The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4)

by C. Craig Coleman

  Next morning, the griffin awoke and stretched his paws like a cat, then flung out his wings to warm them in the early morning sun. Earwig watched with one eye barely open. She punched Dreg, who snoring, was sound asleep.

  “Wake up, you lump,” Earwig said. “That griffin is awake. We must be ready or it might leave us here, stranded in the middle of nowhere.

  Startled, Dreg jumped but settled back, clearing his throat. He pulled his cloak around him again.

  “That thing’s sunning himself. He ain’t going nowhere.”

  “We must be ready,” Earwig said. “This time I’m not flying half the day dangling off that flea infested thing’s side.” She got up out of her dusty nest. Her bruised body, a mass of pulsing pains from the falls the day before, hobbled over by the cold ashes. She reached down for a bone fragment, seeing a dab of marrow she’d missed the night before.

  Suddenly, she caught the great beak out of the corner of her eye. It was coming toward her. Before she could react, the beak snatched her, tossing her onto the lion-back. The griffin only had to look at Dreg. He ran, scrambling, and leaped on the griffin’s back.

  “Hold on!” he said as the griffin rose and started across the clearing.

  Earwig dropped the bone fragment and grabbed hold of the griffin’s fur just as it lurched forward and into the air. Off they flew north toward the Ice Mountains. She looked down and watched the bone fragment disappear in an instant. Her stomach grumbled.

  14: Consolidation at Sengenwha

  ;

  War Comes to Heggolstockin

  With the collapse of Sengenwhapolis, the death of King Calamidese, annihilation of the grand duke’s relief force, and the exodus of the last defenders of the capital, Sengenwha was a defeated state under the control of General Tarquak and the massive silver-scaled dragon, Ozrin. Having completed his mission, and finding few tasty Sengenwhan corpses or dead orcs to feed on, Ozrin informed General Tarquak he was returning to the Munattahensenhov to report to the king on the status of Sengenwha.

  “What do you mean you’re returning to Dreaddrac?” Tarquak asked, spitting through the stubble teeth in the orc shell’s mouth. Tarquak raged. He turned to his ogre and goblin aides for support, but they stood mute. “You’re needed here to defend Sengenwhapolis.”

  “No, General,” the great dragon responded. Boiling spittle fell from the corners of his massive mouth, splashing sulfurous flames near the wraith-orc. The general jumped back but dared not comment. “I go to report to the king on Sengenwha’s status. The city and kingdom are subdued; it merely remains for you to maintain control.”

  “But you can’t abandon me here now. What if these people decide to rise up again? What of Botahar”

  “You have an organized army, General. They have nothing.”

  Without waiting for another response, Ozrin stamped away into the night, his great tail whipping around, narrowly missing his nemeses.

  Tarquak turned to his aides, looking this way and that, daring one to comment. “Did you see that? That lizard dared turn and walk away without being dismissed.”

  There was no response from goblin or ogres behind the general. The orc face twisted, his eyes flared, his mouth half grimace half snarl. “Well, it will be your responsibility to assure this former kingdom remains broken and subdued. I’ll allow no argument.” The general started walking back to his tower overlooking the city, now mostly dark.

  “General,” an ogre called out.

  “What is it?”

  “What about Botahar, General?”

  “What about Botahar?”

  The ogre began sweating. He looked about him for support, but none of the others even moved. They just looked ahead, avoiding eye contact with the doomed ogre.

  “General, Botahar be the last stronghold in Sengenwha. Them rebel defenders of this city run off there. It’s from there that any counter attack is gonna come. Shouldn’t we crush it before a new army can form?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, fool. None would dare another attack on Sengenwhapolis now.” The general turned again to leave, but the goblin stepped forward. “What about the queen?”

  “What queen, you idiot?”

  “King Calamidese had a sister. She would be the lawful queen now. What of her? Won’t the Sengenwhan people look to her?”

  “She’s a woman; they won’t rally around her. She can defend nothing and lead no troops.”

  The general stormed off, returning to his resting place before dawn. He didn’t see Ozrin off to Dreaddrac or respond to the drunken revelry and decay of order going on among his troops in the streets of his recaptured city.

  * * *

  Queen Dagmar watched and evaluated from the heights in a lone hill overlooking the city. Ghouls feasted on the unburied scraps left by Ozrin. Drunken orcs stumbled this way and that. The ogre commanders indulged with them, failing to bother with maintaining order.

  * * *

  Duke Heggolstockin led his legions out from his provincial capital, leaving behind the city’s militia and the legion King Grekenbach had previously stationed with the duke to defend the province. It was a magnificent procession with legionary standards blazing, flags rippling in the breeze, and polished armor flashing in the morning sunlight. The duke’s resplendent gilded armor of ancient elfin manufacture stood out beneath his rich plumed helmet. The force marched forward to war with the invading goblin and his orc legions on the province’s western border.

  When the troops approached the invaders some days later, Heggolstockin’s advance guards noted the sentries, posted by the goblin, fled to warn the general of the duke’s arrival.

  “Where do you suppose the invaders will choose to fight?” the duke asked an aide.

  “Not many locals remain after the saber-wolves ravaged the countryside. The few that have come forward tell us there is a small plain between two impenetrable stands of forest over a ridge about a mile ahead. The farmers think the orc army will make a stand there,” the aide said. “But shouldn’t your grace make choice of the battlefield?”

  “Send scouts ahead to reconnoiter the area and determine where the orc legions are positioned. Meanwhile, assign legionary camping positions for the night. Post guards and have the troops dig a surrounding moat and walls. We don’t want them surprising us in the night.”

  The duke removed his helmet, and his attendant took his breastplate once he was in his tent. It had been a long march and they were all exhausted. The duke had a goblet of wine before retiring. He noted his troops’ campfires surrounding his tent on the heights. It was after midnight when the duke was awakened by the sound of smashing metal. Just as he awoke, one of his commanders dashed in to awaken him.

  “Your Grace, we’re under attack!”

  “Attack?” the duke said, shaking his head to dispel the drowsiness at the abrupt intrusion. He rushed to the tent opening, grabbing his helmet as he passed the camp table. Looking out over the bivouac, smoke drifted from burned out campfires, but moonlight flashed from swords swinging everywhere. ‘Whoosh,’ was heard from tents slashed in the darkness. Screams rose far and wide from soldiers, savaged in their sleep before they could grab their arms in defense. Moonlit openings between silver-edged charcoal clouds revealed orcs everywhere tramping through the camp and tents, slashing anything that moved.

  “Sound the alarm!” the duke yelled. He jerked his helmet on his head as his drowsy attendant fumbled, fastening his armor breastplate. Another attendant rushed up with the duke’s sword and a spear. The man hesitated, looking out over chaos in the camp. The duke grabbed the sword from his hand and shoved the man backward as he passed. He turned to an aide that just arrived. “There are enemy troops all through the camp. What happened to the guards posted to warn of an attack?”

  “They must have fallen asleep, Your Grace.”

  Before order could be restored and the orcs driven from the camp at first light, the invaders had killed or wounded a quarter of his forces.

  “The orcs appear t
o have struck and retreated, losing few of their own to the battle’s chaos,” an aide said, coming to the duke at sunrise.

  The duke spent the morning reordering his force and evaluating the prospects for the coming battle. He had the two remaining guards responsible for warning the camp the night before whipped out of camp.

  “We will march on the enemy at once,” the duke said to his remaining officers.

  “Your Grace, the men are demoralized and exhausted from expelling the attackers. Shouldn’t we give the men a day to recover and to formulate our counter attack?” a commander asked.

  “That’s what they’ll expect us to do. We are in disarray, but so are they. No, we will attack as quickly as possible, while we have the element of surprise. I should have had those two watchmen hanged for their failure to warn the camp.”

  The duke marched his troops west through the afternoon. By dusk, down a dry stream gully almost upon the orcs, he found them. They were celebrating their attack on the duke’s camp the night before. Many were drunk, stumbling around their campfires, others falling over or asleep already amid empty jugs all around the camp.

  “You take your cohorts there along the ravine and position them so they can form a line between our main force here and the river. They must hold! They must keep the orcs from breaking through to Jardin’s Crossing and escaping back into Prertsten. We attack at dawn.”

  The commander turned his horse and raced off to the left. The duke turned to another commander. “You take your cohorts to the right. You must advance the right wing and keep the orcs retreating back to the river. Remember, dawn!” The second commander rushed off into the night.

  When the duke led the center in the attack, he took the orcs by surprise indeed. They fell back. Almost at the Akkin’s riverbank, the orcs turned, fought a weak defense, and suffered heavy losses. By then, the duke’s forces were exhausted, too. In the meantime, the goblin had brought his commanders under control and issued orders to reform the forces at the river. The duke’s confidence rose, seeing the lack of treetops denoting the river over the next ridge.

  “We have them trapped against the river and in disarray,” the duke shouted to his aides. They spurred their horses and charged up the ridge.

  “It will be a great victory, Your Grace,” a general said, riding beside the duke.

  When the duke’s entourage came over the crest, he looked down in horror on his exhausted troops. They were out of formation, slowly pursuing the fleeing orcs to the goblin’s reformed legions backed against the river.

  “How did that goblin reform his soldiers so quickly?” the duke asked.

  “The troops he sent to engage us must have been only a diversion to give him time to set his defense,” the general mumbled, not taking his eyes off the organized army facing him. He turned to the duke. “They know they have no retreat. The river is behind them; they will fight to the death.”

  “How stupid of us,” the duke said. “Reconnaissance failed us again. Look at our men. They’re all but dragging their swords and shields, while those orcs are swaying, brandishing theirs, challenging our men to attack them.”

  “We must stop the advance, or we’ll be slaughtered,” the general said.

  “Yes, you would council that now,” the duke said, staring at the general. “As military commander, you’re supposed to plan ahead, not react to the obvious.” The duke lowered his head. “Sound the withdrawal from battle, and have the men camp here on the crest for the night.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the general said, nodding to his subordinates. He left to see to the disposition of the troops.

  That idiot wishes to get out of my presence, the duke thought.

  “Be sure the guards are posted, and be ready for an attack this time. Any guard found asleep this night will be executed at dawn before the whole army, what’s left of it.”

  The duke rode up and down his lines that evening, checking and rechecking the defenses in case the orcs charged up the slopes. Exhausted and demoralized, he went to his tent late in the evening to find a courier from the capital.

  “What is it?” the duke asked the man.

  The courier dropped to his knee with lowered head.

  “What is it man?”

  “Your Grace, the duchess sent me. She’s in a state.”

  “What’s she upset about now?”

  “Your son, Lord Amenibus, has ordered the remaining forces at the capital to prepare to march to reinforce Feldrik Fortress!”

  Pushing the man over out of his way before he could rise and move, the duke went to the tent opening and grabbed a guard.

  “Find the general; have him report here at once.” The guard rushed off into the darkness. The duke poured the messenger a goblet of wine and handed him a portion of roasted bird from the camp table set up in the corner of the tent.

  “Eat quickly, man. We ride at once to Heggolstockin. We must reach the city before Lord Amenibus abandons the capital for Feldrik. If we fail to stop this orc army here, they will have open access to Heggolstockin and the city without defense.”

  * * *

  At Heggolstockin, the duchess rushed about in the ducal palace, then out to the fortification over the city’s western gate. In the torch light of a mirror she passed, she caught sight of her robes, dusty from her frantic rush through the city. Her frizzled hair seemed to stand on end. Her servants followed in near panic, but if they came too close trying to restrain her, she swatted them back.

  “Where is Lord Amenibus?” the duchess asked those she passed as she raced on. She paid little attention to those same persons startled both at the sight of her and her panic. When she found her son ordering troop dispositions and a supply column, she grabbed him with both hands.

  “You’re planning to abandon the city and take the defense forces off to Feldrik, aren’t you?” Denubia asked in a dry and cracked voice. “You mustn’t abandon the city!”

  “I must relieve Feldrik, Mother. Feldrik’s commander has sent word Prince Pindradese is crossing the Akkin with all his forces. They’ll need all the help we can muster. Father will defeat the invaders in the west and return here to defend Heggolstockin.” Amenibus continued ordering his preparations.

  The duchess spun around in front of her son, breaking his concentration. She grasped a scroll in Amenibus’s hand and thrust it toward the table without looking to see where it landed. “Listen to me. You must not leave the city undefended. What if your father isn’t successful in expelling the invaders in the west?” she whispered in his ear. “Would you have all our troops at Feldrik and the whole of the duchy exposed to those savages?” She broke into tears. “What if something happens to your father?”

  Amenibus took his mother in his arms and held her for a moment. He looked her in the eyes.

  “You must not take the troops to Feldrik,” she said, pushing him back, trying to regain her composure. She saw his youthful overconfidence. He won’t take my warning seriously, she thought.

  Lord Amenibus tried to move his mother aside, but failing, stepped around her to retrieve the scroll from the desk. He nodded to a servant. Still the duchess refused to move out of his presence. The servant brought up the duchess’ attendants. The frightened ladies took Denubia by each arm and slowly led her away back toward the palace. At the door, she jerked an arm free and looked back at her son, blotting her tears. He studied the scroll and wouldn’t look at her.

  I feel like I’m looking at my boy for the last time, she thought. She broke into fresh tears in her despair, lowered her head, and, drained, allowed herself to be led slowly away.

  * * *

  Dripping with sweat, Duke Heggolstockin rode furiously, commandeering horses along the route to the capital. By the time he could see the fortress’ spires, looming almost to the clouds above Heggolstockin, fear seized him. Where are the troops I left encamped around the city? he wondered. He spurred the horse, whose mouth foamed, gasping for breath. The saddle slid slightly on the horse’s sweaty back, but the
duke rode full gallop on to the city.

  When he reached the gates, there were only old men in armor guarding them. The great coat of arms in iron with brass flourishes stood above the city gate’s massive oak panels. The duke looked up on the battlements, abnormally bare of sentries, spears, or any show of defense.

  Maybe Amenibus has moved the troops into the barracks. A sickening nausea came over the duke as he rode through the gates to see almost no soldiers anywhere. The citizens were rushing about, hardly noticing his return. They pushed carts of produce and arms about to stockpile the city for a siege. Yet there were no military men of any rank directing the movements.

  As the duke moved through the streets to the grand plaza before the palace, he noted to his horror, the men drilling there were either too old or too young to fight. An old retired sergeant trained them.

  Sitting on his wet horse, Anton came to a standstill. His noble wife, who’d never thought about anything military, who would start to swoon at the mention of swords, came out on the balcony over the plaza to direct the sergeant’s training exercise. The sunlight was strong at midday, and the duke put his hand over his brow to shade his vision.

  That cannot be the duchess, he thought. He squinted for a better look, but for any action taken, it was still she. Has it come to this? he thought. The duke rode on to the gate of the citadel and surrendered his horse. The gate keeper bowed low at the duke’s unexpected arrival. The duke strode through the fortress to the palace inside and walked up the marble steps to the audience chamber and out on the balcony. There was the duchess, directing the maneuvers below. In her frenzy, she hadn’t noticed his arrival.

  “Are you general now, my dear?”

  The duchess whirled around to the sound of his so familiar voice. She rushed over to him, collapsed in his arms, and began sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Amenibus has taken the army to Feldrik. We’ve no one to protect the city. I’ve drafted the militia, but they aren’t enough.” She turned back to face the balcony but didn’t let go of her husband’s arm. “Those poor old men and boys out there, they’ll hardly be able to defend us should those savages get this far.”