The Dwarf Kingdoms (Book 5) (26 page)

“Sleep well little one,” thought Elerian to himself. “I have avenged you, but it has given no ease to my heart.”

“Let us go then,” said Elerian suddenly to Ascilius. “I feel the need to spill more Goblin blood.”

Taking the lead, Ascilius began to force his way through the Dwarves who stood between him and the bridge, Elerian applying his right shoulder to the Dwarf’s back whenever they needed to force their way through. Once they reached the bridgehead, Ascilius and Elerian saw no sign of Eonis or his sons. The Trolls, too, were gone, having fought their way to the center of the bridge where they were now defying the Dwarves who were still attacking them from both sides.

“Clear the bridge!” shouted Ascilius to the Dwarves who stood in front of him. Responding as best they could, they fell back behind Ascilius once they saw the royal emblem inlaid in his shield. By the time Ascilius and Elerian came within twenty feet of the Trolls, there was only empty space between them and the Troll facing their side of the river.

“Let me have the first go at him,” said Ascilius to Elerian, rushing at the Troll in front of him before Elerian could protest.

Calling out a warning to its companion in a deep voice, the Troll waited for Ascilius to come within range of his hammer and shield. With the swiftness of his kind, he suddenly swung his huge weapon in an overhand stroke powerful enough to crush Ascilius into a bloody pulp. Darting suddenly to his right, Ascilius avoided the blow, the Troll’s massive hammer head smashing through the temporary plank bridge on the spot where Ascilius had stood only a moment before. While the Troll struggled to wrench his hammer free of the thick oak boards that now gripped it tightly, Ascilius sprang forward, swinging Fulmen in a mighty, sideways stroke. Emitting a flash like a lightning strike, the hammer struck the left side of the Troll’s knee joint, breaking bone and wrenching granite like sinews apart. Like a great tree, the Troll suddenly collapsed onto its left side, striking the bridge with a mighty thump that shook the planking. Dropping his shield, Ascilius took a two handed grip on Fulmen before swinging the hammer in a great arc that ended with the hammerhead striking and caving in the Troll’s steel helm and stony skull as a great flash of silver white light bathed Ascilius’s craggy face and powerful, stocky body.

“First kill,” shouted Ascilius triumphantly to Elerian as a great cheer went up from the Dwarves standing on the bridge. It was followed by a collective groan of dismay as Ascilius suddenly pitched forward onto his face, unconscious or dead from the power Fulmen had drained from his body.

Elerian was allowed no time to determine whether Ascilius was alive or dead, for the second Troll turned his way when he heard his companion thump down onto the roadbed. Voicing a great roar of anger, the Troll raised his weighty hammer to strike at Ascilius’s motionless body, determined to revenge the death of his companion, but arrested his stroke when Elerian suddenly sprang forward and menaced his eyes with the keen point of Acris. With a swift sweep of the shield on his left arm, the Troll drove Elerian back, but his smaller opponent darted in again, seeking to drive him away from Ascilius. Dropping his hammer and shield, the Troll suddenly began swinging its mighty fists at Elerian, forcing him to twist and sidestep.

“I cannot win this dance,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as a fist the size of his head whistled past his face. “He has only to graze me with a knuckle to give me a serious injury.” 

Calling his invisibility ring to his hand, he suddenly vanished from sight. Startled by Elerian’s sudden disappearance, the Troll hesitated for a moment, standing stock-still and blinking in surprise as he searched vainly for his elusive opponent. In that instant, Elerian sprang forward and thrust upward with Acris. Argentum gleaming brightly, the sword cut through the underside of the Troll’s jaw, sliding effortlessly up and up into the great creature’s brain. Elerian staggered, as if he had received a blow from a club as Acris drank deep of his power. Releasing the sword’s hilt, he stumbled to his right as the Troll fell full length onto the bridge with a loud thud, making the planks that formed the roadbed tremble. A moment later, Elerian fell beside him, becoming visible once more when he sent away his ring. As from a great distance, he heard triumphant shouting before powerful hands and arms seized his body and lifted him into the air.

“I wonder if Ascilius is still alive,” was his last thought before a black curtain fell before his eyes. 

It seemed only a moment later when someone gently but persistently shook Elerian’s right shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw Falco’s concerned face bending over him.

“Can you set fire to the bridge, Elerian,” he asked anxiously. “Only mage fire will destroy it in time. I have tried to rouse Ascilius, but he will not open his eyes.”

Slowly sitting up, Elerian saw that he was near the bridgehead on the west bank of the Caldus. When he looked at the bridge, he saw that the temporary roadway the Dwarves had built was now covered with the dark, active forms of Mordi seeking to fight their way through the packed ranks of the Dwarves opposing them at the bridgehead with swords and linked shields. Thousands more Wood Goblins and hundreds of mounted Urucs waited on the east bank, ready to spill over the bridge if their fellows broke through the Dwarf ranks.

Groping at his belt, Elerian fumbled with his water bottle before pulling the cork and tipping it to his mouth. Only a few drops of aqua vitae rolled onto his tongue, but they were enough. New strength flowed through his veins, and he was able to stand on his feet once more. Calling his ring to his left hand, he vanished. Then, running lightly to the right of the Dwarves who were battling the Wood Goblins, he climbed over the dike before circling to his left until he was close enough to touch one of the bridge supports that rested on the riverbank. Trusting to his invisibility spell to keep him safe, Elerian ignored the Mordi who were only a few feet away from him as he touched the fingers of his right hand to the timber. Red flames sprang up where his fingers had pressed against the wood. Spreading with unnatural swiftness, the magical fire raced along the underside of the bridge, hungrily devouring the wood supports.

Retreating behind the dike, Elerian watched as the crimson flames spread into the planking. Filled with sudden panic as flames leaped up under their feet, the Mordi packed onto the bridge abandoned their weapons and hastily leapt into the river where many of them were slain by steel crossbow quarrels shot at them by the Dwarves standing on either side of Elerian. The magical fire he had started became an inferno, roaring like a hungry beast as it devoured the bridge. With startling suddenness, the flaming structure collapsed into the river, taking the mage fire with it. Steam rose from the swift moving surface of the river as the fire died, rising above the blackened stone piers that were all that remained of the bridge.

“We are safe for the moment, but Acris now lies at the bottom of the river,” thought Elerian wearily to himself. “I hope that I can retrieve it when my strength returns.”

Leaving Falco organize the defense of the west bank, Elerian went searching for Ascilius. He found him not far from the bridgehead, awake now and leaning on his hammer as if it was a staff, his face pale, weary, and lined with care, as if he had suddenly aged years in the space of a few moments. He failed to so much as flinch when Elerian sent away his ring and suddenly appeared in front of him, proof of his extreme weariness.

“You picked a fine time to take a nap,” said Elerian in a gentle attempt at humor. “I had to kill the second Troll and burn the bridge by myself.”

“Then you have finally done something useful,” retorted Ascilius at once. For a long moment, he and Elerian looked each other over, as if seeking to reassure themselves that the other was unharmed.

“You look terrible,” observed Elerian after a moment.

“I feel terrible,” admitted Ascilius wryly. “I have only just now come to my senses. You would not happen to have any more of the aqua vitae that you gave to Eonis would you?”

“I drank the last of it,” said Elerian regretfully. “I will make more when I feel stronger. I hope that we may both rest for a bit now that we have crossed the river.”

As if the same thought had crossed both their minds, Elerian and Ascilius both looked across the Caldus. Under Falco’s direction, the Dwarves behind the dike on their side of the river were firing their crossbows at the Goblins, the deadly hail of steel darts forcing the enemy to retreat back behind the protection of the dike on the east side of the river. Behind the dike, out of range of the quarrels, Elerian could see a company of mounted Urucs. Both the Goblin cavalry and their infantry had suffered losses, but they remained a force to be reckoned with. Beating vast, leathery wings, a dark winged shape suddenly rose into the air above the Urucs, causing their high-strung atriors to shift and fidget. Banking to the south, the lentulus flew speedily away, carrying news of yet another defeat to Sarius, the commander of the Goblin army. As the lentulus vanished into the distance, Elerian turned his gaze to the dike on the west bank of the river, noting how the Dwarf ranks had been thinned by the fierce fighting.

“Is Durio alive?” he asked Ascilius when he saw no sign of the old warrior.

“One of the Dwarves who fought by his side told me that he is dead, as is Tonare,” replied Ascilius somberly.

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Elerian quietly.

Ascilius shrugged. “I do not mourn his passing, for he was old and alone and he died a noble death. It was as much as any warrior could hope for at the end of his years. It is the loss of the young people that both saddens and wearies me, Elerian. Perhaps it is my age, or maybe Fulmen has drained me overmuch, but I am suddenly weary of war and the grief that it brings. I wish the peaceful days of my youth would return when the Elf king sat on his throne and there was order in the Middle Realm.”

“I, too, have had my fill of war,” said Elerian quietly, overcome by a deep melancholy as he remembered the child taken and slain by Zaleuc. His sadness was in no way lessened by the death of the Uruc. “It is good that the Goblin will slay no one else, but his passing does not lessen the harm that he has done or the pain that he has dealt out to those around him,” thought Elerian sadly to himself.

A RISKY UNDERTAKING

 “Let us look for Eonis,” said Ascilius, interrupting Elerian’s somber thoughts. “The same Dwarf who gave me the news of Durio’s death said that he is so badly injured that the healers were afraid to send him on with the wagons.”

After a short walk north on the forest road, Ascilius and Elerian found the old king in a small meadow that opened up on the right of the highway, only a short distance from the bridge. He was lying on a bed of blankets, blood seeping from his nose and mouth from a blow to his chest inflicted by the hammer of the Troll that he had fought. His two sons were by his side, pale and worried, but uninjured.

“I fear my days have come to an end, for the healers say that they can do nothing for me,” said Eonis when he saw Ascilius and Elerian approach. “I will join Durio soon, nephew, in the halls of our forefathers.”

“You will have a high place among them,” said Ascilius, taking his uncle’s hand. With death approaching, it seemed to Elerian that the old animosity between them had faded away.

“Can you not help him?” Cordus suddenly asked Elerian. “I have heard that you are a healer as well as a warrior.”

“No!” said Ascilius emphatically to Elerian. “You are already spent. Neither you nor my uncle would survive an attempt to heal him in your weakened state.”

“There may be a way to augment my strength,” said Elerian quietly. Turning to Cordus and Cyricus he said, “Bring me any healers who are willing to help save the king.” The young Dwarves ran off at once, returning quickly with three older Dwarves wearing mail and helmets but carrying no weapons.

“All three of these healers are willing to help,” said Cyricus breathlessly to Elerian.

Drawing Acer from his belt, Elerian briefly touched the point of the blade to the tip of the forefinger of his right hand. A sharp stinging sensation was followed by the flow of blood as the magical blade opened a shallow cut on his fingertip.

“Heal this cut,” said Elerian to the three Dwarves.

Muttering among themselves at the strangeness of the request, all three Dwarves touched Elerian’s hand with the forefingers of their right hands. Opening his third eye, Elerian saw a tide of golden light spill from their fingers, but instead of healing his cut, the spells cast by the Dwarves flowed into his ring of power which absorbed them like parched earth soaking up rain. Closing his magical eye, Elerian saw puzzlement in the dark eyes of the Dwarves, for the cut on Elerian’s finger remained open despite the combined efforts of all three healers to close it. Opening his third eye again, Elerian saw that his silver ring was now at the center of a gleaming band of golden light that continued to swell and grow around it.

“It is enough,” thought Elerian to himself, but a strange lassitude now gripped him, making him reluctant to stop the flow of power into his ring. “Take it all,” whispered a part of his mind, fallen victim to the rapture created by his swelling power. “Let your strength grow and grow until none can stand before you, not even Torquatus himself.”

Shaken by what he felt, Elerian suddenly pulled his hand away from the Dwarves, ending the flow of their power into his ring. Closing his third eye, he felt a surge of guilt when he saw how pale their faces looked.

“They would have given until they died out of loyalty to their king,” thought Elerian to himself, now thoroughly alarmed at how close he had come to killing all three Dwarves. He had deliberately weakened his ring when he made it, but he realized now that it was foolish to think that it would ever be completely under his control.

“There is an allure to power that exceeds even that of gold,” he thought to himself. “I see now that the firmest will cannot resist it forever, for it will gnaw away at the mind like a worm chewing at the heart of some mighty tree, slowly weakening it until it is laid low.”

Clearing his mind, Elerian laid his right hand on the Eonis’s chest. Opening his third eye, he saw a flood of bright golden light spill from his fingertips as he sent a healing spell, made strong by the plentiful power now residing in his ring, into the old warrior. Lost in the healing process, Elerian stood motionless, unaware of the passage of time or of those standing around him. The Dwarves lacked the mage sight that would have enabled them to see Elerian’s spell at work, but they all noted how the blood suddenly ceased to flow from Eonis’s bearded lips, and new life animated his old, dark eyes.

“Who are you?” Eonis asked in wonder when Elerian finally took his hand away and came back to himself. “No human can work magic without staff or wand.”

“I am a friend,” said Elerian with a mysterious smile. Turning to the healers, he said quietly, “Take me to those who are in the gravest danger of losing their life from their wounds.” Over the objections of Ascilius, Elerian followed the three Dwarves out into the meadow, leaving Ascilius to sit with his uncle. Several hours later, tired but comforted by the lives that he had saved, Elerian left the healers.

“At least some good came of the power that I took,” he thought to himself as he walked back toward the place where he had left Ascilius and Eonis. Halfway there, he was met by Ascilius, looking much refreshed and carrying a laden leather pack. He seemed to have shaken off the somber mood that had gripped him earlier.

“Sit with me,” he said to Elerian before leading the way to a tall, stout oak growing at the side of the Dwarf road that ran north from the burnt out bridge. “Let us take some rest and refreshment.” Sitting himself on a great root, Ascilius opened his pack, which contained bread, cheese, dried meat, and wine. “The wine is from my uncle’s own personal store,” said Ascilius cheerfully. “Lucky for us he is freer with his vintages than his gold.”

“We are indeed fortunate,” said Elerian gravely as he took a sip of the excellent wine Ascilius poured out for him in a wooden mug.

“We have done well tonight, much better than I expected,” said Ascilius between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. “All the wagons are on the north road. The ponies that draw them are tired and will need to rest from time to time, but by midday, they should all be safely across the Catalus and out of reach of the Goblins.”

“What about the Goblins across the river?” asked Elerian. “Won’t they cross over the Caldus and cause more delays as soon your Dwarves abandon the dike?”

“Not all of us are leaving now,” replied Ascilius quietly. “I am staying behind with a group of volunteers to hold the river against the Goblins through the night and into the morning. When the sun is high in the sky and we are certain that the last wagon is safe we will abandon our defenses. If luck favors us, we will reach the bridge over the Catalus ahead of the Goblin army.”

Before Elerian could comment on Ascilius’s plan, a terrible scream rent the night, coming from the meadow on the far side of the Caldus.

“What was that?” asked Elerian, springing to his feet.

“Come with me and I will show you,” said Ascilius grimly as he also rose to his feet. Walking down the center of the road, the Dwarf led the way to the burned out bridge. When they were in sight of the dike on the far side of the river, Elerian saw that numerous small fires had sprung up in the meadow behind it. His night wise eyes revealed in horrible detail the grisly scenes that were in progress around them. Roasting on wooden spits over the fires were the bodies of the Dwarves that the Wood Goblins had slain and then dragged away during the battle earlier that night.

A second scream suddenly shattered the quiet of the night, drawing Elerian’s attention to an enormous bonfire in the center of the meadow that had been built of whole logs. Around it, for their own delight and to torment the Dwarves across the river, the Mordi were torturing the Dwarves they had taken alive.

“We must rescue those poor fellows around that fire,” said Elerian agitatedly to Ascilius as more screams full of pain and despair made the night hideous.

“There is nothing we can do for them,” said Ascilius grimly. “You can be sure that the dike across the river is well guarded even if we cannot see the sentries. If we crossed the Caldus now, we would be captured at once and take our own place around that bonfire.”

“It does not seem right to put our own safety ahead of the misery of those poor wretches,” said Elerian stubbornly. He winced as another scream rang out across the river.

“I will say it again. There is nothing that you can do,” replied Ascilius firmly. “War is full of difficult choices. Our task now is to hold the dike to the exclusion of all else.”

Despite Ascilius’s commonsense arguments, an obstinate look remained on Elerian’s face, and it suddenly seemed to the Dwarf that a sharp rap on his companion’s head with Fulmen’s handle might be a prudent precaution. If he was rendered unconscious, Elerian could not get himself into trouble. As if anticipating Ascilius’s intent, Elerian suddenly disappeared when he called his silver ring to his right hand.

“Stop, you halfwit!” said Ascilius angrily as he wildly swung his arms about, hoping to make contact with and seize Elerian before he could run off. His fingers, however, closed only on empty space.

“Calm down,” said Elerian’s voice from behind Ascilius. “I am only going to retrieve Acris from the bottom of the river.” Elerian’s shield, Rasor, and his mailed shirt suddenly appeared on the ground by the Dwarf’s feet, cast there by Elerian.

“Be a good fellow and watch these for me,” said Elerian’s disembodied voice.

“Do not cross over to the meadow,” said Ascilius urgently, but he received no reply. He listened carefully, hoping for some slight sound that would guide him to Elerian, but all he heard were the screams of the poor captives across the Caldus.

“He is planning to do more than retrieve his sword,” thought Ascilius worriedly to himself. “I can feel it in my bones.”

By this time, Elerian had already climbed over the dike and was standing on the riverbank, safe from Ascilius’s interference. Casting a shape-changing spell, he felt his body flow like water into a new form. When he sent away his invisibility ring, a supple brown otter appeared on the riverbank, Acer clenched between its sharp teeth, for Elerian was unable to send the knife to join his rings and clothes in that mysterious, otherworldly place where he kept his spell books. After filling his lungs with air, Elerian slipped into the river, leaving behind only a slight ripple of water when he dove smoothly beneath the surface of the swift flowing water.

Because the water was murky from the recent rains, Elerian opened his third eye so that he could guide himself through the dark water around him. Viewed with his mage sight, the watery world around him went from dark to light, appearing to him as a river of liquid silver. Flashing through the bright water were golden shades of various sizes, the scaly residents of the river. Swimming among them were red shapes, the shades of the hunters. A long, lean form the size of Elerian’s own body finned lazily in his direction. Elerian was not afraid of the lupatis, but out of caution, he dove for the river bottom anyway, hiding in the long, green waterweeds growing in the riverbed.

“What else lurks down here?” Elerian wondered to himself as he slipped sinuously through the weed beds, which appeared as long, waving green strands to his magical eye.

In the middle of the river, where the current was strongest, the weeds ended. Here, Elerian saw two massive, dark shapes lying on the darker river bottom, the Trolls that he and Ascilius had slain. Fortune favored him, for the Troll he had killed with Acris had ended up on its back. With his webbed front paws, Elerian tugged his sword from the Troll’s stony body. Although he had intended only to retrieve Acris when he entered the river, pity for the Dwarves being tortured by the Goblins held him where he was for a long moment. Then, ignoring Ascilius’s warnings, he half-swam half-crawled toward the east bank of the river, fighting the strong current as he dragged Acris through the water with his front paws.

“After all,” thought Elerian to himself, “I never said what I would do after I retrieved Acris.”

When he crawled onto the east bank, Elerian saw that the current had carried him downstream past the eastern edge of the meadow and into the forest. Crouching low to the ground, he probed the wood around him with all his senses, but eyes, ears, and nose all told him that there was no one nearby. Even though he had no plan, it seemed to Elerian that luck had favored him thus far, so he cautiously dragged Acris into the trees with his teeth before transforming back into his natural shape. After sheathing Acris and Rasor, he called his silver ring to his right hand, hoping that none of the Goblins in the meadow possessed mage sight. Invisible once more, he crept to the edge of the meadow. With his night wise eyes, he saw that a line of Wood Goblins was crouched out of sight behind the dike on his right, ready to capture any Dwarves who might try to rescue their unfortunate brethren who were being tortured around the bonfire. There seemed to be no other sentries about, so Elerian ran lightly out onto the meadow, as quiet as the night wind. Angling to his left, he cautiously approached the bonfire, keeping a wary eye on a half dozen canigrae that skulked about the edges of the shifting pool of light cast by its yellow-orange flames. Elerian feared them more than the Mordi, for his invisibility ring was no protection against their keen noses.

Creeping on hands and knees, he approached as closely as he dared to the bonfire, the screams of the Dwarves who were being tortured rousing both anger and pity in his breast. From a distance of several hundred feet, he looked helplessly at the ghastly scene before him. Red flames leaped into the air casting shifting shadows on the Wood Goblins and their hapless prisoners, first obscuring and then suddenly revealing terrible scenes of torment that carried Elerian back to his years in the Goblins’ iron mines. Around one stake, a group of slender Mordi was gleefully removing the skin from a naked Dwarf an inch at a time with their sharp knives. Farther on another group tormented a bound and screaming Dwarf with burning brands. A third group of Mordi was roasting a Dwarf alive on a spit that had been erected over a bed of orange coals.