The Dwarf Kingdoms (Book 5) (9 page)

The immensely powerful blow would have broken his body in half had it landed, but he sprang lithely high into the air, the Troll’s great, clawed foot passing beneath the soles of his feet. Like an acrobat at a fair, Elerian tucked his head down, describing a complete arc in the air and landing feet first in front of the Troll’s upper body. Still lying on its left side, the Troll immediately darted out his right hand, his thick, clawed fingers seeking Elerian’s throat, but Elerian stepped quickly to his right, the Troll’s grasping hand shooting past his left shoulder. Wrapping both hands around the silver hilt of Acris, Elerian raised the sword high into the air before bringing it edge down with all his strength on the Troll’s exposed head. The white flash of the argentum inlaid in the sword’s blade lit the Troll's startled face as Acris sheered through his bony, hairless skull, killing him instantly when the sword’s keen blade cut deep into his brainpan.

The sudden drain on his power from the killing stroke felt like a physical blow to Elerian, almost as if the Troll had landed one of its tremendous blows on the top of his head, for Acris had drunk deep of his magical power in order to cleave the creature’s stony flesh. Releasing Acris’s hilt, he fell to his knees and his sight grew dim. Around him there was a moment of stunned silence as Goblins, mutare, and Dwarves all stared with unbelieving eyes at the mighty form of the fallen Troll. As if from a great distance, Elerian heard the groans and angry cries of the Goblins and mutare as they surveyed their slain champion. Then, the pack of mutare suddenly surged forward, hoping to rend Elerian with teeth and claws as he wavered helplessly on his knees before the slain Troll.

The tale of his adventures would have ended there, but with a mighty cheer the Dwarves in the doorway, led by the stalwart champion who had faced the Troll alone, suddenly surged forward. Some covered Elerian with their shields while others attacked the mutare and the Mordi urging them on. For long moments, the fighting swirled back and forth around Elerian, but then, the rest of the Dwarf company emerged from the stairway. Recovered from their first panic at seeing the Troll and spurred on by the cries of their comrades, they rushed into the fray, their deadly ax and hammer strokes pushing the Goblins and their savage allies back toward the doorway of the second gate room. A second group of Dwarves led by Falco suddenly burst from that doorway and fell on the enemy from behind with devastating effect.

Cries of despair rose from the Goblins and mutare as they were attacked from both sides. Those of the Mordi who carried horns leaned out through the arrow slits in the outside wall and blew harsh blasts out into the night, seeking to warn their army that the castella was under attack. Roused by the sound of the horns, Elerian struggled to his feet, pushing away the Dwarves who were still intent on shielding him. Seeing that the battle was now going against the Goblins and their allies, his one thought now was for the gate to the fortress.

Seizing Acris in his right hand, he pulled the sword free of the Troll’s stony flesh before speeding back down the stairs. A handful of Dwarves followed him, the only ones willing to tear themselves away from the battle on the walkway. When Elerian emerged from the guardroom, he found that the Dwarves he had left behind had managed to push only the left hand door of the gate closed. Normally a Dwarf door, no matter how large, was so cleverly hung that a light thrust would move it, but the hinges of the right hand door were twisted, and it was resisting the every effort of the Dwarves to close it. 

“Another setback Ascilius did not anticipate,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he laid his right shoulder against the gate, as did the Dwarves who had followed him. As they strained mightily together, the heavy steel door slowly swung closed on squealing hinges. Elerian and the Dwarves now looked in vain for a way to secure the doorway, but the shot pins mounted on the doors were broken, and the brackets for the crossbar were a twisted ruin as was the crossbar which lay upon the floor before the gates. Outside the fortress, Elerian suddenly heard the harsh blare of war horns, signaling that the Goblin army was finally aware of the attack on the castella.

 “How can we secure the gates?” asked one of the Dwarves of Elerian in a desperate voice. “There is nothing left that will hold them closed.”

Stand back,” said Elerian firmly as he raised his right hand. Casting a fire spell, he watched with his third eye as a golden orb flew from his fingers, striking the center of the gate. Scarlet flames leaped up, expanding and contracting like a live thing over the narrow gap between the doors. A golden cloak of light overlaid the flames, attached to Elerian’s hand by a thin thread of light having the same hue.

Drawing on the power stored in the silver ring of power on his right hand, Elerian fed the magical flames, at the same time allowing their fierce heat to penetrate the steel beneath them. He felt his ring grow warm on his finger as the edges of both doors turned red orange and the bitter smell of heated metal filled the air. Abruptly the steel gave up its rigidity, the molten metal flowing together and welding the gates shut. Exhausted, blanketed by the withering heat issuing from the gates, Elerian wavered on his feet as he extinguished the mage fire. One of the Dwarves behind him immediately rushed up to support him by the shoulders before dragging him back, away from the gates. Someone else thrust a water bottle filled with wine into Elerian’s right hand from which he drank deeply.

With the strong wine coursing through his veins, Elerian stood on his own two feet again and critically surveyed the still smoking gates. He saw with satisfaction that they were immovable now unless some greater magic should break them apart, or some tremendous physical force wrenched them from their massive hinges.

The air was suddenly filled with hollow booms as heavy hammer strokes began thundering against the gate. When the doors held firm, the Dwarves gathered around Elerian cheered and slapped him on the back. Fearing that he would be pummeled to death by the heavy-handed Dwarves, Elerian hastily retreated into the guardroom to the right of the gate where he met Falco descending the stairway.

The usually impeccable Dwarf was stained with gore, and his helmet and shield were badly dented, but his irrepressible smile remained the same, lighting up his face when he saw Elerian.

“You have done it then,” he said approvingly. “Ascilius has demonstrated his wisdom once more by selecting you to secure the gate.”

“I could not have done it without the assistance of the brave Dwarves who helped me,” said Elerian modestly as he sat on one of the benches in the room, hoping for a moment of quiet to rest and regain his strength. “How goes the fighting,” he asked Falco.

“We slew all of the Mordi and mutare after you killed the Troll,” replied Falco, his dark eyes taking on a fierce light as he recalled the battle that had taken place in the passageway above the gates. “After separating their heads from their bodies, we cast them out through the arrow slits in the walls as a warning to their fellows. Most of my troops are now raining crossbow bolts down on the enemy forces gathered before the gate through the gratings set in the floor of the passageway. I think we can hold them back until they bring up a ram and better-armored troops, for there are plenty of crossbow quarrels here in the guardrooms. You should rest a bit while things are quiet,” he advised Elerian, for his shrewd eyes guessed at the weakness which still plagued him.

“I will take your advice if you sit with me for a moment,” replied Elerian with a smile.

“If you insist,” replied Falco, not bothering to hide his own weariness. He and Elerian walked to one of the wooden benches in the room and sat down side by side, facing the open door with Falco sitting on Elerian’s left. Elerian offered the Dwarf a sip of aqua vitae and did not neglect to take one himself when Falco passed his water bottle back.

“What happened in the other guardroom?” asked Elerian, who now felt almost like his old self after a drought of the potent drink.

“When we burst into it,” replied Falco, who was also feeling much refreshed, “we found a Troll sleeping in there along with a crowd of Goblins and mutare. I ordered everyone to retreat at once, for it would have been madness to fight a creature like that in a closed room. Instead of following us out into the great hall, however, the Troll and most of his fellows suddenly turned and dashed up the stairs that circled the wall of the guardroom. My lads and I soon dealt with those who were left behind. When we heard the sound of Dwarves cheering from above, we were encouraged to ascend the stairs. Seeing that the Troll was dead, we fell on the enemy from behind. By the time the last of them was slain, you had already gone to secure the gate, but the Dwarves who had stood by you told me about your fight with the Troll. You are already being described as a hero like those of the old days,” said Falco with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I am no hero,” protested Elerian. “It was Acris which the slew the Troll.”

“But it was your hand which directed the sword,” replied Falco firmly. “You are a hero whether you wish to be one or not,” he said clapping Elerian cheerfully on his left shoulder with his right hand.

Elerian winced and moved away from the Dwarf. “I shall be black and blue all over tomorrow from you and your heavy handed fellows,” he complained to Falco. “If this is how you treat your friends then I shudder to think of how you would treat your enemies.”

“You would be right to shudder,” replied Falco, his face suddenly grim and implacable. Then, cheerful again, he leaped to his feet. “Rest a bit more while you can,” he advised Elerian. “I will order the company in your stead, for your drink has quite restored me to myself.”

From the vantage point of his bench, Elerian watched approvingly as Falco quickly took charge, his good opinion of the Dwarf rising even higher as, under his direction, the Dwarves who had helped Elerian close the gates gathered up the ten members of the company who had been slain and laid them to rest in the guardroom to the left of the gate. The wounded Dwarves, of whom there were fifteen, were brought into the guardroom on the right. Refreshed by the aqua vitae that he had drunk, Elerian rose and began tending those who had the graver injuries. When he was done, he began to wonder how Ascilius was faring in the upper levels of the fortress.

 “Take charge here,” Elerian commanded Falco after seeking him out. “I am going to find Ascilius.”

“You ought to remain here as he ordered,” objected Falco worriedly.

“The gate is holding, and you have things well in hand here,” replied Elerian, taking up his shield. “If there is trouble, wind your horn and I will come back.”

“At least let me or one my Dwarves go with you, for you are not fully recovered,” insisted Falco.

“I feel well enough to go on alone thanks to my aqua vitae,” replied Elerian firmly. “Hold the gate until Ascilius calls for you to retreat.”

“I shall do as you wish,” said Falco reluctantly, “but I do not think this wise.”

“If I did only what was wise, I would not be here,” replied Elerian dryly, his gray eyes gleaming with amusement. Lighting a small mage light, he sprinted at once out of the guardroom and across the great hall outside. Driven by an increasing sense of urgency, he ran lightly down the passageway that led through the empty castella to the ramp. Surrounded by a thick darkness and a heavy silence, he ascended the ramp. When he reached the third level, Elerian paused to listen at the threshold of the open doors that gave access to the circular chamber that surrounded the ramp, but only silence greeted his ears.

“Ascilius and his Dwarves must be on the fourth level,” thought Elerian to himself as he turned and raced up the ramp again. When he reached the upper level of the castella, he heard the faint sound of fighting in the distance as soon as he stepped through the exit. Anxious to aid Ascilius, Elerian ran fleetly down the passageway that led away from the ramp toward the sounds of battle. Before he had gone far, he suddenly heard the sound of Dwarf horns, their melodious voices rendered harsh by the desperation of those who sounded them. Deeply worried now, wondering if he had arrived too late, Elerian ran even faster.

THE FOURTH LEVEL

After leaving Elerian to secure the gate to the castella, Ascilius and his Dwarves walked stealthily up the ramp to the doorway leading to the third level of the fortress. Extinguishing his mage light, Ascilius stepped through the open doors into the ramp hall. He found it as dark and quiet as a tomb.

“This level seems deserted as I expected,” thought Ascilius to himself. “If my luck holds, the rest of the castella will be empty, too. There is no reason for the Goblins to keep a large garrison here, for it would be pointless for the Dwarves of Galenus to try and retake the fortress.”

Returning to the ramp, he lit his mage light again before leading his silent company up to the fourth and last level. Again, the ramp hall was empty when Ascilius and his small company entered it, but Ascilius proceeded with caution just the same in case he was wrong about the final level being empty. Familiar with the plan of the fortress from previous visits to Galenus, he led his Dwarves to the passageway that led through the upper level of the fortress to the gate that opened onto the ridge road that ran toward Galenus. The streets and apartments on either side of the tunnel were dark and silent when Ascilius and his company crept past them, but when they approached the large chamber that lay at the end of the passageway, Ascilius saw the pale flicker of flames in the distance. The faint sound of carousing came to his ears, further evidence that the hall was occupied.

“I was wrong then,” was Ascilius’s disappointed thought. “We will have to fight after all.”

The hatred for Goblin kind that constantly smoldered in his heart suddenly flared up, driving all other thoughts from his mind. “I will smite them like iron on the anvil,” he thought to himself fiercely as he took a firmer grasp on Fulmen’s handle with his right hand. Extinguishing his mage light, Ascilius eagerly crept forward until he stood before the entranceway that led into the hall. Shrouded by the darkness which filled the passageway, he looked out into the chamber and was suddenly filled with consternation when he saw that it was crammed with hundreds of mutare. The flickering yellow-orange light cast by the flames of a large bonfire burning in the center of the room played across their savage, shaggy faces and animal like forms, illuminating them one moment and casting them into shadow the next. Coarse laughter, shouts, and snarls filled the air as the beast men tore at joints of half roasted meat or downed flagons of beer held in their hairy hands. Vigilance appeared to be the last thing on their minds, for none of the changelings was paying the least attention to the ramp doors or the exit to the hall whose doors were thrown open to the night. Ascilius was not surprised when he saw that there were no Urucs or Mordi in the chamber, for he knew that the Goblins and the mutare hated each other.

“The Goblins will be out in the courtyard beyond the exit,” he thought to himself. “There is nowhere for the mutare to go with the gate to the castella under guard, so they have left the changelings to their own devices. If I were not so pressed for time, I would leave the beast men to their carousing. The drink would drive them to fight among themselves soon enough, making them easy prey for my Dwarves.”

With a sigh of regret, Ascilius retreated quietly into the passageway behind him. His heart stirred with pride as the light from the bonfire behind him dimly illuminated the grim, bearded features of his Dwarves, for not one of their craggy faces betrayed the least hint of fear. Softly whispering instructions and words of encouragement, Ascilius assembled his company before the doors to the hall. At his signal, they rushed silently after him through the entranceway of the chamber just as the faint, harsh blast of Goblin horns drifted in through the outer doorway of the hall.

“Elerian has begun the battle for the front gate,” thought Ascilius to himself as he struck down startled, confused mutare right and left with Fulmen, wielding the heavy hammer as if it weighed nothing at all. Behind him, after spilling through the entranceway to the hall, his small company spread out in a thin line across the chamber, mercilessly striking down the bewildered changelings with their axes and hammers. Screams and roars, the clash of steel on steel, and shouts of encouragement and despair filled the hall, deafening the ears of the combatants.

At first it seemed to Ascilius that, aided by the element of surprise, his Dwarves might sweep the hall clean of the enemy, who were both unarmed and muddled with drink. The smell of blood, however, quickly roused the savage instincts of the mutare. Casting aside their food and drink, they fearlessly swarmed over individual Dwarves, pulling them down one at a time with the weight of their numbers before tearing them to pieces with their fangs and claws.

“Link shields,” roared Ascilius as the fierce resistance by the mutare began to take its toll on his company.

Putting aside their axes and hammers, the Dwarves closed ranks, overlapping their shield edges to form a wall of steel between them and the mutare. A savage, bloody struggle now ensued as the Dwarves continued their advance across the chamber, thrusting through the openings between their rounded shields with their short swords and knives at the mutare massed in front of them. Whenever some changeling, maddened by the smell of blood, leaped over the line of fighters, Ascilius, who had taken up a position behind the Dwarf line, sprang on him like a lion on its prey, crushing him to the ground with mighty blows of his hammer, a flash of white light briefly lighting the chamber like a lightning strike with each impact.

The battle seemed to last forever to Ascilius, but when he finally looked up during a lull in the fighting, he saw that his Dwarves had fought their way entirely across the great hall, pushing the surviving mutare out into the courtyard that lay outside the chamber. Packed closely together outside the doorway, the remaining changelings were pulling down anyone who stepped past the entranceway, effectively stopping the advance of Ascilius’s company.

“This will not do,” thought Ascilius anxiously to himself, for the thought of the Dwarf wagons advancing toward Galenus along the hidden road remained uppermost in his mind. If the gates of the city were not opened to receive them, he shuddered to think of what would happen to his people.

Impatiently shouldering past the Dwarves huddled in front of the doorway, Ascilius leaped into the pack of mutare assembled before the entranceway. Before they could lay their claws on him, he began to lay about him furiously with his hammer, clearing a small open space as crushed and broken bodies fell all around him. Unable to reach Ascilius because of his deadly hammer, the crafty mutare still standing around him pretended to be afraid and fell back. His wits clouded by a red haze of battle lust and a burning desire to clear the courtyard of the enemy, Ascilius pursued them instead of waiting for his Dwarves to emerge from the doorway, leaving his back and flanks unguarded.

When he was well away from the entranceway, half a dozen huge changelings suddenly turned and surrounded Ascilius. He felled one of them, but the rest all sprang on him together, bearing him to the ground under their great weight. The remaining mutare attacked the dismayed Dwarves who tried to come to Ascilius’s aid through the doorway, rending them with fang and claw and stopping their advance once more. Seeing that Ascilius was down and beyond hope of rescue, those Dwarves who had horns began to blow on them in a last desperate call for help.

When Elerian reached the entrance to the great hall, the stentorian notes of the horns rose above the din of battle that washed over him like a wave of discordant sound. He saw at once that Ascilius’s company was massed around the exit to the hall but was unable to advance because of the ferocious pack of mutare arrayed against them. There was no sign of Ascilius anywhere in the crowded ranks of the Dwarves.

“Where can he be?” wondered Elerian anxiously to himself as he ran across the chamber, lightly leaping over the bodies that were strewn about the floor without slowing his stride. The thought that his companion might have fallen in battle was like a knife thrust to his heart.

Upon reaching the Dwarves clustered in front of the doorway, Elerian leaped lithely high into the air so that he could see over them and the mutare who were blocking the entryway. Outside the hall, not far from the doorway, he had a brief view of mound of changelings resembling a furry, shifting blanket trying to tear and rend something pinned beneath them.

“I would bet my life that he is under that heap of mutare,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he landed lightly on the stone floor of the chamber. He shouted desperately at the Dwarves in front of him to make way, but the noise of the battle was such that they paid no heed. He tried to push through their tightly packed bodies but might have well as tried to push his way through a wall of stone.

“I have no other choice,” he thought grimly to himself as he leaped high into the air again. At the apex of his leap, drawing on his ring of power to increase the potency of his spell, he shouted, “Ruere!” at the same time pointing Acris in front of him. With his third eye, he saw the argentum inlaid in the sword’s polished blade gleam silvery white. A fist sized golden orb of light sped from Acris’s tip, striking the courtyard to the left of the mound of mutare who were doing their best to rend Ascilius limb from limb. As Elerian fell back, the floor of the hall shook, and the air was suddenly split by a deafening, cracking sound, as if a lightning bolt had suddenly struck the courtyard. The concussion from the explosion swept him and the Dwarves around him off their feet an instant before fragments of stone, violently torn from the floor of the courtyard by Elerian’s destruction spell, whizzed over their heads like deadly missiles, rebounding off the walls of the hall with sharp, cracking sounds.

His ears still deafened by the blast, Elerian leaped to his feet and ran lightly across the broad backs of the stunned Dwarves and mutare in front of him until he reached the pile of changelings he had seen earlier. The explosion appeared to have slain or stunned the whole group, for several of them were bleeding badly from the fragments of stone that had riddled their bodies and none of them was moving.

“Have I killed Ascilius, too?” wondered Elerian anxiously as he dropped his shield and thrust his left arm into the shaggy, stinking mound before him. When he felt around, his long fingers closed on a thick braid of hair. Elerian gave a mighty tug and immediately heard a familiar voice give vent to a roar of pain.

“He is still alive then,” was his relieved thought as Ascilius’s bearded face emerged from the mound of dead mutare, drawn into the open by Elerian’s strong grip on the right braid of his beard.

“Let go, you fool before you remove half my face,” howled Ascilius.

“He must be unharmed,” thought Elerian to himself as he released the furious Dwarf. “He is just as bad-tempered and unappreciative as he usually is.”

Shrugging off the bodies of the mutare, Ascilius climbed unsteadily to his feet. Red sparks floated in their depths of his dark eyes, but they had a dazed look to them, too, for the concussion from Elerian’s destruction spell had struck him like a hammer blow.

“Death to the Goblins,” he shouted, raising the hammer and shield that he still held in his powerful hands. Weaving slightly on his feet, he began to walk toward the entrance to the hall from which Elerian had just emerged.

“Wrong way,” said Elerian dryly as he turned his companion around to face the courtyard where the mutare who had survived the explosion were just regaining their feet.

“Death to the Goblins,” roared Ascilius again as he happily brought Fulmen down on the hairy skull of a wolf like mutare that was just regaining its feet. The blow seemed to restore both his wits and strength, for overcome by battle lust and heedless of his safety, he ran into the deafened and confused pack of mutare arrayed in front of entranceway. Swinging Fulmen like a smith at his forge, Ascilius savagely beat them down, crushing skulls left and right.

Elusive as a shadow, with room to move about now, Elerian darted from one side of Ascilius to the other, thrusting Acris with deadly effect into the changelings that sought to come at the Dwarf from the sides. His quick strokes seemed mere flicks of steel compared to the raw power of Ascilius’s hammer, but a mutare feel dead at each deft thrust.

The sight of Ascilius and Elerian decimating the remnants of the mutare rallied the Dwarves in the hall as they regained their feet and their wits. Shouting mightily, they charged into the courtyard, surrounding Ascilius and Elerian as they slaughtered the dazed changelings with their hammers and axes. Ascilius’s heart leaped within his broad chest when he saw the last of the mutare fall.

“Victory is ours,” he roared happily to Elerian and his Dwarves. “Secure the courtyard and the ridge road so that we may communicate with the city.”

There was no response from his company, however, for at that moment a tall Uruc clad in black mail stepped out of the shadows shrouding the outer parts of the courtyard. He was flanked by ten of his kind dressed in black leather armor, each of them carrying a dark sword and shield in his long hands. Camped in the courtyard under the night sky, the company of Urucs had cunningly held back unseen from the battle, letting the Dwarves spend themselves against the mutare.

The captain of the dark company greedily eyed Elerian and Ascilius, for he recognized them at once as the pair of escaped slaves long sought by Torquatus. “Great will be my reward if I can bring the two of them to the dark king,” he thought to himself before speaking to Ascilius.

“Not so fast my short friend,” he said genially. “You must deal with me and my crew before you can declare victory in this contest.”