Faith restored, at least somewhat, the Giants lunged forward to put an end to the remaining Gnaals. The Giant leader was immensely grateful for their cooperation. He asked them to do what he himself didn’t feel right doing. Giants had once been mighty warriors, but those days ended and with good reason. Watching a Giant kill was a terrible sight to behold.
The battle had shifted away from him, forcing Blekling to run faster in order to reach his brothers. The Giant elder struggled for breath. Intense pain racked his sides. He knew some ribs were broken. The Gnaal nearly did him in and he knew it. Blekling decided to remain in the safety of numbers.
His first sign of trouble was the massive shadow suddenly drowning out the sun. Blekling looked up sharply in time to watch the largest Gnaal imaginable plant both feet on his shoulders and drive him into the ground. Bones snapped. Organs burst. Blekling withheld his scream though the pain was nearly unbearable. His weapons clattered away. Those flanking him were knocked aside as if mere children. Darkness swarmed his vision.
The Gnaal slithered off and wheeled quickly. Wicked rows of teeth, sharp and long, menaced from within the darkness of its mouth. Blekling looked upon the monster and knew death. Ignoring the crippling pain, he crawled and pulled towards his weapons. There would be only one chance. One chance only to salvage what remained of his name and legacy.
Overconfident, the Gnaal titled its head back and roared. Plants died at the sound. Rocks crumbled into dust. The Gnaal took a ponderous step forward. Its tail snaked behind, whipping back and forth. It was then Blekling realized what he was facing. This was their leader. The toughest, meanest creation of dark magic alive in the world today. He snorted at the irony of it all. His head drooped. Eyes fluttered close. Tender relief flooded him as his fingers curled around the haft of his war bar. The Gnaal charged.
Blekling managed through great difficulty to prop himself up moments before the Gnaal struck. The stench of death hit first. The Giant vomited but held strong. Nearly two tons of genetic monstrosity slammed into him, driving both to the ground. Blekling grit his teeth at the moment of impact and was rewarded with his war bar impaling the Gnaal. Inch after inch of Giant-forged steel drove deeper into the Gnaal’s vital organs. There was a terrible scream as the weapon burst through the heart and then spine. The Gnaal was dead.
Blekling lost consciousness as hands dragged the corpse away.
Three of the shamans were dead, slain by crossbows during the retreat. Krek ordered the remaining nine huddled in the center of his army where they’d be safe. For even one to have died showed great carelessness on all of their parts. The shamans were not physically overpowering but they were the secret weapon in the ranks. Few of the other races had active magic users. With the shamans, Krek was able to maintain the balance of the battle until his numbers won out.
Fresh waves of Goblins poured towards them. The Minotaur king enjoyed fighting. It was the cornerstone of every good warrior, but he was tired. His muscles felt rubbery, overused for too long without a break. His mind, while sharp, was unfocused and almost lost in a haze. The battle continued to rage around him without pause or concern for those involved. It was an all-out slaughter. Any who survived would be scarred for life.
“Form ranks!” he barked and his bulls obeyed.
What was left of the Dwarf musketeers limped to their side. Less than a hundred remained and many were broken, ravaged shadows of what they’d been before the Gnaals struck. Krek looked for Brug but didn’t find him. He hoped the Dwarf died a warrior’s death. The ranking Dwarf saluted him and requested to join the lines. Krek was in no position to say no, despite how poor their condition was. Even a wounded Dwarf was deadly, he’d been told once. This was the hour in which to prove it.
Thord cursed and spit angrily. Too many of his kind were dying, slaughtered like sheep on a holy day. The Goblins possessed greater numbers. This had become a war of attrition and, if he didn’t do something to change the trend, his army would be on the losing side. Hefting his axe, the Dwarf Lord collected his retinue and prepared to meet battle in the hopes of his presence inspiring the army.
Already the tide had shifted several times. The arrival of the Gnaals nearly broke the allied army fatally but then an unexpected force of Giants had showed up. Thord wasn’t one to question help when offered and used their arrival as a beacon to rally his beleaguered forces. The Dwarves and Minotaurs had already suffered greatly and there was still much more to come.
He’d watched as Bahr and his team slipped into Arlevon Gale and disappeared on their quest to stop the Dae’shan from completing their ritual. Normally that would have resulted in mission success and he would have pulled his army back to maintain a blocking force. The sheer size of the enemy army prevented any thoughts of that happening. Goblins continued to pour out of the ruins with murder in their eyes.
“You will only get in the way,” Faeldrin said to him as the Dwarf stormed past.
Thord halted. “These are my warriors. What kind of king would I be to let them die without me by their side?”
He had a valid point. Faeldrin conceded he would be a poor king at best. Knowing the stubbornness of Dwarves, the Elf decided to change his method of approach. “They are strongest in the center. Whoever commands either has no concept of tactics or it overconfident. Use that to their weakness. Break the enemy in the center and the wings will collapse. I will take my Aeldruin and the rebels of Delranan to secure the western flank in the event our foe has hidden forces ready to strike.”
Thord nodded his appreciation at the advice and marched on. Whether the flank was secure or not, this battle would be won in the center. His ranks swelled in passing. Wounded Dwarves filed out of the makeshift hospital and collected new weapons. Administrative and supply Dwarves followed suit. Those few cannon crewmembers still alive were the only ones who didn’t. They desperately attempted to get the two remaining cannons back into firing configuration to add their thunder to the fight. Thord let them be. Enough had already died.
The march through the camp was mercifully brief. He could only take so much slaughter before growing restless. Now the time had come to produce his own. Brandishing his axe high above his helmeted head, the Dwarf Lord of Drimmen Delf marched his Dwarves into battle formation to the right of Krek’s Minotaurs. The two kings passed knowing looks, each silently approving of the other’s valor and readied to meet the heavy press of Goblins bearing down on them. The wait wasn’t long.
Tides of Goblins crushed against the lines. Minotaur and Dwarf bowed back under the intense pressure but managed to hold. The musketeers fired off a volley that dropped scores of enemy soldiers. Having believed the Gnaals destroyed all of the new weapons, the Goblins were taken off guard for a moment only. It was a moment enough for the allies to strike. Axe and sword fell and so too did hundreds of Goblins. Commanders barked orders and the line took a step forward before striking again. Hundred more died. The muskets fired again and the Goblins began to panic.
They’d come expecting an easier fight, not the hardened resolve of two races with a lot of fight left in them. Those in the back continued to press forward, unaware of what was about to happen in the front. Those closest to the enemy readied to throw down their weapons and turn to flee. Sheer weight of numbers prevented them from getting far. Dwarves and Minotaurs killed with glee. Their hated enemies of old continued to die in appalling numbers as they were gradually beaten back into the trenches.
Thord leapt over the outer trench, stepping on the fresh mound of bodies now filling it. He didn’t pause to look down for there was no point. The vultures would pick the field clean regardless of friend or foe. Thord’s focus was on doing as Faeldrin suggested. Break the center and their army will run.
Goblins were in wholesale retreat now, widening the gap between armies. Their confidence upon seeing the Gnaals unleashed had all but faded, leaving them with the harsh reality of their situation. Most were going to die. Neither particularly brave nor of strong will, the Goblin fo
ot soldiers fled for their lives. Thord and Krek simultaneously charged.
They recaptured the second trench and held, for here the enemy defenses remained largely untouched. Thord spied a great beast of a Goblin whipping and hacking at his own ranks and immediately recognized their leader. He only hoped Krek hadn’t spotted him as well. The Dwarf Lord cautiously stepped ahead of his army and slammed his axe against his leather-covered shield three times. Heads turned, pausing in what they had been doing to see what new spectacle had arrived, just as he hoped they would.
He could feel the gawking stares of his own soldiers behind him. Who in their right mind would expose themselves to enemy fire, especially given how lethal and accurate Goblin crossbows were, just to garner attention? The king of Drimmen Delf, for one. Unafraid, Thord waited until it was quiet enough to be heard. When he spoke, his voice was like waves crashing on the rocks. The raw intensity in his words made more than one set of knees quake.
“Goblin scum! Who dares claim authority to treat with me? I am Thord, son of Thorgrim, lord of Drimmen Delf, and cleaver of Goblins! Come scum, show me Goblin pride!”
He spit as far as he could towards enemy lines, satisfied to see their confusion blanking their wrinkled faces. Trickles of saliva dribbled into his beard but he didn’t care. This was war. One was expected to get…messy. Thord didn’t need to wait long. Just as he suspected, it was the large, whip-lashing Goblin who forced his way through the ranks to confront the Dwarf king.
Krek watched the scene play out with great interest. His personal feeling that he should have the right to call out the enemy leader in single combat was substantiated by the sheer number of his dead and wounded. Unfortunately Thord had found him first, thus negating any claim Krek might have pressed. Angered at coming in second, the Minotaur king marched to stand behind Thord, offering silent support. Honor demanded a heavy price.
Thord pointed his axe at the Goblin and laughed. “You? This is the best you’ve got? A fat, broken beast who has to use a whip on his own soldiers? I should let my youngest nephew take his cuts at you, though you might not enjoy the whack of his wooden axe.”
“Enough mocking, cave maggot,” Thrask snarled at his hated foe. “I am of higher purpose than these…scum. I am Thrask, king of Goblins and lord of the Deadlands. Speak your terms.”
So it is true. If your army is here who protects your lands? “Before I slaughter your army and leave the bones for the crows I challenge you to single combat.”
“Why? There is no honor in it,” Thrask shouted back. “I did not come to this miserable kingdom to barter with your runts. Go back to your army and meet death.”
“Scared, eh? It’s not every day a cave dweller like you gets to meet a real king,” Thord taunted, hoping to lure Thrask into acting foolishly. “Perhaps I’ll save killing you for last.”
Thrask’s rage boiled over. He took another step forward and threw down sword and helmet. “Weapons only. No armor to hide behind. I am going to enjoy watching more Dwarf blood spill onto the mud.”
Satisfied, though finding it difficult to set aside the ignorance of Thrask’s words, Thord did the same. He rolled his massive arms to loosen up the muscles. Cracking his thick neck brought cheers from his army. His dark beard was filthy with blood and gore, streaks of dried blood painted his face. He looked every bit the berserker of legend. Killing Thrask wasn’t going to end the battle but it would successfully demoralize the Goblins to the point it became a rout. Armed only with his axe and Dwarven tenacity, the lord of Drimmen Delf charged to meet his foe.
The Goblins were less vocal, though several cheered for Thrask as he hurried to meet death. They were close to the breaking point. More than a fifth of their force was already dead and nearly twice that wounded. What had begun as a simple defense was slowly downgrading into the kind of battles their armies had been hard-pressed to win in the past. Not even strength of numbers was enough to keep their spirits bolstered.
Thrask couldn’t care less. He viewed this duel in the same manner as the Dwarf. Killing Thord would hamper his enemies, hopefully to the point they abandoned hope altogether. His hatred of Dwarves left him cocksure, arrogant. Lies whispered by the Dae’shan bolstered his ego and confidence. Once again Goblin and Dwarf met in single combat to decide the fate of the world. He halted when they were only a handful of steps apart.
They stared hard at the other, each trying to make the other flinch first. It was an old yet petty trick designed to inspire mental intimidation. Neither was weak enough to fall for such. Thord grunted and attacked. The time for action had come. Thrask stepped back rather than forward to meet the attack. The move, while simple, momentarily threw the Dwarf off guard. Momentum carried him past Thrask, who waited with his sword poised to cleave down the Dwarf’s spine. Thord twisted at the last second and narrowly avoided being paralyzed. The sword slashed through air.
Spinning about, the Dwarf dropped into a guard. Thrask had already shown his hand. Rather than try to win through skill of blade, the Goblin was intent on trickery and foul tactics. Thord had seen it too many times before. Any hope he had of a quick, honorable victory was in tatters. Gritting his teeth, he prepared for a dirty fight.
Thrask took the offensive. “What’s wrong, cave dweller? Haven’t fought a true opponent lately, have you? My sword will slice you apart. Perhaps I’ll have bacon made of your hide and feed it to my troops.”
Silent, Thord shifted balance from his left to right foot. It took incredible discipline to keep from commenting, but he ultimately decided to let his axe speak for him. The time for taunts and petty chicanery was ended. Thrask became frustrated much too quickly and attacked, intending to punish the Dwarf’s silence.
His sword moved fast but recklessly. There was no skill or precision. Thrask was an enraged beast fueled by bloodlust. Driving down from high, he used his minor height advantage to rain hacking blows down that Thord barely managed to parry. The Goblin sensed an end coming quickly. This Dwarf wasn’t as strong or determined as many he’d already killed. No king worthy of the title would allow himself to fall so fast. Thrask renewed his efforts, seeking to humiliate Thord in front of both armies.
Thord let him come. The Dwarf skillfully fended off repeated blows, allowing Thrask to tire himself out. Once the force of the blows weakened, Thord shoved onto the offensive. He dipped his left shoulder beneath Thrask’s swords and came up inside his reach. Shoulder struck chin and the bigger Goblin was driven back. In the same motion he dropped lower and swiped his axe across the tops of Thrask’s thighs. Dark blood immediately spilled from the thin lines and Thrask screamed in agony.
Thord drove the head of his axe into Thrask’s sternum, knocking the breath out of him before he leapt back into a proper defensive stance. Bleeding and angered, the Goblin attacked--exactly how Thord expected. Sword arced down in a wicked, two-handed slash meant to cleave Thord’s skull. The Dwarf Lord sidestepped and swung his axe upwards. The steel bit deeply into Thrask’s stomach with the sickening noise only steel and flesh meeting could make.
Eyes crossed. Blood frothed on his lips, bubbling over his tusks. Thrask dropped his sword. The weapon clanged uselessly on the ground. Thord wasn’t done, knowing it takes more than one blow to kill a foe. He used his body weight to drag the axe through Thrask’s abdomen, ripping organs away in a wash of blood. Ropes of intestines wrapped around the mighty axe as Thord jerked it free.
Thrask collapsed in a twitching mass of flesh. His clawed fingers flexed uncontrollably. His face twisted in that solitary question every fighter who’d ever lost a duel had in those final moments: how? Thord wasn’t one to give in to procrastination. He’d spoken his piece before the duel began. This was all business. The Dwarf Lord gazed down on his defeated opponent one final time before chopping down. Thrask’s head rolled away. Thord dropped his axe and retrieved the head. The Dwarf Lord raised it for all to see and heaved it towards the Goblin ranks.
Thord tilted his head back and bellowed at the top of his lun
gs.
Seeing their king victorious, the Dwarves of Drimmen Delf charged towards the Goblins. They were followed closely by Krek and his Minotaurs.
“My fighters have every right to march alongside them!” Ingrid fumed. She hadn’t come looking for a war but the sight of what Arlevon Gale had become sickened her.
Faeldrin continued walking, eager to get back in the saddle and uphold his part of the battle. The Elf mercenaries weren’t prepared to engage in full-scale combat but could harry any enemy pushing in from the flanks. Hopefully Thord and Krek had enough strength to do what needed to be done. He’d already lost a handful of Elves fighting the Goblins and didn’t relish the prospect of losing more. Ingrid might be infuriated, but that was a personal issue she was going to have to overcome if there was any effectiveness to be found in her people.
“Damn it, stop and listen to me!” she all but shouted.
He paused, slowly turning. Amusement brightened his eyes upon seeing her standing there with hands defiantly thrust on her hips. She was every bit the leader whether she chose to accept it or not. Should they survive, Faeldrin had no doubts that the kingdom of Delranan would be in capable hands.
“Ingrid, this is not a game. Many of us will not be around in the morning. Don’t be in such a rush to meet death. There is no glory to be found on this battlefield.”
“Is that what you think of me? Glory? I’ve seen enough of war, Faeldrin. There is no honor to be had in this madness. All I ask is for my people to earn the right to redeem ourselves. This is our kingdom and I cannot help but feel partly responsible for what it has become.” Ingrid paused as sour memories tormented her. “I…I need this.”
Even Gods Must Fall Page 31
