Erik’s forces had arrived as promised.
A shout from one of the Guardians brought him back to his own battle and he turned to see that War had forsaken continuing the conflict and was sprinting towards the lake at an impossible speed. The elves were giving chase and Serix had turned to watch the warrior flee. With his forces routed, had the mighty warrior decided it was time to cut his losses and make a break for it before the army swept back their way?
Roars split across the sky and swooping across the lake’s surface from behind the forest to his right, were two very large horned dragons. The larger one was red scaled with massive legs and a very long tail. A saddle was upon the creature’s back and it landed swiftly before the approaching orc, bellowing fire at the Guardians in pursuit. Windel was in the rear and dodged free, but the remaining two weren’t as fast and he watched in horror as they burst into flame, incinerated in seconds.
The other dragon was black and had a slimy look to its scales. It wasn’t as large as its kin and had a rider already mounted on its back. He squinted in the dying light and saw a familiar face grinning back at him.
“Clint!” he bellowed, leaping to his feet and charging towards the hovering dragon.
Vengeance was within reach and with fury beyond anything he’d ever felt, he pumped his tired legs harder, sprinting across the battlefield to the sneering man beyond. Fear of dragonfire hadn’t even entered his mind as he pursued the man that had killed his parents.
“Come down and fight me you murderous bastard!” he yelled as he drew closer. His heart was enraged further when Clint simply smiled back and raised a hand to wave at him, as the black dragon pumped its wings, gained height, and soared away.
War’s dragon was already a spec on the horizon, the orc using his pursuit of Clint as a distraction to make his getaway.
He hollered after them, screaming with rage, falling to his knees and dropping his sword in the mud at his side. After everything he’d been through, the sacrifices made, the bastard had got away.
Cheers of victory roared from the armies behind him but he felt nothing but defeat.
III
Riska stood near a tree and peered at the castle in the distance. His eyes traced the path of the goblin patrols as they circled the grasslands beyond and watched as another group emerged from the damaged drawbridge of the fortresses outer wall. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that any dwarf that had once resided within Kamdeac’s walls was either dead or in the process of dying.
The hatred between goblins and dwarves was and always had been mutual; they would not suffer a member of his race to live under any circumstances.
His party had been ordered to circle towards the east and ascertain if the entire enemy force was within the castle walls or stationed on the plains to the north. What he didn’t tell them was that he didn’t want any of them getting anywhere near potential plague victims, trusting only in himself to stay clear of their fallen kin.
If there had been a plague, there were no signs of it now. The goblins were either immune to it, or their biology handled viruses in a different way. Was the disease a new weapon engineered by their enemy? Is that how they seemed to quickly inhabit the fortress, by planning it in advance? Goblins planning?
Now there was a scary thought.
There were hoarse screams to his right and he jerked his eyes from the fortress to the woods in that direction. Shadows had engulfed the forest with the passing of day into night, and he picked up a slight flicker of flame through the trees. Taking a hesitant step forward, he began to silently pick his way through the forest towards the ruckus ahead.
After forty paces, he reached a break in the trees that had been cleared for the road south to his home, Branham. In the center of the road knelt his countrymen and his hand immediately fell to his axe. They were surrounded by a company of goblins, disarmed, eyes staring defiantly at their enemy. There were thirty of them, but what was that to a dwarven axe?
A hissing noise caught his attention and he looked to the left, just as his foot took a step forward in a reckless attempt to free his kin. It had sounded like a snake, a creature easily disposed of, and his eyes searched the trees and ferns at his feet for signs of the venomous predator. What he saw froze his blood and he quickly ducked down and out of sight.
Stepping into the torchlight was a dark green armored goblin dragging a spiked mace. A long green and black cloak drug along the ground as the hunched form slithered forward, a very skinny snakelike tongue sliding across its lower chin hungrily. What beast from hell had given birth to such a fiendish creature?
The other goblins trembled under the hungry gaze of their master, as the armored villain approached the captured dwarves.
“Found them sneaking through the forest Master,” one of the vile creatures proclaimed, as if expecting a reward.
With a hiss, the goblin’s mouth immediately closed, as thin crooked fingers pointed their way. The other goblins shifted nervously at their feet, their fear of the creature almost as intense as his own. He wondered if fear alone kept them from bolting; courage had never been one of their defining features.
“Interlopers eh? Are you alone?” the creature hissed, sliding forward and placing a hand along one of the dwarves’ faces. Instantly black boils appeared on the poor man’s face, bubbling and popping white ooze. The dwarf screamed in agony, falling to the ground and writhing as his skin continually festered and boiled.
The rest of his kin remained silent, lips pursed, only their eyes betraying the fear mirrored in his own soul. His mind raced, trying to find a way to relieve the rest of them from this grisly fate. Yet he was only one dwarf, what hope did he have of overpowering the goblin patrol, much less fight off a thing like that?
The dwarf had fallen silent and Riska knew that he was dead. The goblins stepped quietly away from the corpse, as if afraid of catching something. The goblin commander stepped forward once more, reaching for its next victim. “Are you scouts for army?” it asked as it slid a dark green nail down the nose of another dwarf.
With a sudden bellow, the dwarven warrior fell to his knees, his eyes bleeding, blood pouring from his lips in ragged coughs of fluid. Vomiting on the ground at the creature’s knees, he was forced to watch blood began to sprout from every pore on the screaming dwarf’s body, which had begun convulsing in an extended fit that only ended with his death.
He couldn’t watch this.
Turning his head to the side, he found his body unwilling to move further, rooted in place. His ears heard every groan and word said, yet fear prevented him from doing anything about it.
“Come to see what happened to Dwarves of Kamdeac? You get to see first-hand,” the goblin whispered and another scream tore across the forest. “Don’t worry, I’ll be moving south real soon.”
Another scream.
“Master,” one of the goblins interrupted the grisly deaths.
“What is it worm?” their leader hissed. He could feel the silence of the forest and the tension in the air.
There was the sound of shuffling feet, as whoever had spoken tried to get up the courage to continue. “We’re hungry,” was the final simple answer and he shivered. No one deserved to die like this.
The cackle that ensued almost made him urinate in his trousers, the wicked evil echoing throughout the forest. His hand was no longer on the pommel of his axe, but clamped in his mouth, as he tried to stifle a scream.
“Afraid to eat spoiled meat?”
Another evil cackle.
His mind was beginning to break and if he didn’t get control soon, he’d be screaming his way south as fast as his short legs could carry him. He was known for his courage and valor, his ability to fight, yet every bone in his body yearned for nothing more than to flee before this monstrous creature of hell.
“Pestilence is hungry too,” he heard an evil hiss and two more screams thundered the air around him. “But I’ll give you two in reward for bringing me my meal. Now, go find me more,
for my hunger is never-ending.”
There was a scuffle and bit off gruff words as two of his kin were drug away by the goblin patrol. He forced himself to remain still, as to not draw notice. Yet when fresh screams began, he could control himself no longer and began to run. His kin’s pain echoed around him and penetrated his heart as he fled into the darkness; his own screams trailing behind.
IV
John had bent over to see to one of his wounded soldiers. A large laceration across his thigh was slowly pumping the man’s life away, and he held the dying man’s hand as the lights in his eyes slowly faded into darkness. Around him were the moans and screams of the dying and his heart was breaking with their pain. The glory of battle and rush of victory was gone, what remained was the horror that followed quickly in its wake.
“Sire,” he heard as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
His helm was lying at his side next to the expiring soldier and tears had begun to sting his eyes. He turned and saw the stout frame of his general peering down at him with compassion; the pained feeling of loss clear on Bendor’s face. He struggled to get ahold of himself and stand. Taking his helm in hand, he rose on unsteady knees; the exhaustion finally beginning to set in now that the battle had been won.
“General Noelani seeks an audience,” Bendor told him, eyes sweeping towards fresh cries of pain on their left.
He forced a quick laugh. “Dwarves.”
“Yoo’re damn reit,” Bendor weakly smiled back.
The horns that he’d heard from the west had been the advancing army sent by King Waldemar in response to their requests for aid. How they had arrived at the same time as the rest of Erik’s men from the north, he had no idea, but he wasn’t going to complain. Their timely arrival had saved his struggling army that had been driven north towards the caste walls, and with renewed strength at the sight of the reinforcements, forced an end to the siege once and for all.
He’d only briefly seen the elven commander in charge of the arriving army, and imagined that he was doing something similar to what John was doing, being there for his wounded and dying soldiers who’d sacrificed their lives in his name.
A heavily armored dwarf was approaching from his left, flanked by five similarly impressive warriors. He could tell by the stature and the axe held proudly at his side that this was the dwarven general that he owed his thanks. Turning to his exhausted aide, he spoke quickly to Windel before greetings could be exchanged.
“Have the clerics treat the wounded. I want every able-bodied healer on this battlefield saving as many lives as possible,” he told Windel, who wearily waved for the horse that a runner was holding nearby and went to carry out his orders. The elf needed rest; he could sympathize. Yet, there was too much to do before he’d be allowed enough privacy to do so.
One of the downfalls of being King.
“General Noelani,” he greeted, forcing a smile and embracing the dwarven general.
A stout hand patted his back, then broke away, a large black beard shaking with the general’s laughter. John wanted to look around at his dying men and suggest that it was not the right place for joy, but starting a fight with the dwarf who’d just helped save his kingdom was not advisable.
“If Ah hud knoon ye hud thes mony ay th' enemy tae barnie, I’d hae brooght mair wi' me,” Noelani told him with a widening smile.
He tried to stay cheerful, but fresh moans in the distance did little to lighten his mood. “We haven’t been able to send any messages since the siege began and didn’t have an accurate account of what we were facing until after I sent that message, Master Dwarf. But it matters not, I am heartened by what you did bring, and it appears to have been just enough.” He slapped the general on the shoulder and forced his grin wider.
If you forced a smile long enough, it might become real, but he doubted he’d get there on this night.
“Aye laddie, that’s hoo Ah figured it tae be,” Noelani told him as his eyes swept the battlefield. “I’ve ordered mah sappers tae inspect yer defenses, jist in case th' cockroaches return fur mair, hiner ye don’t min'.”
To be honest, he didn’t really care, but he only nodded and smiled, thanking the dwarven general.
“Sire,” a voice hailed him and he turned to see a runner approaching. “The Queen asks that you might join her so she can ascertain your wellbeing.” The man looked winded and he had to laugh. Of course, Jenna would be insisting on making sure he was all right, he should have sent someone to tell her sooner.
He shrugged at the dwarven general that had begun laughing with him. “The wife calls, care to join me in celebrating our victory?” he forced, knowing that anything else would be deemed rude.
“I’ve brooght caller barrels ay ale, laddie, fur jist th’ occasion,” Noelani grinned back.
Of course he did, a dwarf traveling without Grog was just a short human with a long beard.
Chuckling, he tried to put the battlefield and the dying men out of his mind, yet they lingered on the edge of his consciousness. White robed clerics were moving around him, their magic flowing amongst the survivors; he only prayed that they got to them all in time.
Tar Reiz rode up with the black-haired elf at his side. “Your Majesty, I’d like to introduce you to my commander, Sir Uriens of Forlorn, Knight of the Realm.”
The elven commander slid off his horse with a thud, his grace evident even through the weight of his armor. With a small smile on the youthful face, the elf extended his hand and John took it at the elbow, bowing his head in respect.
“You’re most welcome in Lancaster and I owe you my thanks, and to your King as well for his assistance in breaking our siege, Sir Uriens,” he intoned, going through the motions.
“Much blood has been shed here today amongst brothers, regardless of their race, and at such times, formalities can be forgotten. Just call me Uriens, my Lord,” the elf told him, bowing his head in turn.
He saw the grief in the elf’s eyes mirror his own, and knew that many of the commander’s men had fallen as well. “And let me be John to you as well. Anything else feels like a slight on the sacrifice these soldiers made in order to secure our freedom and right to exist.”
In his mind, he saw the red armored orc, the determination of their enemy personified, and knew that this would not be the last time sacrifices would have to be made to continue their way of life.
Captain Reyes had ordered the Guardians that had remained in the palace to replace their fallen brothers and were streaming to surround the small party heading towards the castle gates. He hadn’t seen the man himself and heard that he was barking orders from a tent of wounded soldiers; he made a note to check on his status as soon as he was free to do so.
Windel was returning and slowly dismounted to take a place at his side.
“My King, I regret to inform you that General Cox succumbed to his injuries, there was nothing the clerics could do. Father Joshua attended him personally and is even now working to address General Woodhurst’s injuries,” the aide told him, the loss heavy in the elf’s eyes as he scanned the battlefield behind them.
“If I may,” Uriens interrupted his sudden grief. “I have some injured to attend to myself—,” the elven commander told him, trailing off.
He nodded in understanding. “Of course, see to your men. I’m sure the cooks aren’t anywhere near ready for us, and expect it to be some time before our feast can begin.”
Tar Reiz nodded at him as Uriens led them away.
He was grateful for their presence and wished that he could follow after, to thank each of their soldiers for coming to their defense.
That would be never-ending task and he had other responsibilities that had to be addressed. He looked to his commanding general and saw that the dwarf was struggling with it as well. Thomas and Roland? Was he going to lose them both?
“He was a brae Lad,” Bendor told him with sorrow.
He nodded in agreement. “Come, let’s go raise a toast to General Cox and all those tha
t died so that we might live to fight tomorrow. We can light a candle and send a prayer to the Gods for both Roland and all those still fighting to stay with us.”
Bendor smiled at him and Windel looked to the battlefield once more. He couldn’t turn and look himself. This was on him; his plan, and his choice.
They had won, but at what cost?
Stepping across the drawbridge, he drew closer to his wife and child, knowing that like the rest of his men, it had all been done to protect their families and their homes. They were safe for the moment, the sacrifices made buying them more time, but looking south in the direction the dragons had taken flight, he wondered just how much time they’d purchased with their blood? How long before the horizon was once more dotted with the armies of the Phoenix?
This was a time to honor the lives of the fallen, to celebrate victory, but with a renewed determination he swore it’d also be the time to unite the races and find a way to take the fight to them and end this once and for all.
Chapter 10
Aftermath
I
Though the last few days had been dark, he felt it swept away as the wind buffeted his body, the saddle gripped between his thighs, hair whipping in the wind behind him. Willow sat in front of him and he let go of her waist temporarily to throw his arms in the air, allowing the joy in his heart to push back his recent torments.
He felt the ferret tucked in his shirt shift, and nails dug into his exposed flesh.
Sorry.
Ignoring the sudden pain, he let his heart soar, and focused on living in the moment.
They’d said their goodbyes to Token earlier that morning, the already drinking dwarf expressing good luck on their continued journey, as he prepared to begin one of his own. Merlin had assured him that the land west was safe and that he wouldn’t encounter any trouble along the way. Token had gruffly ignored the mage’s words and after another drink, set about rounding up their horses.
Pure of Heart (the New Age Saga Book 2) Page 15
