Even Gods Must Fall

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Do not think to betray me, princess. Your blood will taste good,” Thrask threatened once they were out of earshot.

  “Is that supposed to frighten me, Goblin? You don’t know the horrors I’ve seen. Nothing you could possibly do will ever compare to what the Dae’shan have in store for us all,” Maleela told him. “Now, prepare your army for battle. I suspect the enemy won’t give us long to retire.”

  Thrask grinned at the promise of bloodshed.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Last Day

  “Standby!”

  The call was echoed by a score of voices ranged along the lines. Dwarves tensed with anticipation. Breaths were short, ragged. The moment had at last arrived.

  “FIRE!”

  Thunder erupted as the mighty Dwarven cannon batteries unleashed their fury. Flames belched from the cannon mouths. Projectiles screamed across the sky and struck with such vehemence the Goblin lines threatened to break. Bodies were obliterated. Earthworks were tossed into the air like rubble. The ground became drenched with blood. Cries of agony spread among the defenders.

  There would be no respite for the Goblins, however, as Dwarves diligently reloaded and took aim again. Acting with drilled precision, the cannon crews were reloaded and ready to fire within less than a minute. Battery commanders again issued the command to fire. Death spit at the Goblins. Acrid smoke clung to the air, sealing the cannons within a miasmic cloud. A few Dwarves coughed but soldiered on. War drums beat a fearsome tune for the Dwarves reviled in killing their most hated foe.

  The barrage continued for close to an hour. Elevation was adjusted to provide extra distance with each salvo once Dwarven spotters confirmed the front lines were all but devastated. Successive explosions had tossed debris and bodies well in front of the trenches. Hundreds of Goblins died in that first hour, less than hoped for but enough to bolster the spirits of the allied army.

  Thord watched his cannon batteries execute his will with a grin. Killing Goblins was honorable and this day would see his legacy cemented for generations to come. His fingers flexed on his axe handle. Rage filled his veins. The Dwarf Lord was more than ready to lead the charge into glorious battle, but that was the old way. Gunpowder changed the way his clans went to war. So many of the enemy was dead, broken before his musketeers stepped off the line.

  Despite their technological advances, Thord found the use of projectile weapons dishonorable. He was a Dwarf and expected to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Anything less was unworthy, until now. The vast amount of enemy soldiers awaiting them demanded the vehemence of his cannons. Promise held Thord to task. He knew that no Goblin would ever again willingly face his people in battle.

  “General Brug, sound the advance. The time has come to show our Goblin kin the full truth of our wrath,” he ordered.

  The black-bearded Brug snarled in reply. Fetishes decorated his plaited beard. War paint darkened his face. A hooked axe blade stuck up over his right shoulder. A pair of pistols were holstered around his waist and the long musket in his hands whispered danger.

  “Today we will have vengeance for our brothers lost on the banks of the river,” Brug announced for all those close enough to hear.

  Dwarves cheered, the memory of the brutal yet short battle along the banks of the Thorn River when the army of Drimmen Delf first began to march west still close to their hearts. One hundred Dwarves and several Elves had given their lives to slow the Goblin advance. Today that sacrifice would be repaid in kind. Thord slapped Brug on the shoulder and nodded, adding his own bellowing voice to the thunder spreading across his army. Brug turned to take his place among the musket battalions.

  According to the battle plan the Dwarf musketeers would advance and engage the enemy with a devastating wall of fire. Krek’s Minotaurs would follow. In theory the lines would break and Bahr’s team would be able to enter Arlevon Gale. Thord and Brug both knew that no true battle plan survived first contact. He hadn’t gotten an accurate count of enemy casualties since the bombardment began, a troubling fact but not one capable of halting the attack. Even as he watched his ranks form Thord knew that his Wolfsreik counterparts were already engaging the Goblins with catapult and scorpion fire. Confused by the dual assaults, the Goblins were ripe to fall.

  The Dwarf Lord couldn’t help but feel unnecessary, however. The days when kings were expected to lead their armies into battle were drawing to a close. This was the hour for generals and heroes to emerge. He could do no more than stand by and watch. Frustration boiled across his face as he watched Brug point towards the trumpeter. A single horn announced the charge.

  Brug primed his musket and stepped off, marching in step with a thousand other Dwarves in four ranks. Standard firing procedures called for the first rank to kneel and both the first and second ranks to fire simultaneously. They would fold back behind the third and fourth ranks, reloading as their counterparts fired. Each salvo would see them advance another ten meters until their lines were so close it was time for axe work.

  The haze began to lift, dissipating the further they marched into the killing grounds. It was then the full extent of how destructive the cannons had been was realized. Body parts littered the cleared area leading up to the Goblin trenches. Hands gripped weapons. Heads lay, faces twisted in agony from being ripped away. An occasional torso formed a fleshy lump in the Dwarves’ path. The smell of viscera and blood was sickening. More than one Dwarf forgot himself and vomited.

  Brug ignored the destruction. His gaze was locked on the milling heads poking over the battlements before him. Huge gouges were torn through the trenches. More bodies lay strewn over the tops. Fires burned in the tents and hastily constructed buildings behind the lines. Black smoke clung in thick clouds. The Goblins had paid dearly for being in Delranan but it wasn’t enough. Whole companies were seen hurrying back and forth to reinforce the lines at their most vulnerable points. Brug spied ranks of crossbowmen waiting, their foul quarrels loaded and ready to slay Dwarves. Armor piercing, the arrows could kill even the best of Brug’s forces.

  However cunning the Goblins may be, they were no match for the raw power of the Drimmen Delf Dwarves. Brug gestured to the trumpeter again when the front ranks were within one hundred meters of the trenches. Overzealous Goblins leapt up, brandishing tulwars and swords. They shouted curses in their foul tongue, taunting the Dwarves. A lone flag waved proudly in the breeze. Dark blue, it bore a pair of crossed swords. The Dwarf line ground to a halt. Their boots stamped heavily.

  Crossbowmen rose up, taking aim despite being out of range. Brug snarled with delight as his enemies foolishly abandoned the cover of the trenches.

  Turning to his adjutant, the general said, “You would think after the pounding our cannons just delivered they’d be wiser.”

  The adjutant grinned back. “Goblins ain’t never been wise, sir.”

  “Indeed. You may fire at will.”

  Saluting, the adjutant turned to his musketeers. “Front rank kneel! Second rank aim!”

  Muskets rose. Dwarves squinted down the barrels as they zeroed in on their targets. For a moment everything paused, as if the world had stopped moving. The order to fire changed that. Bodies fell as a cloud of pale grey smoke filled the space between lines. The thunder of so many muskets being fired was deafening, though nowhere near as loud as the cannons had been. What had begun as foolish pride turned to panic. Those Goblins who survived the first volley scrambled back for cover. It was already too late. The second firing order smoothly filed forward to take position and fired. More grey bodies dropped in splatters of blood and gore.

  Brug continued his attack until his front rank was no more than ten meters from the Goblin trenches. Scores of wounded tried crawling to safety. Brug ignored them and continued firing on those still battle capable. The sheer amount of dead and wounded rendered the trench units ineffective but reinforcements poured in. Several were cut down well before reaching the safety of the trenches. Dangerously low on ammunition, Brug decided it was time to
let their allies into the fight.

  “Trumpeter! Now!” he bellowed.

  A series of three long blasts washed across the battlefield. The Dwarves parted ranks, catching the Goblins off guard. Confused, they stared curiously as a dark brown cloud emerged from the acrid haze. The ground began to tremble. Dwarves reloaded and prepared to fire without their enemy realizing. All eyes were fixed on the mass of warriors barreling towards the trenches. Brug waited until he guessed the Minotaurs were almost directly behind his musketeers and ordered a final volley. Goblins were harvested like wheat.

  Krek bellowed and dashed past the already reloading Dwarves. His army followed at his heels. They leapt into the trenches with savage fury, hacking and crushing all who stood in the way. Krek reveled in the task, knowing it was revenge for old wrongs. A pair of large Goblins rose up in front of him. Each brandished heavy war bars. Krek raised his own, a favorite weapon since his time as a young bull.

  The Minotaur king attacked the Goblin on his right, almost ignoring the other as he brought his weapon down with both hands. The Goblin tried unsuccessfully to duck away but was caught on top of the head. A sickening crunch announced his shattered skull. Blood and bone flew apart. Krek came out of the swing and readied to wheel on the second. The war bar slammed into the back of his thigh first, dropping him to a knee. Waves of pain rippled through him. The Goblin reared back for a killing blow.

  Krek was faster. He reached out and grabbed the Goblin by the throat, crushing the wind from him. Ragged claws tore at Krek’s forearm. The king drew the dagger from the Goblin’s own belt and plunged it into his enemy’s groin. Screaming, the Goblin let go. Krek pushed his attack, stabbing the Goblin over and over until he hung dead in his grasp. He discarded the corpse and rose. Fresh pain lanced up his leg. Not feeling any broken bones, he turned his attention to the battle raging around him.

  Similar battles were being played out. Goblin and Minotaur bodies littered the area. Krek frowned upon seeing several of his bulls down but took comfort in the kill ratio. Already rattled, the Goblins offered naught but weak resistance to the onslaught of the Minotaur army. Hundreds died in the trenches. Horrid sounds filled the air. Bones breaking. Steel ripping through flesh. The wet sucking sound of fresh wounds. Cries of the dying. Groans from the mounds of wounded piling up. The world had gone mad and Krek was a willing participant. Limping, the Minotaur king lurched after a new set of foes.

  Reinforced by another wave of shock troops, the Minotaurs drove deeper into the earthworks. Front ranks fanned out in a widening arc. Sword and axe rose and fell with killing blows. The ground ran slick with blood and offal. Several warriors slipped, their brethren leapt or climbed over to continue the attack. Suddenly the Minotaur army was in danger of being impossibly entangled. Snarls brought the front line grinding to a halt. Panting heavily, the bulls cut down the remaining Goblins and established a foothold for follow-on forces.

  Having been brutalized, the Goblin ranks cracked and broke. Survivors fled back into the ruins to secondary defensive positions. The trench quickly became untenable as more Minotaurs swarmed into it. Soon the large warriors were forced to snatch bodies and toss them across the killing field just to continue unimpeded. Shock units surged through the gaps in the line, taking a new fight to the retreating Goblins. Scores fell, hacked down from behind as they fled for their lives.

  Krek was at the center of it all. His dark bear hide draped across his shoulders flapped in the early morning wind. Sweat covered him in a thick sheen. His breath fumed from his nostrils. Naked from the waist down save for boiled-leather armor, the Minotaur king was drenched in blood. He paused at the inner lip of the trench and surveyed the battlefield. Most of the first trench was occupied by his army and the erected battlements were being systematically ripped apart. Reluctant as he was to admit it, the honor-less weapons of the Dwarves were highly effective. Krek brandished his war bar high above his head and roared.

  A fresh battalion of bulls took the lead of the advance. Krek’s personal guards, they drove past the captured trench and into the massed ranks just beyond. Word hadn’t gotten through Goblin lines that the trench had fallen. Fresh troops were rushing to the battle while those already broken units fleeing the front hurried back into them. The result was a severe constriction that quickly devolved into a death mill.

  Minotaurs fell upon the Goblins with unabated fury. Old grievances were expressed at the sharp ends of sword and axe. The Goblins struck back, hacking and slashing at their much taller foes. Deep cuts took Minotaurs at the knee and belly. Limbs flopped away, trailing ropes of blood. Grievously wounded Minotaurs fell to the blood-churned ground where they were set upon by Goblins and butchered.

  Krek spied the danger and immediately moved to counter. He bellowed to his forces, who fell back, slightly, to allow for a rank of shield bearers with spears to advance. The body length of wood reinforced in iron successfully prevented Goblin swords from cutting low. Spears slashed forward, jabbing and plunging down into exposed shoulders and necks. Just like that the Goblin counterattack faded and died.

  The Minotaur king wasn’t content with simply holding ground. His army was designed for breaking the enemy and driving them from the field. The only way Bahr and his group were going to get into the ruins was by the Minotaurs and Dwarves forcing the Goblins far enough back to create a hole in the lines. Once accomplished, they would be able to make quick work of the rest of the perimeter, especially with the glorious distraction the Wolfsreik was providing on the opposite flank.

  Hundreds of crossbow bolts flew from the second, more heavily defended trench twenty meters ahead. The force of impact drove several bulls back a step. A rare handful went down, the bolts slipping by the shield wall to embed deep in the flesh. Most hammered into the shields with a sound to rival thunder. Unlike the first line of defenders, these Goblins hadn’t been caught in the cannon barrage. They were fresh and ready to fight. Krek enjoyed the challenge. This was where honor was met. A great and terrible reaping would be held this day and Krek aimed to get the majority of it.

  His large, wide eyes surveyed the second trench. It appeared no Dwarf rounds managed to penetrate this far, leaving the defenses rather wholly intact. Sharpened logs were leveled at dangerous angles to prevent any normal army from making a head-on charge. Fortunately the Minotaurs of Malg were anything but normal. Capable of leaping high, Krek intended on going over the defenses. Doing so would cause many casualties. He reckoned the first wave would be rendered ineffective.

  Suicide wasn’t in his tactical plans, however, and he was forced to consider a second option. Fires burned around him, the residue of the barrage. Ordering the follow-on ranks to collect as much burning material as possible, Krek intended on burning the enemy out. He just had to get there first. Enemy fire was picking up. Short spears and throwing axes joined the arrows. More bulls dropped. Clearly the ease with which the first trench fell was not about to be replayed a second time.

  A series of small towers were erected every fifty meters. Filled with a score of Goblins each, they provided excellent overhead cover to continue raining projectiles into the Minotaur ranks. Sooner or later the range would decrease to the point they became effective. Krek needed more firepower to break the lines. Once accomplished, he saw a clear path to the center of the enemy camp.

  Snatching the nearest warrior by his armored collar, Krek ordered, “Burn the towers! Bring up the shamans!”

  The bull snorted and hurried through the massed ranks to follow his orders. Krek waited impatiently, adding his own shield to the wall for his wizards. Arrows, spears, and axes thundered into his shield. More than one had already cracked from continued strikes. It wouldn’t be long before they all followed suit. He grunted under the force of multiple impacts before turning his head back to his army.

  The wait seemed incredibly long but he was finally rewarded by several diminutive figures slipping through the ranks. His shaman corps, ten strong, marched with heads high. Their long antler
s reached up to an average bull’s shoulders. Shirts of bones, alabaster white clung to their chests. Each bore a personally carved totem stick adorned with random fetishes of feathers and worse. Their skin was dull brown, almost green from practicing magic deep underground. Each was more dangerous than his entire army combined; they were a foe the Goblins hadn’t reckoned on.

  Krek nodded and passed his shield off to the bull directly behind him. He marched to the shamans, an imposing target several Goblins aimed for but failed to hit. As one, the shamans bowed to the waist. No time for formalities, Krek bade them rise. “Take out those towers.”

  He briefly considered trying to capture them intact, knowing they’d make the perfect vantage point for Brug’s snipers once the Dwarves refit and got back into the fight, but the amount of losses he’d suffer trying to take them weren’t worth it. Krek needed to break the second trench in a similar fashion to the first. Notoriously stubborn, the Goblins would die to the last before retreating from his bulls.

  “As you command, sire,” the eldest shaman replied. He grinned, wicked rows of pointed teeth showing beneath thick lips. He gestured with his hand and the shamans began to spread out through the lines.

  Satisfied they would accomplish their task, Krek turned his attentions back to the stalled attack. Too many bulls were down, being dragged back to the hastily erected triage area at the first trench. Dwarf engineers were already turning the former defenses around to protect against the inevitable counterattack. Once the shock of the combined assault wore off, Krek and Brug alike had no disillusions about the Goblins bringing everything they had in reserve back on the trenches. This was their only chance to secure the foothold. The sound of shovels and pickaxes joined the clash of weapons.