by J. K. Barber
The sorcerers and archers did what they could to strike at the dragons as they passed, but the height from which the dragons attacked was hindering the Illyanders’ attempts to drive them off. There was simply no way to attack the flying creatures as they approached or withdrew without the danger of hitting the soldiers in front of or behind them, and the dragons were moving too rapidly to allow a decent opportunity to strike as they passed overhead. Still, the sorcerers continued to launch magical attacks in the hopes of injuring one of the dragons. The pale creatures, however, soon found the measure of the sorcerers, keeping to the left and right of the blue-robed Illyanders, out-flanking the bolts of lightning as they made pass after pass over the King’s Army, killing men by the score with their own devastating attacks.
Branden watched helplessly as men died everywhere with almost no casualties to the Ice Queen’s army. To make matters worse the soldiers on the frontline were being constantly assaulted by enemy arrows from Snowhaven’s walls. Struggling to find a way to defend the King, the smith focused on the more pressing matter of the airborne attacks and noticed several things about them. The dragons were becoming increasingly bold with each pass, dipping lower at times, flying higher at others as though the creatures were becoming bored with the fight. Branden was reminded of children playing with a dog that was dangerous but still tethered in place. They knew the extent of the reach of the King’s Army and were dancing just beyond it. The other observation that Branden had was that one of them seemed almost reluctant to attack. One of the medium-sized, for a dragon at least, creatures was laying down gouts of lightning to the side of the army, blasting them back with dirt and rock, but not actually hitting the soldiers directly. As the creature did so, it winced, causing the dragon’s flight to be somewhat erratic compared to its brethren. The source of the dragon’s discomfort was a mystery to Branden.
As the flying white creatures banked and approached again, Branden saw that one of the smaller dragons varied his attack, flying low over the center of the army and straight towards the King and his retinue. “Down, Your Majesty!” Branden screamed. The King’s Guard had placed himself close to Morgan after the first attack by the Ice Queen and her draconian mount. Branden unceremoniously grabbed the King’s pauldron, hauling Morgan down across his horse and covering his liege with his own body. Branden heard the dragon pass overhead, the rush of air making it seem as though the creature passed within inches of their ducked heads. Branden heard a man’s yell of terror near him and then quickly fade into the distance. The smith raised his head to see the now empty mount of the King’s Standard Bearer. As he released the King, Branden turned to see the blue and red banner of Illyander fluttering from its pole, which was clutched in the talons of one of the dragons as it flew away. Hanging from the bottom of the pole was Garrison, his legs flailing wildly and his mouth open in a scream of terror as he was carried away. The poor young man was too terrified to let go of the standard and rapidly approaching a height at which it would be fatal for him to do so. Branden yelled at Garrison to release his grip on the standard but feared his voice was lost in the distance and the wind that was rushing by the young man’s ears as he was carried away by the dragon’s rapid flight.
As Branden was about to yell again, he instinctively threw his hands up as bright light exploded before his eyes. The company of sorcerers had been waiting for the opportunity given them by the fleeing dragon’s antics. The world went white as nearly twenty sorcerers released their arcane energies at once. Lightning arced through the cold mountain air, racing through the intervening distance in the space of a heartbeat. A score of bolts struck the dragon eliciting a thunderous roar of agony. The flying creature convulsed, ineffectively tried to flap his wings and then fell out of the sky, leaving a smoky trail behind him. Even from a distance, Branden could see the blackened scorch marks across the dragon’s flank and across both wings. To the smith’s eye the way the creature floundered as it fell seemed almost sad; a great eagle, felled from the sky by an archer’s arrow, trying desperately to stay aloft but with a ruined wing that refused to cooperate. As the creature fell out of sight, the King’s Army let out a cheer of triumph, a victorious yell that was quickly echoed from the front of the vanguard.
King Morgan and his retinue turned in unison at the noise just in time to see the southern gate of Snowhaven fall outward with a massive cacophony, reminiscent of a great tree falling to the forest floor. “What do you make of that?” asked Talas, pointing at the soldiers as they poured into Snowhaven.
“It seems our plan worked,” King Morgan replied, smiling. He then turned to Cewin Frey, “General, give the order to advance, Snowhaven will soon be ours.” The monarch raised his sword, motioning forward with the blade in a triumphant manner.
Talas rode closer to Branden as they began to advance, having to almost yell to be heard above the sound of so many soldiers moving forward at once. “Did you see the manner in which the gates fell?” the veteran asked, a confused look on his face.
“What do you mean?” Branden answered, his eyes going to the sky to watch the movements of the dragons.
“The gate did not open as though it was broken in. It collapsed, falling forward, all in one piece. I’d wager that many of the men who stood before it were crushed by its fall.”
Branden looked at Snowhaven again, hearing the clash of metal on metal even at this distance. Despite the King’s good cheer, the smith knew that the fight to retake the town was far from over; many lives would be lost before Snowhaven once again flew the flag of Illyander. Branden wondered how the people who had opened the gate from the inside fared. Sadly, he was almost certain that they did not survive. “Now that you remark upon it, I see what you mean. Still, the gate is down and that is what we needed.” Branden returned his attention overhead once more, gesturing to the sky with his great maul. “What I’m more intrigued by however,” he said, “is what the dragons are doing now.”
Talas looked up, following Branden’s gesture. Sudden confusion came upon the priest at what he saw. The dragons were flying away, but not back towards Snowhaven. Instead they were soaring eastward, four of them at least. As Talas watched, the giant white dragons seemed to be clawing at their chests with their own fore-talons. The priest thought he saw dark shapes falling through the air as the dragons beat their powerful wings, speeding towards the eastern horizon. However, the largest dragon, the Ice Queen’s mount, was nowhere to be seen. As Talas looked back towards Snowhaven, trying to discern the Empress’ location, a bright flash of light emanated from the Sorcerers’ Tower, and then quickly disappeared. What it portended for the invading Illyanders, the priest could only guess.
Captain Ra’thet watched as the glow from the Sorcerer’s Tower faded and with it his Queen. After the southern gate had fallen, Salamasca had flown her mount, the largest of the white dragons, straight into the black crystal that protruded from the top of the tall thin tower and disappeared in a flash of light.
Ra’thet had seen it happen, and worse so had the orcs. The blue-skinned brutes had seen the Empress of Ice flee before the might of the King’s Army and had taken the escape as a general call to retreat. Already the fleeing orcs had begun frantically removing the wooden beams that secured the northern gates. Once open, the captain had no doubt that the beasts would take flight into the Frozen March, scattering or seeking their brethren for safety.
He mounted his black warhorse, adjusting the weight of his plate armor across his shoulders once he had settled into the saddle. He took his helmet from the pommel and sat staring at it for several moments. He turned the helm in his hand, seeing the small dents and nicks it had accumulated over years of service to the Empress of Ice. He looked at the long black plume that sprouted from the helmet’s top, made from the hair of the first orc chieftain he had killed in the Ice Queen’s service, to remind the blue-skinned creatures that he had stood in single combat against one of their greatest warriors and emerged triumphant. Chuckling strangely to himself, he t
ossed the helmet aside, letting it fall into the muck. Several thick orcish boots kicked the discarded headpiece as they ran before the King’s Army, and soon the helmet was lost from sight.
Ra’thet urged his horse southward, slowly.
As he rode, several of his human lieutenants rushed up to him, grabbing his armored thighs, pleading for orders, begging him to tell them what to do. Ra’thet’s laughing grew louder, gaining a wild timber as he rode slowly onwards. Gaining little guidance from their leader, the human soldiers joined the fleeing orcs in their panicked flight.
Still Ra’thet slowly rode.
As the men from the King’s Army approached him he unslung the great warblade from his back. Swinging about him, almost unseeingly, Ra’thet dispatched a dozen Illyanders before coming into view of the southern gate. The general’s loose black hair floated wildly in the wind that blew out of the mountains behind him. He slid from his horse, slapping the mount’s flank, sending it away. Ra’thet rolled his shoulders, the chainmail under his black plate making a metallic sound as it settled again, this time its weight better distributed.
The massive portal had fallen outwards, its hinges still hanging from the wall, twisted and half-melted. As Ra’thet looked at the misshapen pieces of metal he began to laugh louder, his tone more maniacal with each step.
Most of the King’s Army had spread out once it passed Snowhaven’s fallen gate, attempting to secure the towers atop the wall or other key strategic points in the town’s southern reaches. The main road through town was strangely, relatively clear. The Illyanders had expected a more protracted fight once they breached the town’s walls, having to fight their way slowly northward to take Snowhaven fully. They had not expected the Ice Queen or the orcs inside to abandon the town so readily.
Another solider rushed Ra’thet, who ducked the man’s clumsy swing and brought the pommel of his greatsword down across the back of the soldier’s head. As the Illyander stumbled, the dark-haired warrior swung out with his blade, catching the floundering man across the back of the knees, his sword biting into the unprotected flesh. The soldier fell and howled in pain, but Ra’thet did not finish the man off. Instead he left the man wallowing in the mud and continued walking slowly forward. Several more of the King’s soldiers attacked Ra’thet as he plodded southward, only to meet similar or worse fates at the hands of the Ice Queen’s former captain.
And then Ra’thet stopped.
Kneeling in the mud before the now fallen gates was a large man cradling the burnt body of a woman, her features blackened beyond recognition. Yet, the man seemed to know her somehow, given the tear that rolled down his cheek into his beard. Ra’thet saw the remains of a blue robe hanging off her charred frame. All around the large man lay the bodies of dead Illyanders; their corpses had been separated from the dead men and orcs that had once served Ra’thet and his queen. A score of the dead Illyanders wore tabards marking them as soldiers in the King’s army. In addition, there were another eight men and women dressed in the fashion of citizens of Snowhaven. Ra’thet had killed enough of them when he took the town to recognize what Salamasca had called warrior-sorcerer pairs. These duos were men and women sworn to each other, one sorcerer and one warrior, trained to fight as a single entity to devastating effect. Ra’thet had great respect for these sworn pairs, both for their prowess and their loyalty to each other; however, his laughter probably made his admiration difficult to discern. Four of these pairs lay dead around the kneeling man, their bodies horrendously burnt or pierced with a multitude of crossbow bolts.
Behind the kneeling warrior stood a pair of men, whose eyes locked with Ra’thet’s. One was middle aged, clad in mail and wearing a white tabard, the twin dragons of Illyander embroidered across it in blue and red thread. A well-used broadsword with a single sapphire set into the pommel hung from his hip. Beside him stood a man Ra’thet guessed to be on the far side of his middle years, but still hale. This man wore a blue and red tabard with the image of entwined dragons, the crest of Illyander, emblazoned in gold across his broad chest. A longsword rested in a sheath that hung from the man’s gold-chased belt. A gold band set with sapphires and rubies encircled his head, holding back thick brown hair. There were touches of grey at the man’s temples and in his full beard. There was a regal manner to the way the man held himself that was unmistakable, obviously royalty of some sort. Given his age, the abandoned captain deduced that the bearded man was King Morgan himself. The Ice Queen’s former champion sketched a mocking bow towards the monarch. The king did not react.
Slowly the kneeling man’s head rose, his eyes attracted by the sounds of laughter coming from Ra’thet. The forsaken paramour of the Ice Queen was not sure why he still laughed, but he was certain he could not have stopped now even if he had wished it.
Gently setting aside the woman’s dead body, the man rose to a massive height. He was easily a head taller than Ra’thet, who was not short by any man’s reckoning, and stared seething hatred at the dark-haired warrior. His hair at one time had probably been a rich brown, but the years had silvered it somewhat. A thick beard, streaked with grey, covered the man’s mouth, but Ra’thet could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that he was scowling. The giant of a man hefted a great maul in his hands, his thick mail clinking in response. His white tabard, a twin to the middle-aged man’s, was marred along its lower half by dirt and blood. The broadsword wielding knight made to join the larger man, but stopped when King Morgan placed a firm hand on his shoulder. No words were spoken, but the man with the broadsword stood still, leaving the taller man to fight alone.
Ra’thet threw his head back, his laughter now sounding somewhat insane, even to his own ears and then rushed forward. The large man strode forward to meet him, his massive hammer at the ready.
Branden easily blocked Ra’thet’s first blow, a wild undisciplined stroke, but powerful nonetheless. The smith felt the reverberations down the haft of his great maul, the thick wooden shaft barely chipping where his opponent’s greatsword had struck it. Pain lanced down his previously injured arm from where the Shadow Walker had opened it from the shoulder to the wrist. The smith did not let it show on his face though.
“I expected better,” Branden said, his voice oddly calm in comparison to the half-crazed expression that Ra’thet wore. “Especially from the Empress of Ice’s great Captain,” he continued. Ra’thet aimed another blow, this time at the smith’s head. Branden ducked under the swing, thrusting the head of his hammer into Ra’thet’s black-armored chest. The man’s plate was well made and did not buckle, however the force of the blow was enough to drive the black-haired man back several steps.
Ra’thet drew his sword up into a defensive position, his blue eyes studying Branden for a moment. The frenzied look slowly disappeared from his face as his eyes became narrower and more focused. A smile spread across Ra’thet’s pale features. Branden detected no warmth in the grin. “Finally,” Ra’thet spoke, his voice almost mirthful. “Finally, there is someone in all this human debris that might put up a decent fight.” The Ice Queen’s captain gestured with his hand, encompassing the entirety of the King’s Army.
Captain Veldrun took a step forward. “Cretin,” he spat. “I’ll show you a decent fight.” Branden saw his captain move out of the corner of his eye towards Ra’thet and then stop. The smith dared not take his eyes from the armored man before him to see why Veldrun had halted; Branden knew a viper when he saw one. His curiosity was quickly satisfied with the next voice he heard.
“Stay your hand, Captain Veldrun,” King Morgan said, his tone easy but firm, as one who is accustomed to having his orders obeyed without question. “I believe Branden has a personal matter to attend to here. Leave him to it.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Veldrun replied. Branden could hear the hesitation in his commander’s voice but knew the man would not contradict his liege’s order.
Ra’thet considered the other two men behind Branden as well as the troops that were spreading out
through Snowhaven. The smith saw a look in the enemy captain’s eye that sent a small shiver down his spine. The man had nothing to lose. He was facing death at best, interrogation and then public execution at worst, yet Branden did not see despair in Ra’thet’s expression. In fact, the pale-skinned man looked pleased and to a certain extent relieved. Branden did not have time to attempt to puzzle out the man’s motives though. Ra’thet, now seeing that he would be able to fight Branden unhindered, stepped forward, drawing his greatsword into a striking position, and began his attack anew.
Branden was forced back, barely parrying a series of blows from Ra’thet. All the fervor had disappeared from the enemy captain’s attacks. The strikes that Ra’thet now aimed at Branden were practiced and precise, revealing a skill that had not been evident in the man’s initial attacks. Coupled with the man’s obvious strength, Branden felt the force of each blow shudder down his forearms. The smith was hard-pressed to defend himself, and pain exploded along Branden’s side. Ra’thet had slipped the point of his sword around Branden’s maul, slashing the smith’s torso. He heard the metallic sound as several links of his mail gave way and a line of fire traced its way down one of his ribs. He also felt the sickening sensation of metal on bone.
