Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) (19 page)

Cagen bowed and made his way back down the hill.

“Send the cavedogs up closer, we will attack soon.” He
watched the field and then his eyes drifted up into the pass. A singular doubt
crept into the back of his mind. What if the Tarthuns had more in reserve as
well? Could it be that they had a similar plan to his? He shook his head as he
went over the notion again in his mind. No. That was not the Tarthun way. They
relied on sheer numbers and surprise to gain their victories.

Grand Master Penthal sat atop his horse watching the
battle for another ten minutes before the cavedogs were in place. He knew it
would take another ten or possibly even twenty minutes before those on foot
would be able to reach their position.

The clanging steel continued to drum out across the
snowy valley. The archers worked steadily on squeezing the Tarthun flank and
keeping the horsemen trapped face to face with the pikemen. However, the
pikemen were losing ground now. The sheer numbers and power of the Tarthun
horde far outmatched the wall of spears. Far more horsemen were falling by the
second, but the actual group of pikemen was being pushed back as the Tarthuns
continued a relentless press.

He knew he could wait no longer.

“Knights, this is it.” Grand Master Penthal drew his
sword. The bright sun glinted off of it and seemed to infuse his very soul with
courage. The frigid air filled his lungs, burning slightly, as he pulled in a
breath before he shouted the command.
“Charge!”

The seven knights of the Lievonian Order galloped down
the hill. Their heavily armored horses tore at the snow as they gained speed
and became an unstoppable avalanche of steel and fur. One of the knights blew
the warning on the horn as they came near to their pikemen. The soldiers
immediately parted, allowing the charging knights a direct path into the horde.

Penthal glanced over his shoulder to see many cavedogs
only half a pace behind him. A smile crossed his face and he dropped the visor
on his helmet.

The world seemed to slow as he galloped atop his horse
between the pikemen. Three Tarthun raiders were galloping toward him and the
other knights. In that moment he studied each of the Tarthuns’ tanned,
weathered faces. The scowls and grimaces they wore only accentuated the blood
streaked across their weapons and armor. One of the raiders looked back at
Penthal and the two locked eyes. They charged directly toward one another.
Neither of them flinched. Penthal’s horse, being much larger and covered with armor,
bowled the Tarthun’s horse backward as they collided. At the same time, Penthal
brought his sword down low and jammed it through the Tarthun raider’s chest. He
barely managed to yank his sword free before his horse finished trampling the
fallen Tarthun and horse and quickly pressed onward.

Time sped back up to its normal pace again, seeming
almost as though it moved faster now than it ever had. The knights slammed into
the mass of horsemen. Neighing and screaming drowned out all sound around them.
Then
came
the shrieks and groans as cavedogs fanned
out around the knights and started ripping into the Tarthun horses. Penthal was
nearly stunned when he saw a cavedog bite off the front leg of a horse as it
streaked past. Others darted under and between the enemy horses, giving the
dwarven riders ample soft targets to work on with their axes and swords.

The only way Penthal could describe it was to compare
it to a sudden earthquake that dropped the first several ranks of Tarthun
raiders. All around him the pikemen were able to stand still and breathe for
several moments while the cavedogs and knights shocked the enemy force, driving
back a whole third of the army.

Grand Master Penthal’s horse, however, was not stunned
by the carnage. It galloped onward, and Penthal was forced to return to his own
defenses when he collided broadside into a large raider. He reached out with
his left hand and pulled the Tarthun back enough to run his blade through the
man’s right side, up between the ribs and into the soft tissues behind them.
The Tarthun’s eyes went wide and his body stiffened just before Penthal pulled
his sword out and let the body drop.

Penthal looked up to notice that the Tarthun horde was
recovering. They were shifting their force to deal with the knights and the
cavedogs. This is what Penthal had hoped for. The Pikemen were able to squeeze
the flanks even sharper now, and the reinforcements would have a chance to seal
off the enemy from behind if they were quick enough.

“Call in the others,” Penthal shouted.

Three short trumpet blasts were followed by one long
one.

Penthal went back to his deadly work, trusting that
Cagen had relayed the appropriate information so that the others would do what
he wanted. Still, after the several hundred footmen blasted into the enemy, it
came as a bit of a shock when a large serpent made entirely of ice rose up from
the midst of the Tarthun horsemen. Horses shied away and men faltered as the
magical beast crushed and chewed its way through the enemy force. Penthal only
slightly caught a glimpse of Cagen and a few others standing off behind the
battle. They were moving their hands and focused intently.

“Gotta love magic!” a dwarf cavedog rider shouted up
from below.

Penthal nodded and continued to press into the fray.

Before long, the Tarthuns broke off. Those who were
not directly embattled retreated up the sharp slope back toward the pass. The
cavedogs, being much more nimble and quicker than the armored horses, gave
chase. The savage lizards ripped limb after limb off the fleeing horses and the
dwarven riders were quick to finish off each Tarthun that fell to the ground.

Penthal stood in his stirrups and shouted at the
Tarthuns, cursing them as they fled the field. The other knights remained
silent, but the pikemen joined in the victorious shouting.

A large cloud formed over the mouth of the pass. Its
dark, rumbling form grew in less than a second to cover the entire entrance to
the pass. Great crackles and snaps were heard as flashes of light sparked
within the dark mass. Then a series of purple and gold lightning blasted down
at the rock and ice near the top of the slope. The mountains groaned in
protest, but the lightning did not stop its relentless assault. Even when
gargantuan hunks of granite and ice exploded from the mountainside, the
lightning continued. The debris shot out and landed in the retreating Tarthun
horde, crushing many in the first wave. Then, as the lightning persisted, a
great wave of snow and ice broke free and began to slide down the slope.

Grand Master Penthal glanced back to the wizards. He
didn’t have to hear their spells to know it was they who controlled the
avalanche. He looked back to his men. “Sound the retreat.
Fall
back, men, fall back!”

Each knight pulled their horns and signaled the
retreat, though the pikemen had already started sprinting back toward the
safety of the hills where they had started the day.

“Sir, the wizards are in danger!” one of the knights
called out.

Penthal looked out to see a sizable group of Tarthuns
galloping toward Cagen and the others. Penthal knew that if the Tarthuns
reached Cagen, the lightning and the avalanche would be stopped. He also knew
that if he intercepted the Tarthuns, there wouldn’t be time to escape the
avalanche. He didn’t have to think about it. He turned his horse toward the
Tarthuns. The other knights followed him.

Grand Master Penthal smiled when he saw several rows
of his archers also standing their ground to help the wizards. Arrows flew
dangerously low over the wizards to pierce the charging Tarthuns and slow their
advance.

The growing, thunderous wall of white and gray snow
shook the very ground more and more with each passing second. Penthal could see
it out of his peripheral vision as he locked his eyes onto the Tarthuns. A few
moments later he and the other knights crashed into the enemy flank. The
Tarthuns were forced to stop and engage.

After the space of fifteen seconds, Penthal dropped
two Tarthuns before taking a heavy blow to the back that lifted him up from his
horse. He flew several yards in a blink of an eye. Only when he crashed down to
the frozen ground did he realize what had happened. A flash of white was
followed by darkness as a cold wave crushed him into the ground. His head rang
and he couldn’t see anything. At first, he was more aware of the weight than
the cold. His armor bent inward in places, making it difficult to breathe. He
couldn’t move his arms or legs. His lungs struggled against the pressure to
draw breath, but there was precious little air to be had.

A bit of snow dropped in through his visor. His nose
chilled as the snow melted and ran down his face. His last thought was one of
conquest. He knew that if he was at the bottom of this frigid tomb, then so was
the entire Tarthun army. He had led a great battle, one that should ensure the
Middle Kingdom’s safety from the eastern savages. His only regret was that none
of the Lievonian Order would live through the ordeal. He could only hope that
the footmen and dwarves were able to escape.

Gulgarin pulled the brown fur cloak over his shoulders
and fastened the chain in place with a brooch in the shape of a rearing
stallion. Next he slipped his hands into his thick gloves and then placed his
conical helmet with horse hair sticking out from the top onto his head. His
armor, consisting of small, oval plates of mithril woven together over a shirt
of chain mail jingled slightly with each movement. The leather hauberk
underneath it all lent him some protection from the cold, but not the stares he
was sure to receive when he stepped out from his tent.

“I am chief,” he said aloud to himself. “
I
am
chief.” He clenched and released his fists, taking in a fresh breath and
exhaling slowly. “I am
chief.
” He reached down to his belt and slid his sword up
slightly before dropping it back down into the scabbard.

He turned and exited the tent as if he was about to
slay a dragon. The two soldiers nearest the tent nearly tripped over themselves
scampering out of his way. Gulgarin paid them no attention. He moved on holding
his head high, simply expecting others to create a path for him. His
destination was the council, which was already sitting at a large fire under
the shadow of three pines that although burnt, retained their overall shape.

The five officers watched him carefully. Gulgarin was
sure to study each face in turn. He could see the mixed emotions on their
faces. Anger, resentment, even contempt stared back at him. Those emotions he
could handle. He understood them. Then his eyes settled on Fenerik, a young
captain who was related to one of the late chiefs that had been sacrificed to
create the battering ram at Ten Forts. His face wore an unacceptable emotion
painted across it.

Fenerik’s eyes were slightly wide, darting from side
to side and averting to the ground whenever they happened to hit upon
Gulgarin’s steely gaze. His hands we folded into his lap, thumbs twitching and
twirling. Then there was the foot tapping.

Gulgarin could almost smell the orc’s fear. He snarled
at the young officer and stormed right up to him. “You have something you want
to say?” Gulgarin snarled.

Fenerik shook his head and glanced to the others.
“No, chief.”

Gulgarin reached down and snatched Fenerik by the
front of his armor, lifting him up to eye level. “I
hate
fear,” Gulgarin said. “It is exactly what makes an orc weak. To fear is to let
yourself
be conquered by shadows. You are not fit for this
council.” Gulgarin shoved the young officer back down and then pointed out to the
side. “Get out.”

Fenerik scrambled out with hardly more than a timid
squeak.

“That wasn’t necessary,” one of the others said.

Gulgarin turned on the others and let his anger at
Fenerik play to his advantage. Now was not the time for counsel, it was the
moment for him to solidify his power over the tribes. “His weakness will kill
our spirit. This campaign is going to be difficult, even for us, but we are
going to win, Khullan demands it!” Gulgarin turned his head to the side and
narrowed his eyes on the four before him. “I know you doubt me. I know you have
anger at the losses we have suffered, but I never said it would be easy. Think
back to Ten Forts, did I ask for this?” Gulgarin made a show of turning around,
indicating the surrounding camp with his arms. “I assumed command only after
Maernok failed to lead us. Do any of you remember why he left? Because he was
WEAK! He chose to pursue a personal vendetta instead of leading the united
tribes on a glorious conquest to reclaim our homeland.”

“The winter will drive us back,” Lorik said.

Gulgarin pointed at Lorik and shook his finger in the
orc’s face. “We will march on. We have come too far now to go back.
For the glory of Khullan!”

The others did not join in with him.

Gulgarin let out a sigh that sounded like a feral
growl. “Khullan has chosen us,” he said. “He has opened the way to our enemy
and now he demands courage. Only those who are worthy will survive. This
campaign will reclaim our homeland while also culling the weak from our midst.
Those who will die will die. Some will win glory and honor, while the others
who are afraid and too pathetic to honorably claim the right to walk among us
will be stripped from us. Like a herd of deer that is thinned by the wolves, it
will only serve to make us stronger in the end. Can you not see? This is the
glorious battle that our sons, and their sons and their sons will sing of for
centuries after we have gone on to claim our glory in Hammenfein. You are
angry? Good! Now turn your anger toward those who deserve it. Let us stop
quibbling amongst ourselves and go out and face down the dogs that steal from
our tables. Let’s crush the humans and wring their blood out over our land to
replenish it and make it vibrant once again.
For the glory of
Khullan!”

This time the others joined in. “For the glory of
Khullan,” they said. Three of them seemed genuinely convinced, while Lorik
appeared only to be somewhat deferential. Still, as long as he had the council
in agreement, Gulgarin needed only one solid victory to solidify his rule. If
he could push them through the winter and overtake the human settlement, they
wouldn’t be able to refute him as the rightful leader.

“These are the orders I wish disseminated,” Gulgarin
said as he pulled out a single parchment rolled and sealed with a thin string
of red silk. “I want these preparations seen to immediately. As soon as it is
complete, we march against the humans.”

*****

Several days after the council met, Gulgarin woke well
before the sun rose into the sky. He stepped out from his tent to address the
ten groups before him. He surveyed them once more, ensuring they were ready.
Each group had five orcs, and each of them
were
dressed in white furs. Their faces and any other bits of visible skin had been
covered with a whitish gray paint. They were armed extensively with swords,
axes, and javelins. Additionally they had each been given tinder boxes and
several small vials of oil.

These ten groups were his answer for the enemy
catapults.

“Khullan smiles upon you,” he said. “While the slothful
humans lie asleep in their warm cottages, you have persevered and endured the
elements for this moment. There is no shame in cunning and stealth. We may not
employ assassins or wizards, but the employment of smaller groups of berserkers
is an honorable tradition. The few go out to meet the many on the field of
battle. Once you have destroyed their catapults, you will have to fight those
that discover you. Kill as many as you can with each breath Khullan grants you.
Your legends will be sung for generations.
For the glory of
Khullan!”

“For the glory of Khullan!” the groups echoed in
unison.

Then they ran off into the darkness. Gulgarin watched
until the last of them disappeared from his sight before he moved back into his
tent. He moved in and grabbed his warhammer, the fabled, elegant Rombolo. He
then moved out to mount a goarg and follow the berserkers.

He found Lorik already atop a goarg and waiting for
him. “My soldiers are ready and in place,” he said.

“Good. The others should be ready shortly,” Gulgarin
said referring to the soldiers under the direction of the other officers.
Gulgarin had personally taken command of Fenerik’s forces and Fenerik had been
forced to join the rank and file for his cowardice.

Gulgarin and Lorik walked their mounts out to the edge
of the burnt forest. They passed by their waiting troops and stopped just
before they emerged from the forest. They stared out blankly into the darkness.
From this distance, it was impossible to see the enemy forces. Even the
catapults were hidden by the night’s shroud. All he could do was hope that the
berserkers would set fire to the catapults and sew discord among the humans. If
they could destroy the catapults, even just a few of them, it would open up
corridors through which the orcs could reach the settlement without being
obliterated by raining stone.

They waited for what seemed like an eternity. All was
still and quiet. No fires. No sounds.
Nothing.

“Maybe they are having trouble finding the catapults,”
Lorik said. “They do have magic on their side.”

Gulgarin nodded. “If they cannot find the catapults,
then they will enter the town and slaughter the fools in their beds,” Gulgarin
assured him. “Either way, there will be blood before the sun rises.”

Another hour and a half expired before the first flame
was born far off in the darkness.

“Look there,” Gulgarin said. “One is down.” The chief
caught the hint of a smile on Lorik’s face as the officer nodded and silently
clapped his hands together.

“If they take out the others, we can roll over the
humans, just like you said,” Lorik commented. “For the glory of Khullan,” he
added.

“For the glory of Khullan,” Gulgarin replied. Two more
fires went up. The flames rose high into the darkness and the orcs watched the
machines crumble. When another couple of fires began, Gulgarin turned back to
the army behind him. “Now is the time to bathe our souls in human blood. Let
tonight wash from us the guilt and shame of our ancestors’ defeat.
For the glory of Khullan!”

Shouts and hollers went up through the ranks and every
soldier jumped up and started running across the field. Gulgarin let a couple
of rows pass him by before he urged his goarg forward. He was not about to let
anyone steal his glory from him this night.

The goarg responded eagerly, leaping and dancing
between the orcs until Gulgarin was out ahead of everyone once again. He kept
his eyes on the fires ahead, trusting his goarg to maneuver in the darkness.
When the large animal approached the chasm it sped up and leapt across. The orc
chief held tight with one hand on the reins and his hammer poised for a strike
in his other. The firelight from a nearby catapult illuminated the spot where
he would land, showing him the petrified face of a human soldier that stood
still, staring up at Gulgarin.

The hammer came down and the soldier crumpled to the
ground.

Gulgarin’s senses came alive. Now he could hear
fighting nearby. He urged the goarg in the direction of the noise and found two
berserkers fending off a dozen humans. Three berserkers and nearly a score of
human soldiers already lay upon the ground in heaps. Gulgarin laughed
maniacally as his goarg lowered its head and crushed seven men with its horns
and hooves. Gulgarin dropped another three humans and the two berserkers killed
the rest.

Gulgarin turned to direct the berserkers, but they
were already sprinting north, intent on finding the town and wreaking as much
havoc as they could. A smile crossed the orcs face and he moved along the
chasm, heading for the next fire. No one was there. Corpses, including four
orcs, littered the ground around the burning catapult but no one was nearby.
The machine collapsed and cracked like thunder as Gulgarin rode past, showering
him with red sparks and hot embers. He didn’t bother to brush them away. He let
the night’s cold air take care of them for him.

He focused on the next catapult. He rode for a couple
of minutes before finally reaching it. This time his heart sank when he saw
five dead orcs. There were only a few dwarven corpses, and there were about six
of the half-pint demons left. The survivors were busy trying to heap snow onto
the fire, or smother it with blankets. They never saw Gulgarin coming.

The goarg trampled two dwarves and Gulgarin took the
head clean off of the one nearest him. The other three turned to fight, but
just at that moment a wave of orcs clambered up out of the chasm. The army had
reached the front. The dwarves were overwhelmed and cut down in seconds.

Gulgarin roared mightily, holding his warhammer high
above his head. He turned to the north, shouting for his army to continue their
slaughter and conquer the city. He pressed on, keeping his pace more or less
equal with the soldiers around him. Now he saw torches coming from the north.
The enemy was awake.

The orc chief had no way to command the entire
army,
he had traded that for the opportunity to launch the
surprise attack under the cover of night. Now there was only fighting. It
didn’t matter how many orcs survived. It only mattered that Gulgarin kill all
who
approached him.

He and the soldiers nearby collided with the humans
and dwarves with a thunderous explosion. Time after time his hammer came down
to crush foe after foe. Helmets collapsed, men crumpled, and bones shattered
under Gulgarin’s fury. The orcs around him were no less effective. Their swords
hacked the enemy down several at a time. For a moment, it seemed as though it
was going to be a wholesale slaughter.

Then Gulgarin saw several hundred dwarves. They stood
just on the edge of his visibility, half hidden in the darkness. By the time he
realized what they were doing, it was too late. Crossbows clicked into place by
the hundreds. The rushing wave of orcs was cut down. A couple of bolts bounced
off of Gulgarin’s mithril armor. The orc chief grew furious. He let out a feral
yell and charged on. The orcs who had not been killed by the volley sprinted
faster, weapons ready and anger flowing out from them in their grunts and
growls.