TWENTY-FOUR
Bode Hill
Dawn was especially cold. Evergreens taller than Groge swayed in the breeze. Ice crystals filled the air. Exposed flesh burned from the touch and soldiers shivered uncontrollably as their bodies struggled to find warmth. There would be plenty of heat coming soon enough. Thousands of Dwarves in full armor stood in ranks two hundred across and twenty deep. All waited for the deep horns bellowing across the snow-covered field. The call to charge.
For most it was long overdue. The Black Hammer clan insulted them just by being in the valley. Commerce all but stopped. The Dwarves of Drimmen Delf found themselves isolated for the first time since the Mage Wars, centuries ago. Removing the dark Dwarves opened the path to liberty and a return to normalcy. It ended six months of stalemate and stagnation. Victory lay on the other side of the wide valley.
Anxiety spread through the ranks. Most had seen enough of war and were eager to go back to their normal lives. Drimmen Delf had no standing army. Each Dwarf assembled had another profession but answered the call, as all good Dwarves should, when the invasion began. Those too wounded to be returned to duty frowned and stewed as their comrades prepared for the assault while others managed to sneak from the hospital tents and join the rear ranks.
Banners and pennants waved over the army, each battalions’ standard, crisp and saluting a long, distinguished heritage. The very air was electrified with excitement. Waves of frosty breath mingled with the ice. Hands clenched axe hafts. Hearts beat loud. Murmurs and general chitchat circulated the ranks, preventing boredom from setting in. After all, the soldier’s life was to hurry up and wait.
Thord had snuck away from the command bunker with a handful of his closest advisors to be with the cannon crews in the moments before the battle began. He needed the time away from maps, troop dispositions, and strategies. The fresh air cleared his mind and prepared him for what came next. Ice and snow clung to his beard like old friends. His eyes, normally dark from being underground, were bright and shining. He glanced skyward and was surprised to find he wasn’t disappointed with the sun being concealed behind an ocean of grey-black clouds.
“A good day for a fight,” he commented.
“Not so good for those bastards on the other side of the field,” Brek replied just as casually.
“No. I don’t imagine it will be, but make no mistakes about their ferocity. We’ve taken their long range weapons but not their will to fight. They’ll dig in like badgers and make us earn every inch of ground.”
Brek yawned. “We’ve got all of the advantages, sire. Our cannons were moved closer to deliver maximum firepower down on their trench lines and we have close to one thousand muskets issued to the front ranks with enough ammunition to sustain ten salvos. The Black Hammer will break and fold.”
Muskets. Thord snorted. There was a time when Dwarves fought with axe and iron. Engineers accidentally discovered gunpowder and it wasn’t long before idle minds turned it into weapon-grade material. Warfare changed forever that day. Weapons now had range and were three times as lethal as any catapult or trebuchet. They had the ability to kill far more than anything the Dwarves had used before.
Dwarves trained daily to improve marksmanship. The sounds of gunfire transformed large halls into firing ranges and echoed a hellish roar throughout the hold. Cannon crews practiced gunnery for hours a day. Scorpions and ballistae were steadily phased out. Thord despised the gunpowder weapons but was forced to recognize their importance to the future. Thus far only the Dwarves had such weapons, but that wouldn’t last. Soon enough all of the kingdoms of Malweir would wage wars with musket and cannon. The death toll would be catastrophic.
None of that concerned the Dwarf king. His sole problem lay in the six-thousand-plus army threatening to steal his kingdom. Rumors said the Black Hammer clan had been bribed with untold riches and power by secretive dark powers. Thord thought the notion foolish, until Bahr and the others were brought to Drimmen Delf and explained their quest. Now the idea held greater portent. He became more convinced that the Black Hammer clan needed to be destroyed to the point where they’d never be able to rebuild. Total annihilation was the only way to ensure his victory and see peace return to the Kergland Spine.
“We still have to get through their trenches,” Thord offered.
Brek snorted. “Easy enough. We’ve got ladders and breeching equipment. If worse comes to worse we can turn their own gear against them. I don’t see this being an issue.”
“You could show a bit of modesty. I appreciate your zeal and boasting as much as the next Dwarf, but we’re fighting our kin. Not some Goblin rabble with their heads stuck up their asses. I am worried, Brek. We have never fought a war like this,” Thord confided.
“War is war. It doesn’t matter who the enemy is. We will crush them all the same. I have no doubts about our forces, sire.” He lowered his voice so only the king could hear. “We will win the day and take the field.”
“You’re sure you can do this?”
Brek only smiled before storming off to take his place at the front of the advance. Dwarves cheered as he strode past. Axes were thumped against chest armor. Booted feet stamped the cold, frozen ground. Brek’s zeal transferred to the rank and file. What he believed, they did. He was the fire in the forge, the shining example of what a true hero should be. Each and every Dwarf believed General Brek was about to lead them to victory.
Thord watched his most competent general march through the formation, slapping shoulders and sharing laughs. There was a Dwarf bound for greatness. Much like myself, long ago. Where did those days go? Am I to spend the rest of my life watching others reap the glory while I sit back and receive the credit? Jealousy was a base emotion that even a king wasn’t above. He reluctantly admitted he wished he and Brek reversed roles. That he alone stood at the end of the battle and raised the banner of Drimmen Delf. Disappointed, he headed back to the command bunker. There wasn’t anything left for the king to do here.
“A magnificent sight, don’t you think?” Thord asked with pride.
His legions stretched out before him, a mighty metal phalanx strong enough to crush any opponent. A brief hint of sunlight snuck through the clouds long enough to shine on the Dwarven army. Rarely had Anienam seen such majesty. The wizard admired the Dwarves for a moment longer before turning back to Skuld.
“It is time,” he said.
Skuld pulled a book out of the leather satchel and set it in front of the wizard. The tome was ancient. A relic from the glory days of Ipn Shal. Anienam’s father gave him the secrets of the expansive libraries before he died. The book was but one example. Anienam whistled softly while flipping through the pages. Skuld watched him intently. He found it odd that he took more interest in what Anienam did over Bahr and the others. Skuld greeted them when they returned from the raid on the enemy camp. He saw their bloodstained armor. The cuts and bruises. The hollow looks in their eyes as they tried to put it all behind them. He realized that wasn’t the life he wanted to live. Death and glory were polar-opposite ideals.
“Ah, here it is.” Anienam cleared his throat and began reciting the incantation scribed upon the page. He’d performed this spell one time before and that was so long ago he couldn’t recall the results.
Darkness swarmed across the battlefield in a great and terrible wave. Temperatures dropped another twenty degrees. Lighting plunged down from the heavens, melting snow drifts. Steam rose in waves. Fog and mist flowed down from the mountains, up from the river. Soon the entire valley drowned under a wave of fog so thick vision was reduced to practically nothing. Anienam slumped down into the crude stone chair and took the mug of cold water Skuld passed him. It had been a long time since he performed such a powerful spell.
The Dwarf army recoiled from shock. Only the commanders had been told what to expect but seeing it was a far cry from hearing about it. Many soldiers quivered and threatened to run. Nothing so immediate could be natural and all Dwarves were superstitious. Heavy wind
s drove the mist and fog across the battlefield towards the enemy line but went unnoticed by most. Rumors quickly spread that Freth, the goddess of the underworld, had risen to claim them all.
General Brek forced his commanders to go among the ranks to instill order. Hold the line at all costs. The unnatural darkness held no ill portent for them, or so Brek fervently hoped. The wizard may be renowned around Malweir but he had yet to prove himself to the Dwarf general. Horses brayed as Dwarves struggled to gain control of the situation. Brek needed the horn to sound before more psychological damage rendered his army ineffective.
“Steady lads. This is on our side,” he told his soldiers. “We’re going to use it to wipe those dark bastards from the field.”
The storm deepened. Brek’s stomach lurched. No wonder we spend most of our lives underground. This isn’t right. We should have used the tunnels and come up behind them. No storms, no wizards. Just Dwarves armed with axe and mace. The sudden braying horn shook him back to the moment. His heart quickened. The time had come.
Thord listened to the horn bleat two short blasts followed by a long, bellowing one. At last! He turned to Anienam. “Wizard, I hope your storm works. My army is depending on it.”
“I’ve done my part, your majesty. The rest is up to your Dwarves.” Anienam winked at Skuld. Still too weak to rise, he sat and watched as the cannons began firing.
Twenty-four cannons erupted simultaneously. Hellfire and black smoke belched from the dark metal barrels. Two dozen balls of super heated iron rolled across the sky, trailing fire and burning embers. Filled with twenty pounds of high explosives, each cannon ball had the destructive force of ten catapults. Unlike previous assaults, the enemy lacked the ability to return fire. Caught in the open, Thord’s cannons had the potential to devastate the Black Hammer clans.
Skuld’s jaw dropped. He’d been deep inside Drimmen Delf when the first cannonade covered Bahr’s sabotage mission and didn’t see or hear the horror unleashed. It was unlike anything he could ever imagine. The very ground threatened to break apart under him. He began to sweat under the intense pressure building in his head. The first cannon ball struck enemy lines and exploded with more fire and cold hatred than Skuld could stand. His knees buckled as the sky erupted in flames and screams.
Thord roared approval, shaking a fist at the inferno. A second and third salvo was fired. Then a fourth. The Dwarves bristled and started surging forward, rocking back and forth as they built momentum. Squat bodies bunched, muscles strained with power. Between the fourth and fifth salvo a lowly horn brayed over the field. The call to charge. Thousands of Dwarves roared as one and started forward. A slow walk quickly turned into a trot. The cannons continued firing.
TWENTY-FIVE
Badron’s Fury
Badron stood atop Rogscroft’s battlements watching another part of the city burn out of control. Flames licked high into the sky as buildings quickly died. Smoke clung to the city in a pall. Nearly half of the city had already been reduced to char and ash. Those few civilians who dared stay behind, believing one king no different from another, remained secure in their homes for fear of their lives. Badron had decreed that no civilian would die unless it was absolutely unavoidable. The Goblins broke that peace and slaughtered with ruthless abandon.
“Three nights,” Badron murmured. “The bastards have been burning and killing everything they can find for three nights. When will it end? I feel like a hostage in my own hall. Can’t you use your powers to stop this?”
Amar Kit’han hovered in the nearby shadows. “Why would I do that? The Goblins serve a higher purpose than just your call, king.”
Badron fixed the Dae’shan with a wicked glare. “Why else would they be here if not to serve my will? This is my war. They will obey my commands or be sent back to their holes in cold, wooden boxes.”
Simple fool, if only you had an inkling of what lay in store for you. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be so hasty to claim your dominance. “They are angered. Grugnak believes you have betrayed him. Revenge is a natural course of events. The Goblins require blood to satisfy their sullied honor, but do not be so bold as to think you control their armies. Without me they would not be here and you would not be sitting on the Rogscroft throne.”
“The Wolfsreik is the supreme military power in the north. You overestimate these ugly vermin. I didn’t need them.”
Amar drifted to the edge of shadows and stopped. “Yet they are here nonetheless. You cannot change the past, king. The real question is what will you do now? Grugnak is out of control and he knows you lack the power to stop him. All power is now in his hands and your wolf soldiers appear to have abandoned you in your hour of greatest need.”
Badron punched the closest wall. Dust and concrete crumbled from the rock, staining his dark brown leather glove. “Don’t make assumptions until I have all of the necessary facts.”
“What more do you need? General Rolnir disobeyed your commands. His soldiers turned on their Goblin allies, slaughtering them alongside the Pell Darga. Your greatest asset seems to have turned to your greatest fear.”
“I am a king, I do not know fear,” Badron replied weakly.
Amar sneered. “But you do. All kings understand fear better than the common folk. You sleep with it, eat with it, and even go to the privy in fear. Every shadow holds an assassin. Every dawn the prospect of failure. You cringe at the sound of the wind. Do not feign great strength or wisdom with me, king. I have seen your darkest fears and the very depths of your despair. Shall I show you?”
“No.” Badron folded his arms across his chest and shivered. It had gotten cold and he was ill prepared for it. The winters in Rogscroft were much worse than his Delranan. “As you said, now is not the time to focus on the past. There is truth in your words, creature, but I won’t condemn my entire army to die without hearing Rolnir’s explanation first.”
“Perhaps, but what will you do? Grugnak is not known for his patience. His army will continue to pillage and burn Rogscroft, ruining all you came so far to achieve. Are you willing to let him end your reign? Imagine, your name being unremembered in a hundred years.”
Badron paused. His motives fell under question. The surety of his cause disintegrated around him. He’d gone to war under the pretense of avenging his murdered son. It was a ruse, a poorly played one at best. Stelskor and his success in Rogscroft had always been a point of contention and jealousy. Badron manipulated the situation in his favor and attacked his longtime rival. The campaign was brutal, especially with the involvement of the Pell Darga, but his banner flew over the Rogscroft parapet right above Stelskor’s head. Victory was his.
Or was it? Victory belonged to the one with the most strength. All of his was gone. He stood alone on the cold rock wall. A king without a kingdom. Worse, rumors of Harnin’s betrayal in Delranan robbed him of much needed supplies and reinforcements. Badron stood alone in more ways than one. His closest advisor wasn’t even Human anymore and spoke in riddles. He had no doubts that Amar Kit’han was leading him to a predestined event and that left him truly frightened. Scared as he might be, Badron couldn’t find a way to break the Dae’shan’s grip. Nor did he want to. He enjoyed the lure of power. The lusty feeling of being supreme. The Dae’shan could be dealt with when the time was right, but for now they would continue helping him achieve his goals. So long as my goals coincide with theirs, no doubt.
“My legacy will be secured, spare your doubts from that,” Badron said slowly. “I have done what many in the north said couldn’t be done. My enemy is dead. His kingdom is in ruins. History will remember me as the Man who unified the north into an empire.”
“Only if you remain alive long enough,” Amar countered.
Badron hated the hissing sound laced in his words. Hated the condescending attitude with which the Dae’shan spoke. He recognized he was being used and it burned his soul. Creatures like Amar went behind the scenes. They went unremembered, not kings. Amar Kit’han had spent several lifetimes without anyon
e knowing he was alive. Badron found the thought wasteful.
“Perhaps you’d like to see my head occupy the next pike?” he asked.
Amar was silent for a moment too long. “Live or die, it does not matter to me. I am an agent of a higher purpose. You may kill me if you wish. Another will take my place. Perhaps your daughter would accept my position. She has been hated from birth. It is easier this way. No attachments. No motivations. Yes, perhaps I should find Maleela.”
Badron spun. Anger crossed his features. He pointed his index finger accusingly. “Leave my daughter alone! She has no part of this.”
Amar pressed harder. “But she does. You should never have blamed her for the death of Rialla. A child does not get to choose such things. The dark gods wanted your wife to die. Does that trouble you? We have been in your life for a very long time. Your wife needed to die. As did your son. You needed to be broken. A haggard semblance of the Man you might have become. Only then could I manipulate you into what you might achieve under the tutelage of the dark gods. You should be on your knees groveling, king. A great honor has been bestowed upon you.”
Something in Badron’s mind snapped in that moment. Decades of pent-up grief, aggression, and lethargy broke through their barriers and collided in the depths of his conscience. He wanted to cry. To scream to the heavens. To feel anything but hatred and contempt. Only, he didn’t know how anymore. He’d been a shell of a Man for so long he couldn’t recall what it was to be Human. It became his pride and damnation.
He tried to cry, looking deep into himself to find remorse, pity. There was none. He was as bitter and twisted as a failed attempt at making a sword. Darkness clung to him now. Badron slowly came to realize his life was one fated to despair. His sole purpose stemmed from the desire to conquer; to rule with an iron hand unto the breaking of the world. Winds shifted and blew the smell of rotting corpses into his face.
A Whisper After Midnight Page 20
