Tides of Blood and Steel (35 page)

“It is only evil if you wish it to be so. Good and evil have always been subjective. They are opposite ends of a spectrum that Mankind has subverted to suit his own needs and desires. You must go closer if you wish to learn the secret.”

Badron shot him a nervous look. The desire to know was too strong. He reluctantly obeyed. The tree moved the closer he got. He froze. Darkness swelled around him, choking him. Badron dropped to his knees as visions violently swirled around him until they became reality. He bore witness to sights, such wonderful and horrible sights. Birth and apocalypse. Salvation and Armageddon.

Badron screamed at the top of his lungs.

* * * * *

“Fire!”

Catapults erupted. General Rolnir watched his men with pride. The soldiers of the Wolfsreik moved with the precision that only came from endless hours on the training fields. They were completely professional in their approach to war, down to the lowest-ranking man. Not that he expected anything less. These were his boys. The source of his greatest pride. All were sons he never had.

A young captain, Ulf, moved to intercept him when he saw Rolnir come closer. “General, welcome to the Mouth of the Wolf.”

He smiled fiercely. The Mouth of the Wolf was the nickname given to the artillerymen by their infantry cohorts for the booming noise and gouts of fire each catapult threw into the night.

“Captain Ulf. I see your boys are performing admirably.”

“We try, sir,” Ulf replied. His youthful face brightened at the compliment.

Rolnir had never been the sort to flower his men with accolades or warm embraces. He was a hard and unbending master who demanded perfection in everything. Each one of his men would readily lay down their lives just to please him. Rolnir made it a point to know as many of the men by name as possible. It was the least he could do in return for their great sacrifice.

“What is your ammunition status, captain?”

“We have enough for at least another day and a half of constant barrage. The terrain is naturally rocky so there is no shortage of rounds.”

Rolnir nodded. “Good. Then we can take the chance to drop a few rounds short and introduce ourselves to our Goblin friends.”

Ulf couldn’t conceal the joy he felt. “That can be arranged, sir.”

“Keep up your fire, Ulf. We have to beat down the men inside before the first scaling ladder goes up. Every round you fire saves one of our men.”

Ulf saluted. “You can count on us to do our part, sir.”

“I know, lad. I know.”

A battalion of heavy infantry marched north. They were heading to join Piper and the main assault force. Piper had told him earlier that nearly three thousand men were being gathered for the attack. Under normal circumstances that number was too conservative, but with the mass of Goblins, Rolnir didn’t see any issues. Hate them as he did, there was no mistaking the sheer dominating power the Goblin presence had.

Fresh snow began falling. Rolnir tipped his head back and let the soft flakes kiss his bearded face. Another salvo of rounds roared across the battlefield. It was times like this that made him appreciate being alive.

The Beginning of the End

Manzo awoke suddenly with the irresistible urge to relive himself. He grumbled quietly at the thought of leaving his warm sleeping bag to brave the freezing temperatures on the wall. It never failed. Each winter night he had gone through this ritual at least once, sometimes twice. Wrapping his heavy cloak around his shoulders, Manzo headed to the nearest section of the wall designated as a latrine. Engineers staked a handful of large pipes into holes in the wall to allow for a run-off so the waste wouldn’t get any of the defenders sick. Manzo appreciated the effort. Blood and death were one thing, but having to live in the filth of scat and urine was simply unbearable. He unbuckled his trousers and sighed as he let it out.

A new wave of explosions rocked the wall. There was something different this time. The noise was louder. The ground shook longer. Manzo cursed. A full week had gone by since the damned Delrananians began their siege. A week and he still jumped at the sound. He supposed it was more reaction than anything else. Much longer and he wouldn’t even notice it. Manzo shook the excess off and pulled his trousers back up.

“The gates! They’ve breached the gates!”

A bell began ringing. Manzo’s blood chilled. Men rolled from their sleeping mats and bunks and hurried to their fighting positions. Rogscroft quickly became alive with rushed activity. Manzo watched the panic set in and struggled to keep his own from overpowering him. This is it, he kept telling himself.
We are all going to die
. Manzo fought against his fears, but the thought that the castle was one big death trap was almost too much.

He took a step towards his sleeping area when horrible pain filled his chest cavity. Winded, he dropped to his knees. His eyes widened in shock. Blood filled his mouth when he tried to yell. Manzo reached up and felt the razor barb protruding from his chest. He mouthed words without sound.

The back wall
!

Blood bubbled from his lips and he fell dead. The enemy crossbowman smiled and signaled to the others on the ground. Scaling ladders started to go up.

“What is happening?” Aurec demanded as he slipped into his armor.

Venten held out the prince’s sword. “I am not sure, but some of the men claim the gates have been breached.”

Damnation
. “We need to be there, now.”

This was an inevitable moment, but terror still gripped them. Aurec needed to act quickly if they were to have any hope of stopping the attack long enough for Stelskor’s plan to work. The rest of their lives depended on the next few moments. He claimed his sword from Venten.

“Send word to my father. It is time for him to escape to Grunmarrow. I will hold the defense long enough for him to be safely away. Then I will follow as I can.”

“I will. Hold the gates long enough for me to return. I wouldn’t mind a crack at these Goblin bastards myself.”

Aurec nodded and Venten ran off to fulfill his task. Confusion and panic awaited Aurec as he took to the battlements. Generations had passed since the last time the castle had been sacked. Aurec held every intention of stopping the Wolfsreik and pushing them back to Delranan in shame. He refused to be the man who lost his kingdom. Outside, the heat from the flames nearly drove him to his knees. The city gates, which had stood for two hundred years, were shattered into a ruin of their former splendor. Gaping holes yawned back at him. Hundreds of direct hits finally tore the wood to splinters. Only a handful of meters of running water separated him from the Goblin hordes.

“Who is in command here?” Aurec called out once he joined the front lines.

Bodies littered the area. A makeshift field hospital was set up under the dubious protection of the wall. A constant flow of wounded was being dragged in. Fires raged uncontrollably all around them. Aurec winced, suddenly very tired of war. Ragged lines of defenders formed behind a barricade. He made his way through the debris field to where a grizzled sergeant awaited. The top of his head was heavily bandaged, spots of blood staining through.

“I am, my lord. Sergeant Thorsson.”

Aurec looked at the ranks of scared men. “Where is your commanding officer?”

Thorsson gestured towards a stack of half frozen bodies by the wall. “He had his head crushed during the bombardment.”

Aurec winced despite his projected air of confidence. The men noticed. Arrows and catapult rounds were indiscriminant killers. “Report, sergeant.”

“The gates are destroyed and will not hold. I have close to one hundred able-bodied men ready to fight once the Goblins cross. We should be able to hold them for a good while.”

He hoped so. The harder they fought gave the king more time to escape. Aurec hoped his presence would inspire the men to fight harder. Aurec dared a closer look at his enemy. Archers rained down a murderous barrage into the Goblin ranks from atop the wall. Bodies fell dead into the river to be swept away. Goblins hauled massive rafts towards the banks. The enemy meant to assault immediately. Aurec ducked back. “Sergeant Thorsson, form the ranks. Pikes in front. Archers behind. We must stop the rafts from reaching this shore.”

Thorsson threw a crisp salute. “On your feet, dogs! To the gates! I want a nice thick flank of pikes ready to impale these grey-skinned bastards. Archers form behind me. Move it or you are all Goblin food!”

Aurec found himself easily liking the veteran. He hefted his own pike, taken from a dead man.

“My lord, you are out of your mind if you think I am going to let you stand the line,” Thorsson snapped.

He darkened with anger. “I am your prince, sergeant.”

The much bigger man folded his massive arms across his chest and shot Aurec a stern glare. “I don’t care. This is my battle and I am not going to allow the only prince in Rogscroft to throw away his life so carelessly.”

Aurec recognized the same vitality in Thorsson’s face that he often saw staring back in the mirror. There was only resolve, no sense of weakness. Aurec silently thanked his father for developing such a strong, noncommissioned officer corps. Men like Thorsson needed to live if Rogscroft was going to stand a chance.

“Fine, sergeant,” he relented. “Where do you want me? Keep in mind that you cannot keep me from the
all
of the fighting.”

Thorsson didn’t budge. His face remained impassive, even as screams from the wounded danced around his ears. “You are a leader. You will be of most use to me on the wall directing the battle. I can’t see everything from down here.”

Aurec glanced longingly at the massed ranks of soldiers as they readied to do battle against the pulsing Goblin horde. Desperation clung to them like a rotted stink. The desire to live gnawed teasingly at each of them. All the while death laughed as it floated across the skies. The prince reluctantly sheathed his sword. His almond-colored eyes bore a subtle sadness. He reached out and took Thorsson’s hand.

“Where do you plan on being?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Thorsson offered a savage grin. “Right in the middle of it, where I belong.”

Raste ripped his sword from the dying man’s stomach and kicked the body away. Blood stained his hands and jerkin. Sweat trickled down his face, but there was no respite. Another attacker charged. Raste had a fraction of a moment to look around. Men from both sides fell dead or dying in a brutal struggle. The surprise attack was timed perfectly with the Goblin assault. The Wolfsreik now swarmed over the walls, killing and hacking. Raste fought against the urge to throw down his weapon and run.

There was no shortage of enemy. Raste already had three lying at his feet. The younger scout, unused to extended combat, struggled to maintain his strength. Wavering determination echoed in his cold blue eyes. A small cut on the left cheek had already stopped bleeding, leaving him with a painted face. The fight he so longed for had come and he was woefully unprepared.

The man beside him grunted suddenly and fell back with an enemy short sword plunged deep into his chest. Arterial blood, steaming and dark red, flowed freely down his deerskin shirt. Raste watched the man’s eyes glaze over. Fury and anger became his conscience and he attacked. His sword cut clean through the elbow in one stroke. The Wolfsreik soldier dropped screaming to his knees. Distracted, Raste couldn’t duck in time to keep from being struck in the temple by a mailed fist. He stumbled back as the pain lanced across his head. Unbalanced, he dropped into a pile of bodies. Their escaping warmth was oddly comforting.

“Stay down you fool!” snapped a familiar voice he couldn’t place.

An arrow zipped by, narrowly missing the top of his head. Raste’s would-be killer dropped, the shaft buried in his throat. Men pushed forward, fresh troops up from the barracks. Unlike Raste, they were fully armored and armed. Rough hands helped him up. Unfamiliar faces looked him over.

“Can you move on your own?”

He nodded, winced from the pain.

“Stay with us. We have been ordered to fall back.”

Raste couldn’t believe it. So much killing, and now he was being told to abandon what he had bled for. The reinforcements halted the Wolfsreik surge, momentarily.

“We can’t leave. The walls will fall!” Raste struggled to shout above the battle.

“The walls are already fallen! We must move and secure the stairs before it is too late!” the newcomer shouted back.

The Wolfsreik already held a forty-meter section of the wall and were expanding with each passing moment. Rogscroft slowly sank into defeat. The defenders fought well, but it was not enough. Half of the kingdom’s armies were peasant conscripts unused to the violence of combat. All of the heart and love of country they possessed meant nothing against the ten thousand seasoned veterans trying to kill them. Fear would soon take them and all hope was lost when it did. Raste felt like he had been punched in the stomach. All of this was in vain. He spit a mouthful of blood. Manzo’s corpse lay nearby. The
ching-ching
of clashing swords seemed an ironic epitaph. Raste’s knuckles whitened as he tightened the grip on his sword. If Manzo had fallen, an accomplished warrior, what chance had he? Dawn broke over the eastern approach. It was a violent shade of red.