Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (8 page)

in the direction of the forest. He had not gone far, when he heard

Samar's voice raised in a bellowing cry.

"General Aranoshah! Take two orders of swordsmen off to the

left flank and send two more to the right. We'll need to keep four

units here with Her Majesty in reserve in case they breach the line

and break through."

Break through! That was impossible. The line would hold.

The line must hold. Silvan halted and looked back. The elves had

raised their battle song, its music sweet and uplifting, soaring

above the brutish chant of the ogres. He was cheered by the sight

and started on, when a ball of fire, blue-white and blinding, ex-

ploded on the left side of the hill. The fireball hurtled down the

hillside, heading for the burial mounds.

"Shift fire to your left!" Samar called down the slope.

The archers were momentarily confused, not understanding

their targets, but their officers managed to turn them in the right

direction. The ball of flame struck another portion of the barrie4

ignited the thicket, and continued to blaze onward. At first

Silvan thought the balls of flame were magical, and he wondered

what good archers would do against sorcery, but then he saw

that the fireballs were actually huge bundles of hay being

pushed and shoved down the hillside by the ogres. He could see

their hulking bodies silhouetted black against the leaping flames.

The ogres carried long sticks that they used to shove the burning

hay stacks.

"Wait for my order!" Samar cried, but the elves were nervous

and several arrows were loosed in the direction of the blazing

hay.

"No, damn it!" Samar yelled with rage down the slope.

"They're not in range yet! Wait for the order!"

A crash of thunder drowned out his voice. Seeing their com-

rades fire, the remainder of the archer line loosed their first volley.

The arrows arched through the smoke-filled night. Three of the

ogres pushing the flaming haystacks fell under the withering fire,

but the rest of the arrows landed far short of their marks.

"Still," Silvan told himself, "they will soon stop them."

A baying howl as of a thousand wolves converging on their

prey cried from the woods close to the elven archers. Silvan

stared, startled, thinking that the trees themselves had come

alive.

"Shift fire forward!" Samar cried desperately.

The archers could not hear him over the roar of the ap-

proaching flames. Too late, their officers noticed the sudden

rushing movement in the trees at the foot of the hill. A line of

ogres surged into the open, charging the thicket wall that pro-

tected the archers. The flames had weakened the barrier. The

huge ogres charged into the smoldering mass of burned sticks

and logs, shouldering their way through. Cinders fell on their

matted hair and sparked in their beards, but the ogres, in a

battle rage, ignored the pain of their burns and lurched

forward.

Now being attacked from the front and on their flank, the

elven archers grappled desperately for their arrows, tried to

loose another volley before the ogres closed. The flaming

haystacks thundered down on them. The elves did not know

which enemy to fight first. Some lost their heads in the chaos.

Samar roared orders. The officers struggled to bring their

troops under control. The elves fired a second volley, some into

the burning hay bales, others into the ogres charging them on

the flank.

More ogres fell, an immense number, and Silvan thought that

they must retreat. He was amazed and appalled to see the ogres

continue forward, undaunted.

"Samar, where are the reserves?" Alhana called out.

"I think they have been cut off," Samar returned grimly. "You

should not be out here, Your Majesty. Go back inside where you

are safe."

Silvan could see his mother now. She had left the burial

mound. She was clad in silver armor, carried a sword at her

side.

"I led my people here," Alhana returned. "Will you have me

skulk in a cave while my people are dying, Samar?"

"Yes," he growled.

She smiled at him, a tight strained smile, but still a smile.

She gripped the hilt of her sword. "Will they break through, do

you think?"

"I don't see much stopping them, Your Majesty," Samar said

grimly.

The elven archers loosed another volley. The officers had re-

gained control of the troops. Every shot told. The ogres charging

from the front fell by the score. Half the line disappeared. Still the

ogres continued their advance, the living trampling the bodies of

the fallen. In moments they would be within striking range of the

archers' position.

"Launch the assault!" Samar roared.

Elven swordsmen rose up from their positions behind the

left barricades. Shouting their battle cries, they charged the ogre

line. Steel rang against steel. The flaming haystacks burst into

the center of the camp, crushing men, setting fire to trees and

grass and clothing. Suddenly, without warning, the ogre line

turned. One of their number had caught sight of Alhana's silver

armor, reflecting the firelight. With guttural cries, they pointed

at her and were now charging toward the burial mound.

"Mother!" Silvan gasped, his heart tangled up with his stom-

ach. He had to bring help. They were counting on him, but he was

paralyzed, mesmerized by the terrible sight. He couldn't run to

her. He couldn't run away. He couldn't move.

"Where are those reserves?" Samar shouted furiously. "Ara-

nosha! You bastard! Where are Her Majesty's swordsmen!"

"Here, Samar!" cried a warrior. HWe had to fight our way to

you, but we are here!"

"Take them down there, Samar," said Alhana calmly.

"Your Majesty!" He started to protest. HI will not leave you

without guards."

"If we don't halt the advance, Samar," Alhana returned. HIt

won't much matter whether I have guards or not. Go now.

Quickly!"

Samar wanted to argue, but he knew by the remote and res-

olute expression on his queen's face that he would be wasting his

breath. Gathering the reserves around him, Samar charged down

into the advancing ogres.

Alhana stood alone, her silver armor burning with the re-

flected flames.

"Make haste, Silvan, my son. Make haste. Our lives rest on

you."

She spoke to herself, but she spoke, unknowingly, to her son.

Her words impelled Silvan to action. He had been given an

order and he would carry it out. Bitterly regretting the wasted

time, his heart swelling with fear for his mother, he turned and

plunged into the forest.

Adrenaline pumped in Silvan's veins. He shoved his way

through the underbrush, thrusting aside tree limbs, trampling

seedlings. Sticks snapped beneath his boots. The wind was cold

and strong on his right cheek. He did not feel the pelting rain. He

welcomed the lightning that lit his path.

He was prudent enough to keep careful watch for any signs of

the enemy and constantly sniffed the air, for the filthy, flesh-

eating ogre is usually smelt long before he is seen. Silvan kept his

hearing alert, too, for though he himself made what an elf would

consider to be an unconscionable amount of noise, he was a deer

gliding through the forest compared to the smashing and

cracking, ripping and tearing of an ogre.

Silvan traveled swiftly, encountering not so much as a noctur-

nal animal out hunting, and soon the sounds of battle dwindled

behind him. Then it was that he realized he was alone in the forest

in the night in the storm. The adrenaline started to ebb. A sliver

of fear and doubt pierced his heart. What if he arrived too late?

What if the humans-known for their vagaries and their change-

able natures-refused to act? What if the attack overwhelmed his

people? What if he had left them to die? None of this looked fa-

miliar to him. He had taken a wrong turning, he was lost. . . .

Resolutely Silvan pushed forward, running through the

forest with the ease of one who has been born and raised in the

woodlands. He was cheered by the sight of a ravine on his left

hand; he remembered that ravine from his earlier travels to the

fortress. His fear of being lost vanished. He took care to keep

clear of the rocky edge of the ravine, which cut a large gash

across the forest floor.

Silvan was young, strong. He banished his doubts that were a

drag on his heart, and concentrated on his mission. A lightning

flash revealed the road straight ahead. The sight renewed his

strength and his determination. Once he reached the road, he

could increase his pace. He was an excellent runner, often run-

ning long distances for the sheer pleasure of the feel of the mus-

cles expanding and contracting, the sweat on his body, the wind

in his face and the warm suffusing glow that eased all pain.

He imagined himself speaking to the Lord Knight, pleading

their cause, urging him to haste. Silvan saw himself leading the

rescue, saw his mother's face alight with pride. . . .

In reality, Silvan saw his way blocked. Annoyed, he slid to a

halt on the muddy path to study this obstacle.

A gigantic tree limb, fallen from an ancient oak, lay across the

path. Leaves and branches blocked his way. Silvan would be

forced to circle around it, a move that would bring him close to

the edge of the ravine. He was sure on his feet, however. The

lightning lit his way. He edged around the end of the severed

limb with a good few feet to spare. He was climbing over a single

branch, reaching out his hand to steady himself on a nearby pine

tree, when a single bolt of lightning streaked out of the darkness

and struck the pine.

The tree exploded in a ball of white fire. The concussive force

of the blast knocked Silvan over the edge of the ravine. Rolling

and tumbling down its rock-strewn wall, he slammed against the

stump of a broken tree at the bottom.

Pain seared his body, worse pain seared his heart. He had

failed. He would not reach the fortress. The knights would never

receive the message. His people could not fight alone against the

ogres. They would die. His mother would die with the belief that

he had let her down.

He tried to move, to rise, but the pain flashed through him,

white hot, so horrible that when he felt consciousness slipping

away, he was glad to think he was going to die. Glad to think that

he would join his people in death, since he could do nothing else

for them.

Despair and grief rose in a great, dark wave, crashed down

upon Silvan and dragged him under.

CHAPTER THREE

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

The storm disappeared. A strange storm, it had burst upon

Ansalon like an invadmg army, striking all parts of that

vast continent at the same time, attacking throughout the

night, only to retreat with the coming of dawn. The sun crawled

out from the dark lightning-shot cloudbank to blaze tri-

umphantly in the blue sky. Light and warmth cheered the inhab-

itants of Solace, who crept out of their homes to see what

destruction the tempest had wrought.

Solace did not fare as badly as some other parts of Ansalon, al-

though the storm appeared to have targeted that hamlet with par-

ticular hatred. The mighty vallenwoods proved stubbornly

resistant to the devastating lightning that struck them time and

again. The tops of the trees caught fire and burned, but the fire

did not spread to the branches below. The trees' strong arms

tossed in the whirling winds but held fast the homes built there,

homes that were in their care. Creeks rose and fields flooded, but

homes and barns were spared.

The Tomb of the Last Heroes, a beautiful structure of white

and black stone that stood in a clearing on the outskirts of town,

had sustained severe damage. Lightning had hit one of the spires,

splitting it asunder, sending large chunks of marble crashing

down to the lawn.

But the worst damage was done to the crude and makeshift

homes of the refugees fleeing the lands to the west and south,

lands which had been free only a year ago but which were now

falling under control of the green dragon Beryl.

Three years ago, the great dragons who had fought for control

of Ansalon had 'come to an uneasy truce. Realizing that their

bloody battles were weakening them, the dragons agreed to be

satisfied with the territory each had conquered, they would not

wage war against each other to try to gain more. The dragons had

kept this pact, until a year ago. It was then that Beryl had noticed

her magical powers starting to decline. At first, she had thought

she was imagining this, but as time passed, she became con-

vinced that something was wrong.

Beryl blamed the red dragon Malys for the loss of her magic-

this was some foul scheme being perpetrated by her larger and

stronger cousin. Beryl also blamed the human mages, who were