A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  Durog took a last glance over his shoulder at Blayde and her companions who still stood, watching the orc’s retreating back, then he turned and shouted to his waiting army. “Parley’s over. Light ‘em up!”

  At this command, the orcs with torches ran forward and stabbed their fiery brands into the barrels, which ignited almost instantly, sending bursts of red flame high into the night. The goblin archers stepped forward and, dipping their arrow heads into the flaming pitch, drew back their arms and let fly. A thousand fireflies climbed into the darkness and then fell again, stabbing into the heart of Nachtwald. Many fell harmlessly to the ground while others found their marks, striking flesh or wood.

  “Back to the gate!” Blayde shouted and ran back across the bridge. A second volley of flaming arrows flew over the wall. By then Blayde and her companions were back inside and the gates closed and barred. Men went to work, bracing them with thick timbers. Flames leapt up from some of the houses. Despite the cold and the damp, the fire took hold in places, and the night was soon filled with smoke and the smell of burning wood. But the defenders had prepared for this and townsfolk were waiting with buckets, sackcloth, and shovels. They went to work at once, smothering the random fires before they could spread.

  “I go now to prepare the defense of the castle.” Sir Henri leapt onto his horse. “Good luck to you.”

  “You should go as well, Father,” Blayde said.

  “No. I shall remain. I have my hammer, and you will need Aedon’s strength here.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  At that, Sir Henri dug in his spurs and the great horse leapt away, clattering up the road toward the castle.

  Blayde and Rayzer ran up the stairs to the top of the wall. By the time they reached the parapet, Durog was mounted on the wyvern once more and the great beast took to the air. As if that was the signal they had been waiting for, several warbands sprang into motion, howling like demons as they ran forward. There was the snap of a catapult and a massive stone arced over the river to strike the wall with a resounding boom. The orcs surged across the bridge, a dark tide bristling with steel, their iron-shod boots causing the ground to tremble beneath the defenders’ feet.

  The orcs brought with them a heavy ram, made from the trunk of an oak tree. The end of the ram had been hewed down to a blunt point and wrapped in hammered steel. Thick cords of rope suspended it from a wooden frame that, in turn, was mounted on gigantic wheels, banded in iron. The ram rumbled across the bridge, the orcs bearing it trusting to their shields to fend off the arrows that now whistled at them from above. When they reached the gate, they swung the great ram, drawing the trunk back until the ropes creaked with strain, then throwing it forward. The gate groaned and flexed, but did not give way. Again and again the ram swung back and then forward, smashing against the gate and sending a shockwave all along the wall.

  On the parapet above, the defenders loosed their arrows while ladders clattered against the stone and grappling hooks caught in the crenels. The orcs clamored up, trying to gain purchase, to climb up and over, while soldiers flung the ladders down and hacked at the ropes with their swords. Townspeople dropped rocks on them and poured scalding water onto their heads. There were screams and curses as orcs fell back, some of them crushed under foot by their bloodthirsty companions. Those who managed to gain the top of the wall were quickly overwhelmed, cut down by swords and axes, slashed and beaten, then thrown from the parapet.

  “This will not do,” Rayzer snarled, and before anyone could prevent it, he leapt over the wall and ran down an orc’s ladder, removing the head of the startled creature climbing up it as he went by. Blayde saw him and, without hesitation, followed, sliding down a second ladder and dropping to the ground. There was a blinding flash as a bolt of lightning arced down from above to strike the ground several feet in front of Blayde. The orcs cried out in dismay and fell back. In that moment, the twin wood elves fell upon them, hewing and slashing, quickly clearing a space at the base of the wall, slaughtering a dozen orcs in the space of a breath, and then they ran at the orcs wielding the ram with their bloody swords raised high.

  * * *

  The sword of Sir Veryan Emrallt quivered with delight as it hewed through flesh, steel, and leather. Blayde’s eyes glowed with emerald fire as she slew her enemies. Rayzer’s twin swords glittered and whirred as the Yattiar leapt and danced, cutting down foes all around him. Unencumbered by armor he moved with the speed of a gazelle and the strength of a ceratu. Together Rayzer and Blayde cut a bloody swath through the orcs and crashed into the group wielding the ram. Dismayed by the sudden assault, the orcs released their hold on the ram and reached for their swords. They had not expected so fierce a resistance and were unnerved by the deadly wood elves. The ground beneath the wall was soon littered with the dead and the dying. For several minutes all that could be heard was the cursing and screams of the combatants and the chopping sounds of relentless butchery. Then the orcs fell back. They abandoned the gate and retreated, flying back over the bridge to the safety of the fields.

  * * *

  A cheer went up along the wall and the defenders shouted taunts and curses at the retreating orcs. Blayde went to the battering ram and with a single stroke hewed through the wooden axel holding one of the wheels. Rayzer was beside her, his naked torso splashed with blood, his eyes bright with battle fury and a vicious grin on his face.

  “I’ve been waiting all afternoon for this,” Rayzer said.

  “So have I. Come now. We shouldn’t linger.”

  Soldiers flung ropes down to them and Rayzer and Blayde climbed up to the parapet, into the welcoming arms and helping hands of the defenders. Soldiers clapped them on the back and bombarded them with praise and admiration. It was not something either of them was used to, but they accepted the adulation with subdued grace. Father Moram was waiting for them by the gate.

  “Thanks for the assist, Father,” Blayde said. “Surprised me nearly as much as our foes.”

  Father Moram patted his war hammer. “I had to see if Aedon had forsaken me. Apparently he has not. That was bravely done but extremely foolish. You could easily have been killed and what then?”

  “War is dangerous business and nothing is gained without risk.”

  “What is it we’ve gained?” the priest asked.

  “A few minutes,” Blayde said. “Nothing more. So, get ready.”

  * * *

  Blayde knew their brief respite would not last. The orcs would quickly reform their ranks and come at them again. She looked around and could see that the fire brigades had successfully extinguished most of the flames, but not all. The wounded were being tended to and the dead were being carried away. Fortunately, there were few of the latter. Blayde stood beside Rayzer and looked out across the fields. Already the orcs were rallying, and somewhere high above them, a shadow crossed the sky. For now, Durog kept his distance, watching, but that too would not last long.

  Time passed, a slow procession of seconds that was an agony of anticipation. Then a horn sounded, dull and brassy, its voice muffled by the mist and cold. A pair of trolls appeared at the foot of the bridge. They ran across it, with a column of orcs following in their wake. The goblin archers sent another volley of arrows over the wall, the deadly shafts whispering through the darkness, and the catapults boomed. An arrow sank into the wood at Blayde’s feet and another glanced off her armor, but she hardly noticed. The trolls thundered up the slope to the discarded ram. They tore the heavy trunk free off its ropes and began hammering at the gate with it. Nachtwald’s archers sent a hail of arrows down on the trolls, but at that moment the wyvern appeared, dropping low and gliding along the wall, scattering the archers and knocking men from the walkway. It snatched a soldier from the parapet and climbed into the night. There was a scream and the man fell out of the darkness to crash into the ground, his body broken and twisted.

  The trolls hammered the gate, swinging the ram with their long arms and driving it forward to crash into the tor
tured wood. The gate splintered and cracked. The orcs assailed the wall with ladders and ropes, clamoring up and over the battlements. With the archers scattered the defense on the wall was weakened, and many gained the parapet. Rayzer and Blayde, along with a handful of Nachtwald’s soldiers, rushed to meet them.

  * * *

  Sir Ducar looked up as a great shadow passed overhead. He frowned. A bloody wyvern of all things. Never in his life had he thought to see such a beast, except perhaps on the banner of some hedge knight. They were gone from the world along with all of dragonkind. And yet here it was.

  His honor would not allow him to abandon this city. He would defend it, even to his last breath, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than to see his homeland again. He would die, if necessary, to save Nachtwald and its people. He would remain true to his oaths and to his friends, but it would have been nice to walk once more along the shores of the sea, to feel the wind on his face, and taste the salt air. He let out a long sigh. At least he would not be alone when the end came. He was likely to have a good deal of company when he came to meet Nurta before the gates of Mirid.

  Sir Jon came along the rampart, his face grim and his eyes hard as stone. He paused, turning to face the east and the two knights stood side-by-side, gazing down on the Alleg River and the dark horde that was gathered there.

  “How are they doing?” Sir Jon asked.

  “They’ve just about got it. Shouldn’t be long now.”

  The orcs had come down from the woods, dragging rafts made of roughhewn timbers. These they launched from the shore, using poles to maneuver them. They then secured the rafts, one to another, with lengths of rope to form a makeshift bridge. They had been at it for some time, with much snarling, pushing, and shoving. Orcs did not like the water and were not very proficient with boats or watercraft of any kind. They couldn’t swim either. This endeavor showed a degree of ingenuity and cooperation that Sir Ducar had not thought possible. Under other circumstances, it might have been amusing to watch, but this was not at all funny. The orcs had nearly completed their task and when they finished, they would be coming for the city and coming in force.

  Sir Jon said grasped the top of the merlon with his hands, as if he might crush the stone beneath his fingers. “That fool woman is going to be the death of us.”

  “It’s not her you need to worry about. It’s them.”

  The last raft was poled into place and goblins sprang forward to secure it to the bank. The orcs waited on the opposite shore, shields and spears ready, their eyes burning like hot coals. A horn blared, sounding like a wounded animal as much as anything, and the foremost orcs leapt onto the raft bridge. It shifted and lurched beneath their feet, very nearly tipping and sending some of the clumsier warriors into the dark water.

  “If we’re very fortunate, perhaps they’ll simply drown themselves,” Sir Ducar said, “and save us the trouble of having to remove their heads,”

  Sir Jon drew his sword. “We’re not that lucky.”

  The orcs stumbled onto the shore below the castle and ran forward to within arrow range of the wall, the foremost of them stooping and forming a long shield wall facing the gate. More came after them, crowding in behind the frontrunners, waving their swords and banging their spears on their shields. They howled like a pack of hungry dogs, smelling blood and anxious to move in for the kill.

  “Here they come.” Sir Ducar drew his own sword and said a small prayer to Nurta to preserve his soul.

  A group of goblin archers crept forward past the shield wall, bringing with them a small clay pot. They set the pot on the ground and opened it, some of them recoiling as if whatever was inside gave off an offensive odor.

  “Now, what are they up to?” Sir Ducar watched as one of the archers dipped an arrow into the pot, covering the arrowhead with some viscous substance that gleamed faintly. The goblin turned, drew back his bow, and let fly.

  Thok! The arrow struck the gate with a dull, flat sound, followed by a woosh as the viscous substance burst into flame. Thok! A second report, much like the first, and the sudden smell of burning wood filled Sir Ducar’s nostrils. He looked down to see flames eating at the postern gate, a small enough fire, but spreading quickly.

  Sir Ducar looked back to see more bowmen as they drew and fired, sending the shafts arcing over the green to strike the gate. Thok. Thok. Thok. Three more arrows sank into the wood, bursting into flame as they struck, the fire eating hungrily.

  “Get some water on that,” Sir Jon shouted at the ground below. A group of women and some older men moved to obey his instruction. Smoke rose from the burning gate, drifting up along the wall.

  There was a roar as the orcs surged forward, covering the open ground with long, loping strides. Some of their number broke off, veering toward the stairs that ran up along the back of the curtain wall to the barbican. There were shouts and cries of alarm from the horseshoe tower and bowstrings twanged. Sir Ducar was somewhat encouraged by the disorganization and haphazard manner of the charge. These were habling, young warriors with little experience at war, but there were so many of them and more emerging from the woods with each passing moment.

  Some of the orcs, ignoring their fellows, careened to the right, choosing instead to ransack the Fisherman’s Nook, a collection of small hovels that stood close to the river. They went through the little cluster of buildings like an avalanche down a hill, kicking in doors and smashing everything within their reach. When they grew tired of this rampant destruction, they set fire to the houses. The night blazed with the burning pyres of what had once been homes to humble fisher folk.

  The main body of the orc army continued on toward the postern gate, yelling curses and jeering at the defenders. A deep ditch ran along the base of the wall, with a narrow footbridge from the gate to the grassy sward that ran down to the nook on other side. The bridge was not long, but it was enough to keep the attackers from getting too close. However, some of the orcs brought with them ropes and grappling hooks, which they flung up and over the ramparts with wild abandon.

  “Archers!” Sir Jon roared, and the air was filled with the whine of arrows and crossbow bolts.

  “Fire at will! Make the devils pay for their insolence!”

  A hook bit into the wall next to him and Sir Ducar wrenched it free and hurled it down again. Some few of the hooks caught between the crenels and orcs swung across the ditch and began climbing the wall like rats onto a ship.

  “Rocks, damn you,” Sir Jon shouted. “Use the rocks!” Wagons and carriages filled with stones had been positioned beneath the walkway and now men lifted them up to the defenders on the wall. The men on the wall in turn hurled them down onto the startled orcs, crushing skulls and breaking limbs as they fell.

  Water hissed and steamed as it was poured onto the gate, but it did little to cool the flames burning on the opposite side. If anything, the fire grew hotter until the gate blazed like an inferno, sending plumes of black smoke up the wall to blind the defenders above.

  “There’s witchery here,” Sir Jon said. “The devils have learned the trick of making Ildurnian fire!”

  And so it seemed. Ildurnian fire was an evil substance, the recipe of which was known to few, save for the Shaddarran wizards of the southern deserts who claimed to have invented it. Regardless, the flames that now ate at the postern gate would not be quenched and the gate itself groaned like a tortured soul.

  “Damn them! Damn them all to Isod! Fall back!” Sir Jon’s voice rose above the confusion. “Fall back now!”

  Sir Ducar waited for the archers and men-at-arms to descend the ladder, then followed, with Sir Jon close behind.

  “That gate won’t hold, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” Sir Jon ground his teeth in frustration.

  Even from a distance Sir Ducar could feel the heat coming off the gate, and the hinges and bands of iron that held it in place were turning white and beginning to melt. He could hear the crackling of the fire that devoured it from the other side. The g
ate sagged in its frame.

  “Behind the barricade!” Sir Jon shouted. “Now!”

  Men and women ran, throwing themselves behind a hastily constructed barricade as what remained of the postern gate fell into ruin. Orcs rushed in through the opening, but the bridge beyond was narrow, and the gateway only wide enough to allow two at a time to enter.

  “Archers!” Sir Jon shouted again. Bows twanged, sending a barrage of deadly shafts into the onrushing horde. A man screamed as a sword slashed his face and another man went down with a spear through his chest.

  Sir Ducar brought up his sword and charged. He collided with an orc, his shoulder slamming into the orc’s chest and hurling the creature to the ground. His sword came down on a second orc, cleaving both the paltry helm and the skull beneath. The night was filled with screams of terror, cries of pain, and angry shouts. Spears and swords smashed and stabbed at the Briar Knight, but his armor was strong and none found his flesh. He lashed out with the long sword, stabbing an orc in the thigh, and struck at a snarling face with his gauntleted fist. His boots trod on exposed hands and outstretched limbs as he was pushed backward. He struggled to remain upright, breaking bones and crushing skulls with the weight of his sword. Men rallied around him forming a wedge of shields and steel that broke the enemy’s charge and laid waste to the attackers who strove to enter. The orcs fell back, snarling in frustration.

  “Get back,” Sir Jon cried, his face close to Sir Ducar’s ear. “Get back now, all of you!”

  They fell back, running through a narrow gap in a wall of debris that had been piled up in the street between two houses. Men rushed to push a wagon in front of the gap, blocking it entirely. This was meant as a secondary defense in case the gate failed. Sir Ducar laughed bitterly—when the gate failed—that was what he meant. It had taken a matter of minutes and now the devils were inside.

  Sir Jon and Sir Ducar stood side-by-side looking out at the road than ran toward them from the gate. Bodies were strewn across the street, both human and orc, marking the path of their retreat. The opening in the wall gaped like a wound, and beyond it dark shapes gathered by the hundreds. The orcs entered, moving more slowly this time, with their shields up and their spears held level with their eyes. The brave defenders of Nachtwald had taught them caution, if nothing else.