The barge plowed through the first two ranks of gurvani too slow to get out of the way, and several got pinned against the side of the siege worm whose central right leg stopped us, finally . . . much to their detriment.
As the barge slowed, however, it got lighter. The warmagi inside were leaping out, weapons ready, and plunging viciously into the line.
The ice was covered in goblins trying to press forward. Most of them probably never knew we were coming, and we took advantage of that surprise. As soon as the barge slowed enough for me to pick out a target – a particularly tall hobgoblin infantryman – I leapt from the gaudy gunwales and plunged my spear into the back of his neck from above.
I felt, rather than saw, Tyndal, Rondal, and the rest of my household leap after me. I did hear the peal of a horn, and then a bellowing cry of “SEVENDOR!” from Sire Cei before he jumped into the fray. There were others leaping, too, but in his dragonscale armor and wielding that deadly hammer, Sire Cei was decidedly a focal point.
Then it was just blood, magic, steel, and chaos. All around me gurvani and hobgoblins turned to face me, as we squared off between the legs of the worms around us. Time froze, as I activated my combat enhancements, and the gruesome work of warmagic began.
A spear through a chest. A blast from a wand that obliterates a face. A whirl and a slice through a gurvan’s hamstring, finishing the blow through the neck of his mate. A kick in the face for one wee goblin who charged me with a knife, then a boot on his face while I blasted another with a suddenly-reversed spear. A wave of a wand that sent a concussive blast through a crowd of attackers, hurling them into the tail of a worm, who is not pleased at the disruption. The haft of my spear clubbed one infantryman across the eyes while the return swipe pinned one furry fellow’s hand to his mate’s shoulder. A fiery blast from the head of my staff ended their suffering.
Around me Tyndal was dueling a shaman, mageblade and staff, while Rondal was guarding my back with a roundshield and wand, ducking, firing, and constantly assessing the situation. Lorcus danced through the crowd with his blade like a jongleur, stabbing at eyes, slitting throats, and puncturing lungs with effortless ease and a maniacal grin. Terleman hurled one goblin into others, then seeded the ice with magical blue flame to incinerate them. Wenek used his mace like a wand and his warwand like a club as he blasted goblin, worm, and troll with equal ferocity.
Sire Cei made it his mission to combat the worm infestation. Wherever he could, he plied his mighty hammer against the gigantic beasts. He quickly learned that a single sharp blow to their nosehorn was often sufficient to send the monster insensible, or to kill it entirely. I saw him peel the horn right off of one nose when he did not throw his blow just right. The creature bellowed angrily, and responded reflexively . . . by charging into the rear of the next worm in line, causing itself a whole new world of pain.
But we were taking casualties, too. Several of the Kasari were down, as were a few unlucky warmagi. The shock of our attack had been disruptive, but it hadn’t kept them from fighting back. Sandoval’s right arm was bloody under his armor and he’d switched his sword to his left hand. Magelord Forondal’s scalp was bloodied, and he seemed to be fighting in a daze. Rondal had a scratch to his head, and Terleman took a nasty blow to the side of his shoulder that sent him spinning. We helped him back up and we kept fighting.
It didn’t take long for the gurvani to reinforce their line, of course. That’s when thing got really chaotic. I lost track of time for a while as I defended myself and worked out a lot of frustrations with destructive magic. The goblins just seemed to keep coming, and I didn’t seem to be running out of energy. Every new ugly face was another opportunity for me to express myself about the King . . . and the Censorate . . . and the Queen . . . and the Isily situation . . . and the Alya situation . . . and the . . . the . . .
I lost some time after that. At some point in battle your conscious mind steps back and you become a creature of reflex – well-trained, carefully-controlled reflex. I was consuming power with abandon from my sphere, keeping me moving and keeping me killing, and I felt alive in a way that can be achieved few other ways.
That’s when I felt something whir by me. At first I thought it was a falcon, but it was far too small. Then I thought it was a thrown axe or something, when I realized what it was. Dara’s Thoughtful Knife had finally arrived.
It was an Alka Alon artifact, ancient in origin and considered quaintly antique by the Tree Folk. It was a relic of a bygone age, when the Alkan lords dueled with armies of devoted allies and followers. The insanely sharp, nearly indestructible wedge flew by magic and was controlled remotely, by a competent mage. In this case an excited, vengeful fourteen-year-old girl.
The Knife zoomed by us and began tearing into the gurvani infantry that assailed us. Sometimes it got dangerously close, but Dara’s missile was adeptly managed. It slew dozens of goblins in seconds. She made it fly circles around us, tearing through the soft flesh of the gurvani like a hot cheese knife. No armor seemed to be able to stand up to its relentless path, not even the thick hides of the worms. Dara began targeting the beasts who had yet to be engaged, keeping their handlers (and the gurvani unfortunate enough to be in their way) too occupied to mount another wave against us.
Mostly. There seemed no end to the goblins. As soon as Dara would mow down one line of them, another would rush up to fill the void. The ice was becoming clotted with frozen blood and fresh corpses.
One thing I was certain of: we messed up their assault. The magical cloud of spells and counterspells between the two sides was lopsided, now, and the gurvani had stopped trying to plunge through it to get at the Alkan warriors beyond. I meant to give them some respite, some opportunity to fall back and regroup and redouble their defense. We were to be a distraction, a big, ugly, violent distraction.
Only the Alka Alon chose to use the opportunity to cross through the cloud themselves. Five minutes after our barge had smacked into a worm, I was standing nearby two tall transformed Alkan warriors bearing gracefully curved spears. And using them with deadly precision. The Alka Alon may have been rusty at the art of war, but apparently they were starting to remember how to fight for their lives.
“How fares the gates?” I called, slowly, to one of the nearby warriors. He tossed me a glance and apparently saw the sphere floating over my shoulder, and recognized me.
“Well enough, friend of the Alka,” he called back, hesitantly. “But the gurvani have reached the residential quarter of the city and fortify themselves. Already their shamans are gathering inside, as they gain the walls.”
“One crisis at a time,” I grunted back, impaling yet-another brave-but-stupid goblin through his abdomen. “Where stands the Lord Aeratas? I would have words with him.”
“He commands the field from his tower balcony, now,” the Alkan warrior reported, looking around for more foes. “Twice they’ve sent the dragon, and twice we’ve beat it back. Wherefore are our kindred? Why have they sent no aid?” he demanded, seemingly offended that it was humani who had miraculously arrived.
“Take it up with the council,” I agreed. “I got my invitation. I even brought friends. Ishi’s tits, it looks like they’re preparing another wave,” I pointed out. We had some cover from two worm corpses that had conveniently died near the barge, making a kind of gruesome redoubt for the moment. Their infantry were rallying a few yards away, which was difficult since Sarakeem was still aboard the barge, shooting anyone who looked like a leader or officer in the face. While the Merwyni archer assisted in the promotional opportunities in Shereul’s army, my men prepared for the inevitable charge.
“There are an awful lot of them,” Rondal said, his chest heaving from exertion. He’d sheathed his sword and leaned on the pike he’d picked up from somewhere. “How long are we going to keep this up?”
“Until we run out of them,” Tyndal supplied, stripping off his helmet to let his dirty blond hair free. “They’re just getting started. This is going to be as
bad as a sausage grinder.” He sounded only partly enthused by the prospect.
“They have ample resources,” the Alkan warrior agreed. “We have been fighting for days, day and night, without stop. With no help of help. Until the humani came. I am Hasuerth, Warden of the Second House.”
“Minalan, Baron of Sevendor, called the Spellmonger,” I nodded back, respectfully. “These are my men. We’re here to help, to fight next to you against our common foe.”
The Alkan nodded to the siege worms Sire Cei had slain. “You know how to fight,” he acknowledged.
“It is said that it is what we are best at,” I affirmed. “And we made it this far,” I pointed out.
“So you have. Prepare yourself, Spellmonger,” he instructed me. “Soon, they will send the dragon. Let us die well, together!”
Not exactly the pep-talk I was looking for.
The gurvani chose to attack our position before I could come up with a witty retort. Several trolls had joined the hobs and goblins who faced us, now, and I prepared myself for another extended journey through a slow-motion world of warmagic.
After the augmentation spell took hold, I was gratified to see the lead elements of the goblins got snatched up by a pair of our giant dogs, who held their screaming bodies triumphantly in their huge jaws and pranced around before tearing them to shreds. The rest made the gap between one dead worm’s head and the other’s tail, where my apprentices, Sire Cei, and Lorcus stood guard. The melee was severe, made bloodier by the number of foes who fell to archers as they entered the gap. Until the first troll pushed aside the tail and struck Rondal so hard in the chest with his club that it sent the boy flying.
That’s when things began to move away from our favor. The very worms that provided our cover also made it difficult to maneuver, and that emboldened the enemy. Another troll crowded his way in, ignoring a slash to his thigh from Tyndal before he turned to face Sire Cei.
The Dragonslayer did not shrink. He pulled his dragonhide shield in front of him and cocked his hammer back far. He began the scream before he began the swing, and took two steps before slamming the black head of his hammer into the troll’s midriff. I suppose the beast figured that it could withstand a blow from a mere human, and arrogantly declined to block or dodge the blow.
The hammer cut him in half, spraying his fellows behind him with a smear of his innards. Both halves of the body fell to the ground in front of the Wilderlands knight. He stared at the other trolls who threatened to overwhelm our position. They halted, their faces filthy. He growled.
“Let the mightiest of you advance,” he called to them. I don’t know I they understood him or not – probably not – but smearing your mate’s intestines off your face will make a troll think for a moment.
“Wounded into the barge!” Terleman ordered, as he helped Rondal to his feet and passed him to a Kasari medic. Alscot the Fair was impaling a hobgoblin behind him, one leg trailing blood with every step. “Protect the wounded!” he cried, turning to separate a troll from his kneecap with a wand I hadn’t seen him draw under his cloak.
Sire Cei obliterated the jaw of a troll with a deft uppercut while Rustallo – when did Rustallo arrive? – impaled another in the thigh with his blade. Concussive blasts went off behind me, telling me that Wenek was in my vicinity, but the trolls just kept coming.
We were fighting them to a standstill, when suddenly I heard a high, piercing whistle. Everyone in the area paused to see what the source of it was.
It was Lorcus. He was standing on the back of one of the dying worms, his sword reversed and his left hand waving elegantly in the air. For a second, all the combatants stopped.
“Gentlemen!” he said, grinning widely, “My good trollish gentlemen of the shadow realm! Thank you for your attention, I need it for just a moment! Let me ask you . . . can you scratch your balls?” he asked, evilly. I felt his spell detonate, and suddenly the brute I faced found his huge hammer falling to his feet.
I watched the moment of panic on the creature’s wide face as it realized that it could not, indeed, scratch its own balls . . . or do much anything else of importance. It was an excruciatingly delicious moment of enjoyment, watching a foe go through that. I probably would have enjoyed it more if the ice between my feet had not chosen that moment to liquefy.
It was an odd feeling, the moment it happened. One second my boots had hard purchase on the solid ice, and for one fraction of a second, after the surface glimmered and then went dark, I and everyone around me was standing on the surface of a very liquid lake. My head jerked up, likely with a similar expression of panic as the troll had worn. My eye caught his just as his own expression transformed from panic to terror, and we both succumbed to gravity’s fickle relationship with solid displacement.
We sank.
Everyone sank.
I struggled in startled panic as I tried desperately and futilely to orient myself. My mouth had been open when my face made contact with the freezing water and I swallowed it reflexively. The perils of being in full armor in a freezing cold lake with a bunch of panicked trolls and goblins quickly became apparent. A great, shaggy foot kicked out at me through the water and threatened to overwhelm me as my armor drew me under.
I couldn’t have that. I was the Spellmonger. Getting killed in battle was one thing. Getting drowned in battle was another. They don’t make sagas about that sort of death. Not after surviving dragons. Not after charming goddesses. If nothing else, it was an affront to my dignity.
Yes, those are the mad thoughts that passed through my mind as I realized that there was more water above me than below me. That would not do. I’m sorry if it disappoints you about my character, but that’s what happened. It did make me mad, however, mad and determined. If an emotional reaction to a perceived injury to my ego was what motivated me, I could care less. It worked. I quit struggling. I acted.
I reached out my hand and without looking at it summoned Blizzard. The knot coral in the weapon responded instantly, and in a few seconds I had my weapon – my tool. I focused on the shaft even as I sank and released a spell I knew would be useful. Suddenly, I shot to the surface as if I had been dragged by a fishing line.
I glanced around wildly as I sputtered and breathed, my staff held in one hand while I tried to tread water with the other. The surface was churning with others struggling just as much as I was, as far as the eye could see.
Everywhere save the barges. Deprived of ice, they floated admirably, gaily-painted promises of refuge. Already my men were helping there fellows aboard.
I reached out with raw power and drew myself to the barge through the water. I stuck my staff up into the air and waved it, and before long strong hands pulled me, coughing and wheezing, into the boat. Rondal and Sandoval were there, as were a score of Kasari, and more were helping other warmagi up all the time. I immediately transformed my own staff into a hook, handed it to Rondal, and then began summoning a water elemental.
It was hard here, for some reason, perhaps because of the recent ice magic. But slowly an entity formed in response to my call, and accepted the arcane architecture I offered it in exchange for its cooperation. Soon it was moving as I directed, helping herd struggling, armored survivors into the barges.
Most survivors. The few gurvani who managed to cling to the boat were clubbed away until they drowned, else they were shot or stabbed until they perished. Our goal was to rescue the humans and Alka Alon.
I had just dispatched the first elemental and was preparing a second when two huge paws thumped onto the deck, and a bedraggled Sir Cei was hauled into the boat. A few moments later, Terleman joined us, and then Tyndal. One by one our folk were brought in. I stood back to catch my breath and surveyed the scene, mere minutes after I had been poised to slay a troll. The water was ceasing to thrash, now that most of those who could not swim were dragged below. Which included, apparently, the vast majority of the trolls and gurvani, as well as the siege worms.
The fell hounds, alas, swam as we
ll as their giant counterparts. Sarakeem slew several whining mutts as they tried to make their way onto the safety of the ship. The Alka Alon could not swim well either, apparently, although later I found out that most of the folk of Anthatiel had at least attempted the practice in their beautiful lake. Luckily, they were a tough and resilient folk, even in human bodies. Many who had been close to the arch had been in or close to shallows, and others had struggled to safety. Most who survived the melting of the ice were able to make their way to shore or safety.
But most of the hundred thousand goblins who had besieged the fair city after their grueling trek up the icy length of the Poros perished utterly in a few moments of stricken panic. The grand army of Shereul, including his huge siege engines and terrible worms, had sunk beneath the black waves of the lake in the space of moments.
The army was destroyed. The city was saved. The Poros could flow free again, from here to the river’s mouth. That was a victory, if nothing else came from this day. Pentandra had prevailed, with a little help from Briga, I suspected.
“They did it!” Sire Cei sputtered, coughing up filthy lake water. “Gods be praised, they did it!”
“Damn right, she did it!” Tyndal agreed. “Lady Pentandra can do anything!”
“What now, Master?” Rondal asked, as he stumbled over to me. He was dripping wet and shivering, but so were we all – everyone except the big shaggy mutt who had rescued Sire Cei, and seemed determined to stake a claim to the man. She panted contentedly, as if a rousing swim after a life-or-death fight, following a week of extended physical effort was just the perfect life for a dog of her breeding.
I looked toward the arch. The Alka Alon were regrouping there, helping each other out of the water . . . but there were also a lot of gurvani and trolls who had been standing over shallows when the lake had melted back again, and they were frantically trying to get out of the water. It wasn’t so much an assault as a panicked mob armed with steel.
High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series Page 59
