The Madness of Gods and Kings (11 page)

His mind was already tracking foreseen difficulties once they returned to Delranan. Harnin may only have the reserves, but they were all Wolfsreik, trained and proven on the battlefield. Once his full army was deployed on the lowlands, Rolnir didn’t foresee many problems. The trick was getting the army deployed in battle mode. Harnin One Eye was bound to have nasty surprises in store.

Aurec had heard enough. Tired from marching up and down the line, amidst protests from his senior commanders, the young king was ready to collapse. He dismissed them with a salute and slipped into his heavy cloak for the short trek back to his own tent. Even though he had the same cot as the infantry, he’d never looked forward to a night’s sleep more. One by one the council left until only Venten remained.

The aged advisor and former general folded his spindly arms and waited for Aurec to exhale and wave him forward.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Venten asked.

Aurec wanted to say no, he wasn’t, but what was the use? The whole purpose of having a council was to get more than one opinion. Too many kings and generals failed for doing just the opposite. Wishful as it seemed, he wanted his rule to be long and fruitful.

Knowing his young king well enough, Venten proceeded. “Aurec, this is reckless. Cuul Ol has worked with us but his people remain an enigma. They are quality warriors who don’t interact with our armies. What if he has some nefarious intent once we cross the mountains?”

As implausible as it sounded, Aurec couldn’t take the chance to ignore the potential for disaster. The Pell Darga had ever been trouble for both kingdoms. It wasn’t until Aurec’s involvement that Cuul became
friendly
. Even that was cold most times. “Venten, I understand your point of view. I do. The fact of the matter is I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. We are shaky allies at best. If Cuul can convince the other chiefs to assist us, we have the perfect chance of cementing relationships with the Pell Darga and unifying all three kingdoms. Can you imagine the trade possibilities? The peace? The strength that union might bring?”

“All true, but it is too early to think about that. We’ve still got a war to fight, much less win,” Venten cautioned. “As much as I want to have faith in our new allies, I can’t accept their sudden change of heart without grave reservations. Cuul Ol and his chiefs can still betray us all.”

He left Aurec to ponder the what-might-bes and what-ifs. His job as senior advisor was done for the day. Only the king could make up his mind, a decision that might well affect the future of a great many lives. Not happy with himself, Venten stepped into the open air. His breath caught in his throat as the sudden blast of cold struck. Unlike many of the others, he enjoyed winter the most. It was a time of rebirth, of purity unrivaled during any other time of the year. Clasping his hands behind his back, he whistled as he worked his way back to his tent, comfortable in the knowledge that Aurec would have many decisions yet to make.

Of Dwarves and Goblins

“Are you sure about this?” Euorn asked, a thin eyebrow rising sharply.

Faeldrin debated which answer to give. A large part of him knew this was foolish at best, but that minor part of his mind screamed for action. Right or wrong, this needed to be done. “Have I ever been wrong?”

“More times than I can count,” the Elf scout replied tersely.

Faeldrin suppressed his frown. “Fair enough, but we are all that stands in the way until Thord and his army can link up with the western armies.”

Euorn nodded absently. The army heading towards them was among the largest ever fielded in Malweir. Goblins weren’t exceptionally bright or industrialized, but what they lacked in intelligence they made up for in numbers. Fifty thousand enemy soldiers marched across the north toward what Faeldrin could only assume was Delranan. The Dwarves wanted to fight. Their depleted ranks would give the Goblins a good pounding but they weren’t enough to stop the tide from rolling through.

It took an act of the gods, but Faeldrin managed to convince the Dwarf king to march west while leaving a small rearguard to cause havoc. The one-hundred Dwarf detachment tripled Faeldrin’s strength and, combined with the pair of cannons graciously given, added immeasurable firepower. The Elf Lord intended to give the Goblin horde a shock once it gained the banks of the Fern River.

Euorn criticized his friend and commander silently. They’d served together for over one thousand years and undergone considerable dangerous situations. He still harbored a grudge against the quest to kill the dragon of the Deadlands. Normally Faeldrin led his Aeldruin mercenaries with implacable precision. Euorn was having a difficult time accepting the task set before him. He feared a great many Elven lives were about to be lost for no reason other than the vain quest for glory.

“The Dwarves smell bad,” he finally said. Once Faeldrin made up his mind there was no changing it.

Faeldrin laughed, a cheerful noise dancing over the snow-covered fields. “Perhaps we can convince Master Scrum to get his soldiers to take a quick dip in the river before the Goblins arrive.”

“Doubtful. They seem to enjoy their stench.”
No doubt from living in the confinement of being underground all their lives
.

“To each his own, Euorn. Did you not notice the queer looks they gave us at breakfast? You’d think they’ve never eaten vegetables before. At any rate, inform me when Scrum has those cannons emplaced. They are terrible weapons of which I’m glad no other race has developed yet, but extremely effective in combat.”

“No doubt they’ll halt the Goblin advance for a good while,” Euorn seconded, recalling the massive amount of devastation they caused during the civil war with the dark Dwarves. He’d grown accustomed to seeing twisted corpses rent or pierced on the battlefield but nothing in his long existence was comparable to seeing mangled body parts strewn amidst washes of blood. Worse was the smell. He’d wretched violently after his first experience with the cannons. Sadly he recognized that civility, if any ever existed, had left warfare. It was only a matter of time before the other races developed that technology and employed it against their fellows. That, he regretfully admitted, would be a sad day for all Malweir.

“For a while, but not long enough. The enemy is too vast and our valiant Dwarves aren’t supplied enough to wear the Goblins down to the point of being combat ineffective.” Faeldrin’s bright eyes darkened ever so slightly. Most Elves lacked the ability to see into the future, but a blind Elf could see that a great many lives were about to be lost on the banks of the Fern River in a few days. Friends and comrades, the Elf Lord readied his heart for the ache sure to come.

* * * * *

“Wait for it,” Scrum growled quietly. The Dwarf commander crouched beside the number one cannon staring intently on the far river bank. His rust-colored beard mirrored the late afternoon sunlight coming off the flowing waters.

The cannon crewmen waited anxiously for him to give the command. Veterans all, they lacked any of the nervousness a normal army might harbor. Hatred for the Goblins filled them with energy. Each Dwarf was chosen for his desire to make a name and leave a lasting legacy behind. Bravery often met with death and each death was welcomed into their god’s pantheon. Others feared to walk to the other side. Dwarves welcomed the opportunity.

“Steady, lads. I can smell ‘em!” Scrum added. His savage grin matched the strength with which he grabbed his axe handle. “Another few moments and we’ll show them how the Dwarves of Drimmen Delf fight.”

More than one reached up to pat the cannon. Killing other Dwarves hurt deep inside, regardless of their allegiances, but killing Goblins was cause for merriment. Across the shore, the first ranks of the Goblin horde came into view. Sloppy, they loped along like children caught stealing. Any lack of tactical discipline they held, the Goblins more than made up for with lethality. Each was a capable warrior bred for the singular purpose of killing. That promise of bloodshed brought them from their kingdom of the Deadlands west towards Delranan and the rebirth of the dark gods.

Scrum didn’t care why they were here or where they thought they were headed. His task was singular, simple. Stop them and turn the river red with their blood. A task he had no compunctions about fulfilling. The first scouts massed on the shore, debating where the most probable place to ford was. Their indecision worked in the Dwarves’ favor. Each moment wasted in debate was one that brought the main body closer to the cannons. Scrum’s grin widened as the first ranks of the main body lurched into sight.

Patience was never his strong suit, nor was it any Dwarf’s. He preferred to attack immediately and seize the advantage while it lasted. Gunpowder changed that, slightly. Scrum clenched and unclenched his meaty fist. Time was almost up. More and yet more of the grey-skinned enemy came into view, unaware of what lay in wait.

Scrum glanced over at Faeldrin, the Elf nearly indistinguishable from the ground. All it took was the waggle of one finger. One finger that unleashed the fury of the hells.

“Fire!”

The grapeshot rounds from both cannons exploded amongst the Goblins before the blasts echoed across the water. Acrid smoke followed. Thousands of small balls of iron ripped and tore their way through hundreds of Goblins. Screams rose even as the Dwarves began reloading. Trained crews were capable of loading and firing in under a minute. Highly trained crews moved faster. The thunder of cannons roared again while the enemy was still disorganized. More screams. More mangled corpses. Body parts flew in all directions. The plop-plop of arms and legs splashing into the river was like music to Scrum’s ears. He fruitlessly tried to wave the smoke from his vision as the crews rammed another round down the long barrels and prepped the fuses.

“Can you see, Elf?” he shouted.

Faeldrin, whose eyesight was far crisper than any other race, could only shake his head. The massive amount of smoke prevented him from seeing the battlefield, a handicap he failed to account for. He needed to get eyes up on the nearest hill and figure out a way to communicate effectively before the Goblins recovered and shifted their direction of movement.

“Aleor! Ride to the closest rise and give me a report on enemy movements,” Faeldrin shouted above the roar of battle.

The younger Elf dashed back to his horse. His normally golden skin was paled, sickened from the sheer amount of violence unleashed this day. Never in his long life had he witnessed such devastation. And he never wished to again. Faeldrin watched him disappear into the haze before turning back to the river, desperate to see anything.

Scrum, to his credit, continued to fire. Each grapeshot canister delivered hundreds of small, iron balls that cut their way through flesh and wood at close range. The effects were horrifying psychologically. Unfortunately the effectiveness diminished with range. The Dwarf captain had something else in store for those fortunate enemies out of grapeshot range: solid shot packed with large, round balls that exploded when they hit the ground were initially designed to fire against enemy cannon or siege machines. Nothing in Malweir, save perhaps a dragon, had such awesome effectiveness on the battlefield.

Scrum blinked as the fifth salvo blasted with smoke and fire from the cannons. He enjoyed the bitter smell almost as much as cleaving a Goblin with his favorite axe. No contrary orders, he continued to have the cannons fire into the enemy horde.

* * * * *

Faeldrin ripped his sword from his latest opponent. The thin rope of blood sprayed over the falling corpse and onto the snow. Hair disheveled, the Elf Lord was bordering exhaustion. Scrum’s cannons successfully halted the Goblin horde for nearly an hour before the enemy started trying to find other places to ford the river. The body count was astounding. Corpses floated down river so thick the Elf could almost use them as a bridge. But the Dwarves only had limited quantities of ammunition. Each cannon now had but one shot remaining.

Aeldruin and Dwarves clashed with their hated foes north and south of the cannon positions. The initial assault was repulsed but the Goblins were most persistent. They kept coming in waves, hardly giving the defenders time to catch their breath. Several Elves had been killed and more wounded. Those able to ride were put upon horseback and sent west lest they perish for no reason. The fallen Dwarves were not so fortunate. They had clear orders from Thord. Defend to the last.

Their axes rang on shields as yet another Goblin push drove the defense tighter. It wouldn’t be much longer before the horde would encircle them completely and crush them to death. Faeldrin and Scrum fought back to back. Axe and sword clove deep into Goblin flesh, yet for every one slain three more appeared. It was a battle the defenders couldn’t win.

Scrum snagged the Elf Lord by his forearm and snarled, “Take your Aeldruin and flee. We’ll handle this.”

Faeldrin looked down into the fiery brown eyes, wanting to scream,
are you mad?
Suicide didn’t serve any purpose, not even for a Dwarf. They were going to need every available sword and axe to stop the Goblin horde. Every life lost on the banks of the Fern River was avoidable. Sadly, there was no changing a Dwarf mind, especially not one willingly following orders.
Death in battle was a good death
. Regretfully, the Elf Lord nodded. “Let me take some of your wounded. We can heal them to fight another day.”

Terms acceptable, Scrum nodded back. “We’ll give you as much time as we can but, Elf Lord, it won’t be much.”

The slightest hint of fear lingered in his words, giving Faeldrin pause. He’d never heard a Dwarf speak of such and prayed never to again.

Scrum turned back to the battle. Less than forty Dwarves remained. All but a handful of the cannon crews were dead, but the Goblins had no idea how to use the terrible weapons so the heated iron barrels sat patiently awaiting their final roar. That time had come. Scrum gave Faeldrin a brief glance, enough to see the majority of Elves and a handful of Dwarves fighting their way to safety.
Fare thee well, my friends. Look for us at Brek’s table
!

He dashed over to the nearest cannon and lit the fuse. Goblins swarmed around him moments before the cannon exploded. Packed with as much gunpowder as they had remaining, both cannons were deliberately sabotaged by their owners. The resulting explosions killed scores of Goblins and more than a few Dwarves. Scrum’s last sights were of fire and blood.

* * * * *

Crows and vultures flocked to the battlefield. Feathers drifted down while birds cawed and chased each other from the abundance of meat. The battle had lasted most of the day but was finally over. Eighty-seven Dwarves lay dead, their bodies hacked apart in a twisted ritual of hatred stemming back to the first Dwarf-Goblin war. Nine Elves were also among the litter of bodies, their near immortal flames snuffed by utter cruelty. As gruesome as those totals were, Goblin losses far exceeded any expectations. Close to eight hundred had been killed, most by the pair of cannons. Another seven hundred were wounded. Of those, at least two hundred wouldn’t live through the night. While the losses were appalling, the Goblins weren’t content with their victory. The true war lay in the west. Each moment of delay was one they couldn’t afford.

Striding like a conqueror through the mass of bodies was a Goblin of immense proportions. Nearly five feet tall and well over two hundred pounds of honed muscle, the Goblin Lord Thrask surveyed all with great disdain. Smaller Goblins scraped and bowed to get out of his way. Elongated tusks dripped menacingly from his mouth. His face was a mass of scars. The right eye had gone dead long ago, after taking an Elf sword across it. He fondly recalled strangling the Elf in response. Long, jet black hair draped over his massive shoulders, falling halfway down his wide back. His armor was well used, unbefitting of a lord. But Thrask was a warrior first, lord second.

His piercing, black eyes, small and nestled under a thick brow, fell on the twisted metal of the cannons. So simple a thing to have caused such massive amounts of destruction. He stalked closer, overcoming his initial fear of the things. He reached a clawed hand out, tentatively touching the now cool metal. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered and, deep inside, ever wanted to again. Dwarves were known for their treachery. It was no surprise that the foul mountain dwellers would find new ways to slaughter his kind. Fresh waves of hatred pulsed from his dark heart. Thrask vowed not to stop until every last Dwarf was killed.