by Jeff Inlo
Chapter 18
Yave seethed and ordered an immediate attack. "No more delays, no more waiting!"
Strog protested, the War Com was close to final preparations. "Two more days. That is all I need."
Yave would not have it, refused the request. They would attack Burbon this very night.
Strog again resisted. "The main access tunnel from Dunop to Burbon is complete but I need more time. Several secondary tunnels remain unfinished." His overall plan included a swarming attack from over two dozen surfacing points. He tried to make the obvious clear. "If we attacked now, we will be forced to push through only eight or ten sub-tunnels. My forces would be congested. It would take greater time for them to surface, longer for them to cover the strategic points needed for victory."
He pointed to his well-crafted plan. He had all the information he needed. There were no mysteries of Burbon's defenses. The initial strike force repelled by Sy and Enin provided Strog with a clear layout of the human town. He had chosen several points of attack based on this information. If allowed to finish the entire set of sub-tunnels, he could swarm over Burbon in one quick assault. Given the full complement of his dwarf army and the all-encompassing details of his invasion plan, he would wipe the surface clean of Burbon within a quarter of the night. For now, he was simply not ready.
The tunnels were not the only concern. He also needed time for the construction of war machines. Rock drivers, mobile heavy drills; only a few were complete and ready for combat. These weapons would ensure the destruction of the wall, towers and many buildings in mere moments. With a full arsenal, he could guarantee not a single structure in Burbon would remain standing by midnight.
Yave was far from impressed. Anger burned her thoughts like acid on an open wound. She would not wait for tomorrow's twilight.
"The attack will begin tonight!" she ordered.
Strog continued to defy her, until she challenged him. She questioned his courage, his ability to defeat the humans if he did not have his way.
"What would you do if you could not prepare?" she asked. "Are you afraid of the humans, are they that much of a threat? If so, perhaps it is time for a new War Com."
Strog fumed, but he realized the precarious weight of his situation. Young separatist dwarves had already scoffed at his preparations. They had their own ideas. The humans were weak. Why was so much needed to defeat them? The dwarves already suffered one embarrassment at the hands of this weaker race. It was time the humans learned a lesson, and learned it now.
His warriors grumbled with impatience. They resisted the work to construct his war machines. A good dwarf axe was all that was needed, or so they professed. Even his force commanders revealed reluctance for such measures. They reviewed his tactical points with half-hearted enthusiasm. Such impudence already forced his ire, more than once, and upon more than one force commander.
As Yave bellowed for an immediate attack, he thought of these warriors. They would side with her. It made him sick, but as a strategist, he needed to acknowledge the truth. Many of the separatist generals openly questioned the value of such preparations for an obviously inferior race. They wanted an earlier assault as much as the queen. If it came to a direct challenge between him and Yave, they would not side with him. If she wished to replace him as War Com, he doubted he could count on even minor support. One of them would gladly take his place.
Disgusting.
He considered the overwhelming contradictions of these facts. The separatists were basically anarchists. Or were they? They hated the thought of royalty controlling their lives. Yet, their hate for the humans and their blind sense of superiority would lead them to follow this queen, this symbol of the royalty they despised.
Idiots!
What was left for him? Open confrontation with the queen in a struggle he could not possibly win? He would gain nothing in this. He cursed his fellow generals, cursed their arrogance and impatience. In the end, he grudgingly accepted his only true course of action.
Strog heeded to Yave's demands, but he vowed to himself it was his last concession. After Burbon was defeated, he would strangle her and throw her carcass from the heights of a palace tower. He would never be put in this situation again. Let her crushed bones symbolize the end of royal rule in Dunop.
As for the revolution, he now cursed it as well. The followers of this separatist movement were nothing more than spiteful, jealous jackasses. They cursed the monarchy because it represented what they did not have. They hated the elves, the algors, and especially the humans for all the same reason. They were not leaders, they were jelly. They could be molded by anyone that would feed their pathetic malice. Right now, the queen gave them their scapegoat, the humans. That's why they would follow her. That was the only reason.
But after this, after he disposed of Yave, they would follow him. If these so-called separatists defied him, he would have their heads as well. He doubted that would be necessary. He would offer them the next prize for their superiority. He would return to the desert and decimate the algors. That would feed the hate of these so-called separatists.
As Yave turned her back, moved out of the throne room with a victorious grin of blood thirst, Strog stared at the back of her neck. He could already feel the joy he would experience when his fingers took hold of that neck. He would not break it. No, her death would not be quick. He would choke her. Slow and painful. He would laugh as he released the tension for just a few moments. Let her breathe again, just once, just to keep her conscious for a few more heartbeats. Yes, this would be the last order he would follow.
Before leaving the throne room, he considered another of the queen's commands. His eyes found the dwarf cloak that covered the delver's sword. Yave ordered the sword covered. No one was to touch it. He wondered how long she would let it lie there. More foolishness. The crumpled cloth rested upon the floor as a testament to the folly of all her commands.
No more. He decided to make the first direct denial of her authority. He would take the sword, take it into battle and use it against the humans. Yave would hear of it. Good. Let her call for him after he returned from destroying Burbon. He would find her, find her and strangle the life from her. It was long overdue.
For now, he would have to settle for the sword. It beckoned to him as much as Yave's neck, but this prize he could have immediately. His powerful fingers knifed toward the neck of the cloak, and he viciously ripped the cover from the fallen weapon.
The sword beamed bright. The throne room was bathed in the light of a hundred stars. The blade glowed with white fire, yet the light did not burn the eyes of the dwarf, it welcomed them. This weapon would be his.
His powerful arm reached to the floor. He took hold of the handle and lifted the sword to his face. He gazed with wonder up and down the glowing blade. He knew of this sword, knew it was labeled as the Sword of Decree. Ryson Acumen carried it within Sanctum Mountain. It was the weapon which destroyed Ingar's sphere. It was now his, and it would now mark his place in the legends.
As if responding to his wishes, the sword began to glow even brighter. It surged with power and many secrets revealed themselves to the holder. Revelations washed over Strog like a raging flood. He saw Holli and Sy building defenses. He understood their tactics at once. Their plan was sound, the strategy brilliant. The humans and elf archers represented a great threat to the dwarf army.
Still, he almost laughed. Now that he knew their true plan of defense, the danger vaporized. He would now alter his plans, attack the wall from the foundations beneath the ground. Not a single dwarf would be sent into the streets until the wall and every structure of Burbon was collapsed from below the soil. The archers would not be given a single target. He would sweep away the survivors in the rubble. Now, Burbon truly did not have a chance.
He saw more.
He saw the algors carving sand giants in the desert. Another threat. One he did not previously consider. They would be on the march soon. They would use th
e very tunnels dug by the dwarves which led to the sandstone mountain.
Let them come.
He would leave the tunnels intact. He would wait for the sand giants to move through the openings into Dunop, but there they would fall. He would simply place a force of dwarves with rock crushers at the entrance. Sand giants would be a great threat in hand to hand combat, but he would not allow that. Catapults would bury the giants in boulders of granite. Pile drivers would break them apart, and diamond headed drills would grind them back into sand.
The revelations still did not end.
He saw a serp in the hills outside of Burbon, a serp watching this war very closely. The serp controlled many goblins, even a shag. Strog could not surmise what the creature truly wanted, but he knew such a serp presented yet another threat, one to be watched closely.
In this moment of discovery, Strog envisioned his growing power. He would be revered by other dwarves as a savior. He would lead Dunop into history with one victory after another. He would...
He saw the seeds.
The elder elf of Dark Spruce even now was calling for them. The elves were preparing to drop them, not just yet, but soon. In the darkness of Dunop, they would grow.
The shadow trees.
Fear gripped him like a shag trap. He trembled. No way to fight. No way to win. His army would be strangled in dark branches of death. His strategies and tactics would be useless. The image grew clearer in his mind. He saw Petiole, Petiole with the seeds. They would fall upon Dunop like rain. They would grow. Dunop would be destroyed. He would die a terrible, painful death.
