Even Gods Must Fall

by Christian Warren Freed

  Far too late for her to care, Maleela watched the Wolfsreik smash into the Goblins. The press of bodies was massive. Despite the gnawing displeasure in her stomach, she couldn’t take her gaze away. Bodies fell. Weapons rose and dropped, their crisp silver catching sunlight in menacing angles. Slowly, almost casually, the ground turned a dark shade of red. Blood. She shuddered. What made her cringe was seemingly commonplace amongst the combatants.

  Frantic movement from the Wolfsreik lines drew her attention. Fresh units were being hurried towards the attack where those poor initial units were being torn asunder. If…if the Goblins could hold, there was the very real chance to win this battle. Surely the Dwarves would run out of whatever they used for ammunition soon. Once they did, she had numbers on her side. No amount of natural savagery could beat back the vast amount of Goblins waiting to get into the battle.

  The east secured for the moment, Maleela turned back to the Dwarf front. Aurec would live or die without her interference. She noticed with dismay how much destruction had been wrought to her lines. Thousands of Goblins lay dead, twice that were wounded and trying to drag themselves away from the fighting. Plenty of Minotaurs were down as well, their near gigantic forms almost an aberration of nature. She marveled at the bull warriors. Until now she’d thought them to be myth, an extinct race having long since exited the world.

  No matter how many enemy casualties littered the trenches it was paltry compared to the losses she was suffering. The battle had gotten close enough to render the Dwarf cannons obsolete but the constant report of smaller, centralized explosions continued to bother her. Puffs of grey-black smoke drifted away from ranks of Dwarves at measured intervals. Whatever fell sorcery the mountain dwellers employed went well beyond the cannons. She reluctantly deduced they had found a way to make smaller, handheld versions of the weapons. If Thord’s army had enough of them….

  Heavy boots thumped up the stairs of her observation tower. She didn’t bother turning, knowing who it was. Maleela’s only curiosity came from how long it had taken him to approach her.

  “General Thrask, what is your report?” she asked, her voice smooth, polished.

  Ignoring her, the Goblin Lord went to the edge of the tower and stared hard at the Dwarf line. He’d seen what a pair of their weapons was capable of and the cost was appalling. The battle along the Thorn River crossing was swift and exceptionally brutal. Nothing he had seen prepared him for the full fury lashing into his army.

  “We must find a way to stop them.”

  Maleela clutched her sword, aching to plunge it into the Goblin’s heart. “Can the army hold? Amar Kit’han will not tolerate failure.”

  “The demons are your concern, not mine. Kill Dwarves,” Thrask snarled. “I must kill all of the Dwarves.”

  She knew there were another ten thousand warriors waiting a short ride north. The ruins were a massive, sprawling complex but not large enough to house the entire fifty-thousand-strong force. With the northern flank secure and relatively quiet, Maleela figured it would be wise to funnel fresh troops in from the perimeter to counter the massive assault by the Wolfsreik on the east. Enemy forces were strongest there. The complications of the battle frustrated her. The Dwarf attack on the southwest was reaping massive casualties but their army was substantially smaller than Aurec’s. There was no easy decision.

  A flap of wings stole her attention. Rising from the center of Arlevon Gale were a dozen Gnaals. She’d only encountered the foul beasts, creations of dark magic, once in the moments before being captured by the Harpies. The very memory robbed her of strength. Gnaals were nothing short of the physical manifestation of hatred and evil. They appeared no more than bulbous, black masses flying through the sky but she knew the truth. Easily as tall as a Minotaur, the Gnaals had wide, leathery wings. Their bodies were the darkest shade of black, making individual characteristics almost indiscernible. Closing her eyes invoked vivid memories of puss-filled lesions, incredibly disproportioned muscles, whip-like tails, and eyes the color of pure malevolence.

  She watched them soar into the sky, tucking their wings back and diving towards the Dwarf and Minotaur armies. Not even Boen or Groge had been strong enough to kill the Gnaals that had attacked her in the Jungles of Brodein. What could Dwarves do against a dozen of the killing machines? Maleela regretted the loss of life that was about to happen but felt relief at having one less problem. She could now direct her attention to the east, where she suspected her father cowered.

  Thrask snapped his jaws together with appreciation. His warriors had strength in numbers but nothing comparable to the raw fury of the Gnaals. He quickly decided it was time to lead his troops into battle.

  Maleela agreed. “Summon the reinforcements. Have them attack the Wolfsreik from the north. Between them and the Gnaals we can sweep our foe from the field and win this battle.”

  Thrask tapped a fingertip on one of his tusks as the notion of killing her entertained him. He didn’t need her, despite what assurances the Dae’shan gave. She was weak, like the rest of her kind. The new world had no place for weakness. Thrask itched with the desire but knew it would only invoke the ire of Amar Kit’han. Instead he decided to wait until the battle was almost won before slicing her open and tearing out her heart.

  “I go to fight the Dwarves. The army will attack your Wolf soldiers. This will be glorious day for the Goblin race. We will kill them all!” The Goblin Lord thumped a fleshy fist to his chest and stormed off. Killing Maleela could wait…for now.

  With the foul Goblin gone, she resumed her mental quest for her father. Killing raged around her but her mind sequestered it away, lost behind the growing desire to see Badron broken and bleeding on the ground at her knees. The world dulled and faded until she saw but one figure. A solitary fighter lost amidst a sea of iron and armor. Badron. Oh how she wanted to slit his throat and bathe in his blood.

  Gnaals dropped heavily into the massed Dwarf cannons. Weaponless, they attacked with tail and claw. No amount of Dwarf ferocity was enough to prevent bodies from being shredded. The battle raged as Gnaals cut their way through the Dwarves and reached the cannons. They bled from hundreds of cuts. Broken arrows and axe blades were embedded in their flesh yet not one had gone down. Close to a hundred Dwarves were already dead, torn apart without delay.

  A few brave Dwarves managed to fire a final round into Arlevon Gale before their weapons were thoroughly destroyed. Gnaals crushed the barrels, snapping them like kindling. One blew up as the Dwarf valiantly lit the fuse in a last-ditch effort to launch another round. Both Dwarf and Gnaal disintegrated in a flash of smoke and flame. Temporarily dismayed, the remaining Gnaals recoiled and regrouped.

  Fresh Dwarves drew ranks and prepared to fire. General Brug stood beside them, battle axe waving in the choked air. Having already withdrawn from the front lines, Brug’s musketeers were busy rearming and preparing to head back into the fight when the Gnaals struck. Any terror he felt was deep-rooted but he barely managed to contain it. The Gnaals were evil on Malweir, a distant truth of vengeance and destruction stretching back generations. Few were strong enough to stand against them. The vast majority of races balked at the very sight as their nerves abandoned them. Dwarves, Brug reminded himself, were made of sterner material.

  “Front rank kneel! Prepare to fire!” he barked.

  Dwarves dropped into their well-rehearsed roles. Training took over.

  “Fire!”

  Muskets roared. Bullets struck the Gnaals in head and body. More than one screamed but they did not fall. As one, the Gnaals turned and advanced on the Dwarves. With no time to reload, Brug ordered axes drawn. He swiftly shifted to the center of the line and took his place among his warriors. Many cast sidelong glances to each other but none fled. If this was to be a battle to the death, so be it. Brug led the roar and charged. His musketeers followed step for step. Dwarf and Gnaal clashed in furious combat.

  Using the Gnaals for cover, Thrask led fresh battalions of untested Goblins into the battl
e. They attacked the Minotaurs, still reeling from the force of the Gnaal assault, with belligerence. Krek kicked a Goblin knife thrower in the face. Bone and cartilage shattered as the Goblin dropped dead. Breathing heavily, the Minotaur king tried to withdraw and help the Dwarves but it wasn’t possible. There were too many Goblins for the Minotaurs to pull away. His heart was torn, knowing the stout Dwarves were no match for the evil of the Gnaals.

  Renewed cries announced the arrival of fresh Goblin troops. Thousands flooded towards the Minotaurs. Thousands that turned the tide of numbers. Krek was forced to forget his Dwarf allies and face the army threatening him. Chunks of flesh and hair coated his war bar with dried blood. His muscles were tight, heavy from exertion. His eyes burned from the smoke. Krek focused and calmed his breathing. There was fresh killing that needed to be done. It was only proper for the king to lead his warriors.

  Morale remained high among his warriors. They’d suffered losses, several hundred as he figured, but were strong enough to repulse any attack the Goblins tried. Whatever pain the Minotaur army suffered was felt thrice over by their enemies. So many corpses littered the battlefield new units were forced to climb over mounds just to reach the Minotaurs. That made easy work for the taller, longer-reached bulls.

  The line held for a while before so many Goblins arrived in force that Krek had no choice but to retreat. Combined with the loss of the Dwarf musketeers, Krek was heavily outnumbered and running out of vigor. Retreating would give him the time needed to recover and attack again. Bodies continued to pile up as the Minotaurs fought an organized withdrawal. Every inch of ground recaptured was paid for with many lives.

  With the retreat came the sudden expansion of lines. Goblins were able to dash past the Minotaurs, suddenly eager to return the favor of carnage to the Dwarves. Nothing could be done to prevent that as Krek’s bulls were faced with near overwhelming numbers. His bulls were hard-pressed to remain cohesive fighting units. Any breakup would mean death. Staying together was the only way his army was going to survive.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Brutal Survival

  “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

  The scene being played out before them was one the world hadn’t seen in a thousand years. Very few living could recall an hour of such unmitigated darkness. Many of the one-hundred-strong company felt the old stirrings come back to life. Long had it been since the Giants of Venheim last went to war. Long since they were forced to give in to base instincts and take lives. Leaving their mountain forges was a difficult decision to make but one that couldn’t be ignored.

  So they came, with sword and axe, marching to a mournful dirge as vows of peace and non-interference were shattered upon the rocks. The long march from Venheim afforded each time for personal reflection, to decide if what they had volunteered to do was worth the cost of their soul. Belief in the old gods was gone, replaced by a lone deity who was both benevolent and demanding.

  In the end there wasn’t much of a choice. Whether the gods of light and dark were still around, lingering in the shadows just out of reach, didn’t matter. All that mattered was the current war threatened to destroy the way of life of every single race on Malweir.

  Blekling hefted his sword off of his right shoulder. “It is as the Dae’shan said. This is a most grievous affair.”

  “Perhaps we should turn back? Return to Venheim and forget all of this.”

  The Giant elder shook his head slowly. Long, black locks of hair dragged across his shoulders. “No. We gave our word. Groge is down there, lost in all of this. He is our only hope of stopping the dark gods. Should he fall…well, at least there are more of us to pick up the Blud Hamr and stop this war. We continue to march. It is time for the Giants to return to war.”

  “Which front do we attack? South or east?”

  Blekling studied the battlefield from atop the small rise the Giants had halted on. Tens of thousands of Men and Goblins battled desperately on the right but they seemed almost evenly matched. His attention was drawn to the south, where Minotaur and Dwarf battled Goblin and…he froze as recognition dawned on him. He refused to believe what his eyes showed. Gnaals. Here, in Delranan. Until now he’d believed they were extinct, all killed during the Mage Wars when the dark Mages finally fell. Seeing so many at work now inspired dread.

  “We go to the Dwarves,” he said, his throat dry. They need us the most. Once again our kind will engage those vile Gnaals. How many will die this time?

  Artiss Gran materialized at his side, gossamer robes simmering refracted rainbows from the sunlight. Face eternally obstructed behind the shadows of his cowl, the Dae’shan took in the scene being played out below and felt regret. Regret for not acting sooner. Regret for not standing up to his wayward brothers when they broke their pact with the gods. Regret for allowing the world to get to this point. He had much to make up for and, in his eyes, there could be but one possible outcome.

  Blekling bowed curtly out of reverence. “Dae’shan. We have arrived, and it appears in the nick of time.”

  “That remains to be seen. Our allies are beleaguered. The Giants have not gone to war in a very long time. Are you sure you are prepared for this?” Artiss asked. He knew that by abandoning their principles the Giants would be fundamentally changed. There was latent danger in that. Vague memories of how terrible the Giants had become during the Mage Wars disturbed him. Unfortunately a great deal needed to change if hope and freedom were to survive the day.

  Blekling, sensing the Dae’shan’s doubt, grimaced. Fresh sounds of battle assaulted his ears. “This is not a matter of being prepared. Life is in the balance here. Great evil is at work down below. We have come to the aid of the free peoples of Malweir in the past when always the need was greatest. That pact continues to stand. Let no one say we do not honor our agreements. The Giants will go to war. Now.”

  Inwardly pleased, Artiss Gran nodded his consent. Perhaps there was hope for tomorrow after all. However pleased he might be, Artiss knew that the only way to defeat his brothers was through direct confrontation. The time of reckoning was at last upon him. Here, on this final day as the sun began to set, Artiss Gran was forced to find the destination to his long journey. It all ended tonight.

  Blekling led his one hundred Giants down the slope and into the back of the Dwarf camp. Human and Dwarf stopped what they were doing and gaped as the force marched purposefully to the front lines without pause or comment. A cheer arose through the mire of desperation. Swords beat against shields. The army found new hope. Fresh life pumped into them as the Giants headed directly towards the Gnaal threat. What threatened to become a rout turned into defense. Hopefully, defense would lead to offense and the scouring of Delranan.

  The Gnaals snapped to as they sensed their ancient enemies. Mindless with berserker rage, the Gnaals abandoned their slaughter of Dwarves to attack Blekling and his Giants. One hundred against eleven. The outcome was anything but certain.

  Blekling led the charge. His blood ran hot. His heart pounded like the mighty forge hammers. His vision darkened. Nothing else existed except this battle. This moment. Picking up speed, he crashed into the nearest Gnaal. Limbs flailed as both bodies tumbled to the ground. Blekling gagged as an incredibly powerful tail curled around his neck and squeezed. Claws dug into his iron-like flesh. Intense pain washed over the Giant leader. He’d never been in a real fight before and it was threatening to be his death. Eyes burning, his vision swam.

  Blekling reached deep into his heart and snatched hold of his inner strength. The Giant drove his right elbow into the Gnaal’s exposed ribcage. It wasn’t particularly strong, but enough to force the Gnaal to release its grip. Blekling slid from beneath the monster, continuing to slam elbows into exposed ribs. Enraged, the Gnaal whipped its tail about. Each blow broke the ground, kicking mud, snow, and dirt up.

  Heavy, running, footsteps announced a trio of Giants rushing to help their leader. Axe and hammer struck the Gnaal repeatedly. Blood, so dark it appeared black, ruptured
through broken flesh. Puss and ichor leaked from the monster as it was slowly, oh so slowly, beaten to death. Blekling managed to roll free, drawing his dagger in the process and plunging it deep into the Gnaal’s heart. Exhausted and woefully underprepared, Blekling took the brief moment allotted to scan the battlefield.

  While he might have killed a Gnaal, others were less fortunate. Several Giants lay dead or dying. The sight horrified him. A series of emotions erupted at once: hate, sorrow, despair, anger. Blekling snatched his weapons from the ground and led his host back into the fight. Eight of the dark Mage demons remained.

  Inspired by the sudden appearance of Giants, Dwarves and Men launched back into the fight. Their weapons did little against the nightmarish hides of the Gnaals and more often than not they simply got in the way. Blekling didn’t mind. The evil unleashed upon the world should have been eradicated centuries ago. That it had been allowed to endure was an affront to every sentient race on Malweir. Blekling intended on removing the stain for all time.

  He watched, helpless, as Tobin’s head rolled away from his already toppling corpse. Yarg grunted as a razor-sharp tail burst through his chest. His large hands desperately tried to keep his blood and organs from spilling out but it was of no use. He was dead before he struck the ground. A group of Giants systematically tore a Gnaal apart. Body parts littered the area at their feet. Blekling winced at the horrid screams coming from the dying creature. Madness had descended upon the world and he was but a small participant.

  “Come brothers, let us end this brutality,” he told those nearest him.

  Each was panting and clearly struggling with committing acts of violence. He saw it in their eyes. Doubt lingered in the corners. They were hesitant to take that first step.

  “This is not right. We should not be aiding in this slaughter.”

  Blekling fumed. His people were dying and these few suffered from lack of faith. “We did not begin this war but it ours to help finish. I did not wish to leave Venheim but the Dae’shan was correct. This war must end, here and now. We must do our part if life is to continue. Now, cast aside your doubt and fear. Follow me!”