried past. The bandages swathed over the stump of his right leg were soaked through and dripping.

  “Commander Joach, one of the prisoners talked,” a grime-covered sergeant told him between half breaths. He bled from several small cuts across his right cheek.

  Piper noticed the wounds and thought they could only have been made by fingernails. Why in the world would these people do this to themselves? Is Harnin truly that powerful? “Very well, bring him to me. I trust he’s not as obstinate as the fool in the first capture.”

  The sergeant could only shrug as he’d still been en route with the main body when Piper and the vanguard made the first assault. He left and returned with the prisoner before Piper was able to finish drinking form his canteen. Disappointed, Piper put the cap on and replaced it in the holder strapped to his waist.

  “I’m told you have information to give,” he began with as much authority as he had left. Truthfully he was much too tired to give a damn. The prisoner would talk or he’d find one who would. “Don’t waste my time.”

  “No sir, I won’t.” The prisoner clearly recognized Piper, a fact he hoped to turn to his advantage. “Commander Joach, we didn’t want to fight but the commander told us we was all going to be slaughtered by them heathens from the mountains. Been plenty of talk about them Pell Darga since you all marched to war back in the fall. None of us fancied being caught by them. It wasn’t until we noticed there was nothing but Wolfsreik that some of the boys decided to throw down our arms.”

  “Admirable but unconvincing,” Piper snapped. “What makes you different from the others we’ve encountered thus far?”

  “Sir, I don’t kill my own. I was once active duty. Served in the cavalry a few years back but mustered out due to my bad leg. Rider ain’t no good if he can’t ride. So I joined the reserves. A lot of the boys here done the same thing.”

  “Those would be the wise souls who surrendered I assume.”

  The prisoner nodded fervently. “Sure enough. We know a beating when one is due. Badron forced us here. Don’t think many of us wanted this posting.”

  Piper exchanged surprised looks with his sergeant. Had he misheard? “Badron? That’s impossible. The king hasn’t been seen or heard since we ran him out of Rogscroft. You must be mistaken, trooper.”

  “No sir, I ain’t. Was King Badron who gave us our marching orders. He come back one night not long ago and dueled old One Eye in front of the rest of us. Killed the bastard too. Bout time I says. He’s been a wicked one since this all began.”

  Dead? Could it be? Piper wasn’t one for gossip, despite it being a soldier’s best friend. This sudden information was as unexpected as it was welcome. Badron was a minor threat without much backing, or had been until now according to the prisoner. Yet another twist threatened to alter the course of the war. Normally Piper would take the time to investigate but time was the one element he lacked. Whatever time the combined army thought they had was slipping faster than sands in the hourglass.

  “Sergeant, take this…what is your name, soldier?”

  The prisoner stiffened. A measure of pride returned to his slightly broken form. “Fenn, sir. I be from Stouds.”

  “Very good, master Fenn. Sergeant, take Fenn to General Rolnir. He needs to know who it is we now face,” Piper ordered.

  Saluting crisply, the sergeant gestured for Fenn to head towards the gate. It was a long ride to catch up to the rest of the army.

  * * * * *

  Endless leagues of snow-covered fields and ice-covered streams rolled beneath the boots and hooves of the combined army. Rolnir pushed his force as hard as he dared. Man and beast were already close to their breaking points. As proud as he was of his army--though arguably it wasn’t entirely his--he knew he couldn’t keep them on the move forever. At some point they were going to have to rest longer than a few hours. Frowning in thought, Rolnir made his decision. The ruins of Arlevon Gale were still close to forty leagues away. The Wolfsreik general would lose half his combat effectiveness if he didn’t halt now. He rationalized it by recalling an army needed an operational pause before advancing on the final objective.

  Word passed through the column and the pace slowed to nothing. Soldiers busied setting up tents, establishing the perimeter, and foraging for any live game to bulk up their evening meal. Dried rations and hard tack only went so far. Rolnir made his rounds without complaint. His lower back screamed for relief and he had a headache deep within his skull. Partially dehydrated and stomach growling, the Wolfsreik general refused to take care of his personal needs until after all of his troops were seen to. He was only as important as the lowliest soldier. They either made him successful or mired his legacy with failure.

  The sun was already dipping below the horizon by the time he ambled back to his tent. A previous order kept his official command tent from being erected. Long marches in the field demanded efficiency, not decadence. He lived as a regular soldier would, but not without a few privileges of rank. Candles and the occasional bit of Rogscroft chocolate filled his saddlebags. He could do without the sweets, but needed candles to finish correspondence late into the night.

  The sudden commotion outside his tent forced him to slide back into sweaty boots and don his travel cloak. What he saw was the last thing he might have expected. The lone sergeant saluting him had a steady grip on a ragged-looking soldier beside him.

  “What is this?” Rolnir asked, returning the salute.

  “General, this prisoner informed us King Badron has returned. More, he also has information concerning the location of the enemy’s main bivouac site.”

  Rolnir felt true hope for the first time since reentering Delranan.

  FIFTEEN

  A Dream Unrealized

  Badron glared hotly at the roughly two thousand conscripted civilians assembled before him. Soldiers had worked to construct a platform for him to stand on for his address, reaffirming the king’s dominance in Delranan. The rabble staring back didn’t make him feel kingly. They were the bottom of the barrel, unfit to serve as retainers in the baggage trains. But they were all he had left. Delranan was picked clean o
f military-age males. Badron was going to have to fight with what he had, not what he needed.

  “Whatever happened while I was gone is the past,” he began slowly. “Harnin One Eye is dead and once again I am the rightful ruler of Delranan. Any who wish to deny my birthright may attempt to do so now.”

  None moved. Soldiers armed with wicked-looking spears hovered just behind them, ready to strike down any dissenter.

  “We are at war. Not against enemies of state or neighboring kingdoms, but against our own kind. General Rolnir and the Wolfsreik have betrayed us. They have stormed back to destroy all you have struggled for. Rolnir is a ruthless foe, cunning and deceptive. He won’t stop until the crown is placed upon his brow. Will you suffer his rule in chains? Your wives will be sold for whores. Your sons enslaved for his personal whim. Death will be your only release.

  “I offer each of you the opportunity to save your families. To save your lives. I’m also not giving you a choice. I may be the rightful king of Delranan but you are my citizens. This is your kingdom. Stand and fight for your homes. Our enemies will most certainly kill you for theirs.”

  Badron fell silent. He wasn’t an inspirational speaker, nor did he feel lenient. He needed bodies with weapons to slow the Wolfsreik advance. Most of the rabble staring blankly at him would be dead before the end of the week. Of that he had no doubt. They were the scraps of what had once been a strong society. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t allowed Harnin the option of assuming control in my absence. Killing him proved highly dissatisfying. Perhaps Rolnir’s head will ease my troubles.

  “All officers will report for weapons-training instructions immediately. This camp will be ready for battle no later than nightfall. Our enemies are nearly upon us. The Wolfsreik will not spare a single soul. Fight to your last and defend Delranan’s honor. Together we shall prevail!” Badron shoved a defiant fist into the air. Reluctant cheers rose from the crowd, gathering strength as they circled through the all but doomed civilians.

  Mildly pleased, the king of Delranan marched down from the platform and back to his command hut. He didn’t expect a single one to survive the onslaught of Rolnir’s assault. The wiser would break and run or throw down their weapons in surrender. Not that he blamed them. War was no place for farmers. Badron unclipped his cloak and draped it over a high-back chair beside his desk. Two oil lamps burned low on the desk. Black trails of smoke rising to a small cloud clung to the ceiling.

  “Do you truly think your words are inspiring enough to snatch victory away from defeat?”

  Badron winced. “My words are meant not for your foul ears but for what remains of my people. You may have broken Delranan, and perhaps me as well, but you will not hold your glory long. Even should I fall, Rolnir will reclaim Delranan and cast you out.”

  Amar Kit’han laughed. The wicked hiss seethed through the hut. “Ever so brave, eh king? There is no strength in the world of Men capable of halting my aggressions. The hour has grown too dark for any hope. And you, King Badron, have provided me with all of the power I required. Your actions have brought about the end of the world. Soon the dark gods will return and Malweir will fall into a new age of darkness. For your loyal service I will ensure that you are slowly murdered over a thousand years.”

  Badron’s hand reached for his sword.

  “No mortal weapon can harm me, fool,” Amar spat. “I am the instrument of the gods. What hope do you have of standing against me?”

  “This will not go unpunished, monster,” Badron ground out.

  “It already has. Your kingdom is in ruins, that fool One Eye is dead by your own hands. Had you thought to work together you might have at least slowed my progress. Betraying Grugnak was a mistake. Little do you know an army of fifty thousand Goblins already rampages across Delranan and your very own Wolfsreik is but a few hours from this camp. You will not live to see the dawn. There is no power left in the north capable of contending with me.”

  Deflated, Badron resisted the urge to drop to his knees in defeat. How did I let it come to this? The glory promised by my father squandered by my own greed. Regret formed in the shadows of his heart. Attacking Rogscroft had proved to be a near fatal mistake. Jealousy destroyed the one kingdom that might have been able to come to his aid. None of that mattered now, not with Rolnir marching towards him. There would be no words. No offer of terms. The Wolfsreik would crush his meager force in hours, and rightfully so.

  He suddenly felt unworthy of the crown. I’ve failed. Failed at everything. Am I strong enough to earn my place beside my forefathers or will I be condemned to fate worse than death? I am truly cursed by the gods.

  “Cursed? An interesting notion. You know nothing of curses. For centuries I languished under the indifference of the gods of light. They allowed you foolish mortals to plod through life unmolested even as their dark brothers suffered torments unimaginable. My curse was born through servitude. Never again will I suffer.”

  “You didn’t suffer enough,” Badron retorted. His effort fell short, denoting how weak he was compared to the rising Dae’shan. That he managed to reply at all almost impressed Amar Kit’han. Almost.

  He lashed out with bolts of vibrant yellow and orange power, striking the aged king in his chest. Badron crashed to the ground. Smoke rose from his armor. Burns scored his lower face and his hair had been scorched around the neck. He screwed his eyes shut as nausea washed over him. Strength fled his muscles. His bladder emptied. Badron groaned weakly.

  “A shame he’s not stronger. Perhaps the dark gods could have used him.”

  “Kodan Bak, you come unbidden. This is my problem,” Amar snapped.

  A third Dae’shan materialized beside the lesser Kodan. Pelthit Re glanced down at Badron’s prone figure and then up to Amar Kit’han. Once responsible for twisting Harnin One Eye, Pelthit Re found his sudden lack of activity disheartening. He’d roamed the empty halls of Chadra Keep in search of inner solitude but repeatedly came up lacking, at least until Kodan Bak approached him with the seeds of rebellion. Pelthit Re followed his brothers to ascertain where he stood in the current Dae’shan hierarchy.

  “This game is costing us, Amar,” he chastised. “Our efforts need to be focused on the Olagath Stone, not meddling with a weak mortal.”

  “You should not be here, Pelthit Re. I gave you instructions to remain in Chadra.”

  Power rippled from his robes like heat waves from hot stone. “Instructions that made no sense with what time we have remaining. You would have me idle my time away only days before we open the path between dimensions? Armies are converging on the ruins, threatening our success and you squander valuable resources. This is not our way.”

  Amar’s eyes flared brightly from beneath his hood. The pale yellow light turned vibrant, as if threatening to burn out. “Kodan Bak has been with loose tongue I see. Very well, come then. This will not be pleasant.”

  “No,” Kodan interjected. “The time is fast approaching when our conflict will be settled but it is neither here nor now. The dark gods must come first. All other needs are secondary.”

  “Cowards,” Amar hissed.

  Kodan Bak laughed in his face. “I am not afraid of you, Amar Kit’han. We have languished under your flaccid rule. Our age draws nigh but it will not include you.”

  “I have waited for this moment. Whatever outcome the gods decree, your demise will surely be among it. Both of you will go to Arlevon Gale. Defend the Stone at all costs until Maleela and her army arrive. Bahr and the others must not reach the ruins alive, or must be kept at bay until after the ritual. I will settle our affairs once that moment passes. You, Kodan Bak, I shall kill first.”

  The urge to attack surged through the lesser Dae’shan. Fists clenched. Teeth ground together. Kodan Bak held his ground for a moment longer before fading away. It was a tired game they played, one he aimed to finish for all times at his earliest convenience. As it stood, he’d accomplished his intentions. Pelthit Re now realized the full treachery of their lea
der, shifting his position in line with Kodan’s. Together they had the strength to defeat Amar and select another to fill their ranks.

  Amar Kit’han paused as Pelthit Re collected power around his willowy figure and dissolved back into the nether. Only when his companions were gone did he resume his attentions to Badron, but the returned king of Delranan was unconscious. Amar snorted his displeasure. Humans were pathetically weak.

  Little did he realize Badron had heard every word of their confrontation and was already forming plans within plans. He must find a way to turn his daughter and brother against each other in order to stop the Dae’shan from assuming complete power over Delranan. The gods be damned. He only cared for his throne.

  * * * * *

  The great war machines of the Wolfsreik opened fire at dusk. Dozens of boulders and catapult rounds slammed into the bivouac site, throwing soldiers and equipment in every direction. Men screamed as they broke arms and legs. Others were crushed outright. Flames spread through the camp, sparked by a thousand burning arrows. All threatened to be lost in the initial moments of shock.

  Gradually sergeants and company commanders started barking orders, lest the entire army be lost on a whim. Pickets and sentries were overrun in seconds, most of which were killed outright. A handful were captured and dragged back to the combined army’s rear area for intelligence. No quarter was given when possible. The only way to guarantee success was through a lightning-quick assault.

  Rolnir’s gambit of using the Pell Darga to overwhelm the outer defenses paid off. Defenders were in shock from seeing the smaller, dark-skinned warriors emerge from the twilight. The bombardment began minutes after the Wolfsreik general was convinced his raiders were already reaping a terrible toll on the enemy. Cavalry formed ranks under the catapults, advancing at a slow walk. Rolnir wanted enough time to let the horror of what was happening sink in before committing his ground forces. Fear often drove wedges into the enemy’s armor. The prisoners collected thus far from Piper’s campaign told Rolnir one thing: fear was abundant in the people of Delranan. Exploiting it would bring an end to the civil war much quicker than he anticipated, providing all went according to plan. The redheaded general was experienced enough to know that most plans failed upon contact.