by C S Marks
“They are coming!” yelled Galador to Ali, who had been looking to the small archway that had been built at the base of the new wall. This was now the only way in or out, and was guarded by a heavy door of iron. The cavalry, under the command of Rogond, would ride through and engage Lokai only if it appeared that the dragon would somehow manage to defeat the wall, for if that happened all would be lost. A determined company of foot-soldiers stood by as well, knowing that their deaths were assured if the Scourge breached the great stone barricade, since the enemy outnumbered them a hundred to one.
Nearly every able-bodied citizen had been given a weapon and at least marginally trained in its use—the people were now as ready as they could be. They learned quickly once inspired, and they possessed great heart and fine spirit, but, despite all efforts, they would not stand long against such brutality. It takes more than weapons to make a warrior.
Eros drank long and well, took a bite of the salt-lick, and shook himself. He was ready. Réalta stood by; if the cavalry was called out, Galador would no doubt ride with them, but for now he stayed on the battlements with Nelwyn.
Rogond had clad himself in chain mail and a blackened steel breastplate that would turn an envenomed blade. The armor, though old, was still serviceable; it had been kept in oil for many years. Any artisans skilled in its making had long since passed, and their skill had not been kept alive, for it was no longer valued. Rogond wondered whether there would be a revival of this art should the City prevail.
Gaelen had drawn in a sharp breath when she first set eyes upon him, for he looked like a King of Tuathas. His breastplate bore the beautifully hammered images of the Great Lights of the World—sun, moon, stars, and the lamp of knowledge—plated with silver and gold. This was a symbol Gaelen had seen elsewhere; it was the Great Seal of the Tuathar. Rogond had no doubt chosen this regalia because of his northern heritage; the other breastplates bore the raven-crest of Salasin, and were being put to good use in protecting his people.
Gaelen wore no armor, for she would have none. She had attired herself in the red-and-black garments of the Scourge, thinking to confuse them, for the archers on the battlements knew her mount and they would not slay her. Beneath this she wore the fire-cloak over her usual attire; she would die wearing the vestments of a hunter-scout of the Greatwood. Rogond had tried to convince her to wear a light mail-shirt, but she would have none of it. Such things would slow her down with their weight, and would spoil her flexibility and her aim. Her short, dark bow would have little rest; two quivers were affixed to Finan’s breast-plate with nearly forty arrows in each.
Some of the bold riders had already been lost in the first assault, and an air of hopelessness hung about the others as they made their preparations, for they knew they could not possibly prevail against the dragon. Yet Gaelen’s words cheered them as she rode easily back and forth among them; she wanted to keep her mount moving so he would not become stiff from standing idle. She sounded so confident that they all took heart.
“My friends, be encouraged,” she said. “For you are dauntless, and have proven your skill. You have the better horses, and the defenses of the City are behind you. Plus, you have three Elves among your number! You will prevail, and your friends will be avenged.” She laughed lightly as she rode.
“Will you call upon the name of the Fire-heart again?” they asked, smiling at her as she passed.
“Most certainly. It worked the last time, didn’t it?” She began a lusty rendition of one of the songs she had learned from the sutherlings, in their tongue. It was a rowdy, unseemly chant that was usually heard through a haze of alcohol, but it raised the hopes of the men as they joined her, laughing at the sound of such earthy lyrics sung in Gaelen’s sweet voice.
Lord Salastor stood on the eastern watch-tower; from there he could observe the progress of the battle. Gaelen’s singing carried to him on the wind, and he smiled. He wore his own armor beneath his long, grey cloak; it had been well kept for many generations. He had never worn it, not even in ceremony, for the people had decided that such attire was out of place in a City devoted to peace. He would engage the enemy only if they breached the wall. If that happened, he would die fighting beside his people. He would not wish to witness the fall of the City to such a Scourge.
Nelwyn and Galador were the first to sight the great, grey bulk of the approaching dragon. Behind it moved the army, marked by a vast dust cloud rising high into the air. The Scourge would not pass gently through any lands; the swath they left behind would be visible in the dry, stony ground for years to come.
“It’s even larger than I expected,” said Galador. “I hope the wall will withstand it, as I now see that the gates will almost surely fall. Gaelen’s insights were right all along.”
Soon the dragon drew close enough to be seen by all the City’s forces, and no one spoke of “Ali’s Folly” ever again.
The Scourge had taken some losses during the approach to the City, and the Commanders reflected ruefully that their enemies were even better prepared than they had thought at first. The surviving cavalry warned of great pits dug into the earth and hidden, but many of their warriors were lost in these before the army learned to narrow its ranks sufficiently. Even when the pits were discovered by the first victims, others were driven into them by the inexorable force of the ranks behind them.
“Keep to the path taken by the riders!” cried the Commanders, for this path was safe. Archers had loosed great flaming torches, igniting oil-fires, and this apparently was a signal for hidden scouts to ignite others that stretched all the way back to the Brown Hills.
The way was made narrower, and the oil-fires now blocked the retreat. They sent black clouds of smoke high into the air, but these did not spoil the aim of the Citadel’s bowmen that had been set along the approach, and they sent many shafts into the enemy forces as they passed. They were well hidden, dressed in clothing that blended perfectly with their surroundings, courtesy of Bint Raed.
As they heard the screams of the men impaled at the bottom of Seti’s deadly pits, the Captains were dismayed, but not unduly. They had begun with ten thousand men, and they would still have nearly eight thousand when they gained the gates. Then the dragon would have the City, for most of its defenses lay outside the walls. One could dig pits and build fires, and could even train archers and lay elegant plans to keep the Scourge from breaching the City, but it took far more effort to turn a nation of peaceful sheep into a formidable fighting force. The Commanders would have their prize when the gates fell; or so they thought as they drew nearer, their ranks gathering safely behind their fearsome ally.
Lokai lifted his broad snout into the air and tasted it, tantalized by the hundreds of strange scents wafting in from the west. The wind was out of the east at the moment, and he was frustrated, but the closer he drew to the City gates, the less the wind would matter. Lokai was still young, but nearly mature. His male gender was not apparent to his human escorts, for the worms of the southlands were alike to the eye, though the females tended to be larger.
The dragon could not speak, but he could understand at least some of what was said to him, particularly when the words were spoken by one trained in the use of dragon-tongues. Ikari was such a man, and although Lokai neither loved him nor needed him, he did heed Ikari’s words, which had promised great reward should the City be taken. Lokai had little to fear in the upcoming battle; none had ever prevailed against him, despite their weapons and their valor.
During battle he had always feasted well. He preferred the flesh of those still living or very recently killed, enjoying the warmth and vitality of their flesh before it became truly lifeless. He had ever preferred two-legged prey; the younger and more unspoiled the better.
The dragon-keepers had discovered that Lokai preferred fresh, dismembered captives that had been stripped of all annoying clothing and ornaments. If there were no captives available, Lokai would select his own prey from among the Scourge’s own ranks, which explained thei
r fervor in taking captives, at least in part. He would help himself to an occasional hapless man who strayed too close, hence he was given a very wide berth. Such a man would be honored, for it was considered a sacred duty to provide for the Great Lokai, but it was an honor that none would envy.
Ikari spent nearly all his time perched behind Lokai’s head, just rearward of the great, swollen venom glands, clutching the leather straps of the harness. From there he could lean forward and speak so that Lokai could hear him, telling of all the wonders that awaited them.
When he was promised Elf-flesh, Lokai grew especially keen. He had tasted of it long ago, when three Elven mariners had been swept to the far southern coast by a storm, and had been taken captive to be sold as slaves. Lokai, who was then much smaller, had come upon their caravan by night. He and his human caretakers had slaughtered the lot of them, and Lokai had devoured all three of the Elves, who were bound hand and foot and provided little resistance. Their meat was the finest he had ever tasted, as the flesh of Elves is incorruptible, remaining as pristine as on the day of their birth. Lokai had desired it ever since, and Ikari had promised that at least three of these delicacies were waiting behind the Great Gates. Lokai would never forget the scent and taste of Elf-flesh.
The southern worms, though not large compared with the great northern ones, were much more heavily made, hence they could not fly. Designed for burrowing, they had short, broad necks and legs, and wide, flattened snouts with a hard ridge of bone at the tip that resembled a spade. Their thick, powerful tails bore short, sharp spines at the end. These broke off frequently and were replaced, the cast-offs highly prized in the making of weapons.
Lokai was not graceful or beautiful, but he was incredibly strong. His skull, two feet thick and hard as steel, encased a tiny brain. His body measured nearly fifty feet in length, and his tail thirty. He could sweep a mounted rider to the ground, crushing both man and horse with a single stroke. His great head came equipped with very powerful jaws, and, of course, Lokai was a dragon and he could breathe fire. He drew his huge, heavy body up before the gates, exhaling a plume of steam from his flattened nostrils.
His smallish, muddy yellow eyes darted to and fro as he considered the task before him, his thick, blue-grey tongue unfolding slowly from his purple-lined mouth, sliding wetly to and fro. He heard Ikari whispering to him in the dragon-speech, telling him that sweet water and Elf-flesh were his for the taking, and that he should not be denied.
Galador stood with his bow nocked and ready, looking down at the horrific creature, knowing that it had enough power to defeat them if all did not go as planned. He noticed for the first time the small, lean figure, clad now in dark grey robes, perched behind the beast’s head. Hatred surged within him as he recognized Ikari.
“Traitorous easterner!” he shouted, loosing a shaft at Ikari, who ducked behind the impenetrable skull of Lokai and was unhurt. Nelwyn turned to Galador and lifted an eyebrow, remembering his admonition to wait until the word had been given.
Ikari was undaunted, and he smiled up at Galador. “There, my beautiful Lokai! There stands your delicacy. Show him your power, my love, my life… show him you are mighty!”
Lokai heard Ikari’s words, and his attention now focused on Galador. He unfurled his leathery wings and roared, fanning the air to lift his body from the ground, standing tall upon his hind legs. He blew a blast of flame that swirled in the wind he had created, forcing the archers to crouch behind the battlements until it passed. Not a few were singed by the heat.
Below in the courtyard, Gaelen and Rogond waited with the rest of the ground forces. They could not see what was happening outside the gates, but they could hear. Gaelen turned to Rogond as they heard Galador’s challenge, and Lokai’s answer—the blast of flame shooting over the battlements.
“I hope to never hear Galador call me reckless again,” said Gaelen. “He had just better not. If he survives, I shall forever call him the son of Aincor!”
Rogond shook his head. “Well, then let’s hope you both survive, and that I’m still here to restrain Galador when you do,” he said. “From what I’m hearing now, I believe the battle is joined.”
Rogond was correct. After his fearsome display, Lokai had decided that his next order was to smash the gates, and he had set himself to the task, backing slowly away and tilting his great skull forward. He rushed at the gates with about half his strength, testing them, smashing his heavy head and body against them. They stood firm, and Lokai knew they would require more effort to bring down, but he would have smiled if he had been capable of amusement, because he could feel their weakness.
Ali gave the word, and the archers sent a volley of arrows at Lokai as he backed up again, digging in with his powerful hind claws for purchase, launching himself at the gates. This time the cliffs shook with the force of the strike, and Lokai felt the gates give just a little. Ikari clung grimly to Lokai’s harness, flattening himself against both the arrows of the defenders and the debris that had begun to fall down upon him. The force of the impact had nearly torn his arms from their sockets.
The Scourge had by now drawn up behind their champion, and they readied themselves, cheering each time Lokai struck the Gates. As soon as they were breached, the red-and-black tide would sweep through them, and neither the fires nor the pits would be of any use. The archers were many, and they were deadly, but Lokai would manage them as well. The Scourge knew they had little to fear.
The dragon gathered himself for another effort; he had yet to employ his wings in the charge, and he now did so. It was enough this time to splinter the massive tree-trunks that served as bolts for the gates, and they sagged inward as more stones from the cliff-face rained down upon Lokai. He shook his head; this last blow had dazed him a little and he took a moment to collect himself. With a final charge the gates crashed into the empty space between the outer battlements and the wall, and Lokai rushed in behind them expecting to be unchallenged, free to roam the City and wreak his havoc upon the people. Behind him, over a thousand men and two hundred horses charged in while sharing the same presumption.
The sight of the massive wall standing behind the outer courtyard and set into the cliffs was not at all in keeping with those expectations. The Citadel’s archers now surrounded the enemy, as there were many atop the wall as well as those still standing upon the outer battlements. Lokai took some of them with fire, and the Scourge’s archers managed to claim a few, but there was far more blood on the stone below. It was not at all desirable to be trapped in such an enclosed space with a disappointed Lokai.
The dragon blinked dully at the wall at first, as if he did not understand why it was there. Ikari had recovered his wits; the fall of the gates had shaken him, but now he leaned forward and spoke to his fearsome mount. “Do not be dismayed; this will also fall before you. Be not discouraged, for you are mighty!”
Lokai shook himself, nearly unseating Ikari, and considered his next plan as arrows peppered his scales harmlessly.
“Stop aiming at the dragon! Aim instead for the enemy below,” shouted Ali, echoed by Nelwyn. They had moved to the top of the wall, along with Galador. A hundred red-and-black bodies already littered the stone, and many more joined them as the Scourge attempted to retreat. Attacking now was no good; they would need to wait until the wall was breached. Soon, Lokai and Ikari stood alone among the living in the courtyard, the remainder of the army having moved out of range of the archers.
Ali wanted to give the Scourge something else to think about, and now he called for the catapults. Six had been built, but two had failed during testing. Now the other four hurled great boulders high over the cliffs and down upon the enemy. Even more effective were the gigantic brush-balls that had been impregnated with pitch and set ablaze; these fragmented spectacularly and left burned, blackened bodies in their wake.
The Scourge answered with equally fearsome weapons; they brought up great, mounted crossbows that took three men each to load and release. These sent forth
missiles that were as giant spears bearing thick glass globes filled with wicked steel barbs soaked in dragon-venom. These were quite deadly, killing anyone stricken by the flying projectiles that issued forth on impact. One managed to shatter in the middle of the north battlement, killing nearly thirty of the archers assembled there, including Broca, their captain. Another landed amid the unfortunate foot-soldiers, killing many and forcing the others to crowd forward in order to shelter among the cavalry behind the back of the wall.
Death by dragon-venom was most unpleasant, and there was nothing to be done for the victims as they writhed upon the ground. Gaelen and Rogond, who stood near to this horror, were unnerved by it, and Gaelen almost saw the sense in wearing chain mail. She was glad that at least some parts of Rogond would be protected.
Lokai, meanwhile, had decided to test his strength against the wall. He threw himself at it in much the same way as he had the gates, crashing into the stone with such force that those standing upon it were shaken, but it was very thick and would not be moved. The second all-out attempt resulted in the ignominious and no-doubt-disappointing death of Ikari, for his arms finally tore loose of the harness and he was flung over the beast’s head. He cried in dismay, holding a brief image of solid stone rushing toward him, with time for only one last thought. This was a bad idea… His body landed at the base of the wall like a bundle of rags.
The dragon roared in frustration. He would not be able to bring down the wall as he had the gates; it was too thick and too strong. Slowly he lashed his massive tail, considering, and then began to climb. “Bring the oil…now!” cried Ali, as large cauldrons of very hot oil were brought forth and poured down upon the dragon as he lurched upward. This enraged him and he belched a blast of flame that ignited a few of the unlucky souls manning the cauldrons, as well as the remaining oil. Unfortunately for Lokai, it also ignited the oil that now covered most of the top of his head and shoulders. The flaming oil was very irritating and he could not rid himself of it, and although Lokai was naturally fire-resistant, he was not fire-proof. Eventually, his skin would burn.
