by A. Giannetti
“Luck to you Elerian,” whispered Falco, accepting his orders without argument. Quickly and quietly, Falco divided his small company as Elerian had instructed him. Ten were left behind to close the gates. Nineteen went to Elerian. The remaining twenty went to Falco.
When everyone stood ready with his weapon drawn, Elerian approached the guardroom door on the right, wondering uneasily what he would find inside. With his left hand, he gave the door a slight, experimental push. It was unlocked and swung easily inward on silent hinges. Thrusting mightily with his left shoulder, Elerian suddenly pushed the door wide open and leaped into the room beyond it.
In the center of the chamber, he saw a dozen pale faced Mordi in black leather armor lounging on wooden benches around a rough table, heedless of keeping guard. They started and gaped at him in surprise when the door cracked loudly against the stone wall on his left. Before they could rise from their seats, Elerian rushed at them, gleaming Acris upraised in his right hand. Flashing white fire at each stroke, his sword slid effortlessly through the hapless Goblins’ leather armor as he stabbed right and left, each stroke quick and deadly as a lightning strike. Three Goblins fell in quick succession to Acris’s gleaming blade before the rest of the Mordi were able to spring up from their benches and flee up the open, circular stair that ringed the room, leading to a door that stood about sixteen feet above the floor. The crowd of grim faced Dwarves who had come storming into the room behind Elerian jostled and pushed each other as they pursued the Mordi up the steep, narrow stairs, each of them determined to have his fair share of Goblin blood. As Elerian watched, they all disappeared through the doorway at the top of the stairs, some of them nosily bellowing war cries while other called for the Goblins to stand and fight.
“Is it possible that our task will be so easily accomplished?” wondered Elerian to himself as he stood alone in a room suddenly grown empty. He looked around him and saw that a store of weapons was stacked along the walls. Over a fire in the fireplace set in the right hand wall, a large black iron pot bubbled merrily. Elerian shuddered to think what might be cooking there. He was on the point of leaving the guardroom to check on the progress of the Dwarves charged with closing the gates when he was suddenly distracted by shouts and the ring of steel coming through the doorway at the top of the stairs. The urgent notes of a Dwarf horn calling for help cut through the clamor and then were abruptly stilled.
“What could have gone wrong?” wondered Elerian to himself, for the Dwarves had outnumbered the unarmed, fleeing Goblins nearly two to one. A tremendous bass roar suddenly assaulted his ears, followed by a rush of panicked Dwarves through the doorway at the top of the stairs, all of them jostling and pushing each other as they fought to reach the bottom of the staircase.
“This is not good,” thought Elerian to himself, for he had never seen a Dwarf run away from a fight before and wondered what could have inspired such panic among them. He hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to see if the gate was secured and the need to deal with the threat from above. Hoping that he was making the right decision, he pushed his way up the stairs, staying to the left where he could brace himself against the wall and squeeze past the panicked Dwarves rushing past him. When he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, there was still a small huddle of Dwarves, either more courageous or more foolish than their fellows, standing in the doorway. They were looking fearfully off to their left, but Elerian could not see what they were staring at because of the doorframe. Taking a firmer grip on Acris, he pushed his way through them, wondering what awful thing awaited him beyond the doorway.
The Dwarves gladly gave way before him, their faces grim and frightened. After he was through the doorway, Elerian found himself on a twenty-foot wide walkway that ran to his left, toward the second guardroom. Narrow arrow slits cut into the outside wall of the walkway allowed the starlight outside the walls of the fortress to enter and illuminate the passageway. Standing about five feet away, Elerian saw the broad back of a single Dwarf, standing with his upraised ax grimly clenched in his right hand and a badly dented shield on his left arm.
“This fellow had the courage of a lion,” thought Elerian to himself, for another fifteen feet past the Dwarf stood the massive figure of a Troll, his fierce eyes glowing like green lamps in the semi darkness filling the walkway. Easily nine feet tall, he towered over the pack of Goblins and mutare standing behind him. He wore only a black leather tunic of hardened leather that left his arms and legs bare, revealing knotted muscles like granite beneath his pale, greenish skin. Both of his massive, bloodstained hands were clenched into fists, and the broken bodies of three Dwarves lay at his bare feet. Elerian guessed he had probably come out of the guardroom on the far side of the gate after being alerted to the presence of enemies by the Goblins who had escaped up the stairs.
“I hope Falco and his crew were not all destroyed by this creature,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he advanced with a light step toward the Dwarf standing before him. When he bent down and spoke softly into his left ear, the Dwarf started badly, turning a face toward Elerian that was pale with fear but still resolute, his craggy features exhibiting the stubborn courage of his race in the face of adversity.
“This enemy is beyond you,” said Elerian softly. “Fall back to the door and encourage the others. If I slay this creature stand ready to aid me, for I will need your help.”
Bearing in mind Ascilius’s instructions to obey Elerian in all matters, the Dwarf reluctantly retreated to the doorway, leaving him alone to face the Troll, Acris gleaming bright in his right hand, and his shield on his left arm.
Taking him for a man because of the illusion which disguised him, some of the Goblins began to laugh and shout insults at Elerian. Others among them urged the Troll to attack him, for the smell of fresh blood had distracted their fearsome ally who now seemed more inclined to tear at and devour the flesh of the Dwarves he had slain rather than to continue fighting. The red gore pooling around the Dwarves lying on the stone floor of the passageway was also having its effect on the mutare who began to leap into the air, howling like beasts as bloodlust overwhelmed their simple minds.
“I must thank Ascilius for giving me this task if I live to see him again,” thought Elerian wryly to himself as the Troll, spurred on by the cries of the Mordi, turned his fierce eyes in his direction, forgetting for the moment the blood and flesh around its feet that called to its savage appetite.
Elerian suddenly pointed Acris at the Troll, hoping to cast a destruction spell at the creature, but the Troll was old and well versed in the ways of mages. Moving with a speed that was astounding in so large a creature, he leaped toward Elerian, hands outstretched to seize and crush him into bloody pulp. Abandoning any thoughts of magic for the moment, Elerian waited tensely, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. At the last moment, he darted to his left, hoping the Troll would rush by him, but the great creature stopped short, sending a backhanded stroke his way with its right hand. Elerian crouched down under the blow, the bottom of the Troll’s hand grazing the top of his steel cap as it passed over him. As the mighty arm of the Troll swung past him, Elerian raised himself to his full height, and balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, stabbed Acris upward into the Troll’s exposed right side below the rib cage. When the bright blade slid into his stony flesh, the Troll howled in pain and surprise before speedily springing away to his left, falling over onto his left side in his haste to escape Acris’s bitter bite. Still lying on his side, black blood flowing from his wound to fall steaming onto the floor of the passageway, the Troll kicked at Elerian with his right leg.
The immensely powerful blow would have broken his body in half had it landed, but he sprang lithely high into the air, the Troll’s great, clawed foot passing beneath the soles of his feet. Like an acrobat at a fair, Elerian tucked his head down, describing a complete arc in the air and landing feet first in front of the Troll’s upper body. Still lying on its left side, the Troll immediately darted o
ut his right hand, his thick, clawed fingers seeking Elerian’s throat, but Elerian stepped quickly to his right, the Troll’s grasping hand shooting past his left shoulder. Wrapping both hands around the silver hilt of Acris, Elerian raised the sword high into the air before bringing it edge down with all his strength on the Troll’s exposed head. The white flash of the argentum inlaid in the sword’s blade lit the Troll's startled face as Acris sheered through his bony, hairless skull, killing him instantly when the sword’s keen blade cut deep into his brainpan.
The sudden drain on his power from the killing stroke felt like a physical blow to Elerian, almost as if the Troll had landed one of its tremendous blows on the top of his head, for Acris had drunk deep of his magical power in order to cleave the creature’s stony flesh. Releasing Acris’s hilt, he fell to his knees and his sight grew dim. Around him there was a moment of stunned silence as Goblins, mutare, and Dwarves all stared with unbelieving eyes at the mighty form of the fallen Troll. As if from a great distance, Elerian heard the groans and angry cries of the Goblins and mutare as they surveyed their slain champion. Then, the pack of mutare suddenly surged forward, hoping to rend Elerian with teeth and claws as he wavered helplessly on his knees before the slain Troll.
The tale of his adventures would have ended there, but with a mighty cheer the Dwarves in the doorway, led by the stalwart champion who had faced the Troll alone, suddenly surged forward. Some covered Elerian with their shields while others attacked the mutare and the Mordi urging them on. For long moments, the fighting swirled back and forth around Elerian, but then, the rest of the Dwarf company emerged from the stairway. Recovered from their first panic at seeing the Troll and spurred on by the cries of their comrades, they rushed into the fray, their deadly ax and hammer strokes pushing the Goblins and their savage allies back toward the doorway of the second gate room. A second group of Dwarves led by Falco suddenly burst from that doorway and fell on the enemy from behind with devastating effect.
Cries of despair rose from the Goblins and mutare as they were attacked from both sides. Those of the Mordi who carried horns leaned out through the arrow slits in the outside wall and blew harsh blasts out into the night, seeking to warn their army that the castella was under attack. Roused by the sound of the horns, Elerian struggled to his feet, pushing away the Dwarves who were still intent on shielding him. Seeing that the battle was now going against the Goblins and their allies, his one thought now was for the gate to the fortress.
Seizing Acris in his right hand, he pulled the sword free of the Troll’s stony flesh before speeding back down the stairs. A handful of Dwarves followed him, the only ones willing to tear themselves away from the battle on the walkway. When Elerian emerged from the guardroom, he found that the Dwarves he had left behind had managed to push only the left hand door of the gate closed. Normally a Dwarf door, no matter how large, was so cleverly hung that a light thrust would move it, but the hinges of the right hand door were twisted, and it was resisting the every effort of the Dwarves to close it.
“Another setback Ascilius did not anticipate,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he laid his right shoulder against the gate, as did the Dwarves who had followed him. As they strained mightily together, the heavy steel door slowly swung closed on squealing hinges. Elerian and the Dwarves now looked in vain for a way to secure the doorway, but the shot pins mounted on the doors were broken, and the brackets for the crossbar were a twisted ruin as was the crossbar which lay upon the floor before the gates. Outside the fortress, Elerian suddenly heard the harsh blare of war horns, signaling that the Goblin army was finally aware of the attack on the castella.
“How can we secure the gates?” asked one of the Dwarves of Elerian in a desperate voice. “There is nothing left that will hold them closed.”
Stand back,” said Elerian firmly as he raised his right hand. Casting a fire spell, he watched with his third eye as a golden orb flew from his fingers, striking the center of the gate. Scarlet flames leaped up, expanding and contracting like a live thing over the narrow gap between the doors. A golden cloak of light overlaid the flames, attached to Elerian’s hand by a thin thread of light having the same hue.
Drawing on the power stored in the silver ring of power on his right hand, Elerian fed the magical flames, at the same time allowing their fierce heat to penetrate the steel beneath them. He felt his ring grow warm on his finger as the edges of both doors turned red orange and the bitter smell of heated metal filled the air. Abruptly the steel gave up its rigidity, the molten metal flowing together and welding the gates shut. Exhausted, blanketed by the withering heat issuing from the gates, Elerian wavered on his feet as he extinguished the mage fire. One of the Dwarves behind him immediately rushed up to support him by the shoulders before dragging him back, away from the gates. Someone else thrust a water bottle filled with wine into Elerian’s right hand from which he drank deeply.
With the strong wine coursing through his veins, Elerian stood on his own two feet again and critically surveyed the still smoking gates. He saw with satisfaction that they were immovable now unless some greater magic should break them apart, or some tremendous physical force wrenched them from their massive hinges.
The air was suddenly filled with hollow booms as heavy hammer strokes began thundering against the gate. When the doors held firm, the Dwarves gathered around Elerian cheered and slapped him on the back. Fearing that he would be pummeled to death by the heavy-handed Dwarves, Elerian hastily retreated into the guardroom to the right of the gate where he met Falco descending the stairway.
The usually impeccable Dwarf was stained with gore, and his helmet and shield were badly dented, but his irrepressible smile remained the same, lighting up his face when he saw Elerian.
“You have done it then,” he said approvingly. “Ascilius has demonstrated his wisdom once more by selecting you to secure the gate.”
“I could not have done it without the assistance of the brave Dwarves who helped me,” said Elerian modestly as he sat on one of the benches in the room, hoping for a moment of quiet to rest and regain his strength. “How goes the fighting,” he asked Falco.
“We slew all of the Mordi and mutare after you killed the Troll,” replied Falco, his dark eyes taking on a fierce light as he recalled the battle that had taken place in the passageway above the gates. “After separating their heads from their bodies, we cast them out through the arrow slits in the walls as a warning to their fellows. Most of my troops are now raining crossbow bolts down on the enemy forces gathered before the gate through the gratings set in the floor of the passageway. I think we can hold them back until they bring up a ram and better-armored troops, for there are plenty of crossbow quarrels here in the guardrooms. You should rest a bit while things are quiet,” he advised Elerian, for his shrewd eyes guessed at the weakness which still plagued him.
“I will take your advice if you sit with me for a moment,” replied Elerian with a smile.
“If you insist,” replied Falco, not bothering to hide his own weariness. He and Elerian walked to one of the wooden benches in the room and sat down side by side, facing the open door with Falco sitting on Elerian’s left. Elerian offered the Dwarf a sip of aqua vitae and did not neglect to take one himself when Falco passed his water bottle back.
“What happened in the other guardroom?” asked Elerian, who now felt almost like his old self after a drought of the potent drink.
“When we burst into it,” replied Falco, who was also feeling much refreshed, “we found a Troll sleeping in there along with a crowd of Goblins and mutare. I ordered everyone to retreat at once, for it would have been madness to fight a creature like that in a closed room. Instead of following us out into the great hall, however, the Troll and most of his fellows suddenly turned and dashed up the stairs that circled the wall of the guardroom. My lads and I soon dealt with those who were left behind. When we heard the sound of Dwarves cheering from above, we were encouraged to ascend the stairs. Seeing that the Tr
oll was dead, we fell on the enemy from behind. By the time the last of them was slain, you had already gone to secure the gate, but the Dwarves who had stood by you told me about your fight with the Troll. You are already being described as a hero like those of the old days,” said Falco with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“I am no hero,” protested Elerian. “It was Acris which the slew the Troll.”
“But it was your hand which directed the sword,” replied Falco firmly. “You are a hero whether you wish to be one or not,” he said clapping Elerian cheerfully on his left shoulder with his right hand.
Elerian winced and moved away from the Dwarf. “I shall be black and blue all over tomorrow from you and your heavy handed fellows,” he complained to Falco. “If this is how you treat your friends then I shudder to think of how you would treat your enemies.”
“You would be right to shudder,” replied Falco, his face suddenly grim and implacable. Then, cheerful again, he leaped to his feet. “Rest a bit more while you can,” he advised Elerian. “I will order the company in your stead, for your drink has quite restored me to myself.”
From the vantage point of his bench, Elerian watched approvingly as Falco quickly took charge, his good opinion of the Dwarf rising even higher as, under his direction, the Dwarves who had helped Elerian close the gates gathered up the ten members of the company who had been slain and laid them to rest in the guardroom to the left of the gate. The wounded Dwarves, of whom there were fifteen, were brought into the guardroom on the right. Refreshed by the aqua vitae that he had drunk, Elerian rose and began tending those who had the graver injuries. When he was done, he began to wonder how Ascilius was faring in the upper levels of the fortress.
“Take charge here,” Elerian commanded Falco after seeking him out. “I am going to find Ascilius.”
“You ought to remain here as he ordered,” objected Falco worriedly.
“The gate is holding, and you have things well in hand here,” replied Elerian, taking up his shield. “If there is trouble, wind your horn and I will come back.”
