A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (46 page)

“Captain Westar!” The earl saluted from his saddle. “Well done, sir. Your men are as staunch as any I have seen.” He nudged his stallion closer. “They will come again…and soon.”

Jaerd returned the salute, his face twisting in concern. “Aye, My Lord. If they come again like they just did, I don’t think we can hold them.”

Boris rubbed his mustache. “Then perhaps it is time to execute your plan?”

Magus Britt folded his arms. “Indeed.”

Jaerd snapped another salute. “Will do, sir.”

The earl traced his eyes along the wall. “We should bring back two-thirds of your force now, including the wounded. The rest will have to be enough to sell your plan.”

Gripping his sheathed sword with one hand, Jaerd whipped it out and tipped it to his forehead. “Aye, My Lord Earl. We will do it.” He looked at Magus Britt. “The boltholes are ready?”

The Battlemage nodded.

Lowering Shar’leen, Jaerd turned on his heel to pass out orders. The inner gate opened to receive the wounded, along with half of his capable men. Jaerd cast his eyes along the scant defense of the wall, the flames in his heart leaping up when the dwarf-forged iron gates clanged shut behind him. The hollow sound billowed against the embers of his fear. He looked at Lieutenant Varlan, who stared at the starry sky with a soft smile on his face.

“Only a few hours until dawn.” The noble born lieutenant turned to Jaerd, the smile remaining. “We will do better fighting in daylight.”

Slapping the young man on the back, Jaerd nodded. “Indeed we will, Kent.”

Soft words of music drifted down from the bastion on high. Jaerd could not quite pick out the words, but the trickling melody was unmistakable.
I cannot believe Dawne is here. I am going to kill her if she survives this!
Thoughts of his sister’s bravery quenched the flames of fear in his chest.
If she can face this, then By the Waters, so can I!

“She plays
The Stand of Eron’s Rock
.” Jaerd’s eyes drifted up the torch-scattered mountain. “One verse for each night those Bluecloaks held the pass against the Hadonese Sunguard. They were more outnumbered than we.”

Lieutenant Varlan chewed his lip. “Only four men survived, according to the song.”

Jaerd slapped him on the back again. “Maybe you’ll be one of us who do.”

A
s Dawne reached the fourth verse, a thunderous horn blast, echoed by hundreds more, boomed up the defile. The roar of orc voices followed, washing over her beautiful, fragile song.

Jaerd waved a lit torch on high. “Steady! Bring them in.”

The thump of trebuchet and catapult began again, its rhythm watering the shoots of courage sprouting in Jaerd’s heart. They grew in strength as fires spread again below, joining the previous ones that had never died out. The enemy charged, heedless of their deaths. The trolls came, still carrying dozens of heavy ladders. With fewer bows under Jaerd’s command, the enemy arrived at the wall more swiftly.

Dozens of orc warriors died, arrows through necks and eyes and hearts. But hundreds more scrambled up the iron scaffolds to leap, screaming, among the defenders. The Bluecloaks fought hard, but it was not long before they fell back toward the center of their line.

Signaling the station runners, Jaerd nodded his head. “Begin rolling up the wings.”

The men dashed off, passing word down the frantic line. The soldiers within the farthest turrets abandoned their posts, fleeing to the gate tower. The blue line compressed toward its center, and black figures swarmed up behind them.

Jaerd pointed to his crew sergeants. “Begin the evacuation.”

The Bluecloaks within the gatehouse fell back toward the inner wall. They flowed into the excavated boltholes, Jaerd counting every one as they entered.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Varlan stood along the northern parapet, watching the edge of their defenses. “The enemy has cut off our right flank’s retreat!” The young noble drew his sword, waving it toward the two dozen troops he had kept in reserve. “Get the rest of the men through, sir! We will get them out!” The soldier lifted his sword on high and rushed into the surge of orcs. “Gavanor! Gavanor!”

The platoon charged with him, shouting and cutting their way into the orc warriors. The gap in the line closed for a moment, and the soldiers on the right flank retreated down the stairs to the boltholes.

Jaerd turned to Magus Stanton. “Now!”

At a wave of the mage’s hand, a large red flash lit the interior courtyard. Jaerd and Stanton, the last to leave the rooftop, charged down the stairs of the gate tower. Magical fire rained down from on high, giving cover to the retreating Bluecloaks.

The screams of battle reached Jaerd’s ears as they passed the doorway out onto the northern wall. He drew Shar’leen, her steel catching light from the floating ball of magic Stanton had created. He moved to join the fray where Kent Varlan and his men fought.

“Captain!” The mage grabbed his arm. “You must let your men do the fighting. Your responsibilities require your survival.”

Knitting his brow in anger, Jaerd jerked his arm out of the mage’s grip. Stanton’s nod of acquiescence gave him pause.

He’s right, blast it.
“Come on,” he said, sheathing Shar’leen and pulling the mage after him.

Jaerd waited at the entrance to the bolthole, pushing through every man he could. The orcs upon the wall surged through the magical storm, overtaking Lieutenant Varlan and his soldiers. After letting a stab of regret hold him for one final moment, Jaerd squeezed through the tight passage of stone and dirt.

Earl Boris waited on the other side. “You are the last.”

Jaerd shook his head, watching his men filter toward the barracks level of Highspur seeking aid and rest. “Lieutenant Varlan has a platoon still upon the wall to cover our retreat.”

The grave frown on Boris’ face answered before his words. “The enemy holds the wall. It is time to spring your trap.”

Nodding to his superior, Jaerd faced Stanton. “Drop the supports. Collapse the boltholes.”

The mage grimaced in sad sympathy, but stepped toward the holes. He closed his eyes, and a muffled rumble shook the ground. Dust and scree shot from the holes, wrapping Jaerd in a cloud of sorrow.

Earl Boris started up the stairs to the inner gatehouse. “If you would join us, Captain.”

Steeling himself, Jaerd charged up the steps after the earl. The fresh face of Kent Varlan hovered in his memory, taunting Jaerd with shouts of valor. He forced the lieutenant’s image away, filing him with the dozens – now hundreds – who had died under his command.

He stepped out onto the battlement over the gatehouse, surrounded by scurrying soldiers, elves, dwarves, and humans alike. The catapults along the wall fired continuously, as did the trebuchets in the tower tops above. He came to a halt next to Earl Boris and Magus Britt, staring down upon his former command.

The front wall swarmed with orcs and the scattered bulk of trolls. The enemy had already turned the scorpions to fire upon Highspur’s inner defenses. Dozens more scurried to turn Jaerd’s catapults and load them. Thousands of enemy warriors spread along the wall, and more surged forward to follow them.

Earl Boris scowled down upon the horde. The dimple in his chin quivered. “Do it, Joz.”

Magus Britt closed his eyes and lifted his spread fingers in front of him. Jaerd felt nothing real, but imagined tiny tendrils of magical fire spreading out to the niches built under each turret. In his mind, he saw a large tentacle of flame reaching into the crates packed beneath the roof he had just abandoned. He envisioned a spark touching the fuses.

Britt opened his eyes. “In a moment.”

The seconds crept by.
It’s not going to work.

Then he felt a rumble down below him. Beginning at the outermost turret, green fire exploded from under the stone and oak structure. The blast ripped through the orc warriors, lifting broken stone and broken bodies alike. Jaerd watched each turret discharge in succession, like a line of soldiers saluting on parade.

The blasts ripped through the ranks of orcs and trolls. Those who survived the consuming inferno were shattered by wall fragments or crushed by collapsing turrets. Finally, the gate tower rocked with a yellowish flare. The concussion sent a wave of hot air that rushed over Jaerd’s face, whipping back his hair. Stone crumbled, bringing down the entire rooftop, the catapults, and the forces commandeering them.

The earl waved his hand. “Now!”

Every weapon and mage along the inner gate began a vicious onslaught of arrows, lightning, and fire. Screams of pain and death peeked out from behind the racket of attack. Secondary explosions sounded along the wall, throwing more stone and fire into the horror-struck enemy. The conflagration threw up a cloud of dust and smoke, obscuring Jaerd’s view. It continued for some time, before Boris signaled a halt.

Jaerd stood there, watching the green and orange fires burn through smoke and haze. Slowly it settled and the sun slipped up from behind the mountain. The dawn brought an eerie mix of light that spread down the defile before him, chasing back the shadows. A few scattered warriors fled, some carrying their wounded. The haze cleared, and the sun rose higher to expose a desolate hellscape of scorched earth, shattered stone, and the mixed bodies and entrails of thousands of orcs and trolls.
And men…

The putrid stench of death drifted up to the defenders, as did the plaintive cries of the dying. The whelps of agony and despair, fear and pain, sounded no different than those Jaerd had heard on any battlefield before.

And the blood running down the ravine looks just as red in the light of dawn.

Earl Boris looked to him with a relieved smile. “Excellent plan, Captain. Well done.”

Jaerd turned away from the scene before him, the sour taste of vomit burning the back of his throat.

Tear down the walls of humans.

Burn down the trees of elves.

Rip out the mines of dwarves.

Shatter them all to Fiery Hells.

— Common Northlands song

S
lar stomped out of his command tent, the shouts of an army camp distant still to his mind. Even the stench of a two hundred thousand orcs living, eating, and shitting together barely touched his nose. He did notice the sun rising over the humans’ mountain fortress. Dawn came later with every day of the siege. For weeks he had watched that sunrise move farther south.

We need to be on our way south too, or the winter snows will trap us here. Our only hope to crack this bone is Galdreth’s plan.

Slar tightened his mammoth skin cloak, and the warriors saluted him as he passed. He barely acknowledged them, his eyes focused on the nearby tent shared by his two sons.
Likely they still sleep.
A guard outside the flap ushered him in.

Grindar stood strapping on his armor, while Sharrog finished tying his clan sash, sewn with a rampaging boar.

“Greetings, Father.” Grindar bowed deeply with a fist over his heart. “We will visit with men from Ram Clan today. They were wounded in a feint on the northern tower.”

Slar clapped his elder, larger son on the shoulder, but his eyes fixed on Sharrog. “Do you still refuse to speak to me?”

The younger orc met his gaze evenly. “I will answer any question put to me by my Warchief.” He shifted his stance as if gathering courage. “But I will ask a question in turn. How long will we waste on this fortress? The fat lands of the south are within our grasp. Winter is here. We should be well on to the Free Cities by now.”

Slar clenched a fist, anger rising in his throat. The burning pain returning to his gut reminded him that he agreed with his son. “Our Master does not wish to leave a force undefeated at our rear. We must destroy the southerners here before moving onward.”

The younger orc laughed. “Ten thousand of our number could keep them bottled up. They are so few that only the strength of their fortress gives them any weight. The rest of us could be plundering Kirath and Dern by now.”

Shaking his head, Slar placed his fists on his belt. “That is not our Master’s plan, and until that plan can come to fruition, we must hold them here.”

Sharrog lifted his hands to the sky. “What
is
this plan? Why does Galdreth not see it through already? We are dying here while we wait for a dark spirit’s
plan
to come to fruition.”

With anger rising again inside him, Slar lifted a single finger. “The plan requires Mammoth Clan be with us before we move south. Galdreth is still among them.” He sighed, some of the rage slipping away. “Sargash balks at accepting me as his Warchief.”

Slamming his wide hand down on a rough-hewn table, Grindar growled. “He has no choice. Galdreth will make him see.”

“Sargash is unimportant other than that he distracts our Master.” Slar turned back to Sharrog, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Galdreth has…spies…among the enemy. Soon, very soon, our Master will order those spies into action. It will be up to us to be ready.”

Grindar bowed at the waist. “It will be my honor to lead the vanguard when that time comes. The Boar Clan shall be the ones to finally break this mountain open.”

Ignoring his eldest’s words, Slar glanced at Sharrog. “Do you not wish this honor as well, my son?”

Sharrog stomped toward the tent flap. “Let us go visit those dying for our
Master
. Does Galdreth watch them slip away in pain like you do?”

T
he chirurgeon cried a shout of victory once he pulled the broken arrowhead from the side of a dazed warrior. Slar felt a piece of the same joy.
Every life saved is a warrior who will fight again or a father who may return to his home.

He walked among the lines of pallets, stacked with the healing and the dying. Many wore scars from the humans’ liquid fire – the stuff of demons. Other warriors had been pierced by sharp arrows, like the one Slar had just seen drawn out. Bear Clan lay next to Wolf Clan. Rams died with Snakes.
Is this our future? To die united?

“Warchief Slar, it is an honor to have you visit our infirmary again.” The chief healer wore a once white apron smeared with red. His hands left more crimson on an already bloody towel, and a splatter of scarlet dotted the tufts of white hair behind his ears. “It cheers the men to see that their Warchief cares about their sacrifice. Those that go on to the Halls of Fire are heartened for their journey when you are witness to their passing.”

Slar clapped the orc healer upon the arm. “You are the hero here, Clayburn. You have saved hundreds from leaving for the Halls too soon.”

Grindar tapped a fist to his heart. “Indeed, Doctor Clayburn, my father speaks the truth.” He winced as he looked about the tent packed with wounded orcs. “Is there anything you need here? More assaults will be attempted later in the week.”

The doctor stared at his folded hands. “If I may, my Warchief – there are many shamans here within the camp who have the power to aid in healing. None have responded to my call for their assistance.” Groaning with age, he knelt upon a knee. “Warchief, could you please give orders for a few to aid us? So many more could be saved.”

The prodigal knot in Slar’s gut spiked up into his chest. He tasted blood and bile on the back of his burning tongue. The rage boiling in his mind drove it back down. “I will see to it, Doctor. You
will
have their aid if I have to drag them down here with a company of warriors.”

He looked at Sharrog, who had not spoken since entering the tent, save a few gracious words to the wounded. The young warrior looked about, a grimace of sorrow covering his face. “Sharrog, take a polite message to Ortax and the other shamans that their Warchief requests that they minister to the needs of our army’s wounded – both physically and spiritually.”

Sharrog snorted. “Ortax is likely to laugh me out of his tent, telling me he has more important things to do.”

Slar raised one eyebrow in an expression his son should know quite well. Sharrog bowed his head in submission. “If Ortax refuses this request, then let him know that I command it. If he refuses that, come get me with all haste.” Slar pounded a fist into a thick, pine tent pole, sending shivers through the sewn and oiled hides. “I will throttle him myself.” He pointed his sharp claw at his son. “You may tell him that.”

Bowing from his waist with a hint of a smile, Sharrog turned and jogged out of the tent.

Slar turned to Doctor Clayburn. “They will treat you with respect as well, doctor, or I will know about it. Understood?”

The doctor tapped his fist over his heart twice. “Of course, Warchief.”

Leading his elder son out of the tent with a few final, kind words to the injured warriors, Slar shifted the steel plate protecting his shoulders and breast. “Come, Grindar, let us review the front.”

Slar and his son made their way to a stone outcrop at the mouth of the death-filled ravine. Blood soaked most of the rocky soil, and soot blackened the stone banks of the defile. In the distance, the crumbled front wall where so many Wolf Clan warriors died lay spread in every direction.
Those bodies will never be recovered for their pyre. At least most of them burned, as is their honor.

“How shall we ever take this place, Father?” Grindar whispered into Slar’s ear. He shifted the long scimitar slung over his shoulder. “That second wall is more formidable than the first by a magnitude of ten. We cannot move siege towers up this ravine. Nor can we maneuver a large enough ram to attack their outer gate.”

Slar pursed his lips, his thoughts identical to his son’s words. “Galdreth promises a plan. The Master’s spies will move soon.” He patted his son’s shoulder, though he barely believed his own words. “You and your men must be ready with the largest ram you can haul up there.” His eyes drifted back toward the granite fortress. “Galdreth will handle the rest.”