A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  “Where are the scouts?” she shouted at Lord Oakenheart.

  “What?”

  “Scout!”

  “Just one. I sent Elrian out as soon as we got the word.”

  “I don’t see him!”

  “I know.” She could feel him slump a little in the saddle. “We should see him by now.”

  The terrain below was mostly barren scrubland, intersected by the occasional stream. It was the border of the Kurs-Magog, the great wastelands inhabited by only the most barbaric orcs, goblins, and occasionally, men. The ground was rough, but flat, and the Great Orc’s cavalry would be making good speed over it.

  “There they are!” The lord commander pointed one black-gloved hand at a swelling dark mass on the horizon below. “They’re too close and they’re coming too fast. They’re going to beat the catrodau brenhinol to the walls.”

  “There must be five or six thousand of them!” Bereth’s heart sank as she quickly estimated the number of boar riders moving west at a rapid trot. “How can he have so many?”

  Lord Oakenheart raised his arm, signaling that the sky riders should fall into attack formation. Bereth clutched at his arm, astonished.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded. While it was normal for the High Guard to approach and immediately attack, they almost never did so without their scouts first flying over the enemy forces to scan for artillery, shamen, or other ground-based threats. “We should do a flyover first!”

  “We should,” the lord commander agreed grimly. “Especially since Elrian is missing. But there’s no time for that now. Ready the caltrops.”

  She shook her head as she looked out at the approaching enemy cavalry below them. She didn’t see any artillery or even any wagons being drawn that might contain a scorpio or some other device capable of harming a warhawk or its rider. She didn’t even see any obvious shamans in the dark, teeming mass moving over the ground. They must have something, though, to have brought down the scout, unless he had inexplicably flown north for some reason rather than back to Tir Diffaith.

  Regardless, they were committed now. The other hawks had moved up to form a line with them, with one exception; the skyrider carrying the mage who would cast the flame spell had dropped down below and behind them. She turned her attention to the saddlebags and fumbled at the heavy sack lashed to the saddle. The weight of the caltrops had tightened the knot, and it was hard to unpick, but with the help of her dagger, she managed it, and grunted as she pulled the now-open sack up onto the saddle in front of her.

  “Are you ready?” Lord Oakenheart called as they swept towards the front line of the trotting warboars. It had been decided that they would use the first line as their mark. If that would spare the frontmost orcs and their mounts, it would also have the benefit of ensuring more of the wicked little objects struck something on the way down. The lordly elf raised his hand, and just as they passed over the first orcs, a red light flashed from his hand and his hawk banked hard to the north.

  As one, the line of warhawks parted, nine breaking south, the other nine following the lord commander’s lead. There was a searing sound that ripped through the sky, and as Bereth began emptying her canvas sack, she saw a massive fireball erupt horizontally below them, completely obscuring her view of the enemy. She could feel the heat on her exposed face as the caltrops plunged through the fire, down towards the unsuspecting heads and shoulders of the orcs below.

  The sack was considerably lighter, but it wasn’t empty yet, so she grasped it by the two corners, lifted it and shook it. That nearly did the trick, but the spikes from one caltrop had somehow gotten embedded in the canvas, so she had to reach in and draw it out with her hand. The fireball was already fading by the time she hurled the little spiked ball down towards the ground, and as she watched, the first caltrops began to land amidst the enemy like a hellish, hot-metal hail.

  Starting about the sixth or seventh row back from the front, the cavalry formation abruptly began to disintegrate. From above, it looked almost as if a giant pillar had been dropped into a still body of water, as first the long hole appeared, followed by violent ripples that flowed towards the rear of the formation. Although they were still high above the orcs, Bereth could hear the outraged screams of the injured pigs and the enraged shouts of their riders over the continuous thunder of the thousands of unshod hooves.

  There were more than a few riderless boars, their riders having fallen, either senseless or dead, after being struck on the head. As Bereth watched, one stunned orc tried to rise, only to be trampled into green ruin by the next wave of riders who were unable to avoid him. Other riders slumped wounded on the backs of their mounts, arms, thighbones, and even shoulders shattered. There were a few fallen boars, their skulls caved in by one or more caltrops, but far more were wounded, both from being struck by a falling caltrop or stepping on one that had failed to hit anything on the way down. The injured boars caused further havoc among the enemy, lashing out in helpless fury at their riders and nearby boars alike with their deadly tusks.

  A horn blew, and was quickly echoed by others, and the huge mass of cavalry came to a gradual halt as the various warleaders attempted to maintain a degree of order before their orderly formations devolved into complete chaos. But before the orcs could get their shattered squadrons properly arrayed again, Lord Oakenheart had flown past the northernmost edge of the enemy and gave the signal to launch the second phase of their attack.

  Bereth, having spent too much time watching the devastation unfold, hurriedly untied her bow and slid the drawstring into place, then slipped an arrow out of her first quiver just before the hawk went into a steep, headfirst dive.

  A steep assault was always much harder as a passenger, she thought, even as she leaned forward against the lord commander’s leather-armored back, and tightly shut her eyes against both the rushing wind and the sight of the rapidly approaching ground. She counted, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and was just beginning to worry that Lord Oakenheart wasn’t going to pull up in time when she heard the giant warhawk spread its wings and smoothly ease them into a flight path parallel to the ground at a height barely higher than a warboar’s head.

  She opened her eyes, and discovered she had already nocked her arrow without thinking about it. She loosed it as they sped across the face of the enemy formation, burying it in the throat of a standard bearer little more than a stone’s throw away. Without waiting to watch him fall, she was already drawing another arrow; she managed to loose seven more shafts before they were past the front line. Even though they were flying fast, at such close range she could hardly miss. The other hawks were right behind them, and arrows, lightning bolts, and fireballs ripped into the front ranks of the stationary cavalry, felling scores of orcs and boars alike. The enemy seemed to be in shock, as not a single rider charged forward even though the attacking warhawks were well within reach of the ground. The audacity of the aerial assault, coming so quickly on the heels of the shock of the caltrop bombardment, seemed to have paralyzed the orcs.

  But their stunned paralysis didn’t last very long. No sooner had the sky riders completed their reckless low sweep across the front of the enemy formation than the horns began blowing again, and Bereth heard the unmistakable crack-snap of crossbows being fired at them. She looked back as the big warhawk began beating its wings to gain altitude again, and was relieved to see that none of the bolts that had been fired appeared to have struck home. However, she could also see, to her dismay, just how little damage their two attacks had done to the formation; at most they had, one way or another, taken two hundred orc-and-rider pairs out of commission. Still, the High Guard had not only slowed the Great Orc’s flanking movement down, they had actually managed to arrest it entirely, if only for a short time.

  “Where are the gwrachod?” Lord Oakenheart shouted at her. “They must have brought some with them!”

  Bereth frantically scanned the huge formation, trying to spot any signs of horns or staffs or any of the us
ual accoutrements of an orc-mage. Too many of the boar riders had brands and tattoos marking their faces and bare arms for the skin markings to be of much use to her, but then she saw movement in the middle of the formation, and saw riders making way for four of the troll-drawn wagons being brought forward from the rear. Following the wagons were smaller orcs riding smaller animals than the big boars on either side of them. Wolves, she realized, and the riders were not orcs, but goblins. The deference both wagons and riders were being shown as they were ushered towards the carnage in the front lines suggested they must be the gwrachod for whom they’d been looking.

  “Down there!” she yelled into his ear as she grabbed his shoulder and pointed with her bow.

  Lord Oakenheart nodded and immediately urged the warhawk higher. He also pumped his left arm three times, paused for a moment, then repeated the gesture, which was the High Guard’s sign for the riders carrying archers to disengage and provide cover for those bearing mages as they attacked their orcish counterparts.

  “Wish we had more caltrops!” she shouted. She could feel him shrug; it might have been wise to hold onto a sack to drop on the gwrachod in an attempt to disrupt them, but they could hardly regret the damage they’d been able to inflict on the orcs already, and without loss. The next stage of the air-to-ground battle would be considerably riskier now, though, and the desperate need to slow the cavalry’s flanking attempt meant they couldn’t simply withdraw, as they usually did once the enemy was able to marshal its magic against them.

  The nine warhawks bearing mages arranged themselves into three formations of three. In the present circumstances, attacking an unscouted enemy, Bereth knew that they would take a cautious approach. On the first attack, two of the three mages would be responsible for defensive spells, while the third, usually the most powerful, would attempt to kill or incapacitate as many of the magic-users as possible. Once the gwrachod were sufficiently distracted, she and the other archers would descend, first to attack any artillery that presented itself, after which they would take out the remaining gwrachod.

  Only then would they return their attentions to the rest of the formation, concentrating first on officers, particularly the commanding general or warleader if they could identify him. There were simply too many orcs to even try to eliminate them all, but Bereth figured that if they could kill another thousand riders, there was a reasonable chance their surviving officers would abandon the flanking attempt and scatter to avoid the hell falling on them from on high. Orc or elf, a warrior who was helpless to respond was much more inclined to break and run than one who was able to fight back, even by proxy.

  A cry arose from below as the first squadron swooped down towards the gwrachod struggling to push through the press. Crossbow strings snapped as a flurry of wooden bolts were fired up at the descending warhawks, but the veteran sky riders knew their margin of safety, and the bolts lost momentum and began to fall back to the ground before endangering hawk or rider. Bereth had just enough magecraft to see that one of the leading mages was maintaining an arcane shield of sorts. The other one, she guessed, would be alert for a diableric assault on the bodies of the birds or the minds of the riders.

  Orcs leaped out of the canvas-shrouded wagons, and, judging by their colorful attire and ornamental headgear, they were almost certainly the gwrachod she’d suspected. They brandished wooden staves and ivory bones and other fetishes aloft, and the air above them fairly crackled with the mystical energy of the magic they were wielding. As near as she could tell, there appeared to be perhaps twenty orcs on the carts, plus another fifteen or twenty goblins riding wolves.

  “Too many!” she shouted at Lord Oakenheart.

  He shook his head and reached back to reassure her by patting her thigh. Then he pointed to the three descending squadrons. The mage on the back of the leading hawk had risen in the saddle and was holding both hands up toward the white clouds above. He threw his head back, shouting, and then three bolts of lightning abruptly flashed in the blue sky, accompanied by a rapid series of thunderclaps detonating.

  Bereth blinked and looked away, her eyes momentarily blinded by the bright burst of light. But when her vision returned to her and she looked down, she was surprised to see that instead of being three craters where the carts had been, the orcs were untouched.

  “Big hoodoo!” the lord commander shouted at her.

  She nodded, astonished at the power being exhibited by the gwrachod; to not only deflect, but disperse three direct lightning bolts was something only a magister could do. Were they mutually augmenting each other’s power? Or were they drawing on some external power source they had somehow managed to hide from the High Guard’s most talented mages?

  The same thought had clearly struck the mages in two of the attacking squadrons. Six of the nine warhawks abruptly pulled out of their dive, their great wings beating powerfully as the lead squadron arced north and the second squadron broke south. But the third squadron continued its descent, grimly intent on taking out the orcs’ magic users before they could demonstrate similarly unexpected offensive capabilities.

  “What are they doing?” she shouted fearfully. She could feel the Oakenheart’s shrug, but he shook his head too, and she knew he was equally concerned for the fate of the three warhawks and their reckless riders.

  The force of the wind was too strong for the lone archer, but the two mages in the squadron abandoned all thought of defense as they hurled one fireball after another at the gathered gwrachod straining to hold up their magical shield below. The first four fireballs splattered against the invisible protection, sending fiery plumes arching in every direction above the orcs, but the fifth one penetrated the invisible barrier and exploded just in front of the first wagon, incinerating one gwrach where he stood and setting three or four others on fire. The flames also seared two of the blue-skinned trolls pulling the wagon, who shrieked and bellowed like beasts as they beat at their scalded hide.

  Bereth shouted in anticipation, but the weakness in the barrier was only momentary and subsequent fireballs detonated harmlessly against the restored magic shield. The three warhawks were just beginning to pull out of their dive, and the archer had risen in his saddle as he began to nock an arrow when the beleaguered orcs struck back. Or rather, the trolls struck back.

  One of the oversized creatures had ducked under the yoke of the third wagon and ripped off the leather cover, revealing that it was filled with long wooden poles, crudely sharpened at one end. The troll withdrew one and handed it to an even bigger companion, a monster with massive arms who looked as if he might well outmass the boars that flanked him on either side. The troll hefted the heavy pole, adjusted his grip, and then stepped forward and hurled it upwards as if it was a javelin. The oversized spear flew up and caught one of the warhawks in the side, just behind the wing, and the bloody tip burst out through the breast as the huge bird was spitted in mid-air.

  The dismayed cry of its riders and the shriek of the hawk itself was drowned out by the terrible roar that erupted from the watching orcs below. The hawk crumpled and its wings furled like a man clutching at a wound. The two elves were strapped into the saddle, but the mage lost his grip on his staff as the bird turned over and began to plunge limply to the ground. The staff fell from the sky, rotating end over end, and the rest of the High Guard watched, helpless, as the dying bird bore its doomed riders down toward the unforgiving ground.

  The squadron’s archer loosed his arrow and the shaft flew straight and true. It struck the troll in the shoulder and caused him to take a step backward, but his tough blue hide was too thick for the arrowhead to bury itself completely in his flesh or do any serious harm. With a snarl of pain, the troll ripped the shaft out and snapped it in twain.

  Ignoring the blood running down his side, the troll raised his mighty arms and roared defiance at them. His triumphant shout was echoed by the newly emboldened orcs, and rose to a fever pitch when the stricken bird struck the ground, killing mage and skyrider instantly. The orcs
rapidly swarmed their fallen enemies; Bereth couldn’t help crying out in horror as both elves were swiftly beheaded and their heads mounted on spears that were thrust up mockingly towards the sky as the orcs howled in bestial triumph.

  “Eumelltithio i fagddu!” Lord Oakenheart swore bitterly at the sight. He held up his hand, and the High Guard rose higher into the sky, seeking the safety that came with altitude.

  Encouraged by the elven retreat to the heights, orc captains began shouting at their riders, whipping beasts back to their feet, and ordering those who had dismounted to clamber back astride their boars. A deep horn resounded, and was answered by a series of shouts, horn blasts, and whistles as the various warleaders and clan chieftains indicated that they were ready to resume the march.

  “We have to stop them!” Bereth shouted.

  “The risk is too great!”

  “They’ll cut off the infantry if we don’t stop them!”

  “I know!” She could feel him sigh deeply, and he shook his head in frustration. “We can’t throw away two-thirds of our mages for nothing!”

  Bereth thought frantically. They needed to break the gwrachod to stop the cavalry, but they couldn’t get close enough to break through the spells of the magic-users without putting the warhawks at risk from the trolls. She made a mental note to be sure to kill the orc commander if she saw him; whoever he was, he had adroitly leveraged his forces to negate the usual elven advantages.

  Then she remembered the dragon arrows. They were forged by long-dead magisters of the Collegium, infused with the arcane magic of the ancients. If they could penetrate dragon scales, they could surely punch right through the toughest troll hide. She only had three of them, but three might well be enough. She pawed at the lord commander.