The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4) (39 page)

“Fire!” Saxthor shouted. He looked to Sekkarian.

Delia was tugging on Saxthor’s pant leg. She stopped to bark wildly at the forest and again grabbed his pant leg, trying to pull him back.

An arrow flew out of the apparently uninhabited forest, missing Saxthor but felling the officer behind him. Sekkarian jumped in front of the king. Troops instantly surrounded Saxthor, hustling him backward behind bales of goods stacked on the wharf.

Giving orders, Sekkarian thrust out his arms, ordering the archers to fire on Saxthor’s predetermined targets. More arrows flew from the forest, killing soldiers along the wharf before they raised their shields. The commanders dashed along the lines, directing archers to fire into the forest or the fast approaching log cluster. Arrows flew back and forth from the wharf, forest, and the logs.

“That massive log pileup is almost at the northern end of the wharf,” a commander yelled. He raced down the wharf followed by his compliment of archers.

“Don’t let them land,” Sekkarian commanded. He turned to see the first bobbing logs almost slam into the reeds growing off the end of the wharf. The logs were bobbing up and down, something riding them moving to get to shore. There was a splash. An orc appeared, having rushed out beyond the invisibility veil. His progress was slowed immediately in the mud and reeds.

“Kill him!” the commander yelled.

Arrows instantly slammed into the orc, and he fell forward into the mud. More arrows flew out over the water and disappeared, falling into the logs. There were more splashes. Then an arrow struck the wizard holding the invisibility veil. The log jam and a full complement of orcs began to appear, riding the logs. Most couldn’t swim and held their positions on the logs, hoping to make landfall at the harbor. Others leapt from the floating platform, attempting to swim to shore.

“Fire at will!” the commander yelled at the head of his archers. He spun around between checking the logs crumpling into the reeds and his archers kneeling and standing behind him, firing arrows furiously at the orcs.

An arrow hit the commander. He fell over the side of the wharf, his body bobbing beside that of the face-down wizard killed holding the invisibility shield.

“Don’t let them get ashore!” Sekkarian ordered. He rushed to the head of his troops. The archers poured a shower of arrows on the exposed orcs, killing most still clinging to the logs. With that threat eliminated, the general turned his archers back to the forest, but the shimmering there was gone.

“The orcs in the forest fled back into Sengenwha,” Tournak said, his hand outstretched, reading the energy emanating from the woodland.

“You there,” Sekkarian called out to a new commander on the wharf. “Take two cohorts along the riverbank and hunt down the orcs that made it ashore.” He returned to Saxthor and Tournak.

“Are you wounded?” Sekkarian asked Tournak, who was limping slightly.

“No, General, old wounds.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t see this coming,” Sekkarian said to Saxthor. He dropped to one knee and with head bowed, lifted his sword to Saxthor. “I’ve failed in my duty to protect your majesty. Please accept my resignation.”

“Nonsense, General, please rise and re-sheath your sword,” Saxthor said. “Your men responded quickly and well. You must rely on the wizards to identify threats from sorcery.”

The general rose and thrust his sword back into its scabbard. He stood at attention and jerked his head in a formal nod to his king.

“See to it the riverbanks are searched for orcs that may have escaped,” the general ordered to his commanders. “Send troops across the river. Search to be sure the enemy has abandoned that forest position across there. Have the naval contingent remove those logs and store what can be used within the city walls. Have them release the rest down river that they may be used by the garrisons at Favriana, Heedra, and Hyemka. Send word to those cities that the logs are to be harvested from the river or sent on before they can again form jams. The enemy may attempt to use the logs to ford the river. The waterway must be kept flowing and clear of such dangers.”

Saxthor returned to the tower, issuing orders that he not be disturbed. He needed sleep badly. Tournak followed. He stood silent guard at the king’s door with the formal guards. No one tried to prevent the quiet wizard from any movement.

* * *

General Vylvex took stock of his supplies and of his orc legions now assembled on the plain below Castilyernov Hador. The day was sunny and clear, though clouds ringed the fortress far above on the mountains. The great ogre was unique in his status as general, the other Dreaddrac generals being mostly goblins. He’d beaten his opponent for senior general, commanding the eastern armies of Dreaddrac by treachery and cruelty. Even his closest subordinates feared his unstable nature. Immolating the king, he had a tendency to kill those who made even minor mistakes that came to his attention and most messengers with bad news. He hated and distrusted goblins that were rare in his command, knowing they would be promoted over him at the slightest opportunity. So it was he alone who made the decision to march south on Graushdemheimer without waiting to open the under mountain passage and, thus, supply lines.

“I needs them whingtangs. We can’t take that capital without them whingtangs. Them walls is older than dirt, seventy feet high and fifty wide,” Vylvex said. His commanders nodded and shook their heads in agreement, but none spoke.

“The whingtangs didn’t get through the mountains, General,” a commander said.

“Course they didn’t,” Vylvex retorted. “They’s too big to get through the tunnel without they dig their way through. That dragon was supposed to have done brung’em over the mountains.”

“Magwaddle fought a mean fight with them Hadorians,” a commander said.

“Yes, but they done killed him,” another ogre said, stepping forward. He stepped back among his peers when the general, his hairy brows arched and his mouth snarling, looked up at him.

“Stupid dragon, he got his mind fixed on destroying that city and forgot his orders to haul them whingtangs over them peaks,” Vylvex said. He threw his crudely made cup against the tent wall, splashing the contents that drained down like blood. The agitated general rose from his seat and limped slightly to the map on the animal skin stretched on a hanger near the tent flap. “We can’ts stay here forever without supplies, but we can’ts take Graushdemheimer without them whingtangs.” The general noted a Memtonite messenger standing at his tent flap.

“What’s a whingtang?” the allied Memtonite messenger, awaiting an audience with the general, whispered to a goblin commander standing just inside the tent.

A gruesome smile slid over the goblin’s face as he looked down at the shorter, stockier Memtonite. The messenger looked up, blinking, and trembled at the sight. Vylvex glanced at the two, hearing the whispering.

“The king bred the whingtangs. They feed on the monster camel crickets in the Ice Mountains’ tunnels,” the goblin said through broken teeth. “They’re like pangolins, but they stands thirteen feet tall and twenty-five feet long not counting they tails. They’re armor plated, have long pointed snouts with four tusks that jut out like a boar’s in each upper and lower jaw, well over two feet long each. We need the beasts here because they’re made for burrowing. He wants them to burrow under Graushdemheimer’s walls. The slashing claws on the front feet, they’re three feet long! Ain’t anything can touch them.”

“Whingtangs you say,” the messenger said, looking away into his thoughts.

“Come forward, Memtonite,” Vylvex said, resuming his seat behind his field table.

The messenger bowed to the general, slipping through the commanders to stand hunched before him. Vylvex looked the messenger up and down, intimidating him without speaking a word. After allowing time for beads of sweat to form on the man’s brow, the general spoke. “What news?”

“General, the Great Lord of the Memtonites sends his greetings and congratulations to the victorious General Vylvex.”

“Yes, Yes. What news does your master send? When will his contingents march and meet me here?”

“General,” the messenger said, trembling. He wiped his forehead. “My master will be delayed, as getting through the mountains is proving extremely difficult. He begs the general’s indulgence. He hopes…” 

General Vylvex jumped up, knocking his field chair back and over.

“Delayed!” The general snatched the field table out of the way and grabbed the messenger’s throat before the man could dodge the attack. “I’m here in enemy territory with my supply lines broke and you tells me he be delayed.” The glaring red eyes, spittle on the ogre’s mouth, and the bits of flesh showing in his yellow teeth made the Memtonite go limp and near faint.

“My master brings supplies with him, General,” the messenger managed to mumble, the breath nearly squeezed out of him beneath his bulging eyes.

The general tossed the Memtonite aside. The man stumbled to keep standing, coughed, and grabbed his throat, rubbing the blood back into circulation. The general first looked away, contemplating the news.

“Supplies, you say?”

“Yes, General. My master has secured additional supplies since your tunnel was closed. He has the men loading five hundred yaks with additional supplies. That’s part of the delay.” The messenger made a quick glance and moved slowly closer to the tent flap.

“How long until your master comes with his troops and them supplies?”

“He expects to arrive in about a week, General. Will that be all?”

“Yes, you may go for now. Stay in camp tonight. I may wants to send a message back to your master in the morning.”

“As you say, General. I’ll need to leave by noon, as my master expects me back before sunset in three days.”

“You’ll leave when I gives you permission to leave, you understand that?” The general now had a crushing stare fixed on the bowing Memtonite. The man grasped his throat again.

“Yes, General, I’ll await your orders.”

“Now get out.”

The Memtonite was through the tent flap and into the night before the sound of the general’s words stopped ringing in the grinning guards’ ears.

With them supplies, he thought, I can march south on Graushdemheimer. We can live off the land for more provisions along the way. I’m gonna need them whingtangs, though.

General Vylvex sent the Memtonite back over the mountains with a message for the Dark Lord, as well.

* * *

Just as the Memtonite lord and his auxiliary army came down out of the mountains two weeks later, the great dragons struggled, with wings flapping, to fly over the mountains west of Hador. Each clutched a sling fat with a whingtang. It was a terrible sight for the people of Hador to witness. The waiting orc legions on the plain scrambled trying to get out of the way of the thrashing beasts. As they released the slings, the monster whingtangs dashed about, slashing their tusks side to side in defiance, mutilating anything that didn’t get out of their way. Their claws ripped tents out of the ground and slung them and orcs alike, arcing out to either side. The great dragons snatched the slings and flew back over the mountains and out of sight. The whingtang handlers allowed the beasts time to vent their rage, destroying the encampment. Only then did they mount the creatures and regain mastery of them. Once General Vylvex reestablished order and control, he assigned dispositions for the legions and the whingtangs. He began his march south.

* * *

The great griffin slid to a halt on the icy slope of the Munattahensenhov, his claws shooting out ice chunks along his path. Earwig and Dreg flew head over heels onto the mountainside, only coming to a stop when they smashed up against rocky outcrops. The griffin paid them no further attention but strode his majestic presence to a great tunnel opening. He snatched a fleeing orc guard at the entrance, swallowing the thrashing victim after a couple of snaps of its beak. The griffin disappeared down the tunnel as Earwig and Dreg stood up and stumbled toward the tunnel entrance.

“Where is the King of Dreaddrac?” Earwig demanded to know of the remaining orc guard. She drew herself up, puffed out her chest, and attempted to straighten her hair before her fingers got knotted in the tangled mop atop her head.

The orc at first said nothing, just grinned at her, looking at her chest.

Earwig wound herself slightly and spun around, backhanding the orc, knocking him to the ground several feet away up against an icy wall. She looked at Dreg, who started to laugh, but choked it and stood silent and penitent.

The orc shook himself off, grabbed his sword and spear, and trudged back to the tunnel entrance. “I’ll sends a messenger to the king. Who you be?”

“Indeed, I shall find the king myself,” Earwig insisted, and she commenced to march through the gate. The guard thrust his spear across the opening.

“You don’t be going through this gate less I says you can come into the mountain.” The orc pointed to the smoking cave entrance higher on the mountain from which a sickening odor of decaying flesh emanated. “I’d be thrown to them dragons up there ifn I was to let you march in without the captain of the guards saying you was to come in.”

Earwig looked at Dreg, who looked back at her. Dreg said nothing. Earwig cleared her throat. “I’ve just traveled over endless rocky roads, been attacked by countless monsters, and been flown here by that outrageous griffin. I’m not about to be delayed in seeing the king by a stupid orc. Now inform the king the Duchess Irkin of Neuyokkasin has arrived to assist him.”