But when Nochman began to ascend the stairwell leading through the eastern tower, Rancor was shocked. At first he thought his father was leading them to a secret passage that would take them to the Orb. Rancor knew firsthand that the building was littered with them. The passages had been constructed so that servants could pass between the halls unseen by dignitaries. When he was young, he had often used them to sneak to the kitchen at night. But as far as he knew, there were no passageways within the eastern tower for a very specific reason; the eastern tower contained the royal apartments. Rancor realized that there was a much simpler and more obvious location for the Orb. They were heading to Nochman’s private quarters.
Waymire’s men briefly staked out the floor, hustling from corridor to corridor to guarantee that there was not an ambush in waiting. The floor, like much of the palace, was empty. It would seem that most had either fled to their homes or been called to defend the battlements. Satisfied, Nochman led them into his quarters.
The room was shockingly austere considering Nochman’s former rank. A bed, a few cupboards, wall tapestries, a fireplace, and a pair of cluttered desks covered in scrolls, books, and spent candles. His father had never been one for material goods, and he had lived his life accordingly. There were no golden inlays or elaborate carvings. In fact, the only ornate object in the entire room was a mirror housed in a gilded frame.
All eyes followed Nochman as he entered the room, assuming he would finally reveal the location of the Orb. Instead, he drifted to his balcony doors and opened them slowly. Letting out a woeful sigh, Nochman stood motionless at the railing.
Evelyn shifted uneasily, her nerves clearly getting the better of her. She took Rancor’s hand in her own, giving it a sharp squeeze. We need to hurry, mouthed Evelyn.
Rancor took the cue and walked to his father’s side. He followed Nochman’s gaze to the southern half of the city. Smoke clouds plumed where artillery had set structures ablaze. Much of the view was obscured. Somewhere behind the dark smoldering ruin lay the gatehouse and the enemy horde.
“For a lifetime I have labored for the welfare of this city,” said Nochman in a voice barely above a whisper. “For this to be its end...” The old man’s face quivered with a sadness Rancor had never seen before. It was more than pain, more than anguish. “I see now for the first time our doom.”
Rancor wanted to reassure his father that hope was not lost, that Evelyn could still save them all. But even that thought seemed fantastical. From their vantage they could clearly see the plains beyond the wall of the city. The enemy was gathered there, rank after rank, blotting out the plains. The three creaton armies appeared small and insignificant in comparison, mere ants biting at the toes of a giant. What could Evelyn possibly do against such might?
Nochman thumbed at the jewel around his neck and seemed to gain comfort. His demeanor cooled and he moved back into the room. Nochman slowly regarded each person within the room, as if he were weighing the value of each life against the worth of the Orb. Finally he sighed wearily, as one who accepts defeat, and drooped his head in resignation. “Although in doing so I damn my people, I will surrender the Orb.”
CHAPTER
XIV
TRI-RAY
“Should we take him from the field?” yelled a voice, for a moment piercing the din of battle.
“No time,” replied another. “We have to keep moving.”
“But the enemy, they’ll desecrate the body if we leave him here.”
“He just twitched!” said a shocked voice.
“Keep moving!”
“I swear it, he’s alive!”
“Move forward, now. That’s an order!”
“Blessed be the gods!” the voice was frantic. “He’s on fire!”
Desperous thrust his eyes open, finding that a ripple of sparkling light was passing over his body. A dozen rangers, smeared heavy with the filth of war, were gathered around him. All looked at him with dumbfounded expressions. The light faded, then disappeared altogether, and like a phoenix, Desperous rose from the ashes of his former self, casting aside bloodied dirt and ravaged armor. He ran his fingers over his face, finding that the hideous wounds had been healed. The numbness of his wraith body lingered, but somewhere deep within the depths of his soul a fire grew. He clutched the Jeta Stone to his lips, drawing off its warmth. He nodded knowingly. He had become an agent of the Guardian’s will. So be it, thought Desperous, accepting his fate. It was time to get to work.
He assessed the situation quickly. The confusion caused by the hail of artillery fire had split the Luthuanian army in two. Carrions were flooding into the gap, driving a wedge between the ranks. The flanks of the army were exposed and a rout seemed likely.
“Men, to me!” ordered Desperous to the rangers.
The men hastily filed about Desperous, gawking at him like they were seeing a ghost.
“Yes...yes, my lord,” stammered a wide-eyed ranger. Another soldier hesitantly reached out and touched Desperous’s arm. One man could not shut his mouth, and stared slack-jawed in wordless disbelief.
“We must close the gap,” said Desperous, pointing with the edge of his Razorwind. The men nodded dutifully, and began to mindlessly stamp their feet. They were eager to move, eager to follow, if only Desperous would lead. They did not see the Desperous of old; that man was dead and crushed in the mire. They saw a wrathful spirit. They saw a man divinely ordained. “Once we begin, we don’t relent. We push straight through to the necromancer’s encampment. Follow me into the void, follow me to the succor of our comrades, follow me unified and as one!”
They charged, throwing themselves heedlessly into the breach. Desperous roared as he dove into the fray, unleashing a fury beyond the means of any mortal. The blades of his Razorwind hissed and popped as they pierced the air. A mist of blood and rotten flesh shrouded all.
The beleaguered soldiers on either side of the gap watched in disbelief as their champion worked through the haggard bodies of the carrions like a blade to ripe grass. It was as if a fiery apparition had risen from the earth and taken possession of Desperous’s body. There was something godly about his strength, and in mere moments, Desperous had cleared a path to the front of the Luthuanian lines.
“Fall in!” ordered Desperous.
The soldiers of Luthuania needed no second bidding. The divided army converged as one.
“Push! Press them back!”
The Luthuanians rammed into the carrions with their unified weight. Drawing confidence from the presence of their leader, they fearlessly drove forward, seeing no end to their success. The men sang as they hewed, and all about them the carrions were driven to slaughter, crushed to the ground under swinging swords and trampling feet. The enemy ranks began to buckle and then to thin, until finally, Desperous struck through a carrion to discover an open field beyond.
In the distance, he could see the outlines of undead dragons lumbering around the perimeter of an encampment. There was no doubt in his mind that the necromancer would be there. Yet an unexpected obstacle lay between them and their target. They had been premature in their exuberance. A hundred paces away, set in a solid line of speckled hides and painted armor, was a division of dragoons. They beat the ground in unison with long pikes, throwing themselves into a maddened state of mind. Bloodlust lit up their misanthropic eyes.
Many of the Luthuanians recoiled in fright. Most had never seen the savage image of a dragoon, let alone an army five thousand strong. Fear was the bane of any army, and Desperous could plainly see it gnawing at the willpower of his men to move forward.
“Elves of Luthuania!” roared Desperous over the clatter of clashing steel. “Do not fear your mortal end, for I have seen it. Glory awaits those who are righteous.” He thrust his blade forward. “With honor to the bloody end.” He bared his teeth and charged, for an instant a lone figure crossing the divide.
• • •
With his maul resting upon his shoulder, Byron paced eagerly atop the hill, slowly wo
rking a rut into the muddy earth as he nervously watched the war waging in the valley below. Garbed in his Wyrm-faced helm and suit of blue plate, Byron appeared quite the ferocious king.
Dolum stood well out of his uncle’s way, feeling like a fool in comparison. He was wearing black carapace armor fashioned to resemble the suit worn by his dead father. The necromancer had taken the original, as he had done with his father’s body, and thousands upon thousands of dwarven carrions. If the gods were righteous they would boil the necromancer in fire for what he had done. Yet, the gods were not only unrighteous, they were silent. Dolum cursed Yansarian, the Weaver, and the Creators alike. He damned the whole pantheon for letting this happen. But even as he thought this, there was a glimmer of a thought in his head, a small nagging voice.
“I will show you a better way.”
Dolum was tempted by the Shadow’s promise.
“Why haven’t they signaled our advance yet?” growled Byron. His eyes flashed rapidly between the smoke-shrouded gatehouse tower and the field. “The elves are going to be slaughtered down there if we don’t move in.” He threw his arms up in despair.
“I’m not certain the gatehouse is still in our possession,” replied Captain Braddock dourly. The man still reeked of booze from his late night revelry.
Dolum remained silent. After seeing battle at Ravor, Dolum thought he knew what war looked like. But upon the pinnacle of Petrel Hill, sighting all that there was to see, he was awestruck. Away to the south, the Men of Caper had slammed into the carrions, while hundreds of horsemen wheeled about the enemy’s flanks. Closer still, and in more vivid detail, Dolum could spy the Luthuanians pressed deep into the killing field. Their bright mail and glittering swords were lost in a sea of black. Between them and the city walls were carrions, more than a man could count in his entire lifetime. To the west, the billowing smoke from the city served as a backdrop to all, blotting out the turbulent sky.
Only the northern fringes of the field had not yet descended into chaos. A mob of carrions stood motionless north of the city gates. Byron had positioned his Kaziak riders so that they could intercept the enemy if they made a move. But it was clear the new king wasn’t satisfied with sitting idle.
“We have to do something,” said Byron in a huff. “I didn’t come all this way to serve as a spectator.” He spit on the ground, his saliva stained red from the engroot lodged in his cheek.
“Then let’s do what we came here to do,” said Dolum, finding the courage to speak. His own cowardice was screaming in the back of his mind. He imagined his friends fighting and dying somewhere on that field.
Byron eyed his nephew keenly. “You say we should go?”
“Of course.”
“Most likely to death and doom?”
“I see no better way,” said Dolum.
Byron grinned with pleasure. He turned to the army amassed to his rear and shouted. “Let’s send them back to the grave, men!”
A deafening roar rose up from the army, and they set in motion, becoming a flowing river of men and jutting steel. Despite the lack of military training possessed by most, they moved with a surprising degree of order. A sea of waving spears and banners hung over their ranks. War songs and battle cries, belted in deep and sonorous voices, could be heard all about the hill.
At their lead, King Byron called out the titles of the various dwarven lines. “Dwarves of Emotria, I salute you!”
A hearty cry of approval resounded through the ranks.
“Dwarves of Hedrotria, I salute you!”
“To war, to war!” cried the masses in unison.
“To those who died at Useran and Temora, we salute you!”
“In their memory!” cried the masses.
“To those of Halgah past, and for those of Halgath future, we fight...”
“Incoming!”
“Right face!”
The Halgan ranks had hardly a moment to prepare. An undead dragon plummeted from the sky like a rock, talons poised and jaw agape. The dwarves fearfully threw up a wall of spears. It impeded the dragon little. There was an explosion of flying bodies and spouting blood, and the undead dragon rose from the fray with its snout and chest pinned with a dozen spears. Its soulless eyes lulled in its skull as it wheeled over the Halgans, slowly squeezing the life out of the hapless soldiers it had clutched in its talons. One by one, their crushed bodies rained down upon their terrified comrades.
“Left face!”
Another dragon came down in a similar fashion. The dwarves scattered, stumbling over each other. A brave few held their ground, and many of them were left reeling with ragged wounds.
“Right face!”
Like vultures drawn to a carcass, more and more undead dragons began to circle above, pacing the movement of the Halgan army, harrying their every step. Dragoons sat astride the necks of the undead dragons, and were taking turns plunging through the Halgan ranks. Panic was setting in, and mob rule took over. The tight formation fell into chaos with soldiers scampering every which way. They were helpless to repel such an assault and Dolum knew it. Already he could see the carrion division near the wall coming to life and making an about-face. The kaziaks were lining up for a charge, but if they proved incapable of holding the enemy at bay...
Dolum shuddered at the thought. He was the Lan of Byron, he had to do something, anything. He looked to his uncle for guidance. Byron was grabbing fleeing men and shoving them back into position. “Hold the formation! Stay together, spears up!” Captain Braddock stood beside him with his broadsword drawn, threatening to cut any man who ignored the king’s command.
Dolum scrambled to help, but immediately fell over a torso that had been pinched in half at the waist. Dolum gagged, rose to his feet, and was knocked over again by the press of panicking men. “In the name of the Lan of Byron, hold position!” roared Dolum. It was no use. The men were overwhelmed.
“Left face!”
“Right face!”
An undead dragon fell from the sky with its talons poised for the kill. Mere moments before hitting the Halgan lines it was struck by a second dragon. Their tails coiled and their jaws bit deep.
The dwarves let out an exuberant cheer.
“The dragon clans have come!” yelled Dolum excitedly. “Halgans, rise! Halgans, rise! The dragon clans have come!”
As if on cue, more dragons came diving from above, striking the undead dragons like falcons hitting prey. Many of the dragoon riders were knocked from their saddles and sent plummeting to the ground. The Halgans set upon the dragoons with a bloody zeal, savagely hacking their bodies to pieces.
Dolum pushed back to the front lines. He found his uncle squinting off into the distance with his visor raised. At first Dolum thought Byron was looking at the kaziak riders. They had struck the front lines of the carrion division, rebounded, and struck again.
“A splendid rally!” said Dolum. He hoped he was correct to make such a declaration.
Byron’s lips curled dubiously. “Look.” He nodded to the valley where the carrions and Luthuanians were dancing their deadly dance. In the midst shone a single light, like starlight in a black sea.
“What is it?” Dolum narrowed his eyes, focusing on the object.
“Witchcraft,” said Byron. “Trickery of the necromancer, I’m certain.”
“No,” said Dolum. “It’s a harbinger of things to come.”
Byron looked at him queerly.
“Have hope.” Dolum placed a reassuring hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “Let’s rally to the light.” He turned to the throng of recovering Halgans. “Back to your feet!” roared Dolum. “Regroup, hold a line at my position. We’re going in!”
• • •
Desperous ran a dozen paces ahead of his charging men, urged on by the pounding steps that thundered in his ears. “Gallantry in action, wisdom in choice,” Desperous whispered to himself. “You must be their bastion of hope. This is your purpose.”
For a moment, the dragoons seemed as if they would fal
ter before so splendid a display. But one dragoon emerged through the chaos. He stood before the others and belted out orders in a foreign tongue. In unison, the dragoons ground their feet into the earth, and held forward jagged pikes twice the length of a man. The bladed tips bobbed dangerously, creating an impenetrable wall of steel.
Desperous recognized their leader at once. The flowing ribbons, the snarling face, the iron plate the color of blood. The dragoon was the one he had faced at Coralan.
With the distance between the two heroes closing fast, Korre charged, hurling his spear mid-stride. The shaft was aimed for Desperous’s abdomen, but in a flash he pivoted right, narrowly avoiding its point.
It was in this instant that the heat of the stone set against Desperous’s chest increased a hundred fold. The warmth ripped through the elf like a blazing inferno. It pumped as adrenaline through the countless strands of his being. Then, in a blinding flash, the inferno surged through his skin, and his figure became obscured in shimmering light.
Korre reared in shock, and for an instant Desperous perceived fear in the warrior’s eyes. It was all he needed.
“You’re mine!” roared Desperous.
In a blaze of light, Desperous stabbed with his Razorwind. Korre stumbled, blocked with his wing blade, then blocked again and again. Each motion set the dragoon on his back heel, and step by step, swing by swing, Desperous pressed him toward the dragoon line. Korre’s counterstrokes came half-heartedly, the fact that he was bested showed plainly on his face. There was no stopping the strength raging inside Desperous, and with a motion so quick it was nearly imperceptible to the eye, Desperous nocked an arrow and fired into the dragoon’s outstretched leg. The arrow punctured the armor, striking Korre lame. The champion of the dragoons slouched awkwardly. All hope of victory vanished from his baleful eyes. Desperous made quick work of it, cleaving through Korre’s snout and forehead with a single swipe.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 14
