The trigger point was made to look like a hunter’s cabin, further masked by smoke bearing the scent of roasted meat piped in from a dwarven mess hall several hundred feet below.
The orcs could not resist the smell of meat, nor ignore the threat of an ambush from the cabin. They would naturally attack without orders and trigger the rigging—a precisely timed trap. But the cabin was about to be destroyed, and the trap would be triggered well before the orcs climbing the canyon would be in lethal range. All would be wasted without the element of surprise. The orcs could stop and hew wooden planks as shield walls to block attacks from above and simply walk under the trap.
The roar of the tidal wave of ice, debris, and snow thundered in Gork’s ears as he plunged through the last few feet of snow and dove under the porch, avoiding the booby-trapped door.
The wave of snow hit like a molten mountain being dragged over him, drowning out all light. As the mass of sliding snow broke up the cabin’s flooring, chill snow poured in around Gork, leaving him with only a little wiggle room, which shrank by the second. His body was immobilized in complete darkness under a groaning, shifting mass of snow. With both his hands, Gork clung to the trigger rope. The strong downward pull of the rope told him there was nothing above him keeping it from slipping into the ground and releasing the gears on the rigging.
The moment he let go, the trap would be sprung. But if he let go before the orcs were in position, the surprise would be wasted.
Dwarfholm Bastion would fall.
With the weight of the survival of his entire people in his ice-covered hands, Gork prayed to the Goddess of light, creator of all Crystalia.
Give me strength to hold!
He had to start digging out soon, or the snow, wet from its turbulent descent, would begin to freeze, trapping him yards below the surface where there was precious little air to breathe.
But Gork had to wait for the war horn. He would not hear it from above, rather from below, through the pipe from the mess hall. From nearby came the hissing of air escaping the shorn metal piping of the geothermal vent. Gork wondered whether the warm air ascending through the pipe would keep him alive or kill him with mine gas.
He held his breath just in case.
He couldn’t check his pocket watch in the dark, but to Gork it seemed that at least ten minutes had passed with both his hands holding the fate of his people. He estimated he still had two or three minutes of air before he passed out.
Then a deep thrumming sounded through the vent pipe.
The horns!
The orcs had arrived.
Gork told his fingers to let go of the rope, but the muscles seemed to be knotted and frozen. Slowly, his aching, frozen fingers cracked open and the braided cord slashed down through his fingers and disappeared into the machinery below.
Clanking sounds began, and a moment later, Gork was thrust upward with a face full of sloppy snow, through fragments of wood, and rocky debris until he emerged at the top of a rising pillar right in the middle of an army of orcs.
By Gork’s side, a steel cord passed over a pulley on the tower, rising with the structure as it emerged from the snowy landscape below.
This was just the first phase—pulling the buried cable free of the ground.
High above, in a secured room along the ridge, winches whirred, rapidly taking up the slack in the wire as it was lifted clear of the snow.
Gork turned to see the end of the wire disappear into a crevice only a hundred yards away on the downhill side. Once the cable was taut, it would lift free of the tower, and Gork could slide to safety.
A thrown spear narrowly missed Gork’s neck.
That got his blood hot fast. He seized the wire with his hand and rose slowly with it as the cable came taut.
The tower beneath Gork rang with the sounds of orcs three times his size pummeling the scissor jack linkages. If the tower fell, Gork would be hanging twenty feet over the orcs’ heads—a hanging duck.
Motion on the ridge drew Gork’s eye.
Like dew drops falling down a thread, one by one, the dwarven guards took to the cable with their oiled bearing harnesses.
In moments, Hearthsworn Dwarves armed with powerful multi-bolt crossbows would be hurtling past on the cable zip line. Each would get several shots, and these were royal guards. They rarely missed.
The tower lurched and began to descend. With the cable taut, it made sense to ratchet it down so the orcs couldn’t climb up to hack at the cable. That left Gork with a problem. He needed a way to slide down the cable, or he was going to get knocked off by the first dwarf to arrive.
Gork quickly pulled off his belt, only to have his trousers fall to his knees.
Great gravy!
He hastily looped the belt over the cable and began to slide slowly toward the cliff wall on the opposite side of the canyon ravine, keenly aware of the fact that he was mooning several hundred orcs, all wielding sharp weapons.
This turned out to be a grand distraction from the real attack, and his hide was only spared by an orc scout who shouted frantically, pointing up the slope to the rapidly approaching dwarves. As he picked up speed over the ice falls of the canyon stream below, Gork looked back to see the first wave of cable-sliders glide into range. The dwarves on the zip line had ample time to pick their targets from among the scattering orcs. In quick succession, they fired well-aimed bolts at the enemy. But the orcs, with their bulky spears, swords, and axes, were unable to track the fast-moving dwarves. And the loose snow and ice from the avalanche hampered their escape.
The orcs’ attempts to cut the braided steel wire were equally useless. Their weapons merely missed completely or bounced off.
The screams of the enemy were all Gork could hear until a voice behind him bellowed a sharp, “Look out below!”
He wasn’t going to make it to the safety of the cave before the archers caught up to him.
With another prayer to the Goddess, Gork let go of one side of his belt and fell twenty feet into a snow bank as the first dwarf on his sliding harness hurtled past. Pulling himself and his trousers free of the snow, Gork secured his breeches and climbed quickly to the cave entrance.
At last, the shrieks and grunts calling for retreat sounded through the thin alpine forest and the orcs fled in droves.
He nodded approvingly.
Disaster averted.
From nearby, where the descending guards were unbuckling their harnesses, Gork heard his name. It was Hamdrel, captain of the palace guard. “Three cheers for Gork Moon-Orc!”
Gork’s face boiled with instant embarrassment.
. . . disaster almost averted.
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to Mr. Sidwell, Emma Hoggan, Ashlin Awerkamp, Sydnie Brewster, M.R. James, and Melissa Parker West.
About the Author
David J. West writes dark fantasy and weird westerns because the voices in his head won’t be quiet until someone else can hear them. He is a great fan of sword and sorcery, ghosts, and lost ruins, so of course, he lives in Utah with his wife and children.
The Glauerdoom Moor Page 14