The Dragon Hunters (36 page)

Mordrun Bal

They moved in single file under the cover of darkness. Grelic took the lead. His hulking shadow seemed darker in the foul night. The others moved like wraiths behind him. Cron and Kialla followed next, then the Mage. A much disappointed Krek trailed. Fitch, Ibram, and Pregen filled the middle. The peril was too great to entrust the rear position to any of them.

Despite growing danger, Grelic reveled in his element. He missed the sense of purpose and fulfillment of being on a battlefield. All of his previous skirmishes led him to this final task. His eyes darted back and forth, searching for signs of a rear guard left behind. His mighty broadsword danced with every step. Grelic pushed past row after row of dilapidated hovels. The stench gagged him. Waste and rotting carcasses filled the shadows and shallow pits carelessly dug between the buildings. He felt a nasty sensation in the pit of his stomach and choked back his rising bile. The Goblins could easily turn Thrae into such squalid ruin. Anger boiled within him.

The distraction proved costly. A sentry emerged from the alley behind him. The surprised Goblin balked at the sight of so many alien figures creeping through Mordrun Bal and drew his sword. He managed to blink once before a shining silver dagger plunged through his grizzled throat. Cron rushed forward and caught the body before it hit the ground.

The giant spun around, releasing his white-knuckle grip on his sword and let out a long breath. Kialla jerked Lady Killer from the corpse and wiped the blood off. She reassuringly touched Grelic’s arm and passed a look of relief. He shrugged and kept moving. None of them knew exactly where they were going and time was against them. Still, they needed to be more wary.

They gained the main boulevard and halted. Torchlight flickered wickedly from random intervals. Roving patrols marched up and down the streets. Grelic cursed silently. He should have figured security would be stepped up with the army deployed. Goblins were crude beyond barbaric, but when it came to fighting, they were professionals. Making matters worse, their commander seemed to know his business.

Dakeb eased next to the crouching giant and scanned the streets. He leaned as close as possible and said, “If they have this much security out, the entrance will be well protected.”

Grelic grunted softly. “Our task has become more difficult.”

“It also makes it easier to find the way inside,” the old Mage said and grinned.

“I like how you think,” Grelic said, instantly picking up on his meaning. “The only problem is making it to the entrance unnoticed. There’s too many here to do that quietly.”

“Leave that to me. Ready the others to move on my signal.” Dakeb closed his eyes. “Grelic, they must remain together. Whoever gets lost will not survive.”

Casting a final, concerned look, Grelic left the Mage about his business. He’d always contended that there were some things best left unknown. He passed the message to each of them without truly understanding what was happening. The small band huddled down and waited. They didn’t wait long.

Dakeb sat in the dirt and held his palms up towards the sky. Searching back through centuries of memories, he recalled the words of incantation. Thick, choking fog began to pulse from his fingertips. Then from his pores. Temperatures dropped to near freezing throughout the Goblin town. Goblins stopped what they were doing and shifted nervously. Superstitions ran high among them. Several snarled and cursed in their dark tongue. Whip masters shouted to no response.

The fog was waist high. Entire sections of Mordrun Bal were already blanketed. Fear rode the swirling mists. Goblins balked, leaving their posts in abject fear. They fled to the imaginary security of their barracks. Not even the lash of a whip stayed their fear. Soon the fog grew so thick they couldn’t make out shadows a foot in front of them. Mordrun Bal was enthralled with terror.

Dakeb rose to his feet, unsteady after such exertion. The lines on his face were deeper. “Now Grelic, strike north and fear not. My eyes can pierce the fog. We must move quickly for it will not last long.”

“Will we be affected as well?” he asked.

“No. Only evil must fear tonight. Hurry! When the moon rises the spell shall fail.”

The giant nodded sharply and ensured the others hurried behind. The next few minutes were going to go by fast. Only Krek appeared enthused with the prospect of facing near impossible odds. Any true Minotaur relished the thought of battle. Grelic sprinted.

They raced past scores of milling Goblins. The urge to strike down the enemy was great, but Dakeb warned them against it. There wasn’t time. The trek was more traumatic for Fitch. Each Goblin devolved into shadow-driven shapes of demons. He smelled smoke and saw his home burning. Dark shapes became the broken corpses of his friends, his family. They cried out in agony. They cried out for the damnation of their murdered souls and it grew too much to bear. His own mind screamed in agony. Fitch started to snap. Madness crept up from the reflection of his soul and struggled for control. Hatred and innocence battled in a silent war. Fitch Iane felt himself slowly slipping into the iron grips of dementia.

They ran on, oblivious to the internal conflict of their villager companion. Only Dakeb understood what was happening. He understood and was powerless to help Fitch. He knew the depths of the young man’s despair. Seldis told him everything in the days after monks had found him frozen and near death in the mountains. Dakeb wanted to cry for the boy. Much of the future depended on the actions of one man. His life was almost a waste.

Grelic cut down a pair of quivering warriors standing in their path. Hot blood splashed on his cheeks and forearms as the bodies toppled. He smiled. The fog ahead shifted. He could make out several Goblins massed just ahead. They were guarding the entrance to the tunnels under Druem. Grelic readied his sword and charged only to find himself standing in the open. Swirls of fog drifted apart. He frowned. The moon was rising.

Goblins slowly shrugged off their paralysis. They stared back at Grelic and the others in shock. The giant was among them while most were still trying to draw their swords. He struck down the closest with a mighty overhead swing and then dropped down to slice open the stomach of another. Cron, Kialla, and Krek rushed into the fight with recklessness that made even the battle-hardened Mage balk.

Grelic fought without thought of the others. He felt he should be back in Deldin Grim with Faeldrin, not here in the midst of the Goblin kingdom. But Dakeb had insisted and Faeldrin agreed. Rage, pent-up and demanding, finally boiled over. The score of Goblins barring his way felt the full effect of that rage. Bodies piled around him. Pools of blood grew deep. Gore and ichor dripped thickly from his sword. Grelic succumbed to the berserker frenzy. Goblins pushed and shoved to flee but it was far too late. The giant didn’t stop until no foe stood.

The others were less fortunate. Goblins correctly picked them for softer targets and focused their attacks on the Minotaur. Kialla slashed her dagger across an exposed throat and suddenly cried out as burning pain lanced through her shoulder. She dropped to her knees with the foul blade plunged in to the hilt. Cron roared and ran her attacker through. Blood frothed from the dying Goblin’s mouth.

Krek fought hard enough for all of them. His people had longstanding animosity towards the Goblins. This night was one of revenge. The heavy war bar crushed skulls and snapped bones. Krek snorted and let out a terrifying bellow that trembled the ground. The Goblin counterattack waivered. It proved a costly mistake. Grelic charged in from behind and they fell in a throng of cries.

The battle raged ahead of them and Pregen had no intentions of charging into the middle of it. That momentary hesitation reduced him to being a babysitter. Pregen glanced around and found the Mage, the would-be Mage, and sniveling villager crowded about him. While he harbored no illusions about Dakeb’s worth, the other two mired him in uselessness.

“What’s happening out there? Do you think they need our help?” Ibram asked, straining to look over the assassin’s shoulder.

Pregen readily stepped aside. “Go and find out if you’re so eager to die.”

He snorted his distaste when the former monk didn’t move.
Coward.
Pregen silently wished all of them would rush into the fight. That would make it easier for him to sneak away unobserved. He was left indecisive, however. The road back to the mountains was long and dangerous. There were little, if any, clean water sources and virtually no protection from the grueling sun. The trip was tantamount to suicide. His only other choice wasn’t much better. Pregen had an eerie suspicion that he wasn’t going to be coming back from Druem. The assassin did his best to shake off the feeling but the premonition had already taken hold. He jumped when someone grabbed his arm. It was only Dakeb.

“The path is clear. Quickly. We must get inside,” the Mage urged.

Pregen didn’t like the sound of that. The tone of Dakeb’s voice compelled him against his better judgment. It made him
want
to go under the volcano.

“What about the others?”

Dakeb shook his head. “There is no time. They must go down a different path if we have any hope of succeeding.”

“We shouldn’t split up. We need them,” Pregen argued.

The Mage looked up with pleading eyes. “So long as they’re fighting, the Goblins will attack. The enemy won’t notice us moving among them until it’s too late. If ever you have known courage, let it be now, Pregen Chur.”

Pregen sighed. Control of his own life slipped away and he was forced to follow the Mage. He didn’t bother looking back to see if Grelic or the others noticed. Didn’t even look to see Fitch and Ibram close behind him. Instead he followed Dakeb under mighty Druem blindly, trusting a half-cracked old man and a handful of misfits.

The Battle of Deldin Grim

“Come on then!” Mearlis shouted from behind the black rock of the captured Goblin keep. Crenellations stuck up like hideous teeth hungry for the taste of raw flesh. “What do you suppose they’re waiting for?”

Faeldrin stared off into what had become a roiling mass of enemy soldiers. Dawn broke across the far horizon. The sun was red as blood, an ill omen. Rank after rank of infantry marched to a halt just beyond arrow range. They were packed tightly, displaying none of the fear the Elf Lord had hoped for after seeing so many of their comrades strewn casually across the surrounding area. He could see the front ranks carrying cruel-looking barbed pikes. Silver standards blew in the stiff breeze.

He watched grimly as even more soldiers pressed forward. The concentrated sounds of their footsteps and clanging armor was as thunder on a hot summer night. Loose rock broke free from the ragged mountainsides. Flocks of vultures, already gathered for the veritable feast littering the plain, circled high above. Faeldrin felt their presence more than noticed it. The smell of death was already ripe in the air. He had little doubt it would get worse.

A company of war Trolls pushed their way towards the front of the army. Each carried mighty double-headed battle axes and were armored in plain leather jerkins. They were monstrous creatures, each standing close to ten feet tall and so heavily muscled they often appeared sluggish. Their mottled grey-brown skin blended perfectly with their surroundings. Dimwitted at best, their prominent brows and narrow, beady eyes displayed none of the intelligence the Goblins possessed. They were bred for heavy labor and for killing. Faeldrin grimaced in the knowledge that no arrow or sword would be of use against their near impenetrable hides. Trolls feared no weapons but fire. The Elf Lord smiled secretly for he had a surprise for them.

The rear rank of the army carried long-scaling ladders and something else Faeldrin couldn’t make out. He had no idea how many had come to lay siege. A guess took him between two and three thousand. He whistled appreciatively. Odds were decidedly against him. Even with Cpur and his mountain folk, the Elves were sorely outnumbered. They’d be hard pressed just to hold the walls. The Elf Lord paused to check the stone and wood barricade hastily constructed across the mouth of Deldin Grim. Suddenly his carefully laid defenses appeared meager. All it would take was the Trolls to smash it asunder. He didn’t even want to consider the dragon.

“I believe they are waiting for a sign,” he replied.

“A sign? What could they possibly need?”

Faeldrin gave his brother a confident smile. “Why wait to find out? Let’s give them an invitation.”

He reached down and picked up the ash long bow that had seen him through numerous tough times. Faeldrin took his time, drawing the arrow from over his shoulder and setting it to string. A slight wind funneled through the pass to kiss his cheek and playfully tussle his hair. The bow creaked under the strain of being drawn. He took careful aim and loosed.

Humming on the under currents, the missile sped fast and true. Goblins were too immersed in the throes of a building rage to notice one small arrow streaking towards them. Believing themselves safe, they didn’t think the Elven weapons would be a threat. Whip masters lashed out to get the army into assault ranks. The arrow struck a dead tree a few meters ahead of the front rank and both exploded in flames. Three Goblins fell, heavily burned. The Trolls mewled, fright in their eyes. Their ancient fear forced them away. Chaos gripped the front of the enemy host.

Faeldrin nodded.

“That worked nicely,” Mearlis commented. “They should be quite incensed now.”

“That’s the idea.”

“How did you know that little plan was going to work?”

He was beaming now. “The Pell Darga are crafty people. Cpur used his best engineers to ensure distance was correct. A subtle demonstration. I also had them coat the nearest trees with their flammable gel. We have close to a hundred explosive arrowheads ready. The paste is highly combustible, similar to corrosive tree sap. They’ll be more hesitant in coming at us.”

“Until the dragon arrives.”

“Worry about that when it happens. That, we are prepared for,” Faeldrin said.
At least I hope so
.

“Let us hope your other tricks have the same effects. I’m going down to ensure the defenses are ready. Those Trolls are going to be murderous when they get their act together.” Mearlis shrugged and walked away.

“You have such a way with words,” Faeldrin said to his back.

“You’re the positive one here,” Mearlis laughed and disappeared around the corner.

The Elf Lord remained, watching as panic spread through the enemy ranks. It was slight and relatively ineffective once they figured out what had happened. Faeldrin hoped their confusion lasted awhile longer. He needed every moment he could get.

A horn sounded just past midday. The sound was twisted and ugly, reminding the Elves of bad times. They rushed from the shade to their battle positions and beheld their foe. The Goblins wasted no time trying to organize back into ranks. Ladders and strange harpoon-like devices with long coils of rope resting on platforms were being moved up behind the front ranks. Archers followed, then the main body.

Faeldrin counted their strength and found the faintest flicker of hope. The Goblin archers were practically useless, though effective enough to keep the Elves’ heads down while the front ranks charged. The first assault was designed to fail. It was costly. It was also designed to capture the defenders’ full attention. Faeldrin almost smiled at the predictability of the move. He would have if not for the host of Trolls itching to attack. If it weren’t for the massive, armored creatures, the Goblin ranks would smash upon the black rock in broken tides. Trolls had a way of changing everything.

Again the horn bleated a baleful tune. The Trolls responded first. They clashed their heavy weapons together. The sound had a wicked metallic shred that grated the skin. Loosing their first volley, Goblin archers reloaded and took aim again.

Safe behind the ancient stone, the Elven defenders patiently avoided the poisoned barbs whistling by. The dead wood shafts clicked across the rock face, falling harmlessly. Faeldrin dared enough of a glance to confirm his suspicions. A third horn blast sent the massed ranks towards the keep. He prayed his Aeldruin held their fire until the proper moment. If not, the siege might already be lost.

All around him Elves readied for battle. A current of excitement, fear, and uncanny calm shrouded them. They’d been through such horrible times before. While many of their ranks had fallen in battle, the Aeldruin never left the field to the enemy. They were going to need divine intervention to do so today. Faeldrin might have felt better if he knew how many of the Pell Darga warriors waited in the shadows or where they’d disappeared to. He hadn’t seen Cpur since the morning after they sacked the keep. Close to one hundred of the brown-skinned warriors stood ready to fight the oncoming army, but there was no sign of their leader.

The Goblin war machine attacked. Hundreds of squat, muscular warriors howled in bloodlust and sprinted towards the barricade. Faeldrin waited until they were well past the rows of prepared trees before giving the command to fire.

“Archers! Fire!” he bellowed.

Dozens of shafts sizzled through the air, bringing death to many Goblins. The charge was too strong, though. Follow-on warriors clamored over the corpses of their brethren. The Elves continued firing. True to thought, the Trolls carved a path through the center of the ranks to attack the barricade. Faeldrin’s eyes were drawn to the mighty wedge of Trolls. Even from this height he saw the malicious intent burning in their eyes. Only two possible outcomes remained. They would either die in the process or drive the Trolls back. Either way, that barricade was coming down. He only prayed Aleor and his crews were ready. If not, there wouldn’t be any need to worry about the dragon. Trolls brushed aside the lesser Goblins and advanced. Another volley of arrows sped towards the walls.

Faeldrin gripped the stone wall.
Come on. Just a little further, you nasty bastards
. The line drew even with the front ranks. Goblins hurriedly moved aside lest they were trampled beneath the lumbering monsters. They drew even with the trees. The Elf Lord fired his explosive tip arrow. His shaft sped true, striking the dead tree in the center of the line. Fire erupted in wicked explosions. A Troll fell, bathed in flames. Two others dropped their weapons and ran off.

Two rapid flights of arrows struck various tree boles and detonated. Flames blazed, sending plumes of rich, black smoke curling high into the sky. Bodies, Trolls and Goblins alike, were flung through the air in ragged lumps of destroyed flesh. Charred skin permeated the air. The advance halted. Panic gripped the Trolls and many more followed the first pair. Those few that had escaped the inferno bellowed their rage and ran towards the barricade faster.

“Damn,” Faeldrin muttered and sprinted to his alternate firing position.

Elven defenders on the ground focused their energy and readied to meet the horrors of the Troll assault. Trolls only had two weak spots: their eyes and their armpits. Anything else was a wasted shot. There were tales of Dwarven war bands spending hours trying to kill a single Troll. In every case the casualties were high. Faeldrin pushed those thoughts aside and dropped into position.

Consumed by unnatural rage, the Trolls blindly sped towards the fragile defense. The first of them reached the shallow ditch spanning the pass and leapt over without second thought. He was dead before his feet touched the ground. Frenzied with bloodlust, none of them noticed the single arrow until it struck the gelled substance filling the ditch. The explosion thundered throughout Deldin Grim. It was the sound of a god dying. Elves and Goblins recoiled to cover their ears. Tremendous pain pounded them, drowning out the screams of the dying.

The Troll advance was finished. Only a handful remained, and those were bloodied and broken. Whip masters lashed out at the retreating creatures only to be crushed underfoot or thrown aside. Having lost momentum, the Goblins retreated out of arrow range to regroup. Dusk was already approaching.

Faeldrin finished gnawing on a piece of stale, dark bread, washing it down with a swig from his canteen. He rubbed at the soreness bothering his neck and shoulders. If anything, it made the sensation worse. Hours had passed since the first attack with nothing happening. The sounds of construction could be heard from the Goblin camp but the night hampered any chance of seeing what was being built.

Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine to find himself holed up in such a foreboding place while waiting for an enemy army to break through and slaughter them. Death clung to everything. The catastrophic scene was most disturbing. Every so often the flutter of wings announced another flight of vultures swooping in for a quick bite. The Elf Lord didn’t mind so much, but seriously doubted the Goblin commander was inclined to call a truce in order to reclaim the bodies. Without meaning to, Faeldrin fell asleep.

He was awakened a short time later. Euorn stood over him, an intense look blazing in his eyes.

“What?” Faeldrin asked.

“The enemy readies to attack. Mearlis sent me to rouse you.”

Faeldrin grinned sheepishly. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Damned funny thing war was. Once the initial surge of emotions settled and the battle took on a more protracted pace, fatigue set in. Apprehensions tended to run high during sieges. It was all his warriors could do to keep their emotions from running wild. Faeldrin recognized this as the most dangerous time. The part when an attack might come at any given moment, or not.

“Is everyone in place?”

Euorn nodded briskly. “We’ve seen to it.”

“What of the Pell Darga?”

“No news, my lord. We still have those hundred that stayed behind but there has been no sign of the others. I fear they might have abandoned us,” the Elf replied.

Faeldrin wasn’t so sure. “I don’t think so. They are a most hardy folk from what little I understand of them. Cpur is not the one to cut and run, given his hatred of the Goblins. Worrying about them doesn’t help. Let’s see to the attack. Where is Mearlis?”

Euorn helped him to his feet and headed for the stairwell when a shrill voice cried out in the night.

“Incoming!”

Both Elves spun about. Balls of fire rocketed towards them. Faeldrin grabbed Euorn and threw him down as one of the missiles exploded against the crenellation. Black rock and flame washed down to the ground.

“”They’ve got catapults!” Faeldrin shouted over the roar of more incoming rounds.

Flaming boulders continued to pulverize sections of the keep, each one tearing away some part of the defense. The vibrations went deep, reverberating up his legs. The Goblins weren’t going to waste much more time attempting a frontal assault. They aimed to bring the fortress down on the defenders’ heads. The Elves ran towards the command group, stopping to dodge two additional rounds. They found Mearlis standing over a kneeling healer and the broken body of a warrior spitting blood. Three other bodies had been lined against the near wall, arms folded over their chests. The attack was not going well.

“We count ten catapults. The Goblins built them well. They are well out of our range,” Mearlis reported with frustration.