Even Gods Must Fall

by Christian Warren Freed

  Archers from Delranan and Rogscroft continued firing at a measured pace. Each archer was intended to fire twenty arrows at a rate of five shafts a minute. Given the sustained rate of fire, that was more than enough to cover the cavalry’s advance. Upon orders the archers would displace to the far side of the bivouac to screen deserters and retreating forces. Infantry support was already en route to cut off all escape routes. Rolnir had Badron right where he wanted him. The noose tightened with each passing second.

  Horns bleated a dreadful wail, signaling the charge. The very ground trembled as hundreds of horsemen took off towards the poorly conceived defensive line. Badron may have been able to acquire bodies but they were raw, inexperienced peasants not made for war. Riders watched as some broke and ran. Others were cut down by their own sergeants. Fury burned within the chests of the cavalry as they watched the very people they’d sworn oaths to protect murdered for their will to live.

  The wedge of horses crashed into the infantry line and tore a widening hole as it continued to pierce the depths of the bivouac. Rolnir watched through his spyglass. Men were running everywhere, many without weapons. Bodies littered the ground. He guessed there were between two and three thousand “volunteers” encamped before him. Less than a quarter appeared to have any military training. The slaughter quickened as his infantry plunged into the gaps created by the cavalry.

  Orders were specific. Anyone wearing armor or armed with quality weapons was to be killed outright. The vast majority of conscripts were still in their civilian attire or given boiled-leather plates for armor, clearly distinguishing them from the reservists. That didn’t prevent hundreds from being killed as the heat of battle overtook the Wolfsreik. Revenge for all of the wrongs committed to their kingdom demanded justice. The Wolfsreik was the instrument of delivery for Rolnir’s justice.

  “Captain, strike the colors. We’re riding to the fight,” he ordered, adjusting his armor one final time.

  “General, are…are you sure that is wise?”

  Rolnir drew his sword and pointed the tip at his adjutant. “Question me in front of my command again and I’ll strip you down before sending you in. Now, the colors.”

  Horns blared again, deep, resonating sounds that echoed over the din of battle as the command group surged to join the fight. And hopefully prevent too many civilians from being slaughtered.

  Infantry formations cheered as their general blew past, sworn raised and pointed at the bivouac. They were the rearguard, designed to sweep in and mop up the battle. All were experienced veterans of multiple campaigns. Most were too old to stand the front lines or lock shields with their brothers. Rolnir didn’t believe in disposable soldiers, however, and valued each and every life under his command including the Pell Darga and Rogscroft soldiers.

  All flags of division were abandoned for the duration of the campaign, though he and his commanders agreed it was best to keep units together. Rolnir wanted them all to fight under one flag, to act as one army, not a band of several all vying for glory. He and Aurec both expressed concerns over too much carnage, for both wanted a strong Delranan as an ally once the madness of King Badron was ended. Their ploy worked and all three peoples attacked as one.

  Swords clashed with axe and spear. The screams of pain from the dying lingered in his ears. Despite his orders, the increasing slaughter included a healthy portion of civilians who’d either been given no choice but to fight or were fanatics who bought into the lie. Those became dangerous quickly. Death became a tender mercy. He watched as smaller cavalry units peeled off of the main thrust to form secondary wedges and head towards the supply trains and tent area.

  The lightning-style offensive he and the council had painstakingly developed was being executed to near perfection. Already his artillery units were breaking down in preparation for movement. The army couldn’t afford to be bogged down by any one engagement. Supplies, surgeons, medics, and rear echelon forces were already in column and advancing to conduct resupply and medical operations and the battle wasn’t nearly finished. Rolnir recognized the need for speed if he was going to make the rendezvous at Arlevon Gale in two days. Aurec or Vajna wouldn’t wait long to march on Chadra if he was late.

  His sword was drawn though he never expected to get it bloodied. Frontline engagements were no place for the general of the army. The swarm of self-appointed bodyguards kept both friendly and enemy forces far away from their most valuable asset. Rolnir frowned at being protected so, but knew it was in Delranan’s best interests. Aurec had already suggested Rolnir take the throne as regent until a suitable candidate was found. He scowled at his thoughtlessness. There was a battle to win first.

  His advance pushed into the heart of the enemy bivouac. Hundreds of bodies, dead and dying, littered the immediate area. A few were from the combined army while the vast majority were Delrananian conscripts. Heartbreaking as the loss might be, Rolnir forced himself to view each corpse as an enemy of the kingdom. Anything less was paving the way for bad dreams. His vantage from horseback showed him Badron’s command structure, which he immediately spurred towards. The only way to ensure total victory was by cutting of the enemy’s head.

  Flames already licked up the outer walls. Anything or anyone trapped inside would already be dead from smoke inhalation or the flames. Frustrated, Rolnir slid from his saddle. Sharp pain shot up his right leg, nearly dropping him to a knee. He leaned on his horse for support while the pain went away. More than one soldier jerked towards him before a foul-tempered look kept them at bay.

  “Douse those flames!” he barked. “I want the inside searched. Bring any bodies directly to me. We can’t let Badron escape.”

  Soldiers ran for buckets.

  * * * * *

  The attack came with such lightning quickness Badron had little time to recover. All of his dreams and plans of rebuilding Delranan were swept aside as the full force of his former army crashed into the pitiful mass of conscripts. Compounding matters was his sudden dilemma of Bahr and Maleela, leaving his mind in a dark place. Badron was forced to abandon all of his maps, plans, and personnel as he decided to flee. His life meant more than a few thousand peasants. Their deaths would be remembered with vain glory once he assumed the throne.

  He shed his fine clothes and armor, snatching ragged clothes from a body as he hurried with an alarmingly growing number of deserters who decided their lives mattered too. The king of Delranan became a peasant. They ducked through tents and confused wagon masters trying to salvage their stores of supplies. The fools. Can’t they see they need to flee as well lest the enemy capture the much-needed supplies? He bit down on his tongue to keep from giving himself away and kept running. Lord Death nipped ever at his heels.

  The refugee column broke through the rear lines, attempting to reach the nearby forest. None could have expected the massed ranks of archers silently awaiting them. A lone voice cried halt just once. Peasants screamed in panic and ran faster. Badron growled at their mistake, knowing it would likely amount in his death as well. He wasn’t disappointed. Arrows ripped into the unarmored conscripts, reducing their numbers by half in the first volley. It wasn’t long before ranks of infantry popped up from the snow to encircle the few who remained standing. Badron threw down the nicked and rusted sword and placed his hands on his head along with the scores of fresh prisoners standing around him.

  Wolfsreik soldiers swarmed in to begin roughly shoving the prisoners and binding their hands behind their backs. More than one was slammed down to the ground after snapping an unappreciated comment. While all were citizens of Delranan, the Wolfsreik harbored no loyalty towards those who had sided with Harnin One Eye or Badron thereafter. Chief rabble-rousers were gagged and blindfolded before being carted back to the command group. Wisely, Badron kept his eyes focused on the ground and his mouth shut. Anything else would arouse suspicion. Suspicion he could ill afford.

  “Get them moving. The general wants us moving before the day’s out,” a scar-riddled sergeant barked. His
ill-tempered look announced his displeasure with being placed in charge of prisoner escort duty.

  Badron was secured and shoved in line. The weary column of deserters slowly began the march back towards the bivouac site. What they found went beyond expectations. Shovels were produced and given to as many prisoners as possible. Soldiers issued orders for the digging of a mass grave. Traitors, they snapped, didn’t deserve individual graves while brave soldiers were lowered into the ground around them. Larger than many of his countrymen, Badron accepted his shovel and started to dig. Dark corners of his mind idly wondered if Rolnir was going to have them all killed and thrown in their hand-dug grave.

  Briefly he considered turning himself in. Surely Rolnir would find mercy, or at least the political savvy to understand the importance of having the king alive. It was a decision he couldn’t force, worried for his life. Amar Kit’han and the Dae’shan were ever lurking just beyond the corner of vision, leading Badron to believe that should he divulge his true identity it would be a violently swift demise. In the end the deposed king of Delranan slammed his shovel back into the frost-covered ground and dug a little deeper. He had nothing but time before making his move.

  SIXTEEN

  Refugees and Holdouts

  Maleela narrowed her eyes as she stared at the bleak sun. Partially hidden behind a thin cloud bank, the normal brightness was faded, producing little warmth. She’d spent her young life dreaming of days when she’d be able to wander the world under the unforgiving glare of the sun. Badron’s reign over her tightened up to the point when Aurec rescued her. Resentment forced her hands, pushing her into the arms of the Goblins and their Dae’shan keepers.

  The day was half gone and Thrask’s forces hadn’t moved more than a league. At this rate they wouldn’t arrive at Arlevon Gale until well after their deadline. She needed to get her army moving again. Revenge and destiny awaited her. Pulling her cloak tightly around her slender shoulders, the princess of Delranan turned her face from the sun, already forgetting the tender kiss of golden light as her mood darkened to deal with the Goblins. The sword at her right hip bounced gently off her thigh with each measured step.

  She found Thrask standing alone. His short stature dominated the area. Thick arms were folded over his chest. A double-headed battle axe rested heads down in the snow. Saliva and blood painted his lower tusks. The hatred in his eyes threatened to burn the world down. Maleela snorted. She couldn’t care less about the Goblin’s aspirations for grandeur. He was a tool, nothing more. Malweir was a much better place without the Goblin hordes and she aimed to rid the world of the race the moment Amar Kit’han followed through with his promises. She need only bide her time until then.

  “What is the meaning of this delay?” she demanded.

  Thrask barely moved. His bull-shaped head turned ever so slightly to regard her with scorn. She was the means to an end. An end he’d already been given leave to execute once the dark gods were released. “We will move when we are ready.”

  Maleela stamped her food down and jabbed an accusatory finger. “I command this army and I say we move now. Your soldiers have done nothing but get fat off of the corpses from those enemy soldiers. You’ve had your fun, now order the march. We must reach Arlevon Gale in enough time to perform our mission.”

  Thrask uncurled his clawed fingers. “You threaten me? Dae’shan or no, I will rip your heart out and eat it before you die. Mind your words, Woman. Goblins do not take orders from Human scum.”

  “You will take orders from me,” she persisted. She almost invoked Amar Kit’han’s name but doing so would render her powerless in Thrask’s eyes. The Goblin Lord respected power and strength. She needed as much of each if she hoped to maintain her already tenuous hold on such a large army.

  “I could kill you,” Thrask said, taking a menacing step closer.

  She had her sword out and pointed at the Goblin’s chest before he planted his forward foot. “You’ll be dead before you can try.”

  The Goblin paused. He cocked his head, attempting to see how much resolve the small woman actually had. Slowly, Thrask began to laugh. “You are brave, perhaps. We will see just how much when the Wolf soldiers attack.”

  “The Wolfsreik is your concern, not mine. We have our orders. The ruins are less than a day’s march if we move at full speed through the night. Our army needs to be in place and ready to defend shortly after arrival. Is that understood?”

  Her sword waivered slightly, as if strained from the weight of holding it there for so long. Thrask knew he could easily shove the blade aside and tear her tiny figure apart without much effort despite her foolish notion of invincibility. “Goblins will do their jobs. No worry.”

  “Then I suggest you get my army moving. Time is against us,” Maleela threatened. She sheathed her sword in a display of power meant to be witnessed by the growing throng of warriors around them.

  Thrask backed down. The Goblin Lord was entrenched enough in his power he didn’t fear losing it. All he needed to do was remain calm until Maleela’s attention was diverted. Then he’d be able to reclaim leadership and bring havoc to the world of Men.

  The refugee column stretched out for almost half a league. Hundreds of families had packed all of their belongings, gathered as much supplies as possible, and joined the long wagon train south to escape the ravages of war. Dogs, cows, goat, and horses followed the winding column as it gradually made the long trek out of Delranan. Hope, what little remained, propelled them onward. Children sat quietly behind their parents. There was no sign of merriment. No laughing or playing. Each refugee focused solely on leaving the harsh reality of their homes behind. Nothing else mattered.

  The column master, a self-appointed position claimed by the head master of one of the larger villages, drove them tirelessly down the snow-covered lane. Had he the necessary military training he would have sent out scouts and flankers. Instead he decided that pulling the refugees as close together as possible offered better protection in addition to peace of mind. A practical person, he tried to maintain order in the name of them all.

  Unfortunately it wasn’t enough. Lack of foresight left him vulnerable to attack. His world exploded slightly after dusk while the column was attempting to make camp. Short, grey-bodied Goblins swarmed from behind tree and rock with weapons flailing. Women, and more than one man, screamed, trying to break and run. It wasn’t enough. The Goblin army marched straight into the long column without intending to halt. Nothing Maleela, or Thrask, said was strong enough to keep them from breaking ranks and slaughtering the refugees.

  Every living soul was murdered as the Goblins rampaged through them. A handful of stragglers managed to gather their wits and hide before the horde ran over them. They watched in abject terror as their friends and neighbors were slaughtered for sport. Goblins laughed as they toyed with frightened children or bit into exposed throats. The smell of blood filled the air. A hush smothered the night, as if the gods were holding their breath in disbelief.

  Sated from their earlier feast of butchered rebels, the Goblin army largely left their victims in the snow. Having no need for meat they wiped their cruel blades clean of blood and gore. Others set about desecrating the dead, turning their corpses into mockeries of what once had been. Arms were hacked off and shoved down throats. Women were stripped and carved upon. Depravity meant little to a race bent on the very destruction of the Human race.

  Maleela watched it unfold with disgust. Her stomach rebelled, emptying twice on the blood-stained snow. As much as she wanted to command them to stop and resume the march she instinctively knew she couldn’t without losing any gains she’d made from her confrontation with Thrask earlier. No fool, she recognized his acquiescence for what it was: simple posturing to allow her the pretense of being in charge. If she jumped in now and got involved she’d be sealing her fate. Goblins had no love for her, abiding her command only through the insistence of the Dae’shan. Given a choice they’d slaughter her for sport. Maleela stood on a very nar
row edge. One wrong decision and she was dead.

  “A good day,” Thrask barked deeply as he strode up to her. Drying blood coated the front of his armor.

  “Was this necessary?” she asked after wiping her mouth clean.

  Thrask laughed. “Yes. We have killed many today. A glorious time for the Goblin kingdom. Your people were weak, Maleela. Killing them was a mercy.”

  “Mercy? They were mostly women and children. What mercy is there in murdering unarmed combatants?”

  “Goblins have been at war with your race since the world cooled. How many thousands have you killed in kind?” Thrask asked. He surprised her with his depth of knowledge over the past, making him extremely dangerous.

  Maleela gagged as the wind blew the raw smell of butchered meat and offal in her face. “No one living had anything to do with the past. This is our war. Our time. History is made through our deeds, not those of our fathers.”

  “Fathers, bah! I killed my father when I was seven. Malweir deserves to burn and I am going to be the one who does it,” Thrask told her matter-of-factly. “The time of the Goblin is at hand. Mankind has had its time.” He gestured back to the killing fields. “This is just the beginning.”

  What have I allied myself with? None of this is worth revenge against my father. Maleela struggled to find any words capable of countering Thrask’s aggression. She fell short. Never in her short life had she encountered such raw hatred. Not even with all of the hurt her father had inflicted did Maleela feel the sting or fervor like the murderous Goblins. A small voice in her mind whispered she might have made a mistake.