Faeldrin watched as Cpur and a handful of Pell Darga began making their way towards the Goblin outpost blocking the mouth of Deldin Grim. Dusk turned the sky into a hazy morass of grime. Torchlight already flickered from the ramparts and crenellations of the twin gates flanking the pass. The Elf Lord wished he knew how many Goblins awaited them. Despite having the Pell, he had an uneasy feeling with this operation. The Aeldruin were cavalrymen. While there’d been occasions in the past of sieges and dismounted warfare, the Elves were more comfortable on horseback.
He paused to look behind. The ballistae were camouflaged in the scrub trees along the mountainsides. Only a blundering patrol or possibly the dragon would be able to spot them. The Aeldruin waited in the shadows, eating a final meal of travel rations. None of them were talking. The air was still and thick. Tension electrified them. Pre-battle jitters spread from Elf to Elf. Even after hundreds of years the Aeldruin succumbed to the same frailties as normal men.
“This should prove interesting,” Aleor commented as the last of the Pell Darga disappeared into the shadows.
“To say the least,” Faeldrin replied.
The younger Elf watched the blackening sky. “Do you think they know about the Trolls guarding the pass?”
“I don’t think they care. Trust me, Aleor, Trolls are the least of my worries.”
“The most being?”
He ran a fingertip over one eyebrow, smoothing the slender hairs back in place. “Well, providing we capture the pass with limited casualties, we have to hold both sides of the keep. Then there’s the actual Goblin army out there. How many thousands do you think are waiting for the signal to invade the lower kingdoms? Let’s not forget about the dragon. We must plan on being attacked from the air and ground simultaneously. This will be unlike any battle we’ve ever fought.”
“But we are the Aeldruin. We’ve never lost a battle. That has to count for something,” Aleor countered.
“Perhaps,” Faeldrin conceded. “But one thing is certain. We’ll be heading back to Elvenara for volunteers to replenish the ranks when this is finished.”
Cpur returned alone at the break of dawn. Dark blood stained his clothes and weathered brown skin. He bore no expression though Faeldrin sensed he was filled with satisfaction. He gestured for the Elf to follow.
“Give me ten men and we’ll be back shortly,” Faeldrin told Aleor. “Have the company ready to move. We attack as soon as I return.”
They clasped forearms and Faeldrin took off. The trip was short, only three hundred meters and made in silence. Cpur traversed the rocks with the ease of one who’d grown up in this harsh terrain. His movements were fleet and nimble; so much so that the Elf often found it difficult to keep up. Daylight showered the jagged spires of the Goblin fortress. Faeldrin was repulsed.
The black, rock walls emanated a foul presence, but there was more. Faeldrin looked closer at the dark shapes littering the field in front of the ominous structures. The spires jutted into the sky like broken teeth defiling the sanctity of the heavens. Decay blanketed the area, hazing the image of the fortress.
Faeldrin was surprised to discover the shapes he thought were boulders were in fact bodies. Most were half dressed with barely a sword in their hands. All bore varied degrees of pain on their dead faces. A pair of Trolls slumped against the open doors at the base of the towers. Both had several short spears sticking out of them and their throats were cut. The Elf Lord’s mouth dropped open.
Hundreds of Pell warriors could be seen scurrying over the ramparts. Most of them were carrying or dragging dead Goblins down to the edge of the scrub forest. Although he disagreed with what they were doing, Faeldrin appreciated the psychological effect of seeing so many of their dead when the reinforcements arrived from Mordrun Bal. Pools of dark blood dried in the warming sun. Faeldrin’s skepticism turned to wonder and awe.
“How in the world did they manage this?” one of his Elves asked.
Faeldrin could only shake his head. “Don’t question it. I expected to lose many lives taking this fortress. The Pell Darga are an addition I didn’t foresee. Go back and bring the others forward. I want to hurry up and start preparing our defenses.”
The Elf nodded and rode off. They were still a long way from thinking about victory, but Faeldrin found himself smiling anyway. He figured he had roughly two days before the Goblin army learned of the defeat and managed to deploy a counter strike. Two days of doubt and fear. Once the battle started and he got a feel for it, everything would be fine. It was the build-up that bothered him. Hundreds of years and Faeldrin still found waiting the hardest part.
Soon enough and the dying will begin. He still wasn’t sure if they’d be able to kill the dragon.
FORTY-SEVEN
The Calm Before the Storm
Grelic lay among the dead branches and scrub brush. His eyes shifted over the ruinous buildings and hovels three hundred meters away. Mordrun Bal was desolate at best, nightmarish at worst. The perfect place for Goblins and other foul creatures to breed in the dark. Every instinct Grelic had warned him to turn and head back to Thrae. Hundreds of Goblins could be seen shuffling through the twisting streets, moving in and out of the buildings. He couldn’t see any way they’d be able to sneak past so many. The situation seemed hopeless.
He lay there for most of the day. It felt good not moving, though he knew he was going to be sore when he finally did get up. Two days of forced march through the Deadlands and a night of disturbed dozing had left them all weary. Grelic wanted one good night’s sleep before tackling Druem. He and Dakeb agreed to recover some of their strength during the day and sneak in under the cover of darkness. The only problem with that was the vast amount of Goblins between them and the volcano.
Grelic’s eyes drooped. The afternoon sun was scorching, promising to worsen before dusk. Sleep enticed him like some nameless woman from his dark past. He fought the urge with all his might yet his eyes continued to betray him. He wasn’t sure how long he spent struggling through the netherworld of waking dreams. The crisp sound of a whip striking flesh snapped him out of it. Formations of Goblins were marching out of Mordrun Bal amidst the snarl and curse of the whip masters. Grelic tensed, fearing they’d been discovered. Then common sense took over. There was no call for so many to be deployed just to capture a handful. No. These forces were already moving out. Something had stirred them up. Grelic dared to rise up and get a better look.
They were marching towards Deldin Grim. Faeldrin had done it!
“Good news,” Grelic said in a confident whisper. He waited for the others to come closer. “Most of the Goblin army is marching south. By dawn they’ll be too far away to make a difference. We shouldn’t have much trouble getting inside the volcano now.”
“Faeldrin was more successful than we hoped,” Kialla said.
Cron wasn’t convinced, though he didn’t want to ignore the importance of the development. “They must have left a garrison. Goblins are vicious beasts, keen in the arts of killing. If the dark Mage is half as quick, he’ll have left a garrison big enough to beat us.”
“What about those things that attacked us in Eline?” Pregen asked. He hated to admit it, and never would aloud, but the thought of facing the evil creatures again terrified him.
Dakeb laid a reassuring hand on Pregen’s wrist. “Leave them to me. Creatures born of magic die of magic easily. They won’t pose a problem.”
“The advantage is ours,” Grelic said and wiped his forehead of sweat. “Though we still have the small issues of the dragon and Mage.”
“Let the Elves worry about the wyrm,” Dakeb said. “I have a feeling the battle in the pass is going to be more than enough to draw the dragon’s attention away. Plan on getting inside the catacombs and focus on finding the shard while I face the Silver Mage. He is the worst threat.” His voice tapered off with the sorrowful tone reserved for battlefield commanders anticipating great losses.
“What happens if he already has the crystal?” Fitch pipe
d in. He was no military man by any means, but even he understood the dangers of what they were getting into. Nightmares of Gend haunted him relentlessly the closer he got to Druem. All of Father Seldis’s work was unraveling. Fitch wasn’t sure if he’d be able to overcome his resurging fears.
The old Mage’s smile surprised Grelic most of all. “In that case, we happen to have a thief in our midst.”
Pregen froze. “No. If you think I’m going anywhere near another Mage you’re insane.”
“You are a thief,” Kialla said.
“Yeah, and a damned good one. I break into women’s homes, aristocrats. A good thief tends not to be caught robbing people when they are home. I appreciate my head attached to my neck. Find someone else to do it.”
Dakeb’s voice remained steady. “Relax, Pregen. Do not concern yourself with the what-ifs of the situation. When the time comes we will all know what to do.”
Pregen shot Fitch a foul look but said no more.
Up until now, the young Minotaur sat quietly listening to the men complain to one another. He had no taste for talk. Minotaurs were warriors by nature and wasted little time in pointless discussion. Wars and battles were won by sword and axe, not fancy words. He yawned and stretched.
“All right then, we rest up until dark and strike when the moon rises,” Grelic told them all. “We move light and fast. Since none of us are familiar with Mordrun Bal, it’s going to take time to find the entrance into the volcano. Kill only the Goblins that are in our way. We can’t afford to fight the entire garrison. In and out. I want to be riding away by dawn. Who’s taking first watch?”
“I got it,” Cron volunteered.
“Everyone else get some rest. It’s going to be a busy night.”
Krek smiled impatiently. Finally, they were getting somewhere.
“You should be sleeping,” Cron whispered when he heard Kialla creeping towards his position.
She pulled even with him and watched the dwindling activity in the Goblin town. “How can I possibly sleep?”
“A soldier learns to take sleep where he can get it. There’s no point worrying over what may or may not happen. You do what you can with the circumstances you’re given.”
Kialla whispered, “You’re not scared?”
“What would be the point? We live and we die. Some of us are fortunate enough to choose the manner of our demise. I chose to come on this journey. I may not be looking forward to dying here, but if I must, what choice have I?”
She took hold of his hand and squeezed. “Please don’t get killed.”
“I’ll try not to, love.”
Kialla let out a slow breath and watched with him.
Fitch couldn’t sleep either. He tossed and turned in the arid environment. More than anything he wanted to escape. To run away and never look back. It wasn’t hard. He’d abandoned people before. The shame of that moment weighed heavily on his soul. He wasn’t sure what would happen when the sun went down, but Fitch spent the rest of the day trying to find the measure of his courage.
Krek, Grelic, and Dakeb were fast asleep. The young bull snored lightly. Pregen lay on his back staring up blankly. Ibram meditated off to the side. All of his doubts and deepest desires clashed together in a bitter struggle for domination. He secretly wondered which man was going to show up tonight. He’d been found wanting before and was more than determined not to let that happen again. Ibram wasn’t a monk, nor was he a warrior or a shade of a Mage. He was confused and afraid. So much had happened since Father Seldis took him to the king’s gardens and had him join the quest. Grelic showed him how to fight. He’d killed. Dakeb taught him the beginnings of magic yet he remained untested. The enemy facing them was filled with battle-hardened murderers who wouldn’t give a thought to killing him. Ibram searched the depths of his inner conscience for peace.
“Don’t worry yourself, young Ibram,” Dakeb soothed once Ibram opened his eyes.
Ibram stared off into the withered stalks of brown-yellow grass. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve been using your magic for hundreds of years. I didn’t even know I was like you until a few weeks ago.”
“You’re very glum for one so young. I suppose I might have been so when I was your age, but times were definitely better. If only you had seen the world then, Ibram. Still, be happy for what you have. Rejoice in the gift of magic, for it is a thing so few of us have.”
Ibram shot the prone Mage a mistrusting look. “More like a curse.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at what the world has become since the war,” Ibram answered, instantly regretting the venom in his voice. “I…I didn’t mean…”
Dakeb ignored the comment, knowing Ibram was merely venting frustration. “This is true, but think on this. Magic was largely responsible for the creation of the crystal. Men were responsible for corruption and greed that went into it. How much better have the rulers in Malweir tried making this world? War. Famine. Plague. Alliances shift as easily as the winds in this age. The Mage War may have started it, but we have been in decline ever since.”
“If you could, would you return the world to the golden age?” Ibram asked.
“With degrees of modification. Those were glorious days when all races felt at ease with each other. You could travel from one coast to the next and not suffer assault. We, as a civilization, have digressed into a near barbaric state. I would see Malweir regain its lost prosperity, if only for a while.”
Ibram shook his head in doubt. “I don’t understand. What assurance is there that any new order won’t recreate the same horrible mistakes? The crystal is the root of evil, Dakeb. What can a new order of Mages accomplish in the face of that?”
“There you are wrong, my young friend. The crystal in itself is far from evil, but it is the manifestation of the malice and cruelty in the hearts of men. We cannot change who we fundamentally are or what lies within us.”
“You make it sound as if there is no hope either direction we seek,” he replied sadly.
“Hope is often what we make of it. Imagine what I have gone through, all of the grief and misery of losing my friends. My world. Seeing everything I knew dissolve down the paths of war. All I cherished is naught but fading memory and has been for centuries. Look into my soul and learn the definition of what it means to truly be alone.”
Ibram thought on that for a moment. The sun was just past late afternoon and starting to set. “Is there any hope?”
Dakeb smiled warmly. “There is always hope. No matter how dark the night gets, there is always hope.”
* * * * *
Faeldrin stood atop the highest tower looking down over the ruined expanse of the Deadlands. He’d never seen such a waste and secretly hoped he never had to again. Elves and the Pell Darga were busy turning the Goblin fortress into a defensive bastion from the coming assault. He already noticed vast improvement. That was good, because time was running out. The cloud of dust first spied by scouts near midday drew steadily onward. The Goblins would be here soon.
The sun was already setting and would soon be hidden behind the twisted Darkwall Mountains. Faeldrin enjoyed what little warmth remained. He had no illusions as to what the dawn offered, supposing the Goblin host continued to march throughout the night. His thoughts turned towards Grelic and the ragtag group of men pushing deeper into this nightmare. It suddenly occurred to him that he taken the better end of the spear.
FORTY-EIGHT
Regret and Tribulation
The moon rose orange, haunting the rooftops of Kelis Dur. Dusty clouds turned the sky into a vision of despair. Those with faint hearts locked their doors and bolted the shutters. Many prayed for the night to pass. It was the day after the assassination attempt on the king and rumors ran wild. Guards and soldiers patrolled the streets, but even they held fear in their eyes.
Inns closed early for fear of dark assassins regrouping to finish their task. People whispered of a renegade army camped outside the walls. These were ill days if me
n tried to murder kings. A few of the seedier taverns remained open. Their doors seldom closed and rarely had patrons of quality. There was healthy profit to be made under the blanket of gripping fear. People needed an outlet. Rich and poor alike crowded the taverns on what many referred to as the Demon’s Night.
King Rentor lacked the desire to drink. He watched the darkness of his city from the balcony to his private chambers. Sorrow crossed his features. His eyes were red, puffy. His beard still smelled of dried blood and bile. Worried creases aged his face far more than his sixty odd years. He’d never felt so alone but took a measure of comfort with his wife being far away to the south. What he needed was advisors. The loss of Father Seldis had been severe and left him with a hollow place in his psyche. So much ill had been done he feared it would never be undone.
It was a ridiculous notion. He had little control of tomorrow; much less the present, no matter how well developed he schemed. Even a king still fell prey to the vagaries of Fate. Surviving the assassination was bittersweet. He’d beaten Codel’s plans but now lacked a true confidant capable of steering him in the proper direction. Worse, he now lacked insight into the enemy’s camp. To make matters worse, Codel had disappeared. He closed his eyes and recalled the last conversation he’d had with his wife before sending her south.
“We can’t control what happens to us. All we have is our lives to lead as well as possible. Evil will always be around, waiting for a misstep. Good is in our hearts, love. For that we need to be grateful. So long as purity beats within us there will always be a chance,” Melena said as she ran her hand gently down his back.
He sniffed back on the mucus clogging his nose. “Your words would lend me courage were it not for the horrors reaching my ears. Never before have such nightmares walked our kingdom.”
The Dragon Hunters Page 35
