Dragonhammer: Volume I (7 page)

He responds by blocking a blow with his shield and taking the life of another Tygnar soldier.

One of the three trolls has focused its beady eyes on me as I stand above his fallen brother.  The troll roars and I know I’m dead.

That is, until an arrow shoots into his right eye.

The troll bellows and careens into the market, destroying stalls and crates.  Wood flies everywhere.  When he emerges his club smashes a hole into a nearby building, and then he twists and destroys the middle of the street.  The canvas canopy from the stall has twisted around his head and shoulders, rendering him blind and twice as dangerous.  Anyone and everyone becomes his prey.  Members of both armies fall victim to his crushing blows.

I glance back towards the gate in search of my father and friends.  Percival is holding his own quite well, as are Bownan and Darius.  Jericho is trading blows with an enemy, but comes out on top, if only just.  I cannot find the others, but for James, who now stands against one of the club-bearing trolls.

I dart for his position, but am too late.

James rolls to avoid the first few strikes, but then tries to block with his shield.  Though the hit was slight, the wooden plate shatters under the club and James falls, yelling and holding his shield arm.

“James!” I yell.  Then I take one of my knives and hurl it at the troll as he raises his club.

It’s an accurate hit, just above the collarbone, but the skin must be too thick there for the knife to have done fatal damage.  He roars at the sky and drops his club, clawing at the small knife embedded in his skin.

“Fall back!” I hear.  The warhorn blows and somebody shouts, “Fall back!  To the Keep!”

“Kadmus,” breathes James.  He’s in tears, shaking, moaning and holding his shield arm.  We’ll have to examine it later, but now I have to get him out.  “Leave me,” he says.  “There’s no way you can get me to safety!”

“I will not leave you,” I seethe.

The knife drops from the troll’s body and he hefts his club skyward.

I help James to his feet and half-carry him down the street.  One hand holds my hammer, and the other holds James around the back.  I glance back to the troll and see him doing battle with other men.

Percival spots us and runs to our aid.  “What’d you do, James?” he complains, putting his shield on his back and holding James’s other side.

“We have to move faster,” I urge.  “We’ve got to get to the Keep.”

Our step quickens and we make our way into a side alley, where there are no people.  We can move faster and we’re much less likely to get noticed.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

“I saw your father helping Bownan and Leon,” answers Percival.  “They were doing alright, from what I could see.”

“I hope they’re alright,” I mutter.  My thoughts keep turning to my father. 
Why didn’t you stay with him?

We reach a part of the city where the roar of the battle seems distant.  It’s eerie, even though the sun is rising and the streets are well lit.  We are not alone, however.  Others like us push on towards Nringnar’s Deep.  Again the warhorn sounds, and the cry of “Fall back!  To the Keep!”

We almost reach the back of the city, and then turn back towards the main road that will lead us into the Keep.  The sight is not good.

The battle has made it almost as far as the front gates of the Keep, which still stand partially open.  Men run inside, seeking cover.  A troll is whisking men aside, running on all fours to make it there before the gates of the Keep close.  His club has been abandoned.

“Take James,” I command Percival.  “I’ll distract the troll.”

“What?” they both refuse.

“Go.  Go now.”  James leans on Percival and they make for the gate.  Then I drop my hammer and pull out my bow.

The shot is the most accurate I’ve shot in months, though it’s still not where I was aiming, which was his eye.  Instead the arrow pierces his large ear, going through it and tacking it to the side of his head.  He roars and looks my way, away from the gate; immediately I drop the bow and pick up the hammer.  His colossal hand reaches up and snaps the arrow from his thick skull, and his ear bounces back, now dripping with blood.  Out of my peripheral vision I see James and Percival enter the Keep.

The troll, instead of charging me like I had expected, turns to the nearest house and pulls off a chunk of the stone brick as large as its hand can grasp.  All I can think is
Uh-oh
.

The beast twists and catapults the stone directly at me.  I turn and take cover behind an almost identical house, and the stone brick smashes into the street where I had been standing.  I peek out around the corner, and another block of stone crashes into the wall, shattering on impact and cracking the wall.  There’s relative silence.  Fire crackling, the clang of swords and shields.  Then I jump out and swing my hammer at the stealthy brute.

My hammer hits his head into the wall of the house.  He grunts and lashes out with one of his grotesquely long arms, throwing me a few feet so I clip my shoulder on the corner of the house and hit the street hard.  Slowly I force myself up, but the troll seems as dazed as I am.  He pounds towards me on all fours and makes to tackle me, and I lack the awareness to do anything but duck and throw a knife as hard as I can.

It enters his right shoulder.  He shrieks and his right arm gives out underneath his weight, veering him to my left and into a building, where he crashes forcefully enough to shake thatch from the roof.  He turns clumsily, but I am stumbling away as quickly as I can muster.

He scrambles with the knife for a moment, but it buys me just enough time to get into the Keep.  Soldiers are still fighting just outside the doors.

“Come on, Kadmus!” I hear.  The voice brings strength to my bones and I rush forward to my father, who ushers me in the gate and to temporary safety.

“Inside!” people yell.  “Get inside!”

“Shut the gate!” bellows one voice in particular.  Lord Jarl Hralfar stands on the balcony overlooking the main entrance hall.  Voices echo his command and the gate booms shut as stragglers run inside.  “Close the portcullis!”  he booms.

Though I cannot see the portcullis, I hear it thunder shut and clang as it hits the stone floor just outside the gate.

“On the walls!” Hralfar commands.  “Archers, take positions!  We must hold the Keep!”

We must hold the Keep
.

Battle for Nringnar’s Deep

T
he first thing I do is take a head count.  We’re all here, miraculously, including Nathaniel.

My father and Bownan are unhurt, with minor scratches.  Leon is sporting a laceration across his right cheek.  Percival and Darius, his father, are both unscathed.  Jericho’s cut on his arm has reopened and he has a limp.  His father has a few scratches, as does Nathaniel.  James is in bad shape.

He groans as we roll up his chainmail and remove the shoulder pad.  His left arm is black and blue.  “Fracture,” says Bownan.  “No doubt.  Probably in a few spots by the look of it.”

“We have to get him to the infirmary,” I voice.  “I’ll take him.”

“No Kadmus,” says my father.  “We need you here.”

“Aye,” agrees Bownan.

“Jericho and I’ll take him,” volunteers Leon.  “We need to go get ourselves cleaned up anyway.”

“Very well,” I mutter.  Then I pat James on his good shoulder and say, “I’ll see you in a few.”  He only nods.

“How’d you take that troll?” Percival asks.  Bownan raises his eyebrows like he was thinking the same question.

“Actually two trolls,” corrects my father with the slightest smile on his face.

I shake my head saying, “I don’t know.  I just did what needed done, when it needed done.  Everything made sense in my head.  What to do, when to do it.  And I killed them both.”

“Awesome,” Percival says under his breath.  “Do you think you could teach me to do that?”

There are a couple of half-hearted chuckles.

“Here, have this,” says my father.  “You deserve it.”  He hands me a chunk of bread, lightly buttered, as he chomps his own piece.

I stare at it like it’s heresy.  “We’re eating now?”

“It will take them a while to get through that portcullis,” says my father.  “If they ever get through at all.  Eat.”

That’s when I realize that I haven’t eaten anything that day.  The bread is gone in seconds and my father pours me a drink from a pitcher on the table.  My tongue is grateful for the generous serving of water.

“The people outside-” I realize.

“-are fine,” Bownan finishes.  “Doesn’t make much sense to take over a city and kill everyone in it.  Then there’s no city to own.  No, they’ll keep the shopkeepers, farmers, and other civilians alive.  The soldiers, however…”

Men swarm the entrance hall.  “Preparing for the dam to burst,” I murmur.  Louder, I say, “I’m going up.”

To get up, I have to go all the way through the big circular chamber, through the arch on the left, turn left, and then climb the subsequent spiral staircase.  Two flights up, I emerge into one of the wall towers.  I exit and find myself on the roof of the keep, above the left wing. 

Crenellations overlook the city on one side, and on the other sits a large building, which I believe is an armory or barracks.  There’s enough space between the crenellations and the barracks to fit at least three trolls side by side.

The sun has come over the ridge and is shining brightly.  The trolls are lazing in the shade, avoiding the sun at all costs.  Those who are in the sun shield their eyes, running quickly to wherever they are going.  The men run around in agitation, some of them pointing up at us.  From where I am, I cannot see the front gate of the keep.  There is little happening but a lot of waiting.

I go all the way back down and report my findings to my group.  “Most likely waiting until night, when the trolls will be strongest,” my father says.  “We’d best get some rest, if we can.  Eat and regain our energy.”

I do just that, and I’m not the only one to have that idea.  Despite the sun’s height, our exhaustion overtakes us and we get to sleep, if only for a few hours.

The day passes in limbo.  Then the evening comes.

The first thing we hear is drums.  The beats are far apart, deep and booming.  Then they quicken.  Slowly the beats speed up and up and up until suddenly, they stop.  Then there’s a creak at the portcullis.

“Trolls!” somebody yells.  “They’re lifting the portcullis!”

“How many?” the Jarl shouts.  “Khaoth help us,” I see him whisper.

The reply takes a minute to come from the wall.  “Five on the portcullis!”

“Well, take them down!”

“We’re doing what we can!  They’ve got men with shields-”

Suddenly there are several crashes from the upper levels.  Everything goes silent.  “What was that?” Percival whispers.

“To the walls!” commands Hralfar.  Only a few soldiers stay below with the gate; the remainder of us charge down the halls and up the towers.

Some men lie dead with gruesome wounds.  Cracks line the wall of the barracks behind the crenellations, and it is apparent why.  Enormous grappling hooks lie taut on the crenellations, connected to ballistae with thick ropes.  Along the ropes, ladders are being erected.

We try in vain to lift one of the grappling hooks up and off the crenellations, but the weight combined with the pressure of the taut rope is too much to lift.  Some soldiers try to cut the ropes but the reach is too far, and for those who can reach the rope proves too thick.  A few arrows bounce harmlessly off of them.

“Burn them!” I shout, grabbing a torch.  “Someone have oil?”

I reach out over the crenellation and hold the torch underneath the rope.  The little strands begin to catch fire and burn quickly, but the rope has yet to catch fire.  The ladder is about halfway up.  Soldiers shout and yell from below, and an arrow shatters on the crenellation next to me.  I crouch as low as I can while keeping the torch under the rope.

Someone bursts out of the barracks holding an oil lamp, just as the rope begins to smoke.  He strides to the nearest grappling hook and smashes the lamp over it, catching the rope on fire instantly.  Others with lamps do the same, but not all of the ladders are taken care of.

My rope finally bursts into flame and I hang the torch back on the wall.  A ladder, despite the burning rope, makes contact with the wall and soldiers start to leap onto the roof of the Keep.  A second ladder follows.

One of the strands on the rope burns through and it starts to twist.  Just when the ladder begins to reach the peak, the rope snaps and the ladder falls, crushing all those on and below.  A second follows suit, then a third.  I cannot see what is happening on the other side of the Keep. 

There are enough of us, and few enough of them, that we are able to hold them off fairly well.

This is too easy
, I think. 
Why?

“How’s the other side faring?” I ask a nearby soldier.  “This can’t be everything they’ve got.”

“I don’t know,” he says.

A grappling hook suddenly bangs into the barracks wall, slides down across the ground, and locks into the crenellations only a few feet from one of the ladders.  The Tygnar soldiers guard it with their lives, and the fallen ladder begins to rise.

“Destroy the rope!” Father yells.  “Don’t let them get it up!”

The enemy soldiers gain confidence at the sight of a rising ladder, and something becomes clear:  our farmers with swords simply cannot stand up to their trained army.

I swing my hammer in a wide arc, much like one of the trolls, throwing more than a couple of men to the side.  An arrow pierces the armor of one and he falls to the ground, limp.  I must reach the ladder before it hits the wall.

“Fight!” I shout.  “They must not take the Keep!”

A spear thrown from an ally sticks into a soldier jumping from the ladder.  He falls, knocking a couple of other warriors off and down with him.

“Where are the trolls?” I wonder aloud.

“Probably still trying to get in the front gate,” Percival replies.  “There are few of them.”

I use the spike of my hammer to snag an enemy and throw him into another.  Sweat drips from my brow and my tongue is starting to dry.  The ladder is approaching quickly, but our men are beginning to fail underneath the blows of the enemy.

Still I fight my way towards it.  I am too late, and the ladder makes contact.  More soldiers pour onto the wall.  I feel something pumping inside me.  It’s more than adrenaline; it’s something powerful, driving me forward, empowering me to destroy my enemies.

“We have to cut them off here,” I say.  “Somehow.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“No idea.”

A couple of arrows stick out of Percival’s shield.  It’s marred and obviously well-used.  His sword shines in the torchlight.

“Actually,” I say, “I have an idea, but I need a troll.”

“There are none up here,” he says without questioning my need for one.  “Besides, you’d probably want to kill it afterwards, and that’s not easy!”

“We can’t stand here and fight forever,” I say simply.  “For every man we cut down there is another to take his place.”  Another soldier proves my words true as I knock him from the wall and down to the streets below.  “We are being overwhelmed!”

Despite the men’s best efforts, the Tygnar army is simply better trained and has more numbers.

“Into the Keep!” I yell, crushing the helm of another foe.  The barracks on the wall is not connected with doors or tunnels into the Keep, so the only way in from here will be through the tower.

My group, as well as any survivors, follow my commands and dive for the tower entrance.  I shut and bolt it, and then place the wooden bar in the way.  Men on the other side bang frantically to get in.

“We need to seal this door,” I say.

A cry comes from down below.  “It appears we are too late,” says Father.

We bar the door quickly, using whatever furniture we can find.  Then we run down the stairs and onto the balcony that hangs over the main entrance hall.  A
BANG
echoes throughout the Keep as the gate buckles inward slightly, and then recoils.  The crowds of men that brace the gate bounce with it.

“How did they get past the portcullis?” Nathaniel wonders aloud.

“No idea.”

We run down to the lower levels as quickly as we can, until we are behind the gate.  Something hammers on it from the outside.

“Orders?” asks a soldier; a captain I’m assuming, by the purple cape.  “Orders?”

Jarl Hralfar sits on one of the tables with his feet on the bench normally used for sitting.  He only says, “What is the condition of the wall?”

A different captain responds, “Both have been taken.  If they don’t get into the front gate, it’s only a matter of time before they breach the towers and enter the Keep.”

After no response, the first captain says again, “Orders, sir?!”

The Jarl shakes his head and mutters softly, “The city is lost.”

Silence pervades the room, though most of us already know that we are not going to be able to retake the city without reinforcements.

“The Keep is not,” responds the captain.  “There are still men that can fight within.”

“But to what avail?” says the Jarl.  There’s another boom on the gate.

“My Jarl,” says the second captain, “are you suggesting we die?”

“I never suggest death,” he retorts.  “I am suggesting a retreat.”

“Where?” both guards ask.

“Under the mountain.  You can get out through the waste tunnels.”  The hinges of the gate creak as it is hit again.

“What do you mean ‘you’?” asks the first guard.

“Someone has to stay here,” answers the Jarl.  “If you leave and no one is left in the Keep, they will give chase and we will surely not get far.  Someone has to stay to buy time.  The rest can get out safely.”

“What will become of those who stay?”

The Jarl pauses.  “I don’t know.”  One of the beams on the gate cracks.  “Move quickly.  Gather the wounded first; they will be the most difficult to transport.  Get everyone else out.”

“Jarl, we won’t leave you!”

“You asked for my orders, captain, and these are they!”

“But sir, I-”

“Do as I say!” Hralfar barks.

The captain flinches and nods slowly before questioning, “Why take the wounded?  Surely Tygnar will leave those who cannot fight.”

The Jarl takes a deep breath.  “Though Tygnar is not so vile as to kill women and children, they will gladly kill those who are of no use to them.  They cannot use the wounded.”

“Who will stay?” objects the captain.  “It is foolishness; anybody with sense in their head will leave.”

The Jarl turns to tell off the captain, but I interrupt, “I will.”  The eyes of my friends and family lock on to me, some of them in shock.

“Apparently he lacks sense,” mutters the captain.

“But he is full of honor,” says the Jarl.  “What’s your name, son?”

“Kadmus Armstrong.”

He eyes my hammer.  “You’re the young man who killed the troll on the wall?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods, having to look upward to see into my eyes.  “It will be an honor fighting with you.”  Then he sticks out his hand.  I grasp it and we shake.  “Fight well, Kadmus,” he says.  He turns to the captains and says, “You’ll need these.”  He pulls a small ring of keys out of his pocket and throws it to the first captain, who catches and pockets it.  “And don’t forget food for your journey.  Every man must bring enough for himself.”  Then he walks out of the room.