Fool's Errand (25 page)

As the first and then the second wagon rolled slowly past, every muscle in the Gideon’s body tightened in anticipation of what might at any moment come pouring down the ramp. As the second wagon passed the ramp and the third began its move past the taunting tongue of stone, it seemed as if the attack they expectantly awaited might not come at all. Gideon’s breath loosened in his chest. Whatever was causing the disappearance of the caravans was still somewhere ahead.

His relief was short-lived. As Gideon watched in tense anticipation out the back of the first wagon, the sound of splintering wood and the scream of panicked horses exploded from the rear of the caravan. Just like that, the supply wagon was gone under the impact of a flying boulder nearly half the size of the wagon with only the sturdy braces flanking the team of horses, the driver’s seats, and the front axle remaining intact. The impact threw Cookie off the left side of the wagon and into the dirt, his readied cleaver still in his hand. Rarib’s terrified death-grip on the reins of the team was the only thing that kept them from bolting forward with the shreds of the front of the supply wagon wagging behind them.

The sound was enough to propel Goldain, who doubtless had been waiting like an over-coiled spring, out of the back of the second wagon just as a second boulder obliterated it. The two troopers and four berserkers in the wagon were crushed beneath the splintering wood. The mass of flying rock that had disintegrated the second wagon also sent both Thatcher and Kohana flying forward and to the south of where they had been sitting. Their mule, now freed from the encumbering wagon, brayed and bolted westward, fleeing the terrifying carnage that had devastated its former burden. Only the dexterity and skill of the young rogue and the islander allowed them to make a rolling landing and avoid injuries beyond the cuts and scrapes from the floor of the rocky pass.

Seconds later, as Gideon and the other troops in the first wagon tumbled out into the pass to prepare to meet the impending attack, he saw a third boulder bring a gruesome end to the mule leading the wagon driven by Jeslyn and Bardrick. The force of the flying stone snapped the braces, connecting the wagon to its beast of burden and pulverized the poor mule. The impact of the blow carried the animal’s carcass several yards to the south where it landed in a bloody heap. The westward-bound wagon spun around in its tracks, leaving the young archer and the braggadocios warrior facing south near the mouth of the southern ramp. The wagon wheels shattered in the spin. This wagon would not move again.

By the time the third boulder ended the life of the unfortunate mule, there was a macabre outpouring of beings from the mouth above the taunting tongue of stone. It was answered by a rapid exodus from the rear of the remaining intact wagons. If an observer had been on the slopes far above the pass, it would have looked like two warring armies of ants pouring forth from their burrows to lock themselves in deadly combat with their enemies.

The boulders, which had come from the hidden northern trail, were hurled by three huge Eben-Nephilim, a sub-race of giants who lived in high mountains and had skins the color of solid granite. Upon seeing the long-term enemies of the Durgak, Donovan shouted to his troops in the Durgak language, “
Bezrek alka az Nephilim
!”

As one unit, all of the sixteen remaining berserker troops, war axes in their right hands and the wicked-looking toothed and curved long daggers, which were the signature weapons of the Berserker Corps, in their left hands, turned and sprinted to the northern slopes and toward their ancient enemies.

There were few warriors indeed who could behold a Nephilim and not have their hearts melting in their chests. This sub-race was not the largest of the Nephilim, but the Eben-Nephilim were nearly eleven feet tall and as strong as an entire company of men. They were fearsome foes from which the most common tactic was to flee and pray that one could outrun them. This was not the case for the Durgak, however.

The Durgak had been at war with the Nephilim since the time of the making. The ancient foes knew each other as intimately as any lovers knew their mates. No other race on the face of Ya-Erets was better equipped at slaying the Nephilim than were the Durgak. Mutazz, the leader of the Ayabim and patron of the Nephilim, had chosen size and strength for their prowess mirroring his own nature. But Hadaram, the armorer of heaven and patron Malakim of the Durgak had chosen stout frames, stout hearts, and the toughness of the very earth itself with which to have the One Lord imbue his servants.

“Donovan,” Gideon cried, “leave the Nephilim to your men. We will need you on the southern ramp.”

Donovan nodded and turned southward. The two commanders saw the southward slope vomiting forth a hoard of humanoids and mounted human cavalry. The bandit horde would soon break upon the crippled caravan like waves of the ocean crashing upon the shoreline.

Gideon assessed that the greatest threat, which would also be the first to reach the caravan, was the mounted riders. A dozen men on light horses, their faces covered by black-cloth masks secured to the earguards of their helmets were wielding shining scimitars and screaming fearsome war cries as they rode ahead of the descending hoard. They would never reach the caravan.

Ohanzee the Shade leapt from the front of the third wagon as the horsemen started their charge down the stone ramp from the southern raised trail. His crossed chest belts, containing a dozen daggers each, began emptying as the rogue extracted them from their scabbards and hurled them with deadly accuracy and blinding speed into throats and eyes of half a dozen of the warriors. Three more of the riders fell to quarrels from Thatcher’s repeating crossbow. The young rogue had recovered his precious armament as soon as he had regained his feet. Gideon was impressed that the youth had also recognized the serious threat posed by the riders. The last three riders fell from their horses struck by masterfully crafted, emerald-colored arrows with fine raven-feather fletching. The zeal of the riders in exposing themselves ahead of the advancing humanoid hoard had been their undoing.

Before the warring sides had even engaged in close combat, a half dozen of the caravaneers crushed beneath the pile of splintered remains of the second wagon, a dozen mounted raiders, and one very unlucky mule were dead without ever having struck a blow. Now the forces had closed and the battle would begin in earnest.

As Gideon, Tropham and Donovan advanced toward the southern ramp, the paladin captain noticed Kylor repaying the easternmost Eben-Nephilim for its destruction of the supply wagon. Before the portion of the Durgak berserkers scrambling up the northern slope headed for that Nephilim had reached halfway, the young ranger emptied half his quiver into the giant. It roared in pain, slumped forward, and toppled from its perch on the northern cliff to roll down the steep mountain and land in a pile on the trail of the pass. It did not stir again.

Like a flock of birds winging behind an unidentified leader, the berserkers heading for the center Nephilim split in two, with half now heading toward the westernmost giant and the other half being joined by those who had been running toward the one Kylor had just felled. With sixteen Durgak berzerkers heading for the two remaining giants, their hearts already burning with rage at the death of their four companions in wagon two, Kylor needn’t fire another arrow at the Nephilim. They were going to have their giant hands quite full with the Durgak berserkers. Gideon sighed in relief as Kylor, without needing to be ordered, turned his attention to the hoard just now reaching the bottom of the southern ramp.

Melizar’s wagon had stopped right at the bottom of the southern ramp. Seeing Ohanzee’s flying daggers ripping through the onrushing hoard, he dismounted and reached into his belt pouch for a handful of tiny, white crystals. This simple-looking black leather pouch was his most useful magic item. In some ways it was similar to the dimensional pocket he had used to bring out the collection of Parynland shields from the raider lair. The similarity was that it held considerably more than its outer dimensions would bear witness to, but this pouch had the added bonus of being tuned to his mind and bonded to him.

It held only the materials he needed for his
kashaph
spells, but whatever component he was thinking of when he reached into the pouch would jump to his waiting hand. Such a prize meant he could use his powers much more rapidly than any mage who had to search for his components. These bags, known in mage circles as Pouches of Readiness, were extremely rare and so highly prized by master mages that had he chosen to sell it, it would be worth the price of a kingdom.

Now, however, the tiny bag would prove its worth and the reason he would never willingly part with it. The few moments it saved in readiness to use his powers could well mean the difference between life and death. As a mob of Orcs and Hobgoblins rushed at him, he took the tiny crystals in his right hand, spoke the words of power, and blew the crystals in a cloud in front of him. Eight Orcs and two Hobgoblins were instantly engulfed in a cloud of ice, freezing them to their core. They became like icy statues and as they were bowled over by the rush of their companions behind them, they shattered upon the stony ground in front of wagon three. The rush of advancing goblinoids in front of Melizar stopped with looks of shock and fear on their faces.

A large Ogre holding a staff standing near the western edge of the ramp, who had stopped ten yards from the bottom, bore the feathers and tattoos marking him as a shaman. Having seen the devastation of Melizar’s spell, he called out orders in the Adami tongue.

“Don’t stand there staring, dogs, and waiting for him to freeze you too. Take down the mage, now!”

Most of the humanoids in front of Melizar were more afraid of him than their Ogre shaman and decided to split to the east and west in pursuit of less deadly targets. Two Orcs and one Hobgoblin, however, heeded the orders of the Ogre and rushed Melizar. They bore him to the ground with an Orc holding each arm and the Hobgoblin’s weight on his midsection.

The Hobgoblin drew a wicked looking-dagger from his belt and prepared to plunge it fully into Melizar’s chest. Suddenly, a crossbow quarrel ripped through the Hobgoblin’s neck, piercing the jugular veins on both sides as it passed through. The Hobgoblin stopped for a moment with a look of surprise and confusion on its face as its neck poured forth a double-fountain of its dark and viscous lifeblood. As it turned to see from where its deathblow had come, it lost its balance and fell from its place atop Melizar.

His Orc companions hardly had time to wonder what had happened to their squad leader as quarrels skewered the temple of the Orc holding Melizar’s right arm, and another pierced the left eye of the one holding his left. In a moment, Melizar was free of the clinging bodies of his former captors and back on his feet. He shot a glance toward Thatcher who gave him a quick nod and turned his attention back to the onrushing hoard of goblinoid bandits.

Two more Ogres, apparently commanding the goblinoid hoard, paused slightly farther up the ramp than their shaman did. Ogres were related to the Orcs and Hobgoblins but were much larger with some reaching over seven feet tall. They, like their smaller cousins, were servants of their Ayabim
god, the ruthless and cruel Shafik. At the sight of the two huge goblinoid commanders, Melizar saw the resolve in the faces of the caravaneers start to waver. Then, from the rear of the caravan came the sound of thundering hooves pounding westward toward the ramp. Xyer Garan was charging into battle with his lance lowered and his face filled with hatred and determination. Surely, one of the Ogres at least was about to meet his end.

The cheer that erupted from the troopers and mercenaries engaging the southern slope at the sight and sound of Captain Garan riding in full gallop and fury to the forefront of the fray, was cut short. They all watched in confusion as the huge Cyrian swerved away from the ramp and gallop past the mouth of the incline where the Ogres stood. The Cyrian knight was making a beeline for the front of the caravan with his lance leveled directly at Captain Gideon.