The insistent whistle of two hundred arrows flaming through the waking dawn went largely unheard. The second and third volleys were in flight before the first managed to set fire to a handful of tents. Guards, those that hadn’t been killed by sappers before the attack began, tried to sound the alarm. By then it was too late. Hooves pounded the ground in a thunderous roar. A horse whinnied as the front ranks crashed into the enemy camp.
Men fell bloodied and screaming. The sick crunch of steel cutting naked flesh and breaking bone sang a horrible song. Soon bodies began piling up. The cavalry formed a loose wedge and drove straight for the center, Whorl rode at the tip. His broadsword cleaved enemy attackers without mercy. Once he would have considered these men friends. Thanks to their treachery, they weren’t even countrymen. They were the enemy. His horse trampled a confused soldier to death. Whorl grinned savagely and pointed his sword towards the central cluster of tents.
“Push on! Take the traitor!”
Hundreds of infantry pushed in behind the enormous gap torn in the enemy lines.
* * * * *
General Huor dropped his mug of soup at the sound of thunder. Fires flared to life everywhere he looked. The glow cast a chilling pall over the myriad of cavalry emerging from the waning shadows. Men raised the call to arms but Huor knew it would not be enough. Even if they managed to awaken in time and put up a fight, the enemy was already inside the perimeter. His worst nightmares were coming true.
Huor cursed Codel Mres and the damned Hooded Man. Most importantly, he cursed himself for allowing this travesty to happen. He had the numbers, the element of surprise. He had the backing of the politicians and secret benefactors wanting change. How could things have gone this wrong before he even started? He rushed to his tent to arm himself. Rentor may still live, and the carefully planned insurrection crashing down around him, but Huor was determined to die well. He owed himself that much.
* * * * *
Notam and thirty men left the main camp as soon as Maen finished with him. Each of his crew was handpicked and covered only in light clothing. Soot was smeared across their faces and hands. None of them carried more than a dagger. Any unnecessary noise would give away their presence and end their mission abruptly. They moved like wraiths. Tiny shadows through the greater darkness. A lone picket stepped in front of Notam. The sergeant ran his blade across the guard’s throat and kept moving.
Picket lines were the more dangerous of the two lines of defense Huor had established. Stationary and hidden, attackers often couldn’t see them until it was too late. Fortune smiled on Notam this night. Had they been a little off to the left or right and they would have been spotted. Notam exhaled a breath of relief as the body struck the soft grass. So far so good.
He halted at the edge of the tree line and motioned for Essen, the lead scout. “Where are the corrals?”
Essen pointed. “Skirt the tree line west for a few hundred meters. The area is lightly guarded and at the rear of their trains.”
The grizzled sergeant gloated silently. Huor’s own arrogance was going to be his downfall. Notam’s men raced towards the corrals where hundreds of enemy horses were about to be set loose.
* * * * *
The point of the wedge was already at the heart of the enemy camp. A wake of bodies trailed behind them. Infantrymen marched into the gaps and formed solid squares ringed with shields and pikes. General Huor’s conquering army was crumbling at a rapid pace. Men lost heart at the unexpected ferocity of the combined assault. Front ranks turned to flee only to become trapped in the press of bodies surging towards the fight. Panic gripped them. Dozens were crushed to death in the growing confusion. Hundreds more threw down their arms and surrendered to the infantry.
The insurrection was finished.
Huor ran for his life, gathering men along the way. He felt the opportunity to counterattack was still there if he could gather enough soldiers and reach the horses in time. The illusion of victory dwindled. He watched helplessly as too many of his men ran off into the night. There was no way he could even think about taking Kelis Dur now. The death toll was rising and already in the hundreds. Fires spread, burning those unfortunate enough to be caught inside. Huor’s heart dropped as his meager band finally gained the corrals. Several men already lay dead and the pens and fences burned. Of the horses, there was no sign. He had lost.
Turning to his men with his bravest face, Huor said, “Fight or flee, the choice is yours. I command you no longer. Go now and find whatever end befits you.”
No one moved at first. They stood staring at their leader in disbelief. How could he suggest failure? Then one man sheathed his sword and walked off into the night. Another pair followed. Only four turned to go back to the battle. Soon, General Huor was alone. Honor demanded he surrender and accept his punishment. At the very least he’d be banished from Thrae, his lands and holdings taken in the name of the king. Death lay at the opposite end of the spectrum. Either way his life was finished. His one hope lay in revenge. If could only find Codel and the Hooded Man he might be able to avenge himself and the hundreds of dead men stretched out around him. That would certainly ease the pain of death.
The beaten general sheathed his own blade and stalked off into the night in search of a mount. He never made it past the corral. A handful of men emerged from the night to surround him with poised daggers. He reeled in shock, for they appeared as demons to him. Faces painted black and echoing the shine of flames, they sought his death.
“Don’t move, General,” said a voice from behind.
Huor recognized the demon’s voice.
* * * * *
Field Commander Whorl dismounted and looked around for the first time since charging into the fight. Dawn had claimed the world. Fingers of blue stretched across what little darkness remained. Pieces of flaming cloth blew in the wind. Smoke and ash choked him. He picked out several vultures already circling. The dead weren’t even cold yet. Bodies lay strewn for as far as he could see. Most belonged to the enemy. Whorl almost felt sorry for them. The attack had been so swift it was impossible to mount a defense. They folded quickly and their leaders had abandoned them. Whorl wouldn’t be satisfied until General Huor was in custody and on his way back to stand trial for his crimes. Until then this was a hollow victory. He walked over to Huor’s tent, took the lone standard still blowing in the wind, and snapped the staff over his knee.
“Segregate the prisoners by rank. Officers and enlisted. Search every corpse. I want Huor found. Take all of the documents from his tent back to Major Maen and have the surgeons start taking care of the wounded.” His anger ebbed towards the end. There hadn’t been official word of friendly casualties but he didn’t imagine them to be overly high. Still, he feared the worst until he knew for sure.
“What about the rest of the camp, sir?” asked a slightly wounded captain with blood drying on his sleeve.
Whorl looked around. His one eye was cruel and suddenly vindictive. “Burn it all.”
The captain saluted and set about his task.
Notam walked into what remained of the enemy encampment with a profound sense of relief. He’d accomplished his mission without losing anyone, though one man took a nasty cut across the top of his thigh. He’d also captured the leader of the insurrection and helped restore Cron’s name and honor. Not too bad for a night’s work. He was surprised at the amount of carnage and destruction done in such a short time. The battle lasted less than an hour before the enemy capitulated. Confiscated wagons were already being loaded with wounded, from both sides, and taking them off to the makeshift field hospital set up at the edge of the camp. Too many sons of Thrae lay dead. Notam knew they would be buried in separate graves. At least those still loyal to King Rentor. Traitors would be burned and forgotten in disgrace.
“Are you satisfied, General? Your greed sent these men to their deaths,” Notam growled in Huor’s ear.
Before he could respond he was shoved forcibly and led to Field Commander Whorl. At la
st the one-eyed veteran smiled.
Maen leaned back in his field chair and exhaled the breath he’d been holding since the strike force left. He thanked the scout for news of the victory and finally allowed his nerves to calm. He’d managed to prevent civil war but something unspoken still nagged at him. He just wasn’t sure what. Maen rose and went outside to watch the dawn. Somewhere out there, lost in the world, was his brother. He didn’t know where or how to find him, but he vowed to never stop until they came home together.
* * * * *
Kelis Dur slept peacefully. Stray dogs dug through trash and drunks lay where they’d passed out. Nothing seemed out of place except for Codel Mres running for his life. The Dwim had failed to kill Rentor. His trust in General Huor’s abilities were marginal at best and the Hooded Man all but told him he was useless to the main objective. Codel barely had time to collect a cloak before royal guards burst through the front door of his luxurious home.
He’d made it to the sewers, where he thought he’d be safe. Such was not the case. It wasn’t long before the baying of hounds in the tunnels behind him forced him to run again. Heart pounding, he ran harder. The only sounds were his ragged breath intermingling with the splash of his slippered feet as he ran through the scum and waste of the city. Fear propelled him yet also made him hesitate. He suddenly realized he had nowhere to go. Even if he managed to make it to Huor’s camp, what would he do? The appearance of so many guards led him to believe the rebel general had been defeated. Else the city would already be under siege.
Misery entered Codel. All of his plans evaporated. He once aspired to become king but Fate betrayed him. Codel hardly noticed as the surrounding blackness took on a bluish tinge. That haunting feeling turned to pale mist. Time froze. He instantly recognized where he was. Codel dropped to his knees to pray. The giant man in armor strode from the ghostly light. Moisture glistened from his bald scalp. He looked down on the quivering man and hefted his massive battle axe. Lord Death had come to claim his prize.
“It is time, Codel Mres,” he said in a booming voice.
Darkness followed the swinging axe blade.
FORTY-SIX
The Deadlands
The air was very dry. Malweir’s sun burned down hotly through the thick cloud cover, bathing the tiny band sneaking across the expanse of the Deadlands in sweat. Ancient Druem loomed ahead, but Dakeb assured them it would be at least another day before they gained the foothills. Pregen insisted the old man wasn’t reassuring and all but begged to stay with the Elves. He much rather wanted the option of escape back into the mountains. Here awaited only death.
“What a miserable place,” he complained. “How could a land be so desolate?”
Dakeb looked back over his shoulder. “War and corruption turned this land from green to brown, Pregen. They are the bane of civilization but it is the way of the world. All societies rise from obscurity, become more than what they were meant to be and fall into ruin. You didn’t think that right was reserved for the Mages did you? Even Thrae will fall as Fate deems fit.”
“What are we fighting for then?” Kialla asked. Her interest suddenly sparked.
“We fight to keep evil at bay. There are many plains of existence. Ours is but a strand in the great cosmic web. There are forces out there wishing to destroy all that is good and pure. World enders. If they succeed, our way of life is finished. The dark gods will devour all souls and leave Malweir a husk of decay. We fight, dear Kialla, because if evil is allowed to grow unchecked, we are all doomed. Empires rise and fall, but it is in our hearts to rebuild anew.”
Grelic wiped the crust from the corners of his mouth. “You paint a bleak future, Mage. Is our future in such doubt?”
“The future is fickle. It flows and ebbs without regards to our wishes. What you do or don’t do can affect any number of possible tomorrows. One never knows how matters will play out. But it is all we can do to protect what little we have and keep the great darkness at bay.”
“My skin would crawl were I a lesser man,” the giant admitted with a broken laugh. “Perhaps we should save talk of doom for when we stop this dark Mage of yours. A cold mug of ale would go good with such conversation.”
“I agree,” Cron added. “Besides, chances are the enemy has patrols roving the countryside. We’re not here to fight a war. They’d overrun us with no effort at all. We need to enforce tactical discipline if we’re to reach Druem undetected.”
The conversation slowed but continued on into speculation of what might happen. Much of it was lost on Ibram and Fitch. They hung at the back of the group with Krek. Fitch impossibly believed they were safer in the back, at least until Pregen told him they were surrounded by Goblins and it didn’t matter where they rode.
“What are you going to do when this is over?” Ibram asked, trying to shake the feeling of being hunted.
He wasn’t sure what made him ask the question. Maybe it was the overpowering heat. His tongue was thick and his mouth felt clammy. It wasn’t just the heat. A thick odor reminding him of death clung to everything. Their clothes reeked of it. Their skin was tainted with an unhealthy pallor. Ibram knew the others felt it. He also knew they were wise enough to keep silent.
“A bath would be nice,” Fitch replied with a wry grin.
Truth be told, the villager hadn’t thought of it. His old life was dead, right along with Shar and all of his friends in Gend. Retribution had consumed this new life. His sole purpose was to help these few people on their quest to prevent a war. What would happen when the dark Mage was defeated and they returned to Thrae didn’t worry him.
“I don’t know,” he said with a sad head shake. “Everything has changed so drastically this past winter, I feel lost. All of my dreams were taken from me. I shouldn’t have survived, Ibram. I know I shouldn’t have.”
They rode on in silence. Ibram knew nothing he said would ease the burden of shame Fitch felt.
Fitch eased some of the tension. “Maybe I’ll head south towards the sea. I’ve always wanted to see the great sailing ships. You could come with me.”
Ibram sighed. “I wish I could. I’m afraid Dakeb won’t let me now that the Minotaurs helped expose my powers. I don’t care to be a Mage but can’t see a way around it. Do you ever wonder what it was like? The age of Mages? Malweir must have been a most wondrous place. What if we could bring it back?”
“I don’t know, Ibram. That age fell, just like Dakeb said,” Fitch replied.
“That’s the beauty of history. We can learn from mistakes and ensure they don’t repeat themselves. Think about it! Technology and science bringing man-kind to levels never before reached. Imagine stone roads and grand libraries where all of the folk in the world can come to study and learn. No more wars. Just peace and prosperity.”
Fitch felt his eyes water. “I’m afraid you’re living in a dream. Everything I’ve seen on this adventure tells me we are made to war with each other. Peace is a lie.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see the end of violence?”
“More than anything,” he quietly replied.
Krek halted suddenly. His nostrils flared. Muscles tensed. The Minotaur, after taking the lead scout position, turned his gaze skyward. Hunter instincts took over and he crouched under the branches of a broken tree. He snorted once and raised his tulwar.
“Everyone down,” Grelic hissed and hurried to the young bull. “What do you smell?”
“Wyrm,” he said in a low growl.
Grelic cursed. Mordrun Bal was still a day away. If the dragon spotted them now it was all over. There was nowhere to run. They’d be incinerated, even with Dakeb along. Thrae and the rest of Malweir would stand open to invasion. The Aeldruin would die for nothing and wouldn’t have knowledge of the others’ demise.
The giant shuffled back to Dakeb as quietly as possible. “Krek smelled the dragon.”
“If he discovers us…” Cron started.
Grelic held up a hand. “I know. Dakeb, can you do anything?”
“What can we do?” Cron asked. His fingers curled reflexively around the hilt of his sword. He knew it was useless but the gesture was comforting.
“Do? Nothing. We sit and wait until the dragon passes. It should be safe to carry on after that.”
“Didn’t we come here to kill the beast?” Pregen asked.
Dakeb frowned slightly. “We did, but matters are much more complicated since leaving Eline. Let Faeldrin and his Elves worry about the dragon. We must stop the Silver Mage from getting the shard. If he succeeds in re-forging the four pieces of the crystal he will cover the world in horrible darkness. Everything you know will be corrupted by his filth. There are very few Mages left to oppose him.”
“You stopped him before,” Grelic suggested.
“At great cost. It took ten of us to destroy the crystal. Of those ten only two survived. If we don’t stop him now, before he has the shards, we will never have a second chance. This is it.”
The air suddenly grew warmer and then unbearably hot.
“Be silent. The dragon is near.”
Dakeb’s warning didn’t need to be said. Dull fear began throbbing, gaining strength the closer the wyrm came. Their greatest nightmares echoed in their minds. Air pressure doubled as the great wyrm sailed overhead. His massive bulk blocked out what sunlight filtered through the clouds. His wings made a vile rushing sound. His bellow trembled the very ground. They clasped their hands over their ears in a vain attempt at keeping his voice from gripping their souls. Tears streamed down their cheeks and madness seeped into their imaginations. Then he was gone, heading east in search of a meal and seemingly unaware of the invaders in his kingdom. Grelic slowly rose to his full height in defiance to the dragon’s raw power. He stared long at the sky.
The Dragon Hunters Page 34
