The Madness of Gods and Kings (26 page)

“Yet your legends are riddled with such tales. What does that make you, exactly, having abandoned all vestiges of whence you came?” The zha’foral crooked his head skyward and hissed a wicked laugh.

Piper was growing agitated. This cat and mouse game needed to end, quickly, if he was going to have enough time to hash out his differences with the Pell leaders in time before reaching the end of the pass. Still, he couldn’t help but adhere to at least a measure of caution. Nagging suspicions lurked just beyond consciousness, enough to give the second in command of the Wolfsreik pause. Most of the soldiers scoffed at the notion of being controlled by some defunct higher power. Unless it could be seen, the concept of gods was intangible.

“What warnings would you have me pass along? A faceless monster awaits, eager to consume us the moment we set foot upon our home soil?” Piper snapped. Rationalizing was getting him nowhere and each moment delayed was one lost.

The zha’foral grinned sheepishly. “Ever the favored sons. What the gods saw in your species I’ll never understand. My master issues warnings that higher powers are in play. The dark gods are at work in Delranan. The kingdom of the Wolf will burn to ash.”

Clearly as agitated as Piper had grown, the zha’foral blinked and disappeared in a second cloud of ash and smoke. The stench of burnt hair clung to Piper’s cloak, twisting his stomach. Alone again, he had no choice but to internalize what just happened and push ahead. The prospect of being strung out overnight in the confines of the mountains bothered him as a tactician. Should the Pell choose to betray their alliance, it wouldn’t take much to rain down a hail of spears and arrows, slaughtering hundreds.

Spooked by the unexpected encounter with the zha’foral, Piper rode on. He tried to reorient his mind on tactics and the problems inherent with deploying a twenty-thousand-strong army through such a narrow gap without sustaining heavy casualties. Harnin wasn’t going to make the transition easy. The one-eyed bastard no doubt had traps and ambushes established from the foothills all the way back to Chadra Keep. Fortunately for the allied army, Harnin didn’t know of the secret Pell ways. If he did, he’d be able to keep the army bottlenecked for months, all but forcing Rolnir to retreat and circle south around the mountains. The war would drag on well into the following year and who knew how many casualties each side would sustain.

Mood darkened by too many complications, Piper Joach listened to the crisp sound of hooves striking the hard granite of the mountain floor. Of his many duties in the military, he despised trying to convince leaders of any faction to bend to the will of the Wolfsreik. The Pell Darga were his most-feared competition. Once feral enemies, the shadow people remained ready to turn at a moment’s notice. Piper scowled.
Thank you, General Rolnir. I don’t know what I’d do without this added responsibility
. His thoughts were disturbed as Cuul Ol came into view. The Pell chieftain leaned heavily on an ash walking stick. He grinned, flashing missing teeth as Piper rode near.

Drimmen Delf Goes to War

Cold winds lashed into their faces, bitter with winter’s kiss. The Dwarves laughed it off. Their thick skin and heavy beards buffeted most of the harshness the elements offered. Most in the four-thousand-strong army were haggard veterans all but immune to the worst of weather conditions. Their heavy boots stamped a thunderous sound across the rolling hills and gentle valleys west of the Kergland Spine. The grind of wheels echoed in stark contrast. Files of cannons were pulled by oxen. Wagons filled with ammunition and gunpowder followed at a safe distance should an unfortunate accident occur and destroy most of the army.

Thord marched at their helm. His thick beard was decorated with jewels and polished, silver trinkets woven into the hair. His round belly strained under armor he last recalled fitting slightly looser. The Dwarf Lord barked rich laughter when confronted by his peers and advisors. Dwarves weren’t known for their sense of humor, and were more apt to challenge a battle of axes, yet Thord knew he needed to set an example for the others. If what Faeldrin cautioned was even partially true this was going to be a war unlike any other. He relished the opportunity to test his people’s mettle against dark gods and their ilk. Time had come when Dwarves would return to prominence.

He stepped off the lane to watch the first battalions march by. These were his elite: battle-hardened veterans individually chosen for feats of valor on the field. Five hundred of Drimmen Delf’s best would lead the tide of Dwarves into battle in the western kingdom of Delranan. None knew what to expect, yet each was willing to sacrifice his own life in order to win the battle for the glory of their kingdom.

Sunlight reflected off their silver armor. Dwarves enjoyed inspiring fear in their opponents. They marched into battle with resplendent armor worthy of a king’s collection. Spear and axe sang with fresh polish. Only the very best weapons were good enough for the elite. Fierce helmets covered the upper portions of their faces, only the lower jaw exposed. Dwarves were fearless, warriors of the highest caliber. Thord’s heart swelled with pride. These were
his
Dwarves.
His
army. All Malweir would tremble at the sound of their guns.

Never before, so far as he knew and the Elf Lord Faeldrin confirmed, had any army successfully used gunpowder weapons on a massive scale. Many, the Elves included, found them largely disturbing. Such destruction wasn’t meant for the hands of mortals. Images of fields strewn with severed body parts, grass, and snow painted in blood haunted many of the survivors. Secure within the observation post on Bode Hill, Thord watched in abject disgust. Amazed by the ingenuity of his smiths and war masters, the Dwarf Lord could only stand with puckered lips.

His was a warrior’s life. How many victims had fallen to his axe over the course of his long, decorated life? Numbers weren’t easily counted. Foes and rivals alike dropped in defeat. Some cooled on the hard ground. Others were subsumed into Drimmen Delf’s culture. A select few rose to become fast allies whose voices counted equal in his war councils. Those were the ones he felt most comfortable around. They were Dwarves who knew the value of strength in leadership.

Halfway through the day he received ill-welcomed news. The Aeldruin had returned and were riding to the head of the column. Whispers arrived ahead of them. Whispers of the horrors of the battle along the Fern River. Curiously, as if to hammer the truth in, none of the one-hundred-Dwarf element marched alongside. Thord ordered a brief rest while waiting for the Elves to deliver their report. Ill news needed to be prepared for lest it overwhelm the receiver.

He removed his winged helmet and wiped his knotted brow with a thick palm. Calluses from a lifetime of iron work gnarled his hands into weapons of their own. His eyes squinted in the midday sunlight. The color of flint, they lost some of their earlier luster. Pride of history was one matter, dealing with the loss of such an important battle commander another. Snatching a canteen from his adjutant, a position he insisted didn’t need to be filled, the Dwarf Lord drank deeply. Faeldrin would have sent riders ahead if they’d found victory. Thord prepared for the worst news. News he already knew in his heart. He’d sent one hundred of his bravest to their deaths without second thought. Being a king certainly had drawbacks.

“Greetings, Lord of Drimmen Delf,” Faeldrin announced less than an hour later as he slid from the saddle of an exhausted mount.

Thord didn’t understand horses or the attraction to them. Being able to traverse countless leagues in a day--tripling what a Dwarf could walk--meant little in the grand scheme of his life. There was naught but disconnect with the earth when mounted, even on a pony. Thord, and practically every Dwarf, greatly preferred their own boots to carry them where they needed to go. He looked up at the lean, almost lanky Elf Lord and offered a curt bow.

“Faeldrin. How fares the east?”

The distant stare mirrored in the depths of the Elf’s eyes was answer enough, yet Faeldrin began a thorough recounting of the heroism involved. His shoulder slumped as he finished. “I have never seen a host so vast. Not in all my many millennia of roaming Malweir.”

“Tens of thousands?” Thord nearly balked. Goblins were reclusive by nature, choosing to thieve and murder under the cover of darkness or the light of a pale moon. For so many to move across open expanses of land in the middle of the day was a feat unheard of.

“Many times that,” the Elf corrected. “I believe the world will never be the same again.”

Even with the amount of casualties the Goblins suffered on the riverbank, they still had enough to sack every kingdom between Drimmen Delf and the western shore. Thord’s meager force, by comparison, would be swept under without putting a dent in the Goblins’ weight. The warrior in him wanted to test that theory, to put Dwarven steel against Goblin savagery. His blood surged with fire.

Faeldrin recognized that cagey look and intervened. “You wouldn’t be enough to break them. Their numbers are too much, even for mighty Drimmen Delf.”

Thord offered mock ignorance. “I didn’t say a word, despite what those pointy ears of yours might have heard. Though now that you mention it I think my Dwarves would carve a bloody path straight through the heart of those foul bastards.”

“No doubt. Goblins may be fierce and have numbers but they lack the natural martial instinct of Dwarves. Thousands would fall. Perhaps even a third of their force, but your loss would be complete. Are the lives of four thousand Dwarves so casually discarded?”

Muscles tensed under the heavy chainmail. “You know better. Dwarves have always answered the call of the old allegiances. How many battles have you and I stood side by side? Once more the ground will tremble at the sound of Elves and Dwarves going to war.”

“I have no doubts of your courage or veracity. Only the number of our enemies coming for us. We held the banks for almost a day before they crossed in such numbers I had no choice but to withdraw.”

“At least it wasn’t a total loss,” Thord countered, desperate to salvage at least a small measure of dignity.

Faeldrin suppressed the sadness threatening to overwhelm him. He’d thought he’d been able to internalize his grief during the long ride back to the main army but giving an account of the battle reopened those wounds. He felt each death again and again as the events played out in his mind’s eye. Elf or Dwarf. It didn’t matter. Each life was precious to him. Many Elves disagreed with his lifestyle. They remained cloistered in the great forests, heedless of the developments between kingdoms and races. Faeldrin viewed that as the great failing of the Elves. They’d grown so frightened by the prospect of dying that their lives were wasted under a blanket of fear.

The Aeldruin were considered the finest mercenary force in all Malweir. Never numbering more than fifty, Faeldrin and his Elves ignored the claustrophobic pleas of their people to strike out in the effort to do good in the world. They lived like no other Elf and, as a direct result, thoroughly enjoyed life. Losing a single one might be considered travesty by the general population, but Faeldrin knew they died fully appreciating what life had to offer.

He gazed down on the Dwarf and smiled sadly. “No, there were survivors. We managed to bring back a handful of your wounded. They are already with the healers and should recover to fight again.”

Thord, brooding, grunted approval. “Strong blood runs through our veins. Did the others die well?”

What a difficult question to answer. How does one define a quality death? By the number of enemies heaped at his feet? Or by the amount of lives one saves in the act? I’ve searched long for these answers without ever discovering the truth. All life is precious, but give one’s life in the pursuit of doing what one loves might be considered worthy of praise
. “Yes, Dwarf Lord, they died with axe in hand and enemies at their feet.”

Thord accepted this cold truth and ran thick fingers through his beard. His eyes swept back over his army, yearning to set sight on those survivors. Regret would betray them. They’d all gone to the river knowing death awaited. To be removed from the field while their comrades fell shamed them. Thord felt their misery, for it also laid in his heart. There’d come another time, soon, when those brave warriors were given the opportunity to die for their kingdom. He prayed to Kruk, the Dwarf god of war, that their internal torment be short and their axes reap a terrible price on the Goblins. No other vindication would suffice.

“How much time do we have before the enemy arrives?” Thord asked brusquely.

Faeldrin couldn’t shake the feeling the Dwarves planned on wheeling about to meet the Goblins head-on despite his warnings. “Not before we arrive in Delranan.”

Both leaders knew Drimmen Delf lay in the Goblins’ path. Should the foul creatures decide to lay siege, Thord would see the end of his line. Dwarf women were stout, capable fighters, but they lacked numbers. Goblins would sack the mighty Dwarven kingdom and leave the mountain a burning wreckage of corpses. The token defense force left in place wouldn’t do much more than hold the Goblins for a day before the unending wave of darkness swelled into the tunnels and caverns.

“Thord, the west needs our aid. Anienam Keiss and I spoke at length. Whatever this culminating event is, it will occur in Delranan. We must arrive in time to do our part. The world of Men is not strong enough to withstand the dark tide alone,” the Elf pressed.

A fierce glare was his only response.

League after league ground away under the heavy clomp of Dwarven boots. Dwarves came up lame. Wagons broke down. Wheels on cannons snapped from traversing rough terrain. Yet the army moved on. They sang ancient songs to the gods. They sang of glory in battle and the coming age where Dwarven life might would be celebrated by all. They sang for those who were about to die. Heart buoyed with song, the mighty army of Drimmen Delf pushed out of the foothills and into the far eastern fringes of Rogscroft.

Faeldrin and the Aeldruin ranged ahead, scouting the best possible path of march for the large army. Elvish horses danced across the snow, so light in their step. It didn’t take long before signs of the war overwhelmed them. Faeldrin buckled under the sheer amount of havoc caused by the first Goblin army. Entire villages lay burnt to the ground. Skeletons lay in awkward poses where they’d been murdered. The sudden prospect of facing a potentially equal-sized Goblin force ahead of the Dwarves paled him.

“This is madness,” Euorn cautioned as he rode past skeletons of three butchered horses. “We should not be here.”

“If not here, where?” Faeldrin asked. “You saw how large the first army was. We have no choice but to continue pushing westward.”

The lord of the Aeldruin frowned. It was an old argument, stretching back to when Euorn was first recruited.

“You risk forcing the Dwarves into a confrontation they can’t possibly win should the Goblin army responsible for all of this lies in wait,” the Elf scout replied.

Faeldrin conceded the point. “We risk even more by keeping out of this. You heard what the wizard told me. This is a battle for the soul of Malweir. Should we fail, all life will wither and die under the tyranny of the dark gods’ return. Are you willing to ride home to Elvenara in shame and wait for the end?”

Euorn stiffened, visibly disturbed by the conjured images. “You know better, Faeldrin. I’ve ridden alongside you for more years than I care to recount. We’ve fought countless battles and I’ve remained singularly constant in my caution. Not even the time we slew the dragon Ramulus were matters this dire.”

Killing a dragon was no small accomplishment, yet the Elves managed, along with the help of Anienam’s father and a tribe of Pell Darga hunters. Faeldrin’s memories had turned to fondness, one that didn’t relate to what lay in store for them now: tens of thousands of Goblins, the Dae’shan, and the return of evil so vast there was no counter measure.

Euorn continued, “You’re not taking into account the war that has clearly struck Rogscroft. If the Goblins were even a quarter of the size marching west behind us, this kingdom might already have fallen. Do we take the chance of marching too close to the capital while being pursued?”

Every instinct demanded the Elves march ahead to the cities offering aid when available. Doing so increased the risk of being discovered by the current Goblin force potentially occupying the Rogscroft countryside. Faeldrin wanted to help the men of this kingdom but in doing so would damn the Dwarven army.