The Sword of Darrow (26 page)

Behind Darrow’s line, some soldiers ran. But the wall, hammered together across a grand expanse, did not break. Darrow counted, “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine . . .”

Once again, the wooden wall stepped backwards and, when it did, the pitchforks withdrew. From behind, townspeople rolled barrels to the line and those barrels emptied themselves, painting a great line of cooking oil, lamp oil, and even pig fat across the ground. Again, the goblins surged. But this time, the wall retreated three steps. Torches dropped and a row of fire erupted between the lines. The shield-bearing goblins tried to step back, but pressed by the comrades from behind, they fell into the fire and the air was filled with chilling screams. Shields fell. Soldiers erupted in flames. But others took up the shields. The metal wall reformed and, when the flames had fallen, the goblins stepped forward again.

“Eighty-seven, eight-eight, eighty-nine . . . ,” Darrow continued.

Another row of townspeople hurried to the line, carrying boxes filled with bottles, bowls, pitchers, and glassworks of all kinds, collected from a thousand homes throughout Kelsner’s Plain. These boxes were emptied behind the wall. Again, Darrow’s line stepped back and, as they did, the wall dropped to the ground with a great crashing sound. Shards of shattered glass flew into the air and across the ground. Again, the line stepped back. Again, the wall struck the ground. A sea of broken glass lay across the goblins’ path.

Decidus could not see the trap Darrow had laid. He saw only backtracking and he gave the order.

“Advance!”

The goblins pressed forward, pushing the shield-bearers onto the glass-covered ground. A great cry filled the air, shields fell, and Darrow’s pitchforks found their mark. This time, fewer goblins stepped forward. The wall was broken.

“One-hundred forty-eight, one-hundred forty-nine . . .” But before Darrow could say the final number, from over the hills came a great charge and three hundred soldiers returned, most armed with swords, to strike the goblins from behind.

At the sight of this charge, Darrow issued his order. The wooden wall fell forward across the glass and Darrow’s band poured into the goblin line.

Standing unprotected by shields, the goblins met Darrow’s charge with courage and iron. But their breastplates provided no protection from behind. As Darrow’s men returned from the hills, even the wooden spears proved a deadly weapon.

Darrow stepped into the fray.

Now it was his sword that reflected the sunlight. Now it was his weapon that spread fear. Dancing through the air, blocking, cutting, stabbing, Darrow’s blade put on a wondrous display. Where Darrow stepped, the goblins fell back, shrinking from his terrible skills.

Meanwhile, the cave trolls and their hammers were taking a terrible toll. But standing on a pile of shields, sling in hand, Aisling felled one troll with her stone. A band of dwarfs from Pfesthammer took two more by swarming their feet, stabbing them with daggers until the giants stumbled and fell. The remaining trolls, fearful and confused, simply ran away.

Decidus ordered his soldiers to form a circle, but in the roar of the battle, his words went unheard. Here and there, groups of goblins gathered shields and locked together against the Sonnencrest advance. But from Darrow’s line stepped the Minotaur wielding his enormous axe. Rearing back, he unleashed his weapon in a mighty stroke that shattered shields and sent veteran warriors scrambling in retreat.

Decidus ordered his soldiers to retreat to the north where the fewest enemy troops stood. Swords flailing, they broke the Sonnencrest line. But once beyond the battle, these goblins did not turn to fight. They ran from the field. Soon, chaos reigned as each goblin battled not for kingdom or comrades but for his own escape. With victory beyond his grasp, Decidus made a decision of his own.

He ran.

Suddenly, there were no more goblins on the field. Swords were dropped, armor discarded, shields thrown at the advancing foe—all sacrificed to make a desperate dash for life.

The battle was a rout. And for the rest of the day, Darrow’s men, crazed and triumphant, chased fleeing goblins across the long stretches of the plain.

W
hile most of Darrow’s band chased goblins, a few hundred remained, celebrating in the pasture.

“To Blumenbruch!” one soldier cried.

“To Blumenbruch!” the others responded.

New men arrived from every direction. Some, disappointed about missing the battle, had joined soldiers pursuing the remnants of the goblin force. News of this victory would travel fast. Within a few days, Darrow would have fifteen hundred, possibly two thousand men. And with the swords taken today, many would be armed.

A wagon arrived from Pfesthammer.

“How many?” Darrow asked.

“Thirty-five swords,” said the driver. “But we promise more tomorrow.” In Kelsner’s Plain, the blacksmiths were hard at work.

Another wagon arrived, this one from Blumenbruch. To avoid the goblins, it had traveled north to the edge of the mountains then down a small road to reach the scene of battle. Darrow could not believe its cargo—two hundred swords. For the first time in his campaign, Darrow had more swords than men.

From Kelsner’s Plain, more wagons appeared, and women and girls climbed down, offering breads and sausages for the troops. People on foot poured down the road, laughing, cheering, and joining the celebration. Some brought wine, which the men drank greedily.

Darrow sat on a rock, smiling, taking in the scene. For the first time, almost since the day he had marched from Ael, he felt no urgent business, no pressing concern. Mempo stopped to ask when they would march on Blumenbruch. Darrow just shrugged.

Over the small hill, a band of soldiers appeared, waving helmets and breastplates captured on the field. Others ran forward to hear their report and cheer their exploits. From a corner of the crowd, a fiddle and flute burst forth with lively music, and some of the townspeople began to dance.

A scream brought the music to a halt.

At one edge of the crowd, people staggered backwards. Soldiers reached for their swords. Those not at the edge covered their eyes. Stepping slowly across the ground, barely covered by the tattered rags that were once his cloak, was the scorpion man.

Swords lifted in every direction, but Scodo did not react at all. Slowly, purposefully, he moved forward into the pasture, his hideous face scanning the scene. He seemed to be searching for some specific person.

One soldier stepped into his path, his sword drawn and ready to strike. The scorpion man stopped, eyeing the soldier with complete calm. For an instant, the soldier stepped back, confused. Then the soldier moved toward the monster, his weapon raised high.

Before the sword could strike, a voice broke across the landscape. It was Darrow’s voice, and it spoke one clear and determined word.

“Halt!”

The soldier froze, a little relieved but concerned that Scodo might still attack. Scodo froze as well, not sure for whom the order was intended.

All eyes turned to Darrow, who walked purposefully across the field, the crowd parting before him. They looked on in wonderment as Darrow approached the monster, a great smile opening on his face.

When he reached Scodo, Darrow stopped. For a few seconds, he just looked at Scodo, not with fear or horror but with a long and admiring gaze. He stepped forward, opened his arms, and seized the monster in a great embrace. The onlookers gasped.

For long moments, Darrow held Scodo tight. When he finally stepped back, he looked again at the scorpion man with a welcoming smile. It was Scodo who first spoke.

“I have come to join the battle to free Sonnencrest,” and he paused uncertainly, his head hanging. “If you will have me.”

There was no hesitation in Darrow’s reply.

“I have carried your fighting spirit in my heart for many days. It will be our greatest honor to have you march at our side.”

Then Darrow turned to speak to a bewildered crowd.

“Today, a great and mighty warrior has appeared among us. He has battled for our cause from the earliest day. Deep in the forest at the top of Naark’s Hill, we faced death at the hands of the goblin army. Only the appearance of this great soldier turned the battle. Single-handedly, he rescued not just our tiny band but the fate of our kingdom as well.

“Before the fall of Blumenbruch, he was Sonnencrest’s greatest warrior. And today he is our greatest warrior still. In the history of Sonnencrest, the name Scodo shall rank among our greatest heroes. All hail my friend, all hail my brother, all hail Scodo, the greatest fighter among us.”

For the briefest moment, the crowd remained silent, but when Hugga Hugga and Timwee took up the cry, the crowd roared forth to hail the mighty Scodo. Soldiers and people drew close, patting Scodo on the back, praising his courage, and offering congratulations all around.

Darrow looked at the brave and mighty Scodo and wondered how Scodo, who had known little but horror, disgust, and repugnance, would feel as he was embraced and celebrated that day by his fellow soldiers there on the field.

T
ell me, oh great and mighty Beltar, can you tell me . . .”

Beltar, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, waited as the king’s words poured forth.

“Tell me, how can a great military genius lose in battle to an eighteen-year-old cripple barely the size of a wolfhound?”

The king stood, hands on hips, eyes burning so bright they might set Beltar afire.

“I wasn’t there,” Beltar replied, looking away from the king.

“And why did we send five hundred to face an army almost twice our size?”

“No one knew he had swords,” replied Beltar, ignoring the king’s faulty math.

Dark green splotches rising from his neck, the king turned to Bekkendoth.

“A pipsqueak, one-legged boy from Wail! And where is this Wail anyway?”

“To the south in the mountains below the Pfimincil Forest,” Bekkendoth replied, wondering just why no one remembered that he was the one who said more soldiers were needed. “It’s Ael, Your Majesty, not Wail.”

The king sank into a chair, his chest heaving. When calm returned and his eyes had faded to gray, Beltar spoke.

“Your Majesty, we are indeed facing a formidable foe. Mistakes have been made. But can we now move forward to crush this revolt and give this peasant just what he deserves?”

The king rose again and walked to the window. His back was wet with sweat. He stood at the window for a long time. Beneath his feet two small puddles formed. When he finally spoke, his words came in a whisper almost too faint to hear.

“Yes, the plan. Tell me the plan.”

Beltar unfurled a roll of paper and spread it across the table. His long finger stabbed a place on the map.

“Here is Darrow, still at Kelsner’s Plain. His force is growing. He now has at least a thousand and maybe fifteen hundred men. He is a shrewd opponent. That I will admit. Now he has blacksmiths all across the kingdom working overtime to produce swords.”

“We arrested three of them yesterday—in Blumenbruch,” Bekkendoth added.

The king looked back, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

“His army is growing, but they have not faced cavalry. They remain without armor. We can move in at night and surround their camp with locked shields. Our archers will wake them with a hail of arrows. When we follow with the cavalry, they will have no chance.”

The king looked back at Beltar. “Here is what I want. I want a guarantee. Can you guarantee victory?”

Before Beltar could answer, Zindown interrupted.

“I can give you a guarantee. I guarantee that this plan will fail.”

King Malmut’s body shook with anger.

“I am sorry to deliver this news, but I have been to the other side.”

Beltar rolled his eyes and glared through the window.

“First,” Zindown began, “you must know that Princess Babette is alive.”

“Alive!” screamed the king. “Then kill her!”

“It is not an easy task. She has magic of her own. But we cannot kill her now. I need her for my plan.

“Second, you must understand we cannot win in open battle. Darrow’s army is fifteen hundred strong but growing every day. By the time Beltar attacks, Darrow will have two, maybe three thousand or more.

“But it is not numbers that make them strong. These soldiers know little of battle but are driven with a passion and belief. For this Darrow, this runt as you call him, they will fight like madmen. Beltar can surround them. But they will break his wall on every side.”

Beltar looked up, his face whitening in rage. The king surged from his chair.

“Well, listen, my world-famous magician. Will you tell me just one thing? Why is this Darrow boy not dead? Just one little murder, is that too much to ask?”

“Your Majesty, would you have me hurl spells at every criminal? Murder by the hand of the wizard is reserved for only the most personal vengeance. But why concern yourself with who does the deed? Murder is exactly what I have in mind.

“To kill Darrow, to destroy his army and crush this rebellion, there is really only one course of action.”

“And what is that?” Beltar shot back.

Zindown smiled, pausing for effect.

“Surrender.”

Beltar rose from his chair, glaring at the wizard. The king looked confused.

“Not a real surrender. I mean a trick.”

Beltar returned to his seat. Remembering his victory at Tolenbettle, a smile slowly crossed his face.

“If we surrender, we can lure Darrow away from his army and when we do we will slay him with a sword. With Darrow dead, we can attack with our full force—all in a great surprise. Without their great leader, these peasants will flee for their lives, scattering all across the plain. Cut off the head, the beast will die.”

The king liked this image but was still puzzled.

“Who could slay him? Who is good enough to defeat Darrow?”

“I think Beltar would do just fine.” Zindown gestured Beltar’s way. “I think he is brave enough for this task.”

Beltar straightened to speak, but the king interrupted.

“This Darrow—his swordsmanship is legendary.”

Zindown lifted his chin and touched together the fingers on both hands.

“And a legend is all that it is, Your Highness. Darrow is a pathetic weakling. He is lame and small and can hardly lift an ordinary weapon.”

“So how has he slain scores of my finest swordsmen?” Beltar scoffed.

“Because he carries a magical sword.” He looked straight into Beltar’s eyes. “But when you face him alone, his sword will be gone.”

For a long time, the room was silent as the monarch and his general contemplated Zindown’s strange plan. Beltar was the first to speak.

“I understand your plan. If their army is rejoicing, we can strike at the most unexpected time. Perhaps Darrow cannot fight without his sword. But how will you lure him from his army? This is the part I don’t understand.”

Now, Zindown was positively gleeful. He had waited the entire conversation to deliver his line.

“Yes, my good general, that is indeed the critical part. And for this challenge, I plan to employ a tactic that in my lifetime of wizardry I have seldom used.”

Beltar and the king leaned forward in their chairs, eager to hear.

“To lure Darrow from his army, I plan to tell him the truth.”

And with a great howl of laughter, Zindown exited the room.