The Dwarf Kingdoms (Book 5) (8 page)

“It sounds like a simple enough task,” said Elerian lightly.

“Impossible describes it better,” replied Ascilius grimly. “Try not to get yourself killed,” he concluded brusquely.

“Would you miss me if I did not come back?” asked Elerian slyly.

“Does one miss a splinter after it is plucked from one’s finger?” asked Ascilius gruffly. “I simply would not like to bring Anthea the news of your demise.”Ascilius and Elerian both fell silent as they grasped each other's right forearms with their right hands in farewell, their firm grip conveying better than any words the affection and respect they felt for each other but would not voice aloud. Turning to the Dwarves who would follow Elerian, Ascilius said sternly, “Obey his orders as you would my own. Remember, if you fail to take and hold the entrance to the fortress, all is lost.”

“We will not fail you my lord,” said Falco. All around him, the eyes of his troop gleamed with determination and many voices softly expressed the same sentiment. Ascilius at once began to ascend the ramp with his company of Dwarves.

Lighting a single, dim mage light for illumination, Elerian stepped through the doorway that led into the large, circular chamber that surrounded the central ramp. He waited there surrounded by darkness and a profound silence while Falco and the rest of the company assembled around him.

THE BATTLE FOR THE GATE

 “Stay close,” said Elerian softly to Falco when everyone had left the ramp. With a light, silent stride, he crossed the chamber in front of him, heading for the doorway that was opposite the ramp entrance as Ascilius had directed him to do. His dim light revealed the debris left by a battle on the floor: broken arrows, shivered swords, and dented shields and helmets, but nowhere was there any sign of bodies. All too familiar with the Goblins’ and mutares’ fondness for flesh, it was not difficult for Elerian to guess the fate of those slain in the battle.

When he neared the exit that he had selected, Elerian saw that the heavy steel doors that had sealed the doorway before him were open, burst inward and hanging from massive, twisted hinges. The sight troubled Elerian.

“Even if I secure the gates, how long can I keep them closed if the enemy has a ram of this potency?” he wondered to himself as he set off down the passageway beyond the ruined portal, his small company of Dwarves following closely behind him. They were no doubt doing their best to emulate his own shadowy footsteps, but Elerian clearly heard the tramp of their boots and the occasional creak of their gear. Even their breathing seemed overly loud to him, and at any moment, he expected an alarm to ring out from the rooms that lined both sides of the tunnel, their broken windows resembling dark empty eyes. Behind Elerian, the Dwarves were equally on edge, holding their weapons tightly in their powerful hands and starting now and then when one of the moving shadows cast by Elerian’s mage light appeared to take on the form of a stealthy Wood Goblin or a hulking mutare. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Elerian could not help but sigh over the lost opportunity to frighten the nervous Dwarves following him.

“I could scatter them like a covey of partridges with the right illusion,” he thought regretfully to himself, a hard, predatory gleam suddenly lighting his clear gray eyes.

The sight, in the distance, of the entrance to the great hall that lay before the gate to the castella immediately brought Elerian’s mind back to the business at hand. He extinguished his mage light, but the passageway he stood in was not plunged into darkness as he expected. Instead, a faint, reddish hued light visible through the entranceway to the hall gave his night wise eyes more than enough light to see by. The sight of the Dwarves following him was not so acute, but they still saw well enough to follow Elerian to the entryway without jostling each other or tripping over the debris that littered the floor of the passageway, the remains of yet another fierce battle.

When Elerian reached the doorway, he saw that its gates had been wrenched open like those of the ramp chamber. Stepping cautiously past them, he saw that a few red mage lights hung from the thick, unadorned pillars which supported the stone ceiling of the hall, casting the faint light that he had first seen from the passageway behind him. Nothing stirred in the huge chamber, and the only sound Elerian heard with his keen ears was the subdued breathing of the Dwarves behind him. When he turned his head and looked over his left shoulder, he felt an involuntary shiver course through his body, for the Dwarves and all that they wore or carried had taken on a ghastly crimson hue as if the whole company had suddenly been drenched blood.

“It is only the mage lights,” Elerian reassured himself, but the sight continued to haunt him, for it seemed a bad omen for the future. “We are too few for this work,” thought Elerian grimly to himself. “Ascilius should have taken a larger force despite the risks it would have presented. If the entryway to the fortress is not as lightly guarded as he supposed, the portent I just saw might easily come true.”

Shaking off his doubts, Elerian looked instead at the far side of the hall where two steel doors, each ten feet wide and twelve high, stood wide open. They were flanked on either side by the smaller doors that led into guardrooms carved into the outer wall of the great hall. Beyond the inner gates, at the end of a passageway about thirty feet long, Elerian could see the buckled outer doors of the castella, burst apart by some irresistible force.

Through the outer entrance to the fortress, Elerian could see a small portion of the night sky, strewn with countless, bright stars, for it was now well past midnight. He turned to face Falco and the rest of the Dwarves. Their dark eyes gleamed redly in the faint light of the hall as they waited quietly for his orders. If they had any doubts about his ability to lead them, it did not show in their grim faces.

“Let us begin,” whispered Elerian to Falco. “Follow me quick and quiet as you can.”

Drawing Acris out of its sheath, Elerian began to move across the dimly lit hall on silent feet. He expected an alarm to ring out at any moment, but amazingly, the hall remained deathly quiet except for the small noises made by the Dwarves behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the inner gates without being discovered. Motioning Falco and the others to wait, Elerian glided past the inner doors, which did not seem badly damaged despite having been forced open. The outer gates were another matter. They would never close again, for they were bowed inward, and their hinges were bent and twisted.

Taking a risk, for he did not know if someone would see his spell, Elerian called his silver ring to his right hand. With his magical third eye, he saw a tide of golden light spill from the ring, covering him from head to toe. Invisible, now, to normal sight, he stepped silently past the outer gates into the open, breathing deeply of the sweet night air. Looking quickly to his left, Elerian saw no one, but when he turned his head to the right, he saw a single Goblin sentry dressed in black leather armor sitting on a small wooden bench and staring straight ahead with a bored, sullen expression on his thin, pale face. Elerian approached the Wood Goblin on silent feet, but some hidden sense must have warned him that an enemy was about, for he suddenly sprang erect and drew his black bladed sword. Before he could make any outcry, Elerian grimly slid the keen point of Acris through his throat with a single swift thrust, the flash of light from the argentum inlaid in its blade concealed by his ring’s invisibility spell. As the Mordi dropped lifeless to the ground, Elerian waited anxiously to see if anyone had noticed the guard’s death, but the night around him remained still and silent.

Sheathing his sword, Elerian propped the Goblin back up on the bench in a lifelike pose, resting his back against the outer wall of the castella. Then, after passing through the outer gates, he sent away his ring before returning to where Falco and the others were waiting. Falco immediately came close and whispered in his ear.

“I heard voices behind both doors when I put my ear to them.”

“Leave enough Dwarves here to close and bar the inner gate,” replied Elerian softly. “Of those who remain, let us each take half. I will lead an assault on the room on the right while you and your Dwarves secure the room on the left.”

“Luck to you Elerian,” whispered Falco, accepting his orders without argument. Quickly and quietly, Falco divided his small company as Elerian had instructed him. Ten were left behind to close the gates. Nineteen went to Elerian. The remaining twenty went to Falco.

When everyone stood ready with his weapon drawn, Elerian approached the guardroom door on the right, wondering uneasily what he would find inside. With his left hand, he gave the door a slight, experimental push. It was unlocked and swung easily inward on silent hinges. Thrusting mightily with his left shoulder, Elerian suddenly pushed the door wide open and leaped into the room beyond it.

In the center of the chamber, he saw a dozen pale faced Mordi in black leather armor lounging on wooden benches around a rough table, heedless of keeping guard. They started and gaped at him in surprise when the door cracked loudly against the stone wall on his left. Before they could rise from their seats, Elerian rushed at them, gleaming Acris upraised in his right hand. Flashing white fire at each stroke, his sword slid effortlessly through the hapless Goblins’ leather armor as he stabbed right and left, each stroke quick and deadly as a lightning strike. Three Goblins fell in quick succession to Acris’s gleaming blade before the rest of the Mordi were able to spring up from their benches and flee up the open, circular stair that ringed the room, leading to a door that stood about sixteen feet above the floor. The crowd of grim faced Dwarves who had come storming into the room behind Elerian jostled and pushed each other as they pursued the Mordi up the steep, narrow stairs, each of them determined to have his fair share of Goblin blood. As Elerian watched, they all disappeared through the doorway at the top of the stairs, some of them nosily bellowing war cries while other called for the Goblins to stand and fight.

“Is it possible that our task will be so easily accomplished?” wondered Elerian to himself as he stood alone in a room suddenly grown empty. He looked around him and saw that a store of weapons was stacked along the walls. Over a fire in the fireplace set in the right hand wall, a large black iron pot bubbled merrily. Elerian shuddered to think what might be cooking there. He was on the point of leaving the guardroom to check on the progress of the Dwarves charged with closing the gates when he was suddenly distracted by shouts and the ring of steel coming through the doorway at the top of the stairs. The urgent notes of a Dwarf horn calling for help cut through the clamor and then were abruptly stilled.

“What could have gone wrong?” wondered Elerian to himself, for the Dwarves had outnumbered the unarmed, fleeing Goblins nearly two to one. A tremendous bass roar suddenly assaulted his ears, followed by a rush of panicked Dwarves through the doorway at the top of the stairs, all of them jostling and pushing each other as they fought to reach the bottom of the staircase.

“This is not good,” thought Elerian to himself, for he had never seen a Dwarf run away from a fight before and wondered what could have inspired such panic among them. He hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to see if the gate was secured and the need to deal with the threat from above. Hoping that he was making the right decision, he pushed his way up the stairs, staying to the left where he could brace himself against the wall and squeeze past the panicked Dwarves rushing past him. When he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, there was still a small huddle of Dwarves, either more courageous or more foolish than their fellows, standing in the doorway. They were looking fearfully off to their left, but Elerian could not see what they were staring at because of the doorframe. Taking a firmer grip on Acris, he pushed his way through them, wondering what awful thing awaited him beyond the doorway.

The Dwarves gladly gave way before him, their faces grim and frightened. After he was through the doorway, Elerian found himself on a twenty-foot wide walkway that ran to his left, toward the second guardroom. Narrow arrow slits cut into the outside wall of the walkway allowed the starlight outside the walls of the fortress to enter and illuminate the passageway. Standing about five feet away, Elerian saw the broad back of a single Dwarf, standing with his upraised ax grimly clenched in his right hand and a badly dented shield on his left arm.

“This fellow had the courage of a lion,” thought Elerian to himself, for another fifteen feet past the Dwarf stood the massive figure of a Troll, his fierce eyes glowing like green lamps in the semi darkness filling the walkway. Easily nine feet tall, he towered over the pack of Goblins and mutare standing behind him. He wore only a black leather tunic of hardened leather that left his arms and legs bare, revealing knotted muscles like granite beneath his pale, greenish skin. Both of his massive, bloodstained hands were clenched into fists, and the broken bodies of three Dwarves lay at his bare feet. Elerian guessed he had probably come out of the guardroom on the far side of the gate after being alerted to the presence of enemies by the Goblins who had escaped up the stairs.

“I hope Falco and his crew were not all destroyed by this creature,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he advanced with a light step toward the Dwarf standing before him. When he bent down and spoke softly into his left ear, the Dwarf started badly, turning a face toward Elerian that was pale with fear but still resolute, his craggy features exhibiting the stubborn courage of his race in the face of adversity.

“This enemy is beyond you,” said Elerian softly. “Fall back to the door and encourage the others. If I slay this creature stand ready to aid me, for I will need your help.”

Bearing in mind Ascilius’s instructions to obey Elerian in all matters, the Dwarf reluctantly retreated to the doorway, leaving him alone to face the Troll, Acris gleaming bright in his right hand, and his shield on his left arm.

Taking him for a man because of the illusion which disguised him, some of the Goblins began to laugh and shout insults at Elerian. Others among them urged the Troll to attack him, for the smell of fresh blood had distracted their fearsome ally who now seemed more inclined to tear at and devour the flesh of the Dwarves he had slain rather than to continue fighting. The red gore pooling around the Dwarves lying on the stone floor of the passageway was also having its effect on the mutare who began to leap into the air, howling like beasts as bloodlust overwhelmed their simple minds.

“I must thank Ascilius for giving me this task if I live to see him again,” thought Elerian wryly to himself as the Troll, spurred on by the cries of the Mordi, turned his fierce eyes in his direction, forgetting for the moment the blood and flesh around its feet that called to its savage appetite.

Elerian suddenly pointed Acris at the Troll, hoping to cast a destruction spell at the creature, but the Troll was old and well versed in the ways of mages. Moving with a speed that was astounding in so large a creature, he leaped toward Elerian, hands outstretched to seize and crush him into bloody pulp. Abandoning any thoughts of magic for the moment, Elerian waited tensely, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. At the last moment, he darted to his left, hoping the Troll would rush by him, but the great creature stopped short, sending a backhanded stroke his way with its right hand. Elerian crouched down under the blow, the bottom of the Troll’s hand grazing the top of his steel cap as it passed over him. As the mighty arm of the Troll swung past him, Elerian raised himself to his full height, and balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, stabbed Acris upward into the Troll’s exposed right side below the rib cage. When the bright blade slid into his stony flesh, the Troll howled in pain and surprise before speedily springing away to his left, falling over onto his left side in his haste to escape Acris’s bitter bite. Still lying on his side, black blood flowing from his wound to fall steaming onto the floor of the passageway, the Troll kicked at Elerian with his right leg.