“Get down!” Kialla barked harshly.
He fell forward just as the arrow whistled through where his head had been. The feathered shaft caught the escaping Goblin in the neck. The pure force of the strike propelled the body to the ground with a sickening crunch. This fight was over. Shouldering her bow, Kialla rushed to his side with a concerned look. He gave her a lopsided grin and a stole a quick peck on her cheek.
“I’m fine. Most of the blood’s not mine,” he tried to assure her. Pain all but crippled him, forcing him to wonder if he was ever going to be right again. He’d been part of too many nightmares. The soldier met Grelic’s stern gaze.
“Good work,” Grelic said approvingly.
Cron exhaled slowly. He didn’t have much fight left. “They had to have come from somewhere. I say we follow that tunnel.”
Grelic didn’t see many alternatives. “One way is as good as another. I’ll take point. We can’t let you have all the fun.”
Cron hurt too much to laugh.
The tunnel stretched forever. Sloping downward and unlighted, Grelic and the others had but a single torch to keep the shadows at bay. They’d been fortunate not to run into any more Goblins, though Grelic wasn’t prone to trusting blind luck. He pushed as hard as their condition allowed, often having to stoop to avoid cracking his head on the low ceiling. Finally, the tunnel ran into a dead end.
Suddenly trapped, he forced his nerves down and searched for the way out. Like Cron suggested, the Goblins had to have come from somewhere. All they had to do was find the locking mechanism controlling the hidden door. Grelic wedged the dying torch into a crevice and started looking. An axe might have delivered better results. The smoothed walls all looked the same. He growled, low and menacing. Not even Dwarf tunnels in Kressel Tine were so smoothly bored.
A tiny whisper in the back of his mind cautioned him to turn around and head back to the main corridor rather than waste more time down here. More Goblins could have entered behind them and were already heading down. Grelic didn’t particularly enjoy the thought of dying in the cold dark.
“This is impossible,” Cron gasped as his eyes covered every inch of the walls. “There’s no way the switch is on this side.”
Grelic wasn’t convinced. “It must be. How else did that squad get out? We’re missing the obvious.”
Holding his hands out futilely, Cron asked, “Missing what? This is a dead end, Grelic. I say we double back before it’s too late.”
All three knew it might already be too late. A passing patrol would surely have noticed the carnage left without any trouble.
“No. It’s forward or nothing,” Grelic said. “For all we know the entire mountain is alerted to us. Now help me look. There has to be a trigger, a latch, something, damn it.”
Kialla plucked the torch from the wall and waved it over the stone. She grimaced. Soon they’d be trapped in pure darkness. Any hope of finding the trigger would be lost. The dull sensation burning deeply in her shoulder was spreading. The bleeding had stopped but unless they had time to sew up the wound she was at risk of infection or worse. She closed her tired eyes and leaned against the wall.
It felt good to catch her breath. Kialla once again debated whether this was the life meant for her. The notion of abandoning this life of war pressured her already conflicted mind. She awkwardly thought of having children, a wild idea never once entering her mind. She shook her head to clear away temptations. Thinking like that was only going to get them all killed.
Pushing off the wall to steady herself, Kialla noticed the most peculiar thing. The wall closest to her hand was convex and coarse. Curious, she ran her fingers over the stone, feeling the roughness hidden in the stone. The patch was no bigger than her fist. Kialla fought back her smile. Every instinct wanted her to push the button shaped area. She gave in. The hidden tunnel door slid open noisily. She’d done it! The way was open.
Grelic leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Little sister, I don’t know what you did but you just saved us. Come on.”
They stepped out of the tunnel and into a nightmare none of them comprehended.
Krek resisted the urge to barrel head on into the rushing mass of enemy warriors. There was much honor to be claimed for such a deed, but he would pay the ultimate price. Traveling and fighting with the hu taught him much about the difference between honor and arrogance. The only chance he had for survival lay in speed and stealth.
He finished arranging the bodies in front of the entrance to the tunnels and dashed behind a row of squat buildings. Krek sniffed the wind for approaching Goblins. Thin clouds hid the moon, bathing the lands in an unnatural combination of pale light and darkness. The Minotaur grinned. It was a perfect night for killing. The surrounding area clear, he climbed atop the nearest building and slithered to the edge.
Lying prone, he looked down on his foe. Close to forty of the barrel-bodied enemy surged down the street he’d just left. Most were fully garbed in boiled leather armor and armed to the teeth. Others hardly had time to snatch up a sword when the first battle started. Their eyes mirrored looks of caution, of unfiltered hatred. Krek felt positive many of them would rather be killing Elves than hunting ghosts in Mordrun Bal.
The thought of Faeldrin and his spindly Elves made Krek momentarily long for their long bows. The Elves could easily strike down so many opponents without losing a single warrior. He snorted quietly. There was no honor in killing from a distance. After tonight, Krek was finally going to be a fully fledged warrior. His deeds would be sung in legends centuries from now. The young bull continued to watch.
Goblins noticed the piled bodies of their brothers and skidded to a halt. Fear rose in their throats. Several of the bodies were hacked apart or clubbed savagely, as if a vengeful demon had come upon them. The front ranks approached more cautiously. A great enemy was loose in their city. One capable of tearing them to pieces.
“Forward, scum!” snarled the ogre-like whip master as he jostled his way through the ranks. “Move or it’s the lash!”
They snarled and hissed back. Some reflexively clutched their weapons to strike. The smell of blood eased their initial fright. Slowly the mass surged ahead. They eyed the ominous entrance to Druem warily, for the darkness held many things. When the whip master burst to the front rank, even he took pause.
“What’s this?” he asked no one in particular.
The eyes of the dead stared back at him mockingly.
Krek struck that moment. He leapt from the roof, tulwar poised overhead. The weight of his fall drove a handful of Goblins to the ground. Krek kicked, punched, and bit his way back to his feet among the confused enemy. He attacked with unrepressed fury. Each blow of the tulwar made a sickening crunch as bone and flesh were crushed. Chaos broke out among the Goblins. The demon had come for them!
FIFTY-THREE
The Butcher’s Bill
No one noticed the near invisible speck circling high above the ragged peaks of the Darkwall Mountains. Dawn was breaking but the world remained in the grip of the eerie semi-darkness. Ramulus circled lazily, for the great wyrm was in no rush. His crystalline eyes watched and saw everything. The Elves patrolling the ramparts of the twin fortresses. He watched the Goblin camp, restless and preparing for the next assault. He saw the strange brown people who lived in the mountains as they ranged the open plains in search of stray Goblins.
He found it all very amusing. Dragons suffered none of the foolishness mortals seemed to revel in. They lived in their caves and roosts with little concern for the rest of the world. The last thought brought a scowl to his elongated face. He hadn’t been free since the dark Mage came unto the dragon lands in search of the first shard. Ramulus lost his freedom on that cold winter day. Now the foolish mortals below were all going to pay. But not yet. Ramulus decided to wait and watch awhile longer. After all, what was time to a dragon?
* * * * *
Mearlis watched the Goblin camp with growing disinterest. They’d been besieged for the better
part of two and a half days and the Goblins hadn’t come any nearer to breaking through. The sickly sweet smell from the last attack remained pungent, acrid even on the humid morning air. He shuddered from the memory of watching so many Goblins die screaming as they burned. The Elves had poured large cauldrons of their explosives down on the enemy as they tried to climb their assault ladders. Several corpses still clung to the ruined ladders.
The worst part was that complacency was already setting in. He’d already caught fragments of whispers over the poorly coordinated Goblin attacks or how the enemy had no chance to break through. Some of the Aeldruin laughed and assumed their duties halfheartedly. Mearlis recognized the danger but didn’t know how to combat it. He hoped Faeldrin had the answer.
“What news this morning?” asked the Elf Lord as he yawned and stretched away the last traces of slumber.
Mearlis pointed down. “They’re preparing for another assault.”
Faeldrin walked to the edge and looked down. The smell of roasted meat dangled angrily in his nostrils. He wondered where they’d gotten the meat from. Perhaps the rumors of cannibalism were true. Either way, he didn’t wish to find out. He glanced at his brother. “You have that look in your eyes. What is it?”
Mearlis absently rolled his eyes. “We’re becoming complacent, Faeldrin. I have a bad feeling, something I can’t explain, nagging at the back of my mind. This is too easy. It makes no sense to waste an army like this. They’re being slaughtered just as fast as we can kill them and none of their commanders seem willing to retire. That bodes ill.”
Faeldrin let out a repressed sigh. He’d felt the same since they beat back the Trolls. A dozen scenarios played out in his mind’s eye. Something was indeed amiss, though what he couldn’t tell. The Goblin war horn played a sorrowful dirge.
“Time again,” he grimaced. “How is that lonely note supposed to inspire their soldiers? It makes me sad.”
He grew tired of hiding behind the devilish black rock of the castles, longing to ride forth into the enemy army. He wasn’t alone. Every last one of the Aeldruin felt the same. They were cavalrymen, not infantry or skirmishers. Hiding behind stone walls was insulting, bordering on cowardice. Even so, the mercenaries reaped fine glory onto their already storied name.
Elves rose from their resting positions and took their places on the walls and barricade. Only three had been killed and a dozen wounded thus far. Faeldrin kept the numbers running through his mind. Casualties were minimal but they wouldn’t be able to sustain that pace for long before the Aeldruin became combat ineffective.
“Arrows! Incoming!”
He ducked just as hundreds of black shafts filled the sky. A handful of screams from those too slow to react accompanied the clank and tink of arrows striking. Faeldrin immediately understood what was happening. This attack was a diversion. Another volley landed, and another.
“They didn’t have this many archers the last time they tried this!” Mearlis yelled.
Indeed they hadn’t. Faeldrin risked a glance through one of the crudely made bolt holes. The sun was cresting the far horizon, bathing the plains in brilliant yellow. He dropped his eyes on the advancing infantry and drifted to rank upon rank of archers. It didn’t look good. Satisfied, he ducked back behind cover.
“They were resupplied during the night,” he said.
Mearlis shook his head. An arrow struck the wall near his head and skipped off in a shower of sparks. “I really wish they’d get this over with so we can focus on that damned dragon.”
Faeldrin grinned fiercely. “I didn’t tell you the best part. Their infantry is massed under a canopy of heavy shields. The wedge is pushing for the barricade. They’re going to batter it down while the archers keep us pinned down.”
Mearlis looked down and saw the iron wedge draw closer. Worse, he saw their plan had a chance of succeeding. With such a sustained rate of fire, the Elves wouldn’t be able to redirect their own fire down on the advancing infantry without serious risk.
“What do we do?” he asked.
Faeldrin drew his sword. “Let’s go fight some infantry.”
Together they crawled to the staircase and hurried down to join the defense.
“They seek to break us!” Aleor told the Elves on the barricade. He pointed, “See, look there. They’re bringing battering rams. Heavy infantry is forming up in column behind for the final thrust into our perimeter. I don’t think we can hold.”
Faeldrin spied his enemy. Hidden beneath a ring of iron shield came the heavy rams. The heads were carved in the likeness of fire-breathing demons. He had the idea that they’d seen war before and, no doubt, success. Behind the initial engineer assault came close to a thousand infantry bearing axe, sword, and war bars. Too few Elven arrows bounced off the thick shields.
“Not good,” he finally said.
He didn’t bother to explain what they all knew. If the infantry managed to break through, the sheer weight in numbers would swarm over the Elves. All stood to be won or lost on this assault. Faeldrin retracted his earlier thoughts that Goblins were unorganized. A new dark thought entered his mind. The Aeldruin had been set up!
The Silver Mage knew exactly what he was doing. Pride and the jubilation of easy victory quickly changed to arrogance. He angrily punched the rock. That arrogance led the Elves to where they now stood. Archers were virtually useless and the main body was outnumbered better than ten to one. That’s a lot of killing. There’s no possible way we can win this. I have damned us all.
A sudden thought sparked. He rounded on his war leaders. “Bring up the ballistae. Archers may be of no use to us now but we’ve still got a fight to win. Quickly now! Detail two squads to bring them up.”
Aleor and Mearlis overcame their initial confusion and dashed off shouting orders. Neither knew exactly what Faeldrin was planning, though both had a good idea. If this last minute scheme worked it would break the Goblins for good. If not, their quest was doomed. Elves ran through the field of fire to gain the secreted weapons. The sun was already starting to warm up. Shadows receded into the crags and deep mountain ravines. Arrows struck all around. A handful of Elves pushed and pulled the heavy weapons forward. Faeldrin cursed. They were moving too slowly. The Goblins were within two hundred meters.
Finally, he shouted, “Help them! Everyone!”
The rest of the Elves manning the barricade exposed themselves to fire in order to finish the task. Three fell. Both ballistae were rolled into position and ready to fire moments later. The Aeldruin had trained extensively in the time since joining with Dakeb. Elves emplaced both weapon systems and loaded. Gunners sighted in on the enemy wedge and the defenders hurried back to the barricade to take up sword and shield.
Faeldrin stayed with the gunners. “Put both shots right down their throats. Once that wedge shatters I want you to keep up your fire into the infantry.”
“Yes sir!” both gunners replied and adjusted their aim.
Cocking arms cranked back, rounds loaded, the ballistae were ready. The Elf Lord whispered a silent prayer. He’d never been the one to kill for pleasure, but at this moment he wanted every last one of the Goblins dead. He slowly raised his right hand.
“Fire!” he roared and dropped his hand sharply.
Both weapons thrummed as the heavy projectiles rocketed forward. The Goblin wedge advanced, grunting cadences and slamming their heavy shields. The effect was meant to inspire fear, having proved successful numerous times. A handful of Elves were brave enough to risk getting shot just to watch the enemy attack. Those who did saw the heavy timber projectiles slice into the wedge with unparalleled fury.
Body parts flung in every direction. Shields dropped amidst a shower of dark blood. The mighty rams hit the ground with bone-crunching sickness. Few had time to scream. The bolts ripped through the shielded wedge and into the front ranks of the follow-on infantry. Massed so tightly together, they never stood a chance.
Rear ranks continued to advance, unaware of the horrors they we
re forcing onto their comrades. The Elves wasted no time watching the effects of their gunnery. Firing levers were already cocking to fire again. The ballistae let loose again and dozens more died. The offensive broke after the third salvo. Goblin archers drew back, staying long enough to cover what was left of the infantry.
Despite the severity of the present situation, none of the Elves bothered to return fire. Some stood in simple disbelief. Others felt elation. All stared at the nightmare scene in various shades of shock. Close to five hundred bodies littered the battlefield. Blood pooled so thickly the air was drowning in the smell of iron. A few of the Aeldruin dropped to their knees and vomited. It was a scene none of them ever wanted to see again and wished to have never seen in the first place.
Faeldrin wiped the bile from his lips and watched the disorganized regiment of Goblins flounder about. A deep sense of loss rattled them. They realized they couldn’t win. Too many lives had been lost. This single, costly siege laid to waste their dreams of conquest. An eerie silence drifted over the slaughter. For his part, the Elf Lord knew his Elves would never be the same again.
“I believe we have won for the day,” he said dryly.
Mearlis found difficulty forming the right words. “Shouldn’t we ride out and end this now?”
Faeldrin shook his head. “There’s been enough killing. Let them retire and think about what happened. Fear will keep them from attacking any time soon.”
“What if the dark Mage comes? Or the dragon?” Aleor asked.
Faeldrin half smiled. “The dragon we are ready for. At least as much as we can be. Let’s hope Dakeb has a handle on Sidian. Or the Goblins may still win the field.”
Lazily circling Deldin Grim, the great dragon Ramulus rode the air currents and watched the battle develop. He’d suddenly grown bored, and hungry. The dragon roared and dove. His time had come.
The Dragon Hunters Page 39
