Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (24 page)

When Scuttle stirred back into consciousness, the first thing that he noticed was that he was buried under a blanket of ashes. His first thoughts were that the dragon had killed him, and that death must come with a terrible migraine. No, he couldn’t be dead, he realized. He felt too hungry to be dead, and everyone knew ghosts don’t eat.

He tilted his head to look down at his body, and his surroundings. Everything around him was coated in the same, grey ash, from the ground up to the leaves in the trees. It was a grey world now, and the cover of ash was so absolute that if he didn't wiggle his toe he wouldn't have found his foot. Then he tried to sit up, but it was too painful and ended up rolling to his side. When he did, the grey soot poured loosely from his face and chest. Starving for air, his lungs painfully tightened with his first unobstructed breath.

He was finally able to open his eyes, if only partially, after several tries. Tears don't flow easily for dwarves, but in Scuttle's current state of dehydration it was nearly impossible. For a good while he just laid there, painfully blinking away, trying to force out the ashy grime that had built up in his eyes.

How did cows survive the attack? he wondered, and he watched three white blurs cross the burnt landscape.

Scuttle's fingers were crusted in ash, so he buried his face deep within his tunic to find a clean spot to wipe with. After emerging from his shirt, with regained vision and a slightly cleaner face, his heart nearly punched a hole through his chest when he caught a good look at the mystery cows.

And then Scuttle thought that he might be dead again, for across the clearing he saw his cousin Pall, along with two of his city friends riding through the wood on strange, large, white haired animals. He tried to sit upright again and shout, but he still couldn't get up, nor did any voice come from his mouth. His throat was so parched from inhaling smoke that he could not even whisper. He furiously tried to clear out his throat by coughing, but even this came out as a slight wheezing. The effort was so overwhelming that he collapsed back to the earth in defeat. Scuttle had no choice but to lay there, weak from oxygen deprivation, helplessly watching as his cousin trotted through Berwyn’s ashen remains and into the landscape.

I have to warn them about the monster, he thought, and after several long breathes, he dug deep within and found the strength to push his body from the ground. This time he didn't just fall back to the earth, and he even managed a slow crawl, yet after only a few painful yards of worming along he fell back to the ground exhausted. There was no use in trying, he simply didn’t have the energy to follow them. He barely had the energy to remain conscious. As he watched his cousin for what he thought might be the last time, he saw them dismount at the tree line and then, in a blink of an eye, their hairy cows were simply no longer there.

Scuttle would have screamed out in pleasure, if he only had the voice to do so. Maybe they were about to set up camp, or even better, cook up something to eat. If they would only turn around for a moment, they might spot him. If he were just a bit closer, he would be able to hear what they were talking about.

Then, to Scuttle's dismay they began to press forward on foot. Only this time, instead of their steeds, they vanished from his sight in the blink of an eye, as though swallowed whole by the shady woods.

“No,” he wheezed, and this time Scuttle found the strength to push himself upright, fueled by the thought of being reunited with his cousin. He steadied himself enough to stand, and then pushed forward in a slow, but determined shuffle.

He was so focused on catching up with them, that he failed to notice the thick, grey fog wall that he limped into when he entered the forest. He then vanished the same way that his cousin had before him.

“Ready flares! On my word!” General Stark called to Damen, the fifteen-year-old private, who was tethering horses far behind the line. The flares were rockets that set off bright, colorful explosions, that could be seen from horizon to horizon, night or day. They were the only means of communicating over long distances quickly, barring magic. The order made Damen frantic, who was already struggling at the task of tying down the seventy steeds he’d been left to handle alone.

Most of the horses belonged to the archers, who were busy setting up arrow stands. A couple of them gave Damen a hand, but it wasn’t out of kindness. They just didn’t want the boy handling their animal. He was taking a break from all the tethering when he was summoned.

“Damen! The flares!” yelled the general, just as Damen was about to pull his canteen to his lips.

“How can he even see me back here?” he wondered. “Tether the horses, Damen. Ready the flares, Damen. Don’t make haste, Damen. Get over here and wipe my ass, Damen,” he mocked. Just as he was about to whisper a curse at his commander, he tossed the rocket-filled saddlebag to the ground, and then kneeled next to it. Then he gingerly drew three different colored rockets from the pack.

A red blast meant that the battle has begun, a green one indicated a retreat, and purple was a request for help. After firmly planting each rocket's standing rod into the ground, five paces apart from each other, he lit the torch that was also in the bag, and then found a good tree stump to rest on. The torch was no longer than his forearm. One end was wrapped with cloth that had been soaked in a special fuel, which could burn for days. When ordered, he would use the torch to light one of the rockets, but until then his order would be to sit and wait.

“This could be a while,” mumbled Damen, as he playfully swung the torch side to side.

Once this bored him, he planted the torch in the ground by his feet and dug into his pocket for the flask of whiskey he pinched from the mead hall before leaving the city. If he wasn’t going to fight like the other soldiers, he was going to drink like one.

In the front of the battalion, General Stark was trotting from one end of his troop's line to the other, barking out commands and trying to bolster their confidence. The tension that had built up in his neck loosened when his men finally got their formation in order. It wasn't straight, in the middle of a lush forest this would be nearly impossible, but it was a good start.

It was the signature formation for Somerlund's military. The sight of this line warned any enemy, or at least those that were educated in warfare, that they were about to do battle with the infamous city. It had a legendary reputation, confirmed with the blood of a long list of failed aggressors.

General Stark made sure to look at each archer in the eyes as he past them, hoping he could help to steel their nerves. Bards sang many songs about the longbow men of Somerlund, fabled to hunt rabbit at three hundred yards in the dark of night. Even so, he knew that there would be no rabbit hunt today.

A score of Reapers, knights who rode horses clad with heavy armor, flanked the left end of the line. Their stallions stomped and whinnied nervously, and their rider’s matched their sentiment, each of them eager to learn what their vigorous training had yielded them. They were taught to savagely steamroll their way through the enemy, without hesitation or mercy. Yet today their lust for battle was equally matched with fear. Fear of what was waiting behind the dark void staring them down.

“Hold steady men," called the general. "Charge on my command only.”

"Yes sir!" roared the troops.

“Riders! Attack after two waves of arrows have fired. The arrows will be low and fast, so there will be no time to wait for them to land like we practiced in exercises. The moment you hear the second stream let loose, charge. You will charge, and you will kill!”

The soldiers watched in awe as the look in general's eyes changed from the wise, caring instructor that they knew him to be, to the weathered, emotionless gaze of a veteran warlord.

The general saw through them all. The ones who were born to be great warriors, as well as the ones who believed they would never have to face a situation like today. The latter were the ones who posed the greatest threat to them. They were the weak link in his chain of warriors, and they were the ones he needed to build confidence in, or there was no hope of winning.

“It is no longer about me,” General Stark said, and then he pointed his finger towards them. “It is about you! This, is real. The only way to fail me today is to die by a meaningless mistake. Today you fight for your life. Not for your family. Not for your friends. They are not here. You are here, and you fight to live!”

Slowly, the nods of his soldiers spread. Necks stiffened, hands became fists, and chests heaved as the adrenaline flowed. The men’s short breaths, quivering from energetic tension, drowned out the sound of the horses. Good, he thought, I’m getting to them.

“I see the eyes of killers before me. Let every one of us release his true warrior calling today. To fight like a true warrior of Somerlund you succeed. To die a true warrior is to succeed!”

The general then pumped his fist into the air, and his men let out a rabid scream. The reapers began to knock on their horse’s shoulder plates with their weapons in unison, creating a bleating clash of metal.

Farther back, the deafening roar of the soldiers startled Damen, and he spilled his flask of liquor. The tethered horses also jumped in agitation, and they began trying to yank themselves free from their bondage.

“Damn it,” said Damen, who stood, pocketed his flask and started for the horses to try to calm them. Just as he went for the closest group of mares, the muscular black horse that was closest to Damen, aptly named Anvil, snapped the rope binding him to his tree with one powerful jerk of its huge head.

“Whoa! Easy Anvil!”

Damen held up his hands, trying to get the angry horse’s attention, but it was too late. Angered by the sudden clamor, the panic stricken stallion bucked onto its hind legs and gave Damen a defensive kick, landing a powerful hoof to his shoulder. Damen absorbed the kick well, but it whipped him back several yards. The hit spun him so violently that he did not notice kicking his torch from the ground, but as soon as the smell of burning sulfur punched into his nostrils he knew that one of the rockets had been lit, and he bolted for cover. Sure enough, the torch flew into the green rocket, knocking it over, and in turn igniting its fuse. As Anvil galloped away into the forest, the rocket blasted off.

Since the rocket was no longer planted it shot wildly, and exploded into a nearby tree. As the flare exploded, Damen laid down in in a tight, fetal position, envisioning the amount of trouble he was going to be in if he survived.

The screaming soldiers stopped their war cry, and then followed the sound of the blast to see the forest behind them had exploded into a shower of green sparks and smoke. Like a bad omen, the green sparks that were supposed to signal a retreat floated in the air, slowly drifting down to the ground. Wherever they landed, regardless of whether it be a bush, downed log, or even a rock, tiny flames would light and burn for a few moments. After several moments, the green sparks lit the other two rockets.

“Damen! What-” the general began to curse his lackey but stopped mid sentence, as the sky above them crackled into a deep purple hue, the signal that called for reinforcements.

"No," said the general, as he and his men stared up in awe.

Then, because fate demanded it, the third and last rocket emerged from the section of forest that was now shimmering in green sparkle, heading straight for the general. The rocket whizzed by just overhead, leaving a twisting, smoky tail behind it, before it vanished into the gray wall. The general and his soldiers all braced for the explosion, but strangely it never came. There was no sound. No burst of glittering light. The rocket simply disappeared, as if swallowed by the grey wall. Yet moments later, the ground began to tremble. It was strong enough to set the horse’s armor jingling, and even knocked down a few of the shields that weren't planted well.

Then, as quick as it began, it ended, and it was silent once again.

There was a blast, but they couldn't know from their side of the wall. The rocket flittered through the barrier, continuing on its spiraling mission until it smashed into a tree only several yards away from Baylor. The ferocious explosion was the likes of nothing he’d ever seen, showering everything around him with red sparks, that didn't seem to fade.

“What kind of magic is this?” said Baylor as he donned his hood to shelter from the falling sparks.

His initial thought was that they’d fired some sort of blinding weapon, but they couldn't have known where he was. Did they have a wizard? he wondered. Was the wizard watching him now? It would have to be a powerful wizard indeed to see him through his fog barrier, he knew.

Baylor's paranoia was all that the dragon needed to overcome the last bit of sense, or rational thinking that the dwarf had left. The voices in his head crashed down on his mind, bringing tears to his eyes.

They are attacking. They have a powerful wizard and he wants the diamond. We must kill them. We must kill them before they kill us,
whispered the dragon.

“Yes. We must kill them,” Baylor hissed through clenched teeth.

Release me. Kill them.

“Yes. I will kill them,” said Baylor.

Release me.

“I will kill them all.”

Yes.

“Yes,” Baylor spat, rage now cradling his heart, and he held his diamond above his head. As he called on his dragon, his eyes rolled back and his body shook.

Meanwhile, in the forest just to the south of the city King Shomnor, along with the rest of General Stark's army was staring at the southern sky in awe. The king had been explaining his dwarven army theory to the man General Stark had left in command, when the eastern sky went purple. Completely dumbfounded, the king immediately interpreted the signal for reinforcements as a confirmation to his claims.

“Colonel Jacob, tell the men to stop what they are doing and mount up. We are going to Loyola,” said the king.

“Are you sure we should move everyone on this?” said the colonel, who was surprised that Shomnor was so quick to leap. “Sire, less than half of your army remains to protect the city.”

“Yes Colonel Jacob," King Shomnor shot back. "Half of
my
army, which I needn’t remind you, because you happen to be a part of it.”

The colonel wanted to speak his mind, but decided that remaining a free man was worth more than being a proud man. He stayed his tongue, but Shomnor saw the concern in the Colonel’s eyes and continued.

“Don’t you understand what is happening?" he said. "I was right about the dwarves, obviously, and I'll wager that they're doing battle with our men as we speak.”

When the colonel didn't respond, Shomnor thrust his finger into the sky, pointing at the brilliant cloud of purple.

“That is the signal for help, meaning the general is probably holding the dwarves at bay,” he added.

“I know the signal well, my king.”

“Then why do you look at me like I’ve stolen from you?”

Again the colonel held his tongue.

“We must move, and we must move quickly," said the king, and then he leaned in. "Do not disobey a direct order from your king,” he warned, and the colonel nodded in understanding.

“No, your highness,” he said, and then the colonel turned away and began calling out orders for his battalion to mount up, heavily against his personal judgment. Being that such a great distance separated them, he was sure that the general would have lit the retreat flare along with an SOS, knowing the colonel would have a company rush to meet his men halfway back. It was a strategy the general taught Jacob personally, but alas, he was in no position to argue. He quietly went about his business as the king saddled up onto his stallion, as his personal guards did the same. It wasn't until his king was on his stallion, that Colonel Jacob really took notice of how the king had dressed for the occasion.

Instead of the battle armor, he chose to wear his ceremony dress. While this garb looked very impressive, sporting a large, purple and silver helm with a matching silver and gold cuirass, the uniform actually offered virtually no protection at all. He'd even discarded the practical chain mail gauntlets for gaudy, elbow length, purple velvet gloves. It seemed that the king was more than ready to put on a big show, but how much he was planning to participate in actual combat was obvious. He was strictly there to lead, and to be seen doing it.

Yet there he was, regally leading them into the unknown and leaving all caution behind. One day, Jacob thought, these men who so eagerly flex their power will realize the lives they jeopardize along the way.