The Dragon Hunters (33 page)

Faeldrin didn’t like the answer but accepted it. They’d obey Dakeb’s wisdom, just like in the past. He was highly confident his plan would succeed. Wheels started turning and he made his plans for war.

The Aeldruin were drawn up in a defensive semi-circle. Ballistae were loaded and angled down every avenue of approach. There was no way the enemy could get close enough to mount a serious attack without suffering extreme losses. The Deadlands stretched out ahead of the Elves. Scrub trees and dying brush, all withered shades of brown, filled the plains. A single road to the left ran from Mordrun Bal to Druem.

Thick, black smoke billowed up from the volcano. It choked the air with ash and plague. The wind bore an acidic bite. Dust clouds shifted over the desiccated soil. All life had died here in a single day. The sun remained behind a perpetual veil of heavy clouds. It felt like the gods had forgotten this part of the world and let it wither.

Cron let out a low whistle. He’d never imagined anything so desolate.

Dakeb spied them first. “Ah, welcome back! I trust all is well in Deldin Grim?”

Grelic laughed. “Something tells me you already know that answer. The way behind is secure. The Pell Darga surpass my opinions.”

Cpur beamed with pride. “Fighting is our life.”

“At least until the Goblin threat is removed,” Faeldrin added. Both Cpur and Dakeb looked up to the Elf Lord. Faeldrin smiled. They’d taken the bait. He slid from his horse and clapped. “Let me tell you what I have worked out so far.”

The Shard

Scourd listened to the grim rumblings in the earth far beneath Druem and was reminded of looming disaster. The Hooded Man was forcing them to dig too deep. Already the Goblin had lost a large part of his slave labor force and over a dozen guards during the last accident when Minotaur workers ruptured an active lava vein. Scourd couldn’t afford to lose any more if he expected to maintain schedule. Rumors of the enemy moving against them heightened his nerves. Several patrols were missing and his soldiers grumbled about the future. All of his carefully laid plans for dominion were slipping away.

Sitting alone in his private chambers, Scourd closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to salvage victory. The task proved more difficult than he anticipated. He couldn’t fight an enemy he couldn’t see or know. One of his scouts mentioned the Aeldruin, but that seemed unlikely. The Elven mercenaries were whispers of imagination told to young warriors to keep them from becoming too arrogant. Still, their very name struck fear among his people. Doubt rippled through his ranks and he didn’t know how to stop it.

A foul mood hovered around him. Scourd clutched his sword and went out into the main halls. Perhaps killing one slave wasn’t too much to hamper their efforts. He smiled savagely at the thought of beating one of the men of Thrae to death. Strong muscles flexed in anticipation. There was nothing so satisfying as seeing warm blood escape a beaten enemy. He’d hardly made it down the main corridor to the barracks and kitchens when a thin, black-green Goblin hobbled up to him. Scourd’s mood darkened.

“Make this good or I’ll have your hide,” he snapped.

The Goblin cringed backwards and hissed. “They found it!”

Scourd stared for a moment, unbelieving. Operations had been ongoing for over two years. It hardly seemed possible the end had come. A dark place in his mind saw armies of Goblins ravaging Malweir.
End? No. This is but the beginning. Soon I’ll be able to lay waste to the world, shaking the yoke of the Mage and his impetuous dragon
. There’d never been a Goblin empire. Scourd believed that time was now.

“Where?”

“The lower levels, near the dragon’s lair,” the imp snarled.

Scourd stormed past the smaller Goblin, shoving him forcibly into the jagged rock face. He wanted to run but deemed it undignified. Powerful legs drove him purposefully through the labyrinthine maze of tunnels and course halls. His heartbeat quickened. Ages seemed to pass. Too many frustrations clouded his thoughts. He fought hard to resist the urge to kill whoever held the stone and keep it from going to the Hooded Man. Mage or not, he was just a man and Scourd’s sworn enemy.

A crowd of slave masters and warriors surrounded the slave holding the crystal. The culmination of months of brutal labor and anxious wait boiled down to a seemingly insignificant piece of crystal. None of the Goblins knew what to do with it. The purple crystal, barely larger than a fist, wasn’t a weapon. There were no magical powers emanating from it. For all purposes it held little value.

“Out of the way, scum!” Scourd ordered.

He barreled his way to the center of the throng. The slave stood there, shaking. His clothes were ripped to tatters and he was haggard and starving. His muscles were worn away until his skeleton showed in disgusting poses. His head was lowered, as if afraid to stare up at his overlords.

Scourd viewed the slave with disgust. Lacking the hesitations of his warriors, the Goblin Lord ripped the shard from the slave’s hand and raised it to his eye for inspection. Even with his brooding plans, Scourd found little significance in a thing so small. He snarled and curled his diseased fingers over the shard. The slave whimpered again, drawing Scourd’s ire. He moved so fast his actions blurred. A blade shined in the flickering shadows. The slave grunted and collapsed. Blood trickled down the dagger and over Scourd’s hand.

“Move the rest to their pens,” he ordered.

Whips cracked. The crowd immediately dispersed. A taller Goblin leaned over to Scourd. “Why keep them?”

“Use them to keep making weapons and armor. Then we kill them all.”

Scourd headed back to his chambers.

Nauseous green light glowed off of Ramulus’s horns. Mage fire turned the expansive cavern into a haunted, pale world. The dragon cooled himself in the small lake nestled in the far corner. He didn’t move and hardly breathed. Powerful arms folded across his broad chest. The horn jutting from his chin stuck out menacingly, the tip barely touching the water surface. His pale, ice-colored eyes were drawn to a fine slit, watching.

Flies danced around his eyes and nose. Ramulus didn’t blink. Druem rumbled again. Small boulders dropped from the ceiling, breaking on the hard lava ground. Still the dragon remained still. Falling rocks didn’t concern him. It would take the entire mountain collapsing to harm him. There was but one thing he truly feared: the Silver Mage.

Ramulus felt sharp tremors of fear whenever the Mage was near. His visits to the Deadlands were few, often weeks passing without word, but Ramulus knew better than to hope the Mage had forgotten him. Stories travelled on the winds of a new, dark kingdom rising in the east. The Silver Mage had conquered Gren a human lifetime ago and had been transforming it into a living nightmare ever since. The once flourishing city of Aingaard had become the symbol of pain and doom.

Always the Mage hungered for the lost pieces of the crystal. His very lust was driven by it. Ramulus knew of the terrible destruction brought about by the crystal and how it could be used to allow the dark gods back into the world. A dragon cared nothing for such things. He and his kind had watched from afar as Malweir fell to ruin during the Mage War. Dragons had no part in the war; after all, what business did the great wyrms have in the sad affairs of man?

He wasn’t sure when he fell under Sidian’s cunning spell. Ramulus hated the Mage and wanted to destroy him as much as the urge to return to his broken mountain home west of the Jebel Desert. Until now he doubted the crystal shard was here. There were thousands of inconspicuous places across Malweir the shards could have been hidden. Why the heart of the Deadlands? It made little sense to the dragon. So Ramulus, close to one thousand years old, sat in his cavern and waited to see how events unfolded.

Insurrection

Light drizzle blanketed central Thrae. Not hard, just enough to thoroughly wet everything and make life miserable for those unfortunate to be caught outside. Such was the late night of the renegade armies poised to sack Kelis Dur. Dull campfires eased the torment, slightly. Summer was passing on and fall drew ever closer. None of the men cared much for the upcoming festivals and holidays. One thought drew their focus: at dawn they marched on the capital and began the rebellion.

General Huor pulled his bearskin cloak tighter around his shoulders. Troubled dreams kept him awake lately. Dark creatures haunted his nightmares. He felt his soul slowly being torn from him. Huor shook his head to clear away the demons lurking on the edges of his vision. Tonight was too important to suffer from the complexities of sheer paranoia.

His gaze swept over his army. Most of the camp was asleep in row after row of campaign tents. Few of these soldiers were experienced. Only a handful of veterans from the Dwarf war remained and those were getting long in the tooth. The rest were relative rookies. He knew it ensured none of them held strong ties of loyalty to Rentor. That would come in handy when the fighting started. Huor held no misunderstandings about the coming battle. The fighting would be fierce. No doubt the king’s loyalists would fight to the last man. Many of the men sleeping around him would not live to see the following night.

Huor drew a deep breath and moved out among the camp. Cooks were already up and preparing a modest breakfast for the battalions. Guards and pickets patrolled the perimeter. Huor seriously doubted anything bad was going to happen and there certainly wasn’t going to be time for his foe to mount a counterattack. If all went well, Rentor was already dead and Codel Mres was solidifying his position as the new regent. He expected a rider any moment carrying instructions to begin the offensive.

“Morning, General,” a burly guard said and nodded from the shadows of a thorn tree. His travel cloak hid the man completely in the near pitch black. “Damn day for a battle, eh?”

Huor nodded back. “It makes it easier to wash the blood off, trooper.”

“That it does, sir.”

“Any movement since you’ve been on duty?”

The guard shook his head. “No sir. Ain’t expecting any either.”

Huor knew better than anyone that overconfidence was a fine line bordering arrogance. Too much stood in the balance to afford any weakness right now. He also knew that to reprimand the man for his strong opinions was a dent in morale. That was the one thing capable of ending a campaign before it started. Experience told him his army needed to enter the battle on a high. His endeavors in brutality were no different.

There was a mood building in the camp. The men were ready for a fight. He felt the electric undercurrents rippling from tent to tent. The urge to kill, to swing their swords. The ability to kill was the true empowerment of man. The power to take a life was akin to godliness. Huor never felt more comfortable than in the throes of a fever-pitched battle. It had been years, and several pounds, since he last felt the sting of war. The sounds. The smell. Even the adrenaline rush of fear right before the lines clashed. He took another deep breath. The calm before the storm. This was what it meant to truly be alive.

He clapped the guard on his shoulder. “There won’t be. We have them by surprise.”

The guard smiled as Huor stalked off to find the warmth of a cook fire.

* * * * *

The scout returned to the command tent. He was covered with sweat and rain and breathing hard. His mission had been long and grueling but the information he’d gained was invaluable. Guards let him through the lines, offering a drink from their canteens and a quick bite. Once inside the tent he saluted and made his report.

“Sir, the enemy army is camped right where the old man said they’d be. They have a double line of security with roving guards moving in opposite directions. They’re not very alert though. The main body of troops is still asleep.”

The young blonde major looked skeptically to his field commander. “What do you think?”

Commander Whorl was a bear of a man with iron-grey hair and a perpetual scowl. He’d lost his right eye at the battle of Kressel Tine and refused to disgrace himself with an eye patch. “”How many troops are we facing?”

“Between two and three thousand, sir.”

Whorl actually laugh. It was a deep and bitter sound. “Use archers to fire the camp and then a cavalry charge while they’re still asleep. Follow with infantry battalion. Use the horse to capture Huor and his renegade commanders and the fight is over.”

The major nodded thoughtfully and turned to the grizzled sergeant sitting in the corner. “How about you, Notam?”

Notam rubbed his chin. “It’s what your brother would have done.”

Major Maen was speechless. He’d grown up playing soldier with his brother, Cron. At that age they were inseparable. In fact, Cron was the reason he’d joined the army, even though his older brother didn’t know Maen was in uniform. Now Cron was the reason he’d agreed to Seldis’s scheme to stop Huor’s insurrection.

“Cron was a good man and knew his way around the battlefield. You served with him for many years and I value your opinion.” He shot Whorl a look. “Both of you. Get the men up and ready to move. We’re outnumbered so this won’t be easy. Speed is the key. The archers will fire five volleys. Time the cavalry charge with the last round. The confusion of five hundred horse will disrupt them enough to let our infantry sweep in and cordon off the center of their camp. I want Huor alive. His fate is in the king’s hands. Good luck to you all. We move out in one hour.”

His officers saluted and broke council.

“Notam, hold fast please,” Maen asked.

“Sir?”

“I have a special task for you and your men.”

The insistent whistle of two hundred arrows flaming through the waking dawn went largely unheard. The second and third volleys were in flight before the first managed to set fire to a handful of tents. Guards, those that hadn’t been killed by sappers before the attack began, tried to sound the alarm. By then it was too late. Hooves pounded the ground in a thunderous roar. A horse whinnied as the front ranks crashed into the enemy camp.

Men fell bloodied and screaming. The sick crunch of steel cutting naked flesh and breaking bone sang a horrible song. Soon bodies began piling up. The cavalry formed a loose wedge and drove straight for the center, Whorl rode at the tip. His broadsword cleaved enemy attackers without mercy. Once he would have considered these men friends. Thanks to their treachery, they weren’t even countrymen. They were the enemy. His horse trampled a confused soldier to death. Whorl grinned savagely and pointed his sword towards the central cluster of tents.

“Push on! Take the traitor!”

Hundreds of infantry pushed in behind the enormous gap torn in the enemy lines.

* * * * *

General Huor dropped his mug of soup at the sound of thunder. Fires flared to life everywhere he looked. The glow cast a chilling pall over the myriad of cavalry emerging from the waning shadows. Men raised the call to arms but Huor knew it would not be enough. Even if they managed to awaken in time and put up a fight, the enemy was already inside the perimeter. His worst nightmares were coming true.

Huor cursed Codel Mres and the damned Hooded Man. Most importantly, he cursed himself for allowing this travesty to happen. He had the numbers, the element of surprise. He had the backing of the politicians and secret benefactors wanting change. How could things have gone this wrong before he even started? He rushed to his tent to arm himself. Rentor may still live, and the carefully planned insurrection crashing down around him, but Huor was determined to die well. He owed himself that much.

* * * * *

Notam and thirty men left the main camp as soon as Maen finished with him. Each of his crew was handpicked and covered only in light clothing. Soot was smeared across their faces and hands. None of them carried more than a dagger. Any unnecessary noise would give away their presence and end their mission abruptly. They moved like wraiths. Tiny shadows through the greater darkness. A lone picket stepped in front of Notam. The sergeant ran his blade across the guard’s throat and kept moving.

Picket lines were the more dangerous of the two lines of defense Huor had established. Stationary and hidden, attackers often couldn’t see them until it was too late. Fortune smiled on Notam this night. Had they been a little off to the left or right and they would have been spotted. Notam exhaled a breath of relief as the body struck the soft grass.
So far so good
.

He halted at the edge of the tree line and motioned for Essen, the lead scout. “Where are the corrals?”

Essen pointed. “Skirt the tree line west for a few hundred meters. The area is lightly guarded and at the rear of their trains.”

The grizzled sergeant gloated silently. Huor’s own arrogance was going to be his downfall. Notam’s men raced towards the corrals where hundreds of enemy horses were about to be set loose.

* * * * *

The point of the wedge was already at the heart of the enemy camp. A wake of bodies trailed behind them. Infantrymen marched into the gaps and formed solid squares ringed with shields and pikes. General Huor’s conquering army was crumbling at a rapid pace. Men lost heart at the unexpected ferocity of the combined assault. Front ranks turned to flee only to become trapped in the press of bodies surging towards the fight. Panic gripped them. Dozens were crushed to death in the growing confusion. Hundreds more threw down their arms and surrendered to the infantry.

The insurrection was finished.

Huor ran for his life, gathering men along the way. He felt the opportunity to counterattack was still there if he could gather enough soldiers and reach the horses in time. The illusion of victory dwindled. He watched helplessly as too many of his men ran off into the night. There was no way he could even think about taking Kelis Dur now. The death toll was rising and already in the hundreds. Fires spread, burning those unfortunate enough to be caught inside. Huor’s heart dropped as his meager band finally gained the corrals. Several men already lay dead and the pens and fences burned. Of the horses, there was no sign. He had lost.

Turning to his men with his bravest face, Huor said, “Fight or flee, the choice is yours. I command you no longer. Go now and find whatever end befits you.”

No one moved at first. They stood staring at their leader in disbelief. How could he suggest failure? Then one man sheathed his sword and walked off into the night. Another pair followed. Only four turned to go back to the battle. Soon, General Huor was alone. Honor demanded he surrender and accept his punishment. At the very least he’d be banished from Thrae, his lands and holdings taken in the name of the king. Death lay at the opposite end of the spectrum. Either way his life was finished. His one hope lay in revenge. If could only find Codel and the Hooded Man he might be able to avenge himself and the hundreds of dead men stretched out around him. That would certainly ease the pain of death.

The beaten general sheathed his own blade and stalked off into the night in search of a mount. He never made it past the corral. A handful of men emerged from the night to surround him with poised daggers. He reeled in shock, for they appeared as demons to him. Faces painted black and echoing the shine of flames, they sought his death.

“Don’t move, General,” said a voice from behind.

Huor recognized the demon’s voice.

* * * * *

Field Commander Whorl dismounted and looked around for the first time since charging into the fight. Dawn had claimed the world. Fingers of blue stretched across what little darkness remained. Pieces of flaming cloth blew in the wind. Smoke and ash choked him. He picked out several vultures already circling. The dead weren’t even cold yet. Bodies lay strewn for as far as he could see. Most belonged to the enemy. Whorl almost felt sorry for them. The attack had been so swift it was impossible to mount a defense. They folded quickly and their leaders had abandoned them. Whorl wouldn’t be satisfied until General Huor was in custody and on his way back to stand trial for his crimes. Until then this was a hollow victory. He walked over to Huor’s tent, took the lone standard still blowing in the wind, and snapped the staff over his knee.

“Segregate the prisoners by rank. Officers and enlisted. Search every corpse. I want Huor found. Take all of the documents from his tent back to Major Maen and have the surgeons start taking care of the wounded.” His anger ebbed towards the end. There hadn’t been official word of friendly casualties but he didn’t imagine them to be overly high. Still, he feared the worst until he knew for sure.

“What about the rest of the camp, sir?” asked a slightly wounded captain with blood drying on his sleeve.

Whorl looked around. His one eye was cruel and suddenly vindictive. “Burn it all.”

The captain saluted and set about his task.

Notam walked into what remained of the enemy encampment with a profound sense of relief. He’d accomplished his mission without losing anyone, though one man took a nasty cut across the top of his thigh. He’d also captured the leader of the insurrection and helped restore Cron’s name and honor. Not too bad for a night’s work. He was surprised at the amount of carnage and destruction done in such a short time. The battle lasted less than an hour before the enemy capitulated. Confiscated wagons were already being loaded with wounded, from both sides, and taking them off to the makeshift field hospital set up at the edge of the camp. Too many sons of Thrae lay dead. Notam knew they would be buried in separate graves. At least those still loyal to King Rentor. Traitors would be burned and forgotten in disgrace.