The Powterosian War (Book 5) (45 page)

“I feel so much better knowing all depends on my knowing something I know nothing about.”

Chuckling, Memlatec patted Saxthor on the shoulder, bowed to him, and slowly walked from the room, shaking his head. Saxthor reverently resettled the Crown of Yensupov on his head, noting it self-adjusted to fit perfectly. He went to his generals, confirming the movements of the legions to face the Dreaddrac army as he earlier directed.

*

The battle began an hour after sunrise. The southern forces aligned against all the remaining forces of Dreaddrac holding the heights along the foothills. As Saxthor had foreseen, General Vylvex had concentrated his troops among rocks at the crests of the hills. Confident, Vylvex rode along his line casting occasional glances at Saxthor. The ogre’s yellow teeth in his arrogant snarl were visible even in the distance.

“Begin the attack,” Saxthor ordered, thrusting Sorblade toward the orc legions on the hillside. The Neuyokkasinians marched forward in the center toward the concentration of the orc defenses. The flanks held back. Some of the commanders rode up and down their lines pretending to threaten the ranks who jostled, appearing reluctant to fight.

The Neuyokkasinians marched half way up the slope to the enemy positions when a shower of arrows rained down on them. They raised overlapping shields, deflecting the arrows with few casualties. Two more similar volleys of arrows attempted to stop the men, but they met with the same lack of success. Then the Neuyokkasinians charged up the slopes with swords raised and spears aimed forward. They slammed into the orc lines with bone shattering violence. After inflicting serious damage on the orcs, they pretended fear and retreated. The retreat seemed to revitalize the orcs who, as expected, left their defensive positions and began to charge down the slope at the retreating men. General Vylvex stood screaming his orders to hold their lines, but the orcs were frenzied and failed to hear or respond.

The orc legions broke formation in their confident counter attack. They rushed down onto the plain in pursuit of the fleeing men. Saxthor gave the signal and his southern flanks came to order, fanned out, and marched forward double time around the chaos of the central battle. The cavalry slipped around unnoticed behind the infantry flanks. Embroiled in hand to hand combat with the Neuyokkasinian center, Dreaddrac’s forces failed to realize the increasing strength and significance of the pincers surrounding them.

The imperial and Graushdem armies began to turn in on the battlefield with lightning speed. Attacked from the front and sides, the orcs began to lose numbers at an alarming rate. General Vylvex was screaming orders, but the orcs now retreated into a tighter and tighter ball, their numbers dropping everywhere.

Saxthor then saw a great silver scaled dragon fly out of the Munattahensenhov, circle the mountain, and fly straight over the lower peaks toward the battlefield.

“A gigantic dragon!” Grekenbach shouted, pointing to the sky.

The generals’ horses stamped about neighing, sensing the tensions. The ground battle began to slow as the combatants stopped fighting and looked up at the sky. The great dragon Ozrin came over the mountain crests and flew straight for the troops.

“Ozrin!” Came cries from the battlefield, where Sengenwhan veterans remembered the nightmare of Ozrin’s attacks. “Nothing can stop such a beast.”

Men and orcs both fled the battlefield running for cover, knowing the flames killed indiscriminately. The men of all Saxthor’s armies ran south, the orcs north, both hoping to find shelter somewhere, anywhere. The battlefield was complete pandemonium.

“Ozrin flies in circles over the battlefield,” Saxthor said. “See there, finally the Dark Lord rides to battle on his back, scanning the field, waiting for his orcs to separate so he can have Ozrin flame the men, elves, and dwarves without excessive loss to his own forces.”

“We’ve no means to fight a dragon out here in the open,” the old imperial general said. “I’ve never seen such a beast. We must retreat and seek shelter.”

“No means other than our own will.” Saxthor said. He looked at the general who looked at him.

Ozrin, the great silver-scaled dragon, turned his head from scanning the field. Something attracted his attention.

“The dragon sees Your Majesty,” the imperial general said. “You must find a safe place at once.”

Saxthor glanced at the general, whose eyes blazed with alarm. But Saxthor saw Ozrin fix his gaze on him. Then the Dark Lord, too, stared at Saxthor, his yellow eyes luminous even in the daylight. Dreaddrac’s king jerked the reins as Ozrin had already begun turning, heading straight for Saxthor.

The ring on Saxthor’s finger suddenly burned as his sense of anger flared seeing the Dark Lord for the first time. The Crown of Yensupov on his head seemed to vibrate with a low frequency hum.

Ozrin drew back his head and thrust it forward shooting out a flame over the battlefield, sweeping up toward Saxthor. The combatants all froze, their sights fixed on the emperor. The dragon rider flew in a straight line for him. Saxthor’s aides had bolted for cover. Saxthor noted many generals and King Grekenbach at the heads of their armies watched in horror. He stood alone with only the imperial general at his side.

Then Saxthor felt a pulse surge through him, an energy like he’d never felt before. It seemed he sucked in all energy near him; he felt hot with it. The dragon ring slipped from his finger, transforming as it did so into a tiny living dragon!

“Eltealexor!” Saxthor yelled from his inner being. “Eltealexor Extalibus Senenge!”

A fiery blue bolt of current passed from his finger to the dragon. Sucked from the now swirling clouds above, lightning struck Saxthor. He didn’t feel any sensation other than the warmth of energy and an increasing hum in his ears. The light changed around him. A spectrum of light shot from his crown. It fanned out across the battlefield, passing energy back and forth between himself and his army.

Come on, Saxthor thought staring hard at Ozrin and the Dark Lord. I’m ready for you now.

Ozrin slapped the air, back flapping his wings, trying to break his dive at the sight. He veered off to the right and circled around again over the field. The Dark Lord slammed his heels into the dragon and whipped him to attack Saxthor. Ozrin jerked, apparently reluctant, sensing something that terrified him. The Dark Lord commanded Ozrin to attack, and reluctantly, the great beast began a dive again at Saxthor.

Saxthor’s horse had long since bolted. Delia stood alone beside him, lying flat on the ground, refusing to abandon her beloved companion. The tiny dragon beside Saxthor had grown exponentially with the energy exchange with Saxthor. The great golden-scaled Yamma-Mirra Heedra was as large as Ozrin. Glowing brilliantly, his head was massive with radiant blue eyes fixed on Ozrin. Yamma-Mirra Heedra plucked Saxthor in his teeth and gently dropped him on his back. Saxthor clamped his legs onto the great dragon as the beast leaped into the air with nimbleness unimaginable for a creature of such mass. Its great wings thrust out and flapped wildly. The dragon shot forward as flames singed the tip of its tail. The rainbow of lights radiating from the Crown of Yensupov then wove into a spiral culminating in a massive burst of white light.

Ozrin whipped his wings frantically to keep up with Yamma-Mirra Heedra who soared above the battlefield, with sunlight flashing brilliantly from his golden scales. The two dragons swirled and dodged each other over the battlefield. They shot flames to burn the other’s rider. Then the two flew side by side and the Dark Lord hurled a spear at Saxthor who dodged the projectile easily. The emperor thrust green glowing Sorblade at the Dark Lord. Lightning arced at the evil sorcerer.

On the inside of the flight arc, Ozrin flew out ahead and turned upside down, his legs flashing claws to grab Yamma-Mirra Heedra. Yamma-Mirra Heedra anticipated the move and darted up, avoiding the grappling attempt. He snorted flames at Ozrin, singing his vulnerable stomach scales. Ozrin righted himself in the air and, trailing smoke from his gut, flew off in a circle to recover himself.

Yamma-Mirra Heedra arced the other way and flew straight for Ozrin. Swords clashed between the two riders, wings smashed and claws grasped wildly in the air. Then, when the Dark Lord missed with a wide arc, Saxthor thrust his sword out. It caught Ozrin under the wing. Sorblade slid under a small scale, severing the muscle controlling the wing and plunged into his lung.

Ozrin recoiled from the blow and spun out toward the ground. He shot flames between screams. Saxthor glanced at the battlefield, where the combatants cringed and cowered on the ground, too scared to move. Grimacing, Ozrin began gasping for breath as his lung filled with blood. Though the Dark Lord whipped him, he ignored the torture. He flapped his wings to gain altitude and flew off toward the Munattahensenhov, abandoning the fight.

Saxthor circled over the battlefield, the brilliance of the white light from his crown illuminating the combatants. The light bathed the men in positive, courageous energy woven from humanity’s strengths as released from the jewels of the crown. The orcs had begun to flee in terror when their master had flown away. Now the men attacked, destroying all the evil before them with a renewed passion.

Saxthor flew off to the Munattahensenhov in pursuit of the Dark Lord.

* * *

Smegdor watched the Dark Lord dismount a dying Ozrin on the sooty slope of the Munattahensenhov. He scrambled through the snow to the entrance of the mountain’s caverns. The king slinked down through the dark tunnels of the nearly abandoned fortress to his workroom, hoping to revitalize in the energy gradient’s column. Smegdor followed, watching from a distance. The sorcerer threw his sword onto the worktable and bathed in the energy though it burned his flesh. He was no longer human.

“What has happened?” Smegdor said, standing at the doorway.

“We’ve lost the battle, you fool,” the king said, coming out of the column still smoldering. “Quick, get Dreg and meet me at the Well of Souls. I’ll release all those vile spirits on the enemy.”

“You can’t do that. You could destroy the world.”

“Shut up, I’ll do as I like. Now get Dreg and meet me at the Well of Souls.”

The Dark Lord left for the depths of the Munattahensenhov as Smegdor reluctantly went to find Dreg.

“Stop slinking and whining and get the fool,” The Dark Lord said as he disappeared down the dark, foul-smelling shaft.

Smegdor found Dreg cleaning up their small work space.

“I think it’s all set now, sir,” Dreg said.

The innocence of his voice stung Smegdor in light of the horror around him. “You’ve been misused by everyone haven’t you, son,” Smegdor said.

Dreg glanced up and smiled at Smegdor but said nothing.

“Come, we must go to the Well of Souls.”

“The Well of Souls?” Dreg asked.

“Come, the king demands it.”

The two men shuffled down the dark corridors, through the depths of the mountain, past the now empty lairs of the orcs and crevices where ogres and trolls sheltered in the darkness until some orc died and became their food. They stumbled through the darkness as the dank air got hotter and the stench of sulfur grew stronger. They found the Dark Lord, staring down from the rock outcrop at the well’s edge.

“Come forward,” the king commanded.

Smegdor and Dreg looked at each other. Dreg began to tremble when they reached the grotto’s entrance. His eyes seemed to swell, when he looked at the massive well, its sulfurous smoke swirling up in the light of doom.

“What do you need us to do?” Smegdor asked. He pushed Dreg slightly behind him with his arm.

“Bring Dreg here.”

“I can do whatever is needed,” Smegdor said, stepping forward, his crippled leg dragging in the dust of death.

The Dark Lord flashed a stern gaze at Smegdor. “Bring Dreg here!”

“What use is the fool? I’ll be better help to you.”

The Dark Lord swung his arm in an arc, shooting a bolt of wizard-fire at Smegdor, knocking him senseless back against the wall.

“Don’t hurt him,” Dreg said. He stumbled closer to the sneering sorcerer.

“I need an innocent to open this well and release the souls therein. Only innocence can give strength to the incantation opening the well.”

Smegdor recovered; his stomach turned. He means to sacrifice Dreg, Smegdor realized. Sacrifice the young man to his evil ends. His throat tightened at the horror of the thought. He stood up, leaning on the wall, then stood straight as an iron post, facing the king. His chest puffed up; he cleared his throat. “Did you know when you snatched me from Konnotan as a young man that I had a family left without a father?” Smegdor’s growling voice asked the Dark Lord.

A quizzical look came over the wizard’s face. “What would I care about your family? Why do you bring up such dribble now?”

“Because I had a son named Dregaclese, you monster. I’ve survived all these years, abused by you so you wouldn’t take revenge on my family. You’ll not harm my son now!” With that, he leapt forward, wrapping his arms around the shocked wizard-king, gripping him firmly, hurling the two over the well’s edge down into its depths.

* * *

As Saxthor’s combined armies surrounded and destroyed General Vylvex’s forces on the plain below the Ice Mountains, Saxthor rode Yamma-Mirra Heedra through the cold mountain winds, viewing the world beneath him with wonder. The golden dragon did indeed feel like a part of him, their muscles connected and seemed to mesh. Saxthor willed the dragon’s movements synchronized as one massive being. He reached forward and stroked the great dragon, feeling a shared mutual respect and admiration response. Then, the Munattahensenhov loomed in front of him, massive and brooding, disgorging death in its smog. Ozrin lay prostrate on the slope, bleeding red on the charcoal mantle. He didn’t respond to Yamma-Mirra Heedra, circling overhead.