by Don Perrin
He closed his eyes and sought inside himself. But to no avail. Others might have magic still. He had lost it, as he had lost his Queen. As he had lost his faith. And though his Queen had abandoned him years before, he felt abandoned by her once again. Anger burned in place of magic. She would once more fail her people.
Or maybe not.
Kang’s hand went to his webbing, pawed through it frantically. His fingers closed over the magical artifact, Dracart’s Heart. He no longer possessed any magical power, but this artifact did. He had intended to destroy it anyhow.
“You’ll fulfill your maker’s design anyway,” Kang told it, holding the black crystal in his hand. “If this works, you’ll save the draconian race.”
The Drunken Dragon’s head was over the hobgoblin general. The hob was pointing up at it, laughing uproariously.
Gritting his teeth, exerting all his strength, Kang closed his fingers convulsively over the crystal.
The Heart of Drakart shattered. Shards of broken crystal pierced Kang’s flesh. Blood streamed from his hand. Pain flooded his body and so did the magic. He was astounded at the power that was so bright and flaring it burned away the terrible pain. His heart beat frantically, his blood boiled. He feared that he had made a deadly mistake, that the magic would consume him, that he wouldn’t be able to control it.
With a great cry, he concentrated on the dragon and on his desperate need. He began to chant the oft-recited, well-known and beloved words to a prayer that was a magical spell.
The magic gathered itself inside him into a ball of flame that burst out from the fingers of his bloody hand. The flame was like a meteor blazing through the air, trailing white hot sparks that burned through anything they touched, even the iron casing of the battering ram. The fireball struck the Drunken Dragon in the tail section, setting it instantly ablaze.
The magical fire raced along the pine wood frame, eagerly licked up the brown goo. Holes gaped in the wings. The Drunken Dragon began to descend rapidly. Now the hobgoblins, staring up at it, were afraid. They wavered in their attack.
The flames reached the keg bombs. A ball of light, blue-white, dazzling, consumed the Drunken Dragon. Kang, staring straight at it, was momentarily blinded. A boom as of a hundred thunderclaps shook the fortress and knocked Kang to his knees. A wave of heat struck him. He heard screams, screams of dying hobgoblins, screams of goblins being burned alive, terrible screams.
He staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes, frantic to see what was happening.
The sight that met his eyes was appalling.
The dragon had exploded at a height of about ten feet above the hobgoblin phalanx. The liquid inside the keg bombs spewed out with explosive force and ignited, raining flaming death on top of the hobs. The hobgoblin general’s retinue had taken much of the initial blast.
Kang caught a glimpse of the hobgoblin general. His chest and arms were on fire. He was shrieking impotent curses and then Kang lost sight of him as the burning undercarriage of the dragon came crashing down on the general and his staff.
Kang hoped to see that this had finished the hobgoblins around the gate. He cursed, swore. The goblins that had survived were fleeing, but the phalanx of hobgoblins—though their numbers were decimated—was still holding its position, still trying to batter down the gate. The death of their general seemed only to fuel their determination.
I’d like to meet whoever trained this lot, Kang thought savagely. I’d like to shake his hand. Right before I cut off his head.
Draconians were cheering on the walls. Kang ordered them to shut their damn mouths and start firing arrows. He told them throw spears, throw rocks, do anything they could to stop that advance.
He clattered down the stairs to where he had left the Ninth Infantry. Hopefully they were as disciplined as the hobgoblins. He found them standing in ranks, waiting.
“Prokel!” Kang shouted. “Follow me!”
Prokel hesitated. “You said General Maranta was dead. How—”
Kang shook his head. Even if he could, he didn’t have time to explain. The troops would either follow him or they wouldn’t. Ignoring Prokel, Kang pointed at the front gate.
“The hobs are trying to batter down the gate, men! They must not succeed! I’m going out there to fight them. Are you with me?”
He turned and started for the gate at a run. If no one followed, this last battle of his was going to be one for the bards.
And then he heard behind him Prokel’s voice, “Ninth Infantry! Charge!”
The heavily armed and armored troops of the Ninth came pounding after Kang, chanting their regimental battle cry in deep voices.
“Open the gate! Open the gate!” Kang yelled to the troops manning the lower gate approach.
Looking behind him, the draconians at the gate saw the infantry advancing and understood. They pulled back the bracing bars just as the Ninth arrived.
The gate swung open, sending startled hobs tumbling inside the compound. The Ninth heavy infantry struck the hobgoblin formation like a hammer striking a block of ice. The hobgoblin formation shattered. They dropped their battering ram. Some turned to run. Others, seeing that there was no hope of escape, drew their swords and prepared to fight to the death.
Kang was in the vanguard of the charge. His momentum carried him through the hobgoblin ranks and outside the gates, watching the enemy retreat before him. He had no enemy to fight and he paused to catch his breath and take stock of the situation. A patch of color caught his eye. His regimental standard lay on the ground. He raced to snatch it up, hacking open the skulls of two goblins on the way.
Kang returned to the gate and found the Ninth Infantry swarming out onto the battlefield. The hobs and gobbos were on the run now. The Ninth was chasing down those who had the bad luck to be in the rear.
Kang stood in middle of the open gate, raised his voice in a loud bellow that sounded above the turmoil.
“Attack! The enemy’s on the run!” Kang waved the banner as he yelled. “Attack!”
A cheer went up from the rampart’s defenders. Many were so excited that they leapt off the wall, using their wings to carry them to the ground. They rallied around Kang and in less than a minute, he was leading over a hundred draconians.
“Charge!” he yelled, and ran forward.
Goblins and hobgoblins were fleeing in all directions. The burning wreckage of the Drunken Dragon belched black smoke into the air. The Ninth was hacking its gory way to the right. Kang took his formation off the road to the left, smashed into rear of the fleeing goblins.
Kang continued his charge another fifty feet, then he stopped with the realization that he was too weak to go any farther. His hand throbbed with a pain that seemed to lance up his arm and into his gut. He was astonished to see the hand was badly mangled, two of his fingers hanging by the tendons. The pole of the standard he had been waving was covered with his own blood. He tried to hold onto the standard, to keep it from falling to the ground, but he had no strength left.
“I’ve got it, sir!” said a voice and a hand reached out, took hold of the standard and planted it firmly at Kang’s feet.
The voice was familiar but it was coming out of a hobgoblin’s mouth. And then the hobgoblin disappeared and there was Slith, grinning so that he showed every single one of his teeth.
“Damn fine, wasn’t it, sir!” Slith cried.
“Damn fine,” Kang echoed. He was weak from loss of blood, but he was determined to remain conscious. He wasn’t going to miss the end of this.
“What in Abyss did you do to yourself, sir?” Slith demanded, seeing Kang’s hand that was no longer recognizable as a hand but looked more like something that had come out of the end of a meat grinder. “We have to bandage that, sir. Stop the bleeding.”
Slith searched about for material to use for a bandage, but he wore nothing but armor and webbing, the same as Kang. Slith’s gaze fell on the standard. Ignoring Kang’s shocked protest, Slith ripped the banner from its pole and began wrapp
ing the stained and muddy cloth around Kang’s hand.
“That standard has Granak’s blood on it,” Kang said.
Slith paused in his bandaging, looked up, alarmed. “Is he—”
Kang nodded, sighed heavily. “Javelin got him.”
Slith lowered his head, went back to work. “Damn gobbos,” Slith muttered. “Granak was a good soldier.”
“Yes,” said Kang. The soldier’s epitaph, the best there could be. “Yes, he was. Huzzad’s dead, too.”
“Yes, sir. We found her body on our way out of the Bastion. I left an honor guard with her, sir. I thought you’d want that.”
“She was probably the only human who ever gave her life for a draconian,” Kang said. No, thought Kang, that wasn’t quite true. Huzzad gave her life for honor, for a Vision given to her by a goddess, for faith in that Vision. That would be Huzzad’s epitaph.
“There you are, sir,” Slith said, finishing the bandaging with a neat knot. “Some kapak spit and you’ll be good as new.”
Kang smiled faintly. Slith continued talking, saying something about how he and his troop of dunderheads had managed to finally make their way out of the Bastion. They had arrived at the gate in time to see the dragon explode. Hearing Kang’s order to charge the gate, Slith had tried to reach him, but Ninth Infantry had been in the way.
“Once the Ninth cleared the road, we came out and saw you waving the standard. We chased after you, but you were too fast. There they go, sir,” Slith added proudly. “Look at them.”
The First Dragonarmy Engineers dashed past, shouting their battle cry, hunting goblins. Their officers saluted as they ran past him. Kang returned the salute, though his hand hurt like hell. He looked out over the battlefield. Dead goblins and hobgoblins littered the field for as far as Kang could see. Draconians could be seen in the distance, chasing small bands of goblins. They were meeting little resistance, taking no prisoners.
We won, Kang realized dazedly. The day is ours. We won.
“Slith,” he said after a moment, when he could speak past the choking sensation in his throat, “do you have any of those keg bombs left?”
“Why, sir?” Slith looked around in consternation. “Do we need them?”
“I do,” said Kang.
Slith caught his commander’s smile and understood. “Yeah, I saved one, sir. And a couple of mugs to go with it.”
The two turned and headed slowly back to the fort. Kang refused Slith’s offer of assistance. Kang’s hand throbbed so that he had to grit his teeth against the pain. He was light-headed from loss of blood and weak, but he’d be damned if he was ever again going to be carted around on any blasted litter.
He passed the charred carcass of the shattered dragon and gave it a fond nod and a salute. Smoke billowed up from the dragon’s remains and from a hundred small fires still blazing inside the fort. The fort itself was in sad shape. Now that Kang looked at it, he was amazed they had held it for as long as they had. Parts of the wooden stockade were completely demolished.
Walking inside the gate, Kang saw piles of dust—dead baaz, pools of acid—dead kapaks. Some of the dead sivaks still wore the look of their killers, others had gone back to their original form. The draconians had won, but the cost had come high. The euphoria Kang experienced over the victory began to fade. He bowed his head. His walk slowed. He felt sick and faint. He was about to tell Slith to send for the litter-bearers, when the cheering began. Cheering and the clash of swords against shields.
Startled, Kang looked up. Draconians lined the ramparts. Other draconians thronged around the broken gate. They were all cheering lustily.
Kang glanced around. “What is it?” he asked in confusion. “What’s all this for?”
Slith smiled. “You, sir.”
“Me?” Kang was astounded. “No …”
At the sight of him, the draconians’ cheers increased in volume, sending echoes booming from the surrounding mountains. He could have no doubt. All eyes were on him. They clashed their swords against their shields. Those holding spears began a rhythmic thumping of the butts into the ground. Others stamped their feet in time. They parted ranks to form an aisle, allow him a clear passage into the fort.
Slith fell back. “Go on ahead, sir. Congratulations. You’ve earned this.”
Kang paused, overcome with emotion. “Not just me,” he said. “They all—” He couldn’t finished. He choked, cleared his throat. “Find Granak,” he whispered hoarsely. “And see to Huzzad.”
“Yes, sir,” Slith replied.
Lifting his head, bracing his shoulders, Kang drew in a deep breath and walked among the rows of his cheering people.
The barracks of the First Dragonarmy Engineers were among the few buildings still standing after the battle. Kang ordered that these now be used to house the wounded. He gave that order from his bed, for he had no sooner set foot inside the fort than the females, led by a concerned Fonrar, had cut short the festivities and hustled him off to be fussed over, treated and pampered, all of which he outwardly protested, inwardly enjoyed.
“How’s Thes?” were the first words he asked, as they helped him inside.
“She’s fine, sir,” said Fonrar. “Just fine. She’s right here, in fact.”
Thesik appeared, leaned over him. “How are you, sir?” she asked anxiously. “Could I get you something to eat?”
Kang shook his head, stared intently at her and Fonrar. They both looked extremely innocent, a look he remembered from childhood. A look that meant that they had been doing something they shouldn’t.
“You cast the illusion spell on the dragon,” Kang said suddenly, weakly.
Thesik and Fonrar exchanged guilty glances. “I’m sorry, sir,” Thesik said. “I don’t know what came over me. It was a wonderful dragon, sir, but it just … just seemed to need a little something. I hope you’re not angry.”
“It did need ‘a little something,’ ” Kang said. “You may have saved the day. I’m proud of you. Proud of you all. But tell me one thing, Thes, you’ve never seen a golden dragon. How did you know what one would look like?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Thesik replied. “But I have seen golden dragons. I see a golden dragon in my dreams almost everyday. I’m not sure why. It’s very strange. Do you understand, sir?”
“Yes, Thesik, yes, I do.” Kang replied, who sometimes saw a bronze dragon in his dreams. He understood. He had hoped she never would.
Kang refused to be carried to his own room. He insisted on being in the center of operations, in order to see and supervise. As it turned out, he was left with little to do. The females took charge and within an hour after the battle, the wounded were being brought inside and attended.
Kang lay in his bed. He had a mug of cactus juice in one hand. The other was covered with kapak spit. Thanks to that and Rial’s surprising skill with a needle, Kang’s right hand retained the requisite number of fingers. Everyone assured him that the hand would be as good as before, but he knew they were lying to placate him. He had suffered nerve damage, severed tendons. Not even the miracles of kapak spit could restore these. He would never hold an axe again. That knowledge did not bother him as much as it might have. Once he would have been devastated, but not now. Not since he had made his decision.
Fonrar had removed the bloodstained standard and carried it off somewhere. When he asked about it, she told him to rest and leave the work to others. He was too tired to argue. He rested and watched with pleasure Fonrar directing operations. She was too busy to speak to him, but she smiled at him every time she passed him, a comradely smile that warmed his heart better than the mug of cactus juice.
Kang had just dozed off, when he felt a hand shake him.
He groaned and woke with a start. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Sorry for waking you, sir,” said Slith, “but I thought you’d want to see this.”
Kang lifted his head. “Granak!” he exclaimed.
The big sivak lay on his stomach on the litter. He lay o
n his stomach because the javelin that had felled him was still sticking out from between his shoulder blades.
“We found him like that, sir,” Slith said, regarding Granak in admiration. “He was lying on the ground cussing up a storm and shouting for someone to help him pull that toothpick out of him.”
“Will he be all right?” Kang asked anxiously, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” said Slith. “You know, a little kapak spit …”
Kang eased himself back down. “Thanks, Slith. You just disproved a theory of mine.”
“What would that be, sir?”
“That no one ever wakes me up to tell me good news.”
“Yes, sir.” Slith grinned. “Go back to sleep, sir.”
“I will. Oh, and Slith,” Kang said, closing his eyes. “I want everyone in our regiment out on the parade ground tomorrow morning. I have an announcement to make.”
* * * * *
The First Dragonarmy Engineers formed up in squadron ranks. Each Squadron second-in-command handed command over to the Squadron Commanders. Slith took the field and ordered the squadrons to report their strengths. Each, in turn, reported the number of active on parade, on light duties or wounded.
Other draconians from other regiments halted to watch, wondering what was going on. Smoke still hung in the air, although today the smoke was not from the burning fort—those fires had at last been put out—but from the huge pyre of goblin corpses. The stench was horrific, but wonderfully sweet to the draconians.
Kang marched onto the field. His hand was bandaged, but he returned Slith’s salute with precision. Slith marched to the right side of the First Squadron, and took his customary position, that of the second-in-command. Kang paused to look out over the regiment, standing on parade at attention. The regiment looked far too small. Only one hundred and three soldiers stood on the field.
“Regiment! Stand at ease,” Kang said. “I have an announcement to make, but first, I have a promotion.”
