He looked around at the group, picking out the quickest. “I be needin’ two volunteers to go into the den an’ flush ’em out.”
When everyone raised their hands, Roakore pointed to the two he had already chosen. “You and you, get a small barrel o’ lantern oil and be ready for me orders. The rest o’ you prepare for battle. We be wakin’ up the demons from their eggs.”
Roakore took Lunara aside. “Would ye keep the boys at yer side? They ain’t yet prepared for dangers such as this.”
The young elf nodded. “Of course.”
The dwarves split into two groups; one came in from the left, the other from the right. These were young, hearty dwarves who had survived the reclamation; they were Ro’Sar Mountain–born, and ready for blood.
The entrance to the trading post was surrounded as the dwarves took their places. Hatchets were drawn and the two runners nodded to their king that they were ready.
From one of the many bags attached to his saddle Roakore took two dragonsbreath bombs. He handed one to each of the runners. The two runners, Brendar and Du’Wren, looked at the bombs with wide eyes and eager grins.
“Now these here bombs pack more punch than ye be thinkin’,” Roakore explained. “Ye be wanting a wide breadth when these go off. I be needin’ you to pour a line o’ oil all around and through the entire chamber. Brendar!”
“Yes, sir!”
“I be wantin’ your bomb at the far end o’ the den. And Du’Wren—”
“Sire!”
“I want ye to plant yer bomb near the entrance. We’ll fry these demons right well. Now pull them plugs from them oil barrels an’ give ’em hell.”
“Yes, sir,” the two dwarves said in unison.
Brendar and Du’Wren ran into the building, trailing oil, and disappeared. A few tense minutes passed and neither of them came out. When the unmistakable sounds of angry draggard began to come from the structure, Roakore nodded to Holdagozz to follow.
They entered the structure cautiously. Nothing was beyond the threshold but more sounds of stirring draggard. Holdagozz followed his king to the stairs and beyond. Once below, they saw Brendar fighting off a draggard. The dwarf was bleeding from many wounds and had abandoned his small oil barrel for his war hammer. In his wake lay two dead draggard. All around the den draggard had begun to stir. Many had hatched from their eggs, and many more were beginning to. Roakore ran to Brendar’s aid and embedded his great axe in the draggard’s head.
“Where be Du’Wren?” he asked Brendar.
Brendar pointed deep within the den. “I last seen him when we crossed back there.”
Another draggard charged at the dwarves but was quickly put down by Holdagozz with a hatchet that sunk deep in the beast’s forehead. Just then they heard the war cry of Du’ Wren.
“Haha, ye beasties, come and get some!”
Roakore turned to Holdagozz. “Get Brendar to Lunara—”
“It ain’t but a scratch,” protested Brendar, though it was clear by the blood at his feet that the wounds were serious.
“Go on, now, the both of ye. When I come out with Du’Wren, light it up.”
“Yes, me King,” said Holdagozz as he led the injured dwarf out.
Roakore made his way through the draggard-egg-infested den. He could now see Du’Wren engaged in battle with two draggard. The dwarf wielded twin axes and in his strong hands they were deadly, but many of the beasts were quickly surrounding him.
Roakore barreled into the side of one of the draggard and sent it flying. Du’Wren smiled brightly at his king and attacked his foes with renewed vigor.
“C’mon, then, soldier, let’s get clear o’ this stinkin’ den so we can light her up!” yelled Roakore as more draggard began to hatch.
He plowed a path through the growing draggard horde and reached the stairs with Du’Wren hot on his heels. They came sprinting out of the trading post with snarling draggard not far behind. Hatchets flew and the following beasts fell in a heap at the threshold.
“Light ’er up!” Roakore ordered, and the dwarves complied. Torches were lowered to the oil trail and flames quickly caught and started into the building. Newborn draggard, covered in green slime, began pouring out of the old trading post. Hatchets flew into their ranks, two per dwarf, and the advance was quickly cut short. Screams of anguish rose up from the depths of the den and Roakore knew that the spilled oil had caught.
Suddenly Philo broke rank and charged three draggard as they came out of the building. Before he could reach them and before his king could give warning, there was a huge explosion from within the building. Philo was blown back many feet as flame and gore shot forth from the threshold.
A second blast ripped through the subterranean den and the ground shook with the retort. The dwarves cheered and pumped their fists in the air. Once the commotion had died down, the screams and cries of the burning draggard rose up with the smoke.
The beasts began to once again pour out of the building. Some were missing limbs, others were engulfed in flames, and all met the fierce battle cry of the dwarves. What draggard that survived the dragonsbreath explosion soon wished they hadn’t, for it would have been a gentler death than what they faced at the hands of the dwarves.
The Ro’Sar dwarves had trained for twenty long years, always with the burning image of the hated draggard. They lived for nothing more than to kill the beasts, and they were very good at it. They had learned every weakness of the beasts, knew that they were soft behind the ear and under the tail, and as vulnerable as any in the eyes. The dwarves knew of and exploited every weakness, and even invented a few. One stout dwarf, the legendary belcher Philo himself, had learned quite accidentally that one could distract the draggard almost like a dumb animal if you spun and twirled your shiny weapons. Once proven, the idea had been adapted in everyday combat training.
The draggard were defeated in short order, and the spectacle amazed Tarren. He watched from behind Lunara and did not even try to get involved like Helzendar wanted to, though he could have, as Lunara was so engaged in the healing of the dwarves from afar. She flung swirling blue orbs of healing energy at the dwarves from both hands, one after another. She stood braced to the earth in a defensive stance, her eyes rolled back and head tilted likewise. She chanted all the while, and Tarren did not know for sure whether it was the wind or the supreme magic which caused her hair to dance like silver flame. Tarren watched as a bold dwarf misjudged a strike and got a draggard tail straight through his belly. Before Tarren could gasp at the horror, the tail retracted and Lunara shot a blue healing orb from her palm. The orb glowed around the wound, and it was no more. To Tarren’s and indeed the dwarf’s amazement, the wound healed as the skin came together and the dwarf fought on.
Tarren watched on wide-eyed as he saw firsthand the prowess of the dwarves. He realized just how much he needed to grow if he were to ever face something as nightmarish and powerful as the draggard. They were covered in small spikes, not pointed but jagged all the same. Upon their backs were larger spikes, the degree of which depended on the draggard build. They were not all of uniform size, Tarren quickly learned, but as varied in shape as humans. The smallest ones chilled Tarren the most; they tended to use all fours and were like little dog-sized monsters. The boy learned also the great prowess of the dwarves to be able to defeat such foes. It seemed that they housed the strength of two bulls. And while Tarren had seen the great loads the dwarves could lift, and indeed had felt their power in training, to actually see a dwarf rip off a draggard’s arm and then smash its face in with it was something else.
Lunara ran to the dwarves once the fighting had stopped. “Get the injured to the tree line and away from the smoke of the dead! Put them over there.” She pointed. “From left to right, dying to not.”
The dwarves stopped in their victory song, even the badly injured, and just looked at her like she was a crazy elf. Holdagozz barked at them, “Do what the lady be sayin’, ye bunch o’ numbnuts, and right quick!”
> “Quicker than quick got ready!” Roakore added.
The dwarves stopped in their victory song and found out the injured. They were sat next to the tree line, far from the smoldering trading post. A group went to collect heads to stake, and others set watch. Those who remained watched as Lunara went to work.
The young elf healer knelt next to the first dwarf on the dying side. He had a severed draggard tail jutting out from under his chin. Lunara set her hand upon the dwarf and took in a shocked breath. “His body yet lives, but his soul has passed.”
She moved on to the next dwarf. As she removed the bandages, blood spurted from his neck and the dwarf went into convulsions. He bled from the mouth as well as the throat. Lunara put a hand to his neck and chanted softly. Blue tendrils of healing emanated from her hand as the other gripped her staff, and the crystal set upon its top glowed brightly. The bleeding soon stopped as Lunara extended her consciousness to the dwarf’s life force. She coaxed bone, vein, and muscle back to form, and the skin to flawlessly meld. The astonished dwarf came to and stared at Lunara in awe. She moved on to the next in line.
So it went, and those who could be were healed. Only the two were dying after all, and four more with broken bones or severe gashes from draggard tooth or claw, tail or spike. Fifty heads they collected in all, and those were set upon spikes which were placed in a wide circle around the fortress. Roakore climbed to the top of the pile of headless draggard bodies and raised his great axe. “I be reclaimin’ this here tradin’ post for the Mountains Ro’Sar!”
The dwarves all cheered and chanted, “Ro’Sar!”
Chapter 11
Frostmore
The night ended in a morning shower. Dirk paid it no mind, his dragon-scale cloak easily protecting him from the elements. He toyed with the timber-wolf figurine as he rested from his trek. He had been traveling west toward the mountains all night, and now he had happened upon a town.
Had days been different, he could have walked into the bustling village virtually unnoticed and stolen a horse with ease, but these were dangerous times. War was upon the land, and the village was protected like a fortress. The forest had been cleared for nearly a mile to the north, and the lumber had been used to erect a high wall around the perimeter. Outside of the wall there were spikes jutting out in all directions. Watchtowers housing archers went around the wall, each a stone’s throw from the other.
Dirk surveyed the village from on high and laughed to himself. It would take but one dragon to turn your wooden town into a blazing inferno of death, idiots, he thought.
He determined that the town was already overpopulated with refugees from the surrounding land. It would be beyond capacity with injured and sick, not to mention orphans and widows. Food would be scarce, and with winter closing in the stores would be tightly rationed, but no doubt the rich would continue to eat well. Horses would be highly valued; since the draggard found them particularly delectable, their numbers in Agora had plummeted.
The draggard were not the wild, frothing creatures that many believed. True, they were hideous in battle, but when not engaged in murder and carnage they were eerily civil. Dirk had watched them from afar on many occasions, trying to find something about them that he might use to his advantage. What he saw was a hive-like group of fairly intelligent animals. When he had asked Krentz about them, she had told him that every draggard was controlled by its queen mother or a dark elf handler. They gave orders, and they were carried out. The queen mothers shared a telepathic link with their offspring, and they could control their offspring from great distances.
Dirk considered how difficult it would be to steal a horse from the village, and weighed it against the likelihood of finding one elsewhere. He had no coin on him, and though some of his rings and earrings would have brought a pretty price, he could not sell them. They were enchanted and thus priceless.
Dirk was a master thief, burglar, assassin, and sneak, but taking a horse from this village was not something that could be done by stealth. It would take cunning. He studied the wolf figurine and thought of all he knew of such trinkets, which was little. He had heard of certain magic, considered a dark craft by most, that of capturing spirits and commanding them. He guessed that the wolf was a spirit that could shift in and out of the physical world with ease, as he had seen it do against his attacks. He also trusted that whoever controlled the figurine controlled the spirit.
He made up his mind and moved from the edge of the woods, away from the village. Under the boughs of a cedar tree, amid the autumn foliage and fire-colored leaves, he extended his hand and summoned the timber-wolf spirit.
“Come, Chief!”
The wind stirred the leaves in a small cyclone around him, and from the figurine came the faintest of light. The light speck traveled away from Dirk, and just before hitting the ground it exploded into the form of the brown wolf. Dirk had killed its master, and now he wagered everything that it could not kill him. The wolf growled at him and snarled, its haunches bristling and teeth bared.
Dirk held the trinket up and pointed at the wolf. “You are the spirit wolf Chief. I am Dirk. I have killed your master, and I now possess the figurine and therefore you. But I would not have you as a slave, but rather a companion. There is no reason that we should not both benefit from our situation.”
The wolf only stared, growling.
“You are the spirit of a hunter, as am I. And I promise good hunting and great adventure. What say you, Chief?”
Chief stared for a time; he then became preoccupied with an itch on his rump. He gnawed for a moment, scratched his ear with a hind leg, then stood and shook vigorously. He then walked lazily to Dirk’s side, stopped at his heel, and looked forward. Dirk let his hand rest gently upon the timber wolf’s thick fur. Chief came up to his hip, and when in physical form, he projected a weight thrice that of a man. The wolf did not react to the touch and Dirk marveled at how real the spirit’s projected body felt.
Dirk walked back toward the town and called to his newest weapon. “C’mon, Chief, we have ourselves a horse to steal.”
Ten minutes later the town guard came alive and the warning horns blew as Dirk ran screaming from the tree line like he was on fire.
“Open the gates! Open the gates!” he bellowed.
Guards came to the wall and dozens of arrows were trained on him. He ran for his life and screamed again.
“Open the gate! Open the gate!”
Suddenly the three-hundred-pound timber wolf erupted from the brush at the tree line. Chief stopped and let out a howl that would consume nightmares for years. He then sprinted after Dirk, snapping his frothing jaws as he gained on him.
“Open the bloody gates! Shoot it! Shoot it!” Dirk screamed.
Guards scrambled and the gates opened, but not wide. The bowmen shot, but none hit the wolf, which was yet many hundred yards off. Dirk intentionally stumbled and the growing crowd at the wall cringed and gasped. They began rooting him on, and he smiled to himself.
He got to his feet and acted shocked that the wolf had gained so much. Bows rang out again and this time arrows rained down on the wolf. The arrows passed through Chief as he shifted quickly. Any who noticed it did not share it with others.
Dirk was thirty feet from the gate and the guards cheered him on with every step. He had begun to limp after he fell, adding to the drama and the entertainment and favor of the crowds. Ten feet away, cheers rang out and bows sang. He dove through the threshold and the gate slammed behind him. The men cheered as Chief, on cue, turned and ran back toward the woods, arrows following. The townspeople rushed to Dirk’s side. He took his time getting up with help, and he held his bleeding arm, which he had cut.
“From where do you hail, good sir? You bring death at your heels,” said a guard.
Another pushed through the crowd, a burly, red-mustached man. “Where in the hells ye get a timber wolf on your trail? They ain’t of these parts, far from it!”
“Can’t you see the man’s hurt?�
� yelled a woman and offered to mend his wounds.
Outside the wall Chief howled eerily. Everyone froze and quieted instantly as the baying of the wolf lifted to the heavens and chilled bone. By then a crowd of hundreds had gathered, and whispers were spreading fast of the dark stranger and the wolf.
Dirk panted hard as if spent. He began to speak but faltered. Everyone hushed to hear him.
“Who I am and from where I hail is talk more suited to a good meal and wine. I have not the time for such pleasantries as of yet. Behold the wolf upon heels.”
Just then Chief called to the night with his eerie cry and a snarl that echoed from all directions. To the chorus of the timber wolf’s cry, Dirk spun a tale for the enthralled villagers.
“’Twas but the night last that we were attacked by this demon wolf. I know not from whence it came, for it fell upon my company like a ghost from a dream. Blood and cries of anguish were left in its murderous wake, and I, tasked as was my group to guard the gold of Lord Whittnar, was the only survivor. I ran west to this village, which I knew of from past travels, and lo, the wolf dined on my fellows while I have made it here alive.”
Chief howled again and must have come closer to the village, as the sound of arrows could be heard at the wall. The crowd looked on, enthralled. Even the guards who had seemed suspicious were now convinced, it seemed.
“I mean to kill the wolf and have revenge in the name of my lord,” Dirk said. “I will have vengeance. I will rid your village of this threat that I have brought on my heels. A share of my dead lord’s gold to the man who lends me his best horse, so that I might vanquish this foe from on high!”
The crowd stirred and looked around for any who would offer up his steed. Many men volunteered, and soon the crowd was in an uproar of men wanting a piece of the prize.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 10
