by Markus Heitz
With Vraccas’ help he should soon be getting tired. Tungdil waited for the next stroke, smiling when the armoured acront played exactly the one he had expected, slicing the orc attacker through from head to toe. I want them to wear him out for me.
The field was thinning out. There had been about forty of them but only half were still in with a chance. The survivors had now realised they were easy pickings and they were proceeding more cautiously. They formed larger groupings and were gesticulating wildly to communicate with each other. The acront grunted with delight when he saw this.
“Beligata, it would be great if you could come up with an idea now.” Tungdil leaned against a pile of armour, refusing to pay attention to what the beasts were urging him to do. Do your best without me.
He watched and waited.
The remaining orc led seven beasts, shouting instructions, gesturing for them to encircle the veteran. A troll half the size of the acront was holding back, just as Tungdil was. He was waving a bludgeon in the air indecisively. He had ten monsters clustered around him; they reckoned this was their best bet.
Only the weird sea-creature, who looked a bit like a baby seal with his rolls of fat and his flippers, was isolated on his own, like Tungdil. It lay about wondering, it seemed, what on earth it could do faced with an acront on dry land.
The other captives’ unrelenting cries of encouragement had not lessened at all. The stink of blood, warm meat and spilled guts made them all the more eager.
“Hey! I … something,” Tungdil caught a snatch of what Beligata was saying. She was on her feet and waving a piece of paper.
“Louder,” yelled the dwarf. Curses! These wretched beasts are making so much noise.
“You’ve got … to stab … where …” came the garbled message.
Tungdil knew he was not going to get any useful tips like this. “Wrap the paper round a stone and chuck it down!” He tried to emphasise his meaning with mimed actions.
Beligata got the picture and threw the paper a few heartbeats later, aiming cleverly through the bars of her cage. Tungdil watched to see exactly where it would fall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sea-creature making its way to pick it up. Moving like a cross between a snake and a caterpillar, it slithered over, picking up a turn of speed Tungdil had not been expecting.
“Don’t you dare!” he bellowed, leaping up and racing over. The combat was starting again in earnest, he realised, hearing increased clattering and shrieking. But the message from Beligata was more important. He needed to learn about his adversary’s weaknesses. The scrunched-up message landed on the arena floor, bounced a few times and rolled over to the sea-creature, which had its jaws wide open to catch it.
Oh, no, you don’t! Tungdil flung his shield, intercepting the paper and stone so that the trajectory was altered. The seal-like creature caught the edge of the shield in its teeth and crunched it up as if it were a slice of toast.
I’ll have to keep away from those teeth. Tungdil had reached the precious ball of paper and bent to retrieve it. Just then, a shadow lunged over him and threw him to the floor, landing a powerful blow that hurled him onto the stone a few paces away.
Where did that come from? He raised his head to take a look at his unexpected attacker.
He could not see the sea-creature anywhere. In its place was a naked humanoid form, with extremely long arms and nails like knives. It blocked his view of the message that was intended for him. He saw its black button eyes.
It’s a shape-shifter. It’s been fooling me by taking on the appearance of some lump of a thing to make me ignore it. He went up to it. “What are you playing at? Give me that piece of paper.”
The clawed fingers grasped the message. The creature either perused its contents or put up a good pretence of reading. “Good,” it said, waving the note around. “Good, good.” It placed the message on the floor and weighed it down with a stone, but did not move out of the way. “Read. Come. Read.” Raising a long arm it gestured with a crooked index finger.
Tungdil tried to remember what the archives had said about shape-shifters. Surely not a trustworthy ally. If he recalled right, this could be a shape-shifter of the type called Fin’Sao. They were characterised by extreme cruelty. They did not merely kill their prey but also inflicted all sorts of horrors on them. Only then would the flesh be to their taste.
“Get away from the message!” Tungdil commanded. If the Fin’Sao did not cooperate, Beligata would need to send another note. Hope she didn’t throw me the original.
The long-armed beast moved back a few paces, waving at the dwarf. Tungdil made ready to fend off an attack. Treacherous thing. The acront was not the adversary he had to fear, it seemed. The Fin’Sao was looking for a fight it thought it could win.
“I’ll hack you to pieces if you jump me,” the dwarf threatened, picking up the damaged shield at his feet. He reached the message and pulled it to himself swiftly, ducking down behind the shield to get the gist of the lines.
But the Fin’Sao had already scratched away vital parts of the note.
You wretched creature. He lowered the paper. “What’s this in aid of?”
“The two of us”—the Fin’Sao put its head on one side—“together. I know what to do. You do what I tell you.”
Tungdil moved away. “You’re on your own.” He signalled to Beligata that she should send another copy of the message. “I’m not submitting to coercion.”
“My people near here. Fleeing, hiding. Want protection.” The Fin’Sao turned full circle, scratching the stone with its long nails, leaving marks. “You and your friends. And me. Help.”
Tungdil saw no possible advantage to be gained by involvement with an untrustworthy ally. I think we’re better off sticking to the offer the emperor-mother made us. “No. But you know the acront’s weaknesses now. So off you go.”
The Fin’Sao hissed with rage and hurled itself at the dwarf.
Tungdil ducked behind his shield and waited for the impact; he anchored his boot-clad feet fast in the sand to take the strain and grabbed hold of his hand-axe. One claw scraped his helmet but did not penetrate it. The nails of the creature’s other hand dug into the shield’s covering and wood.
And I had vowed never to fight again. He threw out his shield arm as far as he was able, knocking his opponent off his feet. There’s nothing for it, though. Then he swung his axe at the Fin’Sao’s vulnerable underside. The gash opened up the belly and blood gushed out of the cut. The beast hopped away, howling, only making the injury worse. Its guts started to spill out. Soon it collapsed, convulsing.
“Mind out,” screamed Beligata.
Tungdil turned to see what the acront was up to—but the giant form reared up directly in front of him. Vraccas!
The acront’s own axe was already heading his way.
Girdlegard
Grey Mountains
Kingdom of the Fifthling dwarves
Stone Gateway
6496th solar cycle, summer
“That’s by far the strangest storm I’ve ever seen here in the Grey Mountains.” Balyndar had known since dawn that the orbit had nothing good in store. It had started badly: his stomach was upset and he was nauseous. He had tried every remedy. He and Girgandor were in one of the portal’s thick-walled defence rooms where the spear catapults were housed. He squinted out of the window slits. The wind was sharp and cut into his face.
It’s not letting up, is it? Not a bit. On the contrary, an incredible thunderstorm was brewing. Black clouds piled up above the mountain peaks and swathes of heavy rain were visible in the distance. Although the sun was at its zenith, the whole area was dark as nightfall. A fresh westerly breeze had been displaced by a storm wind from the north, grabbing at the guards’ beards and protective clothing. Anything not tied down was whirled along by the powerful gusts like children’s toys.
Balyndar got his men to secure what they could. The increasing strength of the wind made him concerned they would lose soldiers off the bat
tlements, so he ordered ropes to be spanned for the guards to attach themselves to.
What most worried Balyndar and his Fifthlings was that the storm was arriving counter to the prevailing wind direction. Who was conjuring up this elemental weather phenomenon? Samusin himself, perhaps? Girgandor pulled his helmet strap tighter. He had no head hair to protect but his intricately coiffured beard was being tangled mercilessly. “Magic, do you think?” he shouted above the racket. “We don’t know what ghaists are capable of. Or their masters, come to that.”
Balyndar tried to ignore this unpleasant thought. “Let’s just say the storm is unusual. At least it’s keeping away any unwelcome visitors.”
“That’s good.” Girgandor said out loud what his commander was saying silently. “We can’t use the catapults and throwing devices in this weather. And the kites would stand no chance. They’d break loose from their moorings or the canvas would rip to shreds.” The bald dwarf stared up at the sky. “It’d be a miracle in this weather if we hit a single target. You couldn’t even rely on a sword thrust going where you wanted it to. If you’re carrying a shield, you’d be picked up and carried off.”
Something shattered near the look-out post and splinters landed on Balyndar’s armour before falling to the ground.
He picked up the fragments and ran his fingers over them. Basalt and … is that obsidian?
The thing was, there was no obsidian in the Grey Mountains.
Girgandor made the same connection. “Well, this storm is full of surprises,” he considered. “That’s not local stone.”
Balyndar slid the shutter over the arrow slit to keep the draught out. The wind hurled itself at the obstacle, shaking the wood and emitting a high-pitched screech that hurt the eardrums. The commander thought he could detect a strange smell. Powdered stone meal? Impossible, surely. Or could it be something the wind’s picked up on the way?
Balyndar thought he heard another impact. “I’ll warn the watch. They’ll have to take shelter till these stones stop raining down. We’ll drag the small catapults off to safety and the throwing machines must be covered—with shields, not tarpaulins—or their mechanisms will get damaged.”
He and Girgandor left the reinforced basement section of the fortress walls and ran up the stairs to the right-hand tower above the gate itself. After giving the guards their instructions, the two of them went up to the covered look-out post; the intermittent clicking persisted but the heavy glass of the stairwell windows was still intact. When they arrived at the top of the tower, Girgandor and Balyndar listened to the rain and the stones hailing down from the clouds. The four guards on duty had retreated to the middle of the shelter for protection.
“What is Samusin up to? This is really not normal.” Girgandor grabbed a chair and thrust most of it outside, tightly hanging on to one corner as the wind buffeted it. Balyndar watched, concerned. Tiny splinters of basalt and obsidian bombarded the wood, destroying the chair in a few blinks of an eye. It was a good thing they put the small catapults away. With luck, the thick reinforced timbers of the throwing machines could withstand the barrage.
Girgandor pulled in the only chair leg still intact and handed it round.
“We can be glad our roof is tiled in granite,” said Balyndar, looking out at the empty walkways. The storm would tear the flesh from any living creature in its path and then pound the bones to powder.
“We must get our learned dwarves to check the archives to see if there’s any record of a north wind carrying basalt and obsidian chips.” He turned and looked along the path that led to their fortress. He had heard something that was neither the roar of the wind nor the clicking of stones. What’s that over there? Torches? He leaned forward and picked up the telescope.
Some kind of vehicle was on the move through the storm: perhaps a siege tower being wheeled along horizontally. It was lit from the inside but he could not make out what it contained.
Balyndar pointed it out to Girgandor. It was perhaps eighty paces in length and ten wide; its height, in this position, eleven. That would be sufficient to shelter a considerable number of attackers from the ravages of the storm. The construction was definitely coming nearer to their fortifications.
And we can’t use our catapults, even though they present a simple target. Or the kites. Useless in these conditions. “I’m afraid they’re heading straight for us,” he said, lowering the seeing-tube. “Girgandor, get the cauldrons prepared and have guards man all the corridors that are not out in the open. We’ll need hot slack from the forges and heated petroleum to drop over and set fire to as soon as they get close.”
“So it’s the raggle-taggle army again. They’ve taken their time. Them arriving now is no coincidence, I bet.” His deputy nodded. “They knew exactly what kind of storm was brewing. That’s why they brought that strange vehicle with them.”
Balyndar agreed. “I expect they’ll try to outdo their initial performance, when they set that mark on the walls.”
“They’ll never do it!” Girgandor rushed down the steps and the alarm horns sounded. The fortress was on defence footing.
Here we go again. Balyndar raised the seeing-tube to his brown eye and examined the vehicle, getting as much detail as the rain and bad light allowed. There were numerous handles and indentations on the top of the carriage, some short, some long.
They want to use it as a ramp, he deduced. It could be sloped up against the gate, thus getting the enemy several paces nearer the top of the walls, and they would not have to form it with a pile of bodies. That will be the main difference to their first attempt. Balyndar was relying on their supply of slack, burning pitch and petroleum to seep into cracks and fissures in the aggressors’ construction and burn the inmates alive.
The unusual storm with its deadly freight of sharp stone fragments was causing him a great deal of concern. As long as the wind kept up its onslaught, Balyndar could not send any of his dwarf warriors out to repel attackers who might make it on to the ramparts.
The vehicle kept coming.
Whoever it is that the Outer Lands child has made an enemy of, they’re powerful. The wind is following orders. He could only hope the clouds would not be able to cross the Grey Mountains, or the sharp splintered rain would cause a bloodbath and devastate great swathes of open countryside.
The air was full of the smell of fire and boiling pitch. The cauldrons of petroleum and slack and other fiery liquids stood ready to be poured onto the enemy. The strange box-like vehicle had nearly reached the gate and was slowing its pace now. It came to a halt thirty paces away, a safe distance from the walls with their cauldrons of death.
They’re waiting for something. Balyndar did not take his eyes off the vehicle for a moment. When he used the telescope, he caught sight of lights inside the contraption and shadowy figures moving to and fro, but he had no idea what they were up to.
The front part lifted up. A second metal sheet came out from under the first, lengthening the ramp.
The strong wind pushed the whole unit into the gate where it crashed to a halt, but it left the ramp at such an acute angle that no one could have used it to run up. Now the front was lifted, Balyndar could see inside. Hundreds of men and beasts were sitting waiting in the shelter of the contraption’s metal sheet. At the back there were cogs and pulleys, chains and counterweights to control the angle of the ramp. They’ve got nowhere near enough soldiers to trouble us.
The dwarf started to feel relieved. The end of the ramp was below the outlets where molten pitch and hot petroleum could be poured. It was forty paces short of the balustrade. They could hardly have placed it in a worse position. The hail of small stones stopped abruptly, but the rain and the wind were still at full force.
Balyndar wondered why the attacking soldiers did not move. They sat side by side in silence, waiting, man and beast, large and small. There’s no ghaist in there with them.
Girgandor returned. “We can begin,” he reported, panting from the exertion.
�
�As soon as the soldiers are out on the ramp, we’ll douse them with hot slack. I want to see how they respond,” said Balyndar.
“They won’t do anything at all,” Girgandor commented with a confident laugh. “Same as last time. They’ll burn to death in our Vraccasfire.”
“How many do you reckon are in that box?”
“A few hundred, maybe.” He thought for a moment then added, “Too few for an attack.”
“Yes, that’s my feeling, too. They would all fit on the ramp.” Balyndar turned the telescope on the road to the north. “Seems to me this is all far too much effort. They must know we’re going to destroy that contraption.”
“A new rehearsal?” suggested Girgandor. “Perhaps they’re working on a design for a ramp that’s twice as big.” Balyndar scanned the horizon. “Still too much effort to go to, especially with this storm, just to find out how our throwing machines and catapults are deployed. Besides, they already have that information.” There! He froze, focusing the telescope on a point where he thought he had glimpsed a banner.
Not four heartbeats later he established there was a never-ending stream of bodies running, running, heading for the Stone Gateway. With water splashing round their feet, raindrops sliding down their faces, some of them in armour, some not, they hurtled on, no shouts or war cries, creating with their progress a dull thunder that was louder than the storm. Neither rain nor wind was impeding their relentless march.
Now they’ve got more than enough! Balyndar suppressed the fear he was starting to feel. He indicated the army to Girgandor. “Everything we’ve got in the way of petroleum and Vraccas fire, get it brought here,” he ordered. “We’ll need all of it.”