FIFTY
The Battle of Deldin Grim
“Come on then!” Mearlis shouted from behind the black rock of the captured Goblin keep. Crenellations stuck up like hideous teeth hungry for the taste of raw flesh. “What do you suppose they’re waiting for?”
Faeldrin stared off into what had become a roiling mass of enemy soldiers. Dawn broke across the far horizon. The sun was red as blood, an ill omen. Rank after rank of infantry marched to a halt just beyond arrow range. They were packed tightly, displaying none of the fear the Elf Lord had hoped for after seeing so many of their comrades strewn casually across the surrounding area. He could see the front ranks carrying cruel-looking barbed pikes. Silver standards blew in the stiff breeze.
He watched grimly as even more soldiers pressed forward. The concentrated sounds of their footsteps and clanging armor was as thunder on a hot summer night. Loose rock broke free from the ragged mountainsides. Flocks of vultures, already gathered for the veritable feast littering the plain, circled high above. Faeldrin felt their presence more than noticed it. The smell of death was already ripe in the air. He had little doubt it would get worse.
A company of war Trolls pushed their way towards the front of the army. Each carried mighty double-headed battle axes and were armored in plain leather jerkins. They were monstrous creatures, each standing close to ten feet tall and so heavily muscled they often appeared sluggish. Their mottled grey-brown skin blended perfectly with their surroundings. Dimwitted at best, their prominent brows and narrow, beady eyes displayed none of the intelligence the Goblins possessed. They were bred for heavy labor and for killing. Faeldrin grimaced in the knowledge that no arrow or sword would be of use against their near impenetrable hides. Trolls feared no weapons but fire. The Elf Lord smiled secretly for he had a surprise for them.
The rear rank of the army carried long-scaling ladders and something else Faeldrin couldn’t make out. He had no idea how many had come to lay siege. A guess took him between two and three thousand. He whistled appreciatively. Odds were decidedly against him. Even with Cpur and his mountain folk, the Elves were sorely outnumbered. They’d be hard pressed just to hold the walls. The Elf Lord paused to check the stone and wood barricade hastily constructed across the mouth of Deldin Grim. Suddenly his carefully laid defenses appeared meager. All it would take was the Trolls to smash it asunder. He didn’t even want to consider the dragon.
“I believe they are waiting for a sign,” he replied.
“A sign? What could they possibly need?”
Faeldrin gave his brother a confident smile. “Why wait to find out? Let’s give them an invitation.”
He reached down and picked up the ash long bow that had seen him through numerous tough times. Faeldrin took his time, drawing the arrow from over his shoulder and setting it to string. A slight wind funneled through the pass to kiss his cheek and playfully tussle his hair. The bow creaked under the strain of being drawn. He took careful aim and loosed.
Humming on the under currents, the missile sped fast and true. Goblins were too immersed in the throes of a building rage to notice one small arrow streaking towards them. Believing themselves safe, they didn’t think the Elven weapons would be a threat. Whip masters lashed out to get the army into assault ranks. The arrow struck a dead tree a few meters ahead of the front rank and both exploded in flames. Three Goblins fell, heavily burned. The Trolls mewled, fright in their eyes. Their ancient fear forced them away. Chaos gripped the front of the enemy host.
Faeldrin nodded.
“That worked nicely,” Mearlis commented. “They should be quite incensed now.”
“That’s the idea.”
“How did you know that little plan was going to work?”
He was beaming now. “The Pell Darga are crafty people. Cpur used his best engineers to ensure distance was correct. A subtle demonstration. I also had them coat the nearest trees with their flammable gel. We have close to a hundred explosive arrowheads ready. The paste is highly combustible, similar to corrosive tree sap. They’ll be more hesitant in coming at us.”
“Until the dragon arrives.”
“Worry about that when it happens. That, we are prepared for,” Faeldrin said. At least I hope so.
“Let us hope your other tricks have the same effects. I’m going down to ensure the defenses are ready. Those Trolls are going to be murderous when they get their act together.” Mearlis shrugged and walked away.
“You have such a way with words,” Faeldrin said to his back.
“You’re the positive one here,” Mearlis laughed and disappeared around the corner.
The Elf Lord remained, watching as panic spread through the enemy ranks. It was slight and relatively ineffective once they figured out what had happened. Faeldrin hoped their confusion lasted awhile longer. He needed every moment he could get.
A horn sounded just past midday. The sound was twisted and ugly, reminding the Elves of bad times. They rushed from the shade to their battle positions and beheld their foe. The Goblins wasted no time trying to organize back into ranks. Ladders and strange harpoon-like devices with long coils of rope resting on platforms were being moved up behind the front ranks. Archers followed, then the main body.
Faeldrin counted their strength and found the faintest flicker of hope. The Goblin archers were practically useless, though effective enough to keep the Elves’ heads down while the front ranks charged. The first assault was designed to fail. It was costly. It was also designed to capture the defenders’ full attention. Faeldrin almost smiled at the predictability of the move. He would have if not for the host of Trolls itching to attack. If it weren’t for the massive, armored creatures, the Goblin ranks would smash upon the black rock in broken tides. Trolls had a way of changing everything.
Again the horn bleated a baleful tune. The Trolls responded first. They clashed their heavy weapons together. The sound had a wicked metallic shred that grated the skin. Loosing their first volley, Goblin archers reloaded and took aim again.
Safe behind the ancient stone, the Elven defenders patiently avoided the poisoned barbs whistling by. The dead wood shafts clicked across the rock face, falling harmlessly. Faeldrin dared enough of a glance to confirm his suspicions. A third horn blast sent the massed ranks towards the keep. He prayed his Aeldruin held their fire until the proper moment. If not, the siege might already be lost.
All around him Elves readied for battle. A current of excitement, fear, and uncanny calm shrouded them. They’d been through such horrible times before. While many of their ranks had fallen in battle, the Aeldruin never left the field to the enemy. They were going to need divine intervention to do so today. Faeldrin might have felt better if he knew how many of the Pell Darga warriors waited in the shadows or where they’d disappeared to. He hadn’t seen Cpur since the morning after they sacked the keep. Close to one hundred of the brown-skinned warriors stood ready to fight the oncoming army, but there was no sign of their leader.
The Goblin war machine attacked. Hundreds of squat, muscular warriors howled in bloodlust and sprinted towards the barricade. Faeldrin waited until they were well past the rows of prepared trees before giving the command to fire.
“Archers! Fire!” he bellowed.
Dozens of shafts sizzled through the air, bringing death to many Goblins. The charge was too strong, though. Follow-on warriors clamored over the corpses of their brethren. The Elves continued firing. True to thought, the Trolls carved a path through the center of the ranks to attack the barricade. Faeldrin’s eyes were drawn to the mighty wedge of Trolls. Even from this height he saw the malicious intent burning in their eyes. Only two possible outcomes remained. They would either die in the process or drive the Trolls back. Either way, that barricade was coming down. He only prayed Aleor and his crews were ready. If not, there wouldn’t be any need to worry about the dragon. Trolls brushed aside the lesser Goblins and advanced. Another volley of arrows sped towards the walls.
Faeldrin gripped the ston
e wall. Come on. Just a little further, you nasty bastards. The line drew even with the front ranks. Goblins hurriedly moved aside lest they were trampled beneath the lumbering monsters. They drew even with the trees. The Elf Lord fired his explosive tip arrow. His shaft sped true, striking the dead tree in the center of the line. Fire erupted in wicked explosions. A Troll fell, bathed in flames. Two others dropped their weapons and ran off.
Two rapid flights of arrows struck various tree boles and detonated. Flames blazed, sending plumes of rich, black smoke curling high into the sky. Bodies, Trolls and Goblins alike, were flung through the air in ragged lumps of destroyed flesh. Charred skin permeated the air. The advance halted. Panic gripped the Trolls and many more followed the first pair. Those few that had escaped the inferno bellowed their rage and ran towards the barricade faster.
“Damn,” Faeldrin muttered and sprinted to his alternate firing position.
Elven defenders on the ground focused their energy and readied to meet the horrors of the Troll assault. Trolls only had two weak spots: their eyes and their armpits. Anything else was a wasted shot. There were tales of Dwarven war bands spending hours trying to kill a single Troll. In every case the casualties were high. Faeldrin pushed those thoughts aside and dropped into position.
Consumed by unnatural rage, the Trolls blindly sped towards the fragile defense. The first of them reached the shallow ditch spanning the pass and leapt over without second thought. He was dead before his feet touched the ground. Frenzied with bloodlust, none of them noticed the single arrow until it struck the gelled substance filling the ditch. The explosion thundered throughout Deldin Grim. It was the sound of a god dying. Elves and Goblins recoiled to cover their ears. Tremendous pain pounded them, drowning out the screams of the dying.
The Troll advance was finished. Only a handful remained, and those were bloodied and broken. Whip masters lashed out at the retreating creatures only to be crushed underfoot or thrown aside. Having lost momentum, the Goblins retreated out of arrow range to regroup. Dusk was already approaching.
Faeldrin finished gnawing on a piece of stale, dark bread, washing it down with a swig from his canteen. He rubbed at the soreness bothering his neck and shoulders. If anything, it made the sensation worse. Hours had passed since the first attack with nothing happening. The sounds of construction could be heard from the Goblin camp but the night hampered any chance of seeing what was being built.
Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine to find himself holed up in such a foreboding place while waiting for an enemy army to break through and slaughter them. Death clung to everything. The catastrophic scene was most disturbing. Every so often the flutter of wings announced another flight of vultures swooping in for a quick bite. The Elf Lord didn’t mind so much, but seriously doubted the Goblin commander was inclined to call a truce in order to reclaim the bodies. Without meaning to, Faeldrin fell asleep.
He was awakened a short time later. Euorn stood over him, an intense look blazing in his eyes.
“What?” Faeldrin asked.
“The enemy readies to attack. Mearlis sent me to rouse you.”
Faeldrin grinned sheepishly. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Damned funny thing war was. Once the initial surge of emotions settled and the battle took on a more protracted pace, fatigue set in. Apprehensions tended to run high during sieges. It was all his warriors could do to keep their emotions from running wild. Faeldrin recognized this as the most dangerous time. The part when an attack might come at any given moment, or not.
“Is everyone in place?”
Euorn nodded briskly. “We’ve seen to it.”
“What of the Pell Darga?”
“No news, my lord. We still have those hundred that stayed behind but there has been no sign of the others. I fear they might have abandoned us,” the Elf replied.
Faeldrin wasn’t so sure. “I don’t think so. They are a most hardy folk from what little I understand of them. Cpur is not the one to cut and run, given his hatred of the Goblins. Worrying about them doesn’t help. Let’s see to the attack. Where is Mearlis?”
Euorn helped him to his feet and headed for the stairwell when a shrill voice cried out in the night.
“Incoming!”
Both Elves spun about. Balls of fire rocketed towards them. Faeldrin grabbed Euorn and threw him down as one of the missiles exploded against the crenellation. Black rock and flame washed down to the ground.
“”They’ve got catapults!” Faeldrin shouted over the roar of more incoming rounds.
Flaming boulders continued to pulverize sections of the keep, each one tearing away some part of the defense. The vibrations went deep, reverberating up his legs. The Goblins weren’t going to waste much more time attempting a frontal assault. They aimed to bring the fortress down on the defenders’ heads. The Elves ran towards the command group, stopping to dodge two additional rounds. They found Mearlis standing over a kneeling healer and the broken body of a warrior spitting blood. Three other bodies had been lined against the near wall, arms folded over their chests. The attack was not going well.
“We count ten catapults. The Goblins built them well. They are well out of our range,” Mearlis reported with frustration.
Faeldrin looked his brother over. He was covered in grime and dust. A few bloodstains peppered his sleeves. A tiny trickle of blood ran down the right side of his face from his tousled brown hair. Faeldrin then took in the dead. All three he’d known for a mortal lifetime. The butcher’s bill was going to be much higher before this affair concluded.
“We sure pick interesting fights,” he said halfheartedly.
Mearlis grunted.
Another salvo bombarded them, this time striking the barricade.
“A few more like that and we’ll be forced to retreat,” Mearlis said, brushing off a new coat of dust.
A pair of Elves ran by, carrying a litter.
“We’ve got to do something now. A few more salvos and there’ll be no need to retreat. We’ll be crushed,” Faeldrin replied. “Riding out is out of the question. They’d kill us before we could penetrate their ranks enough to reach the machines. If we retreat, the Goblins retake Deldin Grim and we lose any chance of hunting that dragon.”
“It would also cut off the strike force in Mordrun Bal. Dark decisions need to be made,” Mearlis added.
One of the ramps on the far tower collapsed after taking a direct hit. Unexpectedly, one of the Pell warriors emerged from the shadows wearing a lopsided grin. The Elves stared down on him, wondering what he knew and they didn’t. The rest of the night passed without further incident. There wasn’t any infantry assault. The Trolls were gone. Slowly, the Elves reclaimed their dead and offered rituals of passage to the next life. Faeldrin went to each of his warriors and made small attempts to raise their spirits. They were remarkably high considering what they’d endured thus far. Some complained about the pounding in their ears. Others laughed over the Goblins’ inadequacies. The false bravado was a necessary thing. Each silently wondered how much worse the next attack was going to be.
Sentries reported large fires springing up from the rear of the Goblin camp. Columns of smoke choked the darkness. Dawn let the Elves see how bad the damage to the twin keeps was. Holes large enough to pour entire battalions through were scattered up and down the walls. The center barricade was crumbling. Some sections continued to topple throughout the night. Faeldrin knew they couldn’t sustain another assault.
“What do you suppose those fires were for?” he asked Aleor from high atop one of the observation towers.
The scout shook his head. “Hard to tell. My eyes don’t spy any of those damned catapults though.”
Faeldrin peered harder. Something about the scene didn’t feel right. Just what, he couldn’t place his finger on. “What are all of those black shapes flanking the rear of their main camp?”
Aleor drew his collapsible spy glass. “Bodies. They look like Goblin bodies.”
How? Who? Ques
tions leapt into his mind. The Elf Lord had a guess but wasn’t sure until a runner found him and announced that the Pell Darga had returned.
“They didn’t run after all,” he said and smiled.
Any thoughts of victory were short lived as the horrid sounds of the Goblin war horn blew on the winds.
FIFTY-ONE
Desperate Measures
Dark blood and gore dripped from Grelic’s sword. The weight of his muscles trembled from exertion. He wasn’t as young as he liked to think. Even his legendary strength was nothing compared to the destructive forces of time. His breath came in haggard gasps as his heart struggled to slow down. A host of corpses lay at his feet. Sensing no living foe, the giant allowed himself to relax. That’s when he noticed half of his group was missing.
“Where’s the Mage?” he asked sharply.
The others stopped what they were doing. Kialla winced as the bandage Cron wrapped around her wounded should was too tight. She passed Grelic an “I’m fine” look and noticed the horror in his eyes. A quick sweep of the area confirmed her suspicions. More than just Dakeb was missing.
“None of them are here,” Cron snapped as he raced to search the nearest hovels. “Do you think Pregen forced them away?”
Grelic shook his head. “Unlikely. Dakeb could have turned him to stone for trying anything so foolish.”
“Then what?” Kialla asked.
Krek dropped to a knee and sniffed deeply. The reek of the Goblin village was overpowering yet he managed to pick out Dakeb’s scent. His coal black eyes narrowed. Muscles on his back and shoulders bunched. Without a word he pointed in the direction the Mage had gone.
Grelic cursed. “Right under the mountain! Damnable Mage. We were supposed to stick together. This is not good.”
Stabbing his sword into the ground, Cron looked around in despair. “Now what? None of us know what that crazy old man was planning. There’s no way we can expect to go up against the dark Mage with swords and brawn. We can’t win like this, Grelic.”
The Dragon Hunters Page 37
