The Dwarves (47 page)

“She’s with us already, there’s no doubt of that.” They shook hands, mounted their horses, and rode to join their units three
miles from Porista’s walls.

Lothaire ordered the fanfare to be sounded and the men raised their standards in a billowing sea of cloth. The divisions attacked
from the south as agreed, the first wave of soldiers pushing wheeled screens of wood in front of them to shield their advance.

Porista waited until they were within firing distance before waking from its doze. A dark shadow whooshed toward them, arrows
and missiles raining on the troops.

The men huddled behind their wooden defenses and all but a handful escaped the storm unscathed. Lothaire’s archers returned
fire and the advance continued behind the moving screens. The men reached the wall, flipped the panels over, and held them
aloft while others banged posts into the soil on which to balance the wooden shields. With the makeshift roofs overhead, there
was no risk of injury from bombardment from above. Soon ladders were clattering against the walls.

It was then that Nôd’onn gave them a taste of his might.

T
ilogorn was watching on horseback while his foot soldiers stole toward the northern gates. There was no opposition worth speaking
of: Porista’s guardians had been tricked into thinking that the opposite side of the city was the focus of the attack. By
the time news of a second invasion reached the troops in the south, Tilogorn and his men would be through the northern gates
and advancing on the palace.

We’ll soon decide the matter in our favor,
he told himself firmly. There was something unsettling about fighting magic with manpower, but he couldn’t think of any other
way.

Tilogorn had opted to ride at the head of the five-thousand-strong cavalry and he planned to bear down on the palace and take
the magus by storm. In a battle against the wizard’s magic, he needed every advantage of speed and shock to survive.

Two lone riders looped toward him, raising their flags as a signal for the king and his units to advance.

“Palandiell protect us.” Tilogorn checked each of his weapons, making sure his sword and dagger were at hand. On his orders,
the bugles were sounded, heralding the attack. The first eight thousand men swarmed toward the gates like ants. Lothaire had
used the same tactic on the other side of the city, only two miles farther south.

T
he attacking force met with almost no resistance. A few arrows were loosed from the parapets but the damage was minimal.

In no time ladders had been laid against the walls and the first of Tilogorn’s warriors were scaling the defenses to grapple
with the handful of plucky soldiers left in charge of the northern gates.

Tilogorn watched as Idoslane’s flag was raised on the ramparts. He buckled his helmet and pushed down the visor. “For Girdlegard!”
He and his five thousand cavalrymen pounded toward the open gates.

The first block detached itself from the parapet and shot toward them like a missile from a catapult. The slab of stone, as
long as a forearm in its shortest dimension, struck a soldier in the chest, his body compressing like honeycomb beneath the
mass of granite.

It was the start of a bombardment more gruesome than anything the men had ever witnessed. Most of them weren’t destined to
survive it.

Block by block, the city wall was coming undone. Starting from the top, the stone slabs hurled themselves from the parapet,
hitting the attacking army with such force that neither shields nor armor could save them. The massive projectiles crashed
straight through the wooden barricades, flipping them over or smashing them to pieces and showering the nearby troops with
a lethal hail of wood and stone.

Each of the blocks met its target. Everywhere armor was shattering, bones splintering and granite embedding itself in the
ground. Shouts of terror gave way to screams for help and the anguished howls of the dying. Soon there was nothing left to
support the ladders and they toppled back among the troops.

“Pull back!” commanded Lothaire, wheeling his horse about. A block struck his stallion’s head and it fell to the ground, twitching.

The king tumbled from the saddle and was trapped beneath the fallen mount. When at last he dragged himself free, he realized
that his leg was wounded, perhaps broken. Barely able to stand, let alone walk, he was rescued by two of his guards, who carried
him to a ditch, the only place that offered any protection against the flying granite.

“Curse the magus and his wizardry,” muttered Lothaire, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his injured leg. The situation
was worse than anything he had imagined: Nôd’onn was using his terrible powers to bring death and destruction to the allied
troops. He tried not to think about the quantity of blocks in the wall; it was a formidable arsenal by anyone’s standards.

At last, when the thudding and pounding had ceased, the king raised his head and looked out of the ditch.

The flat ground at the foot of the gates was littered with stone slabs of varying sizes: Even the base blocks, each the length
of a fully grown man, had lifted from the foundations and hurled themselves at the troops. Limbs, broken lances, warped shields,
and snapped spears protruded from beneath the masonry, the hunks of stone providing grisly markers for every corpse.

Lothaire’s gaze traveled over the debris and settled on the unprotected streets and houses beyond. Bereft of its wall, the
capital of Lios Nudin lay defenseless before him. Only the watchtowers on either side of the gates were still in place.

“This is our chance,” he said, straining to speak through the pain. “We’ve got to attack.” With the help of his guards he
left the trench to spur on his army.

Barely three thousand of his twenty thousand men had survived the bombardment, and over half of those had taken flight, their
courage defeated by the invisible malice at work.
Who can blame them?
he thought bitterly.

The sight of their leader strengthened the soldiers’ resolve and Lothaire was soon surrounded by a loyal cohort of fifteen
hundred men, all determined to invade the city and storm the palace.

Just then the masonry came back to life. The biggest blocks were the first to move, rising one by one and lowering themselves
into position. Next came the smaller slabs, piling one on top of the other until the wall loomed once again above the horrified
troops, only this time it glistened red with the blood of their comrades.

That was the moment when Lothaire stopped believing that Nôd’onn could be defeated. Lowering himself onto the blood-drenched
grass, he stared at the insurmountable obstacle in their path. Fragments of armor, broken weaponry, and mutilated body parts
stuck to the wall like trophies, daring the army to launch another doomed assault.
Ye gods, what can I do?

Weapons at the ready, his soldiers hesitated. Lothaire was still praying for inspiration when the voice of the magus sounded
from above.

“How thoughtful of you to bring me an army, King Lothaire.”

“Enjoy your monstrous work while you can,” Urgon’s ruler shouted furiously. “Your cruel dominion will soon be over.”

There was a flash of dark green cloth and the magus came into view through an embrasure. Lothaire looked up at the great white
oval of his bloated face.

“You thought you were invading a defenseless city. It wasn’t your only mistake. The human eye is easily misled.” He raised
his arms and gestured with an elegance belying his bulk. “All the best with your final battle, King Lothaire. Don’t worry:
This time you’ll be fighting humans, not stones.” He withdrew and disappeared behind a merlon.

On looking round, Lothaire was rooted with horror. The grass beneath him was turning gray before his eyes. All around him
the trees were drooping, the branches shedding their richly colored leaves, whose pigment faded as they fell. This was the
true face of Lios Nudin, disguised by the magus to trick them into setting foot in the Perished Land.

Lothaire knew what it meant for him and his fifteen hundred men.

The Perished Land knows no such thing as death.
Lothaire had heard stories about the northern pestilence and the thought of it made him shudder with horror. Closing his
eyes, he prayed to Palandiell and other benevolent deities to deliver them from their fate.

His desperate prayers were cut short by the sound of low groans from all over the battlefield. The dead soldiers were rising,
clambering clumsily out of block-shaped craters and pushing their way through shattered blockades. Depending on the extent
of their injuries, they crawled, limped, or staggered toward the surviving troops. A few walked without impediment, but their
open wounds and terrible deformities gave them away. Already there were a hundred of them, each clutching a sword, lance,
or other weapon, and their ranks were swelling all the time.

“But they’re… It’s impossible! What are we to do?” cried a terrified officer.

“We fight our way out,” ruled Lothaire. “If we stay, our courage will be of no greater use to anyone than it was to these
men; the Perished Land will enslave us. We’ll head south.” His loyal guards had been waiting for his signal and offered him
their shoulders to lean on. A dozen warriors surrounded the trio and shielded the wounded king. “Make haste! And may Palandiell
be with us!”

With that, Lothaire and his men surged forward to break through the ring of undead soldiers who had once been their allies.

T
he cavalry thundered through the deserted streets of Porista with no regard for their own limbs or the safety of their mounts.
Tearing round the corners, many of the horses skidded on the treacherous cobblestones and careened into houses. Those behind
leaped over the bodies and galloped on.

Their goal was already in sight. Towering above the rest of the city, Nôd’onn’s palace, once the seat of the council of the
magi, pointed them on their way.

To Tilogorn’s relief, the citizens of Porista did nothing to halt the charge. The assault on the gates had gone according
to plan and now the invaders could focus on the purpose of their mission — subduing the magus himself.

The king trusted entirely to the power of numbers, believing his army to be stronger and more powerful than any wizard’s spell.
To think otherwise would be irresponsible — the men would sense his hesitation and an anxious army was easy to defeat.

The riders streamed through Porista like a torrent of shimmering water, channeled by the streets into three separate tributaries,
which flowed toward the palace walls and collected in the marketplace outside the palace gates.

Ahead of them a crowd of people had gathered in front of the entrance. Judging by their dress, they were ordinary citizens,
mainly women and children, who barred the way without weaponry or aggression.

From the throng of three hundred souls an unarmed youth stepped forward with his hands in the air. “Leave the magus in peace,
men of the east,” he called. “He has done nothing to hurt you and wishes you no harm.”

Prince Mallen, clad in the armor of the Ido dynasty, pushed his mount through the rows of horses and drew alongside Tilogorn.
“Nôd’onn has bewitched them,” he whispered urgently. “Break them up or we’ll lose our advantage.” He glanced nervously at
the turrets. “We’re a sitting target out here.”

“Prince Mallen? Didn’t Lothaire…”

“The attack failed. Girdlegard is depending on you and your men.”

I was right to fear the wizard’s magic.
He sat up tall in the saddle. “Move aside, good people. Our quarrel is with Nôd’onn, not you.”

“You can trample us into the ground if you like,” their spokesman retorted. “You’ll have to kill us if you want to get past.”
He turned his back to them and returned to the others, who closed ranks, leaving no room for a horse to pass.

Tilogorn ordered three hundred riders to advance in a line and push the crowd through the gates. The row of armored horses
bore down on the townspeople like a wall of steel, pushing them aside, while a second line of cavalrymen prevented them from
rushing back to the entrance.

Suddenly one of the riders tumbled from his horse, clutching his leg and howling in pain. A moment later, a citizen of Porista
took his place in the saddle and whipped out a cudgel spiked with nails. The unsuspecting rider to the left was struck in
the face before the right-hand neighbor could reach across and run the intruder through. As the young man fell, his simple
garments disintegrated, revealing an armor-plated orc. The snarling beast hit the ground and died.

With that, the spell was broken and the unarmed crowd became a war band of orcs. It was conclusive proof, if any were needed,
that Nôd’onn was in league with Tion and his minions.

“Cut them down!” shouted Tilogorn. “Kill every last one of them! It’s an illusion!”

The formerly peaceful crowd hurled themselves on the cavalry, attacking the horses and riders with cudgels, axes, and notched
swords. Thrown off guard by the transformation, dozens of soldiers were killed.

On recovering from the initial shock, the riders discovered that it was impossible to land an accurate blow amid the jostling
bodies. They endeavored to leave the scrum.

The green-hided beasts chased after them, hacking at the horses’ legs, slashing their flanks, and hanging off their manes
like rabid dogs until the poor animals bolted in agony and terror.

Wild with panic, the horses charged the waiting units, and the chaos was complete.

Meanwhile, the orcs were everywhere, snarling, striking, and ducking out of sight. The horses kicked out, making no distinction
between friend and foe, whinnying, snorting, and pawing until they were seized by an overwhelming urge to flee. Even the best
riders were unable to stop the stampede: The instincts of the herd were stronger than any bridle or spurs.

Mallen and Tilogorn lost valuable time as they struggled to round up their men and regroup in the marketplace. By then the
foot soldiers had arrived and were readying themselves to join the charge through the gates.