“I am Cialia of Brickley’s Bend, daughter of Agrimon the titan,” she knew the words, but they sounded wrong coming out of her mouth. Her father was Agrimon. She lived with him in Brickley’s Bend. Why did it feel like she was introducing someone else?
The king cast a disgusted glare about the courtyard at his brave soldiers before looking back to Cialia, “I pray Kallum you are as mighty as you are brave. I fear none will accompany you on your mission. You will face the horrible wizard on his mountain of fire alone.”
“My daughter will not be alone,” Agrimon piped up. “I may only have this one good arm, but I will accompany her on this campaign.
All traces of the king’s tears had vanished as he proclaimed, “You should depart straight away, Cialia of Brickley’s Bend, daughter of Agrimon the titan. You shall be given the swiftest horses in our stables to speed you on your journey.”
She turned and shot her father a smile. He had always assured her she would never ride under the banner of any king. Not because she was incapable, but because men fight wars. No king would have her. The smile he gave back to her was his acknowledgement of how wrong he had been.
By the time she turned her gaze back to the king, he was gone. Everyone was gone. The courtyard was empty, and father was suddenly standing next to her. Somehow, he had managed to get off the cart and cover the distance between them in the time it took her to turn her head. On top of that, the cart he had been sitting upon was gone as well.
“No,” she shook her head. “None of this is possible. Where has everyone gone? Where has our cart gone?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “The mission lies before us. This is everything you have ever wanted, a mission, adventure, the wide-open trail. Let’s get those horses the king promised and be gone from this place.”
Then it suddenly occurred to her, “He knows we are coming. We have only just accepted the mission, and already the battle has begun. He toys with my mind.” She looked around the courtyard and up to the sky then shouted, “I will not be swayed, wizard. You will face me.”
Chapter 31
A Mighty Alliance
The walls of the tent rippled under a stiff southerly wind. The posts swayed from the force. Daritus quickly glanced around the room fully expecting the entire structure would blow away and leave him sitting in a field. A heavy gust snapped the flaps covering the entrance back and blew his map against the back wall spilling his painted tokens all about the grassy floor. He hurried over to grab the thing before it ripped or managed to escape the tent.
As he rolled the thing and fastened it with a thread, he looked over at the group sharing the tent with him. Bom and Lito-Bi sat upon the ground. Kantiim occupied a simple wooden chair. He would have sat in the grass with the guests, but they would not have it. “You would offer your seat if it could hold my weight. There is no sense in having an empty chair with three fools on the ground,” Bom had said.
After collecting his map and tokens, Daritus looked to Bom and asked, “Have all in your group been provided with proper shelter and nourishment?”
“They have,” Bom smiled. “The men of Havenstahl have been quite accommodating. They have even given us leave to hunt the surrounding forests with them and share their yields.”
“Quite accommodating may be a slight exaggeration,” Lito-Bi grumbled.
“How so,” Daritus’ eyes narrowed. He had been quite explicit that Bom and his group should be treated as guests.
“There have been a few skirmishes that…” Lito-Bi began.
“That ended without incident,” Bom finished the statement. “Do not forget we are the invaders here, old friend. Do you remember when first we met?”
“I vouched for you,” the big trogmortem countered.
“Yes, you did, but only after I had wrestled with your kin nearly all afternoon,” the giant smiled wide. “If you recall, I held no grudge. I was the invader that day, and we are invaders now. Friendship among former enemies takes time.”
“I appreciate your good nature,” Kantiim interjected. “I expect at least as much from my men. Please inform me of any further altercations.”
“Easy, old friend,” though Daritus’ tone was friendly enough, it was direct. He looked at Bom as he finished, “It is not unwise to be wary of friends who have yet to prove their loyalty.”
Lito-Bi uttered a wry chuckle as he shook his head and mumbled, “I warned you of this. We should have stolen a ship and sailed home.”
“We are here in a foreign land so drastically different than our own home. Do you not wish to explore it, to learn everything about this place and the various beliefs and cultures of the men and dwarves who occupy it? Even learning the differences between the grongs who live with us across the Great Sea and the grongs who live here. They are the same, but so completely different at the same time,” Bom’s tone had a pleading quality.
Daritus was intrigued, “Grongs live across the Great Sea? I assumed you had enlisted them from our lands as part of your campaign.”
“I said the same when we arrived. I had no idea,” Bom laughed. Then he looked earnestly at Daritus, “I want to learn all I can about this place and your culture. You speak well and seem wise. If you had the chance to visit my home and learn about us, would you not take that chance?” Then he looked at Lito-Bi and added, “I have also heard of a place far to the east where trogmortem live. Would you not want to meet your kin and learn about how they live?”
Lito-Bi waved the idea off, “All trogmortem came from Tal when he conquered the bintoosha in the vast desert of the setting sun. There are no trogmortem in this place.”
Bom’s form deflated as he sighed, “I know the myths, stories told from one generation to another by folks who have never seen anything outside of the lands on which they dwell. What if there were trogmortem in this land? Would you not want to meet them and know them?”
The trogmortem offered a slight nod and shrug.
Daritus scratched his chin, “You are very convincing, but words are easy. Actions are far more difficult to fake.”
“I vow to you now on the house of Maomnosett, we will help you rebuild your city and defend it against my grandfather’s army from across the Great Sea,” Bom rose to his knee and placed his right hand over his heart. “I realize that name carries little meaning to you, but you must understand the honor of my house means everything to me. I will not betray you or your trust.”
“Take this bargain, Daritus. We need their help. They have been with us for days. None have gone unaccounted for. They are with us,” Kantiim added.
“You have been here for days, and I see truth in your eyes,” Daritus finally conceded.
Daritus rose and moved to a table in the corner of the tent. The wind still whipped, but the table was heavy and the jug sitting upon it full. He poured out four cups and shared them around. The cups were a bit small for his guests, but they did not seem to mind. He raised his glass and said, “To a mighty alliance with new friends.”
Tiegran ran into the tent as the four drank down their toast. His eyes were wild as he breathlessly shouted, “Forgive the intrusion, general, but Alhouim marches on Biggon’s Bay.”
Tarturan entered right on Tiegran’s heels, “The lad speaks truth. Ychorell happened upon the full force of Alhouim’s army pounding boots through the bloody waste. The general, Bindaar, would not be swayed. He says the bastards from across the Great Sea will pay for King Doentaat’s death.”
Daritus’ form deflated as he slumped down into his chair. His head shook slowly as he cradled it in his hand, “I did not hear the horn of Alhouim.”
“They never blew it,” Tarturan replied.
“Take one thousand men and support their attack,” Daritus’ voice had fallen to barely more than a hoarse whisper.
“I fear the fighting will be finished before we arrive. They should be on the beach by now, and the sun will be long set before we see a grain of sand,” the big soldier shrugged.
&nb
sp; “If there is anything to be done, do it. But do not spare any lives if the cause is already lost,” the words sickened him as they came from his mouth, but they had already lost too many men to engage in battles spawned solely by bouts of rage. Then he turned to Bom and said, “You say you want to earn my trust and wish to send the invaders you came with back across the Great Sea. Helping our friends from Alhouim would go a long way toward that goal.”
Bom glanced at Lito-Bi. The fierce trogmortem offered only a frown and a slight nod as his response. Then the giant looked back to Daritus, “We enjoy the prospect of losing more of our kin as much as you, but we will do this thing. This man, Tarturan, will lead the assault. We will follow him. If he gives the command to attack, we will fight by his side. If he calls the retreat, we will heed his call.”
“I could ask for nothing more than that,” Daritus offered a joyless smile. “Believe me, if I could get hands on my dwarf friend right now, I would do my best to smack the ridiculous idea from his head.”
Chapter 32
Storm the Beach
A few days of rain had done nothing to improve the stench hovering about the bloody waste. Nor did it clean away the gore from grass or stump or bits of shredded tree. Scavengers supped on carcasses left behind to rot in the elements. Several attempts had been made to reclaim the dead from the grim reminder of how little honor could be found amongst the invaders from across the sea. Every effort ended in a battle, more death, and more carcasses for the pile. Five thousand dwarves stomped through the field, breathing in foul death, and crushing decomposing bodies deeper into the soggy ground.
“Cut them giants down,” a voice from the crowd raised up over the sound of ten thousand boots pounding into wet death. “Aye,” another answered, “fill the bay with the blood of giants. Let the fishes feast on their bones.”
Bindaar led the charge. Normally, he would march alongside long, even columns of dwarves stomping feet in time with drums of war. There were no drums, and the mob trudging through the bloody waste behind him was anything but normal. This was not a mission. It was strictly revenge, unquieted rage. When those ships had anchored in the bay, the goal was simply to convince the invading force to leave their shores and return home. That idea had been long forgotten. The only goal which remained was killing every living thing on the beach or in the ships.
“Hold,” Bindaar shouted when he saw the first grong step out of the trees bordering the south side of the clearing. The control he held over the dwarves marching behind him was a thin veil holding back the vicious jaws of a hungry beast. Had the dwarf general so much as twitched, the dwarves gripping their axes aching to taste the blood of grongs and trogmortem and even giants would have descended on the tree line like a mountain scarra running down a rabbit. Bindaar felt the same, but he was not so blinded by rage that he missed the folly dripping from the idea. Grongs never traveled alone.
A moment after the first stepped from the cover of trees and raised his club high, thousands more charged out from the darkness. They poured from the forest like flies from a carcass and formed up in a loose mob. Grongs were ferocious, but they lacked order, swarming enemies rather than marching on them. Once it seemed all who would be joining the battle had made their way into the ocean of death between the trees, Bindaar raised his axe high.
No words left the dwarf’s mouth. There was no need for them. All the dwarves following him knew what that raised axe meant. When he swung it down, they erupted, a charging horde. The sounds pouring from the lips of dwarves racing through a field of their own dead was a terrifying symphony of sorrow, rage, and despair. Their song filled up the clearing like a flood, spilling over the tops of trees and startling birds from their nests. It was time for revenge. It was time to kill.
The mob of grongs responded, shouting and howling, waving their heavy clubs, and charging toward the dwarves. It was a short journey. The two groups collided. Bindaar’s axe tasted the first grong’s blood, slicing through the beast’s thick neck and tossing its head through the air. He howled at the headless body as it fell at his feet spilling blood all over his boots. He stomped on its chest as he swung his mighty axe again. An arm flew south, and a leg flew north. Every time he swung his axe a body part flew. His vision narrowed. He imagined every grong face he saw was the one who swung the club that ended his friend.
A dull thud against the furious dwarf’s thigh snapped him out of his tunnel vision. The deep and guttural growl that poured from his mouth was not pain. It was rage. Had he taken a moment to give his emotions conscious thought it would have seemed impossible for him to grow angrier than he had been, but he was. He did not swing his axe at the grong holding the club that swung low and struck his thigh. He slammed his forehead into the beast’s snout, smashed his elbow into the side of the thing’s head, and kicked him in square in the chest. It was only after the burly monster was stumbling backward that he swung his axe and removed the thing’s head.
Hundreds of grongs fell to the mighty axes of dwarves, but dwarves fell too, pummeled by the heavy clubs of ferocious grongs. One dwarf lost was too many as far as Bindaar was concerned, but it was payment for a debt owed, a debt which could only be satisfied with blood. The dwarves raged on. By the time the resolve of the grongs battling the raging dwarves began to crack, more than one hundred dwarves had fallen. However, the sight of grongs splitting from their loose formation and fleeing to the trees earned loud cheers from bloody dwarves eager to hunt them down and cleave limbs from their bodies.
The celebration was short. Though more than half the grongs remaining on the battlefield were running in any direction where dwarves with their mighty axes did not stand, something one hundred times more horrible than the fiercest grong had entered the fray. At least three hundred trogmortem raced up from the beach. As if those monstrous beasts were not bad enough, a handful of giants charged along with them.
“No dwarf leaves this field unless their destination is the Lake,” Bindaar shouted as his axe tasted the flesh of another grong. “For Doentaat! For Alhouim!”
The command was unnecessary. Not one dwarf considered leaving that battlefield. It would have been a wise choice, but the mission had nothing to do with wisdom. It was about revenge. It was about sending as many of the vile invaders from across the Great Sea to the Lake as possible.
Then Bindaar saw his goal. Laenkishot Kon lumbered among the throng of giants and trogmortem racing toward his pack of deadly dwarves. If he could kill that one giant, everyone on that field would know it was not a feat too great. Once the dwarf general set eyes on that prize, no other soul on the battlefield mattered. That lumbering giant would fall to his bloody axe. Daritus, a man, no more special than any other man had done it. Men are no better than dwarves, and a finer weapon than the dwarf axe does not exist. If that leader of men could fell a giant on his own, why could Bindaar not do the same? After all, the group he led into the battle of Fort Maomnosett had killed three giants.
The battle raged on around him, but he only saw his goal. The first swing of his mighty axe failed to earn even a nick on the giant’s thick ankle. He swung it again and again at the same spot. After five solid strikes, he finally earned a trickle of blood. It would prove to be the last thing he ever did in the living world. It was only the giant’s fingers that connected with him when the monster backhanded him, but that was enough to send him sailing twenty feet through the air. He had barely landed on the soft ground before the giant’s knee pounded him deeper into the mud. Consciousness had all but fled when the massive knee raised off him. It was instinct which lifted the axe in front of him to defend against the next blow, but it made no difference. When Laenkishot Kon’s massive fist slammed down him, the slight cut the axe made on the giant’s knuckle was of little consequence, and one more dwarf soul made its journey back to the Lake.
Lentaak saw his general fall under the pummeling fist of a massive giant. He did not need to see the eyes of his old friend gray over to know he had lost another of his ki
n. It was difficult to differentiate between the various emotions he felt just then. Everything was red and black. It was the most pitiable sorrow, the deepest angst, the most furious rage, hopelessness, and countless other feelings all wrapped into one desperate emotion. Despite their desire, the dwarves of Alhouim would not win the day. They charged on a superior force with no plan, and they failed.
“Retreat,” the words hurt as they left his mouth, but there could not have been more than two hundred dwarves left standing when he did.
Retreat was a foreign concept to the stout dwarves of Alhouim, but his group obeyed. They had been drunk with rage when first their feet touched the bloody waste, but watching your kin die by your side with giants and trogmortem tossing bodies like fairy weed buds into the trees is a sobering experience. Every dwarf still standing fled south toward the tree line. Half made it. The rest found peace after a bloody and violent end.
***
Alhouim sat unguarded. All her defenders waged war against grongs and trogmortem and even horrible giants in the bloody waste. Only the elderly and young remained. Maomnosett Ott led no more than a few hundred grongs and took the city easily. The few dwarves with courage or hatred enough to resist died quickly. It took only a handful of gruesome deaths for those with less resolve to forget the effort. For some, a life without freedom is no life at all. For others, any life is better than none. The latter fell in line, and Ott took the throne. Alhouim died a quiet death while Maomnosett was reborn.
Chapter 33
Escape
It was difficult to gauge how much time had passed since Tarantian first woke in the dim light of the large sick room he occupied. There was little difference between day and night. Bodies came and went. Some seemed alive, others did not. Some were in beds like his, others shackled to the walls surrounding those beds. Occasionally, one would cry out and big men would come to remove them. A man calling himself Theiron would come occasionally, look him over, and administer a foul-smelling liquid. Other times, the butcher would be at the table in the corner chopping up meat, chopping up men. Tarantian did his best to feign sleep when that one was about his work.
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