Terms acceptable, Scrum nodded back. “We’ll give you as much time as we can but, Elf Lord, it won’t be much.”
The slightest hint of fear lingered in his words, giving Faeldrin pause. He’d never heard a Dwarf speak of such and prayed never to again.
Scrum turned back to the battle. Less than forty Dwarves remained. All but a handful of the cannon crews were dead, but the Goblins had no idea how to use the terrible weapons so the heated iron barrels sat patiently awaiting their final roar. That time had come. Scrum gave Faeldrin a brief glance, enough to see the majority of Elves and a handful of Dwarves fighting their way to safety. Fare thee well, my friends. Look for us at Brek’s table!
He dashed over to the nearest cannon and lit the fuse. Goblins swarmed around him moments before the cannon exploded. Packed with as much gunpowder as they had remaining, both cannons were deliberately sabotaged by their owners. The resulting explosions killed scores of Goblins and more than a few Dwarves. Scrum’s last sights were of fire and blood.
* * * * *
Crows and vultures flocked to the battlefield. Feathers drifted down while birds cawed and chased each other from the abundance of meat. The battle had lasted most of the day but was finally over. Eighty-seven Dwarves lay dead, their bodies hacked apart in a twisted ritual of hatred stemming back to the first Dwarf-Goblin war. Nine Elves were also among the litter of bodies, their near immortal flames snuffed by utter cruelty. As gruesome as those totals were, Goblin losses far exceeded any expectations. Close to eight hundred had been killed, most by the pair of cannons. Another seven hundred were wounded. Of those, at least two hundred wouldn’t live through the night. While the losses were appalling, the Goblins weren’t content with their victory. The true war lay in the west. Each moment of delay was one they couldn’t afford.
Striding like a conqueror through the mass of bodies was a Goblin of immense proportions. Nearly five feet tall and well over two hundred pounds of honed muscle, the Goblin Lord Thrask surveyed all with great disdain. Smaller Goblins scraped and bowed to get out of his way. Elongated tusks dripped menacingly from his mouth. His face was a mass of scars. The right eye had gone dead long ago, after taking an Elf sword across it. He fondly recalled strangling the Elf in response. Long, jet black hair draped over his massive shoulders, falling halfway down his wide back. His armor was well used, unbefitting of a lord. But Thrask was a warrior first, lord second.
His piercing, black eyes, small and nestled under a thick brow, fell on the twisted metal of the cannons. So simple a thing to have caused such massive amounts of destruction. He stalked closer, overcoming his initial fear of the things. He reached a clawed hand out, tentatively touching the now cool metal. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered and, deep inside, ever wanted to again. Dwarves were known for their treachery. It was no surprise that the foul mountain dwellers would find new ways to slaughter his kind. Fresh waves of hatred pulsed from his dark heart. Thrask vowed not to stop until every last Dwarf was killed.
Growling his displeasure, the Goblin Lord turned to his retinue and ordered the advance. War was coming and he aimed to set the world on fire. The Goblin war machine lurched forward, leaving behind their dead and wounded. Weapons were shouldered. Ancient battle songs reached up to the heavens and the heavy stomp of hobnailed boots echoed across the frozen plains like the sound of impending doom.
TWELVE
Arlevon Gale
Malweir had not always been at war. Once, so long ago that none recalled, not even the long-lasting memories of the Elves, there had been peace. The gods ruled with utter surety. All matters of good and bad were metered out accordingly. Life developed slowly, almost casually. The gods maintained their presence throughout the course of several millennia. Entire species were created and discarded on whims during the exhaustive quest for perfection. The world expanded, heating and cooling in vast extremes.
No one could say from whence the gods came. Some speculated they originated in the distant stars and were making their way across space and time. Others argued they simply willed themselves into existence. The true power of the gods lay in belief. Without it they were nothing. Without it they died. The most prominent scholars among Elves and Dwarves all agreed that this constant quest for perfection and the need for devotion was what led to the schism. The gods created obscene creatures for their own pleasures. A rift formed. Two sides emerged: light and dark. All who refused to take sides were destroyed without thought. There was no place in the new world for the unaligned.
The war of the gods consumed much of the world’s population. Brother battled brother in the name of distant causes spurred by the gods. Malweir burned. Eventually entire races fell to darkness. Trolls and Goblins kept to the night, comfortable under the tutelage of their new, dark masters. Gnomes and dragons followed. Hope teetered on extinction. But all was not lost. Elves, Dwarves, Giants, and Men, always the upstart race, capable of either bringing great glory to all of the world or plunging it down into total darkness.
Generations came and went under the conscriptions enforced by the gods. Generations lost on battlefields far and near. Mothers wept by hearths. The old languished under waves of guilt for not being able to stand with their kin on the line. Children grew up planning for the day when their names were called. A day every parent dreaded. Too few sons, brothers, and fathers returned from the war. Too few to rebuild their strength in sufficient numbers. Only the fell denizens of evil managed to break the code of immediate recreation. Goblins poured from the mountains in droves.
For a while the balance threatened to shift towards darkness. Then the gods of light unleashed their most cherished creation: the knights of Gaimos. Bred to be the best fighters in the world, the Gaimosians dominated every battlefield they ever stepped foot on. Evil retreated on all fronts. The end was in sight. The forces of good surrounded their enemies and prepared for the final battle. A battle that never came.
Sensing their defeat, the dark gods sued for peace. They begged the gods of light to end the war, thus abandoning Malweir for their creations to rule as they saw fit. It was a scheme the gods of light failed to perceive. Already plans were in motion for the dark gods to return and claim total dominance over all life. Three nexuses were built, magical areas where the border between dimensions faded enough to allow passage. It was through these three hallowed places the dark gods attempted their return every thousand years. Trapped by the merits of their virtue, the gods of light were unable to return and prevent their fallen brothers from attempting their return. All of their hopes rested on the shoulders of the Gaimosians. Only through their martial prowess were they able to prevent evil from ascending. Gifted with more than just military abilities, the Gaimosians became the fathers of the order of Mages. Such was the balance maintained until now.
The fall of Gaimos was a carefully orchestrated event. Manipulated by the Dae’shan and the dark gods, several kingdoms banded together to attack the fierce warriors with greed and jealousy. The annihilation was almost complete. Kingdomless, the survivors fled to the far corners of Malweir, ever searching for the return of their namesake. Prophecy stated that one day the realm of Gaimos would return and peace would follow. It was a prophecy the enemies of light struggled to be kept hidden from the rest of the world.
The war against evil continued for tens of thousands of years. Heroes and villains came and went, their legends passed down from father to son. Tokens of power were forged by master smiths. Timeless weapons that served their original intent with uncanny precision. Life and death took on new meaning. Without knowing it, the war centered around the nexuses. The first was destroyed by a band of Gaimosians recently displaced from fallen Gaimos. The war ended quickly and the surviving heroes marched eastward to found the castle of Ipn Shal and what would one day become the order of Mages.
Many thousands of years later the second nexus came under attack. Sidian, the Silver Mage, emboldened by the power of the dark gods, subsumed the land of Gren and raised a mas
sive army with the intent of dominating the world. A small band of reluctant heroes assembled and marched into Gren while the war raged in western Averon. The dark gods nearly succeeded in returning to Malweir before a young boy from the village of Fel Darrins sacrificed his life to stop them. Rejected, the enemies of light retreated again.
Arlevon Gale was the last remaining nexus. Once a place of great prominence in northern Malweir, it was castle, trading post, and cultural center all in one. Folks of every race gathered to trade secrets and wealth, all blissfully unaware of the raw power threads lurking just beneath the earth. If only they had known Arlevon Gale was one of the three sacred places through which the dark gods could return, they might have ruled differently. As was the way of most civilizations, greed and avarice overwhelmed moral decency. People succumbed to their vices and madness took the land. Arlevon Gale burned one night and didn’t stop for a hundred years. Malweir had never seen the like.
Endless hours of torment and suffering pulsed into the atmosphere. Screams echoed for years before their pain finally wore out. Haunted, shunned by the rest of the world, Arlevon Gale fell into ruin and was almost forgotten. Only the Dae’shan dared occupy the once hallowed grounds. They twisted mortal flesh, creating new demons with which to wage their silent war on Malweir. They captured and manipulated the flesh, challenging genetic codes until the perfect combination of DNA was born. The bearers would be the ones to unlock the secrets of the Olagath Stone, a weapon of intense power that absorbed the torment of a hundred thousand souls. Souls that would force open the nexus and release the dark gods.
The Olagath Stone could only be unlocked by one of the proper blood. Amar Kit’han had originally believed that person to be Badron, king of Delranan. Breaking him had been easy, almost too easy. The challenge wasn’t present, forcing the Dae’shan to reevaluate his previous observations. Badron was weak. His only son murdered at the hands of the prince of Rogscroft, an accident to be sure but a necessary one. That left Maleela. The unwanted princess. Her strength, passion, and resistance to evil made her the perfect choice. Breaking her wasn’t going to be an easy chore, but Amar Kit’han was extremely experienced with torture.
He delighted in the mental torment constantly inflicted on the young woman. That she hadn’t begun to crack was testament to the strength of her soul. When she did fall, it was going to be beyond the point of redemption. Amar Kit’han would forever claim her to be his proudest achievement.
Standing on the one-way glass roof, he watched as she greedily consumed the tepid water and semi-rotted loaf of dark bread. The princess of Delranan had abandoned all decorum, slowly giving in to animalistic urges. She didn’t realize it but she was becoming less human. He needed her to be borderline aggressive, like the early races emerging from total night. Kodan Bak suggested drugging her with hallucinogens and mood enhancers, but Amar flatly refused. Mind altering chemicals were good for the common man, but he wanted Maleela to break on her own accord. She needed to understand what was changing inside on the basest level.
“You waste much time,” Kodan hissed, materializing beside the elder Dae’shan. “She should already be a willing servant.”
Amar contemplated ignoring his second. Their debate had become tiresome. He almost wished Kodan would make his move for power so that they could set it aside and carry on with the dark gods’ will. “She already is, though she knows it not. The human mind is fragile, Kodan Bak, more so than you can recall. Her body remains hale while her mind slowly withers. Trapped inside this cell, and the husk that she is slowly turning into, Maleela will soon be ready to accept the blessing of the dark gods and fulfill her destiny.”
“And the father? What of him?” Kodan asked.
Amar paused. He hadn’t thought of Badron for many weeks now. The vagabond king was of no consequence. He’d played his part and committed the northern kingdoms to pure chaos. Whatever he became was no matter to the Dae’shan. “An unfortunate side effect. He served his purpose and is free to go where he will.”
Kodan drifted closer, thoughts of murder entertaining him. “Perhaps you should know Badron has already returned to Delranan.”
“With no army,” Amar countered thoughtfully. “The Wolfsreik abandoned him and poor Grugnak’s Goblin army is all but decimated. Whatever force remaining loyal to the deposed king is inconsequential. Our focus needs to be on Maleela.”
“Using her to activate the Stone is a small matter. There is a war coming to this part of the world. Rogscroft is finished. It will take decades to rebuild. Goblins, Dwarves, and Men are about to clash on these very plains. Not even our power is sufficient to save our lives.”
It was an interesting concept. Their lives were technically over several thousand years ago when their mortal shells died. Their ascension to more left them without the complexities that restrained mortal beings. They were able to see oh so much more with the gifts bestowed upon them by the gods. Amar Kit’han didn’t like being reminded of his past weakness. He’d risen to his rank through brutality and deception. Kodan Bak aimed to steal that from him. It was an old ploy the Dae’shan often succumbed to. Amar relished the opportunity to prove his dominance yet again. Until that moment arrived he needed to focus on the task at hand. Let Kodan deal with Badron if it concerned him so. Maleela was the true prize.
“What do you propose to do about it? We were never intended to fight wars, merely push them in the correct direction,” he finally asked.
Kodan hesitated, suddenly caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Amar to acquiesce so easily. The action made him wary. “Badron remains a power player. He will not stop until he either wins back his stolen crown or dies in the attempt.”
“Perhaps you should facilitate that early demise,” Amar suggested. Kodan’s words bothered him on many levels. He despised being wrong, about anything, but there was no way of denying that Badron wasn’t about to cause trouble. He knew too much of what the Dae’shan intended. It would only be a matter of time before he put enough pieces together and headed towards Arlevon Gale. That couldn’t happen. On the other hand, Badron’s interference was bound to further complicate matters developing around them. The distraction might prove beneficial as the hour of the dark gods’ return approached. Amar was truly torn for the first time in recent memory.
Kodan Bak sensed his dilemma and pressed. “Could we not further use him to our advantage? Our enemies will still be hunting him. If he could reunite with the One Eye Pelthit Re seems intent on toying with they could eliminate one another and draw focus far from here.”
Interested, Amar asked, “What do you propose?”
THIRTEEN
New Allies
They stalked across the snow like wraiths. Footprints so light they barely left marks. Each of the three was focused. Their eyes never strayed from the target. Heartbeats thundered in their ears, unheard by the rest of the world. Stripped of armor, they were able to move quicker, cover more distance than being encumbered by the heavy cast iron and boiled leather that had saved their lives more times than any could count. That initial awkward feeling had passed. They felt lighter, quicker. More like scouts than heavy infantry, the trio was able to cover great distance in half the time.
The leader dropped to a knee and raised a fist, immediately halting the other two. Professionals all, they scanned left and right in hopes of spying their quarry. Bow strings were drawn tighter. One licked his lips in anticipation. Their leader leaned forward, examining the fresh layer of snow. He was rewarded with footprints and blood.
“Blood trail,” he said, pointing at the already frozen, red spots on the snow. His gaze rose, following the trail. He took off without waiting for the others.
They loped after, always stalking. Half the day had passed. Half a day with the trio on the hunt with no other responsibility or worry. The sudden lack of doubts left them free in ways they had forgotten. Too many months on the quest burdened them considerably but all that was put behind them now.
A quarter of an ho
ur later they halted again. The blood trail had grown thicker. The tracks more frenzied. They were close. Exhilaration pumped in their veins. They were close, so very close to ending this hunt and returning to camp. Unused muscles burned from exertion. They suffered from shortness of breath and mild cases of frostbite. It would all be worth it so long as they found their prey. Thinking of it as quarry didn’t do them justice. They came out here looking to kill.
The bull elk was down on its knees, struggling to breathe, to keep fighting against the inevitable, slow crawl of death. The arrow sticking out of its chest prevented that. Plumes of hot breath came out in ragged clouds. The elk was dying.
The leader stopped and signaled for the others to stay back. Setting an arrow to string, he calmly drew back and aimed. His eyes closed briefly as he calmed his trembling nerves. It had been so long since he last did this simple task of mercy. Whispering a silent prayer that his shaft struck true, he loosed. The brush of feathers raked his cheek. The low-pitched hum of the arrow speeding across the distance between hunter and prey tingled his skin. The dull thwack as the arrow struck the elk just behind the shoulder to pierce its heart was like thunder rolling across the heavens. The elk groaned once and dropped over dead.
The leader got a pat on the back.
“Great shot, Nothol,” Dorl Theed said, the appetite of his grin evident to all.
Nothol Coll slowly lowered his bow and rose. “I haven’t done that since I was kid with my father. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like.”
“It’s going to feel like fresh meat going down our throats once we butcher and cook it,” Dorl answered. The food of the Dwarves, Giants, and even of Trennaron was all well and fine, but there was nothing like freshly killed game from Delranan.
The Madness of Gods and Kings Page 10
