A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (52 page)

Boris lifted his hands, bowing his head in thanks to those who gathered. “Welcome, friends, on this Midwinter evening. I asked everyone to gather so that we may remember that there is more to life than battle and death. That there are things worth fighting for.” He took a step into the center of the temple. “Our struggle and sacrifice are not in vain, no matter their outcome. No matter our race, we, the men of Highspur—”

“And women,” piped in Dawne, and Tilli nodded her agreement. Jaerd could not help but smile at his baby sister.

The earl smiled, nodding his head. “Men
and
women of Highspur – which reminds me…it is the women in our lives we fight for the most. We stand here to protect our mothers and wives and daughters, our sisters and childhood sweethearts.” He lifted a finger. “In fact, why don’t we—”

A loud popping noise ripped through the entryway of the temple. Jaerd slapped his hands over his ears, but ran toward the source of the racket. Just as he exited the temple, pushing his way through the startled soldiers, the popping ceased. A great clang rang from the front of the gatehouse, followed by a heavy thump. Gray dust billowed up from the far side of the wall.

Jaerd understood with horror. “No!”

He dashed for the gatehouse. Boris followed close on his heels, as did Khalem and Gael. Up the stairs Jaerd charged, pulling Shar’leen from her sheath. The blade offered a moment of reassurance to tamp down the dread that surged through his spine. The clang of steel on steel sounded from above, along with the whoosh of rushing flame. Jaerd took the last three steps in one leap, screaming without words as he charged into the winch room.

The calm surprised him. The heavy stench of burned hair and flesh assaulted his nose, followed by the acrid, metallic scent of blood, which coated his tongue.

Darve Northtower knelt, holding the body of his nephew Brax. The young dwarf’s beard had melted away, leaving the red welt of fresh burns and the black of charred skin and hair behind. Tears dripped from the older dwarf’s face. Sergeant Redarm hovered over him, his axe dripping crimson. Bran Northtower, always the happier of the two, lay dead, his empty eyes staring at his brother’s axe imbedded in his skull. A bald, pointy-bearded head lay tucked in the arm of a velvet robed dwarf’s body.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Brax croaked, a spray of blood foaming at the corner of his mouth. “I told him not to…not to get involved with them.” His one good hand gripped Darve’s shoulder. “I swear to you I quit, and never looked at the Cult again.”

Darve stroked his nephew’s still smoking hair. “Easy, my boy. I believe you. I know you did not betray us. Rest now.” He caressed Brax’s one smooth cheek. “The Halls of Earth will house you alongside our ancestors, until they spit you out to be born again.”

“I…I…” Brax’s breath rattled one last time, and his uncle closed his eyes.

Boris grabbed Darve’s shoulder. “By the Fires, man, what happened?”

The dwarf knelt there, his eyes focused on his dead nephew. “Again a dwarf is a traitor. This time back to the powers we first betrayed.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yrik and Bran relieved Brax and Sergeant Redarm on guard in here. Brax returned to tell his brother something, I know not what, that was when the racket up here began.” Darve rose, gently releasing his hold on Brax. “Marrax and I rushed in to find the twins battling each other. Brax won. Then Yrik burned him. My sergeant took care of that traitor quite deftly you can see.” He shook his head, eyes filled with grief. “But not before he cut through the master chain and hinge pins on the front gate.”

Sergeant Redarm knelt down beside the robed body. He picked up a long, crystal rod. “He used this.”

Darve nodded, his face deep in a frown. “Yes. It is a charged magical tool for just such a purpose. It is very rare, even among my people.”

Earl Boris gritted his teeth. “You brought traitors among us! From within your own house!”

Sadly shaking his head, the old dwarf dropped to his knees. Sorrow hung heavy on his face. He lifted his hands and opened his mouth to speak.

An ominous horn blast echoing up the defile cut off his words.

Lord Gael dashed to an arrow slit and scanned the distance. “They come! It looks like they have a ram.”

Leaving Darve on his knees, Earl Boris dashed over beside Gael. “Is it large enough to break the portcullis and inner gate?”

The elf nodded. “The gate hinges inward into the courtyard. Their ram looks stout enough.” He searched a moment longer. “The entire horde must be on the move this time. They bring taller ladders as well.”

With a sudden fierce scowl upon his face, Darve Northtower rose to his feet. He looked to the Lord Marshal Magdon, who had hobbled up the last step as the horn sounded. “Then it is time to implement our plan.”

Boris looked confused. “What plan is that?” the earl asked.

The Lord Marshal placed one hand gently on the earl’s shoulder. “A plan to get you out.”

Before Boris could protest, Magus Joslyn Britt trotted up the stairs, huffing. Brawny stalked beside him, as he had since Sergeant Hall had not returned. “Yes, Boris,” the mage said between gasps for breath. “You must listen to us. The outer gate lies flat upon the ground below us. Highspur has fallen; it is just a matter of time.”

A frown clouded Boris’ features. “Gentlemen, I do not know exactly what it is you have planned here, but I will not flee just when things begin to look dark.”

Magus Britt barked a harsh laugh, and Jaerd was shocked to hear the hopelessness in his voice. “
Begin
to look dark?”

Marshal Magdon held up a placating hand. “Someone has to get out and get our last messages back to the king. You are the best one to carry those messages.”

The earl raised a black eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”

Magus Britt stomped forward, his own bushy, gray brows drawn down in anger. “Blast it, Boris! You know damn well why. Bastard or no, you are Arathan’s only son. You are the only one he might listen to through all the murk of his council!”

Boris opened his mouth to protest, but that only seemed to infuriate the Battlemage. “You have been hiding from this your entire life. Arathan is practically on his deathbed, and you should not die up here. You would leave our entire kingdom’s future at risk to prove a point of honor.”

Boris took a step backward under the onslaught. Marshal Magdon put his hand on the mage’s shoulder to placate him.

Magus Britt brushed the hand off, but kept silent. He backed away and looked at Magdon. “I apologize, Lord Marshal. However, the enemy comes, and we will not hold them for long. We must act.”

Jaerd watched in stunned silence.

Boris eyed each of the officers around him. “You are all agreed upon this?”

Magdon nodded. His grandfatherly appearance reminded Jaerd that the man must have faced down sons older and more stubborn than Earl Boris. “Lord Gael will lead you through the secret route. Several others have been chosen to join you, a representative from each nation here.” He pointed to Khalem Shadar. “If Your Grace would join this group as well, so that you may take word to Hadon of the enemy’s strength.”

Khalem bowed deeply. “Were your words not so true, I might insist upon my staying to die with my comrades.” He straightened with a flourish of his arm. “I will bring back fifty thousand Sunguard to aid in retaking Highspur. We will march all the way to Dragonsclaw itself if needs be.”

Darve adjusted the grip on his sword. “Tilli will go for the dwarves. I’ve already told her.” He turned to his sergeant. “Come. We must see to what defense we can muster.” The dwarves bolted from the winch room, shouting orders to the soldiers who scrambled about.

“Come with me.” Gael took Boris’ elbow. “We must get to the passage.”

The earl balked. “I have not agreed to this yet. I will not leave my command.”

“This is
my
command,
General
Mourne,” Lord Marshal Magdon said, his voice cold steel. “I order you to take witness of events here back to the kingdom.” He adjusted his collar with its four silver stars. “This was the king’s final order to me before I left Daynon. He gave me specific command to forbid you to sacrifice yourself out here in a dire end.”

Lord Gael looked at Boris with his one sharp eye. “Do not be so quick to sacrifice yourself. Even when life is long, that does not make it any less precious at its end.” He pointed at the black falcon stitched on Boris’ tunic. “Your people need you alive far more than any man in Gannon.”

Shouts echoed up from the approaching enemy below. The thump of trebuchets shook the gatehouse. Brawny growled at the windows.

Khalem dashed to the slit to peek out. “They approach the front wall.” He looked back at the others, an anxious scowl clouding his forehead. “Lord Gael is right. Our remaining gate will not stand against their rams.”

Jaerd stood in silence.
I’m better off saying nothing when nobles argue, but we need to act soon!

Boris’ eyes drifted over the dead dwarf bodies in the room. He lifted his gaze to the Lord Marshal then offered a sharp salute. “Forgive me, sir. I will do as you command.” He looked at Magus Britt. “You instigated this situation as much as anyone, I am certain. You are coming with me.” Boris turned his steely blue gaze on Jaerd, who had the impression that several thoughts passed through his commander’s mind. “You as well, Captain. I will need you in Gavanor.”

“I am not leaving without Dawne.” Jaerd said the words before he realized he had opened his mouth.

The thump of trebuchets and catapults filled the moment of silence before Boris asked, “Who?”

“You know her as Shaela, the bard. She is my sister.” Jaerd planted his feet. “If we are leaving, then I will not leave her to the mercy of these orcs.”

Shouts rang from the walls outside the winch room, the twang and hiss of bows providing melody to the rhythm of the catapults.

“Then let us go.” Boris nodded to Gael, and the entire group dashed down the stairwell.

Outside, the shouts of imminent battle bounced across the courtyard. Men rushed about, arming themselves. The delicious scent of roasting pork hung over the entire fortress, as if mocking those who would soon die hungry.

Ignoring it, Jaerd ran with the others up the switchback staircase between each entry into the mountain. At the fifth level, standing just outside the temple, he found Dawne. She clutched her harp, her face filled with fear. Tilli leaned on her bow, a pack on her shoulders.

Marshal Magdon nodded to the dwarf huntress. “Mistress Tilli. You are to—”

The blond haired woman raised her gloved hand. “Darve told me of his plan. I tried arguing, but in the end, we Dwarves must follow our orders just as you Humans.”

“Good.” The marshal eyed Boris. “At least your people know to argue in private.” He looked back at the other officers. “Your horses await you. The passage is inside the bastion.”

Within the box of stone, Magdon led them down a long hallway not far from the one leading to the main stairwell of the fortress. It sloped downward past packed storerooms, before ending in a large cellar. Magus Eldester waited there with Tarrak Goldmar, his stout body covered in its usual soot. Eight horses stood along the wall, including Boris’ stallion and Khalem’s Hadonese stepper. They had saddled a pony for Tilli, and one horse carried a large bundle of supplies strapped to its back.

Tarrak stroked the packhorse on its shoulder. “There are enough supplies to last several weeks, though it should not take that long for you to get through to the Free Cities if you press.” He walked to the wall and pushed it. The mortared stones swung open on a pivot, revealing a dark cavern.

Jaerd reached out to clasp the old dwarf’s hand. “Goodbye, my friend. I...”

The stout old dwarf gave him a nod and patted his elbow. Jaerd had difficulty meeting his kind eyes.

Gael and Khalem led their horses into the passage. Magus Britt nodded to Magus Eldester, and followed, creating a globe of magical light upon entering the darkness. He whistled to Brawny, who trotted into the cavern after him. Jaerd gestured at Dawne, who led a horse through. Tilli pulled her pony behind.

Earl Boris saluted the marshal a final time. “Hold the bastion as long as you can. Then flee through this passage yourselves.” He dropped his chin to focus on Marshal Magdon. “Do not stand to the last man just to cover our escape. Use the tunnel at the end.”

Magdon nodded, returning the earl’s salute. “Get through to Gavanor. Once Highspur has fallen, there is nothing to protect the Free Cities or the Western Realm from this horde.” He clasped Boris’ hand, a sad smile on his face. “And do not forget that your kingdom needs you more than any other man.”

The earl said nothing. He grabbed the marshal’s hand with both of his. He let go reluctantly, then took the reins of his black stallion. He offered a salute to Tarrak and Eldester before marching into the passage. Jaerd followed close behind him, his mind awhirl. He focused on Magus Britt’s light, following it around a corner.

The hollow boom of a heavy ram on iron echoed through the stone. Jaerd caught a glimpse of the door to the passage sealing behind them. When darkness descended, only the distant echo of ram on steel remained, haunting their steps into the deep.

Victory’s taste is bitter sweet. Count your dead before you relish it.

— Boar Clan maxim

S
lar shoved the messenger out of his way and charged up the ravine toward the smoking hulk of the southerner’s fortress. Cave entrances bellowed black fumes and vapors, fired by defenders who knew they were doomed. His warriors scrambled over the mountainside, mopping up what little resistance remained. Others moved in the opposite direction from Slar, carrying wounded friends back to the camp for aid.

By the Fires! A shaman had best be aiding him or someone will be flayed!
He scrambled up the heavy, plank staircase built hastily over the shattered front wall of the fortress. Hopping down to the devastated courtyard on the other side, Slar pushed his way through startled orcs, most dropping to one knee when they realized it was their Warchief who muscled past them.

One door of the huge inner gate lay flat upon the ground. Slar jogged over it, raising dry dust with every step. Inside the gateway, the portcullis lay to one side, ripped apart by his trolls and their ram. The inner doors splayed open, leading to the smoking heart of the fortress.

Within the courtyard lay thousands of stacked bodies, most wrapped in their precious blue cloaks. Piles of armor and weapons lay scattered about, pulled from the corpses of the dead southerners by the clan warriors roaming through the ruins. Slar ignored the debris of battle and searched for the sight he dreaded to find.

A bellow of pain rose up from a small cluster of orcs kneeling near the entrance to the gatehouse. Slar recognized Grindar’s lieutenant and Brother Ortax hovering over them. He ran forward, heedless of anything else.

Grindar lay upon his back, one entire side of his body burned black, his left arm charred to a stump. His one unruined eye darted back and forth, focusing on nothing. His lips, where they could still move, curled in unmitigated pain.

Slar threw himself down next to his eldest son, grasping his remaining hand and holding it to his chest. “My son…my son. I am here.”

“Father!” The eye did not focus, but at least the ear could hear. “We took the fortress.” Grindar’s words tumbled out one side of his mouth. “We took it!” He clamped onto Slar’s hand.

“
You
took it, my son.” Slar brushed a lock of black hair from Grindar’s wandering eye. “You are the greatest warrior the Boar Clan has ever known. Our ancestors will welcome you to the Halls of Fire with a banquet like none you have ever seen.”

Grindar scrambled with his hand to grasp Slar’s mail hauberk and pull him closer. “Forgive Sharrog, Father. Find and forgive Nalan. He…” The wide-chested orc spat up blood in a coughing fit. He gasped for air, finding only enough to squeeze out the final words. “He loves you…”

The red eye, a mirror for Slar’s own, stopped its relentless roving and stared at the long, black cloud of smoke that leaned over the Dragonscales. Slar brushed it closed with his finger and fell back on his haunches. Hurried steps sounded from behind him. Slar turned to see Sharrog come running up, a dismayed look on his face. He paused and Slar shook his head at the question in his younger son’s eyes. Sharrog’s face collapsed, and he stumbled forward to kneel over his dead brother.

Slar watched one son mourn the other for only a second before his slow boiling wrath burst free. “Why did you not offer him aid, Ortax?” He grabbed the shaman by his boar pelt and slammed him against the granite wall. Ortax lifted his hands, but not before Slar held a knife to his throat. “Even the greatest of shamans could not summon their power swiftly enough to stop my stroke.” Slar growled. “Is this some further plot of yours to weaken me?”

Ortax held his magic. “Forgive me, my Warchief. I seek no such thing.” His words came out tight, strangled by Slar’s grip. “Your son was far beyond my ability to aid. My loyalty to the Boar Clan is greater than any conflict of council between us. I would have done anything to save him. He was the future of our clan.”

Sharrog placed one hand upon Slar’s, the other on his own dagger. “He’s right, Father. No shaman could have saved Grindar.”

Letting go, Slar shoved his knife back into its sheath. Ortax adjusted his boar skin cowl. Squinting one eye at his son, Slar gazed at Sharrog’s hand still on his weapon. “Would you have used that on me to prove your point?”

His chin dropping in dismay, Sharrog moved his hand. “I intended to plant it in Ortax’s eye the moment he started to use his magic.”

Slar stopped in his tracks and turned to face Sharrog. He placed one hand upon the young orc’s shoulder. “Please see to it that your brother finds a place of honor upon today’s pyre.” He looked at a cluster of clan warriors emerging from the human keep. “I have other responsibilities.” Slar looked to Ortax. “I am sorry, Brother. Please forgive the rage of a grieving father.”

Not waiting for a response, Slar climbed the stairs past smoke billowing from the caves. Sergeant Radgred leaned against his axe where the steps met the terrace in front of the keep.

“The only southerners to escape seem to be those madmen who charged out the front gate near the end.” Radgred spit upon the stone. “They lit everything afire before they left, and took all the remaining horses with them. Hundreds tried to hold their keep, but we crushed them.” Radgred pointed to the distant tower near the peak of the mountain. “Only there do they still hold. We cannot get to it, and they have a mage or two up there, so no dragon is willing to dare the assault.”

Slar frowned at the black and gold banner fluttering on high. “We will get them. They are of no consequence now.”

Slar’s old companion shifted his axe to point at the gatehouse. “We also found the bodies of the Master’s servants. They have been taken away as you commanded.

Unable to look at the fortification where his son fell, Slar focused on Radgred. “What about prisoners?”

“So far, only a few dozen have surrendered. However, we did catch some of their officers in a deep passage. They were collapsing what we believe to be an escape route.”

Radgred waved at some of his warriors, who then proceeded to drag three captives over to Slar. One lay on the ground unconscious, the red fringe of human mages upon his cloak. The other two stared at Slar in defiance. A dwarf covered in black soot wrestled with his captors, while the old human in blue marched with a great deal of dignity.

Slar gazed at the human.
Four stars upon his collar. A prize indeed.
“I would guess you to be the highest rank here. I know those stars are important to your people.” He folded his arms. “I will not insult you by asking you questions. There is no information you could give me that I might find useful, and I do not find torture to be an honorable pastime.” Slar nodded to Radgred, who pulled a dagger. Two of his warriors did the same. “Were I free to choose, My Lords, I would release you to meet again on another battleground. I consider you enemies defeated in combat, not through cowardice, but by betrayal.” He shook his head. “However, we all have our orders, and mine were to leave none alive.”

Not taking his eyes from those of his prisoners, Slar signaled Radgred and the others. “Honor them as warriors.”

The orcs lifted their daggers and, as one, drove them into the necks of their captives. The aged human died quickly, but the dwarf gazed at him through his spouting blood for several moments before he fell. Radgred wiped his dagger on the human’s blue cloak.

Slar stared at the dead men.
There is no honor in this…

He thrust his hands in rage at the sky, the knot in his gut burning with ferocity.

My son!