Venom and Song

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “Perhaps he will think the city abandoned”—whispered Alwynn, leaning on a cold balcony wall overlooking the city—“and return to Vesper Crag.”

  “You’d like that, would you?” asked Manaelkin, standing behind him.

  “If it means saving Elven lives, yes,” replied the high cleric.

  Manaelkin sniffed loudly. “Even you must realize this battle cannot be avoided forever.”

  “Alas that it cannot,” said Alwynn, scanning the upper gates for any sign of the enemy. “So deep is his bitterness, the Spider King is bent on rooting us out. Yes, even I know we must fight. But I fear the time is not right . . . not without the Seven Lords.”

  “So we agree at last?” said Manaelkin. “That is the very thing I have been striving to avoid. It was a fool’s errand to send our strength to a place as remote as Whitehall. The lords should be here . . . here to lead us to greatest victory.”

  “Nay, Elder,” answered Alwynn. “And think twice before you tarnish the name of Allyra’s greatest commander. Were it not for Grimwarden, there would be no remnant of Elves to resist. Fool’s errand!” This time, Alwynn sniffed. “He is no fool who seeks to do what is right.”

  “Indeed?” Manaelkin scoffed, stroking his beard. “But where is Grimwarden now?”

  Alwynn did not respond. Manaelkin would not see, would not relent. He would go on arguing even as brave Elves bled to death on the streets below. It made Alwynn sick to his stomach. So Alwynn remained silent. Vigilance was needed.

  Manaelkin turned to one of his runners. “Send two companies into the catacombs, spearman in front. Tell Travin to speed his retreat. Archers to their positions. And ready the layadine cannons.” The runner crossed his forearms and bowed slightly, then turned on his heels and disappeared.

  “Layadine? Already? You think . . . Warspiders?” Alwynn asked.

  “You wouldn’t?” Manaelkin’s face was etched with cynicism.

  “But what if the Spider King has not brought his full force? What if, as before, he has only extended one arm? He himself may not even be—”

  Manaelkin turned sharply. “I warn you, Alwynn: oppose me here and I will have the guards put you under lock and key. And when we are victorious, I will see to it that your name is remembered only for wishing to betray our people, content to watch them beaten into oblivion.”

  Alwynn raised his chin ever so slightly. “And if we lose?”

  The council chief thought for but a moment. “Then . . . I will be vindicated. Grimwarden himself will realize he never should have separated the lords—again—from their people. But being right will bring no joy to the dead.”

  Commander Travin led the foremost legions himself; it was how Grimwarden would have done it . . . how Grimwarden had taught him to do it. “Never ask a man to go where you yourself will not go first.” The burly warrior led his flet soldiers to the far side of the city. Leaving the last of the dwellings behind, he and his men crossed the South Bridge and began the short hike up the stone steps, finally arriving at the entrance of the gated openings of a series of tunnels.

  With a single wave of his hand, three thousand flet soldiers— spearmen, archers, and infantry—seemed to disappear, blending instantly with the forest of stalagmites that covered this end of the cavern. Travin smiled. What a surprise it would be when the Spider King’s forces burst through these gates . . . only to find the seemingly empty city. Disoriented and wary, the enemy would seek to traverse the stalagmites and WHAM! the trap would be sprung.

  Travin massaged the thick muscle on his bare forearms. He was tense. Not just for the anticipation of battle. He was half Elven, half Gwar. Ever true to the forces of Berinfell, he still felt torn. Why had it come to this? Why was the Spider King so intent on spilling blood?

  Travin loosed his heavy mace from his back holster and watched the gates. Any minute now.

  Manaelkin and Alwynn had watched Travin’s forces vanish into the stalagmites. Alwynn was pensive, wringing his hands half the time, rubbing his temples the rest.

  Manaelkin would not admit it, but he, too, was very worried. In Grimwarden’s absence, he had directed their defensive plan. It was a sound plan to be sure. But the Elves were best suited for forest warfare. They had learned through many hard years how to adapt to Nightwish Caverns, but still, they were not natural cave fighters like the Gwar.

  A high, haunting sound from the south snapped Manaelkin from his thoughts and snatched their gaze to the south.

  Screee!

  Screee! The keening sound made the hair stand up on Travin’s forearms. SLAM! A tremendous blow shivered the gate directly in front of Travin’s spearmen. They’re here, Travin thought, swallowing back bile. Another crash into the gate. Other percussions sounded from the other gates.

  Steady, lads, Travin silently willed his soldiers. The slams continued, blasting the iron gates in a strange rhythm, like the heartbeat of a mechanical beast. Steady.

  The blows to the gate echoed throughout Nightwish. Alwynn hoped that the Elves evacuated from the caverns could not hear. He could not shake the image of tiny Elven children clinging to their parents and weeping. Please, dear Ellos, Alwynn prayed, keep them safe.

  Travin jumped. New screams, but not from the gates, and not from the Warspiders. These were agonized cries of Gwars echoing up from the aquifers. Those who dared to come by watercraft were now feeling the sting of legions of archers’ arrows. Hundreds would die before the first Gwar entered Nightwish by water.

  KERRR—RACK! The center gate fell from its hinges. Massive hammer-wielding Gwar poured in, followed immediately by Warspiders. Travin watched them come to a halt a few yards from the stalagmites. Then he watched them slowly begin to advance.

  Wait, Travin continued to will his troops. Wait until they are committed.

  And they were. The Gwar soldiers and Warspiders began to gather steam as they plunged forward, clambering over the spikes of stone.

  “Curse them!” Travin growled under his breath. The other gates fell, one by one. And Warspiders were climbing to the cavern ceiling and advancing above the Elves. Leave them to the archers and cannons, he told himself. Watch the— A huge, red-legged Warspider bearing a Drefid plunged its foreleg down a mere foot from Travin’s position. The Elven forward commander shrugged. His spear was meant for a spider, but the opportunity was too good. He heaved the weighted shaft right at the Drefid, piercing his side and lifting him bodily from the saddle. “NOWWW!!” Travin yelled. He lifted a war horn to his lips and loosed several blasts.

  His spearmen responded, and suddenly it seemed to the enemy as if the stalagmites had come to life. Gwar, spider, and Drefid fell dead in bunches, their wide-eyed corpses never realizing what had killed them. But more and more enemy soldiers vomited from the gates. Travin’s archers did their duty. Hundreds of Gwar fell, but several hundred followed. And the Warspiders, blast them, continued to take to the ceiling.

  Travin could only hope the layadine cannons were ready. He clambered up to the top of his stalagmite and yelled, “Infantry, collapse . . . NOW!!”

  The enemy forces that still lived and continued to meander through the stalagmites found themselves suddenly caught in the jaws of an Elven vice.

  Glisith had been trained to use the layadine cannon only three years prior, shortly after his enrollment in Berinfell’s army. Being among the many Elves born and raised solely in Nightwish Caverns, having never seen the Land of the Sun—as it was called—for more than a few hours a week, he was eager to be rid of the enemies of his forefathers and get topside, for good. But having rarely seen the outside world, he had also never seen the enemy, knowing them only through the stories told to him by his parents at table. But what his eyes saw tonight from his perch on one of the watchtowers made his finger slip from the trigger.

  Bursting from the tunnel entrances on the south side of the city like an entire colony of ants erupting from a flooded anthill came a black wave of Warspiders emanating in all directions. Glisith could only gape as w
ave upon wave spread out from the black hole, the beasties covering the walls like a plague.

  “What are you doing, flet soldier?!” The authoritative voice of a frantic Elven commander snapped young Glisith from his stupor. “Fire! Fire! FIRE!!”

  Suddenly recalling the practiced form of his rank and duty, Glisith lowered his goggles, took aim down the long barrel, centering on the very middle of the tunnel, and held his breath. Then he squeezed the trigger.

  Though the cannon was anchored securely in the floor of the watchtower turret, the blast rattled his jaw and made his ears ring. Glisith sat stupefied in his gunnery chair, watching his charge zip clear across the cavern and explode in a spray of white ash deep in the heart of the tunnel. He had never actually fired live rounds before. A thunderous resounding of dozens of other cannons joined his own, charges exploding in the tunnel, the entire space shaking with explosions.

  “Reload!”

  Glisith’s ears were ringing. He followed his commander’s orders and took the wrapped load from his spotter below. He spun open the hatch wheel, working the gears as quickly as he could, and then shoved the round inside the chamber. Layadine in the front, propellant in the back. Then he slammed the door shut, and with uncommon efficiency he screwed back the gears, sealing the housing.

  “Fifteen degrees!” ordered his commander.

  The spotter worked a giant winch below Glisith that moved the cannon’s vertical angle. Slowly, the cannon adjusted, Glisith now aiming at a patch of unaffected Warspiders and their riders climbing up the wall, nearly out of reach of the dremask lights. The shock of the first round over, Glisith felt his training take over, and he grabbed the trigger intentionally . . . then squeezed.

  Travin ducked as Gwar tumbled from their dissolving Warspiders, many falling to their deaths from the heights above, smashing into the South Bridge, others broken on the stairs or drowned beneath the weight of their armor in the river below. Still other Gwar rolled down the steps as their mounts squealed, collapsing underneath them, the Warspiders’ innards hissing and popping as the deadly layadine powder went to work on the one thing it was harvested to kill: spiders. Any Gwar who managed to live through the ordeal met a swift end as Travin’s forces laid waste to everything in their path.

  19

  The Taste of Blood

  THE LAYADINE cannons continued to pound away at the gaping hole in the far wall, through which wave after wave of Warspiders poured into the giant, subterranean home of the Elves. But no sooner did the Warspiders crest into view than the white powder rendered them helpless, their bodies bursting, wracked with horrific tremors. Likewise, their Gwar, and now Drefid riders, tumbled into the spear-armed flet soldiers. Row upon row of the warriors jabbed and skewered the disoriented enemy combatants, dashing Gwar and Drefid bodies into the rocks and river below. In the first thirty minutes of fighting, not a single Warspider, Gwar, or Drefid made it into the heart of the city.

  Alwynn stood in awe, watching his brethren hew the Spider King’s forces and doing so with so few losses of their own.

  “Why so surprised, cousin?” Manaelkin mocked. “Where is your faith?”

  Alwynn turned to address the chief council. “In Ellos,” he replied. “Where it has always been. We are witnessing providence, divine intervention.”

  “Ellos—” Manaelkin stopped his words. It wouldn’t do to blaspheme with other soldiers around. Still, he could not remain silent. “Of course Ellos the Mighty is always our source of . . . inspiration. But now we see the might of Elves at its finest. We have anticipated the Spider King’s every move. They are coming as swine to the slaughter.”

  Alwynn winced. He was glad to see the Elves triumphing, but it was not a joy to see the enemy die. And there was something troubling him. “Manaelkin,” he said. “Does it seem at all to you that this victory is too easy?”

  “P-p-what?” Manaelkin faced the high cleric. “Too easy? Victory is victory!”

  “I wonder,” said Alwynn. “And I’m worried. Have you ever seen such a force in all your life? Not even Berinfell saw such numbers.”

  “And yet you question—”

  “It is a massive army, but why wouldn’t the Spider King himself lead this army? This should be his most glorious victory.”

  “He didn’t lead the Berinfell invasion, either,” retorted Manaelkin. “So what then?”

  “He attacked Berinfell when we Elves were our strongest,” Alwynn explained. “Perhaps he let his Drefids command out of fear for his own skin. But an attack here on a sun-deprived remnant of hiding Elves; wouldn’t he come to glory in his final triumph?”

  Manaelkin for once did not have an answer.

  “And yes,” Alwynn went on, “this is a massive enemy army, but what if the Spider King’s forces have grown and increased in the same percentages that ours have? Then the troops he sent today into Nightwish would amount to little more than a finger of his prodigious hand.”

  Manaelkin eyed him, suddenly realizing his fellow councilman’s logic. But he was too proud to express it. “So what if this is a small number,” he said. “Today we have lopped off these, tomorrow the rest.”

  “Again, I wonder,” said Alwynn. He paused and then asked, “Do you ever tire of your own ploys, Manaelkin?”

  The council chief eyed him narrowly. “No, because I’m right.”

  Alwynn looked back to the battle; massacre was more like it. “You manipulate your own mind to make sure you’re always right,” he mumbled. “Until you have nothing left to manipulate.”

  As the mass of dead continued to rise, Travin ordered entire units of flet soldiers to leave their posts and start casting corpses into the river where the current would carry them to a subterranean lake far away from the protected water supply of the Elves. There, razorfish and other sightless carnivores would feed for months to come.

  The layadine cannons pumped out the white powder, filling the entire cavern with a thick film of the stuff. And with it, the invasion slowed. Flet soldiers farther back began to lift their voices as they noticed fewer and fewer Warspiders come through the hole. Soon Travin realized the entire city was caught up in euphoria as the unthinkable became reality: they had defeated the Spider King’s attack.

  When the echo of the last cannon blast died away—and nothing stirred beyond in the catacombs—Travin gathered his troops and plunged up the bloodied steps, pursuing the retreating enemy army back to the surface. Travin hoped that the most recent scouting reports had been accurate, that there would be no ambush waiting above. But even if all the scouts had been captured or killed and the enemy waited above, Travin knew they had to take the battle to the end, had to make sure.

  Travin and his forces chased the remaining Warspider right out of the catacombs and back into the gleaming light of the morning sun. Once above, there was no other attack, no ambush, no reinforcements.

  The flet soldiers, cheering in victory, soon felt a new surge of emotions. Here they stood completely free of fear for the first time in centuries. No cowering behind carefully erected screens, waiting for some search party to happen upon them; no counting seconds by passing shadows to keep groups of sunning Elves from being topside too long. Those days, it would seem, were over. Here they were, shouting and raising a ruckus, their most feared enemy now tucking its tail and running back to its hole.

  “Well done!” Travin awarded them. “WELL DONE, I SAY!”

  When Travin had finally returned, leaving behind a company of flet soldiers to guard the point of entry aboveground, he presented the details of the battle in full to the council. Manaelkin was practically gushing with pride, though he tried his best to remain collected and not betray the overwhelming sense of accomplishment he felt.

  “My men will alert us at the first sign of a counterattack,” Travin finished up. “But I suspect the Spider King will be found nursing his wounds for quite some time, and think twice before engaging us again.”

  “Here, here!” the elders replied, pounding their fists in
agreement. All but one that was.

  “See here,” Manaelkin said when the praise finally subsided. “It would seem our brother, Alwynn, still does not share our enthusiasm.”

  Alwynn sat stoically.

  “What would you say, Alwynn?” said Danhelm.

  “What would I say?” Alwynn drummed his fingers a few times. “Commander Travin”—he looked to the warrior—“would you say the layadine cannons contributed to our success?”

  “Aye,” replied Travin, “more than that. They were our saving grace.”

  “And the layadine?”

  “Surely a gift from Ellos himself.”

  “Here, here!” replied the rest, pounding the table yet again.

  “It is a wonder that Ellos would send us to the only place where the Nightwish flower grows, and in it our key to victory,” said Danhelm. Another round of support thumped across the room.

  “And I would ask you, Travin, have your gunnery commanders accounted for what has been used in today’s massacre?”

  At this question, the commander grew a bit uneasy, as did the rest of the council.

  “There is no need to dwell on such—”

  “Yes, Manaelkin, there is.” Alwynn leaned forward now, his hands gripping the table. “I most heartily agree that layadine if a gift from Ellos, one that takes decades to cultivate, and even more to stabilize.” His voice was strenuous now. “Hundreds of years, brothers. So I would ask our beloved commander again . . . how—much—is—left?”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as all eyes fixed on Alwynn, and Alwynn glared at Manaelkin. When Travin spoke, there could be no doubt that whatever means had secured victory this time, it would not happen again . . . at least not for another few hundred years.