by David Adams
“Even there, what could five or six do against the all Veldooners inside the walls?” asked Zald.
“The rest of us would need to march on the city,” replied Deron. “To hold their attention.”
“The dragons flying in won’t be noticed?” Zald retorted with a laugh.
“Of course they will. But if we have the city’s defenders engaged, fewer will be able to react before our group has a chance to reach Solek.”
“I can also promise what help we can give holding back any that try to reach the upper tower in pursuit,” Galway said, his eyes glimmering like jewels, a certain well-directed malice shining through. He then marked Rowan and Tala and asked, “Are the others with you?”
“Three of the four,” Tala replied. “One fell as we crossed the Dead Plain.”
“She was Alexandra,” Rowan added. “Queen of Lorgras.”
“My condolences,” Galway said. “Far too many noble hearts have fallen to Solek’s desires.”
“Then let us see if we can end that today,” Rowan said.
Demetrius, Corson, and Lucien were brought forward and were ready before a small group of dragons returned, all bronze adults of decent size. Counting Galway there were two more than were needed, but rather than choosing new riders, these would act as scouts and would provide cover as the others tried to land on the battlements at the base of the narrow section of the high tower.
“You will have to hold on to our scales, as we have no saddles,” Galway said. “We will see to it that you do not fall.” His gaze turned to Tala. “I would be honored to carry the bearer of the Sphere.”
“The honor would be mine,” she said. While the others mounted the great beasts, she turned to her father. “There is no time for a proper farewell,” she began.
He held a finger to her lips. “Say not that we will part here forever, but only for a short time, until the task is done.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then embraced her, whispering, “I am proud to call you my daughter.”
She smiled, blinking away the tears that were trying to form in her eyes, then hugged him again. By the time she had climbed onto Galway’s back, Deron had resumed the mantle of command. “Stay here for a time,” he told them. “Until we can reach the walls and draw them into battle. Then move swiftly. We will hold there as long as we can.” With that he drew his sword, which had remained sheathed during their previous battles, as he preferred the bow. He pointed it at Citadel, gave a cry, and marched forward. The Arkanian Army followed, wishing the dragon riders luck as they filed past.
The walls of Citadel came to life as the last hope of free Arkania approached. The battlements were lined with grim-faced, low-browed Veldooners, scores of archers prepared to attack at a word from their commanders. Deron took up a position he believed to be just out of their bow range, but perhaps within that of his own archers, who had better weapons. The Arkanians arrayed themselves in line of battle, their banners of many colors flapping in a stiffening breeze. As the last of the Arkanians moved into position, the two opposing forces stood regarding each other silently, only the wind creating noise as it whistled and rippled clothes and flags.
“Should we call a challenge?” Zald asked, his voice lowered as if those atop the walls might hear.
“Not yet,” Deron replied. “Let us see if they blink first.”
They did not have long to wait. A fair-sized demon—just over ten feet tall—appeared on the wall. He fixed his gaze on Deron. “You have traveled far, and through many trials and toils, in order to pay tribute to my master. Have you brought gifts?” The Veldooners laughed at the taunting words of their demonic overlord.
“We have,” Deron answered, unfazed. He held aloft his sword. “Right here I have something I would be happy to give him the opportunity to become acquainted with.”
“Perhaps we should open the gate?” the demon asked. “Invite you inside for a feast?” More laughter rained down from above.
“As you wish,” Deron replied. “Though I hoped you might have the courage to come out of your hiding place and face me in the open.”
The demon pulled back as if slapped. A shadow crossed his features, but then faded. A leering smile started to play on his lips. “I’ll await you here, elf-lord. You will receive my special attention when the time is right. For now, I’ll see to it that your group gets a proper escort.”
From the rear came a noise of scratching and clawing, as if thousands of rats were scrabbling up walls or cavorting on the roof of a house. But this sound came not from the side or above, but from below. The slick, black grass rustled and fell aside as small mounds of dirt were pushed up by bony hands. Openings formed and from them the dead rose. Their numbers were vast, greater by far than the Arkanians and the city’s defenders combined. These had been buried with their weapons, so that when reanimated they were ready to do battle as the Dead Legion. As they left their earthly tombs they formed for attack, easily encircling the Arkanians.
Deron only spared the swiftest of glances at the rising Dead, fearing some attack from the city if he turned his back too long. As the Dead started forward he ordered the back of his current line to turn and face them. “Hold here!” he shouted. “They will look to push us toward the city walls, where we will be easy prey.”
“We could break through,” Zald said. “They are strong and numerous, but slow of limb and mind.”
“Escape is not our hope,” Deron said, turning his eyes skyward.
* * *
The dragons and their riders had taken flight soon after their friends and allies had begun their last march for Citadel. They flew away from the fortress city, Galway having explained that they had likely already been seen from the high tower and should at least try to give the defenders the impression that the only assault would come from those on the ground. “A useless gesture perhaps,” the golden dragon said, “but nothing will be lost by doing so.”
Rowan was just about to question the time they had been flying away from their goal, fearing they may have wandered too far and would be late in returning, when Galway wheeled about in a slow arc. He beat his great wings in an ever-increasing tempo and rapidly gained speed. Rowan, like the others, had ridden dragons once before on this quest, but had done so over the sea. Now, flying low over the ground, he truly understood just how fast these beasts could move when they desired speed.
Corson had thought he had a good grip on his mount’s scales, but once they raced toward Citadel it felt far more tenuous. They flew directly over the island created by Solek’s magic, the bottomless gorge still spitting flames, the trees mostly consumed now. The bodies of the dead littered the ground. He had not realized how many had fallen there. Reflexively, his grip tightened further, and as the wind and the buffeting of the dragon’s wings pulled and pushed him, he felt the scales he held pulling hard against the sinuous tissue underneath. “Sorry!” he yelled, unsure if the dragon would be able to hear. The dragon flew with his nose down and neck fully extended, his head some distance from the rider on his upper back.
The dragon turned to peer at his rider. “Just do what you must to hold on. It may get a bit rougher up ahead.”
Lucien kept his eyes straight forward, the warrior studying his enemy before engaging him. He could see the tumult beneath the walls of the city, the Arkanians pressed on all sides by what had to be the Dead Legion. The Veldooners on the walls were simply watching for now, but they were poised to strike if the Arkanians were pushed back within easy bow range. The city seemed to lurch toward the airborne riders, such was the speed of the dragons, and the battle below passed swiftly from sight. Now the dragon upon which he rode soared up, arrows racing to find him and his goblin rider. A few clacked harmlessly against the scales covering his belly, the rest simply fell short of their mark. Lucien had been holding on with a single hand, his grip firm and sure. As the dragon started to fly evasively, Lucien used both hands and leaned close, as if hugging his odd, oversized pet.
Demetrius had take
n in the developing battle with the same warrior’s eye that Lucien had. He saw Deron’s only hope of long-term survival was to try to break through the Legion’s line and escape, and he also saw nothing in the disposition of the Arkanian forces that indicated he was trying to do that. They would hold as long as they could, buying time for the dragon riders. Silently he urged his mount to greater speed, even as it turned away, a score of arrows zipping through the area he would otherwise have occupied. Something huge flashed past—one of the riderless dragons, charging in where his mount had been forced to veer away. Demetrius glanced back to see him reply to the arrows with a destructive breath of flame. The war had officially reached the walls of Citadel.
Galway slowed, curled left, and then wheeled up into the sky, giving Tala a perfect view of everything happening beneath and on the walls of Citadel. Slowly he circled the great city, waiting for the right moment. The higher they went, the more restless Tala grew.
“We cannot defeat Solek from up here!” she called.
Galway’s flying had seemed to be almost casual. He curled his neck to draw his head near to Tala. “We can only land one at a time on the high battlements, and then only after it has been cleared of enemies.”
Tala pointed as the first of the scout dragons spewed flame on the city’s defenders, killing many and sending others running for cover. “We need to drop in right away once the space opens. See, the Veldooners return.”
“For a brief time. They will learn the folly of that soon enough. The Veldooners were as stout as any other race in battle. Solek has made them larger and stronger, but they have little will to fight. Only fear drives them on. They will abandon the area swiftly if pressed.”
“Then we must land just as swiftly.”
“We will. But the others will go first. There will be further opposition, which they need to deal with.”
“I can help them do that.”
“You carry the Sphere. You must be protected.”
“Others can carry it as well as me.”
“That is so, but none but you carry it now. Your companions will lead the way. You will follow.”
Something in Galway’s tone said the discussion was over, and Tala became very aware of how dependent she was on him at this moment. She feared no treachery, but she understood his was the final say as to when she would be allowed to set foot on the battlements of Citadel. She sighed and waited with growing anxiety.
* * *
Deron was developing a strange admiration for goblins. They complained little, marched swiftly, and when battle was called for they set to the task with a grim zeal. They were, in many ways, ideal for this situation—fighting the Dead with a fury, uninterested in creating a hole in the line simply to escape. The great wolves were a boon, too, scattering the bones of the Dead with their mighty paws and ruthless jaws. If Deron didn’t know better he would think he saw something akin to fear in the hell-lit eyes of the Legion.
Zald reined up next to Deron. He was one of the few who had been able to keep his mount calm enough to escape the island of fire. “We fight well, but we are too few in number. They are pushing us back.”
Deron looked up and saw the dragons pass overhead. He turned away, knowing his daughter was up there, but not wanting to see her. If he did, he feared his focus on his own task would be lost. That mistake would cost lives. “We must hold,” he told the Westerlander, “or die trying.”
“We shall die if we must, but we can hold longer if we pull back and tighten our line.”
“That will bring us closer to the wall.”
“I did not call it a solution, only a different way to delay. Perhaps your archers can keep those on the wall from having too easy a time with us.”
Deron thought it over and said, “It will be as you say. We will need to fall back rapidly, so that we can reform.”
“Will the goblins retreat in the face of an enemy?”
“If they are sure we are not breaking off the fight, I think they will. Find Yola, and tell him what we plan.”
From above came screams of fear and agony as the dragons began their assault. “Hurry!” Deron called to Zald. “We must move now while the wall’s defenders are distracted, even if it means leaving the goblins and wolves to fend for themselves.”
Zald dashed through the battlefield, calling for the goblin leader.
* * *
Corson’s dragon was the first to actually alight on the walls of Citadel. Like the scouts it swooped in breathing fire, but rather than pulling up it spread its wings and touched down softly on the stone roof. Corson leapt off, his sword immediately out and ready. He spun to offer a quick word of thanks to his mount, but the dragon was already away.
The height of the tower upon which Corson stood was such that it seemed a breeze was always blowing. Corson was grateful for it, for even with its presence the stench of death was still in abundant supply. Charred remains of what had been—he assumed—Veldoon soldiers littered the area. A pair of wooden barrels burned near the wall. The stone itself felt hot under his feet.
Corson quickly assessed his surroundings. He was on a round roof roughly eighty feet in diameter. From where he stood, he could see a large, heavy door in the roof, likely easier to open from the top than the bottom. Before he could begin to hope to cut off any enemies by blocking this egress to the roof, he saw the top of an open stone stair opposite this closed door, rising directly against the outer wall. The high tower of Citadel was before him, circular and twenty feet across. A wooden door with metal bands was at its base—surely the entrance to a stair that would ascend to the very top, and to Solek.
He heard the tramp of heavily shod feet on the stone stair, and moved to the opposite side of the roof. He strayed a bit too close to the battlements, and was reminded to keep down by a pair of arrows that flew past his head.
Lucien’s dragon deposited him next, simultaneously sending a jet of flame down the stone stair. The blast either killed those coming up or made them stop, as the sound of their footfalls ceased. Lucien found Corson and ran over, crouching beside him. He peeked over the battlements to see what he could.
On the field below the battle raged, the Arkanians fending off the Dead Legion while retreating toward the base of the city wall. The wall’s defenders, for the most part, seemed focused on the sparring armies and the airborne dragons. If there was great concern about Lucien and Corson being here near the high tower, he saw little sign of it other than a dozen or so archers who looked for targets on this higher level. The roofs of the other towers were as busy as the top of the city wall, but here catapults were being readied for use. He turned rearward and saw the sea extending to the horizon, peaceful and calm, unaware of the turmoil just past its edge. He could not see the cliff upon which the city sat, but he got some sense of its height by noting how much further away the sea was than the ground.
Spotting the door to the upper tower, Lucien leaned close to Corson. “Door open?”
“Didn’t get to try it yet.”
“I try now.”
Corson held him in place with a firm hand. He indicated another dragon coming in. “Wait a moment for the others. You can lead the way if you want, but we do this together.”
The dragon carrying Demetrius came next. It swerved late, taking a score of arrow hits on its lower scales rather than giving them a chance to bite at its wings and its rider. It landed awkwardly, and Demetrius half-leapt, half-fell off its back, and then rolled clear. His mount gathered itself, flapped its mighty wings twice, and then pushed off with its legs. Before it rose two feet into the air, a giant bolt, larger than a man, shot through it, skewering the beast from right shoulder to left ribcage. A wretched cry of shock and pain left its throat as the momentum from the bolt drove it over the tower’s battlements. It fell from sight, trailing smoke and fire.
Demetrius crawled to the edge and peered over. The dragon lay far below, battered and broken, its subtle movements clearly its last. He saw the Veldooners close on it and
then turned away, unable to help and unwilling to watch further. After he collected himself, he scrambled over to join Corson and Lucien.
The Veldooners had little time to celebrate their success. A crew of ten operated what looked to be a giant crossbow. As they struggled to put the next bolt in place, they sensed a great shape moving toward them. One of the scout dragons, aware now of the danger, reacted before the crew could reload, and before they truly knew it was coming it was upon them. As the dragon soared skyward once again, only charred corpses and a burning machine were left to mark those who had felled its kin.
The elven archers were having some success against the less talented bowmen on the walls, but they were in a poor position—lower and exposed. The rest of the army, led by the goblins and great wolves, were holding their own against the Dead Legion, which was struggling to bring its advantage in numbers to bear. The Dead were stacked up, twenty to thirty deep in some places, and only those in the front were actually engaged in combat.
The Wolf King was one of the first to notice a new threat from the city above. Catapults, unseen from the ground, began to deliver their missiles, huge boulders and stones, and occasionally, and much more devastatingly, huge sacks filled with oil that had been set aflame. When these burst, all near them were soon ablaze. The falling material did not distinguish friend from foe, and the Dead took as much damage as the living. While such friendly fire might cause a human army to break off their attack and seek refuge, the Dead simply pressed on undeterred, focused only on the killing they had been tasked to do. The lack of a self-preservation instinct made the Dead that much more deadly a foe.
“Push forward!” the Wolf King roared. “If they strike us from above, they must strike their own as well.” He knew the further intermingling of the armies would not slow the catapult assault, but at least this would take out as many of the Dead as possible. His teeth tore into the rancid flesh of a foe, and he rent his opponent apart with his might forelegs. A sword struck him a glancing blow—just another wound to add to the others already carved into his flesh. He batted his attacker aside, then took a quick glance skyward before springing to finish him. The dragons continued to circle and swoop in on the walls above, breathing fire. Silently he urged them and their riders to hurry. The Arkanians couldn’t hold out here much longer.
