The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  That blow would never land, as a steel-tipped arrow flew into the cavern mouth with silent accuracy, slicing through the ogre’s neck. The brute, retching and gagging, stumbled backward, far too slowly to avoid the tattooed figure that plunged through the door.

  Ashtaway raised his axe with cold, deadly efficiency. The ogre, both hamlike fists grasping the shaft that emerged from its throat, gaped stupidly at impending death. The axe swept downward once, and again, leaving the monster as a gory corpse on the tunnel floor.

  The slaves, each of whom was as filthy and disheveled an individual as Ash had ever seen, gaped up at him. Slack jaws distended, eyes as wide as saucers, the little fellows looked from the dead ogre to the tall, garishly tattooed elf.

  One of the slaves left the wheel and stepped to the side of the corpse. He sniffed the brute, then prodded with his toe. Finally he hauled back and delivered a sharp kick into the monster’s unfeeling knee.

  In an instant, the rest of the group, which numbered perhaps ten, scrambled all over the body, spitting, kicking, pinching, punching, inflicting all manner of vengeance over what Ash had no trouble believing had been very rough treatment.

  “T’anks, Mister!” declared the first of the slaves to inspect the corpse, leaving to his fellows the meting out of revenge. “You kilt ol’ No-Teeth, but good!”

  “You’re welcome,” Ash replied, struggling to understand the slave’s thick accent. The Kagonesti leaned forward to get a better look at this curious laborer.

  The little fellow, as if sensing that he was under inspection, stood up straight and thrust his chest out so far that a seam ripped along the side of his filthy tunic.

  Ashtaway had encountered dwarves before, though he had never spoken to one – and never would, if he had a modicum of choice about the matter. He knew there was something vaguely dwarflike about this wretch, but at the same time no dwarf he had ever seen had been as scrawny, as filthy, and as abject as this slave and his fellows. A beard that was really no more than a few straggling hairs curled outward from the runt’s receding chin, and he casually picked his nose – even as he continued to stand at attention.

  As they finished their gleeful vengeance, the other slaves, one by one, marched over to stand beside their leader. Ash sensed that the fellows actually tried to form a straight line, though the formation assumed more of an S shape as more and more of the slaves joined up.

  “Ogres find ol’ No-Teeth, they gonna be right mad,” one mused, not displeased by the notion.

  “Real mad,” another declared sagely – or at least, he would have sounded sage if he hadn’t belched immediately following his pronouncement.

  “You better scram,” the leader suggested, winking at Ashtaway. “When more ogres come, we’ll tell’em No-Teeth fell down, say he couldn’t git up. They just give us a new boss.”

  The Kagonesti was touched by the courageous, if misguided, offer to cover for him. He looked at the corpse, with the arrow jutting from beneath its chin, the two gruesome axe wounds that had only now ceased to bleed. “I, um, I think they’ll see that No-Teeth didn’t just have an accident.”

  The spokesman for the slaves sniffed, insulted by the suggestion. “I’m Highbulp Toofer – I’m a good liar! You think I’m no-good liar or sumthin’?”

  Holding up a placating hand, the elf shook his head. “No! I’m sure you’re a very good liar! But tell me, what are you? Are you a dwarf?”

  “You betcha! Gully dwarves, all of us is! We the bosses of these tunnels —’til the ogres come, anyway.”

  “Are there more ogres coming? Do they live down here somewhere?”

  The highbulp looked at Ashtaway, apparently wondering if the elf could possibly be as ignorant as he seemed. Deciding, obviously, that he could, the filthy dwarf spoke with great seriousness.

  “Nobody lives down in these here caves – they’s just roads to here and there.’Ceptin’ us and No-Teeth. We live here, so’s we can open da gate.”

  An idea began to tug at the edge of Ashtaway’s consciousness. Perhaps it had started even before he had shot the fateful arrow. “These tunnels – do they go a long way?”

  Highbulp Toofer nodded vigorously, causing his dirty braid of hair to flop up and down over his face.

  “Do they come out only in Sanction – or do some of them go under the mountain, come out somewhere else?”

  “They goes all over the place. Under mountain, over mountain – even to different mountains!”

  “You seem like a terribly wise Highbulp – but do you know these paths? Could you show a person the tunnel, say, to the other side of this mountain?”

  “I kin show!” boasted one of the gully dwarves, shoving Toofer aside.

  “Boodle gets you lost, right quick!” Toofer snapped. “But I knows the ways!”

  “Look!” cried another gully dwarf, who had crept toward the still-opened doors and looked out on the plateau beyond. “They’re doin’ a parade!”

  Ash remembered the knights and vividly pictured what the dwarf imagined as a “parade.” The elf sprang back to the doorway, stepping out just far enough to get a view of the wide, flat ground to the east of the city.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the rank of knights. True to his plan, Sir Kamford had led his company down the trail in the predawn shadows. His stealthy approach had no doubt been aided by the darkness cloaking the west-facing slope of the descent. In any event, the knights had apparently arrived at the foot of the mountain without being detected.

  Now, as Ashtaway watched the last of the horsemen take up positions in the center of the line, they formed into a long, single rank. Lances raised, horses prancing anxiously, the Solamnic riders sat straight and proud in their saddles – as if they held themselves aloof from the chaos they were about to bring upon this valley.

  An ogre sentry near one of the grain barns shouted, voice shrill with panic, and others took up the cry as the dawn mist parted to reveal the line of steel and flesh. A battle horn brayed somewhere in the midst of the labor camps, and the elf saw small groups of ogres lumbering toward the field. Many more figures – most of them slaves, no doubt – streamed out of the camps, toward shelter in the fiery, tangled city below.

  The sun crested the ridge behind the knights, piercing beneath the heavy layer of overcast with shocking brilliance, like a wave of fire sweeping from the heavens into the seething hell of Sanction. Sunlight glinted like diamonds off the silver armor of the horsemen. Ashtaway realized that the knights had scrubbed the clay and the mud from their armor, discarding the leafy camouflage they had worn during the mountain trek. Polished, gleaming, and immaculate, they rode horses brushed sleek, with silken manes flowing in the wind.

  For the first time Ash understood that it was more than vanity that had caused the knights to spend so much time cleaning and polishing their equipment. The pristine rank, appearing as if by magic against Sanction’s unprotected flank, must have seemed to the enemy like some ethereal strike force dispatched by Paladine himself to smite his enemies.

  Now the men put their heels to the horses, and the long line of steeds commenced to advance at a slow, deliberate walk – a pace that was, by its precise and unhurried nature, in some ways more frightening than a thundering gallop. Lances raised high, the riders quickly accelerated into a pounding, steady trot. Ash was particularly impressed by the way in which the rank never wavered – each of the horses moved at exactly the same pace. Spread across the broad field, the line of the charge stretched for nearly half a mile – a startling breadth of frontage for the relatively small number of attackers.

  Ashtaway knew that no Kagonesti advance could ever be so precise, so well ordered, and he briefly regretted the chaotic impulses of his own braves. Certainly those urges led to many acts of individual bravery, but at the same time they served to dissipate the concentrated force of the tribe’s warriors as a whole. He remembered the attack against the bakali beside the Bluelake. If all the braves had shot their arrows together, the shock
ing effect of the initial volley would have been greatly magnified.

  The horses broke into a canter, and the thundering of their hooves pounded audibly to Ashtaway on the mountainside – and, no doubt, throughout Sanction as well. Still, somehow, despite their speed, the knights maintained a precise line. Lances that had been upraised were now lowered, couched in the riders’ flanks, silvery tips angling toward the pockets of ogres and other warriors who scrambled to form some kind of desperate, makeshift defense before their precious forges, barns, and arsenals.

  Finally the attackers broke into a gallop, and here the slightest variations opened in their lines as the fastest horses pulled slightly ahead of the slowest. Even so, the knights and their chargers advanced as a wall, bristling with razor-sharp lances, fueled by a grim desire for victory.

  The initial groups of defenders raised their weapons, some ogres displaying heroic courage in standing to meet the charge. Screams of pain rose from the field, mingled with the splintering sounds of spear shafts breaking and the shouted battle cries of the charging knights. Yet the horsemen swept past without pause, the straight line barely rippling over each pocket of defenders, and Ash was awed to see that not a single ogre remained standing once the rank had passed them. The knights and their horses, conversely, did not falter in the precise formation of their advance.

  Other groups of defenders – ogres, bakali, and numerous human warriors – scrambled to raise weapons, to join ranks in the face of the thunderous onslaught. Unarmored, clapping helmets on their heads, breastplates hastily fastened over their cotton tunics, these ragged, frightened warriors emerged from the barracks and forges, urged toward the sounds of the charge by the profane exhortations of their captains. One by one the companies were pounded into the dirt by the inexorably advancing knights, until those that had not yet joined the battle turned and fled in a desperate attempt to avoid the crushing wave of death.

  One or two horses fell, gutted or hamstrung by desperate ogres. Ash saw a knight climb to his feet beside a writhing mount. The man shook his head groggily, then drew a mighty sword. He cleaved a nearby ogre who showed signs of stirring, then looked around for further victims. When none showed, he raised the weapon and trotted, on foot, behind the rank of his fellows.

  By the time Sir Kamford’s charge swept fully across the vast plateau, the horsemen had smashed every defender who had dared to stand in their way. A few ogres still moved, but these were stunned by the shock of the attack. Ashtaway saw one of these stagger to his feet, look at the devastation around him, then collapse in apparent despair. Others tried to fight, but could offer only feeble resistance to a few dismounted knights who now charged forward in the wake of the horses. Most of the riders had discarded their lances, and now the riders chopped, slashed, and stabbed with cold efficiency.

  The knights broke into smaller groups as the charge was segmented by the looming piles of coal and the block-like structures of the forges, storage barns, and arsenals. Around the corrals, where horses bucked and snorted, fences went down under the hooves of chargers. More knights dismounted, smashing additional fences and prying open steel-barred gates. Like water flowing out of a breached reservoir, the horses streamed through the openings, while shouting knights, brandishing flaring torches, urged the frightened beasts into a raging stampede.

  In Sanction itself, bright banners now flew from many staffs, while brassy horns brayed a constant summons to arms.

  Ash saw troops streaming upward from the city, impelled by brash trumpets and hysterical cries of warning, but he could also see that these reinforcements would be too late. Flames spurted upward from one pile of wooden sticks – sticks that would never become the spear shafts that had been their destiny. Seizing the makeshift torches, the knights plunged through the camp, throwing flame at the stockpiles of coal.

  Some of the men dismounted, smashing down the doors of forges and storehouses, charging inside with swords drawn. Soon smoke puffed from the broken doorways, and by the time the knights emerged to seek their next targets, orange blossoms of flame had begun to surge upward. A few more pockets of defenders tried to stand against the knights, but these were quickly ridden down and smashed.

  More corrals collapsed under the onslaught, and herds of oxen lumbered in panic. Ashtaway had a brief picture of the food that stampeded away from them, thinking that a small portion of the herd would be sufficient to feed his tribe for years.

  Frequently, now, the defenders of Sanction showed no heart for this battle. Ash watched with cruel pleasure as a whole company of human pikemen threw down their weapons and fled toward the city, only to be trampled beneath the hooves of the vengeful cavalry.

  When bands of survivors did reach the broad roadways leading down into the city, their terror was a palpable force. Fleeing headlong, their shouts of panic audible even to the distant Kagonesti observer, these men piled into the wave of reinforcements that was trying to climb up the same road down which the routed defenders fled. Even when the fresh troops raised sword and spear in the face of their fleeing comrades, they couldn’t bring the rout to a halt – the panicked survivors simply parted like water, scrambling through ditches and over rough slopes in their haste to escape the killing ground.

  The combination of gravity, a lack of knowledge about their foes, and the palpable fear of the retreating troops gave pause to the fresh warriors. Many of the reinforcements stepped off the road to allow the running men to pass, while others actually turned and joined the flight. It amused Ashtaway to observe the contagious nature of this panic. Soon hundreds, then thousands, of men ran from a fight that they had yet to see! Of course, Ash thought with a tight grin, when these veterans later gathered around a bivouac’s campfires, their roles in this furious battle would undoubtedly be embellished.

  Much of the plateau was obscured by smoke now, as more and more fires erupted from the Dark Queen’s arsenals and strongholds. Knights rode back and forth, many bearing torches, chasing the fleeing animals, trying to infuse even greater panic to the stampede. Sir Kamford, Sir Blayne, and the other leaders shouted and waved their arms, seeking to collect their men into companies, reforming the ranks to pursue the attack.

  Once again Ash felt the tickling sense of alarm that had disturbed him earlier in the morning – hairs prickling upward at the nape of his neck. He looked to the west, suddenly fearful, and observed a serpentine shape, ghostly white, gliding below the clouds. Other mighty, winged creatures soared just beyond – another that was white, and several of rich blue. Broad wings stroked the air, and the deadly forms gained speed as they plunged downward from the overhanging pall of clouds.

  With a pang of dread, Ashtaway knew what he was seeing: the dragons of evil had taken wing and were but moments from the fight.

  CHAPTER 19

  INTO DARKNESS

  Ashtaway acted with the speed of thought, throwing back his head and drawing a deep breath. His lips stretched taut across his mouth as, cupping his hands, he released a piercing shriek. The urgent cry of the eagle keened across the valley, ringing even over the sounds of battle. Several of the knights raised their heads, looking about for the source of the sound.

  Instead, they saw serpentine death, plunging from the heavy layer of cloud. A white dragon in the lead shrieked in fury, and behind it other white and blue shapes thundered downward from the glowering clouds, horrific merchants of violence and death.

  Again Ash sent out the cry, drawing his axe and waving it above his head. Would they see him? One of the knights looked in his direction and shouted something, spurring his horse toward the wild elf. Several others wheeled to follow, and he knew that the humans had at least seen the hope he offered. Whether they could reach it in time was another question.

  Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the iron doors to the tunnel remained open. He expected that the gully dwarves would have vanished deep into the passageway and was startled to see the group of them clustered at his feet. The little wretches had crept forward soun
dlessly and now eagerly observed the battle from behind the shelter of the elf’s legs.

  Quickly Ash sought out Toofer, fastening his gaze on the Highbulp’s grimy face. “Go back. Get ready to close the doors when I tell you to! Will you do that?”

  “You betcha!” Toofer’s head nodded eagerly, though he made no move to return to the tunnel.

  Desperately Ash looked back to the battle, where most of the knights had remounted their chargers. In small groups they galloped toward the mountain, where the Kagonesti again waved his axe.

  Looking skyward, the warrior saw three white dragons, diving in the lead, and at least a pair of blues coming close behind. The knights separated, scattering not from panic, Ashtaway sensed, but training. This way they presented the fewest targets to the horrific, death-dealing breath weapons of the vengeful serpents.

  “Go inside! Now!” Ash repeated, his voice a desperate growl as he saw Toofer and the other gully dwarves still watching the battle.

  The Highbulp scowled suspiciously. “You want us to miss best part of fight?” he demanded.

  “I want you to stay alive!” Ashtaway snarled, furious. “And just maybe, to save some of my friends! Now, go!” He punctuated the command with a menacing wave of his axe, and that was enough to send the dwarves tumbling like ninepins back toward the tunnel mouth. They took up positions at the great closing-wheels, but fortunately did not yet draw them shut.

  “Wait till I tell you to close the doors!” the elf shouted, before turning back to the deadly fight.

  The leading white dragon belched a cloud of frigid, killing frost. The white blast exploded downward and out, expanding across the ground, sweeping several riders and their plunging horses into the deadly effect – not to mention a few craven ogres who crouched nearby, apparently having realized they could never outrun the horses.