The Dwarf Kingdoms (Book 5) (18 page)

“It is much easier to slay a timber than a Troll,” he thought dryly to himself as the severed, outward leaning stakes before him fell into the trench one by one. From the towers far up the slopes of Celsus, Elerian heard the powerful, mellow tones of Dwarf horns resonate through the air. The sentries stationed on the mountainside had seen the palisade fall and were signaling to Durio to begin the attack.

“I wonder if he will arrive in time?” Elerian wondered as he stoically continued to sheer away the palisade.

He had opened a gap about thirty feet wide in the barrier of stakes when a squat, black haired mutare, running on all fours far ahead of its fellows, suddenly hurled itself at him from behind before he became aware of it. As the changeling seized his shoulders with its powerful, clawed hands, Elerian felt its hot breath on his neck as he was borne to the ground by the great weight of the creature. He heard the changeling’s fangs grate on the chain mail protecting his neck and felt a sudden painful compression from its viselike jaws. The savage wrench which followed would have broken a man’s neck, but Elerian’s lean muscles, hardened by years in the Goblins’ mines, stiffened and held firm, resisting the mutare’s effort to slay him.

Letting go of Acris, Elerian swiftly forced his right hand beneath him, his groping fingers swiftly finding the cold, ridged hilt of Rasor. Dragging the knife free, he raised his arm, blindly stabbing at the creature perched on his back, but long yellow teeth closed on the mail covering his forearm with crushing force, arresting the stroke. With a supple, powerful twist of his body, Elerian broke free of the mutare’s paws, twisting to his right onto his back. His left hand darted up, his long, strong fingers fastening themselves around the changeling’s hairy, corded throat. The mutare's yellow eyes glared fiercely down at him as they strained powerfully against each other, the changeling’s jaws continuing to grind at his wrist. Then, Elerian’s thumb found the creature’s windpipe. Its air cut off by his steely fingers, the mutare gagged, releasing Elerian’s right arm. Straight away, he slid the bright, bitter blade in his right hand through the mutare’s leather armor, between its ribs, and into its heart. The changeling slumped against Elerian’s left arm, its thin black lips still drawn back into a snarl as the light died from its eyes.

Throwing the mutare’s heavy body to his left, Elerian sprang to his feet, unhurt except for a sore right wrist. He saw instantly that a goodly number of mutare were now well up the slope in front of him, all of them intent on spilling his blood. Snatching up Acris and his shield, Elerian calmly waited for the hairy tide to engulf him, determined to defend the gap he had created in the palisade for as long as possible. Moments later, a loud clash of steel on steel rang through the air as he deflected the spiked head of an iron mace wielded by a great bearlike creature. With a deft, sure hand, Elerian momentarily buried his sword’s tip in the mutare’s throat. As the creature fell dead at his feet, he avoided reaching claws and snapping fangs with spare, supple moves, Acris flickering in and out like lightning, until a half circle of shaggy bodies lay on the ground around him, and the warm smell of spilled blood blended with the reek of the mutare’s hairy, unwashed bodies to form an almost palpable stench in the air.

“The fetor of these creatures is liable to slay me even if their claws do not,” thought Elerian wryly to himself as he swept off the head of a squat creature with black flaring nostrils and fangs that protruded well past its thin, lower lip.

Far down the dike, with no more enemies before him, Ascilius finally thought to look back to see how Elerian was faring. When he saw his companion alone, surrounded on three sides by a horde of mutare, he cursed loudly before rushing back through the ranks of his small company, shouting at the top of his voice, “Defend the gap in the palisade!”

The twin braids of his beard flying back over his shoulders, Ascilius reached the outer circle of mutare just as Elerian was forced back to the very brink of the dike by the relentless horde of changelings surrounding him. Like a tempest, Ascilius burst upon them, striking right and left with Fulmen so quickly that it seemed a lightning storm had descended on the summit of the dike. Dismayed by his ferocious attack, cowed by the roar of his great voice, the changelings fell back, allowing the Dwarves who had followed Ascilius to form a shield wall in front of the gap Elerian had opened in the palisade. Behind the shield wall, breathing hard from his tremendous exertions, battered and bloodied from the battle, Ascilius stood by Elerian’s left side, his dark eyes flashing fiercely.

“You forgot about me,” Elerian reproached the Dwarf, injecting a note of melancholy in his voice to convey his disappointment at being so callously abandoned. His eyes displayed a familiar anticipatory gleam as he waited for Ascilius’s reaction.

“I did not!” replied Ascilius, who was not about to admit that he had done exactly what Elerian had accused him of. “I would never hear the end of it,” he thought to himself as he arranged his craggy features to project a mixture of astonishment and distress at the unexpected criticism.

“I could see that you were managing well enough on your own, so I decided to clear the dike before coming to your aid,” he explained blandly. “You should be thanking me for rescuing you instead of grumbling about the timing of my arrival,” Ascilius concluded in a hurt voice.

“Would you thank me if I left you alone in front of a trench filled with poisonous stakes and nothing but air beneath your heels,” asked Elerian dryly.

 “What does it matter if you were hanging by your toes even as long as you are alive and unscathed?” replied Ascilius unsympathetically. “If you did endure a little uncertainty, it is no more than you deserve for all the times you have abused me to satisfy your mad wit.”

“If we live to see the sun set, rest assured that I will remember your heartlessness,” threatened Elerian, the gleam in his gray eyes becoming more pronounced.

Ascilius’s reply was drowned out by a tremendous din that suddenly rose up from the mutare. Snarls and roars filled the air as the changelings beat their chests and leaped into the air, all the while snapping their long fangs together as they sought to work up their courage for another attack. At the base of the dike, the crack and pop of whips wielded by the Mordi rose sharply through the air as the Wood Goblins urged on their savage allies. When Elerian turned from Ascilius to look over the shoulders of the Dwarves in front of him, a sea of hairy, bestial faces lit by savage yellow eyes met his gaze. The small company of Dwarves was now surrounded on three sides by a horde of changelings, their hairy, powerful bodies darkening the entire face of the dike.

 “There are too many of them,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as the mutare suddenly renewed their attack, crashing against the shield wall of the Dwarves like a wave of dark water suddenly bursting from a dam. “If help does not come soon, they will push us back into the trench through sheer weight of numbers.”

THE BATTLE OF THE DIKE

Racing back and forth in the small open space behind the line of Dwarves in front of them, Elerian and Ascilius dealt with the mutare who clawed or leapt their way over the shield wall. It was by far the most desperate battle Elerian could remember as, foot by foot, the Dwarves were driven back by the sheer weight of the numbers of mutare arrayed against them.

 On his right, Elerian suddenly saw a hairy hand reach under the linked shields of the Dwarves. Before he could intervene, a changeling on all fours grasped a Dwarf by the ankle, yanking him off his feet and dragging him into the multitude of hairy bodies pressing against the shield wall. A sharp scream cut through the din of the battle as the Dwarf was torn limb from limb by the savage creatures swarming over him. On Elerian’s left, another Dwarf lost his footing and toppled over the edge of the dike, falling silently to his death in the spike-filled trench below.

When he risked a quick glance over his shoulder, Elerian saw ladders resting on the lip of the dike, spanning the dry moat and its deadly spikes. Dwarves in bright mail were climbing them while hundreds more stood at the margin of the trench, waiting their turn to ascend the ladders. Looking farther back, Elerian saw that the gates of the city now stood wide-open. The sun shone brightly on their upraised shields and weapons of the Dwarves running past them, and fierce, deep war cries filled the air.

“They have come too late,” said Ascilius hopelessly to Elerian as the shrinking space behind the shield wall rapidly filled with Dwarves. “We cannot assemble a strong enough force in the small space that is now left to us. In a moment, the mutare will push us back into the trench and throw down the scaling ladders. We should retreat while we still can.”

“Let us hold out a bit longer,” advised Elerian, his gray eyes fixed on the ridge to the right of the dike. “This is a day when unexpected help may appear unlooked for.”

“There will be no help today, only death and slavery,” muttered Ascilius to himself, but he stood firm by Elerian’s side nonetheless, refraining from giving the signal to retreat in spite of their desperate situation.

Suddenly, a high-pitched whistling filled the air. Ascilius looked up at once and saw a shimmering flight of steel crossbow bolts fly through the air behind the shield wall, falling like a deadly rain on the mutare massed there. One after another, they toppled over as the lethal shafts found their marks, for few of them carried shields. Sometimes two fell together, for the force driving the darts sufficed to send them through more than one body if the mutare stood close together. Looking up to the ridge on his right for the source of the quarrels, Ascilius saw Dwarves thickly massed along its summit and wondered where they had come from, for all the warriors in the city were gathered together before the dike.

“Your uncle has joined the battle,” said Elerian to Ascilius. “He must have banished his former uncertainty, for he has gathered the old, the women, and even the half-grown children to fight.”

With his farsighted eyes, Elerian saw Eonis, his snowy braids lifting in the breeze as he directed his troops, standing on the highest point of the ridge. Near the king stood Herias, a crossbow held awkwardly in his hands. Elerian smiled as Eonis rapped his nephew sharply on his helmeted head with his staff when he was slow to reload his crossbow.

“Let us make the most of his help,” said Elerian resolutely to Ascilius.

“Forward,” roared the Dwarf at once, his determination renewed by the sight of the dense ranks of the mutare being decimated by the steel quarrels which sang their deadly song in their ranks. Pushing through the Dwarves in front of him, Ascilius struck furiously right and left with Fulmen, the hammer gleaming brightly with each stroke. Beside him Acris darted in and out, shining brightly with each stroke as it cleaved flesh and steel with equal ease. Behind Ascilius and Elerian the Dwarves pouring onto the dike from the scaling ladders stormed down the slope after them, overrunning the mutare who had survived the crossbow quarrels directed at them by Eonis and his troops. When he chanced a quick look behind him over his left shoulder, Elerian saw Durio among them, his snowy braids whipping about as he wielded his ax and shield, active as a Dwarf half his age. Keeping close to his master’s side, Tonare savaged any changelings who came within reach of his great jaws. As he returned his attention to the battle in front of him, Elerian suddenly saw Falco to his left for a swift moment, bloodied but still fighting bravely in the forefront of the Dwarf line.

“How quickly our fortunes have changed,” Elerian thought to himself as he and Ascilius fought their way down the side of the dike, striking down any mutare who was foolish enough to come within reach of their weapons. He expected that Ascilius would use the momentum they had gained to sweep the mutare from the dike, but half way down the side of the barrier, Ascilius suddenly seized the horn that he wore and blew on it, the commanding blast rising above the din of the battle, signaling the Dwarves to halt their advance. All around Ascilius other horns sounded, their deep, melodious voices echoing his command. A withering hail of crossbow bolts continued to fall on the ranks of the mutare, forcing them to continue their retreat down the incline, but below them, at the foot of the dike, the Mordi held firm. As soon as the first darts began to fly from the ridge to their left, they had wisely taken refuge beneath their shields which they had raised over their heads, overlapping the edges to form a steel roof against which the Dwarf darts rebounded harmlessly.

“We will hold here for a bit,” said Ascilius to Elerian, his chest heaving from his exertions. “Let Eonis and his archers continue to thin the ranks of the enemy while we wait for our own troops to gather behind us. It will be advantageous to have the slope of the dike give impetus to our assault when we make our final push.”

Beside Ascilius, equally worn from his exertions, Elerian silently took in the scene around him. The bodies of changelings and Dwarves lay all around him, their still forms displaying all the grim, varied aspects death can take in a battle. Overhead, the sun was now high in the sky, the heat from its rays causing the rank smell of the slain mutare and the stench of spilled blood to rise thickly to his nostrils. Dark flocks of cornix were already wheeling about in the clear sky, impatient to begin their feast by first plucking out the staring eyes of the dead below. From the depths of the forest, wolves howled, for the scent of blood had carried far into the wood around the Goblin camp.

“The minstrels always leave out this part in their songs,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he turned his gaze on the Wood Goblins massed together at the foot of the dike.

“The remnants of the mutare have all fled, but even taken alone, the Mordi still outnumber your forces,” he observed to Ascilius as they leaned wearily on their weapons. “Is it wise to attack them directly?”

 “Their numbers will not help them, for the sun will make them weak and light headed despite the black hoods that they wear,” replied Ascilius, his voice filled with contempt for the Wood Goblins. “If we strike them hard, they will scatter before us.”

“I do not think that they will flee while their captain stands firm,” said Elerian doubtfully as he pointed with his right hand to a small hillock that rose up to the left of the Goblin camp. Its western slope was grown over almost to the summit with a thick wood, but the eastern slope was bare of any trees, covered only with short, dense turf. On its summit stood a small group of black clad Urucs gathered beneath a dark standard. The banner hung limp in the still, hot air, but the crimson skull which was worked on it was still partially visible. Swirling restlessly around the margin of the group was a large pack of shaggy, coal black canigrae. Gleaming crossbow bolts from Eonis’s archers arced toward the hill but fell short on account of the distance, reaching only halfway up the hillock before burying themselves harmlessly into the ground.

“That hill is where you and I must go then,” said Ascilius grimly. “When their dark captain falls, the Mordi will flee before us.”

“That may be easier said than done,” replied Elerian as he took in the host of Mordi arrayed against them. “The Wood Goblins are as thick as leaves in summer and there may be Trolls, too, lurking out of sight inside the camp.”

“Keep your footing and stay close to me,” replied Ascilius confidently. “You will see a sight now that will stir your heart and strike fear in our enemies.”

Looking back over his right shoulder, Ascilius saw that the slope behind him was now covered with Dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder, all of them waiting for his command. Raising his hammer and shield, he suddenly clashed them together, an action that was instantly emulated by every Dwarf behind him, filling the air with the ring and crash of steel on steel. A deep-throated roar rose up above the din as the Dwarves raised all their deep voices together in a mighty shout. Blowing a powerful blast on the ox horn that he carried, Ascilius suddenly charged down the slope, Elerian following lightly behind, shoulder to shoulder with the sturdy Dwarves who had instantly leapt after their captain. As he ran behind Ascilius, Elerian had the sense that he had become a part of a mighty avalanche composed of flesh and steel instead of stone.

“I could not fall if I wanted too,” he thought to himself wryly so thick was the press of bodies around him. The Dwarves seemed to draw strength from the close contact with their fellows, but Elerian felt constricted and uncomfortable at being deprived of the use of his arms.

At the base of the dike, the Mordi raised up spears in between their shields, but Ascilius had correctly guessed their mood. Sick and dizzy from the hated sun, stifled by their dark hoods, their knees trembled and their pale faces grew chalkier still at the sight of the juggernaut roaring down on them, the slope of the dike giving the Dwarves an irresistible momentum.

Spears splintered like twigs, and a deafening clash of steel on steel shattered the air as the Dwarves plowed into the outer ranks of the Mordi. Lacking the weight of a Dwarf, Elerian used Ascilius as a battering ram, applying his right shoulder to the Dwarf’s broad back when they crashed into the wall of Wood Goblins before them. Instinctively, he trod lightly over the bodies of the Mordi that appeared beneath his feet, but all around him, he heard the snap and crack of bone as the Dwarves fiercely trampled their lighter enemies beneath their heavy boots, making sure the last spark of life was stamped out of them. Hundreds more Dwarves continued to pour over the lip of the dike adding their weight to those already below them. Elerian felt the crush of powerful, armored bodies against his back increase until every breath became an effort, and his very bones seemed to groan under the tremendous pressure applied against them.

As Dwarves continued to penetrate their packed ranks like a great steel wedge, the Mordi host gradually split in two and began to fragment, small gaps appearing in their ranks. When one of these openings appeared in front of Ascilius, he rushed into it, swinging Fulmen furiously right and left, crushing Mordi to the ground like a carpenter driving nails. Elerian leapt after him, his bright blade flicking out to deal death all around him as he guarded Ascilius’s back and sides. The Mordi in front of Ascilius melted away before his hammer strokes, leaving a clear path to the base of the hillock which was now close by.

“We have them now,” shouted Ascilius as he raced up the side of the hill with Elerian following close behind him. A large number of Dwarves rushed after them, eager to join the two companions in their attack on the Urucs.

Elerian kept a close eye on the Goblins as he ran lightly behind Ascilius and soon had reason to be glad of his vigilance, for when they reached the halfway point of the slope in front of them, he saw one of the Urucs raise his right hand. His magical third eye opened of its own accord, revealing the red orb that leapt from the Goblin’s fingers. As the destruction spell sped down the hill straight for Ascilius’s chest, Elerian raised his own right hand, casting a shield spell over himself and the Dwarf. The crimson orb loosed by the Uruc struck the golden cloak that covered him and Ascilius, flaring harmlessly into a scintillating burst of scarlet light before being drawn into the silver ring of power that Elerian wore on his right hand.

On the summit of the hill, the Uruc who had cast the spell narrowed his eyes, his lean, pale face displaying surprise and baffled anger when he saw Ascilius continue to advance up the hill unscathed, for he had expected that his well-aimed destruction spell would strike the Dwarf in the chest, killing him instantly.

“His tall companion must have deflected the charm,” he thought to himself. He did not possess mage sight, but he had seen Elerian raise his hand in a gesture that was familiar to the practitioners of the magical arts. He had also noted the silver white gleam that had come from one of Elerian’s fingers and wondered at its source. “I must wait for a more opportune moment to indulge my curiosity,” he thought to himself regretfully as he turned to his right and spoke softly into the pointed ear of one of his subordinates. The Uruc he addressed instantly began to change, his form flowing like water into the shape of a lentulus before springing suddenly high into the air. After lifting himself far above the hillock with his mighty wings, the shape changer circled the battlefield once before flying rapidly south over western flank of Celsus, carrying news of the battle to his commander on the far side of the mountain.

When the lentulus first sprang into the air, the Goblin standard-bearer threw down his banner. As if that was a signal, the harsh braying notes of Goblin horns rent the air above the hillock. Gladly heeding their captain’s call to retreat, the Mordi on the battlefield below hastened into the forest, away from the sun which made them light headed and sapped their strength.