The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (39 page)

“Is he going to make it?” Antrig wondered aloud.

“Is he going to
come back?
” asked Jagan.  “Why the hells would he?”

“Because it is his
duty
,” answered Hanith, stiffly. 

“He’ll probably scutt
le off to Vorone and count his blessings,” Jagan grunted.  “That’s what I would do.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Captain Antrig said, thoughtfully.  “Ten days to Tudry, ten days back.  Three weeks to wait. What should we do to pass the time, I wonder?”

Hanith snorted.  “I think Sir Sastan will have plenty of ideas.”

“Gos is a smart lad,” Antrig lectured.  “He’s from this country, and he’s fast.  And he’s too scrawny to be welcome in a goblin’s stewpot.  He’ll make it.  Indeed, we might have just saved his life.”

“How you figure?” Jagan asked, curious. 

“We’ll all probably be dead in a week,” the Captain observed.  “Let’s pick up the pace.  Night is coming.”

*                            *                            *

The days came and went after Gos the Feather’s departure, and Castle Dardafan settled into a routine.  The men split into two sections, one to forage and patrol during the day, one to guard the castle walls during the active night.  The two sections – the Dawn and the Eventide troops – switched off their members in rotation, to give everyone a chance to rest at night.  But some preferred the active darkness.  Hanith, in particular, found a particular interest in haunting the watchtower at night, scrying for danger . . . and opportunity.

For Warbrother Thune was also intrigued by war at night.  He led small detachments, no more than three or four men, on clandestine patrols around the castle at night, seeing evidence of nests and outposts of the foe.  They found several, at Hanith’s direction, and when the odds were favorable they struck.

Else they made note of the outpost and the Dawn Troop would send a half-dozen men with spears and bows to destroy the nest by the light of day.  They never approached a nest with more gurvani than they could comfortably deal with, and Sir Sastan himself proudly led many of the raids.  Within a week Hanith reported that there were no goblin camps closer than half a day’s walk away from Dardafan.

The interior of the castle was restored to its full use, for the most part.  The great rent portcullis was pulled down and beaten by Ginar the Hammer until it was straight again, if not attractive.  When the great grate was replaced, the commander proclaimed the castle secure.

No one, it seemed, troubled to inform the goblins of this.

That same night the drums that assailed them every dusk were even louder, deep throbbing booms that sunk into a man’s bones and seeped into his thoughts even in his dreams.  Hanith had scryed out the source of the drums, but they shifted nightly, and sometimes came from different directions.  And every night there seemed to be more of them.  While there were no direct forays against the castle, there was no doubt that more goblins had arrived in the darkness.  That was the tale the drums seemed to tell.

“They’re just drums,” the Warbrother insisted at the evening meal, just before the change of shift.  “Drums can’t kill people.”

“With the Dead God’s foul dweomer in the mist around us, they might convince you to hang yourself,” Hanith pointed out.  “They do get into a man’s head.”

“It’s not the drums, but what they portend,” said Ginar the Hammer.  “More drums, more scrugs!”

“They haven’t attacked us yet,” the monk pointed out.  “We have strong, thick walls and men who know how to defend them.”

“Too few men,” grumbled Jagan.  “Too few and too tired.  Where in all the hells is Gos?”

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Hastan reminded him.  “He won’t get there until tomorrow.  If he’s on time,” he added, as he finished his stew.  “If he’s not dead.”

“He’s not dead,” the priest insisted. “He goes with Duin’s grace.”

“Hopefully he goes with Herus’ cloak,” snickered Hastan, referring to the god of traveler’s famed cloak of invisibility.

“Gos will make it,” the warbrother promised.  “He’ll make it and he’ll bring reinforcements.”

“Let’s hope he’s not—”  Jagan’s conjecture was cut short by the winding of a horn from the watchtower.  It blew two blasts: the call for approaching attackers.

“TO ARMS!” Sir Sastan bellowed, before he finished his ale and bolted back to his quarters to arm himself. 

The outer portcullis was slammed shut, the outer gatehouse manned, and the armored men of the Iron Ring assembled in the night to guard it.

“I just came off shift!” complained Jagan, as he was issued a bow from the quartermaster.  “I’m exhausted!”

“Tell it to the Goblin King!” snarled Captain Antrig.  “Move your ass, trooper!”  He direct him to join his fellows in the top of the gate tower.

Before the men could be fully ready, the first hail of stones and arrows was shot against them.  It was a feeble enough attempt to make them laugh.  The second wave was far more coherent, and Strandine took a blow to his temple from a stone that knocked him unconscious.

“Steady,” the warbrother called, readying his great axe as his brothers dragged the man back into the bailey.  “Archers!  Give them a volley!”

“Where?” came the cry in return.

“I can help with that,” Hanith said, closing his eyes.  It took him a few minutes, moving his lips and muttering, but there was an arcane air about the man that made his mates take a step back.  A tiny light sprung to life in front of him, and then at his direction it flew over the wall and hovered sixty feet away, over a small copse of spruce.  “Hit that,” he suggested, tiredly.

“You heard the mage!” thundered Thune.  “Aim and fire!”

The archers began putting as many arrows in the air as they could, and their fire withered the squealing gurvani where they landed.  More rushed forward, and Captain Antrig ordered the portcullis closed.  It clanged heavily into the ground mere moments before the first goblin made it up the slight causeway.

“Duin’s shaggy armpit!” Mecal cried in dismay as the first snarling goblin clanged against the iron, his wiry black arm thrusting through it, a curved knife in its hand.  Mecal smashed his shield against it, breaking the wrist.  “I
hate
these godsdamned scrugs!”

“Good!” Sir Sastan shouted.  “Call out everyone – both troops, whoever can get into armor!”

The mob of black fur and hate beyond the portcullis snarled and shrieked as it assailed the gate.  The savagery of the gurvani was frightful – their fangs and odorous hides conspired to catch a man’s fear, and the unhuman sounds of their vile speech and blood-curdling war cries was a challenge to their courage.  Shields in front of them, the Iron Ring stood fast while their brothers plied spears through the grate, slashing and stabbing into the wall of flesh fiercely.  Javelins and jagged blades stabbed back, but were turned on the warrior’s armor. 

Sir Sastan gloated behind his shield wall, torches lighting his face in the darkness, casting a maniacal shadow next to him on the wall. 

“Taste the steel of the Wilderlands, you filthy beasts!” he taunted, laughing.  “Die, like pigs at slaughter!  Bleed and squeal and scream your last, you mongrels!  Die!”

The gurvani soon learned the futility of assailing such a strongly-held position, and withdrew.  Instead they began shooting arrows through the gate, a few at a time, at first, then dozens.  Under such a steady rain the men of the Iron Ring fell back, dragging their wounded behind them.

“They can’t get through the grate,” observed Captain Antrig, sagely.  “That’s a comfort, at least.”

“Small comfort,” complained Hastan, a fresh gurvani arrow in his shoulder.  “We cannot get out.”

“You have an appointment somewhere, brother?” asked Jagan, using his shield to cover his brother while he tended his wound.  “You might be late.”

“I think I’ll be a homebody for a few dayyyysssss—!” he said, pulling the wooden shaft from his own flesh with a grunt of pain.  “Twice in the same arm!  Damn me!”

“Let’s give them a few shafts in return,” snarled Faris, one of the newcomers.  He was a dark-complected man from Tudry, and a veteran of Timberwatch.  He had a burning rage in his heart that had its origin in learning his village had been taken by the Goblin King while he had been serving.  He fired one shaft after another through the portcullis, every time he had a clear target.  A heap of black bodies piled in front of the grate indicated his success.

But the gurvani had learned much in their war against humanity.  While they had crawled out of their mountain holes with no more than spears, iron clubs and leather bucklers, they had soon learned how to use knives, swords, and shields – or at least how to fight against them.  A party of goblins ventured forward to the door, two broad warshields held in front of them against the brothers’ archery.  Though it took two of them to hold each shield, it kept the men’s arrows and bolts at bay.  It also allowed one of their dark priests to make his way to the gate.

While his guards brandished their spears, the white-faced shaman smeared some substance from a wooden pail onto the portcullis, splashing a thick layer of the dark liquid on the bars.

“Hey!” Called Hastan, as he pressed a bandage under his armor against his wound.  “What’s that fellow doing?”

“Coming into range,” Faris said, smiling, as he fired another bolt through the gate.  If found its mark, thudding into the forehead of one of the shield-bearers.  The attack did not deter the shaman, however – he finished his work and withdrew, his shields coming behind him.

A young brother ran to the gate, cautiously, and examined the substance.  He turned and held up a finger.

“It’s just mud!” he laughed.

“Mud?” Captain Antrig said, alarmed. 

“Send for the warmage,” ordered Sir Sastan.  “Get the wounded into the inner bailey,” he told the Captain.  “Everyone else, prepare for battle!”

“Why?” asked Hastan, as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Because they’re about to come through there,” the knight said, with a trace of relish.  “They’re going to come through there, and we will have to face them.”

“Because of mud?” asked Faris, rewinding his arbalest.

“Because of sorcery,” Sastan said, darkly.  As if to prove his point, the mud spattered on the portcullis began to smoke and glow with an eldritch cast.  Before their eyes they watched in surprise as the iron the grate was forged from crumbled into rust.  “Dark sorcery.  Where is that warmage?” he asked, hefting his two-handed sword.  Captain Antrig drew his own cavalry blade and began ordering the archers behind the cover of shields. 

To the two largest of the newcomers, he gave them posts behind the gatehouse, where they stood with their great infantry shields, ready to push and shove the goblins as directed, while two other men with sword and axe struck from behind them.  As the goblins threw themselves against the rusted, crumbling gate, determined to scramble inside, Antrig began to lose confidence . . . there were an awful lot of them, now.

“Prepare to fall back to the next gate, if things go poorly,” Sir Sastan told him.  “But let’s thin their ranks a bit before we retire.”

“I feel in need of exercise,” agreed Warbrother Thune, hefting his heavy battle axe with both hands, the haft on his armored shoulder.  “To the glory of Duin!” he bellowed, as the portcullis gave against the relentless assault.  “Stand and fight!”

The men did just that.  As the gate was pushed through, one goblin after another scrambled through and charged into the bailey.  The flanking warriors at the gate pivoted and slammed their shields against the leaders, bowling them over, while their fellows rushed at them with blades bared.

But there were too many.  The first half-dozen had been dispatched easily enough, but their fellows behind pushed past them even as they were slain.  More than a dozen burst passed them . . . and into a thick volley of arrows and quarrels.  The men of the Iron Ring had managed one good flight before the goblins closed with them.  That bought them enough time to draw their weapons, as the goblins dealt with the volley.  By the time the growling soldiery closed with them they were prepared.

The commander was like a demon in the darkness.  His sword flashed in the torchlight as he slashed the throat and face of his first attacker, pivoted to bisect a second from shoulder to hip, and then reversed direction to pare a third howling gurvan’s head and shoulders from his torso.  One after another the goblins leapt at him, throwing javelins or slashing with their captured blades.  Sir Sastan seemed to be enjoying his dance of death, smiling inanely as he welcomed each new enemy on his blade.

His men were doing as well, individually – the Warbrother was taking a terrible toll with his great, broad-bladed axe, sometimes cleaving two foes at one strike as he bellowed a hymn to Duin. 

Captain Antrig met each foe with a sweep of his sword, often parrying their crudely-thrown blows before decapitating them or running them through.  Faris had slung his crossbow on his back and was fighting with an infantry sword in one hand and a long, thin dagger in the other.  He moved with a deadly grace displaying more talent than skill.  He plied his short blade in a blazing eye here, then his dagger in the back of another. 

But on they came, and wherever one fell, two more sprang in to take their place.  Nor were they ineffective—the men at the gate were overwhelmed in moments and retreated, leaving two of their fellows dead on the field. 
The captain dispatched two with the flair of a jongleur, and looked out at the overtaken gatehouse.