“Isn’t it a glorious sight?” Ironfoot asked as he came up beside Skuld.
Skuld didn’t know what to say. He shifted his gaze to the normally taciturn Dwarf captain. “How can anyone be this good at destruction? I never imagined anything like this when I was living on the streets.”
Ironfoot regarded the boy a moment longer before answering. “Dwarves aren’t inherently violent but we have great propensity to execute our will through the axe. You have seen this before. There are no surprises here.”
“I wasn’t allowed out of the mountains,” Skuld protested. “Bahr thought it was best to keep me with the princess.”
“Perhaps. I did not know either of you during those days,” the Dwarf said thoughtfully. “Your race is full of surprises, young Skuld. I find myself constantly being taken off guard by your deeds. It is easy to see why Humans have become the dominant species on Malweir. The rest of us are too mired in the old ways, ways that don’t exist any longer. Malweir was once wild, untamed. They were times for hard people. The weak perished quickly. Old hatreds were formed and continue to this day. What you see before us is a result of those hatreds. We will take our vengeance against the Goblins tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand how any one race can hate another with so much passion.”
“Passion? There is little passion in combat. Dwarves and Goblins share a hate stronger than all the love in the world. You see, it is a little known fact but we were both once the same race. Evil twisted our kin until they became so tormented they evolved into the creatures awaiting us. For that crime my people have sworn to continue fighting our ancient foes until none remain.”
Ironfoot fell silent. A battery of cannons was being pulled by. Four oxen were hooked up to each cannon. They strained under the several-thousand-pound weight of iron and gears as the animals dragged the weapons of mass destruction through partially trampled snow. Even packed for transport, the weapons presented an ominous scene. Skuld felt death as they rolled past. His argument with Ironfoot was justified, at least in his mind.
A sudden thought occurred to him. “Ironfoot, why are you not back with the Dwarves?”
“It seems my fate is not tied to theirs. Anienam told us that we were all required if the quest was to succeed. That means I am meant to fight alongside the rest of you.” He paused as the last cannon went by. “Between the two of us, I think I would rather be with Bahr and that fool, old wizard. He makes life interesting.”
Skuld was beginning to feel like he was the only sane one in their group. Confused, he said good night and went back to his bedroll. Dawn was coming fast.
Rekka rolled off of a panting Dorl and pulled the blanket around her neck. She wasn’t cold. Their lovemaking saw to that, but it wouldn’t take long for the crisp night to turn their sweat into ice. Responding to her, Dorl helped by wrapping his free arm around her back and gently caressing her shoulder. Her eyes closed as she enjoyed the moment. Tomorrow could wait. It was much too late to worry about their destiny. All that mattered now was her time with Dorl.
The love they shared was undiscovered by either. She’d grown up in a rigidly structured world with no room for romance. Cashi Dam had tried to insist on his devotion, but it was misguided. The tribal leader of Teng let his desire turn to lust and eventually wound up with his death at the hands of a Gnaal. Dorl was unlike anyone she’d ever met. Rough on the outside, Dorl Theed bore the softest heart. He gave in wholly to her, willingly. The comfort she took from this was unmatched. It made her job easier and enhanced her life to the point where she could see abandoning the sword for children and a home.
Rekka propped up on an elbow and stared down into his soft eyes. Whatever fear she harbored melted as he stared back. Smiling, she traced a finger down between his chest muscles and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head slightly. Her dark hair whisked against his exposed flesh. “Nothing. I’m trying to imagine what the day after tomorrow will be like.”
Dorl was no fool. He couldn’t imagine what tomorrow was going to bring, much less whatever fallout happened later. Truthfully he didn’t expect to live past the attack. A gnawing specter had been hounding him since their run-in with the Harpies in Fedro. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and get lost in the warmth of her embrace.
“Can’t we just have tonight?” he asked.
Her smile faded, leaving only the slightest trace. “I want to give you so much more, Dorl Theed. Through you I have found a new sense of being.”
“How do you mean? I’m nothing special,” he protested.
“You are, though you don’t realize it. I don’t want to be the guardian of Trennaron any longer. I don’t want to serve anyone other than myself. Dorl, I want to live. With you.”
His heart skipped. Impossible futures raced through his mind. His young life had seemed aimless until Rekka entered it. She quickly became a fixed point for him to focus on as he trudged through misadventures and the endless string of daily hardships. To hear her words now, at this most terrible moment imaginable, meant more to Dorl than he’d ever be able to express.
“I never thought of settling down with anyone before,” he admitted. “I’ve been travelling around with Nothol for so long I don’t recall another life. Don’t get me wrong, Rekka, I’m flattered you’d want to stick around with me.”
“But?” Rekka’s eyes narrowed. She withdrew her loving finger and tried not to glare down on him.
Dorl swallowed the lump rising through his throat. He hadn’t intended on aggravating her but sometimes the tongue fails to express what the mind or heart feels. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. My only reservation to sticking with you is that I can’t provide you the life you deserve. Nothing more.”
Rekka tilted her head back and laughed. The sound was joyful, relieved. “Dorl Theed, you soft-hearted fool.”
The corners of his mouth turned down in disappointment. “Like I said, I never thought about settling down with anyone before.”
She brought her face close to his, their lips almost touching. “Will you think about it now?”
Dorl reached up and kissed her passionately.
Daylight faded; it was a gradual progression of colors from bright blue to dark purple. Birds chirped as they soared over the rebel camp. The mild brown bark from a dozen different types of trees looked like a carefully mended blanket. Groge was continually amazed with life in the lowlands. It was so unlike the harsh conditions of Venheim, high atop the jagged mountain peaks. So much life and variations kept him grounded. Young by Giant standards, Groge gained experience none of his peers could ever dream of.
Reluctantly he pulled his gaze away from the world. Groge never asked to become the one person capable of bringing about the end of the dark gods’ threat and it wore on him heavily. All he wanted was to become a great forge master like Joden. That dream seemed further away daily. His disturbed gaze finally fell upon the Blud Hamr. The ancient weapon, though Anienam continued to contend it was a tool and not a weapon, stood head down in the snow. The handle stretched almost to his waist. Groge wasn’t certain but he thought the very earth vibrated when the Hamr touched ground.
“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered to the Hamr. “You are too great of a responsibility for a simple apprentice. Am I even capable of doing the right thing when that moment arrives?”
Frustrated, he shook his head. He wasn’t a great thinker or a trained warrior. Having never experienced the violence of combat before joining Bahr’s quest, Groge was often left feeling stranded. In the months since he’d come down from the mountains he had not only taken lives, but was growing increasingly proficient at it. The notion horrified him. It became clear why his people abandoned the rest of Malweir all those centuries ago. No race should have the power to control and kill another.
Groge closed his eyes and tried to picture Joden’s forge: the smell of charcoal and iron filling the air, the feeling of intense heat on the backs of
his hands, the sounds of hammers clanging against anvils. It was the life he was cut out for, though perhaps not what he’d been created for. Clearly the gods of light had specific designs for Groge that the youth didn’t share. Having almost no control over the direction of his life went beyond maddening.
‘What makes me special?” he asked after long moments of reflection. “I haven’t earned any rank or title. I’m not experienced. Would any other suffice in my place? I wish there were answers. Never before have I felt so helpless, like a newborn. Will my actions keep my people alive?”
The Hamr began to glow bright blue as if in response. Groge took heart, knowing the Hamr was giving him a much-needed sign. Doubts began to erase as conviction rushed in to fill the void. Hope rekindled. The young Giant once again found purpose through the raw strength the Hamr exuded. Live or die, he instinctively knew he was going to perform well tomorrow. Should he live, Groge would never be the same after that. It was a small price he was willing to live with as long as he helped stopped the enemies of life and restore order to Malweir.
The eve of the greatest battle in generations did little to affect Boen’s nerves. He was the definition of warfare. Gaimos had been vanquished millennia ago but her people continued to thrive under the worst conditions. They trained constantly, developing new skills in the art of killing. One popular theory was that the toppling of Gaimos by a coalition of nations was the single greatest tragedy in Malweir’s rich history while simultaneously bringing about events that would alter the course of the future permanently.
Gaimosians were bestowed by the gods with latent magical attributes. A core group would go on to establish the library-fortress of Ipn Shal and the order of Mages. The ruin of Gaimos would be felt for generations. Many, Boen included, struggled through life in an attempt at championing the undefended. There was only one goal: the return of Gaimos as a nation and the finality of their life of exile. Boen wasn’t sure what he’d do once he was able to settle down. At his advanced age it was beyond past time. His best years were long behind him. He had no heirs, no continuation of the bloodline. When Boen died so too would his family’s history.
He shrugged off the feelings of dread lingering in the shadow-crusted corners of his mind and set his sword to the sharpening stone. Oils slickened the small slab of granite. It was an act he’d done over a million times. The repetitive nature soothed his nerves, distributing a sense of calm throughout his large body. His mind cleared. The prospect of hacking through enemy lines was all that mattered. Boen’s purpose, his singular task, was to punch a hole in the Goblin ranks wide enough for Bahr and the others to get into the ruins. Nothing else mattered.
He’d given Bahr his word to protect his back for as long as necessary. Should that require giving his life in the process so be it. Boen was a warrior. This was his calling. All of the pressure of politics and personal maneuvering went over his head as he prepared his mind for what must be done tomorrow. His only regret or fear, though he’d never use such a word, was that he had never even conceived such impossible odds. The war for the soul of Malweir was the largest in recorded history, or so he’d been led to believe. He considered it a great honor to be the only one of his people to be an active combatant. Once again a Gaimosian would be at the center of the universe. His actions might very well be the spark that motivated the rest of the allies and tip the balance in the war.
Boen began to whistle softly as he repeatedly ran his sword over the stone. Tomorrow he would test his resolve. He would either be found wanting or deliver all of those unspoken promises to his friends.
Dwarven work crews continued digging their cannons in throughout the night. Weapons were sighted in on lines of fire that would, theoretically, provide the most damage to the Goblin army. Aiming stakes were emplaced as far out as Dwarves were able to crawl without drawing attention. Cannon crews dug in their powder bags. They knew the Goblins had only one counter to the gunpowder: fire. Should any arrows drop into the ammunition pits, the entire battery could go up in flames. Piles of ammunition were rolled together beside each cannon. Gunners sighted in prefixed targets as work continued around them.
Individual firing lines were established for the musket-laden infantry. Over one thousand Dwarves went about cleaning their weapons, double checking their powder reserves, and ensuring they had enough ammunition to sustain a heavy attack. Barrels were brushed clean of dust and debris. Triggers were tested for reliability as the musketeers chatted quietly amongst themselves. They were already experienced, having stood toe to toe in the trenches at Bode Hill with their dark Dwarf cousins. Then it had been practically even. The Goblins had nothing comparable to their muskets. Tomorrow promised to be a glorious battle.
Back in the center of camp, the beleaguered rebels struggled with personal demons. Far from being real soldiers, the citizen army of Delranan individually had to come to terms with their mortality. The decision to stand and fight or flee wore heavily on them. Conducting the civil war campaign against Harnin’s forces was a series of hit-or-miss ambushes and raids. Never before had they stood the line against a proper field force. Imaginations threatened to run wild. The old timers recalled obscure battles where thousands were slain. These bits of history were kept silent from fear of routing their own army.
Several looked to the Dwarves and Minotaurs for motivation. They were true warriors. Many of the people of Delranan were inspired by the professionalism of their new allies. They set about readying their weapons and kit for the coming battle. Others floundered in self-doubt. They weren’t heroes or even soldiers. Personal motivations ranged as greatly as the colors in nature. It was for each to decide how to handle their role. Some would break and run as the nightmare erupted around them. Others would drop to their knees and cry uncontrollably. Yet others would rise to the challenge and show the world the mettle of Delrananians.
Oblivious to the rest of the camp, the civilians went about their tasks with heavy hearts.
The Minotaur army watched them with amusement. Born and bred for battle, the bulls were ready to attack under the cover of darkness. Until recently the Minotaurs had remained in their forest home of Malg, far to the east. They seldom cared for the goings-on of other races and were intent on learning new secrets of warfare and savagery. Krek had come to power long after his experiences with Anienam’s father in the Deadlands. He’d forged bonds with several from the kingdom of Thrae but his most important alliance was with the Pell Darga tribes in the Darkwall Mountains, the very ancestors of Cuul Ol and his tribes.
Both races were largely considered outcasts. Without the grand courts of the Mage orders to convene quarterly and bring order to Malweir, there was a growing discourse among those like the Minotaurs. Krek was determined to lead them back to an age of greatness where they were both feared and respected. It began in Delranan. The army was strictly punitive. Old rivalries remained between Minotaur and Goblin. Once subject to petty raids at the behest of the Silver Mage, the bulls of Malg finally found their opportunity to exact revenge.
They snorted and laughed. Sleep was long in coming. Seasoned warriors, the bulls spoke of grand schemes to kill everyone. They brandished weapons at each other and utter curses in their course language. Humans too close quickly shied away lest they get caught up in the melee growing in the center of the Minotaur camp. Young bulls charged into each other. The thunderous noise made many cringe throughout the camps. Blood spilled. Cheers raged. And the army of Malg continued its ritualistic endeavors.
Dwarves soon thronged to the edges, eager to witness the test of strength. True warriors appreciated strength. The Dwarves were no exception. While the bulls were all more than double the height, Dwarven soldiers looked on admiringly. They clashed axes in shields in a rhythmic song that made blood boil. Roars of approval went up when a bull fell. More than one injured warrior needed to be carried off to camp medics.
The ritual continued long into the night. Pre-battle jitters faded under the pretense of bravado. Blood mixed wi
th snow and mud, painting the ground in shades of what tomorrow would bring. Gradually the crowds thinned. Warriors went to find much-needed rest. The Dwarves finished their pre-combat checks and bedded down. Cannon crews slept behind their pieces. Pickets were emplaced. Roving patrols circled the camps at intervals.
Incredible tension spread from person to person. Words went unsaid. Looks were exchanged. Those still awake skillfully avoided contact with their fellows. Even the trees seemed to feel it. Branches curled upward, their tips inching back towards the trunks. Birds and small animals fled lest they get caught in the middle. Clouds hung suspended in the sky as if afraid to move. The moon lacked its shine. Dull light barely reached the ground. A hush fell over the fields surrounding the ruins.
Night deepened. Armies bedded down. Nerves ran high and for good reason. The fate of all Malweir rested in the hands of all those assembled around the ruins of Arlevon Gale.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A Final Trick
Maleela, dark queen of the Goblins and heir to the hatred of the world, stood atop the hastily constructed watchtower centered on her command pavilion. Her slender hands were encased in black leather and clasped gently behind her back. Dressed in the colors of midnight, Maleela watched the plains of Delranan like a ghoul creeping through a cemetery. The sweep of her long dress had a thin line of sawdust clinging to it, marring the illusion of perfection. Her hair was tied back in a long tail that draped down between her shoulder blades.
Even Gods Must Fall Page 25